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 4. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 Kfustrtttch 
 
 irrrH steel portra/ts, irooD ea'graf/ngs bv ea'glish a.vd American artists, 
 
 SILHOUETTE TITLES. MANUSCRIPT FACSIMILES. 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 ip 
 
 3Tcin IJorfi 
 
 Fords, Howard, &- Hulbert 
 
 -•HI-*-
 
 -•HI-*- 
 
 Copyright, 1877 A.D., 
 Bv T- B. Ford &■' Company. 
 
 i^
 
 4^ 
 
 -^1- 
 
 + 
 
 PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. 
 
 TllIC marked success of "A Lilirary of Poetry and Song," as issued in 
 the year 1870, showed that the work suiiplied a real popular need. 
 Since tlie date of its publication, between seventy and eighty thousand 
 copies of tlic book have been talccn by the public, whose confidence in the 
 name of Mr. Bryant, as its editor, has been borne out by the work itself. 
 
 Although its popular acceptability seems no whit diminished, in its 
 original octavo form, the publishers have thought it worthy of a thorough 
 revision, enlargement, and improvement. Accordingly, with Mr. Bryant's 
 active co-operation, the work has undergone an entire reconstruction, l)oth 
 as to matter and form. About one fifth of the material of the former vol- 
 ume has been eliminated, and twice as much new matter added ; great 
 pains having been talcen to insure the correctness of the text with a view 
 to making it a standard for reference, as well as to give an ample provision 
 for general or special reading. 
 
 It has been designed, in this work, to gather the largest practicable 
 compilation of the best poems in our language, making it as nearly as 
 possible the choicest and most complete general collection of Poetry yet 
 published. 
 
 The name "Library," which has been given it, indicates the principle 
 upon which the book has been made, namely : that it might serve as a 
 book of reference ; as a comprehensive exhibit of tlie history, growth, and 
 condition of poetical literature ; and, more esjiecially, as a companion, at the 
 will of its possessor, for the varying moods of the mind. 
 
 Necessarily limited in e.vtent, it yet contains one quarter more matter 
 than any similar publii-ation, presenting nearly two thousand selections, 
 from more than five hundred authors ; and it may be claimed that of the 
 poetical writers whose works have caused their names to be held in gen- 
 eral esteem or affection, none are unrepresented ; while scores of tlie produc- 
 tions of unknown authors, verses of merit though not of fame, found in old 
 books or caught out of the passing current of literature, have been here pre- 
 sented side by side with those more notable. And tlio chief object of the 
 [iii]
 
 iv PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. 
 
 collection — to present an array of good poetry so widely representative and 
 so varied in its tone as to offer an answering chord to every mood and phase 
 of human feeling — has been carefully kept in view, both in the selection 
 and the arrangement of its contents. So that, in all senses, the realization 
 of its significant title has been an objective point. 
 
 In pursuance of this plan, the highest standard of literary criticism ha.'j 
 not been made the only test of worth for selection, since many poems have 
 been included, which, though less perfect than others in form, have, liy some 
 power of touching tho heart, gained and maintained a sure place in the 
 popular esteem. 
 
 The enlargement and reconstruction of this work has entailed upon Mr. 
 Bryant much labor, in conscientious and thorough revision of all the material, 
 — cancelling, inserting, suggesting, even copying out with his own hand many 
 poems not readily attainable except from his private library, — in short, giving 
 the work not only the sanction of his widely honored name, but also the gen- 
 uine influence of his fine poetic sense, his unquestioned taste, his broad and 
 schulavly acquaintance with literature. To assist him, especially in the prin- 
 cipal gathering and classification of the material, the Publishers, with his con- 
 currence, obtained the services of ]\Ir. Edward H. Knight, of Washington, 
 D. C, of whose good judgment, singular industry, and peculiar talent for sys- 
 tematization they had availed themselves in the first preparation of the origi- 
 nal work. The work has also had the advantage of the nice critical dis- 
 crimination of Professor Eobert P. Piaymond, of Erooklyn, N. Y., ^^•ho has 
 made it his care to revise all the copy before sending it to the printers, 
 to correct erroneous readings perpetuated from careless editions of various 
 authors, to perfect the progressive shading of the arrangement of the poems 
 within their several classifications, and to add the numberless and nameless 
 final touches of tlie literary artist. 
 
 The Publishers desire to return their cordial thanks for the courtesy 
 freely extended to them, by which many copyrighted American poems have 
 been allowed to appear in this collection. In regard to a large number of 
 them, permission has Ijeen accorded by the authors themselves ; other 
 poems, having been gathered as waifs and strays, have been necessarily 
 used ^vithout especial authority, and where due credit is not given, or where 
 the authorship may have been erroneou,sly ascribed, future editions will 
 afford opportunity for tlie correction, which will be gladly made. Particular 
 acknowledgments are offered to Messrs. D. Appleton & Co. for extracts fnnn 
 the works of Fitz-Greene HaUeck, and from the poems of William Culleu 
 Bryant ; to Messrs. Harper and Brothers for ])Ooms of Charles G. Plalpinc and 
 Will Carleton ; to Messrs. J. B. Lippincott & Co. for quotations from the writ- 
 ings of T. Buchanan Bead ; to Messrs. Charles Scribner & Co. for extracts 
 
 4 
 
 -^
 
 rUBUSHER^ PREFACE. 
 
 fiuiii Dr. J. G. Holland's poems; and more especially to the bouse of Messrs. 
 Jiunes It. Osgood & Co., — whose good ta.ste, liberality, and intelligcut enter- 
 pri.se have given them an uueij^ualled list ol' American poetical writers, com- 
 [irising many of the most eminent poets of the land, — for their courtesy in 
 the liberal extracts granted from the writings of Tluimas liailcy Aldrich, 
 Ivalph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Henry Wadsworth Longfel- 
 low, James Eussell Lowell, Florence Percy, John Godfrey Saxe, Harriet 
 lleeeher Stowe, Edmund Clarence Stedmau, Bayard Taylor, Bret Harte, John 
 Towuseud Trowbridge, Mrs. Celia Tliaxtcr, John Greeuleaf Whittier, and 
 others. 
 
 In addition to the above special acknowledgments, i-eaders will see in the 
 "Index of Authors" references enabling them to find the pulilishers of the 
 entire works of any American writer to whom their attention has been called 
 liy any fragment or poem printed in this volume. This "Library" con- 
 tains specimens of many styles, and it is believed that, so far from prevent- 
 ing the purchase of special authors, it serves to draw attention to their 
 merits; and the courtesy of their publishers in granting the use of some 
 of their poems here will find ample and practical recognition.
 
 -•H»-»- 
 
 4
 
 4 
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Pac.f. 
 
 PUBLISHER'S i'KEFACE iii 
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS ix 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS xi 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xxxiU 
 
 THE EDITOR TO THE READER 1 
 
 THE rOET (Fac-siniile of Mr. Bryiuit's Manuscript) 3 
 
 INTRODUCTION ; Poets and PciErKY of the English Langua<;e 7 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH 17 
 
 POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP :.:j 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE 03 
 
 POEMS OF HOME 159 
 
 POEMS OF PARTING AND ABSENCE 1S3 
 
 POEMS OF DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT 205 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH 235 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION 311 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE 361 
 
 POEMS OF PEACE AND WAR 453 
 
 POEMS OF TEMPERANCE AND LABOR 491 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM 505 
 
 POEMS OF THE SEA 559 
 
 r
 
 M 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 a 
 
 -4- 
 
 POEMS OF ADVENTUKE AND RURAL SPORTS 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE POEMS 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLIICTION 
 
 POEMS OF FANCY 
 
 POEMS OF TRAGEDY 
 
 PERSONAL POEMS 
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES .. 
 
 591 
 623 
 665 
 748 
 791 
 813 
 853 
 921
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Nantes of American Publishers of tfie poetical -works of American luritcrs may be found in connection with the 
 
 Authors^ names. 
 
 ADAMS, JOHN QUINCY. 
 
 ljuincy, M.1SS.. 1767-1:148. Page 
 
 The Wants of Man . - ... 668 
 
 ADAMS, SARAH FLOWER. 
 
 England, 1805-1848. 
 
 *' Nearer, my God, to thee " - . . 337 
 
 "The mourners came at break of day*' 261 
 
 ADDISON, JOSEPH. 
 
 England, ifyj-^-ijic). 
 
 Cato's Soliloquy ...... 734 
 
 Sempronius's Speech for War . . 511 
 
 "The spacious firmament on high *' . . 338 
 
 AKENSIDE. MARK. 
 
 En^I^nd, 17^1-1770. 
 
 Delights of Fancy . . . . 748 
 
 Virtuoso, The 859 
 
 AKERMAN, LUCY E. 
 
 Americi. 
 
 " Nothing but leaves " 333 
 
 AKERS, MRS. ELIZABETH (Florence Percy). 
 See Allen. Elizabeth Akers. 
 
 ALDRICH, JAMES. 
 
 America, iSio - 1856. 
 
 Death-Bed, A -293 
 
 ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY. 
 
 rortsninulh, N. H., b. t8i6. 
 
 Before and after the Rain .... 638 
 
 Intaglio Head of Minerva, On an 708 
 
 "When the Sultan goes to Ispahan " 150 
 
 Publishers : Houghton, Oscrood &r Co., Boston. 
 
 ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES. 
 
 Ent;laiKl 
 
 Burial of Moses 344 
 
 ALEXANDER, H. W. 
 
 Poor Fisher Folk {From tfte French : Victor 
 {Hugo 577 
 
 ALGER, WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE. 
 
 Freetown, Mass.. b, 182^. 
 
 Parting Lovers, The {From tlic Chinese) . 1S6 
 "To Heaven approached a Sufi Saint" {From 
 the Persian : Dscltellaledditi Rnnii) • . 327 
 
 Publishers : Roberts Brothers, Boston. 
 
 ALISON. RICHARD. 
 
 Enyliind. b, i6th century. 
 
 " There is a garden in her face** » . . 64 
 
 ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS. 
 
 Stronij, Me., b. 1832. 
 
 Left Behind 207 
 
 My Ship 238 
 
 Rock me to Sleep 173 
 
 Publishers : Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston. 
 
 ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM. 
 
 Ballyshannon, Ireland, h. 1828. Lives in London. Eng. 
 
 Fairies, The ....... 763 
 
 Lovely Mary Donnelly .... 155 
 
 Touchstone, The ...... 742 
 
 ALLSTON, WASHINGTON. 
 
 Geortjetown. S. C, 1779-1843, 
 
 America to Great Britain .... 532 
 
 Boyhood ....... 37 
 
 Rosalie 237 
 
 ALTENBURG, MICHAEL. 
 
 Germany, 1583-1640- 
 
 Battle-SongofGustavusAdolphus, The {Trans- 
 lation) 468 
 
 ANACREON. 
 
 Greece, d. 476 B. C. 
 
 Grasshopper, The { Cowley^s Translation) . 449 
 Spring {Moore's Translatioii) 384 
 
 ANDERSEN, HANS CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Denmark, 1805 -1875, 
 
 The Little Match-Girl {From the Danish) . 252 
 
 ANDROS, R. S. S. 
 Berkeley, Mass.. d. 1859. 
 
 Perseverance 441 
 
 ANGELO, MICHAEL. 
 
 Italy, 1474-1563 
 
 " If it be true that any beauteous thing" {J. E- 
 
 Taylor^s Tra>islation) 69 
 
 "Themight of one fairface"(7'a)'/i7r'j Trans.) 69 
 
 ARNOLD, EDWIN. 
 
 England, b. 1831. < 
 
 Almond Blossoms 419 
 
 ARNOLD, GEORGE. 
 
 New York. 1S34-1865. 
 
 Introspection ...... . 213 
 
 Jolly Old Pedagogue 656 
 
 September 3^4 
 
 Publislicrs : Houghton. Osgood & Co., Boston. 
 
 ARNOLD, MATTHEW. 
 
 England, b. 1822. 
 
 Desire 321 
 
 Dover Beach .... 563 
 
 Forsaken Merman, The ... . 773 
 
 Heine's Grave 837 
 
 Philomela 443 
 
 Terrace at Berne, The .... 202 
 
 ASKEWE. ANNE. 
 Englnnd, 1^=0-1546. 
 
 The Fight of Faith 329 
 
 AUSTEN, SARAH. 
 
 England, b, 18-.^ 
 
 The Passage {From t/ie German of Ukland) ■ 286 
 
 AVERILL. ANNA BOYNTON. 
 
 The Birch Stream 639 
 
 AYTON, SIR ROBERT. 
 
 Scotl.ind, 1570-1638, 
 
 On Love 73 
 
 Woman's Inconstancy ..... 2^1 
 
 AYTOUN. WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE 
 
 Scotland. i3i^-i3(J5. 
 
 Buried Flower, The 262 
 
 Execution of Montrose, The . . 791 
 
 Heart of the Bruce, The 457 
 
 BAILEY, WILLIAM WHITMAN. 
 
 Epiga3a Asleep 379 
 
 BAILLIE, JOANNA. 
 
 Scotland. 1762- 1S51. 
 
 Heath-Cock, The 441 
 
 " Up ! Quit thy bower'' .... 368 
 
 BARBAULD, ANNA L/ETITIA. 
 
 England, 1743-1825, 
 
 "Life! I know not what thou art " . 671 
 
 Sabbath of the Soul, The .... ^53 
 
 Summer Evening's Meditation, A . . 3^3 
 
 BARHAM. RICHARD HARRIS {Thomas /«- 
 goldsby^ Esq.). 
 England, 178.'^ -1845. 
 
 City Bells 659
 
 Xll 
 
 nXDEX UF AUTHORS. 
 
 f 
 
 Death of a Daughter, On the - . 203 
 
 Jackdaw of Rlieims, The ^-'^o 
 
 Misadventures at Margate .... ^71 
 BARNARD, LADY ANNE. 
 
 Scullaiu), 1750- 1825. 
 
 Auld Robin Gray 205 
 
 BARNFIELD, RICHARD. 
 
 linylanil. 1574 -1606. 
 
 Address to the Nightingale . . • 444 
 
 BARTON, BERNARD. 
 
 Knjiland. 1784- 1849. 
 
 Bruce and the Spider . -51- 
 
 Caractacus . . . , ... 551 
 
 " Not ours the vows " 78 
 
 Sea, The 559 
 
 BATSON, ROBERT. 
 
 liiiylaiul, 
 
 Guinevere to Lancelot . . ... 95 
 
 BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES. 
 
 Iill£;laild. i7g7-iS;i9. 
 
 The Mistletoe Bough 606 
 
 BEATTIE, JAMES. 
 
 Scotland. 1735-1803. 
 
 Hermit, The 674 
 
 Law ........ 705 
 
 Morning 3fTj 
 
 BEAUMONT, FRANCIS, a7td FLETCHER, JOHN. 
 
 Entr'and. 1586-1610 and 1576-1625. 
 
 Disguised Maiden, The 6S8 
 
 Folding the Flocks 431 < 
 
 " Hence, all ye vain delights "... 235 
 Invocation to Sleep ..... 677 
 
 BEDDOES, THOMAS LOVELL. 
 
 England. 1809- 1849. 
 
 ^' If thou wilt ease thine heart" . . . 302 
 
 "To Sea!" 589 
 
 BEERS, MRS. ETHELIN ELIOT {Ethel Lynn). 
 
 Gobhr;n, N. V.. b. i8'.>5. Lives in Orange. N. J. 
 
 The Picket-Guard ... - . . 474 
 Publishers : I'orler i Cuates, Fhiladelphia. 
 
 BENNETT, WILLIAM COX. 
 
 Greenwich, liii.s'.. b. 1S20. Livts in London. 
 
 Baby May 18 
 
 Baby's Shoes ...... 23 
 
 Invocaiiiin to Rain in Summer . . .713 
 
 Worn Wedding-Riiig, The .... 172 
 
 BENTON, MYRON B. 
 Ohio. 
 
 The Mowers 496 
 
 BERKELEY, GEORGE. 
 
 Enyl.ind, 161^4-175^. Bishop of Cloyne, Ireland. 
 
 Westward Ho ! 531 
 
 BETHUNE, GEORGE WASHINGTON. 
 
 New York, 1805-1862. 
 
 Hymn to Night 678 
 
 BLACKWOOD, HON. MRS. 
 See DuFFERiN, Lady. 
 
 BLAKE. WILLIAM. 
 
 Enyl.ind. 1757-1827. 
 
 Garden of Love, The 7^3 
 
 Sunflower, The 426 
 
 Tiger, The 43° 
 
 BLANCHARD, LAMAN. 
 
 Eneland, iSoi- 1845. 
 
 The Mother's Hope ...-.• 32 
 
 BLAND, ROBERT, 
 
 Home {From the Greek) 17S 
 
 BLOOMFIELD, ROBERT. 
 
 England, i7fJ6-i8=3. 
 
 Farmer's Boy, The 497 
 
 Lambs at Play 431 
 
 Moonlight in Summer 394 
 
 Soldier's Return, The ..... 4S1 
 
 BOKER, GEORGE HENRY. 
 
 Philadelphia, Pa. b. i8^4 
 
 Black Regiment, The 464 
 
 Countess Laura ...... S06 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier 482 
 
 Prince Adeb 607 
 
 PubUshers: J. B. LippincoH & Co., Philadelphia. 
 
 47S 
 
 292 
 329 
 
 BOLTON, SARAH T. 
 
 Ohin. 
 
 Left on the Battle-Field .... 
 EONAR, HORATIUS. 
 
 St-olland. b. 180S. 
 
 " Beyond the smiling and the weeping '* 
 How Long ? 
 
 BOURDILLON. FRANCIS W. 
 
 Light 294 
 
 BOURNE, VINCENT. 
 
 Enyland, 1695-1747. 
 
 " Busy, curious, thirsty fly ** .... 731 
 
 BOWLES, CAROLINE ANNE. 
 
 See SouTHEV, Mk^. C.\koline Buwles. 
 
 BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE. 
 
 Lnifland, 1702-1P50. 
 
 " Come to these scenes of peace" . . . 360 
 
 Greenwood, The 416 
 
 Rhine, On the 409 
 
 BOWRING, SIR JOHN. 
 
 Eii}^land, 1792-1872. 
 
 " From the recesses of a lowly spirit " . 337 
 
 God {From the Russian 0/ Derzhavin) . 320 
 
 Nightingale, The {From the Portuguese) • 443 
 
 Nightingale, The {From the Dutch) . . 443 
 Not Ripe for Political Power .... 550 
 
 BRAINARD, JOHN GARDINER CALKINS. 
 
 New London. Coiui., 1796-1628. 
 
 Deep, The 572 
 
 " I saw two clouds at morning " . . . 73 
 
 Niagara, The Fall of . , .411 
 
 BRANCH, MARY L. BOLLES. 
 
 Brooklyn. N. Y , b. 1S41. 
 
 The Petrified Kern 754 
 
 BRENAN, JOSEPH. 
 
 Ireland, b. i8:.'9 ; d. in New Orleans, 1S57. 
 
 " Come to me, dearest " . . . . 204 
 
 BRETON, NICHOLAS. 
 
 England. 155^;- i(-i-4 
 
 Passage in the Life of St. Augustine, A . . 325 
 
 Phillida and Corydon ..... 144 
 
 Phillis the Fair .... . . 69 
 
 BRISTOL. LORD. 
 
 See John Digbv, Earl of Bristol. 
 
 BROOKS, CHARLES T. 
 
 ijiilem, Mass.. b. ifii^. 
 
 Alpine Heights {Front tite German 0/ Kuan- 
 
 madier) 407 
 
 Fislier, The {From t/ie German 0/ Goethe') 776 
 
 Good Night {From the German 0/ Koruer) . 504 
 Men and Eoys (From the German 0/ Kortwr) 527 
 Nobleman and the Pensioner, The {From tlie 
 
 German 0/ Pfeffet) 47^ 
 
 Nurse's Watch ( Translation) ... 20 
 
 Sword Song, The {Front the German 0/ 
 
 Korner) 4f>S 
 
 Winter Song {From tJie Gerjnan) . . 397 
 Publishers : Houi;liion, Usgood & Co., Boston. 
 
 BROOKS, MARIA GOWEN {Maria del Occid^nte). 
 
 Medford. Mass.. )79^-iS45- 
 
 " Day, in melting purple dying " . . • iq? 
 Disappointment ..... 223 
 
 BROOKS, CHARLES SHIRLEY. 
 
 England, b. 1S15. 
 
 The Philosopher and his Daughter . S94 
 
 BROUGH, ROBERT B. 
 
 Neighbor Nelly 5^ 
 
 BROWN, FRANCES. 
 
 Ireland. iSiS - i;?t.4. 
 
 " O the pleasant days of old ! " . . - 745 
 BROWNE, WILLIAM. 
 
 England, 1500- ]645. 
 
 " Shall I tell von whom I love ' . . -74 
 
 Siren's Song, The. ..... 757 
 
 " Welcome, welcome, do I sing " . . - S7 
 
 BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD. 
 
 Providence, R. 1., 1S24- 1872. 
 
 Burial of the Dane . ... 
 
 Lawyer's Invocation to Spring, The . 
 
 " Let us alone" .... 
 
 Publishers; Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston. 
 
 573 
 896 
 890
 
 JXDKX UF AUTHORS. 
 
 xui 
 
 BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. 
 
 I'llglatid. iStx)-i8oi, 
 
 Amy's Cruelty 
 
 Bertha in the Lane 
 
 Court Lady, A 
 
 De Profiindis 
 
 (leorge Sand, Sonnets To .... 
 Lady's Yes, 'I'he ....•• 
 
 Lord Waller's Wife 
 
 Mother and Poet 
 
 Musical Instrument, A . . . . - 
 
 Parting Lovers ■ 
 
 Pet Name, The 
 
 Portr,iit. A . . • ... 
 
 Romance of a Swan's Nest, The . 
 Sleep .....■•- 
 
 Sonnets from the Portuguese 
 View across the Roman Campagna, A . 
 Wordsworth, On a Portrait of 
 BROWNING, ROBERT. 
 
 Eii.,'l.ind. b, iSi'2. 
 
 Evelyn Hope 
 
 Flower's Name, The ..... 
 
 Herve Riel 
 
 How they brought the Good News from Ghen 
 
 to Aix 
 
 In a Year • 
 
 Incident of the French Camp 
 
 Meeting ......■- 
 
 Pied Piper of Hamelin, The 
 
 The King is cold 
 
 " The Moth's kiss, first ! " . 
 BRYANT, JOHN HOWARD. 
 
 Ciiiiiinin.;ti.n. MnS-S., b. 1807. 
 
 Little Cloud, The 
 
 Valley Brook, The 
 
 Winter 
 
 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. 
 
 CuninutiL;t."ni. Mass., 1704-1878. 
 
 America 
 
 Battle-Field,The 
 
 " Blessed are they that mourn " . 
 Death of the Flowers, The .... 
 Evening Wind, The . . . . - 
 Fatima and Raduan . . . . . 
 
 Flood of Years, The 
 
 Forest Hymn, A . . . ■ - 
 
 Freedom, Antiquity of . ... 
 
 Fringed Gentian, To the . . . . 
 
 Future Life, The 
 
 June ...-..- 
 Love of God, The (Frovt ihe Provntcal) 
 
 Mosquito, To a 
 
 My Autumn Walk .... 
 Oh, Fairest of the Rural Maids . 
 Planting of the Apple-Tree, The 
 Robert of Lincoln .... 
 
 Siesta, The 
 
 Snow- Shower, The .... 
 Song of Marion's Men .... 
 Star of Bethlehem, The 
 
 Thanatnpsis 
 
 To a Waterfowl 
 
 Publishers : D. -\ppleton Ar Co,, New York. 
 
 BUCHANAN, ROBERT. 
 
 Scotland, b 1S41. 
 
 Fra Giacomo ... ... 
 
 Little Milliner. The .... 
 
 Wake of Tim O'Hara .... 
 
 BURLEIGH, GEORGE S. 
 
 Aiuern;.*. 
 
 A Prayer for Life . . . . , 
 BURNS, ROBERT. 
 
 Scotland, 1759-1796. 
 
 " Ae fond kiss before we part " 
 Afton Water .... 
 Auld Lang Syne 
 Banks o' Doon, The . 
 Bannockburn .... 
 I'ard's Epitaph, A 
 Bonnie Wee Thing . 
 " Ca' the yowes to the knowes " 
 Comin' through the Rye . 
 Cotter's Saturday Night, The 
 Davie Sillar, To . . . 
 " Duncan Gray cam' here to wo( 
 Elegy on Captain Henderson . 
 
 ** For a' that and a* that " . _ 
 " Green grow the rashes, O ! " 
 Highland Mary .... 
 "John Anderson, my Jo" 
 John Barleycorn . . *. ,, ■ 
 *' Let not woman e'er complain " 
 
 Louse, To a 
 
 Mary in Heaven, To 
 
 ^Iary Morison .... 
 
 Mountain Daisy, To a • 
 
 Mouse, To a . . . . _ ■ 
 
 *' My wife's a winsome wee thing " 
 
 '* Of a' the airts the wind can blaw ' 
 
 " O, saw ye bonnie Lesley ? " . 
 
 Posie, The . . . • 
 
 Tam O'Shanter ... 
 
 •* The day returns, my bosom bums " 
 
 " There 's nae luck about the house ' 
 
 Toothache, Address to the . 
 
 To the Unco Guid .... 
 
 " Whistle and I '11 come to you, my lad 
 
 M7 
 
 208 
 
 529 
 
 299 
 
 S37 
 
 79 
 
 167 
 
 273 
 
 762 
 
 188 
 
 35 
 
 44 
 
 42 
 
 677 
 
 140 
 
 631 
 
 82s 
 
 568 
 
 470 
 222 
 470 
 116 
 778 
 S05 
 »37 
 
 537 
 
 410 
 400 
 
 531 
 485 
 7.8 
 428 
 371 
 
 121 
 
 Ixiv 
 414 
 554 
 424 
 263 
 Ixxvii 
 351 
 451 
 486 
 li 
 419 
 
 402 
 533 
 356 
 308 
 445 
 
 802 
 129 
 653 
 
 183 
 410 
 716 
 205 
 513 
 829 
 123 
 
 lOI 
 
 J3f> 
 34S 
 671 
 
 S30 
 
 BUTLER, SAMUEL. 
 
 Hn^lland. rf*x5- i6s^^'. 
 
 Hudibras' Sword and Dagger . 
 Hudibras. The Logic of . ■ • 
 Hudibras, The Philosophy of - 
 Hudibras, The Religion of . 
 
 BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN. 
 
 Alb.-»ny. N. V.. b. 1825. 
 
 " Nothing to wear" 
 Publishers : Houghton, Osgood &• Co., Boston. 
 
 BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD. 
 
 England. 17S8- 1S24- 
 
 " Adieu, adieu \ ray native shore " 
 
 Augusta, To 
 
 Coliseum by Moonlight 
 
 Coliseum, The . . . * . 
 
 Daniel Boone 
 
 Death (rfc G/VjoKr) 
 
 Dream, The 
 
 Evening (Z>(?« 77/rt«) 
 
 Filial Love ..-.•■ 
 
 First Love 
 
 Greece ( Thr Giaour) 
 
 >45 
 277 
 ■73 
 X54 
 ■49 
 450 
 279 
 90 
 425 
 43' 
 166 
 104 
 
 ■95 
 00 
 
 776 
 169 
 
 201 
 708 
 708 
 ■ "3 
 
 472 
 855 
 
 S55 
 346 
 
 884 
 
 190 
 ■74 
 629 
 629 
 840 
 3°3 
 6S0 
 373 
 ■73 
 6Sq 
 
 524 
 
 Greece (C/irVdt- Hiiro/i/' 5=^ 
 
 Greek Poel, Song of the .... 525 
 
 Lake Leman 633 
 
 Latest Verses 206 
 
 " Maid of Athens, ere we part " . 184 
 
 Man — Woman 695 
 
 ^Lazeppa's Ride 609 
 
 Murat 823 
 
 Napoleon (dtiUe Harold) . . .821 
 
 Napoleon, Ode to Stg 
 
 Night 375 
 
 Orient, The 413 
 
 "O, snatched away in beauty's bloom " . 279 
 
 Outward Bound 563 
 
 Princess Charlotte, The 819 
 
 Rhine, The ...... 409 
 
 Rover, Song of the 584 
 
 Sea Grot 63S 
 
 Sea, Realm of the 563 
 
 Sea, The 359 
 
 ** She walks in beauty" 67 
 
 ~ - - 736 
 
 634 
 .374 
 621 
 .84 
 832 
 230 
 
 Skull, The 
 
 Storm at Night on Lake Leman 
 
 Sunset ..... 
 
 Swimming .... 
 
 " The kiss, dear maid '* 
 
 Thomas Moore, To . 
 
 Transient Beauty {Tfu Giaour) 
 
 Waterloo 460 
 
 CALDWELL, WILLIAM W. 
 
 N(.-\vliuryport. M.'iss., b. 1823. 
 
 In Summer Time 387 
 
 Rose-Bush, The {/^ro/fi i/w Germau) . - 729 
 
 CALIDASA. 
 
 India. 
 
 Baliv, The {TrtiTtslti (ion of Sir IVUUaut yom's) iS 
 V/om2iT\ {Translalion of li^ilsojt) . . • 695 
 
 CALLANAN, JAMES JOSEPH. 
 
 IrL-l.ind. i7q;-iS.-,-), 
 
 Gougaune Barr.i s.;^ 
 
 r
 
 ,\1V 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHOL'S. 
 
 CALVERLEY, CHARLES L. 
 
 Hngland. b. 1831. 
 
 Arab, The 
 
 Cock and the Bull, The 
 CAMOENS, LUIS DE. 
 
 Portugal. i5;:4-iS79- , . ^r j i-j 
 
 Bpighted Love (Translalwtt 0/ Lord Strang- 
 
 ford) ....•••• 
 CAMPBELL, THOMAS. 
 
 Scotland, 1777-1844 
 
 Dyin^ Gerlvude to Waldegrave, 1 he 
 Eveiiing Star, The . • . ■ • 
 Exile oi Erin ..-■■- 
 Hallowed Ground ....-• 
 
 Hohenlinden ■ ■ 
 
 Kiss, The First 
 
 Lochiel's Warning 
 
 Maid's Remonstrance, The . 
 
 Martial Elegy i^From Ihc Greek of Tyrla-us) . 
 
 Napoleon and the British Sailor . ■ -^ 
 
 Poland ....••■• 
 
 River of Life, The . . ■ • ■ 
 
 Soldier's Dream, The . _ ■ 
 
 *' Ye mariners of England " . 
 
 CANNING, GEORGE. 
 
 Entjlancl. 1770- 1S27. ,- -r r- ■ j 
 
 Friend of Humanity and the knife-Grinder 
 
 CAREW (ok CAREY), LADY ELIZABETH. 
 Englantl. Published. 1613. 
 
 "Revenge of Injuries 
 
 CAREW, THOMAS. 
 
 EnL;land, 15S9-1639. ,. . . „ 
 
 "" Give me more love or more disdain 
 " He that loves a rosy cheek " 
 " I do not love thee for that fair " . 
 " Sweetly breathing, vernal air " . 
 CAREY, HENRY. 
 
 EntlKind. d. 1743 
 
 Sally in our Alley 
 
 CARLETON, WILL M. 
 Ohio. b. 1S39. 
 
 The New Church Organ .... 
 Ptiblishcrs : Harper .i Brothers, New York. 
 
 CARY, ALICE. 
 
 Near Cincinnati, O.. 1820-1871. 
 
 Dying Hymn, A 
 
 Enchantments 
 
 Fire by the Sea, The 
 Make Believe 
 
 913 
 912 
 
 192 
 371 
 522 
 712 
 469 
 134 
 S'J 
 80 
 
 454 
 5OCJ 
 
 5=7 
 719 
 4S0 
 587 
 
 WILLIAM. 
 
 CHAMBERLAYNE, 
 
 EiiLjland. 1019-16S9. 
 
 Chastity °=^ 
 
 CHANNING, WILLIAM ELLERY. 
 
 Boston, Mass., b. laiH. 
 
 Our Boat to the Waves 5'*9 
 
 Sleepy Hollow 
 Publishers : Amcricar 
 
 Unitarian Association, Boston. 
 
 80 
 75 
 75 
 3S3 
 
 356 
 99 
 579 
 212 
 
 Order for a Picture, An 178 
 
 Pictures of Memory 
 
 Spinster's Stint, A 
 
 Uncle Jo 
 
 Publishers; Tlf^nirbton. Oseood 5." Co., Boston. 
 
 CARY, HENRY FRANCIS. 
 
 Englaiul, 1772-1S44, _ ,,/'/, 
 
 " The fairest thing in mortal eyes (Jrans- 
 latedfrom tlie French) . . ■ ■ 
 
 CARY, LUCIUS {Lord Falkland). 
 
 England. 1610- 1643. 
 
 Ben Jonson s Commonplace Book . 
 CARY, PHCEBE. 
 
 Near Cincinnati, O,, i.324-l37i. 
 
 Dre.ims and Realities . . - . • 
 Lovers, T'he . . - 
 
 Nearer Home 
 
 Peace 
 
 Publishers ; Hurd & Houghton. New ^ ork. 
 CASIMIR THE GREAT, KING OF POLAND. 
 
 '^^It kindles all my soul " (From the Polish) ■ 
 CASWALL. EDWARD. 
 
 England, b, 1&14. ,,...■ 
 
 ~" My God, I love thee " {From the Latin of 
 
 St. Francis Xavier) 
 
 321 
 
 CHARLES OF ORLEANS. 
 
 Prance. 1391- I4fi5 , . . , „ , .„ . 
 
 " The fairest thing in mortal eyes' (Transla- 
 tioti of Henry ?. Cary) ... 
 Spring 
 
 CHARLES THE FIRST. 
 
 England. 1600- 1C49. 
 
 Majesty in Misery ....•• 
 CHATTERTON, THOMAS. 
 Hngland. 1752-1770. 
 
 Minstrel's Song 
 
 CHAUCER, GEOFFREY. 
 
 England, 132S - i4l^i 
 
 The Canterbury Pilgrims . . . . 
 
 CHERRY, ANDREW. 
 EngLand. 1762 - iSi^. 
 
 The Bay of Biscay, 1 
 
 CHORLEY, HENRY FOTHEKGILL. 
 Enghind. 1S0S-1S72 
 
 The Brave Old Oak 
 
 CHURCHILL, CHARLES. 
 
 England. 1751 -1764- 
 
 Smollett . . 
 
 CIBBER, COLLEY. 
 
 England, 1671- 1757. 
 
 The Blind Boy . . • ■ ■ 
 
 CLARE, JOHN. 
 
 England. 1793-1S64. 
 
 Laborer, The 
 
 Mary Lee . . . • ■ 
 
 Summer Moods ..-■.■ 
 CLARKE, JAMES FREEMAN. 
 
 Hanover. N. II., b. iSio. 
 
 Cana *....-■■ 
 
 The Caliph and Satan 
 
 Publishers : Houghton. Osgood & Co . Boston. 
 
 CLAUDIUS. 
 
 Germany 
 
 ThiMen(Translation) . . ■ ■ 
 
 CLEVELAND, JOHN. 
 
 Env'Iand. 1613- it's?- 
 
 To the Memory of Ben Jonson 
 CLOUGH, ARTHUlt HUGH. 
 
 England. iSig-i.^^i. 
 
 ^' As ships becalmed ■ • 
 
 " With whom is no variableness 
 
 COBBETT, RICHARD. 
 
 Farewell to the Fairies . . . ■ 
 COFFIN, ROBERT STEVENSON 
 
 Brunswick. Me.. 1797 -1827. 
 
 Ships at Sea 
 
 COLERIDGE, HARTLEY. 
 
 England, 1796-1849- , - „ 
 
 "" She is not fair to outward view 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR. 
 
 CELANO, THOMAS DB. 
 
 Italy, about 1250. . 
 
 Dies Irae (Translation of John A. Dix) ■ 313 
 
 CHADWICK, JOHN WHITE. 
 
 Marbleliead. M.-iss.. b. 1K40 
 
 The Two Waitings 265 
 
 CHALKHILL, JOHN. (Prob.lbly /=(jai Walton.) 
 
 The Angler 620 
 
 the Vale of Chamouni 
 
 COLERIDGE, 
 
 England. 1772- It34. 
 
 Answer to a Child's Question 
 
 Cologne ... 
 
 Epigrams . . • • • 
 
 Fancy in Nubibus 
 
 Genevieve 
 
 Good Great Man, 'The 
 
 Hymn before Sunrise in 
 
 Knight's Tomb, The 
 
 Metrical Feet . • ■,.',; 
 
 Quarrel of Friends, The ( t hrntnM) ■ 
 
 Rime of the Ancient Mariner . 
 
 COLES, ABRAHAM. 
 
 Newark. N. 1. r r ^- \ 
 
 Stabat Mater Dolorosa (From the Latin) 
 
 COLLINS, ANNE. 
 En-gland. 10=7. , . 
 
 ''The winter being over 
 
 300 
 38. 
 
 642 
 
 5S6 
 
 41O 
 
 25S 
 
 50S 
 91 
 .390 
 
 351 
 7^9 
 
 S15 
 
 I S3 
 324 
 
 143 
 S64 
 S64 
 75° 
 107 
 67b 
 33S 
 482 
 919 
 59 
 783 
 
 38> 
 
 f
 
 + 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHuns. 
 
 XV 
 
 COLLINS, MORTIMER. 
 
 Comfort 877 
 
 Darwin .892 
 
 COLLINS, WILLIAM. 
 
 England. 17C0- 1750. 
 
 Eveoing, Ode to . . . . ■ • 374 
 
 " How sleep tile IJrave " . . . • 505 
 
 P.-lssions, The 692 
 
 COLMAN, GEORGE (The Younger). 
 Hiii:i.-iiui. i-6_--iSio, 
 
 GlugRity-Glug 858 
 
 Sir Marniadiike ^bb 
 
 Toby Tosspot 865 
 
 CONGREVE, WILLIAM. 
 
 l-ii\;lrind. 1670-17:^, 
 
 Music 692 
 
 Silly Fair 708 
 
 COOK. CLARENCE. 
 
 Uorclii-ster. Ma^-.., h. iSaS 
 
 Abram and Zimri (>^5 
 
 COOK. ELIZA. 
 
 EnglanJ. b. ^3i; 
 
 ~" Hang up his harp ; he 'II wake no more . 291 
 
 Old Arm -Chair, The 40 
 
 Sea Murmurs 5^3 
 
 COOKE, PHILIP PENDLETON. 
 Berkley Co., Va.. 1S16- 1B50. 
 
 Florence Vane 276 
 
 COOKE, ROSE TERRY. 
 
 HartforiJ. Conn. 
 
 Reve du Midi 37° 
 
 Publisher-i: Houghton, Osgood & Co.. Boston. 
 
 COOLIDGE, SUSAN. 
 
 See WooLSEV, Saeah A 
 COOPER, JAMES FENIMORE. 
 
 Burlinjfton. N. J.. 1789- 1851. 
 
 My Brigantine ...•••■ 5^5 
 
 CORNWALL, BARRY. 
 See Procter, B. \V. 
 
 CORNWELL, HENRY SYLVESTER 
 
 The Sunken City 754 
 
 COTTON, CHARLES. 
 
 lingland, 1630- 1687. 
 
 Contentalion 670 
 
 Retirement 674 
 
 COTTON. NATHANIEL. 
 
 England, 1721 - i7>'«- 
 
 The Fireside i77 
 
 COURTHOPE, WILLIAM JOHN 
 
 liiigland. 
 
 Chorus of English Songsters .... 432 
 
 Rise of Species, The 893 
 
 COWLEY. ABRAHAM. 
 
 England, 1610- 1667. 
 
 Chronicle, The '44 
 
 Grasshopper, The (From the Graek) . . 449 
 
 Hymn to Light, Emm the .... 367 
 
 Invocation, The - 6qi 
 
 Of Myself 666 
 
 COWPER. WILLIAM. 
 
 Engl^ind, 1731-1800. 
 
 Boadicea . . • . . • 5n 
 
 Contradiction . ... 69S 
 
 Cricket, The ..... . 449 
 
 Dueling .... ... 705 
 
 Freeman, The ....... 552 
 
 Happy Man, The ...... 672 
 
 Heroism ....,..• 484 
 
 Humanity . . 703 
 
 My Country ....... 515 
 
 My Mather's Picture ..... 7^,9 
 
 Niglitingale and (ilow-Worm, The . . . 7SO 
 
 Oaths 699 
 
 Rose, The ....... 4_'3 
 
 Royal George. On the Loss of the . . 564 
 
 Russian Ice-Palace, A 639 
 
 Slavery 556 
 
 " Sweet stream, that winds " . . . • .^° 
 
 The Nose and the Eyes . - . . 861 
 Verses supposed to be written by Alexander 
 
 Selkirk . 675 
 
 Winter . . . . ... • 397 
 
 Winter Walk at Noon 400 
 
 COZZENS, FREDERICK SWARTWOUT. 
 
 Nl-w York, i8iS-iKw- 
 
 An Experience and a Moral 
 
 l'ul.li-.hct^: llurd & Uouijiiton, iNcw York. 
 
 CRABBE, GEORGE. 
 
 England, 1754 - i-^i-. 
 
 Approach of Age, The .... 
 
 Mourner, The 
 
 Peas.ant, The 
 
 Quack Medicines . 
 
 CRAIK. DINAH MARIA MULOCK. 
 
 lill^land, b. iS-t,, 
 
 Alma River, By the .... 
 
 " Buried to-day " • 
 
 Dead Czar Nicholas, The 
 
 Fletcher Harper, To the Memory of 
 
 Her Likeness 
 
 Lancashire Doxology, A 
 
 Mercenary Marriage, .\ • 
 
 Now and .\fterwards 
 
 Only a Woman , . . - 
 
 Philip, my King .... 
 
 Too Late 
 
 244 
 
 ■92 
 
 672 
 
 707 
 
 ■99 
 260 
 849 
 847 
 
 87 
 SO.- 
 
 7» 
 291 
 21S 
 
 ■7 
 280 
 
 CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE. 
 
 Alirxandri.!. l> C. b. iSn 
 
 Correspondences .... 
 
 Thought 
 
 Publishers ; Houghton. Osi;ood &: Co . .intl Robert.; Bros., 
 Boston. 
 
 CRASHAW, RICHARD. 
 
 England. i^w-iG^c 
 
 Music's Duel 
 
 Supposed Mistress, Wishes for the 
 
 " Two men went up to thf Temple to pray " ■ 
 
 CRAWFORD, MRS. 
 
 Ireland, 
 
 "We parted in silence" 
 
 CROLY, GEORGE. 
 
 Ircl.ind. i;8o- i'5'jo. 
 
 Genius of Death. The 
 
 Leonidas, The Death of . ... 
 Pericles and Aspasia ..... 
 
 CROWQUILL, ALFRED. 
 
 See Forrester, Alfred A. 
 
 CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. 
 
 Scotland. 1734-184X 
 
 *' Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie " . 
 
 Poet's Bridal-Day Song. The 
 
 Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, A . . . 
 
 CUNNINGHAM, JOHN. 
 
 Ireland. 1^29-177!. 
 
 Mornmg 
 
 CUTTER, GEORGE W. 
 
 Massachusetts, b. 1801, 
 Song of the Lightning 
 Song of Steam 
 
 DANA, RICHARD HENRY. 
 
 Cambridge, Mas^ , i7R7-ia79. 
 
 Beach Bird. The Little .... 
 
 Husband and Wife's Grave, The . 
 
 Island, The ...... 
 
 Pleasure- Boat, The .... 
 
 Soul, The 
 
 Publisticrs: Scribncr. .\rnistrong & Co.. New York. 
 
 DANIEL. SAMUEL. 
 England, 1562- i6iq. 
 
 Love is a Sickness ..... 
 
 DARLEY, GEORGE. 
 
 [reland, 1785- iS4g 
 
 Gambols of Children, The 
 Song of the Summer Winds . 
 
 DAVIDSON, MARGARET. 
 
 Anmrici, 1823 -laiS. 
 
 The Storm (Leonore) 
 
 DAVIS, THOMAS. 
 
 Ireland, 1814- 1845. 
 
 Banks of the Lee, The 
 Flower of Finae, The . 
 Maire Bhan Astor . 
 Sack of Baltimore, The 
 Welcome, The . 
 
 361 
 666 
 
 742 
 146 
 .324 
 
 720 
 
 506 
 506 
 
 159 
 i6g 
 
 584 
 
 368 
 
 761 
 501 
 
 446 
 303 
 637 
 
 6i3 
 
 332 
 
 31 
 38S 
 
 165 
 286 
 164 
 793 
 100
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 DECKER, THOMAS. 
 
 The Happy Heart 
 
 DE LISLE. ROUGET. 
 
 France, i:q-2. 
 
 The Marseilles Hymn .... 
 
 DERZHAVIN, GAVRUL RUMANOVITCH. 
 Russia. 1743-1816. 
 
 God {Trajtsiatioft of Dr. Boivring) 
 
 DE VERE, SIR AUBREY. 
 
 Irelzind. d. 1S46. 
 
 Early Friendship ... 
 
 DIP.DIN, CHARLES. 
 
 lin.il.iiul. 1745-1S14. 
 
 Tom Bowling 
 
 DIBDIN, THOMAS. 
 
 Hnglan^, 1771- i^4i. 
 
 All's Well 
 
 Snug Little Island, The .... 
 
 DICKENS, CHARLES. 
 
 Enirlaiid, 1812 - 1S70. 
 ^Children, The ...... 
 
 Ivy Green, The .... 
 
 DTCKSON, DAVID. 
 
 En^l:in<i. i?S-.- 1662, 
 
 Tile New Jerusalem . , , . 
 
 DIGEY, JOHN. EARL OF BRISTOL. 
 
 Enijland. 1580-1653- 
 
 " See, O, see ! *' 
 
 52S 
 
 5S7 
 
 DIMOND, WILLIAM. 
 
 Englnnd. iSoo- 1837. 
 
 The Manner's Dream ... 
 
 DIX, JOHN ADAMS. 
 
 Eosciwcn. N. 11., 1708. 
 
 Dies Irs {^From the Latin) 
 
 DOBELL, SYDNEY. 
 
 Engl.md. 1824- 1H75. 
 
 Absent Soldier's Son, The 
 
 Home, Wounded ...... 
 
 How 's mv Boy? ..... 
 
 Market-wife's Song 
 
 Milkmaid's Song, The 
 
 " She touches a sad string of soft recall " . 
 
 Tommy's dead. ..... 
 
 D0E80N, AUSTIN. 
 
 Eiv,'iaiul. b- about 1840. 
 
 Growing Gray ...... 
 
 DODDRIDGE, PHILIP. 
 
 England, 1702- 1751. 
 
 " Amazing, beauteous change !*' - 
 Dimi Vivimus, Vivamus . . . . 
 DORR, JULIA C. R. 
 
 Charleston, S. C, b, 1825. 
 
 Outgrown . ... 
 
 Three Ships, The ...... 
 
 Publishers T J. B. Lippincntt & Co., Philadelphia. 
 
 DORSET, CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL 
 
 England, 1637-1700. 
 
 The Fire of Love ..... 
 
 DOUGLAS, MARIAN. 
 
 See Green, Ani*ie D. 
 
 DOWLAND, JOHN. 
 
 England, about 1600. 
 
 Sleep ...... 
 
 5^5 
 5>0 
 
 42,S 
 
 366 
 
 S*^'? 
 
 DRYDEN, JOHN. 
 
 Knglaiul, 1031-1700. 
 
 Ah, how sweet ! 
 
 Alexander's Feast, or ihe Power of Music . 
 Eleonora ....... 
 
 Oliver Cromwell ..... 
 
 Portrait of John Milion, Lines written under 
 
 the 
 
 Og. . . . . - . , 
 Song for St. Cecilia's Day, A . 
 Veni Creator Spiritus {From the Latin) 
 Zimri 
 
 DSCHELLALEDDIN RUMI. 
 
 I'ersia. 
 
 "To heaven approached a Sufi saint" {Travs- 
 laiion of W. R. Alger) 
 
 DUFFERIN, LADY. 
 
 Ireland, 1S07-1S67. 
 
 Lament of the Irish Emigrant . 
 
 DUNLOP, JOHN. 
 Scotland, 1755-1820. 
 
 " Dinna ask me '*...... 
 
 DURYEA. REV. WILLIAM RANKIN. 
 
 America. 
 
 j A Song for the " Hearth and Home " 
 
 DWIGHT, JOHN SULLIVAN. 
 I Boston, Mass,, b. 1813. 
 I True Rest ...... 
 
 8s 
 6S9 
 287 
 817 
 
 8.S 
 819 
 694 
 3'S 
 816 
 
 19S 
 319 
 570 
 469 
 1I7 
 196 
 269 
 
 J39 
 32s 
 
 7r5 
 759 
 
 OF. 
 
 DOYLE, SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS. 
 
 England, b. iSio. 
 
 The Private of the Buffs . 
 DRAKE. JOSEPH RODMAN. 
 
 New York Lily. 1795- iSr!n. 
 
 American Flag, The 
 
 Culprit Fay, The .... 
 
 DRAYTON, MICHAEL. 
 
 Enelaiiil. 1563- 1631. 
 
 Ballad of Agincourt, The 
 
 " Come, let us kisse and parte " 
 
 DRUMMOND, WILLIAM. 
 
 Scotland. i';S5-i64o. 
 
 Ends of Life, The . 
 Thrush, The .... 
 
 8s 
 
 677 
 
 536 
 769 
 
 4S6 
 191 
 
 304 
 43S 
 
 107 
 
 176 
 
 DWIGHT, TIMOTHY. 
 
 Xonham^iton, Mass . 1752- 1817. 
 Columbia . . . . 
 
 DYER, JOHN. 
 
 Wales. 170.5- 1753. 
 Aurelia, To 
 Grongar Hill . 
 
 DYER, SIR EDWARD. 
 
 I England, b. about 1540. 
 
 " My minde to me a kingdom is " 
 
 EASTMAN, CHARLES GAMAGE. 
 
 Burlington, Vt.. 181O - 1861. 
 
 A Snow-Storm .... 
 
 384 
 
 406 
 
 665 
 
 EDWARDS, AMELIA BLANDFORD. 
 
 England, 1831. 
 
 " Give me three grains of com, mother" 
 
 ELLIOT, EBENEZER { Tlie Car?.-Law Rhymer). 
 
 England. 1731-1849. 
 
 Bums ....-.- 
 Poet's Epitaph, A 
 Spring ... 
 
 ELTON. CHARLES ABRAHAM. 
 Eni^'land. b. about 1770- 
 
 Lament for Bion {Fmm ihe Greel- of Moschus) : 
 
 EMBURY, EMMA C. 
 
 New York. iSno- 1863. 
 
 Duke of Reichstadt, On the Death of . . 1 
 Publishers: Harper & Brothers. New York. 
 
 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. 
 
 Boston. Mass.. b. i!io3. 
 
 Borrowing 
 
 Boston Hymn 
 
 Brahma .... 
 
 Concord Monuuieiit Hymn 
 
 Each and All . 
 
 Friendship 
 
 Good By . . . 
 
 Heri, Cms, liodie 
 
 Heroism . . . ■ 
 
 Humble-Bee, To the . 
 
 Justice . . . ■ 
 
 Letters . - . - 
 
 Northman . . . • 
 
 Poet . . 
 
 Problem, The - 
 
 Quatrains and Fragments 
 
 Rhodora, The . 
 
 Sea, The 
 
 Snow-Storm, The .... 
 Publishers; Houghton. Osgood & Co.. Boston. 
 
 EVERETT, EDWARD. 
 
 Do^che^te^. Mass.. 1704-1965. 
 Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth 
 
 827 
 827 
 383 
 
 746 
 556 
 
 722 
 
 533 
 3f'5 
 59 
 719 
 746 
 745 
 448 
 74G 
 7=1 
 746 
 746 
 673 
 746 
 4^4 
 562 
 402 
 
 S13 
 
 * See end of Index.
 
 L 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 xvii 
 
 EYTINGE, MARGARET. 
 
 America. 
 
 Baby Louise 
 
 FABER, FREDERICK WILLIAM. 
 
 liiii;taiul, b. i«i4-iS64. 
 The Right must Win 
 
 FALCONER, WILLIAM. 
 
 Scotland, 1750-1701. 
 
 The Shipwreck 
 
 FANSHAWE, CATHERINE. 
 
 England. I..ilter jj.irt nf iSih century. 
 
 Enigma (The Letter H) . 
 FAWKES, FRANCIS. 
 
 Hnijland, 17;! - 1777. 
 The Brown Jug 
 
 FENNER, CORNELIUS GEORGE. 
 
 Providence, R. I.. 1822 1847. 
 
 (Julf-Weed 
 
 FERGUSON, SAMUEL. 
 
 Ireland, h. 1805. 
 
 Forging of the Anchor, The 
 Pretty Girl of Loch Dan, ihe 
 
 FIELDING, HENRY. 
 
 Knijland. 1:07- 1:54. 
 
 " A huntinc; we will go" . 
 Maiden's Choice, The . 
 
 356 
 564 
 697 
 S58 
 
 goo 
 •(8 
 
 6.7 
 76 
 
 FIELDS, JAMES THOMAS. 
 
 Portsmoiitli, N. H,, li. i.s.-n 
 
 Dirge for a Young Girl .... 
 
 Nantucket Skipper, The 
 
 Tempest, The 
 
 Publishers : Houghton. Osgood 5: Co . Bo .ton. 
 
 FINCH, FRANCIS MILES. 
 
 Ithaci. N. v.. I). iKj;. 
 
 The Blue and the Gray .... 
 
 FLAGG, WILSON. 
 
 America, l^blished. 1856. 
 
 The O' Lincoln Family 
 
 Publisliers: Houghton. Osgood & Co., Boston 
 
 FLETCHER, GILES. 
 
 Imiil.ind. 15S5- 1623. 
 
 " Drop, drop, slow tears " .... 
 FORD, JOHN. 
 
 lingland. b. 15S6. 
 
 The Musical Duel 
 
 FORRESTER, ALFRED H. {A//rrd Cvw^?,!/!). 
 
 England, b. if.ya. 
 
 To my Nose ....... 
 
 300 
 S90 
 58s 
 
 4S11 
 
 FOSDICK, WILLIAM WHITEMAN. 
 
 Cincinnati, t>,. iX:;5- 1S6::. 
 
 The Maize . 
 
 FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS. 
 
 Pitt.sbiirtt. I'a.. iS»-i864. 
 
 My Old Kentucky Home .... 
 
 FOX, W. J. 
 
 Hnijland. b. 1786. 
 
 The Martyr's Hymn [Fran: the Gerjuan of 
 Marti?! Luther) 
 
 FRANKLIN, BENJAMIN. 
 
 Boitun, Ma^iS., 1706-1790. 
 
 Paper 
 
 GERMAN, DELIA R. 
 
 Ann.ric.1, 
 
 The Wood of ChancellorsviUe . 5.^1 
 
 GILBERT, WILLIAM SCHWENCK- 
 
 l:ni,dand, b, 1836. 
 
 To the Terrestrial Globe . . . . 915 
 
 Yarn of the " Nancy Bell," The . . S73 
 
 GILDER, RICHARD WATSON. 
 
 Burduntown, N. J., b. 1H44. • 
 
 Dawn 36g 
 
 Publisher^: Scribncr, Annslrong & Co.. New Vork. 
 
 OILMAN, CAROLINE HOWARD. 
 
 Boslnn, Mass.. b. 170.1. 
 
 The Child's Wish in June . - . ■ 3S7 
 GLAZIER. WILLIAM BELCHER. 
 
 Hallowell. M<-., b, i.'';.-;. 
 
 Cape-Cotiagc at Simsel yj2 
 
 GLUCK, 
 
 (..erniany. 
 
 To Death { Translation) 
 
 GOETHE, JOHANN WOLFGANG VON. 
 
 Germany. i74'>-'t^:?l 
 
 Fisher, Ihe {Translation of Charles T. 
 
 Brooks) 726 
 
 King of i'hule, The { Translation of Bayard 
 
 Taylor) . . . . . . . 7S5 
 
 Miguon's Song {Translation of Felicia He- 
 mans) 737 
 
 GOLDSMITH. OLIVER. 
 
 Ireland. 1725- 17^4- 
 
 Deserted Village, The 634 
 
 Great Britain ■ 633 
 
 Holland .... byz 
 
 Home .... 179 
 
 Madame Blaize, Elegy "ii ... 861 
 
 Mad Dog, Elegy on the Deaili ol a . . S61 
 GOULD, HANNAH FLAGG. 
 
 Lan.:.i_ster. Vl, i7?.g-iS65. 
 
 The Frost 44 
 
 GRAHAM, JAMES, EARL OF MONTROSE. 
 
 Scotland, iMcr-iojo. 
 
 " My dear an4,only love " .... 92 
 GRAHAM OF GARTMORE. 
 
 Scotland. 
 
 " If doughty deeds my lady please" . . S6 
 
 GRAHAME, JAMES. 
 
 Scotland, 17.^5-18:;$. 
 
 The Sabbath 403 
 
 FREILIGRATH, FERDINAND 
 
 Germany, b. 1810, 
 
 Lion's Ride, The {Froin tlie Gennau) 
 Traveler's Vision, The .... 
 
 GALLAGHER, WILLIAM D. 
 
 Philadelphia, Pa., b. iSoV. 
 Autumn 
 
 GARRISON, WILLIAM LLOYD. 
 
 Ncwburyport, Mass., b. 1804. 
 Sonnet written in Prison . 
 GAY, JOHN. 
 
 England, i(>?S- 17^2. 
 
 Black-eyed Susan . 
 
 Hare and many Friend -, The 
 
 GAYLORD, WILLIS. 
 
 Lines written in an Album 
 GERHARDT, PAUL. 
 
 Germany, 16 7 -1676. 
 
 The Dying Saviour . 
 
 4-9 
 757 
 
 B'l'i 
 
 >S5 
 860 
 
 qlf, 
 336 
 
 GRANT, SIR ROBERT. 
 
 Scotland, i7P:;-i8iS. 
 
 Brooklet. The 
 
 Litany 
 
 GRAY, DAVID. 
 
 Scotland. iR^?. - 1861, 
 
 " Die down, O dismal day " 
 Homesick ...... 
 
 *' O winter, wilt thou never, never go ? " 
 GRAY, THOMAS. 
 
 En^'land, 1716- 1771. 
 
 Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 
 Eton College, On a Distant View of . 
 Spring .... . . 
 
 GREEN, ANNIE D. {Marian Douglas). 
 Bristol, X. H. 
 
 Puritan Lovers, The ... 
 
 Two Pictures 
 
 Publishers: Houghton, Osgood iSr Co.. Boston. 
 
 GREENE, ALBERT G. 
 
 Providence, R I., b. 1802. 
 
 " Old Grimes is dead " 
 Publisher: S. S. Kider, Providence, K. 1. 
 
 GREENE, ROBERT. 
 
 England, 1560-1592, 
 
 " Ah I what is love ? '* . 
 
 Content 
 
 Sameta ...... 
 
 Shepherd's Wife, Song of the 
 
 701 
 319 
 
 380 
 198 
 404 
 
 306 
 
 738 
 
 3?3 
 
 728 
 
 87 S 
 
 70 
 66S 
 
 64 
 66S 
 
 GREENWOOD, GRACE. 
 
 See LtppiNCoTT, Sarah J. 
 
 GREGORY THE GREAT, ST. 
 
 Italy, 540-604. 
 
 Darkness is thinning (From the Latin by fohn 
 Mason Neale)
 
 -i^ 
 
 XVUl 
 
 ISWEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Veni Creator Spiritus (From tlu Latin hy John 
 Drydtti) ....•- 
 
 HABINGTON, WILLIAM. 
 linghind. i&o5-i645, 
 
 Castara 
 
 HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE. 
 
 Guilford. Conn,, 1790-1867. 
 
 Alnwick Castle 
 
 Bums ....-■• 
 
 Fortune 
 
 Joseph Rodman Dral;e 
 Marco Bozzaris .... 
 On a Portrait of Red Jacket . . 
 Weehawken 
 
 Publishers : D. Appleton & Co.. New York 
 
 HALPINE, CHARLES G. {.Mz2es O'Reilly). 
 
 Irel.ind, 1829- 1S69. 
 
 Qiiakerdom — The Formal Call 
 
 Publishers : Harper & Brothers. New York. 
 
 HARRINGTON, SIR JOHN. 
 
 England. 1561-1612. 
 
 Fortune S5 
 
 3ii^ 
 
 48 
 
 106 
 
 Daffodils 427 
 
 Go, happy rose ! " 
 Holy Spirit, The 
 
 Kiss, The 
 
 Lent, A True 
 
 Night Piece, The ... 
 Primrose, The .... 
 Primroses, To .... 
 " Sweet, be not proud" . 
 Thanksgiving for his House 
 Time ...... 
 
 Violets 
 
 Virgins, To the ..... 
 
 HERVEY, THOMAS KIBBLE. 
 Eneland. 1799 - 1859. 
 
 Adieu, adieu ! our dream of love " 
 Love ...... 
 
 HEYWOOD, THOMAS. 
 
 tn^land. about r640. 
 
 " Pack clouds away " 
 Search after God . 
 
 Of a certaine Man S55 
 
 Of Writers that carp at other Men's Books - S55 
 
 Treason S55 
 
 Warres in Ireland, Of the . • • 4^5 
 
 HARTE, FRANCIS BRET. 
 
 AlLmiy. N. v.. b. 1039, 
 
 Dickens in Camp 840 
 
 Dow's Flat S<)|3 
 
 Her Letter S.Sq 
 
 Jim . 900 
 
 Plain Language from Truthful James (Heathen 
 
 Chinee) ........ 888 
 
 Pliocene Skull, To the 892 
 
 Ramon SoS 
 
 The Society upon the Stanislaus ... 888 
 
 Publishers: Houi^htoii, Osgood & Co., Boston. 
 
 HARTE, WALTER. 
 W.^les. i7(X)-i774- 
 
 A Soliloquy 448 
 
 HAY, JOHN. 
 
 Salein, Intl.. b. 18:^9. • 
 
 BantyTim 9°' 
 
 Woman's Love . . . ■ ■ 234 
 
 Publishers: Houghton. Osgood & Co.. Boston. 
 
 HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON. 
 
 Charleston. .S. C. b. 183:-. 
 
 Love scorns Degrees 09 
 
 Pre-existence . ■ • . * • 734 
 
 Publishers : E. J. Hale & Son. New York. 
 
 HEP.ER, REGINALD. 
 
 lint^lanil. 178.^-1926. 
 
 " If thou wert by my Side, my love" ■ 17^ 
 
 HEDGE, FREDERICK HENRY. 
 
 Cambridge. Mass., b. 1805. 
 
 "A mighty fortress is our God" {From Hie 
 German of Martin Lutlier) . . ■ - 335 
 
 HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA 
 
 England. 1794- 1815, 
 
 Graves of a Household, The . . . -305 
 Homes of England, The .... 180 
 Kindred Hearts. . . . ■ • 58 
 
 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, The . • 552 
 Meeting of the Ships. The ... - 57 
 Mignon's Son.a {Fro7n tfie German of GoeOu:) 737 
 Treasures of the Deep, The . . ■ -572 
 Wordsworth, To ... 825 
 
 HERBERT, GEORGE. 
 
 Wales. tsQl- 1632. 
 
 Church Porch, The . , 327 
 
 Gifts of God, The . 696 
 
 Life 717 
 
 Praise 326 
 
 Revival 683 
 
 "Said I not so?" . ... -33° 
 
 Virtue Immortal 302 
 
 HIGGINS, JOHN. 
 
 Eniilanci. Time of (Jueen Elizabeth. 
 Books .... 
 
 71 
 3"'/ 
 ■35 
 324 
 
 (>3 
 424 
 423 
 
 6g 
 323 
 727 
 
 425 
 727 
 
 369 
 353 
 
 6S3 
 
 HILL, THOMAS. 
 
 New Brunswick, N. J., b. 1S18. 
 
 The Bobolink 439 
 
 HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO 
 
 New York City, b. 1806. 
 
 Monterey 
 
 Publishers : Porter & Coales. Philadelphia. 
 
 HOGG, JAMES. 
 
 Scotland. 1775-1835. 
 
 Jock Johnstone, the Tnikler . 
 Kilmeny . . . - 
 
 Skylark, The ... 
 When the Kye come Hame 
 
 HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT. 
 
 Belchertown. M.Ts-... b. 1819. 
 
 Cradle Song (.e;«fr-5'Tii«/) • 
 Publishers: Scribner. Annstront; & Co.. New "iork. 
 
 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL 
 
 Cambridge. Mass.. b. iStxj. 
 
 Bill and Joe 
 
 City and Country . 
 
 Contentment 
 
 Daniel Webster . 
 
 Height of the Ridiculous, The 
 
 Katydid . . . - 
 
 Last Leaf, The 
 
 Nautilus, The Chambered 
 
 Now or Never . 
 
 Ode for a Social Meeting 
 
 Old Ironsides . 
 
 One-Hoss Shay, The . 
 
 Plowman, The . 
 
 Rudolph the Headsman 
 
 4f.2 
 
 595 
 7(.6 
 436 
 
 5f> 
 85 1 
 669 
 844 
 879 
 45° 
 244 
 582 
 558 
 919 
 575 
 S79 
 497 
 
 Publishers: Houghton. Osgood & Co.. Boston. 
 
 HERRICK, ROBERT. 
 
 England. 1591 - 1674. 
 
 " A sweet disorder in the dress ' 
 
 Ben Jonson, Ode to 
 
 Ben Jonson, Prayer to 
 
 Blossoms, To 
 
 Corinna 's going a Maying 
 
 Vountry Life, The 
 
 69S 
 S15 
 8.5 
 419 
 89 
 641 
 
 HOLTY, LUDWIG. 
 
 Germany. i74S-'77^- . ,^, , ,.. „ , \ 
 
 Winter Song ( Translation of Charles T. brooks) .397 
 
 HOME, JOHN. 
 
 Scotland. 1734- iSoS. 
 
 Norval . ^4 
 
 HOOD, THOMAS. 
 
 England, 179S - 1845. 
 
 Autumn . . ■ 
 
 Bridge of Sighs, The 
 
 Diversities of Fortune 
 
 Dream of Eugene Aram, The 
 
 Faithless Sally Brown 
 
 " Farewell, life ! " . - 
 
 Flowers .... 
 
 Forlorn Shepherd's Complaint, The 
 
 Goldl 
 
 Heir, The Lost 
 
 Infant Son, To my 
 
 " I remember, I remember "' 
 
 Morning Meditations 
 
 No 
 
 Nocturnal Sketch . . • 
 
 Ruth 
 
 I Sailor's Consolation, The 
 
 I Song of the Shirt, The . . • • 
 
 395 
 
 25' 
 
 25S 
 
 810 
 
 868 
 
 291 
 
 422 
 
 qo2 
 
 705 
 
 29 
 
 28 
 
 40 
 
 868 
 
 397 
 ciiS 
 
 49 
 
 5QO 
 
 254
 
 4- 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 " We watched her brealliing" . 
 
 " What can an old man do but die *' 
 
 HOOPER, LUCY H. * 
 
 America. 
 
 Three Doves 
 
 Publishers: J. B. Lippincott & Co., Phi lade l|>hi.i. 
 
 HOPPIN, WILLIAM J. 
 
 Charlie Machree 
 
 293 
 243 
 
 HOVEL. EDWARD. See Lord Thi-rlow. 
 HOWE, JULIA WARD. 
 
 New ^'u^k City. b. 1^:19 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Republic . 
 Royal Guest, The. 
 Publishers; Houghton, Osgood & Co . Boston. 
 
 HOWITT, MARY- 
 
 Englanii, b. about i3oo or 1804. 
 
 Eroom Flower, The .... 
 Use of Flowers, The .... 
 
 HOWITT, WILLLAM. 
 
 liiitjlaiul, '795-1SI79. 
 
 Departure of the Swallow, The 
 Summer Noon, A 
 
 HOWLAND, MRS, MARY WOOLSEY. 
 
 liii^Hand. b. 18^2 ; <\. New York, iSt.4. 
 ^irst Spring Flowers 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep " 
 
 Publishers : E. P. Dutton Si Co.. New York. 
 
 HOYT, RALPH. 
 
 New York. i8oS-i87& 
 
 Old 
 
 Snow. — A Winter Sketch . 
 
 HUGHES, DR. RICHARD. 
 
 Hnglaiid. iSth century. 
 
 A Doubt 
 
 HUGO, VICTOR. 
 
 France, b. 1802. 
 
 The Poor Fisher Folk {Ale,va?ider'sTratts.) . 
 HUME, ALEXANDER. 
 
 Scotland, 1711 - 1770 
 
 The Story of a Summer Day . . . , 
 HUNT, HELEN {Mrs. yac/^so?:). 
 
 Coronation 
 
 My Legacy 
 
 Publisher!;: Roberts Brothers. Boston. 
 
 HUNT, LEIGH. 
 
 linyland. 1784-1850. 
 
 Abou i3en Adhem 
 
 Child during Sickness, To a . . . 
 
 Cupid Swallowed 
 
 Fairies' Song ...... 
 
 Glove and the Lions, The . . . . 
 
 Grasshopper and Cricket, The 
 
 Jaffar 
 
 " Jenny kissed me " 
 
 Love-Letters made of Flowers 
 
 May ........ 
 
 Mahmoud 
 
 Sneezing ..... . . 
 
 Trumpets of Doolkarnein, The 
 HUNTER. ANNE HOME. 
 
 tiiglarid, 174^-ifci. 
 
 Indian Death-Song ...... 
 
 HURDIS, JAMES. 
 
 HiiyUnd. 1763-1801. 
 
 A Bird's Nest 
 
 559 
 59 
 
 424 
 428 
 
 44 J 
 
 37° 
 
 28 1 
 36 
 
 24s 
 402 
 
 146 
 
 688 
 687 
 
 686 
 
 34 
 
 151 
 
 764 
 
 605 
 
 449 
 
 57 
 
 50 
 
 • 49 
 
 3S5 
 
 918 
 600 
 
 INGELOW, JEAN. 
 
 Hnyl-iiid. b. 1830. 
 
 Divided 
 
 High-Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire 
 
 Like a Laverock in the Lift 
 
 Maiden with a Milking- Pail, A . 
 
 Seven Times One .... 
 
 Seven Times Two .... 
 
 Seven Times Three .... 
 
 Seven Times Four .... 
 
 Seven Times Six .... 
 
 Wreck of the " Grace " of Sunderland . 
 INGOLDSBY, THOS. SeeBxRiiAM, R H- 
 JACKSON, THOMAS JONATHAN (".9/^ww<z/^' 
 
 Clarkslmrtr. ^a . i ^' "t ' i -'-' i- 
 
 My Wife and Child 
 
 JACOPONE, FRA. 
 
 Stabat Mater Dolorosa {Coles's Trunstalioii) . 
 
 JAMES, PAUL MOON. 
 
 ]£nt;land, d. 18^4. 
 The Beacon 
 
 JENKS, EDWARD A. 
 
 Ncwiiort, N. H., l>. 1335. 
 
 Going and Coming 
 
 JENNER, DR. EDWARD. 
 
 Eiij^land. 1749-181? 
 
 Signs of Rain 
 
 JOHNSON, EDWARD, M. D 
 
 l-nt:land. Pub, 1817. 
 
 The VValer-Drinker .... 
 JOHNSON, SAMUEL. 
 
 Hntjland. 1709-17^4 
 
 Charles XI I 
 
 To-morrow 
 
 JONES, SIR WILLIAM. 
 
 l£ii;,;irmd, 1746-1704. 
 
 Baby, The {Front the Sanskrit') 
 " What constitutes a State?" 
 JONSON, BEN. 
 
 lin^lanil, 1574-1637. 
 
 "Drink to me only with thine ^y&%" K_Fr 
 
 the Greek 0/ Fhilostratus\ 
 Epitaph on Elizabeth L, H. 
 Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke . 
 
 Fantasy 
 
 " Follow a shadow, it still flies you " 
 Freedom in Dress .... 
 
 Good and Fair ..... 
 Noble Nature, Tlie . . - . 
 Robin Goodfellow .... 
 Those Eyes ..... 
 True Growth, The .... 
 Vision of Beauty, A . . , . 
 JUDSON, EMILY CHUBBUCK. 
 
 liaton. N. V . 1817-1854. 
 
 My Bird 
 
 Watching 
 
 KEATS, JOHN. 
 
 lin-.,'land, i796-i>i2i. 
 
 Eve of St. Agnes, The 
 
 Fairy Song ...... 
 
 Gra.sshopper and Cricket, The 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn . 
 Ode to a Nightingale 
 KEBLE, JOHN. 
 
 hni^land, 1790- 1866. 
 
 Example 
 
 KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE. 
 
 ]*nj;l.uid, b. i3ii. 
 
 Absence ...... 
 
 Faith 
 
 KENNEDY, CRAMMOND. 
 
 Scotland, b. 1S41. 
 
 Greenwood Cemetery 
 
 KEPPEL, LADY CAROLINE 
 
 Scotland, 
 
 Robin Adair ..... 
 KETCHUM, ANNIE C 
 
 Benny ...... 
 
 KEY. FRANCIS SCOTT. 
 
 Prederick Co.. Md,. 1779-1841. 
 The Star-spangled Banner 
 
 KIMBALL, HARRIET McEWEN. 
 
 All 's Well 
 
 KING, HENRY. 
 
 luiijland, i59i-i6<V). 
 
 Death of a Beautiful Wife 
 
 Dirge, The ...... 
 
 Sic Vita 
 
 KINGSLEY, CHARLES. 
 
 Hngland. 1819-1875. 
 
 A Rough Rhyme on a Rough Matter 
 
 Merry Lark, The 
 
 Sands o' Dee ..... 
 Three Fishers, The . . . . 
 
 KINNEY, COATES. 
 
 Pcnn Yan, N. Y.. b i8.-6. 
 
 Rain on the Roof .... 
 
 728 
 389 
 
 494 
 
 S16 
 7-4 
 
 iS 
 55" 
 
 7'4 
 SiO 
 S16 
 7t8 
 
 84 
 
 fK,8 
 
 ('4 
 665 
 
 765. 
 
 132 
 
 665 
 
 65 
 
 679 
 
 125 
 76S 
 449 
 750 
 236 
 
 675 
 
 27 
 536 
 
 2go 
 3°3 
 301 
 
 =47 
 270 
 577 
 57t> 
 
 45 
 
 KNOWLES, HERBERT. 
 
 linyland, 1798-1827. 
 
 Richmond Churchyard, Lines written in . 
 
 'V
 
 4. 
 
 XX 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 KNOWLES, JAMES SHERIDAN. 
 
 Irebiul, 1784- 'S62. 
 
 Switzerland . . . - 
 
 KNOX. WILLIAM. 
 
 Scotland, 178Q- 18:15. 
 
 "O, why should the spirit of mortal be 
 proud?" 
 
 KORNER, CHARLES THEODORE. 
 
 Germany. 1701 -i8n. 
 
 Good Night {^Translation of C' T- Brooks) . 
 Men and Boys " " " 
 
 Sword Song, The " " " 
 
 LODGE. THOMAS. 
 
 En^rland. 1556-1625. 
 
 Rosalind's Complaint 
 Rosaline 
 
 504 
 527 
 
 4GS 
 
 KRUMMACHER, FRIEDERICH WILHELM- 
 
 Gctmany, 1774- iSbS. 
 
 Alpine yi€\^\\^ {Translation o/C- T. Brooks) 407 
 Moss Rose, The {7'rrt«j/rti'jo«; . 4-5 
 
 LAMB, CHARLES. 
 
 liiijlland, i775-it.::4. 
 
 Farewell to Tobacco, A . 
 Housekeeper, The .... 
 John Lamb, Esq., To .... 
 Old Familiar Faces, The 
 
 LAMB, MARY. 
 
 lingland, 1765-1847. 
 
 Choosing a Name .... 
 
 LANDON, L/ETITIA ELIZABETH. 
 
 Engbnd. iS-ss-iSiS. 
 
 Death and the Youth .... 
 Female Convict, The .... 
 
 4qi 
 451 
 S32 
 262 
 
 m\ & Co,. Boston. 
 
 279 
 
 545 
 
 176 
 
 5ig 
 
 9og 
 Sgi 
 
 LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. 
 
 England, 1775-1S64. 
 
 Macaulay, To S.^6 
 
 Maid's Lament, The .... 
 One Gray Hair. The 
 LANIER, SIDNEY. 
 
 Ch^rlest.tn. S. C. 
 
 Centennial Meditation of Columbia . 
 Publishers: I. B. Lippincolt & Co.. Philadelphia 
 
 LARCOM. LUCY. 
 
 Lowell, Mass.. b. 1826. 
 By the Fireside 
 PuhlisliiTs: lIouEThton, Ost:< 
 
 LE FANU. J. S. 
 
 Shamns O'Brien 
 LEIGH. HENRY S. 
 
 England 
 
 Only Seven 
 The Twins 
 LELAND, CHARLES G. 
 
 Pliilidelphla. Pa., b. 1824. 
 
 Hans Breitmann's Party 901 
 
 Ritter Hugo ....... 902 
 
 Publishers: T- B. Peterson & Bros.. Philadelphi.i. 
 
 LEONIDAS. 
 
 Alexandria, 59-120. 
 
 Home {Tra?islaiio}t 0/ Roberi BlAnd) . - 175 
 The Mother's Stratagem {T^ayislation 0/ 
 
 Saynncl Rogers) 24 
 
 LEVER, CHARLES JAMES. 
 
 Ireland, i?o6-i£72. 
 
 Widow Malone ....... 905 
 
 LEWIS, MATTHEW GREGORY. 
 
 Ensrland. 1771^- 1S18. 
 
 The Maniac 256 
 
 LEYDEN, JOHN. 
 
 Scolland. 1775- i8ii, 
 
 Daisy, The 426 
 
 Noontide ....... 370 
 
 Sabbath Morning, The ..... 370 
 
 LIPPINCOTT, SARAH J. {Grace Greenivood). 
 
 I'umpey, N. Y., b. 1^2-.. 
 
 The Poet of To-day 73S 
 
 Publishers: Jas. R. Ostrood & Co.. Boston. 
 
 LOCKER, FREDERICK. 
 
 England, b. 1S24. 
 
 " My love isalways neai " . .66 
 
 On an Old Muff ...... 876 
 
 *' The world 's a sorry wench, akin " . • 877 
 
 Widow's Mite, The ' 2.46 
 
 LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON. 
 
 Scotland, 17153- 1854. 
 
 Lord of Butrago, The 473 
 
 Zara's Ear-Rings 1 19 
 
 LOGAN, JOHN. 
 
 Scolland. 1748-178S. 
 
 Cuckoo, To the 
 
 " Thy braes were bonny " . . . . 
 
 LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. 
 
 Portland, Me,, b. i?o7. 
 
 Agassiz, Fiftieth Birthday of . 
 
 Birds, Plea for the ..... 
 
 Carillon ....■-., 
 
 Children's Hour, The 
 
 Daybreak ...... 
 
 Divina Commedia ..... 
 
 Evangeline in the Prairie. 
 
 Footsteps of Angels .... 
 
 God's-Acre ..... 
 
 Hawthorne ....... 
 
 Household Sovereign, '1 lie {Haiiging 0/ tht,- 
 Crane) ........ 
 
 Hymn to the Night ..... 
 
 Launch, The 
 
 Maidenhood . . . - • 
 
 Nuremberg ....... 
 
 Paul Revere's Ride . . - . . 
 
 Peace in Acadie ... 
 
 Primeval Forest {Evangeline) 
 
 Psalm of Life, A . - . . ■ . 
 
 Rain in Summer 
 
 Reaper and the Flowers. The .... 
 
 Resignation ,...■-. 
 
 Retribution ....... 
 
 Sea-Weed ..... 
 
 Snow-Flakes ....... 
 
 Village Blacksmith, The .... 
 
 Warden of the Cinque Ports, The . 
 Publishers: Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston. 
 
 LOVELACE, RICHARD. 
 
 England. 1618-1658. 
 
 Althea from Prison, To . . 
 Lucasta, To ..... 
 Lucasta, on Going to the Wars, To 
 
 LOVER. SAMUEL. 
 
 Ireland, 1707- 1866. 
 
 Angel's Whisper, The 
 
 Father Land and Mother Tongue 
 Low-backed Car, The . . . . . 
 
 Rory O'More 
 
 Widow Machree 
 
 148 
 94 
 
 4,lf' 
 a 80 
 
 850 
 433 
 659 
 45 
 3^.8 
 
 650 
 646 
 262 
 
 3°S 
 84') 
 
 377 
 5f>3 
 47 
 626 
 534 
 645 
 415 
 685 
 390 
 264 
 260 
 722 
 5S2 
 403 
 495 
 S23 
 
 LOWE, JOHN. 
 
 Scotland. 1750- 1798. 
 Mary's Dream . 
 
 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. 
 Cambridge, Ma?;s., b. 1S19. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln 
 
 Auf Wiedersehen ! 
 
 Courtin', The - 
 
 First Snow- Fall, The . 
 
 Freedom, Ode to . • . ^ 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Ti 
 
 Invitation, An . 
 
 June ..... 
 
 Sonnets .... 
 
 Summer Storm 
 
 Villa Franca ... 
 
 Washington, To . 
 
 What Mr. Robinson thinks 
 
 William Lloyd Garrison 
 
 Winter Pictures . . - ■ 
 
 Winter's Evening Hymn to my Fire 
 
 Yussouf 
 
 Publishers: Houghton. Osgootl .V Co.. Coston. 
 
 LOWELL, MARIA WHITE. 
 
 Waiertown. Mass.. 1S21 - 1853. 
 
 The Morning Glory .... 
 Publishers : Houghton. Osgood Si Co.. Boston. 
 
 LOWELL, ROBERT T. S. 
 
 Cambridge, Mass., b. 1816. 
 The Relief of Lucknow . 
 
 LUDLOW, FITZ HUGH. 
 
 Poughkeepsie, N, Y., 1S37-1S75. 
 
 ■Too Late 
 
 S6 
 194 
 
 697 
 154 
 ■52 
 156 
 
 84s 
 119 
 896 
 264 
 544 
 Ssi 
 S3 
 3S6 
 1 65 
 391 
 530 
 S41 
 897 
 S47 
 400 
 179 
 5S4 
 
 471 
 
 716
 
 4 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 XXI 
 
 LUTHER, MARTIN. 
 
 Gcnnany, 14S3-1546. 
 
 '* A mighty fortress is our God " {TrafisUtiort 
 
 o/F. H. Hedge) 335 
 
 Martyrs' Hymn, ')l\\^ {Xranslaiio7i of IV. y. 
 Fox) 32S 
 
 LUTTRELL, HENRV. 
 
 En^liinil, A coiitfuiporary and associate of Uyroii aiul 
 Mi>i)rc. 
 
 On Miss Maria Tree 832 
 
 LYLY, JOHN. 
 
 l-n^'laiid, 1554- iScj. 
 
 Cupid and Campaspe 14S 
 
 LYNCH. ANNIE CHARLOTTE (il/r*. ^('//rt). 
 
 Bennint.'ton. \'t.. 1.. ab-mi iS-a I,ives in Ntw Vork. 
 
 On a Picture . ..... 201 
 
 PublislKTb : Harper & Hrothers. Now York. 
 
 LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES. 
 
 Cincinnati, O., 1826-1863. 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra 293 
 
 LYTTELTON, LORD GEORGE. 
 linK'itnd. 1708-1771. 
 
 "Tell me, my heart, if this be love" . . 70 
 LVTTON, LORD EDWARD BULWER. 
 
 Cl.iude Mehuiite's Apology and Defence . 306 
 
 Etrurian Vallt.-v, In the .... 628 
 
 LYTTON, ROBERT BULWER iOivn, McredUhY 
 Iint:lan.l, l>. 1231. 
 
 Aux Italiens 22S 
 
 Changes ....... 230 
 
 Possession ....... 158 
 
 Tlie Chess-Board ... ... 106 
 
 MACAULA Y.THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD. 
 
 liiiylanil, 1800-1859. 
 
 Horatius at the Bridge 507 
 
 Moncontour 516 
 
 Naseby ....... 517 
 
 Roman Father's Sacrifice, The . . 794 
 
 MAC-CARTHY, DENIS FLORENCE. 
 
 Ireland, b. 1817. 
 
 " Ah. sweet Kitty Neil !" . . . . 151 
 
 Alice 160 
 
 Ireland . 523 
 
 Labor Song ...... 502 
 
 Love and Time 94 
 
 Summer Longings 3S0 
 
 MACDONALD, GEORGE. 
 
 Entjland, b, 1824. 
 
 Baby, The iS 
 
 Earl O'Quarterdeck ..... 603 
 MACKAY, CHARLES. 
 
 Scotlaiitl, b. 1SJ4. 
 
 Cleon and I 668 
 
 Small Beginnings ...... 697 
 
 " Tell me, ye winged winds" .... 332 
 
 Tubal Cain 488 
 
 MAGINN, WILLIAM. 
 
 Ireland. 1793-1S42. 
 
 Waiting for the Grapes 142 
 
 MAHONY, Y'9.K^Q\% {Father Front) 
 Ireland. i?o.>~i366. 
 
 Bells of Shandon, The 65S 
 
 Bonaparte, Popular Recollections of [Frotn 
 
 Beranger) ,822 
 
 Flight into Egypt, The . .344 
 
 Passage 637 
 
 MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE. 
 
 Ireland. 180-^-1849. 
 
 The Sunken City (j^r;??;? ////- Gcrwff»;) . . 752 
 MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER. 
 
 Enij^land, 1564-1591;. 
 
 The Shepherd to his Love . , . .104 
 MARSDEN, WILLIAM. 
 
 Eni^land, 1 754 - 1836. 
 
 What IS Time ? 729 
 
 MARSTON, JOHN. 
 
 England. Time of Elizabeth. 
 
 A Scholar and his Dog 855 
 
 MARVELL, ANDREW. 
 En^nd. 1620-167S. 
 
 Death of the White Fawn . . .221 
 
 Drop of Dew, A ^g^ 
 
 Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda . 584 
 
 MARY. 
 
 yueen nf Ilunjjary, d. 1558. 
 
 A Prayer -12% 
 
 MASSEY, GERALD. 
 En^kiiitl, l>. iKlv-;. 
 
 " O, lay thy hand in mine, dear" 172 
 
 Our Wee White Rose . . . ■ . 37 
 
 Passionate Pilj;rirn's Song, The . 131 
 
 McMASTER, GUY HUMPHREY. 
 Clyde. N. Y.. b. 1829. 
 
 The Old Continentals 5i4 
 
 MEEK, ALEXANDER BEAUFORT. 
 
 Colinnbia, S. C. 1814-1865. 
 
 Balaklava 4^3 
 
 MELEAGER. 
 
 Orcccc, 90 li. c. 
 
 I'beVovil.Traru/aiio); o/Aferir'n/i) . .184 
 
 MERIVALE, JOHN HER^^AN. 
 
 i^n^l.lilcl, 1771- 1-44- 
 
 The Vow {From the Greek) . 
 MERRICK, JAMES. 
 
 Eiiijl.iiid, 1720- i7'*9. 
 
 The Chameleon 
 
 MESSENGER, ROBERT HINCHLEV 
 
 Uostim, M.i.-... b. iS<i;. 
 
 Give ine the Old .... 
 METASTASIO, PIERRE A. D. B. 
 
 It.nly. ir>,;-;-i7K-.-, 
 
 Without and Within 
 
 MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS. 
 
 Scotland, 17^4- 170S. 
 The Sailor's Wife 
 
 1S4 
 
 716 
 
 MILLER, CINCINNATUS HEINE {yoaquht) 
 
 Indiann, b. iS4i. 
 
 People's Song of Peace, The .... 
 Rousseau's Isle, On ..... 
 
 MILLER, WILLIAM. 
 
 Scotland. 
 
 Willie Winkie 
 
 549 
 625 
 
 24 
 
 MILMAN, HENRY HART. 
 
 Knt;];ind, i7gi-iS6c). 
 
 Hebrew Wedding ...... 164 
 
 Jewish Hymn in Babylon. .... ^36 
 
 MILNES.RICHARDM0NCKTON{Z^n///rf«£-//^^«). 
 
 Ent;laiid, b. 1^09 
 
 Brookside, The 92 
 
 Good Ni.qht and Good Morning . ■ 31 
 
 London Churches ..... 250 
 
 MILTON. JOHN. 
 
 England, 160S-1CJ74. 
 
 Abdiel ....... 347 
 
 Adam and Eve, Nuptials of - . 160 
 
 Adam's Morning Hymn in Paradise . 325 
 
 Adam to Eve 166 
 
 Battle of the Angels 454 
 
 Blindness, On his . . . - . 330 
 
 Blindness, On his own {To Cyriack Skinner) 672 
 
 Christmas Hymn ...... 724 
 
 " Comus," Scenes from .... 755 
 
 Creation ...... . , 363 
 
 Cromwell, To the Lord-General . . . 817 
 
 Evening in Paradise ..... 374 
 
 Haunt of the Sorcerer . .... 756 
 
 II Penseroso ....... 710 
 
 Invocation to Light 367 
 
 L' Allegro ... . , . . 709 
 
 Lady lost in the Wood 755 
 
 Lycidas ... .... 282 
 
 May Moming 384 
 
 Nymph of the Severn . ... 756 
 
 Satan's Address to the Sun .... 805 
 
 Samson Agonistes 241 
 
 Selections from '* Paradise Lost "' . 241 
 
 " To be no more *' . . . . ■ 713 
 
 MITCHEL, WALTER F. 
 
 New Bedford. Mas';. 
 
 Tacking Ship off Shore . 
 
 MITFORD, MARY RUSSELL. 
 England. 17S6-1855. 
 
 Rienzi to the Romans 
 
 1-
 
 XXll 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHOnS. 
 
 MOIR. DAVID MACBETH. 
 
 Scotland. 1798- 1S51. 
 
 Casa Wappy 26S 
 
 Jamie *s on the Stormy Sea. . . 574 
 
 Rustic Lad's Lament in the Town, The . ■ 19S 
 
 Song of the South 4'5 
 
 MONTGOMERY, JAMES. 
 
 Scctlaml. 1771 -n!54. 
 
 Birds .... ... 433 
 
 Common Lot, The 3°9 
 
 Coral Insect, The 581 
 
 Daisy, The ...... 426 
 
 Forever with the Lord . ■ 353 
 
 " Make way for Liberty ! " . 528 
 
 Mv Countrj' ... ■ 505 
 Night .... .376 
 
 Ocean, The ... - . 560 
 Pelican, The . . .444 
 
 Sea Life ... . . . 5^0 
 
 MONTREUIL, DE. 
 
 To l\Iadame de Sevigii^ .... 8:!5 
 
 MOORE, CLEMENT CLARKE. 
 
 Ncv \>.-i\i City, 1779- iS^2. 
 
 St. Nicholas, A Visit from .... 44 
 MOORE, THOMAS. 
 
 Ireiaiul. 1779- 18^2. 
 
 Acbar and Nourmahal 112 
 
 " Alas ! how light a cause may move " 227 
 
 " As by the shore, at break ol day " . . 544 
 
 "As slow our ship" 189 
 
 "Believe me, if all those endearing young 
 
 charms" 123 
 
 Birth of Portraiture, The .... 103 
 
 Black and Blue Eyes - . . »43 
 
 Campbell, To ...•-- 832 
 
 Canadian Boat-Song. A .... 61S 
 
 ■• Come, rest in this bosom "... 133 
 
 Echoes .....-•■ 92 
 
 " Farewell, but whenever " . . i93 
 
 "Farewell to thee, Araby's dauj^hter" . . 2S9 
 
 "Fly to the desert, fly witli me" . - 95 
 
 Lake of the Dismal Swamp, The . ■ 782 
 
 *' Let Erin remember the days of old " . 518 
 
 Linda to Hafed ..... 207 
 
 Love's Young Dream ..... 224 
 
 "Oft. in the stilly night " .... 237 
 
 "O, breathe not his name" ■ 834 
 
 Origin of the Harp, The 762 
 
 *' O, the sight entrancing " . . . • 465 
 
 %i^x\x\%{^Froifi the G^-eek of AimC7-co)i) ■ . 384 
 
 Syria . . 4'3 
 
 Temple to Friendship, A . ... .61 
 
 " The harp that once through Tara's halls " 51S 
 
 The Young May Moon 151 
 
 "Those evening bells" .... 237 
 
 Vale of Avoca, The -59 
 
 Vale of Cashmere, The ... 414 
 
 Verses written in an Album .... 87 
 
 MORE, REV. HENRY. 
 
 Eiiijtanil, d. 1S02. 
 
 Euthanasia ....... 720 
 
 MORLATX. BERNARD DE. 
 
 The Celestial Country' ( Translation 0/ John 
 Alason Neale) . . . ■ -3^1 
 
 MORRIS, CAPTAIN THOMAS. 
 
 nni:l.iiKl. fiib. 17^/,-iSoT. 
 
 The Catalogue 153 
 
 MORRIS, GEORGE P- 
 
 riiil.i<ielpln;t. I'a., 1S02-1S64. 
 
 The Retort ..... . . 891 
 
 " Woodman, spare that tree" ... 41 
 
 MORRIS, WILLIAM. 
 
 England, b. iS^- 
 
 Alalanta t'onquered . - . - .111 
 
 Atalanta Victorious no 
 
 Idle Singer, The ...... 666 
 
 March 379 
 
 Pygmalion and the Image .... 113 
 
 MOSCHUS. 
 
 Greece, ^d century E. C- 
 
 Lament for Bion {Translation 0/ Charles A. 
 
 Elton) 282 
 
 MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. 
 
 Scotland. 171^7- 1B35, 
 
 Jeanie Morrison 195 
 
 " My heid is like to rend, Willie" . . 232 
 
 "They come ! the merry summer months" . 385 
 
 MOULTON, ELLEN LOUISE CHANDLER- 
 
 Ponifret, Conn., b. 1S55- 
 
 Late Spring, The 243 
 
 Troth-Plight 171 
 
 MOULTRIE, JOHN. 
 
 England. Pub. 1839. 
 
 The Three Sons 30 
 
 MUELLER, WILLIAM. 
 
 Germany. 1794-1^:^7. 
 
 The Sunken City {Translation of fames 
 Clarence Mangun) ..... 752 
 MULOCK, DINAH MARIA. 
 
 See Craik, Dinah Mulock. 
 MUNBY, A. J. 
 
 hngl.ind. 
 
 "A Pastoral ....... 82 
 
 Aprfes 695 
 
 MYERS, FREDERICK W. H. 
 
 From "St. Paul" .... - 359 
 
 NAIRNE, CAROLINA, BARONESS. 
 
 Scotland, 1766 - 1S45. 
 
 Laird o' Cockpen, The 156 
 
 Land o' the Leal, The ... . 292 
 
 NASH, THOMAS. 
 
 lingland, I5s3-i6cx>. 
 
 "Spring, the sweet Spring" . 3S4 
 
 NEALE, JOHN MASON. 
 
 England. 1818-1866. 
 
 Celestial Country, The {From the Lati?t of 
 
 Bernard de Morlai.v) 311 
 
 "Darkness is thinnmg" {From the Latin 0/ 
 
 St. Gregory the Great) .... 322 
 
 Vexilla Regis (/^rtj;w ///** Zrt//«) . . 319 
 
 NEELE, HENRY. 
 
 Hnglaiid. 1798- 182S. 
 
 "Moan, moan, ye dying gales" . 235 
 
 NEWELL, ROBERT HENRY {Orphens C Kerr). 
 
 New York City. b. 1836. 
 
 Poems received in Response to an Advertised 
 Call for a National Anthem 911 
 
 Publishers: Lee & ^^hepard. Boston. 
 
 NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY. 
 
 linglatid, b. iSoi. 
 
 Flowers without Frnil ... 741 
 
 The Pillar of the Cloud . . 3^6 
 
 NICHOLS, MRS. REBECCA S. 
 
 Greenwich, N.J. Hub, 1S44. 
 
 The Philosopher Toad 789 
 
 NOEL, THOMAS. 
 
 lMii;land. I'ub. 1841. 
 
 The Pauper's Drive .... 257 
 
 NORRIS, JOHN. 
 
 Iii.^dand. i6=;7-i7ii. 
 
 My Little Saint 142 
 
 NORTH, CHRISTOPHER. 
 
 See Wilson, John. 
 NORTON, ANDREWS. 
 
 Mingh.ini, Mass.. 17S6-1S53. 
 
 After a Summer Shower 392 
 
 NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH S-, HON. 
 
 Hnybnd, 180S-1876. 
 
 Arab to his favorite Steed, The . 612 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine ... 476 
 
 King of Denmark's Ride, The . . . 2:^:8 
 
 Love Not 241 
 
 Mother's Heart, The .... 32 
 
 " We have been friends together " . ■ 58 
 
 O'HARA, THEODORE. 
 
 Kcniiiuky, about I'iXi-iiA-]. 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead . . . 54° 
 
 O'KEEFE, JOHN. 
 
 Ireland, 1747- 1833, 
 
 " I am a friar of orders gray " . . S69 
 
 OLIPHANT, THOMAS. 
 
 EnijlaiKl. 
 
 War's Loud Alarms {From tJie Welsh 0/ 
 
 Talhaiarn) 4'^*' 
 
 " Where are the men ? " {From tlte same) . 4S1 
 
 f
 
 u 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 XXlll 
 
 H 
 
 OPIE, AMELIA, 
 
 Eni^Iand. 176^-185^. 
 
 The Orphan Boy's Tale 248 
 
 O'REILLY, MILES. 
 
 See Charles O. Halpine. 
 
 OSGOOD, FRANCES SARGENT. 
 
 Boston, Mass.. 181:;- 1850. 
 
 To Labor is to Pray 502 
 
 OSGOOD, KATE PUTNAM. 
 
 Fryeburg. Mc. b. 1843 
 
 Driving Home the Cows .... 482 
 
 Publishers ; Houghton, Usyood & Co., Boston. 
 
 OUTRAM, GEORGE. 
 
 Scotland. 1S05-1866. 
 
 The Annuity 906 
 
 PAINE, THOMAS. 
 
 lin'^land, 1736 - 1809. 
 
 The Castle in the Air 755 
 
 PALMER, JOHN WILLIAMSON. 
 
 Balliniore, Md.. b. iS::5. 
 
 " For Charlie's sake " 266 
 
 Thread and Song 46 
 
 Publishers : Scribner, Armstrong & Co.. New York. 
 
 PALMER, RAY. 
 
 Rhode Island, b. 1S08, 
 
 " I saw Thee " 3S8 
 
 The Soul's Cry . . . . ■ 360 
 
 PubUshcr: A. D. I-. Randolph. New York. 
 
 PALMER, WILLIAM PITT. 
 
 Stockbridge, Mass., b. 1S05. 
 
 The Smack in School 36 
 
 PARKER, HENRY MEREDITH. 
 
 England. Pub. 11^51. 
 
 Mr. Simms ....-- 652 
 
 PARKER, THEODORE. 
 
 Lexinsiion, Mass.. 1810-1S60. 
 
 *' The Way, the Truth, and the Life " ■ 352 
 
 Publishers: D. Appleton &.' Co., New York. 
 
 PARNELL, THOMAS. 
 
 England. 1679- 1717. 
 
 " When your beauty appears" . ■ - 134 
 PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM. 
 
 Boston. Mas5., b. 1819. 
 
 The Groomsman to his Mistress - 149 
 
 PATMORE, COVENTRY. 
 
 England, b. 1S27. 
 
 Mistress, The .123 
 
 Roseofthe World, The . . , 6S 
 
 Sly Thoughts . 135 
 
 Sweet Meeting of Desires . 119 
 
 Wisdom 682 
 
 PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD. 
 
 New York City, 1792-1852. 
 
 Home, Sweet Home 175 
 
 Brutus's Oration over the Body of Lucretia 797 
 
 Publisher: J. Munsell. Albany, N. Y. 
 
 PEALE, REMBRANDT. 
 
 Near Philadelphia. Pa.. 177S-1860. 
 
 Faith and Hope 182 
 
 PEARCE, 
 
 The Heaving of the Lead .... 585 
 
 PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES. 
 
 Berlin, Conn., 1795- 1S56. 
 
 May 385 
 
 Coral Grove, The 582 
 
 Seneca Lake 411 
 
 Publishers: Houghton. Osgood 5: Co., Boston. 
 
 PERCY, FLORENCE. 
 
 See Allen, Elizabeth Akers. 
 
 PERCY, THOMAS. 
 
 England. 172S-1811. 
 
 Friar of Orders Gray, The . . 72 
 
 '* O Nancy, wilt thou go with me ? " . 103 
 
 PERRY, NORA. 
 
 After the Ball 50 
 
 Jane 132 
 
 Love Knot, The 143 
 
 PETTEE, G. W. 
 
 Canada. 
 
 Sleigh Song . . .... 622 
 
 PFEFFEL. 
 
 Ocrniany, 1716- 1809. 
 
 The Nobleman and the Pensioner (Traris- 
 lation 0/ CharUs T. Brooks) 
 
 476 
 
 PHILIPS, AMBROSE. 
 
 England. 1075- 17.11,. 
 
 "Blest as the immortal gods" {From the 
 Greek) . .132 
 
 PHILIPS, JOHN. 
 
 hnt;land. 1676- ithS. 
 
 The Splendid Shilling 856 
 
 PHILOSTRATUS. 
 
 Oreece. 
 
 "Drink to me only with thine eyes " {Tr.itts- 
 lation of Ben Joitsoii) . . ■ 7'4 
 
 PIERPONT, JOHN. 
 
 Litchlietd. Conn., 1785- 1866. 
 
 My Child .267 
 
 Noton the Battle-Field . . . 4S6 ' 
 
 Passing Away ....... OOo 
 
 Passing Bell, The ..... 660 
 
 Warren's Address 534 
 
 Whittling »8i 
 
 PINKNEY, EDWARD COATE. 
 
 Annapolis. Md., iJkr.-- i.S:rK. 
 
 A Health .76 
 
 POE, EDGAR ALLAN. 
 
 Ualtiinore, Md.. 1^11-1^49. 
 
 Annabel^ Lee ■ 275 
 
 297 
 657 
 780 
 
 Annie, For 
 Bells, The 
 Raven, The . 
 Publisher: W.J. Widdlcton. New 
 
 POLLOK, ROBERT. 
 
 Scotland, 1799- iS;;?. 
 
 Byrou . . . . 
 Ocean .... 
 
 831 
 
 562 
 
 POPE, ALEXANDER. 
 
 England. 168^-1744. 
 
 Addison 818 
 
 706 
 66 
 
 328 
 '"J9 
 722 
 700 
 673 
 746 
 362 
 702 
 176 
 
 700 
 
 705 
 702 
 81S 
 664 
 
 333 
 
 829 
 
 Author's Miseries, The 
 Belinda . . . • - 
 Dying Christian to his Soul, The 
 
 Fame 
 
 Future, The 
 
 Greatness . . . . • 
 Happiness .... 
 Lines and Couplets . 
 Nature's Chain 
 Profusion ..... 
 Quiet Life. The . 
 Reason and Instinct 
 Ruling Passion, 'I'lie . 
 Scandal ..... 
 Sporus, — (Lord Her\'ey) 
 Toilet, The .... 
 Universal Prayer, The 
 POWERS, HORATIO N. 
 
 Iowa, 
 
 Bums 
 
 PRAED, WINTHKOP MACKWORTH. 
 
 England, 1802-18^9. 
 
 Belle of the Ball, The 229 
 
 Campbell S32 
 
 PRENTICE, GEORGE DENISON. 
 
 Preston. Conn.. i3.D2-iB7't. 
 
 The Closing Year ...... 726 
 
 PRIEST, NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY. 
 
 Aint-rica. 1837- 1870. 
 
 Heaven • ■ 3.1' 
 
 Over the River ... . . 265 
 
 PRINGLE, THOMAS. 
 
 Scotland. 1789- i8?4, 
 
 " Afar in the desert " ■ ■ 238 
 
 PRIOR, MATTHEW. 
 
 England. 1664-1721. 
 
 The Lady's Looking-GIass .... 74 
 PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE. 
 
 England, 18^6-1864. 
 
 Doubting Heart, A . ..... 71S 
 
 Lost Chord, A . . . . 735 
 
 "Only waiting" . . ... 331 
 
 Per Pacem ad Lucem ... . 328 
 
 Woman's Question, A 79
 
 XXIV 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 PROCTER, BRYAN W. {Barry Cpruwair). 
 linyland. 1787- 1874. 
 
 Address to the Ocean .... 564 
 
 Blood Horse. The . ■ ■ ■ 430 
 
 " For love's sweet sake '* 94 
 
 Golden Girl, A . . ■ 144 
 
 Hunter's Song, The ^iS 
 
 Life 7^8 
 
 Owl, The 447 
 
 " Peace i What can tears avail ' " 192 
 
 Petition to Time, A - . - 1S2 
 
 Poet's Song to his Wife, The 171 
 Sea, The ... ,583 
 
 '* Sit down, sad soul " . . 332 
 
 " Softly woo away Iier breath " . ■ 2cj2 
 
 Song of Wood Nymphs . 764 
 
 Stormy Petrel, The . • • 447 
 
 White Squall, The ... 5SS 
 
 PUNCH. 
 
 Eoniba, Kin^ of Naples, Death-Bed of . S34 
 
 Chemist to his Love, The .... S95 
 
 Collegian to his Bride, The ... S95 
 
 Jones at the Barber's Shop • 914 
 
 Roasted Sucking Pig gi6 
 
 QUARLES, FRANCIS. 
 
 Imsjlainl. 159:;- 1044. 
 
 "Delight in God 323 
 
 Vanity of the World, The . . 719 
 
 RALEIGH, SIR WALTER. 
 
 linglaiid, 155^-1618. 
 
 Lines written the Night before his Execution . 721 
 
 Nymph's Reply, The . . . . ■ 104 
 
 Pilgrimage, The 3^4 
 
 RAMSAY, ALLAN. 
 
 ScoiUind. 16S5-175S. 
 
 Lochaber no more ... i8g 
 
 RANDOLPH, ANSON D. F- 
 
 Wootlbrult;.'. N.J.. b. 1S20. 
 
 Hopefully Waiting ...... 356 
 
 RANDOLPH, THOMAS. 
 Englantl. 11.05-1634. 
 
 Fairies' Song ( Translatioti of Leigh H?ifit 
 froJii the Lathi) 764 
 
 RANKIN, D. D., DR. J. E. 
 
 i liorntun, N. H., iS^ft. Pub. Boston, 1867. 
 
 Burns 828 
 
 RASCAS, BERNARD. 
 
 i'rovcnce, I-rancc. 
 
 The Love of God {Trans, of W. C. Bryajtf) 351 
 RAYMOND, ROSSITER W. 
 
 CincinuAti, 0.. b. 1S40. 
 
 Cavalry Song 466 
 
 Compliments of the Season . . ■ .26 
 
 Grecian Temples at Pxstum, The - . 629 
 
 Impromptu • ■ 892 
 
 Ruth . ^ 23 
 
 "Shall I love you like the wind, love" . 79 
 
 Song of the Sea i^^ 
 
 Troopers' Death, Tlie {Frovt ilv: German') 467 
 
 READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN. 
 
 Chester. Ta.. iS-s-jS?^. 
 
 Angler, The 621 
 
 Brave at Home, The 505 
 
 Closing Scene, The 651 
 
 Drifting 751 
 
 Reaper's Dream, The .... - 347 
 
 Sheridan's Ride 539 
 
 Publishers: J. B. Uppincott & Co., Phibilelphi:!. 
 
 REDDEN, LAURA C {Howard Giyndon). 
 
 Somerset Co., Md., b. about 1S40. 
 
 Mazzini S48 
 
 REQUIER, AUGUSTUS JULIAN. 
 
 Cliarleston. S. C, I). 1825. 
 
 Baby Zulma's Christmas Carol . ■ . 7S7 
 RICHARDS, WILLIAM CAREY. 
 
 London. Eng.. b. 1817. 
 
 Under the Cross 240 
 
 RITTER, MARY LOUISE. 
 
 Nc-w York City. b. 1S37. 
 
 Bayard 857 
 
 Difference, The ...... 135 
 
 Once. ........ 131 
 
 Perished ... .... 220 
 
 Sub Silentio 
 
 Why? 
 
 Publishers: Hurd & Houghton, New York. 
 
 ROBERT THE SECOND. 
 
 Veni Sancte Spiritus { T7-anslatwn of Catha- 
 rine ll'inkivorth) , . . . . . 
 
 ROBERTS, SARAH. 
 Porl'jmoulh, N. H. 
 
 The Voice of the Grass 
 
 13S 
 88 
 
 ROGERS. SAMUEL. 
 
 Hnnland, 1763- 1655. 
 
 Descent, The 
 
 Ginevra ....... 
 
 Great St. Bernard, Tlie 
 
 Italy ... .... 
 
 Jorasse 
 
 Marriage 
 
 Mother's Strat.igem, The(^?-^w/ the Greek) . 
 Music ... .... 
 
 Naples 
 
 Rome ........ 
 
 Sleeping Beauty, A . 
 
 Tear, A 
 
 Venice • ■ 
 
 Wisli. A 
 
 RONSARD, PIERRE. 
 
 Trance. 1 542-1 SMS- 
 
 Return of Spring {Tranaiation) 
 
 ROSCOE. WILLIAM. 
 
 Iinijland, 1753-1S31. 
 
 The Mother Nightingale {From the S/anish) 
 
 ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA GEORGINA. 
 
 Eiitjland. b. 1S30. 
 
 Milking-Maid, The 
 
 Up-Hill 
 
 ROSSETTI. DANTE GABRIEL. 
 
 Hn^'bnd, b. iS:3. 
 
 Blessed Damozel, The 
 
 Lost Days 
 
 Nevermore, The 
 
 Sleepless Dreams ...... 
 
 ROYDEN, MATTHEW. 
 
 Sir Pliilip Sidney 
 
 SANBORN, F. B. 
 
 River Song 
 
 SANGSTER, MRS. MARGARET E. M. 
 
 Nlw RoLheUe, N. V..b. 183a 
 
 "Are the children at home" .... 
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 Island or Lesbos. 600 B. C. 
 
 *' Blest as the Immortal Gods" {Translation 
 
 of A vibrose Phi/t/s) 
 
 SAXE, JOHN GODFREY. 
 
 IIiylit;at^. \t.. b. 1S16. 
 
 American Aristocracy ..... 
 
 Death and Cupid 
 
 Echo 
 
 Kiss me softly 
 
 Railroad Rhyme 
 
 Stammering Wife, The .... 
 Woman's Will 
 
 Publishers: Houghton, Osgood & Co, Boston. 
 
 SCOTT, SIR WALTER. 
 
 Scotland, 1771 -lii^^. 
 
 Beal' an Dhuine 
 
 " Breathes there the man " . 
 Christmas in Olden Time 
 Clan-Alpine, Song of . 
 Coronach {Lady oft/ie Lake) . 
 Gathering Song of Donald the Black 
 
 Helvellyn 
 
 High Seas. The . _ • 
 Macgregor's GatherinE; 
 Melrose Abbey ... 
 Norham Castle .... 
 
 Rose, The 
 
 Scotland . .... 
 
 " Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er" 
 Stag Hunt, The ..... 
 "The heath this night must be my bed " 
 True and the False. The .... 
 "Waken, lords and ladies gay" . 
 Waterloo, The Charge at . ■ • 
 
 408 
 605 
 40S 
 62S 
 604 
 
 165 
 24 
 691 
 632 
 629 
 
 88 
 762 
 628 
 
 382 
 
 3=6 
 
 75S 
 717 
 720 
 70S 
 
 882 
 MS 
 917 
 134 
 SS3 
 916 
 883 
 
 459 
 505 
 641 
 
 467 
 272 
 466 
 6.3 
 
 575 
 S"4 
 624 
 623 
 423 
 5'4 
 4S1 
 614 
 lS4 
 231 
 6.7 
 462 
 
 I
 
 Ji. 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 XXV 
 
 SCUDDER. ELIZA. 
 
 The Love of liod 357 
 
 SEDLEV, SIR CHARLES. 
 
 Eiii,'Iand. 1631-1701. 
 
 Child and Maiden 85 
 
 "Phillis is my only joy " .... 65 
 
 SEWALL, HARRIET WINSLOW. 
 
 Why thus Longing?. ..... 357 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. 
 
 itti:^lainl. 1564-1610. 
 
 Absent 203 
 
 Airy Nothing?; ( Tempest) 790 
 
 " Blow, blow, thou winter wind " {^jt Vou Like 
 
 It) 236 
 
 Cleopatra \A ttfojiy and Cleopatra') . . 644 
 Course of true Love, The {Muf summer Ni^Jit^s 
 
 Dream) 206 
 
 t>.i;^ger of tlie Mind, A [Macbeth) . ■ jt/^ 
 
 Dover Clifi"(/w>/^ /.(■«>■) . . . . ■ 407 
 
 Dreatn of Clarence {Richard I!/.) • S09 
 Fairies' Lullaby (A/idsummer Xight^s Drfam) 764 
 
 Fancy {Merchant 0/ 1 'enice) . . 71 
 
 " Farewell ! thou art too dear" . • . rgi 
 
 *' Fear no more the heat " {Cyyytbeiine) 300 
 
 Friendship {Hamlet) ..... 60 
 
 Ci\-\ei {Hamlet) ...... 290 
 
 "Kark, hark! the lark " (0''«^'<"'''"'') • ■ 43S 
 
 Hotspur's description of a Fop {I/e>:ry /I'.) 472 
 
 Imagination {Midsummer Nighfs l>ream) . C67 
 
 Lear's Prayer ...... 715 
 
 Love {Alerchani of Venice) . '• -71 
 
 Love Dissembled {As }'<>« LiA-e ft) . .So 
 
 Love, Unrequited {Tivelfth Night) . . 210 
 
 Love's Memory {Airs li' ell thai Ends iVell) 195 
 
 Martial Friendship {Coriolatius) ... (So 
 
 ^levcy {Merchant of I'enice) ■ • 677 
 
 Murder, The (.V.^V'.v/O 796 
 
 Mus\c {Merc ^.-ant of J 'mice) ■ 691 
 
 Music {r-Toel/th Night) G91 
 
 Old Ape of Temperance .... 494 
 
 Olivia ( Tivel/th Night) 63 
 
 '* O mistress mine ! '* {Tivelfth Night) 63 
 
 Opportunity {yidius Ccesar) .... 700 
 
 Othello's Defence S3 
 
 Peace, no Peace ...... 453 
 
 Peddler's Pack, The {hFinter's 7 ale) . - '^>4 
 
 Perfection {King John) O76 
 
 Portia's Picture {MercJutnt of Venice) . 63 
 Queen Elizabeth. Compliment to {Midsummer 
 
 Night's Dream) 765 
 
 Queen Mab {Romeo and J.diet) . ■ 765 
 
 Reputation {Othello) 676 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, The Parting of 186 
 
 Seven Ages of Man {As Vou Like It) . 723 
 
 Shepherd's Life, A (/Av/r-j/ /'/.) . 177 
 S\eep {Henry / 1 '. Parti) . . .678 
 
 Sleep (vV^Hrj/ //'. Part z) ■ 67S 
 
 Sleep ICymbeline) 67S 
 
 Sleep {Macbeth) . . ... 678 
 
 Sleep'( Teinpest) G78 
 
 Soliloquy on Death {Hamlet) ■ . . 295 
 "'J'ake, O, take those lips away" {Measure for 
 
 Afeasure) ....... 225 
 
 " The forward violet "..... 64 
 
 "When icicles hang by the wall" {Lovers 
 
 Labor'* s Lost) ...... 401 
 
 '•When I do count the clock" . . . 727 
 
 " When in the chronicle " .... 63 
 
 "When to the sessions of sweet silent thought " 60 
 
 Wolsey's Fall {Henry VIIL) ... 242 
 
 Wolsey's Speech to Cromwell {Hejiry VHI.) 24^ 
 SHANLY, CHARLES DAWSON. 
 
 America. I'ub. i;J66, 
 
 Brierwood Pipe 475 
 
 Civil War 474 
 
 SHARPE, R. S. 
 
 lini^land, 1759-18^1;. 
 
 The Minute-Gun ...... 586 
 
 SHEALE, RICHARD. 
 
 Chevy-Chase. 591 
 
 SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. 
 
 iini^ll.ind. 1792 -iS:r^. 
 
 Autumn ........ 395 
 
 Heatrice Cenci 71,8 
 
 Chanj'e 683 
 
 Cloud, The 749 
 
 lanlhe. Sleeping; 680 
 
 " I arise from dreams of thee "... 140 
 
 Lament, A ■ ...... 243 
 
 Love's Philosophy ...... 13O 
 
 Music 692 
 
 Night 376 
 
 Night, To 375 
 
 Ozymandias of Egypt 66t 
 
 Skylark, To the 437 
 
 Sunset . . . - . . . 372 
 
 " T'he sun is warm, the sky is clear " . • 237 
 
 View from the Euganean Hills . 404 
 
 War . 4S4 
 
 *' When the lamp is shattered " .'24 
 
 SHENSTONE, WlLLLVftL 
 
 Iini,'I.Tii(I. 1714-1705. 
 
 Hope 71 
 
 Schoolmistress, The 656 
 
 SHEPHERD. N. G. 
 America. 
 
 " Only the clothes she wore" .... 296 
 SHIRLEY, JAiMES. 
 
 KnylaiiO, 1594- looij. 
 
 Death, the Leveler 301 
 
 SIBLEY, CHARLES. 
 Scotland. 
 
 The Plaidie i j6 
 
 SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. 
 England, 1554-158(1. 
 
 Love's Silence So 
 
 "My true-love hath my heart" ... 72 
 
 Sleep O77 
 
 SIGOURNEY, LYDIA HUNTLEY. 
 
 Norwicli. Conn., ij.yi - 1K05. 
 
 Coral Insect, 'I'he 580 
 
 " Go to thy rest, fair child " ■ 271 
 
 Indian Names .... 737 
 
 Lost Sister, The .... 271 
 
 Man — Woman ...... 695 
 
 PuMUhcrs : Haiiiersloy & Co., Hartford, Conn 
 
 SIMMONS, BARTHOLOMEW. 
 
 IrL-l.uiij. jjiib. 1^45 ; d, i^lso. 
 
 To the Memory of Thomas Hood . ■ 836 
 
 SIMM.S, WILLIAM GILMORE. 
 
 Ch.nrleston, S. C. 1S06 - 1S70. 
 
 Grape-Vine Swing, The 418 
 
 Mother and Child 696 
 
 Shaded Water 410 
 
 PiiMishers: W. J. Widdleton & Co.. New York. 
 
 SMITH. ALEXANDER. 
 
 Scollind. 1S30-1S67. 
 
 The Night before the Wedding . . . 109 
 SMITH, CHARLOTTE. 
 
 lliiLilaiid. 1749- iHjO. 
 
 The Swallow ....... 442 
 
 SMITH, EMMELINE SHERMAN. 
 
 N\w psltimore. N. \'.. b. 1823. 
 
 Bird Language .... . . 7S7 
 
 SMITH, HORACE. 
 
 linglMiul. 1779-19.10. 
 
 Address to the Alabaster Sarcophagus . . 6(13 
 
 Address to the Mummy at Behoni's Exhibition 661 
 
 Flowers, Hymn to the ..... 421 
 
 Moral Cosmetics - 491 
 
 Tale of Drury Lane, A . . . . . gio 
 
 The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger . S67 
 SMITH. SEBA. 
 
 Turner. Mc, 1792-1823. 
 
 The Mother's Sacrifice .... 403 
 
 SMITH, SYDNEY. 
 
 Hiit:lrind, 1771-1845. 
 
 A Receipt for Salad 915 
 
 SOUTHEY, MRS. CAROLINE BOWLES, 
 lingland. 1787- 1S54. 
 
 Cuckoo Clock, The . ..... 660 
 
 Pauper's Death- Bed, The .... 256 
 
 Greenwood Shrift, The ..... 345 
 
 Young Gray Head, The .... yyS 
 
 SOUTHEY, ROBERT. 
 
 hnv;!.iii.l, 1774- iS43- 
 
 Blenheim, The Battle of . . . . 489 
 
 Cataract of Lodore, The . . 412 
 
 Kmmett's Epitriph . - ... 833 
 
 God's Judgment on Hatto .... 791 
 
 i-
 
 INDEX OF AUTHOBS. 
 
 J^ 
 
 Greenwood Shrift, The 345 
 
 Holly-Tree, The ... .417 
 
 Idiot Boy, The . . ... 255 
 
 Iiichcape Rock, The 57^ 
 
 Wellof St. Keyne, The 865 
 
 SPENCER, CAROLINE S. 
 
 Catskiil. N. V.. 1B50- 
 
 Liviiig Waters 698 
 
 SPENCER, EDWARD. 
 
 Birds at my Window ... . 434 
 
 SPENCER, WILLIAM ROBERT. 
 
 England. 1770-1834- 
 
 "Beth Gelert 6t6 
 
 " Too late I stayed " 727 
 
 Wife, Children, and Friends .... 170 
 
 SPENSER, EDMUND. 
 
 Bower ot Bliss, The 752 
 
 Cave of Sleep, The 753 
 
 Epithalamioii, The 162 
 
 Ministry of Angels, The .... 337 
 
 Una and the Lion 753 
 
 SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT. 
 
 Calais. Me., b. 1S35. 
 
 Night Sea, The 575 
 
 Vanity 684 
 
 Publibhers : Houghton. 0*^00(1 & Co Boston. 
 
 SPRAGUE, CHARLES 
 
 lioston. Mass.. I7qi-iS;5, 
 
 Family Meeting, The ..... 182 
 
 Indians 735 
 
 Winged Worshippers, The .... 442 
 Publishers: Houghton. Osgood & Co., Boston. 
 
 STARK. 
 
 America. 
 
 The Modem Belle 882 
 
 STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE- 
 Hartford, Conn., b. 1S33. 
 
 Betrothed Anew 4-9 
 
 Cavalry Song ...... 4*>'i 
 
 Doorstep, The ■ 74' 
 
 John Brown of Osawatomie .... 537 
 
 Old Admiral. The S47 
 
 What the Winds bring . ... 413 
 
 Publishers : lIout,'hton. O^-.^nnd & Co., Boston. 
 
 STERLING, JOHN. 
 
 Scotland. i&:>6-iS44- 
 
 Alfred the Harper ...... 6oi 
 
 Beautiful Day, On a . . . ■ . 367 
 
 Spice-Tree, The 41S 
 
 STEVENS, GEORGE ALEXANDER 
 
 lingland. d. 17S4. 
 
 The Storm 5S6 
 
 STILL, JOHN. 
 
 nngland. ic;43-i6c7. 
 
 Good Ale - 858 
 
 STILLMAN, HARRIET W. 
 
 Smiling in his Sleep . • ... 22 
 
 STODDARD. LAVINIA. 
 
 Guilford. Conn., r ;.-'; - 180 
 
 The Soiil's Defiance 35S 
 
 STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY. 
 
 llinijhaiii. Mass.. b. i&^s- 
 
 Brahma's Answer ...... 722 
 
 " It never comes again " .... 52 
 
 Two Anchors. The ■ - • - • - iSo 
 
 Publishers ; Houghton, Osgood & Co.. Boston. 
 
 STODDART, THOMAS TOD. 
 
 bcotland, b. iSio. 
 
 The Anglers* Trysting-Tree . .619 
 
 STORY, ROBERT. 
 
 Scotland, 1700- 1K59. 
 
 The Whistle ...... 150 
 
 STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE 
 Salem, Mass.. b. 1819. 
 
 Cleopatra . . 138 
 
 Pan in Love '33 
 
 Violet, The .... 425 
 
 Publishers: Kittle. Brown, & Co.. Boston. 
 
 ! STOWE, HARRIET EEECHER. 
 
 Litchlicld, Conn,, b. iSi^. 
 
 A Day in the Pamfili Doria 
 Lines to the Memory of Annie 
 "Only a Year" .... 
 Other World. The .... 
 
 Publishers: Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston. 
 
 STRANGFORD, LORD. 
 
 linijland, 17SQ-125V 
 
 ^Blighted Love {Frotn iJie Portuguese) 
 
 STREET, ALFRED B. 
 Poughkeepsie. N. Y., b. 1811. 
 
 Nightfall 
 
 Settler, The 
 
 630 
 
 2Clt 
 267 
 350 
 
 372 
 649 
 
 164 
 
 86 
 
 66 
 
 226 
 
 65 
 177 
 
 68 
 140 
 
 896 
 
 226 
 '97 
 89 
 380 
 
 SUCKLING. SIR JOHN. 
 England. 16^0- 1641. 
 
 Bride, The 
 
 " I prithee send me back my heart " . 
 
 Moods 
 
 " Why so pale and wan ? '* . 
 
 SURREY, LORD. 
 
 England. 1516-1547. 
 
 Give Place, ye Lovers .... 
 Means to attain Happy Life, The 
 
 SWAIN, CHARLES. 
 
 England, b. i&jj;. 
 
 A Violet in her Hair .... 
 
 *' Smile and never heed me " 
 
 SWIFT, JONATHAN. 
 
 Ireland "1667-1745. 
 
 " Tonis ad resto mare " . - . . 
 
 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES. 
 
 England, b. 1837. 
 
 Disappointed Lover. The 
 
 Love - . ... 
 
 Match, A 
 
 "When the hounds of spring'* - 
 
 SYLVESTER, JOSHUA. 
 
 England, 1563- 161S. 
 
 Contentment ^7 
 
 Sotil's Errand, The • - ... 721 
 
 *' Were I as base as is the lowly plain " . - S5 
 
 TALFOURD, SIR THOMAS NOON. 
 
 England. 1705-1854. 
 
 Sympatliy (From " Ion") .... 683 
 
 TALHAIARN OF WALES. 
 
 War's Loud .A.larms {OliphanVs Translation) 4^)6 
 " Where are the men ? '' {Oiiphanfs Tram.) ■ 4^*1 
 
 TANNAHILL, ROBERT. 
 
 Scotland. 1774-1810. 
 
 Flower o' Dumblane, The .... 90 
 "The midges dance aboon the bum" . . 37» 
 
 TAYLOR, BAYARD. 
 
 Kennett Square. Pa., 1825-1878 
 
 Arab to the Palm, The ..... 416 
 
 Hedouin Love-Song i34 
 
 Centennial Ode ■ 54^ 
 
 King of Thule {From tJw German 0/ Goctfu) 785 
 
 Lute-Player, The i37 
 
 Possession ■ ..... 16S 
 
 Rose, The .422 
 
 Song of the Camp 7>4 
 
 Publishers : Houghton. Osgood & Co.. Boston. 
 
 TAYLOR, BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 Lowville. N. v., b. iS^c. 
 
 Beautiful River, The ..... 202 
 
 Northern Lights, The 3^9 
 
 Old Village Choir. The 693 
 
 TAYLOR. SIR HENRY. 
 
 England, b. i?^?. 
 
 Athulfand Ethilda 120 
 
 TAYLOR, JANE. 
 
 England. i783-iS--4- 
 
 >hilosopher's Scales. The ^ - 785 
 
 Toad's Journal, The 788 
 
 TAYLOR. JEFFERVS. 
 
 England, 170^-18^3. 
 The Milkmaid . 
 
 TAYLOR, JEREMY. 
 
 England, 1613- 1667. 
 
 Heaven 
 
 786 
 
 t
 
 ^ 
 
 IXDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 xxvu 
 
 TAYLOR, TOM. 
 
 Hliylanil. b. 1S17, 
 
 Abraham I^incoln 
 TENNANT, WILLIAM. 
 
 Scotland. i7S,i-i348. 
 
 Ode to Peace . 
 
 TENNYSON, ALFRED. 
 hnylsiid, b. 1809. 
 
 '* Ask me no more " [Princess) 
 '* Ureak, break, break " 
 Bugle, The (Frhwrss) . 
 Charge of the Light Hi igndc 
 " Come into the garden, Maud " 
 " Come not when I am dead " (/ 
 Dead Friend, The . 
 Dealh of Arthur . 
 Death of the Old Year, The . 
 Eagle, The .... 
 Enoch Artlen at the Window . 
 Foolish Virgins. The . 
 Fortune, — Enid's Song . 
 
 Godiva 
 
 Hero to Leander .... 
 
 " Home they brought her warrior dead 
 
 C£SS) ...... 
 
 In Memoriam, Selections from 
 Land of Lands, The 
 Locksley Hall 
 
 Mariana 
 
 Miller's Daughter, The 
 
 New Year's Eve 
 
 Northern Farmer, The 
 
 " O swallow, swallow, flying south 
 
 Retrospection {Princess) 
 
 Sleeping Beauty, The 
 
 Song of the Brook. 
 
 Spring .... 
 
 Victor Hugo, To . 
 
 TENNYSON. CHARLES. 
 
 England. (Brother of the preceding.) 
 
 The Ocean 
 
 ■ss) 
 
 '(/ 
 
 {Pritf 
 
 846 
 
 484 
 
 235 
 411 
 464 
 gf. 
 230 
 
 56 
 597 
 727 
 
 •147 
 
 223 
 717 
 696 
 644 
 IS6 
 
 i?:ct'ss) 
 
 TENNYSON, FREDERICK. 
 Iin^jLand. (lirutliLT of the precedine ) 
 Blackbird 
 
 TERRETT, WILLIAM B. 
 Platonic ■ 
 
 THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE. 
 
 Enpland, iSji- 1863. 
 
 Age of Wisdom, The .... 
 
 Churcli Gate, At the 
 
 End of the Play, The .... 
 
 Little Eillee 
 
 Mahogany Tree, The .... 
 Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball 
 
 Peg of Limavaddy 
 
 Sorrows of Wcrther 
 
 White Squall, The 
 
 THAXTER, MRS. CELIA. 
 
 Isks.f Slio.ik. 
 
 The Sandpiper 
 
 Publishers; Houghton. <>s.q-ood .1- Co., Boston. 
 
 THOM, WILLIAM. 
 
 Scotland, 1790-1850. 
 
 The Mitherless Bairn 
 THOMSON, JAMES. 
 
 Scotland, 1703-174.-5, 
 
 Angling 
 
 Connubial Life 
 
 Domestic Birds .... 
 
 Hymn on the Seasons . . . . 
 Nightingale Bereaved 
 Plea for the Animals . 
 
 Rule Britannia 
 
 Songsters, The . . . . , 
 Sug Hunt, The .... 
 
 Summer Morning 
 
 War for the Sake of Peace 
 
 Winter Scenes 
 
 THOREAU, HENRY DAVID. 
 
 Concord, Mass., iHij-jSO^ 
 
 Mist 
 
 Smoke 
 
 Pubhshers: Houghton, Osgood Sc Co.. Boston. 
 
 2S6 
 284 
 
 5'5 
 214 
 233 
 131 
 725 
 9°3 
 120 
 
 23s 
 124 
 408 
 379 
 840 
 
 639 
 
 640 
 61 
 
 153 
 67 
 258 
 874 
 714 
 904 
 647 
 875 
 5S8 
 
 446 
 
 621 
 
 16S 
 432 
 377 
 443 
 704 
 515 
 432 
 616 
 3S7 
 453 
 401 
 
 736 
 763 
 
 THORNBURV, GEORGE WALTER. 
 
 tnRland. iSsS-lSjJ. 
 
 The Jester's Sermon 729 
 
 THRALE, HESTER LYNCH (Atrs. J'iozzi). 
 
 W.iIl-s. 1740-18=1. 
 
 The Three Warnings 73a 
 
 THURLOW, LORD (Edw,trd Ho-jel). 
 
 hn>;l.ind. 1781 - 18;;9, 
 
 Beauty 6^^ 
 
 Bird, To a 446 
 
 TICKELL, THOMAS. 
 
 liiii:l.ind, 1686-1740. 
 
 To a Lady before Marriage .... 161 
 TIMROD, HENRY. 
 
 Ch.irIcstoii. S. C, 1^20-1867. 
 
 Katie 97 
 
 Publishers: E. J. Hale & Son. New York. 
 
 TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX. 
 
 Iini;l;iiid. b. iB-j?. 
 
 Harmosan 686 
 
 TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND. 
 
 Ogden. N. Y.. L>. iS.-;. 
 
 At Sea 563 
 
 Dorothy in the Garret 210 
 
 Old Burying Ground, The . • - -305 
 Vagabonds, The 492 
 
 Publishers: Harper & Brothers. New York. 
 
 TUCKERMAN, HENRY THEODORE. 
 
 Boston. Mass., 1813-1871. 
 
 Newport Beach 736 
 
 Publishers: Houj^liton, Osgood & Co.. Boston. 
 
 TUPPER, MARTIN FARQUHAR. 
 
 lingland, b. 1810. 
 
 Cruelty to Animals, Of 703 
 
 TURNER. ELIZA SPROAT. 
 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 An Angel's Visit 169 
 
 TYCHBORN, CHIDIOCK. 
 
 England. 
 
 Lines written by one in the Tower . . - 720 
 TYRTi^US. 
 
 Greece, jtli century B. C. 
 
 Martial Elegy ( Tra?islation of Thomas Camp- 
 belV) 454 
 
 UHLAND, LUDWIG. 
 
 Ocrniany, 1787-1862, 
 
 Landlady's Daughter, The {Traif^Iatiofi pf 
 
 J. S. Dwight) 77 
 
 Passage, The {Translation of H. II'. Long- 
 felhyw) 2S6 
 
 UPTON, JAMES. 
 
 lin:,'l;inil, 1670- 1740 
 
 The Lass of Kiclnnond Hill .... 90 
 VAUGHAN, HENRY. 
 
 lint^l.nnd, 1621-169^, 
 
 Friends Departed . .... 26^ 
 
 VENABLE, W. H 
 
 Welcome to *' Eoz," A S39 
 
 VENANTIUS, FORTUNATUS 
 
 Vexitla KG^\?.{Translation of John AT. Ncaic) ^lo 
 
 VERY, JONES. 
 
 Sak-ni, Mass., |i. il^n. 
 
 Latter Rain, The 305 
 
 Nature 361 
 
 Spirit Land, The ... -331 
 
 VICENTE, GIL. 
 
 Portugal. 1482- 1^17. 
 
 The Nightingale {Translation of Sir John 
 Bo^vring) . . . . . • 4-t.' 
 
 VILLEGAS. ESTEVAN MANUEL DE. 
 
 .Spain. 1596- 1660, 
 
 The Mother Nightingale { Translation of 
 Thomas Roscoe) ...... 444 
 
 VISSCHER, MARIA TESSELSCHADE. 
 
 Holl.-uul. iso.t-.f.,.,. 
 
 The Nightingale {Translation of Sir Johu 
 Boivring) . 443 
 
 WAKE. WILLIAM BASIL. 
 
 l;m;Iaiul. 
 
 Saying not Meaning ..... S6.t 
 
 t
 
 XXVlll 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 WALLER, EDMUND. 
 
 Enj^laiid. 1&15-10S7. 
 Girdle, On a . 
 Go, lovely Rose ! . 
 " The soul's dark cottage '* 
 
 WALLER, JOHN FRANCIS. 
 
 Ireland, b. iSio. 
 
 The Spinning-Wheel Song 
 
 WALSH, WILLIAM. 
 
 England. 1063-1707. 
 Rivalry in Love 
 
 WALTON, IZAAK. (See J 
 
 l-ngland, isg^-ioS^. 
 
 The Angler's Wish . 
 
 WARE. JR., HENRY. 
 
 Ilingliam. Mass , 1794-1S43. 
 
 I will thai men pray everywhere ' 
 
 WARING, ANNA LA:T1TIA. 
 
 Walcb. Fir^t pub. iS^o. 
 
 " My times are in thy hand " . 
 WARNER, H. E. 
 
 The Idler 
 
 WARTON, THOMAS. 
 
 England. 1728-1790. 
 
 Retirement . . , , 
 WASSON, DAVID A. 
 
 America. 
 
 Love against Love . . , 
 
 WASTELL, SIMON. 
 
 England, d. 1623. 
 Man's Mortality 
 
 86 
 66 
 730 
 
 'H.\ Chaluiull.) 
 
 357 
 3''j 
 
 WATSON, JAMES W. 
 
 America. 
 
 Beautiful Snow ...... 
 
 Wounded to Death ... 
 
 WATTS, ISAAC. 
 
 England. 1074-1740, 
 
 Cradle Song, A 
 
 Insignificant Existence. 
 
 Summer Evening, A . ... 
 
 WAUGH, EDWIN. 
 
 England, 1817. (Called "The Lancashire Pout.") 
 "The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine *' 
 
 WEBSTER, DANIEL. 
 
 Salisbury. N. H.. lyS-- iSs:^. 
 The ^lemory of the Heart 
 
 WEBSTER. JOHN. 
 
 England. ;ibout 1601. 
 
 Lament of Virginius . . . . . 
 
 WEIR, HARRISON. 
 
 England. Pub. 1865. 
 
 The English Robin 
 
 WELBY, AMELIA B. 
 
 America, 1S21-1852. 
 
 Golden Ringlet, The * . . . 
 
 Old Maid, the 
 
 Twilight at Sea 
 
 WESLEY, CHARLES. 
 
 England. 1708- 178^. 
 
 Wrestling Jacob . . . . . 
 
 WESLEY, JOHN. 
 
 England. 170;;- 1701. 
 
 The Love of God Supreme 
 WESTWOOD, THOMAS. 
 
 England, b. 1814. 
 
 in Heaven ...... 
 
 Little Bell -_ 
 
 " Under my window" ■ . . . 
 
 WHEWELL, WILLIAM. 
 
 England, 1795- 1S66. 
 
 Physics 
 
 250 
 477 
 
 24 
 
 .^94 
 
 796 
 433 
 
 =75 
 742 
 574 
 
 WHITMAN, SARAH HELEN. 
 
 Providence, R. I. b. 1803. 
 
 A Still Day in Autumn 
 
 WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO. 
 
 Spain, 1775-1^41. 
 
 Night .... 
 
 WHITE, HENRY KIRKE. 
 
 England. 1785 - iS:>6. 
 
 Early Primrose, To the . 
 Harvest Moon, To the . 
 
 895 
 
 424 
 495 
 
 WHITMAN, WALTER,, 
 
 West Hilli, N. v.. b. 1S19. 
 
 The Mocking-Bird .... 
 
 Publisher: Chas. 1'. Sonierby, New York. 
 
 WHITTIER. JOHN GREENLEAF. 
 
 Haverhill. M.iss., b. 1S07. 
 
 Absent Sailor, To her . 
 
 Agassiz, Prayer of . 
 
 Angel of Patience, The 
 
 Barbara Frietchie . . - . 
 
 Barclay of Ury . 
 
 Barefoot Boy, The .... 
 
 Benedicite {SriOTv Bound) . 
 Burns ...... 
 
 Centennial Hymn .... 
 
 Eve of Election, The 
 
 Farewell, The .... 
 
 Fremont, John C. . 
 
 Halleck, Fitz-Greene . 
 
 Hampton Beach .... 
 
 Ichabod ..... 
 
 Joseph Sturge, To .... 
 
 Laus Deo ! 
 
 Maud MuUer 
 
 fleeting, The .... 
 My Playmate .... 
 Negro Boatmen, Song of the 
 New F.iigland in Winter . 
 Palm-Tree, The .... 
 Poet's Reward, The 
 Pumpkin, The .... 
 Reformer, The ..... 
 Robin, The .... 
 Publishers: Houghton, Osgood & Co., Boston. 
 
 WILCOX, CARLOS. 
 
 Newport, N. H., 17&4-1S27. 
 
 God everj'where in Nature 
 Rousseau and Cowper . 
 
 WILDE, RICHARD HENRY. 
 
 Ireland, b. 1789 ; d. New Orleans. La.. 1S47. 
 
 Life . 
 
 WILKINSON, JAMES JOHN GARTH. 
 
 England, b. 1812. 
 
 'I'he Diamond ..... 
 
 60 WILLARD, EMMA. 
 
 j Berlin, Conn., b. 17^'? : ■' Troy. N- Y.. 1870. 
 
 " Rocked in the cradle of the deep ' 
 
 WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. 
 
 Portland. Me., i&^-i^^;. 
 
 Belfry Pigeon, The .... 
 
 Leper, The 
 
 Parrhasius .... 
 
 Saturday Afternoon 
 
 Women, Two . - . - 
 Publishers: Clark .t Maynard. New York. 
 
 WILLSON, BYRON FORCEYTHE. 
 Americ.i. 18^7-1867. 
 
 The Old Sergeant . . . • 
 
 WILSON, JOHN {Kit Nartli). 
 
 Scotland. 1785 - 1S54. 
 Evening Cloud, The 
 
 Louis XV 
 
 Mirabeau . . ■ • ■ 
 
 My Cottage . . - ■ 
 Rose and the Gauntlet, The . 
 
 WINKWORTH, CATHARINE. 
 
 Scotland, b. 18^1 , , . , 
 
 Veni Sancte Spiritus (From the Latin) 
 
 WITHER, GEORGE. 
 
 En^dand. 1588-11*7. 
 
 •' I loved a lass, a fair one 
 
 " Lord ! when those glorious lights I see 
 
 Shepherd's Resolution, The . 
 
 WOLCOTT, DR. [Peter Pindar). 
 England, 1738- 1S19. 
 
 Chloe, To ..... • 
 
 Fly, To a 
 
 Pilgrims and the Peas, The . 
 Razor-Seller, The 
 
 63S 
 
 194 
 850 
 
 543 
 
 4S7 
 
 53 
 826 
 546 
 553 
 190 
 849 
 852 
 561 
 844 
 S35 
 555 
 104 
 
 340 
 200 
 
 557 
 398 
 4'7 
 667 
 421 
 55° 
 43S 
 
 451 
 82s 
 
 718 
 
 735 
 586 
 
 436 
 64S 
 
 52 
 aso 
 
 698 
 248 
 824 
 161 
 804 
 
 225 
 339 
 ■47 
 
 145 
 7,31 
 803 
 804 
 
 L
 
 H- 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 WOLFE, CHARLES. 
 
 Ircl.iml. 1791 -i8j^. 
 
 Burial of Sir John Moore 
 
 WOOD WORTH, SAMUEL. 
 
 ycitu.itc, MAis., I7S5-1K4.-. 
 
 The Old 0.ikcn Bucket . 
 WOOLSEY, SARAH iSusaii Coolidge). 
 
 New llavcn. Conn. 
 
 In the Mist 
 
 Little Puss 
 
 I'ubliihoni : Roberts Brothers. Boston. 
 
 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. 
 
 England, 1770- 1S50. 
 
 Daffodils 
 
 Education of Nature, The 
 
 Helvellyn 
 
 Highland Girl of Invcrsnaid, To the 
 Honor ...... 
 
 Inner Vision, The 
 Intimations of Immortality 
 Kitten and Falling Leaves, '1 he . 
 London ...... 
 
 Lost Love, The .... 
 
 Lucy 
 
 March 
 
 Milton, To 
 
 Music ..... 
 
 Rainbow, The ..... 
 
 " She was a phantom of delight " 
 
 Skylark, To the .... 
 
 Sleeplessness .... 
 
 Tiniern Abbey ..... 
 
 Toiissaint rOuveriure . 
 
 We are Seven ..... 
 
 Westminster Bridge 
 
 Worldliness 
 
 WOTTON, SIR HENRY. 
 
 EnijliiniJ, 1568 - i6j9. 
 Happy Life, A . 
 Verses in Praise of Angling 
 " You meaner beauties" . 
 
 S3-' 
 
 760 
 27 
 
 42; 
 
 47 
 
 614 
 
 49 
 66s 
 667 
 732 
 
 25 
 6;6 
 
 4'J 
 
 49 
 38i 
 815 
 692 
 394 
 
 67 
 438 
 6S0 
 361 
 835 
 
 34 
 626 
 361 
 
 WYATT, SIR THOMAS. 
 
 England, 1503- 154:;. 
 
 Earnest Suit, An 
 
 The Deceived Luver suetb only for Liberty 
 XAVIER, ST. FRANCIS. 
 
 France. 1506-155::. 
 
 " My God, I love thee " ( Tramlation 0/ Ed- 
 ward Caswell) 
 
 YOUL, EDWARD. 
 
 England. 
 
 Song of Spring 
 
 YOUNG, DR. EDWARD. 
 
 Enjiland, 16S4-1765. 
 
 Man 
 
 Narcissa ...... 
 
 Procrastination 
 
 Time 
 
 674 
 
 619 
 65 
 
 382 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Ancient Hymn . 
 
 An Invective again:.! Love . 
 
 Anne Hathaway 
 
 April Violet. An . 
 
 A Voice and Nothing Else 
 
 Before Sedan . 
 
 Books ..... 
 
 Christian Calling, The 
 
 Cooking and Courting . 
 
 Cradle Song 
 
 Deborah Lee 
 
 Diego Ordas in El Dorado 
 
 Dreamer, The 
 
 Drummer-Boy's Burial. The 
 
 Duty 
 
 Echo and the Lover 
 Edwin and Paulinus 
 Eggs and the Horses. The 
 Electrician's Valentine, The 
 Emigrant's Wish, The . 
 " Fairer than thee " 
 
 694 
 
 50 
 
 723 
 
 724 
 
 327 
 146 
 S14 
 2S1 
 8^6 
 4S0 
 683 
 360 
 157 
 
 19 
 go8 
 758 
 246 
 479 
 503 
 917 
 355 
 S7S 
 895 
 203 
 
 76 
 
 Fair Helen of Kirkconnell .... 276 
 
 Fairy Queen, The 763 
 
 Faithful Lovers, The 155 
 
 Ferguson's Cat . 891 
 
 Fetching Water from the Well ... 82 
 
 Flotsam and Jetsam ... . 574 
 
 Four Seasons, The 378 
 
 GentilwoNian, To a (O. R.) .... 77 
 
 Gentleman of the Old School, A . 654 
 
 George Washington, To . . - ■ . 842 
 "Go, feel what 1 have felt" . . 494 
 
 Good bye ...... iSj 
 
 GrieM'or the Dead ..... 260 
 
 Guy Fawkes 867 
 
 Hallo, my Fancy ..... . 748 
 
 " Harry Ashland, one of my lovers" . . 38 
 Humility ....... 35^ 
 
 " If women could be fair" . . . - 714 
 " I '11 sing you a good old song " . . 866 
 
 Indian Summer ..... 306 
 
 Indian Summer ...... 396 
 
 Infant's Death. On an 266 
 
 Inscription in Faversham Church . . 713 
 
 " It is not beauty I demand " . . -77 
 
 John Davidson 850 
 
 Katie Lee and Willie Grey . . . , gg 
 " Keep my memory green " . . . . 728 
 Kin§ John and the .\bbot of Canterbury . 853 
 
 Kissing 's no Sin 136 
 
 Kitty of Coleraine 136 
 
 Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament ... 231 
 Lament of tlie Border Widow .... 289 
 
 Life and Eternity 7,0 
 
 Little Feet \^ 
 
 Little Goldenhair ...... 27 
 
 Little Puss .24 
 
 Love lightens Labor 180 
 
 Loveliness of Love, The . • . . 76 
 
 " Love me little, love me long " ... 75 
 
 " Love not me for comely grace " ■ • ■ 75 
 Lyke-Wake Dirge, The .... 298 
 
 Making Port 571 
 
 Melrose Abbey, Inscription on . , . 30S 
 
 Millais's "Huguenots" 8i 
 
 Modern House that Jack built. The . . 91^ 
 
 Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition, Answer of the 662 
 " My eyes! how I love you" .... 150 
 
 My Love g,^ 
 
 " My Love in her attire " • ... 66 
 
 My sweet Sweeting 67 
 
 Nobly Born, The{E. S. H.) . . . 687 
 
 Nurserv Song q,s 
 
 Old Gaelic Lullaby 20 
 
 Old Schoolhouse, The 55 
 
 Old-School Punishment . . . .36 
 
 Old Seaport. An 575 
 
 Origin of the Opal - • ... 761 
 
 Orphans, The ^,g 
 
 Potato, The ^i 
 
 Praxiteles 315 
 
 Quiet from God ^r. 
 
 Relic. A (J. B. S.) . . . . . . 3,, 
 
 Remonstrance with the Snails . . 450 
 
 geSt 2g, 
 
 Robin Hood and AUen-a-Dale . . . 594 
 
 " Rock of Ages ".-.... 330 
 
 Sea-Bov's Farewell, The ... c?^ 
 
 Sea Fight. The ..... Jd. 
 
 Seaside Well, The .... 70? 
 
 Secret of Death, The 295 
 
 Shan Van Vocht 518 
 
 Siege of Belgrade ...... gr6 
 
 Sigh, A 2S1 
 
 Skater Belle, Our 622 
 
 Skeleton, To a 736 
 
 Skulls, On some 643 
 
 Snails, Remonstrance with the . . . 450 
 
 Somebody 122 
 
 Spinning-Wheel, The ..... 4f,8 
 
 Stormy Petrel, Lines to the .... 447 
 
 Summer Days ...... 107 
 
 Swell's Soliloquy 90S
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORiS. 
 
 f 
 
 Telltale, The 
 
 " The baby sits in her cradle " 
 
 "There was silence in heaven 
 
 "They 're dear fish to me " 
 
 Threnody 
 
 Tomb of Cyrus, The 
 
 Topside Galah 
 
 Truth 
 
 Unsatisfactory , • • • 
 Until Death . ■ - • 
 
 =94 
 814 
 gi8 
 917 
 157 
 159 
 
 Useful Plow, The . . . . 
 
 Vicar of Bray, The 
 
 When Eve brought wue 
 
 " When I am dead "... 
 
 " When 1 think on the happy days ' 
 
 " When shall we all meet again ? " 
 
 White Rose, The . . . . 
 
 " Why, lovely charmer " 
 
 Wife to her Husband. The 
 
 "Will you love ine wheu 1 'tu old" 
 
 496 
 S57 
 S78 
 294 
 202 
 244 
 64 
 86 
 199 
 
 ERRATA. The pocm entitled " The Childreu." p. 181. wrongly ascribed to CHAKLILS DICKENS, is by CHARLES M. DlCiaNSOW, 
 .owvillc, N. Y.. b. 1842. 
 Tlic poem entitled " Bachelor's Hall," p. go6. designated as Anonymoits, is by JOHN FINLEY, Cincinnati. O. 
 The pocm " To the Sextant of the Mectin'-House." p. 90S. is by MRS. ARABELLA M. WILLSON. of Canandaigua, X. Y.
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 I. 
 
 STEEL PORTRAITS. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 FACiNti Vi\Gl'. 
 
 I. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT i 
 
 !. GEOFFREY CHAUCER <j 
 
 3. JOSIAH GILUEKT HOLLAND 17 
 
 4. THOMAS MOORE 59 
 
 5. PAUL H. HAYNE 69 
 
 6. JOHN GREENLEAF WIIITTIER 105 
 
 7. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING... lO? 
 
 S. JEAN INGELOW. 1S7 
 
 r,. ALFRED TENNYSON 217 
 
 10. JOHN MILTON 241 
 
 FroittUpiccc to Vol. I. 
 
 Facing Page 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 265 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 339 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 349 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 391 
 
 WALTER SCOTT ProntUpicci: to Vol. II. 
 
 16. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 437 
 
 17. GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON 527 
 
 iS. RALPH WALDO EMERSON 673 
 
 19. EDGAR ALLEN POE 781 
 
 20. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 879 
 
 IS- 
 
 IS- 
 
 II. 
 
 ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD. 
 
 I THAT 'S PUSS 24 
 
 2. MY MOTHER AND HER BIBLE 40 
 
 3. OVER THE WATER 79 
 
 4. GUINEVERE 94 
 
 5 PERISHED 220 
 
 b. GOD'S ACRE 306 
 
 7. MILTON ON HIS BLINDNESS 330 
 
 8. EVENINfc 374 
 
 9. WINTER SCENES 402 
 
 10. THE VALLEY BROOK 410 
 
 11. AUTUMN 428 
 
 12. THE PLOWMAN 496 
 
 13. THE SEA 580 
 
 14 THE HUNTING PARTY 616 
 
 ■ S VENICE 628 
 
 16. CHAUCER'S TABARD INN 642 
 
 17. ON THE BANKS OF THE NILE 662 
 
 ■ 8. TWILIGHT IN THE ITALIAN TYROL. 72S 
 
 19. RETROSPECTION 742 
 
 20. BISHOP HATTO AND THE RATS 792 
 
 III. 
 
 ORNAMENTAL TITLES IN SILHOUETTE. 
 
 1. POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH... 14 
 
 2. POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP 52 
 
 3. POEMS OF LOVE 62 
 
 4. POEMS OF HOME 158 
 
 5. POE.MS OF PARTING AND ABSENCE. 182 
 6 POEMS OF DISAPPOINTMENT AND 
 
 ESTRANGEMENT 204 
 
 7. POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH.... 234 
 
 8. POEMS OF RELIGION 310 
 
 9. POEMS OF NATURE 360 
 
 10. POEMS OF PEACE AND WAR 452 
 
 11. POEMS OF TEMPERANCE AND LABOR 490 
 
 12. POEMS OF PATRIOTISM AND FREE- 
 
 DOM 504 
 
 13. POEMS OF THE SEA 558 
 
 14. POEMS OF ADVENTURE AND RURAL 
 
 SPORTS S90 
 
 15. DESCRIPTIVE POEMS 622 
 
 i6. POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLEC- 
 TION 664 
 
 17. POEMS OF FANCY 748 
 
 i8. POEMS OF rRAGEDY 790 
 
 19. PERSONAL POEMS 812 
 
 20. HUMOROUS POEMS 852
 
 IV. 
 
 MANUSCRIPT AND AUTOGRAPH FAC-SIMILES. 
 
 Facing Page 
 
 1. LEIGH HUNT 17 
 
 2. JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND 17 
 
 3. EDGAR ALLEN POE 53 
 
 4. THOMAS GRAY S3 
 
 5. NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 63 
 
 6. GEORGE P. MORRIS 63 
 
 7. JOHN HOWARD PAYNE 159 
 
 8. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 183 
 
 g. WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 183 
 
 10. GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON 205 
 
 11. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 23s 
 
 12. LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY 235 
 
 13. JULIA WARD HOWE 3ii 
 
 14. ALFRED TENNYSON 361 
 
 Facing Page 
 
 15. BAYARD TAYLOR 361 
 
 i6. FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 453 
 
 17. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITI'lER 491 
 
 18. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 505 
 
 19. RALPH WALDO EMERSON 559 
 
 20. GEORGE HENRY BOKER 591 
 
 21. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 623 
 
 22. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 665 
 33. JOHN KEATS 749 
 
 24. THOMAS HOOD 791 
 
 25. JEAN INGELOW 813 
 
 26. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 853 
 
 27. JOHN GODFREY SAXE S53 
 
 r 
 
 r
 
 T 
 
 MEMOIR OF 
 
 ILLIAM CULLEN BrYANT 
 
 By James Grant Wilson
 
 -I- 
 
 .!_ 
 
 "Blessings be with tliem, and eternal praise, 
 
 ■Wlio gave us nobler lives, and nobler cares, — 
 The Poets ! who on earth have made ns lieirs 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly laj^s !" 
 
 William Wordsworth.
 
 J^ 
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 By JAMES GRANT WILSON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "The gravity and stillness of your youth 
 Tlie world hath noted, and your name is great 
 In mouths of wisest censure." 
 
 SlTATvESPEARE. 
 
 "He had the wisdom of age in his youth, and the fire of youth in his aRO." 
 
 Makk Hopkins. 
 
 Ancestors— Birth — CiiiLonooD — School and College Days — Leg.\x, Studies — 
 Mahr:age— Publication op Poems. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott relates tliat, wlien some one was mentioned as a " fine old 
 man" to Dean Swift, he exclaimed with violence that there was no such thing. 
 " If the man j'ou speak of had either a mind or a body worth a farthing, they 
 would have worn him out long ago." Beranger and Brougham, Goethe and Guizot, 
 Humboldt and Sir Henry Holland, Lyndhurst and Palmcrston, Earl Russell and 
 Field-Marshal Moltke, and among Americans, J. Q. Adams and Tanej', Professors 
 Henry and Hodge, Horace Binney and Richard Henry Dana, now ninety-one — the 
 age at which Titian said that genius never grows old — may be cited among the men 
 of the nineteenth century in refutation of this theory, which it may be presumed has 
 nothing to do with thews or stature. But if we wanted a bright and shining example 
 of faculties, and faculties of a high order, remaining unimpaired in mind and body till 
 long past the grand climacteric, we might name William Cullen Bryant, the beloved 
 patriarch of American poetry, and " the most accomplished, the most distinguished, 
 and the most universally honored citizen of the United States," who, having lived 
 under every President of our country, completed his fourscore years and three, 
 cheerful and full of conversation, and continued until the last week of May, 1878, 
 to heartily enjoy what Dr. Johnson happily calls " the sunshine of life." 
 
 No name in our contemporaneous literature, either in England or America, is 
 crowned with more successful honors than that of William Cullen Bryant. Born 
 among the granite hills of Massachusetts, at a period when our colonial literature, 
 like our people, was but recently under the dominion of Great Britain, he lived to 
 see that literature expand from its infancy and take a proud place in the republic of 
 letters, and he survived to see the Republic itself, starting from its revolutionary birth,
 
 -L 
 
 xlii WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 spring up to a giant power, after passing most triunipliantly tlirougli a giant rebellion. 
 Surrounded by sucli historic and heroic associations, men like Bryant, who survive, 
 embody in their lives the annals of a people, and represent in their individuality the 
 history of a nation. 
 
 Pursuing bevond the age of fourscore an energetic literary career, the poet was 
 also an active co-laborer in all worthy movements to promote the advancement of 
 the arts and literature. A liberal patron of art himself, he was always the judicious 
 and eloquent advocate of the claims of artists. On the completion of the beautiful 
 Venetian temple to art erected by the New York Academy of Design, Mr. Bryant 
 delivered the address inaugurating the building and consecrating it to its uses. 
 Foremost in the literary circles of his adopted city, he was for many years the 
 president of that tiuic-honored institution of New York, the Century Club, which 
 has always embraced among its members men of letters, prominent artists, and lead- 
 ing gentlemen of the liberal professions. The poet's predecessors in that office were 
 Gulian C. Verplanck and George Bancroft. Philanthropic in his nature, Bryant 
 was ever the consistent promoter of all subjects having for their tendency the eleva- 
 tion of the race and the furtherance of the interests of humanity. Connected with 
 the leading evening metropolitan journal, and one of the oldest in the United States, 
 he was enabled to bring the powerful influence of the press to bear with his own 
 great literary renown and personal weight upon whatever measure he supported in the 
 cause of philanthropy, letters, and the promotion of art. 
 
 William Cullcn Bryant was born in a log-house at Cummington, Hampsliire 
 County, Massachusetts, November 3d, 1794.* He was a descendant of the English 
 and Scotch families of Alden, Ames, Harris, Hayward, Howard, Keith, Mitchell, 
 Packard, vSnell, and Washburn, and through them from several of the Pilgrims who 
 landed from the Mayflower at Plymouth, on the 22d of December, 1620 — not a bad 
 genealogy for an American citizen, nor imlike that of his brother-poet Halleck, 
 who was descended from the Pilgrim Fathers, including John Eliot, the apostle to 
 the Indians. Brj-ant also had a worthy clciical ancestor in the person of James 
 Keith, the first minister of Bridgewater, Massachusetts, who, after having preached 
 from the same pulpit fifty-six years, died in that town in I7l9. 
 
 Stephen Bryant, the first of the poet's American ancestors of his own name, who 
 is known to have been at Plymouth, Massachusetts, as early as 1632, and who some 
 time before 1650 married Abigail Shaw, had several children, one of whom was also 
 named Stephen. He was the father of Ichabod Bryant, who moved from Haynham 
 
 * A general misappreliension exists as to Mr. Bryant's birthplace. He was born, as he told 
 the writer, not in what is now known as the " Bryant Homestead," but in a .small house con- 
 structed of square logs and long since removed. This fact is further confinnod by the fol- 
 lowing note from the poet to a friend, dated December 5th, 1876 : " Your uncle Eliphalct 
 Packard was ciuite right in designating my birthplace. As the tradition of my family goes, 
 I was born in a house which then stood at the north-west corner of a road leading north of 
 the- bury ing-ground on the hill, and dire(!tly opposite to the burying-ground. The house 
 •was afterwards removed and placed near that occupied then by Daniel Dawes. I suppose 
 there is nothing left of it now." 
 
 t
 
 -IH 
 
 AVILT.IAM CULLEN BltYANT. \liii 
 
 to West Brklgcwntcr in 1745, Ijvinjriiii; with liiiii :i ccrtiiii-ate of disinissioii from tlio 
 cliurch at llavnliaiii, and a recomniondation to that of liis new phice of residence. 
 I'iiiHp, the eldest of his five sons, studied medicine, and settled in North Bridgcwater, 
 now Brockton, where his house is still standing. Dr. I'hilip Bryant married Silence 
 Howard, dauirhter of Dr. Ahicl Howard, with whom he studied medicine. One of 
 their nine cliildren, a son called Peter, born in the year ITCT, studied his father's 
 profession, and succeeded to his practice. At that time there lived in the same 
 town a rcvohitionar}' veteran, " stern and severe," named Khenczer Sncll, of whom a 
 small boy of the period, still living, informs the writer that " all the boys of Uridgc- 
 water were dreadfull}' afraid," so austere and authoritative were his manners. The 
 old soldier had a pretty daughter who won the susceptible young doctor's affections, 
 so that when Squire Snell removed with his family to Cummington, and built what 
 is now known as the " Bryant Homestead, " Peter Bryant followed, establishing him- 
 self there as a physician and surgeon, and in 1792 was married to " sweet Sarah 
 Sncll," as she is called in one of the youthful doctor's poetic effusions. Five sons 
 and two daughters were the fruit of this happy marriage, their second son being the 
 subject of this sketch. Of these seven children but two sons survive, Arthur and 
 John Howard Br3'ant of Illinois, who were present at the poet's funeral. 
 
 Dr. Peter Bryant's bearing, I am told by an aged man who remembers him, was 
 the very reverse of that of his gruff father-in-law. Although reserved, ho was gentle in 
 manner, with a low soft voice, and always attired with scrupulous neatness. While 
 not above the height of his gifted son, he was broad-shouldered, and would some- 
 times exhibit his great strength by lifting a barrel of cider from the ground over the 
 wheel into a wagon. According to the account of another who knew liim, he was 
 " possessed of extensive literar}' and scientific acquirements, an unusually vigorous 
 and well-disciplined mind, and an elegant and refined taste." He was for his son 
 William an able and skilful instructor, who chastened, improved, and encouraged the 
 first rude efforts of his boyish genius. A personal friend of the poet wrote of him 
 in 1840, " his fatlier, his guide in the first attempts at versification, taught him the 
 value of correctness and compression, and enabled him to distinguish between true 
 poetic enthusiasm and fustian.'.' 
 
 The son in after-life commemorated the teachings and trainings of the father in a 
 poem entitled " Hymn to Death," published in 1S25, which has often been quoted 
 for its beauty and pathos : 
 
 " For lie is in his grave who taught my youth 
 The art of verse, and in the end of life 
 Offered rac the Muses. Oh, cut off 
 Untimely ! when the reason in its strength, 
 Ripened by years of toil and studious search, 
 And watch of nature's silent lessons, taught 
 Thy hand to practise best the lenient art 
 To wliicli tliou gavcst thy laliorious days 
 And lost tliy life." 
 
 Tlie poet's great-grandfather, Dr. Abiel Howard, a graduate of Harvard College 
 
 r
 
 Xliv -WILLIAM CULLEN' BRYANT. 
 
 of tlio class of 1"29, had an extensive library for those times, and in his 3onth -wrote 
 verses. Some of these were in Mr. Bryant's possession, and, to qnote his own 
 words, " show no small power of poetic expression." The inclination to express 
 themselves in poetic form reapjieared in Dr. Howard's grandchildren. Dr. Brvant 
 wrote many songs and love stanzas in his younger days, and some satirical political 
 poems in middle age. His sister Rnth Bryant, who died young, left behind several 
 meritorious poems which her nephew had read in manuscript. When Mr. Bryant 
 was .studying law, the late Judge Daniel Howard asked him from whom he inherited 
 his poetic gift ; ho promptly replied, from his great-grandftither Dr. Howard. One 
 of the poet's surviving brothers recently said to the writer, " We -were all addicted, 
 more or less, to the unprotitable business of rhyming." 
 
 It was the dream of Dr. Bryant's life to educate a child for his own and liis 
 father's loved profession, and so it came to pass that his second son was named after 
 one of the great Scottish medical lights of that era, William Cullcn, an eminent Edin- 
 burgh physician. The child was frail, and his head was deemed too large for his 
 body, which fact so disturbed the worthy doctor that, unable to find in the books 
 an_y rcnied}' for excessive cerebral development, he decided upon a remedy of his own, 
 and directed that the child should be daily ducked in an adjoining spring of clear cold 
 water. Two of Dr. Bryant's students were deputed to carry the child from his bed 
 each mornincc and to immerse him and his immense head. The tradition is that 
 the embryo-poet fought stoutly against this singular proceeding, of -which the young 
 mother did not appro\'e, but which notwithstanding was continued till the discrep- 
 ancy of proportion between the head and the body disappeared and the father 
 no longer deemed its continuance necessary. 
 
 As a child Bryant exhibited extraordinary precocity. He received instruction at 
 home from his mother, whose school education, like that of most American -women 
 of her day, was limited to the ordinary English branches. He also -was instructed 
 bv his father and an uncle, who taught him 
 
 " A little Latinc and less Greeke." 
 
 Bryant has happily told the story of his boyhood-* in better and more entertaining 
 style than it can by any possibility bo narrated by another. It forms a charming 
 chapter in an autobiography to which the venerable poet devoted an occasional hour 
 during the closing years of his long career. Says Mr. Bryant : 
 
 " The boys of the generation to wliicb I belonged— that is to say, who were born in the last 
 j'carsof the last century or the earliest of this — were brought up under a system of discipline 
 -which put a far greater distance let-ween parents and their children than now exists. The pa- 
 rents seemed to think this necessary in order to secure obedience. They were believers in the 
 old maxim that familiarity breeds contempt. ^My o-wn parents lived in the house with my 
 grandfather and grandmother on the mother's side. My grandfather was a disciplinarian of 
 the stricter sort, and I can hardly find words to express the awe in which I stood of Iiim — 
 an awe so great as almost to prevent anything like affection on my part, although he was in 
 
 * " The Boys of my Boyhood." Si. Nicholas Mayanne, December, 1876. 

 
 ^ 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRVANT. 
 
 xlv 
 
 r 
 
 tlio m;iin kind, and rcrliiinly never thoiif];ht of being severe ))eyond what was norcssarj* to 
 maintain a proper tlogree of order in tlie family. 
 
 " Tliootlier boys in that part of the country, my schoolmates and playfellows, were edu- 
 cated on the same system. Yet there were at that time some indications that this very 
 severe discipline was beginning to relax. With my father and mother I was on much easier 
 terms than with my grandfather. If a favor was to be asked of my grandfather, it was 
 asked with fear and treml'ling ; the request was postponed to the last moment, and then 
 made with hesitation and blushes and a confused utterance. 
 
 " One of the means of keeping the lioys of that generation in order was a little bundle of 
 birchen rods, bound together by a small cord, and generally susiiended on a nail against the 
 wall in the kitchen. This was esteemed as nuich a part of the necessary furniture as the 
 crane that hung in the kitchen fireplace, or the shovel and tongs. It sometimes happened 
 that the boy suffered a fate similar to that of the eagle in the fal)le, wounded by an arrow 
 Hedged with a feather from his own wing ; iu other words, the boy was made to gather the 
 twigs intended for his own castigation. 
 
 " The awe in which the boys of that time held their parents extended to all elderly per- 
 sons, toward whom our behavior was more than merely respectful, for we all observed a 
 hush-ed and sul)dued demeanor in their presence. Toward the ministers of the Gospel this 
 behavior was particularly marked. At that time every township iu Massachusetts, the 
 State in which I lived, had its minister, who was settled there for life, and when he once 
 came among his people was understood to have entered into a connection with (hem scarcely 
 less lasting than the marriage-tie. The community in which he lived regarded him with 
 great veneration, and the visits which from time to lime he made to the district schools 
 seemed to the bo3'S important occasions, for which special preparation was made. When he 
 came to visit the school which I attended, we all had on our Sunday clothes, and were ready 
 for him with a few an.swers to the questions in the ' Westminster Catechism.' He heard 
 us recite our les.sons, examined us in the catechism, and then began a little address, which 
 I remember was the same on ever}' occasion. He told us how much greater were the advan- 
 tages of education which we enjo3'ed than those which h.ad fallen to the lot of our parents, 
 and exhorted us to make the best possible use of them, both for our own sakes and that of 
 our parents, who were ready to make any sacritice for us, even so far as to take the bread 
 out of their own mouths to give us. I remember being diso;usted with this illustration of 
 parental kindness, which I was obliged to listen to twice at least in everj' 3-ear. 
 
 " The good man had, perhaps, less reason than he supposed to magnify the advantages 
 of education enjoyed in the common schools at that tipie. Reading, spelling, writing, and 
 arithmetic, with a little grammar and a little geography, were all that wa.' taught, and these 
 bj' persons much less qualified, for the most part, than those who now give instniction. 
 Those, however, who wished to proceed further took lessons from graduates of the colleges, 
 who were then much more numerous in projiortion to the population than the}' now are. 
 
 " One of the entertainments of the boys of my time was what were called the ' raisings,' 
 meaning the erection of the timber-frames of houses or barns, to which the boards were to 
 be afterward nailed. Here the minister made a point of being present, and hither the able- 
 bodied men of the neighbirhood, the j'oung men espcciallj', were summoned, and took part 
 in the work with great alacrit}'. It was a spectacle for us next to that of a perfonner on 
 the tight-rope to see the j-oung men walk steadily on the narrow footing of the beams at a 
 great height from the ground, or as they stood to catch in their hands the wooden pins and 
 the braces flung to them from below. The-y vied with each other in the dexterity and daring 
 with which they went through with the work, and when the skeleton of the building was 
 put together, some one among them generally rapped the climax of fearless activity by 
 
 
 1 1
 
 Xlvi WILLIAM CULLEIST BRYANT. 
 
 standing on the ridge-pole with his head downward and liis heels in the air. At that time 
 even tlie presence of the minister was no restraint upon the tlow of niilk-puncli and grog, 
 wliich, in some cases, was taken to excess. The practice of calling the ucighliors to these 
 ' raisings ' is now discontinued in the rural neighborhoods ; the carpenters provide their own 
 workmen for the business of adjusting the timbers of the new building to each other, and 
 there is no consumption of .grog. 
 
 " Another of the entertainments of rustic life in the region of which I am speaking was 
 the making of maple sugar. This was a favorite frolic of the boys. 
 
 " In autumn, the task of stripping the husks from the ears of Indian corn was made the 
 occasion of .social meetings, in which (he boys took a special part. A farmer would appoint 
 what was called ' a husking,' to which he invited his neighbors. Tlie ears of maize in the 
 luisk, sometimes along with part of the stalk, were heaped on the barn floor. In the even- 
 ing lanterns were brought, and, seated on piles of dry husks, the men and boys stripped the 
 cars of their covering, and, breaking them from the stem with a sudden jerk, threw them 
 into baskets placed for the purpose. It was often a merry time : the gossip of the neighbor- 
 hood was talked over, stories were told, jests went round, and at the proper hour the assem- 
 bly adjourned to the dwelling-house, and were treated to punijikiupie and cider, which in 
 that season had not been so long from the press as to have parted with its sweetness. 
 
 " Quite as cheerful were the ' applc-parinss,' which on autumn evenings brought together 
 tlie young people of both sexes in little circles. Tlie fruit of the orchards was pared and 
 quartered and the core extracted, and a supply of apples in this state provided for making 
 what was called ' apple-sauce, ' a kind of preserve of which every family laid in a large 
 quantity every year. 
 
 '■ The cider-making season in autumn was, at the time of which I am speaking, some- 
 what correspondent to the vintage in the wine countries of Europe. Large tracts of land in 
 New England were overshadowed by rows of apple-trees, and in the month of May a jour- 
 ney throuch that region was a joui-nej- through a wilderness of bloom. In the mouth of 
 October the whole population was busy gathering apples under the trees, from which they 
 fell in Ucavy showers as the branches were shaken by the strong arms of the farmers. The 
 creak of the cider-mill, turned by a horse moving in a circle, was heard in every neighbor- 
 hood as one of the most common of rural sounds. The freshly-pressed juice of the apples 
 was most agreeable to boyish tastes, and the whole process of gathering the fruit and making 
 the cider came in among the more laborious rural occupations in a way which diversified 
 them pleasantly, and which made it seem a pastime. The time that was given to making 
 cider, and the number of barrels made and stored in the cellars of the farm-houses, would 
 now seem incredible. A hundred barrels to a single farm was no uncommon proportion, 
 and the quantity swallowed by the men of that day led to the habits of intemperance which 
 at length alarmed the more thoughtful part of the community, and gave occasion to the 
 formation of temperance societies and the introduction of better habits. 
 
 " The streams which bickered through the narrow glens of the region in which I lived 
 were much better stocked with trout in those days than now. for the country had been 
 newly opened to settlement. The boys all were anglers. I confess to having felt a strong 
 interest in that ' sport," as I no longer call it. I have long since been weaned from the pro- 
 jiensity of which I speak : but I have no doubt that the instinct which inclines so many tii 
 It, and some of them our grave divines, is a remnant of the original wild nature of man. 
 
 " I have not mentioned other sports and games of the boys of that day ; that Is to say, of 
 seventy or eighty years since— such as wrestling, running, leaping, base-ball, and the like, 
 for in these there was nothing to distimsuish them from the same pastimes at the present
 
 ♦ y ^ 
 
 ■\VILI4AM CULLEN liRYANT. xlvii 
 
 day. There were no pvil)lic lectures at that time on sulijects of general interest ; the pro- 
 fession of public lecturer was tlien unknown, and eminent men were not solicited, as Ihey 
 now are, to appear before audiences in distant parts of the country, and gratify the curi- 
 osity of strangers bj' letting them hear the sound of their voices. But the men of those days 
 were far more given to attendance on public worship than those who now occupy their 
 place, and of course they took their boys with them. 
 
 " Ever_y parish had its tytliing-mcn, two in n\imbcr generally, whose business it was to 
 maintain order in tlie chureli during divine .service, and wlio .sat with a stern counteniuice 
 tlinnigli tlie sermon, keeping a vigilant eye on the boys in the distant pews and in th(; gal- 
 leries. Sometimes, when he detected two of them communicating with each other, he went 
 to one of them, took liim by the button, and, leading him away, seated him beside himself. 
 His power extended to other delinciuencics. He was directed bylaw to see that the Sabbath 
 was not profaned by people wandering in the fields and angling in the brooks. At that time 
 a law, no longer in force, directed that any person who absented liimself unnecessarily 
 from public worship for a certain length of time .should pay a fine into the treasury of the; 
 county. I remember several persons of whom it was said that they had been compelled to 
 pay this fine, but I do not remember any of them who went to churcli afterward." 
 
 Bryant's education was continued under his uncle the Rev. Thomas Sneli,* of 
 Brodkfield, in wliose family he lived and studied for one year ; and by the Rev. Moses 
 llallock, of Plainficld, he was prepared for college. One of his surviving brothers 
 remembers that when the young poet came home on visits from his uncle Snell's 
 or " Parson llallock's," he was in the habit of playing at games with them, and of 
 amusing them in various ways ; tliat he excelled as a runner and had many success- 
 ful running contests with liis college classmates ; also that he was accustomed on 
 his home visits to declaim, for the entertainment of the family circle, some of liis 
 own compositions, both in prose and verse. He was when studying \vith the 
 pastor, a small, delicate, and handsome youth, very shy and reserved, and a great 
 reader, devouring every volume that lie could meet with, and resembling the hero of 
 Waverley in " driving tlirough a sea of books lilje a vessel without pilot or rudder." 
 He was, I am also told by one who studied with him at that time, — now nearly 
 seventy years ago, — a natural scholar like liis father, and although but fifteen, he had 
 already accumulated a vast stock of information. In a letter to the Rev. 11. Sey- 
 mour, of Northampton, Ma.ssachusetts, published since Mr. Bryant's death, he speaks 
 as follows of his early studies of Greek. " I began with the Greek alphabet, passed 
 to the declensions and conjugations, which I committed to memory, and was put 
 into the Gospel of St. John. In two calendar months from the time of beginning 
 with the powers of the Greek alphabet I liad read every book in tlu^ New Testa- 
 ment. I supposed, at tlic time, that I had madif pretty good progress, but do not 
 even now know whether that was very extraordinary." lie found more pleasure in 
 books, and in silent rambles among the hills and valleys, than in the usual sports and 
 pastimes of youth of that age. 
 
 In October, 1810, when in his sixteenth }"ear, he entered the sophom<ire class of 
 A\ illiams College. He continued his studies there during one winter with the same 
 
 * Dr. SncU was pastor of the North Parish of Brookfield for sixty -four years.
 
 xlviii ■ WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 nrdor as bcfovo, but not with the same ontlmsiasm or pleasure. lie did not like 
 his college life, some features of which were distastcfid to his shy and sensitive 
 nature, and so with his father's jsennission he obtained an honorable dismissal in 
 May, 1811, and in due time he received the degree as a member of the class of 
 1813, of which there are now (July, 1878) but two survivors, the Rev. Elisha D. Bar- 
 rett, of Missouri, and the Hon. Charles F. Sedgwick, of Connecticut. Dr. Calvin 
 Durfee, the historian of Williams College, writes to me that ]Mr. Bryant " did not 
 graduate in a regular course with las class ; still years ago, by vote of the tru.stees 
 of the college, he was restored to his place in the class, and has been enrolled among 
 the alumni." 
 
 Judge Sedgwick, under date Sharon, July 3d, writes : 
 
 " I liave your favor asking me to give j'ou some of my recollections of the college 
 life of my classmate W. C. Bryant. It gives me great pleasure to comply with 
 your request, so far as I am able ; but the short time during which he remained 
 a member of the college could not be productive of many events of very great interest. 
 Since his decease, many incorrect statements in relation to this portion of his liis- 
 tory have gone forth, most of them intimating that he was a member of the college 
 for two years. The truth is that, having entered the sophomore class in October, 
 1810, and then having continued his membership for two terms, he took a dismission in 
 May, 1811, intending to complete his collegiate education at Yale College. As stated above, 
 he entered our class at the commencement of the sophomore year. His room-mate was 
 John Avery, of Conway, Mass., who was some eight years liis senior in age. Bryant had 
 not then attained to the physical dimensions which he afterwards reached, but his bodily 
 structure was remarkably regular and systematic. He had a prolific growth of dark brown 
 hair, and I do not remember ever to have known a person in whom the progress of years 
 made so great a difference in personal appearance as it did in tlie case of Jlr. Biyant. I 
 met him twice near the close of his life at Williams College Commencements, and if I had 
 not seen pictures of him as lie appeared in old age, 1 would hardly have been persuaded of 
 his identity with the Br3'ant I knew in early life. 
 
 " When he entered college, it was known that he was the reputed author of two or 
 three short poems wliich had recently been published, and which indicated decidedly prom- 
 ising talent on the part of their author. AVhen spoken to in relation to these poetical effu- 
 sions, he was reticent and modest, and in fact his modesty in everj'thing was a peculiar trait 
 of his character. It was vcr? difficidt to obtain from him an}' specimens of his talent as a 
 poet. One exercise demanded of the students was the occasional writing of a composition, 
 to be read to the tutor in presence of the clat?s, and once Bryant, in fulfilling this require- 
 ment, read a short poem which received the decided approval of the tutor, and once he 
 translated one of the Odes of Horace which he showed to a few personal fricmls. Those 
 were the only examples of his poetry that I now remember of his furnishing diu'ing his col- 
 lege life. It may be stated here that the tutor who instnicted Mr. Bryant in college was 
 the Rev. Orange LjTnan, who was afterwards the Presbyterian clergyman at Vernon, Oneida 
 County, N. Y. 
 
 "Bryant, during all his college experience, was remarkably quiet, pleasant, and unob- 
 trusive in his manners, and studious in tlie literary course. His lessons were all well mas- 
 tered, and not a single event occurred during his residence which received the least disap- 
 proval of the faculty. 
 
 " Your letter reminds me of the fact that there are but very few persons left who knew 
 Mr. Bryant in college. ' The Flood of Years ' has swept them all away except the Rev.
 
 J- 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BKYANT. xllX 
 
 Herman Ilalspy, of tlic class of 1811, who )'ct survives in Western New York, and my elass- 
 malc (lie Hov. E. D. Barrett, of Missouri, and myself. If I live to see tlie lirst tlay of Sep- 
 tember, I sliall have completed eighty-three years of life." 
 
 The Rev. E. D. Barrett, under date Sed.-ilia, Missouri, July Otli, writes : 
 " I well remember Bryant's first appearance at college in my sopliomore year. Many of 
 the class were assembled in one of our rooms when he presented himself. A friendly 
 greeting passed round the circle, and all seemed to enjoy the arrival of the young stranger 
 and poet. News of Mr. Bryant's precocious intellect, his poetical genius, and his literary 
 taste had preceded his arrival. He was looked up to with great respect, and regarded as an 
 honor to the class of which he had become a member, and to the college which had now 
 received him as his alma maU'i: I was the poet's senior by more than four years, having 
 been born in .lanuary, noO, and am, with the single exception of Charles P. Sedgwick, the 
 sole survivor of the Williams College class of 18iy." 
 
 No American poet lias equalled Bryant in early poetic development. In tliat par- 
 ticular he surpassed Pope and Cowley and Byron.* At the age of nine we find liiui 
 composing tolerably clever verses, and four years later writing " The Embargo," a 
 jiolitical as well as a poetical satire upon the Jeffersonian party of that day. The 
 poem is also remarkable as having manifested at that early age a political order of 
 mind which continued to develop in an equal ratio with his poetical nature through 
 life. That mind, indeed, taking liigher range, was not active in the turmoils and 
 schemes of politicians ; but it investigated the great questions of political economy, 
 and grappled with principles of the gravest moment to society and humanity. 
 
 " The Embargo ; or. Sketch of the Times, a Satire," we could easily imagine 
 had been written in ISVS, instead of seventy-one years ago, when, our fathers tell 
 us, demagogism was unkn(jwn : 
 
 " E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, 
 Jlislcad with falsehood, an>l with zeal inllame ; 
 Lift lier black banner, spread her empire wide, 
 And stalk triumphant with a Fury's stride ! 
 She blows her brazen trump, and at the sound 
 A motley throng olicdient Hock around : 
 A mist of changing liue around she flings, 
 And darkness perches on her dragon wings. " 
 
 This poem, printed in Boston, attracted the public attention, and the edition was 
 soon sold. To the second edition, containing " The Spanish Revolution" and sev- 
 eral other juvenile pieces, j wgs prefixed this curious advertisement, dated February, 
 1809 : 
 
 * The Satiirdini Rei-icir of .Time 33d says, " The death of Br^-ant does not indeed deprive 
 America of her oldest poet— for the veueralde Dana still survives— l)ut even Mr. Dana can 
 hardly have published ver.scs earlier than tlie ' Infanlalia ' of Mr. Bryant. He lisped in 
 nunil)crs which were duly printed when he was but ten years of age, and in his early hues, 
 publislied in 1804, shows a precocity as great as that of the late Bishop of St. David's"— Dr. 
 Conuop Thirlwall. 
 
 f Jlr. Bryant, in a note to the writer, says, " the first edition of my poem called ' Tho 
 Embargo' did not contain any other poems. They were added in the second edition."
 
 J. 
 
 1 WILLIAM CULLEX BKVANT. 
 
 " A doubt liaring liecn intiiuatod in tlic MoiUlily Aii/!iolor/)/ of June last 
 whether a youth of thu'teen years eould have been tlio author of this poem, in jus- 
 tice to his merits, the friends of the writer feel oliliged to certify the fact from their 
 personal knowledge of himself and his family, as well as his literary improvement 
 and extraordinary talents. They would premise that they do not come uncalled be- 
 fore the public to bear this testimony : they would prefer that he should be judged 
 by liis works without favor or aSection. As the doubt has been suggested, they 
 deem it merely an act of justice to remove it ; after which they leave him a candi- 
 date for fiivor in common with other literary adventurers. They therefore assure 
 the public that Mr. Bryant, the author, is a native of Cummington, in the county of 
 Hampshire, and in the month of November last arrived at the age of fourteen years. 
 The facts can be authenticated by many of the inhabitants of that place, as well as l)y 
 se\cral of his friends who gi\'e this notice. And if it be deemed worthy of furth( r 
 inquiry, the printer is enabled to disclose their names and places of residence." 
 
 In September, 1817, appeared in the North American Review the poem entitled 
 " Thanatopsis," which I'rofessor Wilson said " was alone sufficient to establish the 
 author's claims to the lienors of genius." It was written in a few weeks, in his 
 eighteenth year,* and but slightly retouched during the time that elapsed between 
 its composition and its first appearance in print. The poem created a marked sensa- 
 tion at the time of its appearance, not unlike that caused by the publication of Hal- 
 leek's " Marco Bozzaris," a few years later. Richard H. Dana was then a member 
 of the committee which conducted the Review, and received the manuscript poems 
 "Thanatopsis" and the "Inscription on the Entrance to a Wood." The former 
 was understood to have been written by Dr. Bryant, and the latter by his son. 
 ^^'hen Dana learned the name, and heard that the author of " Thanatopsis" was a 
 member of the State legislature, he proceeded to the senate chamber to observe the 
 new poet. He saw there a man of dark complexion, with iron-gray liair, thick eye- 
 brows, well-developed forehead, with an intellectual expression in which, however, 
 he failed to find 
 
 " Tlie vision and the faculty divine." 
 
 He went away puzzled and mortified at his lack of discernment. When Bryant in 
 1821 delivered at Harvard University his didactic poem entitled " The Ages" — a 
 comprehensive poetical essay reviewing the world's progress in a panoramic view of 
 the ages, and glowing with a prophetic vision of tin; future of America — Dana 
 
 * In a letter lo the writer, dated Marrh loth, 1869, Mr. Bryant says, " I return your article, 
 the great fault of which is too kind an appreciation of its subject. . . . I am not certain that 
 the poem entitled ' Thanatopsis' was not written a year earlier than you have made it ; indeed 
 I am much inclined to tliink it was in ray eighteenth year. I was not a collojie student at 
 the time, though I was pursuiDg college studies with a view of entering Yale College, hav- 
 ing taken a dismission from Williams College for the purpose, which, however, was never 
 accomplished." 
 
 The poem may '>e found on p. 308. 
 
 ^ 
 
 r
 
 WILLIAM CULLEX 13KYAXT. Il 
 
 :iIliulo(l in coinplhiu'iifary torius to Dr. Bryant's " Thanatiii)sis," ami then loarncil 
 fur the tirst tiiiio that tlio son was the author of both poems. 
 
 It is rehUcd that wlien tlie father showed ii copy of " Tlianatopsis" in mamiscript, 
 heforc its pubUcation, to a lady well qualified to judge of its merits, simply sayiiii;;, 
 " Here arc some lines that our Willie has been writing," she read the poem, 
 raised her eyes to the father's face, and burst into tears, in which Dr. Uryant, a 
 somewhat reserved and silent man, was not ashamed to join. " .\nd no wdiider, " 
 continues the writer ; " it nuist have seemed a mystery that in the bosom of cin'h- 
 teon had grown up thoughts that even in boyhood shaped themselves into solemn 
 harmonies, majestic as the diapason of ocean, fit for a temple-service beneath the 
 vault of heaven." 
 
 Mr. Bryant continued his classical and mathematical studies at home with a view 
 to entering Yale College ; but, abandoning this purpose, Lc became a law student in 
 the office of Judge Howe, of Wortliington, afterwards completing his course of legal 
 study with William Baylies, of West Bridgcwater. He was admitted to the bar at 
 Plymouth in 1815, and began practice at Plainfield, where he remained one year 
 and then removed to Great Barrington (all these towns being in the State of Massa- 
 chusetts). At Great Barrington he made the acquaintance of the author Catherine 
 M. Sedgwick, who afterwards dedicated to liim her novel, " Redwood," and of Miss 
 Frances Fairchild. Tlie lovely qualities of this latter lady the young lawyer celebrated 
 in verses which, for simple purity and delicate imagery, are most characteristic of 
 our poet's genius. As tliej' are not elsewhere given in the " Library," it will be of 
 interest to read them here, in connection with the incidents of their origin : 
 
 " Oil, fairest of the rural maids ! 
 Thy birth was in the forest shades ; 
 Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
 Were all that met thine infant cj-e. 
 
 " Thy sports, thj- wanderings, when a child, 
 ■Were ever in the sylvan wild. 
 And all the beauty of the place 
 Is in thy heart and on thy face. 
 
 " The twiliglit of the trees and rocks 
 Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 
 Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
 Its playful way among the leaves. 
 
 " Thine cj^cs are springs, in whose serene 
 And silent waters heaven is seen ; 
 Their lashes are the herbs that look 
 On their young figures in the brook. 
 
 " The forest depths, by foot unpressed. 
 Are not more sinless than thy breast ; 
 The holy peace, that fills the air 
 Of those calm solitudes, is there." 
 
 T" 
 
 ±
 
 4 
 
 lii ^VILL1A1I GULLEN BUYANT. 
 
 Miss Fairchild became Mr. Bryant's wife in 1821, and for more tlian twoscore years 
 was the "good angel of Lis life." She is mentioned in many of the poet's stanzas. 
 " The Future Life" * is addressed to her. " It was written," says Mr. Bryant in 
 a note to me, " during the lifetime of my wife and some twenty years after our 
 marriage — that is to say, about 1840, or possibly two or three years after." " The 
 Life that Is ' ' was also inspired by Mrs. Bryant, the poet having written it on the 
 occasion of her recovery from a serious illness in Italy in 1858. It is of so person.ol 
 a character that the author hesitated about publishing it. 
 
 " Twice wert thou given me ; ouce in llij' fair prime, 
 Fresh from tlic fields of youtli, wlicn first we met, 
 And all the Ijlossoms of tliat hopeful time 
 
 Clustered and glowed where'er thy steps were set. 
 
 " And now, in thy ripe autumn, once again 
 
 Given baclc to fervent praj'ers and yearnings strong. 
 From the drear realm of sickness and of pain 
 When we had watched, and feared, and trembled long." 
 
 A few months after the young poet's marriage a small volume of forty-four dingy 
 pages was published by Hilliard & Metcalf, of Cambridge, Mass., entitled "Poems 
 by William Cullen Bryant." A copy is now lying before me. It contains " The 
 Ages," " To a Waterfowl," " Translation of a Fragment of Simonides, " " Inscrip- 
 tion for the Entrance to a Wood," "The Yellow Violet," "Song," "Green 
 River," and " Thanatopsis. " In this rare little volume the first and last paragraphs 
 of the latter poem appear as they now stand, the version originally published in the 
 North American Review having commenced with the lines, 
 
 ' ' Yet a few days, and thee 
 Tlte all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 In all liis course ;" 
 
 and ended with the words, 
 
 " And malic their bed with thee." 
 
 Last winter I met Mr. Bryant in a Broadway bookstore and showed him a copy 
 of this early edition of his poetical writings, which the dealer in literary wares had 
 just sold for ten dollars. He laughingly remarked, " Well, that's more than I re- 
 ceived for its contents." 
 
 * To be found on page SC3.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " This little life-boat of an earth, with its noisy crew of a mankind, and their 
 troubled history, will one dtiy have vanished ; faded like a cloud-speck from the 
 azure of the all ! What, then, is man ? He endures but for an hour, and is 
 crushed before the moth. Yet, in the being and in the workin;:: of a faithful man 
 is there already (as all faith, from the beginning, gives assurance) a something 
 that pertains not to this wild death-element of time ; that triumphs over time, and 
 Is, will be, when time shall be no more."— Thomas Carlti.b. 
 
 LiTEit.\RV Cakeer — Adthou, Editor, and Poet — Foreign Travels — Seventieth 
 BiiiTHDAT Festival— Country Houses — EiGHTiETn Birtiidat — Poetical and 
 Prose Writings — Public Addresses. 
 
 In tlie year 1824 Mr. Bryant's picturesque poem, " A Foreet Hymn," * " The 
 Old Man's Funeral," " The Murdered Traveler," and other poetical compositions 
 appeared in the United States Literary Gazette, a weekly journal issued in Boston. 
 The same year, at tlie suggestion of the Sedgwick family, he made his first visit to 
 New York City, where, through their influence, he was introduced to many of the 
 leading literary men of the metropolis. From the first, Bryant was averse to the 
 dtill and distasteful routine of his profession — 
 
 " Forced to drudge for the dregs of men 
 And scrawl strange words with a barbarous pen." 
 
 He could not like it, and his aversion for it daily increased. With Slender ho 
 could sa\% " if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may dccrea.se it 
 upon better acquaintance. " His visit to New York decided his destiny. Abandoning 
 the law, in which he had met with a fair measure of success, having enjoyed for nine 
 years a reasonable share of the local practice of Great Barrington, he determined 
 upon pursuing the career of a man of letters, so well described by Carlyle, the 
 " Censor of the Age," as " an anarchic, nomadic, and entirely aerial and ill-con- 
 ditioned profession," and he accordingly, in 1825, removed to New York, which 
 continued to be his place of residence for more than half a century. Here he 
 lived from earnest youth to venerable age — from thirty-one to eighty-four — in one 
 unbroken path of honor and success. 
 
 Establishing himself as a literary man in New York, the poet entered upon tha 
 editorship of a monthly magazine, to which he contributed " The Death of tho 
 Flowers" and many other popular poems, as well as numerous articles on art and 
 kindred subjects. This position soon introduced Bryant into a very charming circle, 
 composed of Chancellor Kent ; Cooper, just achieving popularity by his American
 
 r ^ 
 
 \iv WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 novels ; the young poets II;illeek, Ilillhousc, and T'ercival ; the painters Dunlap, 
 Durand, Ininan, and Morse ; the scholars Charles King and Yerplanck, and many 
 other choice spirits, all long since passed away. 
 
 A few days after the poet's arrival in New York he met Cooper, to whom he 
 had been previously introduced, who said : 
 
 " Come and dine with me to-morrow ; I live at Xo. 345 Greenwich Street." 
 
 " Please put that down for me," said Bryant, " or I shall forget the place." 
 
 " Can't you remember three-four-five ?" replied Cooper, bluntly. 
 
 Bryant did " remember threc-four-five" not only for the day, but ever after- 
 ward, lie dined with the novelist according to appointment, the .additional guest, 
 besides Cooper's immediate family, being Fitz-Greene Halleck. The warm friend- 
 ship of these three gifted men was severed only by death. 
 
 It was chiefly through the influence of the brothers Robert and Henry D. Sedg- 
 wick th.at Mr. Bryant was induced to [ibandon the uncongenial pursuit of the law ; 
 and it was through the influence of the same gentlemen that, during the year 1820, he 
 became connected with the Evening Post. Mr. H. D. Sedgwick, who was among 
 the first to appreciate the genius of young Bryant, was a brother of Miss Sedgwick, 
 the author, and at the time of his death, in 1831, he was among the most promi- 
 nent lawyers and political writers of that day. To the Evening Post Mr. Bryant 
 brought a varied experience of literary taste and learning, and even at that time a 
 literary reputation. Halleck at that period rendered in The Recorder a richly- 
 deserved compliment to his brother bard, when lie wrote : 
 
 " Brj'ant, whose songs are thoughts that bless 
 
 The heart — its teachers and its jo}' — 
 As mothers blend with their caress 
 Lessons of truth and gentleness 
 
 And virtue for the listening boy. 
 Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day 
 Have blossomed on his wandering way ; 
 
 Bemgs of beauty and decaj', 
 
 They slumber in tlieir autumn tomb ; 
 But those that graced his own Green River 
 
 And wreathed tlie lattice of his home, 
 
 Charmed by his song from mortal doom. 
 Bloom on, and will bloom on forever." 
 
 The Evening Post was founded by ^Villiam Coleman, a lawyer of Massachusetts, its 
 first number being issued on the 16th of November, 1801. Mr. Coleman dying 
 in 1826, the well-remembered William Leggett became its assistant editor, in 
 which capacity he continued for ten years. Mr. Bryant soon after his return 
 from Europe in 1836, upon the retirement of Mr. Leggett, assumed the sole 
 editorial charge of the paper, performing those duties, with intervals of absence, till 
 the 29th day of May, 1878, when he sat at his desk for the last time. To 
 the Post, originally a Federal journal, Mr. Bryant early gave a strongl}' Democratic 
 tone, taking decided ground against all class legislation, and strongly advocating 
 
 T
 
 4^ 
 
 •^ $ m 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Iv 
 
 freedom of trade. AVIicn liis party :it a later day passed under the yoke of slavery, 
 the poet followed his principles out of the party, becoming before the war a strong 
 Republican. In its management he was for a long time assisted by his son-in-law, 
 Parke Godwin, and John Bigelow, late United States minister to France. Besides 
 these able coadjutors, the Post has liad the benefit of many eminent writers of 
 prose and verse. To its columns Drake and Ilalleck contributed those sprightly and 
 sparkling _;'«/ J d'espi'it, "The Croakers," which, after nearly sixty years, are still 
 read with pleasure. At the expiration of the Post's tirst lialf century, Mr. liryant 
 prepared a historj' of the veteran journal, in which his versatile pen and well-stored 
 mind had ample range and material, in men and incidents, to do ju.stice to the very 
 interesting and eventful period through which the paper had passed. 
 
 The following terse and just characterization of Mr. Bryant as a political JDurnal- 
 ist, taken from an article which appeared in the editorial column of the Post since 
 his death, gives an admirable summary of the man's life and work : 
 
 "Mr. Brj-ant's j>olitical life was so closclj- associated with his journalistic life that they 
 must necessaril}' be cousidercd together. He never sought public office ; he repeatedly 
 refused to hold it. He made no effort eilhei- to secure or to use influence in politics except 
 through his newspaper and by his silent, individual vote st the polls. The same methods 
 marked liis polilieal and his journalistic life. He could be a stout part}' man upon oeca.siou, 
 but only when tlie part j' promoted what lie believed to be right ])riuciplcs. When the party 
 ■with which he was accustomed to act did what according to his judgment was wrong, he 
 would denounce and oppose it as readily and as heartily as he would the other party. . . . 
 
 " He used the newspaper conscientiously to advocate views of political and .social subjects 
 whieli he believed to be correct. He set before himself principles w-hose prevalence ho 
 regarded as beneficial to the country or to the world, and his constant purpose was to pro- 
 mote their prevalence. He looked upon the journal which he conducted as a conscientious 
 statesman looks upon the official trust which lias been committed to him, or the work which 
 lie has undertaken — not with a view to do what is to be done to-day in the easiest or most 
 brilliant way, but so to dn it that it ma)' tell upon what is to be done to-morrow, and all 
 other days, until the worthiest object of ambition is achieved. This is the most useful 
 journalism ; and, first and last, it is the most effective and intiueutial." 
 
 The lines with whicli Dr. Johnson concluded a memoir of James Thomson 
 may with equal truth be applied to the writings of William Cullen Bryant : " The 
 highest praise which he has received ought not to be suppressed : it is said by Lord 
 Lyttleton, in the Prologue to his posthumous play, that his works contained 
 
 " No line which, dying, he could wish to blot." 
 
 Though actively and constantly connected with a daily paper, the poet found 
 ample time to devote to verse and other literary pursuits. 
 
 In 1827 and the two following years Mr. Bryant was associated with Yerplanek and 
 Robert C. Sands in an annual pulilication called " The Talisman," consisting of mis- 
 cellanies in prose and verse written almost exclusively by the trio of literary part- 
 ners, in Sands's library at Hoboken. Yerplanek had a curious habit of balancing 
 himself on the back legs of a chair with his feet placed on two others, and occupy- 
 ing this novel position he dictated his portion of the three volumes to Bryant and
 
 4- 
 
 Ivi WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 Sands, who alternately acted as his amanuensis. In 1832 Br3'ant was a^ain associated 
 with Sands in a brace of volumes entitled " Tales of the Glauber Spa," to which 
 Paulding, Leggett, and Jliss Sedgwick were also contributors. In 1839 Mr. Brvant 
 made a most admirable selection from the American poets, which was publislied liy 
 the Harpers in two volumes during the following year. At the same time they 
 brouglit out a similar collection from the British poets, edited by llalleck. 
 
 So far back as 1827, AYashington Irving writes from Spain to his friend Henry 
 Brevoort of the growing fame of Bryant and Halleck. lie says, " I have been 
 charmed with what I have seen of the writings of Bryant and llalleck. Are vou 
 acquainted with them ? I should like to know something of them personally. 
 Their vein of thinking is quite above that of ordinary men and ordinary poets, and 
 they are masters of the magic of poetical language." Four years later, Mr. Bryant, 
 in a letter to Ir\'ing, informs him of the publication, in New York, of a volume com- 
 j)rising all his poems which he thought worth printing, and expresses a desire for 
 their republication by a respectable English house. In order to anticipate their 
 reproduction by any other, he requested Mr. Irving's kind aid in securing their pub- 
 lication. They appeared, with an introduction by Irving, in London in 1832. Pro- 
 fessor Wilson said, in a periodical distinguished for its contempt of mediocrity : 
 " Bryant's poetry overflows with natural religion — with what Wordsworth calls 
 ' the religion of the gods.' The reverential awe of the irresistible pervades the 
 verses entitled ' Thanatopsis ' and 'Forest Hymn,' imparting to them a sweet 
 solemnity, which must affect all thinking hearts." Another British periodical, very 
 chary of its praise of anythinsj American, remarked : " The verses of Mr. Bryant 
 come as assuredly from the ' well of English undefilcd ' as the finer compositions of 
 Wordsworth ; indeed thft resemblance between the two living authors might jus- 
 tify a much more invidious comparison." 
 
 Irving left behind him the following picture of the poetry of this distinguished 
 American whom his own country delighted to honor : " Bryant's writings transport 
 us into the depths of the solemn primeval forest, to the shore of the lovely lake, the 
 banks of the wild nameless stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, rising like a 
 promontory from amidst a wide ocean of foliage, while they shed around us the 
 glories of a climate fierce in its extremes but splendid in all its vicissitudes." 
 Dana has expressed his opinion of Bryant's poetry in equally admiring terms, and 
 llalleck said to the writer, after repeating the whole of one of Bryant's later poems, 
 ' ' The Planting of the Apple Tree, " * " Ilis genius is almost the only instance of 
 a high order of thought becoming popular ; not that the people do not prize literary 
 worth, but because they are unable to comprehend obscure poetry. Bryant's 
 
 * " I was most agreeably surprised, as well as flattered, the other day to receive from Gen- 
 eral Wilson, who has collected the poetical writings of Halleck, and is engaged in preparing 
 liis Life and Letters for the press, a copy in the poet's handwriting of some verses of mine 
 entitled " The Planting of the Apple Tree," which he had taken the pains to transcribe, and 
 which General Wilson had heard him repeat from memory in his own fine manner." — Bry- 
 ant's address on Halkck, 18G9. 
 
 The poem may be found on p. 419, 
 
 -•^r-^
 
 ^ 
 
 AVILLIAM CfLLEX BltYANT. Ivii 
 
 pieces seem to be fraguieuts of ont> and the same poem, and reiiuiro onlv a common 
 plot to constitute a unique epii'." 
 
 Since the appearance of tlie first Knglish edition of Bryant's poems, many others, 
 mostl}- unauthorized, have been published in Great Britain, with but sliglit, if any, 
 pecuniary advantage to their author. \\'ith one of these, which I bought at an 
 English raihvay-stand for a shilling of their eurrencv, and brought back with mc to 
 present to the poet in October, 1855, he appeared much amused, as it contained a 
 villainous portrait of himself which looked, he said, " more like Jack Ketch than a 
 respectable poet." Many American editions of his poetical writings have a])peared, 
 from which Mr. Bryant derived a considerable amount of copyright, iicitwithstiindiug 
 the remark he once made to the writer : " I sliould have starved if I had been 
 obliged to depend upon my poetry for a living." Of one of these editions, known as 
 the Bed-line, there were five thousand copies sold in 1870, the year in which it 
 appeared ; and of another beautiful illustrated edition issued in 1877, the entire edi- 
 tion was exhausted in the course of a few months. 
 
 Intensely American in his feelings, the love of home and of his native land being 
 among his most cherished sentiments, Mr. Bryant, like all truly cultivated and liberal 
 nnnds, possessed an enlarged appreciation of the poetical associations of other 
 lands. The inspirations of the East, the glowing imagery and romantic history 
 of Spain, the balmy breezes and sunshine of the island of Cuba — all had an enchant- 
 ment and charm for his most appreciative genius. The range of his poetic gift em- 
 braced with comprehensive sympathy the progress and struggles of humanity, seek- 
 ing its vindication in a universal and enlightened liberty, in the beauties and har- 
 monies of nature in her many forms, and the inspirations of art in its truthfulness 
 to nature ; and all these find their legitimate expression in productions of his muse. 
 
 Between the years 1834 and 1807, inclusive, Mr. Bryant nuide six visits to the 
 Old World.* In 1872 still another long journey was undertaken by him — a .second 
 voyage to Cuba, his tour being extended to the city of Mexico. Bryant was fond 
 of travel, and seemed as unwilling as that ancient worthy, Ulysses, whose wanderings 
 he not long ago put in such pleasing Eugli.sh verse, to let his faculties rest in idle- 
 ness. His letters to the Evcnhuj Post, embracing his observations and opinions of 
 Cuba and the Old World, were collected and published after his third visit to Europe 
 in 1849, and were entitled " The Letters of a Traveler." A few years later, after 
 recrossing the Atlantic for the fifth time, he put forth in book form his letters 
 from Spain and the East. These charming volumes, " born from his traveling thigh," 
 as Ben Jonson quaintly expressed it, are written in a style of English prose distin- 
 guished for its purity and directness. The genial love of nature and the lurking 
 tendency to humor which they everywhere betray prevent their severe siniplicity 
 from running into hardness, and give them a freshness and occasional glow in spite 
 
 * In a letter to the writer Mr. Bryant says, " I went six times to Europe. In 1834 with 
 my wife and family, returning in 1836. In 1845 ; but I did not visit tlie Shell.iml Islands 
 till four years later, in 1849. My fourth visit was in 1852, when I went to llie Holy Land. 
 In 1857 I made a fifth voyage to Europe with my wife and younger daughter. In 18U7 I 
 went over the sixth time. In botU tlicse last voyages I visited Spaiu. "
 
 Iviii WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT. 
 
 of their prevailing propriety and reserve. The reception which Mr. Bryant always 
 met among literary men of distinction, especially in Great Britain, was a direct 
 testimony to bis own fine qualities. The poets AVordsworth and Rogers particularly 
 extended to him most cordial and intimately friendly attention. 
 
 Bryant's sympathy for the kindred arts was reciprocated by its votaries — though 
 happily not in a posthumous form— in a novel and most beautiful manner, by a 
 tribute paid to the poet on the anniversary of his seventieth birthday. I allude to 
 the ofiferihg of paintings and poems made to Mr. Bryant on the evening of Novem- 
 ber 5th, 186-t — which was selected for the festival — by the painters and poets of 
 America, who cherished a love and veneration for one standing as a high-priest at 
 the altar of nature, singing its praises in most harmonious numbers, and encourag- 
 ing art in all its glowing beauties. An appropriate place for the offering was the 
 Century Club of New York, of which but five of the one hundred founders are now 
 living. On the occasion of the festival — a memorable one not only in the annals of 
 the society itself, but in the history of American art and letters, Bancroft delivered 
 the congratulatory address in most touching and eloquent words, and was followed 
 by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Richard H. Dana, Jr., and William M. Evarts, in equally 
 felicitous addresses. Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. Sherwood, the elder Dana, Edward 
 Everett, Ilalleck, Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, Willis, and others who were unable 
 to be present, sent poems and epistles of affectionate greeting. Mr. Everett wrote : 
 ' ' I congratulate the Century Club on the opportunity of paying tliis richly-earned 
 tribute of respect and admiration to their veteran, and him on the well-deserved 
 honor. Happy the community that has the discernment to appreciate its gifted 
 sons ; happy the poet, the artist, the scholar, who is permitted to enjo}', in this 
 way, a foretaste of posthumous commemoration and fame !" Halleck, from a sick- 
 chamber, sent these words : " Though far off in body, I shall be near him in spirit, 
 repeating the homage which with heart, voice, and pen I have, during more than 
 forty years of his threescore and ten, delighted to pay him." Longfellow in his 
 letter said : " I assure you, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to do honor 
 to Bryant at all times and in all ways, both as a poet and a man. lie has written 
 noble verse and led a noble life, and we are all proud of him." Whittier in feli- 
 citous stanzas, written, be it remembered, in the third year of the war, exclaims : 
 
 " I praise not here the poet's art. 
 The roiinJed fitness of his song : 
 Who weighs him from his life apart 
 Slust do his nobler nature wrong. 
 
 " AVhcn Friicdom hath lier own again. 
 Let hap]))' lips his songs rehearse ; 
 His life is now his noblest strain, 
 His manhood better than his verse. 
 
 " Thank God ! his hand on nature's keys 
 Its cunning keeps at life's I'uU span ; 
 But dimmed and dwarfed, in times like these. 
 The poet seems beside the Man.'' 
 
 r
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BHYANT. lix 
 
 Otlicr pootic'il triliiitos wore addressed to Mr. IJryaiit l>_v Boker, ]>iicli:iii;m ]lrn<], 
 Mrs. llowo, Mrs. Sigourney, lloliiies, Street, Tiiekennaii, and Bayard Ta\ lor ; Imltlie 
 feature of tlic fe.stival was tlie presentation to tlie venerable poet, in an eloijiient ad- 
 dress by the President of tlie National Academy, of upward of two score oil-paint- 
 intjs — cifts of tbo artist-nienibcrs of the Century Club, iueludinij; rluircli, ]>arley, 
 Duvand, GiSord, Huntington, Eastman Johnson, and others. 
 
 Shelley, in his " Defence of Poetry," asserts that " No living poet ever arrived 
 at the fullness of his fame : the jury which sits in judgment upon a poet, belonging, 
 as he does, to all time, must be composed of his peers, it nmst be impaneled by 
 Time from the selectest of the wise of many generations." Docs not the contiiuial 
 sale of the beloved Bryant's poems, on which criticism and panegyric arc alike 
 unnceded, and on which the American world has pronounced a judgment of unani- 
 mous admiration, prove him to be an exception to the rule laid down by the tlktiim 
 of the gifted Shelley ? 
 
 As promised in his " Inscription forthe Entrance of a Wood," to him who should 
 enter and " view the haunts of Nature " " the calm shade shall bring a kindred 
 calm," so did he truly seem to have received a quietude of spirit, a purity and eleva- 
 tion of thought, a " various language" of expression, which held him at once 
 in subtle sympathy with nature and in ready communion with the minds of men. 
 George William Curtis writes in his editorial Easy Chair of Harper's Magazine con- 
 cerning Bryant, ' ' What Nature said to him was plainly spoken and clearly heard and 
 perfectly repeated. His art was exquisite. It was absolutely unsuspected ; but it 
 served its truest purpose, for it removed every obstruction to full and conqiletc 
 delivery of his message." 
 
 In December, 1867, Mr. Bryant responded, in a beautiful letter to an invitation 
 of the alumni of Williams College to read a poem at their next meeting. The brief 
 letter of declination is poetical in its sympathy, and expresses, with pathos, not the 
 decline of the powers of a mind yet vigorous, but a conscientious distru.st of reaching 
 that degree of excellence which his admirers might expect from his previous poems : 
 
 " You ask me for a few lines of verse to be read at your annual festival of the alumni of 
 ■\VilUams College. I am ever ill at occasional verses. Such as it is, my vein is not of that 
 sort. I find it difKcult to satisfy myself. Besides, it is the December of life with me, I try 
 to keep a few flowers in pots — mere remembrances of a more genial season which is now 
 with the things of the past. If I have a carnation or two for Christmas, I think myself 
 fortunate. You write as if I had nothing to do, in fulfilling your request, but to go out and 
 gather under the hedges and by the brooks a bouquet of flowers that spring spontaneously, 
 and throw upon your table. If I am to try, what would you say if it proved to be only a 
 little Inmdleof devil-stalks and withered leaves, which my dim sight had mistaken for fresh, 
 green sprays and blossoms? So I must excuse myself as well as I can, and content mysilf 
 with wishing a very pleasant evening to the foster-children of old " Williams" who meet on 
 New Year's Day, and all manner of prosperity and honor to the excellent institution of 
 learning in which they were nurtured." 
 
 On the evening of tlie l7tli of May, 1870, Mr. Bryant delivered an ad- 
 dress before the New York Historical Society, his subject being the " Life and 
 
 \
 
 4- 4 
 
 Ix WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 Wiitings of Gillian C. Verjilanck." Tlio venerable poet spoke of liis friend, as in 
 j)revious years he had spoken of their contemporaries, Thomas Cole, the painter, and 
 the authors Fenimore Cooper, AVashington Irving, and Fitz-Grecne Halleek. These 
 charming orations, together with various addresses, including those made at the 
 unveiling of the Shakespeare, Scott, and Morse statues in the Central Park, were 
 published in 1872 in a volume worthy of being possessed by all Bryant's admirers. 
 
 The literary life which began more than sixty years ago was crowned by his trans- 
 lations of Homer. He was more than threescore and ten, when he set himself to the 
 formidable task of adding another to the many translations of the " Iliad " and 
 " Odyssey." The former occupied most of his leisure hours for three years, and 
 the latter about two ; being completed when Mr. Bryant was well advanced in his 
 seventy-seventh year. The opinion has been pronounced by competent critics that 
 these will hold their own with the translations of Pope, Chapman, Newman, or the 
 late Earl Derby, of which latter Halleek said to the writer that " it was an ad- 
 mirable translation of the ' Iliad ' with the poetry omitted !" * 
 
 To the breakfast-table at Roslyn I remember that Mr. Bryant one day brought 
 some pages in manuscript, being his morning's work on Homer ; for, like Scott, he 
 was always an early riser, and by that excellent habit he gained some hours each 
 day. That Bryant, Bayard Taylor, and Longfellow should have, during the past 
 decade, simultaneously appeared as translators of Homer, Goethe, and Dante, and 
 that their work should compare favorably with any previous renderings into English 
 of " Faust," the " Divina Commedia," and of the " Iliad" and " Odyssey," is 
 certainly a striking illustration of advancing literary culture in the New World. 
 
 In 1873 Mr. Bryant's name appeared as the editor of " Picturesque America," 
 a handsome illustrated quarto published by the Appletons ; and the latest prose 
 work with which he was associated is a " History of the United States," now in 
 course of publication by the Scribners, the second volume having been completed 
 shortly before Mr. Bryant's death, the residue of the work remaining in the hands 
 of its associate author, Sidney Howard Gay. 
 
 To the readers of this memoir atopic of especial interest will be Mr. Bryant's con- 
 nection with the volume which incloses it — " The Library of Poetry and Song. " This 
 began in 1870, with the origination of the book in its octavo form, and continued 
 ■with constant interest, through the reconstruction and enlargement of the work in 
 its more elaborate quarto form until its completion in 1878. His own words best 
 show how it happened that Mr. Bryant became the sponsor of this book, which in 
 its various editions has already taken his name into nearly a hundi-ed thousand 
 American homes. " At the request of the publishers," lie says, " I undertook to 
 
 * Of Mr. Bryant's translations of the " Iliad " and the " Odyssey" the Athetxvum. 
 remarks : " These translations are with 3Ir. Br3'ant, as with Lord Derby, the worlv of the 
 ripened scholarship and lionorable leisure of age, and the impulse is natural to compare the 
 products of the two minds. Mr. Bryant's translations seem less laboriously roimded and 
 ornate, but perliaps even more forceful and vigorous, than Lord Derby's ;" while the Lon- 
 don Times expresses the judgment that " his performance fell flat on the ears of an educated 
 audience, after the efforts of Lord Derby and others in the same direction."
 
 WILLIAM Cl'LLEX BRYANT. Ixi 
 
 write an Introduction to tho present work, and in pursuance of tliis design I find 
 that I Lave come into a somewliat closer personal relation with the book. In its 
 progress it hits jta-ssed entirely under my revision. ... I Lave, as requested, 
 exercised a free Laud botL in excluding and in adding matter according to my judg- 
 ment of wLat was best adapted to the purposes of tLc enterprise. ' ' Every poem 
 took its place after passing under Lis clear eye. Many were dropped out by Lim ; 
 more were suggested, found, often copied out by Lim for addition. In tlie little 
 notes cjccompanying his frequent forwarding of matter to tlie publishers, Le casually 
 included many interesting points and Lints of criticism or opinion : " I send also 
 some extracts from an American poet wLo is one of our best— Richard 11. Dana. ' ' 
 " I would request that more of the poems of Jones Very be inserted. I think them 
 quite remarkable." " Do not, I pray you, forget Thomson's' Castle of Indolence,' 
 the first canto of which is one of the most magnificent things in tlie language, and 
 altogetlier free from the faults of style which deform his blank verse." " Tlie 
 lines are pretty enough, though there is a bad rh} ine — tocti and clothes ; but I 
 have seen a similar one in Dryden — dotlics pronounced as does — and I think I have 
 seen the same thing in AVhittier. " 
 
 He was not a man given to humorous turns, yet he was not deficient in the sense 
 of the comical. In forwarding some correction for an indexed name, he writes : 
 " It is difficult always to get the names of authors right. Please read the inclosed, 
 and see that Mrs. be not put into a pair of breeches, ' ' 
 
 In specifying some additional poems of Stedman's for insertion, he says : " I 
 think ' Alectryon ' a very beautiful poem. It is rather long. . . . ' The 
 Old Admiral ' sLould go in — under the Lead of ' Patriotism ' I tliink ; or, better, 
 under tliat of 'Personal.' 'The Door Step' is a poem of 'Love;' but it is 
 pretty enough for anywhere," etc. " I do not exactly like tLe poem ' To a Girl 
 in Ler Tliirteenth Year,' on account of the bad rL3-mes ; nor am I quite pleased 
 witli Praed's 'I remember, I remember,' printed just after Hood's — it seems to 
 me a little flippant, wliich is Praed's fault." The scrupulous care which Mr. 
 Bryant exercised in keejiing the compilation clean and pure was exemplified in his 
 habitual name for it in correspondence and conversation — "The Family Book;" 
 "The Family Library." He writes; "I have made more suggestions for the 
 omission of poems in the humorous department than in any other ; several of them 
 being deficient in the requisite literary merit.' As to the convivial poems, tlie more 
 I think of it the more I am inclined to advise their total omission." 
 
 When the book appeared in 1870, it met with an instant and remarkable popular 
 welcome, selling more than twenty thousand copies during the first six montlis, 
 wLich, for a book costing five dollars in its least expensive st3'le, was certainly un- 
 usual. In 1876 it was determined to give the work a thorough revision, althougli 
 it had been from time to time benefiting by the amendments sent by Mr. 
 Bryant or suggested by use. Mr. Bryant took a keen interest in tliis enlarge- 
 ment and reconstruction, and, as stated in tlie Publislicr's Preface to tlie quarto 
 edition, it " entailed upon Lim mucL labor, in conscientious and tLorough revi- 
 sion of all tlie material — canceling, inserting, suggesting, even copying out with 
 
 +
 
 4^ 
 
 X 
 
 Ixii AVII.LIAJI CULLEX BKYAtrA 
 
 (lis own liaiicl iiiaiiv pociiis not .attainable save fi'oni his private iihrai-y ; in slim-t, 
 siivinjj; the worlc not only the sanction of his widely lionored name, but also tlie tjen- 
 uine intluenee of his tine poetie sense, his unquestioned taste, his broad and sehol- 
 arly acquaintance with literature." Both the octavo and the quarto editions now 
 contain his iiiuch-adniired Introduction, in the form of an essay on " The Poets and 
 Poetry of the English Language." Of this, Edmund Clarence Stedman, in an 
 admirable paper on Bryant as " The Man of Letters," contributed to The Evening 
 Post since the poet's death, says : " This is a model of expressive English pjose, as 
 simple as that of the Spectator essayists and far more to the purpose. Like all his 
 productions, it ends when the writer's proper work is done. The essay, it may be 
 added, contains in succinct language the poet's own views of the scope and method 
 of .song, a reflection of the instinct governing his entire poetical career." 
 
 Bryant's prose has always received high commendation. A little collection of 
 extracts from his writings has been compiled for use in schools, as a model of style. 
 The secret of it, so far as genius can communicate its secrets, may be found in a 
 letter. addressed by Mr. Bryant to one of the editors of the Christian InteUif/encer, 
 in reply to some questions, and published in the issue of that journal, July lltli, 
 1878: 
 
 "RosLTN, Long Island, July 6, ISRS. 
 
 " It seems to me tliat in style we ought first, and above all things, to aim at clearness of 
 expression. An oliscure style is, of course, a bad style. In writing we should always con- 
 sider not only whether we have expressed the thought in a manner which meets oar own 
 comprehension, but whether it will be understood by readers in general. 
 
 " The quality of style next in importance is attractiveness. It should invite and agree- 
 ably detain the reader. To acquire such a style, I know of no other way than to contem- 
 plate good models and consider the observations of able critics. The Latin and Greek 
 classics of w-hicli you speak are certainly important helps in forming a taste in respect to 
 style, but to attain a good English style something more is necessary — tlie diligent study of 
 good English authors. I would recur for this purpose to the elder worthies of our literature 
 — to such writers as Jeremy Taylor and Barrow and Thomas Fu.ler — whose works are per- 
 fect treasures of the riches of our language. JIany modern writers have great excellences 
 of stjie, but few are without some deficiency. ..... 
 
 " I have but one more counsel to give in regard to the formation of a style in composition, 
 and that is to read the poets — the nobler and grander ones of our language. In this way 
 warmth and energy is communicated to the diction and a musical flow to the sentences. 
 
 " I have here treated the subject very briefl}' and meagre!}', but I have given you my own 
 method and the rules by which I have been guided through many years mostly passed in 
 literary labors and studies." 
 
 Quite recently the writer has seen a document which, in these days of international 
 copyright agitation, is of some interest. It runs thus : " The British and American 
 Copyright League is an association having for its object the passage of an International 
 Copyright Law in America and in England, and in favor of such other countries as 
 are willing to reciprocate, which shall secure to authors the same control over their 
 own productions as is accorded to inventors, who, if they so elect, can patent their in- 
 ventions in all the countries of Europe. This is the first organized attempt that has
 
 J^ 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN' BRVAXT. Ixiii 
 
 lieen made to luing alunit this vory (U'siralilc ri'sult. As a pri'liiniiiary step, it is 
 proposed to get the ajiiiniva! of those iminediately interested, and your signature to 
 the inclosed circuhir is therefore respectfully requested." This is signed " Win. C. 
 Bryant, Secretary of the British and American Copyright League." The " inclosed 
 circular" is a brief declaration of approval of the efforts of the League to secure the 
 passage of an international copyright law, and bears the signatures of Bryant, Long- 
 fellow, Emerson, Whittier, Garrison, Beecher, Holmes, Mrs. Stowe, Miss Alcott, 
 Prof. Dana, Ilowells, Aldrich, and other well-known authors. This excellent be- 
 ginning was made in 1873, but for some reason was not jjushed to any practical 
 outcome. It was, however, one of the signs of the change now becoming manifest. 
 On Jlr. Bryant's eightieth birthday he received a congratulatory letter with its 
 thousands of signatures, sent from every State and Territory of his native land, fol- 
 lowed soon after by the presentation, in Chickering Hall, New York, in the presence 
 of a large and appreciative audience, of a superb silver vase, the gift of many hundred 
 admirers in various portions of the country. This exquisite and valuable specimen 
 of American silver work is now in the possession of the Metropolitan Museum of 
 Art. Standing before it, the spectator may fitly recall those noble lines of Keats 
 upon a Grecian urn : 
 
 " When old age shall this generation waste 
 Tliou shall remain, in midst of other woe 
 Than ours, a friend to men : to whom thou sa3-cst, 
 ' Beauty is truth, truth beauty ; that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all je need to know.' " 
 
 A few months later, the venerable poet presented to tlie citizens of Roslvn a new 
 hall and public reading-room, having previously given one to his native town. It 
 was the wish of his fellow-citizens that the handsome luill should be named in honor 
 of Mr. Bryant ; but as he proposed that it should be known simply as " The Hall," 
 that title was bestowed upon it by popular acclamation. 
 
 The " Centennial Ode," written by Bryant for the opening of the International 
 Exposition at Philadelphia, is worthy of the great fame of its author. Another of 
 his recent compositions, and one of his noblest, elicited from a prominent foreign 
 journal the following mention : " The venerable American poet, who was born be- 
 fore Keats, and who has seen so many tides of influence sweep over the literature of 
 liis own country and of England, presents us here with a short but very noble and 
 characteristic poem, which carries a singular weight with it as embodying the reflec- 
 tion of a very old man of genius on the mutaliility of all things, and the hurrying 
 tide of years that cover the past as with a flood of waters. In a vein that reminds 
 u< of ' Thanatopsis,' the grand symphonic blank verse of which was published no 
 less than sixty-one years ago, Mr. Bryant reviews the mortal life of man as the ridge 
 of a wave ever hurrying to oblivion the forms that appear on its surface for a mo- 
 ment." In this worthy companion to " Thanatopsis," written in his eighty-second 
 year, the poet strikes the old familiar key-note that he took so successfully in his 
 greatest poem in 1812, in " The Ages" in 1821, and again in " Among the Trees" 
 in 1874. It originally appeared in Scrihner's Magazine, and was subsequently pub- 
 
 ^r
 
 M 
 
 in 
 
 Lxiv WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 lished by the Putnams as a holiday g^ft-book in beautiful form, artistically illustratrd 
 by Linton, tlie famous engraver, from bis own designs. It is also contained 
 Appleton's editions of Bryant's poems. It is entitled "The Flood of Years." 
 
 " A Mighty Hand, from an exhaustless urn. 
 Pours forth the never ending Flood of Years 
 Among the notions. How the rushing waves 
 Bear all before them ! On their foremost edge, 
 And there alone, is Life ; the Present there 
 Tosses and foams and fills the air with roar 
 Of mingled noises. There are they who toil. 
 And they who strive, and they wlio fea.'t, and they 
 Who hurry to and fro. Tlie sturdy hind- 
 Woodman and delver with the spade — are there. 
 And busy .artisan beside his bench. 
 And pallid student with his written roll. 
 A moment on the mounting billow seen — 
 The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. 
 There groups of revelers, whose brows are twined 
 With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile. 
 And as they raise their flowing cups to touch 
 The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath 
 The waves and disappear. I hear the jar 
 Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth 
 From cannon, where the advancing billow sends 
 Up to the sight long files of armed men. 
 That hurry to the charge through flame .and .smoke. 
 The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid, 
 Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. 
 Down go the steed and rider ; the plumed chief 
 Sinks with his followers ; the head that wears 
 The imperial diadem goes down beside 
 The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. 
 A funeral train — the torrent sweeps away 
 Bearers and bier and mourners. Bj' the bed 
 Of one who dies men gather sorrowing. 
 And women weep aloud ; the flood rolls on ; 
 The waU is stifled, and the sobbing group 
 Borne under. Hark to that shrill sudden shout — 
 The cry of an applauding multitude 
 Swayed by some loud-tongued orator who wields 
 The living mass, as if he were its soul. 
 The waters choke the shout and .all is still. 
 Lo, next, a kneeling crowd and one who spreads 
 The hands in prayer ; the engulfing wave o'ertakes 
 And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields 
 The chisel, and the stricken marble grows 
 To beauty ; at his easel, eager-eyed, 
 A painter stands, and sunshine, at his touch. 
 Gathers upon the canvas, and life glows ; 
 A poet, as he paces to and fro, 
 Murmurs his sounding line. Awhile they ride
 
 4- 
 
 ■1^ 
 
 AVILLIAM CULLEN BRVAXT. 
 
 Tlie advancing billow, till Its tossing crest 
 
 Strikes them and tlings them under while their tasks 
 
 Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile 
 
 Ou her young babe that smiles to her again — 
 
 The torrent wrests it from her arms ; she shrieks, 
 
 And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. 
 
 A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray 
 
 To glistening pearls ; two lovers, hand in hand. 
 
 Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look 
 
 Into each other's eyes. The rushing tlood 
 
 Flings them apart ; the youth goes down ; the maid. 
 
 With hands outstretched in vain and streaming eyes. 
 
 Waits for the next high wave to follow him. 
 
 An aged man succeeds ; his bending form 
 
 Sinks slowly ; mingling with the sullen stream 
 
 Gleam the white locks and then are seen no more. 
 
 Lo, wider grows the stream ; a sea-like flood 
 Saps earth's walled cities ; massive palaces 
 Crumble before it ; fortresses and towers 
 Dissolve in the swift waters ; populous realms. 
 Swept by the torrent, see their ancient tribes 
 Engulfed and lost, their ver}' languages 
 Stifled and never to be uttered more. 
 
 I pause and turn my eyes, and, looking back. 
 Where that tumultuous flood has passed, I see 
 The silent Ocean of the Past, a waste 
 Of waters weltering over graves, its shores 
 Strewn with the wreck of fleets, where mast and hull 
 Drop away piecemeal ; battlemented walls 
 Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand 
 Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipers. 
 There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed 
 The graven legends, thrones of kings o'crturned. 
 The broken altars of forgotten gods. 
 Foundations of old cities and long streets 
 Where never fall of human foot is heard 
 Tpnn the desolate pavement. I behold 
 Dim glimmerings of lost jewels far within 
 The sleeping waters, diamond, sardony.x. 
 Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 
 Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows 
 That long ago were dust ; and all around, 
 Strewn on the waters of that silent sea. 
 Arc withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks 
 Shorn from fair brows by loving hands, and scrolls 
 O'erwritten— haply with fond words of love 
 And vows of friendship — and fair pages flung 
 Fresh from the printer's engine. There they lie 
 A moment and then sink away from sight. 
 
 I look, and the quick tears are in my ej'cs. 
 For I behold, in every one of these, 
 A blighted hope, a separate history 
 
 Ixv 
 
 ^ 
 
 ±
 
 J 
 
 — 
 
 Ixvi -WILLIAM CULLEN BRY^VXT. 
 
 Ol' human sorrow, telling of dear ties 
 
 Suddculy broken, dreams of happiness 
 
 Dissolved in air, and happy days, too brief. 
 
 That sorrowfullj' ended, and I thinls 
 
 How painfully must the poor heart have beat 
 
 In bosoms without number, as the blow 
 
 "Was struck that slow their hope or broke their peace. 
 
 Sadly I turn, and look before, where yet 
 The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist 
 Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope, 
 Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers 
 Or wander among rainbows, fading soon 
 And reappearing, liaply giving place 
 To shapes of grisly aspect, such as Fear 
 Jloulds from the idle air ; where serpents lift 
 The head to strike, and skeletons stretch fortli 
 The bony arm in menace. Further on 
 A belt of darkness seems to bar the way. 
 Long, low and distant, where the Life that Is 
 Touches the Life to come. The Flood of Years 
 Rolls toward it, nearer and nearer. It must pass 
 That dismal barrier. What is there beyond ? 
 Hear what the wise and good liave said Beyond 
 That belt of darkness still the j'ears roll on 
 More gently, but with not less might}' sweep. 
 They gather up again and softlj' bear 
 All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed 
 And lost to sight — all that in them was good, 
 Koble, and truly great and worthy of love— 
 The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, 
 Sages and saintly women who have made 
 Their households happy — all arc raised and borne 
 By that great current on its onward sweep. 
 Wandering and rippling with caressing waves 
 Around green islands, fragrant with the breath 
 Of flowers that never wither. So they pass. 
 From stage to stage, along the shining course 
 Of that fair river broadening like a sea. 
 As its smooth eddies curl along their way, 
 Thcj' bring old friends together ; hands are clasped 
 In joy unspeakable ; the mother's arms 
 Again are folded round the child she loved 
 And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now. 
 Or but remembered to make sweet the hour 
 That overpays them ; wounded hearts that bled 
 Or broke are healed forever. In the room 
 Of this grief -sliadowcd Present there shall be 
 A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw 
 The heart, and never shall a tender tie 
 Be broken — in whose reign the eternal Change 
 That waits on growth and action shall proceed 
 ^Snth everlasting Concord hand in hand."
 
 -•-•- 
 
 4 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 Ixvii 
 
 A gentleman who had been recently bereaved was so struck liy the unquestioning 
 faitli in immortality expressed in the concluding lines of this poem that he wrote to 
 the poet, asking if they represented his own belief. Mr. Bryant answered him in 
 the following note, dated Cummington, August 10th, 1876 : " Certainly I I)elieve 
 all that is said in the lines you have quoted. If I had not, I could not have written 
 them. I believe in the everlasting life of the soul ; and it seems to mo tliat immor- 
 tality would be but an imperfect gift without the recognition in the life to come of 
 those who are dear to us here." 
 
 If the harmony of the poet's career was sustained in his writings and his love of 
 art, it was further manifested in the taste and affection which governed him in the 
 selection of his homes. Like the liistorian Prescott, Bryant had three residences — 
 a town-house and two country homes. One of these is near the picturesque village 
 of Roslyn, Long Island, and commands a view which in its varied aspect takes in a 
 mingled scene of outspreading land and water. The mansion, embosomed in trees 
 and vines, an ample dw-clling-place situated at the top of the hills, was built by 
 Richard Kirk in 1781. Mr. Bryant, who was ever mindful of the injunction 
 given by the dying Scotch laird to his son, " Be aye sticking in a tree, Jock : 
 it will be growing while ye are sleeping," alternated recreaticins of tree planting 
 and pruning and other rural occupations with his literary labor. Not extensive, 
 but excellent in wide and judicious selections, was liis library of several thousand 
 volumes. The poet's knowledge of ancient and living languages enabled liim to 
 add with advantage to his collection of books the works of the best French, Gor- 
 man, Italian, and Spanish authors. Among h.is poems may be found admirable 
 translations from these various languages as well as fi'om the Greek and Latin. 
 
 The poet's country-scat at Eoslyn, called " Cedarmere," has been the resort of 
 many distinguished men of art and literature, of travelers and statesmen, gone 
 thither to pay their respects to the sage, philosopher, and author. They were always 
 welcomed, and enjoyed the purity of taste and simplicity of manner which presided 
 over the mansion. Here the venerable host continued to the last to enjoy the society 
 of his friends ; and here much of liis best literary work had been done since his 
 purchase of the place in 1845. He was accustomed to spend most of the time there 
 from Jlay to the end of November of each year, excepting the months of August 
 and September, which were given to the old Homestead at CummingtiMi. 
 
 CedarmOre is an extensive estate, and rich in a groat variety of trees. As I was 
 walking on a sunny October afternoon wdth tlie poet through his loved domain, he 
 pointed out a Spanish chestnut-tree laden with fruit, and, springing lithely on a 
 fence despite his seventy-six summers, caught an open burr hanging from one of 
 the lower branches, opened it, and, jumping down with the agility of a youth, 
 handed to his city guest the contents, consisting of two as large chestnuts as I ever 
 saw in Spain. The Madeira and Pecan nuts were also successfully cultivated by 
 him at Cedarmere. During another walk, Mr. Bryant gave a jump and caught the 
 branch of a tree with his hands, and, after swinging backward and forward several 
 times with his feet raised, he swung himself over a fence without touching it. 
 
 r 
 
 r
 
 -iY-m. 
 
 Ixviii WILLIAM CULLEN BRYAJ^T. 
 
 About a quarter of a mile from the mansion, he pointed out a black-walnut tree, 
 which was planted by Adam Smith, and first made its appearance above ground in 
 1713. It had attained a girth of twenty-five feet and an immense breadth of 
 branches. It was the comfortable home of a small army of squirrels, and every year 
 strewed the ground around its gigantic stem with an abundance of " heavy fruit." 
 The tree is alluded to in one of Mr. Bryant's poems : 
 
 ' On my cornice Imger the ripe black grapes ungathered ; 
 Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, 
 Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them 
 Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut trc 
 
 tree. 
 
 The taste displayed by the poet in the selection and adornment of his residence at 
 Roslyn was more than equaled by the afEcction and veneration which fourteen years 
 arjo prompted him to purchase the old Bryant Homestead and estate at Cummington, 
 which had some thirty years previous passed out of the family into other hands. 
 The mansion is situated among the Hampshire hills, and is a spot that nature has sur- 
 rounded with scenes calculated to awaken the early dreams of the poet, and to fill his 
 soul with purest inspiration. In tlie midst of such scenes the young singer received 
 his earliest impressions, and descriptive of them he has embodied some of his most 
 cherished and home-endearing poetry. To a friend who requested information 
 about the home of his boyhood, Mr. Bryant in 1872 wrote as follows : 
 
 " I am afraiil that I can not say much that will interest you or any body else. A liundred 
 years since this broad highland region lying between the Ilousatonic and the Connecticut 
 was principally forest, and bore the name of Pontoosuc. In a few places settlers had cleared 
 away woodlands and cultivated the cleared spots. Bears, catamounts, and deer were not 
 uncommon here. Wolves were sometimes seen, and the woods were dense and dark, with- 
 out any natural openings or meadows. My grandfather on the mother's side came up from 
 Plymouth County, in Massachusetts, when a young man, in the year 1773, and chose a farm 
 on a commanding site overlooking an extensive prospect, cut down the trees on a part of it, 
 and built a house of square logs with a chimney as large as some kitchens, within which I 
 rcmcHiber to have sat on a bench in my cliildhood. About ten years afterward he purchased, 
 ot an original settler, the contiguous farm, now called the Bryant Homestead, and having 
 built beside a little brook, not very far from a spring from wliicli water was to be drawn in 
 pipes, the house which is now mine, he removed to it with his family. The soil of this 
 region was then exceedingly fertile, all the settlers prospered, and my grandfather among the 
 rest. Jly father, a physician and surgeon, married his daughter, and after a while came to 
 live with him on the liomestcad. He made some enlargements of the house. In one 
 part of wliich he had his office, and in this, during my boyhood, were generally two or 
 three students of medicine, who sometimes accompanied my father in his visits to liis 
 patients, always on horseback, which was the mode of traveling at that time. To 
 this place my father brought me in my early childhood, and 1 have scarce an early recol- 
 lection which does not relate to it. 
 
 " On the farm beside the little brook, and at a short distance from the house, stood the 
 district school-house, of which nothing now remains but a little hollow where was once a 
 cellar. Here I received my earliest lessons in learning, except such as were given me by my 
 mother, and here, when ten years old, I declaimed a copy of verses composed by me as a 
 description of a district school. The little brook which runs by the house, on the site of the 
 
 f 
 
 -*-•
 
 -I -^ 
 
 ^VII.LIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Ixix 
 
 old district school-house, was in after-years made the subject of a little poem, entitled ' The 
 Kivuk't." To the south of the house is a wood of tall trees clothing a declivity, and touch- 
 ing with its outermost boughs the grass of a moist meadow at the foot of the hill, which 
 snggcsled the poi'ni entitled ' An Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood.' 
 
 " In the year 1^:^.") the jilaee passed out of the family ; and at the end of thirty years I re- 
 purchased it, and made various repairs of tlie house and additions to its size. A part of the 
 building which my father had added, and which contained his ollice, had, in the mean time, 
 been detached from it, and moved olT down a stcc|) hill to the side of the Westtield River. I 
 supplied its place by a new wing with the same external form, though of less size, iu which 
 is now my library. 
 
 " The site of the house is uncommonly beautiful. Before it, to the east, the ground de- 
 scends, first gradually, and then rapitUy, to the Westfield River, flowing in a deep and nar- 
 row valley, from which is heard, after a copious rain, the roar of its swollen current, itself 
 unseen. In the spring-time, when the frost-bound waters are loosened by a warm rain, the 
 roar and crash are remarkably loud as the icy crust of the stream is broken, and the masses 
 of ice are swept along by the ilood over the stones with which the bed of the river is paved. 
 Beyond the narrow valley of the Westfield the surface of the country rises again gradually, 
 carrying the eye over a region of vast extent, interspersed with farm-houses, pasture- 
 grounds, and wooded heights, where on a showery day you sometimes see two or three 
 different showers, each watering its own separate district ; and in winter-time two or three 
 different snow-storms dimly moving from place to place." 
 
 "The soil of the whole of this highland region is disintegrated mica slate, for the most 
 ]iart. It has its peculiar growth of trees, shrubs, and wild flowers, differing considerably 
 fronr those of the ea.stern part of the State. In autumn, the woods are peculiarly beautiful 
 with their brightness and variety of hues. The higher farms of this region lie nearly two 
 thousand feet above tide-water. The air is pure and healthful ; the sunmier temperature is 
 most agreeable ; but the spring is coy in her approaches, and winter often comes before he 
 is bidden. No venomous reptile inhaljits any part of this region, as I think there is no 
 tradition of a rattlesnake or copperhead having been seen here." 
 
 Tlio serenity and dignity so manifest in Bryant's writings were notable also in liis 
 person. The poet was often dej^icted with pencil and pen. The phrenologists exhausted 
 their skill upon liis noble head, and the painters and engravers their art upon liis 
 face. The former believed him to approach the ideal of Spurzheini in his phreno- 
 logical developments, and tlie latter deemed him to po.ssess the line artistic features 
 of Titian and the Greek poet wlioni he translated. It is a consolation to iige, wlu>n 
 protected by a wise and orderly regulated life, tliat its inherent dignity su])plics the 
 want, if not tlie place, of youth, and that the veneration and serenity wliich sur- 
 round it more than compensate for tlic passions which turbulence renders dangerous. 
 To such an honored .age as this Hryant attained ; calm, circumspect, and sedate, he 
 passed the perilous portals of Parnassus with his crown of laurel untarnished and 
 unwithercd by the baser breath that sometimes lurks like a poison within its leaves. 
 To my conception, he more resembled Dante in the calm dignity of his nature, 
 th<iugh happily not in the violent and oppressive affliction of his life, than any other 
 poet in history. 
 
 Having passed, by more than three winters, what the Psiilmist calls ' ' tlie days of 
 our years," and escaped the " labor and sorrow" that are foreboded to the strength 
 that attains fourscore, Bryant continued to perform his daily editorial duties, to
 
 -K 
 
 Ixx WILLIAM CULLEN BKYANT. 
 
 pursue Ills studios, nnd to give the world liis much prized utterances, without exhibit- 
 ing any evidences of physical or mental decay, although for a good part of liaif a 
 century he was under whip and spur, with the daily press forever, as Scott ox- 
 pressed it, ' ' clattering and thundering at liis heels. ' ' On the evening of January 
 31st, 1878, he walked out on the wildest night of the winter, when a blinding snow- 
 storm kept inany younger men at home, to address a meeting of the Ameiican Gco- 
 grajihical Society, and to take part in the cordial welcome extended to the Earl of 
 DufEerin, the accomplished Governor-General of Canada. When the president of 
 the society sent for a carriage and urged tlie aged poet, at the close of the meeting, 
 to make use of it, he sturdily refused, saying that he preferred to walk home. 
 
 Among Mr. Bryant's latest utterances was the following noble ode, written for 
 Washington's last birthday, February 22d, 1878, for The Sunday School Times: 
 
 "Pale is the February sky, 
 
 And brief the mid-day's sunny hours ; 
 The wind-swept forest seems to sigh 
 For the sweet time of leaves and flowers. 
 
 " Yet has no month a prouder day, 
 Not even when the Summer broods 
 0"er meadows in their fresh array, 
 Or Autumn tints the glowing woods. 
 
 "For this chill season now again 
 
 Brings, in its annual round, the morn 
 Wlieu, greatest of the sons of men. 
 Our glorious Washington was born. 
 
 " Lo, where, beneath an icy shield, 
 Calmly the mighty Hudson flows ! 
 By snow-clad fell and frozen field 
 Broadening the lordly river goes. 
 
 "The wildest storm that sweeps through space, 
 And rends the oak with sudden force, 
 Can raise no ripple on his face 
 Or slacken his majestic course. 
 
 " Thus, 'mid the wreck of thrones, shall live 
 Uninarred, undimmed, our hero's fame. 
 And years succeeding years shall give 
 Increase of honors to his name." 
 
 Still later (May 15th, 1878) Mr. Bryant wrote at Roslyn the following character- 
 istic sentiment contributed to a Decoration Day number of The Recorder. 
 
 " In expressing ni}' regard for the memory of those who fell in the late civil war, 
 I can not omit to say that, for one result of what they did and endured — namely, tho 
 extinction of slavery in this great republic — they deserve the imperishable gratitude 
 of mankind. Their memory will survive many thousands of the generations of 
 spring flowers which men will gather to-day on their graves. Nay, they will not be 
 forgotten while the world has a written history. ' ' 
 
 i
 
 CHAPTER ni. 
 
 '■ Of no distemper, of no blast he died, 
 Cat fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long; 
 Even wonder'd at, because he dropt no sooner. 
 Fate seem'd to wind him up for fourscore years; 
 Yet fri sbly ran he on three winters more ; 
 Till, like a clock worn out with eating time. 
 The wheels of weary life at last stood still." 
 
 John Drtden. 
 
 Mazzini Address— Last Words— Accident — Sickness — De.^th — Burial at Rosltn— 
 
 Tributes to his Memory. 
 
 In accordance witli the expressed wishes of many personal friends of tlie patri- 
 arch of American poetry, who was so recently laid in his grave with many tears, and 
 also remembering that posterity likes details in regard to the latest actions and utter- 
 ances of eminent men, I have recorded, to the best of my recollection, some par- 
 ticulars of his conversation during the afternoon of Wednesday, May 29th, his last 
 hours of consciousness. He was appointed to deliver an oration on the occasion of 
 unveiling a bronze bust of Mazzini, the Italian revolutionist and statesman, in the 
 Central Park. I met Mr. Bryant in the Park about half an hour before the com- 
 mencement of the ceremonies, conversing with him during that time, and again for 
 a similar period after those ceremonials were concluded. While I was walking with 
 Mr. Bryant for the last time, he quoted an aphorism from liis friend Sainte-Beuve, 
 that " To know anotlicr man well, especially if he be a noted and illustrious charac- 
 ter, is a great thing not to be despised." It was my good fortune to have enjoyed 
 for nearly or quite a quarter of a century tlic privilege and pleasure of Mr. Bryant's 
 acquaintance, and in all that time I never met him in a more cheerful and con- 
 versational mood than on the above-mentioned afternoon, and never saw him exhibit 
 an equal depth and tenderness of feeling, either in his public utterances or in his 
 private talk. 
 
 At the proper time Mr. Bryant took his seat on the platform — for he had been 
 standing or seated under the welcome shade of adjoining elms — and presently he 
 proceeded with the delivery of the last of a long series of scholarly addresses 
 delivered in New York during the past thirty years. As I gazed on the majestic 
 man, with his snow-white hair and flowing beard, his small, keen, but gentle blue 
 eye, his light but firm lithe figure, standing so erect and apparently with undiminished 
 ' vigor, enunciating with sucli distinctness, I thought of what Napoleon said of another 
 great singer who, like our American poet, reached an advanced age to which but 
 few attain, and which was equally true of Bryant : " Behold a man !" 
 
 The delivery of the oration, which affords most interesting evidence of the enthu- 
 siasm and mental energy of its aged author, it is to be feared drew too heavily on 
 
 -r
 
 Ixxii WILLIAM CULLEN BRY,-VXT. 
 
 the poet's failing powers. It was uttered with an unusual depth of feeling, and for 
 the first time in his public addresses, so far as I am aware, he hesitated and 
 showed some difficulty in finding his place in the printed slip which was spread 
 before him, and in proceeding with his remarks. During the delivery of his speech 
 he was but slightly exposed to the hot sun, an umbrella being held over his 
 
 " Good gray head, which all men kuew," 
 
 till he reached his peroration, when he stepped from under its shelter, and, looking 
 up at the bust, delivered with power and great emphasis, while exposed to the sun, 
 the concluding paragraph of his address : 
 
 " Image of the illustrious champion of civil and religious liberty, cast in enduring bronze 
 to tjiiifj' the imperishable renown of thy original ! Remain for ages yet to come where we 
 place Ihec, in this resort of millions ; remain till the day shall dawn — far distant though it 
 may be — when the rights and daties of human brotherhood shall be acknowledged by all the 
 races of mankind !" 
 
 At the conclusion, Mr. Bryant was loudly applauded, and resuming his scat again 
 on the platform, he remained an interested listener to the address in Italian which 
 followed his. At the close of the ceremonies, and when the poet was left almost 
 alone on the platform, he took my offered arm to accompany me to my home, say- 
 ing that he was perfectly able to walk there, or indeed to his own house in Sixteenth 
 Street. Before proceeding, I again proposed that we should take a carriage, when 
 the poet said, in a determined manner, " I am not tired, and prefer to walk." 
 As we set off, T raised my umbrella to protect him from the sun, when he 
 said, in a most decided tone, " Don't hold that umbrella up on my account ; I like 
 the warmth of the sunshine." He was much interested in the fine flock of sheep, 
 together with the shepherd and his intelligent Scotch collie, that he observed as we 
 passed across the green. 
 
 Mr. Bryant alluded to the death of Lord John Russell the day before, and asked 
 if I had ever met him or heard him speak in public, adding : " For a states- 
 man, he devoted a good deal of time to literature, and he appears to have been a 
 man of respectable talents. How old was he ?" " Eighty-six." " Why, he was 
 older than I am ; but I expect to beat that and to live as long as my friend Dana, 
 who is ninety-one." " Have you any theory as to the cause of your good health 3" 
 " Oh, yes," he answered ; " it is all summed up in one word — moderation. As 
 you know, I am a moderate eater and drinker, moderate in my work, as well as in 
 my pleasures, and I believe the best way to preserve the mental and physical facul- 
 ties is to keep them employed. Don't allow them to rust." " But surely," I add- 
 ed, " there is no moderation in a man of eighty-three, after walking more than two 
 miles, mounting eight or nine pairs of stairs to his office." "Oh," he merrily 
 replied, " I confess to the two or three miles down-towm, but I do not often mount 
 the stairs ; and if I do sometimes, when the elevator is not there, I do not see that 
 it does me any harm. I can walk and work as well as ever, and have been at the 
 office to-day, as usual. " 
 
 1 1
 
 X 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Ixxiii 
 
 Sonic mention having been made of Lord Houghton's .ind Tapper's recent travels 
 in this country, the poet asked : " Did I ever tell you of Lord Houghton's visit to 
 Roslyu a few years ago ? He was accompanied by his valet, who announced in my 
 kitchen that his ' master was the greatest poet in England, ' when one of my f cr- 
 vants, not to be outdone, thereupon said, ' Our man is the greatest poet in Ameri- 
 ca.' " The use of the words " nuister" and " man," I may remark, arc worthy of 
 notice, and appeared to amuse the poet when relating the incident. 
 
 Passing the Halleck statue, Mr. Bryant paused to speak of it, of other statues in 
 similar sitting posture, and of Halleck himself and his genius, for several minvites. 
 
 Still continuing to lean on my arm, he asked my little daughter, whose hand he 
 had held and continued to hold during our walk, if she knew the names of the rob- 
 bing and sparrows that attracted his attention, and also the names of some flowering 
 shrubs that we passed. Her correct answers pleased him, and he then inquired 
 if she had ever heard some little verses about the bobolink. She answered yes, 
 and that she also knew the poet who wrote them. This caused him much amuse- 
 ment, and he said, " I think I shall have to write them out for you. " Mary, do 
 you know the name of that tree with the pretty blue flowers ?" he asked, and as 
 she did not know, he told her that it was " called the Paulownia imperialis — a 
 hard name for a little girl to remember ; it was named in honor of a princess, and 
 was brought from Japan. ' ' 
 
 Arriving at the Morse statue at the Seventy-second Street gate, we stopped, and. 
 he said : ' ' This recalls to my mind a curious circumstance. You remember Launt 
 Thompson's bust which the Commissioners refused to admit in the Park, on the 
 ground that I was living ? Well, soon after, this statue of Morse was placed here, 
 although lie was alive, and [laughingly] I was asked to deliver the address on the 
 occasion of its unveiling, which I did." "Do you like your bust?" "Yes, I 
 think it is a good work of art, and the likeness is pleasing and satisfactory, I believe, 
 to my friends." " Which do you think your best portrait ?" " Unlike Irving, I 
 prefer the portraits made of me in old age. Of the earlier pictures, I presume the 
 best are Inman's and my friend Durand's,* which you perhaps remember hangs 
 in the parlor at Roslyn." 
 
 As we approached my house, about four o'clock, Mr. Bryant was recalling the 
 scenes of the previous year on the occasion of President Hayes's first. visit to New 
 York, and he was still, I think, cheerfully conversing on that subject as we 
 walked up arm in arm, and all entered the vestibule. Disengaging my arm, 
 I took a step in advance to open the inner door, and during those few 
 
 * The most important portraits of the poet, mentioned as nearly as possible in the order in 
 which they were painted, arc by Henry Inman (1835) ; Prof. S. F. B. Morse (1830) ; Henry 
 Peters Gray, S. W. Cheney, Charles Martin (1831) ; Cliarlcs L. Elliott, A. B. Durand (1854); 
 Samuel Lawrence (1856) ; Paul Dujrgan, C. G. Tliompson, A. H. Wenzler (18G1) ; Thomas 
 Hicks (1863) ; and Charles Fisher (1875). Of these I have engravings on steel now before 
 me from Inman's, Martin's, Elliott's, Durand's, and Lawrence's portraits, as well as several 
 taken from recent photographs. The portrait of j\Ir. Bryant which appears In this work is 
 engraved from an admirable photograph taken by Sarony. 
 
 r
 
 Ixx 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 seconds, without the slightest warning of any kind, the venerable poet, while 
 my back was turned, dropped my daughter's hand and fell suddenly backward 
 through the open outer door, striking his head on the steps. I turned just in time 
 to sec the silvered head striking the stone, and, springing to las side, hastily raised 
 him up. He was unconscious, and I supposed that he was dead. Ice-water was 
 immediately applied to his head, and, with the assistance of a neighbor's son and 
 the servants, he was carried into the parlor and laid unconscious at full length on the 
 sofa. He soon moved, became restless, and in a few minutes sat up and drank the 
 contents of a goblet filled with iced sherry, which partially restored him, and he 
 asked, with a bewildered look, " Where am I ? I do not feel at all well. Oh, 
 my head ! my poor head !" accompanying the words by raising his right liand to 
 his forehead. After a little, at his earnest request, I accompanied him to his own 
 house, and, leaving him in charge of his niece, went for his family physician. Dr. 
 John F. Gray. The following is a portion of the statement made by Dr. Gray 
 after the poet's death : 
 
 " I sent for Dr. Camochan, the surgeon. He could find no injury to the skull, and there- 
 fore thought there was a chance of recovery. Mr. Bryant, during the first few days, would 
 get up and walk about the library or sit in his favorite chair. He would occasionally say 
 something about diet and air. When his daughter arrived from Atlantic City, where she 
 Iiad been for her health, she thought her father recognized her. It is uncertain how far he 
 recognized her or any of his friends. The family were hopeful and made the most out of 
 every sign of consciousness or recognition. 
 
 " On the eighth daj' after the fall, hemorrhage took place in the brain, resulting in paral_v- 
 sis, technically called hemiplegia, and extending down the right side of the body. After 
 this he was most of the time comatose. He ceased to recognize his friends in any way, and 
 lay much of the time asleep. He was unable to speak, and when he attempted to swallow 
 his food lodged in his larynx and choked him. He was greatly troubled with phlegm, and 
 could not clear his throat. There was only that one attack of hemorrhage of the brain, and 
 that was due to what is called traumatic inflammation. After the fourteenth day he died. 
 
 " He was a man who made little demonstration of affection or emotion, but he had a pro- 
 foundly sympathetic feeling for the life and mission of Mazzini, andon the day when he de- 
 livered the address he exhibited considerable emotion. That and the walk afterwards cer- 
 tainly exhausted him, and led to the swoon. He overtaxed his strength during the winter, in 
 attending evening entertainments and in public speaking. He had few intimate acquaint- 
 ances, and was so extremely modest in expressing approbation or liking that one could 
 scarcely tell the extent of his friendly feeling. Though I had attended him for many years, 
 and often visited him at Roslyn, and also at his old homestead in JIassachusetts, I never 
 noticed an expression of more than ordinary friendship till I was prostrated by sickness. 
 He made an impression ordmaril3' of coldness, but his poems show that he had plenty of 
 feeling, and great sj-mpathy for mankind. 
 
 " Once when at Tioslyn we visited the grave of his wife in the village cemetery, and we 
 saw the place by her side reserved for him. He frequently requested that his funeral should 
 be simple and without ostentation. He has had fulfilled his wish to die in June. 
 
 " Mr. Bryant owed his long life to an exceedingly tenacious and tough constitution and 
 very prudent living. I always found him an early riser. Although he was slight of body 
 and limb, he seemed to me unconscious of fatigue, and he would walk many a stronger man 
 off his legs. He did not walk rapidly, but seemed as wiry as an Indian. " 
 
 In April, 1867, Mr. Bryant expressed to the writer a wish that he might not survive
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. IxXV 
 
 tlic loss of his mental faculties like Southey, Scott, Wilson, Locklinrt, and the Ettrick 
 SliepherJ, who all siifforod from softening of the brain, and nicntidiied his hope thai 
 he should be permitted to complete his translation of Homer before death or mental 
 imbecility, with a failure of physical strength, should overtake him. On another 
 occasion he said, " If I am worthy, I would wish for sudden death, with no inter- 
 regnum between / cease to exercise reason and I cease to exist.'" In these wishes he 
 was happily gratified, as well as in the time of his being laid away to his fin.d rest, 
 as expressed in the following beautiful and characteristic lines to June : 
 
 " I gazed upon the glorious sky, 
 
 And the green mountains round, 
 And thought that when I came to He 
 
 At rest within the ground, 
 'Twere pleasant that in flowery June, 
 When brooks send up a chceiful tune. 
 
 And groves a cheerful sound, 
 The sexton's hand, my grave to make. 
 The rich, green mountain turf should break. 
 
 " A cell within the frozen mould, 
 
 A coffin I)orne through sleet. 
 And icy clods above it rolled. 
 
 While fierce the tempests beat — 
 Away ! I will not tliiuk of those — 
 Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 
 
 Earth green beneath the feet. 
 And be the damp mould gently pressed 
 Into my narrow place of rest. 
 
 " There, through the long, long, smnmer hours. 
 
 The golden light should lie, 
 And thick young herbs and groups of flowers ' 
 
 Stand in their beauty b}^. 
 The oriole should build and tell 
 His love-talc close beside my cell ; 
 
 TJie idle butterfly 
 Should rest him there, and there be heard 
 The housewife bee and humming- bird. 
 
 "And what if cheerful shouts at noon 
 
 Come, from the village sent. 
 Or song of maids beneath the moon 
 
 With fairy laughter blent ? 
 And what if, in the evening light. 
 Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
 
 Of my low monument ? 
 I would the lovely scene around 
 Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
 
 Ixxvi WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 " I know that I no more should see 
 
 The seasons glorious show, 
 Nor would its brightness sliinc for mc. 
 
 Nor its wild music flow ; 
 But if, aro\uiil my place of sleep. 
 The friends I love should come to weep. 
 
 They might not haste to go. 
 Soft airs, and song, and ligiit and bloom 
 Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 
 
 These to their softened licarts should be;ir 
 
 The thought of what has been, 
 And speak of one who can not share 
 
 The gladness of the scene ; 
 Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 
 The circuit of the summer hills. 
 
 Is that his grave is green ; 
 And deeply would tlieir hearts rejoice 
 To hear again his living voice." 
 
 It was indeed a glorious day, and the daisies were dancing and glimmering 
 over the fields as the poet's family, a few old friends, and the villagers saw him 
 laid in his last resting-place at Roslyn, after a few words fitly spoken by his pas- 
 tor, and beheld his coffin covered with roses and other summer flowers by a little 
 band of country children, who gently dropped them as they circled round the poet's 
 grave. This act completed, we left the aged minstrel amid the melody dearest of 
 all to him in life — the music of the gentle June breezes murmuring through the 
 tree-tops, from whence also came the songs of summer birds. 
 
 The following, from the pen of Paul H. Ilayne, of South Carolina, is one of the 
 many tributes to Mr. Bryant's character and genius, that have appeared since the 
 poet's death, from the pens of Curtis, Holland, Osgood, Powers, Stcdman, Stod- 
 dard, Sfreet, Symington (a Scottish singer), and many others : 
 
 " Lo ! there he lies, our Patriarch Poet, dead I 
 The solemn augel of eternal peace 
 Has waved a wand of mystery o'er his head. 
 Touched his strong heart, and bade his pulses cease. 
 
 "Behold, in marlile quietude he lies ! 
 
 PiJlid and cold, divorced from earthly breath, 
 With tranquil brow, la.\ hands, and dreamless eyes ; — 
 Yet the closed lips would seem to smile at death. 
 
 "Well may they smile ; for death, to such as he. 
 Brings piuvr freedom, loftier tliought ami aim ; 
 And. in grand truce with iunnortality. 
 
 Lifts to song's fadeless heaven his star-like fame !" 
 
 ^in.
 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT. Ixxvii 
 
 I can not forbear adding to this oxpression of appreciative affection a few words 
 from the funeral address uttered by his jjastor, the Rev. Dr. Bellows, at the com- 
 memorative ceremon}' held in New York, on the 14th of June, at All Souls' Church, 
 of which Mr. Bryant was for the last fifteen years of his life an active and honored 
 member. Dr. Bellows said : 
 
 " Never, perhaps, was there an inst:inr(! of such precocity in point of wisdom and matu- 
 rity as that wbich marked ' Thanatojisis,' written at eighteen, or of such persistency in 
 judgment, force, and melody as thalexhiljiled in his last public ode, written at eighty-three, 
 on occasion of Washington's last birthday. Between these two bounds lies one even path, 
 high, finished, faultless, in which comes a succession of poems, always raedilali\'e, always 
 steeped in the love and knowledge of nature, always pure and melodious, always stamped 
 ■with his sign manual of faultless taste and gem-like purity. . . . 
 
 " A devoted lover of religious liberty, he was an equal lover of religion itself— not in any 
 precise dogmatic form, but in its righteousness, reverence, and charity. . . . 
 
 " It is the glory of this man that his character outshone even his great talent .and his large 
 fame. Distinguished equally for his native gifts and his consummate culture, his poetic 
 inspiration and his exquisite art, he is honored and loved to-day even more for his stainless 
 purity of life, his unswerving rectitude of will, his devotion to the higher interests of his 
 race, his unfeigned patriotism, and his broad Immanity. . . . 
 
 " The increasing sweetness and beneficence of his charactei-, meanwhile, must have .struck 
 his familiar friends. His last years were his devoutest and most humane years. He became 
 beneficent as he grew able to be so, and bis band was open to all just needs and to many un- 
 reasonable claimants." 
 
 No more appropriate concluding paragraph can be added to this memorial 
 paper, which I could wi.sh worthier of the good and gifted Bryant — InUyer vUte 
 scelerisque purus — than his own beautiful words, applied to his contemporary Wash- 
 ington Irving. "If it were becoming," said the poet, " to address our departed 
 friend as if in his immediate presence, I would say, ' Farewell, thou who hast 
 entered into the rest prepared from the foundation of the world for serene and 
 gentle spirits like thine. Farewell, happy in thy life, happy in thy death, happier 
 in the reward to which that death is the assured [lassage ; fortunate in attracting the 
 admiration of the world to thy beautiful writings ; still more fortunate in having 
 written nothing which did not tend to promote the reign of magnanimous forbear- 
 ance and generous sympathies among thy fellow-men. The brightness of that 
 enduring fame which tliou ha-st won on earth is but a shadowy symbol of the glory 
 to which thou art admitted in the world beyond the grave. Thy errand on earth 
 was an errand of peace and good-will to men, and thou art now in a region where 
 hatred and strife never enter, and where the hannonious activity of those who 
 inhabit it acknowledges no impulse less noble or less pure than love." 
 
 Jamfs Grant Wilson. 
 New Youk, .Tuly, 1878.
 
 
 rOKDS, HOWARD JtHULBERT.N.Y.
 
 4^ 
 
 T' 
 
 THE EDITOR TO THE READER. 
 
 HE present enlarged edition of the "Library of Poetry and Song" has 
 been projected with a view of making the collection more perfect, 
 both in the choice of poems and the variety of sources from which they are 
 derived. Within a very few years past several names of eminence have been 
 added to the list of poets in oui- language, and every reader would expect to 
 find samples of their verse in an anthology like this, to say nothing of the air 
 of freshness which these would give. 
 
 That the demand for compilations of this character is genuine and very 
 general is sufficiently demonstrated by the appearance, since the first edition 
 of this was published, of Emerson's " Parnassus " and Whittier's " Songs of 
 Three Centuries." These, however, do not seem to have supplanted Dana's 
 " Household Book of Poetry," which still retains its popularity. It often hap- 
 pens that the same household contains several of these publications. The 
 present volume, moreover, in addition to the fullness of its material, has been 
 got up with much expense in the way of engraved illustrations, so that it wOl 
 occupy a place by itself Regarded from a literary point of view, it owes 
 much to the expert hands of Mr. Knight and Mr. Eaymond, who have as- 
 sisted in its compilation and the perfecting of its details. The first edition 
 has proved, commercially speaking, one of the most successful publications 
 of the day; and if the compilation in its present shape should meet with 
 the same favor, the Publishers, it seems to me, can ask no more. 
 
 When I saw that Mr. Emerson had omitted to include any of his own 
 poems in the collection entitled " Parnassus," I doubted, for a while, whether 
 [1] 
 1 ^ * • ♦ It »■
 
 THE EDITOR TO THE READER. 
 
 T 
 
 I ought not to have practiced the same reserve. Yet when I considered that 
 
 the omission on his part was so far a defect, and that there is not a reader of 
 
 his volume who would not have been better pleased to possess several of his 
 
 poems along with the others, I became better satisfied with what I had done, 
 
 and allowed such of my poems as I had included to remain. In one respect, 
 
 at least, the present compilation will have the advantage over Mr. Emerson's, 
 
 namely, that it contains several of the poems with which he has enriched our 
 
 literature. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 July, 1876.
 
 t-'T-n^^v<n^c/f/^/'^'»f ^*^ u^t^i^e^ MioJ^ili^K^ Cic>M~tv<AjeAl)r 
 
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 4.
 
 -u-*- 
 
 4- 
 
 
 -•-((-•-
 
 -•HH-*- 
 
 U 

 
 -^H* 
 
 INTRODUCTION: 
 POETS AND POETRY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 
 
 I SUPPOSE it is not necessary to give a reason for adding another to the cullections 
 of tliis nature, already in print. They abound in every language, for the simple 
 reason that there is a demand for them. German literature, prolihc as it is in verse, 
 has many of tliem, and some of them compiled by distinguished authors. The parlor 
 tabic and the winter fireside require a book which, when one is in the humor for 
 reading poetry and knows not what author to take up, will supply exactly what he 
 wants. 
 
 I have known persons who frankly said that they took no pleasure in reading 
 pijetry, and perhaps the number of those who make this admission would be greater 
 were it not for the fear of appearing singular. But to the great mass of mankind 
 poetry is really a delight and a refreshment. To many, perhaps to most, it is not 
 requisite that it should be of the highest degree of merit. Ivor, although it be true 
 that the poems which are most famous and most highly prized are works of con- 
 sideraljle length, can it be said that the pleasure they give is in any degree propor- 
 tionate to the extent of their plan. It seems to mo that it is only poems of a 
 moderate length, or else portions of the greater works to which I refer, tliat pro- 
 duce the effect, upon the mind and heart which make the charm of this kind of 
 writing. The proper office of poetry, in filling the mind with delightful images and 
 awakening the gentler emotions, is not accomplished on a first and rajiid perusal, 
 but requires that the words should be dwelt upon until they become in a certain 
 sense our own, and are adopted as the utterance of our own minds. A collection 
 such as this is intended to bo furnishes for this purpose portions of the best Eng- 
 Hsh verse suited to any of the varying moods of its readers. 
 
 Such a work also, if sufficiently extensive, gives the reader an opportunity of com- 
 paring the poetic literature of one period with that of another ; of noting the fluctu- 
 ations of taste, and how the poetic forms which are in fashion during one age are 
 laid aside in the next ; of observing the changes which take place in our language, 
 and the 'sentiments vhich at different periods challenge the public approbation. 
 Specimens of the poetry of different centuries presented in this waj' show how tho 
 great stream of human thought in its poetic form eddies now to the right and now 
 to the left, wearing away its banks first on one side and then on the other. Some 
 author of more than common faculties and more than common boldness catches tho 
 public attention, and immediately ho has a crowd of followers who form their tasto 
 on his and seek to divide witli him the jiraiso. Thus Cowlev, with his undeniable 
 [7]
 
 -•HH 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 genius, was the head of a numerous class who made poetry consist iu fur-lc'tchcd con- 
 ceits, ideas oddly Ijrinr^ht tngetlior, and quaint turns of tliought. Pope, following close 
 upon Dryden, and learning much from him, was the founder of a school of lonr'er 
 duration, which found its models in Boiloau and other poets of the reir'n of Louis 
 the Fourteenth, — a school in which the wit predominated over the poetry, — a school 
 marked Ijy striking oppositions of thought, frequent happinesses of expression, and a 
 carefully balanced modulation, — numbers pleasing at lirst, but in the end fatiguin". 
 As this school degenerated the wit almost disappeared, but there was no new infu- 
 sion of poetry in its place. When Scott gave the public the Lay of the Last Min- 
 strel, and other poems, which certainly, considered as mere narratives, are the best we 
 have, carrying the reader forward without weariness and with an interest M-liich the 
 author never allows, to subside, a crowd of imitators pressed after him, the greater 
 part of whom are no longer read. Wordsworth had, and still has, his school ; the 
 stamp of his example is visible on the writings of all the poets of the present day. 
 Even Byron showed himself, in the third canto of Chihle Harold, to be one of 
 his disciples, though he fiercely resented being called so. The same poet did not 
 disdain to learn of Scott in composing his narrative poems, such as the Bride of Ahii- 
 dos and the Giaour, though he could never tell a story in verse without occasional 
 tediousness. In our day the style of writing adopted by eminent living poets is often 
 seen reflected in the verses of their younger contemporaries, — sometimes with an 
 effect like that of a face beheld in a tarnished mirror. Thus it is that poets are 
 formed by their influence on one another ; the greatest of them are more or less 
 indebted for what they are to their predecessors and their contemporaries. 
 
 While speaking of these changes in the public taste, I .am tempted to caution the 
 reader against the mistake often made of estimating the merit of one poet by the too 
 easy process of comparing him with another. The varieties of poetic excellence are 
 as great as the varieties of beauty in flowers or in the female face. There is no poet, 
 indeed no author in any department of literature, who can be taken as a standard in 
 judging of others ; the true standard is an ideal one, and even this is not the same 
 in all men's minds. One delights in grace, another in strength ; one in a fiery vehe- 
 mence and enthusiasm on the surface, another in majestic repose and the expression 
 of feeling too deep to be noisy ; one loves simple and obvious images strikingly em- 
 ployed, or familiar thoughts placed in a new light, another is satisfied only with nov- 
 elties of thought and expression, with uncommon illustrations and images far sought. 
 It is certain that each of these modes of treating a subject may have its peculiar 
 merit, and that it is absurd to require of those whose genius inclines them to one 
 that they should ailopt its opposite, or to set one down as inferior to another be- 
 cause he is not of the same class. As well, in looking through an astronomer's 
 telescope at that beaiitiful phenomenon, a double star, in which the twin flames are 
 one of a roseate and the other of a golden tint, might we quarrel ivith either of 
 them because it is not colored like its fellow. Some of the comparisons made by 
 critics between one poet and another are scarcely less preposterous than would be 
 a comparison between a river and a mountain. 
 
 The compiler of this collection has gone as far back as to the autlior who may 
 
 ■—^U
 
 j^, n. ^^■- 
 
 (Bcoffrcij Ojaucer 
 
 TORDS. HOWARD & HDLBERT.N.Y
 
 -»-<h* 
 
 ISTRODUCTION. 
 
 projicrly bo called the father of English poetry, and who wrote while our language 
 was like the lion in ^lilton's account of the creation, when rising from the earth at 
 the Divine command and 
 
 " . . . . pawing to get freo 
 His hinder parts," — 
 
 for it was still clogged by the unassimilated portions of the French tongue, to which 
 in part is owed its origin. These were to be thrown aside in after years. The versi- 
 fication had also one characteristic of French verse which was soon after Chaucer's 
 time laid asiile, — the mute or final e had in his lines the value of a syllable by 
 itself, especially when the next word began with a consonant. But though these 
 peculiarities somewhat embarrass the reader, he stdl finds in the writings of the old 
 poet a fund of the good old English of the Saxon fireside, which makes them worthy 
 to be studied were it only to strengtlien our hold on our language. He delighted in 
 describing natural objects which still retained their Saxon names, and this he did with 
 great beauty and sweetness. In the sentiments also the critics ascribe to him a de- 
 gree of delicacy which one could scarcely have looked for in the age in which he wrote, 
 though at other times he avails himself of the license then allowed. There is no 
 majesty, no stately marcli of numbers, in his poetry, still less is there of fire, rapidity, 
 or conciseness ; the French and Italian narrative poets from whom he learned his 
 art wrote as if the people of their time had nothing to do but to attend to long sto- 
 ries, and Chaucer, who translated from the French the liomaunt of the Rose, though 
 a greater poet than any of those whom he took for his models, made small improve- 
 ment upon them in this respect. His Troylus and Cryseyde, with but little action 
 and incident, is as long as either of the epics of Homer. Tho Canterhury Tales, 
 Chaucer's best things, have less of this defect ; but even there the narrative is over- 
 minute, and the personages, as Taine, the French critic, remarks, although they talk 
 well, talk too mucli. The taste for this prolixity in narratives and conversations had 
 a long duration in English iioetry, since wo find tho same todiousness, to call it by 
 its true name, in Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis and his Lucrece, written more 
 than two hundred years later. Yet in the mean time the old popular ballads of Eng- 
 land and Scotland had been composed, in which tho incidents follow each other in 
 quick succession, and the briefest possible speeches are uttered by the personages. 
 The scholars and court poets doubtless disdained to learn anything of these ])oets of 
 the people, and the Davideis of Cowley, who lived three hundred yeare after Chaucer, 
 is as remarkable for the sluggish progress of the story and tho tediousness of tho 
 hai'angues as for any other characteristics. 
 
 IJetween the time of Chaucer and that of Sidney and Spenser we find little in the 
 poetic literature of our language to detain our attention. Tliat ago produced many 
 obscure versifiers, and metrical romances continued to be written after the fashion of 
 the French and Italian poets, whom Chaucer acknowledged as his masters. During 
 this period appeared Skelton, the poet and jester, whose special talent was facOity in 
 rhyming, who rhymed as if he could not help it, — as if he had only to put pen to 
 paper, and the words leaped of their own accord into regular measure with an inev- 
 itable jingle at the endings. Meantime our language was undergoing a process
 
 ■ ^ 
 
 10 ISTRUDUCTIUN. 
 
 which gradually Separated the nobler parts from the dross, rejeeting the Fruneh ad- 
 ditions tor which there was no occasion, or wliich could not easily bo made to take 
 upon themselves' the familiar forms of our tongue. The prosody of English became 
 also fixed in that period ; the final e wliich so perplexes the modern reader in Chau- 
 cer's verse was no longer jiermitted to figure as a distinct syllable. The poets, how- 
 ever, still allowed themselves the liberty of sometimes making, after the French man- 
 ner, two syllables of the terminations tion and ion, so that nation became a word of 
 three syllables and opinion a word of four. The Sonnets of Sidney, written on the 
 ItaKau model, have all the grace and ingenuity of those of Petrarch. In the Faerie 
 Queene of Spenser it seems to me that we find the English language, so far as the 
 pmpuses of poetry require, in a degree of perfection beyond which it has not been 
 since carried, and, I suppose, never will be. A vast assemblage of poetic endownicnts 
 contributed to the composition of tliis poem, yet I think it would not be easy to name 
 one of the same length, and the work of a genius equally great, in any language, 
 which more fatigues the reader in a steady perural from beginning to end. In it we 
 have an invention ever awake, active, and apparently inexhaustible; an aflluencc of 
 imagery grand, beautiful, or magnificent, as the subject may require; wise observa- 
 tions on human life steeped in a poetic coloring, and not without touches of pathos ; 
 a'wonderful mastery of versification, and the aptest forms of expression. We read 
 at first with admiration, yet to this erelong succeeds a sense of satiety, and we lay 
 down the book, not unwiUing, however, after an interval, to take it up with renewed 
 admiration. I once heard an eminent poet say that he thought the second part of 
 the Faerie Queene inferior to the first ; yet I am inclined to ascribe the remark rather 
 to a falling off in the attention of the reader than in the merit of the work. A poet, 
 however, would be more likely to persevere to the end than any other reader, since 
 in every stanza he would. meet with some lesson in his art. 
 
 In that fortunate age of English literature arose a greater than Spenser. Let me 
 only say of Shakespeare, that in his dramas, amid certain faults imputable to the 
 taste of the EngUsh public, there is to be found every conceivable kind of poetic 
 excellence. At the same time and immediately after him flourished a gi-oup of dra- 
 matic poets who drew their inspiration from nature and wi-ote with manly vigor. 
 One would naturally suppose that their example, along with the more illustrious 
 ones of Spenser and Shakespeare, would influence and form the taste of the succeed- 
 ing age ; but almost before they had ceased to claim the attention of the public, and 
 while the eminent divines, Ean'ow, Jeremy Taylor, and othei-s, vnotn nobly in prose 
 with a genuine eloquence and a fervor scarcely less than poetic, appeared the school 
 of writers in verse whom Johnson, by a phrase the proijriety of which has been dis- 
 puted, calls the metaphysical poets, — a class of wits whose whole aim was to extort 
 admiration by ingenious conceits, thoughts of such unexpectedness and singularity 
 that one wondered how they could ever come into the mind of the author. For what 
 they regarded as poetic effect they depended, not upon the sense of beauty or grand- 
 eur, not upon depth or earnestness of feeling, but simply upon surprise at quaint 
 and strange resemblances, contrasts, aixl combinations of ideas. These were dehv- 
 ered for the most part in rugged diction, an<] in numbers so harsh as to be almost 
 
 H^-W- 
 
 "•Hfc-*-
 
 IM'EODVCTION. 
 
 11 
 
 unmanageable by the readnr. Cowley, a man of real genius, and of a more musical 
 vereitication than liis fellows, was the most distinguished example of this school. 
 Milton, born a little before Cowley, and like hini an eminent poet 'in his teens, is 
 almost the only instance of escape from the infection of this vicious style ; his genius 
 was of too robust a mold for such petty employments, and he woultl have made, if 
 ho had condescended to them, as iU a figure as his own Samson on the stage of a 
 mountebank. Drydcn himself, in some of his earlier poems, appears as a pupil of 
 tills school; but ho soon outgrew — in great part, at least — the folso taste of the 
 time, and set an example of a nobler treatment of poetic subjects. 
 
 Yet though the genius of Drydcn reacted against tliis perversion of the art of verse, 
 it had not tlie power to raise the poetry of our language to tlio lieight whic^h it occu- 
 pied in the Elizabethan age. Within a limited range he was a true poet ; his imagi- 
 nation was far from fertile, nor had he much skiU in awakening emotion, but ho 
 could treat certain subjects magnificently in verse, and often where his imagination 
 fails him he is sustained by the vigor of his understanding and the largeness of his 
 knowledge. He gave an example of versilication in the heroic couplet, which has 
 commanded the admiration of succeeding poets down to our time, — a versification 
 manly, majestic, and of varied modulation, of which Pope took only a certain part as 
 tlie model of his own, and, contracting its range and reducing it to more regidar 
 pauses, made it at first appear more musical to the reader, but in the end fatigued 
 him by its monotony. Dryden drew scarcely a single image from his o^nl observa- 
 tion of e.-cternal nature ; and Pope, though less insensible than he to natural beauty, 
 was still merely the poet of the drawing-room. Yet he is the author of more happy 
 lines, which have passed into the common speech and are quoted as proverbial say- 
 ings, than any author wo have save Shakespeare ; and, whatever may be said in his 
 dispraise, he is likely to be quoted as long as the English is a living language. The 
 footprints of Pope are not those of a giant, but he has left them scattered all over 
 the field of our literature, although the fashion of writing like him has wholly passed 
 away. 
 
 Certain faculties of the poetic mind seem to have slumbered from the time of 
 Milton to that of Thomson, who showed the literary world of Great Britain, to its 
 astonishment, what a profusion of materials for poetry Nature ofH'rs to liim who 
 directly consults her instead of taking his images at second-hand. Thomson's blank 
 verse, however, is often swollen and bladdery to a painful degree. He seems to have 
 imagined, like many other writers of his time, that blank verse could not support 
 itself without the aid of a stilted phraseology ; for that fine poem of his, in the 
 Spenserian stanza, the Castle of Indolence, shows that when he wrote in rhyme ho 
 did not think it necessary to depart from a natural stylo. 
 
 'Wordsworth is generally spoken of as one who gave to our literature that impulse 
 which brought the poets back from the capricious forms of expression in vogue before 
 his time to a certain fearless simplicity'; for it must be acknowledged that imtil he 
 arose there was scarce any English poet who did not seem in some degree to labor under 
 the apprehension of becoming too siniphi and natural, — to imagine that a certain pomp 
 of words is necessary to elevate the style and ma.ke that grand and noble which in 
 
 f 
 
 I
 
 12 IXTRODUCTION. 
 
 its direct expression would be liomely and trivial. Yet the poetry of Wordsworth 
 was but the consummation of a tendency ah-eady existing and active. Cowper liad 
 already felt it ifi writing his Task, and in his longer rhymed poems had not only at- 
 tempted a freer versilication than that of Pope, but liad clothed his thouglits in the 
 manly English of the better age of our poetry. Percy's Keliques had accustomed 
 En'dish readers to perceive the extreme beauty of the old ballads in their absolute 
 simplicity, and shown how much superior these were to such productions as Percy's 
 own Hermit of Warkworth and Goldsmitli's Edwin and Aiir/ellna, in their feeble ele- 
 gance. Burns's inimitable Scottish poems — his English verses are tumid and wordy 
 — had taught the same lesson. We may infer that tlie genius of Wordsworth was 
 in a great degree influenced by these, just as he in liis turn contributed to form the 
 taste of those who wrote after him. It was long, hov/cver, before he reached the 
 eminence which he now holds in the estimation of the literary world. His Lyrical 
 Ballads, published about the close of the last century, were at fii-st little read, and 
 of those who liked them there were few who were not afraid to express their admi- 
 ration. Yet his fame has slowly climbed from stage to stage until now his influence 
 is perceived in all the English poetry of the day. If this were the place to criticise 
 his poetry, I should say, of his more stately poems in blank verse, that they often 
 lack compression, — that the thought suffers by too great expansion. Wordsworth 
 was unnecessarily afraid of being epigrammatic. He abhorred what is called a point 
 as much as Dermis is said to have abhorred a pun. Yet I must own that even his 
 most diifuse amplifications have in them a certain grandeur that fills the mind. 
 
 At a somewhat later period arose the poet Keats, who wrote in a manner which 
 carried the reader back to the time when those charming passages of lyrical enthu- 
 siasm were produced which we occasionally find in the plays of Shakespeare, in those 
 of pjeaumont and Fletcher, and in Milton's Coviits. The verses of Keats are occa- 
 sionally disfigured, especially in his Endijmion, by a flatness almost childish, but in 
 the finer passages they clothe the thought in the richest imagery and in words each 
 of wliich is a poem. Lowell has justly called Keats " over-languaged," but there is 
 scarce a word that we should be willing to part with in his Ode to the Niyhtinyale, 
 and that on a Grecian Urn, and the same thing may be said of the greater part of 
 his Hyperion. His poems were ridiculed in the Edinburgh lleview, but they sur- 
 vived the ridicule, and now, fifty years after their first publication, the poetry of tlie 
 present day, by certain resemblances of manner, testifies to the admiration with which 
 he is still read. 
 
 The genius of Byron was of a more vigorous mold than that of Keats ; but not- 
 withstanding his great popidarity and the number of his imitators at one time, ho 
 made a less permanent impression on the character of English poetry. His misan- 
 thropy and gloom, his scofflng vein, and the fierceness of his animosities, after the 
 first glow of admiration was over, had a repellent effect uj)on readei-s, and made them 
 turn to more cheerful strains. Moore had in liis time many imitators, but all his 
 gayety, his brilliant fancy, his somewhat foraiuine graces, and the elaborate music 
 of his numbers, have not saved him from the fate of being imitated no more. Cole- 
 ridge and Southey were of the same school witli "Wordsworth, and only added to tlie 
 
 T
 
 INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 4 
 
 ) 
 
 ellbet of his example upon our literature. Coleridge is tlio author of the two most 
 perfect poetical translations which our language in his day could boast, those of 
 Schiller's Ficcolomini and Death of Wcdknstein, in which the English verso falls in no 
 respect short of the original German. Southey divides with Scott the honor of 
 writing the llrst long narrative poems in our language which can he reail without 
 occasional weariness. 
 
 Of tlie later poets, educated in part by the generation of authors which produced 
 "Wordsworth and Byron and in part by each other, yet possessing their individual 
 peculiarities, I should perhaps speak with more reserve. The number of those who 
 are attempting to win a name in this walk of literature is great, and several of them 
 have already gained, and through many years held, the public favor. To some of 
 them will be assigned an enduring station among the eminent of their class. 
 
 There are two tendencies by which the seekers after poetic fame in our day are 
 apt to be misled, through both the example of others and the applause of critics. 
 One of these is the desire to extort admiration by striking novelties of expression ; 
 and the other, the ambition to distinguish themselves by subtilties of thought, 
 remote from the common apprehension. 
 
 With regard to the first of these I have only to say what has been often said be- 
 fore, that, however favorable may be the idea which tliis luxuriance of poetic imagery 
 and of epithet at first gives us of the author's talent, our admiration soon exhausts 
 itself We feel that the thought moves heavily under its load of garments, some 
 of which perhaps strike us as tawdry and others as ill-iitting, and wo lay down the 
 book to take it up no more. 
 
 The other mistake, if I may so call it, deserves more attention, since we find able 
 critics speaking with high praise of passages in the poetry of the day to which the 
 gencM-al reader is puzzled to attach a meaning. This is often the case when the words 
 themselves seem simple enough, and keep within the range of the Saxon or house- 
 hold element of our language. The obscurity lies sometimes in the phrase itself, and 
 sometimes in the recondite or remote allusion. I will not say that certain minds are 
 not alleoted by this, as others are by verses in plainer English. To the few it may 
 be genuine poetry, although it may be a riddle to the mass of readers. I remember 
 reading somewhere of a mathematician who was affected with a sense of sublimity by 
 the happy solution of an algebraical or geometrical problem, and I have been assured 
 by one who devoted himself to the science of mathematics that the phenomenon is no 
 uncommon one. Let us beware, therefore, of assigning too narrow limits to the causes 
 which produce the poetic exaltation of mind. The genius of those who write in this 
 manner may be freely acknowledged, but they do not write for mankind at large. 
 
 To me it seems that one of the most important requisites ior a great poet is a lu- \ 
 
 minous style. The elements of poetry lie in natural objects, in the vicissitudes of 
 human life, in the emotions of the human heart, and the relations of man to man. He 
 ■who can present them in combinations and lights which at once affect the mind with 
 a deep sense of their truth and beauty is the poet for his own age and the ages that 
 succeed it. It is no disparagement either to his skill or his power that he finds them 
 near at hand; the nearer they lie to the conininn track of the human intelligence, 
 
 \ 
 
 ■» i i »
 
 14 INTKOUUCTION. 
 
 the more certain is he of the sympathy of his own generation, and of those which 
 shall come after him. The metaphysician, the suhtilo thinker, the dealer in abstruse 
 speculations, whatever his skill in versification, misapplies it when he abandons the 
 more convenient form of prose and perplexes himself with the attempt to express 
 his ideas in poetic numbers. 
 
 Let me say for the poets of the present day, that in one important respect they 
 have profited by the example of their immediate predecessors ; they have learned to 
 go directly to nature for their imagery, instead of taking it from what had once been 
 regarded as the common stock of the gudd of poets. I have often had occasion to 
 verify this remark with no less delight than surprise on meeting in recent verso now 
 images in their untarnished luster, Kke coins fresh from the mint, unworn and unsoiled 
 by passing from pocket to pocket. It is curious, also, to observe how a certain set 
 of hackneyed phrases, which Leigh Hunt, I believe, was the fii'st to ridicule, and 
 which were once used for the convenience of rounding out a line or supplying a 
 rliyme, have disappeared from our poetry, and how our blank verse in the hands of 
 the most popular writers has dropped its stiff Latinisms and all the awkward distor- 
 tions resorted to by those who thought that by putting a sentence out of its proper 
 shape they were writing like ]\Iilton. 
 
 I have now brought this brief survey of the progress of our poetry down to the 
 present time, and refer the reader, for samples of it in the diff'erent stages of its exist- 
 ence, to those which are set before him iu this volume. 
 
 Such is the wide range of Enghsh verse, and such the abundance of tlio 
 materials, that a compilation of this kind must be like a bouquet gathered from 
 the fields in June, when hundreds of fiowers will be left in unvisited spots, as 
 beautiful as those which have been taken. It may happen, therefore, that many 
 who have learned to delight in some particular poem will turn these pages, as they 
 might those of other collections, without finding their favorite. Iv^or should it bo 
 matter of surprise, considering the multitude of authors from wliom the compilation 
 is made, if it be found that some are overlooked, especially the more recent, of equal 
 merit with many whose poems appear in these pages. It may happen, also, tliat 
 the compiler, in consequence of some particular association, has been sensible of a 
 beauty and a power of awakening emotions and recalling images in certain poems 
 which other readers vrA\ fail to perceive. It should be considered, moreover, that in 
 poetry, as in painting, diflerent artists have difl'erent modes of presenting tlieir con- 
 ceptions, each of which may possess its peculiar merit, yet those whose taste is formed 
 by contemplating the productions of one class take Httle pleasure in any other. 
 Crabb Eobinson relates that Wordsworth once admitted to him that he did not 
 much admire contemporary poetry, not because of its want of poetic merit, but 
 because ho had been accustomed to poetry of a different sort, and added that but 
 for this he might have read it with pleasure. I quote from memory. It is to bo 
 hoped that every reader of this collection, however ho may have been trained, will 
 find in the great variety of its contents something conformable to his taste. 
 
 . WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 J.^
 
 r. 
 
 ^^^---^^ ^-..^ c^ 
 
 fORriS. HOWARD Ar^ULBERT.N.Y_
 
 iO L ! Ilut ult^tc^n^ h^tvc til) c^K 7kc y-<^h' 
 
 ^jLjP,i^n4— 
 
 
 ^r>- C<y</Z a. f- „^^— k- C>( 
 
 S
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 INFANCY. 
 
 PHILIP, MY KING. 
 
 "Who bears upon his baby brow the round 
 And top of sovereignty." 
 
 Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 
 
 Pliilip, my king ! 
 For rountl thee tlie purple shadow lies 
 Of babyhood's royal dignities. 
 Lay on my neck thy tiny hand 
 
 With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; 
 I am thine Esther, to command 
 Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, 
 Philip, my king ! 
 
 0, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 
 
 Philip, my king ! 
 "Wlien those beatitil'ul lips 'gin suing, 
 And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, 
 Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 
 
 Sittest love-glorified ! — Rule kindly, 
 Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ; 
 
 For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 
 Philip, my king ! 
 
 I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 
 
 Philip, my king ! 
 The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
 May rise like a giant, and make men bow 
 As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers. 
 
 My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer, 
 Let me behold thee in future years ! 
 Yet thy head needetli a circlet rarer, 
 Philip, my king ; — 
 
 A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 
 
 Philip, my king ! 
 Thou too must tiead, as we trod, a way 
 Thorny, and cruel, ami cold, and gr.ay ; 
 llebels within thee and foes without 
 Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, 
 glorious, 
 Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout. 
 
 As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 
 "Philip, the king!" 
 
 Dinah mulock Craik. 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 FROM " BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 WH.4.T is the little one thinking about t 
 Very wonderful things, no doubt ; 
 Unwritten history ! 
 Unfathonied mystery ! 
 Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, 
 As if his head were as full of kinks 
 And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 
 Warped by colic, and wet by tears. 
 Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, 
 Our little nephew will lose two years ; 
 And he '11 never know 
 Where the summers go ; 
 He need not laugh, for he '11 find it so. 
 
 Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
 Who can follow the gossamer links 
 
 By which the manikin feels his way 
 Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
 Blind, and wailing, and alone. 
 
 Into the light of day ? 
 Out from the shoi'c of the unknown sea. 
 Tossing in pitiful agony ; 
 Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
 Specked with the barks of little souls, — 
 P>arks that were launched on the other side, 
 And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! 
 
 What does he think of liis mother's eyes ? 
 What does he think of his mother's hair? 
 
 What of the cradle-roof, tliat flies 
 Forward and backward through the air ? 
 
 What does he think of his mother's breast, 
 Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
 .'seeking it ever with fresh deliglit, 
 
 Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? 
 What does he tliink when her quick embrace 
 Pi'esses his hand anil buries his face 
 Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, 
 Witli a tenderness .she can never tell, 
 
 Tliough she murmur the words 
 
 Of all the birds, — 
 Words she has learned to murmur well ? 
 
 Now he thinks he '11 go to sleep ! 
 
 I can see the shadow creep
 
 ^ 
 
 Ju. 
 
 18 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 Over his eyes in soft eclipse, 
 Over his brow and over his lips, 
 Out to his little finger-tips ! 
 Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
 Down he goes ! down he goes ! 
 See ! he 's hushed in sweet repose. 
 
 J0S[AH GILBERT HOLLAND. 
 
 THE BABY. 
 
 Naked on parents' knees, a new-born child. 
 Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled : 
 So tlve, that, sinking to thy last long sleep, 
 Thou then niayst smile wliile all around thee 
 weep. 
 
 From tlic Srtnskrit of CALIDASA. 
 
 by SIR William Jones. 
 
 Till from sleep we sec thee breaking, 
 And we 'd always have thee waking ; 
 "Wealth for which we know no measure ; 
 Pleasure high above all pleasure ; 
 Gladness brimming over gladness ; 
 Joy in care ; delight in sadness ; 
 Loveliness beyond completeness ; 
 Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; 
 Beauty all that beauty may be ; — 
 That 's May Bennett ; that's my baby. 
 
 WILLIAM C. Bennett. 
 
 BABY MAY. 
 
 Cheeks as soft as Jxrly peaches ; 
 
 Lips wliose dewy scarlet teaches 
 
 Poppies paleness ; round large eyes 
 
 Ever great with new surprise ; 
 
 Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ; 
 
 Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; 
 
 Happy smiles and wailing cries ; 
 
 Crows, and laughs, and tearful eyes ; 
 
 Lights and shadows, swifter born 
 
 Than on wind-swept autumn com ; 
 
 Ever some new tiny notion. 
 
 Making every limb all motion ; 
 
 Catchings up of legs and arms ; 
 
 Throwings back and small alarms ; 
 
 Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ; 
 
 Twining feet whose each toe works ; 
 
 Kickings up and straining risings ; 
 Mother's ever new surprisings ; 
 Hands all wants and looks all wonder 
 At all things the heavens under ; 
 Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings 
 That have more of love than lovings ; 
 Mischiefs done with such a winning 
 Archness that we prize such sinning ; 
 Breakings dire of plates and glasses ; 
 Graspings small at all that passes ; 
 Pullings off of all that 's able 
 To be caught from tray or table ; 
 Silences, — small meditations 
 Deep as thoughts of cares for nations ; 
 Breaking into wisest speeches 
 In a tongue that nothing teaches ; 
 All the thoughts of whose possessing 
 Must be wooed to light by guessing ; 
 Slumbers, — such sweet angel-secmings 
 That we 'd ever have such dreamings ; 
 
 CHOOSING A NAME. 
 
 I HAVE got a new-born sister ; 
 
 I was nigh the first that kissed her. 
 
 When the nursing-woman brought her 
 
 To papa, his infant daughter. 
 
 How papa's dear eyes did glisten ! — 
 
 She will shortly be to diristen ; 
 
 And pajia has made the offer, 
 
 I shall liave the naming of her. 
 
 Now I wonder w'hat would please her, — 
 
 Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ? 
 
 Ann and Mary, they 're too common ; 
 
 Joan 's too formal for a woman ; 
 
 Jane 's a prettier name beside ; 
 
 But we had a Jane that died. 
 
 They would say, if 't was Rebecca, 
 
 That she was a little Quaker. 
 
 Edith 's pretty, but that looks 
 
 Better in old English books ; 
 
 Ellen 's left off long ago ; 
 
 Blanche is out of fashion now. 
 
 None that 1 have named as yet 
 
 Are so good as Margaret. 
 
 Emily is neat and fine ; 
 
 ■ftHiat do you think of Caroline ? 
 
 How I 'm puzzled and perplexed 
 
 What to choose or think of next ! 
 
 I am in a little fever 
 
 Lest the name that I should give her 
 
 Should disgrace her or defame her ; — 
 
 I will leave papa to name her. 
 
 MARY Lamb. 
 
 THE BABY. 
 
 Where did you come from, baby dear 1 
 Out of the everytchere into here. 
 
 Where did you get your eyes so blue ? 
 Out of tlie sky as I came through. 
 
 Where did you get that little tear ? 
 I found it u-aiting irlu:n I got hert.
 
 IXFANCY. 
 
 19 
 
 I 
 
 Wliat makes your forehead so smooth and high ? 
 A soft hand slroK-cd it as I went by. 
 
 What makes your cheek like a warm white rose ? 
 I saw soiiieUiiii'j Liter thim any one knotcs. 
 
 Whence that tlircc-cornered smih- of bliss ? 
 Three angels gave me at onee a kiss. 
 
 Vv'here did you get this pearly ear ? 
 God spoke, and it came out to liear. 
 
 Where did you get those arms and hauds ? 
 Love made itself into hooks and bands. 
 
 Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ? 
 From the same box as the c/ienibs' icings. 
 
 How did they all come to he you ? 
 God t/wught about me, and so I grew. 
 
 But how did you come to us, yon dear ? 
 God thought about you, and so I am Jicre. 
 
 George macDonald. 
 
 LITTLE FEET. 
 
 Two little feet, so small that both may nestle 
 
 In one caressing hand, — 
 Two tender feet upon the untried border 
 
 Of life's mysterious land. 
 
 Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blos- 
 soms, 
 
 In April's fragrant days, 
 How can they walk among the briery tangles, 
 
 Edging the world's rough ways ? 
 
 These rose-white feet, along the doubtful future, 
 
 Must bear a mother's load ; 
 Alas ! since Woman has the heaviest burden, 
 
 And walks the harder road. 
 
 Love, for a while, will make the path before them 
 All dainty, smooth, and fair, — 
 
 Will cull away the brambles, letting only 
 The roses blossom there. 
 
 But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded 
 
 Away from sight of men. 
 And these dear feet are left without her guiding, 
 • Who shall direct them then ? 
 
 How will they be allured, betrayed, deluded, 
 
 Poor little untaught feet ! 
 Into what dreary mazes will they wander, 
 
 What dangers ivill they meet ? 
 
 Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness 
 
 Of Sorrow's tearful shades ? 
 Or find the upland sloiies of Peace and Beauty, 
 
 Whose suulight never fades ? 
 
 Will they go toiling up Ambition's summit, 
 
 The common world above ? 
 Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered, 
 
 Walk side by side with Love ? 
 
 Some feet there be wliich walk Life's track 
 unwoundcd, 
 
 Wiich tind but pleasant ways : 
 Some hearts there be to which this life is only 
 
 A round of happy days. 
 
 But these are few. Far more there are who 
 wander 
 
 Without a hope or friend, — 
 VTho find their journey full of pains and losses, 
 
 And long to reach the end. 
 
 How shall it be with her, the tender stranger. 
 
 Fair-faced and gentle-eyed. 
 Before whose unstained feet the world's rude 
 highway 
 
 Stretches so fair and wide ? 
 
 Ah ! who may read the future ? For our darling 
 We crave all blessings sweet. 
 
 And pray that He who feeds the crying ravens 
 Will guide the baby's feet. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 Sleep, little baby of mine. 
 Night and the darkness are near, 
 But Jesus looks down 
 Through the shadows that frown, 
 And baliy has nothing to fear. 
 
 Shut, little sleepy blue eyes ; 
 
 Dear little head, be at rest ; 
 
 Jesus, like you. 
 
 Was a baby once, too. 
 
 And slept on his own mother's breast. 
 
 Sleep, little haby of mine, 
 
 Soft on your pillow so white ; 
 
 Jesus is hero 
 
 To watch over you, dear. 
 
 And nothing can harm you to-night. 
 
 0, little darling of mine. 
 
 What can you know of the bliss, 
 
 The comfort I keep. 
 
 Awake and asleep. 
 
 Because 1 am certain of this ?
 
 20 
 
 POEMS OF INFAXCY AXD YOUTH. 
 
 MY BIBD. 
 
 Ere last year's moon had left the sky 
 A binlling sought my Indian nest, 
 
 And folded, oh ! so lovingly, 
 Her tiny wings upon my breast. 
 
 From morn till evening's purple tinge, 
 In winsome helplessness she lies ; 
 
 Two rosedeaves, with a silken fringe. 
 Shut softly o'er her starry eyes. 
 
 There 's not in Ind a lovelier bird ; 
 
 Broad earth owns not a happier nest ; 
 God ! thou hast a fountain stirred, 
 
 Whose waters nevermore shall rest. 
 
 This beautiful, mysterious thing. 
 This seeming visitant from heaven. 
 
 This bird with the immortal wing. 
 To me, to me Thy hand has given. 
 
 The pulse first caught its tiny stroke. 
 The blood its crimson hue, from mine : 
 
 This life which I have dared invoke. 
 Henceforth is parallel with Thine ! 
 
 A silent awe is in my room, 
 I tremble w'ith delicious fear ; 
 
 The future with its light and gloom. 
 Time and eternity are here. 
 
 Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise ; 
 
 Hear, my God ! one earnest prayer ; 
 Room for my bird in Paradise, 
 
 And give her angel-plumage there I 
 
 EMILY C. JUDSON. 
 
 NXTRSE'S WATCH. 
 
 [From the " Boy's Horn of Wonders." a German Book of Nursery 
 Rhymes,] 
 
 The moon it shines, 
 
 J[y darling whines ; 
 The clock strikes twelve ; — God cheer 
 The sick, both far and near. 
 
 God knoweth all ; 
 
 Mousy nibbles in the wall ; 
 The clock strikes one : — like day, 
 Dreams o'er thy pillow play. 
 
 Tlie matin-bell 
 
 Wakes the nun in convent cell ; 
 The clock strikes two : — they go 
 To choir in a row. 
 
 The wind it blows. 
 
 The cock he crows ; 
 The clock strikes three : — the, wagoner 
 In his straw bed begins to stir. 
 
 The steed he paws the floor. 
 
 Creaks the stable door ; 
 The clock strikes four : — 't is plain, 
 The coachman sifts his grain. 
 
 The swallow's laugh the still au- shakes. 
 
 The sun awakes ; 
 The clock strikes five : — the traveller must be 
 
 gone. 
 He puts his stockings on. 
 
 The hen is clacking. 
 
 The ducks are quacking ; 
 The clock strikes six : — awake, arise. 
 Thou lazy hag ; come, ope thy eyes. 
 
 Quick to the baker's run ; 
 
 The rolls are done ; 
 The clock strikes seven : — 
 'T is time the milk were in the oven. 
 
 Put in some butter, do. 
 
 And some fine sugar too; 
 The clock strikes eight : — 
 Now bring my baby's porridge straight. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF CHARLES T, BROOKS, 
 
 OLD GAELIC LTILLABY. 
 
 Hush ! the waves are rolling in, 
 AVhite with foam, white with foam ; 
 
 Father toils amid the din. 
 But baby sleeps at home. 
 
 Hush ! the mnds roar hoai-se and deep, - 
 On they come, on they come ! 
 
 Brother seeks the wandering sheep, 
 But baby sleeps at home. 
 
 Hush ! the rain sweeps o'er the knowes 
 Where they roam, where they roam ; 
 
 Sister goes to seek the cows. 
 But baby sleeps at home. 
 
 THE HOUSEHOLD SOVEEEIGH. 
 
 FROM THE " HANGING OF THE CRANE." 
 
 The picture fades ; as at a village fair 
 A showman's views dissolve into the air, 
 To reappear transfigured on the screen. 
 So in my fancy this ; and now once mora 
 
 -^
 
 In part transfigureil through the open door 
 Appears the selfsame scene. 
 
 Seated I see the two again, 
 
 But not alone ; they entertain 
 
 A little angel unaware, 
 
 AVith face as round as is the moon ; 
 
 A royal guest with flaxen hair, 
 
 Who, throned upon his lofty chair. 
 
 Drums on the table with his spoon. 
 
 Then drops it careless on the floor. 
 
 To grasp at things unseen before. 
 
 Are these celestial manners ? these 
 
 The ways that win, the arts that please ! 
 
 Ah, yes ; consider well the guest. 
 
 And whatsoe'er he does seems best ; 
 
 He ruleth by the right divine 
 
 Of helplessness, so lately born 
 
 In purple chambers of the moi'n, 
 
 As sovereign over thee and thine. 
 
 He speaketh not, and yet there lies 
 
 A conversation in his eyes ; 
 
 The golden silence of the Greek, 
 
 The gravest wisdom of the wise, 
 
 Not spoken in language, but in looks 
 
 Jlore legible than printed books. 
 
 As if he could but would not speak. 
 
 And now, monarch absolute, 
 Thy power is put to proof ; for lo ! 
 Resistless, fathomless, and slow. 
 The nurse comes rustling like the sea. 
 And pushes back thy chair and thee. 
 And so good night to King Canute. 
 
 As one who walking in the forest sees 
 
 A lovely landscape through the parted trees. 
 
 Then sees it not for boughs that intervene. 
 Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed 
 Through drifting clouds, and then again con- 
 cealed. 
 
 So I beheld the scene. 
 
 There are two guests at table now ; 
 The king, deposed, and older gi-owu. 
 No longer occupies the throne, — 
 The crown is on his sister's brow ; 
 A princess from the Fairy Tales ; 
 The very pattern girl of girls. 
 All covered and embowered in curls, 
 Eose tinted from the Isle of Flowers, 
 And sailing with soft silken sails 
 From far-olT Dreamland into ours. 
 Above their bowls with rims of blue 
 Four azure eyes of deeper hue 
 Are looking, dreamy with delight ; 
 Limpid as ]ilanets that emerge 
 Above the ocean's rounded verge. 
 
 Soft shining through the summer night. 
 Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see 
 Beyond the horizon of their bowls ; 
 Nor care they for the world that rolls 
 With all its freight of troubled souls 
 Into the days that are to be. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 BABY LOUISE. 
 
 I 'm in love with you. Baby Louise ! 
 With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes, 
 And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies. 
 And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the 
 skies, — 
 
 God's sunshine, Baby Louise. 
 
 When you fold your hands. Baby Louise, 
 Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, 
 With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air. 
 Are you trying to think of some angel-taught 
 prayer 
 
 You learned above. Baby Louise ? 
 
 I 'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! 
 Wliy ! you never raise your beautiful head ! 
 Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red 
 With a flush of delight, to hear the words said, 
 
 "I love you," Baby Louise. 
 
 Do you hear me. Baby Louise ? 
 I have sung your praises for nearly an hour. 
 And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower. 
 And — you ' ve gone to sleep, like a weary flower. 
 
 Ungrateful Baby Louise ! 
 
 Margaret E\tince. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 
 
 [In Ireland they have a prett>' fancy, that, when a child smiles in 
 its sleep, it is " talking with angels."] 
 
 A BABY was sleeping ; 
 
 Its mother was weeping. 
 For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; 
 
 And the tempest was swelling 
 
 Bound the fisherman's dwelling ; 
 And she cried, " Dermot, darling, come back 
 to me 1 " 
 
 Her beads while she numbered. 
 
 The baby still slumbered. 
 And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : 
 
 "0, blest be that warning. 
 
 My child, thy sleep adorning. 
 For I know that the angels are whispering with 
 thee. 
 
 ~T
 
 -11-»- 
 
 90 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 " Anil while tlicy are keeping 
 Bright watch o'er Ihy sleeping, 
 
 0, pray to them sol'tly, my bahy, with me! 
 And say thim wouldst rather 
 They Vl wateli o'er thy father ! 
 
 For I know that the angels are whispering to 
 thee." 
 
 The dawn of the morning 
 
 Saw Dermot returning. 
 And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to 
 see ; 
 
 And closely caressing 
 
 Her child with a blessing, 
 
 Said, " I knew that the angels were whispering 
 
 with thee." 
 
 SAMUEL Lover. 
 
 SMILING IN HIS SLEEP. 
 
 The baby sleeps and smiles. 
 ■What fairy thought beguiles 
 
 His little brain ? 
 Ho sleeps and smiles again. 
 Flings his white arms about, 
 Half opes his sweet blue eye 
 As if he thought to spy. 
 By coyly peeping out, 
 The funny elf that brought 
 That tiny faiiy thought 
 Unto his infant mind. 
 ■\Vould I some way could find 
 To know just how they seem, 
 Those dreams that infants dream. 
 I wonder what they are, — 
 Those thoughts that seem to wear 
 
 So sweet a guise ? 
 What picture, tiny, fair, 
 ■What vision, lovely, rare, 
 
 Delights /( is eyes ? 
 See ! now he smiles once more ; 
 Perhaps there is before 
 His mental sight jiortrayed 
 
 Some vision blest 
 Of that dear land of rest. 
 That fnr-oll' heaven, 
 From whence his new-created soul 
 
 Has lately strayed ; 
 Or to his ear, perchance, are given 
 Those echoes sweet that roll 
 From angel harps we may not hear, 
 "We, who have added year to year, 
 
 And sin to sin. 
 As yet his soul is spotless. Why 
 Should not angelic harmony 
 Reach his nnsuUied ear ? 
 Why not within 
 
 His infant fancy transient gleams 
 Of heaven find their way in dreams ? 
 
 And still the baby sleeps, 
 And as he sleeps he smiles. Ah, now 
 He starts, he wakes, he weeps ; 
 Earth-shadows cloud his baby-brow. 
 His smiles how fleeting ; how 
 
 Profuse his tears ! 
 Preams he of coming years, 
 Checkered by-shadow and by light. 
 Unlike that vision holy, bright, — 
 
 That fairy gleam. 
 
 That infant dream 
 That made him sweetly smile ? 
 Do coming sin and sorrow. 
 Phantoms of dark to-morrow, 
 Their shadows cast before, 
 
 Clouding all o'er 
 
 His baby-dreams, erewhile 
 
 So beautiful ? 
 
 Harriet W. Stillmak. 
 
 SILENT BABY. 
 
 The baby sits in her cradle, 
 
 Watching the world go round, 
 Enwrapt in a mystical silence 
 
 Amid all the tumult of sound. 
 She must be akin to the flowers. 
 For no one has heard 
 A whispered word 
 From this silent baby of ours. 
 
 Wondering, she looks at the children, 
 
 As they merrily laughing pass. 
 And smiles o'er her face go rippling, 
 
 Like sunshine over the grass 
 And into the heart of the flowers ; 
 But never a word 
 Has yet been heard 
 From this silent darling of ours. 
 
 Has she a wonderful wisdom, 
 
 Of unspoken knowdedge a store. 
 Hid away from all curious eyes, 
 
 Like the mysterious lore 
 
 Of the bees and the birds and the flowers? 
 
 Is this why no word 
 
 Has ever been heard 
 
 From this silent baby of ours ? 
 
 Ah, baby, from out your blue eyes 
 
 The angel of silence is smiling, — 
 Though silvern hereafter your speech, 
 Your silence is golden, — beguiling 
 All hearts to this darling of ours. 
 Who speaks not a word 
 Of all she ha.s heard. 
 Like the birds, the bees, and the flowers. 
 
 ANONYMOUS.
 
 INFAXCr. 
 
 23 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 What shall be the baby's name ? 
 Shall we catch from sounding fame 
 Some far-echoed word of praise 
 Out of other climes or days ? 
 Put uiiou her brow new-born 
 Crowns that other brows have worn ? 
 
 Shall we take some dearer word, 
 Once within our circle heard, 
 Cherished yet, though spoken less, — 
 Shall we lay its tenderness 
 On the baby's little head, 
 So to call again our dead ? 
 
 Shall we choose a name of grace 
 That befits the baby's face, — 
 Something full of childish glee. 
 To be spoken joyously ? 
 Something sweeter, softer yet. 
 That shall say, " Behold our pet ! " 
 
 Nay ; the history of the great 
 Must not weigh oiu' baby's fate ; 
 Nay ; tlie dear ones disenthralled 
 Must not be by lis recalled ; 
 We shall meet tlirem soon again, — 
 Let us keep their names till then ! 
 
 Nay ; we do not seek a word 
 For a kitten or a bird ; 
 Not to suit the baby ways. 
 But to wear in after days, — 
 Fit for uses grave and good, 
 Wrapped in future womanhood, — 
 
 For the mother's loving tongue 
 While our daughter still is young ; 
 For the manly lips that may 
 Call the maiden heart away ; 
 For the time, yet tenderer, 
 When her children think of her. 
 
 Let us choose a Bible name. 
 One that always bides the same. 
 Sacred, sweet, in every land 
 All men's reverence to command ; 
 For our earthly uses given. 
 And yet musical in heaven. 
 
 One I know, these names amid, — 
 " Beauty" is its meaning hid ; 
 She who wore it made it good 
 With her gracious woman liood: 
 Name for virtue, love, and truth. 
 Let us call the baby liuth. 
 
 RossiTER w. Raymond. 
 
 NO BABY IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 No baby in the house, I know, 
 
 'T is far too nice and clean. 
 No toys, by careless fingers strewn. 
 
 Upon the floors are seen. 
 No linger-marks are on the panes. 
 
 No scratches on the chairs ; 
 No wooden men set up in rows. 
 
 Or marshaled off in pairs ; 
 No little stockings to be darned, 
 
 All raggeii at the toes ; 
 No pile of mending to be done. 
 
 Made up of baljy-clothes ; 
 No little troubles to be soothed ; 
 
 No little hands to fold ; 
 No grimy fingers to be washed ; 
 
 No stories to be told ; 
 No tender kisses to be given ; 
 
 No nicknames, "Dove" and "Mouse"; 
 No merry frolics after tea, — 
 
 No baby in the house ! 
 
 CLARA C. DOLLIVER. 
 
 BABY'S SHOES. 
 
 0, THOSE little, those little blue shoes ! 
 
 Those shoes tliat no little feet use ! 
 0, the price were high 
 That those shoes would buy. 
 
 Those little blue unused shoes ! 
 
 For they hold the small .shape of feet 
 That no more their mother's eyes meet, 
 
 That, by God's good-will. 
 
 Years since, grew still. 
 And ceased from their totter so sweet. 
 
 And 0, since that baby slept, 
 
 So hushed, how the mother has kept, 
 
 With a tearful pleasure, 
 
 That little dear treasure. 
 And over them thought and wept ! 
 
 For they mind her forevermore 
 Of a patter along the floor ; 
 
 And blue eyes she sees 
 
 Look up from her knees 
 With the look that in life they wore. 
 
 As they lie before her there. 
 There babbles from chair to chair 
 
 A little sweet face 
 
 That 's a gleam in the place, 
 With its little gold curls of hair. 
 
 — **-»-^
 
 24 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 Then 0, wonder not thnt her heart 
 From all else would rather part 
 
 Than those tiny blue shoes 
 
 That no little feet use, 
 And whose sight makes such fond tears start ! 
 
 WILLIAM C. BENNETT. 
 
 A CKADLE SONG. 
 
 HrsH, my dear ! lie still and slumber ! 
 
 Holy angels guard thy bed ; 
 Heavenly blessings without number 
 
 Gently falling on thy head. 
 
 Sleep, my babe ! thy food and raiment. 
 House and home, thy friends provide ; 
 
 All without thy care or pajinent, 
 All thy wants are well supplied. 
 
 How much hctter thou 'rt attended 
 
 Than the Son of God could be, 
 ■When from heaven he descended, 
 
 And became a child like thee. 
 
 Soft and easy is thy cradle : 
 
 Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay : 
 "V\Tien his birthplace was a stable. 
 And his softest bed was hay. 
 
 See the kindly shepherds round him. 
 
 Telling wonders from the sky ! 
 Where they sought him, there they found him, 
 
 With his Virgin-Mother by. 
 
 See the lovely babe a-dressing : 
 
 Lovely infant, how he smiled ! 
 Wlien he wept, the mother's blessing 
 
 Soothed and hushed the holy child. 
 
 Lo, he slumbers in his manger, 
 
 Wliere the homed oxen fed ; 
 — Peace, my darling ! here 's no danger ! 
 
 Here 's no ox anear thy bed ! 
 
 -— May'st thou live to know and fear him, 
 Trust and love him all thy days : 
 
 Then go dwell forever near him ; 
 See his face, and sing his praise. 
 
 I could give thee thousand kisses, 
 
 Hoping what I most desire : 
 Not a mother's fondest wishes 
 
 Can to greater joys aspire. 
 
 Isaac watts 
 
 THE MOTHER'S STRATAGKM. 
 
 AN INFANT PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE. 
 
 While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, 
 And the blue vales a thousand joys recall. 
 
 See, to the last, last verge her infant steals ! 
 0, fly — yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. — 
 
 Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare. 
 
 And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. 
 
 From the Greek of LfcoviDAS of Alexandria, 
 
 by SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 ■WILLIE WINKIE. 
 
 Wee WiUie Winkle rins through the town, 
 Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, 
 Tirlin' at the window, erj-in' at the lock, 
 " Are the weans iu their bed ? — for it 's now ten 
 o'clock." 
 
 Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye coniin' ben ? 
 
 The cat 's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, 
 
 The doug 's speldered on the floor, and disna gie 
 
 a cheep ; 
 But here's a waukrife laddie, that winua fa' 
 
 asleep. 
 
 Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue : — glow'rin' like 
 
 the moon, 
 Eattlin' in an aim jug vn an aim spoon, 
 Rumblin', tiimblin' roun' about, crawin' like a 
 
 cock, 
 Skirlin' like a kenna-what — waiikniu' sleepin' 
 
 folk! 
 
 Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean 's in a creel j 
 Waumblin' aff a hodie's knee like a vera eel, 
 Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and raveUin' a' her 
 
 thrums : 
 Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! 
 
 Wearie is the mither that has a stone wean, 
 A wee stumpie stonssie, that eanna rin his lane. 
 That has a battle aye -vvi' sleep, before he '11 close 
 
 an ee ; 
 But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew 
 
 to me. 
 
 WILLIAM MILLER. 
 
 LITTLE PUSS. 
 
 Sleek coat, eyes of fire, 
 Four paws that never tire, 
 That 's puss. 
 
 Ways playful, tail on high. 
 Twisting often toward the sky, 
 That 's puss. 
 
 f
 
 LITTLE PUSS, 
 
 'Sleek coat, eyes of fire. 
 Four paws that never tire. 
 That 'f puss. 
 
 • Ways playful, tail on high. 
 Twisting often towards the sky. 
 That's puss."
 
 INFANCY. 
 
 In the larder, stealing meat, 
 Patter, jiatter, little feet, 
 That 's puss. 
 
 After ball, reel, or string, 
 Wild as any living thing, 
 That 's puss. 
 
 Round and round, after tail, 
 Fast as any postal mail, 
 That 'a puss. 
 
 Curled up, like a ball, 
 On the door-mat in the hall, 
 That 's puss. 
 
 Purring loud on missis' lap, 
 Having toast, then a nap. 
 That 's puss. 
 
 Black as night, with talons long. 
 Scratching, which is very wrong. 
 That 's puss. 
 
 From a saucer lapping milk. 
 Soft, as soft as washing silk, 
 That 's puss. 
 
 Rolling on the dewy grass. 
 Getting wet, all in a mass, 
 That 's puss. 
 
 Climbing tree, and catching bird. 
 Little twitter nevermore heard. 
 That 's puss. 
 
 Killing fly, rat, or mouse. 
 As it runs about the house. 
 That 's puss. 
 
 Pet of missis, " Itte mite," 
 
 Never must be out of sight. 
 
 That 's puss. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE KITTEN AITD FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 That way look, my Infant, lo 1 
 MTiat a pretty baby-show ! 
 See the Kitten on the wall. 
 Sporting with the leaves that fall. 
 Withered leaves — one — two — and three - 
 From the lofty elder-tree ! 
 Through the calm and frosty air 
 Of this morning bright and fair, 
 
 Eddying round and round they sink 
 Softly, slowly : one might flunk, 
 From the motions that are made, 
 Every little leaf conveyed 
 Sylph or faery hither tending, — 
 To this lower world descending. 
 Each invisible and mute, 
 In his wavering parachute. 
 — But the Kitten, how she starts, 
 Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 
 First at one, and then its fellow 
 Just as light and just as yellow ; 
 There are many now — now one — 
 Now they stop, and there are none : 
 What intenseness of desire 
 In her upward eye of fire ! 
 With a tiger-leap half-way 
 Now she meets the coming prey, 
 Lets it go as fast, and then 
 Has it in her power again : 
 Now she works with three or four. 
 Like an Indian conjuror ; 
 Quick as he in feats of art. 
 Far beyond in joy of heart. 
 Were her antics played in th' eye 
 Of a thousand standcrs-by. 
 Clapping hands with shout and stare. 
 What would little Tabby care 
 For the plaudits of the crowd ? 
 Over happy to be proud, 
 Over wealthy in the treasure 
 Of her own e.\ceeding pleasure ! 
 
 'Tis a pretty baby -treat ; 
 Nor, I deem, for m.e unmeet ; 
 Here, for neither Babe nor me. 
 Other playmate can I see. 
 Of the countless living things. 
 That with stir of feet ami wings 
 (In the sun or under shade, 
 Upon bough or grassy blade) 
 And with busy revelings. 
 Chirp and song, and murmuiings. 
 Made this orchard's narrow space 
 And this vale so blithe a place, — - 
 Multitudes are swept away 
 Nevermore to breathe the day ; 
 Some are sleeping ; some in bands 
 Traveled into distant lands ; 
 Others slunk to moor and wood. 
 Far from human neighborhood ; 
 And, among the kinds that keep 
 With us closer fellowship. 
 With us openly abide, 
 All have laid their mirth aside. 
 
 Where is he, that gidily sprite. 
 Blue-cap, with his colors liright. 
 Who was blest as bird could be. 
 Feeding in the apple-tree ;
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 f 
 
 Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
 
 Turning blossoms inside out ; 
 
 Hung — head pointing towards the ground - 
 
 Fluttered, perched, into a round 
 
 Bound himself, and then unbound ; 
 
 Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ; 
 
 Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ; 
 
 Light of heart and light of limb ; 
 
 What is now become of liim ? 
 
 Lambs, that through the mountains went 
 
 Frisking, bleating merriment, 
 
 Wlien the year was in its prime. 
 
 They are sobered by this time. 
 
 If you look to vale or hUl, 
 
 If you listen, all is still. 
 
 Save a little neighboring rill. 
 
 That from out the rocky ground 
 
 Strikes a solitary sound. 
 
 Vainly glitter hill and plain, 
 
 And the air is calm in vain ; 
 
 Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
 
 Of a sky serene and pure ; 
 
 Creature none can she decoy 
 
 Into open sign of joy : 
 
 Is it that they have a fear 
 
 Of the dreary season near ? 
 
 Or that other pleasures be 
 
 Sweeter e'en than gayety ? 
 
 Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 
 In the impenetrable cell 
 Of the silent heart which Nature 
 Furnishes to every creature ; 
 Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
 Too sedate for outward show, — 
 Such a light of gladness breaks, 
 Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — 
 Spreads with such a living grace 
 O'er my little Dora's face ; 
 Yes, the sight so stirs and channs 
 Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, 
 That almost I could repine 
 That your transports are not mine. 
 That I do not wholly fare 
 Even as ye do, thoughtless pair' ! 
 And I will have my careless season, 
 Spite of melancholy reason ; 
 Will walk through life in such a way 
 That, when time brings on decay. 
 Now and then 1 may possess 
 Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 
 — Pleased by any random toy ; 
 By a kitten's busy joy. 
 Or an infant's laughing eye 
 Sharing iu the ecstasy ; 
 I would fare like that or this. 
 Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 
 Keep the sprightly soul awake ; 
 And have faculties to take. 
 
 Even from things by soitow wrought, 
 Matter for a jocund thought ; 
 Spite of care, and spite of grief. 
 To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON." 
 
 Little Four Years, little Two Years, 
 
 Merry Christmas ! Happy New-Year's ! 
 
 That is what I wish for you ; 
 
 Shall I tell you what to do 
 
 That will make my wish come true ? 
 
 Cheerful looks and words are very 
 Sure to make the Christmas merry : 
 Tongues that speak the truth sincere, 
 Hearts that hold each other dear. 
 These will make a happy year. 
 
 Four Years is of Two the double, — 
 Should be twice as brave in trouble, 
 Twice as gentle, twice as kind. 
 Always twice as much inc'lined 
 Mother's words to keep in mind ; 
 
 So that Two Years, when she 's older, 
 May remember what is told her. 
 Just as Four Years did before, — 
 Only think ! in two years more 
 Little Two Years will be Four ! 
 
 ROSSITER W. RAYMOND. 
 
 NOW I LAY ME DOWS TO SLEEP. 
 
 Golden head so lowly bending, 
 
 Little feet so white and bare, 
 Dewy eyes, half shut, half opened, 
 
 Lisjiing out her evening prayer. 
 
 "Now I lay," — repeat it, darling — 
 
 " Lay me," lisped the tiny lips 
 Of my daughter, kneeling, bending 
 
 O'er the folded finger-tips. 
 
 " Down to sleep," — " To sleep," she murmured. 
 
 And the curly head bent low ; 
 "I pray the Lord," I gently added, 
 
 "You can say it all, I know." 
 
 " Pray the Lord," — the sound came faintly, 
 Fainter .still, — "my soul to keep" ; 
 
 Then the tired head fairly nodded. 
 And the child was fast asleep. 
 
 But the dewy eyes half opened 
 When I clasped her to my breast,
 
 INFA^cy. 
 
 27 
 
 And the dear voice softly whispered, 
 "Mamma, God knows ail the rest." 
 
 0, the trusting, sweet conliding 
 or the ehild-hcart ! Would that I 
 
 Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, 
 He who hears my feeblest cry. 
 
 0, the rapture, sweet, unbroken. 
 Of the soul who wrote that prayer ! 
 
 Children's myriad voices, floating 
 Up to Heaven, record it there. 
 
 If, of all that has beAi written, 
 
 I could choose what might be mine, 
 
 It should be that child's petition. 
 Rising to the throne divine. 
 
 MRS. R. S. HOWI.AND. 
 
 LITTLE PUSS. 
 
 A LITTLE golden head close to my knee, 
 Sweet eyes of tender, gentianella blue 
 Fi.\ed upon mine, a little coaxing voice, — 
 Only we two. 
 
 "Tell it again !" Insatiate demand ! 
 And like a toiling spider where 1 sat, 
 I wove and spun the many-colored webs 
 Of this and that. 
 
 Of Dotty Pringle sweeping out her hall ; 
 Of Greedy Bear ; of Santa Clans the good ; 
 And how the little children met the i^lonths 
 Within the wood. 
 
 " Tell it again ! " and though the sand-man came, 
 l)i-opping his drowsy grains in each blue eye, 
 "Tell it again ! 0, just once more ! " was still 
 The .sleepy cry. 
 
 My spring-time violet ! early snatched away 
 To fairer gardens all unknown to me, — 
 Gardens of whose invisible, guarded gates 
 I have no key, — 
 
 I weave my fancies now for other ears, — 
 Thy sister-blossom's, who beside me sits, 
 Rosy, imperative, and quick to mark 
 ^^y lsg"'"g wits- 
 
 But still the stories bear thy name, are thine, 
 Part of the sunshine of thy brief, sweet day, 
 Though in licr little warm and living hands 
 This book I lay. 
 
 Susan CooLiocn. 
 
 LITTLE GOLDENHAIK. 
 
 GoLDF.NHAiR climbed up on grandpapa's knee ; 
 Dear little Goldenhair, tired was she, 
 All tho day busy as busy co\dd be. 
 
 Up in the morning as soon as 't was light, 
 Out with the birds and butterllics bright. 
 Skipping about till tho coming of night. 
 
 Grandpapa toyed with the cui'ls on her Lead. 
 " What has my darling been doing," he said, 
 " Since she rose with the sun from her bed ? " 
 
 " Pitty much," answered the sweet little one. 
 " I cannot tell so nnich things 1 have done. 
 Played with my dolly and feeded my bun. 
 
 "And then I jumped with my little jump-rope. 
 And I made out of some water and soap 
 Bootiful worlds, mamma's castles of hope. 
 
 "Then I have readed in my picture-book. 
 And Bella and 1, we went to look 
 For the smooth little stones by the side of tho 
 brook. 
 
 "And then I corned home and eated my tea. 
 And I climbed up on grandpapa's knee. 
 And I jes as tired as tired can be." 
 
 Lower and lower tho little head pressed. 
 Until it had dropped upon grand]iapa's breast ; 
 Dear little Goldenhair, sweet be thy rest ! 
 
 We are but children ; things that we do 
 Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view 
 That marks all our weakness, and pities it too. 
 
 God grant that when nigbt overshadows onr way, 
 And we shall be called to account for our day. 
 He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair's lay ! 
 
 And 0, when awear\', may we be so blest, 
 .\nd .sink like the innocent child to our rest, 
 And feel om'selves clasped to the Infinite breast ! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 I HAD told him, Christmas morning, 
 
 As he sat upon my knee. 
 Holding fast his little stockings. 
 
 Stuffed as full as full could be. 
 And attentive, listening to me, 
 
 With a face denmre and mild, 
 That old Santa Clau.s, who filled tliem. 
 
 Did not love a naughty child. 
 
 ■•-11
 
 4 
 
 28 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 " But we '11 be good, won't we, moder ?" 
 
 And from off my lap he slid. 
 Digging deep among the goodies 
 
 In his crimson stockings hid, 
 While I turned me to my table, 
 
 "Where a tempting goblet stood. 
 With a dainty drink brimmed over, 
 
 Sent mo by a neighbor good. 
 
 But the kitten, there before me, 
 
 With his white paw, nothing loth, 
 Sat, by way of entertainment, 
 
 Slapping off the shining froth ; 
 And in not the gentlest humor 
 
 At the loss of such a treat, 
 I confess, I rather rudely, 
 
 Thrust him out into the street. 
 
 Tlien how Benny's blue eyes kindled ! 
 
 Gathering up the precious store 
 He had busily been pouring 
 
 In his tiny pinafore. 
 With a generous look that shamed me. 
 
 Sprang ho from the carpet bright. 
 Showing, by his mien imlignant, 
 
 All a baby's sense of right. 
 
 "Come back, Harney," called he loudly. 
 
 As he held his apron white, 
 "You shall have my candy wabbit " ; 
 
 But the door was fastened tight. 
 So he stood, abashed and silent. 
 
 In the center of the floor. 
 With defeated look alternate 
 
 Bent on me and on the door. 
 
 Then, as by some sudden impulse. 
 
 Quickly ran he to the fire. 
 And while eagerly his bright eyes 
 
 Watched the flames go high and higher, 
 In a brave, clear key, he shouted, 
 
 Like some lordly little elf, 
 " Santa Caus, come down de chinney, 
 
 Make my moder 'have herself." 
 
 " I will be a good girl, Benny," 
 
 Said I, feeling the reproof ; 
 And straightway recalled poor Harney, 
 
 Mewing on the gallery roof. 
 Soon the anger was forgotten, 
 
 Laughter chased away the fro^vn, 
 And they gamboled 'neath the live-oaks 
 
 Till the dusky night came down. 
 
 In my dim, fire-lighted chamber 
 Harney purred beneath my chair. 
 
 And my play-worn boy beside me 
 Knelt to say his evening prayer ; 
 
 " God bess fader, God bess moder, 
 God bess sister," — then a pause. 
 
 And the sweet young lips devoutly 
 Murmured, " God bess Santa Kaus." 
 
 He is sleeping ; brown and silken 
 
 Lie the lashes, long and meek, 
 Like caressing, clinging shadows 
 
 On his plump and peachy cheek ; 
 And I bend above him, weeping 
 
 Thankful tears, Undcfiled ! 
 For a woman's crown of glory. 
 
 For the blessing of a child. 
 
 Annie C. Ketchum. 
 
 TO MY rNTAUT SON. 
 
 Thou happy, happy elf ! 
 (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) 
 
 Thou tiny image of myself ! 
 (My love, he 's poking peas into his ear !) 
 Thou merry, laughing sprite. 
 With spirits feather light. 
 Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin ; 
 (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin ! ) 
 
 Thou little tricksy Puck ! 
 
 With antic toys so funnily bestuck. 
 
 Light as the singing bird that wings the air, — 
 
 (The door ! the door ! he '11 tumble down the 
 
 stair ! ) 
 Thou darling of thy sire ! 
 (Why, Jane, he '11 set his pinafore afire !) 
 
 Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
 In love's dear chain so bright a link. 
 
 Thou idol of thy parents ; — (Drat the boy ! 
 There goes my ink.) 
 
 Thou chenib, but of earth ; 
 Fit playfellow for fays, by moonlight pale, 
 
 In haimless sport and mirth, 
 (That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!) 
 
 Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
 From every blossom in the world that blows. 
 
 Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, — 
 (Another tumble ! That 's his precious nose !) 
 Thy father's pride and hope ! 
 (He '11 break the mirror with that skipping- 
 rope !) 
 With pure heart newly stamped from nature's 
 
 mint, 
 (Wliere did he Ie.arn that squint ?) 
 
 Thou yoimg domestic dove ! 
 
 (He '11 have that ring off with another shove)) 
 
 Dear nursling of the hymeneal neat ! 
 
 (Are these torn clothes his best ?) 
 
 T 
 
 r
 
 INFANCY. 
 
 29 
 
 Little epitome of man I 
 
 (He '11 climb upon the talile, that 's his plan 1) 
 
 Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning 
 
 life, 
 (He 's got a knife !) 
 Thou enviable being ! 
 No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing. 
 
 Play on, play on, 
 
 My elfin Jolm ! 
 Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, — 
 (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) 
 
 With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, 
 Prompting the face gi-otesque, and antic brisk. 
 With many a lamb-like frisk ! 
 
 (He 's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !) 
 Thou pretty opening rose ! 
 (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your 
 
 nose ! ) 
 Balmy and breathing music like the south, 
 (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) 
 Bold as tlie hawk, yet gentle as the dove ; 
 (I '11 tell you what, my love, 
 I cannot write unless he 's sent above. ) 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 THE LOST HEIR. 
 
 '■ O where, and O where. 
 Is iny bonnie laddie yone?" 
 
 One day, as I was going by 
 
 That part of Holborn christened High, 
 
 1 heard a loud and sudden cry 
 
 That chilled my very blood ; 
 And lo ! from out a dirty alley. 
 Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, 
 I saw a crazy woman sally. 
 
 Bedaubed with grease and mud. 
 She turned her East, she turned her West, 
 Staring like Pj^thoness possest, 
 With streaming hair and heaving breast, 
 
 As one stark mad with grief. 
 
 " Lord ! dear, my heart will break, I shall 
 
 go stick stark staring wild ! 
 Has ever a one seen anything about the streets 
 
 like a crying lost-looking child ? 
 Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to 
 
 run, if I only knew which way — 
 A Child as is lost about London streets, and es- 
 pecially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle 
 
 of hay. 
 1 am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, 
 
 you wretch, you little Kitty SI'Nab ! 
 You promised to have half an eye to him, you 
 
 know you did, you dirty deceitful young 
 
 drab ! 
 The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was 
 
 with my own blessed Motherly eyes, 
 
 Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing 
 
 at making little dirt-pies. 
 1 wonder he left the court, where he was better 
 
 off than all the other young boys. 
 With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, 
 
 and a dead kitten, by way of toys. 
 When his Father comes home, and he always 
 
 comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes 
 
 one. 
 He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being 
 
 lost ; and the beef and the inguns not done 1 
 La bless you, good folks, mind your own con- 
 
 sarns, and don't be making a mob in the 
 
 street ; 
 Sergeant M'Farlane ! you have not come across 
 
 my poor little boy, have you, in your beat ? 
 Do, good people, move on ! don't stand staring 
 
 at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; 
 Saints forbid ! but he 's p'raps been inviggled 
 
 away up a court for the sake of his clothes 
 
 liy the prigs ; 
 He 'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought 
 
 it myself for a shilling one day in P.ag Fair ; 
 And his trousers considering not very much 
 
 patched, and reil plush, they was once his 
 
 Father's best pair. 
 His shirt, it 's very lucky I 'd got washing in the 
 
 tub, or that might have gone with the rest ; 
 But he 'd got on a very good pinafore with only 
 
 two slits and a burn on the breast. 
 He 'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was 
 
 sewed in, and not quite so much jagged at 
 
 the brim ; 
 With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, 
 
 and not a fit, and you '11 know bj' that if 
 
 it 's him. 
 And then he has got such dear winning ways — 
 
 but 0, I never, never shall see him no more ! 
 
 dear ! to think of losing him just after nussing 
 
 him back from death's door ! 
 Only tlie very last month when the windfalls, 
 
 hang 'em, was at twenty a penny ; 
 And the threepence he 'd got by grottoing was 
 
 s])ent in plums, and si.xty for a child is 
 
 too many. 
 And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us 
 
 all, and, drat him ! m.ade a seize of our hog. — 
 It 's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, 
 
 he 's such a Hunderin' drunken old dog ; 
 The last time he was fetched to find a lost child 
 
 he was guzzling with his hell at the Crown, 
 And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a 
 
 distracted Mother and Father about Town. 
 Billy — where are you, Billy, I say ? come, Billy, 
 
 come home, to your best of Mothers ! 
 
 1 'm scared when 1 think of them Cabroleys, they 
 
 drive so, they 'd run over their own Sisters 
 and Brotliers.
 
 50 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YuUTU. 
 
 Or maybe he 's stole by some ehimbly -sweeping 
 
 wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and 
 
 what not, 
 And be poked up behind with a picked pointed 
 
 pole, when the soot has ketched, and the 
 
 ehimbly 's red-hot. 
 0, I 'd give the whole wide world, if the world 
 
 was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on 
 
 his lace ; 
 For he 's my darlin' of darliu's, niid if he don't 
 
 soon come back, you '11 see me drop stone 
 
 dead on the place. 
 I only wish I 'd got him safe ill these two Moth- 
 erly arms, and would n't I hug him aud 
 
 kiss him ! 
 Lawk ! 1 never knew what a precious he was — 
 
 but a child don't not feel like a child tUl 
 
 you miss him. 
 Why, there he is ! Punch and Judy hunting, the 
 
 young wretch, it 's that BiUy as sartin as 
 
 sin ! 
 But let me get him home, with a good gi'ip of his 
 
 hair, and I 'm blest if he shall have a whole 
 
 bone in his skin ! 
 
 THOMAS Hood. 
 
 THE THREE SONS. 
 
 I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years 
 
 old. 
 With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of 
 
 gentle mould. 
 They tell mo that unusual grace in all his ways 
 
 aj)penrs. 
 That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond 
 
 his childish years. 
 I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face 
 
 is fair, — 
 And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and 
 
 serious air ; 
 I know his heart is kind and fond ; 1 know he 
 
 loveth me ; 
 But loveth yet his mother more with grateful 
 
 fervency. 
 But that which others most admire, is the thought 
 
 which fills his mind, 
 The food for grave inquiring speech he every- 
 where doth find. 
 Strange questions doth. he ask of me, when we 
 
 together walk ; 
 He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as 
 
 children talk. 
 Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not 
 
 on bat or ball. 
 But looks on manhood's ways and works, and 
 
 aptly mimics all. 
 
 His little heart is busy still, aud offentimes per- 
 
 ple.xt 
 With thoughts about this world of ours, and 
 
 thoughts about the next. 
 He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teacheth 
 
 him to pray ; 
 And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the 
 
 words which he will say. 
 0, should my gentle child be spared to man- 
 hood's j'ears like me, 
 A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will 
 
 be; 
 And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his 
 
 thoughtful brow, 
 I dare not think what I should feel, were I to 
 
 lose him now. 
 
 I have a son, a second son, a simple child of 
 
 three ; 
 I '11 not declare how bright and fair his little 
 
 features be, 
 How silver sweet those tones of his when he 
 
 prattles on my knee ; 
 I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his 
 
 brother's, keen, 
 Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his 
 
 hath ever been ; 
 But his little heart 's a fountain pure of kind and 
 
 tender feeling ; 
 And his every look 's a gleam of light, rich 
 
 depths of love revealing. 
 When he walks with me, the country folk, who 
 
 pass us in the street. 
 Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks 
 
 so mild and sweet. 
 A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful 
 
 tone, 
 AVill sing his little song of love, when left to 
 
 sport alone. 
 His ]>resence is like sunshine sent to gladden 
 
 home and hearth, 
 To comfort us in all oivr griefs, and sweeten all 
 
 our mirth. 
 Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his 
 
 heart may prove 
 As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for 
 
 earthly love ; 
 And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching 
 
 eyes must dim, 
 God comfort us for all the love which we shall 
 
 lose in him. 
 
 I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot 
 
 tell, 
 For they reckon not by years .and months where 
 
 he has gone to dwell. 
 To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant 
 1 smUes were given ; 
 
 i
 
 «-lh-*- 
 
 -•-«-•- 
 
 INFASCY. 
 
 And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to 
 
 live in heaven. 
 I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he 
 
 weareth now. 
 Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining 
 
 seraph brow. 
 The thoughts that till his sinless soul, the bliss 
 
 which he doth feel. 
 Are numbered with the secret things wliicli God 
 
 will not reveal. 
 But I know (for God hath told me this) that he 
 
 is now at rest, 
 'Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's 
 
 loving breast. 
 I know his spirit feels no more this weary load 
 
 of flesh, 
 But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of 
 
 joy forever fresh. 
 I know the angels fold him close beneath theii' 
 
 glittering wings. 
 And soothe him with a song that breathes of 
 
 Heaven's divinest things. 
 I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother 
 
 dear and I) 
 Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears 
 
 from every eye. 
 Whate'er befalls liis brethren twain, his bliss can 
 
 never cease ; 
 Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is 
 
 certain peace. 
 It may be that the tempter's wiles then- souls 
 
 from bliss may sever ; 
 But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be 
 
 ours forever. 
 When we think of what our darling is, and what 
 
 we still must be, — 
 When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and 
 
 this world's misery, — 
 When we groan beneath this load of sin, and 
 
 feel this grief and pain, — 
 Oh ! we 'd rather lose our other two, than have 
 
 him here again. 
 
 John Moultrie. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT AKD GOOD MORNING. 
 
 A FAIR little girl sat under a tree 
 
 Sewing as long as her eyes could see ; 
 
 Then smoothed her work and folded it right, 
 
 And said, "Dear work, goodnight, goodnight ! ' 
 
 Such a number of rooks came over her head. 
 Crying " Caw, caw ! " on their way to bed. 
 She said, as she watched their curious flight, 
 " Little black things, good night, good night ! ' 
 
 The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed. 
 
 The sheei)'s "Bleat! bleat!" came over the 
 
 road ; 
 All seeming to say, with a (juiet delight, 
 " Good little girl, good night, good night ! " 
 
 She did not say to the sun, "Good night ! " 
 Though she saw him there like a ball of light ; 
 For she knew he had God's time to keep 
 All over the world and never could sleep. 
 
 The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ; 
 The violets courtesied, and went to bed ; 
 Anil good little Lucy tied up her hair. 
 And said, on her kuces, her favorite prayer. 
 
 And, while on her pillow slie softly lay. 
 She knew nothing more till again it was day ; 
 And all things said to the beautiful sun, 
 " Good morning, good morning ! our work is 
 begun. Richard mon-ckton Milm s. 
 
 (LORD HOCGUTOM.) 
 
 THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN. 
 
 Down the dimjiled greensward dancing 
 Bursts a fia.xen-hcaded bevy, — 
 
 Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing. 
 Love's irregular little levy. 
 
 Rows of liijuid eyes in laughter. 
 
 How they glimmer, how they quiver ! 
 
 Sparkling one another after, 
 Like bright ripples on a river. 
 
 Tipsy band of rubious faces. 
 
 Flushed with Joy's etliereal spirit. 
 
 Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
 At Love's self, and do not fear it. 
 
 GEORGE DARLEY. 
 
 TTNDEE MY WINDOW. 
 
 Undeu my -window, under my window, 
 
 All in the Midsummer weather. 
 Three little girls with fluttering curls 
 
 Flit to and fro together ; — 
 There 's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, 
 And Maud with her mantle of silver-green. 
 
 And Kate with her scarlet feather. 
 
 Under my window, under my window, 
 
 Leaning stealthily over, 
 Meny and clear, the voice I hear. 
 
 Of each glad-hearted rover. 
 Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; 
 And JLaud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, 
 
 As merry as bees in clover. 
 
 1h-»-
 
 J^ 
 
 32 POEMS OF IXFAXCY AXD YOUTH. 
 
 
 Under my window, under my window, 
 
 Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy, 
 
 
 In the blue nudsummer weather, 
 
 Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip re- 
 
 
 Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe, 
 
 souudeth ; 
 
 
 I catch them all together : — 
 
 Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy. 
 
 
 Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, 
 
 And the glad heart from which all grief re- 
 
 
 And JIaud with her mantle of silver-gi'een, 
 
 boundeth ; 
 
 
 And Kate with the scarlet feather. 
 
 And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
 Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. 
 
 
 Under my window, under my window, 
 
 
 
 And off through the orchard closes ; 
 
 And thine was many an art to win and bless. 
 
 
 While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts. 
 
 The cold and stern to joy and fondness warm- 
 
 
 They scamper and drop their posies ; 
 
 ing ; 
 The coa.\ing smile, the frequent soft caress. 
 
 
 But dear little Kate takes naught amiss. 
 
 
 And leaps iu my arms with a loving kiss. 
 
 The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarm- 
 
 
 And I give her all my roses. 
 
 inc ' 
 
 
 THOMAS WESTWOOD. 
 
 Again my heart a new affection found. 
 But thought that love with thee had reached its 
 bound. 
 
 
 
 
 •mil! MOTHER'S HEART. 
 
 At length THOU earnest, — thou, the last and 
 
 
 When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond. 
 
 least. 
 
 
 My eldest bom, first hope, and dearest treasure. 
 
 Nicknamed "the Emperor" by thy laughing 
 
 
 My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
 
 brothers, 
 
 
 All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 
 
 Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast. 
 
 
 Nor thought that any love again might be 
 
 And thou didst seek to rule and sway the 
 
 
 So deep and stroug as that I felt for thee. 
 
 others, 
 Jlingling with every playful infant wile 
 
 
 Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years. 
 
 A mimic majesty that made us smile. 
 
 
 And natural piety that leaned to heaven ; 
 
 
 
 Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears. 
 
 And 0, most like a regal child wert thou ! 
 
 
 Yet patient to rebuke when justly given ; 
 
 An eye of resolute and successful scheming ! 
 
 
 Obedient, easy to be reconciled, 
 
 Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow. 
 
 
 And meekly cheerful ; such wert thou, my child ! 
 
 Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dream- 
 
 
 Not wdlling to be left — still by my side. 
 
 ing ; 
 And proud the lifting of thy stately head, 
 
 
 Haunting my walks, while summer-day was 
 
 .\nd the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 
 
 
 dying ; 
 
 
 
 Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide 
 
 Different from both ! yet each succeeding claim 
 
 
 Through the dark room where I was sadly 
 
 I, that all other love had been forswearing. 
 
 
 lying ; 
 
 Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 
 
 
 Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
 
 Nor injured either Ijy this love's comparing. 
 
 
 Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek. 
 
 Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, — 
 But in the mother's heart found room for all ! 
 
 
 boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
 
 Caroline e. Norton. 
 
 
 Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower. 
 No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade, 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 And bending weakly to the thunder-shower ; 
 
 
 
 Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to 
 
 TH W. MOTHER'S HOPE. 
 
 
 bind. 
 
 
 
 And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 
 
 Is there, when tlie winds are singing 
 In the happy summer time, — 
 
 
 Then THOU, my merry love, — bold in thy glee. 
 
 When tlie raptured air is ringing 
 
 
 Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 
 
 With Earth's music heavenward springing. 
 
 
 With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, — 
 
 Forest chirp, and village chime, — 
 
 
 Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glan- 
 
 Is there, of the sounds that float 
 
 
 cing. 
 
 Sighingly, a single note 
 
 
 Full of a mid and irrepressible mirth. 
 
 Half so sweet, and clear, and wild. 
 
 
 Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! 
 
 As the laughter of a child ? 
 
 ^ 
 
 1 
 
 
 9 1 
 
 •
 
 4 
 
 IXFANCY. 
 
 33 
 
 Listen ! and be now delighted : 
 
 Morn liatli touched her golihn strings ; 
 
 Eiirth and Sky tlieir vows have iilighted ; 
 
 Life and Light are reunited 
 Amid countless earolings ; 
 
 Yet, delicious as they are, 
 
 There 's a sound that 's sweeter far, — 
 
 One that makes the heai-t rejoice 
 
 More than all, — the human voice ! 
 
 Organ finer, deeper, clearer. 
 
 Though it be a stranger's tone, — 
 
 Than the winds or waters dearer. 
 
 More enchanting to the hearer. 
 For it answerctli to his own. 
 
 But, of all its witching words, 
 
 All its myriad magic chords. 
 
 Those are sweetest, bubliling wild 
 
 Through the laughter of a child. 
 
 Harmonies from time-touched towers, 
 
 JLaunted strains from rivulets. 
 Hum of bees among the flowei-s, 
 Kustling leaves, and silver showers, — 
 
 These, ere long, tlie ear forgets ; 
 But in mine there is a sound 
 Ringing on the whole year round, — 
 Heart-deeii laughter that I heard 
 Ere my child could speak a word. 
 
 Ah ! 't was heard by ear far purer, 
 
 Fondlier formed to catch the strain, — 
 
 Ear of one whose love is sui-er, — 
 
 Hers, the mother, the endurer 
 Of the deepest share of pain ; 
 
 Hers the deejiest bliss to treasure 
 
 Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 
 
 Hers to hoard, a lifetime after. 
 
 Echoes of that infant laughter. 
 
 'T is a mother's large affection 
 Hears with a mysterious sense, — 
 
 Breathings that evade detection, 
 
 A\Tiisper faint, and fine inflection. 
 Thrill in her with power intense. 
 
 Childhood's honeyed words untaught 
 
 Hiveth she in loving thought. 
 
 Tones that never thence depart ; 
 
 For she listens — with her heart. 
 
 Laman Blanchard. 
 
 I am old, — so old I can write a letter ; 
 
 My birthday lessons are done. 
 The lamb.s play always, — they know no better ; 
 
 They ai-e only one times one. 
 
 Moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 
 
 And shining so round ami low. 
 You were bright — ah, bright — but your light 
 is failing ; 
 You are nothing now but a bow. 
 
 You Moon ! have you done something wrong in 
 heaven. 
 That God has liidden your face ? 
 
 1 hope, if you have, you will soon bo forgiven, 
 
 And shine again in your place. 
 
 velvet Bee ! you 're a dusty fellow, — 
 You 've powdered your legs with gold. 
 
 brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, 
 Give me your money to hold ! 
 
 Columbine ! open your folded wrapper. 
 Where two twin turtle-doves ihvell ! 
 
 Cuckoopint ! toll me the purjile clapper 
 
 That hangs i]i your clear green bell ! 
 
 And show me your nest, with the young ones in 
 it — 
 I will not steal them away : 
 
 1 am old ! yon may trust me, linnet, linnet ! 
 
 I am seven times one to-day. 
 
 Jean ingelow. 
 
 SEVEN TIMES ONE. 
 
 There 's no dew left on the daisies and clover, 
 
 There 's no rain left in heaven. 
 I 've said my " seven times " over and over, — 
 
 Seven times one are seven. 
 
 SE'VTIN TIMES rOITR. 
 
 Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups. 
 
 Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 
 When the wind wakes how they rock in the 
 grasses. 
 And dance with the euckoo-buds slender and 
 small ! 
 Here 's two bonny boys, and here 's mother's own 
 lasses, 
 Eager to g,atlier them all. 
 
 Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 
 
 Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
 Sing them a song of the jiretty hedge-sparrow, 
 That loved her biown little ones, loved them 
 full fidu ; 
 Sing, " Heart, thou art wide though the house 
 be but narrow," — 
 Sing once, and sing it again. 
 
 -«jHI-»- 
 
 -«Hh
 
 34 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 Heigh-ho ! daisies and huttercups. 
 
 Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they 
 bow ; 
 A ship sails afar over -warm ocean waters, 
 
 And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. 
 bonny brown sons, and sweet little daugh- 
 ters, 
 Maybe he thinks on you now ! 
 
 Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, 
 
 Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall — 
 A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure. 
 And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and 
 thrall ! 
 Send dowa on their pleasure smiles passing its 
 measure, 
 God that is over us all ! 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 A SIMPLE child. 
 That lightly draws its breath. 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 Wliat should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl : 
 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 
 Her hair was thick with many a cuil 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air, 
 
 And she was wildly clad ; 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — 
 
 Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 "Sisters and brothers, little maid. 
 
 How many may you be ? " 
 " How many ? Seven in all," she said, 
 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And where are they ? I pray you tell." 
 She answered, " Seven are we ; 
 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea ; 
 
 " Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And, in the churchyard cottage, I 
 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell. 
 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 Yet ye are seven ! I jiray you tell. 
 
 Sweet maid, how this may be." 
 
 Then did the little maid reply, 
 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie 
 
 Beneath the churchyard tree." 
 
 " You run about, my little maid ; 
 
 Yom' limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the churchyard laid. 
 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 "Their gi'aves are green, they may be seen," 
 
 The little maid replied : 
 ' ' Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 " My stockings there I often knit ; 
 
 My kerchief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit, 
 
 And sing a song to them. 
 
 " And often after sunset, sir, 
 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer. 
 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 " The first that died was Sister Jane ; 
 
 In bed she moaning lay. 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 
 And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
 
 And, when the grass was dry, 
 Together round her grave we played, 
 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the giound was white with snow, 
 
 And I could run and slide. 
 My brother John was forced to go, 
 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 " How many are you, then," said I, 
 
 " If they two are in heaven ? " 
 Quick was the little maid's reply : 
 
 " Master ! we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
 
 Their spirits are in heaven ! " — 
 'T was throwing words away ; for still 
 The little maid would have her will. 
 
 And said, " Nay, we are seveji ! " 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS. 
 
 Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 
 
 My little patient boy ; 
 And balmy rest about thee 
 
 Smooths off the day's annoy. 
 
 1-
 
 'T 
 
 IXFAXCY. 
 
 35 
 
 I sit iiic doH n, and think 
 Of all lliy wiimiiig ways ; 
 Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 
 That I had less to praise. 
 
 Thy sidelong ]>illowed meekness ; 
 
 Thy thanks to all that aid ; 
 Thy heart, in jiain and weakness, 
 Of fancied faults afraid ; 
 
 The little trembling hand 
 That wipes thy quiet tears, — 
 These, these are things that may demand 
 Dread merriories for years. 
 
 Sorrows I 've had, severe ones, 
 
 I will not think of now ; 
 And calmly, midst my dear ones. 
 Have wasted with dry brow ; 
 But when thy lingers press 
 And pat my stooping head, 
 I cannot bear the gentleness, — 
 The tears are in their bed. 
 
 Ah, first-born of thy mother. 
 
 When life and liope were new ; 
 Kind playmate of thy brother. 
 Thy sister, father too ; 
 
 My light, where'er I go ; 
 My bird, when prison-bound ; 
 My hand-in-hand companion — No, 
 My prayeis shall hold thee round. 
 
 To say, ' ' He has departed " — 
 
 " His voice " — " his face " — " is gone," 
 To feel imjiatient-hearted. 
 Yet feel we must bear on, — 
 
 Ah, I could not endure 
 To whisper of such woe. 
 Unless I felt this slee]) insure 
 That it will not be so. 
 
 Yes, still he 's fixed, and sleeping ! 
 
 This silence too the while, — 
 Its very hush and creeping 
 Seem whispering us a smile ; 
 Something divine and dim 
 Seems going by one's ear, 
 Like parting wings of cherubim. 
 
 Who say, " We 've finished here." 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 THE PET NAME. 
 
 •' The name 
 Which from f/ut'r lips seemed a caress." 
 
 Miss Mitford's Dramatic Semes. 
 
 I HAVE a name, a little name, 
 
 Uncadenced for the ear, 
 Unhonored by ancestral claim, 
 TJnsanctified by prayer and psalm 
 
 The solemn font anear. 
 
 It never did, to pages wove 
 
 For gay romance, belong. 
 It never dedicate did move 
 As "Saeharissa," unto love, — 
 
 "Oiinda," unto song. 
 
 Though I write books, it will be read 
 
 Upon the leaves of none. 
 And afterward, when I am dead. 
 Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread. 
 
 Across my funeral-stone. 
 
 This name, whoever chance to call, 
 
 Perhaps your smile may win. 
 Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall 
 Over mine eyes, and feel withal 
 The sudden tears within. 
 
 Is there a leaf that greenly grows 
 
 Where summer meadows bloom, 
 But gathereth the winter snows, 
 And changeth to the hue of those, 
 If lasting till they come ? 
 
 Is there a word, or jest, or game. 
 
 But time encrusteth round 
 With sad associate thoughts the same ? 
 And so to me my very name 
 
 Assumes a mournful sound. 
 
 My brother gave that name to me 
 When we were children twain, — 
 
 When names acquired baptismally 
 
 Were hard to utter, as to see 
 That life had any pain. 
 
 No shade was on us then, save one 
 
 Of chestnuts from the hill, — 
 And through the word our laugh did run 
 As part thereof. The mirth being done. 
 He calls me by it still. 
 
 Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it 
 
 'Wbat none of you can hear, — 
 The talk upon the willow seat, 
 The bird and wind that did repeat 
 Around, our human cheer. 
 
 I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, 
 
 My sisters' woodland glee, — 
 My father's jiraise I did not miss, 
 AVhen, stooping down, he cared to kiss 
 The poet at his knee, — 
 
 And voices which, to name me, aye 
 
 Their tenderest tones were keeping, — 
 To some 1 nevermore can say 
 An answer, till Ood wipes away 
 In heaven these drops of weeping.
 
 My name to me a saducss wears ; 
 
 No murmurs cross my mind. 
 Now God 111* thanked for these thick tears, 
 Which show, of those departed years. 
 
 Sweet memories left behind. 
 
 Now God be thanked for years enwrought 
 
 With hive which softens yet. 
 Now God be thanked for every thought 
 AVhich is so tender it has caught 
 
 Earth's guerdon of regret. 
 
 Earth saddens, never shall remove, 
 
 Afl'ections purely given ; 
 And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 
 The immortality of love, 
 
 And heighten it with Heaven. 
 
 ELIZABETH Barrett browning. 
 
 OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. 
 
 Old Master Brown brought his ferule down. 
 
 And his face looked angry and red. 
 "Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair, 
 
 Along with the girls," he said. 
 Tlien Anthony Blair, with a mortified air. 
 
 With his head down on his breast. 
 Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet 
 
 That he loved, of all, the best. 
 And Anthony Blair seemed whimpering there, 
 
 But the rogue only made believe ; 
 For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls, 
 
 And oggled them over his sleeve. 
 
 ANON^'MOUS. 
 
 THE SMACK IN SCHOOL. 
 
 A DISTRICT school, not far away, ■ 
 
 Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day. 
 
 Was humming with its wonted noise 
 
 Of threescore mingled girls and boys ; 
 
 Some few upon their tasks intent. 
 
 But more on furtive mischief bent. 
 
 The while the master's downward look 
 
 Was fastened on a copy-book ; 
 
 WTien suddenly, behind his back, 
 
 Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack ! 
 
 As 't were a battery of bliss 
 
 Let off in one tremendous kiss ! 
 
 "What 's that ? " the startled master cries ; 
 
 "That, thir," a little imp replies, 
 
 " Wath William Willith, if you pleathe, — 
 
 I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe ! " 
 
 With frown to make a statue thrill, 
 
 The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" 
 
 Like \vretch o'ertaken in his track, 
 
 AVith stolen chattels on hi.s baik. 
 
 Will hung his head in fear and shame, 
 
 And to the awful presence came, — 
 
 A gieat, green, bashful simpleton. 
 
 The butt of all good-natured fun. 
 
 AVith smile suppressed, and birch upraised, 
 
 The threatener faltered, — " I 'm amazed 
 
 That you, my biggest pupil, should 
 
 Be guilty of an act so rude ! 
 
 Before the whole set school to boot, — 
 
 What evil genius put you to 't ? " 
 
 " 'T was she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, 
 
 " I did not mean to be so bad ; 
 
 But when Susannah shook her curls, 
 
 And whispered, I was 'fiaid of girls, 
 
 And ihirsn't kiss a baby's doU, 
 
 I could n't stand it, sir, at all, 
 
 But up and kissed her on the spot ! 
 
 I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not. 
 
 But, somehow, from her looks — boo-hoo — 
 
 1 thought she kind o' wished me to ! " 
 
 WILLIAM riTT Palmer- 
 
 THE BAEEFOOT BOY. 
 
 Blessings on thee, little man, 
 Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
 AVith thy turned-up jiantaloons, 
 And thy merrj' whistled tunes ; 
 AVith thy red lip, redder still 
 Kissetl by strawlierries on the hill ; 
 AVith the sunshine on thy face. 
 Through thy toni brim's jaunty grace ; 
 From my heart I give thee joy, — 
 1 was once a barefoot boy ! 
 Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
 Only is republican. 
 Let the million-dollared ride ! 
 Barefoot, trudging at his side. 
 Thou hast more than he can buy 
 In the reach of ear and eye, — 
 Outwaixl sunshine, inward joy : 
 Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 
 
 for boyhood's painless play, 
 Sleep that wakes in laughing day. 
 Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
 Knowledge never learned of schools. 
 Of the wild bee's morning chase. 
 Of the wild-flower's time and place. 
 Flight of fowl and habitude 
 Of the tenants of the wood ; 
 How the tortoise bears his shell. 
 How the woodchuck digs his cell. 
 And the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
 How the robin feeds her young. 
 How the oriole's nest is hung ;
 
 ♦ » ^ 
 
 IXFAXCY. 
 
 AVhere thu whitest lilies blow, 
 Where the freshest berries grow, 
 AVhcre tlie grounduut trails its vine, 
 Where the wooil-grape's elusters shiue ; 
 Of the black wasp's cuiiiiiiig way, 
 Mason of his walls of clay. 
 And the architectural iilans 
 or gray hornet artisans ! — 
 For, eschewing books and tasks, 
 Natirre answers all he asks ; 
 Hand in hand with her he walks, 
 Face to face with her he talks, 
 Part and parcel of her joy, — 
 Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 
 
 for boyhood's time of June, 
 Crowding years in one brief moon, 
 "When all things I heard or saw. 
 Me, their master, waited for. 
 I was rich in flowers and trees. 
 Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
 For my sport the squirrel played. 
 Plied the snouted mole his sjiade ; 
 For my taste the blackberry cone 
 Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
 Laughed the brook for my delight 
 Through the day aud through the night. 
 Whispering at the garden wall, 
 Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
 Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. 
 Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
 Mine, on bending orchard trees. 
 Apples of Hesperides ! 
 Still, as my horizon grew, 
 Larger grew my riches too ; 
 All the world I saw or knew 
 Seemed a complex Chinese toy. 
 Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 
 
 for festal dainties spread. 
 Like my bowl of milk and bread, — 
 Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 
 On the door-stone, gray and rude '. 
 O'er mc, like a regal tent, 
 Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
 Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
 Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
 While for music came the play 
 Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; 
 And, to light the noisy choir. 
 Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
 I was monarch : pomp and joy 
 Waited on the barefoot boy ! 
 
 Cheerly, then, mj' little man. 
 Live and langh, as boyhood can ! 
 Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
 Stubble-speared the now-mown sward, 
 
 Every morn shall lead thee through 
 Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
 Every evening from thy feet 
 Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : 
 All too soon these feet must hide 
 In the prison cells of pride. 
 Lose the freedom of the sod, 
 Like a colt's for work be shod, 
 Made to tread the mills of toil. 
 Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
 Happy if their track be found 
 Never on forbidden ground ; 
 Happy if they sink not in 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
 Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 
 
 John greenleaf WuiTTlEa. 
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded days ! 
 The minutes parting one by one like rays 
 
 That fade upon a summer's eve. 
 But O, what charm or magic numbers 
 Can give me back the gentle slumbers 
 
 Those weary, happy days did leave ? 
 When by my bed I saw my mother kneel. 
 
 And with her blessing took her nightly kiss ; 
 
 Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this ; — 
 
 E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 
 
 Washington Allsto.s. 
 
 OUR WEE WHITE KOSE. 
 
 Alt. in our marriage garden 
 
 Grew, smiling up to God, 
 A bonnier flower than ever 
 
 Suckt the green warmth of the sod ; 
 beautiful unfathomably 
 
 Its little life unfurled ; 
 And crown of all things was our wee 
 
 White Piose of all the world. 
 
 From out a balmy bosom 
 
 Our bud of beauty grew ; 
 It fed on smiles for sunshine. 
 
 On tears for daintier dew : 
 Aye nestling warm and tenderly. 
 
 Our leaves of love were curled 
 So close and close about our wee 
 
 White Rose of all the world. 
 
 With mystical faint fragrance 
 Our liouse of life she filled ; 
 
 Pievealed each hour some fairy tower 
 Where winged hopes might build ! 
 
 T
 
 a 
 
 38 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 We saw — though none like us might see — 
 
 Such precious promise pearled 
 Upon the petals of our wee 
 
 White Rose of all the world. 
 
 But evermore the halo 
 
 Of angel-light increased, 
 Like the mystery of moonlight 
 
 That folds some fairy feast. 
 Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently 
 
 Our darling bud up-curled. 
 And dropt i' the grave — God's lap — our wee 
 
 AVhite Rose of all the world. 
 
 Our Rose was hut in blossom. 
 
 Our life was but in spring. 
 When down the solemn midnight 
 
 We heard the spirits sing, 
 "Another bud of infancy 
 
 With holy dews impearlcd ! " 
 And in their hands they bore our wee 
 
 White Rose of all the world. 
 
 You scarce could think so small a thing 
 
 Could leave a loss so large ; 
 Her little light such shadow (ling 
 
 From dawn to sunset's marge. 
 In other springs our life may be 
 
 In bannered bloom unfurled, 
 But never, never match our wee 
 
 White Rose of all the world. 
 
 Gerald Massev. 
 
 PICTURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 AiiON'r; the beautiful pictures 
 
 That hang on Memory's wall 
 Is one of a dim old forest, 
 
 That seemeth best of all ; 
 Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 
 
 Dark with the mistletoe ; 
 Not for the violets golden 
 
 That sprinkle the vale below ; 
 Not for the milk-white lilies 
 
 That lean from the fragrant ledge. 
 Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 
 
 And stealing their golden edge ; 
 Not for the vines on the upland, 
 
 AVhcre the bright red berries rest. 
 Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip. 
 
 It seemeth to me the best. 
 
 I once had a little brother. 
 
 With eyes that were dark and deep ; 
 In the lap of that old dim forest 
 
 He lieth in peace asleep : 
 Light as the down of the thistle. 
 
 Free as the winds that blow, 
 
 We roved there the beautiful summers, 
 
 The summers of long ago ; 
 But his feet on the hills grew weaiy, 
 
 And, one of the autumn eves, 
 I made for my little brother 
 
 A bed of the yellow leaves. 
 Sweetly his pale arms folded 
 
 My neck in a meek embrace. 
 As the light of immortal beauty 
 
 Silently covered his face ; 
 And when the arrows of sunset 
 
 Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
 He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 
 
 Asleep by the gates of light. 
 Therefore, of all the pictures 
 
 That hang on Jlemory's w-all, 
 The one of the dim old forest 
 
 Seemeth the best of all. 
 
 Alice Carv. 
 
 HARRY ASHLAND, ONE OF MY LOVERS. 
 
 1 ii.WF. a lover, a little lover, he rolls on the 
 
 grass and plays in the clover ; 
 He builds block-houses and digs clay wells, and 
 
 makes sand-pies in his hat. 
 On Sundays he swings in the little porch, or has 
 
 a clean collar and goes to church. 
 And asks me to marry him, when he grows up, 
 
 and live in a house " like that." 
 He wears a great apron like a sack, — it 's hard 
 
 they don't put him in trousers and jackets ; 
 But his soul is far above buttons, and his hopes 
 
 for the future o'ei-shoot them. 
 For Harry, like laiger lovers, will court, without 
 
 any visible means of support. 
 And ask you to give him your heart and hand, 
 
 when he does n't know where to put them. 
 
 All day he 's tumbling, and leaping, and jump- 
 ing, — running and calling, hammering and 
 thumping. 
 
 Playing "bo-i)eep" with the blue-eyed babe, or 
 chasing the cows in the lane ; 
 
 But at twilight around my chair he lingers, 
 clasping my hand in his dimpled fingers. 
 
 And I wonder if love so pure and fresh I shall 
 ever inspire again ! 
 
 The men that kneel and declaim their passion, — 
 the men that "annex" you in stately fash- 
 ion, — 
 
 There is not so much of truth and warmth in all 
 the hearts of a score, — 
 
 And I look in the honest eyes of this baby, and 
 wonder what would have happened, maybe. 
 
 If Heaven had not made me be twenty now, 
 while Harry is only four.
 
 I liave a little rival naiued Ada, she cUngs to a 
 
 promise that Harry mailc her, 
 " To build her a house all lull of doors," and live 
 
 with her there some day ; 
 Hut Ada is growing lauk ami thin, —they say 
 
 she will have a peakeil chin, 
 And I think had nearly outgrown her "lirst 
 
 love " before 1 came in the way. 
 She wears short skirts, and a pink-trimmed 
 
 Shaker, the nicest aprons her mother can 
 
 make her. 
 And a Sunday hat with feathers ; but it does n t 
 
 matter how she is dressed. 
 For Harry — sweetest of earthly lispers— has 
 
 said in my ear, in loudest whispers, 
 With his dear short arms around my neck, that 
 
 he "likes the <jroii-ii-up bonnets best." 
 
 He says he shall learn to be a lawyer, but his 
 
 private preference is a sawyer. 
 And counselors, not less than carpenters, live 
 
 by "sawdust" and by horcs. 
 It's easier to saw a plank in two than to bore a 
 
 judicial blockhead through, 
 And if panels of jurors fail to yield, he can 
 
 always panel doors. 
 It 's a question of enterprise versus wood, and if 
 
 his hammer and will be good. 
 If his energetic little brown liand be as steady 
 
 and busy then, 
 Though chisel or pen be the weapon he 's need- 
 ing, whether his business is planing or plead- 
 ing. 
 Harry will cut his way through the ranks, and 
 stand at the head of you men ! 
 
 I say to him sometimes, "My dearest Harry, we 
 
 have n't money enough to marry " ; 
 He has si.tty cents in his little tin " bank," and 
 
 a keepsake in his drawer- ; 
 But he always promises, " I '11 get plenty — I '11 
 
 find where they make it, when I 'm twenty ; 
 I 'U go down town where the other men do, and 
 
 bring it out of the store." 
 And then he describes such wonderful dresses, 
 
 and gives me such gallant hugs and caresses. 
 With items of courtship from Mother Goose, silk 
 
 cushions and rings of gold, 
 And 1 think what a fond tree breast to dream on, 
 
 what a dear, brave heai-t for a woman to 
 
 lean on. 
 What a king and kingdom are saving up for 
 
 some baby a twelvemonth old ! 
 
 Twenty years hence, when I am forty, and Harry 
 a young man, gay and naughty. 
 
 Flirting and dancing, and shooting guns, driv- 
 ing fast horses and cracking whips, 
 
 The handsomest fellow ! — Heaven bless him ! — 
 
 setting the girls all wild to possess him, — 
 With his°dark nmstache and hazel eyes, and 
 
 cigars in tliose pretty lips ! 
 0, do you think he will quite forget me, —do you 
 
 believe he will ever regret me? 
 Will he wisli the twenty years back again, or 
 
 deem this an idle myth. 
 While I shall sometimes push up my glasses, 
 j and sigh as my baby- lover passes, 
 
 I And wonder if Heaven sets this world right, as 
 
 I look at ilr. Smith ! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. 
 
 f Thorn gives the following narralive as to the origin of "The 
 .M.tiierless Bairn " : " When I was livin' in Aberdeen. 1 was limping 
 roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the grectin' o' a wean. 
 A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowm . 
 ■ Ye hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn '. ' I liobbled up the stair 
 and wrote the sang afore sleepin'."] 
 
 WiiEX a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame 
 r,y aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, 
 Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin' ? 
 'T is the puir doited loonie, — the mitherless 
 bairn ! 
 
 The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed ; 
 Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare 
 
 head ; 
 His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn. 
 All' litheless the lair o' the mitherless baim. 
 
 Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover 
 
 there, 
 0' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair ; 
 Tint mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern. 
 That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless baim ! 
 
 Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed 
 Now rests in the mools where her niammie is 
 
 laid ; 
 The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, 
 An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. 
 
 Her spirit, that passed iu yon hour o' his birth, 
 Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; 
 Recording in heaven the blessings they earn 
 Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! 
 
 O, speak him na harshly,— he trembles the 
 
 while, 
 He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; 
 In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall 
 
 learn 
 That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn ! 
 
 William Tho.m.
 
 40 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 
 
 I LOVE it, I love it ! and who shall dare 
 
 To chide nic for loving that old arm-chair? 
 
 I 've treasured it long as a sainted jirize, 
 
 I 've bedewed it with tears, I 've embalmed it 
 
 with sighs. 
 'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start ; 
 Would you know the spell ? — a mother sat there ! 
 And a sacred thing is that old arni-chaii-. 
 
 In childhood's hour I lingered near 
 
 The hallowed scat with listening ear ; 
 
 And gentle words that mother would give 
 
 To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 
 
 She told me that shame would never betide, 
 
 AVith Truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; 
 
 She tauglit me to lisp my earliest prayer, 
 
 As I knelt besiile that old arm-chair. 
 
 I sat, and watched her many a day, 
 When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ; 
 And I almost worshiped her when she smiled. 
 And turned from her Bible to bless her chUd. 
 Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — 
 My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! 
 And I learned how much the heart can bear, 
 When I saw her die in her old arm-chau'. 
 
 'T is past, 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now, 
 With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 
 'T was there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
 Wliilst scalding drops start down my cheek ; 
 But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 
 
 Eliza cook. 
 
 THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 
 
 How dear to this heai-t are the scenes of my 
 childhood. 
 When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- 
 wood. 
 And every loved spotwhichmyinfancyknew ; — 
 The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which 
 stood by it. 
 The bridge, and therockwhere tlie cataractfell ; 
 The cot of my father, the daiiy-house nigh it. 
 And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the 
 well. 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
 The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 
 
 That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; 
 For often, at noon, when retuiued from the 
 field, 
 I found it the source of an e-xquisite pleasure, 
 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
 How ardent I seized it, with hands that were 
 glowing ! 
 And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
 Then soon, with the emlilem of truth overflowing, 
 And drippiug with coolness, it rose from the 
 well ; 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 
 
 How sweet from the green mossy brim to re- 
 ceive it. 
 As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
 Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
 leave it, 
 Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved situation, 
 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 
 And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the 
 well ; 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
 The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 
 
 SAMUEL WOODWOKTH. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 I r.EMEMBF.R, I remember 
 
 The house where I was born, 
 The little window where the sun 
 
 Came peeping in at morn. 
 He never came a wink too soon, 
 
 Nor brought too long a day ; 
 But now I often wish the night 
 
 Had borne m}' breath away ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The roses, red and white, 
 The violets, and the lily-cups, — 
 
 Tliose flowers made of light ! 
 The lilacs where the robin built, 
 
 And where my brother set 
 The laburnum on his birthday, — 
 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing. 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing ; 
 My spirit flew in fe.athers then. 
 
 That is so heavy now. 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow !
 
 MY MOTHER AND HKR BIBLE. 
 
 ' / sat and ivatched her matiy n day, 
 When her eye greiv dim. and her locks vere gray: 
 And 1 almost -worshiped her when she smiled. 
 And turned from her Bible to bless her child."
 
 I remember, I remfinber 
 
 T)ie lir-treis lUirk iuul high; 
 I used to think tlicir slender tops 
 
 Wei'e elose agiiiiist tlie sky. 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 But now 't is little joy 
 To know I 'm farther oil' from heaven 
 
 Than when I was a hoy. 
 
 TnOMAi HOOD, 
 
 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 
 
 Woodman, spare that tree ! 
 
 Touch not a single bough ! 
 In youth it sheltered nie. 
 
 And I '11 protect it now. 
 'T was my forefather's hand 
 
 That placed it near his cot ; 
 There, woodman, let it stand, 
 
 Thy ax shall liarm it not ! 
 
 That old familiar tree. 
 Whose glory and renown 
 
 Are spread o'er laud and sea. 
 And wouldst thou hew it down? 
 
 Woodman, I'oibear thy stroke ! 
 Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
 
 0, spare that aged oak. 
 
 Now towering to the skies ! 
 
 When but an idle boy 
 
 I sought its grateful shade ; 
 In all their gushing joy 
 
 Here too my sisters played. 
 My mother kissed me here ; 
 
 My fatlii-r [iressed my hand — 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 But let that old oak st;ind ! 
 
 My heart-strings round thee cling, 
 
 Close as thy bark, old frienil ! 
 Here shall the wild-bird sing. 
 
 And still thy branches bend. 
 Old tree ! the storm still brave\ 
 
 And, woodman, leave the spot-, 
 Wliile I 've a hand to save, 
 
 Thy ax shall harm it not. 
 
 George p. Morris.
 
 42 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 YOUTH, 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. 
 
 Little Ellie sits alone 
 Mid the beeches of a meadow. 
 
 By a stream-side, on the grass, 
 
 And the trees are showering down 
 Doubles of their leaves in shadow 
 
 On her shining hair and face. 
 
 She has thrown her bonnet by, 
 And her feet she has been dipping 
 
 In the shallow water's flow. 
 
 Now she holds them nakedly 
 In her hands all sleek and dripping, 
 
 While she rooketh to and fro. 
 
 Little Ellie sits alone, 
 And the smile she softly uses 
 
 Fills the silence like a speech, 
 
 "While she thinks what shall be done, — 
 And the sweetest pleasure chooses 
 
 For her future within reach. 
 
 Little Ellie in her smile 
 Chooses . ..." I will have a lover. 
 
 Riding on a steed of steeds I 
 
 He shall love me without guile. 
 And to him. 1 will discover 
 
 The swan's nest among the reeds. 
 
 "And the steed shall be red-roan, 
 And the lover shall be noble, 
 
 "With an eye that takes the breath. 
 
 And the lute he plays upon 
 Shall strike ladies into trouble. 
 
 As his sword strikes men to death. 
 
 " .\nd the steed it shall be shod 
 All in silver, housed in azure, 
 
 And the mane shall swim the wind; 
 
 And the hoofs along the sod 
 Shall flash onward and keep measure, 
 
 Till the shepherds look behind. 
 
 " But my lover will not prize 
 All the glory that he rides in. 
 
 When he gazes in my face. 
 
 He will say, ' Love, thine eyes 
 Build the shrine my soid abides iu, 
 
 And I kneel here for thy grace.' 
 
 " Then, ay, then — he shall kneel low, 
 ■With the red-roan steed anear him, 
 
 Which shall seem to understand — 
 Till 1 answer, ' Rise and go ! 
 For the world must love and fear him 
 Whom I gift with heart and hand.' 
 
 "Then he will arise so pale, 
 I shall feel my own lips tremble 
 
 AVith a yes 1 must not say ; 
 
 Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,' 
 I will utter, and dissemble ; — 
 
 'Light to-morrow with to-day.' 
 
 " Then he '11 ride among the hiUs 
 To the wide world past the river, 
 
 There to put away all WTong ; 
 
 To make straight distorted wills, 
 And to empty the broad quiver 
 
 Which the wicked bear along. 
 
 " Three times shall a young foot-page 
 Swim the stream and climb the mountain 
 
 And kneel down beside my feet; — 
 
 ' Lo, my master sends this gage, 
 Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 
 
 AVhat wilt thou exchange for it?' 
 
 " And the first time, I will send 
 A white rosebud for a guerdon, — 
 
 And the second time, a glove ; 
 
 But the third time, I may bend 
 From my pride, and answer, ' Pardon, 
 
 If he comes to take my love.' 
 
 " Then the young foot-page will run, — 
 Then my lover will ride faster, 
 
 Till he kneeleth at my knee : 
 
 ' I am a Duke's eldest son ! 
 Thousand serfs do call me master, — 
 
 But, Love, I love but thee/' 
 
 " He will kiss me on the mouth 
 Then, and lead me as a lover 
 
 Through the crowds that praise his deeds ; 
 
 And, when soul-tied by one troth, 
 Unto him I wUl discover 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds." 
 
 Little Ellie, with her smile 
 Not yet ended, rose up gayly. 
 
 Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, 
 
 And went homeward, round a mile, 
 Just to see, as she did daily. 
 
 AVhat more eggs were with the two. 
 
 A 
 
 i-
 
 
 YUUTH. 
 
 43 
 
 Pushing through the elm-tree copse, 
 Winding ujj the stream, light-hearted, 
 
 AVliere the osier patinvay leads, — 
 
 Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. 
 Lo, the wild swan had deserted. 
 
 And a rat had gnawed the reeds. 
 
 EUie went home sad and slow. 
 If she found the lover ever, 
 
 With his red-roan steed of steeds, 
 
 Sooth I know not ! but I know 
 She could never show him — never. 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds ! 
 
 ELizABiiTH Barrett Browni.ng. 
 
 LITTLE BELL. 
 
 Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray, 
 " Pretty maid, slow wandering this way. 
 
 What 's your name?" rpioth he, — 
 "What's your name ? 0, stop and straight unfold. 
 Pretty maid with showery curls of gold." — 
 
 "Little Bell," said she. 
 
 Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks. 
 Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks, — 
 
 " Bonny bird," rjuoth she, 
 " Sing me your best song before I go." 
 " Here 's the very finest song I know. 
 
 Little Bell," said he. 
 
 And the blackbird piped ; you never he.ard 
 Half so gay a song from any bird, — 
 
 Full of ipiips and wiles, 
 Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, 
 All for love of that sweet face below. 
 
 Dimpled o'er with smiles. 
 
 And the while the bonny bird did pour 
 His full heart 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 tripped and through the glade. 
 Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade. 
 
 And from out the tree 
 Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear; 
 While bold blackbird piped that all might hear, — 
 
 " Little Bell," piped he. 
 
 Little Bell sat dow^n 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 tlie tree 
 Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, 
 In the little lap dropped one by one. 
 Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun ! 
 
 " Happy Bell," pipes he. 
 
 Little Bell looked up and down the glade, — 
 "Squirrel, squirrel, if you 're not afraid, 
 
 Come and share with me ! " 
 Down came sipiirrel eager for his fare, 
 Down came bonny blackl)ird, 1 declare; 
 Little Bell gave each his honest share, — ■ 
 
 Ah the merry three ! 
 And the while these frolic playmates twain 
 Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 
 
 'Neath the morning skies. 
 In the little childish heart below 
 All the sweetness seems to grow and grow. 
 And slun.e out in happy overflow 
 
 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 
 Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, 
 In blue heaven, an angel shape serene 
 
 Paused awhile to hear. 
 " Wliat good child is this," the angel said, 
 " That with happy heart beside her bed 
 
 Praj's so lovingly? " 
 Low and soft, 0, very low and soft, 
 Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, 
 
 " Bell, dear Bell !" crooned he. 
 
 "Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair 
 Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care; 
 
 C liild, thy bed shall be 
 Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind. 
 Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind. 
 
 Little Bell, for thee!" 
 
 Thomas Westwood. 
 
 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 
 
 'T WAS the night before Christmas, when all 
 
 through the house 
 Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse : 
 The stockings were hung by the chimney with 
 
 care, 
 In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there: 
 The cliildren were nestled all snug in their beds. 
 While visions of sugar-plums danced in their 
 
 heads ; 
 And mamma in her kerchief, anil I in my cap, 
 Had j\ist settled our brains for a long winter's 
 
 nap, — 
 
 ^
 
 4-i 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 AVheu out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
 I sprang from :uy bed to see what was the matter. 
 Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
 Tore open the slmttei-s and threw up the sash. 
 The moon on the breast of the new-lallen snow 
 Gave a lustre of midday to objects below ; 
 When, what to my wondering eyes should ajipear. 
 But a miniature sleigh and eight tinj' reindeer, 
 AVith a little old driver, so lively and quick 
 1 knew in a moment it must be St. Kick. 
 More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. 
 And lie whistled and shouted, and called them 
 
 by name : 
 "Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Prancerand 
 
 Vixen ! 
 On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzen ! 
 To the top of the porch, to the top of the waU ! 
 Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!" 
 As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 
 WTien they meet with an obstacle, mount to the 
 
 sky. 
 So up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 
 With the sleigh full of toys, — and St. Nicholas 
 
 too. 
 And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
 The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
 As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
 Down thechimney St. Nicholas came withahound. 
 He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot. 
 And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and 
 
 soot ; 
 A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. 
 And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. 
 His eyes how they twinkled ! his dimples how 
 
 merry ! 
 His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; 
 His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 
 And the beard on his chin was as white as the 
 
 snow. 
 The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth. 
 And the smoke it encii'cled his head like a WTeath. 
 He had a broad face and a little round belly 
 That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl fuU of 
 
 jelly. 
 He was chubby and plump, — a right jolly old elf ; 
 And I laughed, when! saw him, in spite of myself. 
 A wmk of his eye and a twist of his head 
 Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
 He spokenotaword, butwent straight to hiswork, 
 And filled aU the stockings ; then turned with a 
 
 jerk. 
 And lajing his finger aside of his nose. 
 And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
 He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gaveawhistle, 
 And away they all flew like the down of a thistle ; 
 But 1 heard him exclaim, ere he droveout of .sight, 
 "Happy Christmas to all, andtoallagood-night !" 
 Clement C. Moore. 
 
 THE FKOST. 
 
 The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, 
 And he said, " Now I shall be out of sight ; 
 So through the valley and over the height 
 
 In sUence 1 11 take my way. 
 I will not go like that blustering train. 
 The wind and the snow, the liail and the rain, 
 Who make so much bustle and noise in vain. 
 
 But I 'U be as busy as they ! " 
 
 Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its 
 
 crest, 
 He climbed up the ti'ees, and their boughs he 
 
 dressed 
 With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast 
 
 Of the quivering lake he spread 
 A coat of maU, that it need not fear 
 The downward point of many a spear 
 That he hung on its margin, far and near, 
 
 Where a rock could rear its head. 
 
 He went to the windows of those who slept, 
 jVnd over each pane like a fairy crept : 
 Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, 
 
 By the light of the moon was seen 
 Most beautiful things. There were flowers and 
 
 trees. 
 There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees. 
 There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, 
 and these 
 
 All pictured in silver sheen ! 
 
 But he did one thing that was hardly fair, — 
 He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there 
 That all had forgotten for him to prepare, — 
 
 " Now, just to set them a thinking, 
 I '11 bite this basket of fruit," said he ; 
 "This costly pitcher I '11 burst in three, 
 And the glass of water they 've left for me 
 
 Shall ' tckick! ' to tell them I 'm drinking." 
 HAXNAH F. Gould. 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 " One name is Elizabeth."— BEN JONSON. 
 
 I WILL paint her as I see her. 
 Ten times have the lUies blown 
 Since she looked upon the sun. 
 
 And her face is lily-clear, 
 
 Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty 
 To the law of its own beauty. 
 • 
 
 Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 
 Which a trail of golden hair 
 Keeps from fading otf to air ;
 
 And a foreliead fair ami saintly, 
 Which two bhie cvos uiicioii^hiiie, 
 Like meek iirayers bel'oic a shrine. 
 
 Face and tignrc of a cliild, — 
 
 Thovigli too cidiii, you think, and tender, 
 For the childliood you would lend her. 
 
 Yet child-simple, nndcriled, 
 
 Frank, obedient, — waiting still 
 On the turnings of your will. 
 
 Moving light, as all your things, 
 As young binls, or early wheat, 
 When the wind blows over it. 
 
 Only, free from flutterings 
 
 Of loud mirth that scorneth measure, — 
 Taking love for her chief pleasure. 
 
 Choosing pleasures, for the rest, 
 Which come softly, — just as she, 
 When she nestles at your knee. 
 
 Quiet talk she liketh best. 
 In a bower of gentle looks, — 
 Watering flowers, or reading books. 
 
 And her voice, it mui-murs lowly, 
 As a silver stream may run. 
 Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. 
 
 And her smile it seems half holy. 
 As if drawn from thoughts more far 
 Than our common jestings are. 
 
 And if any poet knew her. 
 
 He would sing of her with falls 
 Used in lovely madrigals. 
 
 And if any painter drew her. 
 He would paint her unaware 
 With a halo round the hair. 
 
 And if reader read the poem. 
 
 He would whisper, " You have done a 
 Consecrated little Una." 
 
 And a dreamer (did you show him 
 That same j>ii'tnre) would exclaim, 
 " 'T is my angel, with a name ! " 
 
 And a stranger, when he sees her 
 In the street even, smilcth stilly, 
 Just as you would at a lily. 
 
 And all voices that address her 
 Soften, sleeken every word. 
 As if speaking to a bird. 
 
 And all fancies yearn to cover 
 The hard earth whereon she passes, 
 With the thymy-scented grasses. 
 
 And all hearts do priiy, "God love her ! "- 
 Ay, and iT.rtes, in good sooth. 
 We may all be sure he doth. 
 
 El-IZAJiElH BAKKHIT BKOWMNC. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 
 
 Betwkkn the dark and the daylight, 
 When night is bcgmning to lower. 
 
 Conies a pause in the day's occupations. 
 That is known as the children's hour. 
 
 I hear in the chamber above nie 
 
 The patter of little feet. 
 The sound of a iloor that is opened. 
 
 And voices soft and sweet. 
 
 From my study 1 see in the lamplight. 
 Descending the broad hall stair. 
 
 Grave Alii;e and laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair. 
 
 A whisper and then a silence ; 
 
 Yet I know by their merry eyes 
 They are plotting and planning together 
 
 To take me by surprise. 
 
 A sudden rush from the stairway, 
 A sudden raid from the hall, — 
 
 By three doors left unguarded, 
 They enter my castle wall. 
 
 They climb up into my turret, 
 
 O'er the arms and hack of my chair ; 
 
 If I try to escape, they surround me : 
 They seem to be everywhere. 
 
 They almost devour me with kisses. 
 Their arms aliout me entwine. 
 
 Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
 In his JIousc-Tower on the Rhine. 
 
 Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, 
 Because you have scaled the wall. 
 
 Such an old mustache .as I am 
 Is not a match for you all ? 
 
 I have you fast in my fortress, 
 And will not let you depart. 
 
 But put you into the dungeon 
 In the roinid-tower of my heart. 
 
 J- 
 
 t^9'
 
 -.L 
 
 46 
 
 PUEMS OF IXFAyCY AXD YUUTH. 
 
 .L 
 
 And there will 1 keep you forever, 
 
 Yes, forever and a day. 
 Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 
 
 And moulder in dust awa}-. 
 
 H. \V. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THREAD AND SONG. 
 
 SwEETEi: and sweeter, 
 
 Soft and low, 
 Neat little nymph. 
 
 Thy numliers flow, 
 Urging thy thimble. 
 Thrift's tidy symbol, 
 Busy and nimble. 
 
 To and fro ; 
 Prettily plying 
 
 Threail and song, 
 Keeping them flying 
 
 Late and long, 
 Though the stitch linger. 
 Kissing thy finger 
 
 Quick, — as it skips along. 
 
 Many an echo. 
 
 Soft and low. 
 Follows thy flying 
 
 Fancy so, — 
 Melodies thrilling. 
 Tenderly filling 
 Thee with their trilling, 
 
 Come and go ; 
 Memory's finger, 
 
 Quick as thine, 
 Loving to linger 
 
 On the line. 
 Writes of another. 
 Dearer than brother : 
 
 Would that the name were mine ! 
 JOHN Williamson Palmer. 
 
 SEVEN TIMES TWO. 
 
 ROMANCE. 
 
 You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your 
 changes. 
 
 How many soever they be, 
 And let the brown meadow-lark's noteasheranges 
 
 Come over, come over to me. 
 
 Y^et birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling 
 
 No magical sense conveys, 
 And bells have forgotten their old art of telling 
 
 The fortune of future days. 
 
 ' ' Turn again, turn again, "once they rang clieerily 
 While a boy listened alone : 
 
 Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily 
 All by himself on a stone. 
 
 Poor bells ! 1 forgive you ; j'our good daj's are 
 over. 
 And mine, they are yet to be ; 
 No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught 
 discover : 
 You leave the story to me. 
 
 The foxglove shoots out of the gieen matted 
 heather, 
 
 Preparing her hoods of snow ; 
 She was idle, and slept tUl the sunshiny weather : 
 
 0, children take long to grow. 
 
 1 wish, and I wish that the sjiring would go 
 fastei', 
 
 Nor long summer bide so late ; 
 And 1 could grow on like the foxglove and aster. 
 
 For some things are ill to wait. 
 
 I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover. 
 While dear hands are laid on my head ; 
 
 ' ' The child is a woman, the book may close over. 
 For all the lessons are said." 
 
 I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it. 
 
 Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 
 
 The bells cannot ring it, but long years, bring 
 
 it ! 
 
 Such as I wish it to be. 
 
 Jean ingelow. 
 
 RAIN ON THE ROOF. 
 
 When the showery vapors gather over all the 
 starry spheres. 
 
 And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in 
 rainy tears, 
 
 'T is a joy to press the pUlow of a cottage cham- 
 ber bed, 
 
 And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead. 
 
 Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the 
 
 heart. 
 And a thousand dreary fancies into busy being 
 
 start; 
 And a thousand recollections weave theii- bright 
 
 hues into woof, 
 As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the 
 
 roof. 
 
 There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to 
 
 years agone, 
 To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them 
 
 tUl the dawn. 
 
 f 
 
 mam
 
 1 can see her bending o'er me, as 1 listen to the 
 
 strain 
 Which is played uijon the shingles by the patter 
 
 of the rain. 
 
 Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and 
 
 waving hair, 
 And her bright-eyed cherub brother, — a serene, 
 
 angelic pair, — 
 Glide aronnd my wakeful pillow with their praise 
 
 or mild reproof. 
 As I listen to the murnmr of the soft rain on the 
 
 roof. 
 
 And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' 
 
 delicious blue. 
 I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all 
 
 untrue ; 
 I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love 
 
 again, 
 And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter 
 
 of the rain. 
 
 There is naught in art's bravuras that can work 
 with such a spell. 
 
 In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the 
 holy passions swell, 
 
 As that melody of nature, — that subdued, sub- 
 duing strain. 
 
 Which is played upon the shingles by the patter 
 of the rain. 
 
 COATES KliN.NEV. 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF NATURE. 
 
 Thkee years she grew in sun and shower ; 
 Then 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 will 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 fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 And hers the silence and the calm. 
 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 " The floating clouds their state .shall lend 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 
 E'en in the motions of the stcrm 
 Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 " The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret jilace 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 " And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and 1 together live 
 
 Here in this happy dcU." 
 
 Thus Nature spake. The work was done, — 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 This heath, this calm and rpiiet scene ; 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And nevermore will be. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 Maiden ! with the meek brown eyes, 
 In whose orbs a shadow lies 
 Like the dusk in evening skies ! 
 
 Thou whose locks outshine the sun, — 
 Golden tresses wreathed in one. 
 As the braided streamlets run ! 
 
 Standing, with reluctant feet, 
 ■Where the brook and river meet, 
 AVomanhood and childhood fleet ! 
 
 Gazing, with a timid glance. 
 On the brooklet's swift advance. 
 On the river's broad expanse ! 
 
 Deep.and still, that gliding stream 
 Beautiful to thee must seem 
 As the river of a dream. 
 
 Then why pause with indecision. 
 When bright angels in thy vision 
 Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 
 
 Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
 As the dove, with startled eye, 
 Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 
 
 Hearest thou voices on the shore. 
 That our ears perceive no more, 
 Deafened by the cataract's roar ?
 
 1 
 
 48 I'UEMS OF IXFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 
 
 (") tliou cliilil of many juayers ! 
 
 And so innocent, that ill 
 
 
 
 Life hath (luicksamis. Life hath snares ! 
 
 Slie nor acts nor understands. 
 
 
 
 Care and age come unawares ! 
 
 Women's feet run still astray 
 If to ill they know the way. 
 
 
 
 Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
 
 
 
 
 Morning rises into noon, 
 
 She sails by that rock, the court, 
 
 
 
 May glides onward into June. 
 
 Where oft virtue splits her mast ; 
 And retiredness thinks the port, 
 
 
 
 Childhood is the bough where slumbered 
 
 Where her fame may anchor cast. 
 
 
 
 Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — ■ 
 
 Virtue safely cannot sit 
 
 
 
 Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 
 
 Where vice is enthroneil for wit. 
 
 
 
 Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
 
 She holds that day's pleasure best 
 
 
 
 When the young heart overflows. 
 
 Wliere sin waits not on delight ; 
 
 
 
 To embalm that tent of snows. 
 
 AVithout mask, or ball, or feast. 
 Sweetly spends a winter's night. 
 
 
 
 Bear a lily in thy hand ; 
 
 O'er that darkness whence is thrust 
 
 
 
 Gates of bra-ss cannot withstand 
 
 Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. 
 
 
 
 One touch of that magic wand. 
 
 
 
 
 
 She her throne makes reason climb. 
 
 
 
 Bear through sorrow, wTong, and ruth, 
 
 While wild passions captive lie ; 
 
 
 
 In thy heart the dew of youth, 
 
 And each article of time. 
 
 
 
 On thy lips the smile of truth. 
 
 Her pure thoughts to heaven fly ; 
 All her vows religious be, 
 
 
 
 0, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
 
 And she vows her love to rae. 
 
 
 
 Into wounds that cannot heal. 
 
 William Habinctcn. 
 
 
 
 Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
 
 THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN. 
 
 
 
 Into many a sunless heart, 
 
 
 
 
 For a smile of God thou art. 
 
 The shades of eve had crossed the glen 
 
 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, 
 
 When, nigli Loch Dan, two weary men. 
 
 We stopped before a cottage door. 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 CASTARA. 
 
 " God save all here," my conu-ade cries, 
 
 
 
 Like the violet, which alone 
 
 And rattles on the raised latch -pin ; 
 
 
 
 Prospers in some happy shade. 
 
 " God save you kindlj-," quick replies 
 
 
 
 My Castara lives unknown, 
 
 A clear sweet voice, and asks us in. 
 
 
 
 To no ruder eye betrayed ; 
 
 
 
 
 For she 's to herself untrue 
 
 We enter ; from the wheel she starts, 
 
 
 
 Who delights i' the public view. 
 
 A rosy girl with solt black eyes ; 
 
 
 
 Her fluttering court'sy takes our hearts. 
 
 
 
 Such is her beauty as no arts 
 
 Her bhisliing grace and pleased surprise. 
 
 
 
 Have enriched with borrowed grace. 
 
 
 
 
 Her high birtli no pride imparts. 
 
 Poor Mary, she was quite alone, 
 
 
 
 For she blushes in her place. 
 
 For, all the way to Glenmalure, 
 
 
 
 Folly boasts a glorious blood, — 
 
 Her mother had that morning gone, 
 
 
 
 She is noblest being good. 
 
 And left the house in charge with her. 
 
 
 
 Cautious, she knew never yet 
 
 But neither household cares, nor yet 
 
 
 
 What a wanton courtship meant ; 
 
 The shame that startled virgins feel. 
 
 
 
 Nor speaks loud to boast her wit. 
 
 Could make the generous girl forget 
 
 
 
 In her silence eloquent. 
 
 Her wonted hospitable zeal. 
 
 
 
 Of herself survey she takes. 
 
 
 
 
 But 'tween men no difference makes. 
 
 She brought us in a beeehen bowl 
 Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, 
 
 
 
 She obeys with speedy -will 
 
 Oat cake, and such a yeUow roll 
 
 
 
 Her grave parents' wise commands ; 
 
 Of butter, — it gilds all my rhyme ! 
 
 
 
 

 
 •» a ^ 
 
 ^L 
 
 
 YOUTH. 49 
 
 ' 
 
 
 And, wliile we ate tlic grateful food 
 (Witli weary limbs on bcncli reclined), 
 
 Considerate and discreet, she stood 
 Apart, and listened to the wind. 
 
 On her cheek an autumn flush 
 Deeply ripened ; — such a lilush 
 lu the midst of brown was born. 
 Like red popjiies grown with com. 
 
 
 
 Kind wishes both our souls engaged. 
 From breast to breast spontaneous ran 
 
 Tlie mutual thought, — we stood and pledged 
 The moiiest rose auove Loch Dan. 
 
 Round her eyes her tres.ses fell, — 
 Which were blackest none could tell ; 
 But long lashes veiled a light 
 That had else been all too bright. 
 
 
 
 " The milk we drink is not more pure, 
 Sweet Mary, — bless those budding ehanus ! — 
 
 Than your ovra generous lieart, I 'm sure. 
 Nor whiter than the breast it warms ! " 
 
 And her hat, with shady brim. 
 Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
 Thus .she stood amid the stooks. 
 Praising God with sweetest looks. 
 
 
 
 She turned and gazed, unused to hear 
 Such language in that homely glen ; 
 
 But, Maiy, you have nauglit to fear, 
 Though smiled on by two stranger-men. 
 
 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. 
 
 
 
 Not for a ero^Tn would I alaini 
 Your virgin pride by word or sign, 
 
 Nor need a painful blush disarm 
 
 My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. 
 
 
 
 
 • — 
 
 LtJCY. 
 
 
 
 Her simple heart could not but feel 
 
 The words we spoke were free from guile ; 
 
 She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel, — 
 'T is all in vain, — she can't but smile ! 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove ; 
 A maid whom there were none to praise, 
 
 And very few to love. 
 
 
 
 Just like sweet April's dawn appears 
 Her modest face, — I see it yet, — 
 
 And though I lived a hundred years 
 Methinks I never could forget 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 Half hidden from tne eye ! 
 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 
 
 The pleasure that, despite her heart, 
 Fills all her downcast eyes with light, 
 
 The lips reluctantly apart. 
 The white teeth struggling into sight. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and 0, 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 
 
 The dimples eddying o'er her cheek, — 
 The rosy cheek that won't be still ; — 
 
 0, who could blame wliat flatterers speak. 
 Did smiles like this reward their skill ? 
 
 
 
 
 TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF IM VJOtSNAID. 
 
 
 
 For sucli another smile, I vow. 
 
 Though loudly beats the midnight rain, 
 
 I 'd take the mountain-side e'en now. 
 And walk to Luggelaw again ! 
 
 Samuel Ferguson. 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 
 And these gray rocks, this household \avni, 
 
 These trees, — a veil just half witlidrawn, — 
 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 
 A murmur near the silent lake, 
 
 This little bay, a fpiiet road 
 
 That holds in shelter thy abode ; 
 
 In truth together ye do seem 
 
 Like something fashioned in a dre.am ; 
 
 Rmdi forms as from their covert peep 
 
 When earthly cares are laid aslee]i ! 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 ■She stood breast high amid the corn, 
 C'lasjied by the golden light of morn. 
 Like the sweetheart of the sun. 
 Who many a glowing kiss had won. 
 
 1-^ 
 
 1
 
 50 
 
 POEMS UF INFANCY AXD YOUTH. 
 
 But fair Creature ! in the light 
 Of common day so heavenly bright, 
 I bless thee, Vision as thou art, 
 I bless thee with a human heart : 
 God sliieltl thee to thy latest years ! 
 1 neither know thee nor thy jjeers ; 
 And yet my eyes are fiUed with tears. 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far away ; 
 For never saw I mien or face 
 In which more plainly I could trace 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 Here scattered like a random seed. 
 Remote from men, thou dost not need 
 The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
 And maidenly shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a mountaineer ; 
 A face with gladness overspread, 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ; 
 And seemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of tliy few words of English speech, — 
 A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
 What hand but would a garland cuU 
 For thee who art so beautiful ? 
 O Iiappy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
 Adopt your homely ways .and dress, 
 A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! 
 But I could fr.ame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
 Some claim upon thee, if 1 could, 
 Though but of common neighborhood. 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
 Thy elder brother I would be, 
 Thy father, — anything to thee. 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place ; 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 I bear away my recompense. 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
 Then why should I be loath to stir ? 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 
 To give new pleasure like the past. 
 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 
 Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart. 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; 
 
 For I, methinks, tUl I grow olil 
 
 As lair before me shall behold 
 
 As I do now, the cabin small, 
 
 The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 
 
 And thee, the spirit of them all ! 
 
 \V1LL1A.M WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 'm weary, say I 'm sad ; 
 
 Say that health and wealth have missed me ; 
 Say 1 'm growing old, but add — 
 
 Jenny kissed me ! 
 
 LEIGH Hunt. 
 
 NAECISSA. 
 
 "Young, gay, and fortunate !" Each yields a 
 
 theme. 
 And, first, thy youth : what says it to gray hairs ? 
 Narcissa, I 'm become thy pupil now ; 
 Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew. 
 She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven. 
 
 EDWARD Young. 
 
 SWEET STREAM, THAT WINDS. 
 
 Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, 
 
 Apt emblem of a virtuous maid, — 
 
 Silent and chaste, she steals along, 
 
 Far from the world's gay, busy throng ; 
 
 With gentle yet prevailing force, 
 
 Intent upon her destined course ; 
 
 Graceful and useful all she does. 
 
 Blessing and blest where'er slie goes ; 
 
 Pure-bosomed as that watery glass, 
 
 And Heaven reflected in her face. 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 ATTEK THE BALL. 
 
 Thry sat and combed their beautiful hair, 
 Their lon.ff, bright tresses, one by one. 
 
 As they laughed and talked in the chamber there, 
 After the revel was done. 
 
 Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille, 
 Idly they laughed, like other girls. 
 
 -t
 
 -L 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 ^VllO over tlie fire, wlien all is still, 
 Comb out their braiJs and eurls. 
 
 Kobe of satin and Brussels lace, 
 Knots of (lowers aud ribbons, too, 
 
 Scattered about in every place, 
 For the revel is through. 
 
 And Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
 The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
 
 Stockingless, slijiperless, sit iu the night, 
 For the revel is done, — 
 
 Sit and comb their lieaiitiful hair. 
 
 Those wonderful waves of brown and gold. 
 
 Till the fire is out in the chamber there. 
 And the little bare feet are cold. 
 
 Tlien out of the gathering winter chill. 
 All out of the bitter St. Agnes W'eather, 
 
 Wlule the fire is out and the house is still, 
 Maud and Madge together, — 
 
 Maud and Madge in robes of white. 
 
 The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
 
 Curtained away from the chilly night, 
 After the revel is done, — 
 
 Float along in a splendid dream, 
 To a golden gittern's tinkling tune. 
 
 While a thousand lusters shimmering stream 
 In a palace's grand saloon. 
 
 Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces. 
 Tropical odors sweeter than musk. 
 
 Men and women with beautiful faces. 
 And eyes of tropical dusk, — 
 
 And one face shining out like a star. 
 One face haunting the dreams of each. 
 
 And one voice, sweeter than others are, 
 Breaking into silvery speech, — 
 
 Telling, through lips of bearded bloom. 
 
 An old, old story over again. 
 As down the royal bannered room. 
 
 To the golden gittern's strain. 
 
 Two and two, they dreamily walk, 
 While an unseen spirit walks beside. 
 
 And all unheard in the lovers' talk. 
 He claimeth one for a bride. 
 
 Maud and Madge, dream on together, 
 With never a pang of jealous fear ! 
 
 For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
 Shall whiten another year, 
 
 Itobed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb. 
 Braided brown hair and golden tress, 
 
 There '11 be only one of you left for the bloom 
 Of the bearded lips to press, — 
 
 Only one for the bridal pearls. 
 
 The rolie of satin aud Brussels lace, — 
 
 Only one to blush through her curls 
 At the sight of a lover's face. 
 
 beautiful Madge, in your bridal white. 
 For you the revel lias just begun ; 
 
 But for her who sleeps in your arras to-night 
 The revel of Life is done ! 
 
 But, robed and crowned with your saintly bliss. 
 Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
 
 O beautil'ul Maud, you '11 never miss 
 The kisses another hath won ! 
 
 Nora Perry. 
 
 NEIGHBOR NELLY. 
 
 I 'm in love with neighbor Nelly, 
 
 Though I know she 's only ten. 
 While, alas ! I 'm eight-and-forty 
 
 And the marricdesf of men ! 
 I 've a wife who weighs me double, 
 
 I 've three daughters all with beaux : 
 I 've a son with noble whiskers. 
 
 Who at me turns up his nose. 
 
 Though a square-toes, and a fogey, 
 
 Still I 've sunshine in my heart ; 
 Still I 'm fond of cakes and marbles. 
 
 Can appreciate a tart. 
 I can love my neighbor Nelly 
 
 Just as though 1 were a boy : 
 I could hand her nuts and apples 
 
 From my depths of corduroy. 
 
 She is tall, and growing taller, 
 
 She is vigorous of limb ; 
 (You should see her ]ilay at cricket. 
 
 With her little brother .Tim.) 
 She has eyes as blue as damsons, 
 
 She has pounds of auburn curls. 
 She regrets the game of leap-frog 
 
 Is prohibited to girls. 
 
 I adore my neighbor Nelly, 
 
 I invite her in to tea ; 
 Anil I let her nurse the baby, — 
 
 AH her pretty ways to see. 
 Such a darling bud of woman, 
 
 Yet remote from any teens, — 
 I have learnt fi'om neighbor Nelly 
 
 What the girl's doll-instinct means.
 
 -U 
 
 X 
 
 52 
 
 POEMS OF INFANCY AND YOUTH. 
 
 0, to see her with the baby ! 
 
 He adores her more than I, — 
 How slie choruses his crowing, — 
 
 How she liushes every cry ! 
 How slie loves to pit liis dimples 
 
 With her light forefinger deep ! 
 How she boasts to me in triumph 
 
 AVlien she 's got him off to sleep ! 
 
 AVe must part, my neighbor Nelly, 
 
 For the summers quickly flee ; 
 And your middle-aged admirer 
 
 Must supplanted quickly be. 
 Yet as jealous as a mother, -^ 
 
 A distempered, cankered churl, 
 I look vainly for the setting 
 
 To be worthy such a pearl. 
 
 Robert b. Brough, 
 
 SATUEDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 I LOVE to look on a scene like this. 
 
 Of wild and careless play. 
 And persuade myself that I am not old 
 
 And my locks are not yet gray ; 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. 
 
 And it makes his pulses fly. 
 To catch the tluiU of a happy voice, 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walked the world for fourscore years ; 
 
 And they say that I am old. 
 And my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 
 
 And my years are wellnigh told : 
 It is very true ; it is very true ; 
 
 I am old, and 1 bide my time ; 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this. 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring ; 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 
 
 And r whoop the smothered call ; 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor. 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come. 
 
 And I shall be glad to go ; 
 For the world at best is a weary place 
 
 Aiul my pulse is getting low : 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 But it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
 NATiiANiFL Parker Willis. 
 
 IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. 
 
 There are gains for all our losses. 
 
 There are balms for all our pain ; 
 But when youth, the dream, departs. 
 It takes something from our hearts. 
 And it never comes again. 
 
 We are stronger, and are better. 
 
 Under manhood's sterner reign ; 
 Still we feel that something sweet 
 Followed youth, with flying feet, 
 And will never come again. 
 
 Something beautiful is vanished. 
 
 And we sigh for it in vain ; 
 We behold it everywhere. 
 On the earth, and in the air. 
 
 But it never comes again. 
 
 Richard henry STODDARa
 
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 t
 
 a 
 
 POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 BENEDICITE. 
 
 God's love and peace be with thee, where 
 Soe'er this soft autumnal air 
 Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! 
 
 Whether through city casements comes 
 Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, 
 Or, out among the woodland blooms, 
 
 It freshens o'er thy thoughtfid face, 
 Imparting, in its glad embrace, 
 Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! 
 
 Fair Nature's book together read, 
 
 The old wood-paths that knew our tread, 
 
 Tlie maple shadows overhead, — 
 
 The hills we climbed, the river seen 
 By gleams along its deep ravine, — 
 All keep thy memory fresh and gi'een. 
 
 Where'er I look, where'er I stray, 
 Tliy thought goes with me on my way, 
 Ami hence the prayer I breathe to-day : 
 
 O'er lapse of time and change of scene. 
 The weary waste which lies between 
 Thyself and me, my heart 1 lean. 
 
 Thou lack'st not Friendship's spcUword, nor 
 The half-unconscious power to draw 
 All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. 
 
 AVith these good gifts of God is cast 
 Thy lot, and many a chann thou hast 
 To hold the blessed angels fast 
 
 If, then, a fervent wish for thee 
 
 The gi-acious heavens will heed from me. 
 
 What should, dear heart, its burden be ? 
 
 The sighing of a shaken reed, — 
 What can I more than meekly plead 
 The greatness of our common need ? 
 
 God's love, — unchanging, pure, and true, — 
 The Paraclete wliite-shining through 
 His peace, — the fall of Hennon's dew ! 
 
 With such a prayer, on this sweet day, 
 As thou mayst hear and I may say, 
 I greet thee, dearest, far away ! 
 
 John Greenleaf whittier. 
 
 AN INVITATION. 
 
 KiXE years have slipt like hour-glass sand 
 
 From life's still-emptying globe away 
 Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand. 
 And stood upon the impoverished land, 
 Watching the steamer down the bay. 
 
 I held the token which you gave, 
 
 AVhile slowly the smoke-pennon curled 
 O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, 
 And shut the distance like a grave. 
 Leaving me in the colder world. 
 
 The old worn world of hurry and heat. 
 
 The young, fresh world of thought and scope, 
 A\Tiile you, where beckoning billows fleet 
 Climb far sky-beaches still and sweet, 
 Sank wavering down the ocean slope. 
 
 You sought the new world in the old, 
 
 1 found the old world in the new. 
 All that our human hearts can hold. 
 The inward world of deathless mold. 
 The same that Father Adam knew. 
 
 He needs no ship to cross the tide, 
 ^Y\w, in the lives about him, sees 
 
 Fair window-prospects opening wide 
 
 O'er history's fields on every side, 
 To Ind and Egypt, Rome and Greece. 
 
 AVhatever molds of various br.ain 
 
 E'er shaped the world to weal or woe, 
 Whatever empires wax and wane. 
 
 r
 
 54 
 
 POEMS OF FEIEXDSniP. 
 
 To liim that liatli not ej'es in vain, 
 Our village-microcosm can show. 
 
 Come back our ancient walks to tread, 
 
 Dear liaunts of lust or scattered friends, 
 Old Harvanl's scholar-factories red, 
 AVhere song and smoke and laughter sped 
 The nights to proctor-haunted ends. 
 
 Constant are all our former loves. 
 
 Unchanged the icehouse-girdled pond. 
 Its hemlock glooms, its shadowy coves, 
 AVhere floats the coot and never moves. 
 Its slojie of long-tamed green beyond. 
 
 Our old familiars are not laid. 
 
 Though snapt our wands and sunk our books ; 
 They Ijeckon, not to be gainsaid, 
 AVlicrc, round broad meads that mowers wade. 
 
 The Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks. 
 
 \Vhere, as the cloudbergs eastward blow. 
 From glow to gloom the hillsides shift 
 Their plumps of orchard trees arow, 
 Their lakes of rye that wave and flow, 
 Their snowy whiteweed's summer drift. 
 
 There have we watched the AVest unfurl 
 
 A cloud Byzantium newly born, 
 With flickering spires and domes of pearl. 
 And vapory surfs that crowd and curl 
 
 Into the sunset's Golden Horn. 
 
 There, as the flaming Occident 
 
 Burned slowly ilown to ashes gray, 
 Kight [litchcd o'crhead her silent tent. 
 And glimmering gold from Hesper sprent 
 Upon the darkened river lay, 
 
 'Where a twin sky but just before 
 
 Deepened, and double swallows skinmied. 
 
 And, from a visionary shore. 
 
 Hung %nsioned trees, that, more and more. 
 Grew dusk as those above were dimmed. 
 
 Then eastward saw we slowly grow 
 
 Clear-edged the lines of roof and spire, 
 While great elm-masses blacken slow, 
 And linden-ricks their round heads show 
 Against a flush of widening fire. 
 
 Doubtful at first and far away. 
 
 The moon -flood creeps more wide and wide ; 
 Up a ridged beach of cloudy gray. 
 Curved round the east as round a bay. 
 
 It slips and spreads its gradual tide. 
 
 Then suddenly, in lurid mood. 
 The moon looms large o'er town and field. 
 
 As upon Adam, red like blood, 
 'Tween him and Eden's happy wood, 
 Glared the commissioned angel's shield. 
 
 Or let us seek the seaside, there 
 
 To wander idly as we list, 
 Whether, on rocky headlands bare, 
 Sharp cedar-horns, like breakers, tear 
 
 The trailing fringes of gray mist, 
 
 Or whether, under skies full flown. 
 
 The brightening surfs, with foamy ilin, 
 
 Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown. 
 
 Against the beach's yellow zone. 
 Curl slow, and plunge forever in. 
 
 And as we watch those canvas towers 
 
 That lean along the horizon's rim, 
 "Sail on," I 'II say ; " may sunniest hours 
 Convoy you from this land of oui's. 
 
 Since from my side you bear not him ! " 
 
 For years thrice three, wise Horace said, 
 
 A poem rare let silence bind ; 
 And love may ripen in the shade. 
 Like ours, for nine long seasons laid 
 
 In deepest arches of the mind. 
 
 Come back ! Kot ours the Old World's good, 
 The Old Worid's ill, thank God, not ours ; 
 
 But here, far better underetood. 
 
 The days enforce our native mood. 
 And challenge all our manlier powers. 
 
 Kindlier to me the place of birth 
 
 That first my tottei'ing footsteps trod ; 
 
 There may be fairer spots of earth. 
 
 But all their glories are not worth 
 The virtue of the native sod. 
 
 Thence climbs an influence more benign 
 
 Through pulse and nciTC, through heart and 
 brain ; 
 
 Sacred to me those fiber's fine 
 
 That first clasped earth. O, ne'er be mine 
 The alien sun and alien rain ! 
 
 These nourish not like homelier glows 
 
 Or waterings of familiar skies. 
 And nature fairer blooms bestows 
 On the heaped hush of wintry snows. 
 
 In pastures dear to childhood's eyes, 
 
 Than where Italian earth receives 
 The partial sunshine's ampler boons. 
 
 Where vines caive friezes 'neath the eaves. 
 
 And, in dark firmaments of leaves. 
 The orange lifts its golden moons. 
 
 James Russell Lowell,
 
 4^ 
 
 POEMS OF FHIEXnSHIP. 
 
 55 
 
 DREAMS AND REALITIES. 
 
 KosAMOXD, tliou fair ami good 
 And perfect flower of womanhood ! 
 
 Thou royal rose of June ! 
 AVby didst thou droop before thy time ? 
 ANTjy wither in the first sweet prime ? 
 
 Why didst thou die so soon ? 
 
 For, looldng haclcward through my tears 
 On thee, and on ray wasted years, 
 
 I cannot choose but say, 
 If thou hadst lived to be my guide, 
 Or thou hadst lived and 1 had died, 
 
 'T were better far to-day. 
 
 child of light, golden head ! — 
 Bright sunbeam for one moment shed 
 
 Upon life's lonely way, — 
 "W'hy didst thou vanish from our sight ? 
 Could they not spare my little light 
 
 From heaven's unclouded day .' 
 
 friend so true, friend so good ! — 
 Thou one dream of ray maiilenhood. 
 
 That gave youth all its charms, — 
 "What had I done, or what hadst thou. 
 That, through this lonesome world till now, 
 
 AVe walk with empty arms ? 
 
 And yet this poor soul had been fed 
 AVith all it loved and coveted ; 
 
 Had life been always fair, 
 AV'ould these dear dreams that ne'er depart. 
 That thrill with bliss my inmost heart. 
 
 Forever tremble there ? 
 
 If still they kept their earthly place, 
 The frieuds I held in my embrace, 
 
 And gave to death, alas ! 
 Could I have learned that clear, calm faith 
 That looks beyond the bonds of death, 
 
 And almost longs to pass ? 
 
 Sometimes, I think, the things we see 
 Are shadows of the things to be ; 
 
 That what we plan we build ; 
 That every hope that hath been crossed. 
 And every dream we thought was lost, 
 
 In heaven shall be fulfilled ; 
 
 That even the children of the brain 
 Have not been born and died in vain. 
 
 Though here unclothed and dumb ; 
 But on some brighter, better shore 
 They live, embodied evermore, 
 
 And wait for us to come. 
 
 And when on that last day we rise. 
 
 Caught up between the earth and skies. 
 
 Then shall we hear our Lord 
 
 Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death, 
 
 Henceforth, according to thy faith. 
 
 Shall be thy faith's reward. 
 
 nur.BE Gary. 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 I SAT an hour to-day, John, 
 
 Beside the old brook-stream, — 
 AVhere we were school-boys in old time, 
 
 AVhen manhood was a dream ; 
 The brook is choked with fallen leaves, 
 
 The pond is dried away, 
 I scarce believe that you would know 
 
 The dear old place to-day. 
 
 The school-house is no more, John, — 
 
 Beneath our locust-trees. 
 The wild rose by the window's side 
 
 No more waves in the breeze ; 
 The scattered stones look desolate ; 
 
 The sod they rested on 
 Ha-s been plowed up by stranger hands. 
 
 Since you and I were gone. 
 
 The chestnut-tree is dead, John, — 
 
 And what is sadder now, 
 The gi'apevine of that same old swing 
 
 Hangs on the withered bough. 
 I read our names upon the bark, 
 
 And found the pebbles rare 
 Laid up beneath the hollow Side, 
 
 As we had piled them there. 
 
 Beneath the grass-grown bank, John, — 
 
 I looked for our old spring. 
 That bubbled down the alder-path 
 
 Tlnve paces from the swing ; 
 The rushes grow upon the brink, 
 
 The pool is black and bare. 
 And not a foot for many a day. 
 
 It seems, has trodden there. 
 
 I took the old blind road, John, 
 
 That wandered up the hill, — 
 'T is darker than it used to be. 
 
 And seems so lone and still ; 
 The birds yet sing upon the boughs 
 
 AA'here once the sweet grapes hung. 
 But not a voice of human kind 
 
 AVhere all our voices rung. 
 
 I sat me on the fence, John, 
 That lies as in old time. 
 
 r
 
 56 
 
 FOEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 The same half-panel in the path 
 Wc used so ol't to climb, — 
 
 Anil thought how, o'er tlie bars of life, 
 Our playmates had passed on. 
 
 And left me counting on the spot 
 The faces that were gone. 
 
 BILL AND JOE. 
 
 Come, dear old comrade, you and I 
 Will steal an hour from days gone by, — 
 The shining days when lite was new, 
 And all was bright as morning dew, — 
 The lusty days of long ago, 
 AVhcu you were Bill and 1 was Joe. 
 
 Your name may flaunt a titled trail, 
 Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail ; 
 And mine as brief ajijiendi.x wear 
 As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare ; 
 To-day, old friend, remember still 
 That I am Joe and you are Bill. 
 
 You 've won the great world's envied prize, 
 And grand you look in people's eyes, 
 "With H N. and L L. D. 
 In big brave letters, fair to see, — • 
 Your list, old fellow ! off they go ! 
 How are you, Bill ? How are you, Joe ? 
 
 You 've worn the judge's ermined robe ; 
 You 've taught your name to half the globe ; 
 You 've sung mankind a deathless strain ; 
 You 've made the dead j^ast live again : 
 The world may call you what it will. 
 But you and I are Joe and Bill. 
 
 The chaffing young folks stare and say, 
 " See those old buffers, bent and gray ; 
 They talk like fellows in their teens ! 
 Mad, poor old boys ! That 's what it means," 
 And shake their heads ; they little know 
 The throbbing hearts of BUI and Joe ! 
 
 How Bill forgets his hour of pride. 
 While Joe sits smiling at his side ; 
 How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
 Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — 
 Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 
 As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 
 
 Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame ? 
 A fitful tongue of leajiing flame ; 
 A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust. 
 That lifts a pinch of mortal dust : 
 
 A few swift years, and wlio can show 
 Which dust was BQl, and which was Joe ? 
 
 The weary idol takes his stand, 
 
 Holds out his bruised and aching hand. 
 
 While gaping thousands come and go, — 
 
 How vain it seems, this empty show ! 
 
 Till all at once his pulses thrill, 
 
 'T is poor old Joe's " God bless you. Bill ! " 
 
 And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
 The names that pleased our mortal ears, — 
 In some sweet lull of harp and song. 
 For earth-born spirits none too long, — 
 Just whisj)ering of the world below. 
 Where this was BUI, and that was Joe ? 
 
 Ko matter ; while our home is here 
 No sounding name is half so dear ; 
 AVhen fades at length our lingering day, 
 AVho cares what pompous tombstones say ? 
 Read on the hearts that love us stUl, 
 Micjacct Joe. fficjncct Bill. 
 
 Oli\'er Wendell Hol.mes. 
 
 THE DEAD FEIEND. 
 
 FR0,M "LV .VEMORIAM." 
 
 The path by which we twain did go. 
 
 Which led by tracts that pleased us well. 
 Through four sweet years arose and fell. 
 
 From flower to flower, from snow to snow. 
 
 But where the path we walked began 
 To slant the fifth autumnal slope. 
 As we descended following Hope, 
 
 There sat the Shadow feared of man ; 
 
 AVho broke our fair companionship. 
 And spread his mantle dark and cold. 
 And wTapped thee fonnlcss in the fold. 
 
 And dulled the murmur on thy lip. 
 
 When each by turns was guide to each. 
 And Fancy light from Fancy caught. 
 And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought 
 
 Ere Thought could wed itself \\ itli Speech ; 
 
 And all we met was fair and good. 
 And all was good that Time could bring. 
 And all the secret of the Spring 
 
 Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 
 
 I know that this was Life, — the track 
 AMiereou with equal feet we fared ; 
 And then, as now, the day prepared 
 
 The daily burden for the back. 
 
 f
 
 O- 
 
 -U 
 
 POEMS OF FIUEXLSUir. 
 
 57 
 
 But this it was that made me move 
 
 As light as carrier-birds in air ; 
 
 1 loved the weight 1 had to bear 
 Because it needed heli) of Love : 
 
 Nor coidd I weary, heart or limb, 
 
 When mighty Love would cleave in twain 
 The lading of a single pain, 
 
 And part it, giving half to him. 
 
 But I remained, whose hopes were dim. 
 Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, 
 To wander on a darkened earth, 
 
 AVhere all things round me breathed of him. 
 
 friendship, equal-poised control, 
 heart, with kindliest motion warm, 
 
 sacred essence, other form, 
 solemn ghost, crownfed soul ! 
 
 Yet none could better know than I, 
 How much of act at human hands 
 The sense of human will demands 
 
 By which we dare to live or die. 
 
 Whatever way my days decline, 
 
 1 felt and feel, though left alone, 
 His being working in mine own. 
 
 The footsteps of his life in mine. 
 
 My pulses therefore beat again 
 
 For other friends that once I met : 
 Nor can it suit me to forget 
 
 The mighty hopes that make us men. 
 
 1 woo your love : I count it crime 
 
 To mourn for any overmuch ; 
 
 ], the divided half of such 
 A friendship as had mastered Time ; 
 
 Which masters Time, indeed, and is 
 Eternal, separate from fears : 
 The all-assuming months and years 
 
 Can take no part away from this. 
 
 days and hours, your work is this, 
 To hold me from my proper place, 
 A little while from his embrace, 
 
 For fuller gain of after bliss : 
 
 That out of distance might ensue 
 Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 
 And unto meeting when we meet, 
 
 Delight a hundred- fold accrue. 
 
 The hills are shadows, and they flow 
 
 From form to form, and nothing stands ; 
 They melt like mist, the solid lands, 
 
 Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 
 
 But in my spirit will I dwell. 
 
 And dream my dream, and hold it true ; 
 
 For though my lips may bre;ithe aditiu, 
 
 I cannot think the thing farewell. 
 
 ALi-KiiD Tennyson. 
 
 T TTF. MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 
 
 " We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words 
 and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short mo- 
 ments : anil tlicn days, montlis. years intervene, and we see and 
 know nothing of each other." — WASHINGTON IKVING. 
 
 Two barks met on the deep mid-sea, 
 When calms had stilled the tide ; 
 
 A few bright days of summer glee 
 There found them side by side. 
 
 And voices of the fair and bravo 
 Kose mingling thence in mirth ; 
 
 And sweetly floated o'er the wave 
 The melodies of earth. 
 
 Moonlight on that lone Indian main 
 
 Cloudless and lovely slept ; 
 AVhile dancing step and festive strain 
 
 Each deck in triumijh swept. 
 
 And hands were linked, and answering eyes 
 With kindly meaning shone ; 
 
 0, brief and passing sympathies. 
 Like leaves together blown ! 
 
 A little while such joy was cast 
 
 Over the deep's repose, 
 Till the loud singing winds at last 
 
 Like trumpet music rose. 
 
 And proudly, freely on their way 
 
 The parting vessels bore ; 
 In calm or storm, by rock or bay, 
 
 To meet — nevermore ! 
 
 Never to blend in victory's cheer. 
 
 To aid in hours of woe ; 
 And thus bright spirits mingle here. 
 
 Such ties are formed below. 
 
 FELICIA HEMANS. 
 
 JAFFAR. 
 
 Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good vizier. 
 
 The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,— 
 
 Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust ; 
 
 And guilty Haroun, sullen with niistru-st 
 
 Of what tiie good, and e'en the bad, might say. 
 
 Ordained that nn man living, from that day. 
 
 Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. 
 
 All Araby and Persia held their breath ; 
 
 "T^ 
 
 r
 
 All but the brave Mondeer ; he, proud to show 
 How far for love a grateful soul could go, 
 And facing death for veiy scorn and grief 
 (For his great heart wanted a great relief), 
 Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square 
 Where once had stood a happy house, and there 
 Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar 
 On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. 
 
 " Bring me this man," the caliph cried ; the man 
 Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began 
 To bind liis arms. "Welcome, brave cords," 
 
 cried he, 
 ' ' From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me ; 
 From wants, from shames, from loveless house- 
 hold fears ; 
 Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears ; 
 Restored me, loved me, put me on a par 
 With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar ? " 
 
 Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this 
 The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, 
 Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate 
 Jlight smile upon another half as great. 
 He said, " Let woi-th grow frenzied if it ■nill ; 
 The caliph's judgment shall be master still; 
 Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, 
 The richest in the Tartar's diadem. 
 And hold the giver as thou deemest fit ! " 
 "Gifts ! " cried the friend ; he took and hold- 
 ing it. 
 High toward the heavens, as though to meet his 
 
 star, 
 Exclaimed, " This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar ! " 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. 
 
 We have been friends together 
 
 In sunshine and in shade. 
 Since first beneath the chestnut-tree 
 
 In infancy we played. 
 But coldness dwells within thy heart, 
 
 A cloud is on thy brow ; 
 A\'e have been friends together. 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We have been gay together ; 
 
 We have laughed at little jests ; 
 For the fount of hope was gushing 
 
 Warai and joyous in our breasts. 
 But laughter now hath fled thy lip, 
 
 And sullen glooms thy brow ; 
 We have been gay together. 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We have been sad together ; 
 We have wept with bitter tears 
 
 O'er the grass-gi'own graves where slumbered 
 
 The hopes of early years. 
 The voices which were silent then 
 
 Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 
 We have been sad together. 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 Caroline e. Norton. 
 
 KINDRED HEARTS. 
 
 0, ASK not, hope thou not, too much 
 
 Of sjTnpathy below ; 
 Beware the hearts whence one same touch 
 
 Bids the sweet fountains flow : 
 Few — and by still conflicting powers 
 
 Forbidden here to meet — 
 Such ties would make this life of oui-s 
 
 Too fair for aught so fleet. 
 
 It may be that thy brother's eye 
 
 Sees not as thine, wliich turns 
 In such deep reverence to the sky 
 
 Where the rich sunset burns ; 
 It may be that the breath of spring, 
 
 Born amidst violets lone, 
 A rapture o'er thy soul can bring, — 
 
 A dream, to his unknown. 
 
 The tune that speaks of other times, — 
 
 A sorrowful delight ! — 
 The melody of distant chimes. 
 
 The sound of waves by night ; 
 The viand that, with so many a tone. 
 
 Some chord within can thrill, — 
 These may have language all thine own, 
 
 To him a mystery still. 
 
 Tet scorn thou not for this the true 
 
 And steadfast love of years ; 
 The kindly, that from childhood grew, 
 
 The faithful to thy tears ! 
 If there be one that o'er the dead 
 
 Hath in thy grief borne part. 
 And watched through sickness by thy bed. 
 
 Call his a kindred heart ! 
 
 But for those bonds all perfect made. 
 
 Wherein bright spirits blend. 
 Like sister flowers of one sweet shade 
 
 With the same breeze that bend, 
 For that full bliss of thought allied, 
 
 Never to mortals given, 
 0, lay thy lovely dreams aside, 
 
 Or lift them unto heaven ! 
 
 Felicia Hemans.
 
 :i?:idauonil Pjhx' 
 
 Eii^4tyHfiflalli.Sms >■■■■: 
 
 JX^,.^^ A^. 
 
 FOKDS.aaWAKD «: 3"! f '^'^■T M V
 
 ^U- 
 
 rOEMS OF FlUKXDSlllP. 
 
 59 
 
 THE VALE OF AVOCA. 
 
 There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet 
 As that vale in w^hose bosom the bright waters 
 
 meet ; 
 0, the last ray of feeling and life must depart 
 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my 
 
 heart ! 
 
 Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene 
 Her purest of crj'stal and brightest of green ; 
 'T was not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, — 
 0, no ! it was something more ex'juisite still. 
 
 'Twas 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 im- 
 prove. 
 
 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 ; 
 ■\Vhere the storms that we feel in this cold world 
 
 should cease. 
 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in 
 
 peace. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 Where simple rustics spread their festal fare 
 And, blushing, own it is not good enough. 
 
 Bethink thee, then, whene'er thou com'st to me. 
 
 From high emprise and noble toil to rest. 
 My thouglils are weak and trivial, matched with 
 thine ; 
 But the poor mansion offers thee its best. 
 
 Julia Ward Howe. 
 
 THE ROYAL GUEST. 
 
 TllEY tell me I am shrewd with other men ; 
 
 With thee 1 'm slow, and difficult of speech. 
 With others I may guide the car of talk ; 
 
 Thou wing'st it oft to realms beyond my reach. 
 
 If other guests should come, I 'd deck my hair. 
 And choose mj' newest garment from the shelf; 
 
 Wlicn thou art bidden, I would clothe my heart 
 With holiest purpose, as for God himself. 
 
 For tlicm I wliile the hours with tale or song, 
 Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme ; 
 
 But how to find a fitting lay for thee. 
 Who hast the harmonies of every time ? 
 
 friend beloved ! I sit apart and dumb, — 
 Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy diWne; 
 
 My lip will falter, but my prisoned heart 
 
 Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with 
 thine. 
 
 Thou art to me most like a royal guest, 
 
 Whose travels bring him to some lowly roof, 
 
 THE QTJAKK.EL OF FRIENDS. 
 
 FROM "CHRISTABEL." 
 
 Alas ! they had been friends in youth : 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
 And to be wroth with one we love 
 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
 Willi Roland and Sir Leoline ! 
 Each spoke words of high disdain 
 
 And insult to his heart's best brother; 
 They parted, — ne'er to meet again ! 
 
 But never either found another 
 To free the hollow heart from paining. 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between. 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder 
 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween. 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 A nuDDY drop of manly blood 
 
 The surging sea outweighs ; 
 
 The world uncertain conies and goes, 
 
 The lover rooted stays. 
 
 I fancied he was fled, — 
 
 And, after many a year. 
 
 Glowed unexhausted kindliness. 
 
 Like daily sunrise there. 
 
 My careful heart was free again ; 
 
 friend, my bosom said, 
 
 Through thee alone the sky is arched, 
 
 Through thee the rose is red ; 
 
 All things through thee t.ake nobler form, 
 
 And look lieyond the earth ; 
 
 The mill-round of our fate appears 
 
 A sun-path in thy worth. 
 
 Me too thy nobleness has taught 
 
 To master my despair ; 
 
 The fountains of my hidden life 
 
 Arc through thy friendship fair. 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 1- 
 
 n 
 
 r
 
 60 
 
 POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Ham. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a laan 
 As e'er my couversatiou coped withal. 
 
 HoR. 0, my dear lord — 
 
 Ham. Nay, do not think I flatter : 
 
 For what advancement may I hope from theo 
 That no revenue hast but thy good spirits, 
 To feed and clothe thee ? Why should the poor 
 
 be flattered ? 
 No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp. 
 And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee, 
 AVhere thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear ? 
 Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, 
 And could of men distinguish, her election 
 Hath sealed thee for herself ; for thou hast been 
 As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, — 
 A man that Fortune's buffets and rewards 
 Hast ta'en with eijual thanks ; and blessed are 
 
 those 
 Wliose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled. 
 That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger 
 To sound what stopi she please : Give me that 
 
 man 
 That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him 
 In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, 
 As I do thee. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 MAETIAI, FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 FROM *' CORIOLANUS." 
 [Aufidius the Volscian to Caius Marcius Coriolanus.] 
 
 Aur. Marcius, Marcius ! 
 
 Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my 
 
 heart 
 A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter 
 Should from yond' cloud speak divine things, 
 
 and say, 
 " 'T is true, " I 'd not believe them more than thee. 
 All-noble Mai-cius. — I^ct me twine 
 Jline arms about that body, where-ag.iinst 
 My grained ash an hundred times hath broke. 
 And scared the moon with splinters ! Here 1 clip 
 The anvil of my sword ; and do contest 
 As hotly and as nobly with thy love. 
 As ever in ambitious strength 1 did 
 Contend against thy valor. Know thou first, 
 I loved the maid I maiTied ; never man 
 Sighed truer breath ; but that I see thee here. 
 Thou noble thing ! more dances my rapt heart 
 Than when I firet my wedded mistress saw 
 Bestride my threshold. AVhy, thou Mars ! I tell 
 
 thee, 
 AVc have a power on foot ; and I had purpose 
 Once more to hew tliy target from thy brawn, 
 Or lose mine arm for 't. Thou hast beat me out 
 Twelve several times, and I have nightly .since 
 
 Dreamt of encounters 'twi.xt thyself and me, 
 We have been down together in my .sleep, 
 Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat, 
 And waked half dead with nothing. Worthy 
 
 Marcius, 
 Had we no other quanel else to Rome, but that 
 Thou art thence banished, we would muster all 
 From twelve to seventy ; and, pouring war 
 Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, 
 Like a bold flood o'erbear. 0, come ! go in. 
 And take our friendly senators by the hands. 
 Who now are here, taking their leaves of me. 
 Who am prepared against your territories. 
 Though not for Rome itself. 
 
 A thousand welcomes ! 
 And more a friend than e'er an enemy ; 
 Yet, Marcius, that was much. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 THE MEMORY OF THE HEART. 
 
 If stores of dry and leamM lore we gain. 
 We keep them in the memory of the brain ; 
 Kames, tilings, and facts, — whate'er we knowl- 
 edge call, — 
 There is the common ledger for them all ; 
 And images on this cold surface traced 
 Make slight impression, and are soon eff'aced. 
 But we 've a page, more glowing and more bright. 
 On which our friendship and our love to write ; 
 That these may never from the soul depart, 
 We trust them to the memory of the heart. 
 There is no dimming, no effacement there ; 
 Each new pulsation keeps the record clear ; 
 Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill, 
 Nor lose their luster tUl the heart stands still. 
 Da,\iel Webster, 
 
 WHEN TO THE SESSIONS OF SWEET SILENT 
 THOrGHT. 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 I summon up remembrance of things past, 
 I sigh the lack of many a thing 1 sought. 
 And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste. 
 Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. 
 For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. 
 And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe. 
 And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. 
 Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. 
 And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
 The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
 Wliich I new pay, as if not paid before ; 
 But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
 All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 
 
 Shakespeare,
 
 1' 
 
 FUEMS OF FlilEMiSUIP. 
 
 61 
 
 EARLY FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 The half-seen nieinories of childish days, 
 When puins and i>lea.sure3 lightly eame and went ; 
 The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent 
 III fearful \vauderinj;.s through forbidden ways; 
 The vague, but manly wish to tread the maze 
 Of life to noble ends, — whereon intent, 
 Asking to know fur what man here is sent. 
 The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze,— 
 The firm resolve to seek the ehoseu end 
 Uf manhood's judgment, cautious and mature, — 
 Each of these viewless bonds binds I'lieud to friend 
 With strength no selfish purpose can secure : 
 My happy lot is this, that all attend 
 Tliat frieudship which first came, and wliich shall 
 last endure. 
 
 AUBREV DE VERB. 
 
 A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 "A TEMPLE to Friendship," cried Laura, en- 
 chanted, 
 
 "I '11 build in this garden ; the thought is 
 divine." 
 
 So the temple was built, and she now only wanted 
 
 An image of Friendship, to place on the shrine. 
 
 So she flewto the sculptor, who satdown before her 
 An image, the fairest his art could invent ; 
 But so cold, and so dull, that the youthful adorer 
 Saw plainly this was not the Friendship she meant. 
 
 " 0, never," said she, " could I thiuk of enshrin- 
 ing 
 
 An image whose looks are so joyless and dim ; 
 
 But yon little god upon roses reclining, 
 
 We '11 make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of 
 him." 
 
 So the bargain was struck ; with the little god 
 
 laden, 
 She joyfully flew to her home in the gi-ove. 
 " Farewell," said the sculptor, " you 're not the 
 
 first maiden 
 Who came but for Friendship, and took away 
 
 Love ! " 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 PLATONIC. 
 
 I IIAD sworn to be a bachelor, she had sworn to 
 be a maid. 
 
 For we quite agreed in doubting whether matri- 
 mony paid ; 
 
 Besides, we had our higher loves, — fair science 
 
 ruled my heart. 
 And she said her young affections were nil wound 
 
 up in art. 
 
 .So we laughed at those wise men who say that 
 friendship cannot live 
 
 'Twixt man and woman, unless each has some- 
 thing more to give : 
 
 Wc would be friends, and friends as true as e'er 
 were man and man ; 
 
 1 'd be a second David, and she Miss Jonathan. 
 
 Wo scorned all sentimental trash, — vows, kisses, 
 
 tears, and sighs ; 
 High friendship, such as ours, might well such 
 
 childish arts despise ; 
 We liked each other, that was all, quite all there 
 
 was to say, 
 So we just shook hands upon it, in a business 
 
 sort of way. 
 
 We shared our secrets and our joys, together 
 hoped and feared. 
 
 With common purpose sought the goal that young 
 Ambition reared ; 
 
 We dreamed together of the days, the dream- 
 bright days to come. 
 
 We were strictly confidential, and we called each 
 other " chum." 
 
 And many a day we wandered together o'er the 
 hills. 
 
 I seeking bugs and butterflies, .and she, the ruined 
 mills 
 
 And rustic bridges, and the like, that picture- 
 makers prize 
 
 To run in with their waterfalls, and groves, and 
 summer skies. 
 
 And many a qiiiet evening, in hours of silent ease. 
 We floated down the river, or strolled beneath 
 
 the trees. 
 And talked, in long gradation from the poets to 
 
 the weather, 
 While the western skies and my cigar burned 
 
 slowly out together. 
 
 Yet through it all no whispered word, no tell- 
 tale glance or sigh. 
 
 Told aught of wanner sentiment than friendly 
 sympathy. 
 
 We talked of love as coolly as we talked of 
 nebulie. 
 
 And thought no more of being one than we did 
 of being three.
 
 -L 
 
 G2 
 
 FUEMS UF fiuenhship. 
 
 " WeU, good by, clium ! " I took ha hand, for The words came lightly, gayly, but a great sob, 
 
 the time had come to go. | just behind. 
 
 My "oing meant om- partmg, when to meet, we Welled upward with a story of quite a ditferent 
 
 did not know. 
 1 had lingered long, and said farewell with a 
 
 very heavy heart ; 
 For although we were but friends, 't is hard for 
 
 honest friends to part. 
 
 "Good by, old feUow ! don't forget your friends 
 
 beyond the sea, 
 And some day, when you 've lots of time, diop a 
 
 line or two to me." 
 
 kiud. 
 
 And then she raised her eyes to mine, — gi-eat 
 
 liquid eyes of blue. 
 Filled to the brim, and running o'er, like violet 
 
 cups of dew ; 
 One long, long glance, and then I did, what I 
 
 never did before — 
 
 Perhaps the tears meant friendsliip, hut 1 'm 
 
 sure the kiss meant more. 
 
 William B. terrett. 
 
 a 
 
 r

 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION. 
 
 WHEN IN THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 When in the chronicle of wasted time 
 
 I see descriptions of tlie fairest wights, 
 
 And beauty making beautil'id old rhyme, 
 
 In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; 
 
 Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best 
 
 Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
 
 I see their antique pen would have expressed 
 
 Even such a beauty as you master now. 
 
 So all their praises are but prophecies 
 
 Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 
 
 And, for they looked but with divining eyes, 
 
 They had not skill enough your worth to sing ; 
 
 For we, which now behold these present days. 
 
 Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 O MISTRESS MINE. 
 
 MiSTKEss mine, where are you roaming? 
 0, stay and hear ! your true-love 's commg 
 
 That can sing both high and low ; 
 Trip no further, pretty sweeting ! 
 Journeys end in lovers' meeting, — 
 
 Every wise man's son doth know. 
 
 What is love? 't is not hereafter; 
 Present mirth hath present laughter ; 
 
 What 's to come is still unsure : 
 In delay there lies no plenty, — 
 Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-tvvcnty, 
 
 Youth 's a stuff will not endure. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 OLIVIA. 
 
 FROM " TAVELFTH NIGHT." 
 
 Viola. 'T is beauty truly blent, whose red and 
 
 white 
 Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on : 
 Lady, you arc the cruel'st she alive, 
 If you will lead these graces to the grave, 
 And leave the world no copy. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 PORTIA'S PICTURE. 
 
 FROM "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE." 
 
 F.\IR Portia's counterfeit? What demigod 
 Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ? 
 Or "whether, riding on tlie balls of mine. 
 Seem they in motion? Here are seveieil lips. 
 Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar 
 Should sunder such sweet friends : Here in her 
 
 hairs 
 The painter plays the spider ; and hath woven 
 A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, 
 Faster than gnats in cobwebs : But her eyes, — 
 How could he see to do them ? Iiaving made one, 
 Methinks it should have power to steal both his. 
 And leave itself unfurnished. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 THE NIGHT PIECE. 
 
 TO JULIA. 
 
 Her eyes the glow-wonne lend thee, 
 The shooting-Rtarres attend thee ; 
 And the elves also, 
 AVhose little eyes glow 
 Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 
 
 No Will-o'-th'-wispe mislight tliee. 
 Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 
 
 But on thy way, 
 
 Not making stay. 
 Since ghost there 's none t' affright thee ! 
 
 Let not the darke thee cumber ; 
 
 What though the moon does slumber ? 
 The stars of the night 
 Will lend thee their light, 
 
 Like tapers cleare, without number. 
 
 Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 
 Thus, thus to come unto me ; 
 
 And when I shall meet 
 
 Thy silvery feet, 
 My soulo I '11 pour into thee ! 
 
 ROliERT HERRICK. 
 
 r
 
 ^ 
 
 J^ 
 
 64 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 THE FORWARD VIOLET THUS DID I CHIDE. 
 
 The forward violet thus did I chide : — 
 
 Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet 
 
 that smells. 
 If not from my love's breath ? the purple pride 
 AVhich on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, 
 In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 
 The lily I couderaued for thy hand, 
 And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair : 
 The roses fearfully on thorns did stand. 
 One blushing shame, another white despair ; 
 A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both. 
 And to this robbery had annexed thy breath ; 
 But, for his theft, in pride of aU his growth 
 A vengeful canker eat liim up to death. 
 More tiowers I noted, yet I none could see, 
 But sweet or color it had stolen from thee. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 GOOD AND FAIR. 
 
 How near to good is what is fair ! 
 
 Which we no sooner see. 
 
 But with the lines and outward air 
 
 Our senses taken be. 
 
 We wish to see it stOl, and prove 
 
 What ways we may deserve ; 
 We court, we praise, we more than love. 
 
 We are not giieved to serve. 
 
 Ben jonson. 
 
 And Juno in the show of majesty, 
 For she 's Saraela : 
 Pallas in wit, all three, if you will view. 
 For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity. 
 Yield to Samela. 
 
 Robert Greene. 
 
 SAJVIELA. 
 
 Like to Diana in her summer weed, 
 Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, 
 
 Goes fair Samela; 
 Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed. 
 When washed by Arethusa faint they lie. 
 
 Is fair Samela ; 
 As fair Aurora in her morning gray. 
 Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, 
 
 Is fair Samela ; 
 Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, 
 Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move. 
 
 Shines fair Samela; 
 Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, 
 Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory 
 
 Of fair Samela ; 
 Her cheeks, like rose and lily yield forth gleams, 
 Her brows' bright arches framed of ebony ; 
 
 Thus fair Samela 
 Passeth fair Venus iu her bravest hue. 
 
 THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. 
 
 FROM " AN HOURE'S RECREATION IN MUSICKE." 1606. 
 
 There is a garden in her face, 
 
 Where roses and white lilies blow ; 
 
 A heavenly paradise is that place, 
 Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 
 
 There cherries grow tliat none may buy. 
 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 Those cherries fairly do enclose 
 
 Of orient pearl a double row, 
 AVhich when her lovely laughter shows, 
 
 They look like rosebuds filled witli snow; 
 Yet them no peer nor prince may buy. 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 Her eyes like angels watch them still. 
 Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
 
 Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
 All that approach with eye or hand 
 
 These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 RICHARD Allison. 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 SE-VT BY A VORKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN MISTRESS. 
 
 If this fair rose offend thy sight. 
 
 Placed in thy bosom hare, 
 'T will blush to find itself less white, 
 
 And tui'n Lancastrian there. 
 
 But if thy ruby lip it spy, 
 As kiss it thou mayest deign. 
 
 With envy pale 't will lose its dye, 
 And Yorkish turn again. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 MY SWEET SWEETING. 
 
 FROM A MANUSCRIIT OF THE TIME OF HENRY VIIL 
 
 Ah, my sweet sweeting ; 
 
 My little pretty sweeting, 
 
 My sweeting will I love wherever I go ; 
 
 She is so proper and pure. 
 Full, steadfast, stable, and demure. 
 
 There is none such, you may be sure, 
 As my sweet sweeting. 
 
 r
 
 • ■ » 
 
 COMPLIMEXT AXD ADMIBATIUX. 
 
 In all this world, as tliiiiketli me, 
 Is none so ))leasaut to my e'e, 
 That I am glad so oft to see, 
 
 As my sweet sweeting. 
 When I behold my sweeting sweet, 
 Ilev face, her hands, lier minion feet. 
 They seem to me there is none so nieto 
 
 As my sweet sweeting. 
 
 Aliove all other jiraise must I, 
 And luve my pretty pygsnye, 
 i'or none I find so womanly 
 As my sweet sweeting. 
 
 AN0.NY.M0US. 
 
 A VISION OF BEAUTY. 
 
 It was a beauty that I saw, — 
 So pure, so perfect, as the frame 
 Of all the universe were lame 
 
 To that one figure, could I draw, 
 
 Or give least line of it a law : 
 ■^A skein of silk without a knot ! 
 
 A ladr march made without a halt ! 
 
 A curious form without a fault ! 
 A printed book without a blot ! 
 All beauty ! — and without a spot. 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS. 
 
 Give place, ye lovers, here before 
 
 That spent your boasts and brags in vain 
 
 My lady's beauty passeth more 
 
 The best of yours, I dare well sayen, 
 
 Than doth the sun the candle-light, 
 
 Or brightest day the darkest night. 
 
 Anil thereto hath a troth as just 
 
 As had Penelope the fair ; 
 For what she saith, ye may it trust, 
 
 As it by writing sealed were : 
 And virtues hath she many mo' 
 Than 1 with pen have skill to show. 
 
 I could rehearse, if that I would. 
 The whole eliect of Nature's plaint. 
 
 When she had lost the perfect mold. 
 The like to whom she could not paint : 
 
 With wringing hands, how she did cry, 
 
 And what she said, I know it aye. 
 
 I know she swore with raging mind. 
 
 Her kingdom only set apart, 
 There was no loss by law of kind 
 
 That could have gone so near her heart ; 
 And this was chiefly all her pain ; 
 " She could not make the like again." 
 
 .Sith X aturo thus gave her the praise, 
 To be the chiel'est work she wrought, 
 
 In faith, niethink, some better ways 
 On your behalf might well be sought, 
 
 Than to compare, as ye have done, 
 
 To match the caudle with the sun. 
 
 LORD SURREY. 
 
 PHTLLIS IS MY ONLY JOY. 
 
 Fhillis is my only joy ; 
 
 Faithless as the wind or seas ; 
 Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, 
 Yet she never fails to please. 
 If with a frown 
 I am cast down, 
 Phillis, smiling 
 And beguiling. 
 Makes me happier than before. 
 
 Though, alas ! too late I find 
 Nothing can her fancy fix ; 
 Yet the moment she is kind 
 I forgive her all her tricks ; 
 
 Which though I see, 
 
 I can't get free ; 
 
 She deceiving, 
 
 I believbig. 
 What need lovers wish for more ? 
 
 Sir Charles Sedlev. 
 
 YOTJ MEANER BEAUTIES. 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night, 
 That poorly satisfy our eyes 
 
 More by your number than your light, — 
 You common people of the skies. 
 What are you when the moon shall rise ? 
 
 You curious chanters of the wood, 
 
 That warble forth Dame Nature's lays. 
 
 Thinking your passions understood 
 
 By your weak accents, — what 's your praise 
 When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 
 
 You violets that first appear. 
 
 By your pure purple mantles known, 
 
 Like the proud virgins of the year. 
 As if the spring were all your own, — 
 What are you when the rose is blown ? 
 
 So when my mistress shall be seen 
 In form and beauty of her mind : 
 
 By virtue first, then choice, a queen, — 
 Tell me, if she were not ile.signed 
 Tlj' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 
 
 Sir Henry Wotto.s.
 
 66 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 GO, LOVELY ROSE. 
 
 Go, lovely rose ! 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
 
 That now she knows. 
 When I resemble her to thee. 
 How sweet and fair she seems to he. 
 
 Tell her that 's young. 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 
 That hadst thou spiling 
 In deserts, where no men abide, 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired ; 
 
 Bid her come forth, 
 Suffer herself to be desired. 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die, that she 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in thee ; 
 How small a part of time they share, 
 That are so wondrous, sweet, and fair. 
 
 EDMUND Waller. 
 
 STANZA ADDED EY HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 Yet, though thou fade, 
 From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; 
 
 And teach the maid, 
 That goodness Time's nide hand defies. 
 That virtue lives when beauty dies. 
 
 Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 
 Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide ; 
 If to her share some female errors fall, 
 Look on her face, and you 'U forget them all. 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 MT LOVE IN HER ATTIRE. 
 
 My Love in her attire doth show her wit. 
 
 It doth so well become her : 
 For every season she hath dressings fit, 
 For AVinter, Spring, and Summer. 
 No beauty she doth miss 
 
 When all her robes are on : 
 But beauty's self she is 
 When all her robes are gone. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 BELINDA. 
 
 FROM THE ■' RAPB OF THE LOCK." 
 
 On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
 Wliich Jews might kiss, and Infidels .adore. 
 Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. 
 Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : 
 Favors to none, to all she smiles extends : 
 Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
 Bright as the sun, her eyes the gamers strike. 
 And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
 
 MOODS. 
 
 Out upon it. I have loved 
 
 Three whole days together ; 
 And am like to love three more, 
 
 If it prove fair weather. 
 
 Time shall moult away his wings. 
 
 Ere he shall discover 
 In the whole wide world again 
 
 Such a constant lover. 
 
 But the spite on 't is, no praise 
 
 Is due at all to me : 
 Love with me had made no stays. 
 
 Had it any been but she. 
 
 Had it any been but she. 
 
 And that very face. 
 There had been at least ere this 
 
 A dozen dozen in her place. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 •'MT LOVE IS ALWAYS NEAR." 
 
 My only love is always near, — 
 
 In country or in town 
 I see her twinkling feet, I hear 
 
 The whisper of her govra. 
 
 She foots it ever fair and young. 
 
 Her locks are tied in haste. 
 And one is o'er her shoulder flung, 
 
 And hangs below her waist. 
 
 She ran before me in the meads ; 
 
 And down this world-wom track 
 She leads me on ; but while she leads 
 
 She never gazes back. 
 
 And yet her voice is in my dreams. 
 To witch me more and more ; 
 
 That wooing voice ! Ah me, it seems 
 Less near me than of yore. 
 
 Lightly I sped when hope was high. 
 And youth beguiled the chase, — 
 
 I follow, follow still ; but I 
 Shall never see her face. 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER.
 
 COMPLIMKXT AXD ADMIRATIOX. 
 
 C7 
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE. 
 
 At-Tiioufiii I enter not, 
 Yet rounj about the spot 
 
 Of'ttinies I liover ; 
 Anil near the sacred gate, 
 With longing eyes 1 wait, 
 
 Expectant of her. 
 
 The minster hell tolls out 
 Above the city's rout 
 
 And noise and humming ; 
 They 'vo hushed the minster bell ; 
 The organ 'gins to swell ; 
 
 She 's coming, coming ! 
 
 My lady comes at last, 
 Timid and stepping iiist. 
 
 And hastening hither, 
 With modest eyes downcast ; 
 She comes, — she 's here, — she 's past! 
 
 May Heaven go with her ! 
 
 Kneel undisturbed, fair saint ! 
 Pour out your praise or plaint 
 
 Meekly and duly : 
 I will not enter there. 
 To sully your pure prayer 
 
 With thoughts unruly. 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 Round the forbidden place, 
 
 Lingering a minute, 
 Like outcast spirits, who wait. 
 And see, through heaven's gate, 
 
 Angels within it. 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 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 llay-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 liousebold 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 n.aturc's daily food. 
 
 For ti-ansient sorrows, simple wiles. 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And no\v I see with eye serene 
 Tlie very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtfid 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 bi-ight 
 With something of an angel-light. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and stan-y skies. 
 
 And all that 's best of dark and bright 
 Jleets in her aspect and her eyes. 
 
 Thus mellowed to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less. 
 Had half impaired the nameless grace 
 
 Which waves in eveiy raven tress 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face, 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dweUing-place. 
 
 And on that cheek and o'er that brow 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloijuent, 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, — 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent. 
 
 LORD Byron. 
 
 THE MILKING-MAID. 
 
 The year stood at its equinox. 
 
 And bluff the North was blowing ; 
 
 A bleat of lambs came from the flocks. 
 Green hardy things were growing ; 
 
 I met a mai.l with shining locks 
 Where milky kine were lowing. 
 
 She wore a kerchief on her neck. 
 Her bare arm showed its dimple. 
 
 Her apron spread without a speck. 
 Her air was frank and simple. 
 
 She milked into a wooden pail, 
 And sang a country ditty, —
 
 + 
 
 J_ 
 
 68 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 An innocent fond lovers' tale, 
 
 That was nor wise nor witty, 
 Pathetiivilly rustical, 
 
 Too pointless for the city. 
 
 She kept in tiine without a beat. 
 
 As true as church-bell ringers, 
 Unless she tapped time with her feet, 
 
 Or squeezed it with her fingers ; 
 Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet 
 
 As many a practiced singer's. 
 
 I stood a minute out of sight, 
 
 Stood silent for a minute. 
 To eye the pail, and creamy white 
 
 The frothing milk within it, — 
 
 To eye the comely milking-maiJ, 
 
 Hei-self so fresh and creamy. 
 "Good day to you ! " at last I said ; 
 
 She turned her head to see me. 
 " Good day ! " she said, with lifted head ; 
 
 Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. 
 
 And all the while she milked and milked 
 
 The gi-are cow hcary-laden : 
 I 've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked. 
 
 But not a sweeter maiden ; 
 
 But not a sweeter, fresher maid 
 
 Than tlus in homely cotton, 
 ■Whose pleasant face and silky braid 
 
 I have not yet forgotten. 
 
 Seven springs have passed since then, as I 
 
 Count with a sober sorrow ; 
 Seven springs have come and passed me by. 
 
 And spring sets in to-morrow. 
 
 I 've half a mind to shake mj'self 
 Free, just for once, from London, 
 
 To set my work upon the shelf, 
 And leave it done or undone ; 
 
 To nm down by the early train, 
 
 AVhirl down with shriek and whistle. 
 
 And feel the bluff North blow again, 
 And mark the sprouting thistle 
 
 Set up on waste patch of the lane 
 Its gi-een and tender bristle ; 
 
 And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, 
 Crisp primrose-leaves and others. 
 
 And watch the lambs leap at their pranks, 
 And butt their patient mothers. 
 
 Alas ! one point in all my plan 
 My serious thoughts demur to : 
 
 Seven years have passed for maid and man. 
 Seven years have passed for her too. 
 
 Perhaps my rose is over-blown, 
 
 Not rosy or too rosy ; 
 Perhaps in farm-house of her own 
 
 Some husband keeps her cosy, 
 "Where 1 should show a face unknown, — 
 
 Good by, my wayside posy ! 
 
 CHRISTINA CEORGINA ROSSETTI. 
 
 A VIOLET IN HER HAIR. 
 
 A VIOLET in her lovely hair, 
 A rose upon her bosom fair ! 
 
 But 0, her eyes 
 A lovelier violet disclose, 
 And her ripe lips the sweetest rose 
 
 That 's 'neath the skies. 
 
 A lute beneath her gr-aceful hand 
 Breathes music forth at her command ; 
 
 But still her tongue 
 Far richer music calls to birth 
 Than all the minstrel power on earth 
 
 Can give to song. 
 
 And thus she moves in tender light, 
 The purest ray, where aU is bright, 
 
 Serene, and sweet ; 
 And sheds a graceful influence round. 
 That hallows e'en the very ground 
 
 Beneath her feet ! 
 
 CHARLES SWAIN. 
 
 THE ROSE OF THE "WOELD. 
 
 Lo, when the Lord made north and south, 
 
 And sun and moon ordained, he. 
 Forth bringing each by word of mouth 
 
 In order of its dignity, 
 Did man from the crude clay express 
 
 By sequence, and, all else decreed. 
 He foraied the woman ; nor might less 
 
 Than Sabbath such a work succeed. 
 
 And still with favor singled out. 
 
 Marred less than man by mortal fall, 
 Her disposition is devout. 
 
 Her countenance angelical. 
 No faithless thought her instinct shrouds. 
 
 But fancy checkers settled sense. 
 Like alteration of the clouds 
 
 On noonday's azure pei-manence. 
 Pure courtesy, composure, ease, 
 
 Declare affections nobly fixed.
 
 1 _ * 
 
 (j Cc^uX. Mc^^t^ i^tt^ /^^^ff^^pu. 
 
 7^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 FORDS, HOWARD i HULBERT.N.Y-
 
 Anil impulse siinui;:,' Inmi duo. degrees 
 
 Of sense lunl spirit sweetly mixed. 
 Her modesty, her eliielivst gnieo, 
 
 The cestus ehisping Venus' side, 
 Is potent to deject tlie face 
 
 Of liiru who would allrout its prido. 
 Wrong dares not in lu^r presence speak, 
 
 Nor spotted tliought its taiut disclose 
 Under the protest of a clieek 
 
 Outljragging Nature's boast, the rose. 
 In mind and manners how discreet ! 
 
 How artless in her very art ! 
 How candid in discourse ! how sweet 
 
 The concord of her lips and heart ! 
 How (not to call true instinct's bent 
 
 And woman's very nature harm), 
 How amialde and innocent 
 
 Her pleasure in her power to charm ! 
 
 How humbly cureful to attract, 
 
 Though crowned with all the soul desires, 
 Connubial aptitude exact. 
 
 Diversity that never tires ! 
 
 COVF.NTRY I'ATMORE. 
 
 SWEET, BE NOT PROUD. 
 
 Swi'.ET, be not proml of those two eyes, 
 Which starlilco sparkle in their skies ; 
 Nor be you proud that you can see 
 All hearts your captives, yours yet free. 
 Bo you not i)roud of that rich liair. 
 Which wantons with the love-sick air ; 
 Wbenas that ruliy which you wear. 
 Sunk from the tij) of your soft ear, 
 Will last to be a precious stone 
 When all your world of beauty 's gone. 
 
 Robert Hekrick. 
 
 LOVE 
 
 IF IT BE TRUE THAT ANY BEAUTEOUS THING. 
 
 If it be true that any beauteous thing 
 Kaises tlie pure and just desire of man 
 From earth to God, the eternal fount of all, 
 Such I believe my love ; for as in her 
 So fair, in whom I all besides forget, 
 I view the gentle work of her Creator, 
 I have no care for any other thing. 
 Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvelous. 
 Since the effect is not of my own power, 
 If the soul dotli, by nature tempted forth, 
 Enamored througli the eyes, 
 Eepose upon the eyes which it resembleth. 
 And through them riseth to the Primal Love, 
 As to its end, and honors in admiring ; 
 For who adores the Maker needs must love his 
 work. 
 
 From the Italian of MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 by J. E. TAYL011. 
 
 THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE. 
 
 The might of one fair fiice sublitnes my love, 
 For it hath weaned my heart from low desires ; 
 Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires. 
 Thy beauty, antepast of joys above. 
 Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve ; 
 For 0, how good, how beautiful, must be 
 The God that made so good a thing as thee. 
 So fair an image of the heavenly Dove ! 
 
 Forgive me if I cannot turn away 
 
 From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, 
 
 For they are guiding stars, benignly given 
 
 To tempt my footsteps to the upward way ; 
 
 And if 1 dwell too fondly in thy sight, 
 
 I live and love in God's peculiar light. 
 
 From the Italian of MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 by J. E. TAYLOR. 
 
 LOVE SCORNS DEGREES. 
 
 FROM "THE MOUNTAIN OF THE LOVERS." 
 
 Love scorns degrees ; the low he lifteth high. 
 The high he draweth down to that fair plain 
 Whereon, in his divine equality, 
 Two loving hearts may meet, nor meet in vain ; 
 'Gainst such sweet leveling Custom cries amain. 
 But o'er its harshest utterance one bland sigh. 
 Breathed passion-wise, doth mount victorious 
 
 still, 
 For Love, earth's lord, must have his lordly will. 
 
 PAUL n. HAVNE. 
 
 FHILLIS THE FAIR. 
 
 On a hill there grows a flower. 
 Fair befall the dainty sweet! 
 
 By that flower there is a bower 
 Wliere the heavenly muses meet.
 
 I 
 
 70 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 In that bower there is a cliair, 
 Fringed all about with guld, 
 
 "Where doth sit the fairest lair 
 That ever eye did yet behold. 
 
 It is Phillis, fair and bright, 
 She that is the shepherd's joy, 
 
 She that Venus did despite, 
 And did blind her little boy. 
 
 "Wlio would not that face admire ? 
 
 "WTio would not this saint adore? 
 Who would not this sight desire. 
 
 Though he thought to see no more ? 
 
 Thou that art the shepherd's queen. 
 Look upon thy love-sick swain ! 
 
 By thy comfort have been seen 
 Dead men brought to life again. 
 
 Nicholas Breton. 
 
 LOVE IS A SICKNESS. 
 
 Love is a sickness full of woes, 
 
 All remedies refusing ; 
 A plant that most with cutting grows, 
 Most barren with best using. 
 Why so ? 
 More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
 If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
 Heigh-ho ! 
 
 Love is a torment of the mind, 
 
 A tempest everlasting ; 
 And Jove liath made it of a kind. 
 
 Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
 
 Why so ? 
 
 More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
 
 If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
 
 Heigh-ho ! 
 
 SAMUEL Daniel. 
 
 AH! WHAT IS LO'VE? 
 
 An ! what is love ? It is a pretty thing. 
 As sweet unto a shepherd as a king, 
 
 And sweeter too ; 
 For kings have cai-es that wait upon a crown. 
 And cares can make the sweetest face to frown : 
 
 Ah then, ah then, 
 I f country loves such sweet desires gain, 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 His flocks are folded ; he comes home at night 
 As merry as a king in his delight, 
 
 And merrier too ; 
 For kings bethink them what the state ver|uire. 
 Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire : 
 
 Ah then, ah then. 
 
 If country love such sweet desires gain, 
 \\'Tiat lady would not love a shephei-d swain ? 
 
 He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 
 
 His cream and curd as doth the king his meat, 
 
 And Ijlither too ; 
 For kings have often fears when they sup, 
 Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup : 
 
 Ah then, ah then. 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound 
 As doth the king upon his beds of down. 
 
 More sounder too ; 
 For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill. 
 Where weary shepherds lie and snort tlieir fill : 
 
 Ah then, ah then. 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe 
 As doth the king at every tide or syth. 
 
 And blither too ; 
 For kings have wars and broil, to take in hand. 
 When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land : 
 
 Ai then, ah then. 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain, 
 AMiat lady would not love a shejiherd swain ? 
 
 Robert Greene. 
 
 TELL ME, MY HEAET, IF THIS BE LOVE. 
 
 When Delia on the plain appears. 
 Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
 I would approach, but dare not move ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love. 
 
 ■Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear 
 No other voice than hers can hear ; 
 No other wit but hers approve ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love. 
 
 If she some other swain commend, 
 Though I was once his fondest friend, 
 His instant enemy 1 prove ; — 
 Tell nie, my heart, if tliis be love. 
 
 Wlien she is absent, I no more 
 Delight in all that pleased before. 
 The clearest spring, the shadiest giove; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love. 
 
 When fond of power, of beauty vain. 
 Her nets she spread for every swain, 
 I strove to hate, but vainly strove ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love. 
 
 George, lord Lyttelton. 
 
 ■I
 
 GO, HAPPY ROSE I 
 
 Go, happy Eose ! and, iiitci-wovo 
 With other flowers, bind my love ! 
 Tell her, too, she must not be 
 Longer flowing, longer free, 
 That so oft hath fettered me. 
 
 Say, if she 's fretful, I have bamls 
 Of pearl and gold to bind her liands ; 
 Tell her, if she struggle still, 
 I have myrtle rods at will. 
 For to tame, though not to kill. 
 
 Take then my blessing thus, and go, 
 
 And tell her this, — but do not so ! 
 
 Lest a handsome anger fly, 
 
 Like a lightning from her eye. 
 
 And burn thee up, as well as I. 
 
 ROBliRT HERRICK, 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 FROM "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE." 
 
 Teix me where is Fancy bred, 
 Or in the heart, or in the head ? 
 How begot, how nourished ? 
 Reply, reply. 
 
 It is engendered in the eyes, 
 With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies 
 In the cradle where it lies. 
 
 Let us all ring Fancy's knell ; 
 
 I '11 begin it, — Ding, dong, beU. 
 
 Ding, dong, bell. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 THE DECEIVED LOVER STJETH ONLY 
 LIBEKTY. 
 
 If chance assigned 
 Were to my mind, 
 By every kind 
 
 Of destiny ; 
 Yet would I cravo 
 Naught else to have 
 
 But dearest life and liberty. 
 
 Then were I sure 
 I might endure 
 The displeasure 
 
 Of cruelty ; 
 Where now I plain 
 Alas ! in vain, 
 
 Lacking my life for liberty. 
 
 FOR 
 
 For without th' one, 
 Th' other is gone, 
 And there can none 
 It remedy ; 
 If th' one be p;rst, 
 Th' other doth waste, 
 
 And all for lack of liberty. 
 
 And so I drive, 
 As yet alive. 
 Although I strive 
 
 With misery ; 
 Drawing my breath, 
 Looking for death, 
 
 And loss of life for liberty. 
 
 But thou that still 
 Mayst at tliy will 
 Turn all this ill 
 
 Adversity ; 
 For the repair 
 Of my welfare, 
 
 Grant me but life and liberty. 
 
 And if not so, 
 Then let all go 
 To wretched woe. 
 
 And let me die ; 
 For th' one or th' other, 
 There is none other ; 
 
 My death, or life with liberty. 
 
 SIR THOMAS WVATT. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 My banks they are furnished with bees. 
 
 Whose murmur invites one to sleep ; 
 My grottos are shaded with trees, 
 
 And my hUls are white over with sheep ; 
 I seldom have met with a loss, 
 
 Such health do my fountains bestow ; 
 My fountains all bordered with moss. 
 
 Where the harebells and violets grow. 
 
 Not a pine in my grove is there seen 
 
 But with tendrils of woodbine is bound ; 
 Not a beacli 's more beautiful green. 
 
 But a sweetbrier entnines it around. 
 Not my fields, in the prime of the year. 
 
 More charms than my cattle unfold ; 
 Not a brook that is limpid and clear. 
 
 But it glitters with fishes of gold. 
 
 One would think she might like to retire 
 To the bower I have labored to rear ; 
 
 Not a shrub that I heard her admire 
 But I hasted and planted it there.
 
 rOEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 liow sudden the jessamine strove 
 With tlie lilao, to render it giiy ! 
 
 Ah'eady it calls for my love 
 
 To prune the wild Lrauches away. 
 
 From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves, 
 
 What strains of wild melody flow : 
 How the nightingales warble their loves, 
 
 Fi'om thickets of roses that blow ! 
 And when her blight form shall appear, 
 
 Each bird shall harmoniously join 
 For a concert so soft and so clear, 
 
 As she may not he fond to resign. 
 
 1 have found out a gift for my fair ; 
 
 I liave found where the wood-pigeons breed : 
 But let me that plunder forbear, — 
 
 She will say 't was a barbarous deed. 
 For he ne'er could be ti-ue, slie averred, 
 
 "Who could rob a poor bird of his young ; 
 And I loved her the more when 1 heard 
 
 Such tenderness fall from her tongue. 
 
 I have heard her with sweetness unfold 
 
 How that pity was due to a dove ; 
 That it ever attended the bold. 
 
 And she called it the sister of Love. 
 But her words such a pleasure convey. 
 
 So much 1 her accents adore. 
 Let her speak, and, w hatever she say, 
 
 Jlethinks I should love her the more. 
 
 Can a bosom so gentle remain 
 
 Unmoved when her Carydon sighs 1 
 AVill a nymph that is fond of the plain 
 
 These plains and this valley despise ? 
 Dear regions of silence and shade ! 
 
 Soft scenes of contentment and ease ! 
 AVhere 1 could have pleasingly strayed, 
 
 ] f aught in her absence could please. 
 
 But where does my Phyllida stray ? 
 
 And wheie are her grots and her bowers ? 
 Are the groves and the valleys as gay, 
 
 And the shepherds as gentle as ours ? 
 The groves may perhaps be as fair, 
 
 And the face of the valleys as fine ; 
 Tlie swains may in manners compare. 
 
 But their love is not equal to mine. 
 
 WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 
 
 His heart in me keeps him and me in one ; 
 My heart in him his thoughts and senses 
 guides : 
 He loves my heart, for once it was his own ; 
 
 I cherish his liecause in me it bides : 
 My truedove hath my heart, and I have his. 
 
 SIR Philip Sidney. 
 
 MY TRTTE-LOVE HATH MY HEART. 
 
 My truedove hath my heart, and I have his, 
 By just exchange one to the other given : 
 
 I hold Iiis dear, and mine he cannot miss. 
 There never was a better bargain driven : 
 
 My ti'ue-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 
 I SAW TWO CLOUDS AT MORNING. 
 
 I SAW two clouds at morning. 
 
 Tinged by the rising sun. 
 And in the dawn they floated on. 
 
 And mingled into one ; 
 I thought that morning cloud was blessed. 
 It moved so sweetly to the west. 
 
 I saw two summer currents 
 
 Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
 
 And join their course, with silent force, 
 lu peace each other greeting ; 
 
 Calm was their course through banks of green, 
 
 Wliile dimpling eddies played between. 
 
 Such be your gentle motion. 
 
 Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 
 Like summer's beam, and summer's stream. 
 
 Float on, in joy, to meet 
 A calmer sea, where storms shall cease, 
 A purer sky, where all is peace. 
 
 John g. C. ERAiNARa 
 
 THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 
 
 It was a friar of orders gray 
 Walked forth to tell his beads ; 
 
 And he met with a lady fair 
 Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 
 
 ' ' Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar ; 
 
 I pray thee tell to me. 
 If ever at yon holy shrine 
 
 My truedove thou didst see." 
 
 "And how should I know your true-love 
 
 From many another one?" 
 " 0, by his cockle hat, and staff. 
 
 And by his sandal shoon. 
 
 " But chiefly hy his face and mien. 
 
 That were so fair to view ; 
 His flaxen locks that sweetly curled, 
 
 And eyes of lovely blue. " 
 
 " lady, he is dead and gone ! 
 
 Lady, he 's dead and gone ! 
 And at his head a green grass turf, 
 
 And at his heels a stone. 
 
 -•-II-*-
 
 " Within tliese holy cloisters long 
 
 lie laugiiished, and he died, 
 Lamenting of a lady's love, 
 
 And 'plaining of her piiJe. 
 
 " Here bore him barefaced on his bier 
 
 Six iiroper youths and tall, 
 And many a tear bedewed his grave 
 
 ■VVithin yon kirk-yard wall." 
 
 "And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ? 
 
 And art thou dead and gone ? 
 And didst thou die for love of mo ? 
 
 Break, cruel heart of stone !" 
 
 " weep not, lady, weep not so ; 
 
 Some ghostly comfort seek; 
 Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 
 
 Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 
 
 "0 do not, do not, holy friar, 
 
 My sorrow now reprove ; 
 For I have lost the sweetest youth 
 
 That e'er won lady's love. 
 
 " And now, alas ! for tliy sad loss 
 I '11 evermore weep and sigh : 
 
 For thee I only wished to live, 
 For thee I wish to die." 
 
 "Weep no more, lady, weep no more. 
 
 Thy sorrow is in vain ; 
 For violets plucked, the sweetest showers 
 
 Will ne'er make grow again. 
 
 "Our joys as winged dreams do fly; 
 
 Why then should sorrow last ? 
 Since grief but aggravates thy loss, 
 
 Grieve not for what is past." 
 
 " say not so, thou holy friar ; 
 
 I pray thee, say not so ; 
 For since my true-love died for me, 
 
 'T is meet my tears should flow. 
 
 "And will he never come again? 
 
 WUl he ne'er come again ? 
 Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, 
 
 Forever to remain. 
 
 " His cheek was redder than the rose ; 
 
 The comeliest youth was he ! 
 But he is dead and laid in his grave : 
 
 Alas, and woe is me ! " 
 
 " Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more. 
 
 Men were deceivers ever : 
 One foot on sea and one on land. 
 
 To one thing constant never. 
 
 "Hadst thou been fond, he had been false. 
 
 And left thee sad and heavy ; 
 For young men ever were lickle found. 
 
 Since summer trees were leafy." 
 
 "Now say not so, thou holy friar, 
 
 1 pray thee say not so ; 
 My love he had the truest heart, — 
 
 0, he was ever true ! 
 
 "And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth, 
 
 And didst thou die for me ? 
 Then farewell home ; forevermore 
 
 A pilgrim I will be. 
 
 " But first upon my true-love's grave 
 
 My weary limbs I '11 lay. 
 And thrice I '11 kiss the green-grass turf 
 
 That wraps his breathless clay." 
 
 "Yet stay, fair lady : rest awhile 
 
 Beneath this cloister wall ; 
 See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind. 
 
 And drizzly rain doth fall." 
 
 " stay me not, thou holy friar, 
 
 stay me not, 1 pray ; 
 No drizzly rain that falls on me 
 
 Can wash my fault away." 
 
 " Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 
 
 And dry those pearly tears ; 
 For see, beneath this gown of gray 
 
 Thy own true-love appears. 
 
 " Here forced by grief and hopeless love. 
 
 These holy weeds I sought ; 
 And here, amid these lonely walls. 
 
 To end my days I thought. 
 
 " But haply, for my year of grace 
 
 Is not yet ]iassed away. 
 Might I still Iiope to win thy love. 
 
 No longer would I stay. " 
 
 " Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 
 
 Once more unto my heart ; 
 For since I have found thee, lovely youth, 
 
 We nevermore will part." 
 
 Adapted by THOMAS PERCY. 
 
 ON LOVE. 
 
 There is no worldly pleasure here below, 
 'Wliiehby experience doth not folly prove ; 
 
 But among all the follies that I know. 
 The sweetest folly in the world is love : 
 
 T 
 
 r
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 But not that passion wliich, with fools' consent, 
 
 Above the reason bears imperious sway, 
 Making their lil'etime a perpetual Lent, 
 
 As if a man were born to fast and pray. 
 No, tliat is not the humor 1 approve. 
 
 As cither jdehUng pleasure or promotion ; 
 I lilce a mild and lukewarm zeal in love, 
 Although I do not like it in devotion ; 
 For it has no coherenee with my creed. 
 
 To think that lovers die as they pretend ; 
 If all that say they dy had dy'd indeed, 
 
 Sure long ere now the world had had an end. 
 Besides, we need not love but if we please, 
 No destiny can force men's disposition ; 
 And how can any die of that disease 
 
 Whereof himself may be his own physician ? 
 But some seem so distracted of their ^vits, 
 
 That I would tliink it but a venial sin 
 To take some of those innocents that sits 
 In Bedlam out, and put some lovei-s in. 
 Yet some men, rather than incur the slander 
 Of true apostates, wiU false martjTS prove. 
 But I am neither Iphis nor Leander, 
 
 I '11 neither drown nor hang myself for love. 
 Methinks a wise man's actions should be such 
 
 As always peld to reason's best advice ; 
 Now for to love too little or too much 
 
 Are both extreams, and all extreams are vice. 
 Yet have I been a lover by report, 
 
 Yea I have dy'd for love, as others do ; 
 But, praised be God, it was in such a sort. 
 
 That I revived within an hour or two. 
 Thus have 1 lived, thus have I lov'd tdl now, 
 
 And find no reason to repent me yet ; 
 And whosoever otherways wiU do. 
 His com'age is as little as liis wit. 
 
 SIK ROBEKT AVTON. 
 
 1 
 
 THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Celia and I, the other day. 
 
 Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea : 
 
 The setting sun adorned the coast, 
 
 His beams entire his fierceness lost : 
 
 And on the surface of the deep 
 
 The winds lay only not asleep : 
 
 The nymphs did, like the scene, appear 
 
 Serenely pleasant, calmly fair ; 
 
 Soft felt her words as flew the air. 
 
 With secret joy I heard her say 
 
 That she would never miss one day 
 
 A walk so fine, a sight so gay ; 
 
 But 0, the change ! The winds grow high, 
 
 Impending tempests charge the sky. 
 
 The lightning flies, the thunder roars. 
 
 The big waves lash the frightened shores. 
 
 Strack with the horror of the sight, 
 She turns her head and wings her flight ; 
 And, trembling, vows she '11 ne'er again 
 Approach the shore or view the main. 
 
 " Once more at least look back," said I, 
 " Thyself in that large glass desciy : 
 When thou art in good-humor drest, 
 When gentle reason rules thy breast, 
 The sun upon the calmest sea 
 Appears not half so bright as thee : 
 'T is then that with delight 1 rove 
 Upon the boimdless deptli of love : 
 I bless my chain, I hand my oar. 
 Nor think on all I left on shore. 
 
 " But when vain doubt and groundless fear 
 
 Do that dear foolish bosom tear ; 
 
 When the big lip and w-atery eye 
 
 Tell me the rising storm is nigh ; 
 
 'T is then thou art yon angry main 
 
 Deformed by winds and dashed by rain ; 
 
 Aud the poor sailor that must try 
 
 Its fury labors less than I. 
 
 ShipwTecked, in vain to land I make, 
 
 AVhile love and fate still drive me back : 
 
 Forced to dote on thee thy own way, 
 
 I chide thee first, and then obey : 
 
 AV retched when from thee, vexed when nigh, 
 
 I with thee, or without thee, die." 
 
 MATTHEW PRIOR. 
 
 'SHALL I TELL YOU WHOM I LOVE?" 
 
 FROM "BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS." 
 
 Shall I tell you whom I love ? 
 
 Hearken then awliile to me ; 
 And if such a woman move, 
 
 As I now shall versifie. 
 Be assured, 't is she or none 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
 Nature did her so much right 
 As she scorns the helpe of art. 
 
 In as many vertues dight 
 As e'er yet imbraced a heart. 
 
 So much good so truly tride, 
 
 Some for lesse were deifide. 
 
 Wit she hath without desire 
 
 To make knowne how much she hath ; 
 And her anger flames no higher 
 
 Than may fitly sweeten wTath. 
 Full of pitty as may be. 
 Though perhaps not so to me. 
 
 Keason masters every sense, 
 
 And her vertues grace her birth ;
 
 LOVE. 
 
 -\- 
 
 /o 
 
 Lovely as all excellence, 
 
 Modest ill her most of mirth : 
 LikclUiooJ (.■iiough to 5)rovt', 
 Onely worth could kindle love. 
 
 Such she is : and if you know 
 
 Such a one as I have sung ; 
 Be she brown or falre, or so 
 
 That she be but somewhile young, 
 Be assured 't is she or none 
 That 1 love, and love alone. 
 
 WILLIAM Browne. 
 
 LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE. 
 
 Love not me for comely grace. 
 For my pleasing eye or face. 
 Nor for any outward part, 
 Ko, nor for my constant heart ; 
 For those may fail or turn to ill, 
 So thou and I sh.all sever ; 
 ' Keep therefore a tnie woman's eye, 
 And love me still, but know not why. 
 So hast thou the same reason still 
 To dote upon me ever. 
 
 ANO.VVMOUS. 
 
 HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek, 
 
 Or a coral lip admires. 
 Or from starlike eyes doth seek 
 
 Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
 As old Time makes these decay. 
 So his flames must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast mind. 
 Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 
 
 Hearts with equal love combined. 
 Kindle never-dying fires : — 
 
 Where these are not, I desjiise 
 
 Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 
 
 THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 
 
 ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN 1569. 
 
 Love me little, love me long ! 
 Is the burden of my song : 
 Love that is too hot and strong 
 
 Burneth soon to waste. 
 Still I would not have thee cold, — 
 Not too backward, nor too bold ; 
 Love that lastetli till 't is old 
 
 Fadeth not in haste. 
 L'ove me little, love me long ! 
 Is the burden of my song. 
 
 If thou lovest me too much, 
 
 'T will not prove as true a touch ; 
 
 Love me little more than such, — 
 
 For 1 fear the end. 
 1 'ni with little well coutent. 
 And a little from thee sent 
 Is enough, with true intent 
 
 To be steadfast, friend. 
 
 Say thou lovest me, while thou live 
 I to thee my love will give, 
 Never dreaming to deceive 
 
 While that life endures ; 
 Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
 I to thee will keep my truth, 
 As now when in my May of youth : 
 
 This my love assures. 
 
 Constant love is moderate ever. 
 And it will through life persever ; 
 Give me that with true endeavor, — 
 
 I will it restore. 
 A suit of durance let it be. 
 For all weathers, — that for me, — 
 For the land or for the sea ; 
 
 Lasting evermore. 
 
 Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
 Autumn's tempests on it beat ; 
 It can never know defeat, 
 
 Never can rebel : 
 Such the love that I would gain, 
 Such the love, I tell thee plain. 
 Thou must give, or woo in vain : 
 
 So to thee — farewell ! 
 
 ano.nvmous. 
 
 I DO NOT LOVE THEE FOR THAT FAIR. 
 
 I DO not love thee for that fair 
 Rich fan of thy most curious hair. 
 Though the wires thereof be drawn 
 Finer than the threads of lawn, 
 And are softer than the leaves 
 On which the subtle spider weaves. 
 
 I do not love thee for those flowers 
 Growing on thy cheeks — love's boweiis- 
 Though such cunning them hath spread. 
 None can p.aint them white and red. 
 Love's golden anows thence are shot, 
 Yet for them I love thee not. 
 
 I do not love thee for those soft 
 Red coral lips I 've kissed so oft ; 
 Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard 
 To speech whence music stiU is heard.
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 Thouoh from those lips a kiss teing takcu 
 Might tyrants melt, aud death awaken. 
 
 I do not love thee, my fairest, 
 For that richest, for that rarest 
 Silver villar, which stands under 
 Thy sound head, that globe of wonder; 
 Though that neck be whiter far 
 Than"towers of polished ivory are. 
 
 THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 A HEALTH. 
 
 I FILL this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone ; 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon ; 
 To whom the better elements 
 
 And kindly stars have given 
 A fomn 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. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her, 
 
 The measures of her hours ; 
 Her feelings have the fragraney, 
 
 The freshness of young flowers ; 
 And lovely passions, changing oft, 
 
 So fill her, she appears 
 The image of themselves by turns, — 
 
 The idol of past years ! 
 
 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 nigli my latest sigh 
 WUl not be Ufe'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 frame. 
 That life might be all poetry. 
 
 And weariness a name. 
 
 Edward Coate riNCKNEV. 
 
 FAIRER THAN THEE. 
 
 FAir.ER than thee, beloved. 
 
 Fairer than thee ! — 
 There is one thing, beloved, 
 
 Fairer than thee. 
 
 Not the glad sun, beloved. 
 
 Bright though it beams ; 
 Not the green earth, beloved, 
 
 Silver with streams ; 
 
 Kot the gay birds, beloved, 
 
 Happy and free : 
 Yet there 's one thing, beloved, 
 
 Fairer than thee. 
 
 Not the clear day, beloved. 
 
 Glowing with light ; 
 Not (fairer still, beloved) 
 
 Star-crowned night. 
 
 Truth in her might, beloved, 
 
 Grand in her sway ; 
 Truth with her eyes, beloved. 
 
 Clearer than day ; 
 
 Holy and pure, beloved. 
 
 Spotless and free. 
 Is the one thing, beloved, 
 
 Faii-er than thee. 
 
 Guard well thy soul, beloved ; 
 
 Truth, dwelling there. 
 Shall shadow forth, beloved. 
 
 Her image rare. 
 
 Then shall I deem, beloved. 
 
 That thou art she ; 
 And there '11 be naught, beloved, 
 
 Fairer than thee. 
 
 ANO.NVMOUS. 
 
 THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. 
 
 Gekteel in personage. 
 Conduct, and equipage ; 
 Noble by heritage ; 
 Generous and free ; 
 
 Brave, not romantic ; 
 Learned, not pedantic ; 
 Frolic, not frantic, — 
 This must he be. 
 
 Honor maintaining, 
 Meanness disdaining, 
 Stm entertaining. 
 Engaging and new ;
 
 Neat, but not liiiical ; 
 Sage, Imt not cynical ; 
 Never tyrannical, 
 But ever true. 
 
 Hexky Fielding. 
 
 THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE. 
 
 It is not Beauty I demanil, 
 
 A crj-stal brow, the moon's despair. 
 
 Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, 
 Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair : 
 
 Tell me not of your starry eyes. 
 Your lips that seem on roses fed. 
 
 Your breasts, wliere Cupiil tumbling lies, 
 Nor sleeps for kissing of liis bed, — ■ 
 
 A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, 
 Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 
 
 A breath that softer music speaks 
 
 Than summer winds a-wooing flowers ; — 
 
 These are but gauds : nay, what are lips ? 
 
 Coral beneath the ocean-stream. 
 Whose brink when your adventurer slips 
 
 FuU oft he perisheth on them. 
 
 And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft 
 That wave hot youth to fields of blood? 
 
 Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft. 
 Do Greece or Ilium any good ? 
 
 Eyes can with baleful ardor burn ; 
 
 Breath can poison that erst perfumed ; 
 There 's many a white hand holds an urn, 
 
 AVitli lovers' hearts to dust consumed. 
 
 For crystal brows, there 's naught within ; 
 
 They are but empty cells for pride ; 
 He who tlie Siren's hair would win 
 
 Is mostly strangled in the tide. 
 
 Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, 
 
 A tender heart, a loyal mind, 
 Which with temptation I would trust. 
 
 Yet never linked with error find, — 
 
 One in whose gentle bosom I 
 
 Could pour my secret heart of woes, 
 
 Like the care-burdened honey-fly 
 
 That hides his murmurs in the rose, — 
 
 My eartlily Comforter ! whose love 
 
 So indefeasible might be 
 That, when my spirit wonned above. 
 
 Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 
 
 Anoxvmous. 
 
 THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Three students were traveling over the Rliine ; 
 They stopped when they came to the landlady's 
 
 sign ; 
 "Good landlady, liave you good beer and wine? 
 And where is that de.-vi- little daughter of thine !" 
 
 "My beer and wine are fresh and clear; 
 My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier ! " 
 And when to the chamber they made their way. 
 There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay. 
 
 The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised. 
 And on her pale face he mournfully gazed. 
 " Ah ! wert thou but living yet," he said, 
 " I 'd love thee from this time forth, fail- maid ! " 
 
 The second he slowly put back the shroud. 
 Ami turned him away and wept aloud : 
 " Ah ! that thou liest in the cold death-bier ! 
 Alas! I have loved thee for many a year!" 
 
 The third he once more uplifted the veil, 
 And kissed her upon her mouth so pale : 
 "Thee loved I always; I love still but thee; 
 And thee will I love through eternity ! " 
 
 From the German of UHLAND, 
 by J. S. DWICIIT. 
 
 "THREE LOVES." 
 
 There were three maidens who loved a king ; 
 
 They sat together beside the sea ; 
 One cried, " 1 love him, and 1 would die. 
 
 If but for one day he might love me ! " 
 
 The second whispered, " And 1 would die 
 To gladden his life, or make him great." 
 
 The thii'd one spoke not, but gazed afar 
 With dreamy eyes that were sad as Fate. 
 
 The king he loved the first for a day. 
 The second his life with fond love blest ; 
 
 And yet the woman who never spoke 
 
 Was the one of the three who loved him best. 
 LUCY H. Hooper. 
 
 TO A GENTILWOMAN 
 
 THAT SAVD : ALL MEN BE FALSE. THEY THINK NOT WHAT 
 THEY SAY. 
 
 SoMF, women fayne that Paris was 
 
 The falsest louer that could bee : 
 
 Who for his [life] did notliing passe. 
 
 As all the world might playnly see : 
 
 But ventrcd life and limines and all, 
 To keepe his freend from Greekish tlirall : 
 With many a broyle hce dearely bought. 
 His [Hellen] whom hce long had sought.
 
 4 
 
 78 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 For first [Dame Venus] granted him, 
 
 A galUint gii'te of Beauties fleece : 
 
 WliieU boldely for to secke to win, 
 
 By surging Seas hee sayld to Greece : 
 
 And when he was arrived theare, 
 By earnest sute to win Ids Deare 
 No greater paynes might man endure. 
 Than Paris did for Hellen sure. 
 
 Besides all this when they were well, 
 
 Both hee and shce arryu'd at Troy : 
 
 Kiiigc Menelaiis wrath did swell, 
 
 And swore, by sword, to rid their ioye : 
 
 And so hee did for ten yeres' space, 
 Hee lay before the Troyan face ; 
 With all the hoste that he could make. 
 To bee reveng'd for HeUens sake. 
 
 Loe ? thus much did poore Paris bido. 
 
 Who is accounted most untrue : 
 
 AU men bee false it hath bin sayd, 
 
 They think not what they speake, (s.ay you) 
 Yes Paris spoke, and sped with speede. 
 As all the heavenly Gods decreed 
 And prooud himselfe a louer iust 
 TUl stately Troy was turned to dust. 
 
 I doo not reade of any man, 
 
 That so much was unfaythfuU found. 
 
 You did us -WTong, t' accuse us than, 
 
 And say our freendship is not soimd : 
 If any fault bee found at all. 
 To womens lot it needes must fall : 
 If Hellen had not bin so light 
 Sir Paris had not died in fight. 
 
 The falsest men I can excuse 
 
 That euer you in stories reade : 
 
 Therefore all men for to accuse, 
 
 Methinkes it was not well decreede : 
 It is a signe you have not tride 
 What stedfastnesse in men doth bide : 
 But when your time shal try them true. 
 This judgment then you must rcnue. 
 
 I know not eveiy mans devise 
 
 But commonly they stedfast are : 
 
 Though you doo make them of no price, 
 They breake their vowes but very rare : 
 
 They will perfonne theyr promis well. 
 And specially where loue doth dwell : 
 Where freendship doth not iustly frame, 
 Then men (forsooth) must beare the blame. 
 
 o. R. 
 
 From " A gorgious Gallery of Gallant Inuentions.' 
 Imprinted at London, 1578. 
 
 NOT OTIRS THE VOWS — 
 
 Not ours the vows of such as plight 
 
 Their troth in sunny weather, 
 Wlule leaves are green, and skies are bright, 
 
 To walk on flowers together. 
 
 But we have loved as those who tread 
 
 The thorny path of sorrow, 
 With clouds above, and cause to dread 
 
 Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 
 
 That thorny path, those stormy skies. 
 Have dra^\^l our spirits nearer ; 
 
 And rendered us, by sorrow's ties. 
 Each to the other dearer. 
 
 Love, born in hours of joy and mirth. 
 With mirth and joy may perish ; 
 
 That to which darker hours gave birth 
 Still more and more we cherish. 
 
 It looks beyond the clouds of time, 
 And through death's shadowy portal ; 
 
 Made by adversity sublime, 
 By faith and hope immortal. 
 
 BERNARD Barton. 
 
 A "MERCENARY" MARRIAGE. 
 
 She moves as light across the grass 
 
 As moves my shadow large and tall ; 
 And like my shadow, close yet free, 
 The thought of her aye follows me. 
 My little maid of Moreton Hall. 
 
 No matter how or where we loved. 
 Or when we '11 wed, or what befall ; 
 
 I only feel she 's mine at last, 
 
 I only know I '11 hold her fast. 
 Though to dust crumbles Moreton Hall. 
 
 Her pedigree — good sooth, 'tis long ! 
 
 Her grim sii'es stare from every wall ; 
 And centuries of ancestral grace 
 Eevive in her sweet girlish face, 
 
 As meek she glides through Moreton Hall. 
 
 Whilst 1 have — nothing ; save, perhaps. 
 
 Some worthless heaps of idle gold 
 And a ti'ue heart, — the which her eye 
 Through glittering dross spied, womanly ; 
 Therefore they say her heart was sold ! 
 
 I laugh ; .she laughs ; the hills and vales 
 Laugh as we ride 'neath chestnuts tall, 
 Or start the deer that silent graze. 
 And look up, large-eyed, with soft gaze, 
 At the fair maid of Moreton Hall ; 
 
 We let the neighbors t.tlk their fill. 
 
 For life is sweet, and love is strong, 
 And two, close knit in marriage ties, 
 The whole world's shams may well despise, - 
 Its foUy, madness, shame, and wrong.
 
 OVER THE WATER. 
 
 " JKzVA wary sttp across the itream 
 My darling on -my heart / bore. 
 She clasped my neck, and did not dream. 
 Htrsel/ a child, that I •was wore. 
 
 ' O Death, too soon thy shadowy tide 
 She passed alone, who was so dear < 
 Tell her upon the fa-ither side 
 li''hat I -would /ain have told her here!'
 
 We are not proud, with a fool's priJe, 
 Nor cowards, — to bo held in thrall 
 By pelf or lineage, rank or lands : 
 One honest heart, two honest hands, 
 Are worth far more than lloreton Hall. 
 
 Therefore we laugh to scorn — we two — 
 
 The bars that weaker souls appall : 
 I take her hand, and hold it fast, 
 Knowing she '11 love mo to the last, 
 My dearest maid of Moreton I{all. 
 
 Dinah mulock Cr^mk. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Shall I love you like the wind, love, 
 
 That is so fierce and strong, 
 That sweejis all barriers from its path 
 
 And recks not right or wrong ! 
 The passion of the wind, love, 
 
 Can never last for long. 
 
 Shall I love you like the fire, love, 
 With furious heat and noise, 
 
 To waken in you all love's fears 
 And little of love's joys ? 
 
 The passion of the file, love, 
 Whate'er it finds, destroys. 
 
 I will love you like the stars, love, 
 
 Set in the heavenly blue. 
 That only shine the brighter 
 
 After weeping tears of dew ; 
 Above the wind and fire, love, 
 
 They love the ages through. 
 
 And when this life is o'er, love, 
 
 With all its joys and jars. 
 We '11 leave behind the wind and fire 
 
 To wage their boisterous wars, — 
 Then we shall only be, love. 
 
 The nearer to the stars ! 
 
 R- w. Raymond. 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 
 
 Before I tnist my fate to thee. 
 Or place my hand in thine, 
 
 Before I let thy future give 
 Color and form to mine, 
 
 Before I peril all for thee, 
 
 Question thy soul to-night for me. 
 
 I break all slighter bonds, nor feci 
 
 A sliadow of regi'et : 
 Is there one link within the past 
 
 That holds thy spirit yet ? 
 
 Or is thy faith as clear and free 
 
 As that which I can pledge to thee ? 
 
 Does there within thy dimmest dreams 
 
 A possible future shine. 
 Wherein tliy life could henceforth breathe, 
 
 Untouched, unshared by mine ? 
 If so, at any pain or cost, 
 0, tell me before all is lost ! 
 
 Look deeper still : if thou canst feel, 
 
 Within thy inmost soul. 
 That thou hast kept a portion back, 
 
 Wliile I have staked the whole. 
 Let no false pity spare the blow. 
 But in ti'uo mercy teU me so. 
 
 Is there within thy heart a need 
 
 That mine cannot fulfill ? 
 One chord that any other hand 
 
 Could better wake or still ? 
 Speak now, lest at some future day 
 My whole life wither and decay. 
 
 Lives there within thy nature hid 
 
 The demon-spirit, change. 
 Shedding a passing glory still 
 
 On all tilings new and strange ? 
 It may not be thy fault alone, — 
 But shield my heart agauist thine own. 
 
 Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 
 
 And answer to my claim. 
 That fate, and that to-day's mistake, — 
 
 Not thou, — had been to blame ? 
 Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou 
 WUt surely warn and save me now. 
 
 Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear, 
 The words would come too late ; 
 
 Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
 So comfort thee, ray fate : 
 
 Whatever on my heart may fall, 
 
 Remember, I would risk it all ! 
 
 Adelaide Anne Procter. 
 
 THE LADY'S "YES." 
 
 "Yes," I answered you last night ; 
 
 " No," this morning, sir, I say. 
 Colors seen by candlelight 
 
 Will not look the same by day. 
 
 When the viols played their best. 
 Lamps above, and laughs below, 
 
 Love try: sounded like a jest. 
 Fit for yes or fit for no.
 
 Call me false or call me free, 
 Vow, whatever light may shine, 
 
 No mail on your face shall see 
 Any grief for change on mine. 
 
 Yet the sin is on us both ; 
 
 Time to dance is not to woo ; 
 Wooing light makes fickle troth ; 
 
 Scorn of mc recoils on you,. 
 
 Learn to win a lady's faith 
 
 Nobly, as the thing is high. 
 Bravely, as for life and death, 
 
 AVith a loyal gravity. 
 
 Lead her from the festive hoards, 
 
 Point her to the stariy skies, 
 Guard her, by your truthful words. 
 
 Pure from courtship's Hatteries. 
 
 By your ti-uth she shall be true. 
 
 Ever true, as wives of yore ; 
 And her yes, once said to you. 
 
 Shall be Yes forevermore. 
 
 ELIZABETH Barrett BR0^\'NING. 
 
 LOVi;'S SILENCE. 
 
 Because I breathe not love to everie one. 
 Nor do not use set colors for to weare. 
 Nor nourish special locks of vowed haire. 
 
 Nor give each speech a full point of a groane, — 
 
 The courtlie nymphs, acquainted with the moane 
 Of them whoontheirlipsLove's standard beare, 
 " What, he ? " say they of me ; " now I dare 
 sweare 
 
 He cannot love ; No, no ! let him alone." 
 And think so still, — if Stella know my minde. 
 
 Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art ; 
 
 But you, faire maids, at length this true shall 
 finde, — 
 That his right badge is but worue in the hcarte. 
 Dxunb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers 
 
 prove : 
 They love indeed who quake to say they love. 
 Sir Philip Sidney. 
 
 X 
 
 THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 Never wedding, ever wooing. 
 Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, 
 Eead you not the wrong you 're doing 
 
 In my cheek's pale hue ? 
 All my life with sorrow strewing. 
 
 Wed, or cease to woo. 
 
 Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, 
 Still our days are disunited ; 
 Now the lamp of hope is lighted. 
 
 Now half quenched appears, 
 Damped and wavering and benighted 
 
 Midst my sighs and tears. 
 
 Charms you call your dearest blessing, 
 Lips that thrill at your caressing. 
 Eyes a mutual soul confessing. 
 
 Soon you '11 make them gi'ow 
 Dim, and worthless your possessing. 
 
 Not with age, but woe ! 
 
 THOMAS Campbell. 
 
 GIVE ME MORE LOVE OR MORE DISDAIN 
 
 Give me more love or more disdain ; 
 
 The torrid or the frozen zone 
 Brings equal ease unto my pain ; 
 
 The temperate affords me none ; 
 Either extreme, of love or hate. 
 Is sweeter than a calm estate. 
 
 Give me a storm ; if it be love. 
 Like Danae in a golden shower, 
 
 I swim iu pleasure ; if it prove 
 Disdain, that torrent will devour 
 
 My vulture hopes ; and he 's possessed 
 
 Of heaven that 's but from hell released ; 
 
 Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; 
 
 Give me more love or more disdain. 
 
 THOMAS Carew. 
 
 LOVE DISSEMBLED. 
 
 FRO.M '■ AS VOU LIKE IT." 
 
 Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; 
 'T is but a peevish boy : — yet he talks well ; — 
 But what care I for words ? — yet words do well, 
 Wlien he that speaks thcni pleases those that hear. 
 But, sure, he 's proud ; and yet his pride becomes 
 
 him : 
 He '11 make a proper man : The best thing in him 
 Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue 
 Did make offense, his eye did heal it up. 
 He is not very tall ; yet for his years he 's tall ; 
 His leg is but so so ; and yet 't is well : 
 There was a pretty redness in his lip, 
 A little riper and more lusty red 
 Than that mixed in his cheek ; 't was just the 
 
 difference 
 Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. 
 There be some women, Silvius, had they marked 
 
 him 
 In parcels, as I did, would have gone near 
 To fall in love with him : but, for my part, 
 I love him not, nor hate him not ; and yet
 
 I have more cause to hate him than to love him: 
 Fur wliat hail he to do to cliide at me ? 
 He sail! iniue eyes were black, and my hair black ; 
 And, now I am remembered, scorned at me : 
 I marvel, why I answered not again : 
 But that '3 all one ; omittance is no quittance. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 MILLAIS'S "HXTGUENOTS." 
 
 TO H.. PLAYING ONE OF MENDELSSOHN'S "SONGS WITIIOI'T 
 WORDS." 
 
 Youu fav'rite picture rises up before me, 
 
 Whene'er you play that tune ; 
 I see two figures standing in a garden. 
 
 In the still August noon. 
 
 One is a girl's, with pleading face turned upwards, 
 
 Wild with great alarm ; 
 Tremblhig with haste she binds her broidered 
 kerchief 
 
 About the other's arm, 
 
 Whose gaze is bent on her in tender pity, 
 
 Whose eyes look into hers 
 With a deep meaning, though she cannot read it. 
 
 Hers are so dim with tears. 
 
 What are they saying in the sunny garden. 
 
 With summer flowers ablow ? 
 What gives the woman's voice its passionate 
 pleading ? 
 
 What makes the man's so low ? 
 
 "See, love !" she murmurs; "you shall wear 
 niy kerchief. 
 
 It is the badge, I know ; 
 Anil it will liear you safely through the conflict, 
 
 If — if, indeed, you go ! 
 
 " You wiU not wear it ? WUl not wear my kcr- 
 cliief ? 
 
 Nay ! Do not tell me why, 
 I will not listen ! If you go without it, 
 
 You will go hence to die. 
 
 "Hush! Donotanswer! It is death, I tell you ! 
 
 Indeed, I speak the truth. 
 You, standing tliere, so warm with life and vigor. 
 
 So bright with health and youth ; 
 
 ' ' You would go hence, out of the glowing sunshine. 
 
 Out of the garden's bloom. 
 Out of the living, thinking, feeling present. 
 
 Into the unknown gloom! " 
 
 Then he makes answer, "Hush 1 0, hush, my 
 darling ! 
 Life is so sweet to me, 
 6 
 
 So full of hoiie, you need not bid me guard it. 
 If such a thing might be ! 
 
 " If such a thing might be ! — but not through 
 falsehood, 
 
 I could not come to you ; 
 I dai e not stand herein your pure, sweet pi'esence, 
 
 Kuowiug myself untrue." 
 
 "It is no sin ! " the wild voice interrupts him, 
 
 "This is no open strife. 
 Have you not often dreamt a noljler warfare, 
 
 In which to spend your life ? 
 
 " Oh ! for my sake — thougli but for my sake, 
 wear it ! 
 
 Think what my life would bo 
 If you, who gave it first true worth and meaning, 
 
 Were taken now from me. 
 
 "Think of the long, long days, so slowly passing ! 
 
 Think of the endless years ! 
 I am so young I Must I live out my lifetime 
 
 With neither hopes nor fears ? " 
 
 He speidcs again, in mournful tones and tender. 
 
 But with unswerving faith : 
 " Should not love make us braver, ay, and 
 stronger. 
 
 Either for file or death ? 
 
 " And life is hardest ! my love ! my treasure ! 
 
 If I could bear your part 
 Of this great sorrow, I would go to meet it 
 
 With an unshriukiug heart. 
 
 "Child ! cliild! I little dreamt in that bright 
 summer. 
 
 When fir.st your love I sought. 
 Of all the future store of woo and anguLsh 
 
 Which I, unknowing, wrought. 
 
 " But you 'U forgive me ? Yes, you will forgive 
 me, 
 I know, when I am dead ! 
 I would have loved you, — but words have scant 
 meaning ; 
 God loved you more instead ! " 
 
 Then there is silence in the sunny garden. 
 
 Until, with faltering tone. 
 She sobs, the while still clinging closer to him, 
 
 " Forgive me — go — my own ! " 
 
 So human love, and death by faith unshaken. 
 
 Mingle their glorious psalm, 
 Albeit low, until the passionate pleading 
 
 Is hushed in deepest calm. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 82 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 WILL YOU LOVE ME WHEN I'M OLD? 
 
 Will affection still infold me 
 
 When the day of life declines, 
 Wlieu old age with ruthless rigor 
 
 Plows my face in furrowed lines ; 
 When the eye forgets its seeing, 
 
 Anil the hand forgets its skUl, 
 And the very words prove rebel 
 
 To the mind's once kingly will ; 
 
 When the deaf ear, strained to listen, 
 
 Scarcely hears the opening word, 
 And the unfathomed depths of feeling 
 
 Are by no swift cm'rent stirred ; 
 When fond memory, like a limner, 
 
 Mauv a line perspective casts. 
 Spreading out our bygone pleasures 
 
 On the canvas of the Past ; 
 
 'vVhen the leaping blood grows sluggish, 
 
 And the fire of youth has fled ; 
 •VTien the friends who now surround us 
 
 Half are numbered with the dead ; 
 When the years appear to shorten. 
 
 Scarcely leaving us a trace ; 
 When old Time with bold approaches 
 
 Marks Ms dial on my face ; 
 
 When our present hopes, all gathered, 
 
 Lie like dead flowers on our track ; 
 When the whole of oirr existence 
 
 Is one fearful looking back ; 
 When each wasted hour of talent. 
 
 Hardly measured now at all, 
 Sends its \vitness back to haunt us, 
 
 Like the wTiting on the wall ; 
 
 When the ready tongue is palsied. 
 
 And the form is bowed with care ; 
 When our only hope is Heaven, 
 
 And our only help is prayer ; 
 When our idols, broken round us. 
 
 Fall amid the ranks of men ; 
 Until Death uplifts the curtain, — 
 
 Will thy love endure till then ? 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 1 S-iiT with Doris, the shepherd maiden ; 
 
 Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers ; 
 1 sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling, 
 
 And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 
 
 And .she, my Doris, whose lap incloses 
 Wild Slimmer roses of faint perfume. 
 
 The while 1 sued her, kept hushed, and hearkened 
 Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 
 
 She touched my shoulder with fearful finger ; 
 
 She said, " We linger, we must not stay ; 
 My flock 's in danger, my sheep ^vill wander ; 
 
 Behold them yonder, how far they stray ! " 
 
 I answered, bolder, " Nay, let me hear you, 
 And still be near you, and still adore ! 
 
 No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling, — 
 Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more ! " 
 
 She whispered, sighing, " There will be sorrow 
 Beyond to-moiTow, if I lose to-day ; 
 
 My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, — 
 I shall be scolded and sent away ! " 
 
 Said I, replying, " If they do miss you, 
 
 They ought to kiss you when you get home ; 
 
 And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
 Shoidd be the labor from which you come." 
 
 "They might remember," she answered, meekly, 
 "That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild ; 
 
 But if they love me, it 's none so fervent — 
 I am a servant, and not a child. " 
 
 Then each hot ember glowed quick within me. 
 And love did win me to swift reply : 
 
 "Ah ! do but prove me, and none sliall bind you. 
 Nor fray, nor find you, until I die ! " 
 
 She blushed and started, and stood awaiting. 
 
 As if debating in dreams divine ; 
 But I did brave them, — I told her plainly. 
 
 She doubted vainly, she must be mine. 
 
 So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 
 Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes ; 
 
 And homeward drove them, we two together. 
 Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 
 
 That simple duty such grace did lend her. 
 
 My Doris tender, my Doris true. 
 That I, her warder, did always bless her, 
 
 And often press her to take her due. 
 
 And now in beauty she fills my dwelling 
 With love excelling and uudefiled ; 
 
 And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 
 No more a servant, nor yet a child. 
 
 Arthur J. mundy. 
 
 FETCHINQ WATER FROM THE WELL. 
 
 Eakly on a sunny morning, while the lark was 
 
 singing sweet. 
 Came, beyond the ancient farm-house, sounds of 
 
 lightly tripping feet.
 
 LOVE. 
 
 83 
 
 'T was a lowly cottage maiJen going — why, let 
 
 young hearts tell — 
 With her homely pitcher laden, fetching water 
 
 from the well. 
 Shadows lay athwart the pathway, all along the 
 
 quiet lane. 
 And the breezes of the morning moved them to 
 
 and fro again. 
 O'er the sunshine, o'er the shadow, passed the 
 
 maiden of the farm, 
 With a charinid heart within her, thinking of 
 
 no ill nor harm. 
 Pleasant, surely, were her musings, for the nod- 
 ding leaves in vain 
 Sought to press their bright'ning image on her 
 
 ever-busy brain. 
 Leaves and joyous birds went by her, like a dim, 
 
 lialf-waking dream ; 
 And lier soul was only conscious of life's gladdest 
 
 summer gleam. 
 At the old lane's shady turning lay a well of 
 
 water bright. 
 Singing, soft, its hallelujah to the gi-acious morn- 
 ing light. 
 Fem-leaves, broad and green, bent o'er it where 
 
 its silvery droplets fell, 
 And the fairies dwelt beside it, in the spotted 
 
 foxglove bell. 
 Back she bent the shading fern-leaves, dipt the 
 
 pitcher in the tide, — ■ 
 Drew it,, with the dripping waters flowing o'er its 
 
 glazed side ; 
 But before her arm could place it on her shiny, 
 
 wavy hair. 
 By her side a youth was standing ! — Love re- 
 jo. .'ed to see the pair ! 
 Tonesoftremulousemotion trailed upon themorn- 
 
 iug breeze, 
 Gentle words of heart-devotion whispered 'neath 
 
 the ancient trees ; 
 But the holy, blessed secrets it becomes mo not 
 
 to tell : 
 Life had met another meaning, fetching water 
 
 from the weU ! 
 Down the rural lane they sauntered. He the bur- 
 den-pitcher bore ; 
 She, with dewy eyes down-looking, grew more 
 
 beauteous than before ! 
 Wlien they neared the silent homestead, up he 
 
 raised the pitcher light ; 
 Like a fitting crown he placed it on her hair of 
 
 wavelets bright ; 
 Emblems of the coming burdens that for love of 
 
 him she 'd bear. 
 Calling every burden blessed, if his love but 
 
 lighted there. 
 Then, still waving benedictions, farther, farther 
 
 off he drew, 
 
 While his shadow seemed a glory that across the 
 
 pathway grew. 
 Now about her household duties silently the 
 
 maiden went, 
 And an ever-radiant halo o'er licr daily life was 
 
 blent. 
 Little knew the aged matron as her feet like music 
 
 fell, 
 What abundant treasui'c found she, fetching water 
 
 from the well ! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 OTHELLO'S DEFENSE. 
 
 Othello. I '11 present 
 
 How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, 
 And she in mine. 
 
 Her father loved me ; oft invited me ; 
 Still questioned me the story of my life. 
 From year to year ; — the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
 Tliat I have passed. 
 
 I ran it through, even from my boyish days. 
 To tlie very moment that he bade me tell it : 
 Wherein 1 spake of most disastrous chances. 
 Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 
 Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly 
 
 breach ; 
 Of being taken by the insolent foe. 
 And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, 
 And portance in my travel's history : 
 Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle. 
 Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads 
 
 touch heaven, 
 It was my hint to speak, — such was the process ; 
 And of the Cannibals that each other eat, 
 The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
 Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear. 
 Would Desdemona seriously incline : 
 But still the house affairs would draw her thence ; 
 Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
 She 'd come again, and with a gi'cedy ear 
 Devour up my discourse. Which 1 observing. 
 Took once a pliant hour ; and found good means 
 To draw from her a prayer of earnest lieart, 
 That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, 
 Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
 But not intentively : I did consent ; 
 And often did beguile her of her tears. 
 When I did speak of some distressful stroke 
 That my youth suffered. My story being done, 
 She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 
 She swore, — in faith 't was strange, 't was pass- 
 ing strange ; 
 'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful : 
 .Slie wished she had not heard it, yet she wished 
 That Heaven had made her such a man : she 
 thanked me ;
 
 And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 
 I should teach him how to tell my story, 
 And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake : 
 She loved me for the dangers 1 had passed ; 
 And 1 loved her that she did pity them. 
 This only is the witchcraft I have used : 
 Here comes the lady, let her witness it. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 FOLLOW A SHADOW, IT STILL FLIES YOU. 
 
 Follow a shadow, it still flies you ; 
 
 Seem to fly it, it will pui-sue : 
 So court a mistress, she denies you ; 
 
 Let her alone, she will court you. 
 Say, are not women tridy, then, 
 Styled but the shadows of us men ? 
 
 At mom and even, shades are longest ; 
 
 At noon they are or short or none : 
 So men at weakest they are strongest. 
 
 But gi-ant us perfect, they 're not known. 
 Say, are not women truly, then. 
 Styled but the shadows of us men ? 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 THE PTTRITAN LOVERS. 
 
 Drawn out, like lingering bees, to share 
 The last, sweet summer weather. 
 
 Beneath the reddening maples walked 
 Two Puritans together, — 
 
 A youth and maiden, heeding not 
 The woods which round them brightened. 
 
 Just conscious of e.ich other's thoughts. 
 Half happy and half frightened. 
 
 Grave were their brows, and few their words. 
 And coarse their garb and simple ; 
 
 The maiden's very cheek seemed shy 
 To own its worldly dimple. 
 
 For stern the time ; they dwelt with Care, 
 
 And Fear was oft a comer ; 
 A sober April ushered in 
 
 The Pilgrim's toilful summer. 
 
 And stem their creed ; they tarried here 
 
 Mere desert-land sojourners : 
 They must not dream of mirth or rest, 
 
 God's humble lesson-learners. 
 
 The temple's saci-ed perfume round 
 Their week-day robes was clinging ; 
 
 Their mirth was but the golden bells 
 On priestly garments ringing. 
 
 But as to-day they softly talked, 
 
 That serious youth and maiden. 
 Their plainest words .strange beauty wore, 
 
 Like weeds with dewdrops laden. 
 
 Tlie saddest theme had something sweet, 
 
 The gravest, something tender, 
 While with slow steps they wandered on, 
 
 Jlid summer's fading splendor. 
 
 He said, " Next week the church will hold 
 
 A day of prayer and fasting " ; 
 And then he stopped, and bent to pick 
 
 A white ILt'e-everlastuig, — 
 
 A silvery bloom, with fadeless leaves •, 
 
 He gave it to her, sighing ; 
 A mute confession was his glance. 
 
 Her blush, a mute replying. 
 
 " Mehetabel ! " (at last he spoke,) 
 
 " My fairest one and dearest ! 
 One thought is ever to my heart 
 
 The sweetest and the nearest. 
 
 " You read my soul ; you know my wish ; 
 
 0, grant me its fulfilling ! " 
 She answered low, " If Heaven smUes, 
 
 And if my father 's willing ! " 
 
 No idle passion swayed her heart. 
 This (juaint New England beauty ! ■ 
 
 Faith was the guardian of her life, — 
 Obedience was a duty. 
 
 Too truthful for reserve, she stood. 
 
 Her brown eyes earthward casting. 
 And held with trembling hand the while 
 ■ Her white life-everlasting. 
 
 Her sober answer pleased the youth, — 
 Frank, clear, and gi-avely cheerful ; 
 
 He left her at her fother's door. 
 Too happy to be fearful. 
 
 She looked on high, with earnest plea. 
 And Heaven seemed bright above her ; 
 
 And when she shyly spoke his name, 
 Her father pi-aiscd her lover. 
 
 And when, that night, she sought her couch, 
 With head-board high and olden, 
 
 Her prayer was praise, her pillow down. 
 And all her dreams were golden. 
 
 And still upon her throbbing heart, 
 
 In bloom and breatli undying, 
 A few life-everlasting flowers. 
 
 Her lover's gift, were lying.
 
 O Venus' mjTtles, fresh and greeu ! 
 
 Cupid's blusliing roses ! 
 Kot on your ulassio llowcrs alono 
 
 The sacred liglit reposes ; 
 
 Though gentler care may shield your huds 
 From nortli-wiiuls rude and blasting, 
 
 As dear to Love, those few, pale flowei's 
 Of white life-everlasting. 
 
 ANNIE D. GREEN (MARIAN DofCLAS). 
 
 WERE I AS BASE AS IS THE LOWLY PLAIN. 
 
 Were I as base as is the lowly plain. 
 And you, tny love, as high as heaven above. 
 Yet sliould the thoughts of me your humble swain 
 Ascend to heaven, in honor of my love. 
 
 Were I as high as heaven above the plain. 
 And you, my love, as humlile and as low 
 As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
 Whereso'er you were, with you my love should 
 
 go- 
 Were you the earth, dear love, and I the skies, 
 My love should sliine on you like to the sun. 
 And look upon you with ten thousand eyes 
 Till heaven wa.xed blind, and tiU tlie world were 
 
 done. 
 
 Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you, 
 Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. 
 JOSHUA Sylvester. 
 
 AH, HOW SWEET I 
 
 All, how sweet it is to love ! 
 
 Ah, how gay is young desire ! 
 And what pleasing pains we prove 
 
 When we first approach love's fire ! 
 Pains of love are sweeter far 
 Than all other pleasures are. 
 
 Sighs which are from lovers blown 
 Do but gently heave the heart : 
 
 E'en the tears they shed alone 
 
 Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. 
 
 Lovers, when they lose theii- breath, 
 
 Bleed away in easy death. 
 
 Love and Time with reverence use. 
 Treat them like a parting friend ; 
 
 Nor the golden gifts refuse 
 
 Which in youth sincere they send; 
 
 For each year their price is more, 
 
 And they less simple than before. 
 
 Love, like spring-tides full and high, 
 Swells in every youthful vein ; 
 
 But each tide does loss supply, 
 Till they quite shrink in again. 
 
 If a (low in age appear, 
 
 'T is but rain, and runs not clear. 
 
 John Drvden. 
 
 THE FIRE OF LOVE. 
 
 FROM THE " E.VAMEN WISCELLA.VEUM." 170 
 
 The fire of love in youthful blood, 
 Like what is kindled in brushwood. 
 
 But for a moment burns ; 
 Yet in that moment makes a mighty noise ; 
 It crackles, and to vajjor turns, 
 
 And soon itself destroys. 
 
 But when crept into aged veins, 
 It slowly burns, then long remains, 
 
 And with a silent heat, 
 Like fire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long 
 And though the flame be not so great, 
 
 Yet is the heat as strong. 
 
 Earl of Dorset. 
 
 CHILD AND MAIDEN. 
 
 An, Chloris ! could I now but sit 
 
 As unconcerned as when 
 Your infant beauty could beget 
 
 No happiness or pain ! 
 When I the dawn used to admire. 
 
 And praised the coming day, 
 I little thought the rising fire 
 
 Would take my rest away. 
 
 Your charms in harmless childhood lay 
 
 Like metals in a mine ; 
 Age from no face takes more away 
 
 Than youth concealed in thine. 
 But as your channs insensibly 
 
 To their perfection prest. 
 So love as unperceived did fly. 
 
 And centered in my breast. 
 
 My passion with your beauty grew, 
 
 AVhile Cupid at my heart 
 Still, as his mother favored you, 
 
 Threw a new flaming dart. 
 Each gloried in their wanton part : 
 
 To make a lover, he 
 Employed the utmost of his art ; 
 
 To make a beauty, she. 
 
 Sir Charles Sedlev.
 
 4 
 
 86 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 ON A GIRDLE. 
 
 That which her slender waist confined 
 Shall now my joyfiil terajjles bind ; 
 No monarch but would give his crown, 
 His aims might do what this hath done. 
 
 It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 
 The pale wliicli held that lovely deer : 
 Jly joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
 Did all within this circle move. 
 
 A narrow compass ! and yet there 
 Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair. 
 Give me but what this ribbon bound. 
 Take all the rest the sun goes round ! 
 
 EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 WHY, LOVELY CHARMER 7 
 
 FROM ■■ THE HIVE." 
 
 Why, lovely charmer, tell me why 
 So very kind, and yet so shy ? 
 Why does that cold, forbidding air 
 Give damps of sorrow and despair ? 
 Or why that smile my soul subdue, 
 And kindle up my flames anew ? 
 
 In vain you strive with all your art. 
 By turns to fire and freeze my heart ; 
 When 1 behold a face so fail'. 
 So sweet a look, so soft an air. 
 My ravished soul is charmed all o'er, 
 I cannot love thee less or more. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 I PRITHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART. 
 
 I PRITHEE send me back my heart. 
 
 Since I cannot have thine ; 
 For if from yours you w-Ul not part, 
 
 Why then shouldst thou have mine ? 
 
 Yet, now I think on 't, let it lie ; 
 
 To find it were in vain ; 
 For thou 'st a thief in either eye 
 
 Would steal it hack again. 
 
 Why should two hearts in one breast lie. 
 And yet not lodge together ? 
 
 Love ! where is thy sjTiipathy 
 If thus our breasts thou sever ? 
 
 But love is such a mysteiy, 
 
 I cannot find it out ; 
 For when I think I 'm best resolved 
 
 Then I am most in doubt. 
 
 Then farewell care, and farewell woe ; 
 
 I w ill no longer pine ; 
 For I '11 believe I have her heart 
 
 As much as she has mine. 
 
 SIR John Suckling. 
 
 IF DOUGHTY DEEDS MY LADY PLEASE. 
 
 If doughty deeds my lady please. 
 
 Right soon I '11 mount my steed. 
 And strong his arm and fast his seat 
 
 That bears frae me the meed. 
 I '11 wear thy colors in my cap. 
 
 Thy jiicture at my heart, 
 And he that bends not to thine eye 
 Shall rue it to his smart ! 
 
 Then tell me how to woo thee. Love ; 
 
 0, tell me how to woo thee ! 
 For thy dear sake nae care I '11 take, 
 Though ne'er another trow me. 
 
 If gay attii-e delight thine eye, 
 
 I '11 dight me in array ; 
 I '11 tend thy chamber door all night, 
 
 And squire thee all the day. 
 If sweetest sounds can win thine ear. 
 
 These sounds I '11 strive to catch ; 
 Thy voice I '11 steal to woo thysell. 
 
 That voice that nane can match. 
 
 But if fond love thy heart can gain, 
 
 I never broke a vow ; 
 Nae maiden lays her skaith to me ; 
 
 I never loved but you. 
 For you alone I ride the ring. 
 
 For you I wear the blue ; 
 For you alone I strive to sing, 
 0, tell me how to woo ! 
 
 Then tell me how to woo thee. Love ; 
 
 O, tell me how to woo thee ! 
 For thy dear sake nae care I '11 take. 
 Though ne'er another trow me. 
 
 GRAHAM OF CARTMORB. 
 
 TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON. 
 
 When Love with unconfined wings 
 
 Hovers within my gates. 
 And my dirine Althea brings 
 
 To whisper at the grates ; 
 When I lie tangled in her hair 
 
 And fettered to her eye. 
 The birds that wanton in the air 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 ■WTien flowing cups run swiftly round 
 With no allaying Thames,
 
 LOVE. 
 
 87 
 
 r 
 
 Our careless heads with roses crowned, 
 
 Our hearts with loyal llanies ; 
 Wlien tliirsty grief iu wine we steep, 
 
 When healths and draughts go free, 
 Fishes that tipido iu the deep 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 ■\Vhen, linnet-like confinM, I 
 
 With shriller throat shall sing 
 The sweetness, mercy, majesty 
 
 And glories of my King ; 
 "When I shall voice aloud how good 
 
 He is, how great should be, 
 Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 Stone walls do not a prison make. 
 
 Nor iron bars a cage ; 
 Minds innocent and quiet take 
 
 That for an hermitage : 
 If I have freedom in my love. 
 
 And in my soul am free, 
 
 Angels alone, that soar above, 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 WELCOME, WELCOME DO I SING. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, do I sing. 
 Far more welcome tluin the spring; 
 He that partetli from you never 
 SImU enjoy a spring forever. 
 
 Love, that to tlie voice is near, 
 Breaking from your ivory pale. 
 
 Need not walk abroad to hear 
 The delightful nightingale. 
 
 IVelcoiiit', welcome, then I sing, etc. 
 
 Love, that still looks on your ej'es, 
 Though the winter have begun 
 
 To benumb our arteries, 
 
 Shall not want the summer's snn. 
 Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. 
 
 Love, that still may see your cheeks. 
 Where all rareness stUl reposes, 
 
 Is a fool if e'er he seeks 
 Other lilies, other roses. 
 
 Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. 
 
 Love, to whom your soft lip yields. 
 And perceives your breath in kissing, 
 
 All the odors of the fields 
 
 Never, never shall be missing. 
 
 William Browne. 
 
 KIVALRY IN LOVE. 
 
 Of all the torments, all the cares. 
 
 With which our lives are curst ; 
 Of all the plagues a lover bears, 
 
 Sure rivals are the worst ! 
 By partners in each other kind. 
 
 Afflictions easier grow ; 
 In love alone we hate to find 
 
 Companions of our woe. 
 
 Sylvia, for all the pangs you see 
 
 Ai'e lab'iing in my breast, 
 I beg not you would favor me. 
 
 Would you but slight the rest ! 
 How great soe'er youi- rigors are, 
 
 With them alone I '11 cope ; 
 I can endure my owu despair, 
 
 But not another's hope. 
 
 WILLIAM Walsh. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALBTJM. 
 
 Here is one leaf reserved for me, 
 From all thy sweet memorials free ; 
 And here my simple song might tell 
 The feelings thou must guess so well. 
 But could I thus, within thy mind. 
 One little vacant corner find. 
 Where no impression yet is seen, 
 Where no memorial yet has been, 
 O, it should be my sweetest care 
 To write my name forever there ! 
 
 Thomas Moore, 
 
 HER LIKENESS. 
 
 A GIRL who has so many willful ways 
 
 She would have caused Job's patience to for- 
 sake him, 
 Yet is so rich in all that 's girlhood's praise, 
 Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze, 
 A little better she would sui'ely make him. 
 
 Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon, 
 And very far from angel yet, I trow. 
 
 Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human ; 
 
 Yet she 's more lovable as simple woman 
 Than any one diviner that I know. 
 
 Therefore I wish that she may safely keep 
 
 This womanhedo, and change not, only grow ; 
 From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, 
 And in perennial blessedness still reap, 
 
 On every hand, of that which she doth sow. 
 
 DINAH MULOCK CRAIK.
 
 A SLEEPING BEATJTY. 
 
 Sleep on ! and dieam of Heaven awhile ! 
 
 Though sliut so close thy lautjhing eyes, 
 Thy I'usy lips still wear a sndle, 
 
 And move, and breathe delicious sighs. 
 
 Ah ! now soft blushes tinge her cheeks 
 And mantle o'er her neck of snow ; 
 
 Ah ! now she murmurs, now she speaks. 
 What most I wish, and fear, to know. 
 
 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 within its sanctuary ! 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW. 
 
 She is not fair to outward view, 
 
 As many maidens be ; 
 Her loveliness 1 never knew 
 
 Until she smiled on me : 
 0, tlicn 1 saw her eye was bright, — 
 A well of love, a spring of light. 
 
 But now her looks are coy and cold ; 
 
 To mine they ne'er reply ; 
 And yet I cease not to behold 
 
 The love-light in her eye : 
 
 Her very frowns are better far 
 
 Than smiles of other maidens arc ! 
 
 Hartley Coleridge. 
 
 She loves you, noble roses, 1 know ; 
 
 But yonder see where the rock-plants lie ! 
 
 This flower she .stopped at, finger on lip, — 
 
 Stooped over, in doubt, "as settling its claim ; 
 Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, 
 
 Its soft meandering Spanish name. 
 Wliut a name ! was it love or praise ? 
 
 Speech half asleep, or song half awake ! 
 I must learn Spanish one of these days, 
 
 Only for that slow sweet name's sake. 
 
 Roses, if I live and do well, 
 
 1 may bring her one of these days. 
 To fix you fexst with as fine a spell, — 
 
 Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. 
 But do not detain me now, for she lingers 
 
 There, like sunshine over the ground ; 
 And ever 1 see her soft white fingers 
 
 Searching after the bud she found. 
 
 Flower, you Spaniard ! look that you grow not, — 
 
 Stay as you are, and be loved forever ! 
 Bud, if 1 kiss you, 't is that you blow not, — 
 
 Mind ! the shut pink mouth opens never ! 
 For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle. 
 
 Twinkling the audacious leaves between. 
 Till round they turn, and down they nestle : 
 
 Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? 
 
 Wliere I find her not, beauties vanish ; 
 
 Whither I follow her, beauties flee. 
 Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 
 
 June 'stwiceJunesinceshcbre.ithcd it with me? 
 Come, bud ! sliow me the least of her traces. 
 
 Treasure my lady's lightest footfall : 
 Ah ! you may flout and turn up your faces, — 
 
 Roses, you are not so fair after all ! 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 THE FLOWER'S NAME. 
 
 Het!E 's the garden she walked across, 
 
 Ann in my arm, such a short while since : 
 Hark ! now I push its wicket, the moss 
 
 Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. 
 She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, 
 
 As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; 
 For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, 
 
 To feed and forget it the leaves among. 
 
 Down this side of the gi-avel-w'alk 
 
 She went while her robe's edge brushed the box ; 
 And here slic paused in her gracious talk 
 
 To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 
 Eoses, ranged in v.iliant row, 
 
 I will never think that she passed you by ! 
 
 WHY? 
 
 Why came the rose ? Because the sun in shining, 
 Found in the mould some atoms rare and fine : 
 
 And stooping, drew and warmed them into grow- 
 ing. — 
 Dust, with the spirit's mystic countersign. 
 
 What made the perfume ? All hiswondrous kisses 
 Fell on the sweet red moiitli, till, lost to sight, 
 
 The love became too exquisite, and vanished 
 Into a viewless rapture of the night. 
 
 Why did the rose die ? Ah, why ask the question ? 
 
 There is a time to love, — a time to give ; 
 She perished gladly, folding close the secret 
 
 Wherein is garnered what it is to live. 
 
 Mary Louise ritter.
 
 i^ 
 
 COEINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. 
 
 Get up, get up ! for sliame ! the blooming mom 
 Upon her wings presents the god uuslioru. 
 See how Aurora throws lier fair 
 Fresh-ipiilteJ colors through the air ; 
 Get up, sweet slugahed, and see 
 The Jew hespangling herb and tree. 
 Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east, 
 Above an hour since, yet you are not drest, — 
 Nay, not so much as out of bed, 
 \\'hcn all the liirds have matins said, 
 And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin. 
 Nay, profanation, to keep in, 
 Whcnas a thousand virgins on this day 
 Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch iu May. 
 
 Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 
 To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and 
 green, 
 And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
 For jewels for your gown or hair ; 
 Fear not, the leaves will strew 
 Gems in abundance upon you ; 
 Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 
 Agaiust you come, some Orient pearls unwept. 
 Come, and receive them while the light 
 Hangs on the tlew-locks of the night ; 
 And Titan on the eastern hill 
 Ketires himself, or else stands still 
 Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in 
 
 jiraying : 
 Few beads are best, when once we go a-JIaying. 
 
 Come, my Corinna, come 1 and, coming, mark 
 How each field turns a street, each street a park, 
 Made green and trimmed with trees ; see how 
 Devotion gives each house a bough 
 Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere this 
 An ark, a tabernacle is, 
 Made up of white thorn neatly interwove, 
 As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
 Can such delights be in the street 
 And open fields, and we not see 't ? 
 Come, we '11 abroad, and lot 's obey 
 The proclamation made lor May, 
 And sin no more, as we have done, by staying ; 
 But, my Corinna, come, let 's go a- Maying. 
 
 There 's not a budding boy or girl this day 
 
 But is got up and gone to bring in May. 
 A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
 Back, and with white thorn laden, home ; 
 Some have dispatched their cakes and cream 
 Before that we have left to dream ; 
 
 And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted 
 troth, 
 
 And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth ; 
 
 Many a green gown has been given ; 
 
 Many a kiss, both odd and even ; 
 
 Many a glance, too, h:is been sent 
 
 From out the eye, love's iirmanient ; 
 Many a jest told of the keys' betraying 
 This night, and locks picked, yet wo'ro not 
 a-JIaying. 
 
 Come, let us go, while wo arc in our prime, 
 And take the harndess folly of the time. 
 
 We shall grow old apace, and die, 
 
 Before we know our liberty. 
 
 Our life is short, and oiu' days run 
 
 As fast away as does the sun ; 
 And as a vapor, or a drop of rain. 
 Once lost, can ne'er be found iigiiin, 
 
 So when or you or I are made 
 
 A fable, song, or fleeting shade, 
 
 All love, all liking, all delight, 
 
 Lies drowned with us in endless niglit. 
 Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, 
 Come, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying. 
 
 RoUbKT lIliRKICK. 
 
 A MATCH. 
 
 If love were what the rose is, 
 And I were like the leaf, 
 
 Our lives would grow together 
 
 In sad or singing weather. 
 
 Blown fields or ilowerful closes, 
 Green pleasure or gi-ay grief ; 
 
 If love were what the rose is, 
 And I were like the leaf. 
 
 If I were what the wonls arc, 
 
 And love were like the tune. 
 With double sound ami single 
 Delight our lips would mingle, 
 With kisses glad as birds are 
 
 That get .sweet rain at noon ; 
 If I were what the words arc, 
 And love were like the tune. 
 
 If you were life, my darling, 
 
 And I, your love, were death, 
 AVe 'd shine and snow together 
 Ere March made sweet the weather 
 With daffodil and starling 
 
 And hours of fruitful breath ; 
 If you were life, my darling, 
 And I, your love, were death. 
 
 If you were thrall to sorrow. 
 
 And I were page to joy, 
 We 'd pl.iy for lives and seasons. 
 With loving looks and treasons, 
 
 r
 
 4^ 
 
 90 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 And tears of night and morrow, 
 And laiighs of maid and boy ; 
 
 If you were thrall to sorrow, 
 And I were page to joy. 
 
 If you were April's lady, 
 
 And 1 were lord in May, 
 We 'd throw with leaves for hours, 
 And diaw for days with flowers, 
 TUl day like night were sliady, 
 
 And night were bright like day ; 
 If you were April's lady. 
 
 And I were lord in May. 
 
 If you were queen of pleasure. 
 
 And I were king of pain. 
 We 'd hunt down love together, 
 Pluck out his flying-feather, 
 And teach his feet a measure, 
 
 And find his mouth a rein ; 
 If you were queen of pleasure, 
 
 And 1 were king of pain. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur. 
 Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain, 
 
 And reckon as naethiug the height o' its splendor, 
 If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 
 blane. 
 
 RODERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 THE FLOWER 0' DTTMBLANE. 
 
 TnEsunhasgane down o'erthe lofty Ben Lomond, 
 And left the red clouds to presideo'er thescene, 
 
 While lanely I stray in the calm summergloamin'. 
 To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 
 blane. 
 
 How sweetis the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, 
 And sweet is the birk, %vi' its mantle o' green ; 
 
 Yet sweeter and faii-er, and dear to tliis bosom, 
 Is lovely young Jes.sie, the Flowero' Dumblane. 
 
 She 's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonnie, — 
 For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 
 
 And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
 Wlia 'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' 
 Dumblane. 
 
 Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the 
 e'ening ! — 
 Thou 'rtdear to the echoes of Caldenvood glen; 
 Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, 
 Is charmmg young Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 
 blane. 
 
 How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ! 
 
 The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; 
 I ne'er saw a njTnph I would ca' my dear lassie 
 
 TUl charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' 
 Dumblane. 
 
 THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL. 
 
 On Richmond HUl there lives a lass 
 More bright than May-day mom, 
 
 Whose charms all other maids surpass, — 
 A rose without a thorn. 
 
 This lass so neat, with smDes so sweet. 
 Has won my right good-^^ill ; 
 
 I 'd crowns resign to call her mine. 
 Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. 
 
 Ye zephyi's gay that fan the air. 
 And wanton through the grove, 
 
 0, whisper to my channing fair, 
 I die for her I love. 
 
 How happy will the shepherd be 
 
 Who calls this nymph his own ! 
 
 0, may her choice be fixed on me ! 
 Mine 's fixed on her alone. 
 
 James Upton. 
 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 Makt, at thy window be ! 
 
 It is the wished, the trysted hour ! 
 Those smiles and glances let me see 
 
 That make the miser's treasure poor : 
 How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 
 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun. 
 Could I the rich reward secure. 
 
 The lovely Mary Morison. 
 
 Yesti-een, when to the trembling string 
 The dance gaed through the lighted ha'. 
 
 To thee my fancy took its wing, — 
 I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 
 
 Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
 And yon the toast of a' the to\\n, 
 
 1 sighed, and said amang them a', 
 
 " Ye are na Mary Morison." 
 
 Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 
 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
 
 Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
 If love for love thou wilt na gie. 
 
 At least be pity to me shown ; 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 
 The thought o' Mary Morison. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 I
 
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 \ 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 LOVE. 91 
 
 
 
 THE POSIE. 
 
 They are not flowers of Pride, 
 For they graced the dingle-side ; 
 
 
 
 0, LUVE wUl venture in where it daurna weel be 
 
 Yet they grew in Heaven's smile, 
 
 
 
 seen, 
 
 My gentle Mary Lee ! 
 
 
 
 0, luvewill venture inwlierewisdomancclias been ! 
 
 Can they fear thy frowns the while 
 
 
 
 But I will doun yon river rove aniang the woods 
 
 Though oll'ered by mo ? 
 
 
 
 sae green : 
 
 
 
 
 And a' to pu' a posie to my aln dear May. 
 
 Here 's the lily of the vale, 
 That perfumed the morning gale, 
 
 
 
 The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
 
 My fairy Mary Lee ! 
 
 
 
 And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear. 
 
 All so spotless and so pale, 
 
 
 
 For she 's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 
 
 Like thine own purity. 
 
 
 
 without a peer ; 
 
 And might I make it known, 
 
 
 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 'T is an emblem of my own 
 L^ive, — if I dare so name 
 
 
 
 I '11 pu' the budding rose, when Phcebus peeps 
 
 My esteem for thee. 
 
 
 
 in view, 
 
 Sursly flowers can bear no blame. 
 
 
 
 For it 's like a balmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie niou' ; 
 
 My bonny Mary Lee. 
 
 
 
 The hyacinth 's for constancy, wi' its unchanging 
 
 
 
 
 blue : 
 
 Here 's the violet's modest blue, 
 
 
 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 That 'neath hawthorns hides from view, 
 My gentle Mary Lee, 
 
 
 
 The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 
 
 V<'ould show whose heart is true. 
 
 
 
 And in her lovely bosom I '11 place the lily there ; 
 
 AVhile it thinks of thee. 
 
 
 
 The daisy 's for simplicity and unaffected air : 
 
 While they choose each lowly spot. 
 
 
 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 The sun disdains them not ; 
 I 'ni as lowly too, indeed, 
 
 
 
 The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its loekso' siller gray. 
 
 My charming Mary Lee ; 
 
 
 
 Wliere, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day; 
 
 So I 've brought the flowers to plead, 
 
 
 
 But the songster's nest within the bush 1 winna 
 
 And win a smile from thee. 
 
 
 
 take away : 
 
 
 
 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear M.ay. 
 
 Here 's a wild rose just in bud ; 
 Spring's beauty in its hood. 
 
 
 
 The woodbine I will pii', when the e'eniug star 
 
 My bonny Mary- Lee ! 
 
 
 
 is near. 
 
 'T is the first in all the wood 
 
 
 
 And the diamond draps o' dew shall bo her een 
 
 I could find for thee. 
 
 
 
 sae clear ; 
 
 Though a blush is scarcely seen, 
 
 
 
 The violet 's for modesty, which weel she fa's to 
 
 Yet it hides its worth within. 
 
 
 
 wear : 
 
 Like my lo-»e ; for 1 've no power. 
 
 
 
 And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 My angel Mary Lee, 
 To speak unless the flower 
 
 
 
 1 '11 tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, 
 
 Can mak» excuse for me. 
 
 
 
 And I '11 place it in her breast, and I '11 swear by 
 
 
 
 
 a' above 
 
 Though they deck no princely halls. 
 
 
 
 That to my latest draught o' life the band shall 
 
 In bouquets for glittering balls, 
 
 
 
 ne'er remove ; 
 
 My gentle Mary Lee, 
 
 
 
 And tills will be a posie to my ain dear May. 
 
 Richer hues than painted walls 
 
 
 
 ROBERT BUKNS. 
 
 Will make them dear to thee ; 
 For the blue and laughing sky 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 Spreads a grander canopy 
 Than all wealth's golden skill. 
 
 
 
 MAEY LEE. 
 
 My channing Mary Lee ! 
 Love would make them dearer s*ill. 
 
 
 
 I HAVE traced the valleys fair 
 
 That ofl'ers them to the*. 
 
 
 
 In May morning's dewy air. 
 
 
 
 
 My bonny Mary Lee ! 
 
 My wre.ithed flowers are few, 
 
 
 
 Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear. 
 
 Yet no fairer drink the dew, 
 
 
 
 Gathered all for thee ? 
 
 My bonny Mary Lee ! 
 
 
 1 
 
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 < 
 
 
 
 92 rOEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 
 
 ____^ . 
 
 They may seem as trifles too, — 
 
 Yet Love hath echoes truer far 
 
 
 
 Not, I hojie, to tliee ; 
 
 And far more sweet 
 
 
 
 Some may boast a viulier jirize 
 
 Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, 
 
 
 
 Uudei- pride aud wealtli's disguise ; 
 
 Of horn or lute or soft guitar 
 
 
 
 None a fuuder ollering bore 
 
 The songs repeat. 
 
 
 
 Tlian this of mine to tliee ; 
 
 
 
 
 And can true love wish for more? 
 
 'T is when the sigh — in youth sincere 
 
 
 
 Surely not, Mary Lee ! 
 
 And only then. 
 
 
 
 John Clare. 
 
 The sigh that 's breathed for one to hear — 
 Is by that one, that only Dear 
 Breathed back again. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 THE BROOKSIDE. 
 I WANDERED by the brookside. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 I wandered by the mill ; 
 
 MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE. 
 
 
 
 I could not hear the brook flow, — 
 
 (AN E.XCELLENT NEW BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF " I 'Lt 
 
 
 
 The noisy wheel was still ; 
 
 NEVER LOVE THEE WORE.") 
 
 
 
 There was no burr of grasshopper. 
 
 THE FIRST PART. 
 
 
 
 No chirp of any bird. 
 
 
 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 My dear and only love, I pray. 
 
 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 That little world, — of thee, — 
 Be governed by no other sway 
 
 
 
 I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 
 
 Than purest Monarchie. 
 
 
 
 I watched the long, long shade, 
 
 For if confusion have a part. 
 
 
 
 And, as it grew still longer, 
 
 Which virtuous souls abhore, 
 
 
 
 I did not feel afraid ; 
 
 And have a Synod in thine heart, 
 
 
 
 For I listened for a footfall. 
 
 I '11 never love thee more. 
 
 
 
 I listened for a word, — 
 
 
 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 As Alexander I will reign, 
 
 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 And I will reign alone ; 
 My thoughts shall evermore disdain 
 
 
 
 He came not, — no, he came not, — 
 
 A rival on my throne : 
 
 
 
 The night came on alone, — 
 
 He either fears his fate too much. 
 
 
 
 The little stars sat one by one. 
 
 Or his deserts are small 
 
 
 
 Each on his golden throne ; 
 
 That puts it not unto the touch. 
 
 
 
 The evening wind passed by my cheek, 
 
 To win or lose it all. 
 
 
 
 The leaves above were stirred, — 
 
 
 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 But I mil reign, and govern still. 
 
 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 And always give the law, 
 And have each suhjcci at my will, 
 
 
 
 Fast silent tears were flowing. 
 
 And all to stand in awe ; 
 
 
 
 When something stood behind ; 
 
 But 'gainst my batteries if I find 
 
 
 
 A hand was on my shoulder, — 
 
 Thou kick or vex me sore. 
 
 
 
 I knew its touch was kind : 
 
 As that thou set me up a blind, 
 
 
 
 It drew me nearer, — nearer, — 
 
 I '11 never love thee more. 
 
 
 
 Wo did not speak one word, 
 
 
 
 
 For the beating of our own hearts 
 
 And in the Empire of thine heart. 
 
 
 
 Was all the sound we heard. 
 
 Where I should solely be, 
 
 
 
 RICHARU MONCKTON MlLNES. 
 
 If others do pretend a part. 
 
 
 
 (Lord houchton.i 
 
 Or dare to vie with me. 
 Or if Cmiiinittra thou erect. 
 
 
 
 
 Vy 1 1.1 <_^ »_/ Jf 1 *#(■ ^.ti/t^OO Vl-iV^^«- V^A\>\^VJ 
 
 And go on such a score, 
 
 
 
 ECHOES. 
 
 I '11 laugh and sing at thy neglect. 
 And never love thee more. 
 
 
 
 How sweet the answer Echo makes 
 
 
 
 
 To Music at night 
 
 But if thou wilt prove faithful then, 
 
 
 
 When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, 
 
 And constant of thy word. 
 
 
 
 And far away o'er lawns and lakes 
 
 I '11 make thee glorious by my pen 
 
 
 
 Goes answering light ! 
 
 And famous by my sword ; 
 
 
 _^ 
 
 
 ( 

 
 I '11 serve tliee in such iiolili: ways 
 
 Was never heard before, 
 I '11 crown and deck tliee all with bays, 
 
 And love tlice more and more. 
 
 THE SECOND PART. 
 
 My dear and only love, take lieod 
 
 How thou tliyself disjiose ; 
 Let not all longing lovers feed 
 
 Upon such looks as those ; 
 I '11 marble wall thee round about, 
 
 Jlysclf shall be the door. 
 And if thy heart chance to slide out, 
 
 I '11 never love thee more. 
 
 Let not tlicir oaths, like volleys shot. 
 
 Make any breach at all, 
 Nor smoothness of their language plot 
 
 Which way to scale the wall ; 
 Nor balls of wildfire love consume 
 
 The shriue which I adore, 
 For if such smoke about thee fume, 
 
 I '11 never love thee more. 
 
 I know thy virtues be too strong 
 
 To suffer by surprfse ; 
 If that thou slight their love too long, 
 
 Their siege at last will rise, 
 And leave thee conqueror, in that health 
 
 And state thou wast before ; 
 But if thou turn a Commonwealth, 
 
 I '11 never love thee more. 
 
 And if by fraud, or by consent. 
 
 Thy heart to ruin come, 
 I '11 sound no trumpet as I wont, 
 
 Nor march by tuck of drum. 
 But liold my arms, like Achaiis, up. 
 
 Thy falsehood to deplore, 
 And bittei'ly will sigh and weep, 
 
 And never love thee more. 
 
 I '11 do with thee as Nero did 
 
 Wlien he set Kome on lire ; 
 Not only .all relief forbid, 
 
 But to a hill retire. 
 Ami scorn to shed a tear to save 
 
 Thy spirit grown so poor, 
 But laugh and smile thee to thy grave, 
 
 And never love thee more. 
 
 Then shall thy heart be sot by mine. 
 
 But in far different case, 
 For mine was true ; so was not thine. 
 
 But looked like Janus' face ; 
 
 For as the waves with every wind. 
 
 So sails thou every shore 
 And leaves my constant heart behind, — 
 
 How can 1 love thee more ?, 
 
 My heart shall with the sun be fi.x'd. 
 
 For constancy most strange ; 
 And there shall with the moon bo niix'd, 
 
 Delighting aye in change ; 
 Thy beauty shined at first so bright ! 
 
 And woe is me therefore. 
 That ever I found thy love so light 
 
 That I could love no more. 
 
 Yet for the love I bare thee once, 
 
 Lest that thy name should die, 
 A monument of marble stone 
 
 The truth shall testify ; 
 That every pilgrim passing by, 
 
 Jlay pity and tleplore, 
 And, sighing, read the reason why 
 
 I cannot love thee more. 
 
 The golden laws of love shall bo 
 
 Upon these pillars hnng ; 
 A single heart ; a simple eye ; 
 
 A true and constant tongue ; 
 Let no man for more love pretend 
 
 Than he has hearts in store ; 
 True love begun will never end ; 
 
 Love one and love no more. 
 
 And when all gallants ride about 
 
 These monuments to view. 
 Whereon is written, in and out, 
 
 Thou traitorous and untrue ; 
 Then, in a passion, they shall pause, 
 
 And thus say, sighing sore, 
 Alas I he had too just a cause 
 
 Never to love thee more. 
 
 And when that tracing goddess Fame 
 
 From east to west shall flee. 
 She shall record it to thy shame 
 
 Hoii) thou hast loved me ; 
 And how in odds our love was such 
 
 As few liave been before ; 
 Thou loved.-.t too many, and I too nuich ; 
 
 So I can love no more. 
 
 The misty mount, the smoking lake. 
 
 The rock's reso\mding echo. 
 The whistling winds, the woods that shake, 
 
 Shall all, with me, sing liey ho ! 
 The tossing seas, the tumbling boats. 
 
 Tears dropping from each oar, 
 Sliall tunc with me their lurlle notes, — 
 
 I '11 never love thee more.
 
 
 94 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 
 
 As doth the turtle, chaste and true, 
 
 Since for a fair there 's fairer none, 
 
 
 
 Her fellow's death regret. 
 
 Nor for her virtues so divine : 
 
 
 
 And daily mourns for her adieu, 
 
 Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 
 
 
 And ne'er renews her mate ; 
 
 Hcigh-ho, my heart ! would God that she wero 
 
 
 
 So, though my faith was ever fast, 
 
 mine ! 
 
 
 
 Which grieves me wondrous sore, 
 Yet 1 shall live in love so chaste 
 
 THOMAS LODCn. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 That I shall love no more. 
 
 FOR LOVE'S SWEET SAKE. 
 
 
 
 James Graham. Marquis of Montrose. 
 
 Awake ! — the starry midnight hour 
 
 Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 In its own sweetness sleeps the flower, 
 And the doves lie hushed in deep delight. 
 
 
 
 Like to the clear in highest sphere, 
 
 Awake ! awake ! 
 
 
 
 Wliere all imperial glory shines. 
 
 Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake ! 
 
 
 
 Of selfsame color is her hair. 
 
 
 
 
 Whether unfolded, or in twines : 
 
 Awake ! — soft dews will soon arise 
 
 
 
 Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 
 From daisy mead and thorny brake : 
 
 
 
 Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, 
 
 Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, 
 
 
 
 Kesembling heaven by every wink ; 
 
 And like the tender morning break ! 
 
 
 
 The gods do fear whenas they glow. 
 
 Awake ! aw,ake ! 
 
 
 
 \ And I do tremble when 1 think 
 
 Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake! 
 
 
 
 Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 Awake ! — within the musk-rose bower 
 
 
 
 Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud 
 
 I watch, pale flower of love, for thee. 
 Ah, come ! and show the starry hour 
 
 
 
 That beautilies Aurora's face, 
 
 
 
 Or like the silver crimson shroud 
 
 What wealth of love thou hid'st from me ! 
 
 
 
 That Pluebus' smiling looks doth gi'ace : 
 
 Awake ! awake ! 
 
 
 
 Heigh-ho, iair Kosaluie ! 
 
 Show all thy love, for Love's sweet sake ! 
 
 
 
 Her lips are like two budded roses 
 
 
 
 
 Whom ranks of lUies neighbor nigh. 
 
 Aw.ake ! — ne'er heed though listening night 
 
 
 
 Within which bounds she balm encloses 
 
 Steal music from thy silver voice ; 
 
 
 
 Apt to entice a deity : 
 
 Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright, 
 
 
 
 Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 And bid the world and me rejoice ! 
 Awake ! awake ! — 
 
 
 
 Her neck is like a stately tower 
 
 Slie comes at last, for Love's sweet s<ilce. 
 
 
 
 Where Love himself imprisoned lies, 
 
 BARRY Cornwall. 
 
 
 
 To watch for glances every hour 
 From her divine and sacred eyes ; 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 
 LOVE AND TTME. 
 
 
 
 Her paps are centres of delight, 
 
 
 
 
 Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame. 
 
 Two pilgiims from the distant plain 
 
 
 
 Where Nature moulds the dew of light 
 
 Come quickly o'er the mossy ground. 
 
 
 
 To feed perfection with the same : 
 
 One is a boy, with locks of gold 
 
 
 
 Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 Thick curling round his face so fair ; 
 The other pilgrim, stern and old, 
 
 
 
 With orient pearl, with ruby red. 
 
 Has snowy beard and silver hair. 
 
 
 
 With marble white, with sapphire blue. 
 
 
 
 
 Her body every w.ay is fed. 
 
 The youth with many a merry trick 
 
 
 
 Yet soft in touch and sweet in view : 
 
 Goes singing on his careless way ; 
 
 
 
 Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! 
 
 His old companion walks as quick. 
 
 
 
 Nature herself her shape .admires ; 
 
 But speaks no word by night or day. 
 
 
 
 The gods are wounded in her sight ; 
 
 Where'er the old man treads, the grass 
 
 
 
 And Love foi-sakes his heavenly fires 
 
 Fast fiideth with a certain doom ; 
 
 
 
 And at her eyes his brand doth light : 
 
 But where the beauteous boy doth pass 
 
 
 
 Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! 
 
 Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. 
 
 
 
 Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan 
 
 And thus before the sage, the boy 
 
 
 
 The absence of fair Ro.saline, 
 
 Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands, 
 
 
 ♦ ' 
 
 
 
 
 4-
 
 GUINEVERE. 
 
 '/ am a gut-en, but Love of queeJis is lord : 
 
 I ant a queen : be merciful to 7ne, 
 
 My servat.t Lancelot. Thee alone I see ; 
 
 All else is fadins from my swimming eyes.'
 
 And proudly bears a pretty toy, — 
 A crystal glass with diamond sands. 
 
 A smile o'er any brow would pass 
 To see him frolic in the sun, — 
 
 To see him shake the crystal glass. 
 And make the sands more quickly run. 
 
 And now they leap the streamlet o'er, 
 
 A silver thread so white and thin, 
 And now they reach the open door. 
 
 And now they lightly enter in ; 
 " God save all here," — that kind wish flies 
 
 Still sweeter from his lips so sweet ; 
 " God save you kindly," Korah cries, 
 
 " Sit down, my child, and rest and eat." 
 
 " Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good, 
 
 We '11 rest awhile our weary feet ; 
 But though this old man needeth food. 
 
 There 's notlung here that he can eat. 
 His taste is strange, he eats alone. 
 
 Beneath some ruined cloister's cope. 
 Or on some tottering turret's stone. 
 
 While I can only live on ^- Hope ! 
 
 " A week ago, ere you were wed, — 
 
 It was the very night before, — 
 Upon so many sweets I fed 
 
 While passing by your mother's door, — 
 It was that dear, delicious hour 
 
 When Owen here tlie nosegay brought, 
 And found you in the woodbine bower, — ■ 
 
 Since then, indeed, I 've needed naught." 
 
 A blush steals over Norah's face, 
 
 A smile comes over Owen's brow, 
 A tranquil joy illumes the place. 
 
 As if the moon were shining now ; 
 The boy beholds the pleasing pain. 
 
 The sweet confusion he has done. 
 And shakes the crystal glass again. 
 
 And makes the sands more quickly run. 
 
 " Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound 
 
 Upon an endless path sublime ; 
 We pace the green earth round and round. 
 
 And mortals call us Love and Time ; 
 He seeks the many, I the few ; 
 
 I dwell with peasants, he with kings. 
 We seldom meet ; but when we ilo, 
 
 I take his glass, and he my wings. 
 
 " And thus together on we go. 
 Where'er 1 chance or wish to lead ; 
 
 And Time, whose lonely steps are slow. 
 Now sweeps along with lightning speed. 
 
 Now on our bright predestined way 
 We must to other regions pass ; 
 
 But take this gift, and night and day 
 Look well upon its truthful glass. 
 
 "How quick or slow the bright sands' fall 
 
 Is hid from lovers' eyes alone: 
 If you can see them move at all, 
 
 lie sure your heart has colder grown. 
 'T is coldness makes the glas.s gi-ow dry. 
 
 The icy hand, the freezing brow ; 
 But warm the heart and breathe the sigh, 
 
 And then they '11 pass, you know not how." 
 
 She took the glass where Love's warm hands 
 
 A bright impervious vapor cast ; 
 She looks, but cannot see the sands. 
 
 Although she feels they 're falling fast. 
 But cold hours came, and then, alas ! 
 
 She saw them falling frozen through. 
 Till Love's warm light suffused tlie glass, 
 
 And hid the loosening sands from view ! 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MACCAKTilY. 
 
 GUINEVERE TO LANCELOT. 
 
 Woman is crowned, but man in truth is king. 
 I am a queen, but when my vassals bring 
 Fruit to my lips it is not fruit to me. 
 While bitter bread would be a feast with thee. 
 And each breath tremble into ecstasy ; 
 Kut Fate forbids the dear delight to be. 
 I am a queen, but Love of queens is lord ; 
 I am a queen, but fettered by a cord 
 Tight as the silk the Cupids pressed around 
 The boar, destroying Adon with a wound, 
 Found guilty by the Loves, and slain when found ; 
 Condemned by Venus to a death renowned. 
 1 am a queen ; be merciful to me, 
 My subject Lancelot. Thee alone I see ; 
 All else is fading from my swimming eyes. 
 That which in me was queen is dead or dies. 
 But what was woman lives the more, ami sighs 
 Like weaiy babe athirst at midnight cries. 
 .'V queen commands not heart, but lip and knee. 
 Poor little queen, why must thou royal be? 
 Kniglit of the smile and voice so blinding sweet. 
 Is not rank ice, and passion melting heat? 
 Wipe oil' the flakes that stain thy whiter feet 
 Upon my crown. Drown it, ye snows and sleet ! 
 
 Robert batson. 
 
 PLY TO THE DESERT, FLY WITH ME. 
 
 SUNG OF NOURMAHAL IN "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM," 
 
 " 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 ?
 
 -X^ 
 
 96 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 " Our rocks are rough, but sniiliiig there 
 Th' acacia waves her yellow hair, 
 Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
 For flowering in a wilderness. 
 
 " Our sands arc bare, but down their slope 
 
 The silvery-footed antelope 
 
 As gi-acefuUy 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 fcet shall bless 
 With their light sound thy loneliness. 
 
 " 0, there are looks and tones tiiat dart 
 An instant sunshine through the heart, 
 As if the soul that minute caught 
 Some treasure it through life had sought ; 
 
 " As if the very lijis and eyes 
 Predestined to have all our sighs, 
 And never be forgot again. 
 Sparkled and spoke before as then ! 
 
 "So came thy every glance and tone. 
 When first on me they breathed and shone ; 
 New, as if brought from other spheres, 
 Yet welcome as if loved for years ! 
 
 " Then fly with me, if thou hast known 
 No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
 A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
 Should ever in thy heart be worn. 
 
 " Come, if the love thou hast for me 
 Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, — 
 Fresh as the fountain underground, 
 When first 't is by the lapwing found. 
 
 " But if for me thou dost foi-sake 
 Some other maid, and nidely break 
 Her wor.shiped image from its base, 
 To give to me the ruined place, 
 
 " Then, fare thee well ! — I 'd rather make 
 My bower upon some icy lake 
 When thawing suns begin to shine 
 Than trust to love so false as thine ! " 
 
 There was a pathos in this lay. 
 
 That even without enchantment's art 
 Would instantly have found its way 
 Deep into Selim's burning heart ; 
 But breathing, as it did, a tone 
 To earthly lutes and lips unknown ; 
 With everj' chord fresh from the touch 
 Of music's spirit, 't was too much ! 
 
 Starting, he dashed away the cup, — 
 
 Which, all the time of this sweet air. 
 His hand had held, untasted, up, 
 
 As if 't were fixed by magic there, — 
 And naming her, so long unnamed. 
 So long unseen, wildly exclaimed, 
 " Nourmahal ! Nourmahal ! 
 
 Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, 
 I could forget — forgive thee all. 
 
 And never leave those eyes again." 
 
 The mask is off, — the charm is wrought, — 
 And Selim to his heart has caught. 
 In blushes more than ever bright. 
 His Nourmahal, his Harem's Light ! 
 And well ilo vanished frowns enhance 
 The charm of every brightened glance ; 
 And dearer seems each dawning smile 
 For having lost its light awhile ; 
 And, happier now for all her sighs. 
 
 As on his arm her head reposes. 
 She whisjiers him, with laughing eyes, 
 
 " Remember, love, the Feast of Roses !" 
 • Thomas Moorh. 
 
 COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 
 For the black bat, night, has flown ! 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 I am here at the gate alone ; 
 
 And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
 And the musk of the roses blown. 
 
 For a breeze of morning moves, 
 And the planet of Love is on high. 
 
 Beginning to faint in the light tliat she loves. 
 On a bed of dalimlil sky, — 
 
 To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, 
 To faint in its light, and to die. 
 
 All night have the roses heard 
 
 The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
 All night has the casement jessamine stirred 
 
 To the dancers dancing in tune, — 
 Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 
 
 And a hush ivith the setting moon. 
 
 I said to the lily, " There is but one 
 
 With whom she has heart to be gay. 
 When will the dancers leave her alone ? 
 
 She is weary of dance and play." 
 Now half to the setting moon are gone, 
 
 And half to the rising day ; 
 Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
 
 The last wheel echoes away. 
 
 i
 
 I said to the rose, "Tho brief night goes 
 
 In bablile ami vcvel ami wine. 
 young lord-lover, what sighs are those 
 
 For one that will never be thine ? 
 But mine, but mine," so 1 aware to the rose, 
 
 " For ever and ever mine ! " 
 
 And the soul of the rose went into my blood. 
 
 As the music clashed in the hall ; 
 And long by the garden lake I stood, 
 
 For I heard your rivulet fall 
 From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, 
 
 Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 
 
 From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
 That, whenever a JIarch-wind sighs. 
 
 He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
 In violets blue as your eyes, 
 
 To the woody hollows in which we meet, 
 And the valleys of Paradise. 
 
 The slender acacia would not shake 
 
 One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
 The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 
 
 As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
 But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 
 
 Knowing your promise to me ; 
 The lilies and roses were all awake. 
 
 They sighed for the dawn and thee. 
 
 Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
 Come hither ! the dances are done ; 
 
 In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
 Queen lily and rose in one ; 
 
 Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 
 To the flowers, and be their -sim. 
 
 There has fsillen a splendid tear 
 
 From the passion-flower at the gate. 
 She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 
 
 She is coming, my life, my fate ! 
 The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near" ; 
 
 And the white rose weeps, " She is late " ; 
 The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear" ; 
 
 And the lily whispers, " I wait." 
 
 She is coming, my own, my sweet ! 
 
 Were it ever so airy a tread. 
 My heart would hear her and beat. 
 
 Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
 My dust would hear her and beat. 
 
 Had 1 lain for a century dead ; 
 Would start and tremble under her feet. 
 
 And blossom in purple and red. 
 
 ALFRED Tennyson. 
 
 KATIE. 
 
 It may be through some foreign grace. 
 
 And unfamiliar charm of face ; 
 
 It may be that across the foam 
 
 Which bore her from her childhood's home. 
 
 By some strange spell, my Kalio brought. 
 
 Along with English creeds and thought, — 
 
 Entangled in her golden hair, — 
 
 Some English sunshine, warmth, and air ! 
 
 I cannot tell — but here to-day, 
 
 A thousand billowy leagues away 
 
 From that green isle whose twilight skies 
 
 No darker are than Katie's eyes. 
 
 She .seems to me, go where she will. 
 
 An English girl in England stiU. 
 
 I meet her on the dusty street, 
 
 And daisies spring about her feet ; 
 
 Or, touched to life beneath her tread, 
 
 An English cowslip lifts its head ; 
 
 And, as to do her grace, rise up 
 
 The primrose and the buttercup. 
 
 I roam with her through fields of cane. 
 
 And seem to stroll an English lane. 
 
 Which, white with blossoms of the May, 
 
 Spreads its green carpet in her way. 
 
 As fancy wills, the path beneath 
 
 Is golden gorse, or purple heath ; 
 
 And now we hear in woodlands dim 
 
 Their unarticulated hymn, 
 
 Now walk through rippling waves of wheat. 
 
 Now sink in mats of clover sweet, 
 
 Or see before us from the lawn 
 
 The lark go up to greet the dawn. 
 
 All birds that love the English sky 
 
 Throng round my path when she is by : 
 
 The blackbird from a neighboring thorn 
 
 With music brims the cup of mom, 
 
 And in a thick, melodious rain 
 
 The mavis pours lier mellow strain. 
 
 But only when my Katie's voice 
 
 Makes all the listening woods rejoice 
 
 I hear — with cheeks that flush and pale — 
 
 The passion of the nightingale. 
 
 Anon the pictures round her change. 
 
 And through an ancient town we range 
 
 Whereto the shadowy memory clings 
 
 Of one of England's Saxon kings. 
 
 And which, to shrine his fading fame, 
 
 Still keeps his ashes and his name. 
 
 Quaint houses rise on either hand ; 
 
 But still the airs are fresh and bland. 
 
 As if their gentle wings caressed 
 
 Some new-born village of the West. 
 
 A moment by the Norman tower 
 
 We pause ; it is the Sabbath hour ! 
 
 And o'er the city sinks and swells
 
 The chime of old St. Mary's bells, 
 
 WTiich still resound in Katie's cara 
 
 As sweet as when in distant years 
 
 She heard them peal with jocund din 
 
 A merry English Christmas in. 
 
 We pass the Abbey's ruined arch, 
 
 And statelier grows my Katie's march. 
 
 As round her, wearied with the taint 
 
 Of Transatlantic pine and paint. 
 
 She sees a thousand tokens cast 
 
 Of England's venerable past. 
 
 Our reverent footsteps lastly claims 
 
 The younger chapel of St. James, 
 
 Which, though, as English records nm. 
 
 Not old, had seen full many a sun. 
 
 Ere to the cold December gale 
 
 The thoughtful Pilgrim spread his saU. 
 
 There Katie in her childish days 
 
 Spelt out her prayers and lisped her praise, 
 
 And doubtless, as her beauty grew. 
 
 Did much as other maidens do, — 
 
 Across the pews and down the aisle 
 
 Sent many a beau-bewildering smile. 
 
 And to subserve her spirit's need 
 
 Learned other things beside the creed. 
 
 There, too, to-day her knee she bows. 
 
 And by her one whose darker brows 
 
 Betray the Southern heart that bums 
 
 Beside her, and which only turns 
 
 Its thoughts to Heaven in one request. 
 
 Not all unworthy to be blest, 
 
 But rising from an earthlier pain 
 
 Than might beseem a Christian fane. 
 
 Ah ! can the guileless maiden share 
 
 The wish that lifts that passionate prayer ? 
 
 Is all at peace that breast within ? 
 
 Good angels ! warn her of the sin ! 
 
 Alas ! what boots it ? who can save 
 
 A willing victim of the wave ? 
 
 Who cleanse a soul that loves its guilt ? 
 
 Or gather wine when wine is spilt ? 
 
 We quit the holy house and gain 
 The open air ; then, happy twain, 
 Adown familiar streets we go. 
 And now and then she turns to show, 
 With fears that all is changing fast. 
 Some spot that 's sacred to her past. 
 Here, by this way, through shadows cool, 
 A little maid, she tripped to school ; 
 And there, each morning used to stop 
 Before a wonder of a shop 
 Where, built of apples and of pears. 
 Rose pyraniiils of golden spheres ; 
 While dangling in her dazzled sight. 
 Ripe cherries cast a crimson light 
 And made her think of elfin lamps, 
 And feast and sport in fairy camps, 
 
 Whereat upon her royal throne 
 (Most richly carved in cherrj'-stone) 
 Titania ruled, in queenly state. 
 The boisterous revels of the fete ! 
 'Twas yonder, with their "horrid" noise, 
 Dismissed from books, she met the boys, 
 A\lio, with a barbarous scorn of girls, 
 Glanced lightly at her sunny curls, 
 And laughed and leaped as reckless by 
 As though no pretty face were nigh. 
 But here the maiden grows demure, — 
 Indeed, she 's not so very sure 
 That in a year, or haply twain. 
 Who looked e'er failed to look again ; 
 And, sooth to say, I little doubt 
 (Some azure day the truth will out ! ) 
 That cei-tain baits in certain eyes 
 Caught many an unsuspecting prize ; 
 And somewhere underneath these eaves 
 A budding flirt put forth its leaves ! 
 
 Has not the sky a deeper blue. 
 Have not the trees a greener hue. 
 And bend they not with lordlier gracB 
 And noble shapes above the place 
 Whereon, one cloudless winter morn. 
 My Katie to this life was born ? 
 Ah, folly ! long hath fled the hour 
 When love to sight gave keener power, 
 And lovers looked for special boons 
 In brighter flowers and larger moons. 
 But wave the foliage as it may. 
 And let the sky be ashen gray. 
 Thus much at least a manly youth 
 May hold — and yet not blush — as truth : 
 If near that blessed spot of earth 
 Which saw the cherished maiden's birth 
 No softer dews than usual rise. 
 And life there keeps its wonted guise. 
 Yet not the less that spot may seem 
 As lovely as a poet's dream ; 
 And should a fervid faith incline 
 To make thereof a sainted shrine. 
 Who may deny that round us throng 
 A hundred earthly creeds as wrong. 
 But meaner far, which yet unblamed 
 Stalk by us and are not ashamed ? 
 So, therefore, Katie, as our stroU 
 Ends at this portal, while you roll 
 Those lustrous eyes to catch each ray 
 That may recall some vanished day, 
 I — let them jeer and laugh who will — 
 Stoop down and kiss the sacred sill ! 
 So strongly sometimes on the sense 
 These fancies hold their influence. 
 That in long well-known streets I stray 
 Like one who fears to lose his way. 
 The stranger I, the native she.
 
 Myself, not Kate, had crossed the sea ; 
 
 And changing place, and mixing times, 
 
 I walk in unfamiliar climes. 
 
 These houses, free to every hreoze 
 
 That blows from warm Floridian seas, 
 
 Assume a massive English air, 
 
 And close around au English sijuaro ; 
 
 Wliile, if I issue from the town, 
 
 An English hill looks greenly down, 
 
 Or round me rolls an English park. 
 
 And in the Broad I hear the lark. 
 
 Thus when, where woodland violets hide, 
 
 I rove with Katie at my side, 
 
 It scarce would seem amiss to say : 
 
 " Katie ! my home lies far away, 
 
 Beyond the pathless waste of brine. 
 
 In a young land of palm and pine. 
 
 There by the tropic heats the soul 
 
 Is touched as if mth living coal. 
 
 And glows with such a fire as none 
 
 Can feel beneath a Northern sun. 
 
 Unless — my Katie's heart attest ! — 
 
 'T is kindled in an English breast. 
 
 Such is the land in which I live. 
 
 And, Katie ! such the soul I give. 
 
 Come, ere another morning beam, 
 
 We '11 cleave the sea with wings of steam ; 
 
 And soon, despite of storm or calm. 
 
 Beneath my native groves of palm, 
 
 Kind friends shall greet, with joy and pride, 
 
 The Southron and his English bride ! 
 
 HENRY TIMROD. 
 
 KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY. 
 
 Two brown heads with tossing curls, 
 Red lips shutting over pearls, 
 Bsire feet, white aud wet with dew, 
 Two eyes black, and two eyes blue ; 
 Little girl and boy were they, 
 Katie Lee and Willie Grey. 
 
 They were standing where a brook, 
 Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
 Flashed its silver, and thick ranks 
 Of willow fringed its mossy banks ; 
 Half in thought, and half in play, 
 Katie Lee and Willie Grey. 
 
 They had cheeks like cherries red ; 
 He was taller, — near a head ; 
 She, with arms like wreaths of snow. 
 Swung a basket to and fro 
 As she loitered, half in play, 
 Chattering to Willie Grey. 
 
 " Pretty Katie," Willie said, — 
 And there came a dash of red 
 
 Through the brownness of his cheek, - 
 " Boys are strong and girls are weak, 
 And I '11 carry, so I will, 
 Katie's basket up the hiU." 
 
 Katie answered with a laugh, 
 "You shall carry only half" ; 
 And then, tossing back her curls, 
 " Boys arc weak as well as girls." 
 Do you think that Katie guessed 
 Half the wisdom she expressed ? 
 
 Men are only boys grown tall ; 
 Hearts don't change much, after all ; 
 And when, long years from that day, 
 Katie Lee and Willie Grey 
 Stood again beside the brook. 
 Bending like a shepherd's crook, — 
 
 Is it strange that Willie said, 
 
 While again a dash of red 
 
 Crossed the brownness of his cheek, 
 
 ' ' I am strong and you are weak ; 
 
 Life is but a slippery steep. 
 
 Hung with shadows cold and deep : 
 
 " Will you trust me, Katie dear, — 
 Walk beside me without fear ? 
 May I carry, if I will. 
 All your burdens up the hUl ? " 
 And she answered, with a laugh, 
 "No, but you may carry half." 
 
 Close beside the little brook. 
 Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
 Washing with its silver hands 
 Late and early at the sands. 
 Is a cottage, where to-day 
 Katie lives with Willie Grey. 
 
 In a porch she sits, and lo ! 
 Swings a basket to and fro — 
 Vastly different from the one 
 That she swung in years agone : 
 This is long and deep and wide, 
 And has — rockers at the side. 
 
 ANONYUOUt. 
 
 ENCHANTMENTS. 
 
 All in the May-time's merriest weather 
 
 Rode two travelers, bride and groom ; 
 Breast and breast went their mules together. 
 
 Fetlock deep through the daisy bloom. 
 Roses peeped at them out of the hedges. 
 
 White flowers leaned to them down from the 
 thorn, 
 And up from the furrows with sunlit edges 
 
 Crowded with children that sowed in the com.
 
 Cheek o'er cheek, and with red so tender 
 
 Rippling bright through the gypsy brown, 
 Just to see how a lady's splendor 
 
 Shone the heads of the daffodils down. 
 Ah, but the wonder grows and lingers, 
 
 Ah, but their fields look low and lorn, 
 Just to think how her jeweled fingers 
 
 Shamed the seeds of their yellow com ! 
 
 O, it was sweet, so sweet to be idle ! 
 
 Each little sower with fate fell wroth ; 
 0, but to ride with a spangled bridle ! 
 
 for a saddle with scarlet cloth ! 
 Waving corn — each stalk in tassel ; 
 
 Home, with its thatch and its turf -lit room — 
 What was this by the side of a castle ? 
 
 What was that to a tossing plume ? 
 
 Winds through the violets' misty covering 
 
 Now kissed the white ones and now the blue, 
 Sang the redbreast over them hovering 
 
 All as the world were but just made new. 
 And on and on through the golden weather. 
 
 Fear at the faintest and hope at the best, 
 Went the true lovers riding together, 
 
 Out of the East-land and into the West. 
 
 Father and mother in tears abiding, 
 
 Bridcmaids all with their favors dressed, 
 Back and backward the daisies sliding, 
 
 Dove-throat, Black-foot, breast and breast. 
 Yet hath the bridemaid joy of her pining. 
 
 And grief sits light on the mother's brow ; 
 Under her cloud is a silver lining, — 
 
 The lowly child is a lady now. 
 
 But for the sowers, the eyes held shady 
 
 Either the sun-brown arm or hand ; 
 Darkly they follow the lord and lady 
 
 With jealous hatred of house and land. 
 Fine — it was all so fine to be idle ; 
 
 Dull and weary the work-day doom ; 
 0, but to ride with a spangled bridle ! 
 
 for a cap with a tossing plume ! 
 
 Nearer the castle, the bells fell ringing. 
 
 And strong men and maidens to work and wait. 
 Cried, "God'sgraceonthebride'shome-bringing," 
 
 And master, mistress, rode through the gate. 
 Five select ladies — maids of the chamber — 
 
 One sewed her silken seams, one kept herrings. 
 One for the pearl combs, one for the amber. 
 
 And one for her green fan of peacock wings. 
 
 And sweetly and long they abode in their castle. 
 And daughters and sons to their love were bom ; 
 
 But doves at the dew-fall homeward nestle. 
 To lodge in the rafters they left at mom ; 
 
 And memory, holding true and tender, 
 As pleasures faded and j'ears increased, 
 
 Oft bore the lady from all her splendor 
 Out of the West-land into the East ; 
 
 And far from the couch where sleep so slowly 
 
 Came to her eyes through the purples grand. 
 Left her to lodge in the bed so lowly. 
 
 Smoothed by the mother's dear, dear hand. 
 But after all the ado to assemble 
 
 The sunrise pictures to brighten the set. 
 One there was thrilled her heart to a tremble, 
 
 Half made of envy and half of regret. 
 
 Ah, was it this that in playful sporting, 
 
 And not as lamenting her maiden years, 
 Often she brought from the time of the courting, 
 
 'Wlien hopes are the sweeter for little fears. 
 That one day of the days so pleasant. 
 
 When, while she mused of her lord, as it fell, 
 Eode from the castle the groom with his present, 
 
 Dear little Dove-throat, beloved so well ? 
 
 Or altar, in splendor of lilies and laces. 
 
 Long-tressed bridemaids, or priest close shorn? 
 Or ride through the daisies, or gi'een field spaces, 
 
 Gay with children that sowed in the corn ? 
 Ye who have left the noontide behind you, 
 
 And whom dull shadows begin to oppress. 
 Say, ere the night-time falleth to blind you. 
 
 Which was the picture — pray, do you guess ? 
 
 All in the castle was sweet with contentment, 
 
 For Fortune, in granting all favors but one. 
 Threw over the distance a crael enchantment 
 
 That darkened the love-Ught and darkened the 
 sun. 
 Of alms and of pleasures the life-long bestowers, 
 
 The lord and the lady had just one lament : 
 for the lives of the brown little sowers ! 
 
 And for their artless and homely content ! 
 
 Alice Gary. 
 
 THE WELCOME. 
 
 Come in the evening, or come in the morning ; 
 Come when you 're looked for, or come -ivithout 
 
 warning ; 
 
 Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before you. 
 
 And the oftener you come here the more I 'U adore 
 
 you ! 
 
 Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; 
 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than 
 
 ever. 
 And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't 
 sever ! "
 
 I '11 pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 
 
 them, 
 Or, after you 've kissed them, they '11 lie on my 
 
 bosom ; 
 I U fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire 
 
 you; 
 I '11 fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire 
 you. 
 Oh ! your step 's like the ruin to the summer- 
 vexed farmer, 
 Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ; 
 1 '11 sing you sweet songs tUl the stars rise above 
 
 me. 
 Then, wandeiing, I '11 wish you in silence to 
 love me. 
 
 We '11 look through the trees at the cliff and the 
 
 eyrie ; 
 We '11 tread round the rath on the track of the 
 
 fairy ; 
 We '11 look on the stars, and we '11 list to the 
 
 river. 
 Till you ask of your darling what gift you can 
 give her. 
 Oh ! she '11 whisper you, — ' ' Love, as im- 
 
 changeably beaming, 
 And trust, when in secret, most tunefully 
 
 streaming ; 
 Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, 
 As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 
 
 So come in the evening, or come in the morning; 
 Come when you're looked for, or come without 
 
 warning ; 
 Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before you, 
 And the oftener you come here the more I 'U adore 
 you ! 
 Light is my heart since thedaywewereplighted; 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; 
 The green of the trees looks fargreenerthan ever, 
 And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't 
 sever ! " 
 
 Thomas Davis. 
 
 CA" THE TOWES TO THE KNOWES. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
 Ca' them where the heather grows, 
 Ca' them wltere tlie burnie rowes. 
 My hunnie dearie. 
 
 Hark the mavis' evening sang 
 Sounding Cluden's woods amang ; 
 Then a-faulding let us gang, 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 Ca' the, etc. 
 
 We '11 gae down by Cluden side, 
 Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
 O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
 To the moon sae clearly. 
 Ca' the, etc. 
 
 Yonder Cluden's silent towers, 
 AVhere at moonshine midnight hours, 
 O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
 Fairies dance sae cheerie. 
 Ca' the, etc. 
 
 Ghaist nor bogle shalt thon fear ; 
 Thou 'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, 
 Nocht of ill ma}' come thee near, 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 Ca' the, etc. 
 
 Fair and lovely as thou art. 
 Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
 1 can die — but canna part, 
 My bonnie dearie. 
 Ca' the, etc. 
 
 While waters wimple to the sea ; 
 While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
 Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e. 
 Ye shall be my dearie. 
 Ca' the, etc. 
 
 Robert burns. 
 
 CHARLIE MACHREE. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Come over, come over 
 The river to me. 
 If ye are my laddie, 
 Bold Charlie raachree. 
 
 Here 's Mary McPherson 
 And Susy O'Linn, 
 Who saj' ye 're faint-hearted, 
 And darena plunge in. 
 
 But the dark rolling water, 
 Though deep as the sea, 
 I know willna scare ye, 
 Nor keep ye frae me ; 
 
 For stout is yer back. 
 And strong is yer arm. 
 And the heart in yer bosom 
 Is faithful and wanu. 
 
 Oome over, come over 
 The river to me. 
 If ye are my laddie. 
 Bold Charlie machree ! 
 
 +
 
 102 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 I see him, I see liiiii ! 
 He 's plunged in the tide, 
 His strong arms are dashing 
 The big waves aside. 
 
 O, the dark rolling water 
 Shoots swift as the sea, 
 But blithe is the glance 
 Of his bonny blue e'e ; 
 
 And his cheeks are like roses, 
 Twa buds on a bough ; 
 Who says ye 're faint-hearted, 
 My brave Charlie, now ? 
 
 Ho, ho, foaming river, 
 Ye may roar as ye go, 
 But ye canua bear Charlie 
 To the dark loch below ! 
 
 Come over, come over 
 The river to me. 
 My true-hearted laddie, 
 My Charlie machree ! 
 
 He '3 sinking, he '3 sinking, 
 0, what shall 1 do ! 
 Strike out, Charlie, boldly. 
 Ten strokes and ye 're thro'. 
 
 He '3 sinking, Heaven ! 
 Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear ; 
 I 've a kiss for ye, Charlie, 
 As soon as ye 're here ! 
 
 He rises, I see him, — 
 Five strokes, Charlie, niair, — 
 He's shaking the wet 
 From his bonny brown hair ; 
 
 He conquers the current. 
 He gains on the sea, — 
 Ho, where is the swimmer 
 Like Charlie machree ? 
 
 Come over the river. 
 But once come to me. 
 And I '11 love ye forever. 
 Dear Charlie machree ! 
 
 He's sinking, he 's gone, — 
 O God ! it is I, 
 It is I, who have killed him ■ 
 Help, help ! — he must die ! 
 
 Help, help ! — ah, he rises, 
 Strike out and ye 're free ! 
 Ho, bravely done, Charlie, 
 Once more now, for me 1 
 
 Now cling to the rock, 
 Now gie us yer hand, — 
 Ye 're safe, dearest Charlie, 
 Ye 're safe on the land ! 
 
 Come rest in my bosom. 
 If there ye can sleep ; 
 I canna speak to ye, 
 I only can weep. 
 
 Ye 've crossed the wild river, 
 Ye 've risked all for me. 
 And I 'U part frae ye never, 
 Dear Charlie machree ! 
 
 William J. Hoppin. 
 
 • 
 
 ROBIN ADAIR. 
 
 What 's this dull town to me ? 
 
 Robin 's not near, — 
 He whom 1 wished to see, 
 
 Wished for to hear ; 
 Where 's all the joy and mirth 
 Made life a heaven on earth, 
 0, they 're all lied with thee, 
 
 Robin Adair! 
 
 What made the assembly shine ? 
 
 Robin Adair : 
 ^^^lat made the ball so fine ? 
 
 Robin was there : 
 What, when the play was o'er, 
 What made my heart so sore ? 
 O, it was parting with 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 But now thou art far from me, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 But now I never see 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 Yet him I loved so well 
 Still in my heart shall dwell ; 
 O, I can ne'er forget 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 Welcome on shore again, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 Welcome once more again, 
 
 Robin Adaii- ! 
 I feel thy trembling hand ; 
 Tears in thy eyelids stand. 
 To greet thy native land, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 Long I ne'er saw thee, love, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 Still I prayed for thee, love, 
 
 Robin Adair ;
 
 H(-«" 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 103 
 
 A\'Tien thou wert far at sea, 
 Many made love to me, 
 But still I thought on thee, 
 Kobin Adair. 
 
 Come to my heart again, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 Never to part again, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 And if thou still art true, 
 1 will be constant too, 
 And will wed none but you, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 LADY Caroline Keppeu 
 
 THE BIETH OP PORTRAlTtTRE. 
 
 As once a Grecian maiden wove 
 
 Her garland mid the summer bowers. 
 There stood a youth, with eyes of love, 
 
 To watch her while she wi-eathed the flowers. 
 The youth was skilled in painting's art. 
 
 But ne'er had studied woman's brow, 
 Nor knew what magic hues the heart 
 
 Can shed o'er Nature's charm, till now. 
 
 Blest be Love, to whom we owe 
 All that 's fair and bright below. 
 
 His hand had pictured many a rose. 
 
 And sketched the rays that lit the brook ; 
 But what were these, or what were those. 
 
 To woman's blush, to woman's look ? 
 "0, if such magic power there be. 
 
 This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer. 
 To paint that living light I see. 
 
 And fix the soul that sparkles there ! " 
 
 His prayer as soon as breathed was heard ; 
 
 His pallet touched by Love grew warm. 
 And painting saw her thus transferred 
 
 From lifeless flowers to woman's form. 
 Still, as from tint to tint he stole. 
 
 The fair design shone out the more. 
 And there was now a life, a soul. 
 
 Where only colors glowed before. 
 
 Then first caniation learned to speak, 
 
 And lilies into life were brought ; 
 While, mantling on the maiden's cheek. 
 
 Young roses kindled into thought : 
 Then hyacinths their darkest dyes 
 
 Upon the locks of beauty threw ; 
 And violets transformed to eyes, 
 
 Inshrined a sold ^vithin their blue. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Blest be Love, to whom we owe 
 
 AU that 's bright and fair below ; 
 
 Song was cold and painting dim. 
 
 Till song and painting learned from him. 
 
 THOilAS MOORE. 
 
 O NANCY, WXLT THOU GO WITH ME? 
 
 Nancy, wilt thou go with me. 
 
 Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 
 Can silent glens have charms for thee. 
 
 The lonely cot and russet gown ? 
 No longer drest in silken sheen. 
 
 No longer decked with jewels rare. 
 Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 Nancy ! when thou 'rt far away. 
 
 Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? 
 Say, canst thou face the parching ray. 
 
 Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 
 0, can that soft and gentle mien 
 
 Extremes of hardship learn to bear, 
 Nor sad regret each courtly scene 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 Nancy ! canst thou love so true, 
 
 Through perils keen with me to go. 
 Or when thy swain mishap shall rue. 
 
 To share with him the pang of woe ? 
 Say, should disease or pain befaU, 
 
 Wilt thou assume the nurse's care. 
 Nor wistful those gay scenes recall 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 And when at last thy love shall die, 
 
 Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? 
 Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh. 
 
 And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 
 And wUt thou o'er his breathless clay, 
 
 Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear. 
 Nor then regret those scenes so gay. 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 THOMAS PERCV. 
 
 WHISTLE, AND I 'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 
 
 WHISTLE and I '11 come to you, my lad, 
 whistle, and I '11 come to you, my lad ; 
 Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
 whistle, and I '11 come to you, my lad. 
 
 But warily tent, when ye come to court me. 
 And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
 
 -•Hh-*-
 
 104 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 Syne up the back stile, aud let naebody see, 
 And come as ye were na' comin' to me. 
 Aud come, etc. 
 
 whistle, etc. 
 
 At kii-k, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
 Gang by me as the' that ye cared nae a flie ; 
 But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
 Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. 
 Yet look, etc. 
 
 whistle, etc. 
 
 Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
 And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
 But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be, 
 For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. 
 For fear, etc. 
 
 whistle, etc. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 —* — 
 
 THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 Come, live mth me, and be my love. 
 And we will all the pleasures prove 
 That valleys, groves, and hills, and fields, 
 Wooils or steepy mountains, yields. 
 
 And we will sit upon the rocks, 
 Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
 
 There 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 go^vn made of the finest wool, 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
 Fair-lined slippers for the cold, 
 With buckles of the purest gold ; 
 
 A belt of straw, and ivj' buds. 
 With coral clasps and amber studs : 
 And if these pleasures may thee move, 
 Come, live with me, and be my love. 
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
 For tliy delight each May morning : 
 If these delights thy n\ind may move, 
 Then live with me, and be my love. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 THE NYMPH'S REPLY. 
 
 If that the world and love were J'oung, 
 And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
 These pretty pleasures might me move 
 To live with thee and be thy love. 
 
 But time diives flocks from field to fold, 
 When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; 
 And Philomel becometh dumb. 
 And all complain of cares to come. 
 
 The flowers do fade, aud wanton fields 
 To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
 A honey tongue, a heart of gall. 
 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 
 
 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies 
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, — 
 In foUy ripe, in rciison rotten. 
 
 Thy belt of straw and 1%^)' buds. 
 Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — 
 All these in me no means can move 
 To come to thee, and be thy love. 
 
 But could youth last, and love still breed, 
 Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
 Then these delights my mind might move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 MAUD MtlLLER. 
 
 Maud Mullek, on a summer's day, 
 Eaked the meadow sweet with hay. 
 
 Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
 Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
 
 Singing, .she wrought, and her merry glee 
 The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 
 
 But, when she glanced to the far-ott' town, 
 'White from its hUl-slope looking down, 
 
 The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
 
 A wish, that she hardly dared to own. 
 For something better than she had known. 
 
 The Judge rode slowly down the lane. 
 Smoothing his liorse's chestnut mane. 
 
 He drew his bridle in the shade 
 
 Of the apple trees, to greet the maid, 
 
 And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
 Through the meadow, across the road. 
 
 She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. 
 And filled for him her small tin cup.
 
 FORDS, HOWARD »:K'_'1?ERT,?I Y
 
 LOVE. 
 
 1U5 
 
 4^ 
 
 And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
 On her feet so bai-e, and her tattered gown. 
 
 "Thniiks!" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
 From a I'airer hand was never quaifed. " 
 
 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
 Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 
 
 Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
 Tlie eloud in the west would bring foul weather. 
 
 And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
 And her gi'aceful ankles, bare and brown, 
 
 And listened, while a pleased surprise 
 Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 
 
 At last, like one who for delay 
 Seeks a vain exeuse, he rode away. 
 
 Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! 
 That I the Judge's bride might be ! 
 
 " He would dress me up in silks so fine. 
 And praise and toast me at his wine. 
 
 "My father should wear a broadcloth coat, 
 My brother should sail a painted boat. 
 
 " I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay. 
 And the baby should have a new toy each day. 
 
 "And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
 And all should bless me who left our door." 
 
 The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. 
 And saw Maud Muller standing still : 
 
 "A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
 Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 
 
 " And her modest answer and gi-aceful air 
 Show her wise and good as she is fair. 
 
 "Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
 Like her, a harvester of hay. 
 
 " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
 Nor weary la%v)'ers with endless tongues, 
 
 " But low of cattle, and song of birds. 
 And health, and cjuiet, and loving words." 
 
 But he thought of his sister proud and cold, 
 And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 
 
 So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
 And Maud was left in the field alone. 
 
 But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
 When he hummed in court an old love tune ; 
 
 And the young girl mused beside the well, 
 Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 
 
 He wedded a wife of richest dower. 
 Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 
 
 Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
 lie watched a picture come and go ; 
 
 And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
 Looked out in their innocent surprise. 
 
 Oft, when the wine in his glass was red. 
 He longed for the wayside well instead, 
 
 And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
 To dream of meadows and clover blooms ; 
 
 And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, 
 "Ah, that I were free again ! 
 
 "Free as when I rode that day 
 
 Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay." 
 
 She wedded a man unlearned and poor. 
 And many children played round her door. 
 
 But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 
 Left their traces on heart and brain. 
 
 And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
 On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 
 
 And she heard the little spring brook fall 
 Over the roadside, through the wall. 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree again 
 She saw a rider draw his rein. 
 
 And, gazing down with a timid grace, 
 She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 
 
 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
 Stretched away into stately haUs ; 
 
 The weaiy wheel to a spinnet turned, 
 The tallow candle an astral burned ; 
 
 And for him who sat by the chimney lug. 
 Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 
 
 A manly form at her side she saw. 
 And joy was duty and love was law. 
 
 Then she took up her burden of life again. 
 Saying only, " It might have been."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 106 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 
 
 Alas for maiden, alas for judge, 
 
 When the stone that weighed upon its buoyant 
 
 
 
 For rich repiner and household drudge 1 
 
 life is thrust aside ; 
 So the long-enforced stagnation 
 
 
 
 God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
 
 Of the maiden's conversation 
 
 
 
 ^Vho vainly the dieams of youth recall ; 
 
 Now imparted fivefold brilliance to its ever- 
 varying tide. 
 
 
 
 For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
 
 
 
 
 The saddest are these : " It might have been ! " 
 
 Widely ranging, quickly changing. 
 Witty, winning, from beginning 
 
 
 
 Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
 
 Unto end I listened, merely flinging in a casual 
 
 
 
 Deeply buried from human eyes ; 
 
 word ; 
 Eloquent, and yet how simple I 
 
 
 
 And, in the hereafter, angels may 
 
 Hand and eye, and eddying dimple. 
 
 
 
 Roll the stone from its grave away ! 
 
 Tongue and lip together made a music seen as 
 
 
 
 John greenleaf whittier. 
 
 well as heard. 
 
 
 
 
 When the noonday woods are ringing, 
 All the birds of summer singing. 
 
 
 
 Q0AKERDOM. 
 
 Suddenly there fails a silence, and we know a 
 
 
 
 THE FORMAL CALL. 
 
 serpent nigh : 
 
 
 
 Through her forced, abnormal quiet 
 Flashed the soul of frolic riot. 
 And a most malicious laughter lighted up her 
 downcast eyes ; 
 
 So upon the door a rattle 
 Stopped our animated tattle, 
 And the stately mother found us prim enough to 
 suit her eye. 
 
 CHARLES C. HALPINE. 
 
 
 
 All in vain I tried each topic, 
 
 
 
 
 Ranged from polar climes to tropic, — 
 
 < 
 
 
 
 Every commonplace I started met with yes-or-no 
 
 
 
 
 replies. 
 
 TUi; CHESS-BOAED. 
 
 
 
 For her mother — stiff and stately. 
 
 My little love, do you remember, 
 
 
 
 As if starched and ironed lately — 
 
 Ere we were grown so sadly wise. 
 
 
 
 Sat erect, with rigid elbows bedded thus in curv- 
 
 Those evenings in the bleak December, 
 
 
 
 ing palms ; 
 
 Curtained warm from the snowy weather, 
 
 
 
 There she sat on guard before us. 
 
 When you and I played chess together, 
 
 
 
 And in words precise, decorous. 
 
 Checkmated by each other's eyes ? 
 
 
 
 And most calm, reviewed the weather, and recited 
 
 
 
 
 several psalms. 
 
 Ah ! still I see your soft white hand 
 Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight ; 
 
 
 
 How without abruptly ending 
 
 Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand ; 
 
 
 
 This my visit, and offending 
 
 The double C^astles guard the wings ; 
 
 
 
 Wealthy neighbors, was the problem which em- 
 
 The Bishop, bent on distant things. 
 
 
 
 ployed my mental care ; 
 
 Moves, sidling, through the fight. 
 
 
 
 When the butler, bo«-ing lowly. 
 
 
 
 
 Uttered clearly, stiffly, slowly, 
 "Madam, please, the gardener wants you," — 
 Heaven, I thought, has heard my prayer. 
 
 Our fingers touch ; our glances meet. 
 And falter ; falls your golden hair 
 Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
 
 
 
 "Pardon me ! " she grandly uttered ; 
 Bowing low, I gladly muttered, 
 " Surely, madam ! " and, relieved, I turned to 
 
 Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen 
 
 
 
 Rides slow, her soldiery all between. 
 And checks me unaware. 
 
 
 
 scan the daughter's face : 
 
 
 
 
 Ha ! what pent-up mirth outflashes 
 
 Ah me ! the little battle 's done : 
 
 
 
 From beneath those penciled lashes ! 
 
 Disperst is all its chivalry. 
 
 
 
 How the diill of Quaker custom yields to Na- 
 
 Full many a move since then have we 
 
 
 
 ture's brilliant grace ! 
 
 Mid life's perjilexing checkers made. 
 
 
 
 And many a game with fortune played ; 
 
 
 
 Brightly springs the prisoned fountain 
 
 What is it we have won ? 
 
 
 
 From the side of Delphi's mountain, 
 
 This, tliis at least, — if this alone : 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 1 
 
 j 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 LOVE. 107 
 
 
 
 That never, never, nevermore. 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 
 
 As in those old still nights of yore. 
 
 On dainty chicken, snow-white bread, 
 
 
 
 (Ere we were grown so sadly wise,) 
 
 We feasted, with no grace but song ; 
 
 
 
 Can you and 1 shut out the skies. 
 
 We plucked wild strawberries, ripe and red, 
 
 
 
 Shut out the world and wintry weather, 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 
 
 And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes. 
 
 
 
 
 Play chess, as then we played together. 
 
 We loved, anil yet wc knew it not, — 
 
 
 
 Robert bulwer Lvtion. 
 
 For loving seemed like breathing then ; 
 
 We found a heaven in every spot ; 
 Saw angels, too, in all good men ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 DINNA ASK ME. 
 
 And dreamed of God in grove and grot. 
 
 
 
 0, DINNA ask me gin I lo'e ye : 
 
 In summer, when the days are long, 
 
 
 
 Troth, I daurna tell ! 
 
 Alone I wander, muse alone. 
 
 
 
 Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye, — 
 
 I see her not ; but that old song 
 
 
 
 Ask it o' yoursel'. 
 
 Under the fragrant wind is blown, 
 In summer, when the days are long. 
 
 
 
 0, dinna look sae sair at me. 
 
 
 
 
 For weel ye ken me true ; 
 
 Alone 1 wander in the wood : 
 
 
 
 0, gin ye look sae sair at me, 
 1 daurna look at you. 
 
 But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; 
 And half I see, so glad and good, 
 
 
 
 When ye gang to yon braw braw town, 
 And bonnier lassies see. 
 
 The honest daylight of her eyes. 
 
 
 
 That charmed me under earlier skies. 
 
 
 
 0, dinna, Jamie, look at them. 
 
 
 
 
 Lest ye should mind na me. 
 
 In summer, when the days are long, 
 I love her as we loved of old. 
 
 
 
 For I could never bide the lass 
 
 My heart is light, my step is strong ; 
 
 
 
 That ye 'd lo'e mair than me ; 
 
 For love brings back those hours of gold. 
 
 
 
 And 0, I 'm sure my heart wad brak, 
 
 In summer, when the days are long. 
 
 
 
 Gin ye 'd prove fause to me ! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 
 
 DUNLOP. 
 
 
 
 
 GENEVIKVK 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 SUMMER DAYS. 
 
 All thoughts, aU passions, all delights, 
 
 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 
 
 
 We walked together in the wood : 
 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 
 
 
 Our heart was light, our step was strong ; 
 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 
 
 Sweet flutterings were there in our blood, 
 
 
 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour. 
 
 
 
 We strayed from morn till evening came ; 
 
 When midway on the mount I lay 
 
 
 
 We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; 
 
 Beside the ruined tower. 
 
 
 
 We walked mid poppies red as flame, 
 
 
 
 
 Or sat upon the yellow downs ; 
 
 The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
 
 
 
 And always wished our life the same. 
 
 Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
 And .she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 
 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 
 
 We leaped the hedgerow, crossed the brook ; 
 
 
 
 
 And still her voice flowed forth in song. 
 
 She leaned against the arm^d mau, 
 
 
 
 Or else she read some graceful book. 
 
 The statue of the armW knight ; 
 
 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 She stood and listened to my lay. 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 
 
 And then we sat beneath the trees. 
 
 
 
 
 With shadows lessening in the noon ; 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
 
 
 
 And in the sunlight and the breeze, 
 
 My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
 
 
 
 We feasted, many a gorgeous June, 
 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 
 
 
 While larks were singing o'er the leas. 
 
 The songs that make her grieve. 

 
 108 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moviBg story, — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew, 1 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 j'ears 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. 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
 And that he crossed the mountain-woods. 
 Nor rested day nor night ; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade. 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight ! 
 
 And that, unknowing what he did, 
 He leaped amid a murderous band. 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land ; 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
 And how she tended him in vain ; 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain ; 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave, 
 And how his madness went away. 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay ; 
 
 — His dying words — but when I reached 
 That tendcrest 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 Gene\'ieve ; 
 The music and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 
 An undistinguishable throng, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued. 
 Subdued and cherished long. 
 
 She wept with pity and delight, 
 She blushed with love, and vii'gin shame ; 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 1 heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved, — she stepped aside, 
 As conscious of my look she stept, — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms. 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 And bending back her head, looked up. 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 't was a bashful art 
 That I might rather feel than see 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 Samuel Taylor CoLERmcE. 
 
 WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. 
 
 Comb, all ye joUy shepherds. 
 
 That whistle through the glen ! 
 1 '11 tell ye o' a secret 
 
 That courtiers dinna ken : 
 AVliat is the greatest bliss 
 
 That the tongue o' man can name ? 
 'T is to woo a bonnie lassie 
 When the kye come hame. 
 JVhen the kyc cmne ha-me. 
 When the hye eome hame, — 
 'Tween the gloamin' an the mirk, 
 When the kye come hame. 
 
 "T is not beneath the burgonet, 
 Nor yet beneath the crown ; 
 
 'T is not on couch o' velvet, 
 Nor yet in bed o' down : 
 
 'T is beneath tlie spreading birk, 
 In the glen without the name,
 
 4^ 
 
 Wi' a boiinie bouuie lassie, 
 Wlieu the kye come hame. 
 
 There the blackbird bigs his nest, 
 
 For the mate he lo'es to see, 
 Aud on the tapmost bough 
 
 0, a happy bird is he ! 
 There he pours Ids iiieltiiig ditty, 
 
 Aud love is a' the theme ; 
 And he '11 woo Ids bonnie lassie, 
 
 When the kye come hanio. 
 
 Wlien the blewart bears a pearl. 
 
 And the daisy turns a pea, 
 And the bonnie lucken gowan 
 
 Has fauldit up his ee. 
 Then the laFrock, frae the blue lift, 
 
 Draps down and thinks nae shame 
 To woo his bonnie lassie. 
 
 When the kye come hame. 
 
 See yonder pawky shepherd. 
 
 That lingers on the hill ; 
 His yowes are in the fauld. 
 
 And his lambs are King still ; 
 Yet he downa gang to bed, 
 
 For his heart is in a flame. 
 To meet his bonnie lassie 
 
 When the kye come hame. 
 
 When the little wee bit heart 
 
 Rises high in the breast, 
 And the little wee bit starn 
 
 Rises red in the east, 
 O, there 's a joy sae dear 
 
 That the heart can hardly frame ! 
 Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie. 
 
 When the kye come hame. 
 
 Then since all Nature joins 
 
 In this love without alloy, 
 0, wlia wad prove a traitor 
 
 To Nature's dearest joy ? 
 Or wha wad choose a crown, 
 
 Wi' its perils an' its fame. 
 And miss his bonnie lassie. 
 
 When the kye come hame ? 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 109 
 
 James Hogg. 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING 
 OR, TEN YEARS AFTER. 
 
 The country ways are full of mire. 
 The boughs toss in the fading light. 
 
 The winds blow out the sunset's fire. 
 And sudden droppeth down the night. 
 
 I sit in this familiar room, 
 
 Wliere mud-splashed hunting squires resort ; 
 
 My sole companion in the gloom 
 This slowly dying pint of port. 
 
 'Mong all the joys my soul hatli known, 
 
 'Mong errors over which it grieves, 
 I sit at this dark hour alone, 
 
 Like Autumn mid his witliered leaves. 
 This is a night of wild farewells 
 
 To all the past ; the good, the fair ; 
 To-morrow, and my wedding bells 
 
 Will make a musii: in the air. 
 
 Like a wet fisher, tempest-tost. 
 
 Who sees throughout the weltering night. 
 Afar on some low-lying coast. 
 
 The streaming of a rainy light, 
 I saw this liour, — and now 't is come ; 
 
 The rooms are lit, the feast is set ; 
 Within the twiliglit 1 am dumb. 
 
 My heart filled with a vain regret. 
 
 I cannot say, in Eastern style, 
 
 Wliere'er she treads the pansy blows ; 
 Nor call her eyes twin stars, her smile 
 
 A sunbeam, and her mouth a rose. 
 Nor can I, as your bridegrooms do. 
 
 Talk of my raptures. 0, how sore 
 The fond romance of twenty-two 
 
 Is parodied ere thirty-four. 
 
 To-night I shake hands with the past, — 
 
 Familiar years, adieu, adieu ! 
 An unknown door is open cast. 
 
 An empty future wide and new 
 Stands waiting. ye naked rooms. 
 
 Void, desolate, without a charm, 
 Will Love's smile chase your lonely glooms, 
 
 And drape your walls, and make them warm ? 
 
 The man who knew, while he was young. 
 
 Some soft and soul-subduing air. 
 Melts when again he hears it sung. 
 
 Although 't is only half so fair. 
 So I love thee, and love is sweet 
 
 (My Florence, 't is tlie cruel truth) 
 Because it can to age repeat 
 
 That long-lost passion of my youth. 
 
 0, often did my spirit melt. 
 
 Blurred letters, o'er your artless rhymes ! 
 Fail' trees, in which the sunshine dwelt, 
 
 I 've kissed you many a million times ! 
 And now 't is done, — my passionate tears. 
 
 Mad pleadings with an iron fate. 
 And all the sweetness of my years. 
 
 Are blackened ashes in the grate. 
 
 Then ring in the wind, my wedding chimes ; 
 Smile, villagei-s, at every door ;
 
 Old churchyiiid, stuffed with buried crimes, 
 Be clad in sunshine o'er and o'er ; 
 
 And youthfid maidens, white and sweet. 
 Scatter your blossoms far and wide ; 
 
 And with a bridal chorus gi'eet 
 
 This happy bridegioom and his bride. 
 
 "This happy bridegroom ! " there is sin 
 
 At bottom of my thankless mood : 
 What if desert alone could win 
 
 For me life's chiefest grace and good ? 
 Love gives itself ; and if not given, 
 
 No genius, beauty, state or wit, 
 No gold of earth, no gem of heaven, 
 
 Is rich enough to purchase it. 
 
 It may be, Florence, loving thee, 
 
 My heart will its old memories keep ; 
 Like some worn sea-shell fioni the sea, 
 
 Filled with the music of the deep. 
 And you may watch, ou nights of rain, 
 
 A shadow ou my brow encroach ; 
 Be startled by my sudden pain. 
 
 And tenderness of self-reproach. 
 
 It may be that your loVing wiles 
 
 Will call a sigh from far-off years ; 
 It may be that your happiest smiles 
 
 Will brim my eyes with hopeless tears ; 
 It may be that my sleeping breath 
 
 Will shake, w itli painful visions wrung ; 
 And, in the awful trance of death, 
 
 A stranger's name be on my tongue. 
 
 Ye phantoms, bom of bitter blood. 
 
 Ye ghosts of passion, lean and worn, 
 Ye terrors of a lonely mood, 
 
 Wliat do ye here on a wcdding-moni ? 
 For, as the dawning sweet and fast 
 
 Through all the heaven spreads and flows, 
 Within life's discord, rude and vast. 
 
 Love's subtle music gi-ows and grows. 
 
 And lightened is the weary curse. 
 
 And clearer is the wearj' road ; 
 The very worm the sea-weeds nurse 
 
 Is cared for by the Eternal God. 
 My love, pale blossom of the snow, 
 
 Has pierced earth wet with wintry showers, ■ 
 may it drink the sun, and blow. 
 
 Followed by all the year of flowers ! 
 
 Black Bayard from the stable bring ; 
 
 The rain is o'er, the wind is down. 
 Round stirring farms the birds will sing. 
 
 The dawn stand in the sleeping town. 
 Within an hour. This is her gate. 
 
 Her sodden roses droop in night. 
 
 And, emblem of my happy fate. 
 In one dear window there is Light. 
 
 The dawn is oozing pale and cold 
 
 Through the damp east for many a mile ; 
 Wlien half my tale of life is told. 
 
 Grim-featured Time begins to smile. 
 Last star of night that lingerest yet 
 
 In that long rift of rainy gray, 
 Gather thy wasted splendors, set. 
 
 And die into my wedding day. 
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH. 
 
 ATAIANTA VICTORIOUS. 
 
 PROM " ATALANTA'S RACE." IN " THE EARTHLY PARADISE.* 
 
 And there two runners did the sign abide 
 Foot set to foot, — a young man slim and fair. 
 Crisp-haired, well knit, with firm limbs often tried 
 In places where no man his strength may spare; 
 Dainty his thin coat was, and on hi.s hair 
 A golden circlet of renown he wore. 
 And in his hand an olive garland bore. 
 
 But on this day with whom shall he contend ? 
 A maid stood by him like Diana clad 
 When in the woods she lists her bow to bend. 
 Too fail" ibr one to look on and be glad, 
 MTio scarcely yet has thirty summers had. 
 If he must still behold her from afar ; 
 Too fair to let the world live free from war. 
 
 She seemed .all earthly matters to forget ; 
 Of all tormenting lines her face was clear ; 
 Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set 
 Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near ; 
 But her foe trembled as a man in fear, 
 Nor from her loveliness one moment turned 
 His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. 
 
 Now through the hush there broke the trum- 
 pet's clang. 
 Just as tlie setting sun made eventide. 
 Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang. 
 And swiftly were they running side by side ; 
 But silent did the thronging folk abide 
 Until the turning-post was reached at last. 
 And round about it .still abreast they passed. 
 
 But when the people saw how close they ran, 
 Wben half-way to the starting-point they were, 
 A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man 
 Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near 
 Unto the very end of all his fear ; 
 And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel. 
 And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal. 
 
 1 
 
 1-
 
 But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard 
 Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound 
 Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeared 
 His flushed and eager face he turned around. 
 And even then he felt her past him bound 
 Fleet as the wind, but soureely saw lii-r there 
 Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. 
 
 There stood she, breathing like a little chUd 
 Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep. 
 For no victorious joy her red lips smilfd. 
 Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep ; 
 No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep. 
 Though some di™ie thought softened all her face 
 As once more rang the trumpet through the place. 
 
 But her late foe stopped short amidst his coui-se, 
 One moment gazed upon her piteously. 
 Then with a groan his lingering feet did force 
 To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see ; 
 And, changed like one who knows his time must be 
 But sliort and bitter, without any word 
 He knelt before the bearer of the sword ; 
 
 Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade. 
 Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place 
 Was sUence now, and midst of it the maid 
 Went by the poor wretch at a geutle pace. 
 And he to hers upturned his sad white face ; 
 Nor did his eyes behold another sight 
 Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. 
 
 William Morris. 
 
 ATAIANTA CONQITERED. 
 
 FROM "ATALANTA'S RACE." IN "THE EARTHLY PARADISE." 
 
 Now has the lingering month at last gone by, 
 Again are all folk round the running place, 
 Nor other seems the dismal pageantiy 
 Than heretofore, but that another face 
 Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race, 
 For now, beheld of all, Milauion 
 Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. 
 
 But yet — what change is this that holds the 
 maid ? 
 Does she indeed see in his glittering eye 
 More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade. 
 Some happy hope of help and victory ? 
 The others seemed to say, " We come to die. 
 Look down upon us for a little while. 
 That dead, we may bethink us of thy smile." 
 
 But he — what look of mastery was this 
 He cast on her ? why were his lips so red ? 
 Why was his face so flushed with happiness ? 
 So looks not one who deems liiniself but dead. 
 E'en if to death he bows a willing head ; 
 
 So rather looks a god well pleased to find 
 Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. 
 
 Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, 
 And even as she casts adown her eyes 
 Redden to note his eager glance of jjraise, 
 And wish that she were clad in other guise ? 
 Why must the memory to her heart arise 
 Of things unnoticed when they first were heard, 
 Some lover's song, some answeriugmaiden'sword ? 
 
 What makes these longings, vague, without a 
 
 name. 
 And this vain pity never felt before, 
 This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, 
 This tender sorrow for the time past o'er. 
 These doubts that grow each minute more and 
 
 more ? 
 Why does she tremble as the time grows near. 
 And weak defeat and woful victory fear ? 
 
 But while she seemed to hear her beating heart. 
 
 Above their heaiis the trumpet blast rang out. 
 And forth they sprang ; and she must play her 
 
 part ; 
 Then flew her white feet, kiiowing not a doubt. 
 Though slackening once, she turned her head 
 
 about. 
 But then she cried aloud and faster fled 
 Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. 
 
 But with no sound he raised aloft his hand. 
 And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew 
 And past the maid rolled on along the sand ; 
 Then trembling she her feet together drew. 
 And in her heart a strong desire there grew 
 To have the toy ; some god she thought had given 
 That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. 
 
 Then from the course with eager steps she ran, 
 And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. 
 But when she turned again, the great-limbed man 
 Now well ahead she failed not to behold. 
 And mindful of her glory wa.xing cold, 
 Spi-ang up and followed him in hot pursiut. 
 Though with one hand she touched the golden 
 fmit. 
 
 Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear 
 She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize. 
 And o'er her .shoulder from the quiver fair 
 Three an'ows fell and lay before her eyes 
 Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries 
 She sprang to head the strong Milanion, 
 Who now the turning-post had wellnigh won. 
 
 But as he set his mighty hand on it. 
 White fingers underneath his own were laid,
 
 And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit, 
 Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, 
 But she ran on awhile, then as afraid 
 Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no 
 
 stay 
 Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. 
 
 Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, 
 Now far ahead the Argive could she see, 
 And in her garment's liera one hand she wound 
 To keep the double prize, and strenuously 
 Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she 
 To win the day, though now but scanty space 
 Was left betwixt him and the winning place. 
 
 Short was the way iinto sucli winged feet. 
 Quickly she gained upon him, till at last 
 He turned about lier eager eyes to meet. 
 And from his hand the third fair apple cast. 
 She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast 
 After the prize that should licr bliss fulfill. 
 That in her hand it lay ere it was still. 
 
 Nor did she rest, but turned about to win 
 Once more, an unblest wol'ul victory — 
 And yet — and yet — wliy does her breath begin 
 To fail her, and her feet drag heavily ? 
 Why fails she now to see if far or nigh 
 The goal is ? why do her gray eyes grow dim ? 
 Why do these tremors run through every limb ? 
 
 She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find 
 Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, 
 A strong man's arms about her liody twined. 
 Kor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, 
 So WTapped she is in new, unbroken bliss ; 
 Made happy that the foe the prize hath won. 
 She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. 
 
 William Morris. 
 
 THE SIESTA. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 " Vientecico murmurador 
 Que lo gozas y andas todo," etc. 
 
 Airs, that wander and murmur round, 
 Bearing deliglit where'er ye blow ! 
 
 Make in the elms a lulling somid. 
 
 While raj' lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 
 Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest. 
 
 Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er. 
 Sweet be her slumbers ! though in my breast 
 
 The pain .she has waked may slumber no more. 
 Breathing soft from the blue profound. 
 
 Bearing delight where'er ye blow. 
 Make in the elms a lulling sound. 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 
 Airs ! that over tlie bending boughs. 
 
 And under the shade of pendent leaves, 
 Munnur soft, like my timid vows 
 
 Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves, — 
 Gently sweeping the grassy ground. 
 
 Bearing delight where'er ye blow. 
 Make in the elms a lulling sound. 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 William cullen Bryant. 
 
 ACBAR AND NOITRMAHAL. 
 
 FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." 
 
 0, BEST of delights, as it everywhere is, 
 
 To be near the loved owe, — what a rapture is his 
 
 Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may 
 
 glide 
 O'ertheLake of Cashmere with that otic 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 Aebar, 
 When from power and porapand the trophiesof war 
 He flew to that valley, forgetting them all 
 With the Light of the Harem, hi.s young Nour- 
 
 mahal. 
 When free and uncrowned as the conqueror roved 
 By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved. 
 He saw, in the wreaths shewould playfully snatch 
 From the hedges, a glory his crown could not 
 
 match. 
 And preferred in liis heart the least ringlet that 
 
 curled 
 Down herexquisite neck to the throne of the world ! 
 
 There 's a beauty forever unchangingly bright. 
 Like the long sunny lapse of a .summerday's light. 
 Shining on, shining on, by no shadow madetcnder. 
 Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. 
 This was not the beauty — 0, nothing like this. 
 That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss. 
 But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
 Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days. 
 Now here and now there, giving wannth 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 ! 
 WHien pensive, it seemed as if that very grace. 
 That charm of all others, was bom with her face ; 
 And when angry, — for even in the tranquQest 
 
 climes 
 Light breezes will rufile the flowere sometimes, — 
 The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken 
 New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when 
 
 shaken. 
 
 r
 
 If tenderness touched hei-, the dark of her eye 
 
 At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye. 
 
 From the depth of whose shadow, like holy re- 
 
 vealings 
 From mnermost shrines, came the light of her 
 
 feelings ! 
 Then her mirth — 0, 't was sportive as ever 
 
 took wing 
 From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird 
 
 in spring, — 
 lllnmed by a wit that woidd fascinate sages. 
 Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages. 
 While her laugli, full of life, without any control 
 But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her 
 
 soul ; 
 And where it most sparkled no glance could dis- 
 cover. 
 In lip, cheek, oreyos, forshe brightened all over, — 
 Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, 
 ■\Vlien it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the 
 
 sun. 
 Such, such were the peerless enchantments that 
 
 gave 
 Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her 
 
 slave ; 
 And though bright was his Harem, — a living 
 
 parterre 
 Of the flowers of this planet, — though treasures 
 
 were there, 
 For which Solomon's self might have given aU 
 
 the store 
 That the navy from Ophir e'er winged to his shore, 
 Yet dinx before lier were the smiles of them all. 
 And the Lightof his Harem was young Nourmahal! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 PYGMALION AND THE IMAQK 
 
 FRO.M •' THE EARTHLY PARADISE." 
 • 
 A Man of Cyprus, a Sculptor named Pygmalion, made an Image 
 of a Woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the 
 end came to love his own handiworlc as though it had been alive ■ 
 wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he obt.-iined liis end, for she 
 made the image alive indeed, and a Woman, and PyiJnalion wedded 
 her. 
 
 At Amathus, that from the southern side 
 Of Cyprus looks across the Sj'rian sea. 
 There did in ancient time a man abide 
 Known to the island-dwellorg, for that he 
 Had wrought most godlike works in imagery, 
 And day by day still greater honor won, — 
 ■Which man our old books call Pygmalion. 
 
 The lessening marble that he worked upon 
 A woman's form now imaged doubtfully ; 
 And in such guise the work had he begun. 
 Because when he the untouched block did see 
 In wandering veins that form there seemed to be, 
 
 Wliereon he cried out in a careless mood, 
 ' ' O lady Venus, make this presage good ! 
 
 "And then this block of stone shall be thy maid, 
 And, not without rich golden ornament. 
 Shall bide within thy quivering m}Ttle-shade. " 
 So sjjoke he, but the goddess, well content. 
 Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent, 
 That like the first artificer he wrought. 
 Who made the gift that woe to all men brought. 
 
 And yet, but such as he was wont to do, 
 At first indeed that work divine he deemed, 
 And as the white chips from the cliisel flew 
 Of other matteiti languidly he dreamed, 
 For easy to his hand that labor seemed. 
 And he was stirred wi th many a troubling thought. 
 And many a doubt perple.ved him as he wrought. 
 
 And yet, again, at last there came a day 
 When smoother and more shapely grew the stone, 
 And he, gi-own eager, put all thought away 
 But that which touched his craftsmanship alone, 
 And he would gaze at what his hands had done, 
 Until his heart with boundless joy would swell 
 That all was wrought so wonderfully well. 
 
 Yet long it was ere he was satisfied, 
 And with his pride that by his mastery 
 This thing was done, whose e(jual far and wide 
 In no town of the world a man could see. 
 Came burning longing that the work should be 
 E'en better stUl, and to his heart there came 
 A .strange and strong desire he could not name. 
 
 The night seemed long, and long the twiUght 
 
 seemed, 
 A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair ; 
 Though through the night still of his work he 
 
 dreamed. 
 And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it 
 
 were, 
 That thence he could behold the marble hair. 
 Naught was enough, until with steel in hand 
 He came before the wondrous stone to stand. 
 
 Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught, 
 And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly 
 Upon the mai-vel of the face he wrought, 
 E'en as he used to pass the long days by ; 
 But his sighs changed to sobbing presently, 
 And on the floor the useless steel he flung. 
 And, weeping loud, about the image clung. 
 
 "Alas!" hecried, "why have I made thee then, 
 That thus thou mockest me ? I know indeed 
 That many such as thou are loved of men. 
 Whose passionate eyes poor WTetches still will lead 
 Into their net, and smile to see them bleed ;
 
 But these the Gods made, and tliis hand made thee 
 Who wilt not speak one little word to me." 
 
 Then from the image did he draw aback 
 To gaze on it through tears ; and you had said, 
 Regarding it, that little did it lack 
 To be a living and most lovely maid ; 
 Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid 
 Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand 
 Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand. 
 
 The other held a fair rose over-blown ; 
 No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes 
 Seemed as if even now great love had shown 
 Unto them something of its sweet surprise. 
 Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries. 
 And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed. 
 As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed. 
 
 Reproachfully beholding all her grace, 
 Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed. 
 And then at last he turned away his face 
 As If from her cold eyes his grief to hide ; 
 And thus a weary while did he abide. 
 With nothing in his heart but vain desire, 
 The ever-burning, unconsuming fire. 
 
 No word indeed the moveless image said, 
 But with the sweet grave eyes his hands had 
 
 wrought 
 Still gazed down on his bowed imploring head ; 
 Yet his own words some solace to him brought, 
 Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught 
 With something like to hope, and all that day 
 Some tender words he ever found to say ; 
 
 And still he felt as something heard him speak; 
 Sometimes he praised her beauty, and sometimes 
 Reproached her in a feeble voice and weak, 
 And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes, 
 Wherein were wi'it the tales of many climes. 
 And read aloud the sweetness hid therein 
 Of lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin. 
 
 And when the sun went do\m, the frankincense 
 Again upon the altar-flame he oast 
 That through the open window floating thence 
 O'er the fresh odors of the garden passed ; 
 And so another day was gone at last. 
 And he no more his lovelorn watch could keep, 
 But now for utter weariness must sleep. 
 
 But the next mom, e'en while the incense-smoke 
 At sunrising curled round about her head, 
 Sweet sound of songs the wonted quiet broke 
 Down in the street, and he, by something led. 
 He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid. 
 And through the freshness of the mom must see 
 The folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy ; 
 
 Damsels and youths in wonderful attire. 
 And in their midst upon a car of gold 
 An image of the Mother of Desire, 
 Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown 
 
 old. 
 Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold. 
 Colored like flame, enwrought with precious 
 
 tilings. 
 Most fit to be the prize of striving kings. 
 
 Then he remembered that the manner was 
 That fair-clad priests the lovely Queen should take 
 Thrice in the year, and through the city pass. 
 And with sweet songs the dreaming folk awake ; 
 And through the clouds a light there seemed to 
 
 break 
 When he remembered all the tales well told 
 About her glorioijs kindly deeds of old. 
 
 So his unfinished prayer he finished not, 
 But, kneeling, once more kissed the marble feet. 
 And, while his heart with many thoughts waxed 
 
 hot, 
 He clad himself with fresh attire and meet 
 For that bright service, and with blossoms sweet 
 Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head, 
 And followed after as the goddess led. 
 
 So there he stood, that help from her to gain, 
 Be\vildered by that twilight midst of day ; 
 Downcast with listening to the jo}'OUS strain 
 He had no part in, hopeless with delay 
 Of all the fair things he had meant to say : 
 Yet, as the incense on the flame he cast. 
 From stammering lips and pale these words there 
 passed, — 
 
 " O thou forgotten help, dost thou yet know 
 What thing it is I need, when even I, 
 Bent down before thee in this shame and woe, 
 Can frame no set of words to teU thee \Wiy 
 I needs must pray, help me or I die ! 
 Or slay me, and in slaying take from me 
 Even a deaci man's feeble memory. 
 
 Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood, 
 And, as a man awaking from a dream. 
 Seemed waked from his old folly ; naught seemed 
 
 good 
 In all the things that he before had deemed 
 At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed 
 Cold light of day, — he found himself alone. 
 Reft of desire, all love and madness gone. 
 
 Thus to his chamber at the last he came, 
 And, pushing through the still half-opened door, 
 He stood within ; but there, for very shame 
 Of all the things that he had done before, 
 Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor,
 
 LOVE. 
 
 115 
 
 f 
 
 Thinking of all that he had done and said 
 Since he had wrought that luckless marble maid. 
 
 Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place 
 Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly air. 
 So gaining courage, did he raise his face 
 Unto the work his hands had made so fair, 
 And cried aloud to see the niche all bare 
 Of that sweet form, while through his heart again 
 There shot a pang of his old yearning pain. 
 
 Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do 
 With yearning, a strange thriU of hope there came, 
 A shaft of new desire now pierced him through. 
 And theremthal a soft voice called his name. 
 And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame. 
 He saw betwixt him and the setting sun 
 The lively image of his loved one. 
 
 He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes, 
 Her very lips, were such as he had made. 
 And though her tresses fell but in such guise 
 As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed 
 In that fair garment that the priests had laid 
 Upon the goddess on that very morn. 
 Dyed like the setting sun upon the com. 
 
 Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear, 
 Simple and sweet as she was wont to be, 
 And once again her silver voice rang clear. 
 Filling his soul with great felicity. 
 And thus she spoke, "Wilt thou not come to me, 
 dear companion of my new-found life. 
 For I am called thy lover and thy wife ? " 
 
 She reached her hand to him, and with kind 
 eyes 
 Gazed into his ; but he the fingers caught 
 And drew her to him, and midst ecstasies 
 Passing all words, yea, wellnigh passing thought. 
 Felt that sweet breath that he so long had sought. 
 Felt the warm life within her heaving breast 
 As in his arms his living love he pressed. 
 
 But as his cheek touched hers he heard her say, 
 "Wilt thou not speak, love? why dost thou 
 
 weep ? 
 Art thou then sorry for this long- wished day. 
 Or dost thou think perchance thou wilt not keep 
 This that thou boldest, but in dreamy sleep ? 
 Nay, let us do the bidding of the Queen, 
 And hand in hand walk through thy garden 
 green ; 
 
 "Then shalt thou tell me, still beholding me, 
 FuU many things whereof I wish to know. 
 And as we walk from whispering tree to tree 
 Still more familiar to thee shall I grow. 
 And such things shalt thou say unto me now 
 
 As when thou deemedst thou wast quite alone, 
 A madman kneeling to a thing of stone." 
 
 But at that word a smile lit up his eyes 
 And therewithal he spake some loving word, 
 And she at first looked up in grave surprise 
 Wlien his deep voice and musical she heard, 
 And clung to him as somewhat grown afeard ; 
 Then cried aloud and said, " mighty one ! 
 What joy with thee to look upon the sun ! " 
 
 Then into that fair garden did they pass. 
 And all the story of his love he told, 
 And as the twain went o'er the dewy grass. 
 Beneath the risen moon could he behold 
 The bright tears trickling down, then, waxen 
 
 bold. 
 He stopped and said, "Ah, love, what meaneth 
 
 this? 
 Seest thou how tears still follow earthly bliss ?" 
 
 Then both her white arms round his neck she 
 threw. 
 And sobbing said, " love, what hurteth me ? 
 When first the sweetness of my life I knew, 
 Not this I felt, but when I first saw thee 
 A little pain and gieat felicity 
 Rose up within me, and thy talk e'en now 
 Made pain and pleasure ever greater grow." 
 
 " sweet," he said, "this thing is even love. 
 Whereof I told thee : that all wise men fear. 
 But yet escape not ; nay, to gods above. 
 Unless the old tales lie, it draweth near. 
 But let my happy ears, I pray thee, hear 
 Thy story too, and how thy blessed birth 
 Has made a heaven of this once lonely earth." 
 
 "My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise. 
 Or stored with words, aright the tale to tell, 
 But listen : when I opened firet mine eyes 
 I stood within the niche thou knowest well, 
 And from mine hand a heavy thing there fell 
 Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things 
 
 clear. 
 And but a strange eonfusfed noise could hear.' 
 
 " At last mine eyes could see a woman fair. 
 But awful as this round white moon o'erhead, 
 So that I trembled when I saw her there, 
 For with my life was bom some touch of dread, 
 And therewithal I heard her voice th.at said, 
 ' Come down, and learn to love and be alive, 
 For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.' 
 
 "Then on the floor I stepped, rejoicing much, 
 Not knowing why, not knowing aught at all. 
 Till she reached out her hand my breast to touch, 
 And when her fingers thereupon did fall, 
 
 +
 
 116 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 Thought came unto my life, and therewithal 
 
 I knew her for a goddess, and began 
 
 To murmur in some tongue unkno«ni to man. 
 
 " And then indeed not in this guise was I. 
 No sandals had I, and no saffron gown. 
 But naked as thou knowest utterly, 
 E'en as my limbs beneath thine hand had grown, 
 And this fair perfumed robe then fell adown 
 Over the goddess' feet and swept the ground, 
 And round her loins a glittering belt was bound. 
 
 "But when the stammering of my tongue she 
 heard 
 Upon my trembling lips her hand she laid, 
 And spoke again, ' Nay, say not any word, 
 AU that thine heart would say I know unsaid. 
 Who even now thine heart and voice have made ; 
 But listen rather, for thou knowest now 
 What tliese words mean, and still wilt wiser grow. 
 
 " 'Thy body, lifeless till I gave it life, 
 A certain man, my servant, well hath wrought, 
 I give thee to him as his love and «ii'e. 
 With all thy dowry of desire and thought. 
 Since this his yearning heart hath ever sought ; 
 l^ow from my temple is lie on the way, 
 Deeming to find thee e'en as yesterday ; 
 
 "' Bide thou his coming by the bed-head there. 
 And when thou seest hira set his eyes upon 
 Thine empty niche, and hear'st him cry for care, 
 Then call him by his name, Pygmalion, 
 And certainly thy lover hast thou won ; 
 But when he stands before thee sOently, 
 Say all these words that I shall teach to thee.' 
 
 "With that she said what first I told thee, love. 
 And then went on, ' Moreover thou shalt say 
 That I, the daughter of almighty Jove, 
 Have «Tought for him this long-desired day ; 
 In sign whereof, these things that pass away. 
 Wherein mine image men have well arrayed, 
 I give thee for thy wedding gear, O maid. ' 
 
 " Therewith her raiment she put off from her. 
 And laid bare all her perfect loveliness. 
 And, smiling on me, came yet more anear. 
 And on my mortal lips her lips did press, 
 And said, ' Now herewith shalt thou love no less 
 Than Psyche loved my son in days of old ; 
 Farewell, of thee shall many a tale be told.' 
 
 "And even with that last word was she gone. 
 How, I know not, and I my limbs arrayed 
 In her fair gifts, and waited thee alone — 
 Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said, 
 For now I love thee so, I grow afraid 
 
 Of what the gods upon our heads may send — 
 I love thee so, I think upon the end." 
 
 What words he said ? How can I tell again 
 What words they said beneath the glimmering 
 
 light. 
 Some tongue they used unknown to loveless men 
 As each to each they told their great delight. 
 Until for stillness of the growing night 
 Their soft sweet murmuring words seemed grow- 
 ing loud. 
 And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud. 
 
 William Morris. 
 
 MEETING. 
 
 The gray sea, and the long black land ; 
 And the yellow half-moon large and low ; 
 And the startled little waves, that leap 
 In fiery ringlets from their sleep. 
 As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
 And quench its speed in the slushy sand. 
 
 Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach ; 
 
 Three fields to cross, till a farm appears : 
 
 A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
 
 And blue spurt of a lighted match. 
 
 And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, 
 
 Than the two hearts, beating each to each. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 A MAIDEN WITH A MILKING-PAIL. 
 
 What change has made the pastures sweet, 
 And reached the daisies at my feet. 
 
 And cloud that wears a golden hem ? 
 This lovely world, the hills, the sward, — 
 They all look fresh, as if our Lord 
 
 But yesterday had finished them. 
 
 And here 's the field with light aglow : 
 Ho%v fresh its boundary lime-trees show ! 
 
 And how its wet leaves trembling shine ! 
 Between their trunks come through to me 
 The morning sparkles of the sea. 
 
 Below the level browzing line. 
 
 I see the pool, more clear by half 
 Than pools where other waters laugh 
 Up at the breasts of coot and raO. 
 There, as she passed it on her way, 
 I saw reflected yesterday 
 
 A maiden with a milking-pail.
 
 There neither slowly nor in haste, — 
 One hand upon her slender waist, 
 
 The other lifted to her [jail, — 
 She, rosy in the morning light, 
 Among the water-daisies white. 
 
 Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. 
 
 Against her ankles as she trod 
 The luuky buttercups did nod : 
 
 I leaned upon the gate to see. 
 The sweet thing looked, but did not speak ; 
 A dimple came in either cheek. 
 
 And all my heart was gone from me. 
 
 Then, as I lingered on the gate. 
 And she came up like coming fate, 
 
 1 saw my picture in her eyes, — 
 Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes ! 
 Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows 
 
 Among white-headed majesties ! 
 
 I said, " A tale was made of old 
 That I would fain to thee unfold : 
 
 Ah ! let me, — let me tell the tale." 
 But high slie held her comely head : 
 "I cannot heed it now," she said, 
 
 " For carrying of the milking-pail. " 
 
 She laughed. What good to make ado ? 
 I held the gate, and she came through. 
 
 And took her homeward path anon. 
 From the clear pool her face had fled ; 
 It rested on my heart instead, 
 
 Reflected when the maid was gone. 
 
 With happy youth, and work content. 
 So sweet and stately, on she went. 
 
 Right careless of the untold tale. 
 Each step she took 1 loved her more. 
 And followed to her dairy door 
 
 The maiden with the milking-pall. 
 
 For hearts where wakened love doth lurk. 
 How fine, how blest a thing is work ! 
 
 For work does good when reasons fail, — 
 Good ; yet the ax at every stroke 
 The echo of a name awoke, — 
 
 Her name is Mary Martindale. 
 
 I 'm glad that echo was not heard 
 Aright by other men. A bird 
 
 Knows doubtless what his own notes tell ; 
 And I know not, — but 1 can say 
 I felt as shamefaced all that day 
 
 As if folks heard her name right well. 
 
 And when the west began to glow 
 
 I went — I could not choose but go — 
 
 To that same dairy on the hill ; 
 And while sweet Mary moved about 
 Within, 1 came to her without. 
 
 And leaned upon the wiudow-sUL 
 
 The garden border where 1 stood 
 
 Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. 
 
 I spoke, — her answer seemed to fail. 
 I smelt the pinks, — I could not see ; 
 The dusk came down and sheltered me ; 
 
 And in the dusk she heard my tale. 
 
 And what is left that I should tell ? 
 I begged a kiss, — I pleaded well : 
 
 The rosebud lips did long decline ; 
 But yet, I tliiuk — I think 't is true — 
 That, leaned at last into the dew. 
 
 One little instant they were mine ! 
 
 life ! how dear thou hast become ! 
 She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb ! 
 
 But evening counsels best prevail. 
 Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads. 
 Green be the pastirres where she treads. 
 
 The maiden with the milking-paU ! 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 THE MILICMAID'S SONG. 
 
 I Ti'RN, turn, for my cheeks they bum, 
 
 Turn by the dale, my Harry ! 
 I Fill pail, fill pail. 
 
 He has turned by the dale. 
 
 And there by the stile waits Harry. 
 
 Fill, fill, 
 I FQl i.ail, fill. 
 
 For there by the stile waits Harry ! 
 
 Tlie world may go round, the world may stand stUl, 
 
 But I can milk and marry, 
 I Fillpail, 
 
 I can milk and marry. 
 
 Wheugh, wheugh ! 
 
 0, if we two 
 
 Stood down there now by the water, 
 
 I know who 'd carry me over the ford 
 
 As brave as a soldier, as proud as a lord. 
 
 Though I don't live over the water. 
 
 AVheugh, wheugh 1 he 's whistling through, 
 
 He's whistling "The Farmer's Daughter." 
 
 Give down, give dowm. 
 
 My crumpled brown ! 
 
 He shall not take the road to the town, 
 
 For I '11 meet him beyond the water. 
 
 Give down, give down. 
 
 My crumpled brown ! 
 
 i
 
 4- 
 
 118 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 And senJ uie to my Harry. 
 
 The folk o' towns 
 
 May have silken gowns, 
 
 l!ut I can milk and many, 
 
 Fillpail, 
 
 1 can milk and marry. 
 
 Whcugh, wheugh ! he has whistled through, 
 
 He has whistled through the water. 
 
 Fill, fill, mth a 'will, a will, 
 
 For he 's whistled thrnngh the water, 
 
 And he 's whistling down 
 
 The way to the town. 
 
 And it 's not " The Fai-mer's Daughter ! " 
 
 Ghurr, chuiT ! goes the cockchafer, 
 
 The sun sets over the water, 
 
 Churr, churr ! goes the cockchafer, 
 
 I 'm too late for my Il.irry ! 
 
 And, 0, if he goes a-soldieriug, 
 
 The cows they may low, the bells they may ring. 
 
 But I '11 neither milk nor marry, 
 
 Fillliail, 
 
 Neither milk nor marry. 
 
 My brow beats on thy flank, Fillpail, 
 
 Give down, good wench, give down ! 
 
 I know the primrose bank, Fillpail, 
 
 Between him and the town. 
 
 Give down, good wench, give down, Fillpail, 
 
 4nd he shall not reach the town ! 
 
 Strain, strain ! he 's whistling again. 
 
 He 's nearer by halt" a mile. 
 
 More, more ! 0, never before 
 
 W^ere you such a weary while ! 
 
 fill, fiU ! he 's crossed the hiU, 
 
 1 can see him down by the stile. 
 
 He 's passed the hay, he 's coming this way, 
 
 He "s coming to me, my Harry ! 
 
 Give silken gowns to the folks o' towns. 
 
 He 's coming to me, my Harry ! 
 
 There 's not so grand a dame in the land, 
 
 That she walks to-night with Harry ! 
 
 Come late, come soon, come sun, come moon, 
 
 0, I can milk and marry, 
 
 Fillpail, 
 
 I can milk and marry. 
 
 Wheugh, wheugh ! he has whistled through. 
 
 My Harrj' ! my lad ! my lover ! 
 
 Set the sun and fall the dew, 
 
 Heigh-ho, merry world, what 's to do 
 
 That you 're smiling over and over ? 
 
 Up on the hill and down in the dale, 
 
 And .along the tree-tops over the vale 
 
 Shining over and over. 
 
 Low in the grass and high on the bough, 
 
 Shining over and over, 
 
 world, have you ever a lover ? 
 
 You were so dull and cold just now, 
 
 world, have you ever a lover I 
 
 1 could not see a leaf on the tree. 
 
 And now I could count them, one, two, three. 
 
 Count them over and over. 
 
 Leaf from leaf like lips apart. 
 
 Like lips apart for a lover. 
 
 And the hillside beats with my beating heart, 
 
 And the apple-tree blushes all over. 
 
 And the May bough touched me and made me 
 
 start. 
 And the wind breathes warm like a lover. 
 
 Pull, pull ! and the pail is full, 
 
 And milking 's done and over. 
 
 Who would not sit here under the tree t 
 
 What a fair fair thing 's a green field to see ! 
 
 Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me ! 
 
 I have set my pail on the daisies ! 
 
 It seems so light, — can the sun be set ? 
 
 The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet. 
 
 I could cry to have hurt the daisies ! 
 
 Harry is near, Harry is near. 
 
 My heart 's as sick as if he were here. 
 
 My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet. 
 
 He has n't uttered a word as yet. 
 
 But the air 's astir with his praises. 
 
 My Harry ! 
 
 The ail- 's astir with your praises. 
 
 He has scaled the rock by the pLxy's stone, 
 
 He 's among the kingcups ■ — he picks me one, 
 
 I love the grass that I tread upon 
 
 When I go to my Harrj- ! 
 
 He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the 
 
 knowe. 
 There 's never a faster foot I trow. 
 But still he seems to tarry. 
 
 Harry ! Harry ! my love, my pride. 
 My heart is leaping, my arms are \vide ! 
 Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside, 
 
 Eoll up, and bring my Harry ! 
 
 They may talk of glory over the sea. 
 
 But Harry 's alive, and Harry 's for me, 
 
 My love, my lad, my Harry ! 
 
 Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow, 
 
 What cares Dolly, whether or no. 
 
 While 1 can milk and marry ? 
 
 Right or wrong, and wrong or right. 
 
 Quarrel who nuarrel, and fight who fight, 
 
 But I '11 bring my pail home every night 
 
 To love, and home, and Harry ! 
 
 We '11 drink our can, we 11 eat our cake. 
 
 There 's beer in the barrel, there 's bread in the 
 
 bake. 
 The world may sleep, the world may wake, 
 But I shall milk and marry. 
 And marry, 
 
 1 shall milk and marry. 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELX..
 
 AUF WIEDERSEHEN.* 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 The little gate was reached at last, 
 Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
 She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
 A wistful look she backward cast. 
 And said, " Avf vnedersehen I" 
 
 With hand on latch, a vision white 
 
 Lingered reluctant, and again, 
 Half doubting if she did aright, 
 Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
 
 She said, ' ' Auf loiederscheii ! " 
 
 The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; 
 
 I linger in delicious pain ; 
 Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
 To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 
 
 Thinks she, "Auf wiederselien I " 
 
 'T is thirteen years : once more I press 
 The turf that silences the lane ; 
 
 I hear the rustle of her dress, 
 
 I smell the lilacs, and — ah yes, 
 I hear " Auf wiederseJieii ! " 
 
 Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 
 
 The English words had seemed too fain. 
 But these — they drew us heart to heart. 
 Yet held us tenderly apart ; 
 
 She said, " Auf wicdcrsehen ! " 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 SWEET MEETING OF DESIRES. 
 
 I GREW assured, before I asked. 
 
 That she 'd be mine without reserve. 
 And in her unclaimed graces basked 
 
 At leisure, till the time should serve, — 
 With just enough of dread to thrill 
 
 The hope, and make it trebly dear ; 
 Thus loath to speak the word, to kill 
 
 Either the hope or happy fear. 
 
 Till once, through lanes returning late, 
 
 Her laughing sisters lagged behind ; 
 And ere we reached her father's gate. 
 
 We paused with one presentient mind: 
 And, in the dim and perfumed mist 
 
 Their coming stayed, who, blithe and free. 
 And very women, loved to assist 
 
 A lover's opportunity. 
 
 Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word ; 
 
 To faint and frail cathedral chimes 
 Spake time in music, and we heard 
 
 The chafers rustling in the limes. 
 
 • Till we meet again ; like au revoir in French. 
 
 Her dress, that touched me where I stood ; 
 
 The warmth of her confided arm ; 
 Her bosom's gentle neighborhood ; 
 
 Her pleasure in her power to charm ; 
 
 Her look, her love, her form, her touch ! 
 
 The least seemed most by blissful turn, — 
 Blissful but that it pleased too much. 
 
 And taught the wayward soul to yearn. 
 It was as if a harp with wires 
 
 Was traversed by the breath I drew ; 
 And O, sweet meeting of desires ! 
 
 She, answering, owned that she loved too. 
 Coventry fatmore. 
 
 ZARA'S EAR-RINGS. 
 
 from the SPANISH. 
 
 "My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they 've dropt into 
 the well. 
 
 And what to say to lluija, I cannot, cannot tell." 
 
 'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albu- 
 harez' daughter, — 
 
 ' ' The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the 
 cold blue water. 
 
 To me did Mu^a give them, when he spake his sad 
 farewell, • 
 
 And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I can- 
 not tell. 
 
 ' ' My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they were pearls 
 
 in silver set. 
 That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er .should 
 
 him forget. 
 That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile 
 
 on other's tale. 
 But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those 
 
 ear-rings pale. 
 When he comes back, andhearsthat Ihavedropped 
 
 them in the well, 
 0, what will Mujathiukof me, I cannot, cannot tell. 
 
 " My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! he 'U say they 
 should have been. 
 
 Not of pearl and silver, but of gold and glittering 
 sheen. 
 
 Of jasperandofony.ic, andofdiamondshiningclear, 
 
 Changing to the changing light, with radiance 
 insincere ; 
 
 That changeful mind unchanging gems are not 
 befitting well, — 
 
 Thus will bethink, — and what to say, alas! loan- 
 not tell. 
 
 " He '11 think when I to market went I loitered by 
 
 the way ; 
 He '11 think a willing ear I lent to all the lads 
 
 might say ; 
 
 i^^l-«"
 
 120 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 He '11 think some other lover's hand, among my 
 tresses noosed, 
 
 From the ears where he had placed them my lings 
 of pearl unloosed ; 
 
 He 'II think when I was sporting so beside this 
 marble well, 
 
 My pearls fell in,— and what to say, alas! I can- 
 not tell. 
 
 "He '11 say I am awoman, and we areall the same ; 
 He 'U say I loved when he was here to whisper of 
 
 Ms flame, — 
 But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had 
 
 broken, 
 And thought no more of Mu5a, and cared not for 
 
 his token. 
 My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! 0, luckless, luckless 
 
 well ! 
 For what to say to Mui;a, alas ! I cannot tell. 
 
 " I '11 tell the truth to Mu^a, and I hope he will 
 
 believe 
 That I 've thought of him at morning, and 
 
 thought of him at eve ; 
 That musing on my lover, when down the sun was 
 
 gone, 
 His ear-rings in my hand I held, 1^ the fountain 
 
 all alone ; 
 And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my 
 
 hand they fell, 
 And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie 
 
 in the well." 
 
 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 
 
 "0 tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown; 
 Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
 But iu the North long since my nest is made. 
 
 "0 tell her, brief is life, but love is long. 
 And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
 And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 
 
 ' ' Swallow, flying from the golden woods, 
 Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her 
 
 mine. 
 And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." 
 
 ALFRED Tennyson. 
 
 "O SWALLOW, SWALLOW, FLYING SOUTH." 
 
 FROM "THE PRINCESS." 
 
 "O Swallow, Swallow, flying, fljing South, 
 Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
 And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. 
 
 "O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each. 
 That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
 And dark and true and tender is the North. 
 
 "0 Swallow, Swallow, if 1 could follow and 
 light 
 Upon her lattice, 1 would pipe and trill, 
 And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 
 
 " were I thou that she might take me in. 
 And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
 Would rock the snowy cradle till I died ! 
 
 " Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with 
 love. 
 Delaying as the tender ash delays 
 To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? 
 
 "ASK ME NO MORE." 
 
 FROM "THE PRINCESS." 
 
 Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 
 The cloud may stoop from heaven and take 
 
 the shape. 
 With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
 But, too fond ! when have I answered thee ? 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more : what answer should I give ? 
 I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
 Yet, my friend, I will not have thee die ! 
 
 Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed : 
 I strove against the stream, and all in vain ; 
 Let the great river take me to the main : 
 
 No more, dear love, for at a touch I j-ield ; 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ATHULF AND ETHILDA. 
 
 Athulf. . . . Appeared 
 
 The princess with that merry child Prince Guy : 
 He loves me well, and made her stop and sit. 
 And sat upon her knee, and it so chanced 
 That in his various chatter he denied 
 That I could hold his hand within my own 
 So closely as to hide it : this being tried 
 Was proved against him ; he insisted then 
 I could not by his royal sister's hand 
 Do likewise. Starting at the random word, 
 And dumb with trepidation, there I stood 
 Some seconds as bewitched ; then I looked up, 
 And in her face lieheld an orient flush 
 Of half-bewildered pleasure : from which trance 
 She with an instant ease resumed herself. 
 And frankly, with a pleasant laugh, held out 
 Her arrowy hand. 
 
 1 thought it trembled as it lay in mine, 
 But yet her looks were clear, direct, and free,
 
 And said that she felt uothing. 
 SiDROC. Anil wliat I'ult'st thou ? 
 
 Athulf. a sort of awarmuig, curling, tremu- 
 lous tumbling, 
 As though there were an ant-hill in my bosom. 
 I said I was ashamed. — Sidroc, you smile, 
 1 f at my folly, well ! But if you smile, 
 Suspicious of a taint upon my heart. 
 Wide is your error, and you never loved. 
 
 Henry Taylor. 
 
 SEVEN TIMES THREE. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 I tEANEn out of window, I smelt thewhite clover, 
 Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; 
 "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one 
 lover — 
 Hush, nightingale, hush ! sweet nightin- 
 gale, wait 
 Till I listen and hear 
 If a step draweth near, 
 For my love he is late ! 
 
 "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and 
 nearer, 
 A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree. 
 The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : 
 To what art thou listening, and what dost thou 
 see? 
 Let the star- clusters glow. 
 Let the sweet waters flow, 
 And cross (quickly to me. 
 
 " You night-moths that hover where honey brims 
 over 
 From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
 You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway dis- 
 cover 
 To him that comes darkling along the rough 
 steep. 
 Ah, my sailor, make haste, 
 For the time runs to waste, 
 And my love lieth deep, — 
 
 "Too deepforswift telling; and yet, my one lover, 
 I 've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to- 
 night." 
 By the sycamore passed he, and through the white 
 clover ; 
 Then all the sweet speech 1 had fashioned took 
 flight ; 
 But I '11 love him more, more 
 Than e'er wife ioved before. 
 Be the days dark or bright. 
 
 Jean ingelow. 
 
 FATIMA AND RADTJAN. 
 
 EROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 " Diamante falso y fingido, 
 Uiigastado en |icdcmal." etc. 
 
 "False diamond set in Hint! hard heart in 
 
 liauglity breast ! 
 By asofter, warmer bosom the tiger's couch is prest. 
 Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as 
 
 the wind. 
 And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more 
 
 hard to bind. 
 If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few . 
 
 would be 
 To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown 
 
 to me. 
 Oh ! I could chide thee sharply, — but every maiden 
 
 knows 
 That she who chides her lover forgives him ere 
 
 he goes. 
 
 "Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Gra- 
 nada's maids. 
 Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and 
 
 fairest fades ; 
 And they thought thy heart was mine, and it 
 
 seemed to every one 
 That what thou didst to win my love, for love of 
 
 me was done. 
 Alas ! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know, 
 They well might see another mark to which thine 
 
 arrows go ; 
 But thou giv'st little heed, — for I speak to one 
 
 who knows 
 That she who chides her lover forgives lum ere 
 
 he goes. 
 
 "It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep 
 
 and bear 
 What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my 
 
 own with care. 
 Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and 
 
 ah ! thou know'st 1 feel 
 That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades 
 
 of steel. 
 'T w'as the doubt that thou wert false that wTung 
 
 my heart with pain ; 
 But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall bewell again. 
 1 would procliiim thoe as thou art — but every 
 
 maiden knows 
 That she who chides her lover forgives him ere 
 
 he goes." 
 
 Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Radnan, 
 Where underneath the myrtles Alli.ambra's foun- 
 tains ran : 
 The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was. 
 He took her white hand in hi.s own, and pleaded 
 thus his cause :
 
 122 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 " lady, dry tliosc star-like eyes, — their dim- 
 ness does me wrong ; 
 
 ir my heart be made ol' llint, at least 't will keep 
 thy image long ; 
 
 Thou hast uttered cruel words, — but I grieve the 
 less for those, 
 
 Since she who chides her lover forgives him ere 
 he goes." 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THE SPDTNING-WHEEL SONG. 
 
 Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning ; 
 Close by the window young Eileen is spinning ; 
 Bent o'er the fire, her blind grantlmother, sitting, 
 Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knit- 
 ting, — 
 "Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
 "'Tis the iv)', dear mother, against the glass 
 
 flapping." 
 " Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 
 " 'T is the sound, mother dear, of the summer 
 
 wind djang." 
 MerrOy, cheerily, noisily whirring. 
 Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's 
 
 stirring ; 
 Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing. 
 Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden sing- 
 ing. 
 
 " Wliat 's that noise that I hear at the window, 
 I wonder ! " 
 
 "'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush 
 under." 
 
 " What makes you be shoving and moving your 
 stool on. 
 
 And singing all wrong that old song of 'The 
 Coolun' ? " 
 
 There 's a form at the casement, — the form of 
 her true-love, — 
 
 And he wliispers, with face bent, " I 'm waiting 
 for you, love ; 
 
 Get up on the stool, through the lattice step 
 lightly. 
 
 We '11 rove in the grove while the moon 's shin- 
 ing brightly." 
 
 Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 
 
 Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot 's 
 srtining •, 
 
 Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing. 
 
 Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden sing- 
 ing. 
 
 The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fin- 
 gers. 
 
 Steals up from her seat, — longs to go, and yet 
 lingers ; 
 
 A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand- 
 mother. 
 
 Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with 
 the other. 
 
 Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; 
 
 Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound ; 
 
 Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 
 
 The maid steps, — then leaps to the arms of her 
 lover. 
 
 Slower — and slower — and slower the wheel 
 swings ; 
 
 Lower — and lower — and lower the reel rings ; 
 
 Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and 
 moving, 
 
 Through the grove the young lovers by moon- 
 light are roving. 
 
 JOHN FRA.NCIS WALLER. 
 
 A SPINSTER'S STINT. 
 
 Six skeins and three, six skeins and three ! 
 
 Good mother, so you stinted me. 
 
 And here they be, — ay, six and three ! 
 
 Stop, busy wheel ! stop, noisy wheel ! 
 Long shadows down my chamber steal, 
 And warn me to make haste and reel. 
 
 'T is done, — the spinning work complete ; 
 
 heart of mine, what makes you beat 
 So fast and sweet, so fast and sweet ? 
 
 1 must have wheat and pinks, to stick 
 My hat from brim to ribbon, thick, — 
 Slow hands of mine, be quick, be quick ! 
 
 One, t\vo, three stai-s along the skies 
 Begin to wink their golden eyes, — 
 I 'U leave my thread all knots and ties. 
 
 O moon, so red ! O moon, so red ! 
 Sweetheart of night, go straight to bed ; 
 Love's light will answer in your stead. 
 
 A-tiptoe, beckoning me, he stands, — 
 Stop trembling, little foolish hands. 
 And stop the bands, and stop the bands ! 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 SOMEBODY. 
 
 Somebody 's courting somebody 
 Somewhere or other to-night ; 
 Somebody 's whispering to somebody, 
 Somebody 's listening to somebody. 
 Under this clear moonlight.
 
 LOVE. 
 
 4 
 
 123 
 
 Near the bright river's How, 
 Running so still and slow, 
 Talking so soft and low. 
 She sits with somebody. 
 
 Pacing the ocean's shore, 
 Edged by the foaming roar. 
 Words never used before 
 Sound sweet to somebody. 
 
 Under the maple-tree 
 Deep tliough the shadow be, 
 Plain enough they can see. 
 Bright eyes has somebody. 
 
 No one sits up to wait. 
 Though she is out so late. 
 All know she 's at the gate. 
 Talking with somebody. 
 
 Tiptoe to parlor door. 
 Two shadows on the floor. 
 Moonlight, reveal no more, 
 Susy and somebody. 
 
 Two, sitting side by side, 
 "Float with the ebbing tide, 
 " Thus, dearest, may we glide 
 Through life," says somebody. 
 
 Somewhere, somebody 
 Makes love to somebody 
 To-nighL 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE MISTRESS. 
 
 If he 's capricious, she '11 be so ; 
 
 But, if his duties constant are. 
 She lets her loving favor glow 
 
 As steady as a tropic star. 
 Appears there naught for which to weep. 
 
 She '11 weep for nauglit for his dear sake ; 
 She clasps her sister in her sleep ; 
 
 Her love in dreams is most awake. 
 Her soul, that once with pleasure shook 
 
 Did any eyes her beauty own. 
 Now wonders how they dare to look 
 
 On what belongs to him alone. 
 The indignity of taking gifts 
 
 ExhOarates her loving breast ; 
 A rapture of submission lifts 
 
 Her life into celestial rest. 
 There 's nothing left of what she was, — 
 
 Back to the babe the woman dies ; 
 And all the wisdom that she has 
 
 Is to love him for being wise. 
 She 's confident because she fears ; 
 
 And, though discreet when he 's away. 
 If none but her dear dcsjjot hears. 
 
 She 'II prattle like a child at play. 
 
 Perchance, when all her praise is said, 
 
 He tells the news, — a battle won — 
 On either side ten thousand dead, — 
 
 Describing how the whole was done : 
 She thinks, "He's looking on my face ! 
 
 I am his joy ; whate'er 1 do. 
 He sees such time-contenting grace 
 
 In that, he 'd have me always so ! " 
 And, evermore, for cither's sake, 
 
 To the sweet folly of the dove 
 She joins the cunning of the snake, 
 
 To rivet and exalt his love. 
 Her mode of candor is deceit ; 
 
 And what she thinks from what she '11 say 
 (Although I '11 never call her cheat) 
 
 Lies far as Scotland from Cathay. 
 Without his knowledge he was won, 
 
 Against his 'nature kept devout ; 
 She '11 never tell liini how 't was done, 
 
 And he will never find it out. 
 If, sudden, he suspects her wiles. 
 
 And hears her forging chain and trap, 
 And looks, — she sits in simple smiles, 
 
 Her two hands lying in her lap ! 
 Her secret (privilege of the Bard, 
 
 Whose fancy is of either sex) 
 Is mine ; but let the darkness guard 
 
 Mysteries that light would more perplex. 
 Coventry Patmore. 
 
 BONNIE WEE THING. 
 
 Bonnie wee thing ! cannie wee thing ! 
 
 Lovely wee thing ! wert thou mine, 
 I wad wear thee in my bosom. 
 
 Lest my jewel I should tine. 
 Wishfully 1 look, and languish. 
 
 In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
 And my heart it stoimds wi' anguish, 
 
 Lest my wee thing be na mine. 
 
 Wit and grace, and love and beauty, 
 
 In ae constellation shine ; 
 To adore thee is my duty. 
 
 Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 
 
 Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
 I wad wear thee in my bosom. 
 
 Lest my jewel I should tine. 
 
 Robert burns. 
 
 BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING 
 YOUNG CHARMS. 
 
 Beli eve me, if all those endearing young charms. 
 Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
 
 Were to change 1 ly to-morrow, and lleet in my arms, 
 Like fairy-gifts fading away, 
 
 r
 
 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 124 POEMS OF LOVE, 
 
 ' 
 
 
 rhou woTildst still be adored, as this moment thou 
 
 The hedge broke in, the banner blew. 
 
 
 
 art, 
 
 The butler drank, the steward scrawled, 
 
 
 
 Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
 
 The fire shot up, the martin flew. 
 
 
 
 And around the dear ruin ea(3h wish of my heart 
 
 The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled ; 
 
 
 
 Woidd entwine itself verdantly still. 
 
 The maid and page renewed their strife ; 
 The palace banged, and buzzed, and clackt ; 
 
 
 
 1 1 is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 
 
 And all the long-pent stream of life 
 Dashed downward in a cataract. 
 
 
 
 And thy cheeks nnprofaned by a tear. 
 
 
 
 That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known, 
 
 
 
 
 To which time will but make thee more dear ! 
 
 And last of all the king awoke, 
 
 
 
 0, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 
 
 And in his chair himself upreared. 
 
 
 
 But as tnily loves on to the close, 
 
 And yawned, and rubbed his face, and spoke; 
 
 
 
 As the sunflower turus to her god when he sets 
 
 " By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
 How say you ? we have slept, my lords ; 
 
 
 
 The same look which she turned when he rose ! 
 
 
 
 THOMAS Moore. 
 
 My beard has gi'own into my lap." 
 The barons swore, with many words, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 'T was but an after-dinner's nap. 
 
 
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 
 
 
 FROM "THE DAY DREAM." 
 
 " Pardy ! " returned the king, " but still 
 
 
 
 Year after year unto her feet. 
 She \jmg on her couch alone, 
 
 My joints are somethmg stiff or so. 
 
 
 
 My lord, and shall we pass the bill 
 I mentioned half an hour ago ?" 
 
 
 
 Across the piu-ple coverlet, 
 
 The chancellor, sedate and vain, 
 
 
 
 The maiden's jot-black hair has grown ; 
 On either side her tranced fonn 
 
 Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; 
 The slumb'rous light is rich and warm, 
 
 In courteous words returned reply ; 
 But dallied with Ms golden chain, 
 
 
 
 And, smiling, put the question by. 
 
 
 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 
 
 And moves not on the rounded curl. 
 The silk star-broidered coverlid 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Unto her limbs itself doth mould, 
 
 THE "SLEEPING BEAUTY" DEPARTS WITH 
 HER LOVER. 
 
 
 
 Languidly ever ; and amid 
 
 
 
 
 Her full black ringlets, downward roUed, 
 
 FROM "THE DAY DREAAL" 
 
 
 
 Glows forth eacli softly shadowed arm, 
 
 And on her lover's arm she leant, 
 
 
 
 With bracelets of the diamond bright. 
 
 And round her waist she felt it fold ; 
 
 
 
 Her constant beauty doth inform 
 
 And far across the hills they went 
 
 
 
 Stillness with love, and day with light. 
 
 In that new world which is the old. 
 Across the hiUs, and far away 
 
 
 
 She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard 
 
 Beyond their utmost purple run. 
 
 
 
 In palace chambers far apart. 
 
 And deep into the dying day, 
 
 
 
 The fragrant tresses are not stined 
 
 The happy princess followed him. 
 
 
 
 That lie upon her charmed heart. 
 
 
 
 
 She sleeps ; on either hand upswells 
 
 "I 'd sleep another hundred years. 
 
 
 
 The gold-fringed pillow lightly jircst ; 
 
 love, for such another kiss !" 
 
 
 
 She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 
 
 "0, wake forever, love," she hears, 
 
 
 
 A perfect form in perfect rest. 
 
 ' ' love, 't was such as this and this. " 
 
 
 
 ALFRED Tennyson. 
 
 An<l o'er them many a sliding star. 
 And many a merry wind was borne, 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 
 And, streamed through many a golden bar, 
 
 
 
 THE REVIVAL OF THE "SLEEPING BEAUTY." 
 
 The twilight melted into morn. 
 
 
 
 FROM "THE DAY DREAM." 
 
 
 
 
 A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 
 
 " eyes long laid in happy sleep !" 
 
 
 
 There rose a noise of striking clocks ; 
 
 "0 happy sleep, that lightly fled !" 
 
 
 
 And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 
 
 "0 happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!" 
 
 
 
 And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 
 
 " love, thy kiss would wake the dead! " 
 
 
 
 A fuller light illumined all ; 
 
 And o'er them many a flowing range 
 
 
 
 A breeze through all the garden swept ; 
 
 Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark ; 
 
 
 
 A sudden hublmb shook the hall ; 
 
 And, rapt through many a rosy change, 
 
 
 
 And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 
 
 The twilight died into the dark. 
 
 
 
 

 
 "A hundred summers ! can it be? 
 
 And whither goest thou, tell me where ! " 
 " 0, seek my father's court with me, 
 
 For there are greater wonders there." 
 And o'er the hills, and far away 
 
 Beyond their utuiost purple rim, 
 Beyond the night, across the day, 
 
 Through all the world she followed him. 
 Alfkeu Tennyson. 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve, — ah, bitter chill it was ! 
 
 The owl, for aU his feathers, was a-cold ; 
 
 Tlie hare limped trembling through the frozen 
 
 grass. 
 And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
 Numb were the beadsman's fing(U-s while he told 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
 Like pious incense from a censer old. 
 Seemed taking flight for heaven without a dcatli, 
 Past the sweet vu'giu's picture, while his prayer 
 
 he saith. 
 
 II. 
 His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. 
 And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. 
 Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees ; 
 The sculptured dead, on each side seemed to freeze, 
 Imjirisoned in black, purgatorial rails; 
 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
 He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
 To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 
 
 Northward he turiieth through a little door. 
 And scarce tliree steps, ere music's golden tongue 
 Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; 
 But no, — already had his death-bell rung ; 
 The joys of all his life were said and sung ; 
 His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve ; 
 Another way he went, and soon among 
 Kough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
 And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to 
 gi'ieve. 
 
 IV. 
 
 That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft : 
 And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide ; 
 The level chambers, ready with their pride. 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; 
 The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
 Stared, where upon theu' heads the cornice rests. 
 With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise 
 on their breasts. 
 
 At length burst in the argent revelry, 
 
 With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
 
 Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
 
 The brain, new-stulfed, in youth, with triumphs 
 
 gay 
 Of old romance. These let us wish away ; 
 And turn, sole-tlioughted, to one lady there, 
 Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
 On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care. 
 As she had heard old dames full many times de- 
 clare. 
 
 VI. 
 
 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
 Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
 And soft adorings from their loves receive 
 Upon the honeyed middle of the night, 
 If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
 As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
 And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
 Nor look behhul, nor sideways, but require 
 Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they 
 desire. 
 
 VII. 
 Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; 
 The music, yearning like a god in pain. 
 She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine, 
 Fi.xed on the floor, saw many a sweeping tram 
 Pass by, — she lieeded not at all ; in vain 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
 And back retired, not cooled by high disdain. 
 But she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; 
 She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the 
 year. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 She danced along with vague, regardless eyes. 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short ; 
 The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
 Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn. 
 Hoodwinked with fairy fancy ; all amort 
 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 
 And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire, 
 She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, 
 Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. 
 Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and im- 
 plores 
 All saints to give him sight of Madeline ; 
 But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
 That he might gaze and worship aU unseen ; 
 Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss, — in sooth 
 such things have been.
 
 4 
 
 126 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 He ventures in ; let no buzzed whisper tell ; 
 All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
 "VVUl storm his heart, love's feverous citadel ; 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes. 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
 Whose very dogs woiild execrations howl 
 Against his lineage ; not one breast affords 
 Him any mercy, iu that mansion foul. 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 
 
 Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
 Shuffling along with ivory-headed waud. 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. 
 Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
 The sound of merriment and chorus bland. 
 He startled her ; but soon she knew his face, 
 And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand. 
 Saying, ' ' Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this 
 
 place ; 
 They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthu'sty 
 
 race ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 "Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarfish Hilde- 
 
 brand ; 
 He had a fever late, and in the fit 
 He cursed thee and thine, both house and land ; 
 Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
 More tame for liis gray hairs — alas me ! flit ! 
 Flit like a ghost away ! " — "Ah, gossip dear. 
 We 're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit, 
 And teU me how" — "Good saints, not here, not 
 
 here ; 
 Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy 
 
 bier." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He followed through a lowly archfed way, 
 Brusliing the cobwebs with his lofty plume : 
 And as she muttered " Well-a — weU-a-day ! " 
 He founil him in a little moonlight room, 
 Pale, latticed, chUl, and sUent as a tomb. 
 " Now tell me where is Madeline," said he; 
 "0, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
 Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
 Wlien they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 
 
 " St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve, — 
 Yet men wiU murder upon holy days ; 
 Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 
 And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays, 
 To venture so. It fills me with amaze 
 To see thee, Porph>TO ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
 God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays 
 This very night ; good angels her deceive ! 
 But let me laugh awhile, I ve mickle time to 
 gi'ieve." 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
 
 While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
 
 Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
 
 Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book. 
 
 As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
 
 But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
 
 His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose. 
 
 Flushing his brow, and in his painfed heart 
 
 Made purple riot ; then doth lie propose 
 
 A stratagem that makes the beldame start : 
 
 " A cruel man and impious thou art ! 
 
 Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream 
 
 Alone with her good angels, far apart 
 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem 
 
 Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst 
 
 " I will not liarm her, by all saints I swear ! " 
 Quoth Porphyro ; "0, may 1 ne'er find gi-ace 
 When my weak voice shall wliisper its last prayer, 
 If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
 Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
 Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
 Or 1 will, even in a moment's space. 
 Awake, with hoiTid shout, my foemen's ears. 
 And beard them, though they be more fanged 
 than wolves and bears." 
 
 " Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 
 A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 
 AVhose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; 
 Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
 AVere never missed." Thus plaining, doth slie 
 
 bring 
 A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
 So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 
 
 AVhich was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 
 That he might see her beauty unespied. 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless bride ; 
 WTiile legioned fairies paced the coverlet. 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
 Never on such a night have lovers met. 
 Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous 
 debt.
 
 LOVE. 
 
 127 
 
 " It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame ; 
 " All cates aud dainties shall be stored there 
 Quiekly on tlus feast-night ; by the tambour 
 
 frame 
 Her own lute thou wilt see ; no time to spare, 
 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
 On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 Wait here, uiy child, with patience kneel in 
 
 prayer 
 The while. Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, 
 Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 
 
 So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly passed : 
 The (lame returned, and whispered in his ear 
 To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
 The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed and 
 
 chaste ; 
 Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues in her 
 
 brain. 
 
 Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, 
 Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
 When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
 Eose, like a missioned spirit, unaware ; 
 Witli silver taper's light, and pious care. 
 She turned, and down the aged gossip led 
 To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
 Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ! 
 She comes, she comes again, like a ring-dove 
 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
 A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood 
 queens and kings. 
 
 of 
 
 frayed and fled. 
 
 Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
 Its little smoke, in palliil moonshine, died ; 
 She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide ; 
 No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
 As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her 
 dell. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A casement high and triple-arched there was. 
 
 All garlanded with carven imageries 
 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. 
 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device. 
 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; 
 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
 
 Full on this casement shone tho wintry moon. 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint ; 
 She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, 
 Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint : 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from moi tal 
 taint. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done. 
 Of all its wi-eathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ; 
 Half hidden, like a mermaid hi sea-weed, 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is 
 fled. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
 Her soothed limlis, and soul fatigued away ; 
 Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
 Blissfully havencd both from joy and pain ; 
 Clasped like a missal where swart Payidms pray; 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
 As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 
 
 Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
 Porphyi-o gazed upon her empty dress. 
 Ami listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
 Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
 Andbreathedhimself; then from tho closet crept, 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
 And over tho hushed carpet, silent, stept. 
 And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo! — how ' 
 fast she slept. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Then by the bedsiile, where the faded moon 
 Maile a dun, silver twilight, soft ho set 
 A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
 for some drowsy Morphean amvilet ! 
 The boisterous, nndnight, festive clarion. 
 The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 128 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 
 
 Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 
 
 The hall-door shuts again, andall the noise is gone. 
 
 "Ah, Porphyi'o! " said she, " but even now 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
 
 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
 
 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear ; 
 
 
 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered ; 
 
 How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and 
 
 
 
 While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
 
 drear ! 
 
 
 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; 
 
 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
 
 
 
 AVitli jellies soother than the creamy curd. 
 
 Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 
 
 
 
 And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
 
 0, leave me not in this eternal woe. 
 
 
 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
 
 For if thoudiest, my love, I knownotwhere to go." 
 
 
 
 From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one. 
 
 
 
 
 From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
 At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
 
 
 
 These delicates he heaped with glowing hand 
 
 Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
 
 
 
 On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 
 Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
 
 
 
 Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand 
 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
 
 
 
 In the retired quiet of the night, 
 
 Blendeth its odor mth the violet, — 
 
 
 
 Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
 
 Solution sweet ; meantime the fi-ost-wind blows 
 
 
 
 " And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
 
 Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
 
 
 
 Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; 
 
 Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath 
 
 
 
 Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. 
 
 set. 
 
 
 
 Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache. " 
 
 'XXXVII. 
 'T is dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet ; 
 
 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 ' ' This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
 
 
 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
 
 'T is dark ; the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
 
 
 
 Sauk in her pillow. Shaded was 'her dream 
 
 " No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
 
 
 
 By the dusk curtains ; — 't was a midnight charm 
 
 PorphjTO will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
 
 
 
 Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
 
 Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 
 
 
 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam 
 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
 
 
 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; 
 
 Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — • 
 
 
 
 It seemed he never, never could redeem 
 
 A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, unpruned wing. " 
 
 
 
 From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
 
 
 
 
 So mused awhile, entoiled in woofM fantasies. 
 
 XXXTIII. 
 
 ' ' My Madeline ! sweet di-eamer ! lovely bride ! 
 
 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
 
 
 
 Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil 
 
 
 
 Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be. 
 
 dyed ? 
 
 
 
 He played an ancient ditty, long since mute. 
 
 Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
 
 
 
 In Provence called "La belle dame sans mercy"; 
 
 After so many hours of toil and quest. 
 
 
 
 Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
 
 A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
 
 
 
 Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan ; 
 
 Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest. 
 
 
 
 He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
 
 Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think'st well 
 
 
 
 Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone ; 
 
 To trust, fail' Madeline, to no rude infidel 
 
 
 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 stone. 
 
 
 
 
 xxxrv. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 
 
 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld. 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! 
 
 
 
 Now vide awake, the vision of her sleep. 
 
 Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
 
 
 
 Then '•..-• a piKuful change, that nigh expelled 
 
 'Wliere lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
 
 
 
 The blisseo i : 'i, ■ li'eam so pure and deep ; 
 
 With a huge empty fl;igon by his side ; 
 
 
 
 At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 
 
 
 
 And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; 
 
 
 
 While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep. 
 
 By one, .and one, the bolts full easy slide ; 
 
 
 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. 
 
 The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; 
 
 
 
 Fearingtomoveorspeakjshelookedsodreamingly. 
 
 The key tunia.and the door upon its hingesgroans. 
 
 
 
 

 
 And they are gone ! ay, ages long ago 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 That night tlie baron di'eamt of many a woe, 
 And all his warrior-guests, with shaile and Ibrin 
 (If witch, and demon, and large uollin-worm, 
 Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
 Died jjalsy-twitched, with meagre face deform; 
 The beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
 For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 
 
 JOHN Keats. 
 
 THE LITTLE MTLLINER. 
 
 My girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair, 
 
 A soft hand, like a. lady's, small and fair, 
 
 A sweet face [louting in a white straw bonnet, 
 
 A tiny foot, and little boot upon it ; 
 
 And all her finely to charm beholders 
 
 Is the gray shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, 
 
 The plain stult'-gown and collar white as snow, 
 
 And sweet red petticoat that peeps below. 
 
 But gladly in the busy town goes she. 
 
 Summer and winter, fearing nobodie ; 
 
 She pats the pavement with her fairj' feet. 
 
 With fe.arless eyes she charms the crowded street ; 
 
 And in her pocket lie, in lieu of gold, 
 
 A lucky .sixpence and a thimble old. 
 
 We lodged in tlie same house a year ago 
 She on the topmost floor, I just below, — 
 She, a poor nuUiner, content and wise, 
 I, a poor city clerk, with hopes to rise ; 
 And, long ere we were friends, I learnt to love 
 The little aiigel on the floor above. 
 For, every mom, ere fi-om my bed I stirred. 
 Her chandjcr door would open, and I heard, — 
 And listened, blushing, to her coming down. 
 And palpitated with her rustling gown. 
 And tingled while her foot went ilowuward slow, 
 (-■rcaked like a cricket, passed, and died below ; 
 Then, peeping from the window, {jleased and sly, 
 I saw the pretty shining face go by. 
 Healthy and rosy, fresh from slumber sweet, — 
 A .sunbeam in the quiet morning street. 
 
 And every night, when in from work she tript. 
 Red to the ears, I from my chamber slipt. 
 That I might hear upon the narrow stair 
 Her low "Good evening," as she pa,ssed me there. 
 And when her door was closed, below sat I, 
 And hearkened stilly as she stiiTed on high, — 
 Watclicd the red firelight shadows in the room, 
 Fashioned her face before me in the gloom. 
 And heard her close the window, lock the door, 
 Moving about more lightlj' than before, 
 
 And thought, " She is undressing now! " and 0, 
 
 My cheeks were hot, my heart was in a glow ! 
 
 And I made pictures of her, — standing bright 
 
 Before the looking-glass in beil-gown white, 
 
 Unbinding in a knot her yellow hair, 
 
 Then kneeling timidly to .say a prayer ; 
 
 Till, last, the floor creaked softly overhead, 
 
 'Neath bare feet tripping to the little bed, — 
 
 And all was hushed. Yet still I hearkened on. 
 
 Till the faint sounds about the streets were gone ; 
 
 And saw her slumbering with lips apart. 
 
 One little hand upon her little heart, 
 
 The other pillowing a face that smiled 
 
 In slumber like the slumber of a child. 
 
 The bright hair shining round the small white ear. 
 
 The soft breath stealing visible and cle.ar. 
 
 And mi.xing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam 
 
 Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream. 
 
 How free she wandered in the wicked place. 
 Protected only by her gentle face ! 
 She saw bad things, — how could .she choose but 
 
 see? — 
 She heard of wantonness and misery ; 
 The city closed around her night and day, 
 But lightly, happily, she went her way. 
 Nothing of evil that she saw or heard 
 Could touch a heart so innocently stirred 
 By simple hopesthat cheered it through the .storm. 
 And little flutterings that kept it warm. 
 No power had she to reason out her needs. 
 To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds ; 
 But she was good and pure annd the strife. 
 By virtue of the joy that was her life. 
 Here, where a thousand .spirits daily fall, 
 Wliere heart and soul and senses tuni to gall. 
 She floated, pure as innocent could be. 
 Like a .small sea-bird on a stormy sea. 
 Which breasts the billows, wafted to and fro. 
 Fearless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow, 
 Wlule the clouds gather, and the waters roar. 
 And mighty ships are broken on the shore. 
 
 'T was when the spring was coming, when the 
 snow 
 Had melted, and fresh \vinds began to blow. 
 And girls were selling violets in the torni. 
 That suddenly a fever stmi'k me down. 
 Theworldwaschanged, the sense oflife was pained, 
 And nothing but a shadow-land remained ;- 
 Death came in a dark mist and looked at me, 
 I felt his breathing, though I could not see. 
 But heavily I lay and did not stir. 
 And had strange images and dreams of her. 
 Then came a vacancy : with feeble breath, 
 I .shivered under the cold touch of Death, 
 And swooned among .strange visions of the dead, 
 When a voice calhid from heaven, and he fled ;
 
 130 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 And suddenly I wakened, as it seemed, 
 
 From a deep sleep wherein I had not dreamed. 
 
 And it was night, and I could see and hear, 
 And I was in the room I held so dear. 
 And unaware, stretched out upon my bed, 
 I hearkened for a footstep overhead. 
 
 But all was hushed. 1 looked around the room, 
 And slowly made out shapes amid the gloom. 
 The wall was reddened liy a rosy light, 
 A faint lire flickered, and I knew 't was night, 
 Because below there was a sound of feet 
 Dying away along the ijuiet street, — 
 AVhen, turning my pale face and sighing low, 
 I saw a vision in the quiet glow : 
 A little figure, in a cotton gown. 
 Looking upon the fire and stooping down, 
 Her side to me, her face illumed, she eyed 
 Two chestnuts burning slowly, side by side, — 
 Her lips apart, her clear eyes strained to see, 
 Her little hands clasped tight around her knee. 
 The firelight gleaming on her golden head. 
 And tinting her wliite neck to rosy red, 
 Her features bright, and beautiful, and pure. 
 With childish fear and yearning half demure. 
 sweet, sweet dream ! I thought, and strained 
 
 mine eyes, 
 Fearmg to break the spell with words and sighs. 
 
 Softly she stooped, her dear face sweetly fair, 
 And sweeter since a light like love was there. 
 Brightening, watching, more and more elate. 
 As the nuts glowed together in the gi'ate, 
 Crackling with little jets of fiery light, 
 Tm side by side they turned to a.shes white, — 
 Then up she leapt, her face cast oft' its fear 
 For rajiture that itself was radiance clear, 
 And would have clapped her little hands in glee. 
 But, pausing, bit her lips and peeped at me. 
 And met the face that yearned on her so whitely, 
 And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brightly. 
 While, raised on elbow, as she turned to flee, 
 " Polly f " I cried, — and grew as red as she ! 
 
 It was no dream ! for soon my thoughts were 
 clear, 
 And she could tell me all, and I could hear • 
 How in my sickness friendless I had lain ; 
 How the hard people pitied not my pain ; 
 How, in despite of what bad people said. 
 She left her labors, stopped beside my bed, 
 . And nursed me, thinking sadly 1 would die ; 
 How, in the end, the danger passed me by ; 
 How she had sought to steal away before 
 The sickness passed, and I was strong once more. 
 By fits she told the story in mine ear. 
 And troubled all the telling with a fear 
 
 Lest by my cold man's heart she should be chid, 
 
 Lest 1 should think her bold in what she did ; 
 
 But, lying on my bed, I dared to say. 
 
 How I had watched and loved her many a day; 
 
 How dear she was to me, and dearer stiU 
 
 For that strange kindness done whOe I was ill ; 
 
 And how 1 could but think that Heaven above 
 
 Had done it all to bind our lives in love. 
 
 And Polly cried, turning her face away, 
 
 And seemed afraid, and answered ' ' yea " nor 
 
 "nay"; 
 Then stealing close, with little pants and sighs. 
 Looked on my pale thin face and earnest eyes, 
 And seemed in act to fling her arms about 
 My neck, then, blushing, paused, in fluttering 
 
 doubt. 
 Last, sprang upon my heart, sighing and sob- 
 bing, — 
 That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing ! 
 
 Ah ! ne'er shall I forget until I die 
 How happily the dreamy days went by, 
 While 1 grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats, 
 Heark'ning the pleasant murmur from the streets, 
 And Polly by me like a sunny beam. 
 And life all changed, and love a drowsy dream ! 
 'T was happiness enough to lie and see 
 The little golden head bent droopingly 
 Over its sewing, while the still time flew. 
 And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew ! 
 And then, when I was nearly well and strong. 
 And she went back to labor all day long. 
 How sweet to lie alone with half-shut eyes, 
 And hear the distant murmurs and the cries, 
 And think how pure she was from pain and sin, — 
 And how the summer days were coming in ! 
 Tlien, as the simset faded from the room. 
 To listen for her footstep in the gloom. 
 To pant as it came stealing up the stair, 
 To feel my whole life brighten unaware 
 When the soft tap came to the door, and when 
 The door was opened for her smile again ! 
 Best, the long evenings ! — when, till late at night, 
 She sat beside me in the quiet light. 
 And happy tilings were said and kisses won, 
 And serious gladness found its vent in fun. 
 Sometimes I would draw close her shining head. 
 And pour her bright hair out upon the bed, 
 And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold, 
 While "Here," I cried, " I count my wealth in 
 gold ! " 
 
 Once, like a little sinner for transgression, 
 She blushed upon my breast, and made confession : 
 How, when that night 1 woke and looked around, 
 I found her liusy with a charm profound, — 
 One chestnut was herself, my girl confessed, 
 The other was the person she loved best,
 
 LOVE. 
 
 131 
 
 And if they burned together side by side, 
 He loved lier, and she woukl become his bride ; 
 And burn indeed they did, to lier delight, — 
 And had the pretty charm not proven right ! 
 Tlius much, aud more, with timorous joy, she 
 
 said, 
 Wiile her confessor, too, grew rosy red, — 
 And close together pressed two blissfid faces. 
 As I absolved the sinner, with embraces. 
 
 And here is winter come again, winds blow. 
 The liouses and the streets are white with snow ; 
 And in the long and pleasant eventide, 
 ■\Vliy, wliat is Polly making at my side ? 
 What but a silk gown, beautiful and grand. 
 Wo bought together lately iu the Strand ! 
 What but a dress to go to church in soon, 
 And wear right queenly 'neath a honey-moon ! 
 And who shall match her with her new straw 
 
 bonnet. 
 Her tiny foot and little boot upon it, 
 Embroidered petticoat and silk go\yn new, 
 And shawl she wears as few fine ladies do ? 
 And she will keep, to charm away all ill. 
 The lucky sixpence in her pocket still ; 
 And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather, 
 To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together ! 
 
 Robert Buchanan. 
 
 I stand maztd in the moonlight, 
 
 O'er its happy face to dream ; 
 I am parched in the moonlight 
 
 By that cool and brimming stream ; 
 I am dying by the river 
 
 Of her life that runs from me, 
 And it sparkles by me ever, 
 
 With its cool felicity. 
 In my ears the siren river 
 
 Sings, and smiles up in my face ; 
 
 But forever, aud forever, 
 
 Kuns from my embrace. 
 
 Gerald Massev. 
 
 THE PASSIONATE PILGREVI'S SONG. 
 
 FROM "THE BRIDEGROOM OF BEAUTY." 
 
 Like a tree beside the river 
 
 Of her life that runs from me. 
 Do I lean me, murmuring ever 
 
 In my love's idolatry. 
 Lo, I reach out hands of blessing ; 
 
 Lo, I stretch out hands of prayer ; 
 And, with passionate caressing, 
 
 Pour my life upon the air, 
 In my ears the siren river 
 
 Sings, and smiles up in my face ; 
 But forever, and forevei; 
 
 Runs from my embrace. 
 
 Spring by spring, the branches duly 
 
 Clothe themselves in tender flower ; 
 And for her sweet sake as truly 
 
 All their fruit and fragrance shower. 
 But the stream, mth careless laughter, 
 
 Rivns in men-y beauty by. 
 And it leaves me yearning after. 
 
 Lorn to droop and lone to die. 
 In my ears the siren river 
 
 Sings, and smiles up in my face ; 
 But forever, aud forever. 
 
 Runs from my embrace. 
 
 ONCE. 
 
 The June roses covered the hedges with blushes. 
 And wooed with their perfume the murmuring 
 bee ; 
 
 And wliite were the cups of the odorous lilies, 
 When fate stole the joy of e.xistenee from me. 
 
 With hands closely clasped, and \vith lips pressed 
 together. 
 One instant we stood, while the heart in my 
 breast 
 Leapt eager and \vild, as the callow birds flutter 
 When the wing of the mother sweeps over the 
 nest. 
 
 One star is the type of the glory of heaven ; 
 
 A shell from the beach whispers still of the 
 sea ; 
 To a rose all the sweetness of summer is given ; 
 
 A kiss tells what living and loving might be. 
 
 MARY LOUISE HITTER. 
 
 THE MILLEE'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 It is the miller's daughter. 
 
 And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
 
 That I would be the jewel 
 That trembles at her ear ; 
 
 For, hid in ringlets day and night, 
 
 I 'd touch her neck so warm and white. 
 
 And I would he the girdle 
 
 About her dainty, daiuty waist. 
 
 And her heart would beat against me 
 In sorrow and in rest ; 
 
 And I should know if it beat right, 
 
 I 'd clasp it round so close and tight. 
 
 And I would he the necklace. 
 And all day long to fall aud rise 
 
 Upon her balmy bosom 
 
 With her laughter or her sighs ; 
 
 And I would lie so light, so light, 
 
 I scarce should be unclasped at night. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 J.
 
 132 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 BLEST AS THE IMMORTAX GODS. 
 
 Blest as the immortal gods is he, 
 Tlie youth who fondly sits by thee, 
 And hears and sees thee all the while 
 Softly speak, and sweetly smile. 
 
 'T was this deprived my soul of rest, 
 And raised such tumults in my breast : 
 For while I gazed, in transport tost. 
 My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 
 
 My bosom glowed; the subtle flame 
 Ran ijuick through all my vital frame : 
 O'er my dim eyus a darkness hung ; 
 My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 
 
 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled ; 
 My lilood witli gentle horrors tlirilled: 
 My fct'lJe pulse forgot to play — 
 I faiuted, sunk, and died away. 
 
 From the Greek of SAPPHO, 
 by AMBROSE PHILLIPS. 
 
 THOSE EYES. 
 
 Ah ! do not wanton with those eyes, 
 
 Lest 1 be sick with seeing ; 
 Nor cast them down, but let them rise, 
 
 T^est shame destroy their being. 
 
 Ah ! be not angry with those fires. 
 For then their threats will kill me ; 
 
 Nor look too kind on my desires. 
 For then my hopes will spill me. 
 
 Ah ! do not steep them in thy tears, 
 
 For so will sorrow slay me ; 
 Nor .spread them as distraught with fears, — 
 
 Mine own enough betra)' me. 
 
 Ben jonson. 
 
 JANE. 
 
 She came along the little lane, 
 
 Where all the bushes dripped with rain, 
 
 And robins sung and sung again. 
 
 As if with sudden, sheer delight. 
 For such a world so fresh and bright. 
 To swing and sing in day and night. 
 
 liiit, coming down the little lane. 
 She did not heed the robin's strain. 
 Nor feel the sunshine after rain. 
 
 A little face with two brown eyes, 
 A little form of slender size, 
 A little head not very wise ; 
 
 A little heart to match the head, 
 A foolish little heart, that bled 
 At every foolish word was said. 
 
 So, coming down the little lane, — 
 I see her now, my little Jane, — 
 Her foolish heart with foolish pain 
 
 Was aching, aching in her breast. 
 And all her pretty golden crest 
 Was drooping as if sore opprest. 
 
 And something, too, of anger's trace 
 Was on the flushed and frowning face, 
 And in the footsteps' quickened pace. 
 
 So swift she stept, so low she leant, 
 Her pretty head on thought intent. 
 She scarcely saw the way she went, 
 
 Nor saw the long, slim shadow fall 
 
 Across the little, low stone-wall. 
 
 As some one rose up slim and tall, — 
 
 Rose up, and came to meet her there; 
 A youth, with something in liis air 
 That, at a glance, revealed his share 
 
 In all this fooU.sh, girlish pain. 
 This grief and anger and disdain. 
 That rent the heart of little Jane. 
 
 With hastier steps than hers he came, 
 And in a moment called her name ; 
 And in a moment, red as flame 
 
 She blushed, and blushed, and in her eye» 
 A sudden, soft, and shy surprise 
 Did suddenly and softly rise. 
 
 "What, you?" she cried : "I thought — they 
 
 said — " 
 Then stopped, and blushed a deeper red. 
 And lifted up her drooping head. 
 
 Shook back her lovely falling hair. 
 And arched her neck, and strove to wear 
 A nonchalant and scornful air. 
 
 A moment thus they held apart, 
 With lovers' love and lovers' art ; 
 Then swift lie caught her to his heart. 
 
 AVhat pleasure then was born of pain, 
 What sunshine after cloud and rain, 
 As they forgave and kissed again ! 
 
 'T was April then ; he talked of May, 
 And planned therein a wedding-day: 
 She blushed, but scarcely said him nay. 
 
 ^H^
 
 
 1 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 LOVE. 133 
 
 
 
 What pleasure now is mixed with paiii, 
 
 Such songs — and you shall hear them if you 
 
 
 
 As, looking down the little lane, 
 
 ^vill — 
 
 
 
 A graybeard grown, I see again, 
 
 That Bacchus' self would give his hide to hear. 
 If you '11 but love me every day, I '11 bring 
 
 
 
 Through twenty Aprils' rain and mist, 
 
 The coyest flowers, such as you never saw. 
 
 
 
 The little sweetheart that 1 kissed. 
 
 To deck you with. I know their secret nooks, — 
 
 
 
 The little bride my folly missed ! 
 
 They cannot hide themselves away from Pan. 
 
 
 
 NORA PERRY. 
 
 And you shall have rare garlands ; and your bed 
 Of fragrant mosses shall be sprinkled o'er 
 With violets like your eyes, — just for a kiss. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAN IN LOVE. 
 
 Love me, and you shall do whate'er you like. 
 And shall be tended wheresoe'er you go. 
 
 
 
 Nay ! if you will not sit upon my knee, 
 
 And not a beast shall hurt you, — not a toad 
 
 
 
 Lie on that hank, and listen while I play 
 
 But at your bidding give his jewel up. 
 
 
 
 A sylvan song upon these reedy pipes. 
 
 The speckled shining snakes shall never sting. 
 
 
 
 In the full nioonrise as I lay last night 
 
 But twist like bracelets round your rosy arms, 
 
 
 
 Under the alders on Pcueus' banks, 
 
 And keep your bosom cool in the hot noon. 
 
 
 
 Dabbling my hoofs in the cool stream that welled 
 
 You shall have berries ripe of every kind. 
 
 
 
 Wine-dark with gleamy ripples round their roots, 
 
 And luscious peaches, and wild nectarines, 
 
 
 
 I made the song the while I shaped the pipes. 
 
 And sun-flecked apricots, and honeyed dates. 
 
 
 
 'T is all of you and love, as you shall hear. 
 
 And wine from bee-stung grapes, drunk with the 
 
 
 
 The drooping lilies, as I sang it, heaved 
 
 sun 
 
 
 
 Upon their broad green leaves, and underneath. 
 
 (Such wine as Bacchus never tasted yet). 
 
 
 
 Swift silvery fishes, poised on quivering fins. 
 
 And not a poisonous plant shall have the power 
 
 
 
 HuDg motionless to listen ; in the grass 
 
 To tetter your white flesh, if you '11 love Pan. 
 
 
 
 The crickets ceased to shrill their tiny bells ; 
 
 And then I '11 tell you tales that no one knows ; 
 
 
 
 And even the nightingale, that all the eve. 
 
 Of what the pines talk in the summer nights. 
 
 
 
 Hid in the grove's deep green, had throbbed and 
 
 When far above you hear them murmuring. 
 
 
 
 thrilled. 
 
 As they sway whispering to the lifting breeze ; 
 
 
 
 Paused in his strain of love to list to mine. 
 
 And what the storm shrieks to the struggling oaks 
 
 
 
 Bacchus is handsome, but such songs as this 
 
 As it flies tlirough them hurrying to the sea 
 
 
 
 He cannot shape, and better loves the clash 
 
 From mountain crags and cliH's. Or, when 
 
 
 
 Of brazen cymbals than my reedy pipes. 
 
 you 're sad. 
 
 
 
 Fair as he is without, he 's coarse within, — 
 
 I '11 tell you tales that solenni cyjiresses 
 
 
 
 Gross in his nature, loving noise and wine. 
 
 Have whispered to me. There 's not anything 
 
 
 
 And, tipsy, half the time goes reeling round 
 
 Hid in the woods and dales and dark ravines. 
 
 
 
 Leaning on old Silenus' shoidders fat. 
 
 Shadowed in dripping caves, or by the shore. 
 
 
 
 But I have scores of songs that no one knows. 
 
 Sli])ping from sight, but I can tell to you. 
 
 
 
 Not even Apollo, no, nor Mercury, — 
 
 Plump, dull-eared Bacchus, thinking of himself. 
 
 
 
 Theirstringsoan never sing like my sweet pipes, — 
 
 Never can catch a syllable of this ; 
 
 
 
 Some, that will make fierce tigers rub their fur 
 
 But with my shaggy ear against the grass 
 
 
 
 Against the oak trunks for delight, or stretch 
 
 I hear the secrets hidden underground. 
 
 
 
 Their plump sides for my pillow on the sward. 
 
 And kno\y how in the inner forge of Earth, 
 
 
 
 Some, that will make the satyrs' clattering hoofs 
 
 The pulse-like hammers of creation beat. 
 
 
 
 Leap when they hear, and from their noonday 
 
 Old Pan is ugly, rough, and rude to see, 
 
 
 
 dreams 
 
 But no one knows such secrets as old Pan. 
 
 
 
 Start up to stamp a wild and frolic dance 
 
 WILLIAM W. STORY. 
 
 
 
 In the green shadows. Ay ! and better songs. 
 Made for the delicate nice ears of nymphs. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Which while I sing my pipes shall imitate 
 
 
 
 
 The droning bass of honey-seeking bees. 
 
 COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 
 
 
 
 The tinkling tenor of clear pebbly streams. 
 
 FROM -IRISH MELODIES." 
 
 
 
 The breezy alto of the alder's sighs, 
 
 
 
 
 And all the airy sounds that lull the grove 
 
 Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer. 
 
 
 
 When noon falls fast asleep among the hiUs. 
 
 Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home 
 
 
 
 Nor only these, — for I can pipe to you 
 
 is still here ; 
 
 
 
 Songs that will make the slippery vipers pause. 
 
 Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast. 
 
 
 
 And stay the stags to gaze with their great eyes ; 
 
 And a heart ami a hand all thy own to the last. 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 

 
 134 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 Oh ! what was love made for, if 't is not the same 
 Through joy and through torment, through glory 
 
 and shame ? 
 1 know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart, 
 I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. 
 
 Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of 
 
 bliss. 
 And tliy Angel I '11 be, mid the horrors of this, 
 Tlirough the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to 
 
 pursue. 
 And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there 
 
 too! 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 BEDOUIN LOVE-SONG. 
 
 From the Desert I come to thee. 
 
 On a stallion shod with fire ; 
 And the winds are left behind 
 
 In the speed of my desii'e. 
 Under thy window I stand, 
 
 And the midnight hears my cry : 
 I love thee, I love but thee ! 
 With a love that shall not die 
 Till the s%in grmcs cold, 
 And tlw stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book tin/old ! 
 
 Look from thy window, and see 
 
 My passion and my pain ! 
 I lie on the sands below. 
 
 And I faint in thy disdain. 
 Let the night-mnds touch thy brow 
 With the heat of my Imrning sigh, 
 And melt thee to hear the vow 
 Of a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old. 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold I 
 
 My steps are nightly driven. 
 By the fever in my breast. 
 To hear from thy lattice breathed 
 
 The word that shall give me rest. 
 Open the door of thy heart. 
 
 And open thy chamber door. 
 And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
 The love that shall fade no more 
 Till the sun grows cold. 
 And the stars are old. 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold I 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 WHEN YOITE BEAUTY APPEARS. 
 
 " WiiKN your beauty appears, 
 
 In its graces and airs. 
 All bright as an angel new dropt from the skies. 
 
 At tlistance I gaze, and am awed by my fears. 
 So strangely you dazzle my eyes ! 
 
 " But when without art 
 Your kind thoughts you impart. 
 When your love runs in blushes through every 
 vein. 
 When it darts from your eyes, when it pants 
 at your heart. 
 Then I know that you 're woman again." 
 
 ' ' There 's a passion and pride 
 
 In our sex," she replied ; 
 "And thus (might I gratify both) I would do, — 
 
 StQl an angel appear to each lover beside, 
 But still be a woman for you." 
 
 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 KISS ME SOFTLY. 
 
 Da mih^l'asia.—C^1Vl.l-\^s. 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low, — 
 Malice has ever a vigilant ear : 
 What if Malice were lurking near ? 
 Kiss me, dear ! 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low, — 
 Envy too has a watchful ear : 
 What if Envy should chance to hear ? 
 Kiss me, dear ! 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low : 
 Trust me, darling, the time is near 
 When lovers may love with never a fear, — 
 Kiss me, dear ! 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
 John Godfrey Saxe. 
 
 THE FIRST KISS. 
 
 Hovi' delicious is the winning 
 Of a kiss at love's beginning, 
 Wlien two mutual hearts are sighing 
 For the knot there 's no untying. 
 
 Yet remember, midst your wooing, 
 Love has bliss, but love has ruing ; 
 Other smiles may make you (ic^kle, 
 Tears for other charms may trickle.
 
 4 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 135 
 
 Love he comes, and Love ho tarries, 
 Just as fate or livncy eairies, — 
 Longest stays when sorest chidden. 
 Laughs and flies when pressed and bidden. 
 
 Bind the sea to slumber stilly. 
 Bind its odor to the lily, 
 Bind the aspen ne'er to ijuiver, — 
 Then bind Love to last forever ! 
 
 Love 's a fire that needs renewal 
 
 Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 
 
 Love's wmg moults when caged and captured, - 
 
 Only free he soars enraptured. 
 
 Can you keep the bee from ranging. 
 Or the ring-dove's neck from changing ? 
 
 XT O O 
 
 No ! nor fettered Love from dying 
 In the knot there 's no untying. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 SLY THOUGHTS. 
 
 " I SAW him kiss your cheek ! " — " 'T is true. " 
 "0 Modesty !" — "'T was strictly kept : 
 
 He thought me asleep ; at least, I knew 
 He thought 1 thought he thought I slept." 
 
 COVENTRY PaTMORE. 
 
 2. 
 
 THE KISS. 
 
 Among thy fancies tell me this : 
 What is the thing we call a kiss ?- 
 I shall resolve ye what it is : 
 
 It is a creature born and bred 
 Between the lips all cherry red, 
 By love and warm desires fed ; 
 Ohor. And makes more soft the bridal bed. 
 
 It is an active flame, that flies 
 First to the babies of the eyes, 
 And charms them there with lullabies ; 
 Chor. And stills the bride too when she cries. 
 
 Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear. 
 It frisks and flies, — now here, now there ; 
 'T is now far off, and then 't is near ; 
 Owr. And here, and there, and everywhere. 
 
 Clun: 
 
 Has it a speaking virtue ? — 2. Yes. 
 How speaks it, say ?— 2. Do you but this : 
 Part your joined lips, — then speaks your 
 
 kiss; 
 And this love's sweetest language ia. 
 
 1. Has it a body ? — 2. Ay, and wings. 
 With a thousand rare encolorings ; 
 And as it flies it gently sings ; 
 Clwr. Love houey yields, but never stings. 
 
 Robert Her kick. 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 So you call that a kiss, when, in token of parting. 
 Your lips touched my own with such tremu- 
 lous fear ; 
 When haste took for wages the most of the 
 honey 
 And whispered that danger and peril were near. 
 
 So you call that a kiss ! Let me paint for a 
 minute. 
 The home of my fancy, my castle of rest. 
 Where — all the bright dreams of my life stored 
 within it — 
 I linger for hours with the friends I love liest. 
 
 The lamps shed a light like the soft glow of 
 moonbeams. 
 The air breathes warm odors of spice and of 
 balm. 
 Not a soimd breaks the hush, and the spirit, in 
 rapture. 
 Folds round it the mantle of heavenly calm. 
 
 You are there in the stillness and some one 
 beside you. 
 We 'U say, for the di'eam's sake, the one you 
 love best. 
 She is kneeling beside you, your arms are around 
 her. 
 Her head on your shoulder is pillowed in rest. 
 
 You smooth the soft tresses away from her fore- 
 head, 
 Her breath, sweet as summer, floats over your 
 cheek. 
 You tighten your clasp as you murmur, ' ' My 
 darling, 
 I am weary and faint for the kisses I seek." 
 
 She turns her face toward you, her large eyes up- 
 lifted. 
 Dilated, and dark, with a passionate fire ; 
 And her rich, dewy lips, in their innocent fond- 
 ness. 
 Fill up in full measure your cup of desire. 
 
 moment ecstatic — renewed and repeated ! 
 
 Alas ! weary world, with your burden of care. 
 Your raptures are coldness, your kisses are fail- 
 ures, 
 When matched with the ones of my castle 
 in air. 
 
 MARY Louise Ritter.
 
 136 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 + 
 
 THE PLAIDIE. 
 
 Upon ane stormy Sunday, 
 
 Coming adoon the lane, 
 Were a score of bonnie lassies — 
 
 And the sweetest I maintain 
 Was Caddie, 
 That I took unneath my plaidie. 
 
 To shield her from the rain. 
 
 She said that the daisies blushed 
 For the kiss that I had ta'en ; 
 
 I wad na hae thought the lassie 
 Wad sae of a kiss complain : 
 "Now, laddie! 
 
 I winna stay under your plaidie. 
 If I gang hame in the raiu ! " 
 
 But, on an after Sunday, 
 
 When cloud there was not ane. 
 This selfsame winsome lassie 
 
 (We chanced to meet in the lane) 
 Said, " Laddie, 
 Why dinna ye wear your plaidie ? 
 Wha kens but it may rain ? " 
 
 Charles Sibley. 
 
 KISSING 'S NO SIN. 
 
 Some say that kissing 's a sin ; 
 
 But I think it 's nane ava, 
 For kissing has wonn'd in this warld 
 
 Since ever that there was twa. 
 
 0, if it wasna lawfu' 
 
 Lawyei-s wadna allow it ; 
 If it wasna holy. 
 
 Ministers wadna do it. 
 
 If it wasna modest. 
 
 Maidens wadna tak' it ; 
 If it wasna plenty, 
 
 Puir folk wadna get it. 
 
 ANON^'MOUS. 
 
 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river. 
 
 And the rivers with the ocean ; 
 The winds of heaven mix forever. 
 
 With a sweet emotion ; 
 Nothing in the world is single ; 
 
 All things by a law divine 
 In one another's being mingle : — 
 
 Why not I with thine ? 
 
 See! the mountains kiss high heaven. 
 And the waves clasp one another ; 
 
 No sister flower would be forgiven 
 
 If it disdained its brother ; 
 And the sunlight clasps the earth. 
 
 And the moonbeams kiss the sea ; — 
 What are all these kissings worth, 
 
 If thou kiss not me ? 
 
 Percy bvsshe Shelley. 
 
 COMIN' THROXTGH THE RYE. 
 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Comin' through the rye. 
 Gin a body kiss a body, 
 
 Need a body cry ? 
 Every lassie has her laddie, — 
 
 Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
 Yet a' the lads they smile at me 
 
 When comin' through the rye. 
 Amang the train thrre is a swain 
 
 I dearly lo'e myscV; 
 But whaur his hame, or wluil his name, 
 I dinna care to tell. 
 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Comin" frae the town. 
 
 Gin a body gi'eet a body. 
 
 Need a body frown ? 
 Eveiy lassie has her laddie, — 
 
 Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
 Yet a' the lads they smile at me 
 When comin' through the lye. 
 Amang the train there is a siaain 
 
 I dearly loe myseV ; 
 But wliaur his hame, or what his name, 
 I dinna, care to tell. 
 
 Adapted by BURNS. 
 
 KITTY OF COLERAINE. 
 
 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 
 With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, 
 
 When she saw me she stimibled, the pitcher it 
 tumbled, 
 And all the sweet huttei-milk watered the plain. 
 
 " 0, what shall I do now ? — 't was looking at you 
 now ! 
 
 Sure, sme, such a pitcher I 'U ne'er meet again! 
 'T was the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary! 
 
 You're sent as a plaguetothe girlsof Coleraine." 
 
 I sat down beside her, and gently did elude her, 
 That such a misfortune should give her such pain. 
 
 A kiss then I gave her ; and ere I did leave her, 
 She vowed fur such plea.sure she 'il break it again. 
 
 A
 
 'T was hay -making season — I can't tell the rea- 
 son — 
 Misfortunes mil never come single, 't is plain; 
 For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster 
 The devil a pitcher was whole iu Coleraine. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE MOTH'S KISS, FIRST. 
 
 FROM " IN A GONDOLA." 
 
 The Moth's kiss, first ! 
 
 Kiss me as if you made believe 
 
 You were not sure, tliis eve, 
 
 How my face, your flower, had pursed 
 
 Its petals up ; so, here and there 
 
 You brush it, till I grow aware 
 
 Who wants me, and wide open burst. 
 
 The Bee's kiss, now ! 
 Kiss me as if you entered gay 
 My heart at some noonday, 
 A bud that dared not disallow 
 The claim, so all is rendered up. 
 And passively its shattered cup 
 Over your head to sleep I bow. 
 
 Robert Browning, 
 
 THE LUTE-PLAYER. 
 
 FROM •■ HASSAN BEN KHALED." 
 
 " 'Music ! ' they shouted, echoing my demand, 
 And answered witli a beckon of his hand 
 The gracious host, whereat a maiden, fair 
 As the last star that leaves the morning air. 
 Came down the leafy paths. Her veil revealed 
 The beauty of her face, which, half concealed 
 Behind its thin Ijlue folds, showed like the moon 
 Behind a cloud that will forsake it soon. 
 Her hair was braided darkness, but the glance 
 Of lightning eyes shot from her countenance. 
 And showed her neck, that like an ivory tower 
 Rose o'er the twin domes of her marble breast. 
 Were aU the beauty of this age compressed 
 Into one form, .she would transcend its power. 
 Her step was lighter than tlie yoimg gazelle's 
 And as she walked, her anklet's guMen bells 
 ^ Tinkled with pleasure, but were quickly mute 
 ' With jealousy, as from a case she drew 
 With snowy Iiands the pieces of her lute, 
 And took her seat before me. As it grew 
 To perfect shape, her lovely arms she bent 
 Around the neck of the sweet instrument. 
 Till fiom her soft caresses it awoke 
 To consciousnes.s, and thus its rapture spoke: 
 ' I was a tree within an Indian vale, 
 When first I heard the love-sick nightingale 
 Declare his passion ; even,- leaf was stirred 
 
 With the melodious sorrow of the bird. 
 And when he ceased, the song remained with me. 
 Men came anon, and felled tl>e harmless tree. 
 But from the memory of the songs I heard. 
 The spoiler .saved me from the destiny 
 Whereby my brethren perished. O'er the sea 
 I came, and from its loud, tumultuous moan 
 I caught a soft and solemn undertone ; 
 And when I grew beneath the maker's hand 
 To what thou seest, he sang (the while he planned) 
 The mirthful measures of a careless heart. 
 And of my soul his songs became a part. 
 Now they have laid my head upon a breast 
 Wliiter than marble, I am whollj' blest. 
 The fair hands smite me, and my stiings com- 
 plain 
 With such melodious cries, they smite again, 
 Until, with passion and with sorrow swayed, 
 My torment moves the bosom of the maid. 
 Who heare it speak her own. I am the voice 
 Whereby the lovers languish or rejoice ; 
 And they caress me, knowing that my strain 
 Alone can speak the language of their pain. ' 
 
 "Here ceased the fingers of the maid to stray 
 Over the strings ; the sweet song died away 
 In mellow, drowsy mui-murs, and the lute 
 Leaned on her fairest bosom, and was mute. 
 Better than wine that music was to me ; 
 Not the lute only felt her hands, but she 
 Played on my heart-strings, till the sounds be- 
 came 
 Incarnate in the pulses of my frame. 
 Speech left my tongue, and in my tears alone 
 Found utterance. With stretched arms I im- 
 plored 
 Continuance, whereat her fingers poured 
 A tenderer music, answering the tone 
 Her parted lips released, the while her throat 
 Throbbed, as a heavenly bird were fluttering 
 
 tliere, 
 And gave her voice the wonder of his note. 
 'His brow,' she sang, 'is white beneath his 
 
 hair ; 
 The fertile beard is soft upon his chin. 
 Shading the mouth that nestles warm within. 
 As a rose nestles in its leaves ; I see 
 His eyes, but cannot tell what hue they be. 
 For the sharp eyelash, like a saber, speaks 
 The martial law of Passion ; in his cheeks 
 The quick blood mounts, and tlieu as quickly 
 
 goes. 
 Leaving a tint like marble when a ro.se 
 Is held beside it ; — bid him veil his eyes, 
 Lest all my soul should unto mine arise. 
 And he behold it ! ' As she sang, her glance 
 Dwelt on my face ; her beauty, like a lance. 
 Transfixed my heart. I melted into sighs. 
 
 +
 
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 _^>_ 
 
 1 
 
 ^ 
 
 ' 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 138 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 
 
 Slain by the arrows of her beauteous eyes. 
 
 Only of this isle of glory. 
 
 
 
 ' Why is her bosom made,' I eried, ' a snare ? 
 
 Reached mth many doubts and fears, 
 
 
 
 Why does a single ringlet of her hair 
 
 Over love's fraU bridge of rainbows 
 
 
 
 Hold my heart captive ? ' ' Would you know ? ' 
 
 Fading in a mist of tears. 
 
 
 
 she said ; 
 
 
 
 
 ' It is that you are mad mth love, and chains 
 
 Then she nestles still more closely 
 
 
 
 AVere made for madmen. ' Then she raised her 
 
 To the heart so kind and dear. 
 
 
 
 head 
 
 Whispering, " Love me, love me, darling. 
 
 
 
 With answering love, that led to other strains, 
 
 All my hope and rest is here, 
 
 
 
 Until the lute, which shared with her the smart, 
 
 And without thee, earth is nothing 
 
 
 
 Koeked as in storm upon her beating heart. 
 
 But a desert cold and drear. 
 
 
 
 Thus to its wires she made impassioned cries : 
 
 ' 1 swear it by the brightness of liis eyes ; 
 
 I swear it by the darkness of his hair ; 
 
 By the warm bloom his limbs and bosom wear ; 
 
 By the fresh pearls his rosy lips enclose ; 
 
 By the calm majesty of his repose ; 
 
 By smiles I coveted, and frowns I feared, 
 
 ' ' 0, that every night my slumbers 
 
 
 
 Might be so supremely blest. 
 
 
 
 Bounded by tjiy dear embraces, 
 
 
 
 Kissed from passion into rest ; 
 I would ask no better heaven 
 
 Sheltered thus and thus caressed." 
 
 
 
 And by the shooting myrtles of his heard, — 
 
 Fan them gently, odorous south wind. 
 And begone on pinions lleet ! 
 
 Nothing in thy nightly journey 
 Shall thy wandering vision greet. 
 
 
 
 I swear it, that from him the morning drew 
 
 
 
 Its freshness, and the moon her silvery hue. 
 
 
 
 The sun his brightness, and the stars their fire, 
 
 
 
 And musk and camphor all their odorous breath : 
 
 Half as perfect in fulfiUment, 
 
 
 
 And if he answer not my love's desire. 
 
 Satisfying and complete. 
 
 
 
 Day will be night to me, and Life be Death ! ' " 
 
 Mary Louise Ritter. 
 
 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR- 
 
 
 
 
 SUB SLLENTIO. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 
 
 Htj.sh ! the night is calm and quiet 
 
 Here, Charmiau, take my bracelets ; 
 
 
 
 And tlie crescent moon hangs low ; 
 
 They bar with a purple stain 
 
 
 
 Silence deep and wide hath power. 
 
 My arms : turn over my pillows, — 
 
 
 
 And the south wind wanders slow — 
 
 They are hot where I have lain : 
 Open the lattice wider, 
 A gauze o'er my bosom throw, 
 
 
 
 Through a casement where the curtain 
 
 
 
 Faintly rustles to and fro. 
 
 
 
 Like a spirit softly sighing 
 Flits it all the chamber round. 
 
 And let me inhale the odors 
 That over the garden blow. 
 
 
 
 Where the dim lamp fading, dying. 
 Just dispels the gloom profound ; 
 
 Hangs above two happy dreamers. 
 By love's perfect promise crowned. 
 
 I dreamed I was with my -Vntony 
 
 And in his arms I lay ; 
 Ah me ! the vision has vanished, — 
 
 The music has died away. 
 
 
 
 Even tlirough the gates of slumber 
 
 The flame and the perfume have perished — 
 
 
 
 To the shadowy land of rest 
 
 As this spiced aj-omatic pastille 
 
 
 
 He still clasps his long-sought treasure 
 
 That wound the blue smoke of its odor. 
 
 
 
 Closely, closely to his breast. 
 
 Is now but an ashy hill. 
 
 
 
 With the ardor of a passion 
 
 
 
 
 Long denied and long repressed. 
 
 Scatter upon me rose-leaves, 
 
 
 
 
 They cool me after my sleep, 
 
 
 
 With his lips stiU warm with kisses 
 
 And with sandal odors fan me 
 
 
 
 Close and clinging as his own, 
 
 Till into my veins they creep ; 
 
 
 
 Sighing still in happy dreaming 
 
 Reach down the lute, and play me 
 
 
 
 For tlie joy his heart hath known — 
 
 A melancholy tune. 
 
 
 
 Sweetly, peacefull}', he slumbers. 
 
 To rhyme with the dream that has vanished. 
 
 
 
 In the arms about him thrown. 
 
 And the slumbering afternoon. 
 
 
 
 And she gazes at him, thinking — 
 
 There, drowsing in golden sunlight, 
 
 
 
 Not of all her dreary years — 
 
 Loiters the slow, smooth Nile, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 Through slemier papj-ri, that cover 
 
 The wary crocodile. 
 The lotus lolls on the water, 
 
 Ami opens its lieart of gold, 
 And over its broad leaf pavement 
 
 Never a ripple is rolled. 
 
 The twilight breeze is too lazy 
 
 Those featliery palms to wave, 
 And yon little cloud is as motionless 
 
 As a stone above a grave. 
 
 Ah me ! this lifeless nature 
 
 Oppresses my lieart and brain ! 
 O, for a storm and thunder,' 
 
 For lightning and wild fierce rain ! 
 Fling down that lute — I hate it ! 
 
 Take rather his buckler and sword. 
 And crasli them and clash them together 
 
 Till this sleeping world is stirred. 
 
 Hark ! to my Indian beauty — ■ 
 
 My cockatoo, creamy white. 
 With roses under his feathers — 
 
 That flashes across the light. 
 Look ! listen ! as backward and forward 
 
 To his hoop of gold he clings, 
 How he trembles, with crest uplifted. 
 
 And shrieks as he madly swings ! 
 
 O cockatoo, shriek for Antony ! 
 
 Cry, "Come, my love, come home !" 
 Shriek, " Antony ! Antony ! Antony ! " 
 
 Tin he hears you even in Rome. 
 
 There — leave me, and take from my chamber 
 
 That stupid little gazelle, 
 "With its bright black eyes so meaningless, 
 
 And its silly tinkling bell ! 
 Take him — my nerves he vexes — 
 
 The thing without blood or brain. 
 Or, by the body of Isis, 
 
 I '11 snap his neck in twain ! 
 
 Leave me to gaze at the landscape 
 
 MistUy stretching away. 
 Where the afternoon's opaline tremors 
 
 O'er tlie mountains quivering play 
 Till the fiercer splendor of sunset 
 
 Pours from the west its fire. 
 And melted, as in a crucible. 
 
 Their earthly forms expire ; 
 
 And the bald blear skull of the desert 
 With glowing mountains is crowned. 
 
 That, burning like molten jewels. 
 Circle its temples round. 
 
 I will lie and dream of the past time, 
 
 Mons of thought away, 
 And through the jungle of memory 
 
 Loosen my fancy to play ; 
 Wlien, a smooth and velvety tiger, 
 
 Ribbed with yellow and black, 
 Supple and cushion-footed, 
 
 1 wandered where never the track 
 Of a human creature Iiad rustled 
 
 The silence of mighty woods. 
 And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom, 
 I knew but the law of my moods. 
 The elephant, trumiieting, started 
 
 AMien he heard my footstep near. 
 And the spotted giralfes fled wildly 
 
 In a yellow cloud of fear. 
 I sucked in the noontide splendor 
 
 Quivering along the glade. 
 Or yawning, panting, and dreaming, 
 
 Basked in the tamarisk shade. 
 Till I heard my wild mate roaring. 
 As the shadows of night came on 
 To brood in the trees' thick branches. 
 And the shadow of sleep was gone ; 
 Then I roused and roared in answer. 
 
 And unsheathed from my cushioned feet 
 My curving claws, and stretclied me 
 
 And wandered my mate to greet. 
 We toyed in the amber moonlight, 
 
 Upon the warm fiat sand. 
 And struck at each other our massive arms — 
 
 How powerful he was and grand ! 
 His yeUow eyes flashed fiercely 
 
 As he crouched and gazed at me. 
 And his quivering tail, like a serpent, 
 
 Twitched curving nervously ; 
 Then like a storm he seized me. 
 With a wild, triumphant cr}'. 
 And we met as two clouds in heaven 
 
 When the thunders before them fly ; 
 We grappled and struggled together. 
 
 For his love, like his rage, was rude ; 
 And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck 
 
 At times, in our play, drew blood. 
 Often another suitor — 
 
 For I was flexile and fair — 
 Fought for me in the moonlight. 
 
 While I lay crouching there. 
 Till his blood was drained by the desert ; 
 And, niflled with triumph and power. 
 He licked me and lay beside me 
 
 To breathe him a vast half-hour ; 
 Then down to the fountain we loitered. 
 
 Where the antelopes came to drink, — 
 Like a bolt we sprang upon them, 
 
 Kre they had time to shrink. 
 We drank their blood and crushed them. 
 And tore them limb from limb. 
 
 -..1^
 
 I 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 ^^^^r~\ 
 
 
 n 
 
 
 
 140 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 
 
 And the hungriest lion doubted 
 
 The nightingale's complaint. 
 
 
 
 Ere he disputed with him. 
 
 It dies upon her heart. 
 As I must die on' thine, 
 
 
 
 That was a life to live for ! 
 
 0, belovid as thou art ! 
 
 
 
 Not this weak human life, 
 
 
 
 
 With its frivolous, bloodless passions. 
 
 0, lift me from the grass ! 
 
 
 
 Its poor and petty strife ! 
 
 I die, I faint, I fad ! 
 
 
 
 Come to my arms, my hero. 
 
 Let thy love in kisses rain 
 
 
 
 The shadows of twilight grow. 
 
 On my lips and eyelids pale. 
 
 
 
 And the tiger's ancient fierceness 
 
 My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
 
 
 
 In my veins begins to flow. 
 
 My heart beats loud and fast : 
 
 
 
 Come not cringing to sue me ! 
 
 Oh ! press it close to thine again. 
 
 
 
 Take me with triumph and power, 
 
 Where it will break at last ! 
 
 
 
 As a warrior storms a fortress ! 
 
 PERCY BVSSHE SHELLEV. 
 
 
 
 1 wiU not slirink or cower. 
 
 
 
 
 Come as you came in the desert., 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Ere we were women and men. 
 
 
 
 
 When the tiger passions were in us, 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 
 
 And love as you loved me then ! 
 
 
 
 
 William W. story. 
 
 Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
 Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevei-moie, 
 Alone upon the threshold of my door 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 SMILE AND NEVER HEED ME. 
 
 Of individual life, I shall command 
 
 
 
 Though, when other maids stand by. 
 
 The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
 Serenely in the sunshine as before. 
 
 
 
 I may deign thee no reply. 
 
 Without the sen.se of that which I forebore, . . . 
 
 
 
 Turn not then away, and sigh, — 
 
 Smile, and never heed me ! 
 If our love, indeed, be such 
 
 Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
 Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
 With pulses that beat double. What I do 
 And what I dream include thee, .as the wine 
 
 
 
 As must thrill at every touch. 
 
 
 
 Why should others learn as much ? — 
 
 Must ta.ste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
 God for myself, he heai-s that name of thine. 
 
 
 
 Smile, and never heed me ! 
 
 
 
 Even if, with maiden pride. 
 
 And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 
 
 
 
 I should bid thee quit my side. 
 
 
 
 
 Take this lesson for thy guide, — 
 
 The face of all the world is changed, 1 think. 
 
 
 
 SmUe, and never heed me ! 
 
 Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul 
 
 
 
 But when stars and twilight meet. 
 
 Move still, still, beside me, as they .stole 
 
 
 
 And the dew is falling sweet. 
 
 Betwixt me and the dreadful outer luink 
 
 
 
 And thou hear'st my coming feet, — 
 
 Of obvious death, where 1, who thought to sink, 
 
 
 
 Then thou — then — niayst heed me ! 
 
 Was cauglit up into love, and taught the whole 
 
 
 
 CHARLES Swain. 
 
 Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole 
 
 God g-ave tor baptism 1 am fain to drink, 
 
 .\nd prai.se its sweetness, Sweet, with thoe anear. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE. 
 
 The names of country, heaven, are changed away 
 
 
 
 SKRHNADE. 
 
 For where thou art or shall be, there or here ; 
 
 
 
 I ARi.sE from dreams of thee 
 
 Anil this, this lute and .song, loved yesterday 
 
 
 
 In the first sweet sleep of night, 
 When the winds are breathing low. 
 
 (The singing angels know) are only dear. 
 
 
 
 Because thy name moves right in what tliey say. 
 
 
 
 And the stars are shining bright. 
 
 
 
 
 I arise from dreams of thee. 
 
 Indeed, this very love which is my boast. 
 
 
 
 And a spirit in my feet 
 
 And which, when rising up from breast to brow. 
 
 
 
 Has led me — who knows how ? — 
 
 Doth crown me with a ruby large enow 
 
 
 
 To thy chamber-window, sweet ! 
 
 To draw men's eyes and ]irove the inner cost. 
 This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost. 
 
 
 
 The wandering airs they faint 
 
 I should not love withal, unless that thou 
 
 
 
 On the dark, the silent .stream, — 
 
 Hadst set me .an example, sho\vn me how, 
 
 
 
 The rhampak odors f:»il 
 
 When first thine earnest eyes with mine were 
 
 
 
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
 
 crossed, 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 1 ^ 
 

 
 And love called love. And tluis, I cannot 
 
 speak 
 or love even, as a good thing of my own. 
 Thy soul hath suatched up mine all faint and 
 
 weak, 
 And placed it by thee on a golden throne, — 
 And that I love (0 soul, we must be meek !) 
 Is liy thee only, whom I love alone. 
 
 If thou must love me, lot it be for naught 
 Except for love's sake only. Do not say, 
 " I love her for her smile, her look, her way 
 Of speaking gently, — for a trick of tliought 
 That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
 A sense of pleasant ease on such a day." 
 For these things in themselves, Beloved, may 
 He changed, or change for thee, — and love so 
 
 wrought 
 May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 
 Thine o^vn dear pity's wiping my clieeks dry, — 
 A creature might forget to weep, who bore 
 Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 
 But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
 Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. 
 
 I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 
 
 To a man, Dearest, except this to thee. 
 
 Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully 
 
 I ring out to the full brown length and say, 
 
 " Take it." My day of youth went yesterday; 
 
 My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee. 
 
 Nor plant I It from rose or myrtle tree. 
 
 As girls do, any more. It only may 
 
 JS'ow shade on two pale cheeks the mark of 
 
 tears. 
 Taught di'ooping from the head that hangs aside 
 Through soitow's trick. I thought the funeral- 
 shears 
 Would take this first, but Love is justified, — 
 Take it thou, finding pure, from all those years. 
 The kiss my mother left here when she died. 
 
 TuE soid's Rialto hath its merchandise ; 
 I barter curl for curl upon that mart, 
 An<l from my poet's forehead to my heart 
 Receive this lock which outweighs argosies, — 
 As piu-ely black, as erst, to Pindar's eyes, 
 The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart 
 The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart. 
 Thy bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise. 
 Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black ! 
 Thu.s, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath, 
 I tie the shadow safe from gliding back. 
 And lay the gift where nothing hindereth. 
 Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack 
 No natural heat till mine grows cold in death. 
 
 Say over again, and yet once over again, 
 That thou dost love mc. Though the word re- 
 peated 
 Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost 
 
 treat it, 
 Remember, never to the hill or plain, 
 Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain, 
 Comes the fresh spring in all her green completed. 
 Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
 By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain 
 Cry : ' ' Speak once more — thou lovest ! " Who 
 
 can fear 
 Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll, — 
 Too many flowers, though each shall crown the 
 
 year ? 
 Say thou dost love mc, love me, love me, — toU 
 The silver iterance ! — only minding, dear. 
 To love me also in silence, with thy sold. 
 
 Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead, 
 Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine ? 
 And would the sun for thee more coldly shine, 
 Because of grave-damps falling round my head ? 
 I marveled, my Beloved, when I read 
 Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine — 
 But . . . so much to thee ? Can I pour thy wine 
 Wliile my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead 
 Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range. 
 Then, love me. Love ! look on me . . . breathe on 
 
 me ! 
 As brighter ladies do not count it strange. 
 For love, to give up acres and degree, 
 I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange 
 My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee ! 
 
 My letters ! all dead paper, mute and white ! — 
 And yet they seem alive and rpiivering 
 Against my tremulous hands which loose thestring 
 And let them drop down on my knee to-night. 
 This said, he wished to have me in his sight 
 Once, as a friend : this fixed a day in spring 
 To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing, 
 Yet I wept for it ! this . . . the paper 's light . . . 
 Said, Dear, I love thcr ,- and I sank and quailed 
 As if God's future thundered on my past. 
 Tills .said, / am thim;, — and so its ink has paled 
 With lying at my heart that bent too fast. 
 And this ... Love, thy wtn-ds have ill availed. 
 If what this said, I dared repeat at last ! 
 
 I THINK of thee ! my thoughts do twine and bud 
 
 Al.iout thee, iis wild vines about a tree. 
 
 Put out broad leaves, and soon there 's naught tospe 
 
 E.xcept the straggling green which hides the wood. 
 
 Yet, my palm-tree, be it understood 
 
 I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
 
 ■\Vho art dearer, better ! Eather instantly 
 Itcncw thy presence. As a strong ti'ee should, 
 Hustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare, 
 And let these bauds ofgi'eenery which insphere thee 
 Drop heavily down, burst, shattered, every- 
 where ! 
 Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee 
 And breathe ^rithin thy shadow a new air, 
 I do not think of thee, — I am too near thee. 
 
 Thk fii'st time that the sun rose on thine oath 
 To love me, I looked forward to the moon 
 To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon 
 And (juickly tied to make a lasting troth. 
 Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly 
 
 loathe ; 
 And, looking on myself, I seemed not one 
 For sucli man's love ! — more like an out of tune 
 Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth 
 To spoU his song with, and which, snatched in haste 
 Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note. 
 I did not wrong myself so, but I placed 
 A wrong on tliee. For perfect strains may float 
 N^eath master-hands, from instruments defaced, — 
 And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat. 
 
 First time he kissed me, he but only kissed 
 The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; 
 And, ever since, it gi-ew more clean and white. 
 Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "0 list !" 
 When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
 I could not wear here, plainer to my sight 
 Than that first kiss. The second passed in height 
 The fii-st,and sought the forehead, and half missed. 
 Half falling on the hair. O, beyond meed ! 
 That was the chrism of love, which love's own 
 
 crown, 
 With sanctifJTng sweetness, did precede. 
 Tlio third upon my lips was folded down 
 In perfect, purple state ; since when, indeed, 
 I have been proud, and said, ' ' My love, my own ! ' ' 
 
 How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways. 
 
 I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 
 
 My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
 
 For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
 
 I love thee to the level of every day's 
 
 Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
 
 I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 
 
 I love thee purely, as they tm-n from Praise. 
 
 I love thee with the passion put to use 
 
 In my old giiefs, and with my childhood's faith. 
 
 I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
 
 With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath. 
 
 Smiles, tear-s, of all my life ! — and, if God choose, 
 
 I shall but love thee better after death. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWmNG. 
 
 MY LITTLE SAINT. 
 
 I CARE not, though it be 
 
 By the preciser sort thought popery ; 
 
 We poets can a license show 
 
 For everything we do. 
 Hear, then, my little saint ! I '11 pray to thee. 
 
 If now thy happy mind. 
 
 Amidst its various joys, can leisure find 
 
 To attend to anything so low 
 
 As what I say or do. 
 Regard, and be — what thou wast ever — kind. 
 
 Let not the blest above 
 
 Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove : 
 
 Fain would 1 thy sweet image see. 
 
 And sit and talk with thee ; 
 Nor is it curiosity, but love. 
 
 Ah ! what delight 't would be, 
 Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with 
 me ! 
 
 How should I thy sweet commune prize, 
 
 And other joys despise ! 
 Come, then ! I ne'er was yet denied by thee. 
 
 I would not long detain 
 
 Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain ; 
 
 Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know 
 
 Of thy escape lielow : 
 Before thou 'rt missed, tliou shouldst return again. 
 
 Sure, heaven must needs thy love. 
 As well as other qualities, improve : 
 
 Come, then ! and recreate my sight 
 
 With rays of thy pure liglit ; 
 'T will cheer my eyes more than the lamps above. 
 
 But if Fate 's so severe 
 
 As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere 
 
 (And by thy absence I shall know 
 
 Whether thy state he so). 
 Live happy, and be mindful of me there. 
 
 John Norris. 
 
 WATTING FOR THE GRAPES. 
 
 That I love thee, charming maid, I a thousand 
 
 times have said. 
 
 And a thousand times more I have sworn it, 
 
 But 't is easy to be seen in the coldness of your 
 
 mien 
 
 That you doubt my affection — or scorn it. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 Not a single grain of sense is in the whole of 
 these pretenses 
 For rejecting your lover's petitions ;
 
 Had I windows in my bosom, 0, how gladly, I 'd 
 expose 'em ! 
 To undo your fantastic suspicious. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 You repeat I 've known you long, and you hint 
 I do you wrong. 
 In beginning so late to pursue ye ; 
 But 't is folly to look glum because people did 
 not come 
 Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 In a grapery one walks without looking at the 
 • stalks. 
 While the bunches are green that they "re bear- 
 ing : 
 All the pretty little leaves that are dangling at the 
 eaves 
 Scarce attract e'en a moment of staring. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 Hut when time has swelled the grapes to a richer 
 style of shapes, 
 And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes. 
 Then to cheer us and to gladden, to enchant us 
 and to madden. 
 Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 O, 't is then that mortals pant while tliey gaze on 
 Bacchus' plant, — 
 0, 't is then, — will my simile serve ye ? 
 Should a damsel fair repine, though neglected like 
 a vine ? 
 Both erelong shall turn heads topsy-turvy. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 William Maginn, 
 
 BLACK AND BLITE EYES. 
 
 The brilliant black eye 
 
 May in triumph let fly 
 All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; 
 
 But the soft eye of blue. 
 
 Though it scatter wounds too. 
 Is much better pleased when it heals 'em ! 
 Dear Fanny ! 
 
 The black eye may say, 
 
 " Come and worship my ray ; 
 By adoring, perhaps you may move me ! " 
 
 But the blue eye, half hid. 
 
 Says, from under its lid, 
 " I love, and am yours, if you love me ! " 
 Dear Fanny ! 
 
 Then tell me, why, 
 In that lovely blue eye, 
 Not a charm of its tint I discover ; 
 Or why should you wear 
 The only blue pair 
 That ever said "No " to a lover ? 
 Dear Fanny ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 
 
 Do you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow, 
 
 the dove, 
 The linnet, and thrush say, " I love, and I love !" 
 In the winter they 're silent, the wind is so strong ; 
 What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud 
 
 song. 
 But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm 
 
 weather, 
 And singing and loving, — all come back together. 
 But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
 The green fields below him, the lilue sky above. 
 That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, 
 " 1 love my Love, and my Love loves me." 
 
 Samuel Coleridge. 
 
 THE LOVE-KNOT. 
 
 TviNC. her bonnet imder her chin, 
 She tied her raven ringlets in. 
 But not alone in the silken snare 
 Did she catch her lovely floating hair. 
 For, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
 She tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 They were strolling together up the hill. 
 
 Where the wind came blowing merry and chill ; 
 
 And it blew the curls a frolicsome race, 
 
 All over the hnppy peach-colored face. 
 
 Till scolding and laughing, she tied them in, 
 
 Under her beautiful, dimpled chin. 
 
 And it blew a color, bright as the bloom 
 Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume. 
 All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl 
 That ever imprisoned a romping curl. 
 Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin, 
 Tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 Steeper and steeper grew the hill. 
 Madder, merrier, chiller still. 
 The western wind blew down, and played 
 The wildest tricks with the little maid, 
 As, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
 She tied a young man's heart witldn.
 
 western wind, do you think it was fair 
 
 To ])lay sucli tricks with licr floating hail' ? 
 
 To glatUy, gleefully, do your best 
 
 To blow her against the young man's breast, 
 
 Where he has gladly folded her in, 
 
 And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin ? 
 
 EUery Vane, you little thought. 
 An hour ago, when you besought 
 This country lass to walk with you. 
 After the sun had dried the dew, 
 What terrible danger you 'd be in, 
 As she tied her bonnet under her chin. 
 
 Nora Perkv. 
 
 A GOLDEN GIRL. 
 
 Lucy is a golden girl ; 
 
 But a man, a man, should woo her ! 
 They who seek her shrink aback. 
 
 When they should, like storms, pursue her. 
 
 All her smiles are hid in light ; 
 
 All her hair is lost in splendor ; 
 But she hath the eyes of Night 
 
 And a heart that 's over-tender. 
 
 Yet the foolish suitors fly 
 
 (Is 't excess of dread or duty ? ) 
 From the starlight of her eye. 
 
 Leaving to neglect her beauty ! 
 
 Men by fifty seasons taught 
 
 Leave her to a young beginner. 
 Who, without a second thought. 
 
 Whispers, woos, and straight must win her. 
 
 Lucy is a golden girl ! 
 
 Toast her ui a goblet brimming ! 
 May the man that wins her wear 
 
 On his heart the Eoae of Women ! 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 PHn.T.IDA AND CORYDON. 
 
 In the merry month of May, 
 In a mom by break of day. 
 With a troop of damsels playing 
 Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying, 
 When anon by a woodside, 
 Where as May was in his pride, 
 1 espied, all alone, 
 rhiUida and Corydon. 
 
 Much ado there was, God wot ! 
 He would love and she would not : 
 
 She said, " Never man was true " : 
 He says, " None was false to you." 
 He said he had loved her long : 
 She says, " Love should have no wrong." 
 
 Corydon he would kiss her then. 
 She says, "Maids must kiss no men 
 Till they do for good and all." 
 Then she made the shepherd call 
 All the heavens to witness, truth 
 Never loved a truer youth. 
 
 Thus, with many a pretty oath, 
 Yea and nay, and faith and troth, — 
 Such as silly shepherds use 
 When they will not love abuse, — 
 Love, which had been long deluded. 
 Was with kisses sweet concluded ; 
 And Phillida, with garlands gay. 
 Was made the lady of the May, 
 
 Nicholas Breton. 
 
 THE CHRONICLE. 
 
 Margarita first possessed. 
 If I remember well, my breast, 
 
 Margarita first of all ; 
 But when awhile the wanton maid 
 With my restless heart had played, 
 
 Martha took the flying ball. 
 
 Martha soon did it resign 
 To the beauteous Catharine. 
 
 Beauteous Catharine gave place 
 (Though loath and angry she to part 
 With the possession of my heart) 
 
 To Eliza's conquering face. 
 
 Eliza till this hour might reign. 
 Had she not evil counsels ta'en ; 
 
 Fundamental laws she broke, 
 And still new favorites she chose, 
 Till up in arms my passions rose. 
 
 And cast away her yoke. 
 
 Mary then, and gentle Anne, 
 Both to reign at once began ; 
 
 Alternately they swayed ; 
 And sometimes Mary was the fair. 
 And sometimes Anne the crown did wear. 
 
 And sometimes both I obeyed. 
 
 Another Mary then arose. 
 And did rigorous laws impose ; 
 
 A mighty tyrant she ! 
 Long, alas ! should I have been 
 Under that iron-sceptered queen, 
 
 Had not Ecbecca set me free. 
 
 r 
 
 r
 
 When fair Kebecea set me free, 
 
 'T was tlien a golden time with me : 
 
 Ikit soon tliose jileasures fled ; 
 Kor tlic gracious princess died 
 In her youth and beauty's pride, 
 
 And Judith reigned in her stead. 
 
 One montli, three days, and half an hour, 
 •Judith held the sovereign power : 
 
 Wondrous beautiful her face ! 
 I'ut so weak and small her wit, 
 Tliat she to govern was unfit, 
 
 And so Susanna took her place. 
 
 But when Isabella came, 
 -Vrnicd with a resistless flame, 
 
 And the artillery of her eye, 
 Whilst she proudly marched about. 
 Greater con(piests to find out, 
 
 She beat out Susan, by the by. 
 
 But in her jilace I then obeyed 
 Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy-maid, 
 
 To whom ensued a vacancy : 
 Thousand worse passions then possessed 
 The interregnum of my breast ; 
 
 Bless me from such an anarchy I 
 
 Gentle Henrietta then. 
 
 And a third JIary ne.xt began ; 
 
 Then Joan and Jane, and Andria ; 
 And then a pretty Thomasine, 
 And then another Catharine, 
 
 And then a long et ccelera. 
 
 But I will briefer with them be, 
 Since few of them were long with me. 
 
 An higher and a nobler strain 
 My present eraperess does claim, 
 Heleonora, first of the name ; 
 
 Whom God grant long to reign ! 
 
 abkahasi Cowlev. 
 
 GREEN OROW THE RASHES 01 
 
 GiiEEN grow the rashes O, 
 
 Green grow the rashes ; 
 The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 
 
 Are spent amant; the lasses 0. 
 
 There 's naught but care on ev'iy ban', 
 In every hour that passes ; 
 
 What signifies the life o' man. 
 An' 't were na for the lasses ? 
 
 The warly race may riches ehase, 
 An' riches still may fly them ; 
 
 An' though at last they catch them fast. 
 Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them 0. 
 
 Gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
 
 My arms about my dearie 0, 
 An' wai'ly cares an' warly men 
 
 May all gae tjjpsalteerie 0. 
 
 For you sac douce, ye sneer at this. 
 Ye 're naught but senseless asses ! 
 
 The wisest niau the warl' e'er saw 
 He dearly lo'ed the lasses O. 
 
 Auld Nature swears the lovely dears 
 Her noblest work she classes : 
 
 Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
 An' then she made the lasses O. 
 
 RooHRT Burns. 
 
 TO CHLOE. 
 
 AN APOLOCV FOR GOING INTO THH COUNTRY. 
 
 Chloe, we must not always be in heaven 
 Forever toying, ogling, kissing, billing ; 
 
 The joys for which 1 thousands would have given, 
 Will presently be scarcely worth a sliilling. 
 
 Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows. 
 And, sweetly swelling, beats the down of doves, 
 
 Thy cheek of health, a rival to- the rose ; 
 
 Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves ; 
 
 Yet, though thus beautiful beyond e.-ipression, ' 
 
 That beauty fadeth by too much possession. 
 
 Economy in love is peace to nature, 
 Much like economy in woridly matter ; 
 AVe should be prudent, ne%'er"live too fast ; 
 Profusion will not, cannot always last. 
 
 Lovers are really spendthrifts —'tis a shame — 
 Nothing their thoughtless, wild career can tame, 
 
 Till penury stares them in the face ; 
 And when they find an empty purse. 
 Grown calmer, wiser, how the fault they curse. 
 
 And, limping, look with such a sneaking gi-ace ! 
 Job's wai--horse fierce, his neck with thunder hung. 
 Sunk to an humble hack that carries dung. 
 
 Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose — 
 Smell twenty times— and then,my dear, thy nose 
 Will tell thee (not so much for scent athirst) 
 The twentieth drank less flavor than the first. 
 
 Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows ; 
 
 Y'et often should the little god retire — 
 Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows. 
 
 That keejis alive the sacred fire. 
 
 Dr. Wolcot (I'ktkk pfnuar.)
 
 146 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 Aif INUECTIUE AGAINST LOTJE. 
 
 All is not golde that shinetli bright in sliow, 
 Not euery lioure good, as faire to sight, 
 The deepest streames aboue doe calmest flow, 
 And strongest poisons oft the taste delight. 
 
 The i>leasaut baite doth hide the harnifuU 
 hooke, 
 
 And false deceit can lend a friendly looke. 
 
 Loue is the gold whose outward hew doth passe, 
 "Whose first beginnings goodly promise make 
 Of pleasures faire, and fresh as Sommer's grasse. 
 Which ]ieither sunne can parch nor wind can 
 shake ; 
 But when the mould should in the tire be 
 
 tride, 
 The gold is gone, the drosse doth still abide. 
 
 Beautie, the lioure so fresh, so faire, so gay, 
 So sweet to smell, so soft to touch and tast ; 
 As seemes it should endure by light for aye. 
 And ncuer be with any storaie defa.st ; 
 
 But when the baleful southerne wind doth 
 blow. 
 
 Gone is the glory which it erst did show. 
 
 Loue is the streame, whose waues so calmly flow 
 As might intice men's minds to wade therein ; 
 Loue is the poison mi.xt with sugar so. 
 As might by outward sweetnesse liking win. 
 
 But as the deepe o'erflowing stops thy breath 
 So poyson once receiu'd brings certaine death. 
 
 Loue is the baite, whose taste the fish deceiues. 
 And makes them swallow down the chokinghooke ; 
 Loue is the face whose faimesse iudgement reaues. 
 And makes thee trust a false and fained looke ; 
 But as the hooke the foolish fish doth kill, 
 So flatt'ring lookes the lover's life doth spUl. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 A DOUBT. 
 
 FROM THE THIRD BOOK OF LAWES'S AYRES. 
 
 Fain would I love, but that I fear 
 I quickly should the willow wear ; 
 Fain would 1 marry, but men say 
 IVhen love is tied he will away ; 
 Then tell nie, love, what shall I do 
 To cure these fears, whene'er I woo ? 
 
 The fair one she '3 a mark to all, 
 The brown each one doth lovely call, 
 The black 's a pearl in fair men's eyes, 
 The rest will stoop at any prize ; 
 Then tell me, love, what shall I do 
 To cure these fears, whene'er I woo ? 
 
 DR. K. HUGHES. 
 
 WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS. 
 
 Whoe'er she be. 
 
 That not impossible She 
 
 That shall command my heart and me ; 
 
 Where'er she lie. 
 
 Locked up from mortal eye 
 
 In sliady leaves of destiny : 
 
 Till that ripe birth 
 
 Of studied Fate stand forth, 
 
 And teach her fair steps to our earth ; 
 
 Till that divine 
 
 Idea take a shrine 
 
 Of crystal flesh, through which to shine : 
 
 — Meet you her, my Wishes, 
 
 Bespeak her to my blisses, 
 
 And be ye called, my absent kisses. 
 
 I wish her. beauty 
 
 That owes not all its duty 
 
 To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie : 
 
 Something more than 
 Tatleta or tissue can. 
 Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 
 
 A face that 's best 
 
 By its own beauty drest. 
 
 And can alone command the rest : 
 
 A face made up 
 
 Out of no other shop 
 
 Than what JS'ature's white hand sets ope. 
 
 Sydneian showers 
 
 Of sweet discourse, whose powers 
 
 Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. 
 
 AVhate'er delight 
 
 Can make day's forehead bright 
 
 Or give down to the wings of night. 
 
 Soft silken hours, 
 
 Open suns, shady bowers ; 
 
 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. 
 
 Days that need borrow 
 
 No part of their good morrow 
 
 From a fore-spent night of sorrow : 
 
 Days that, in spite 
 
 Of darkness, by the light 
 
 Of a clear mind, are day all night. 
 
 Life that dares send 
 A challenge to his end. 
 And, when it comes, say, 
 
 " Welcome, friend.' 
 
 -4-
 
 4 
 
 LOVK 
 
 147 
 
 I wish her store 
 
 Of worth iiuiy leave her poor 
 
 Of w'islies ; aud I wish — uo more. 
 
 — Now, if Tin\e kuows 
 
 That Her whose radiant brows 
 
 Weave them a garland of my vows ; 
 
 Her that dares be 
 
 What these lines wish to see : 
 
 I seek uo fm'ther, it is She. 
 
 "T is She, and here 
 
 Lo ! I unclothe and clear 
 
 My wishes' cloudy character. 
 
 Such worth as this is 
 Shall fix my flying wishes, 
 Aud determine them to kisses. 
 
 Let her full glory, 
 
 My fancies, fly before ye ; 
 
 Be ye my fictions, — but her story. 
 
 Richard Crashaw. 
 
 AMY'S CETJELTY. 
 
 Faii; Amy of the terraced house, 
 
 Assist me to discover 
 Why you who would not hurt a mouse 
 
 Can tortui-e so your lover. 
 
 You give your coffee to the cat, 
 
 You stroke the dog for coming. 
 And all your face gi-ows kinder at 
 
 The little brown bee's humming. 
 
 But when h£ haunts your door, — the town 
 Marks coming and marks going, — 
 
 You seem to have stitched your eyelids down 
 To that long piece of sewing ! 
 
 You never give a look, not you. 
 Nor drop him a "Good morning," 
 
 To keep his long day wamr and blue. 
 So fretted by your scorning. 
 
 She shook her head : " The mouse and bee 
 For crumb or flower will linger ; 
 
 The dog is happy at my knee. 
 The cat puiTs at my finger. 
 
 " But he — to Jmn, the least thing given 
 Means great things at a distance ; 
 
 He wants my world, my sun, my heaven, 
 Soul, body, whole existence. 
 
 " They say love gives as well as takes ; 
 
 But I 'm a simple maiden, — 
 Jly mother's first smile when she wakes 
 
 1 still have smiled aud prayed in. 
 
 " 1 only know my mother s love 
 Which gives all and asks nothing, 
 
 And this new loving sets the gi'oove 
 Too much the way of loathing. 
 
 " Unless he gives me all in change, 
 
 I forfeit all things by him : 
 The risk is terrible aud strange — 
 
 I tremble, doubt, — deny him. 
 
 " He 's sweetest friend, or hardest foe, 
 
 Best angel, or worst devil ; 
 I either hate or — love him so, 
 
 I can't be merely civil ! 
 
 " You trust a woman who puts forth 
 Her blossoms thick as summer's ? 
 
 You think she dreams what love is worth. 
 Who casts it to new-comers ? 
 
 " Such love 's a cowslip-ball to fling, 
 
 A moment's pretty pastime ; 
 I give — all me, if anything. 
 
 The first time and the last time. 
 
 " Dear neighbor of the trellised house, 
 
 A man should murmur never. 
 Though treated worse than dog and mouse 
 
 Till doted on forever ! " 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett browning. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair. 
 Die because a woman 's fair ? 
 Or make pale my cheeks with care 
 'Cause another's rosy are ? 
 Be she fairer than the day. 
 Or the flowery meads in May, 
 If she be not so to me. 
 What care I how fair she be ? 
 
 Shall my foolish heart be pined 
 'Cause I see a woman kind ? 
 Or a well-disposed nature 
 Joined with a lovely feature ? 
 Be she meeker, kinder than 
 The turtle-dove or pelican, 
 If she be not so to me. 
 What care I how kind she bo ? 
 
 -•HH*- 
 
 -•>^h»
 
 148 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 Shall a woman's virtues move 
 Me to perish for her love ? 
 Or, her well-tleservings known, 
 Make me quite forget mine own ? 
 Be she with that goodness blest 
 Which may merit name of best. 
 If she be not such to me, 
 What care I how good she be ? 
 
 'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
 Shall I play the fool and die ? 
 Those tliat bear a noble mind 
 Where they want of riches find, 
 Think what with them they would do 
 That without them dare to woo ; 
 And unless that mind I see, 
 What care I how great she be ? 
 
 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
 
 I will ne'er the more despair : 
 
 If she love me, this believe, — 
 
 I will die ere she shall grieve. 
 
 If she slight me when I woo, 
 
 I can scorn and let her go ; 
 For if she be not for me. 
 What care I for whom she be ? 
 
 GEORGE Wither. 
 
 ROSAIIND'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Love in my bosom, like a bee. 
 
 Doth suck his sweet ; 
 Now with his wings he plays with me. 
 
 Now with his feet ; 
 Within mine eyes he makes his nest. 
 His bed amidst my tender breast. 
 My kisses are his daily feast, 
 And yet he robs me of my rest : 
 
 Ah ! wanton, will ye ? 
 
 And if 1 sleep, then percheth he 
 
 AVith pretty flight, 
 And makes liis pillow of my knee, 
 
 The livelong night ; 
 Strike I my lute, he tunes the string ; 
 He music plays, if I but sing : 
 He lends me every lovely thing, 
 Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting : 
 
 Whist ! wanton, still you ! 
 
 Else I with roses every day 
 
 Will whip you hence, 
 And bind you, when you long to play, 
 
 For your offense ; 
 I 'U shut my eyes to keep you in, 
 I 'U make you fast it for your sin. 
 
 I '11 count j'our power not worth a pin ; 
 Alas ! what hereby shall I win 
 If he gainsay me ? 
 
 AVliat if I beat the wanton boy 
 
 With many a rod ? 
 He will repay me with annoy. 
 
 Because a god ; 
 Then sit tliou safely on my knee, 
 And let thy bower my bosom be ; 
 Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, 
 Cupid ! so thou pity me. 
 
 Spare not, but jday thee. 
 
 THOMAS LODGE- 
 
 CtrPID AND CAMPASPK. 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe played 
 
 At cards for kisses, — Cupid paid ; 
 
 He stakes his qniver, bow, and arrows. 
 
 His mother's doves, and team of spaiTows, — 
 
 Loses them too ; then down he throws 
 
 The coral of his lip, the rose 
 
 Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how) ; 
 
 With these the crystal on his brow, 
 
 And then the dimple of his chin, — 
 
 All these did my Campaspe win. 
 
 At last he set her both his eyes ; 
 
 She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 
 
 Love ! hath she done this to thee ? 
 
 What shall, alas ! become of me ? 
 
 JOHN LYLY. 
 
 DEATH AND CUPID. 
 
 An ! who but oft hath marveled why 
 
 The gods, who rule above. 
 Should e'er permit the young to die, 
 
 The old to fall in love ? 
 
 Ah ! why should hapless human kind 
 Be punished out of season ? — 
 
 Pray listen, and perhaps you 'U find 
 My rhyme may give the reason. 
 
 Death, strolling out one summer's day, 
 Met Cupid, with his sparrows ; 
 
 And, bantering in a merry way. 
 Proposed a change of arrows. 
 
 " Agreed ! " quoth Cupid. " I foresee 
 The queerest game of errors ; 
 
 For you the King of Hearts wUl he, 
 And I '11 be King of Terrors ! " 
 
 And so 't was done ; — alas, the day 
 That multiiilied their arts ! —
 
 Eiieli fi-om the otlicT bore away 
 A portion of his darts. 
 
 And that exphiiiis the reason why, 
 
 Despite the gods above, 
 The young are often doomed to die, 
 
 The oUl to foil iu love ! 
 
 John Godfrey Saxe. 
 
 LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 
 
 Let not woman e'er complain 
 
 Of ineonstancy in love ; 
 Let not woman e'er comiilain 
 
 Fickle man is apt to rove ; 
 Look abroad through Nature's range. 
 Nature's mighty law is change ; 
 Ladies, would it not be strange 
 
 Man should then a monster prove ? 
 
 Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 
 
 Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow ; 
 Sun and moon but set to rise. 
 
 Round and round the seasons go. 
 AA^hy then ask of silly man. 
 To oppose great Nature's plan ? 
 AVe '11 be constant while we can, 
 
 You can be no more, you know. 
 
 Robert burns. 
 
 LOVE-LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 An exquisite invention this, 
 
 AVorthy of Love's most honeyed kiss, — 
 
 This art of wTiting billet-doux 
 
 In buds, and odors, and bright hues ! 
 
 In saying all one feels and thinks 
 
 In clever daffodils and pinks ; 
 
 In puns of tulips ; and in i>lirases. 
 
 Charming for their tmth, of daisies ; 
 
 Uttering, as weU as silence may, 
 
 Tlie sweetest words the sweetest way. 
 
 How fit too for the lady's bosom ! 
 The place where billct-'Ooux repose 'em. 
 AVhat delight in some sweet spot 
 Combining love with (/rrnlai plot. 
 At once to cultivate one's flowers 
 And one's epistolary powers ! 
 Growing one's own choice words and foncies 
 In orange tubs, and beds of pansies : 
 One's sighs, and passionate declarations, 
 In odorous rhetoric of carnations ; 
 Seeing how far one's stocks will reach, 
 Taking due care one's flowers of speech 
 To guard from blight as well as bathos, 
 And watering every day one's pathos ! 
 A letter conies, just gathered. AYe 
 Dote on its tender brilliancy. 
 
 Inhale its delicate expressions 
 
 Of balm and pea, and its confessions 
 
 Maile with as sweet a maiden's blush 
 
 As ever morn bedewed on bush : 
 
 ('T is in reply to one of ours. 
 
 Made of the most convincing flowers.) 
 
 Then, after we have kissed its wit, 
 
 And heart, in water putting it 
 
 (To keep its remarks fresh), go round 
 
 Our little eloijuent plot of ground. 
 
 And with enchanted hands compose 
 
 Our answer, — all of lily and rose. 
 
 Of tuberose and of violet, 
 
 And little darlimj (mignonette) ; 
 
 Of loo/c at mc and call me to you 
 
 (Words that, while they greet, go through you) ; 
 
 Of thoughts, oi flames, fonjct-me-not, 
 
 Bridcwort, — in short, the whole blest lot 
 
 Of vouchers for a lifelong kiss, — 
 
 And literally, breathing bliss ! 
 
 Leigh hunt. 
 
 THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 Every wedding, says the proverb, 
 Makes another, soon or late ; 
 
 Never yet was any marriage 
 Entered in the book of fate. 
 
 But the names were also written 
 Of the patient pair that wait. 
 
 Blessings then upon the morning 
 AVhen my friend, with fondest look, 
 
 By the solemn rites' permission. 
 To himself his mistress took. 
 
 And the destinies recorded 
 Other two withm their book. 
 
 AA^hih? the priest fulfilled his office. 
 Still the ground the lovers eyed. 
 
 And the parents and tlie kinsnien 
 Aimed their glances at tlie bride ; 
 
 But the groomsmen eyed the virgins 
 AVho were waiting at her side. 
 
 Three there were that stood beside her ; 
 
 One was dark, and one was fair ; 
 But nor fair nor dark the other. 
 
 Save her Arab eyes and hair ; 
 Neither dark nor fair I call her, 
 
 A'et she was the fairest there. 
 
 AVhile her groomsman — shall I ovni it ? 
 
 A^es, to thee, and only thee — 
 Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden 
 
 AVho was fairest of the three. 
 Thus he thought: "How blest the bridal 
 
 AVhere the bride were such as she ! "
 
 150 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 Then I mused upon the adage, 
 Till my wisdom was jifvijlexed. 
 
 And I wondered, as the churchman 
 Dwelt upon his holy text, 
 
 Which of all who heard his lesson 
 Should require the service next. 
 
 Whose will be the next occasion 
 
 For the flowers, the feast, the wine ? 
 
 Thine, perchance, my dearest lady ; 
 Or, who knows? — it may be mine ; 
 
 AV'hat if 't were — forgiTe the fancy — 
 What if 't were — both mine and thine? 
 Thomas William Parsons 
 
 MY EYES ! HOW I LOVE YOTT. 
 
 My eyes ! how I Iotc you, 
 You sweet little dove you ! 
 There 's no one above you, 
 
 Host beautiful Kitty. 
 
 So glossy your hair is. 
 Like a sj'lph's or a fairy's ; 
 And your neck, I declare, is 
 Exquisitely pretty ! 
 
 Quite Grecian your nose is. 
 And your cheeks are like roses, 
 So delicious — Moses ! 
 
 Surpassingly sweet ! 
 
 Not the beauty of tulips, 
 Nor the taste of mint-juleps. 
 Can compare with your two lips. 
 Most beautiful Kate ! 
 
 Not the black eyes of Juno, 
 Nor Miner^'a's of blue, no. 
 Nor Venus' s, you know, 
 
 Can equal your own ! 
 
 0, how my heart prances, 
 And frolics and dances. 
 When its radiant glances 
 
 Upon me are thrown ! 
 
 And now, dearest Kitty, 
 It 's not very pretty, 
 Indeed it 's a pity. 
 
 To keep me in sorrow ! 
 
 So, if you '11 but chime in. 
 
 We '11 have done with our rhjTiiin', 
 
 Swap Cupid for Hjancu, 
 
 And be married to-morrow. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE WHISTLE. 
 
 "You have heard," said a youth to his sweet- 
 heart, who stood. 
 While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's 
 decline, — 
 " You have heard of the Dauish boy's whistle of 
 wood ? 
 I wish that that Danish boy's whistle were mine. " 
 
 " And what would you do with it ? — tell me," 
 she said, 
 Wliile an arch smile played over her beautiful 
 face. 
 " I would blow it," he answered ; " and then my 
 fair maid 
 Would fly to my side, and would here take her 
 place. " 
 
 "Is that all 3-ou wish it for ? — Tliat may be youre 
 Without any magic," the fair maiden cried : 
 
 "A favor so slight one's good-nature secures" ; 
 And she playfully seated herself by his side. 
 
 "I would blow it again," said the youth, " and 
 
 the charm 
 
 Would work so, that not even Modesty's check 
 
 Would be able to keep from my neck your fine a rm ' ' : 
 
 She smUed, — and she laid her fine arm round 
 
 his neck. 
 
 "Yet once more would I blow, and the music 
 divine 
 Would bring me the third time an exq\dsite 
 bliss : 
 You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one 
 of mine. 
 And your lips, stealing past it, would give me 
 a kiss." 
 
 The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee, — 
 "Wliat a fool of yourself with your whistle 
 you 'd make ! 
 For only consider, how silly 't would be. 
 
 To sit there and whistle for — wdrat you might 
 take." 
 
 KOBRRT Sl DRY. 
 
 WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN. 
 
 When the Sultan Shah-Zaman 
 
 Goes to the city Ispahan, 
 
 Even before he gets so far 
 
 As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, 
 
 At the last of the thirty palace-gates; 
 
 The Pet of the Harem, Hose in Bloom, 
 
 Orders a fe.ist in his favorite room, —
 
 Glittering scjiiares of colored ice, 
 
 Sweetened witli syrop, tinctured with spice ; 
 
 Creams, and cordials, and sugiired dates ; 
 
 Sj-rian apples, Othmanee ipiinces, 
 
 Limes, and citrons, and apricots ; 
 
 And wines that are known to Eastern princes. 
 
 And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots 
 
 Of spiced meats, and costliest fish. 
 
 And all that the curious palate could wish, 
 
 Pass in and out of the cedarn doors. 
 
 Scattered over mosaic floors 
 Are anemones, myrtles, and violets ; 
 And a musical fountain throws its jets 
 Of a hundred colors into the air. 
 The dark Sultana loosens her hair. 
 And stains with the henna plant the tips 
 Of her pearly nails, and bites her lips 
 Till they bloom again ; but alas, that rose 
 Not for the Sultan buds and blows ! 
 Knlfor tlic Sultan Shah-Zumaii 
 IVhcn he goes to the city Ispahan. 
 
 Then at a wave of her sunny hand, 
 Tlie dancing girls of Samarcand 
 Float in like mists from Fairy-land ! 
 And to the low voluptuous swoons 
 Of music, rise and fall the moons 
 Of their full !,)rown bosoms. Orient blood 
 Knns in tlieir veins, shines in their eyes: 
 And there in this Eastern paradise. 
 Filled with the fumes of sandal-wood. 
 And Khoten musk, and aloes, and m)Trh, 
 Sits Hose ill Bloom on a silk divan. 
 Sipping the wines of Astrakhan ; 
 And her Arab lover sits with her. 
 
 That 's when the Sultan Slmh-Zaman 
 
 Goes to the dlrj Ispahan. 
 
 Now, when I .see an e.xtra light 
 Flaming, flickering on the night, 
 Fiom my neighbor's casement opposite, 
 I know as well as I know to pray, 
 I know as well as a tongue can say, 
 
 That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman 
 
 Has gone to the city Ispahan. 
 
 Thoshs Bailey Aldrich. 
 
 CUPID SWALLOWED. 
 
 T' OTHER day, as I was twining 
 Roses for a crown to dine in, 
 ^^Tiat, of all things miilst the heap. 
 Should I light on, fist asleep. 
 But the little desperate elf. 
 The tiny traitor, — Love himself ! 
 By the wings I pinched him up 
 Like a bee, and in a cup 
 
 Of my wine I plnng.^d and .sank him ; 
 And what d' ye think I did ?— I drank him ! 
 F.aith, 1 thought him dead. Not he ! 
 There he lives witli tenfold glee ; 
 And now, this monniit, with his wiu^s 
 I feel him tickling my heart-strings. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 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. 
 While the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! 
 Then awake .' — the heavens look bright, my dear ! 
 "1" 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 fr(>m that casement peeping, love. 
 Then awake ! — till rise of sun, my dear, 
 Tlie 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 ! 
 
 Thcmas Moore. 
 
 AH, SWEET KITTY NEIL I 
 
 Ah, sweet Kitty Neil ! rise up from your wheel. 
 Your neat little foot will be weary from spin- 
 ning ; 
 Come, trip down with me to the sycamore-tree ; 
 Half the parish is there, and the dance is be- 
 ginning. 
 The sun is gone down ; but the full Iiarvest moon 
 Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened 
 valley ; 
 While all the air rings with the soft, lovingthings 
 Each little bird sings in the gi'een shaded alley/' 
 
 With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the 
 while. 
 Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, 
 glancing ; 
 'T is hard to refuse when a young lover sues. 
 So she could n't but choose to — go ofl" to the 
 dancing. 
 And now on the gi-een the glad groups are seen, — 
 Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his 
 choosing ; 
 
 -*-^
 
 ■^^t- 
 
 15-2 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty 
 Neil, — 
 Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of 
 refusing. 
 
 Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, 
 * And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in 
 motion ; 
 With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the 
 giound. 
 The maids move around just like swans on the 
 ocean. 
 Cheeks bright as the rose, — feet light as the doe's, 
 
 Now coyly rctmng, now boldly advancing ; 
 Search the world all ai'ouud from the sky to the 
 ground. 
 No such sight can be found as an Irish lass 
 dancing ! 
 
 Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright eyes 
 of deep blue. 
 Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so 
 mildly. 
 Your fair-tumed aim, heaving breast, rounded 
 form. 
 Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb 
 wildly ? 
 Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, 
 Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet 
 love ; 
 The sight leaves his eye as he cries with a sigh, 
 "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your 
 feet, love ! " 
 
 Denis Florence MacCarthy. 
 
 DUNCAN GRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. 
 
 Duncan Ohay cam' here to woo — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 On blythe Yule niglit when we were fou - 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 Maggie coost her head fu' high. 
 Looked asklent and unco skeigh, 
 Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh — 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't 1 " 
 
 Duncan fleeched and Duncan prayed — 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Duncan sighed baith out and in, 
 
 Grat his cen baith blcer't and blin', 
 
 Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Time and chance are but a tide — 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Slighted love is sair to bide — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
 
 For a haughty hizzie dec ? 
 
 She may gae to — France for me ! 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 How it comes let doctors tell — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Meg grew sick as he grew heal — ■ 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Something in her bosom wrings, — 
 
 For relief a sigh she brings ; 
 
 And 0, her een they speak sic things ! 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Duncan was a lad o' grace — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Maggie's was a piteous case — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Duncan could na be her death : 
 
 Swelling pity smoored liis wrath. 
 
 Now they 're crouse and canty baith, 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 ROBERT DURNS. 
 
 RORT O'MORE; 
 
 OR. GOOD OMENS. 
 
 Young Eory O'More courted Kathleen Piawn ; 
 He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as the dawn ; 
 He w'ished in his heart pretty Kathleen to jdcase, 
 And he thought the best way to do that was to 
 
 tease. 
 " Now, Eory, be aisy,"sweet Kathleen would cry. 
 Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye ; 
 "With your tricks, 1 don't know, in throth, what 
 
 I 'm about ; 
 Faith you 've teazed tiU I 've put on my cloak 
 
 inside out." 
 " Och ! jewel," says Eory, " that same is tlie way 
 You 've thrated my heart for this many a day ; 
 And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? 
 For 't is all for good luck, " says bold Eory O'il ore. 
 
 "Indeed, then," says KatUcen, "don't think of 
 
 the like, 
 For I half gave a promise to soothering Jlike ; 
 The gi-ound that I walk on he loves, I 'U bo 
 
 bound " — 
 " Faith ! " says Eory, "I'd rather love you than 
 
 the ground.'' 
 "Now, Kory, I '11 cry if you don't let me go : 
 Sure I dream ev'ry night that I 'm hating you 
 
 so !" 
 "Och!" says Eory, "that same I'm delighted 
 
 to hear. 
 For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. 
 
 --SK
 
 n- 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 153 
 
 OlIi ! jewel, keep dhramiiig that same till you 
 
 ilic, 
 And blight morning will give dirty night the 
 
 blaek lie ! 
 And 't is plazed that I am, and h hy not, to be 
 
 sure ? 
 Siiiec 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory 
 
 O'More. 
 
 "Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teazed 
 
 me enough ; 
 Sure, I 've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes 
 
 and Jim Dulf; 
 And I 've made myself, drinking your health, 
 
 quite a baste. 
 So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest." 
 Then liory, the rogue, stole his arm round her 
 
 neck. 
 So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; 
 And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming 
 
 with light, 
 And he kissed her sweet lips — Don't you think 
 
 he was right ? 
 "Now, Rory, leave off, sir — you'll hug me no 
 
 more, — 
 That 's eight times to-day you have kissed me 
 
 before." 
 "Then here goes another," says he, "to make 
 
 sure, 
 For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory 
 
 O'More. 
 
 Samuel lover. 
 
 THE CATALOGUE. 
 
 0, THAT 's what you mean now, a bit of a song, 
 Arrah, faith, then here goes, you sha'n't bother 
 
 me long ; 
 I require no teazing, no praying, nor stuff. 
 By my soul, if you wish it, I 'm ready enough 
 To give you no end ; you shall have a beginning. 
 
 And, troth, though the music is not over fine, 
 'T is a bit of a thing that a body might sing 
 
 Just to set us a-going and season the wine. 
 
 0, I once was a lover, like some of you here. 
 And could feed a whole night on a sigh or a tear. 
 No sunshine I knew but from Kitty's black eye. 
 And the world was a desert when she was n't by ; 
 But the devil knows how, I got fond of Miss 
 Betty, 
 
 And Kitty slipt out of this bosom of mine. 
 'T is a bit of a thing that a body might sing 
 
 Just to set us a-going and season the wine. 
 
 Now Betty had eyes soft and blue as the .sky. 
 And the lily was lilack when her bosom was nigh ; 
 0, I vowed and 1 swore if she 'd not a kind eye 
 
 1 'd give up the whole world and in banishment 
 
 die ; 
 But Nancy came by, a round plump little crea- 
 ture. 
 And fi.xed in my heart quite another design. 
 'T is a bit of a thing that a body might sing 
 Just to set us a-going and season the wine. ■» 
 
 Little Nance, like a Hebe, was biuioin and gay, 
 Had a bloom like the rose and was fresher than 
 
 May; 
 0, I felt if she frowned I would die by a rope. 
 And my bosom would burst if she slighted my 
 
 hope ; 
 But the slim, taper, elegant Fanny looked at me, 
 
 And, troth, I no longer for Nancy could pine. 
 'T is a bit of a thing that a body might sing 
 
 Just to set us a-going and season the wine. 
 
 Now Fanny's light frame was so slender and fine 
 That she skimmed in the air like a shadow divine. 
 Her motion bewitched, and to my loving eye 
 'T was an angel soft gliding 'twi-xt earth and the 
 
 sky. 
 'T was all mighty well till I saw her fat sister. 
 
 And tJuit gave a turn I could never define. 
 'T is a bit of a thing that a body might sing 
 
 Just to set us a-going and season the wine. 
 
 0, so I go on, ever constantly blest. 
 For I find I 've a great stock of love in my breast ; 
 And it never grows less, for whenever 1 try 
 To get one in my heart, I get hro in my eye. 
 To all kinds of beauty I bow with devotion, 
 
 And all kinds of liquor by turns I make mine ; 
 So I '11 finish the thing that another may sing, 
 
 Just to keep us a-going and season the wine. 
 Capt. Morris.* 
 
 THE AGE OF WISDOM. 
 
 Ho ! pretty page, vrith the dimpled chin. 
 That never has known the barber's .shear. 
 
 All your wish is woman to win ; 
 
 This is the w.ay that boys begin, — 
 AVait till you come to forty year. 
 
 Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 
 
 Billing and cooing is all your cheer, — 
 Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, 
 Under Bounybell's window-panes, — 
 
 Wait tUl you come to forty year. 
 
 Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ; 
 
 Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; 
 Then you know a boy is an ass. 
 Then you know the worth of a lass, — 
 
 Once you have come to forty year. 
 
 • A boon companion of George, Prince Reijent 
 
 ■^11-
 
 4^ 
 
 154 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare, 
 
 All good fellows whose beards are gray, — 
 
 Did not the fairest of the fair 
 
 Common gi-ow and wearisome ere 
 Ever a month was past away ? 
 
 The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 
 
 The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
 May pray and whisper and we not list, 
 Or look away and never be missed, — 
 Ere yet ever a month is gone. 
 
 Gillian' s dead ! God rest her bier, — 
 How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
 
 Marian' s man-led ; but 1 sit here. 
 
 Alone and merry at forty year, 
 
 Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 
 
 William makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 THE LOW-BACKED CAK. 
 
 When first I saw sweet Peggy, 
 
 'T was on a market-day : 
 A low-backed car she drove, and sat 
 
 Upon a truss of hay ; 
 But when that hay was blooming grass, 
 
 And decked with flowers of spring, 
 
 No flower was there that could compare 
 With the blooming girl I sing. 
 
 As she sat in the low-backed car, 
 The man at the turnpike bar 
 Never asked for the toll. 
 But just rubbed his ould poll, 
 And looked after the low-backed car. 
 
 In battle's wild commotion. 
 
 The proud and mighty Mars 
 With hostile scythes demands his tithes 
 
 Of death in warlike cars ; 
 While Peggy, peaceful goddess. 
 
 Has darts in her bright eye, 
 That knock men down in the market-town, 
 
 As right and left they fly ; 
 While she sits in her low-backed car. 
 Than battle more dangerous far, — 
 For the doctor's art 
 Cannot cure the heart 
 That is hit from that low-backed car. 
 
 Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, 
 Has strings of ducks and geese. 
 
 But the scores of hearts she slaughters 
 By far outnumber these ; 
 
 While she among her poultry sits, 
 Just like a turtle-dove. 
 
 Well worth the cage, I do engage. 
 
 AVliile she sits in her low-backed car, 
 The lovers come, near and far, 
 
 A nd envy the chicken 
 
 Tliat Peggy is pickin', 
 As she sits in her low-backed car. 
 
 I 'd rather own that car, sir, 
 
 AVith Peggy by my side. 
 Than a coach and four, and gold galo-rc. 
 
 And a lady for my bri<le ; 
 For the lady would sit forninst me. 
 
 On a cushion made with taste, 
 While Peggy would sit beside me. 
 
 With my arm around her waist, 
 "While we drove in the low-backed car, 
 To be married by Father Mahar ; 
 0, my heart would beat high 
 At her glance and her sigh, — 
 Though it beat in a low-backed car ! 
 
 SA.MUEL LOVER. 
 
 SALLY IN OTJR ALLEY. 
 
 Of all the girls that are so sniart, 
 
 There 's none like pretty Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my lieart. 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 There 's ne'er a lady in the laud 
 
 That 's half so sweet as Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Her father he makes cabbage-nets. 
 
 And through t'ne streets does cry 'cm ; 
 Her mother she sells laces long 
 
 To such as please to buy 'em ; 
 But sure such folks could ne'er beget 
 
 So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 A^Hien she is by I leave my work, 
 
 1 love her so sincerely ; 
 My master comes like any Turk, 
 
 And bangs me most severely. 
 But let him bang his bellyful, — 
 
 I '11 bear it alffor Sally ; 
 For she 's the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Of all the days that 's in the week 
 
 1 dearly love but one day. 
 And that 's the day that comes betwixt 
 
 A Saturday and Monday ; 
 For then I 'm drest all in my best 
 
 To walk abroad with Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley.
 
 LOVE. 
 
 155 
 
 \- 
 
 My master cames me to church, 
 
 And often am I blamed 
 Because 1 leave liiiii in the lurch 
 
 As soon as text is named : 
 I leave the church in sermon-time, 
 
 And slink away to Sally, — 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 When Christmas comes about again, 
 
 0, then I shall have money ! 
 I '11 hoard it up, and, box and all, 
 
 I '11 give it to my honey ; 
 And would it were ten thousand pound ! 
 
 I 'd give it all to Sally ; 
 For she 's the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master and the neighbors all 
 
 Make game of me and Sally, 
 And but for she I 'd better be 
 
 A slave, and row a galley ; 
 But when my seven long years are out, 
 
 0, then I '11 many Sally ! 
 0, then we '11 wed, and then we '11 bed, — 
 
 But not in our alley ! 
 
 Henry Carey. 
 
 LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. 
 
 LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it 's you I love the 
 
 best ! 
 If fifty girls were round you, 1 'd hardly see the 
 
 rest ; 
 Be what it may the time of day, the place be 
 
 where it will. 
 Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before 
 
 me still. 
 
 Her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing on 
 
 a rock, 
 How clear they are ! how dark they are ! and 
 
 they give me many a shock ; 
 Red row,ans warm in sunshine, and wetted with 
 
 a shower. 
 Could ne'er express the charming lip that has 
 
 me in its power. 
 
 Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows 
 
 lifted up, 
 Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like 
 
 a china cup ; 
 Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so v.'eighty and 
 
 so fine, — 
 It 's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered 
 
 in a twine. 
 
 The dance o' last Wliit-Monday night exceeded 
 
 all before ; 
 No pretty girl for miles around was missing from 
 
 the floor ; 
 But Mary kept the belt of love, and 0, but she 
 
 was gay ; 
 She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my 
 
 heart away ! 
 
 When she stood up for dancing, her steps were 
 
 so complete, 
 The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her 
 
 feet ; 
 The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her 
 
 so much praised, 
 But blessed himself he was n't deaf, when once 
 
 her voice she raised. 
 
 And evermore I 'm whistling or lilting what you 
 
 sung ; 
 Your smile is always in my heart, your name upon 
 
 my tongue ; 
 But you 've as many sweethearts as you 'd count 
 
 on both your hands, 
 And for myself there 's not a thumb or little 
 
 finger stands. 
 
 0, you 're the flower of womankind, in country 
 
 or in town ; 
 The higher I exalt you, the lower 1 'm cast down. 
 If some great lord should come this way and see 
 
 your beauty bright. 
 And you to he his lady, I 'd own it was but right. 
 
 0, might we live together in lofty palace hall, 
 
 A\Tiere joyful music rises, and where scarlet cur- 
 tains fall ; 
 
 0, might we live together in a cottage mean and 
 small. 
 
 With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the 
 only wall ! 
 
 lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty "s my dis- 
 tress ; 
 
 It 's far too glorious to be mine, but 1 '11 never 
 wish it less ; 
 
 The proudest place would fit your face, and 1 am 
 poor and low. 
 
 But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you 
 
 may go ! 
 
 William allingham. 
 
 THE FAITHFUL LOVERS. 
 
 I 'd been away from her three years, — about that. 
 And I returned to find my Mary true ; 
 
 And though 1 'd question her, I didnot doubt tliat 
 It was unnecessary so to do.
 
 -«»-*-«i- 
 
 i- 
 
 156 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 "V was by the cliimney-comer we were sitting : 
 "Mary," said I, "have you been always true?" 
 
 "Frankly," says she, just pausiugin herkuitting, 
 " I don't think I 've unfaithful been to you : 
 
 But for the three years past I '11 tell you what 
 
 I 've done ; then say If I 've been true or not. 
 
 " When first youleft my grief was uncontrollable ; 
 
 Alone I mourned my miserable lot ; 
 And all who saw me thought me inconsolable, 
 
 Till Captain Clittbrd came from Aldershott. 
 To flirt with him amused me w^hile 't was new ; 
 I don't count that unfaithfulness — do you ? 
 
 "The next — 0! let me see — wasFrankierhipps; 
 
 I met him at my uncle's, Christmas-tide, 
 And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips meet lips, 
 
 Hegavemehis firstkiss— " And here she sighed. 
 "We stayed sLx weeks at uncle's — how time flew! 
 I don't count that unfaithfulness — do you ? 
 
 " Lord Cecil Fossmore — only twenty-one — 
 Lent me his horse. 0, how we rode and raced ! 
 
 "We scoured the downs — we rode to hounds — 
 such fun ! 
 And often was his arm about my waist, — 
 
 That was to lift me up and down. But who 
 
 Would call just th.at unfaithfulness >. Would you ? 
 
 "Do you know Eeggy Vere ? Ah, how he sings ! 
 
 We met, — 't was at a picnic. 0, such weather ! 
 He gave me, look, the first of these two rings 
 
 When we were lost in Cliefden woods together. 
 All, what a hajipy time we spent, — we two ! 
 I don't count that unfaithfulness to you. 
 
 " I 've yet another ring from him ; d' ye see 
 The plain gold circlet that is sliining here ? " 
 
 I took her hand : "0 Mary ! can it be 
 
 That you—" Quoth she, "that I amMrs. Vere. 
 
 I don't call that unfaithfulness — do you ? " 
 
 "No," I replied, " for I am married too." 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 WIDOW MACHREE. 
 
 Winow machree, it's no wonder you frown, — 
 
 Och hone ! widow machree ; 
 Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black 
 gown,— 
 Och hone ! widow machree. 
 How altered your air. 
 With that close cap you wear, — 
 'T is destroying your hair. 
 
 Which should be flowing free ; 
 Be no longer a churl 
 Of its black silken curl, — 
 Och hone ! widow machree ! 
 
 Widow machree, now the summer is come, — 
 
 Och hone ! widow machree. 
 When everything smiles, should a beauty look 
 glum ? 
 Och hone ! widow machree ! 
 See the birds go in pah's. 
 And the rabbits and hares ; 
 Why, even the bears 
 
 Now in couples agi-ee ; 
 And the mute little fish. 
 Though they can't spake, they wish, — 
 Och hone ! widow machree ! 
 
 Widow machree, and when winter comes in, — 
 
 Och hone ! widow machree, — 
 To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, 
 Och hone ! mdow machree ! 
 Sure the shovel and tongs 
 To each other belongs. 
 And the kettle sings songs 
 
 Full of family glee ; 
 While alone with your cup 
 Like a hermit you sup, 
 Och hone ! widow machree ! 
 
 And how do you know, with the comforts I 've 
 towld, — 
 Och hone ! widow machree, — 
 But yon 're keeping some poor fellow out in the 
 cowld ? 
 Och hone ! widow machree ! 
 AVith such sins on your head. 
 Sure your peace would be fled ; 
 Could you sleep in your bed 
 
 Without thinking to see 
 Some ghost or some sprite, 
 That would wake you each night, 
 
 Crpng "Och hone ! widow machree ! " 
 
 Then take my advice, darling widow machree, — 
 
 Och hone ! widow machree, — 
 And with my advice, faith, I wish you 'd take me, 
 Och hone ! widow machree ! 
 You 'd have me to desire 
 Then to stir u]) the fire ; 
 And sure hope is no liar 
 
 In whispering to me 
 That the ghosts would depart 
 When you 'd me near your heart, — 
 Och hone ! widow machree ! 
 
 SAMUEL Lover. 
 
 THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN. 
 
 The laird o' Cockpen he 's proud and he's great, 
 His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state ; 
 He wanted a \rife his braw house to keep. 
 But favor wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. 
 
 -r
 
 f 
 
 LUVE. 
 
 157 
 
 Down hy tlie dike-side <a lady did dwell, 
 At his table-licad ho thought she 'd loolc well ; 
 M'Lish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, 
 A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. 
 
 His wig was weel pouthered, and as glide as new; 
 His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; 
 I le put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat, 
 And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? 
 
 lie took the gray mare, and rade cannily — 
 And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee : 
 " 'Gae tell Mistress Jean to came speedily ben, 
 Slie 's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpcn." 
 
 Mistress Jean wasmakin' the elder-llower wine : 
 " And wliat brings the Laird at sic a like time ?" 
 Slie put alf her apron, and on her silk gown, 
 Ibr niutuh wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. 
 
 -Vnd when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low, 
 .Vnd what was his errand he soon let her know ; 
 Amazed was the Laird when tlie lady said "Na" ; 
 And wi' a laigh curtsey she turned awa'. 
 
 nnmlifoundered he was — nae sigh did he gie ; 
 He mounted his mare — he rade cannily ; 
 Anil afteu bethought, ashegaed through the glen, 
 " She 's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpeu." 
 
 And now that the Laird his exit had made, 
 Jlistress Jean she reflected on what she bad said ; 
 " Oil ! for ane I '11 get better, it 's waur 1 '11 get ten, 
 I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." 
 
 Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen. 
 They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the 
 
 green. 
 Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen — 
 But as yet there 's nae chickens appeared at Cock- 
 pen. 
 
 Carolina, baroness Nairn. 
 
 T7NSATISFACT0RT. 
 
 " Have other lovers — say, my love — 
 
 Loved thus before to-day ? " 
 " They may have, yes, they may, my love ; 
 
 Not long ago they may. " 
 
 " But, though they worshiped thee, my love, 
 
 Tliy maiden heart was free ? " 
 " Don't ask too much of me, my love ; 
 
 Don't ask too much of me." 
 
 " Yet, now 't is you and I, my love, 
 Love's wings no more will fly ?" 
 
 "If love could never die, my love, 
 Our love should never die." 
 
 " For shame ! and is this so, my love, 
 
 And Love and I must go ?" 
 "Indeed, 1 do not know, my love, 
 
 My life, I do not know." 
 
 "You will, you must be true, my love, — 
 
 Not look and love anew ! " 
 " I 'U see what 1 can do, my love, 
 
 I '11 see what I can do." 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 COOKING AND COURTING. 
 
 from TOM TO NED. 
 
 Dear Ned, no doubt you '11 be surprised, 
 
 AVhen you receive and read this letter. 
 I 've railed against the marriage state ; 
 
 But then, you see, I knew no better. 
 I 've met a lovely girl out here ; 
 
 Her manner is — well — very winning : 
 We 're soon to be — well, Ned, my dear, 
 
 I '11 tell you all, from the beginning. 
 
 I went to ask her out to ride 
 
 Last Wednesday — it was perfect weather. 
 She said she could n't possibly : 
 
 The servants had gone off together 
 (Hibernians always rush away. 
 
 At cousins' funerals to be looking) ; 
 Pies must be made, and she must stay. 
 
 She said, to do that branch of cooking. 
 
 " 0, let me help you," then I cried : 
 
 " I '11 be a cooker too — how jolly ! " 
 She laughed, and answered, with a smile, 
 
 " All right ! but you '11 repent your folly ; 
 For I shall bo a tyrant, sir. 
 
 And good hard work you '11 have to grapple ; 
 So sit down there, and don't you stir. 
 
 But take this knife, and pare that apple." 
 
 She rolled her sleeve above her arm, — 
 
 That lovely arm, so plump and rounded ; 
 Outside, the morning sun shone bright ; 
 
 Inside, the dough she deftly pounded. 
 Her little fingers sprinkled flour. 
 
 And rolled the pie-crust up in masses : 
 I passed the most delightful houi' 
 
 Mid butter, sugar, and molasses. 
 
 With deep reflection her sweet eyes 
 Gazed on each pot and pan and kettle : 
 
 She sliced the apples, filled her pies, 
 And then the ujiper crust did settle. 
 
 4- 
 
 K
 
 158 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE. 
 
 Her rippling waves of golden hair 
 
 In one great coil were tightly twisted ; • 
 
 But locks would break it, here and there, 
 And curl about where'er they listed. 
 
 And then her sleeve came down, and I 
 
 Fastened it up — her hands were doughy ; 
 0, it did take the longest time ! — 
 
 Her arm, Ned, was so round and snowy. 
 She blushed, and trembled, and looked shy ; 
 
 Somehow that made me all tlie bolder ; 
 Her arch lips looked so red that I — 
 
 Well — found her head upon my shoulder. 
 
 We 're to be married, Ned, next month ; 
 
 Come and attend the wedding revels. 
 I really think that bachelors 
 
 Are the most miserable devils ! 
 You 'd better go for some girl's hand ; 
 
 And if you are uncertain whether 
 Yoo dare to make a due demand. 
 
 Why, just try cooking pies together. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 POSSESSION. 
 
 A Poet loved a Star, 
 
 And to it whispered nightly, 
 
 " Being so fair, why art thou, love, so far ? 
 
 Or why so coldly shine, who shinest so brightly ? 
 
 O Beauty wooed and unpossest ! 
 
 0, might I to this beating breast 
 
 But clasp thee once, and then die blest ! " 
 
 That Star her Poet's love, 
 
 So wildly warm, made human ; 
 
 And leaving, for his sake, her heaven above, 
 
 His Star stooped earthward, and became a 
 
 Woman. 
 " Tliou who hast wooed and hast possest, 
 My lover, answer ; Which was best, 
 The Star's beam or the Woman's breast ? " 
 " I miss from heaven," the man replied, 
 "A light that drew my spirit to it." 
 And to the man the woman sighed, 
 ' ' I miss from earth a poet. " 
 
 Owen Meredith (Lokd LvttonJ. 
 
 +
 
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 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 MARRIAGE, 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 There are who say the lover'3 heart 
 
 Is in tlie loved one's merged ; 
 0, never by love's own warm art 
 
 So cold a jilea was urged ! 
 No ! — heiiits that love hath crowned or crossed 
 
 Love fondly knits together ; 
 But not a thought or hue is lost 
 
 That made a part of either. 
 
 It is an iU-told tale that tells 
 
 Of " hearts by love made one " : 
 He grows who near another's dwells 
 
 More conscious of his own ; 
 In each spring up new thoughts and powers 
 
 That, mid love's warm, clear weather, 
 Together tend like climbing flowers, 
 
 And, turning, grow together. 
 
 Such fictions blink love's better part, 
 
 Yield up its half of bliss ; 
 The wells are in the neighbor heart. 
 
 When there is thirst in this : 
 There findctli love the passion-flowers 
 
 On which it learns to thrive. 
 Makes honey in another's bowers, 
 
 But brings it home to hive. 
 
 Love's life is in its own replies, — 
 
 To each low beat it beats, 
 Smiles back the smiles, sighs hack the sighs, 
 
 And every throb repeats. 
 Then, since one loving heart still throws 
 
 Two shadows in love's sun, 
 How should two loving hearts compose 
 
 And mingle into one ? 
 
 THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEV. 
 
 THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE. 
 
 Tiinii hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 
 By that pretty wliite hand 0' thine, 
 
 And by a' the lowing stars in heaven, 
 That thou wad aye be mine ! 
 
 And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, 
 
 And by that kind heart o' thine, 
 By a' the stars sowti thick owre heaven, 
 
 That thou shalt aye be mine ! 
 
 Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bauds, ' 
 
 And the heart that wad part sic luve 1 
 But there 's nae hand can loose my band. 
 
 But the finger o' Him abuve. 
 Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, 
 
 And my claitliing ne'er sae mean, 
 I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds 0' luve, — 
 
 Heaven's armfu' 0' my Jean. 
 
 Her white arm wad be a pillow for me, 
 
 Fu' safter than the down ; 
 And Luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind 
 wings. 
 
 And sweetly I 'd sleep, and soun'. 
 Come here to me, thou lass 0' my luve ! 
 
 Come here and kneel wi' me ! 
 Tlie mom is fu' 0' the presence 0' God, 
 
 And I canna pray without thee. 
 
 The morn wind is sweet 'mang the beds 0' new 
 flowers. 
 
 The wee birds sing kindlie and hie ; 
 Our gudeman leans owre his k.ale-yard dike. 
 
 And a blythe auld bodie is he. 
 The Beuk maun be ta'en w'han the ciirle comes 
 hame, 
 
 Wi' tlje holy psalmodie ; 
 And thou maun speak 0' me to thy God, 
 
 And I will speak 0' thee. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 UNTIL DEATH. 
 
 1L\K'K me no vows of constancy, dear friend, 
 
 To love me, though I die, thy whole life long, 
 And love no other tOl thy days shall end, — 
 Nay, it were rash and WTong. 
 
 If thou canst love another, be it so ; 
 I would not reach out of my quiet grave
 
 160 
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 To bind thy Iieart, if it should choose to go ; — 
 Love should not be a slave. 
 
 My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene 
 
 In dearer light than gilds those earthly moms, 
 Above the jealousies and envies keen 
 
 Which sow this life with thorns. 
 
 Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress, 
 
 If, after death, my soul should linger here ; 
 Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, 
 Love's presence, warm and near. 
 
 It would not make me sleep more peacefully 
 That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe 
 For my poor sake ; what love thou hast for me, 
 Bestow it ere I go ! 
 
 Carve not upon a stone when I am dead 
 
 The praises wliich remorseful mourners give 
 To women's graves, — a tardy recompense, — • 
 But speak them while I live. 
 
 Heap not the heavy marble on my head 
 
 To shut away the sunshine and the dew ; 
 Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses 
 wave. 
 And rain-drops filter through. 
 
 Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay 
 
 Than I ; but, trust me, thou canst never find 
 One who ivill love and sen'e thee night and day 
 AVith a more single mind. 
 
 Forget me when I die ! The violets 
 
 Above my rest will blossom just as blue, 
 Nor miss thy tears ; e'en Nature's self forgets ; — 
 But while 1 live, be true ! 
 
 ANONT.MOUS. 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 FROM "ALICE AND UNA." 
 
 Alice was a chieftain's daughter, 
 And though many suitors sought her, 
 She so loved GlengaiilTs water 
 
 That she let her lovei-s pine. 
 
 Her eye was beauty's palace. 
 And her cheek an ivory chalice. 
 Through which tlie blood of Alice 
 
 Gleamed soft as rosiest wine. 
 
 And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the 
 fairies intertwine, — 
 
 And her heart a golden mine. 
 
 She was gentler and shyer 
 
 Than the light fawn which stood by her. 
 
 And her eyes emit a fire 
 
 Soft and tender as her soul ; 
 
 Love's dewy light doth drown her, 
 And the braided locks that crown her 
 Than autumn's trees are browner, 
 
 When the golden shadows roll 
 
 Through the forests in the evening, wlicn cathe- 
 dral turrets toll. 
 
 And the purple sun advanceth to its goal. 
 
 Her cottage was a dwelling 
 
 All regal homes excelling. 
 
 But, ah ! beyond the telling 
 Was the beauty round it spread, — 
 
 The wave and sunshine plajing, 
 
 Like sisters each arraj-ing. 
 
 Far down the sea-plants swaying 
 Upon their coral-hed, 
 And languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's 
 
 head. 
 When the summer breeze is dead. 
 
 Keed we say that Maurice loved her. 
 And that no blush reproved lier. 
 When her throbbing bosom moved her 
 
 To give the heart she gave ? 
 
 That by dawn-light and by twilight, 
 And, blessed moon, by thy liglit, — 
 When the twinkling stars on high light 
 
 The wanderer o'er the wave, — 
 
 His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's 
 waters lave 
 
 Each mossy bank and cave. 
 
 Tlie sun his gold is flinging. 
 
 The happy birds are singing, 
 
 And bells are gayly ringing 
 Along Glengariff's sea ; 
 
 And crowds in many a galley 
 
 To the happy marriage rally 
 
 Of the maiilen of the valley 
 And the youth of Ceim-an-eich ; 
 Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on 
 
 bended knee, 
 A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee. 
 
 Denis Florence macCarthv. 
 
 NUPTIALS OF ADAM AND EVE. 
 
 MiXE eyes he closed, but open left the cell 
 Of fancy, my internal sight, by wliieh 
 Abstract, as in a tiunce, methouglit I saw, 
 Tliough sleeping, where I lay, and saw the shape 
 Still glorious before whom awake I stood ; 
 WTio, stooping, opened my left side, and took 
 From thence a rib, with cordial spirits wami, 
 And life-blood streaming fresh ; wide was the 
 wound.
 
 M 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 161 
 
 But suddenly with flesh filk-d up and healed : 
 The rib he fonued aud fashioued with his liauds ; 
 Tuder his foiiiiiiig hands a creature gi'ew, 
 JlaiiUke, but ditleiunt sex, so lovely fair, 
 That what seemed fair in all the world seemed 
 
 now 
 Me;in, or in her summed up, in her contained 
 And in her looks, uhieh from that time infused 
 Sweetness into my heart, ludelt before, 
 Aud into all things from her air iusjiired 
 The spirit of love aud amorous delight. 
 She ilisappeared, and left me daik ; I waked 
 To tiud her, or Ibrever to deplore 
 Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure : 
 When out of hope, behold her, not far off, 
 Such as I saw her in my dream, adorned 
 With «hat all earth or Heaven eould bestow 
 To make her amiable. On she came. 
 Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen, 
 And guided by his voice, nor uuiuformed 
 Of nuptial Siinetit}' and marriage rites : 
 Gmee was in all her steps, Heaveu in her eye, 
 In eveiy gesture dignity and love. 
 I, overjoyed, could not forbear aloud : 
 
 MY COTTAGE. 
 
 Here have I found at last a home of peace 
 To hide me from tlie world ; far from its noise. 
 To feed that spirit, which, though sprung from 
 
 earth. 
 And linked to human beings by the bond 
 Of eaithly love, hath yet a loftier aim 
 Than perishable joy, and through the calm 
 That sleeps amid the mountahi solitude, 
 Can hear the biDows of eternity, ' 
 .tVnd hear delighted. . . . 
 
 There are thoughts 
 That slumber in tlie soul, like sweetest sounds 
 Amid the harji'sloosestrings, till airs froniHeaven 
 On earth, at dewy nightlail, visitant, 
 Awake the sleeiiing melody 1 Such thoughts. 
 My gentle Mary, I have owed to thee. 
 And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul 
 With a dear home-toned ^.hisper, — if thy face 
 E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of light 
 From om- own cott;ige-hcarth, — Mary ! then 
 My overpowered spirit shall recline 
 Upon thy inmost heart, till it become, 
 
 ' This turn hath made amends ; thou hast i ^'^°" sinless seraph, almost worthy thee ! 
 
 fulfilled 
 Thy words. Creator bounteous and benign, 
 Giver of all things fair, but fairest this 
 Of all thy gifts, nor enviest. I now see 
 Hone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself 
 Before me ; Woman is her name, of man 
 Extracted : for this cause he shall forego 
 Father and mother, and to his wife adliere ; 
 And they shall be one flesh, one heart, one 
 
 souL" 
 She heard me thus, and though divinely 
 
 brought. 
 Yet innocence and virgin modesty. 
 Her virtue and the conscience of her worth. 
 That would be wooed, and not unsought be won. 
 Not obvious, not obtrusive, but retired, 
 The more desirable ; or, to say all. 
 Nature herself, though pure of sinful thought, 
 AVrought in her so, that, seeing me, she turned : 
 I followed her ; she what was honor knew. 
 And with obsequious majesty approved 
 My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower 
 I led her blushing like the morn : all Heaven, 
 And happy constellations on that hour 
 Shed tlieir selectest influence ; the earth 
 Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill ; 
 Joyous the birds ; fresh gales and gentle airs 
 
 John Wilson. 
 
 TO A LADY BEFORE MARRIAGE. 
 
 0, FOKJIED by Nature, and refined by Art, 
 With charms to win, and sense to fix the heart ! 
 By thousands sought, ClotUda, canst thou free 
 Thy crowd of captives and descend to me. 
 Content in shades obscure to waste thy life, 
 A hidden beauty aud a country wife ? 
 O, listen while thy summers are my theme ! 
 Ah ! soothe thy partner in his waking dream ! 
 In some small hamlet on the lonely plain. 
 Where Thames through meadows rolls his mazy 
 
 train, 
 Or where high Windsor, thick with greens ar- 
 rayed, 
 AVaves his old oaks, and spreads his ample shade. 
 Fancy has figured out our calm retreat ; 
 Already round the visionary seat 
 Our limes begin to shoot, our flowers to spring. 
 The brooks to murmur, and the birds to sino-. 
 Wheie dost thou lie, thou thinly peopled green. 
 Thou nameless lawn, and village yet unseen. 
 
 Where sons, contented with their native ground, 
 ^ „ Ne'er traveled farthei than ten furlongs round, 
 
 Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings And the tanned peasant ami his ruddy bride 
 
 Flung rose, flung odors from the spicy shrub, 
 Disporting, till tlie amorous bird of night 
 Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening star 
 On his hill-top, to light the bridal lamp. 
 
 MlLTO.'y. 
 
 Were born together, and togetner died, 
 Wheie early larks best tell the morning light, 
 And only Philomel disturbs the night ? 
 Midst gardens here my humble pile shall rise. 
 With sweets surrounded of tc n thousand dyes ; 
 
 r
 
 "T 
 
 162 
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 All savage where th' embroidered gardens end, 
 The haunt of echoes, shall my woods ascend ; 
 And 0, if Heaven th' ambitious thought ap- 
 prove, 
 A rill shall warble 'cross the gloomy grove, — 
 A little rill, o'er pebbly beds conveyed, 
 Gush down the steep, and glitter through the 
 
 glade. 
 What cheering scents these bordering banks 
 
 exhale ! 
 How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale ! 
 That thrush how shrill ! his note so clear, so high. 
 He drowns each feathered minstrel of the sky. 
 Here let me truce beneath the purpled morn 
 The deep-mouthed beagle and the sprightly horn, 
 Or lure the trout with well-dissembled flies, 
 Or fetch the fluttering partridge from the skies. 
 Nor shall thy hand disdain to crop the \Tne, 
 The downy peach or flavored nectarine ; 
 Or rob the beehive of its golden hoard, 
 And bear the unbought luxuriance to thy board. 
 Sometimes my books by day shall kill the hours. 
 While from thy needle rise the silken flowers. 
 And thou, by turns, to ease my feeble sight. 
 Resume the volume, and deceive the night. 
 0, when I mark thy twinkling eyes opprest. 
 Soft whispering, let me warn my love to rest ; 
 Then watch thee, charmed, while sleep locks every 
 
 sense, 
 And to sweet Heaven commend thy innocence. 
 Thus reigned our fathere o'er the rural fold, 
 Wise, hale, and honest, in the days of old ; 
 Till courts arose, where substance pays for show, 
 And specious joys are bought with real woe. 
 
 Thomas Tickell. 
 
 THE EPITHAT.AMTON. 
 
 AVak li now, my love, awake ; for it is time ; 
 
 The rosy Morn long since left Tithon's bed. 
 
 All ready to her silver coach to climb ; 
 
 And Phcebus 'gins to show his glorious head. 
 
 Hark ! now the cheerful birds do chant their lays. 
 
 And carol of Love's praise. 
 
 The merry lark her matins sings aloft ; 
 
 The thrush replies ; the mavis descant plays ; 
 
 The ouzel shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft ; 
 
 So goodly all agi'ee, with sweet consent, 
 
 To this day's merriment. 
 
 Ah ! my dear love, why do you sleep thus long. 
 
 When meeter were that you should now awake, 
 
 T' await the conung of your joyous make,* 
 
 And hearken to the birds' love-leamed song. 
 
 The dewy leaves among ! 
 
 For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, 
 
 That all the woods them answer, and their echo 
 
 My love is now awake out of her dream, 
 And her fair eyes like stars that dimmed were 
 With darksome cloud, now show their goodly 
 
 beams 
 More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. 
 Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, 
 Help quickly her to dight ; 
 But first come, ye fair Hours, which were begot, 
 In Jove's sweet paradise, of Day and Night ; 
 Which do the seasons of the year allot. 
 And all, that ever in this world is fan-, 
 Do make and still repair ; 
 
 And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen, 
 The wdiich do still adorn her beauties' pride. 
 Help to adorn my beautifulest bride : 
 And, as ye her array, still throw between 
 Some graces to be seen ; 
 And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing. 
 The whiles the woods shall answer, and your 
 
 echo ring. 
 
 Now is my love all ready forth to come : 
 
 Let all the virgins therefore well await ; 
 
 And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her groom, 
 
 Prepare yourselves, for he is coming straight. 
 
 Set all your things in seemly good array. 
 
 Fit for so joyful day, — 
 
 The joyful' St day that ever sun did see. 
 
 Fair Sun ! show forth thy favorable ray. 
 
 And let thy lifeful heat not fervent be, 
 
 For fear of burning her sunshiny face. 
 
 Her beauty to disgrace. 
 
 fairest Phcebus ! father of the Muse ! 
 
 If ever I did honor thee aright. 
 
 Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight, 
 
 Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse, 
 
 But let this day, let this one day be mine ; 
 
 Let all the rest be thine. 
 
 Then I thy sovereign praises loud mil sing, 
 
 That all tiie woods shall answer, and their echo 
 
 Lo ! where she comes along with portly pace, 
 
 Like Phojbe, from her chamber of the east. 
 
 Arising forth to run her mighty race, 
 
 Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. 
 
 So well it her beseems, that ye would ween 
 
 Some angel she had been. 
 
 Her long loose yellow locks, like golden wire. 
 
 Sprinkled \vith pearl, and pearling flowers atweeii, 
 
 Do like a golden mantle her attire ; 
 
 And, being cro\vned with a garland green. 
 
 Seem like some maiden queen. 
 
 Her modest eyes, abashed to behold 
 
 So many gazers as on her do stare. 
 
 Upon the lowly ground aflixed are ; 
 
 Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold. 
 
 But blush to hear her praises sung so loud.
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 1G3 
 
 So far from being proud. 
 Katliless do ye still loud her praises sing, 
 Tliat all the woods may answer, and your echo 
 ring. 
 
 Tell inc, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see 
 
 So fair a creature in your town before ? 
 
 So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, 
 
 Adorned with beauty's grace, and xirtue's store ; 
 
 Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright. 
 
 Her foiehead ivory white, 
 
 ]ier cheeks like apples which the sun hath 
 
 rudded. 
 Her lips like cherries charming men to bite. 
 Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded. 
 
 Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze, 
 UiKin her so to gaze, 
 
 Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, 
 To which the woods did answer, and your echo 
 ring ? 
 
 But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, 
 The inward lieauty of her lively sprite, 
 Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree. 
 Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, 
 And stand astonished like to those which red * 
 Medusa's niazeful head. 
 
 Tliere dwells sweet Love, and constant Chastity, 
 Unspotted Faith, and comely Womanhood, 
 Hegard of Honor, and mild Modesty ; 
 There Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne. 
 And giveth laws alone, 
 The which the base affections do obey, 
 And yield their services unto her will ; "" 
 Ne thought of things uncomely ever may 
 Thereto apiiroach to tempt her mind to ill. 
 Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures, 
 And unrevealed pleasures, 
 Then would ye wonder and her praises sing. 
 That all the woods should answer, and your echo 
 ring. 
 
 Open the temple gates unto my love. 
 
 Open them wide that she may enter in, 
 
 And all the posts adorn as doth behove, 
 
 Anil all the pillars deck with garlands trim. 
 
 For to receive this saint with honor due. 
 
 That cometh in to you. 
 
 AVith trembling steps, and humble reverence. 
 
 She cometh in, before the Almighty's view : 
 
 or her, ye virgins, learn obedience, 
 
 AVhen so ye come into those holy places, 
 
 To humble your ]iraud faces : 
 
 Ihing her up to tlio high altar, that she may 
 
 The sacred ceremonies there partake, 
 
 The which do endless matrimony make ; 
 
 And let the roaring organs loudly play 
 
 The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; 
 The whiles, with hollow throats, 
 The choristers the joyous anthem sing. 
 That all the woo Is may answer, and their echo 
 ring. 
 
 Behold, while she before the altar stands. 
 
 Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks. 
 
 And blesseth her with his two happy hands. 
 
 How the red roses Hush up in her cheeks, 
 
 And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain, 
 
 Like crimson dyed in grain ; 
 
 That even the angels, which continually 
 
 About the sacred altar do remain. 
 
 Forget their service and al lont her fly, 
 
 Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair. 
 
 The more they on it stare. 
 
 But her sad eyes, still fiustencd on the ground. 
 
 Are governi:d with goodly modesty. 
 
 That suffers not a look to glance awry. 
 
 Which may let in a little 'thought unsound. 
 
 Why blush you, love, to give to me your hand. 
 
 The pledge of all our band ? 
 
 Sing, ye .sweet angels, Allehiia sing. 
 
 That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
 
 ring. 
 
 EDMUND Spenser. 
 
 LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. 
 
 It 's we two, it 's we two for aye, 
 Alltheworld, and we two, and Heaven be our stay ! 
 Like a laverock in the lift, sing, bonny bride ! 
 All the world was Adam once, with Eve by las 
 side. 
 
 What 's the world, my lass, my love ! — what can 
 
 it do? 
 I am thine, and thou art mine ; life is sweet and 
 
 new. 
 If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by ; 
 For we two have gotten leave, and once more will 
 
 try. 
 
 Like a laverock in the lift, sing, bonny bride ! 
 It 's we two, it 's we two, happy side by side. 
 Take a kiss from me, thy man ; now the song 
 
 begins : 
 "All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart 
 
 wins." 
 
 When the darker days come, and no sun will 
 
 shine, 
 Tliou shalt diy my tears, lass, and 1 '11 dry thine. 
 It 's we two, it 's we two, while the world 's away. 
 Sitting by the golden sheaves on ourweddingday. 
 
 JKAN IXCRLOW. 
 
 * * ^
 
 -f 
 
 lf>4 
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 MAIEE BHAN ASTOR.» 
 
 In a valley far away 
 
 With my Maire bhan astor. 
 Short would be the summer-day. 
 
 Ever loving more and more ; 
 Winter days would all grow long, 
 
 With the light her heart would pour, 
 With her kisses and her song, 
 And her loving mait go leor. 
 Fond is JIaire bhan astor. 
 Fair is Maire bhan astor, 
 Sweet as ripple on the shore. 
 Sings my Maire bhan astor. 
 
 0, her sire is very proud. 
 
 And her mother cold as stone ; 
 But her brother bravely vowed 
 
 She should be my bride alone ; 
 For he knew I loved her well, 
 
 And he knew she loved me too. 
 So he sought their pride to (juell. 
 But 't was all iu vain to sue. 
 True is Maire bhan astor, 
 Tried is Maire bhan astor. 
 Had I wings I 'd never soar 
 From my Maire bhau astor. 
 
 There are lands where manly toil 
 
 Surely reaps the crop it sows. 
 Glorious wcKids and teeming soil, 
 
 Where the broad Missouri flows ; 
 Through the trees the smoke shall rise. 
 
 From our hearth with mait go leor, 
 There shall shine the happy eyes 
 Of my Maire bhan astor. 
 
 Mild is Maire bhan astor. 
 Mine is Maire bhan astor. 
 Saints will watch about the door 
 Of my Maire bhan astor. 
 
 Thomas Davis. 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 FROM "A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING." 
 
 The maid, and thereby hangs a tale. 
 For such a maid no WTiitsun-ale 
 
 Could ever yet produce : 
 Ko grape that 's kindly ripe could be 
 So round, so plump, so soft as she, 
 
 Kor half so full of juice. 
 
 Her finger was so small, the ring 
 AVould not stay on which tney did bring. 
 It was too wide a peck ; 
 
 • Tair Mary, my treasure. 
 
 And, to say truth, — fur out it must, — 
 It looked like the great collar — just — 
 About our young colt's neck. 
 
 Her feet beneath her petticoat, 
 Like little mice, stole in and out. 
 
 As if they feared the light ; 
 But 0, she dances such a way ! 
 No sun upon an Easter-day 
 
 Is half so fine a sight. 
 
 Her cheeks so rare a white was on. 
 No daisy makes comparison ; 
 
 Who sees them is undone ; 
 For streaks of red were mingled there, 
 Such as are on a Cath'rine pear. 
 
 The side that 's next the sun. 
 
 Her lips were red ; and one was thin. 
 Compared to that was next her chin. 
 
 Some bee had stung it newly ; 
 But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, 
 I durst no more upon them gaze, 
 
 Than on the sun in July. 
 
 Her mouth so small, when she does speak. 
 Thou Mst swear her teeth her words did break. 
 
 That they might ])assage get ; 
 But slie so liandled still the matter, 
 They came as good as ours, or better. 
 
 And are not spent a whit. 
 
 SIR John suckling. 
 
 HEBREW WEDDING. 
 
 To the sound of timlirels sweet 
 Moving slow our solemn feet. 
 We have borne thee on the road 
 To the virgin's blest abode ; 
 With thy yellow torches gleaming. 
 And thy scarlet mantle streaming. 
 And the canopy above 
 Swaying as we slowly move. 
 
 Thou hast left the joyous feast. 
 And the mirth and wine have ceased 
 And now we set thee down before 
 The jealously unclosing door. 
 That the favored youth admits 
 Where the veiled virgin sits 
 In the bliss of maiden fear. 
 Waiting our soft tread to hear. 
 And the nuisic's brisker din 
 At the bridegroom's entering in, 
 Entering in, a welcome guest. 
 To the chamber of his rest.
 
 \^ 
 
 MAEUIAOE. 
 
 165 
 
 CHOUrs OF MAIDENS. 
 Now the jocund song is thine, 
 Bride of David's kingly line ; 
 How thy dove-like bosom ti'embleth. 
 And thy shrouded eye resenibleth 
 Violets, when the dews of eve 
 A moist and tremulous glitter leave ! 
 
 On the bashful scaled lid. 
 Close within the bride-veil hid, 
 Motionless thou sitt'st and mute ; 
 Save that at the soft salute 
 Of each entering maiden friend, 
 Tliou dost rise and softly bend. 
 
 Hark ! a brisker, merrier glee ! 
 The door unfolds, — 't is he ! 't is he ! 
 Thus we lift our lamps to meet him, 
 Thus we touch our lutes to greet him. 
 Thou shall give a fonder meeting, 
 TIiou shalt give a tenderer greeting. 
 
 Henrv hart Milman. 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 FROM ■■ HUMAN LIFE.' 
 
 Then before All they stand, — the holy vnw 
 And ring of gold, no fond illusions now, 
 T3ind her as his. Across the threshold led. 
 And every tear kissed off as soon as shed. 
 His house she enters, — there to be a light. 
 Shining within, when all without is night ; 
 A guardian angel o'er his life presiding. 
 Doubling his pleasures and his cares dividing. 
 Winning him liack when mingling in the throng. 
 Back from a world we love, alas ! too long, 
 To fireside happiness, to hours of ease. 
 Blest witli that charm, the certainty to please. 
 How oft her eyes read his ; her gentle mind 
 To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined ; 
 Still subject, — ever on the watch to borrow 
 Mirth of his mirth and sorrow of his son'ow ! 
 The soul of music slumbers in the shell. 
 Till waked and kindled by the master's spell. 
 And feeling hearts — touch them but rightly — 
 
 pour 
 A thousand melodies unheard liefore ! 
 
 bA.MLEL ROGERS. 
 
 SEVEN TIMES SIX. 
 
 GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 
 
 To bear, to nurse, to rear. 
 To watch, and then to lose : 
 
 To see my bright ones disappear, 
 Drawn up like morning dews ; - 
 
 To bear, to nurse, to rear. 
 To watch, and then to lose : 
 
 This have I done when God drew near 
 Among his own to choose. 
 
 To hear, to heed, to wed. 
 
 And with thy lord depart 
 In tears that he, as soon as shed, 
 
 Will let no longer smart. — 
 To hear, to heed, to wed. 
 
 This while thou didst I smiled. 
 For now it was not God who said, 
 
 "Mother, give ME thy child." 
 
 fond, fool, and blind, 
 
 To God I gave with tears ; 
 But when a man like grace would find. 
 
 My soul put by her fears. 
 fond, fool, and blind, 
 
 God guards in happier siiheres ; 
 That man will guard where he did hind 
 
 Is hope for unknown years. 
 
 To hear, to heed, to wed. 
 
 Fair lot that maidens choose. 
 Thy mother's tenderest words are said, 
 
 Thy face no more she views ; 
 Thy mother's lot, my dear. 
 
 She doth in naught accuse ; 
 Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 
 
 To love — and then to lose. 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE LEE. 
 
 O, THE banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, 
 And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! 
 There 's not in the land a lovelier tide. 
 And I'msurethat thcre'snnonesofairasmybride. 
 
 She 's modest and meek. 
 
 There 's a down on her cheek, 
 
 And her skin is as sleek 
 As a butterfly's wing ; 
 
 Then her step would scarce show 
 
 On the fresh-fallen snow. 
 
 And her whisper is low. 
 
 But as clear as the spring. 
 0, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, 
 And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! 
 I know not how love is happy elsewhere, 
 I know not how any but lovers are there. 
 
 0, so green is the grass, so clear is the stream, 
 So mild is the mist and so ricli is the beam. 
 That beauty should never to other lands ]-oam. 
 But make on the banks of our river its Iiome ! 
 
 When, dripping with dew. 
 
 The rnaes peep through, 
 
 'T is to look in at you 
 
 -«■«-
 
 166 
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 f 
 
 They are growing; so fast ; 
 While tlie scent of the tlowers 
 Must be hoarded for hours, 
 'T is poured in such showers 
 
 When my Mary goes past. 
 
 0, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, 
 
 And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! 
 
 0, Mary for me, Mary for me. 
 
 And 't is little I 'd sigh for the banks of the Lee ! 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 HOME 
 
 MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing. 
 She is a handsome v;ee thing, 
 She is a bonnie wee thing, 
 This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 I never saw a fairer, 
 
 I never lo'ed a dearer. 
 
 And neist my heart I '11 wear her, 
 
 For fear my jewel tine. 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing. 
 She is a handsome wee thing, 
 She is a boimie wee thing. 
 This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 The warld's wrack we share o't. 
 The warstle and the care o't : 
 Wi' her I 'U bl)i:hely bear it. 
 And think my lot divine. 
 
 ROBERT Burns. 
 
 SONNKTS. 
 
 My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die ; 
 Albeit 1 ask no fairer life than this, 
 Whose numbering-clock is stOl thy gentle kiss, 
 While Time and Peace with hands unlocked fly, — 
 Yet care I not where in Eternity 
 We live and love, well knowing that there is 
 No backward step for those who feel the bliss 
 Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings high : 
 Love hath so purified my being's core, 
 Meseems I scarcely should be startled, even. 
 To find, some morn, that thou had.st gone bel'ore ; 
 Since, vnth thy love, this knowledge too was 
 
 given, 
 ■Which each calm day doth strengthen more and 
 
 more, 
 Tliat they who love are but one step from Heaven. 
 
 A piece of nature that can have no flaw, 
 
 A new and ceitain sunrise every day ; 
 
 But, if thou art to be another ray 
 
 About the Sun of Life, and art to live 
 
 Free from all of thee that was fugitive. 
 
 The debt of Love I will more fully pay, 
 
 Xot downcast with the thought of thee so high. 
 
 But rather raised to be a nobler man, 
 
 And more divine in my humanity. 
 
 As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan 
 
 My life are lighted by a purer being. 
 
 And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it agree- 
 
 I THOUGHT our love at full, b\i± I did err ; 
 Joy's «Teath drooped o'er mine eyes ; I could not 
 
 see 
 That sorrow in our happy world must be 
 Love's deepest spokesman and interpreter. 
 But, as a mother fe«ls her child first stir 
 Under her heart, so felt I instantly 
 Deep in my soul another liond to thee 
 Thrill with that life we saw depart from her ; 
 O mother of our angel child ! tmce dear ! 
 Death knits as well as parts, and still, I wis. 
 Her tender radiance shall infold us here. 
 Even as the light, borne up by inward bliss, 
 Tln-eads the void glooms of space without a fear. 
 To print on farthest stars her pitjdng kiss. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 I CANNOT think that thou shouldst pass away, 
 Wtose life to mine is an eternal law. 
 
 ADAM TO EVE. 
 
 FAIREST of creation, last and best 
 Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled 
 Whatever can to sight or thought be formed. 
 Holy, dirine, good, amiable, or sn-eet ! 
 How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost. 
 Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote ! 
 Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress 
 The strict forbiddance, how to violate 
 The sacred fruit forbidden ! Some cursed fraud
 
 //ciafiATUA^t:^?^ 
 
 FORDS, HO^i^ARD «: HULBERT.N-V.
 
 Of enemy liath beguiled thco, yet unknown, 
 And me with thco li.itli ruined, for with thee 
 Certain my resolution is to die. 
 How can I live without tliee, how forego 
 Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined, 
 To live again in these wild woods forlorn ? 
 Should God create another Eve, and I 
 Another rib aflbrd, yet loss of tbee 
 Would never from my heart ; no, no, I feel 
 The link of nature draw me : flesh of flesh, 
 Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state 
 Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe. 
 
 However, I with thee have fixed my lot, 
 Certain to undergo like doom ; if death 
 Consort with thee, death is to me as life ; 
 So forcible within my heart I feel 
 The bond of nature draw me to my own, 
 My own in thee, for what thou art is mine ; 
 Our state cannot be severed, we are one, 
 One flesh ; to lose thee were to lose myself. 
 
 LORD WALTER'S WIFE. 
 
 " But why do you go ?" said the lady, while both 
 
 sate under the yew, 
 And her eyes were alive in their depth, as the 
 
 kraken beneath the sea-blue. 
 
 " Because I fear you," he answered ; — " because 
 
 you are far too fair. 
 And able to strangle my soul in a mesh of your 
 
 gold-colored hair." 
 
 "0 that," she said, "is no reason ! Such knots 
 
 are quickly undone, 
 And too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but 
 
 too much sun." 
 
 "Yet farewell so," he answered; — "the sun- 
 stroke 'a fatal at times. 
 
 I value your husband. Lord AValter, whose gal- 
 lop rings still from the limes." 
 
 "0, that," she said, "is no reason. You smell 
 a rose through a fence ; 
 
 If two .should smell it, what matter ? who grum- 
 bles, and where 's the pretense ? " 
 
 "But I," he replied, "have promised another, 
 
 when love was free. 
 To love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves 
 
 me." 
 
 "Why, that," she said, "is no reason. Love's 
 
 always free, I am told. 
 Will you vow to be safe from the headache on 
 
 Tuesday, and think it will bold ? " 
 
 "But you," he re|ilicd, "have a daughter, a 
 
 young little child, who was laid 
 In your lap to be pure ; so I leave you : the 
 
 angels woidd make me afraid." 
 
 "0, that," she said, "is no reason. The angels 
 
 keep out of the way ; 
 And Dora, the child, observes nothing, althimgh 
 
 you should please me and stay." 
 
 At which he rose up in his anger, — "Why, now, 
 
 you no longer are fair ! 
 Wliy, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and 
 
 hateful, I swear." 
 
 At which she laughed out in her sconi, — ' ' These 
 
 men ! O, these men overnice. 
 Who are shocked if a color not virtuous is frankly 
 
 put on bj' a vice." 
 
 Her eyes blazed upon him — "And yim ! You 
 
 bring us your vices so near 
 That we smell them ! you think in our ]ircsence 
 
 a tliought 't would defame us to hear ! 
 
 "What reason had you, and wb.at right, — I ap- 
 peal to your soul from my life, — 
 
 To find me too fair as a woman ? Why, sir, I am 
 pure, and a wife. 
 
 " Is the day-star too fair up above you ? It Ijurns 
 
 you not. Dare you imply 
 I brashed you more close tlian the star does, 
 
 when Walter had set me as high ? 
 
 " If a man finds a woman too fair, he means sim- 
 ply adapted too much 
 
 To uses unlawful and fatal. The praise ! — shall 
 I thank you for such ? 
 
 "Too fair ? — not unless you misuse us ! and surely 
 
 if, once in a -while, 
 You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer 
 
 too fair, but too vile. 
 
 " A moment, — I pray your attention ! — I have 
 
 a poor word in my head 
 I must utter, though womanly custom would set 
 
 it down better unsaid. 
 
 " You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when 
 
 I showed you a ring. 
 You kissed my fan wdien I dropped it. No m.at- 
 
 tor ! I 've broken the thing. 
 
 "You did me the honor, perhaps, to be moved 
 
 at my side now and then 
 In the senses, — a vice, I have heard, which is 
 
 common to beasts and some men. 
 
 ^ rt — 
 
 r
 
 168 
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 " Love 's !» virtue for licroes ! — as white as the 
 snow on high hills, 
 
 And immortal as every great soul is that strug- 
 gles, endures, and fulfills. 
 
 " I love my Walter profoundly, — you, Maude, 
 
 though you faltered a week. 
 For the sake of . . . what was it ? an eyehrow ? 
 
 or, less still, a mole on a cheek ? 
 
 " And since, when all 's said, you 're too noble to 
 
 stoop to the frivolous cant 
 About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, 
 
 betray, and supplant, 
 
 " I detennined to prove to yourself that, whate'er 
 
 you might dream or avow 
 By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me 
 
 than you have now. 
 
 "There! Look me full in the face! — in the 
 
 face. Undoi'stand, if you can. 
 That the eyes of such women as I am are clean as 
 
 the palm of a man. 
 
 "Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for 
 fear we should cost you a soar, — 
 
 You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for 
 the women \\'e are. 
 
 "You WTonged me : but then I considered . . . 
 
 there 's Walter ! And so at the end, 
 I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, 
 
 in the hand of a friend. 
 
 " Have I hurt you indeed ? We are quits then. 
 
 Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine ! 
 Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me 
 
 to ask him to dine." 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT EROWNI.NG. 
 
 CONNUBIAL LIFE. 
 
 FROM " THE SEASONS." 
 
 Bi'T happy they, the happiest of their kind, 
 AVhom gentler stars unite, and in one fate 
 Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings 
 
 blend. 
 'Tis not the coarser tie of human law^;, 
 Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind. 
 That binds tlieir peace, but harmony itself. 
 Attuning all their passions into love ; 
 Where friendship full-e.\erts her softest power. 
 Perfect esteem enlivened by desire 
 Ineffable, and symiiathy of soul ; 
 Thought meeting thought, and will preventing 
 
 wOl, 
 
 AVith boundless confidence: for naught but luvo 
 Can answer love, and render bliss secure. 
 Meantime a smiling'offspring rises round, 
 And mingles both their graces. By degrees. 
 The human blossom blows ; and every J.ay, 
 Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm. 
 The father's lustre and the mother's bloom. 
 Then infant leason grows apace, and calls 
 For the kind hand of an assiduous care. 
 Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought. 
 To teach the young idea how to shoot. 
 To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, 
 To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix 
 The generous purpose in the glowing breast. 
 0, speak the joy ! ye whom the sudden tear 
 Sui-[irises often, while you look around, 
 And nothing strikes youi- eye but sights of bliss, 
 All various Nature )iressing on the heart ; 
 An elegant sufficiency, content, 
 Ketirenieut, rural quiet, friendship, books, 
 Ease and alternate labor, useful life. 
 Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven. 
 These are the matchless joys of virtuous love ; 
 And thus theu- moments fly. The Seasons thus. 
 As ceaseless round a janing world they roll. 
 Still find them happy ; and consenting Spring 
 Sheds lier own rosy garland on their heads : 
 Till evening comes at last, serene and mild ; 
 When, after the long vernal day of life. 
 Enamored more, as more remembrance swells 
 With many a proof of recollected love. 
 Together down they sink in social sleep ; 
 Together freed, their gentle spirits fly 
 To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign. 
 
 jAiiEs Thomson. 
 
 POSSESSION. 
 
 "It was our wedding-day 
 
 A month ago," dear heart, I hear you say. 
 
 If months, or years, or ages since have jiassed, 
 
 I know not : I have ceased to question Time. 
 
 I only know that once there pealed a chime 
 
 Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast, 
 
 And all stood back, and none my right denied. 
 
 And forth we walked : the world was free and wide 
 
 Before us. Since that day 
 
 I count my life : the Past is washed away. 
 
 It was no dream, that vow : 
 
 It was the voice that woke me from a dream, — 
 
 A bapjiy dreiim, 1 think; but I am waking now. 
 
 And drink the splendor of a sun supreme 
 
 That turns the mist of foi-mer tears to gold. 
 
 Within these anus I hold 
 
 The fleeting promise, chased so long in vain : 
 
 Ah, weary bird ! thou wilt not fly again :
 
 4 
 
 HOME. 
 
 169 
 
 Thy wings are clipped, tliou canst no more de- 
 part, — 
 Thy nest is buildeil in my heart ! 
 
 I was the crescent ; thou 
 
 The silver phantom of the j)erfect sphere, 
 
 Held in its bosom : in one glory now 
 
 Our lives united shine, and many a year — 
 
 Not the sweet moon of bridal only — we 
 
 One luster, ever at the full, shall be : 
 
 One pure and rounded light, one planet whole. 
 
 One life developed, one completed soul ! 
 
 For I in thee, and tliou in me. 
 
 Unite our cloven halves of destiny. 
 
 God knew his chosen time. 
 He bade me slowly ripen to my prime, 
 And from my boughs withheld the promised fruit, 
 Till storm and sun gave vigor to the root. 
 Secure, Love ! secure 
 
 Thy blessing is : I have thee day and night : 
 Thou art become my blood, my life, my light : 
 God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt endure. 
 
 Bavard Taylor, 
 
 THE DAY RETtTRNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 
 
 The day returns, my bosom burns, 
 
 The blissful day we twa did meet ; 
 Though winter wild in tempest toiled. 
 
 Ne'er summer sun was lialf sae sweet. 
 Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 
 
 And crosses o'er the sultry line, — 
 Than kinglj' robes, and crowns and globes. 
 
 Heaven gave me more ; it made thee mine. 
 
 While day and night can bring delight. 
 
 Or nature aught of pleasure give, — 
 While joys above my mind can move. 
 
 For thee and thee alone I live ; 
 When that grim foe of life below 
 
 Comes in between to make us piart. 
 The iron hand that breaks our band. 
 
 It breaks my bliss, — it breaks my heart. 
 Robert burns. 
 
 THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 
 
 0, MY love 's like the steadfast sun, 
 Or streams that deepen as tliey run ; 
 Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years. 
 Nor moments between sighs and tears, 
 Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 
 Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain. 
 Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
 To sober joys and soften woes. 
 Can make my heart or fancy flee. 
 One moment, my sweet wife, lioni tine 
 
 Even while I muse, I see thee sit 
 
 In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 
 
 Fair, gentle as wlien first I sued, ■ 
 
 \e seem, but of sedater mood ; 
 
 Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 
 
 As when, beneath Arbigland tree. 
 
 We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon 
 
 Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 
 
 Or lingered mid the falling dew, 
 
 When looks were fond and words were few. 
 
 Though I see smiling at thy feet 
 Five sons, and ae fair daughter sweet, 
 And time, and care, and birthtime woes 
 Have dimmed thine eye and toui'hcd tliy rose. 
 To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
 Whate'cr charms me in tale or song. 
 When words descend like dews, unsought. 
 With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought, 
 And fancy in her heaven flies free. 
 They come, my love, they come from thee. 
 
 0, when more thought we gave, of old. 
 To silver, than some give to gold, 
 'T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
 How we should deijc our humble bower ; 
 'T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, 
 The golden fruit of fortune's tree ; 
 And sweeter still to choose and twine 
 A garland for that brow of thine, — 
 A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 
 While rivers flow, and woods grow gieeu. 
 
 At times there come, as come there ought, 
 Grave moments of sedater thought. 
 When fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
 One gleam of her inconstant light; 
 .And hope, that decks the peasant's bower, 
 Shines like a rainbow through the shower. 
 O, then I see, while seated nigh, 
 A mother's heart shine in thine eye. 
 And proud resolve, and purpose meek, 
 Speak of thee more than words can speak. 
 I think this wedded wife of ndne. 
 The best of all that 's not divine. 
 
 Allan Cu.\nlncha.\l 
 
 AN ANGEL'S VISIT. 
 
 She stood in the harvest-field at noon. 
 And sang aloud for the joy of living. 
 
 She said : " 'T is the sun that I driidc like wine. 
 To my heart this gladness giring." 
 
 Rank ujjon rank the wheat fell slain ; 
 
 The reapers ceased. '"T is sure the splendor 
 Of sloping snnset light that thrills 
 
 My breast with a bliss so tender."
 
 170 
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 Up and up the blazing hills 
 
 Climbed the night from the misty meadows. 
 " Can they be stars, or living eyes 
 
 That bond on me from the shadows ? " 
 
 " Greeting ! " "And may you speak, indeed ? " 
 All in the dark her sense grew clearer ; 
 
 Slie knew that she had, for company, 
 All day an angel near her. 
 
 " May you tell us of the life divine, 
 To us unknown, to angels given ?" 
 
 "Count me your earthly joys, and I 
 May teach you those of heaven." 
 
 " They say the pleasures of earth are vain ; 
 
 Delusions all, to lure from duty ; 
 But while God hangs his bow in the rain, 
 
 Can I help my joy in beauty ? 
 
 "And while he quickens the air with, song, 
 My breaths with scent, my fruits with flavor. 
 
 Will he, dear angel, count as sin 
 My life in sound and savor ? 
 
 "See, at our feet the glojv'-worm shines, 
 
 Lo ! in the east a star arises ; 
 And thought may climb from worm to world 
 
 Forever through fresh surprises : 
 
 "And thought is joy. . . . And, hark! in the 
 vale 
 
 Music, and merry steps pursuing ; 
 They leap in the dance, — a soul in my blood 
 
 Cries out, Awake, be doing ! 
 
 ' ' Action is joy ; or power at play. 
 Or power at work in world or emprises : 
 
 Action is life ; part from the deed, 
 More from the doing rises." 
 
 "And are these all ? " She flushed in the dark. 
 
 "These are not all. I have a lover ; 
 At sound of his voice, at toucli of his hand. 
 
 The cup of my life runs over. 
 
 " Once, unknowing, we looked and neared. 
 And doubted, and neared, and rested never, 
 
 Till life seized life, as flame meets flame, 
 To escape no more forever. 
 
 " Lover and husband ; then was love 
 The wine nf my life, all life enhancing : 
 
 Now 't is my bread, too needful and sweet 
 To be kept for feast-day chancing. 
 
 " I have a child." She seemed to change ; 
 The deep content of some brooding creature 
 
 Looked from her eyes. " 0, sweet and strange ! 
 Angel, be thou my teacher : 
 
 " AVhen He made us one in a babe, 
 
 AVas it for joy, or sorest proving ? 
 For now I fear no heaven could win 
 
 Our hearts from earthly loving. 
 
 ' ' I have a friend. Howso I err, 
 I see her uplifting love bend o'er me ; 
 
 Howso I climb to my best, 1 know 
 Her foot will be there before me. 
 
 ' ' Howso parted, we must be nigh, 
 Held by old years of every weather ; 
 
 The best new love would be less than ours 
 Who have lived our lives together. 
 
 " Now, lest forever I fail to see 
 
 Right skies, through clouds so bright and ten- 
 der. 
 Show nie true joy." The angel's smile 
 
 Lit aU the night with splendor. 
 
 " Save that to Love and Learn and Do 
 In wondrous measure to us is given ; 
 
 Save that we see the face of God, 
 You have named the joys of heaven." 
 
 Eliza sproat Turner, 
 
 WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 
 
 When the bl.ack-lettered list to the gods was pre- 
 sented 
 (The list of what fate for each mortal intends). 
 At the long string of Ills a kind goddess relented, 
 And slipped in three blessings, — wife, children, 
 and friends. 
 
 In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated. 
 For justise divine could not compass its ends. 
 
 The scheme of man's pen.ance he swore was defeated. 
 For earth becomes heaven with — wife, childi'en, 
 and friends. 
 
 If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, 
 The fund, iU secured, oft in bankruptcy ends ; 
 
 But the heart issues bills which are never protested. 
 When drawn on the firm of — mfe, children, 
 and friends. 
 
 Theday-springof youth, still unclouded by sorrow. 
 Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
 
 But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow 
 No warmth from the smile of — wife, children, 
 and friends. 
 
 WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER. 
 
 1 
 
 r
 
 THE POET'S SONG TO HIS V/IFE. 
 
 How many summers, love, 
 
 Have I been thine ? 
 How many duys, thou dove. 
 
 Hast thou been mine ? 
 Time, like the winged wind 
 
 When t bends tlie tiowers. 
 Hath lel't no mark behind, 
 
 To count the hours ! 
 
 Some weight of thought, though loath, 
 
 On thee he leaves ; 
 Some lines of care round both 
 
 Perhaps he weaves ; 
 Some feai-s, — a soft regret 
 
 For joys scaree known ; 
 Sweet looks we half forget ; — 
 
 All else is flown ! 
 
 Ah ! — With what thankless heart 
 
 I mourn and sing ! 
 Look, where our children start. 
 
 Like sudden spring ' 
 With tongues all sweet and low 
 
 Like pleasant rhyme, 
 They tell how' much I owe 
 
 To thee and time ! 
 
 BARRY Cornwall, 
 
 IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE. 
 
 If thou wert by my side, my love. 
 How fast would evening fail 
 
 In green Bengala's palmy grove. 
 Listening the nightingale ! 
 
 If thou, my love, wert by my side, 
 
 My babies at my knee, 
 How gayly would our pinnace glide 
 
 O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 
 
 I miss thee at the dawning gray. 
 When, on our deck reclined, 
 
 In careless ease my limbs I lay 
 And woo the cooler wind. 
 
 I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 
 
 My twilight steps I guide. 
 But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 
 
 I miss thee from my side. 
 
 I spread my books, my pencil try. 
 The lingering noon to cheer. 
 
 But miss thy kinil, approving eye. 
 Thy meek, attentive ear. 
 
 But when at morn and eve the star 
 
 Beholds me on my knee, 
 I feel, though thou art distant far, 
 
 Thy prayers ascend for me. 
 
 Then on ! then on ! where duty leads. 
 
 My course bo onward still, 
 O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, 
 
 O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 
 
 That course nor Delhi's kingly gate.? 
 
 Nor mild Malwah detain ; 
 For sweet the bliss us both awaits 
 
 By yonder western main. 
 
 Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 
 
 Across the dark blue sea ; 
 But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 
 
 As then shall meet in thee ! 
 
 Reginald heber. 
 
 TROTH-PLIGHT. 
 
 FOR THE GOLDEN WEDDING OF A HUSBAND THIRTV-SEVEN 
 YEARS BLIND. 
 
 I BROUGHT her home, my bonny bride. 
 
 Just fifty years ago ; 
 Her eyes were bright, 
 Her step was light, 
 
 Her voice was sweet and low. 
 
 In April was our wedding-day — 
 
 The maiden month, you know, 
 
 Of tears and smiles. 
 
 And willful wiles. 
 
 And flowers that spring from snow. 
 
 My love cast dowTi her dear, dark eyes, 
 As if she fain would hide 
 
 From my fond sight 
 
 Her own delight. 
 
 Half shy, yet happy, bride. 
 
 But blushes told the tale, instead, 
 
 As plain as words could speak. 
 
 In dainty red. 
 
 That overspread 
 
 My darling's dainty cheek. 
 
 For twice six years and more I watched 
 Her fairer grow each day ; 
 
 My babes were blest 
 
 Upon her breast. 
 
 And she was pure as they.
 
 172 
 
 POEM!:i OF HOME. 
 
 And then an angel touched my eyes, 
 And turned my day to night, 
 
 That fading charms 
 
 Or time's alarms 
 
 Might never vex my sight. 
 
 Thus sitting in the dark I see 
 
 My darling as of yore, — 
 
 With blushing face 
 
 And winsome grace. 
 
 Unchanged, forevermore. 
 
 Full fifty years of young and fair ! 
 
 To her I pledge my vow 
 Whose spring-time grace 
 And April face 
 
 Have lasted until now. 
 
 Louise Chandler Moulton. 
 
 O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAP, I 
 
 O, LAY thy hand in mine, dear ! 
 
 We 're growing old ; 
 But Time hath brought no sign, dear, 
 
 That hearts gi'ow cold. 
 'T i.s long, long since our new love 
 
 Made life divine ; 
 But age enricheth true love, 
 
 Like noble wine. 
 
 And lay thy cheek to mine, dear. 
 
 And take thy rest ; 
 Mine arms around tliee twine, dear. 
 
 And make thy nest. 
 A many cares are pressing 
 
 On this dear head ; 
 But Sorrow's hands in blessing 
 
 Are surely laid. 
 
 0, lean thy life on mine, dear ! 
 
 'T will shelter thee. 
 Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, 
 
 On my young tree : 
 And so, till boughs are leafless. 
 
 And songbirds Hown, 
 We '11 twine, then lay us, griefless. 
 
 Together down. 
 
 Gerald Massev. 
 
 THE WORN WEDDING-RING. 
 
 ah, 
 
 Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife 
 
 summers not a few. 
 Since I put it on your finger first, have passed 
 
 o'er mc and yon ; 
 
 And, love, what changes we have seen, — wliat 
 
 cares and pleasures, too, — 
 Since you became my 0%™ dear wife, when this 
 
 old ring was new ! 
 
 0, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of 
 
 my life, 
 When, thanks to God, your low, sweet "Yes" 
 
 made you my loving wife ! 
 Your heart will say the same, I know ; that 
 
 day 's as dear to you, — 
 That day that made me yours, dear wife, when 
 
 this old ring was new. 
 
 How well do I remember now your young sweet 
 
 face that day ! 
 How fair you were, how dear you were, my 
 
 tongue could hardly say ; 
 Nor how I doated on you ; 0, how proud I was 
 
 of you ! 
 But did 1 love you more than now, when this 
 
 old ring was new ? 
 
 No — no ! no fairer were you then than at this 
 
 hour to me ; 
 And, dear as life to me this day, how could you 
 
 dearer be ? 
 As sweet your face might be that day as now it 
 
 is, 't is true ; 
 But did I know your heart as well when this old 
 
 ring was new ? 
 
 partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what 
 
 grief is tliere 
 For me you would not bravely face, with me 
 
 you would not share ? 
 0, what a w^eary want had every day, if wanting 
 
 you. 
 Wanting the love that God made mine when 
 
 this old ring was new ! 
 
 Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife, — young 
 
 voices that are here ; 
 Young faces round our fire that make their 
 
 mother's yet more dear ; 
 Young lo%'ing hearts j'our care each day makes 
 
 yet more like to you, 
 More like the loving heart made mine when this 
 
 old ring was new. 
 
 And, blessed be God ! aU he has given are with 
 
 us yet ; around 
 Our table every precious life lent to us still is 
 
 found. 
 Though cares we 've known, with hopeful hearts 
 
 the worst we 've struggled through ; 
 Blessed be his name for all his love since this 
 
 old ring was new 1
 
 + 
 
 HUME. 
 
 173 
 
 The past is dear, its sweetness still our memo- 
 ries treasure yet ; 
 
 The griefs we 've borne, together borne, we would 
 not now forget. 
 
 Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto 
 heart still true. 
 
 We '11 share as we have shared all else since this 
 old ring was new. 
 
 And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daugh- 
 ters to gi-ow old, 
 
 We know his goodness will not let your heart 
 or mine grow cold. 
 
 Your aged eyes will see in mine all they 've still 
 shown to you. 
 
 And mine in yours all they have seen since this 
 old ring was new. 
 
 And 0, when death shall come at last to bid me 
 
 to my rest, 
 May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on 
 
 that breast ; 
 0, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear 
 
 sight of you. 
 Of those fond eyes, — fond as they were when 
 
 this old ring was new ! 
 
 William Cox Bennett. 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent. 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is held, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither ; 
 And mony a canty day, John, 
 
 We 've had wi' ane anither. 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand w^e '11 go : 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 FILIAL LOVE. 
 
 FROM "CHILDE HAROLD- 
 
 There is a dungeon in whose dim drear light 
 What do I gaze on ? Nothing : look again ! 
 Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight, — 
 Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
 It is not so ; I see them fuU and plain, — 
 
 An old man and a female young and fair. 
 Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
 The blood is nectar : but what doth slie there. 
 With her unman tied neck, and bosom white and 
 bare ? 
 
 Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life. 
 Where ini the heart and/com tlie heart we took 
 Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
 Blest into mother, in the innocent look. 
 Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
 No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
 Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
 She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
 What may the fruit be yet ? I know not — Cain 
 w-as Eve's. 
 
 But here youth offers to old age the food. 
 The milk of his own gift : it is her sire 
 To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
 Born with her birth. No ! he shall not expire 
 While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
 Of health and holy feeling can provide 
 Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises 
 
 higher 
 Than Egypt's river ; — from that gentle side 
 Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm 
 holds no such tide. 
 
 The starry fable of the mUky-way 
 
 Has not thy story's pmity ; it is 
 
 A constellation of a sweeter ray. 
 
 And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
 
 Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
 
 Where sparkle distant worlds : — 0, holiest 
 
 nurse! 
 No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
 To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
 With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 
 
 LORD BVRON. 
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 
 
 Backward, turn backward, Time, in your 
 
 flight. 
 Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
 Mother, come back from the echoless shore. 
 Take me again to your heart as of j'ore ; 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
 Over my slumbers your lov-ing watch keep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Backward, flow backward, tide of the years I 
 I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
 Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 
 Take them, and give me my chOdhood again ! 
 
 T^
 
 174 
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 I Iinvo fjrown weary of dust antl decay, — 
 A\'eary of Hinging my soul-wealtli away ; 
 A\'caiy of sowing for otliers to reap ; — 
 IJoelc mo to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
 jlother, mother, my heart calls for you ! 
 Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
 lUossomi'd, and faded our faces between, 
 Vet with strong yearning and passionate pain 
 Long I to-night for your presence again. 
 Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — 
 Kock mo to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Over my heart, in the daj's that are flown, 
 No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
 No other worship abides and endures, — 
 Faithful, unselfish, and jiatient like yours : 
 None like a mother can charm away pain 
 From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
 Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ; — 
 Kock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold. 
 Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
 Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
 Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
 For with its sunny-edgod shadows once more 
 Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
 Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
 Kock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Jlother, dear mother, the years have been long 
 Since I last listened your lullaby song : 
 Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
 Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
 Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
 AVith your light lashes just sweeping my face. 
 Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 Elizabeth akers Allen 
 (Florence Percy). 
 
 TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 HIS SISTER, AUGUSTA LEIGH. 
 
 My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
 Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
 
 Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
 No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 
 
 Go where I will, to me thou art the same, — 
 A loved regret which 1 would not resign. 
 
 There yet are two things in my destiny, — 
 
 A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 
 
 The first were nothing, — had I still the last, 
 It were the haven of my happiness ; 
 
 But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
 And mine is not tlie wisli to make them less. 
 
 A strange doom is thy father's son's, and jiast 
 
 Keealling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
 Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore, — 
 He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
 
 If my inheritance of storms hath been 
 In other elements, and on the rocks 
 
 Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen, 
 
 I h.ave sustained my share of worldly shocks. 
 
 The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
 My errors with defensive paradox ; 
 
 I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
 
 The careful pilot of my proper woe. 
 
 Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 
 
 My whole life was a contest, since the day 
 That gave me being gave me that which marred 
 
 The gift, — a fate, or will, that walked astray : 
 And I at times have found the struggle hard. 
 
 And thought of shaking otf my bonds of clay : 
 But now I fain would for a time survive, 
 If but to see what next can well arrive. 
 
 Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
 I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
 
 And when I look on this, the petty spray 
 
 Of my own years of trouble, which have rolled 
 
 Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
 Something — I know not what — does still up- 
 hold 
 
 A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain. 
 
 Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 
 
 Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
 
 Within me, — or perhaps of cold despair, 
 
 Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
 Perhaps a kinder clime, or jiurer air, 
 
 (For even to this may change of soul refer, 
 And with light armor we may learn to bear,) 
 
 Have taught me a strange quiet, wdiich was not 
 
 The chief companion of a calmer lot. 
 
 I feel almost at times as I have felt 
 
 In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and 
 brooks. 
 Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
 
 Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
 Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
 
 My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
 And even at moments I could think I see 
 Some living thing to love, — but none like thee. 
 
 Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
 A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
 
 Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
 
 But something woilhier do such scenes inspire. 
 
 Here to be lonely is not desolate. 
 
 For much I view which I could most desire.
 
 -I- 
 
 HUMK. 
 
 175 
 
 And, above all, a lake I can behold 
 Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 
 
 that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
 The fool of my own wishes, and forgot 
 
 The solitude which I have vaunted so 
 Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
 
 There may be othei's which I less may show ; 
 I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
 
 1 feel an ebb in my philosophy. 
 
 And the tide rising in my altei'ed eye. 
 
 I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, 
 
 By the old Hall which may be mine no more. 
 
 Leman's is fair ? but think not I forsake 
 The sweet remembrance of a dearer .shore ; 
 
 Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, 
 Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
 
 Though, like all things which I have loved, they 
 are 
 
 Resigned forever, or divided far. 
 
 The world is all before me ; I but ask 
 
 Of Nature that with which she will comply, — 
 
 It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
 To mingle with the ijuiet of her sky, 
 
 To see her gentle face without a mask, 
 And never gaze on it with apathy. 
 
 She was my early fiiend, and now shall be 
 
 My sister, — till I look again on thee. 
 
 I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
 
 And that I would not ; for at length I see 
 Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. 
 
 The earliest, — even the only paths for me, — 
 H.ad I but sooner learnt the crowd to .shun, 
 
 I had been better than I now can he ; 
 The passions which have torn me would have 
 
 slept : 
 / had not suffered, and llioii had.st not wept. 
 
 With false Ambition what had I to do ? 
 
 Little with Love, and least of all with Fame ; 
 And yet tliey came unsought, and with me grew, 
 
 Andmade me all which they can make, — aname. 
 Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
 
 Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
 But all is over ; I am one the more 
 To baffled millions which have gone before. 
 
 And for the future, this world's future may 
 From me demand but little of my care ; 
 
 I have outlived myself by many a day : 
 
 Having sui-vived so many things that were ; 
 
 My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
 Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
 
 Of life which might have filled a century. 
 
 Before its I'ourth in time had passed me by. 
 
 And for the remnant which may be to come, 
 I am content ; and for the past I feel 
 
 Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
 Of struggles, happiness at times would steal. 
 
 And for the present, I would not benumb 
 My feelings farther. — Kor .shall I conceal 
 
 That with all this I still can look around. 
 
 And worship Nature with a thought profound. 
 
 For thee, my own .sweet sister, in thy heart 
 1 know myself secure, as thou in mine : 
 
 We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
 Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
 
 It is the same, together or apart. 
 
 From life's commencement to its slow decline 
 
 AVe are intwined, — let death come slow or fast. 
 
 The tie which hound the fiist endures the last ! 
 
 LORD BVKON. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Clixo to thy home ! if there the meanest shed 
 Yield thee a hearth and shelter for thy head, 
 And some poor plot, with vegetables stored, 
 Be all that Heaven allots thee for thy board, — 
 Unsavory bread, and herbs that scatteied grow 
 Wild on the river brink or mountain brow. 
 Yet e'en this cheerless mansion shall provide 
 More heart's repose than all the world beside. 
 
 From the Greek of LEONIPAS, 
 by Robert uland. 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 FROM THE OPERA OF •' CLARl, THE MAID OF MILAN." 
 
 Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam. 
 Be it ever so humble there 's no place like lionie ! 
 A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there. 
 Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met \\ ith 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! 
 
 There 's no place like home ! 
 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain : 
 0, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
 The birds singing gaylythat came at my call ; — 
 Give me them, — and the peace of mind dearer 
 than all ! 
 Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! 
 There 's no place like liome ! 
 
 John Howard Payne. 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 
 A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
 A willowy brook that turns a mill. 
 With many a fall sh.all linger near. 
 
 T
 
 17(j 
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
 Sliall twitter from her claj'-built nest ; 
 Oft sliall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
 Ami share my meal, a welcome guest. 
 
 Around my ivied porch shall spring 
 Each fragrant Hower that drinks the dew ; 
 And l^ucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
 In russet gown and apron blue. 
 
 The village-church among the trees, 
 Where first our marriage-vows were given, 
 With merry peals shall swell the breeze. 
 And point with taper spire to heaven. 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 THE QUIET LIFE. 
 
 Happy the man, whose wish and care 
 A few paternal acres bound, 
 Content to breathe his native air 
 In his own ground. 
 
 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 
 Whose Hocks supply him with attire ; 
 Whose trees in summer yield him shade. 
 In winter, fire. 
 
 lilest, who can unconcern'dly lind 
 Hours, days, and years slide soft away 
 In health of bo.ly, peace of mind, 
 Quiet by day, 
 
 Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
 Together mi-xed ; sweet recreation, 
 .Vuil innocence, wliich most does please 
 Witli meditation. 
 
 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 
 Thus unlameiiled let me die ; 
 Steal from the world, and not a stone 
 Tell where I lie. 
 
 ale.va.\der pope. 
 
 A SONG FOR THE HEARTH AKD HOME. 
 
 Dark is the night, and fitful and drearily 
 
 Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea : 
 Little care I, as here I sit cheerily. 
 
 Wife at my side and my baby on knee. 
 King, king, crown me the king : 
 Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! 
 
 Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces, 
 Dearer and dearer as onward we go, 
 
 Forces the shadow behind us, and places 
 
 Brightness around us with warmth in the glow. 
 
 King, king, crown me the king : 
 
 Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! 
 
 Flashes the loveliglit, increasing the glory. 
 Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the 
 soul. 
 Telling of trust and content the sweet story, 
 Lifting the shadows that over us roll. 
 King, king, crown me the king : 
 Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! 
 
 Richer than miser with perishing treasure. 
 
 Served with a service no conciuest could bring ; 
 Happy with fortune that words cannot measure, 
 Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. 
 King, king, crown me the king : 
 Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king. 
 
 WILLIAM RA.NKIN DUKVEA. 
 
 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 What is it fades and flickers in the fire. 
 
 Mutters and sighs, and yields reluctant breath, 
 
 As if in the red embei-s some desire, 
 
 Some word prophetic burned, defpng death ? 
 
 Lords of the forest, stalwart oak and pine. 
 Lie down for us in flames of martjTdom : 
 
 A human, household warmtb, their death-fires 
 shine ; 
 Yet fi'agrant with high memories they come, 
 
 Brhiging the mountain-winds thatin their boughs 
 Sang of the torrent, and the plashy edge 
 
 Of storm-swejit lakes ; and echoes that arouse 
 The eagles from a splintered ejTie ledge ; 
 
 And breath of violets sweet about their roots ; 
 
 And earthy odors of the moss and fern ; 
 And hum of rivulets ; smell of ripening fruits ; 
 
 And green leaves that to gold and crimson turn. 
 
 What clear Septembers fade out in a spark ! 
 
 A\Tiat rare Octoljers drop with every coal ! 
 Within these costly ashes, dumb and dark. 
 
 Are hid spring's buddmg hope, and summer's 
 soul. 
 
 Pictures far lovelier smoulder in the fire. 
 
 Visions of friends who walked among these trees, 
 
 Whose presence, like the fi'ce air, could inspire 
 A winged life and boundless sympathies. 
 
 Eyes with a glow like that in the brown beech. 
 When sunset through itsautunm beauty shines; 
 
 Or the blue gentian's look of silent speech, 
 To heaven appealing as earth's light declines ; 
 
 4
 
 
 
 ^^^Mv 
 
 h ^ 
 
 1 
 
 
 HOME. 177 
 
 
 Voices and steps forever fled away 
 
 Gives not tlie hawthorn-bush a sweeter shaiflo 
 
 
 From the familiar glens, the haunted hills, — 
 
 To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep. 
 
 
 Most pitiful and strange it is to stay 
 
 Thau doth a rich embroidered canopy 
 
 
 Without you in a world your lost love fills. 
 
 To kings that fear their subjects' treachery ? 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 
 Do you forget us, — under Eden trees. 
 
 Or in full sunshine on the hills of God, — 
 
 
 
 
 
 Who miss you from the shadow and the breeze, 
 
 THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 
 And tiuts aad perfumes of the woodland sod ? 
 
 Mautial, the things that do attain 
 
 
 Dear for your sake the fireside where we sit 
 
 The hap2)y life be these, I find, — 
 
 
 Wateliing these sad, bright pictures come and 
 
 The riches left, not got with pain ; 
 
 
 go ; 
 
 The fruitful ground, the (piiet mind. 
 
 
 That waning years are with your memory lit, 
 
 
 
 Is the one louely coudbrt that we know. 
 
 The equal friend ; no grudge, no strife ; 
 No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
 
 
 Is it all niemor3' ? Lo, these forest-1 lOughs 
 
 Without disea.se, the healthful life ; 
 
 
 Burst on the hearth into fresh leaf and liloom ; 
 
 The household of continuance ; 
 
 
 Waft a vague, far-olf sweetness througli the house, 
 
 
 
 And give close walls the hillside's breathing- 
 
 The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 
 
 
 room. 
 
 True wisdom joined with simpleness ; 
 The night discharged of all care, 
 
 
 A second life, more spiritual than tlie first. 
 
 Vv here wine the wit may not oppress ; 
 
 
 They find, — a life won only out of death. 
 
 
 
 sainted souls, within you still is nursed 
 
 The faithful wife, without debate ; 
 
 
 For us a flame not fed by mortal breath ! 
 
 Such sleeps as may beguile the night ; 
 Contented with thine own estate. 
 
 
 Unseen, ye bring to us, who love and wait, 
 
 Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 
 
 
 Wafts from the heavenly hills, immortal air ; 
 
 Lord Surrey, 
 
 
 No flood can quench your hearts' warmth, or 
 abate ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 Ye are our gladness, here and everywhere. 
 
 THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 
 LUCY larcom. 
 
 Dear Chloe, whOe the busy crowd, 
 The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, 
 
 
 
 
 A SHEPHERD'S LIEE. 
 
 In folly's maze advance ; 
 
 
 FROM " THIRD PART OF HENRY VI." 
 
 Though singularity and pride 
 
 
 King Henry. God ! methinks, it were a 
 
 Be called our choice, we '11 step aside, 
 
 
 happy life, 
 
 Nor join the giddy dance. 
 
 
 To be no better than a homely swain ; 
 
 From the gay world we '11 oft retire 
 To om' own family and fire. 
 
 Where love our hours employs ; 
 No noisy neighbor enters here, 
 No intermeddling stranger near, 
 
 To spoil our heartfelt joya. 
 
 
 To sit upon a hill, as I do now, 
 
 
 To carve out dials quaintly, point by point. 
 
 
 Thereby to see the minutes how they I'uu ; 
 
 
 How many make the hour full complete ; 
 How many hours bring about the day ; 
 
 
 How many days will finish up the year ; 
 
 
 How many years a mortal man may live. 
 
 If solid happiness we prize. 
 
 
 Yv'hen this is known, then to divide the times,— 
 
 Within our breast this jewel lie.'', 
 
 
 So many hours must I tend my flock ; 
 
 And they are fools who roam ; 
 
 
 So many hours must I take my rest ; 
 
 The world hatli nothing to bestow, — 
 From our own selves our bliss must flow, 
 
 
 So many hours must I contemplate ; 
 
 
 So many hours must I sport myself ; 
 
 And that dear hut, our home. 
 
 
 So many days my esves liave been with young ; 
 
 
 
 So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; 
 
 Our portion Is not large, indeed ; 
 
 
 So nniny years ere I shall shear the fleece : 
 
 But then how little do we need. 
 
 
 So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years. 
 
 For nature's calls are few ; 
 
 
 Passed over to the end they were created, 
 
 In this the art of living lies, 
 
 
 AVoulil bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 
 
 To want no more than may s'llTi^'o, 
 
 
 Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! howlovely ! 
 
 And mnke that little do'. 
 
 ;
 
 178 
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 We '11 therefore relish with content 
 Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 
 
 Nor aim beyoiul our power ; 
 For, if our stock be very small, 
 'T is prudence to enjoy it all, 
 
 Nor lose the present hour. 
 
 To be resigned when ills betide. 
 Patient when favors are denied, 
 
 And pleased with favors given, — 
 Dear Chloe, tliis is wisdom's part. 
 This is that incense of the heart. 
 
 Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 
 
 NATHANIEL COTTON. 
 
 AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. 
 
 GOOD pamter, tell me true, 
 
 Has your hand the cunning to draw 
 Shapes of things that you never saw ? 
 
 Ay ? Well, here is an order for you. 
 
 Woods and cornfields, a little brown, — ■ 
 The picture must not be over-lnight, — 
 Yet all in the golden and gracious light 
 
 Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. 
 
 Alway and alway, night and morn. 
 
 Woods upon woods, witli fields of corn 
 Lying between them, not (juite sere. 
 And not in the full, tliick, leafy bloom, 
 Wlicn the wind can hardly find breathing-room 
 
 Under their tassels, — cattle near. 
 Biting shorter the short green grass, 
 And a hedge of sumach and sassafras. 
 With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
 (Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound !) — 
 
 These, and the house where I was born, 
 Low and little, and black and old. 
 With children, many as it can hold, 
 All at the windows, open wide, — 
 Heads and shoulders clear outside, 
 And fair young faces all ablush : 
 
 Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 
 
 Roses crowding the selfsame way. 
 Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 
 
 Listen closer. When you have done 
 
 With woods and cornfields andgrazing herds, 
 A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
 
 Looked down upon, you must paint for me ; 
 
 0, if I only could make you see 
 
 The clear blue eyes, the tender smile. 
 
 The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. 
 
 The woman's soul, and the angel's face. 
 That are beaming on me all the while ! — ■ 
 ] need not speak these foolish words : 
 Yet one word tells you all 1 would say, — 
 
 She is my mother : you will agree 
 
 That all tlie rest may be thrown away. 
 
 Two little urchins at her knee 
 You nuist paint, sir : one like me, — 
 Tlie other with a clearer brow. 
 
 And the light of his adventiu-ous eyes 
 
 Flashing with boldest enterprise : 
 At ten years old he went to sea, — 
 
 God knoweth if he be living now, — 
 
 He .sailed in the good ship Commodore, — 
 Nobody ever crossed her track 
 To bring us news, and she never came back. 
 
 Ah, 't is twenty long years and more 
 Since that old ship went out of the bay 
 
 With my great-hearted brother on her deck ; 
 
 I watched him till he .shrank to a speck. 
 And his face was toward me all the way. 
 
 Bright his hair w'as, a golden brown. 
 
 The time we stood at our mother's knee : 
 
 That beauteous head, if it did go do\vn. 
 Carried sunshine into the sea ! 
 
 Out in the fields ojie summer night 
 
 We were together, half afraid 
 
 Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade 
 Of the high hills, stretching so still and far, — 
 Loitering till after the low little light 
 
 Of the candle shone through the open door. 
 And over the haystack's pointed top, 
 All of a tremble, and ready to drop, 
 
 The first half-hour, the great yellow star. 
 
 That we, with staring, ignorant eyes. 
 Had often and often watched to see 
 
 Propped and held in its place in the skies 
 By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, 
 
 Whicli close in the edgeof our flax-field grew, — 
 Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
 Of leaves, notched round, and lined w^ith wool, 
 
 From which it tenderly shook the dew 
 Over our hea'ls, when we came to play 
 In its handbi'cadth of shadow, day after day. — 
 
 Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us bore 
 A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, — 
 The other, a bird, held fast by the legs. 
 Not so big as a straw of wheat : 
 The berries we gave her she would n't eat, 
 But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
 So slim and shining, to keep her stUl. 
 
 At last we stood at our mother's knee. 
 
 Do you think, sir, if you try. 
 
 You can paint the look of a lie ? 
 
 If you can, pray have the grace 
 
 To put it solely in the face 
 Of the urchin that is likest me : 
 
 I think 't was solely mine, indeed : 
 
 1 
 ~,^^ 
 
 1 
 
 r
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 _ 
 
 ' 
 
 1-^ 
 
 
 
 
 HOME. 179 
 
 
 
 But tliat 's no matter, — paint it so ; 
 
 WiQe the gay snow-storm, held aloof, 
 
 
 The eyes of our mother — take good heed — 
 
 To softest outline rounds the roof. 
 
 
 
 Looking not on the uestlul of eggs, 
 
 Or the rude North with baliled strain 
 
 
 
 Nor the Huttering bird, held so fast by the legs. 
 
 Shoulders tlie frost-starred window-pane ! 
 
 
 
 But straight through our faces down to our lies. 
 
 Now the kind nymph to Bacchus borne 
 
 
 
 And IJ, with sucli injured, reproachful surprise ! 
 
 By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems 
 
 
 
 1 felt my heart bleed where that glance went, 
 
 Gifted upon her natal morn 
 
 
 
 as though 
 
 By him with fire, by her with dreams. 
 
 
 
 A sharp blade struck through it. 
 
 Nicotia, dearer to the Muse 
 
 
 
 You, sir, know. 
 
 Than all the grapes' bewildering juice. 
 
 
 
 That you on the canvas are to repeat 
 
 We worship, unforbid of thee ; 
 
 
 
 Tilings that are laiiest, tilings most sweet, — 
 
 And, as her incense floats and curls 
 
 
 
 Woods and cornhelds and midberry-tree, — 
 
 In airy spires and wayward wliirls. 
 
 
 
 The mother, — the lads, with their bird, at her 
 
 Or poises on its tremulous stalk 
 
 
 
 knee : 
 
 A flower of frailest revery. 
 
 
 
 But, 0, that look of reproachful wue ! 
 
 So winds and loiters, idly free. 
 
 
 
 High as the heavens yom- name I '11 shout, 
 
 The current of unguided talk. 
 
 
 
 If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 
 
 Now laughter-rippled, and now caught 
 
 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 In smooth dark pools of deeper thought. 
 Jleanwhile thou mellowest every word, 
 A sweetly unobtrusive third : 
 For thou hast magic beyond wine, 
 
 
 
 A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Tuou of home the guardian Lar, 
 
 To unlock natures each to each ; 
 
 
 
 And when our earth hath wandered far 
 
 The unspoken thought thou canst divine ; 
 
 
 
 Into the cold, and deep snow covers 
 
 Tliou fiUest the pauses of the speech 
 
 
 
 The walks of our New England lovers. 
 
 With whispers that to dream-land reach. 
 
 
 
 Their sweet secluded evening-star ! 
 
 And frozen fancy-springs imchain 
 
 
 
 'T was with thy rays the English Muse 
 
 In Arctic outskirts of the brain. 
 
 
 
 liipened her mild domestic hues ; 
 
 Sun of all inmost confidences! 
 
 
 
 'T was by thy flicker that she conned 
 
 To thy rays doth the heart unclose 
 
 
 
 The fireside wisdom that enrings 
 
 Its formal calyx of pretenses. 
 
 
 
 With light from heaven familiar things ; 
 
 That close against rude day's offenses, 
 
 
 
 By thee she found the homely iaith 
 
 And open its shy midnight rose. 
 
 
 
 In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th, 
 
 James kussell Lowell. 
 
 
 
 When Death, e.^Ltinguishing his torch, 
 Grojies for the latch-string in tlie porch ; 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 Tlie love that wanders not beyond 
 
 HOTVrR 
 
 
 
 His earliest nest, but sits and sings 
 
 
 
 
 While children smooth his patient wings. 
 
 FROM " THE TRAVELER." 
 
 
 
 Therefore with thee I love to read 
 
 But where to find that happiest spot below, 
 
 
 
 Our brave old poets ; at thy touch how stirs 
 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
 
 
 
 Life in the withered words ! how swift recede 
 
 The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
 
 
 
 Time's shadows ! and how glows again 
 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
 
 
 
 Through its dead mass the incandescent verse. 
 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. 
 
 
 • 
 
 As when upon the anvils of the lirain 
 
 And his long nights of revelry and case : 
 
 
 
 It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought 
 
 The naked negro, panting at the line. 
 
 
 
 By the fast-throbbing hammers of the poet's 
 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. 
 
 
 
 thought ! 
 
 Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 
 
 
 
 Tiiou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, 
 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
 
 
 
 The aspirations unattained, 
 
 Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 
 
 
 
 Tlie rhythms so rathe and delicate, 
 
 His first, best country ever is at home. 
 
 
 
 They bent and strained 
 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 
 
 
 
 And broke, beneath the sombre weight 
 
 And estimate the blessings which they share, 
 
 
 
 Of any airiest mortal word. 
 
 Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
 An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
 
 
 
 As who would say, "'Tis those, I ween. 
 
 As dilferent good, by art or nature given. 
 
 
 
 Whom lifelong armor-chafe makes lean 
 
 To dilferent nations makes their blessing even. 
 
 
 
 That win tlie laurel " ; 
 
 > 
 
 OI.HEK GOLDS.MITH. 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 ^
 
 180 
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The stately Homes of England, 
 
 How beautiful tliey stand ! 
 
 Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 
 
 O'er all the pleasant land ; 
 
 The deer across their greensward bound 
 
 Through shade and sunny gleam. 
 
 And the swan glides past them with the sound 
 
 Of some rejoicing stream. 
 
 The merry Homes of England ! 
 
 Arounil their hearths by night. 
 
 What gladsome looks of household love 
 
 Meet in the ruddy light. 
 
 There woman's voice flows forth in song, 
 
 Or childish tale is told ; 
 
 Or lips move tunefully along 
 
 Some glorious page of old. 
 
 The blessed Homes of England ! 
 
 How soltly on their bowers 
 
 Is laid the holy quietness 
 
 That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 
 
 Solemn, yet sweet, the cliurch-bell's chime 
 
 Floats through their woods at morn ; 
 
 All other sounds, in that still time. 
 
 Of breeze and leaf are bora. 
 
 The cottage Homes of England ! 
 
 By thousands on her plains. 
 
 They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 
 
 And round the hamlet-fanes. 
 
 Through glowing orchards forth they peep. 
 
 Each from its nook of leaves ; 
 
 And fearless there the lowly sleep, 
 
 As the bird beneath their eaves. 
 
 The free, fair Homes of England ! 
 
 Long, long in hut and hall. 
 
 May hearts of native proof he reared 
 
 To guard each hallowed wall ! 
 
 And green forever be the gi'oves. 
 
 And bright the flowery sod, 
 
 AVhere first the child's glad spirit loves 
 
 Its comitry and its God. 
 
 FELICIA HEMANS. 
 
 LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR. 
 
 A GOOD wife rose from her bed one morn, 
 
 And thought, with a nervous dread. 
 Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more 
 
 Than a dozen mouths to be fed. 
 "There 's the meals to get for the men in the field. 
 
 And the children to nx away 
 To school, and the milk to be skimmed and 
 churned ; 
 
 And all to be done this day." 
 
 It had rained in the night, and all the wood 
 
 Was Wet as it could be ; 
 There were puddings and pies to bake, besides 
 
 A loaf of cake for tea. 
 And the day was hot, and her aching head 
 
 Throbbed wearily as she said, 
 " If maidens but knew what good tcives know, 
 
 They would not be in haste to wed/" 
 
 "Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown?" 
 
 Called the farmer from the well ; 
 And a flush crept up to his bronzfed brow. 
 
 And his eyes half-bashfully fell : 
 " It was this," he said, and coining near 
 
 He smiled, and stooping down, 
 Kissed her cheek — "'t was this, that you were 
 the best 
 
 And the dearest wife in town ! " 
 
 The farmer went back to the field, and the wife, 
 
 In a smOing, absent way. 
 Sang snatches of tender little songs 
 
 She 'd not sung for many a day. 
 And the pain in her head was gone, and the 
 clothes 
 
 Were white as the foam of the sea ; 
 Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet. 
 
 And as golden as it could be. 
 
 "Just think," the childi'en all called in a breath, 
 
 " Tom Wood has run off to sea ! 
 He would n't, I know, if he 'd only had 
 
 As happy a home as we." 
 The night came down, and the good wife smiled 
 
 To herself, as she softly said : 
 " 'T is so sweet to labor for those we love, — 
 
 It 's not strange that maids will toed ! " 
 
 ANONV.MOUS. 
 
 THE TWO ANCHORS. 
 
 It was a gallant sailor man, 
 
 Had just come from sea. 
 And, as I passed him in the town. 
 
 He sang "Ahoy ! " to me. 
 I stopped, and saw I knew the man. 
 
 Had known him from a boy ; 
 And so I answered, sailor-like, 
 
 "Avast ! " to his "Ahoy!" 
 I made a song for him one day, '■ — 
 
 His ship was then in sight, — 
 " The little anchor on the left. 
 
 The great one on the right." 
 
 I gave his hand a hearty grip, 
 ' ' So you are back again ? 
 
 They say you have been pirating 
 Upon the Spanish Main ;
 
 POEMS OF HOME. 
 
 l;Ji 
 
 Or was it some lit-h Iniliamau 
 
 You robbed of all her pearls ? 
 Of course you have been breaking hearts 
 
 Of poor Kanaka girls ! " 
 "Wherever I have been," he said, 
 
 " I kcjit my ship in sight, — 
 ' The little anchor on the left. 
 
 The great one on the right.' " 
 
 "I hcai'd last night that you were in : 
 
 I walked the wharves to-day. 
 But saw no ship that looked like yours. 
 
 Where does the good ship lay ? 
 I want to go on board of her." 
 
 "And so you shall," said he ; 
 " But there are many things to do 
 
 When one conies home from sea. 
 You know the song you made for me ? 
 
 I sing it morn and night, — 
 'The little anchor on the left. 
 
 The great one on the right. ' " 
 
 "But how's your wife and little one?" 
 
 " Come home with me," he said. 
 "Go on, go on : I follow you." 
 
 I followed where he led. 
 He had a pleasant little house ; 
 
 The door was open wide. 
 And at the door the dearest face, — 
 
 A dearer one inside. 
 He hugged his wife and child ; he sang, — 
 
 His spirits were so light, — 
 " The little anchor on the left. 
 
 The gi-eat one on the right. " 
 
 'T was supper-time, and we sat down, — 
 
 The sailor's wife and child, 
 And he and I : he looked at them. 
 
 And looked at me, and smiled. 
 " I think of this when I am tossed 
 
 Upon the stomiy foam. 
 And, though a thousand leagues away. 
 
 Am anchored here at home." 
 Then, giving each a kiss, he said, 
 
 " I see, in dreajns at night. 
 This little anchor on my left. 
 
 This great one on my right." 
 
 R, H. STODDARD. 
 
 THE CHILDREN. 
 
 When the lessons and tasks are all ended, 
 And the school for the day is dismissed, 
 
 The little ones gather around me. 
 To bid me good night and be kissed ; 
 
 Oh, the little white arms that encircle 
 My neck in their tender embrace ! 
 
 Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 
 Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 
 
 And when they are gone I sit dreaming 
 
 Of my childhood, too lovely to last ; 
 Of joy that my heart will remember 
 
 When it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
 Ere the world and its wickedness made me 
 
 A partner of sorrow and sin. 
 When the glory of God wa.s about me, 
 
 And the glory of gladness within. 
 
 All my heart gi-ows as weak as a woman's. 
 
 And the fountains of feeling will flow, 
 When I think of the paths steep and stony. 
 
 Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; 
 Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, 
 
 Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild ; 
 Oh I there 's nothing on eartli half so holy 
 
 As the innocent heart of a child ! 
 
 They are idols of hearts and of households ; 
 
 They are angels of God in disguise ; 
 His sunlight still slee^js in their tresses. 
 
 His glory still gleams in their eyes ; 
 Those truants from home and from heaven, — 
 
 They have made me more manly and mild ; 
 And I know now how Jesus could likeu 
 
 The kingdom of God to a child ! 
 
 I ask not a life for the dear ones, 
 
 All radiant, as others have done. 
 But that life may have just enough shadow 
 
 To temper the glare of the sun ; 
 I would pray God to guard them from evil, 
 
 But my prayer would bound back to myself; 
 Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. 
 
 But a sinner must pray for himself. 
 
 The twig is so ea.sily bended, 
 
 I have banished the rule and the rod : 
 I have taught them the goodness of knowledge. 
 
 They have taught me the goodness of God. 
 My heart is the dungeon of darkness. 
 
 Where I shut them for breaking a rule ; 
 Jly frown is sufficient correction ; 
 
 My love is the law of the school. 
 
 I shall leave the old house in the Autumn, 
 
 To travei-se its threshold no more : 
 Ah ! how shall I sigh for the dear ones 
 
 That meet me each morn at the door ! 
 I shall miss the " good nights " and the kisses, 
 
 And the gush of their innocent glee. 
 The group on its green, and the flowers 
 
 That are brought evciy morning to me. 
 
 r
 
 I 
 
 182 
 
 POEMS OF HUME. 
 
 T 
 
 I shall miss them at morn and at even, 
 
 Their song in tlie school ami the street ; 
 I shall miss the low hum of tlieii' voices, 
 
 And the tread of their delicate feet. 
 When the lessons of life are all ended, 
 
 And death says, " The school is dismissed ! " 
 Hay the little ones gather around me. 
 
 To bid me good night and he kissed ! 
 
 CHARLES M, DICKINSON. 
 
 FAITH AND HOPE. 
 
 0, don't be sorrowful, darling ! 
 
 Now, don't be sorrowful, pray ; 
 For, taking the year together, my dear. 
 
 There is n't more night than day. 
 It 's rainy weather, my loved one ; 
 
 Time's wheels they heavily run ; 
 But taking the year together, my dear, 
 
 There is n't more cloud than sun. 
 
 We 're old folks now, companion, — 
 
 Our heads tlicy are growing gray ; 
 But taking the year all round, my dear. 
 
 You always will find the May. 
 We 've had our May, my darling, 
 
 And our roses, long ago ; 
 And the time of the year is come, my dear. 
 
 For the long dark nights, and tlie snow. 
 
 But God is God, my niithful. 
 
 Of night as well as of day ; 
 And we feel and know that we can go 
 
 Wherever he leads the way. 
 Ay, God of night, my darling ! 
 
 Of the night of death so grim ; 
 And the gate that from life leads out, good wife. 
 
 Is the gate that leads to Him. 
 
 KE.MI.RANDT I'EALE, 
 
 THE FAMILY MEETINGS. 
 
 We are all here, 
 
 Father, mother, 
 
 Sister, brother, 
 All who hold each other dear. 
 Each chair is filled ; we 're all at home ! 
 To-night let no cold stranger come. 
 It is not often thus around 
 Our old familiar hearth we 're found. 
 Bless, then, the meeting and the spot ; 
 For once be every care forgot ; 
 Let gentle peace assert her power, 
 And kind affection rule the hour. 
 
 We 're all — all here. 
 
 We 're not all here ! 
 Some are away, — the dead ones dear. 
 
 Who tlironged with us this ancient hearth. 
 And gave tlie hour to guileless mirth. 
 Fate, with a stern, relentless hand. 
 Looked in, and thinned our little band ; 
 Some like a night-flash passed away. 
 And some sank lingering day by day ; 
 The quiet graveyard, — some lie there, — 
 And cruel ocean has his share. 
 We 're not all here. 
 
 We are all here ! 
 Even they, — the dead, — though dead, so dear, - 
 Fond memory, to her duty true. 
 Brings back their faded forms to view. 
 How lifelike, through the mist of years, 
 Each well-remembered face appears ! 
 We .see them, as in times long past ; 
 From each to each kind looks are east ; 
 We hear their words, their smiles behold ; 
 They 're round us, as they were of old. 
 
 We are all here. 
 
 We are all here, 
 
 Father, mother, 
 
 Sister, brother, 
 You that I love with love so dear. 
 This may not long of us be said ; 
 Soon must we join the gathered dead. 
 And by the hearth we now sit round 
 Some other circle will be found. 
 0, then, that wisdom may we know, 
 Which yields a life of peace below ; 
 So, in the world to follow this, 
 May each repieat in words of bliss. 
 
 We 're all — all here ! 
 
 Charles Sprague. 
 
 A PETITION TO TIME. 
 
 Tcjuoii us gently. Time ! 
 
 Let us glide adown thy stream 
 Gently, — as we sometimes glide 
 
 Through a quiet di'eam ! 
 Humlile voyagei-3 are we. 
 Husband, «ife, and children three, — 
 (One is lost, — an angel, fled 
 To the azure overhead !) 
 
 Touch us gently. Time ! 
 
 We 've not proud nor soaring wings ; 
 Our ambition, our content, 
 
 Lies in simple things. 
 Humble voyagers are we. 
 O'er life's dim, unsounded sea. 
 Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
 Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 
 
 Bryan Waller Procter 
 (BARRY Cornwall).
 
 t^ \^ 
 
 ,L
 
 POEMS OF PARTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 GOOD BYE. 
 
 "Farewell ! farewell !" is often heard 
 
 From the lips of those who part : 
 'T is a whispered tone, — 't is a gentle word, 
 
 But it springs not from the heart. 
 It may serve for the lover's closing lay, 
 
 To be sung 'neath a summer sky ; 
 But give to me the lips that say 
 
 The honest words, "Good bye!" 
 
 "Adieu ! adieu ! " may greet the ear. 
 
 In the guise of courtly speech : 
 But when we leave the kind and dear, 
 
 'T is not what the soul would teach. 
 'Wliene'er we gra.sp the hands of those 
 
 We would have forever nigh, 
 The flame of Friendship bursts and glows 
 
 In the warm, frank words, "Good bye." 
 
 The mother, sending forth her child 
 
 To meet with cares and strife. 
 Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears 
 
 For the loved one's future life. 
 No cold "adieu," no "farewell," lives 
 
 Within her choking sigh. 
 But the deepest sob of anguish gives, 
 
 "God bless thee, boy! Good bye!" 
 
 Go, watch the pale and dying one. 
 
 When the glance has lost its beam ; 
 AVhen the brow is cold as the marble stone. 
 
 And the world a passing dream : 
 And the latest pressure of the hand. 
 
 The look of the closing eye. 
 Yield what the heart must understand, 
 
 A long, a last Good bye. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 AS SHIPS BECALMED. 
 
 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, up sprang the breeze. 
 And all the darkling hours they plied ; 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the selfsame 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 fdled, 
 And onward each rejoicing steered ; 
 
 Ah ! neither blame, for neither willed 
 Or wist what fii-st w-ith dawn appeared. 
 
 To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. 
 Brave barks ! — in light, in darkuess 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE FART. 
 
 Ae fond kiss and then we sever ! 
 Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I 'II pledge thee ; 
 Warring sighs and groans I '11 wage tliee. 
 Who shall say that fortune grieves Iiim, 
 'While the star of liope she leaves him ? 
 Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
 Dark despair around benights nie. 
 
 I '11 ne'er blame my Jiartial fancy — 
 Naething coulil resist my Nancy : 
 
 r
 
 IS-i 
 
 POEMS OF PARTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 But to see lier was to lovu her. 
 Love but lier, and love I'oivver. 
 Had we never loved sac kindly, 
 Had we never loved s;)e Ijlindly, 
 Never met — or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
 
 Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
 Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
 Peace, enjoyment, love, and [ilcasure! 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
 Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I '11 pledge thee ; 
 Warring sighs and groans I '11 wagetiiee. 
 
 ROBEKT BURNS. 
 
 THE VOW. 
 
 In holy night we made the vow ; 
 
 And the .same lamp wliich long before 
 Had seen our early passion grow 
 
 Was witness to the faith we swore. 
 
 Did I not swear to love her ever ; 
 
 And have I ever dared to rove ? 
 Did she not own a rival never 
 
 Should shake her faith, or steal her love? 
 
 Yet now she says tho.se words wcTe .-lir. 
 Those vows were written all in water. 
 
 And by the lamp that saw her swear 
 Has yielded to the first that sought her. 
 
 From the Greek of Meleaci-:R, 
 
 by John heriian Merivale. 
 
 THE KISS, DEAR MAID. 
 
 The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left 
 
 Shall never part frnm mine, 
 Till happier hours restore the gift 
 
 Untainted back to thine. 
 
 Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 
 
 An equal love may see : 
 The tear that from thine eyelid streams 
 
 Can weep no change in me. 
 
 I ask no pledge to make me blest 
 
 In gazing when alone ; 
 Nor one memorial for a breast 
 
 Whose thoughts are all thine own. 
 
 Nor need I WTite — to tell the tale 
 
 My pen were doubly weak : 
 O, what can idle words avail. 
 
 Unless the heart could speak ? 
 
 I!y day or night, in weal or woe, 
 
 That heart, no longer i'reo, 
 Must bear the love it cannot show, 
 
 And sileut, ache for thee. 
 
 Lord evron. 
 
 MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 
 
 ZwJJ flOXI (rds dyaTrto.* 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
 Give, 0, give me back my heart ! 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 Ttib-q iiov crai d7a7rw. 
 
 By those tresses unconfined. 
 Wooed by each Mgmm wind ; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' bloonung tinge ; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 Zii?; liOv eras dyairui. 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-eucircled waist ; 
 By all the token-flowers that tell 
 What words can never speak so well ; 
 By love's alternate joy and woe, 
 ZwT? fj.ou ads dyairCj. 
 
 Maid of Athens ! I am gone. 
 Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 
 Athens holds my heart and soul : 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 ZwT/ /xou dds dyawLo. 
 
 Lord Bvron. 
 
 THE HEATH THIS NIGHT MUST BE MY BED 
 
 song of the young Highlander, summoned from the 
 side of his bride by the "fiery cross" of rod- 
 erick dhu. 
 
 The heath this night must be my bed, 
 The bracken curtain for my head. 
 My lullaby the warder's tread, 
 
 Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; 
 To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 
 My couch may be my bloody plaid. 
 My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! 
 
 It will not waken me, JIary ! 
 
 I may not, dare not, fanc}' now 
 The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, 
 I dare not think upon thy vow. 
 And all it promised me, ]\lary. 
 
 • Zo€ fnoti, laj a^afo, — My VXt, 1 love lliee. 
 
 1 
 
 r
 
 -I- 
 
 FARTING. 
 
 185 
 
 No foiul regi'et must Nonnau know ; 
 
 When bursts Clan-Alpiue on the foe, 
 
 His lieai-t nuist be like beudeil bow, 
 
 His foot like arrow free, Mary. 
 
 A time will come with feeling fraught ; 
 For, if 1 fall in battle fought. 
 Thy hapless lover's dying thought 
 
 Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
 And if returned from contjuered foes, 
 How blithely will the evening close. 
 How sweet the linnet sing repose, 
 
 To my young bride and me, Mary ! 
 
 SIR "WALltk SCOTT. 
 
 TO LUCASTA, 
 
 ON GOING TO THE WARS. 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde. 
 
 That from the nunnerie 
 Of thy chaste breast and quiet mindc. 
 
 To warre and armes I flee. 
 
 Trae, a new mistresse now I chase, — 
 
 The first foe in the field ; 
 And with a stronger I'aith imbrace 
 
 A sword, a horse, a shield. 
 
 Yet this inconstancy is such 
 
 As you, too, should adore ; 
 I could not love thee, deare, so much, 
 
 Loved I not honor more. 
 
 Richard Lonllace. 
 
 ADIEU, ADIEU I OUR DREAM OF LOVE- 
 
 AlilEi', adieu ! our dream of love 
 Was far too sweet to linger long ; 
 
 Such hopes may bloom in bowers above, 
 But here they mock the fond and young. 
 
 We met in hope, we part in tears ! 
 
 Yet 0, 't is sadly sweet to know 
 That life, in all its future years. 
 
 Can reach us with no heavier blow ? 
 
 The hour is come, the spell is past ; 
 
 Far, far from thee, my only love. 
 Youth's earliest hope, and manhood's last. 
 
 My darkened spirit turns to rove. 
 
 Adieu, adieu ! 0, dull and dread 
 Sinks on the ear that parting knell ! 
 
 Hope and the dreams of love lie dead, — 
 To them and thee, farewell, farewell ! 
 
 Thomas K. Hi;Rvtv. 
 
 BLACK-EYED SUSAN. 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was moored. 
 The streamers waving in the wind. 
 
 When black-eyed Susan came aboarii ; 
 " 0, where shall 1 my true-love find ? 
 
 Tell me, ye jovial sailois, tell me true 
 
 If my sweet William sails among the crew." 
 
 William, who high upon the yard 
 Kocked with the billow to and fro, 
 
 Soon as her well-known voice he heard 
 He sighed, and cast his eyes below : 
 
 Thecordslides swiftly through his glowing hands. 
 
 And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 
 
 So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 
 Shuts close his pinious to his breast 
 
 If chance his mate's shrill call he hear. 
 And drops at once into her nest : — 
 
 The noblest captain in the British fleet 
 
 Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 
 
 " Susan, Susan, lovely dear. 
 
 My vows shall ever true remain ; 
 Let me kiss oft' that falling tear ; 
 
 We only part to meet again. 
 Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be 
 The faithful compass that still points to thee. 
 
 " Believe not what the landmen say, 
 Who tempt with doubts thy constant miuLl : 
 
 They '11 tell thee sailors, wlien away. 
 In every port, a mistress find : 
 
 Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 
 
 For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 
 
 " If to fair India's coast we .sail. 
 Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. 
 
 Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. 
 Thy skin is ivoiy so white. 
 
 Thus every beauteous object that I view 
 
 Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 
 
 "Though battle call me fi'oni thy arms. 
 
 Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
 Though cannons roar, yet safe from hann.s 
 
 William shall to his dear return. 
 Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. 
 Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 
 The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
 
 No longer must she stay aboard ; 
 
 They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 
 
 Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ; 
 
 "Adieu ! " she cries ; and waved her lily \v.nv\. 
 
 John- c.av
 
 -L 
 
 1S6 
 
 POEMS OF PARTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 HERO TO LEANDEE. 
 
 0, 00 not yet, my love, 
 
 Till! night is dark and vast ; 
 The white moou is hid in her lieaven above. 
 
 And the waves climb high and fast. 
 0, kiss me, kiss me, once again, 
 
 Lest thy kiss should be the last. 
 kiss me ere we part ; 
 Grow closer to my heart ; 
 Jly heart is warmer sm-ely than the bosom of the 
 main. 
 joy ! bliss of blisses ! 
 
 My heart of hearts art thou. 
 Come, bathe me with thy kisses, 
 
 My eyelids and my brov?. 
 Hark ! how the wild rain hisses, 
 
 And the loud sea roars below. 
 
 Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs, 
 
 So gladly doth it stir ; 
 Thine eye in drops of gladness swims. 
 
 I have bathed thee with the pleasant myrrh ; 
 Thy locks are dripping balm ; 
 Thou shalt not wander hence to-night, 
 
 I '11 stay thee with my kisses. 
 To-night the roaring brine 
 
 AVill rend thy golden tresses ; 
 The ocean with the moiTow light 
 Will be both blue and calm ; 
 And the biUow wiU embrace thee with a kiss as 
 soft as mine. 
 
 No "SVesteni odors wander 
 
 On the black and moaning sea. 
 And when thou art dead, Leander, 
 
 My soul must follow thee ! 
 0, go not yet, my love. 
 
 Thy voice is sweet and low ; 
 The deep salt wave breaks in above 
 
 Those marble steps below. 
 The turret-stairs are wet 
 
 That lead into the sea. 
 
 Leander ! go not yet ! 
 
 The pleasant stars have set : 
 
 0, go not, go not yet. 
 
 Or I win follow thee. 
 
 ALFRED Tennyson. 
 
 THE PARTING LOVERS. 
 
 She says, " The cock crows, — hark ! ' 
 He says, " No ! still 't is dark." 
 
 She says, " The dawn gi-ows bright," 
 He says, "0 no, my Light." 
 
 She says, " Stand up and say, 
 Gets not the heaven gray ?" 
 
 He says, ' ' The morning star 
 Climbs the horizon's bar." 
 
 She says, " Then quick depart : 
 Alas ! you now must start ; 
 
 " But give the cock a blow 
 Who did begin our woe ! " 
 
 From the Cliinese. by WILLIAM R. ALGER. 
 
 THE PAKTING OF EOMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 Juliet. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near 
 day : 
 It was the nightingale, and not the lark. 
 That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; 
 Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree : 
 Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 
 
 EoMEO. It was the lark, the herald of tlie 
 morn, 
 No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks 
 Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east : 
 Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day 
 Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain -tops. 
 I must be gone and live, or stay and die. 
 
 Juliet. Yon light is not daylight, I know 
 it, I : 
 It is some meteor, that the sun exhales. 
 To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, 
 And light thee on thy w.iy to Mantua : 
 Therefore stay yet, — thou need'st not to be gone. 
 
 EoMEo. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to 
 death ; 
 I am content, so thou wilt have it so. 
 I '11 say, yon giay is not the morning's eye, 
 'T is but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow ; 
 Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat 
 The vaulty heaven so high above our heads : 
 I have more care to stay than «ill to go ; ^ 
 Come, death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it .so. — 
 How is 't, my soul ? let 's talk, it is not day. 
 
 Juliet. It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away! 
 It is the lark that sings so out of tune, 
 Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps. 
 Some say, the lark makes sweet division ; 
 This doth not so, for she divideth us : 
 Some say, the lark and loathed toad change 
 
 eyes : 
 0, now I would they had changed voices too ! 
 Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray. 
 Hunting thee hence, with hunts-up to the day. 
 0, now be gone ; more light and light it grows. 
 
 Romeo. More light and light, — more dark 
 and dark our woes. 
 
 Juliet. Then, window, let day in, and let 
 life out. 
 
 r
 
 (:^c^^ ^"^f ^^^^^ 
 
 PGRDS. HOWARD ,S;H'JLaERI, NY.
 
 ■I- 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 187 
 
 KoMEo. Farewell, farewell ! oue kiss, anil I '11 
 (lescenj. (Descends.) 
 
 Juliet. Art thou gone so ? my love ! my 
 lord ! my friend ! 
 I mnst hear from thee every day i' the hour, 
 For in a minute there are niauy days : 
 0, by tliis count 1 shall bo muuh in years, 
 Ere 1 again behold my Eomeo. 
 
 RoMKu. Farewell! I will omit no oiijiortunity 
 That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. 
 Juliet. 0, thiuk'st thou we shall ever meet 
 
 again ? 
 EoMKo. I doubt it not ; and all these woes 
 shall servo 
 For sweet diseourses in our time to eome. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 DIVIDED. 
 I. 
 
 An empty sky, a world of heather. 
 Purple of fo.xglove, yellow of broom : 
 
 AVe two among them wading together, 
 Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 
 
 Crowds of bees are giddy with clover ; 
 
 Crowds of gi-asshoppers skip at our feet ; 
 Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, 
 
 Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 
 
 Fliislieth the rise with her purple favor, 
 Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 
 
 'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, 
 Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 
 
 We two walk till the purple dieth, 
 And short dry grass under foot is brown ; 
 
 But one little sti-eak at a distance lieth 
 Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down. 
 
 Over the grass we stepped unto it, 
 
 And God he knoweth how blithe we were ! 
 
 Never a voice to bid us eschew it ; 
 
 Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair ! 
 
 Hey the green ribbon ! we kneeled beside it. 
 We parted the grasses dewy and sheen ; 
 
 Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
 A tiny bright beck that trickled between. 
 
 Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, 
 Light was our talk as of faery bells — 
 
 Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us, 
 Down in their fortunate jjarallels. 
 
 Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, 
 
 We lapped the grass on that youngling spring, 
 
 Swept back its rushes, smoothed'its clover, 
 And said, " Let us follow it westering." 
 
 A dappled sky, a world of meadows ; 
 
 Circling above us the black rooks My, 
 Forward, backward ; lo, their dark shadows 
 
 Flit on the blossoming fcipestry — • 
 
 Flit on the beck — for her long grass parteth. 
 As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back ; 
 
 And lo, the sun like a lover dartcth 
 
 His flattering smile on her wayward track ! 
 
 Sing on ! we sing in the glorious weather. 
 Till one steps over the tiny strand. 
 
 So narrow, in sooth, that still together 
 On either brink we go hand in hand. 
 
 The beck grows mder, the hands must sever. 
 
 On either margin, our songs all done, 
 We move apart, while she singeth ever. 
 
 Taking the course of the stooiiing sun. 
 
 He prays, "Come over" — I may not follow ; 
 
 I cry, "Return " — but he cannot come : 
 We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow ; 
 
 Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. 
 
 A breathing sigh — a sigh for answer ; 
 
 A little talking of outward things : 
 The careless beck is a merry dancer, 
 
 Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. 
 
 A little pain when the beck grows wider — 
 " Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell " : 
 
 " I may not cross " — and the voice beside her 
 Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 
 
 No backward path ; ah ! no returning : 
 No second crossing that ripple's flow ; 
 
 " Come to me now, for the west is Viurniiig : 
 Come ere it darkens." — "Ah, no ! ah, no ! " 
 
 Then cries of pain, and arms outreacliing — 
 The beck grows wider and swift and deep ; 
 
 Passionate words as of one beseeching — 
 
 The loud beck drowns them : we walk and 
 weep. 
 
 V. 
 
 A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 
 A tired queen with her state oppressed, 
 
 Low by rushes and sword-gi-ass stooping, 
 Lies she soft on the waves at rest.
 
 188 
 
 POEMS OF rAnnxG Axn absexuj-:. 
 
 The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 
 
 Her eaitii will weep her some dewy tears ; 
 The wild IjL-L'k ends her tune of gladness, 
 
 And gotth stilly as soul that tears. 
 
 AVe two walk on in our gi'assy places, 
 On either marge of the moonlit flood, 
 
 With the moon's own sadness in our faces, 
 Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 
 
 A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; 
 A flutter of wings, a fitful Stirling, 
 
 A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. 
 
 Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered 
 Kound valleys like nests all ferny-lined ; 
 
 Eound hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, 
 Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 
 
 A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver. 
 
 When golden gleams to the tiee-tops glide ; 
 
 A flashing edge for the milk-white river. 
 The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 
 
 Broad and white, and polisbed as silver. 
 On she goes under fniit-laden trees ; 
 
 Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver. 
 And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. 
 
 Glitters the dew, and shines the river ; 
 
 Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 
 But two are walking apart forever. 
 
 And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A braver swell, a swifter sliding ; 
 
 The river hasteth, her banks recede ; 
 Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 
 
 Bear down the lily, and di'own the reed. 
 
 Stately prows are rising and bowing — 
 (Shouts of mariners winnow the air) — 
 
 And level sands for banks endowing 
 
 The tiny gi-een ribbon that showed so fair. 
 
 While, my heart ! as white sails shiver. 
 
 And crowds are passing, and banks stretch 
 wide. 
 
 How hard to follow, with lips that quiver. 
 That moving speck on the far-off side ! 
 
 Farther, farther — I see it — know it — 
 My eyes brim over, it melts away : 
 
 Only my heart to my heart shall show it. 
 As I walk desolate day by day. 
 
 Anil yet I know past all douliting, truly, — 
 A knowledge greater than grief can dim — 
 
 I know, as he loved, he will love me duly — 
 Yea, better — e'en better than I love him ; 
 
 And as I walk by the vast calm river. 
 
 The awful river so dread to see, 
 I say, " Thy breadth and thy depth forever 
 
 Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me.' 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 PARTING LOVERS. 
 
 SIENN.\. 1860- 
 
 I LOVE thee, love thee, Giulio ! 
 
 Some call me cold, and some demure, 
 And if thou hast ever guessed that so 
 
 I love thee — well, — the proof was poor. 
 
 And no one could be sure. 
 
 Before thy song (with shifted rhymes 
 
 To suit my name) did I undo 
 The Persian ? If it moved sometimes. 
 
 Thou hast not seen a hand push through 
 
 A foolish flower or two. 
 
 My mother listening to my sleep 
 
 Heard nothing but a sigh at night, — 
 
 The short sigh rippling on the deep. 
 
 When hearts run out of breath and sight 
 Of men, to God's clear light. 
 
 When others named thee, — thought thy brows 
 AVere straight, thy smile was tender, — " Here 
 
 He comes between the vineyard-rows ! " — 
 I said not "Ay," — nor waited, dear, 
 To feel thee step too near. 
 
 I left such tilings to bolder girls, 
 
 Olivia or ClotUda. Nay, 
 A\Tien that Clotilda through her curls 
 
 Held both thine eyes in hers one day, 
 
 I marveled, let me say. 
 
 I could not try the woman's trick : 
 Between us straightway fell the blush 
 
 Which kept me separate, blind, and sick. 
 A wind came mth thee in a flush, 
 As blown through Horeb's bush. 
 
 But now that Italy invokes 
 
 Her young men to go forth and chase 
 The foe or perish, — nothing chokes 
 
 My voice, or drives me from the place : 
 
 I look thee in the face.
 
 4^ 
 
 PARTIXa. 
 
 189 
 
 I love tliee ! it is understood, 
 
 Confest : I do not shrink or start. 
 
 No blushes : all my body's blood 
 Has gone to greaten this poor heart, 
 That, loving, we may jiart. 
 
 Our Italy invokes the youth 
 
 To die if need be. Still there 's room, 
 Though earth is strained with dead, in truth : 
 
 Since twice the lilies were in bloom 
 
 They have not ginidged a tomb. 
 
 And many a plighted maid and wife 
 And mother, who can say since then 
 
 " My country," cannot say through life 
 "My son," "my spouse," "my llowcr of 
 
 men," 
 And not weep dumb again. 
 
 Heroic males the country bears. 
 
 But daughters give up more than sons. 
 
 Flags wave, drums beat, aud unawares 
 You Hash your souls out with the guns, 
 And take your heaven at once ! 
 
 But we, — we empty heart and home 
 Of life's life, love ! We bear to think 
 
 You 're gone, — to feel you may not come, — 
 To hear the door-latch stir and clink 
 Yet no more you, — nor sink. 
 
 Dear God ! when Italy is one 
 
 And perfected from bound to bound, — 
 Suppose (for my share) earth 's undone 
 
 By one grave in 't ! as one small wound 
 
 May kill a man, 't is found ! 
 
 What then ? If love's delight must end. 
 At least we '11 clear its truth from flaws. 
 
 I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend ! 
 Now take my sweetest without pause. 
 To help the nation's cause. 
 
 And thus, of noble It.ily 
 
 We '11 both be worthy. Let her show 
 
 The future how we made her free. 
 Not sparing life, nor Giulio, 
 Nor this — this heart-break ! Go ! 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 So loath we part from all we love, 
 From all the links that bind us ; 
 
 So turn our hearts, as on we rove. 
 To those we 've left behind us I 
 
 When, rouud the bowl, of vanished years 
 
 We talk with joyous seeming, — 
 With smiles that might as well be tears. 
 
 So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
 While memory brings us back again 
 
 Each early tie that twined us, 
 0, sweet 's the cup that circles then 
 
 To those we 've left behind us ! 
 
 And when, in other climes, we meet 
 
 Some isle or vale enchanting. 
 Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, 
 
 And naught but love is wanting ; 
 We think how great had been our bliss 
 
 If Heaven had but assigned us 
 To live and die in scenes like this. 
 
 With some we 've left behind us ! 
 
 As travelers oft loolc back at eve 
 
 When eastward darkly going. 
 To gaze upon that light they leave 
 
 Still faint behind them glowing, — 
 So, when the close of pleasure's day 
 
 To gloom hath near consigned us. 
 We turn to catch one fading ray 
 
 Of joy that 's left behind us. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE- 
 
 AS SLOW OUR SHIP. 
 
 As slow our .ship her foamy track 
 Against the wind was cleaving. 
 
 Her trembling pennant still looked back 
 To that dear isle 't was leaving. 
 
 LOCHABER NO MORE. 
 
 F.\iiEWT,LL to Lochaber ! and farewell, my .lean, 
 Where heartsorac with thee I haemonyadaybeen! 
 For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, 
 We '11 maybe return to Lochaber no more ! 
 These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, 
 .And no for the dangers attending on war. 
 Though boiTie on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
 iMaybe to return to Lochaber no more. 
 
 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, 
 They '11 ne'er make a tempest like that in my 
 
 mind ; 
 Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar, 
 Th.at's naething like leaving my love on the shore. 
 To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; 
 By ease that 's inglorious no fame can be gained ; 
 .Vnd beauty and love 's the reward of the brave, 
 And I maun deseiTe it before I can crave. 
 
 Thru glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse ; 
 Since lionor commands me, how can I refuse ? 
 Witliout it I ne'er can have meiit for thee. 
 And without thy favor I 'd better not be.
 
 1*^ 
 
 130 
 
 POEMS OF PARTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame, 
 And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
 I 'U bring a heart to thee with love running o'er. 
 And then 1 'U leave thee and Lochaber no more. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 ADIEU, ADIEU I MY NATIVE SHOKE. 
 
 Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 
 
 Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
 The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
 
 And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
 Yon sun that sets upon the sea 
 
 We follow in his (light ; 
 Farewell awhile to him and thee. 
 
 My native laud — Good N ight ! 
 
 A few short hours, and he will rise 
 
 To give the morrow birth ; 
 And I shall hail the main and skies, 
 
 But not my mother earth. 
 Deserted is my own good hall. 
 
 Its hearth is desolate ; 
 Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 
 
 My dog howls at the gate. 
 
 LORD BYRO.N. 
 
 MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. 
 
 NEGRO SONG. 
 
 The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home ; 
 
 'T Ls summer, the darkies are gay ; 
 The corn top 's ripe and the meadow 's in the 
 bloom, 
 
 AVhUe the birds make music all the day ; 
 The young folks roll on the little cabin floor. 
 
 All merry, all happy, all bright ; 
 By'm-by hard times comes a knockin' at the 
 door, — 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
 
 Weep no more, my lady ; 0, weep no more 
 
 to-day ! 
 We '11 sing one song for my old Kentucky 
 
 home. 
 For our old Kentucky home far away. 
 
 They hunt no more for the possum and the coon. 
 
 On the meadow, the hill, and the shore ; 
 They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon. 
 
 On the bench by the old cahin-door ; 
 The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart. 
 
 With sorrow where all was deliglit ; 
 The time h.is come, wln-n the darkies have to part, 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
 Weep no more, my lady, etc. 
 
 The head must bow, and the back will have to 
 bend, 
 
 W^herever the darky maj' go ; 
 A few more days, and the troubles all will end, 
 
 In the field where the sugar-cane grow; 
 A few more days to tote the weary load, 
 
 No matter, it will never be light ; 
 A few more days till we totter on the road. 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
 Weep no more, my lady, etc. 
 
 STEPHEN C. FOSTER. J 
 
 THE FAREWELL 
 
 OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLB 
 INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE. 
 
 GoNi;, gone, — sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
 Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings. 
 Where the noisome insect stings, 
 Where the fever deraou strews 
 Poison with the falling dews. 
 Where the sickly sunbeams glare 
 Through the hot and mistj' air, — 
 Gone, gone, — sold aud gone. 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia's hill and waters, — 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughter's ! 
 
 Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
 There no mother's eye is near them. 
 There no mother's ear can hear them ; 
 Never, w'hen the torturing lash 
 Seams their back with many a gash. 
 Shall a mother's kindness bless them. 
 Or a mother's arms caress them. 
 Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
 From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 
 Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
 To the rice-swamp dank aud lone. 
 0, when weary, sad, and slow, 
 From the fields at night they go, 
 Faint with toil, and racked with pain, 
 To their cheerless homes again. 
 There no brother's voice shall greet them, — 
 There no father's welcome meet them. 
 Gone, gone, — sohl and gone. 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
 From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 
 Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
 
 PARTIXG. 
 
 191 
 
 From the tree whose shadow lay- 
 On their childhood's place of play, — 
 From the cool spring where they drank, — 
 Kock, and hill, and rividet bank, — 
 From the solemn house of prayer, 
 And the holy counsels there, — 
 Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
 AVoe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 
 Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
 
 To the rice-swaniii dank and lone, — 
 
 Toiling through the weary day, 
 
 And at night the spoUcr's prey. 
 
 that they had earlier died. 
 
 Sleeping calmly, side by side. 
 
 Where the tyrant's power is o'er, 
 
 And the fetter galls no more ! 
 
 Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
 From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 
 Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
 
 By the holy love He beareth, — 
 
 By the bruised reed He spareth, — 
 
 0, may He to whom alone 
 
 All their cruel wrongs are known 
 
 Still their hope and refuge prove. 
 
 With a more than mother's love ! 
 Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
 To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
 From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
 Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
 
 John greenleaf whittier. 
 
 Now! if thou wouldst — when all have given 
 him over — 
 From death to life thou might'st him yet re- 
 cover. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 COME, LET TJS KISSE AND PARTE. 
 
 Since there 's no helpe, — come, let us kisse and 
 parte ! 
 
 Nay, I have done, — you get no more of me ; 
 And I am glad, — yea, glad with all my hearte. 
 
 That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free. 
 Shake hands forever ! — cancel all our vows ; 
 
 And when we meet at any time againe. 
 Be it not scene in either of our brows. 
 
 That we one jot of fonner love retaine. 
 
 Now — at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath — 
 When, his pulse failing. Passion speechless 
 lies ; 
 
 When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 
 And Innocence is closijig up his eyes. 
 
 FAKEWELLI THOU ART TOO DEAR. 
 
 Fake WELL ! thou art too dear for my possessing. 
 And like enough thou know'st thy estimate : 
 The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; 
 My bonds in thee are all determinate. 
 For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ? 
 And for that riches w^here is my deserving ? 
 The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting. 
 And so my patent back again is swer%-ing. 
 Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not 
 
 knowing. 
 Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ; 
 So thy gi-eat gift, upon misprision growing. 
 Comes home again, on better judgment making. 
 Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter ; 
 In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 AN EABNEST STIIT 
 
 TO His UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORSAKE HIM. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! for shame ! 
 To save thee from the blame 
 Of all my giief and gi'ame. 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 That hath loved thee so long, 
 In wealth and woe among ? 
 And is thy heart so strong 
 As for to leave me thus ? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 That hath given thee my heart, 
 Never for to depart. 
 Neither for pain nor smart ? 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 
 And have no more pity 
 
 Of him that loveth thee? 
 
 Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay ! 
 
 say nay ! 
 
 Sir Thomas Wvatt.
 
 WE PASTED IN SILENCE. 
 
 We parted in silence, we parted by night, 
 On the banks of that lonely river ; 
 
 AYhere the fragi-aut limes tlieir boughs unite, 
 We met — and we parted forever ! 
 
 The night-bird sung, and the stars above 
 Told many a touching story 
 
 Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, 
 
 Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 
 
 We parted in silence, — our cheeks were wet 
 
 With the tears that were past controlling ; 
 We vowed we would never, no, never forget. 
 
 And those vows at the time were consoling; 
 But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 
 
 Are as cold as that lonely river ; 
 And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, 
 
 Has shrouded its fires forever. 
 
 And now on the midnight sky I look, 
 
 And my heart grows full of weeping ; 
 Each star is to me a sealed book. 
 
 Some tale of that loved one keeping. 
 'We parted in silence, — we parted in tears. 
 
 On the banks of that lonely river : 
 But the odor and bloom of those bygone years 
 
 Shall hang o'er its waters forever. 
 
 Mrs. Crawford. 
 
 PEACE I WHAT CAN TEAES AVAIL? 
 
 Peace ! what can tears avail ? 
 She lies all dumb and pale, 
 
 And from her eye 
 The spirit of lovely life is fading, — 
 
 And she must die ! 
 Why looks the lover wroth, — the friend ujjbraid- 
 ing? 
 
 Reply, reply ! 
 
 Hath she not dwelt too long 
 Midst pain, and grief, and wrong ? 
 
 Then why not die ? 
 Why suffer again her doom of sorrow, 
 
 And hopeless lie ? 
 Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow ? 
 
 Reply, reply ! 
 
 Death ! Take her to thine arms. 
 In all her stainless charms ! 
 
 And with her fly 
 To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness. 
 
 The angels lie ! 
 Wilt bear her there, death ! in all her white- 
 ness ? 
 Reply, reply ? 
 
 BRYAN Waller Procter (Barry CoRmvALL). 
 
 THE DYING GERTRUDE TO WALDEGRAVE. 
 
 FROM "GERTRUDE OF WYOMING." 
 
 Clasp me a little longer on the brink 
 
 Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 
 
 And when this heart hath ceased to beat, — 0, 
 
 think, 
 And let it mitigate thy woe's excess. 
 That thou hast been to me all tenderness. 
 And friend to more than human friendship just. 
 0, by that retrcspect of happiness, 
 Aud by the hopes of an immortal tmst, 
 God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in 
 
 dust! 
 
 Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, 
 The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, 
 Where my dear father took thee to his heart, 
 .4nd Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove 
 \Vith thee, as with an angel, througli the grove 
 Of peace, imagining her lot was cast 
 In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. 
 And must this parting be our very last ? 
 No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is 
 past. 
 
 Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this 
 
 earth, — 
 And thee, more loved than aught beneath the 
 
 sun. 
 If I had lived to smile but on the birth 
 Of one dear pledge; — but shall there then b« 
 
 none. 
 In future time, — no gentle little one. 
 To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? 
 Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses ran, 
 A sweetness in the cup of death to be, 
 Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee ! 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 THE MOURNER, 
 
 Yes ! there are real mourners, — I have seen 
 A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene ; 
 Attention (through the day) her duties claimed, 
 And to be useful as resigned she aimed ; 
 Neatly she drest, nor vainly seemed t' expect 
 Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ; 
 But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep. 
 She sought lier place to meditate and weep ; 
 Then to her mind was all the past displayed. 
 That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid : 
 For then she thought on one regretted youth, 
 Her tender trust, and his unipiestioned tnith ; 
 In everyplace she wandered, where they 'd been, 
 And sadly-sacred held the parting scene. 
 Where last for sea he took his leave ; tliat place 
 With double interest would she nightly trace !
 
 -L 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 193 
 
 Happy he sailed, and great the care she took 
 That ho should softly sleep and smartly look ; 
 White was his hotter linen, and his cheok 
 W:xs made more trim tluiu any on the dock ; 
 And every comfort men at sea can know 
 Was hers to huy, to make, and to bestow : 
 For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told, 
 How he should guard against the climate's cold ; 
 Yet saw not danger ; dangers he 'd withstood, 
 Nor could she trace the fever in his blood. 
 
 His messmates smiled at llushings on his cheek. 
 And lie too sniileil, but seldom would he speak ; 
 For now he found the dangei", felt the pain, 
 With grievous symptoms he could not explain. 
 He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh 
 A lover's message, — "Thomas, I must die ; 
 Would 1 could see my Sally, and couhl rest 
 My throbbing temples on her faithful breast. 
 Ami gazing go ! — if not, this trifle take. 
 And say, till death I wore it for her sake : 
 Yes ! I must die — blow on, sweet breeze, blow on ! 
 Give me one look before my life be gone ! 
 0, give me that, and let me not despair ! 
 One last fond look ! — and now repeat the 
 prayer." 
 
 He had his wish, had more : I will not paint 
 Tlie lovers' meeting ; she beheld him fiiint, — 
 With tender fears, she took a nearer view. 
 Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew ; 
 He tried to smile ; and, half suc('eeding, said, 
 "Yes ! I must die" — and hope forever Hod. 
 Still, long she nursed him ; tender thoughts 
 
 meantime 
 Were inteixhanged, and hopes and views sublime. 
 To her he came to die, and every day 
 She took some portion of the dread away ; 
 With him she prayed, to him his Bible read. 
 Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching 
 
 head : 
 She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer, 
 Apart she sighed ; alone, she shed the tear ; 
 Tlien, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave 
 Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. 
 
 One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot 
 The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot. 
 A sudden brightness in his look appeared, 
 A sudden vigor in his voice was heard ; — 
 She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, 
 And led him forth, and placed him in his chair. 
 Lively he seemed, and spake of all he knew, 
 The friendly many, and the favorite few ; 
 
 but then his hand she prest. 
 
 And fondly whispered, " Thou must go to rest." 
 " I go," he said ; but as he spoke, she found 
 His hand more cold, and fluttering was the 
 
 sound ; 
 Then gazed affrighted ; but she caught a last, 
 A dying look of love, and all was past ! 
 
 She placed a decent stone his grave above, 
 Neatly engraved, ■ — an offering of her love : 
 For that she \vrought, for that forsook lier bed. 
 Awake alike to duty and the dead ; 
 She would have grieved, had friends presumed to 
 
 spare 
 The least assistance, — 't was her proper care. 
 Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, 
 Folding her arms, in long abstracted lit ; 
 I'ut if observer pass, will take hoi' round. 
 And careless seem, for she would not be found ; 
 Then go again, and thus her hours employ, 
 While visions please her, and while woes destroy. 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 
 FAREWELL I BUT WHENEVER — 
 
 Fakewell ! — but whenever you welcome the 
 
 hour 
 That awakens the night-song of mirth in your 
 
 bower, 
 Then think of the friend who once welcomed it 
 
 too. 
 And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. 
 His griefs may return — not a hope may remnin 
 Of the few that have brightened his i)athw.ay of 
 
 pain — 
 But he ne'er can forget the short vision that threw 
 Its enchantment around him while lingering with 
 
 you ! 
 
 And still on that evening when Fleasure fills up 
 To the highest top sparkle each heart and each 
 
 cup, 
 Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
 My soul, happy friends ! will be with you that 
 
 night ; 
 Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your 
 
 wiles, 
 And return to me, beaming all o'er with your 
 
 smiles ! — 
 Too blest if it toll me that, mid the gay cheer. 
 Some kind voice has murmured, "I wish he were 
 
 here ! " 
 
 Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy. 
 
 Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot 
 destroy ; 
 
 Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and 
 care, 
 
 And bring back the features which joy used to 
 wear. 
 
 Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! 
 
 Like the vase in which roses have once been dis- 
 tilled— 
 
 You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you 
 will, 
 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 r
 
 1 
 
 \ 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 ) 
 
 ( 
 
 
 
 194 POEMS OF PARTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 
 
 TO UKK ABSENT SAILOR. 
 
 But, with her heart, if not her ear. 
 
 
 
 FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH." 
 
 The old loved voice she seemed to hear : 
 ' ' I wait to meet thee : be of cheer. 
 
 
 
 Her window opens to the liay, 
 
 For all is well ! " 
 
 
 
 On glistening light or misty gray, 
 
 John gkeenleaf Whittier, 
 
 
 
 And there at dawn and set of day 
 
 
 
 
 In prayer she kneels : 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 "Dear Lord ! " she saitli, "to many a home 
 From wind and wave the wanderers come ; 
 
 TO LUCASTA. 
 
 
 
 I only see the tossing foam 
 
 If to be absent were to be 
 
 
 
 Of stranger keels. 
 
 Away from thee ; 
 Or that, wlien I am gone, 
 
 
 
 " Blown out and in by summer gales, 
 
 You or I were alone ; 
 
 
 
 The stately ships, with crowded sails, 
 
 Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
 
 
 
 And saUors leaning o'er their rails. 
 Before me glide ; 
 
 Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. 
 
 
 
 They come, they go, but evermore. 
 
 But I 'U not sigh one blast or sale 
 
 
 
 Spice-laden from the Indian shore. 
 
 O Q 
 
 To swell my sail. 
 Or pay a tear to 'suage 
 
 
 
 I see his swift-winged Isidore 
 
 
 
 The waves divide. 
 
 The foaming blue-god's rage ; 
 For, whether he will let me pass 
 Or no, I 'm still as happy as 1 was. 
 
 
 
 " thou ! with whom the night is day 
 
 
 
 And one the near and far away, 
 
 
 
 
 Look out on yon gray waste, and say 
 
 Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both. 
 
 
 
 Where lingers he. 
 
 Our faith and troth. 
 
 
 
 Alive, perchance, on some lone beacli 
 
 Like separated souls. 
 
 
 
 Or thirsty isle beyond the reach 
 
 All time and space controls : 
 
 
 
 Of man, he hears the mocking speech 
 
 Above the highest sphere we meet. 
 
 
 
 Of wind and sea. 
 
 Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels greet 
 
 
 
 " dread and cruel deep, reveal 
 
 So, then, we do anticipate 
 
 
 
 The secret which thy waves conceal, 
 
 Our after-fate, 
 
 
 
 And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel 
 
 And are alive i' th' skies. 
 
 
 
 And tell your tale ! 
 
 If thus our lips and eyes 
 
 
 
 Let winds that tossed his raven hair 
 
 Can speak like spirits unconfined 
 
 
 
 A message from my lost one bear, — 
 
 In heaven, — their earthly bodies loft behind. 
 
 
 
 Some thought of me, a last fond prayer 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 
 
 Or dying waU ! 
 "Come, with j'oirr dreariest truth shut out 
 
 
 
 
 OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. 
 
 
 
 The fears that haunt me round about ; 
 
 
 
 
 God ! I cannot bear this doubt 
 
 Of a' tlie airts the wind can blaw. 
 
 
 
 That stifles breath. 
 
 I dearly like the west ; 
 
 
 
 The worst is better than the dread ; 
 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
 
 
 
 Give me but leave to mourn my dead 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best. 
 
 
 
 Asleep in trust and hope, instead 
 
 There wild woods grow, and rivers row. 
 
 
 
 Of life in death ! " 
 
 And monie a hill 's between ; 
 But day and night my fancy's flight 
 
 
 
 It might have been the evening breeze 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 
 
 Tliat whispered in the garden trees, 
 
 
 
 
 It might have been the sound of seas 
 
 I see her in the de%vy flowers, 
 
 
 
 That rose and feU ; 
 
 I see her sweet and fair ; 
 ^^1 
 
 
 ^►- 
 
 
 ' 

 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 195 
 
 I liear her in the tunefu' bh'ils, 
 
 I hear her chariii the air ; 
 There 's not a boimiu Uower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green, — 
 There 's not a bonnie bird that sings, 
 
 But minds me of my Jean. 
 
 0, blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 
 
 Amaug the leafy trees ; 
 AVi' gentle gale, fra muir and dale 
 
 Biing hanie the laden bees : 
 And bring the lassie back to ma 
 
 That 's aye sae neat and clean ; 
 
 Ae look at her wad banish care, 
 
 Sae lovely is my Jean. 
 
 ROBERT Burns. 
 
 LOVE'S MEMORY. 
 
 FROM "ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL." 
 
 I AM undone ; there is no living, none, 
 
 If liertrani be away. It were all one, 
 
 That 1 should love a bright particidar star. 
 
 And think to wed it, he is so above me : 
 
 In his blight radiance and collateral light 
 
 Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 
 
 The ambition in my love thus plagues itself : 
 
 The hind that would be mated liy the lion 
 
 JIust die for love. 'T was pretty, though a plague. 
 
 To see him ev'ry hour ; to sit and draw 
 
 His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, 
 
 In our heart's table, — heart too capable 
 
 Of every line and trick of his sweet favor : 
 
 But now he 's gone, and my idolatrous fancy 
 
 Must sanctify his relics. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 O, SAW TE BONNIE LESLEY? 
 
 0, S.4W ye bonnie Lesley 
 As she gaed o'er the border ? 
 
 She 's gane, like Alexander, 
 
 To spread her coniiuesta farther. 
 
 To see her is to love her. 
 And love but her forever ; 
 
 For nature made her what she is. 
 And ne'er made sic anither ! 
 
 Thou art a queen, fak Lesley, 
 Thy subjects we, before thee ; 
 
 Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
 The hearts o' men adore thee. 
 
 The deil ho could na scaith thee, 
 Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
 
 He 'd look into thy bonnie face, 
 And say " I canna wrang thee ! " 
 
 The powers aboon will tent thco ; 
 
 Misfortune sha' na steer tlu'c ; 
 Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely 
 
 That ill they '11 ne'er let near thee. 
 
 Keturn again, fair Lesley, 
 
 Return to Caledonie ! 
 That we may brag we hae a lass 
 
 There 's uane again sae bonnie. 
 
 Robert burns. 
 
 JEANIE MORRISON. 
 
 I 'VK 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 lieltano e'en 
 
 May w^eel be black gin Yule ; 
 But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows cvile. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 The thochts o' bygane years 
 
 Still fling their shadows ower my path, 
 
 And blind my een wi' tears : 
 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 itlier 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 stmiles were shed, 
 
 riemembered evermair. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 0, mind ye how we hung our heads, 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
 Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said 
 
 We decked thegithcr hame ? 
 And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 
 
 (The scule then skail't at noon,) 
 ■When we ran alT to speel the braes, — 
 
 The broomy braes o' June ?
 
 T^ 
 
 i^ 
 
 196 
 
 rOEMS OF PARTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 My head rins round and round about, — 
 
 My heart flows like a sea, 
 As ane by aue the thochts rush back 
 
 0' scule-tinie, and o' thee. 
 
 mornin' hfe ! nioruiu' hive ! 
 
 lichtsome days and lang, 
 
 When hiunied liopes around our hearts 
 Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 
 
 0, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' dinsome toun. 
 To wander by the green burnside, 
 
 And hear its waters croon ? 
 The simmer leaves himg ower our heads, 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet, 
 And in the gloamiu' o' the wood 
 
 The thi'ossil whusslit sweet ; 
 
 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 hom-s thegither sat 
 In the silentuess o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' very gladness grat. 
 
 Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Mon-ison, 
 
 Tears trickled doun your cheek 
 Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
 
 Had ony power to speak ! 
 That was a time, a blessed time, 
 
 When hearts were fresh and young, 
 "When freeh' gushed all feelings forth, 
 
 Unsyllabled — unsung ! 
 
 1 marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 Gin I hae heen to thee 
 
 As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 
 
 As ye hae been to me. 
 0, tell me gin their music fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine ! 
 0, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
 
 Wi' dreamings o' langsj'ue ! 
 
 I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west, 
 
 1 've borne a weary lot ; 
 
 But in my wandermgs, 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 lieard 
 The music o' your tongue ; 
 
 But I could hug all WTetchedncss, 
 
 And happy could I dee, 
 Uid 1 but ken your heart still dreamed 
 
 0' bygone days and me ! 
 
 William Motherwell, 
 
 "SHE TOUCHES A SAD STRING OF SOFT 
 RECALL." 
 
 Return, return ! all night my lamp is burning ; 
 
 All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and 
 burn ; 
 Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning 
 
 Beai-s witness that the absent can return, 
 
 Eeturn, retuin. 
 
 Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness ; 
 
 Like it, I burn to wa.ste and waste to burn ; 
 Like it, I spend the golden oil of ghnlness 
 
 To feed the sorrowy signal for retm'n, 
 
 Eeturn, return. 
 
 Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind-sings, 
 
 I bend and shake ; like it, I quake and yearn. 
 When Hope's late butterflies, with whispering 
 wings, 
 
 Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn — 
 
 Burn in the watchfire of retm'n, 
 
 Return, return. 
 
 Like it, the very flame whereby I pine 
 Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn, 
 My soul becomes a better soul than mine. 
 And from its brightening beacon I discern 
 My starry love go forth from me, and shine 
 Across the seas a path for thy return. 
 Return, return. 
 
 Return, return ! all night I see it hum. 
 
 All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin 
 
 Of palmed praying hands that meet and yeani — 
 
 Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return. 
 
 Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in. 
 
 And wans the light that withers, though it bum 
 
 As warmly still for thy return ; 
 
 Still through the splendid load uplifts the thin 
 
 Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn 
 
 Naught hut that votive sign for thy return, 
 
 That single suppliant sign for thy return. 
 
 Return, return. 
 
 Retum, return ! lest haply, love, or e'er 
 
 Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to 
 
 burn, 
 And thou, who through the window didst discern 
 The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair 
 To find no wide eyes watching there, 
 No withered welcome waiting thy retum !
 
 I' 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 197 
 
 A passing ghost, a smoke-WTeath in the air, 
 The I'.aiiieless ashes, and the soulless urn, 
 AVarin with the I'aniisheil fire that lived to bum- 
 Bum out its lingering life lor thy return, 
 Its last of lingering life for thy return, 
 Its last of lingering life to light thy late return, 
 Return, retm-n. 
 
 SID4NEV DOBELL. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 FRO^f "THE TRIUMPH OF TIME." 
 
 There lived a singer in France of old 
 
 I3y the tideless, dolorous, midland sea. 
 In a land of sand and ruin and gold 
 
 There shone one woman, and none hut she. 
 And finding life for her love's sake fail, 
 Being lain to see her, he bade set sail. 
 Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold, 
 And praised God, seeing ; and so died he. 
 
 Died, praising God for his gift and gi-ace : 
 
 For she bowed down to him weeping, and said, 
 "Live" ; and her tears were shed on his face 
 
 Or ever the life in his face w-.o-s shed. 
 The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung 
 Once, and her close lips touched him and clung 
 Once, and grew one with his lips for a space ; 
 And so drew back, and the man was dead. 
 
 brother, the gods were good to you. 
 Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. 
 
 Be well content as the yeara wear through ; 
 
 Give thanks for life, and the loves ami lures ; 
 Give thanks for life, brother, and death. 
 For the sweet hist sound of her feet, her breath. 
 For gifts she gave you, gi'acious and few. 
 
 Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. 
 
 Rest, and be glad of the gods ; but I, 
 
 How shall I praise them, or how take rest ? 
 
 There is not room under all the sky 
 For me that know not of worst or best. 
 
 Dream or desire of the days before, 
 
 Sweet things or bitterness, any more. 
 
 Love will not come to me now though I die, 
 As love came close to you, breast to breast. 
 
 1 shall never be friends again with roses ; 
 
 I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown 
 strong 
 Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes, 
 
 As a wave of the sea turned back by song. 
 There are sounds where the soul's delight takes 
 
 fu-e, 
 Face to face ivith its own desire ; 
 A delight that rebels, a desire that rejioses ; 
 I shall hate sweet music my whole life long. 
 
 The pulse of war and passion of wonder. 
 
 The heavens that murmur, the sounds that 
 shine. 
 
 The stiirs that sing and the loves that thunder, 
 The music burning at heart like wine. 
 
 An armed archangel whose hands raise up 
 
 All senses mixed in the spirit's cup. 
 
 Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder, — 
 These tilings arc over, and no more mine. 
 
 These were a part of the playing I heard 
 
 Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife ; 
 Love that smgs and hath wings as a liird, 
 
 Balm of the wound and heft of the knife. 
 Fairer than earth is tlie sea, and sleep 
 Than overwatching of eyes that weep, 
 Now time has done with his one sweet word, 
 The wine aud leaven of lovely life. 
 
 I shall go my ways, tread out my measure, 
 
 Fill the days of my daily breath 
 With fugitive things not good to treasure, 
 
 Do as the world doth, say as it saith ; 
 But if we had loved each other — sweet, 
 Hail you felt, lying under the palms of your feet, 
 The heart of my heart, beating harder with 
 pleasure 
 
 To feel you tread it to dust and death — 
 
 Ah, had I not taken my life up and given 
 All that life gives and the years let go, 
 
 The wine and money, the balm and leaven. 
 The dreams reared high and the hopes brought 
 low, 
 
 Come life, come death, not a word be said ; 
 
 Should I lose you living, and vex you dead ? 
 
 I shall never tell you on earth ; and in heaven. 
 
 If I cry to you then, will j'ou hear or know ? 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne. 
 
 DAT, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING. 
 
 Day, in melting purple dying ; 
 Blossoms, all around me sighing ; 
 Fragrance, from the lilies straying ; 
 Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ; 
 
 Ye but waken my distress ; 
 
 I am sick of loneliness ! 
 
 Thou to whom I love to hearken, 
 Come, ere night around me ilarken ; 
 Though thy softness but deceive me, 
 Say thou 'rt true, and I '11 believe thee ; 
 Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent. 
 Let me think it innocent !
 
 Savu thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; 
 
 All 1 :isk is liieudship's pleasure ; 
 
 Let the shilling ore lie darkling, — • 
 
 Bring no gem in luster sparkling ; 
 
 Gifts and gold are naught to mo, 
 I would only look on thee ! 
 
 Tell to thee the high-\vrought feeling. 
 
 Ecstasy but in revealing ; 
 
 Paint to thee the deep sensation, 
 
 Kapture in participation ; 
 
 Yet but torture, if coniprcst 
 In a lone, unfriended breast. 
 
 Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me ! 
 
 Let these eyes again caress thee. 
 
 Once, in caution, I could lly thee ; 
 
 Now, I nothing could deny thee. 
 In a look if death there be. 
 Come, and 1 will gaze on thee ! 
 
 Maria Brooks. 
 
 THE ABSENT SOLDIER SON. 
 
 FROM "THE ROMAN." 
 
 Lord, I am weeping. As thou wilt, Lord, 
 Bo with him as thou wilt ; but my God, 
 Let him come back to die ! Let not the fowls 
 0' the air defile the body of my child. 
 My own fair child, that when he was a babe, 
 I lift up in my arms and gave to thee ! 
 Let not his garment, Lord, be vilely parted, 
 Nor the fine linen which these hands have spun 
 Fall to the stranger's lot ! Shall the wild bird, 
 Tliat would have pilfered of the ox, this year 
 Disdain tlie pens and stalls ? Shall her blind 
 
 young, 
 That on the fleck and moult of brutish beasts 
 Had been too happy, sleep in cloth of gold 
 AVhereof each thread is to this beating heart 
 As a peculiar darling ? Lo, the flies 
 Hum o'er him ! Lo, a feather from the crow 
 Falls in his parted lips ! Lo, his deail eyes 
 See not the raven ! Lo, the worm, the worm 
 Creeps from his festering corse ! Jly God ! my 
 
 God! 
 
 Lord, thou doest well. I am content. 
 If thou have need of him, he shall not stay. 
 But as one calleth to a servant, saying 
 " At such a time be with me," so, Lord, 
 C.ill him to thee ! 0, bid him not in haste 
 Straight whence he standeth. Let him lay aside 
 The soiled tools of labor. Let him wasli 
 His hands of blood. Let him array himself 
 Meet for his Lord, pure from the sweat and fume 
 Of coijioral travail ! Lord, if he must die. 
 Let him die here. 0,take him where thou gavest ! 
 
 And even as once I held him in my womb 
 Till all things were fultilled, and he came forth, 
 So, Lord, let me hold him in my grave 
 Till the time come, and thou, who settcst when 
 The hinds shall calve, ordain a better birth ; 
 .Vnd as I looked and saw my son, and wept 
 For joy, I look again and see my sou, 
 .Vnd weep again for joy of him and thee ! 
 
 Sidney dobell. 
 
 HOMESICK. 
 
 Come to me, my Mother ! come to me, 
 
 Thine own son slowly dying far away ! 
 
 Through the moist ways of the wide ocean, blown 
 
 By great invisible winds, come stately ships 
 
 To this calm bay for i]uiet anchorage ; 
 
 They eome, they rest awhile, they go away, 
 
 But, my Mother, never comest thou ! 
 
 The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow. 
 
 That cold soft revelation pure as light, 
 
 .\nd the pine-spire is mystically fringed. 
 
 Laced with incrusted silver. Here — ah me ! — 
 
 The winter is decrepit, underboin, 
 
 A leper with no power but his disease. 
 
 Why am I from thee. Mother, far from thee ? 
 
 Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods 
 
 Jeweled from bough to bough ? home, my 
 
 home ! 
 river in the valley of my home, 
 With mazy-winding motion intricate. 
 Twisting thy deathless music underneath 
 The polished ice-work, — must I nevermore 
 Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch 
 Thy beauty changing mth the changeful day, 
 Thy beauty constant to the constant change ? 
 
 DA\'1D GRAY. 
 
 THE BtrSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWK. 
 
 0, w.\D that my time were owtc but, 
 
 Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw. 
 That I might see our house again, 
 
 I' the lionnie birken shaw ! 
 For this is no my ain life. 
 
 And I peak and ])ine away 
 Wi' the thochts o' hanie and the young flowers. 
 
 In the glad green month of May. 
 
 I used to wauk in the morning 
 
 Wi' the loud sang o' the lark. 
 And the whistling o' the plo-ivman lads, 
 
 As they gaed to their wark ; 
 I used to wear the bit young lambs 
 
 Frae the tod and the roaring stream ; 
 But the warld is changed, and a' thing now 
 
 To me seems like a dream.
 
 Tlieie are busy crowds arouud me, 
 
 Ou ilka laiig dull street ; 
 Yet, though sae mony surround me, 
 
 I ken na ane 1 meet : 
 And I think o' kind keut faces, 
 
 And o' blithe an' clieery days, 
 "When I wandered out wi' our aui folk. 
 
 Out owio the simmer braes. 
 
 Wacs me, for my heart is breaking ! 
 
 I think o' my brither sma'. 
 And on my sister greeting. 
 
 When I cam frae hame awa. 
 And 0, how my mitlier sobbit. 
 
 As she sliook me by the hand, 
 ■\Vlien I left the door o' our auld house. 
 
 To come to this stranger land. 
 
 There 's uae hame like our ain hame — 
 0, I wush tliat 1 were there ! 
 There 's nae hame like our ain liamo 
 
 To be met wi' onywhere ; 
 And that I were back again. 
 
 To our farm and fields sae green ; 
 And heard the tongues o' my ain folk. 
 
 And were what I hae been ! 
 
 DAVID M. MOIR. 
 
 BY THE ALMA RIVER. 
 
 Willie, fold your little hands ; 
 Let it drop, — that "soldier" toy; 
 
 Look where father's picture stands, — 
 Father, that here kissed his boy 
 Not a montli since, — fatlier kind, 
 
 Wlio this night may (never mind 
 
 Mother's sob, my Willie dear) — 
 
 Cry out loud tliat He may hear 
 
 WIio is God of battles, — say 
 
 " God keep fatlicr safe this day 
 By the Alma River !" 
 
 Ask no more, chUd ! Never heed 
 Either liuss, or Frank, or Turk ; 
 
 Eiglit of nations, trampled creed. 
 Chance-poised victory's bloody work ; 
 
 Any flag i' the wind may roll 
 
 On thy heights, Sevastopol ! 
 
 AVillie, all to you and me 
 
 Is that spot, whate'er it be. 
 
 Where he stands — no other word — 
 
 Sluiuls — God sure the child's prayers heard !- 
 Near the Alma River. 
 
 Willie, listen to the bells 
 
 Ringing in the town to-day ; 
 That 's for victoiy. No knell swells 
 
 For the many swept away, — 
 
 Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep, 
 We who need not, — just to keep 
 Reason clear in thought and brain 
 Till the morning comes again ; 
 Till the third dread morning tell 
 Who they were that fought and — fell 
 By the Alma River. 
 
 Come, — wo '11 lay us down, my child ; 
 
 Poor the bed is, — poor and hard ; 
 But thy father, far exiled, 
 
 Sleeps upon the open sward. 
 Dreaming of us two at home ; 
 Or, lieneath tlie starry dome. 
 Digs out trendies in the dark, 
 Where he buries — Willie, mark! — 
 Where he buries those who died 
 Fighting — figliting at his side — 
 By the Alma River. 
 
 Willie, AVillie, go to sleep ; 
 
 God will help us, my boy! 
 He will make the dull hours creep 
 
 Faster, and send news of joy ; 
 When I need not shrink to meet 
 Those great placards in the street. 
 That for weeks will ghastly stare 
 In some eyes — child, say that prayer 
 Once again, — a dift'erent one, — 
 Say, "0 God ! thy will be done 
 By the Alma River." 
 
 DI.NAIl MULOCK CRAIK. 
 
 THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 
 
 Linger notlong. Homeisnothoniewithoutthce : 
 Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. 
 
 0, let its memory, like a chain about thee. 
 Gently compel and hasten thy return I 
 
 Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy 
 staying. 
 Bethink thee, can the mirth of friends, tliough 
 dear. 
 Compensate for the grief thy long delaying 
 Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here ? 
 
 Linger not long. How shall I watcli thy coming, 
 As evening shadows stretcli o'er moor and dell ; 
 
 When the wild bee hath ceased her busyhumming. 
 And silence hangs on all things like a spell ! 
 
 How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow 
 strongi'r. 
 
 As night grows dark and darker on the liill ! 
 How shall 1 weep, when I can watch no longer ! 
 
 Ah I art thou absent, art thou absent still ?
 
 -U 
 
 
 200 POEMS OF PARTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 
 
 Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth 
 
 MY PLAYMATK 
 
 
 
 me 
 Gazeth through tears that mak e its splendor dull ; 
 
 The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, 
 
 
 
 For 0, 1 sometimes fear when thou art with me, 
 
 Their song was soft and low ; 
 
 
 
 My cup of happiness is all too full. 
 
 Tlie blossoms in the sweet Hay wind 
 Were falling like the snow. 
 
 
 
 Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwell- 
 
 
 
 
 ing, 
 
 The blossoms drifted at our feet. 
 
 
 
 Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! 
 
 The orchard birds sang clear ; 
 
 
 
 Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and 
 
 The sweetest and the saddest day 
 
 
 
 swelling, 
 
 It seemed of all the year. 
 
 
 
 Flies to its haven of securest rest ! 
 
 
 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 For, more to me than birds or flowers, 
 
 My playmate left her home. 
 And took witli her the laugliiug S2iring, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 The music and the bloom. 
 
 
 
 AYllAT shall I do with all the days and hours 
 
 She kissed the lips of kith and kin. 
 
 
 
 That must be counted ere 1 see thy face ? 
 
 Slie laid her hand iu mine ; 
 
 
 
 How shall I charm the interval tliat lowers 
 
 AVhat more could ask the basliful boy 
 
 
 
 Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? 
 
 Who fed her father's kiue ? 
 
 
 
 Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, — • 
 
 She left us in the bloom of May ; 
 
 
 
 Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away 
 
 The constant years told o'er 
 
 
 
 Into past days, and with some fond preteuse 
 
 Their seasons with as sweet May morns. 
 
 
 
 Cheat myself to forget the present day ? 
 
 But she came back no more. 
 
 
 
 Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
 
 I walk with noiseless feet the round 
 
 
 
 Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? 
 
 Of uneventful years ; 
 
 
 
 Shall I, these mists of memory locked within. 
 
 Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring, 
 
 
 ' 
 
 Leave and forget life's purposes sublinre ? 
 
 And reap the autumn ears. 
 
 
 
 0, how or by what means may I contrive 
 
 She lives where all the golden year 
 
 
 
 To bring the hour that brings thee back more 
 
 Her summer roses blow ; 
 
 
 
 near ? 
 
 The dusky children of the suu 
 
 
 
 How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
 
 Before her come and go. 
 
 
 
 Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? 
 
 There haply with her jeweled linnds 
 
 
 
 I '11 tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold 
 
 She smooths her silken gown, — 
 
 
 
 Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee. 
 
 No more the homespun lap wherein 
 
 
 
 In worthy deeds, each moment that is told 
 
 I shook the walnuts down. 
 
 
 
 WliUe thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 
 
 The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 
 
 
 
 For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try 
 
 The brown nuts on tlie liill. 
 
 
 
 All heavenward flights, allliighandholystrauis ; 
 
 And still the May-day flowers make sweet 
 
 
 
 For thy dear sake, I will walk patiently 
 
 The woods of Folly mUl. 
 
 
 
 Through these long hours, nor call theu- min- 
 
 
 
 
 utes pains. 
 
 The lilies blossom in the pond, 
 Tlie bird builds in the tree. 
 
 
 
 I will this dreary blank of absence make 
 
 The dark pines sing on Eamoth hill 
 
 
 
 A noble task-time ; and will therein strive 
 
 The slow song of the sea. 
 
 
 
 To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 
 
 
 
 
 More good than I have won since yet I live. 
 
 I wonder if slie thinks of them. 
 And how the old time seems, — 
 
 
 
 So may this doomed time build up in me 
 
 If ever the pines of Kamotli wood 
 
 
 
 A thousand graces, which shall tluis be thine ; 
 
 Are sounding in her dreams. 
 
 
 
 So may my love and longing hallowed be. 
 
 
 
 
 And thy dear thought an influence divine. 
 
 I see her face, I hear her voice : 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 Frances Anne KEHELa 
 
 Does she remember mine ? 
 
 
 1 
 
 > 
 
 
 
 m » *
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 201 
 
 Anil what to her is now the boy 
 Who fed lier father's kino ? 
 
 What cares she that the orioles biiilil 
 
 For other eyes than ours, — 
 Tliat other hands with nuts arc (illed, 
 
 And other laps with flowers ? 
 
 playmate in the golden time ! 
 
 Our mossy seat is green, 
 Its fringing violets blossom yet, 
 
 The old trees o'er it lean. 
 
 The winds so sweet with birch and fern 
 
 A sweeter memory blow ; 
 And there in spring the veeries sing 
 
 The song of long ago. 
 
 And still the pines of Eamoth wood 
 
 Are moaning like the sea, — 
 The moaning of the sea of change 
 
 Between myself and thee ! 
 
 John g. whittier. 
 
 ON A PICTURE. 
 
 When summer o'er her native hills 
 
 A veil of beauty spread. 
 She sat and watclied her gentle flocks 
 
 And twined her flaxen thread. 
 
 The mountain daisies kissed her feet ; 
 
 Tlie moss sprung greenest there ; 
 The breath of summer fanned her cheek 
 
 And tossed her wavy hair. 
 
 The heather and the yellow gorse 
 
 Bloomed over hill and wold. 
 And clothed them in a royal robe 
 
 Of purple and of gold. 
 
 There rose the skylark's gushing song, 
 There hummed the laboring bee ; 
 
 And merrily the mountain stream 
 Ran singing to the sea. 
 
 But while she missed from those sweet sounds 
 
 The voice she sighed to hear. 
 The song of bee and bird and stream 
 
 AVaa discord to her ear. 
 
 Nor could the bright gi-een worhl around 
 
 A joy to her impart. 
 For still she missed the eyes that made 
 
 The summer of her heart. 
 
 ANNE C. LYNCH {MRS, BOTTA). 
 
 THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true i. 
 
 And are ye sure he 's weel ? 
 Is this a time to think o' wark ? 
 
 Ye jades, lay by your wlieel; 
 Is this the time to si)in a thread. 
 
 When Colin 's at the door ? 
 Reach down my cloak, 1 '11 to the quay, 
 And see him come ashore. 
 For there 's nae luck aliout the house, 
 
 There 's nae luck at a"; 
 There 's nae luck about the house 
 When our gudeman 's awa'. 
 
 And gie to mo my bigonet, 
 
 Jly bishop's-satin gown ; 
 For 1 maun tell the baillic's wife 
 
 That Colin 's in the town. 
 My Turkey slippers maun gac on, 
 
 My stock ins jioarly blue ; 
 It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman, 
 
 For he 's baith leal and true. 
 
 Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, 
 
 Put on the muckle pot ; 
 Gie little Kate her cotton gown. 
 
 And Jock his Sunday coat ; 
 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 
 
 Their hose as white as snaw ; 
 It 's a' to please my ain gudeman. 
 
 For he 's been long awa'. 
 
 There 's twa fat hens upo' the liauk. 
 
 They 've fed this month and mair ; 
 Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 
 
 That Colin weel may faro ; 
 And spread the table neat and clean. 
 
 Gar ilka thing look braw. 
 For wha can toll how Colin fared 
 
 When he was far awa' ? 
 
 Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech. 
 
 His breath like caller air ; 
 His very foot has music in 't 
 
 As he comes up the stair, — 
 And will I see his face again ? 
 
 And will I hear him speak ? 
 I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 
 
 In troth I 'm like to greet ! 
 
 The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, 
 
 That thirled through my heart, 
 They 're a' blown by, I hae him safe, 
 
 Till death we '11 never part : 
 But what puts parting in my head ? 
 
 It may be far awa' ; 
 The present moment is our ain. 
 
 The neist we never saw.
 
 If Colin 's wecl, and wecl coutcnt, 
 
 I hae nae mair to crave : 
 Aiid gin I live to keep liim sae 
 
 I 'ill blest ahoou tlie lave : 
 Anil will I see his face again ? 
 And will I hear him speak ? 
 1 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 
 In troth I 'm like to greet. 
 
 For there 's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There 's nae luck at a' ; 
 There 's little pleasure in the house 
 When our gudeman 's awa'. 
 
 William J. Mickle. 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 "When I think on the happy days 
 
 ] spent wi' you, my dearie ; 
 And now what lands between us lie. 
 
 How can I be but eerie ! 
 
 How slow ye move, j'e heavy hours, 
 
 As ye were wae and weary ! 
 
 It was na sae ye glinted by 
 
 When I was wi' my dearie. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE TERRACE AT BERNE. 
 
 Ten years ! — and to my waking eye 
 Once more the roofs of Berne appear ; 
 
 The rocky l.ianks, the terrace high. 
 The stream, — and do I linger here ? 
 
 The clouds are on the Oberland, 
 
 The Jungfrau snows look faint and far ; 
 
 But bright are those green fields at hand, 
 
 And through those fields comes down the Aar, 
 
 And from the blue twin lakes it comes, 
 Flows by the town, the churchyard fair, 
 
 And 'neath the garden-walk it hums. 
 
 The house, — and is my Marguerite there ? 
 
 Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush 
 Of startled pleasure floods thy brow. 
 
 Quick through the oleanders brush, 
 
 And clap thy hands, and cry, ' T is thou ? 
 
 Or hast thou long since wandered back. 
 
 Daughter of France ! to France, thy home ; 
 
 And flitted do\vn the flowery track 
 
 Where feet like thine too lightly come ? 
 
 Doth riotous laughter now replace 
 
 Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare. 
 
 Thy cheek's soft hue, and fluttering lace 
 The kerchief that enwound thy hair ? 
 
 Or is it over ? — art thou dead ? — 
 Dead ? — and no warning shiver ran 
 
 Across my heart, to say thy thread 
 Of life was cut, and closed thy span ! 
 
 Could from earth's ways that figure slight 
 Be lost, and I not feel 't was so ? 
 
 Of that fresh voice the gay delight 
 
 Fail from earth's air, and I not know ? 
 
 Or shall I find thee still, but changed. 
 But not the Marguerite of thy prime ? 
 
 With all thy being rearranged, 
 
 Piissed through the crucible of time ; 
 
 With spirit vanished, beauty waned. 
 And hardly yet a glance, a tone, 
 
 A gesture, — anything, — retaineil 
 Of all that w.as my Marguerite's own ? 
 
 I will not know ! — for wherefore try, 
 To things by mortal course that live, 
 
 A shadowy durability 
 
 For which they were not meant, to give ? 
 
 Like driftwood spars which meet and pass 
 Upon the boundless ocean-plain. 
 
 So on the sea of life, alas ! 
 
 Man nears man, meets, and leaves again. 
 
 I knew it when my life was young, 
 I feel it still, now youth is o'er ! 
 
 The mists are on the mountain hung. 
 And Marguerite I shall see no more. 
 
 MATTHEW Arnold. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUX RIVER. 
 
 Like a foundling in slumber, the summer-day 
 lay 
 On the crimsoning threshold of even. 
 And I thought that the glow through the azure- 
 arched way 
 Was a glimpse of the coming of Heaven. 
 There together we sat by the beautiful stream ; 
 We had nothing to do but to love and to dream. 
 
 In the days that have gone on before. 
 These are not the same days, though they bear 
 the same name. 
 With the ones I shall welcome no more. 
 
 But it may be that angels are calling them o'er, 
 For a Sabliath and summer forever. 
 
 When the years shall forget the Decembers they 
 wore. 
 And the shroud shall be woven, no never ! 
 
 In a twilight like that, Jennie June for a bride,
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 203 
 
 \^ 
 
 0, what more of the world could one wish for 
 beside, 
 
 As we gazed on the river unrolled, 
 Till we heard, or we fancied, its musical tide, 
 
 When it flowed through the gateway of gold ! 
 
 "Jennie June," then I said, "let us linger no 
 more 
 On the hanks of the beautiful river ; 
 Let the boat be unmoored, and be muffled the 
 oar, 
 And we '11 steal into heaven together. 
 If the angel on duty our coming descries. 
 You have nothing to do but throw oil' the dis- 
 guise 
 That you wore while you wandered with me. 
 And the sentry shall say, ' Welcome back to the 
 skies. 
 We long have been waiting for thee.' " 
 
 Oh ! how sweetly she spoke, ere she uttered a 
 word, 
 With that blush, partly hers, partly even's, 
 And a tone, like the dream of a song we once 
 heard. 
 As she whispered, " This way is not heaven's : 
 For the River that runs by the realm of the blest 
 Has uo song on its ripple, no star on its breast ; 
 
 Oh ! that river is nothing like this. 
 For it glides on in shadow beyond the world's 
 west. 
 Till it breaks into beauty and bliss." 
 
 I am lingering yet, biit I linger alone. 
 On the banks of the beautiful river ; 
 'T is the twin of that day, but tlie wave where it 
 shone 
 Bears the willow-tree's shadow forever. 
 
 Benjami.\ f. Taylor. 
 
 ABSENT. 
 
 From you have I been absent in the spring, 
 
 AVhen proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim. 
 Hath put a spirit of Youth in everything, 
 Tliat heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. 
 Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
 Of dilferent flowers in odor and in hue. 
 Could make me any summer's story tell, 
 Or from their proud lap pluck them where they 
 
 grew : 
 Nor did I wonder at the lilies white. 
 Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
 They were but sweet, but figures of delight. 
 Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
 Yet seemed it winter still, and you away. 
 As with your shadow I with these did play. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S WISH. 
 
 I WISH we were hame to our ain folk, 
 Our kiud and our true-hearted ain folk, 
 Wliere thesiniple are weal, and tlie gentleare leal, 
 And the hanies are the hames o' our ain folk. 
 Wo 've been wi' the gay, and the gude where 
 
 we 've come. 
 We 're courtly wi' many, we 're couthy wi' some ; 
 P.ut something 's still wantiu' we never can find 
 Sin' tlie day that we left our auld neebors behind. 
 
 0, I wish we were hame to our ain folk. 
 Our kiud and om- true-hearted ain folk. 
 Where daffin and glee wi' the friendly and free 
 Made our hearts aye sae fond o' our ain folk. 
 Though Spring had its moils, and Sammcr its 
 
 toils, 
 And Autumn craved pith ere we gathered its 
 
 spoils. 
 Yet Winter repaid a' the toil that we took. 
 When ilk ane crawed crouse by his aiu ingle nook. 
 
 0, I wish we were hame to our ain folk. 
 Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. 
 Where maidens and men in hall and in glen 
 Still welcome us aye as their ain folk. 
 They told us in gowpens we 'd gather the gear, 
 Sae sune as we cam' to the rich Mailins here. 
 But what are the Mailins, or what are they worth, 
 If they be not enjoyed in the land o' our birth ! 
 
 Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk. 
 
 Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. 
 
 But deep are tlie howes and high are the knowes, 
 
 Tliat keep us awa' frae our ain folk. 
 
 The seat by the door where our auld faithers sat. 
 
 To tell a' the news, their views, and a' that. 
 
 While down by the kaUyard the bumie rowed 
 
 clear, 
 'T was mair to my liking than aught that is hero. 
 
 Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk. 
 
 Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. 
 
 Where the wild thistles wave o'er th' abode o' the 
 
 brave. 
 And tlie graves are the graves o' our ain folk. 
 But happy, gey lucky, we '11 trudge on our way, 
 Till our arm waxes weak and our liafTets glow 
 
 gi-ay ; 
 And, tho' in this world our ain still we miss. 
 We '11 meet them at last in a world o' bliss. 
 
 And then we '11 be hame to our aiu folk. 
 Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. 
 Where far 'yoiit tlie moon in the heavens aboon 
 The hames are the hames o' our ain folk. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 ^
 
 COME TO ME, DEAREST. 
 
 Come to me, dearest, I 'm lonely witliout tbee, 
 Daj-time and night-time, I 'm thinking about 
 
 thee ; 
 Night-time and daytime, in dreams I behold 
 
 thee ; 
 Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. 
 Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten. 
 Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten ; 
 Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, 
 Come in thy lovingness, cjueenly and holy. 
 
 Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin. 
 Telling of spring and its joyous renewing ; 
 And thoughtsof thy love, and its manifold treasure, 
 Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. 
 Spring of my spirit, May of my bosom, 
 Shine out on my soul, tiU it bourgeon and blossom ; 
 The waste of my life has a rose-root within it. 
 And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. 
 
 Figure that moves like a song through the even ; 
 Featnres lit up by a reflex of heaven ; 
 Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother. 
 Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each 
 other ; 
 
 Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, 
 Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple ; — 
 O, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming 
 Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. 
 
 You have been glad when yon knew I was glad- 
 dened ; 
 Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? 
 Our hearts ever answer iu tune and in time, love, 
 As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love : 
 I cannot weep but yom' tears will be flowing. 
 You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing ; 
 I would not die without you at my side, love. 
 You will not linger when I shall have died, love. 
 
 Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, 
 Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow ; 
 Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I 
 
 speak, love, 
 With a song on your lip and a smile on your 
 
 cheek, love. 
 Come, for my heart in your absence is weary, — 
 Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary, — • 
 Come to the anus which alone should caress thee, 
 Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee ! 
 JOSEPH Briin.n'a.n. 
 
 ( 1 
 
 T
 
 fO^%
 
 — * f ^ 
 
 POEMS OF DISAPrOINTMENT AND 
 ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 THE BANKS O' DOON. 
 
 Ye banks and liraes o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 
 And I sae weary, fu' o' care ? 
 Then 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
 
 That wantons through the flowering thorn ; 
 Thou minds me o' dejiarted joys, 
 
 Departed — never to return. 
 
 Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 
 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
 And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 
 
 And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. 
 Wi' liglitsome 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. 
 
 Robert burns. 
 
 AITLD ROBIN GRAY. 
 
 AVuEX the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye 's 
 
 come hame. 
 And a' the weary warld to rest are gane ; 
 The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frao my ee, 
 Unkeut by my gudeman wha sleeps sound by me. 
 
 Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and socht me for his 
 bride ; 
 
 But, saving a crown piece, he had nacthing be- 
 side. 
 
 To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to 
 sea ; 
 
 And the crown and the pound they were baith 
 for me ! 
 
 He hadna been gane awa a twelvemonth and a 
 
 When my father brake his arm, and the cow was 
 stown awa ; 
 
 My mithcr she fell sick, my young Jamie was ai. 
 
 sea, — 
 And auld Koliin Oray cam' a courting me. 
 
 Jly fiither cou'dna wark, — my ndlher cou'dna 
 
 spin, — 
 I toiled day and night, but their bread I cou'dna 
 
 win ; 
 Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears 
 
 in his ee, 
 Said, "Jenny, 0, for their sakcs, will ye no 
 
 marry me !" 
 
 My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back ; 
 But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a 
 
 wrack ; 
 His .ship was a wrack ! ^Vhy didna Jamie die ? 
 Or why am I spared to cry, AVac 's me ? 
 
 My father urged me sair, — my niiiher didna 
 
 speak. 
 But she looked in my face till my heart was like 
 
 to break ; 
 They gied liim my hand, my heart was in tlio 
 
 sea ; 
 And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. 
 
 1 hadna been his wife, a week but only fcMr, 
 When, mournfully as I sat on the stane at my 
 
 door, 
 I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I cou'dna think it he. 
 Till he said, "1 'm come hame, love, to marry 
 
 thee !" 
 
 sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a", 
 
 1 gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa', 
 
 1 wish that I were dead, but I 'm na like to die ; 
 For though my heart is broken, I 'm but young, 
 wae 's me ! 
 
 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin ; 
 I darcna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
 But I '11 do my best a gude wifi^ to be. 
 For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. 
 
 Lady annh Barnard.
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 
 
 FROM " MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM." 
 
 For aught that ever I could read, 
 
 Could ever hear by tale or history, 
 
 The course of true love never did run smooth : 
 
 But, either it was dillerent in blood, 
 
 Or else misgraffed in respect of years ; 
 
 Or else it stood upon the choice of friends ; 
 
 Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, 
 
 AVar, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. 
 
 Making it momentary as a sound. 
 
 Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ; 
 
 Brief as the liglitning in the coUied night, 
 
 Tliat, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth. 
 
 And ere a man hath jiowcr to say, — Behold ! 
 
 The jaws of darkness do devour it up : 
 
 So ijuick bright things come to conl'usion. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. 
 
 [Missolonghi, January 23, 1824. On this day I completed my 
 thirty-sixth year.] 
 
 'T IS time this heart should be unmoved, 
 Since otlicrs it has ceased to move ; 
 Yet, though I cannot be beloved. 
 Still let me love. 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf, 
 Tlie flowers and fruits of love are gone. 
 The worm, the canker, and the gi'ief. 
 Are mine alone. 
 
 The fire that in my bosom preys 
 Is like to some volcanic isle. 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze, 
 A funeral pile. 
 
 Tlie hope, the fear, the jealous care. 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love, 1 cannot sliare. 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 't is not here, — it is not here. 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now. 
 Where glory seals the hero's bier, 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field, 
 Glory and Greece about us see ; 
 The Spartan borne upon his shield 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake ! not Greece, — sho is awake ! 
 Awake, my spirit ! think through whom 
 My life-blood tastes its parent lake. 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 Tread tliose reviving passions down, 
 Unworthy manhood ! unto thee, 
 Indillerent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regrett'st thy youth, — why live? 
 The land of honorable death 
 Is here, — uj) to the field, and give 
 Away thy breath 1 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found — 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground. 
 And take thy rest ! 
 
 Lord Bvron. 
 
 CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND DE- 
 FENSE. 
 
 P.\rLiNE, liy pride 
 Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride, — 
 Tluit sole alloy of thy most lovely mold, — 
 The evil spirit of a bitter love 
 And a revengeful heart had power upon thee. 
 From my first years my soul was tilled with thee ; 
 I saw tliee midst the flowers the lowly boy 
 Tended, unmarked by thee, — a spirit of bloom. 
 And joy and freshness, as spring itself 
 Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape ! 
 I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man 
 Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy ; 
 And from that hour I grew — what to the last 
 1 shall be — thine adorer ! Well, this love. 
 Vain, frantic, — guilty, if thou wilt, Ijecamo 
 A fountain of ambition and bright hope ; 
 I thought of tales that by the winter hearth 
 Old gossips tell, — how maidens sprung from 
 
 kings 
 Have stooped from their high sphere ; liow Love, 
 
 like Death, 
 Levels .all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook 
 Beside the scepter. Thus 1 made my home 
 In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! 
 My father died ; and I, the peasant-born. 
 Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise 
 Out of the prison of my mean estate ; 
 And, with such jewels as the exploring mind 
 Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my 
 
 rausom 
 From those twin j.ailers of the daring heart. 
 Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, 
 Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, 
 And lured me on to those inspiring toils 
 By which man masters men ! For thee, I grew 
 A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages ! 
 For thee, 1 sought to borrow from each Grace 
 And every Muse such attributes as lend 
 Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee,
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 207 
 
 And passion taught mo poesy, — of thee, 
 
 And on tlie painter's canvas grow the lil'e 
 
 01' beauty ! — Art became the shadow 
 
 Of the dear starlight of thy liaunting eyes ! 
 
 Men called me vain, — some, mad, — I lieoded 
 
 not ; 
 But still toiled on, hoped on, — for it was sweet, 
 If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee ! 
 
 At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour 
 The thoughts that bui-st their channels into song. 
 And sent them to thee, — such a tribute, lady. 
 As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. 
 The name — appended by the burning heart 
 That longed to show its idol what brij^it things 
 It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name. 
 That should have been thy triumph, was thy 
 
 scorn ! 
 That very hour — when passion, turned to w-rath. 
 Resembled hatred most ; when thy disdain 
 Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour 
 The tempters found me a revengeful tool 
 For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the 
 
 worm, — 
 It turned, and stung thee ! 
 
 EDWAKD BULWER (LORD LVTTON). 
 
 LEFT BEHIND. " 
 
 It was the autumn of the year ; 
 The strawberry Jeaves were red and sear ; 
 October's airs were fresh and chill, 
 When, pausing on the windy lull, 
 The hill that overlooks the sea. 
 You talked confidingly to me, — 
 Me whom your keen, artistic sight 
 Has not yet learned to read aright, 
 Since I have veiled my heart from )'0U, 
 And loved you better tlian you knew. 
 
 You told me of your toilsome past ; 
 The tardy honors won at last. 
 The trials borne, the conquests gained. 
 The longed-for boon of Fame attained ; 
 I knew that every victory 
 But lifted you away from me, 
 That eveiy step of high emprise 
 But left me lowlier in your eyes ; 
 1 watched the distance as it grew, 
 And loved j'ou better than you knew. 
 
 You did not see the bitter trace 
 Of anguish sweep across my face ; 
 You did not hear my proud heart beat. 
 Heavy and slow, beneath your feet ; 
 You thought of triumph still unwon, 
 Of glorious deeds as yet undone ; 
 
 And I, the while you talked to me, 
 I watclied the gulls lloat louesumely. 
 Till lost amid tlie hungry blue, 
 Aud loved you better than you knew. 
 
 You walk the sunny side of fate ; 
 The wise world smiles, and calls you great ; 
 The golden fruitage of success 
 Drops at your feet in plenteousness ; 
 And you have blessings manifold : 
 lienown and power and friends anil gold. 
 They build a wall between us twain. 
 Which may not be thrown do\ra again, 
 Alas ! for I, the long years through, 
 Have loved you better than you knew. 
 
 Your life's jiroud aim, your art's high truth. 
 Have kept the promise of your youth ; 
 And while you won the crown, which now 
 Breaks into bloom upon your brow. 
 My soul cried strongly out to you 
 Across the ocean's yearning blue, 
 AVhile, unremembered and afar, 
 I watclied you, as I watch a star 
 Through darkness struggling into view. 
 And loved you better than you knew. 
 
 I used to dream in all these years 
 
 Of patient faith and silent tears. 
 
 That Love's strong hand woidd put aside 
 
 The barriers of place and pride. 
 
 Would reach the pathless darkness through. 
 
 And draw me softly up to you ; 
 
 But that is past. If you should stray 
 
 Beside my grave, some future day, 
 
 Perchance the violets o'er my dust 
 
 Will half betray their buried trust. 
 
 And say, their blue eyes full of dew, 
 
 "She loved you better than you knew." 
 
 Elizabeth Akers Allen {Florence Percy). 
 
 LINDA TO HAFED. 
 
 FROM "THE FIKE-WORSHIPEKS." 
 
 " How sweetly," said the trembling maid. 
 Of her own gentle voice afraid. 
 So long had they in silence stood. 
 Looking upon that moonlight flood, — 
 " How sweetly does the moonbeam smile 
 To-night upon yon leafy isle ! 
 Oft in ray fancy's wanderings, 
 I 've wished that little isle liad wings, 
 And we, within its fairy bowers, 
 
 AVere wafted off to seas unknown, 
 Wlicre not a pulse should bent but ours, 
 
 And we might live, love, die alone ■
 
 Far fioin the cruel ami the cold, — 
 
 ^Vhere the bright eyes of angels only 
 Should come around us, to behold 
 
 A paradise so pure and lonely ! 
 Would this be world enough for thee ?" — 
 Playful she turned, that he might see 
 
 The passing smile her cheek put on ; 
 But when she marked how mournfully 
 
 His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ; 
 And, bursting into heartfelt tears, 
 "Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, 
 My dreams, have boded all too right, — 
 "We part — forever part — to-night ! 
 I knew, I knew It could not last, — 
 'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 't is past ! 
 0, ever thus, from childhood's hour, 
 
 I 've seen my fondest hopes decay ; 
 I never loved a tree or flower 
 
 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, — 
 
 misery ! must I lose that too ? 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 BEBTHA IN THE LANE. 
 
 Put the broidery-frame away. 
 For my sewing is all done ! 
 
 The last thread is used to-day, 
 And I need not join it on. 
 Though the clock stands at the noon, 
 I am weary ! I have sewn, 
 Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. 
 
 Sister, help me to the bed, 
 
 And stand near me, dearest-sweet ! 
 Do not shrink nor be afraid, 
 
 Blushing with a sudden heat ! 
 
 No one standeth in the street ? — 
 
 By God's love 1 go to meet, 
 
 Love I thee with love complete. 
 
 Lean thy face down ! drop it in 
 These two hands, that 1 may hold 
 
 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and cliin. 
 Stroking back the curls of gold. 
 'T is a fair, fair face, in sooth, — 
 Larger eyes and redder mouth 
 Than mine were in my first youth ! 
 
 Thou art younger by seven years — 
 Ah ! so bashful at my gaze 
 
 Tliat the lashes, hung with tears, 
 Grow too heavy to upraise : 
 1 woidd wound thee by no touch 
 Which tliy shyness feels as such, — 
 Dost thou mind me, dear, so much ? 
 
 Have I not been nigh a mother 
 To thy sweetness, — tell me, dear ? 
 
 Have we not loved one another 
 Tenderly, from year to year. 
 Since our dying mother mild 
 Said, with accents undefded, 
 " Ghild, be mother to this cliild ! " 
 
 Mother, mother, up in heaven, 
 Stand up on the jasper sea. 
 
 And be witness I have given 
 All the gifts required of me ; — 
 Hope that blessed me, bliss that cro«-ncd, 
 Love that left me with a wound. 
 Life itself, that tmneth round ! 
 
 Mother, mother, thou art kind. 
 
 Thou art standing in the room, 
 In a molten glory shrined. 
 
 That rays otf into the gloom ! 
 
 But til}' smile is bright and bleak, 
 
 Like cold waves, — I cannot speak ; 
 
 I sob m it, and grow weak. 
 
 Ghostly mother, keep aloof 
 
 One hour longer from my soul, 
 For I still am thinking of 
 
 Eartli's wann-beatiug joy and dole ! 
 
 On my finger is a ring 
 
 A\Tiich I still see glittering, 
 
 AVlien the night hides everything. 
 
 Little sister, thou art pale ! 
 
 Ah, I have a wandering brain ; 
 But 1 lose that fever-bale. 
 
 And my thoughts grow calm again. 
 
 Lean down closer, closer still ! 
 
 I have words thine ear to fill. 
 
 And would kiss thee at my will. 
 
 Dear, 1 heard thee in the spring, 
 Tliee and Robert, through the trees, 
 
 When we all went gathering 
 
 Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. 
 Do not start so ! think instead 
 How the sunshine overhead 
 Seemed to trickle through the shade. 
 
 A\niat a day it wa.s, that day ! 
 
 Hills and vales did openly 
 Seem to heave and throb away. 
 
 At the sight of the great sky ;
 
 And the silence, as it stood 
 In the glory's golden flood, 
 Audibly did bud, • — and bud ! 
 
 Through the winding hedge-rows green. 
 How we wauelcred, I and you, — 
 
 With the bowery tops shut in, 
 
 And the gates that showed the view ; 
 How we talked there ! thiushes soft 
 Sang our pauses out, or oft 
 Bleatings took them from the croft. 
 
 Till the pleasure, grown too strong, 
 Left me muter evenuore ; 
 
 And, the winding road being long, 
 I walked out of sight, before ; 
 And so, wrapt in musings fond, 
 Issued (past the wayside pond) 
 On the meadow-lands beyond. 
 
 I sat down beneath the beech 
 Which leans over to the lane. 
 
 And the far sound of your speech 
 Did not promise any pain ; 
 And I blessed you, full and free. 
 With a smile stooped tenderly 
 O'er the May-flowers on my knee. 
 
 But the sound grew into word 
 
 As the speakers drew more near — 
 
 Sweet, forgive me that I heard 
 ^^^lat you wished me not to hear. 
 Do not weep so, do not shake — 
 0, I heard thee. Bertha, make 
 Good true answei-s for my sake. 
 
 Yes, and he too ! let him stand 
 
 In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. 
 
 Could he helj) it, if my hand 
 
 He had claimed with hasty claim ? 
 Tliat was wrong perhaps, but then 
 Sucli things be — and will, again ! 
 Women cannot judge for men. 
 
 Had he seen thee, when he swore 
 He would love but me alone ? 
 
 Thou wert absent, — sent befoie 
 To our kin in Sidmouth town. 
 AVhen he saw thee, who art best 
 Past compai'e, and loveliest. 
 He but judged thee as the rest. 
 
 Could we blame him with grave words. 
 Thou and I, dear, if we might ? 
 
 Thy brown eyes have looks like birds 
 Flying straightway to the light ; 
 Mine are older. — Hush ! — look out — 
 Up the street ! Is none without ? 
 How the jTOplar swings about ! 
 
 And that hour — beneatli the beach — 
 When I listened in a dream, 
 
 And he said, in his deep speech. 
 That he owed me all esteem — 
 Each word swam in on my brain 
 With a dim, dilating pain, 
 Till it burst with that last strain. 
 
 I fell flooded with a dark, 
 In the silence of a swoon ; 
 
 When I rose, still, cold and stark. 
 There was night, — 1 saw the moon ; 
 And the stars, each in its place. 
 And the May-blooms on the gr;iss, 
 Seemed to wonder what I was. 
 
 And I walked as if apart 
 
 From myself when I could stand. 
 
 And I pitied my own heart. 
 As if I held it in my hand 
 Somewhat coldly, with a sense 
 Of fulfilled benevolence. 
 And a " Poor thing " negligence. 
 
 And I answered coldly too. 
 
 When j'ou met me at the door ; 
 
 And 1 only luard the dew 
 
 Dripping from me to the floor ; 
 And the flowers I bade you see 
 AVere too withei'ed for the bee, — 
 As my Ufe, henceforth, for me. 
 
 Do not weep so — dear — heart- wami ! 
 It was best as it befell ! 
 
 If I say he did me harm, 
 
 1 speak wild, — I am not well. 
 All his words were kind and good, — 
 He esteemed mcl Only blood 
 Kuns so faint in womanhood. 
 
 Tlicn 1 always was too grave. 
 Liked the saddest ballads sung. 
 
 With that look, besides, we have 
 In our faces, who die young. 
 I had died, dear, all the same. 
 Life's long, jo\'ous, jostling game 
 Is too loud for mj' meek shame. 
 
 We are so unlike each otb.er, 
 
 Thou and I, that none could guess 
 
 We were children of one mother. 
 But for mutual tendernes.s. 
 Thou art rose-lined from the cold. 
 And meant, verily, to hold 
 Life's pure pleasures manifold. 
 
 I am jiale as crocus gi'ows 
 Close beside a rose-ti'ee's root !
 
 J- 
 
 -i^ 
 
 210 
 
 POEMS OF DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 Whosoe'er would reacli the rose, 
 Treads the crocus under foot ; 
 I, like May-bloom on thorn-tree, 
 Thou, like merry summer-bee ! 
 Fit that I be plucked for thee. 
 
 Yet who plucks me ? — no one mourns ; 
 I have lived my season out, 
 
 And now die of my own thorns, 
 Which I could not live without. 
 Sweet, be merry ! How the light 
 Comes and goes ! If it be night, 
 Keep the caudles in my sight. 
 
 Are there footsteps at the door ? 
 Look out quickly. Yea, or nay ? 
 
 Some one might be waiting for 
 Some last word that I miglit say. 
 Nay ? So best ! — So angels would 
 Stand off clear from deathly road. 
 Not to cross the sight of God. 
 
 Cohler grow my hands and feet, — 
 When I wear the sliroud I made. 
 
 Let the folds lie straight and neat. 
 And the rosemary be spread. 
 That if any friend should come, 
 (To see thee, sweet !) all the room 
 May be lifted out of gloom. 
 
 And, dear Bertha, let me keep 
 On my hand this little ring. 
 
 Which at nights, when others sleep, 
 I can still see glittering. 
 Let me wear it out of sight. 
 In the grave, — where it will light 
 All the dark up, day and night. 
 
 On that grave drop not a tear ! 
 
 Else, though fathom-deep the place, 
 Through the woolen shroud I wear 
 
 I shall feel it on my face. 
 
 Rather smile there, blessed one, 
 
 Thinking of me in the sun, — 
 
 Or forget me, smiling on ! 
 
 Art thou near me ? nearer ? so ! 
 Kiss me close upon the eyes. 
 
 That the earthly light may go 
 Sweetly as it used to rise. 
 When 1 watched the morning gray 
 Strike, betwixt the hills, the way 
 He was sure to come that day. 
 
 So — no more vain words be said ! 
 
 The hosannas nearer roll — 
 Mother, smile now on thy dead, — 
 
 I am death-strong in my soul ! 
 
 Mystic Dove alit on cross, 
 Guide the poor bird of the snows 
 Through the snow-wind above loss I 
 
 Jesus, victim, comprehending 
 
 Love's divine sell-abnegation. 
 Cleanse my love in its self-spending, 
 
 And absorb the poor libation ! 
 
 Wind my thread of life up higher, 
 
 Up through angels' hands of tire ! — 
 
 I aspire while I expire ! — 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett browning. 
 
 UNREQUITED LOVE. 
 
 FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT." 
 
 Viola. Ay, but I know — 
 
 Duke. AVhat dost tliou know ? 
 
 Viola. Too well what love women to men 
 may owe ; 
 In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
 My father had a daughter loved a man. 
 As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 
 I should your lordship. 
 
 Duke. And what 's her history ? 
 
 Viola. A blank, my lord. She never told 
 her love. 
 But let concealment, like a worm i' the hud. 
 Feed on her damask cheek ; she pined in thought ; 
 And, with a green and yellow melancholy. 
 She sat like Patience on a monument. 
 Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ? 
 We men may say more, swear more : but, iudeetl, 
 Our shows are more than will ; for still we prove 
 Much in om' vows, but little in our love. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 DOROTHY rN THE GARRET. 
 
 In the low-raftered garret, stooping 
 
 Carefully over the creaking boards. 
 Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping 
 
 Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards ; 
 Seeking some bundle of patches, hid 
 
 Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage. 
 Or satchel hung on its nail, amid 
 
 The heirlooms of a bygone age. 
 
 There is the ancient family chest, 
 
 There the ancestral cards and hatchel ; 
 Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest, 
 
 Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel. 
 Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom 
 
 Of the chimney, where, with swifts and reel. 
 And the long-disused, dismantled loom, 
 
 Stands the old-fasliioned spinning-wheel.
 
 -t^ 
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 211 
 
 She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen, 
 
 A part of liei- girlhood's little world ; 
 Her mother is there by the window, stitehing ; 
 
 Sjiindle buzzes, and reel is whirled 
 With many a elick : on her little stool 
 
 She sits, a child, by the open door, 
 Wateliing, and dabbling her feet in the pool 
 
 Of sunshine spilled on the gilded floor. 
 
 Her sisters are spinning all day long ; 
 
 To hi-r wakening sense the first sweet warning 
 Of daylight come is the cheerful song 
 
 To the hum of tlie wheel in the early morning. 
 Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy. 
 
 On his way to school, peeps in at the gate ; 
 In neat white pinafore, pleased and coy. 
 
 She reaches a hand to her bashful mate ; 
 
 And under the elms, a prattling pair. 
 
 Together they go, through glimmer and 
 gloom : — 
 It all comes back to lier, dreaming there 
 
 In the low-raftered garret-room ; 
 The hum of tlie wheel, and the summer w-eather, 
 
 The heart's fii-st trouble, and love's beginning, 
 Are all in her memory linked together ; 
 
 And now it is she herself that is spinning. 
 
 With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip. 
 
 Turning the spokes with the flashing pin, 
 Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip. 
 
 Stretching it out and winding it in. 
 To and fro, with a blithesome tread, 
 
 Singing she goes, and her heart is full. 
 And many a long-drawn golden thread 
 
 Of fancy is spun with the shining wool. 
 
 Her father sits in his favorite place, 
 
 Puffing his pipe by the cliimney-side ; 
 Tlirough curling clouds Ids kindly face 
 
 Glows upon her with love and priile. 
 Lulled by the wheel, in the old arm-chair 
 
 Tier mother is musing, eat in lap, 
 With beautiful drooping head, and hair 
 
 Whitening under her snow-white cap. 
 
 One by one, to the grave, to the bridal. 
 
 They have followed her sisters from the door ; 
 Now they are old, and she is their idol ; — 
 
 It all comes back on her heart once more. 
 In the autumn dusk the hearth gleams brightly, 
 
 Tlie wheel is set by the shadowy wall, — ■ 
 A hand at the latch, — 't is lifted lightly. 
 
 And in walks Benjie, manly and tall. 
 
 His chair is placed ; the old man tips 
 
 The pitcher, and brings his choicest fruit ; 
 
 Benjie basks in the blaze, and sips. 
 And tells his story, and jomts Iiis flute : 
 
 0, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laughter ! 
 
 They fill the hour witli a glowing tide ; 
 But sweeter the still, deep moments after, 
 
 When she is alone by Beujie's side. 
 
 But once with angry words they part : 
 
 0, tlien the weary, weary days ! 
 Ever with restless, wretched lieart, 
 
 riying her ta.sk, she turns to gaze 
 Far up the road ; and early and late 
 
 Slie harks for a footstep at tlie door, 
 And starts at the gust that swings the gate. 
 
 And iirays for Benjie, who comes no more. 
 
 Her fault ? Benjie, and could you steel 
 
 Your thoughts toward one who loved you so ? — 
 Solace she seeks in the wliirling wheel, 
 
 In duty and love that ligliten woe ; 
 Striving with labor, not in vain. 
 
 To drive away the dull day's dreariness, — 
 Blessing the toil that blunts the pain 
 
 Of a deeper grief in the body's weariness. 
 
 Proud and petted and spoiled was she : 
 
 A word, and all her life is changed ! 
 His wavering love too easily 
 
 In the great, gay city grows estranged : 
 One year : she sits in the old chureh pew ; 
 
 A rustle, a murmur, — Dorothy ! hide 
 Your face and sliut from your soul the view ! 
 
 'T is Benjie leading a white-v.eiled bride ! 
 
 Now father and motliev have long been dead. 
 
 And the bride sleeps under a churchyard stone. 
 And a bent old man with grizzled head 
 
 Walks up the long dim aisle alone. 
 Years blur to a mist ; and Dorothy 
 
 Sits doubting betwi.xt the gliost she seems 
 And the phantom of youth, more leal than she. 
 
 That meets her there in that haunt of dreams. 
 
 Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter, 
 
 Sought by many a youthful adorer, 
 Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water, 
 
 .Sliining an endless vista brfore lier ! 
 Old Maid Dorotliy, wrinkled and graj'. 
 
 Groping under the farm-house eaves, — 
 Anil life is a brief November day 
 
 That sets on a world of withered leaves ! 
 
 Yet faithfulness in the humblest part 
 
 Is better at last than proud success. 
 And patience and love in a chastened heart 
 
 Are pearls more precious than happiness ; 
 And in that morning when she shall wake 
 
 To the spring-time fresliness of youth again. 
 All trouble will seem but a flying flake. 
 
 And lifelong sorrow a breath on the pane. 
 
 John t. Tkowdkidge, 
 
 t
 
 -I- 
 
 i_ 
 
 212 
 
 POEMS OF DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 MAKE BELIEVE. 
 
 Kiss me, thougli you make believe ; 
 
 Kiss me, tliough I almost know 
 . You are kissing to deceive : 
 
 Let the tide one moment flow 
 Backward ere it rise and break, 
 Only for poor pity's sake ! 
 
 Give me of your flowers one leaf, 
 .. Give me of your sraOes one smile, 
 •Backward roll this tide of grief 
 
 Just a moment, though, the while, 
 I should feel and almost know 
 You are tiifling with my woe. 
 
 Whisper to me sweet and low ; 
 
 Tell me how you sit and weave 
 Dreams about me, though 1 know 
 
 It is only make believe ! 
 Just a moment, though 't is plain 
 You are jesting with my pain. 
 
 ALICE GARY. 
 
 AN EXPERIENCE AND A MORAL. 
 
 I LENT my love a book one day ; 
 
 She brought it back ; I laid it by : 
 'T was little either had to say, — 
 
 She was so strange, and I so shy. 
 
 But yet we loved indifferent things, — 
 The sprouting buds, the birds in tune, — 
 
 And Time stood still and wreathed his wings 
 AV'ith rosy links from June to June. 
 
 For her, what task to dare or do ? 
 
 What peril tempt ? what hardship bear ? 
 But with her — ah ! she never knew 
 
 My heart, and what was hidden there ! 
 
 And she, with me, so cold and coy. 
 Seemed a little maid bereft of sense ; 
 
 But in the crowd, all life and joy. 
 And fuU of blushful impudence. 
 
 She married, — well, — a woman needs 
 A mate, her life and love to share, — 
 
 And little cares sprang up like weeds 
 And played around her elbow-chair. 
 
 And years rolled by, — but I, content. 
 
 Trimmed my own lamp,, and kept it bright, 
 
 Till age's touch my hair besprent 
 With rays and gleams of silver light. 
 
 And then it chanced I took the book 
 Which she perused in days gone by ; 
 
 And as I read, such passion shook 
 
 My soul, — I needs must cui-se or ciy. 
 
 For, here and there, her love was writ. 
 In old, half-faded pencil-signs, 
 
 As if she yielded — bit by bit — 
 Her heai't in dots and underlines. 
 
 Ah, silvered fool, too late you look ! 
 
 I know it ; let me here record 
 This maxim : Lend no girl a hook 
 
 Unless you read it afterward! 
 
 Frederick s. Cozzens* 
 
 A RELIC. 
 
 Only a woman's right-hand glove. 
 
 Five and three quaitei-s, Courvoisier's make, — 
 For aU common pm'poses useless enough, 
 
 Yet deai'er for her sweet sake. 
 
 Dearer to me for her who filled 
 
 Its empty place with a warm white hand, — 
 The hand 1 held ere her voice was stilled 
 
 In the sleep of the silent laud. 
 
 Only a glove ! yet speaking to me 
 
 Of the dear dead days now vanished and fled, 
 And the face that I never again shall see 
 
 Till the grave give back its dead. 
 
 An empty glove ! yet to me how full 
 
 Of the fragrance of days that come no more. 
 
 Of memories that make us, and thoughts that 
 rule 
 Man's life in its inmost core ! 
 
 The tone of her voice, the poise of her head, — • 
 AU, all come back at the will's behest ; 
 
 The music she loved, the books that she read, — 
 Nay, the colors that suited her best. 
 
 ^Viid 0, that night by the wild sea-shore. 
 With its tears, and kisses, and vows of love, 
 
 ^Vhen, as pledge of the parting promise we swore, 
 Each gave a glove for a glove ! 
 
 You laugh ! but remember though only a glove, 
 Which to you may no deeper meaning express. 
 
 To me it is changed by the light of that love 
 To the one sweet thing I possess. 
 
 Our souls draw their nirrtnre from many a ground, 
 And faiths that are different in their roots, 
 
 Where tiie will is right, and the heart is sound, 
 Are much the same in their fruits. 
 
 Men get at the truth by different roads. 
 And nmst live the part of it each one sees : 
 
 You gather your guides out of orthodox codes, 
 1 mine out of tr'ifles Ukc these. 
 
 1-
 
 • « » 
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 213 
 
 A tiille, no doubt, but, in such acnsc, 
 So liathed in the light of a love gone by, 
 
 It has entered the region and tiikes its iilace 
 With the things that cannot die. 
 
 This trifle to me is of heavenly birth ; 
 
 No chance, as I tiike it, but puriiosely given 
 To help me to sit somewhat looser to earth. 
 
 And closer a little to heaven. 
 
 For it seems to bring mc so near, 0, so near 
 
 To the face of an angel watching above, — 
 
 That face of all otliers I held so dear, 
 
 With its yearning eyes of love ! 
 
 ■' ° •' J. D. s. 
 
 INTROSPECTION. 
 
 H.WE you sent her back her letters ? have you 
 
 given her back her ring ? 
 Have you tried to forget the haunting songs that 
 
 you loved to hear her sing ? 
 Have you cursed the day you met her first, thanked 
 
 God that you were free, 
 And said, in your inmost heart, as you thought, 
 
 " She never was dear to me " ? 
 You have cast her off ; your pride is touched ; you 
 
 fancy that all is done ; 
 Thatforyou the world is bright again, and bravely 
 
 shines the sun : 
 You have washed your hands of passion ; you 
 
 have whistled her down the wind, — 
 Tom, old friend, this goes before, the sharpest 
 
 comes behind ! 
 Yes, the sharpest is yet to come, for love is a plant 
 
 that never dies ; 
 Its roots are deep as the earth itself, its branches 
 
 wide as the skies ; 
 And whenever once it has taken hold, it flourishes 
 
 evermore. 
 Bearing a fruit that is fair outside, but bitter ashes 
 
 at core. 
 
 You will leam this, Tom, hereafter ; when anger 
 
 has cooled, and you 
 Have time for introspection, you will find my 
 
 words are true ; 
 You will sit and gaze in your fire alone, and fancy 
 
 that you can see 
 Her face, with its classic oval, her ringlets flut- 
 tering free. 
 Her soft blue eyes wide opened, her sweet red 
 
 lips apart. 
 As she used to look, in the golden days when 
 
 you fancied she had a heart : 
 Whatever you do, wherever you turn, you will 
 
 see that glorious face 
 Coming with shadowy beauty, to haunt all time 
 
 and space ; 
 
 Those songs you wrote for her singing will sing 
 themselves into your brain. 
 
 Till your life seems set to their rhythm, and your 
 thoughts to their refrain; 
 
 Their old, old burden of love and grief, — the pas- 
 sion you have foresworn : 
 
 I tell j'ou, Tom, it is not thrown off so well as 
 you think, this morn. 
 
 But the worst, perhaps the worst of all, will bo 
 
 when the day has flown. 
 When darkness favors reflection, and your com- 
 rades leave you alone ; 
 You will try to sleep, but the memories of unfor- 
 
 gotten years 
 WUl come with a storm of wild regret, — niayliap 
 
 with a storm of tears ; 
 Each look, each word, each playful tone, each 
 
 timid little caress. 
 The golden gleam of her ringlets, the rustling of 
 
 her dress, 
 The delicate touch of her ungloved hand, that 
 
 woke such an exquisite thrill, 
 The flowers she gave you the niglit of the ball, — 
 
 I think you treasure them still, — 
 AH these will come, till you slumber, worn out 
 
 by sheer despair, 
 And then you will hear vague ecliocs of song on 
 
 the darkened air, — 
 Vague echoes rising and falling, of the voice you 
 
 know so well, 
 Like the songs that were sung by the Lurlei maids, 
 
 sweet with a deadly spell ! 
 
 In dreams her heart will ever again be yours, and 
 
 you will see 
 Fair glimpses of what might have been, — what 
 
 now can never be ; 
 And as she comes to meet you, with a sudden, wild 
 
 unrest 
 You will stretch your arms forth lovingly to fold 
 
 her to your breast ; 
 But the Lurlei song wiU fade and die, and with 
 
 its fading tone 
 You will wake to find you clasp the thin and 
 
 empty air alone. 
 While the fire-bells' clanging dissonance, on the 
 
 gusty night-wind borne. 
 Will seem an iron-tongued demon's voice, laugh- 
 ing your grief to scorn. 
 Tom, you say it is over, — you talk of letters 
 
 and rings, — 
 Do you think that Love's mighty spirit, then, is 
 
 held by such trifling things ? 
 No ! if you once have truly loved, you will still 
 
 love on, I know. 
 Till the churchyard myrtles blossom above, and 
 
 you lie mute below. 
 
 r
 
 J^ 
 
 21-i 
 
 POEMS OF DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 How is it, I womler, hereafter ? Faith teaches 
 
 us little, here, 
 Of the ones we have loved and lost on earth, — 
 
 do you think they will still be dear ? 
 Shall we live the lives we might have lead ? — 
 
 will those who are severed now 
 Eemember the pledge of a lower sphere, and renew 
 
 the broken vow ? 
 It almost drives me wild to think of the gifts 
 
 we throw away, 
 Ilnthinkiiig whether or no we lose Life's honey 
 
 and wine for aye ! 
 But then, again, 't is a mighty joy — greater than 
 
 I can tell — 
 To trust that the parted may some time meet, — 
 
 that all may again be well. 
 However it be, I hold, that all the evil we know 
 
 on earth 
 Finds in this violence done to Love its true and 
 
 legitimate birth ; 
 And the agonies we suffer, when the heart is left 
 
 alone, 
 For every sin of Humanity should fully and well 
 
 atone. 
 
 I see that you marvel greatly, Tom, to hear such 
 
 words from me. 
 But, if you knew my inmost heart, 't would be no 
 
 mystery. 
 Experience is bitter, but its teachings we retain : 
 It has taught me this, — who once has loved, 
 
 loves never on earth again ! 
 And I too have my closet, with a ghastly foiTn 
 
 inside, — 
 The skeleton of a perished love, killed by a cruel 
 
 pride : 
 I sit by the fire at evening — as you will some 
 
 time sit. 
 And watch, in the roseate half-light, the ghosts of 
 
 happiness flit : 
 1 too awaken at nudnight, and stretch my arms 
 
 to enfold 
 A vague anil shadowy image, with tresses of brown 
 
 and gold : 
 Experience is bitter indeed, — I have learned at 
 
 a heavy cost 
 The secret of Love's persistency : I too have loved 
 
 and lost ! 
 
 GEORGE Arnold. 
 
 LOCKSLEY HAU,. 
 
 Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 
 
 't is early morn, — 
 Leave me here, and when you want me, sound 
 
 upon the bugle horn. 
 
 'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the 
 
 curlews call. 
 Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over 
 
 Locksley Hall ; 
 
 Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the 
 sandy tracts, 
 
 And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cata- 
 racts. 
 
 Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I 
 
 went to rest. 
 Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the 
 
 west. 
 
 Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through 
 
 the mellow shade, 
 Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver 
 
 braid. 
 
 Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a 
 
 youth sublime ■ 
 With the fairy tales of science, and the long 
 
 result of time ; 
 
 When the centuries behind me like a fruitful 
 
 land reposed ; 
 When I clung to all the present for the promise 
 
 that it closed ; 
 
 When I dipt into the future far as human eye '"i -^ 
 could see, — ' 
 
 Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder 
 that would be. 
 
 In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the 
 
 robin's breast ; 
 In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 
 
 another crest ; 
 
 In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the bur- 
 nished dove ; 
 
 In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns 
 to thoughts of love. 
 
 Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should 
 
 be for one so young. 
 And her eyes on all my motions with a mute 
 
 observance hung. 
 
 And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak 
 
 the truth to me ; 
 Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being 
 
 sets to thee." 
 
 On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color 
 and a light, 
 
 As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the north- 
 ern nisht. 
 
 I
 
 4 
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 And she turned, — her bosom shaken with a sud- 
 den storm of siyhs ; 
 
 All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel 
 eyes, — 
 
 Saying, " 1 have hid my feelings, fearing they 
 
 should do nie wrong " ; 
 Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " w-eeping, 
 
 " I have loved thee long." 
 
 Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in 
 
 his glowing hands ; 
 Eveiy moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 
 
 sands. 
 
 Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all 
 
 the chords with might ; 
 Smote the cliord of Self, that, trembling, passed 
 
 in music out of sight. 
 
 Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the 
 
 copses ring. 
 And her whisper thronged my pulses with the 
 
 fullness of the Spring. 
 
 Many an evening by the waters did we \vatch the 
 
 stately ships. 
 And our spirits rushed together at the touching 
 
 of the lips. 
 
 my cousin, shallow-hearted ! my Amy, 
 
 mine no more ! 
 0, the dreary, dreary moorland ! O, the barren, 
 
 barren shore ! 
 
 Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs 
 
 have sung, — 
 Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a 
 
 shrewish tongue ! 
 
 Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known 
 
 me — to decline 
 On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart 
 
 than mine ! 
 
 Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day 
 by day. 
 
 What is fine within thee growing coarse to sym- 
 pathize with clay. 
 
 As the husband is, the wife is ; thou art mated 
 
 witli a clown. 
 And the grossness of his nature will have weight 
 
 to drag thee down. 
 
 He will hold thee, when his passion shall have 
 
 spent its novel force, 
 Something better than his dog, a little dearer 
 
 than his horse. 
 
 Wliat is this? Ids eyes are heavy, — think not 
 
 they are glazed with wine. 
 Go to him ; it is thy duty, — kiss him ; take his 
 
 hand iu thine. 
 
 It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is 
 
 overwrought, — 
 Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him 
 
 with tliy lighter thought. 
 
 lie will answer to the purpose, easy things to 
 
 understand, — 
 Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew 
 
 thee with my hand ! 
 
 Better thou and I were Ipng, hidden from tlie 
 
 heart's disgrace, 
 Kolled in one another's arm.s, and silent in a last 
 
 embrace. 
 
 Cursed be the social wants that sin against the 
 
 strength of youth ! 
 Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the 
 
 living truth ! 
 
 Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest 
 nature's rule ! 
 
 Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened fore- 
 head of the fool ! 
 
 Well — 't is well that I shoidd bluster ! — Hadst 
 
 thou less unworthy jiroved, 
 Would to God — for I had loved thee more than 
 
 ever wife was loved. 
 
 Am I mail, that I .should cherish thatwliich bears 
 
 but bitter fruit ? 
 I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart 
 
 be at the root. 
 
 Never ! though my mortal summers to such length 
 of years sliould come 
 
 As the many-wintered crow that leads the clang- 
 ing rookery home. 
 
 Where is comfort ? iu division of the records of 
 
 the mind ? 
 Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I 
 
 knew her, kind ? 
 
 I remember one that perished ; sweetly did she 
 
 speak and move ; 
 Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was 
 
 to love. 
 
 Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the 
 
 love she bore ? 
 No, — she never loved me truly ; love is love for- 
 
 evermore. 
 
 r
 
 216 
 
 POEMS OF DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils ! this is truth 
 
 the poet sings, 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 
 
 happier tilings. 
 
 Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy 
 
 heart be put to proof, 
 In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain 
 
 Is on the roof. 
 
 Like a dog, he hunts in dreams ; and thou art 
 
 staring at the wall, 
 Wliere the dying night-lamp nickel's, and the 
 
 shadows rise and fall. 
 
 Then a hand sh.all pass before thee, pointing to 
 
 his drunken sleep. 
 To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears 
 
 that thou wilt weep. 
 
 Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whispered 
 
 by the phantom years. 
 And a song from out the distance in the ringing 
 
 of thine ears ; 
 
 And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kind- 
 ness on thy pain. 
 
 Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get thee to 
 thy rest again. 
 
 Nay, but nature brings thee solace ; for a tender 
 
 voice will cry ; 
 'T is a pui'er life than thine, a lip to drain thy 
 
 trouble dry. 
 
 Baby lips mil laugh me down ; my latest rival 
 
 brings thee rest, — 
 Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the 
 
 mother's breast. 
 
 0, 'the child too clothes the father with a dear- 
 
 ness not his due. 
 Half is thine and half is his ; it wUl be worthy 
 
 of the two. 
 
 O, I see thee old and fonnal, fitted to thy petty 
 
 part. 
 With a little horde of maxims jireaching down a 
 
 daughter's heart. 
 
 " They were dangerous guides the feelings — she 
 
 herself was not exempt — 
 Truly, she herself had suffered — " Perish in 
 
 thy self-contempt ! 
 
 Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore 
 
 should I care ? 
 I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by 
 
 despair. 
 
 What is that which I should turn to, ligliting 
 
 upon days like these ? 
 Every door is barred with gold, and opens but 
 
 to golden keys. 
 
 Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the mar- 
 kets overflow. 
 
 I have but an angry fancy : what is that which 
 I should do ? 
 
 I had been content to perish, falling on the foe- 
 man's ground, 
 
 'When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the 
 •\\inds are laid with sound. 
 
 But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt 
 
 that honor feels, 
 And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each 
 
 other's heels. 
 
 Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that 
 earlier page. 
 
 Hide me from my deep emotion, thou won- 
 drous mother-age ! 
 
 Make me feel the wild pulsation that 1 fi-lt 
 
 before the strife. 
 When I heard my days before me, and the 
 
 tumult of my life ; 
 
 Yearning for the large excitement that the com- 
 ing years would yield. 
 
 Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his 
 father's field, 
 
 And at night along the dusky highway near and 
 
 nearer drawn. 
 Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like 
 
 a dreary dawn ; 
 
 And his spirit leaps within him to be gone be- 
 fore him then. 
 
 Underneath the light he looks at, in among the 
 throngs of men ; 
 
 Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reap- 
 ing something new : 
 
 That which they have done but earnest of the 
 things that they shall do : 
 
 For I dipt into the future, far as human eye 
 
 could see, 
 Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder 
 
 that would be ; 
 
 Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of 
 
 magic sails. 
 Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down 
 
 viith. costl}' bales ;
 
 Uff^ 
 
 F0Rr9, HOWARD & HUIBERT.N.V.
 
 -^H 
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 217 
 
 Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there 
 
 rained a ghastly dew 
 From the nations' airy navies grappling in the 
 
 central blue ; 
 
 Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- 
 wind rushing warm, 
 
 Willi the standards of the peoples plunging 
 through the thunder-stonn ; 
 
 Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the 
 
 battle-llags were furled 
 In the parliament of man, the federation of the 
 
 world. 
 
 There the common sense of most shall hold a 
 fretful realm in awe, 
 
 And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in uni- 
 versal law. 
 
 So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping through 
 
 me left me dry. 
 Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with 
 
 the jaundiced eye ; 
 
 Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are 
 
 out of joint. 
 Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on 
 
 from point to point : 
 
 Slowly comes a hungry jieople, as a lion, creep- 
 ing nigher, 
 
 Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly 
 dying fire. 
 
 Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing 
 
 purpose runs. 
 And the thoughts of men are widened witli the 
 
 process of the suns. 
 
 What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his 
 
 youthful joys. 
 Though the deep heart of existence beat forever 
 
 like a boy's ? 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers ; and I 
 
 linger on the shore. 
 And the individual withers, and the world is more 
 
 and more. 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he 
 bears a laden breast, 
 
 Full of sad experience moving toward the still- 
 ness of his rest. 
 
 Hark ! my merry comrades call me, sounding on 
 
 the bugle horn, — 
 They to whom my foolish passion were a target 
 
 for their scorn ; 
 
 Shall it not bo scorn to me to hai'p on such a 
 
 mouldered string ! 
 I am shamed through all my nature to have loved 
 
 so slight a thing. 
 
 Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's 
 
 pleasure, woman's pain — 
 Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 
 
 shallower brain ; 
 
 Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 
 
 matched with mine. 
 Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water 
 
 unto wine — 
 
 Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah 
 
 for some retreat 
 Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life 
 
 began to beat ; 
 
 Where in wild Mahralta-battle fell my father, 
 
 evil-starred ; 
 I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 
 
 ward. 
 
 Or to liurst all links of habit, — there to wamler 
 
 far away, 
 On from island unto island at the gateways of the 
 
 tl.iy, — 
 
 Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 
 
 happy skies. 
 Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, 
 
 knots of Paradise. 
 
 Never comes the trader, never floats an European 
 
 flag, — 
 Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the 
 
 trailer from the crag, — • 
 
 Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the 
 
 heavy-fruited tree, — 
 Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres 
 
 of sea. 
 
 There, methinks, would be enjojTiient more than 
 
 in this march of mind — 
 In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts 
 
 that shake mankind. 
 
 There the passions, cramped no longer, shall liave 
 
 scope and breathing-space ; 
 I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my 
 
 dusky race. 
 
 I ron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and 
 
 they shall run. 
 Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their 
 
 lances in the sun. 
 
 r
 
 X 
 
 218 
 
 POEMS OF DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 Whistle back the parrot's call, aud leap the rain- 
 bows of the brooks, 
 
 Not with blinded eyesight jmring over miserable 
 books — 
 
 Fool, again the dream, tlie fancy ! but I know my 
 
 words are wild. 
 But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 
 
 Christian child. 
 
 I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 
 
 glorious gains, 
 Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast 
 
 with lower pains ! 
 
 Mate4 with a squalid savage, — what to me were 
 
 sun or clime ? 
 I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of 
 
 time, — 
 
 I, that rather held it better men should perish 
 
 one by one. 
 Than that earth should stand atgaze like Joshua's 
 
 moon in Ajalon ! 
 
 Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, for- 
 ward let us range ; 
 
 Let the gi'eat world spin forever down the ring- 
 ing grooves of change. 
 
 Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into 
 
 the younger day : 
 Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 
 
 Cathay. 
 
 Mother-age (for mine I knew not), help me as 
 when life begun, — 
 
 Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the light- 
 nings, weigh the sun, — 
 
 0, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath 
 
 not set ; 
 Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my 
 
 fancy yet. 
 
 Howsoever these things bo, a long farewell to 
 
 Locksley Hall ! 
 Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the 
 
 roof-tree fall. 
 
 Conies a vapor from the margin, blackening over 
 
 heath and holt. 
 Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a 
 
 thunderbolt. 
 
 Let it fall on Locksley HaU, with rain or hail, or 
 
 fire or snow ; 
 For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and 
 
 I go. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 ONLY A WOMAN. 
 
 " she loves with love that cannot tire : 
 And if, ah, woe ! she loves alone, 
 Through {passionate duty Jove Hanies higlier. 
 As grass grows taller round a stone "" ■ 
 
 Coventry patmore. 
 
 So, the truth 's out. I 'U grasp it like a snake,— 
 It will not slay me. ily heart shall not break 
 Awhile, if only for the children's sake. 
 
 For his, too, somewhat. Lethim stand unblamed ; 
 None say, he gave me less than honor claimed. 
 Except — one trifle scarcely worth being named — 
 
 The heart. That 's gone. The corrupt dead 
 
 might be 
 As easily raised up, breathing, fair to see, 
 As he could bring his whole heart back to me. 
 
 I never sought him in coquettish sport, 
 
 Or courted him as silly maidens court, 
 
 And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. 
 
 1 only loved him, — any woman would : 
 But shut my love up till he came and sued, 
 Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood. 
 
 I was so happy I could make him blest ! — 
 
 So happy that I was his first and best. 
 
 As he mine, — when he took me to his breast. 
 
 Ah me ! if only then he had been true ! 
 
 I f, for one little year, a month or two. 
 
 He had given me love for love, as was my due ! 
 
 Or had he told me, ere the deed was done. 
 He only raised me to his heart's dear throne — 
 Poor substitute — because the queen was gone ! 
 
 0, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss 
 Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss. 
 He had kissed another woman even as this, — 
 
 It were less bitter ! Sometimes 1 could weep 
 To be thus cheated, like a child asleep, — 
 Were not my anguish far too dry .and deep. 
 
 So I built my house upon another's ground ; 
 Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound, — 
 A cankered thing that looked so finu and sound. 
 
 And when that heart grew colder, — colder still, 
 
 1, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfil. 
 Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will, 
 
 ,\11, — an)-thing but him. It was to be 
 The full draught others drink up carelessly 
 Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. 
 
 t
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 219 
 
 I say again, — he gives me all I elaiineil, 
 I and my children never shall be shamed : 
 He is a just man, — he will live unblamed. 
 
 Only — God, God, to cry for bread. 
 And get a stone ! Daily to lay my head 
 Upon a bosom where the old love 's dead ! 
 
 Dead ? — Fool ! It never lived. It only stirred 
 Galvanic, like an honr-eold corpse. None heard : 
 So let me bury it without a word. 
 
 He '11 keep that other woman from my sight. 
 1 know not if her face be foul or bright ; 
 I only know that it was his delight — 
 
 As his was mine ; I only know he stands 
 Pale, at the touch of their long-severed hands. 
 Then to a flickering smile his lips commands, 
 
 Lest I shoidd grieve, or jealous anger show. 
 He need not. When the slup 's gone down, I trow, 
 We little reck whatever wind may blow. 
 
 And so my silent moan begins and ends : 
 
 No world's laugh or world's ttiunt, no pity of 
 
 friends 
 Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends. 
 
 None knows, — none heeds. 1 have a little pride ; 
 Enough to stand up, wifelike, by his side. 
 With the same smile as when I was his bride. 
 
 And I shall take his children to my arms ; 
 They will not missthese fading.worthlesscharms ; 
 Their kiss — ah ! unlike his — all pain disarms. 
 
 And haply as the solemn years go by. 
 
 He will think sometimes, with regretful sigh. 
 
 The other woman was less true than I. 
 
 DINAH MULOCK CraIK. 
 
 HOME, WOUITDED. 
 
 Wheel me into the sunshine, 
 
 Wheel me into the shadow. 
 
 There must be leaves on the woodbine, 
 
 Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow ? 
 
 Wheel me down to the meadow, 
 
 Down to the little Viver, 
 
 In sun or in shadow 
 
 I shall not dazzle or shiver, 
 
 I .shall be happy anywhere. 
 
 Every breath of the morning air 
 
 Makes me throb and quiver. 
 
 Stay wherever you will. 
 
 By the mount or under the hill, 
 
 Or down by the little river : 
 Stay as long as you jilease. 
 Give me only a bud from the trees, 
 Or a blade of giviss in morning ilew. 
 Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, 
 1 could look on it forever. 
 
 Wheel, wheel through the sunshine. 
 Wheel, wheel through the shadow ; 
 There must be odors round the pine. 
 There must be balm of breathing kine. 
 Somewhere down in the meadow. 
 Must I choose ? Then anchor me there 
 Keyond the beckoning jioplars, where 
 The larch is snooding her flowery hair 
 With wreaths of morning shadow. 
 
 Among the thickest hazels of the brake 
 
 Perchance some nightingale doth shake 
 
 His feathers, and the air is full of song ; 
 
 In those old days when I was young and strong. 
 
 He used to sing on yonder garden tree. 
 
 Beside the nursery. 
 
 Ah, I remember how I loved to wake. 
 
 And find him singing on the selfsame bough 
 
 (I know it even now) 
 
 Where, since the flit of bat, 
 
 In ceaseless voice he sat. 
 
 Trying the spring night over, like a tune, 
 
 Beneath the vernal moon ; 
 
 And while I listed long, 
 
 Day rose, and still he sang, 
 
 And all his stanchless song, 
 
 As something falling unaware. 
 
 Fell out of the tall trees he sang among, 
 
 Felh'ingingdowntheriugingmorn, and rang, — 
 
 Rang like a golden jewel doHii a golden stair. 
 
 My soul lies out like a basking hound, — 
 
 A hound that dreams and dozes ; 
 
 Along my life my length I lay, 
 
 1 fill to-morrow and yesterday, 
 
 I am warm with the suns that have longsinceset, 
 
 I am warm with the summers that are not yet. 
 
 And like one who dreams and dozes 
 
 Softly afloat on a sunny se.a. 
 
 Two worlds are whispering over me. 
 
 And there blows a wind of roses 
 
 From the backward shore to the shore before. 
 
 From the shore before to the backward shoie. 
 
 And like two clouds that meet and pour 
 
 Each through each, till core in core 
 
 A single self reposes. 
 
 The nevermore with the evermore 
 
 Above me mingles and closes ; 
 
 As my soul lies out like the liasking hound. 
 
 And wherever it lies seems hap]jy gro\nul. 
 
 
 T
 
 220 
 
 ruEMS UF DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 And wlion, awakened by some sweet sound, 
 
 A dreamy eye uncloses, 
 
 I see a blooming world around. 
 
 And I lie amid primroses, — 
 
 Years of sweet primroses, 
 
 Springs of fresh primroses. 
 
 Springs to be, and springs for m» 
 
 Of distant dim primroses. 
 
 0, to lie a-dream, a-dream, 
 
 To feel 1 may dream and to know you deem 
 
 My work is done forever. 
 
 And the ]ialpitating fever. 
 
 That gains and loses, loses and gains, 
 And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a 
 thousand pains, 
 
 Cooled at once by that blood-let 
 
 Upon the parapet ; 
 And all the tedious tasked toil of the diffieult long 
 endeavor 
 
 Solved and quit by no more fine 
 
 Than these limbs of mine, 
 
 Spianned and measured once for all 
 
 By that right-hand I lost. 
 
 Bought up at so liglit a cost 
 
 As one bloody fall 
 
 On the soldier's bed. 
 
 And three days on the ruined wall 
 
 Among the thirstless dead. 
 
 0, to think my name is crost 
 
 From duty's muster-roll ; 
 
 That I may slumber though the clarion call. 
 
 And live the joy of an embodied soul 
 
 Free as a liberated ghost. 
 
 O, to fed a life of deed 
 
 "Was emptied out to feed 
 
 That fire of pain that burned so brief awhile, — 
 
 Tliat fire from which 1 come, as the de.ad come 
 
 Forth from the irreparable tomb. 
 
 Or as a martyr on his funeral pile 
 
 Heaps up the burdens other men do bear 
 
 Through years of segregated care. 
 
 And takes the total load 
 
 Upon his shoulders broad. 
 
 And steps from earth to God. 
 
 And she, 
 
 Perhaps, even she 
 
 May look as she looked when I knew her 
 
 In those old days of childish sooth, 
 
 Ere my boyhood dared to woo her. 
 
 1 will not seek nor sue her, 
 
 For I 'm neither fonder nor truer 
 
 Than when she slighted my lovelorn youth, 
 
 My giftless, graceless, guiuealess truth. 
 
 And I only lived to rue her. 
 
 But 1 '11 never love another. 
 
 Anil, in spite of her lovers and lands, 
 She shall love me yet, my brother ! 
 
 As a child that holds by his mother, 
 
 While his mother speaks his praises. 
 
 Holds with eager liands, 
 
 And ruddy and silent stands 
 
 In tlie ruddy and silent daisies. 
 
 And hears her bless her boy. 
 
 And lifts a wondering joy. 
 
 So 1 '11 not seek nor sue her. 
 
 But I '11 leave my glory to woo her. 
 
 And I '11 stand like a child besiile. 
 
 And from behind the purjde pride 
 
 1 'U lift my eyes unto her. 
 
 And I shall not be denied. 
 
 And you will love her, brother dear. 
 
 And ]ierliaps next year you '11 bring me here 
 
 All tlirough the balmy Aiiril tide. 
 
 And she will trip like spring by my side. 
 
 And be all the birds to my ear. 
 
 And here all three we '11 sit in the sun. 
 
 And see the Aprils one by one, 
 
 Primrosed Aprils on and on. 
 
 Till tlie floating prospect closes 
 
 In golden glimmers that rise and rise. 
 
 And perhaps arc gleams of Pnradise, 
 
 And perhaps too far for mortal eyes. 
 
 New springs of fresh prinn'oses, 
 
 S]n'ings of earth's primroses. 
 
 Springs to be and springs for me 
 
 Of distant dim primroses. 
 
 Sidney Dobell. 
 
 PERISHED. 
 
 CATSKILL MOCNTAIN HOUSE. 
 
 Wave after wave of greenness rolling down 
 From mountain top to b;ise, a whispering sea 
 Of affluent leaves through which the viewlesi 
 breeze 
 Murmurs mysteriously. 
 
 And towering up amid the lesser throng, 
 A giant oak, so desolately giand. 
 Stretches its gray imploi'ing arms to heaven 
 In agonized demand. 
 
 Smitten by lightning from a summer sky, 
 Or bearing in its heart a slow decay, 
 "What matter, since inexorable fate 
 Is pitiless to slay. 
 
 Ah, wayward .soul, hedged in and clothed about, 
 Doth not thy life's lost hope lift up its head. 
 And, dwarKng present joys, proclaim aloud, — 
 "Look on me, I am dead '" 
 
 Mary Louise kiTTER.
 
 PEKISHEl.) 
 (A View iw the Catskills.) 
 
 "JT'ave after ivave o^ greenness roHhtg^ dcnvn ' 
 
 From mountain top to base 
 Ami. to7t'ering up amid the lesser tkrong. 
 
 A t^iant oak. sa desolately grand. 
 Stretches its gray iiuploring arms to Ileax'Cit.'
 
 ^i^ 
 
 AXD ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 221 
 
 DEATH OF THE WHITE FAWN. 
 
 The wanton tioojiers, riding by, 
 
 Have sliot my fawn, and it will die. 
 
 Ungentle men ! tliey cannot tlirive 
 
 AVho killed thee. Tliou ne'er didst, alive, 
 
 Them any harm ; alas ! nor could 
 
 Thy death yet do them any good. 
 
 I 'm sure I never wished them ill, — 
 
 Nor do I for all this, nor will ; 
 
 But if my simple prayers may yet 
 
 Prevail with Heaven to forget 
 
 Thy murder, I will join my tears, 
 
 Kather than fail. But, my fears ! 
 
 It cannot die so. Heaven's king 
 
 Keeps register of everj'thing ; 
 
 And nothing may we use in vain ; 
 
 Even beasts must be with justice slain, — 
 
 Else men are made their deodands. 
 
 Though they should wash their guilty hands 
 
 In this warm life-blood, which doth pnrt 
 
 From thine and wound me to the heart, 
 
 Yet could they not be clean, — theii' stain 
 
 Is dyed in such a purple grain ; 
 
 There is not such another in 
 
 The world to ofl'cr for their sin. 
 
 Inconstant Sylvio, when yet 
 I had not found him counterfeit, 
 One morning (I remember well), 
 Tied in this silver chain and bell. 
 Gave it to me ; nay, and I know 
 What he said then, — I 'm sure I do : 
 Said he, " Look how your huntsman here 
 Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear ! " 
 But Sylvio soon had me beguiled : 
 This waxed tame, while he grew wild ; 
 And, quite regardless of my sm.art. 
 Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 
 
 Thenceforth I set myself to jilay 
 My solitary time away 
 With this ; and, very well content, 
 Could so mine idle life have spent. 
 For it was full of sport, and light 
 Of foot and heart, and did invite 
 Me to its game. It seemed to bless 
 Itself in me ; how could I less 
 Than love it ? 0, I cannot be 
 Unkind to a beast that loveth me ! 
 
 Had it lived long, I do not know 
 Whether it, too, might have done so 
 As Syhao did, — his gifts might be 
 Perhaps as false, or more, than he. 
 For I am sure, for aught that I 
 Could in so short a time espy. 
 Thy love was far more better than 
 The love of false and cniel man. 
 
 With sweetest milk and sugar, first 
 I it at mine own fingers nursed ; 
 
 And as it grew, so eveiy day 
 
 It wa.xed more white and sweet than they. 
 
 It had so sweet a breath ! and oft 
 
 1 blushed to see its foot more soft 
 
 .\nd white — shall I say than my hand? 
 
 Nay, any lady's of the land. 
 
 It is a wondrous thing how fleet 
 'T was on those little silver feet. 
 With what a pretty, skipping grace 
 It oft would challenge me the race ; 
 And when 't had left me far away, 
 'T would stay, and run again, and stay ; 
 For it was nimbler much than hinds, 
 And trod as if on the four winds. 
 
 I have a garden of my own, — 
 But so with roses overgrown. 
 And lilies, that you would it guess 
 To be a little wilderness ; 
 And all the springtime of the year 
 It only loved to be there. 
 Among the beds of lilies I 
 Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; 
 Yet could not, till itself would rise, 
 Find it, although before mine eyes ; 
 For in the flaxen lilies' shade 
 It like a bank of lilies laid. 
 Upon the roses it would feed. 
 Until its lips even seemed to bleed ; 
 And then to me 't would boldly trip, 
 And print those roses on my lip. 
 But all its chief delight was still 
 On roses thus itself to fill ; 
 And its pure virgin limbs to fold 
 In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 
 Had it lived long, it would have been 
 Lilies without, roses within. 
 
 0, help ! 0, help ! I see it faint, 
 And die as calmly as a saint ! 
 See how it weeps ! the tears do come. 
 Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. 
 So weeps the woumled balsam ; so 
 The holy frankincense doth flow ; 
 The brotherless Heliades 
 Melt in such amber tears as these. 
 
 I in a golden phial will 
 Keep these two crystal tears, and fill 
 It, till it do o'erflow with mine ; 
 Then place it in Diana's shrine. 
 
 Now my sweet fawn is vanished to 
 Whither the swans and turtles go. 
 In fair Elysium to endure, 
 With milk-white Iambs, and ermines pure. 
 0, do not run too fast ! for I 
 Will but bespeak thy grave — and die. 
 
 First, my unhappy statue shall 
 Be cut in marble ; and withal. 
 Let it be weeping too. But there 
 The engraver sure his art may spare ;
 
 For I so truly thee bemoan 
 
 That I shall weeji, tho\igh I be stone, 
 
 Until my tears, still dropping, wear 
 
 My breast, themselves engraving there. 
 
 There at my feet shalt thou be laid, 
 
 Of purest alabaster made ; 
 
 For I would have thine image be 
 
 AVhite as I can, though not as thee. 
 
 ANDREW MARVELL. 
 
 IN A YEAR. 
 
 Never any more 
 
 While I live, 
 Need I hope to see his face 
 
 As before. 
 Once liis love grown chill. 
 
 Mine may strive, — 
 Bitterly we re-embrace, 
 
 Single still. 
 
 Was it something said. 
 
 Something done, 
 Vexed him ? was it touch of hand, 
 
 Turn of head ? 
 Strange ! that very way 
 
 Love begun. 
 I as little understand 
 
 Love's decay. 
 
 When I sewed or drew, 
 
 I recall 
 How he looked as if I sang 
 
 — Sweetly too. 
 If I spoke a word. 
 
 First of all 
 Up his clieek the color sprang. 
 
 Then lie heard. 
 
 Sitting by my side. 
 
 At my feet. 
 So he breathed the air I breathed, 
 
 Satisfied ! 
 I, too, at love's brim 
 
 Touched the sweet : 
 I would die if death bequeathed 
 
 Sweet to him. 
 
 " Speak, — I love thee best ! " 
 
 He exclaimed. 
 " Let thy love my own foretell, — ' 
 
 I confessed : 
 " Clasp my heart on thine 
 
 Now unlilamed, 
 Since upon thy soul as well 
 
 Hangeth mine ! " 
 
 Was it wrong to own. 
 
 Being truth ? 
 Wliy should all the giving prove 
 
 His alone ? 
 I had wealth and ease. 
 
 Beauty, youth, — 
 Since my lover gave me love, 
 
 I gave these. 
 
 That was all I meant, 
 
 — To be just. 
 
 And the passion I had raised 
 
 To content. 
 Since he chose to change 
 
 Gold for dust. 
 If I gave him what he praised, 
 
 Was it strange ? 
 
 Would he loved me yet. 
 
 On and on. 
 While I found some way undreamed, 
 
 — Paid my debt ! 
 Gave more life and more. 
 
 Till, all gone. 
 He should smile, ' ' She never seemed 
 Mine before. 
 
 " Wliat — she felt the while. 
 
 Must I think ? 
 Love 's so different with us men," 
 
 He should smile. 
 " Dying for my sake — 
 
 White and pink ! 
 Can't we touch these bubbles then 
 
 But they break ? " 
 
 Dear, the pang is brief. 
 
 Do thy part. 
 Have thy pleasure. How perplext 
 
 Grows belief ! 
 Well, this cold clay clod 
 
 Was man's heart. 
 Crumble it, — and what comes next ? 
 
 Is it God ? 
 
 ROBERT BROW.MNC. 
 
 BLIGHTED LOVE. 
 
 Flowers are fresh, and bushes gi-een. 
 
 Cheerily the linnets sing ; 
 Winds are soft, and skies serene ; 
 
 Time, however, soon shall throw 
 Winter's snow 
 O'er the buxom breast of Spring ! 
 
 Hope, that buds in lover's heart, 
 
 Lives not through the scorn of years ; 
 
 -n'
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 223 
 
 Time makes love itself ilepart ; 
 
 Time and scorn congeal the mind, — 
 Looks unkind 
 Freeze affection's warmest tears. 
 
 Time shall make the bushes green ; 
 
 Time dissolve the winter snow ; 
 Winds be soft, and skies serene ; 
 
 Linnets sing tlieir wonted strain : 
 But again 
 Blighted love shall never blow ! 
 
 From the Portuguese of Luis DE CAMOENS, 
 by LORD STRANCFORD. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 FROM " ZOPHIEL, OR THE BRIDE OF SEVEN." 
 
 The bard has sung, God never formed a soul 
 Without its ovm peculiar mate, to meet 
 
 Its wandering half, when ripe to crown tlie whole 
 Bright plan of bliss most heavenly, most com- 
 plete. 
 
 But thousand evil things there are that hate 
 To look on happiness ; these hirrt, impede, 
 And leagued with time, space, circumstance and 
 fate, 
 Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine, and 
 pant, and bleed. 
 
 And as the dove to far Palmyra flying 
 
 From where her native founts of Antioch beam, 
 
 Weary, e.\hausted, longing, panting, sighing, 
 Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream ; 
 
 So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring. 
 Love's pure congenial spring unfound, un- 
 quaffed. 
 
 Suffers — recoils — then thirsty and despairing 
 
 Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest 
 
 draught ! 
 
 MARIA Go\vF_N Brooks 
 (Maria del Occidente). 
 
 SHIPS AT SEA. 
 
 I HAVE ships that went to sea 
 
 More than fifty years ago ; 
 None have yet come home to me, 
 
 But are sailing to and fro. 
 I have seen them in my sleep. 
 Plunging through the .shoreless deep, 
 Witli tattered sails and battered hulls. 
 While around them screamed the gulls, 
 Flying low, flying low. 
 
 I have wondered why they strayed 
 From me, sailing round the world ; 
 
 And 1 've said, " I 'm half afraid 
 
 That their sails will ne'er be furled." 
 tiicat the treasures that they hold, 
 Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold ; 
 While the spices that they bear 
 Fill with fragrance all the air, 
 As they sail, as they sail. 
 
 Ah ! each sailor in the port 
 
 Kuows that I have ships at sea, 
 
 Of the waves and winds the sport, 
 And the sailors pity me. 
 
 Ol't they come and with me walk, 
 
 t'hcering me with hopeful talk. 
 
 Till I put my fears aside. 
 
 And, contented, watch the tide 
 Rise and fall, rise and fall. 
 
 I have waited on the piers. 
 
 Gazing for them down the bay, 
 
 Days anil nights for many years, 
 Till I turned heart-sick away. 
 
 But the pilots, when they land. 
 
 Stop and take me by the hand, 
 
 Saying, "You will live to see 
 
 Your proud vessels come from sea, 
 One and all, one and all." 
 
 So I never ijuite despair. 
 
 Nor let hope or courage fail ; 
 And some day, when skies are fair. 
 
 Up the bay my ships will sail. 
 I shall buy then all I need, — 
 Prints to look at, books to read, 
 Horses, wines, and works of art, 
 Everything — except a heart 
 That is lost, that is lost. 
 
 Once, when I w^as pure and young, 
 
 Kicher, too, than I am now, 
 Ere a cloud was o'er me flung. 
 
 Or a wrinkle creased my brow, 
 There was one whose heart was mine ; 
 But she 's something now divine, 
 And though come my ships from sea. 
 They can bring no heart to me 
 Evermore, evermore. 
 
 ROBERT B. coffin. 
 
 ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 But Enoch yearned to see her face again ; 
 " If I might look on her sweet face again 
 And know that she is happy." So the thought 
 Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth 
 At evening when the dull November day 
 Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
 There he sat down gazing on all below :
 
 There Jid a t)iousaiid memories roll upon liim, 
 Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
 The ruddy scjuare of comfoi'table light, 
 Far-blazing fioni the rear of Philip's house, 
 Allured him, as the beaeon-blaze allures 
 The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
 Against it, and beats out his weary life. 
 
 For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street. 
 The latest house to landward ; but behind, 
 "With one small gate that opened on the waste, 
 Flourished a little garden sijuare and walled : 
 And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
 A yew-tree, aud all round it ran a walk 
 Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
 But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stole 
 Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence , 
 That which he better might have shunned, if 
 
 griefs 
 Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 
 
 For cups and silver on the burnished board 
 Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth ; 
 And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
 Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
 Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
 And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
 A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
 Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand 
 Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
 To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms. 
 Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed : 
 And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
 The mother glancing often toward her babe. 
 But turning now and then to speak with him. 
 Her sou, wlio stood beside her tall and strong, 
 Aud saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 
 
 Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
 His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
 Hers, yet not his, ujion the father's knee. 
 And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
 And his own children tall and beautiful. 
 And him, that other, reigning in his place. 
 Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 
 Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him all. 
 Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
 Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and 
 
 feared 
 To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
 AVhich in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
 AV'ould shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 
 
 He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
 Lest the harsh shingle should grate under foot. 
 And feeling aU along the garden-wall. 
 Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found. 
 Crept to the gate, aud opened it, aud closed, 
 
 As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door. 
 Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 
 
 And there he would have knelt, but that his 
 knees 
 Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
 His lingers into the wet earth, and prayed. 
 
 ALFKHD TE.\NVS0N. 
 
 LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 0, THE days are gone when beauty bright 
 
 My heart's chain wov^ ! 
 When my dream of life, from morn till night, 
 Was love, still love ! 
 New hope may bloom. 
 And days may come. 
 Of milder, calmer beam. 
 But there 's nothing half so sweet in life 
 
 As love's young di'eam ! 
 0, there 's nothing half so sweet in life 
 As love's young dream ! 
 
 Though the bard to purer fame may soar. 
 
 When wild youth 's past ; 
 Though he win the wise, who frowned before, 
 
 To smile at last ; 
 
 He '11 never meet 
 
 A joy so sweet 
 In all his noon of fame 
 As when first he sung to woman's ear 
 
 His soul-felt flame. 
 And, at every close, she blushed to hear 
 
 The one loved name ! 
 
 0, that hallowed fonn is ne'er forgot. 
 
 Which first love traced ; 
 Still it lingering haunts the gi'eenest spot 
 On memory's waste ! 
 'T was odor fled 
 As soon as shed ; 
 'T was morning's wingfed dream ; 
 'T was a light that ne'er can shine again 
 
 On life's dull stream ! 
 0, 't was light that ne'er can shine again 
 On life's dull stream ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED. 
 
 AViiEX the lamp is shattered. 
 The light in the dust lies dead ; 
 When the cloud is scattered, 
 The rainbow's glory is shed. 
 When the lute is broken, 
 Sweet tones are remembered not j 
 When the lips have spoken. 
 Loved accents are soon forgot. 
 
 H"
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 225 
 
 As music and splendor 
 
 Survive not the lamp and the lute, 
 
 The lieart's echoes render 
 
 No song when the sjiirit is mute, — 
 
 No song but sad dirges, 
 
 Like tlie wind through a ruined cell, 
 
 Or the mournlul surges 
 
 That ring the dead seaman's knell. 
 
 When hearts have once mingled, 
 
 Love lirst leaves the well-built nest ; 
 
 The weak one is singled 
 
 To endure what it once possest. 
 
 Love I who bewailcst 
 
 The frailty of all things here, 
 
 AVhy choose you the frailest 
 
 For your cradle, your home, and your bier ? 
 
 Sh: 
 
 Its passions will rock thee 
 
 As the storms rock the ravens on hii^ 
 
 Blight reason will mock thee, 
 
 Like the sun from a wintry sky. 
 
 From thy nest every rafter 
 
 Will rot, and thine eagle home 
 
 Leave thee naked to laughter. 
 
 When leaves fall and cold winds come. 
 
 PERCY EVSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 TAKE, 0, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. 
 
 FROM "MEASURE FOR MEASURE." 
 
 Take, 0, take those lips away. 
 That so sweetly were forsworn ; 
 
 And those eyes, the break of day. 
 Lights that do mislead the morn ; 
 
 But my kisses bring again. 
 
 Seals of love, but sealed in vain. 
 
 Hide, 0, hide those hills of snow 
 AV'hich thy frozen bosom bears, 
 
 On whose tops the pinks that grow 
 Are of those that April wears ! 
 
 But first set my poor heart free, 
 
 Bound in those icy chains by thee. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE and JOHN FLETCHER. 
 
 I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE. 
 
 I LOVED a lass, a fair one. 
 
 As fair as e'er was seen ; 
 She was indeed a rare one. 
 
 Another Sheba Queen ; 
 But fool as then I was, 
 
 I thought she loved me too. 
 But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 Her hair like gold did glister, 
 
 Each eye was like a star, 
 She did surpass her sister 
 
 Which past all others far ; 
 She would mo honey call, 
 
 She 'd, 0, she 'd kiss mo too, 
 But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 In summer time to Medley, 
 
 My love and 1 would go, — 
 The boatmen there stood ready 
 
 My love and I to row ; 
 For cream there would wc call. 
 
 For cakes, and for prunes too, 
 But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 Many a merry meeting ' 
 
 My love and I have had ; 
 She was my only sweeting. 
 
 She made my heart full glad : 
 The tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 Like to the morning dew, 
 But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 And as abroad we walked, 
 
 As lovers' fashion is. 
 Oft as we sweetly talked, 
 
 The sun would steal a kiss ; 
 The wind upon her lips 
 
 Likewise most sweetly blew, 
 But now, alas ! sh' 'as left mo, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 Her cheeks were like the cherry. 
 
 Her skin a.s white as snow. 
 When she w,as blithe and merry, 
 
 She angel-like did show ; 
 Her waist exceeding small. 
 
 The fives did fit her shoe. 
 But now, alas ! sh" 'as left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 In summer time or winter. 
 
 She had her heart's desire ; 
 I still did scorn to stint her, 
 
 From sugar, sack, or fire ; 
 The world went round about, 
 
 No cares wc ever knew, 
 But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 As we walked home together 
 
 At midnight through the town. 
 
 To keep away the weather, 
 
 O'er her I 'd cast my gown ; 
 
 r
 
 ♦ ■ < 
 
 226 
 
 POEMS OF DISArPOIXTMENT 
 
 No cold my love should feel, 
 
 AVhate'er the heavens could do, 
 
 But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 Like doves we would be billing. 
 
 And clip and kiss so fast, 
 Yet she would be unwilling 
 
 That I should kiss the last ; 
 They 're Judas kisses now, 
 
 Since that they proved untrue ; 
 For now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 To maiden's vows and swearing. 
 
 Henceforth no credit give. 
 You may give them the hearing, — 
 
 But never them believe ; 
 They -are as false as fair, 
 
 Unconstant, frail, untrue ; 
 For mine, alas ! hath left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 'T w.as I that paid for all things, 
 
 'T was other drank the wine ; 
 I cannot now recall things, 
 
 Live but a fool to pine : 
 'T was I that beat the bush. 
 
 The birds to others flew, 
 For she, alas ! hath left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 If ever that Dame Nature, 
 
 For this false lover's sake, 
 Another pleasing creature 
 
 Like unto her would make ; 
 Let her remember this, 
 
 To make the other true. 
 For this, alas ! hath left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 No riches now can raise me, 
 No want make me despair, 
 
 No misery amaze me. 
 
 Nor yet for want I care ; 
 
 I have lost a world itself. 
 
 My earthly heaven, adieu ! 
 
 Since she, alas ! hath left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 George Wither. 
 
 WHY SO PALE AND WAN? 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 
 
 Prythee, why so pale ? — 
 Will, when looking well can't move her. 
 
 Looking ill prevail ? 
 
 Prythee, why so pale ? 
 
 Why so dull and mute, yoimg sinner ? 
 
 Prythee, why so mute ? 
 AVill, when speaking well can't win her, 
 
 Saying nothing do 't ? 
 
 Prythee, why so mute ? 
 
 Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move. 
 
 This cannot take her : 
 If of herself she will not love. 
 
 Nothing can make her : 
 
 The devU take her ! 
 
 SIR John suckling. 
 
 THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 
 
 I WILL go back to the great sweet mother, 
 
 Mother and lover of men, the sea. 
 I will go down to her, I and none other, 
 
 Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me ; 
 Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. 
 fair white mother, in days long past 
 Born without sister, born without brother, 
 
 Set free my soul as thy sonl is free. 
 
 fair green-girdled mother of mine. 
 
 Sea, that art clothed witli the sun and the rain. 
 Thy sn-eet hard kisses are strong like wine. 
 
 Thy large embraces are keen like pain ! 
 Save me and hide me with all thy waves. 
 Find me one grave of thy thousand graves. 
 Those pure cold populous graves of thine, 
 
 Wroughtwithout hand in a world without stain. 
 
 1 shall sleep, and move with the moving ships. 
 Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; 
 
 My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, 
 
 I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside ; 
 Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were. 
 Filled full with life to the eyes and hair. 
 As a rose is fulfilled to the rose-leaf tips 
 
 AVith splendid summer and perfume and pride. 
 
 This woven raiment of nights and days, 
 
 Were it once cast ofT and unwound from me, 
 Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways. 
 Alive and aware of thy waves and thee ; 
 Clear of the whole world, hidden at home. 
 Clothed with thegreen, and crowned with the foam, 
 A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, 
 A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 OUTGKOWN. 
 
 Nat, you wrong her, my friend, she 's not fickle ; 
 
 her love she has simply outgi-own : 
 One can read the whole matter, translating her 
 
 heart by the light of one's own. 
 
 r
 
 L 
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 227 
 
 Can you bear me to talk with you frankly ? There 
 is nnich that my licait would say ; 
 
 Aud you know we were children together, have 
 quarreled and "made lip" in play. 
 
 And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture 
 
 to tell you the truth, — 
 As plainly, perhaps, and as bliuitly, as 1 might 
 
 in our earlier youth. 
 
 Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you 
 
 stood on the selfsame plane. 
 Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your 
 
 souls could be parted again. 
 
 She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom 
 
 of her life's early May ; 
 And it is not her fault, 1 repeat it, that she docs 
 
 not love you to-day. 
 
 Nature never stands still, nor souls either : they 
 
 ever go uji or go down ; 
 And hers has been steadily scaling, — but how 
 
 has it been with your own ? 
 
 She has struggled and yearned and aspired, — 
 grown purer and wiser each year : 
 
 The stars are not farther above you in yon lumi- 
 nous atmosphere ! 
 
 For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, 
 down yonder, five summers ago, 
 
 Has learned that the first of our duties to God 
 and oui-selves is to grow. 
 
 Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer ; but their 
 
 vision is clearer as well : 
 Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as 
 
 a silver bell. 
 
 Her face has the look worn by those who with 
 God and his angels have talked : 
 
 The white robes she wears are less white than 
 the spirits with whom she has walked. 
 
 And you? Have you aimed at the highest ? Have 
 
 you, too, aspired and prayed ? 
 Have you looked upon evil unsullied ? Have you 
 
 concjuerod it undismayed ? 
 
 Have you, too, gro'wn purer and wiser, as the 
 months and the years have rolled on ? 
 
 Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the 
 triumph of victory won ? 
 
 Nay, hear me ! The truth cannot harm you. 
 
 When to-day in her presence you stood, 
 Was the hand that you gave her as white and 
 
 clean as that of her womanhood ? 
 
 Go measure yourself by her standard. Look back 
 
 on the years that have lied ; 
 Then a-sk, if you need, why she tells you that the 
 
 love of her girlhood is dead ! 
 
 She cannot look down to her lover : her love like 
 
 her soul, aspires ; 
 He must stand by her side, or aliovc her, who 
 
 would kindle its holy fires. 
 
 Now farewell ! For the sake of old friond.shiii I 
 
 have ventured to tell you the truth. 
 
 As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might 
 
 in our earlier youth. 
 
 Julia c. k. Dokk. 
 
 AlASI HOW LIGHT A CAXTSE MAY MOVE — 
 
 FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." 
 
 Alas ! how light a cause may move 
 
 Dissension between hearts that love ! — 
 
 Hearts that the world in vain has tried. 
 
 And sorrow but more closely tied ; 
 
 That stood the storm when waves were rough. 
 
 Yet in a sunny hour fall off, 
 
 Like ships that have gone down at sea, 
 
 AVhen heaven was all trant^uillity ! 
 
 A something light as air, — a look, 
 
 A word unkind or wrongly taken, — 
 0, love that tempests never shook, 
 
 A breath, a touch like this has shaken ! 
 And ruder words will soon rush in 
 To spread the breach that words begin ; 
 And eyes forget the gentle ray 
 They wore in courtship's smiling day ; 
 And voices lose the tone that shed 
 A tenderness round all they said ; 
 Till fiist declining, one by one. 
 The sweetnesses of love are gone. 
 And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
 Like broken clouds, — or like the stream. 
 That smiling left the mountain's brow. 
 
 As though its watere ne'er could sever. 
 Yet, ere it reach the plain below. 
 
 Breaks into floods that part forever. 
 
 you, that have the charge of Love, 
 
 Keep him in rosy bondage bound, 
 As in the Fields of Bliss above 
 
 He sits, with flowerets fettered round ; — 
 Loose not a tie that round him clings. 
 Nor ever let him use his wings ; 
 For even an hour, a minute's flight 
 AVill rob the plumes of half their light. 
 Like that celestial liird, — whose nest 
 
 Is found beneath far Eastern skies, — 
 Whose wings, though radiant when at rest. 
 
 Lose all their glory when he flies ! 
 
 Thomas moore. 
 
 r
 
 ATJX ITALIENS. 
 
 At Paris it was, at the opera there ; 
 
 Ami she looked like a queeu iu a book that 
 night, 
 With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, 
 
 And the brooch on her breast so bright. 
 
 Of all the operas that Verdi ■wrote, 
 The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; 
 
 And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, 
 The souls in purgatory. 
 
 The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; 
 
 And who was not thrilled in tlie strangest way. 
 As we heard him sing, wlule the gas burned low, 
 
 " No)i ti scordar di vie " ? 
 
 The emperor there, in his box of state. 
 Looked grave ; as if he had just then seen 
 
 The red flag wave from the city gate. 
 Where liis eagles in bronze had been. 
 
 The empress, too, had a tear in her eye : 
 
 You 'd have said that her fancy had gone back 
 again. 
 
 For one moment, under the old blue sky, 
 To the old glad life in Spain. 
 
 Well ! there in our front-row box we sat 
 Together, my bride betrothed and I ; 
 
 My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, 
 And hers on the stage hard by. 
 
 And both were silent, and both were sad ; — • 
 Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, 
 
 AVith that regal, indolent air she had ; 
 So confident of her charm ! 
 
 I have not a doubt she was thinking then 
 Of her former lord, good soul tliat he was. 
 
 Who died the richest and roundest of men. 
 The Marquis of Carabas. 
 
 I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, 
 Thiough a needle's eye he had not to pass ; 
 
 I wish him well for the jointure given 
 To my lady of Caralras. 
 
 Meanwhile, I was thinking of my fii-st love 
 As I liad not been thinking of aught for years; 
 
 Till over my eyes there began to move 
 Something that felt like tears. 
 
 I thought of the dress that she wore last time. 
 When we stood 'neath the cypress- trees together, 
 
 In that lost land, in that soft clime, 
 In the crimson evening weather ; 
 
 Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) ; 
 
 And her warm white neck in its golden chain ; 
 And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot. 
 
 And falling loose again ; 
 
 And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast ; 
 
 (0 the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower !) 
 And the one bird singing alone to his nest ; 
 
 And the one star over the tower. 
 
 I thought of our little quaiTels and strife. 
 
 And the letter that brought me back my ring ; 
 
 And it all seemed then, in the waste of life. 
 Such a very little thing ! 
 
 For I thought of her grave below the hill. 
 Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over : 
 
 And I thought, " Were she only living still, 
 How I could forgive her and love her !" 
 
 And I swear, as I thoughtof her thus, in that hour. 
 And of how, after all, old things are best, 
 
 Tliat I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower 
 Which she used to wear in her breast. 
 
 It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet. 
 It made me creep, and it made me cold ! 
 
 Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet 
 Where a mummy is half imroUed. 
 
 And I turned and looked : she was sitting there. 
 In a dim box over the stage ; and drest 
 
 In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, 
 And that jasmine iu her breast ! 
 
 I was here, and she was there ; 
 
 And the glittering horseshoe curved between ! — 
 From my bride betrothed, witli her raven hair 
 
 And her sumptuous scornful mien. 
 
 To ray early love with her eyes downcast. 
 And over her primrose face the shade, 
 
 (In short, from the future back to the past,) 
 There was but a step to be made. 
 
 To my early love from my future bride 
 
 One moment 1 looked. Then I stole to the door, 
 
 I traversed the passage ; and down at her side 
 I was sitting, a moment more. 
 
 My thinking of her, or the music's strain. 
 Or something which never will be exprest. 
 
 Had brought her back from the gi-ave again. 
 With the jasmine in her breast. 
 
 She is not dead, and she is not wed ! 
 
 But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! 
 And the very first word tliat her sweet lips said. 
 
 My heart grew youtliful again.
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 229 
 
 The marcliioness tlit-re, of Carabas, 
 
 Shu is wealthy, and young, and handsome still ; 
 And liut for her— well, we 11 let that jiass ; 
 
 She may marry whomever she will. 
 
 But I will marry my own first love, 
 
 With her primrose face, for old things lire liest ; 
 And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above 
 
 The brooch in my lady's breast. 
 
 The world is filled with folly and sin. 
 And love must cling where it can, I say: 
 
 For lieauty is easy enough to win ; 
 But one is n't loved every day. 
 
 And I think, in the lives of most women and men, 
 Tliere 's a moment when all would go smooth 
 and even. 
 
 If only the dead could find out when 
 To come back and be forgiven. 
 
 But 0, the smell of that jasmine flower ! 
 
 And 0, that music ! and 0, the w^ay 
 That voice rang out from the donjon tower, 
 A'on ti scordar di me, 
 Non ti scordar di me ! 
 
 Robert bulwer lvtton. 
 
 THE BELLE OF THE BALL. 
 
 Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams 
 
 Had been of being wise or witty. 
 Ere I had done with writing themes. 
 
 Or yawned o'er this infernal f'hitty, — 
 Years, years ago, while all my joys 
 
 Were in my fowling-piece and filly, — 
 In short, while I was yet a boy, 
 
 I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 
 
 I saw her at the county ball : 
 
 There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle 
 Gave signal sweet in that old hall 
 
 Of hands across and down the middle, 
 Hers was the subtlest spell by far 
 
 Of all that sets young hearts romancing : 
 She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 
 
 And then she danced, — OHeaven ! herdancing! 
 
 Dark was her hair ; her hand was white, 
 
 Her voice was exquisitely tender ; 
 Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 
 
 I never saw a waist so slender ; 
 Her every look, her every smile. 
 
 Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
 I thought 't was Venus from her isle. 
 
 And wondered where she 'd left her sparrows. 
 
 She talked of politics or prayci-s. 
 
 Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets, 
 Of danglers or of dancing bears, 
 
 Of battles or the last new bonnets ; 
 By candlelight, at twelve o'clock — 
 
 To me it mattered not a tittle — 
 If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 
 
 I might have thought they muimured Little. 
 
 Through sunny May, through sultry June, 
 
 I loved her with a love eternal ; 
 1 spoke her praises to the moon, 
 
 1 wrote them to the Sunday Journal. 
 My mother laughed ; I soon found out 
 
 Tliat ancient ladies have no feeling : 
 lly father frowned ; but how should gout 
 
 See any happiness in kneeling ? 
 
 She was the daughter of a dean, — ■ 
 
 Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; 
 She had one brother just thirteen. 
 
 Whose color was extremely hectic ; 
 Her grandmother, for many a year. 
 
 Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
 Her second-cousin was a jieer. 
 
 And lord-lieutenant of the county. 
 
 But titles and the three-per-cents. 
 
 And mortgages, and great relations, 
 And India bonds, and tithes and rents, 
 
 O, what are they to love's sensations ? 
 Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, — 
 
 Sucli wealth, such honoi-s Cupid chooses ; 
 He cares as little for the stocks 
 
 As Baron llothschild for the muses. 
 
 She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach. 
 
 Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : 
 She botanized ; I envied each 
 
 Young blossom in her boudoir fading : 
 She warbled Handel ; it was grand, — 
 
 She made the Catalina jealous : 
 She touched the organ ; I could stand 
 
 For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 
 
 She kept an album too, at home, 
 
 Well filled with all an album's glories, — 
 Taintings of butterflies and Rome, 
 
 Pattenis for trimmings, Pereian stories. 
 Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. 
 
 Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, 
 And autographs of Prince Leeboo, 
 
 And recipes for elder-water. 
 
 And she was flattered, worshiped, bored ; 
 
 Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; 
 Her poodle-dog was quite adored ; 
 
 Her sayings were extremely quoted.
 
 -U 
 
 230 
 
 POEMS OF DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 ±^ 
 
 She liiuglied, — and every heart was glad, 
 
 As if the taxes were abolished ; 
 She frowned, — and every look was sad, 
 
 As if the opera were demolished. 
 
 She smiled on many just for fun, — 
 
 I knew that there was nothing in it ; 
 1 was the first, the only one 
 
 Her heart had thought of for a minute. 
 I knew it, for she told me so. 
 
 In phrase whieh was divinely molded ; 
 She wrote a ehanning hand, — and O, 
 
 How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 
 
 Our love was like most other loves, — 
 
 A little glow, a little shiver, 
 A rosebud and a pair of gloves, 
 
 And " Fly Not Yet," upon the river; 
 Some jealousy of some one's heir. 
 
 Some hopes of dying broken-hearted ; 
 A miniature, a loek of hair. 
 
 The usual vows, — and then we parted. 
 
 "We parted : months and years rolled by ; 
 
 We met again four summers after. 
 Our parting was all sob and sigh, 
 
 Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ! 
 For in my heart's most secret cell 
 
 There had been many other lodgei's ; 
 And she was not the ball-room's belle, 
 
 But only Mrs. — Something — Rogere ! 
 
 WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 
 
 CHANGES. 
 
 Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed. 
 Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not 
 The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. 
 And then, we women cannot choose our lot. 
 
 Much must be borne whieh it is hard to bear ; 
 Much given away which it were sweet to keep. 
 God help us all ! who need, indeeil, his care : 
 And yet, 1 know the Shepherd loves his sheep. 
 
 My little boy begins to babble now 
 Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer. 
 He has his father's eager eyes, 1 know ; 
 And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair. 
 
 But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee. 
 And I can feel his light breath come and go, 
 1 think of one (Heaven help and pity me !) 
 Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago ; 
 
 Who might have been — ah, what I dare not think ! 
 We are all changed. God judges for us best. 
 God help us do our duty, and not shrink. 
 And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest. 
 
 But blame us women not, if some appear 
 Too cold at times ; and some too gay and light. 
 Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are liard to bear. 
 Wlio knows the past ? and who can judge us right ? 
 
 Ah, were we judged by what we might have been, 
 
 And not by what we are — too apt to fall ! 
 
 My little child — he sleeps and smiles between 
 
 These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know 
 
 all! 
 
 Robert bulwer Lytton. 
 
 "COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD." 
 
 FROM "THE PRINCESS." 
 
 Come not, when I am dead, 
 
 To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave. 
 To trample round my fallen liead. 
 
 And ve.x the uuliappy dust thou wouldst not 
 save. 
 There let the wind sweeji and the plover cry ; 
 But thou, go by ! 
 
 Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 
 I care no longer, being all unblest : 
 
 Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 
 And I desire to rest. 
 
 Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : 
 
 Go by, go by ! 
 
 ALFRED Tennyson. 
 
 TRANSIENT BEATJTY. 
 
 FROM "THE GIAOUR." 
 
 As, rising on its purple wing. 
 The insect-queen of Eastern spring, 
 O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer, 
 Invites the young pureuer near. 
 And leads him on from flower to flower, 
 A weary chase and wasted hour, 
 Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
 AVith panting heart and tearful eye ; 
 So Beauty lures the full-grown child. 
 With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
 A chase of idle hopes and fear's. 
 Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
 I f won, to equal ills betrayed, 
 Woe waits the insect and the maid : 
 A life of pain, the loss of peace. 
 From infant's play and man's caprice ; 
 The lovely toy, so fiercely sought, 
 Hath lost its charm by being caught ; 
 For every touch that wooed its stay 
 Hath brushed its brighest hues away, 
 Till, charm and hue and beauty gone, 
 'T is left to fly or fall alone. 
 With wounded wing or bleeding breast. 
 Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? 
 
 r 
 
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 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 231 
 
 Can this with faded pinion soar 
 From rose to tulip as liefore ? 
 Or Beauty, bliglittd in an hour, 
 Find joy within lier broken bower ? 
 No ; gayer insects Uuttering by 
 Ne'er droop the wing o'er those tliat die, 
 And lovelier things have mercy shown 
 To every failing but their own, 
 And every woe a tear can claim, 
 Except an erring sister's shame. 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. 
 
 I I.OVED thee once, I '11 love no more. 
 Thine be the grief as is the blame ; 
 Thou art not what thou wast before, 
 What reason I should be the same ? 
 He that can love unloved again. 
 Hath better store of love than brain : 
 God send me love my debts to \ay, 
 While unthi-ifts fool their love away. 
 
 Nothing could have my love o'erthrowii. 
 
 If thou hadst still continued mine ; 
 Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, 
 I might perchance have yet been thine. 
 But thou thy freedom did recall. 
 That if thou might elsewhere inthrall ; 
 And then how could I but disdain 
 A captive's captive to remain ? 
 
 W^hen new desires had conquered thee. 
 And changed the object of thy will, 
 It had been lethargy in me. 
 
 Not constancy, to love thee still. 
 
 Yea, it had been a sin to go 
 
 And prostitute affection so. 
 
 Since we are taught no prayers to say 
 
 To such as must to othera pray. 
 
 Yet do thou glory in thy choice. 
 
 Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; 
 I '11 neither grieve nor yet rejoice. 
 To see him gain what I have lost ; 
 The height of my disdain shall he. 
 To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 
 To love thee still, but go no more 
 A begging to a beggar's door. 
 
 SIR ROBERT AVTON. 
 
 THE TRUE AND THE FALSE. 
 
 Wheke shall the lover rest 
 Whom the fates sever 
 
 From his true maiden's breast, 
 Parted forever ? 
 
 Where, through groves deep and high 
 
 Sounds the far billow. 
 Where early violets die 
 
 U nder the willow. 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Soft shall be his pillow. 
 
 There, through the summer day, 
 
 Cool streams are laving ; 
 There, while the tempests sway. 
 
 Scarce are boughs waving ; 
 There thy rest shalt thou take, 
 
 Parted forever. 
 Never again to wake 
 
 Never, never ! 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Never, never ! 
 
 Where shall the traitor rest, 
 
 He, the deceiver. 
 Who could win maiden's breast. 
 
 Ruin, and leave her ? 
 In the lost battle. 
 
 Borne down by the flying. 
 Where mingles war's rattle 
 
 With groans of the dying ; 
 Eleu loro 
 
 There shall he be lying. 
 
 Her wing shall the eagle flap 
 
 O'er the false-hearted ; 
 His warm blood the wolf shall lap 
 
 Ere life be parted : 
 Shame and dishonor sit 
 
 By his grave ever ; 
 Blessing shall hallow it 
 
 Never, never ! 
 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Never, never ! 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 LADT ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. 
 
 A SCOTTISH SONG, 
 
 Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 
 
 It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ; 
 
 If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad. 
 
 Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. 
 
 Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy ! 
 
 Thy fatlier breides me great annoy. 
 
 Baloii}, my bale, ly stil and slHpc I 
 It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 
 
 When he began to court my luve. 
 And with his sugrcd words to niuve. 
 His faynings fals, and flattering cheire. 
 To me that time did not appeire : 
 
 n
 
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 232 
 
 POEMS OF DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 But now I see, most cruell liee, 
 Cares neither for my babe nor mee. 
 
 Balow, my babe, ly stil and sicipe I 
 It grieves vie sair to see thcc weipe. 
 
 Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile, 
 And when thou wakest sweitly smile : 
 But smile not, as thy father did. 
 To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! 
 But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, 
 Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 
 
 Balow, my babe, ly stil and sicipe I 
 It grieves ntc sair to see tlie weipe. 
 
 I caunae chuse, but ever will 
 Be luving to thy father stil : 
 Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, 
 My luve with him maun stil abyde : 
 In Weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, 
 Mine hart can neir depart him frae. 
 
 Baloio, my babe, ly stil and sleipe/ 
 It grieves mc soat to see thee wcipc. 
 
 But doe not, doe not, prettie mine. 
 To faynings fals thine hart incline ; 
 Be loyal to thy luver trew, 
 And nevir change hir for a new ; 
 If gude or faire, of hir have care. 
 For women's banning 's wonderous sair. 
 Balow, my babe, ly stil and sicipe I 
 It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 
 
 Bairne, sin thy cruel father 's gane. 
 
 Thy winsome smiles maun else my paine ; 
 
 My babe and 1 '11 together live. 
 
 He '11 comfort me when cares doe grieve ; 
 
 My babe and I right s;rft will ly. 
 
 And quite forget man's cruelty. 
 
 Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe I 
 It grieves mc sair to see thee locipe. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth 
 That ever kist a woman's mouth ! 
 I wish all maids be warned by mee, 
 Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; 
 For if we doe but chance to bow, 
 They '11 use us than they care not how. 
 
 Balow, my babe, ly stil arid sleipe I 
 It grieves me sair to see tlice weipe. 
 
 ANONVMOUS. 
 
 MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. 
 
 My heid is like to rend, Willie, 
 My heart is like to break ; 
 
 I 'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, 
 1 'm dyiu' for your sake ! 
 
 0, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 
 Your hand on my briest-baue, — • 
 
 0, say ye '11 think on me, Willie, 
 When 1 am deid and gane ! 
 
 It 's vain to comfort me, Willie, 
 
 Sair grief maun ha'e its will ; 
 But let me rest upon your briest 
 
 To sab and greet my till. 
 Let me sit on your knee, Willie, 
 
 Let me shed by your hair. 
 And look into the face, Willie, 
 
 I never sail see mail- ! 
 
 I 'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 
 
 For the last time in my life, — 
 A puir heart-broken thing, WiUie, 
 
 A mither, yet nae wife. 
 Ay, press your hand upon ray heart. 
 
 And press it mair and mair. 
 Or it will burst the silken twine, 
 
 Sae Strang is its despair. 
 
 0, wae 's me for the hour, Willie, 
 
 When we thegither met, — 
 0, wae 's me for the time, Willie, 
 
 That our first tryst was set ! 
 O, wae 's me for the loanin' green 
 
 Where we were wont to gae, — • 
 And wae 's me for the destinie 
 
 That gart me luve thee sae ! 
 
 0, dinna mind my words, Willie, 
 
 I downa seek to blame ; 
 But 0, it 's hard to live, Willie, 
 
 And dree a waild's shame ! 
 Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek. 
 
 And hailin' ower your chin : 
 Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, 
 
 For sorrow, and for sin ? 
 
 1 'm weary o' this warld, Willie, 
 
 And sick wi' a' I see, 
 I eanua live as 1 ha'e lived, 
 
 Or be as 1 should be. 
 But fauld unto your heart, Willie, 
 
 The heart that still is thine. 
 And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek 
 
 Ye said was red langsyne. 
 
 A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, 
 
 A sair stoun' through my heart ; 
 0, liaud me up and let me kiss 
 
 Thy brow ere we twa pairt. 
 Auither, and anither yet ! — 
 
 How fast my life-strings break ! — 
 Fareweel ! fareweel ! througli yon kirk-yard 
 
 Step lichtly for my sake ! 
 
 t
 
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 1 ^ 
 
 
 AND ESTRANGEMENT. 233 
 
 Tlie lav'rock in the lift, 'WiHie, 
 
 She only said, "The day is dreary, 
 
 That lilts far ower our lieid, 
 
 He Cometh not," she said ; 
 
 "Will sing the morn as mcnilio 
 
 She .said, " I am aweary, aweary. 
 
 Abunu the clay-cauld duid ; 
 
 And I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 And this green turf we 're sittin' on, 
 
 
 Wi' dcw-draps shimmt-riu' sheen, 
 
 About a stone-cast from the wall 
 
 Will hap the heart that luvit tliee 
 
 A sluice with blackened waters slept, 
 
 As wai'ld has seldom seen. 
 
 And o'er it many, round and small. 
 
 
 Tlie clustered marish-mosses ercirt. 
 
 But 0, remember me, 'Willie, 
 
 Hard by a poplar shook alway. 
 
 t)n land where'er ye be ; 
 
 jUl silver green with gnarled bark. 
 
 And 0, think on the leal, leal heart. 
 
 For leagues no other tree did dark 
 
 That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
 
 The level waste, the rounding gray. 
 
 And 0, think on the cauld, cauld mools 
 
 She only said, "My life is dreary. 
 
 That file my yellow hair. 
 
 He cometh not," she said ; 
 
 That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin 
 
 She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 Ye never sail kiss mair ! 
 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 William Motherwell. 
 
 
 
 And ever when the moon was low, 
 
 And the shrill wimls were up and away. 
 
 
 
 In the white curtain, to and fro. 
 
 MARIANA. 
 
 She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
 
 
 But when the moon was very low, 
 
 With blackest moss the flower-plots 
 
 And wild winds bound within their cell. 
 
 Were thickly crusted, one an<l all. 
 
 The shadow of the poplar fell 
 
 The rusted nails fell from the knots 
 
 Upon her lied, across her brow. 
 
 That held the peach to the garden-wall. 
 
 She only said, "The night is dreary, 
 
 The broken sheds looked sad and strange, 
 
 He Cometh not, " she said ; 
 
 Unlifted was the clinking latch, 
 
 She said, " I am aweary, aweary. 
 
 Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 Upon the lonely moated grange. 
 
 
 She only said, " My life is dreary, 
 
 All day within the dreamy house. 
 The doors upon their hinges creaked. 
 
 He Cometh not," she said ; 
 
 She said, "I am aweary, aweary ; 
 
 The blue fly sung i' the pane , the mouse 
 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked. 
 
 
 Or from the crevice jieered about. 
 
 Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
 
 Old faces glimmered through the doors, 
 
 Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
 
 Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
 
 She could not look on the sweet heaven, 
 
 Old voices called her from without. 
 
 Either at morn or eventide. 
 
 She only said, " My life is dreary. 
 
 After the flitting of the bats. 
 
 He Cometh not," she said ; 
 
 When thickest dark did trance the sk}'. 
 
 She said, " I am aweary, aweary. 
 
 She drew her casement-curtain bv, 
 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
 
 
 She only said, "The night is dreary. 
 He Cometh not," she said ; 
 
 The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 
 
 The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
 
 She said, * ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 Which to the wooing wind aloof 
 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 The poplar made, did all confound 
 
 
 Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 
 
 Upon the middle of the night, 
 
 When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 
 
 Waking she heard the night-fowl crow ; 
 
 Athwart the chamliers, and the day 
 
 The cock sung out an hour ere light : 
 
 Was sloping toward his western bower. 
 
 From the dark fen the oxen's low 
 
 Then, said she, " I am very dreary. 
 
 Came to her : without hope of change. 
 
 He will not come," she said ; 
 
 In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn. 
 
 She wept, " I am aweary, aweary. 
 
 Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
 
 God, that I were dead ! " 
 
 About the lonely moated grange. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 \ » 
 
 
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 1
 
 
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 234 
 
 POEMS OF DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 A WOMAN'S LOYE. 
 
 A SENTINEL angel, sitting liigli in glory, 
 Heard tliis slirill wail ring out from Purgatory : 
 " Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story ! 
 
 " I loved, — and, blind with passionate love, I 
 
 fell. 
 Love brought me down to death, and death to 
 
 Hell; 
 For God is just, and death for sin is welL 
 
 " 1 do not rage against his high decree, 
 Kor for myself do ask that grace shall be ; 
 liut for my lovo on earth who mourns for mo. 
 
 " Great Spirit ! Let me see my love again 
 And comfort him one hour, and I were lain 
 To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." 
 
 Tlien said the pitying angel, " Nay, repent 
 That wild vow ! Look, the dial-finger 's bent 
 Down to the last hour of thy punishment ! " 
 
 But still she wailed, " I pray thee, let me go ! 
 I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. 
 0, let me soothe him in his bitter woe ! " 
 
 The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar. 
 And upward, joyous, like a rising star. 
 She rose and vanished in the ether far. 
 
 But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, 
 Anil like a wounded bird her pinion.s triiiling. 
 She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing. 
 
 She sobbed, ' ' I found him by the summer sea 
 Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, — 
 She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me !" 
 
 She wept, " Now let my punishment begin ! 
 I have been fond and foolish. Let me in 
 To e.xpiate my sorrow and my sin." 
 
 The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher ! 
 To be deceived in your true heart's desire 
 Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire ! " 
 
 John Hay. 
 
 DEATH AND THE YOUTH. 
 
 "Not yet, the flowers are in my path, 
 
 The sun is in the sky ; 
 Not yet, my heart is full of hope, 
 
 1 cannot bear to die. 
 
 " Not yet, I never knew till now 
 How precious life could be ; 
 
 My heart is full of love, Death ! 
 I cannot come with thee ! " 
 
 But Love and Hope, enchanted twain, 
 Passed in their falsehood by ; 
 
 Death came again, and then he said, 
 " I 'm ready now to die ! " 
 
 letitia e. Landon.
 
 -}- 
 
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 WlCc/o C-lU^v^ /o'l^xJ^^ OCCxJ I'^iMi V] i^cA-" J^at^Z^ 
 
 r
 
 i^ 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 SORROW AND ADVERSITY 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 FROM "THE PRINCESS." 
 
 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
 Tears fioni the depth of sonic divine despair 
 Kise ill the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
 In Uioking on the happy autumn fieUis, 
 And thinking of the days that are no more. 
 
 Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
 That brings our friends up from the under world ; 
 Sad as the last which reddens over one 
 That sinks with all we love below the verge, — 
 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 
 
 Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
 The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
 To dying ears, when unto dj-ing eyes 
 The casement slowly glows a glimmering square ; 
 So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 
 
 Dear as remembered kisses after death. 
 And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
 On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, — 
 Death in Life, the days that are no more. 
 
 ALFRED TENNVSO.N. 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, sea ! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 well for the fisherman's boy 
 
 That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
 well for the sailor lad 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the hay ! 
 
 And the stately ships go on. 
 To the haven under the hill ; 
 
 But for the touch of a vanished hand. 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES. 
 
 Moan, moan, ye dying gales ! 
 The saddest of your tales 
 
 Is not so sad as life ; 
 Nor have you e'er began 
 A theme so wild as man. 
 
 Or with such sorrow rife. 
 
 Fall, fall, thou withered leaf ! 
 Autumn sears not like grief, 
 
 Kor kills such lovely flowers ; 
 More terrible the stonii, 
 More mournful the deform, 
 
 When dark misfortune lowers. 
 
 Hush ! hush ! thou ti-embling lyre, 
 Silence, ye vocal choir. 
 
 And thou, mellifluous lute, 
 For man soon breathes his last, 
 And all his hope is past. 
 
 And all his music mute. 
 
 Then, when the gale is sighing, 
 And when the leaves are dying, 
 
 And when the song is o'er, 
 0, let us think of those 
 Whose lives are lost in woes. 
 
 Whose cup of grief runs o'er. 
 
 HENRY NEELE. 
 • 
 
 HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS. 
 
 Hence, all ye vain delights, 
 As short as are the nights 
 Wherein you spend your folly ! 
 There 's naught in this life sweet, 
 I f man were wise to see 't 
 
 But only melancholy, 
 
 0, sweetest melancholy ! 
 
 f
 
 236 
 
 POEMS OF SOUnOW AND DEATH. 
 
 Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
 A sigh that piereiiig moitifies, 
 A look that 's fastened to the ground, 
 A tongue chained up without a sound ! 
 
 Fountain-heads and pathless groves, 
 riaccs wliich pale passion loves ! 
 Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
 Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! 
 A midnight bell, a parting groan ! 
 These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
 Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley : 
 Nothing 's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 
 BEAUMONT and Fletcher. 
 
 BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. 
 
 FROM '• AS YOU LIKE IT." 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind. 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen. 
 Because thou art not seen. 
 
 Although thy breath be rude. 
 Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly ; 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ; 
 Then, heigh-ho, the holly ! 
 This life is most jolly ! 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky. 
 Thou dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot : 
 Though thou the waters warp. 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 
 As friend remembered not. 
 Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly ; 
 Mostfriendshipis feigning, mostlovingmerefoUy : 
 Then, heigh-ho, the holly ! 
 This life is most jolly ! 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 [Written in the spring of 1819, when sufTerin^ from physical depres- 
 sion, the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.J 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 
 My sense, as though of hemlock 1 had drunk. 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the ilrains 
 
 One minute past, anil T.ethe-ward had sunk. 
 'T is not through envy of thy happy lot, 
 
 But being too hapjiy in thy happiness. 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees. 
 In some melodious plot 
 
 Of beech en green, and shadows ntimberless, 
 Singest of Summer in fuU-tliroated ease. 
 
 for a diaught of vintage 
 
 Cooled a long age in the deep-delvetl earth. 
 Tasting of Flora and the country green. 
 
 Dance, and Provencal song, ami sunbunitmirth! 
 
 for a beaker fnll of the warm South, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippoerene, 
 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
 And purple-stained mouth, — 
 That 1 might drink, and leave the world unseen. 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim ; 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 AVhat thou among the leaves hast never known, 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret, 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
 Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray haii-s ; 
 
 Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and 
 dies ; 
 Where but to think is to be fidl of .sorrow 
 And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
 
 WTiere Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 
 
 Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee. 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
 Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
 
 And haply the queen-moon is on hei' throne, 
 Clustered around by all her starry fays ; 
 But here there is no light. 
 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
 ways. 
 
 1 cannot see what flowei's are at my feet. 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs ; 
 But, in embalmed darkness guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The gi-a.ss, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild. 
 
 White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine ; 
 Fast-fading violets, covered up in leaves ; 
 And mid-May's eldest chihi. 
 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 
 
 Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 
 
 I have lieen half in love with easeful Death, 
 Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme. 
 
 To take into the air my ipiiet breath ; 
 Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die. 
 
 To cease upon the midnight, with no pain, 
 AVhile thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy ! 
 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain, — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! 
 No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
 
 n'
 
 SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 237 
 
 The Toicc I hear this passing night was lieard 
 
 In ancient days hy emperor anJ ilown : 
 Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path 
 Through tlic sad heart of Kuth, wlien, sick for 
 
 home, 
 She stood in tears amid the alien com ; 
 
 Tile same that ofttimes hath 
 < 'harmed magic easements opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell, 
 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
 Adieu ! the Fancy cannot cheat so well 
 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
 Up the hillside ; and now 't is buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades : 
 
 Was It a vision or a waking dream ? 
 Fled is that music, — do I wake or sleep ? 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 ROSALIE. 
 
 0, POtJR upon my soul again 
 
 That sad, unearthly strain 
 That seems from other worlds to 'plain ! 
 Thus falling, falling from afar. 
 As if some melancholy star 
 Had mingled with her light her sighs. 
 
 And dropped them IVom the skies. 
 
 No, never came from aught below 
 
 This melody of woe. 
 That makes my heart to overflow, 
 As from a thousand gusliing springs 
 Unknown before ; that with it brings 
 This nameless light — if light it be — 
 
 That veils the world I see. 
 
 For all I see around me we.ars 
 
 The hue of other spheres ; 
 And something blent of smiles and tears 
 Comes from the very air I breathe. 
 O, nothing, s\ire, the stars beneath. 
 Can mould a sadness like to this, — 
 
 So like angelic bliss ! 
 
 So, at that dreamy hour of day. 
 When the last lingering ray 
 
 Stops on the highest cloud to play, — 
 
 So thought the gentle Eo.salie 
 
 As on her maiden revery 
 
 First fell the strain of him who stole 
 In music to her soul. 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTOM. 
 
 OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 
 
 Oft in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound mc, 
 Fond Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me : 
 The smiles, the tears, 
 Of boyhood's ycar.s, 
 The words of love then spoken ; 
 The eyes that shone. 
 Now dimmed and gone. 
 The clieerful hearts now broken. 
 Thus in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sa<l Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends so linked together 
 I 've seen around me fall. 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 I feel like one 
 Who treads alone 
 Some banquet-hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are fled, 
 Whose garlands dead. 
 And all but he dejiarted. 
 Thus in the stilly Tiight, 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 THO.MAS MOORH. 
 
 THOSE EVENING BELLS. 
 
 bells ! 
 
 Those evening bells ! those evening 
 How many a tale their music tells 
 Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
 When last I heard their soothing chime ! 
 
 Those joyous hours are passed away ; 
 And many a heart that then was gay 
 AVithin the tomb now darkly dwells. 
 And hears no more tliose 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. 
 
 Thomas Mooke. 
 
 THE SUN IS WARM, THE SKY IS CLEAR. 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear. 
 The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
 ■ Pdue isles and snowy mountains wear 
 The purple noon's transparent liglit :
 
 The lircath of the moist air is light 
 Around its unexpanded buds ; 
 Like many a voice of one dcliglit, — • 
 Tlie winds', the birds', the ocean-floods', — 
 The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 
 
 I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
 With green and purple sea-weeds strewn ; 
 I see the waves upon the shore 
 Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown : 
 I sit upon the sands alone ; 
 The lightning of the noontide ocean 
 Is flashing round me, and a tone 
 Arises from its measured motion, — 
 How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion I 
 
 Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 
 Nor peace within nor calm around. 
 Nor that Content surpassing wealth 
 The sage in meditation found. 
 And walked with inward glory crowned, — 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 
 Others I see whom these surround ; 
 Smiling they live, and call life jileasure ; 
 To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 
 
 Yet now despair itself is mild 
 Even as the winds and waters are ; 
 I could lie down like a tired child. 
 And weep away the life of care 
 Which I have borne, and yet must bear. 
 Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
 And I might feel in the warm air 
 lly cheek gi'ow cold, and hear the sea 
 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 
 PERCY Bysshe Shelley. 
 
 MY SHIP. 
 
 Down to the wharves, as the sun goes downi. 
 And the daylight's tumult and dust and din 
 
 Are d}ang away in the busy towu, 
 I go to see if my ship comes in. 
 
 I gaze far over the quiet sea, 
 
 Rosy with sunset, like mellow wine. 
 
 Where ship.s, like lilies, lie tranquilly, 
 Many and fair, — but I see not mijie. 
 
 I question the sailors every night 
 Who over the bulwarks idly lean. 
 
 Noting the sails as they come in sight, — 
 
 " Have you seen my beautiful ship come in ?' 
 
 " Whence does she come ? " they ask of me ; 
 
 " Who is her master, and what her name ? " 
 And they smile upon me pityingly 
 
 When my answer is ever and ever the same. 
 
 0, mine was a vessel of strength and truth, • 
 Her sails were white as a young lamb's fleece, 
 
 Slie sailed long since from the port of Youth, — 
 Her master was Love, and her name was Peace. 
 
 And like all beloved and beauteous things, 
 She faded in distance and doubt away, — 
 
 With only a tremble of snowy wings 
 She floated, swan-like, adowu the bay. 
 
 Carrying with her a precious freight, — 
 All I had gathered by yeara of pain ; 
 
 A tempting prize to the pirate, Fate, — 
 And still I watch for her back again ; — 
 
 Watch from the earliest morning light 
 
 Till the pale stars grieve o'er the dying day, 
 
 To catch the gleam of her canvas white 
 Among the islands which gem the bay. 
 
 But she comes not yet, — she will never come 
 To gladden my eyes and my spirit more ; 
 
 And my lieart grows hopeless and faint and dumb, 
 As 1 wait and wait on the lonesome shore. 
 
 Knowing that tempest and time and storm 
 Have wrecked and shattered my beauteous bark; 
 
 Rank sea-weeds cover her wasting form. 
 
 And her sails are tattered and stained and dark. 
 
 But the tide comes up, and the tide goes down, 
 And the daylight follows the night's eclipse, — 
 
 And still with the sailors, tanned and brown, 
 1 wait on the wharves and watch the ships. 
 
 And still with a patience that is not hope. 
 
 For vain and empty it long hath been, 
 I sit on the rough shore's rocky slope. 
 And watch to see if my ship comes in. 
 
 Elizabeth Akers Allen 
 
 (Florence Percy). 
 
 AFAR m THE DESERT. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
 AVith the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
 When the sorrows of life tlie soul o'ereast. 
 And, sick of the present, I cling to the past ; 
 When the eye is suH'used with regretful tears, 
 From the fond recollections of former years ; 
 And shadows of things that have long since flci' 
 Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead, - 
 Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon ; 
 Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon 
 Attachments by fate or falsehood reft ; 
 Companions of early days lost or loft ; 
 And my native land, whose magical name 
 Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; 
 
 T 
 
 -i^
 
 The home of my childhood ; the liamits of my 
 piime ; 
 
 All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time 
 
 When the feelings were young, and the world 
 was new, 
 
 Like the fresh bowers of Kdcn unfolding to view ; 
 
 All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone ! 
 
 And I, a lone exile remembered of none, 
 
 My high aims abandoned, my good acts un- 
 done. 
 
 Aweary of all that is under the sun, — 
 
 "With that sadness of heart which no stranger 
 may scan, 
 
 I ny to the desert afar from man. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
 AVith the silent I5ush-boy alone by my side ! 
 When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, 
 With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and 
 
 strife, 
 The proud man's frown, and the base man's 
 
 fear, 
 The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear. 
 And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and 
 
 folly, 
 Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; 
 When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are 
 
 And my soul is sick with the bondman s sigh,— 
 0, then there is feeedom, and joy, and pride, 
 Afar in the desert alone to ride ! 
 There is rapture to vault on the champing steed. 
 And to bound away with the eagle's speed. 
 With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, — 
 The only law of the Desert Land ! 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
 
 Away, away from the dwellings of men, 
 
 By tlie wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 
 
 By valleys remote where the oribi plays, 
 
 Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest 
 
 graze, 
 And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 
 By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild 
 
 vine ; 
 AVhere the eleyihant browses at peace in his wood, 
 A ml the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, 
 And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
 In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his 
 
 fill. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love ro ride, 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, 
 O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry 
 Of the springbok's fawn soumls plaintively ; 
 And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh 
 Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; 
 
 AVhere the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. 
 With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; 
 And the lleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
 .Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, 
 Hieing away to the home of her rest. 
 Where she and her mate have scooped their nest. 
 Far hid from the pitiless jilunderer's view 
 In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
 
 With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
 
 Away, away, in the wilderness vast 
 
 Where the white man's foot hatli never passed, 
 
 And the quivered Corauna or liechuan 
 
 Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan, — 
 
 A region of emptiness, howling and drear. 
 
 Which man hath abandoned from famine and 
 
 fear ; 
 Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone. 
 With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; 
 Where gi-ass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, 
 Save poisonous thorns that jiierce the foot ; 
 And the bitter-melon, for food and drink. 
 Is the pilgiim's fare by the salt lake's brink ; 
 A region of drought, where no river glides, 
 Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; 
 Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
 Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount. 
 Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; 
 But the barren earth and the burning sky. 
 And the blank horizon, round and round. 
 Spread, — void of living sight or sovind. 
 And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, 
 And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, 
 As I sit apart by the desert stone. 
 Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, 
 "A still small voice" comes through the wild 
 (Like a father consoling his fretful child). 
 Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, 
 Saying, — Man is distant, but God is near ! 
 
 Thomas Pringle. 
 
 MAJESTY IN MISERY; 
 
 OR, AN IMPLORATION TO THE KING OF KINGS. 
 
 Great Monarch of the AVorld, from whose Powc 
 
 Springs 
 The Potency and Power of Kings, 
 Record the Royal Woe my Suffering sings ; 
 
 And teach my tongtie, that ever did confine 
 
 Its faculties in Truth's Seraphic Line, 
 
 To b-ack the Treasons of thy foes and mine. 
 
 Nature and law, by thy Divine Decree 
 (The only Root of Righteous Royaltie) 
 i AVith this dim Diadem invested me :
 
 240 
 
 POEMS OF SOBIiOW AND DEATH. 
 
 ■\Vith it the sacred Scepter, rmple Kobe, 
 The Holy Unction, and tlie Koyal Globe : 
 Yet am I levelled with the life of Job. 
 
 The fiercest Furies, that do daily tread 
 Upon my Grief, my Gray Dis-crowned Head, 
 Are those that owe my Bounty for their Bread. 
 
 They raise a War, and Christen it The Cause, 
 AVhilst sacrilegious hands have best applause. 
 Plunder and Murder are the Kingdom's Laws ; 
 
 Tyranny bears the Title of Taxation, 
 Revenge and Robbery are Reformation, 
 Oppression gains the name of Sequestration. 
 
 My loyal Subjects, who in this bad season 
 Attend me (by the law of God and Reason), 
 They dare impeach and punish for High Treason. 
 
 Next at the Clergy do their Furies frown ; 
 
 Pious Episcopacy must go down ; 
 
 They will destroy the Crosier and the Crown. 
 
 Churchmen are chained and Schismaticks arc 
 
 free'd, 
 Mechanicks preach, and Holy Fathei-s bleed, 
 The Crown is crucified with the Creed. 
 
 The Church of England doth all factions foster, 
 The pulpit is usurped by each imposter. 
 Extempore excludes the Pater Noster. 
 
 The Presbyter and Independent seed 
 
 Springs with broad blades ; to make Religion bleed, 
 
 Herod and Pontius Pilate are agreed. 
 
 The corner-stone 's misplaced by every Pavier : 
 With such a bloody method and behaviour 
 Their Ancestors did crucify our Saviour. 
 
 My Royal Consort, from whose fruitful Womb 
 So many Princes legally have come, 
 Is forced in Pilgrimage to seek a Tomb. 
 
 Great Britain's Heir is forced into France, 
 WhUst on his father's head his foes advance : 
 Poor chUd ! He weeps at his Inheritance. 
 
 With my own Power my Majesty they wound 
 In the King's name the Kinghimself'suncrowued: 
 So doth the Dust destroy the Diamond. 
 
 With Propositions daily they enchant 
 My People's ears, such as do reason daunt. 
 And the Almighty will not let me grant. 
 
 They promise to erect my Royal Stem, 
 To make Me great, t' advance my Diadem, 
 If I vill first fall down, and worship them. 
 
 But, for refusal, they devour my Thrones, 
 Distress my Children, and destroy my bones ; 
 I fear they '11 force me to make bread of stones. 
 
 My Life they prize at such a slender rate 
 That in my absence they draw Bills of hate, 
 To prove the King a Traytor to the State. 
 
 Felons obtain more priviledge than I : 
 They are allowed to answer ere they die ; 
 'T is death for me to ask the reason Why. 
 
 But, Sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo 
 
 Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to 
 
 Such as thou know'st do not know what they do, 
 
 For since they from their Lord are so disjointed 
 As to contemn those Edicts he appointed. 
 How can they prize the Power of his Anointed ? 
 
 Augment my Patience, nuUifie my Hate, 
 
 Preserve my Issue, and inspire my JIate : 
 
 Yet, though We perish, bless this Church and 
 
 State. 
 
 Charles the First. 
 
 XJNDER THE CROSS. 
 
 I CANNOT, cannot say. 
 Out of my bruised and breaking heart, 
 Storm-driven along a thorn-set way, 
 
 While blood-drops start 
 From every pore, as I drag on, 
 
 " Thy will, Gwl, be done ! " 
 
 I thought, but yesterday. 
 My will was one with God's dear will ; 
 And that it would be sweet to say, 
 
 Whatever ill 
 My happy state should smite upon, 
 
 "Thy will, my God, be done ! " 
 
 But I was weak and wrong, 
 Both weak of soul and wrong of heart ; 
 And Pride alone in me was strong. 
 
 With cunning art 
 To cheat me in the golden sun. 
 
 To say " God's will be done ! " 
 
 shadow drear and cold. 
 That frights me out of foolish pride ; 
 
 Hood, that through my bosom rolled 
 
 Its billowy tide ; 
 
 1 said, till ye your power made known, 
 
 "God's will, not mine, be done ! " 
 
 ' Wriucn during his captivity at Carisbrook c.i5tle. Anno Doin. 
 
 T 
 
 1-
 
 do: ,M/a^ 
 
 TORDS.EOWARD It HULBERT.NY.
 
 Now, faint and sore afraid, 
 Under my cross, licavy and rude, 
 My idols in the ashes laid, 
 
 Like ashes strewed, 
 The holy words my i)ale lips shun, 
 
 " God, thy will be done I " 
 
 Pity my woes, God, 
 And touch my will with thy warm breath ; 
 Put in my trembling hand thy rod. 
 
 That quickens death ; 
 That my dead faith may feel thy sun. 
 
 And say, "Thy will be done ! " 
 
 William Carey Richards. 
 
 LOVE NOT. 
 
 Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay ! 
 Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow- 
 ers, — 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! warning vainly said 
 In present hours as in years gone by ! 
 Love flings a halo round the dear ones' head, 
 Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. 
 Love not ! 
 
 Caroline e. Norton. 
 
 SAMSON AGONISTES. 
 
 SAMSON. 
 
 A LITTLE onward lend thy gxiiding hand 
 To these dark steps, a little farther on ; 
 For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade : 
 There 1 am wont to sit, when any chance 
 Relieves me from my task of servile toil, 
 Paily in the common prison else enjoined me. 
 Where I a prisoner, chained, scarce freely draw 
 The air imprisoned also, close and damp. 
 Unwholesome draught ; but here I feel amends. 
 The breath of heaven fresh blowing, pure and 
 
 sweet. 
 With day-spring born : here leave me to respire. 
 
 This day a solemn feast the people hold 
 
 To Dagon, their sea-idol, and forbid 
 
 Laborious works : unwillingly this rest 
 
 Their superstition yields me ; hence with leave 
 
 Retiring from the popular noise, I seek 
 
 This unfrequented place to find some ease, — 
 
 Ease to the body some, none to the mind 
 
 From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm 
 
 Of hornets armed, no sooner found alone, 
 
 But rush upon me thronging, and jiresent 
 
 Times past, what once I was, and what am now. 
 
 0, wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretold 
 
 Twice by an angel, wlio at last in sight 
 
 Of both my parents all in flames ascended 
 
 From off the altar, where an offering bunied. 
 
 As in a fiery column, charioting 
 
 His godlike presence, and from some great act 
 
 Or benefit revealed to Abraham's race ? 
 
 ^^^ly was my breeding ordered and prescribed 
 
 As of a person separate to God, 
 
 Designed for great exploits, if I must die 
 
 Betrayed, captived, and both my eyes put out. 
 
 Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze ; 
 
 To grind in brazen fetters under task 
 
 With this Heaven-gifted strength ? glorious 
 
 strength. 
 Put to the labor of a beast, debased 
 Lower than bondslave ! Promise was that I 
 Should Israel from Philistiau yoke deliver ; 
 Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him 
 Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves, 
 Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke ! 
 
 loss of sight, of thee I most complain ! 
 Blind among enemies, 0, worse than chains, 
 Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 
 Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, 
 And all her various objects of delight 
 Annulled, which might iu part my grief have eased. 
 Inferior to the vilest now become 
 Of man or woi'm ; the vilest here excel me : 
 They creeji, yet see ; I, dark in light, exposed 
 To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, 
 Within doors or without, still as a fool. 
 In power of others, never in my own ; 
 Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. 
 dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon. 
 Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse. 
 Without all hope of day ! 
 
 selections fbom "paradise lost." 
 eve's lament. 
 
 UNEXFEcrEU Stroke, worse than of death ! 
 Must I thus leave thee. Paradise ? thus leave 
 Thee, native soil ! these happy walks and shades, 
 Fit haunt of gods ; where I had hope to spend,
 
 Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day 
 That must be mortal to us botli ! flowers, 
 That never will in other climate grow, 
 My early visitation, and my last 
 At even, which I bred up with tender hand 
 From the first opening bud, and gave ye names ! 
 Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 
 Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount ? 
 Tliee, lastly, nuptial bower ! by me adorned 
 With what to sight or smell was sweet, from thee 
 How shall I part, and whither wander down 
 Into a lower world, to this obscure 
 And wild ? how shall we breathe in other air 
 Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits ? 
 
 THE EXILE FROM PARADISE. 
 
 ADAM TO MICHAEL. 
 
 Gently hast thou told 
 Thy message, which might else in telling wound, 
 And in performing end us. What besides 
 Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair 
 Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings bring ; 
 Departure from this happy place, om- sweet 
 Recess, and only consolation left, 
 Familiar to our eyes, all places else 
 Inhospitable appear and ilesolate. 
 Nor knowing us nor known ; and if by prayer 
 Incessant I could hope to change the will 
 Of Him who all things can, I would not cease 
 To weary him with my assiduous cries. 
 But prayer against his absolute decree 
 No more avails than lireath against the wind, 
 Blown stifling back on him that breathes it forth ; 
 Therefore to his great liidding 1 submit. 
 This most aflSicts me, that, departing hence. 
 As from his face I shall be hid, deprived 
 His blessed countenance, here I could frei|uent 
 With worship place by place where he vouchsafed 
 Presence divine, and to my sons relate. 
 On this mount he appeared ; under this tree 
 Stood visible ; among these pines his voice 
 I heard ; here with him at this fountain talked : 
 So many grateful altars I would rear 
 Of gi'assy turf, and pile up every stone 
 Of luster from the brook, in memory 
 Or monument to ages, and thereon 
 Offer sweet- smelling gums, and fruits, andflowers. 
 In yonder nether world where shall I seek 
 His bright appearances, or footstep trace ? 
 For though 1 fled him angry, yet, recalled 
 To life prolonged and promised race, I now 
 Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts 
 Of glory, and far otf his steps adore. 
 
 Henceforth I learn that to obey is best. 
 And love with fear the only God, to walk 
 As in his presence, ever to observe 
 
 His providence, and on him sole depend. 
 Merciful over all his works, with good 
 Still overcoming evil, and by small 
 Accomplishing great things, by things deemed 
 
 weak 
 Subverting worldly strong, and worldly wise 
 By simply meek ; that sulfering for truth's saka 
 Is fortitude to highest victory. 
 And to the faithful death the gate of li.e : 
 Taught this by his example, whom I now 
 Acknowledge my Kedeemer ever blest. 
 
 EVE TO ADAM. 
 WiTU sorrow and heart's distress 
 Wearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on ; 
 In me is no delay ; with thee to go, 
 Is to stay here ; without thee here to stay, 
 Is to go hence unwilling ; thou to me 
 .\rt all things under heaven, all places thou, 
 Who for my wilful crime art banished hence. 
 This further consolation, yet secure, 
 I carry hence ; though all by me is lost, 
 Such favor I unworthy am vouchsafed. 
 By me the promised Seed shall all restore. 
 
 THE DEPARTUKE. 
 
 Ix either hand the hastening angel caught 
 Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate 
 Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast 
 To the subjected plain ; then disappeared. 
 They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld 
 Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, 
 Waved over by that flaming brand ; the gate 
 With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. 
 Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them 
 
 soon ; 
 The world was all before them, where to choos» 
 Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. 
 They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and 
 
 slow. 
 Through Eden took their solitary way. 
 
 WOLSEY'S FALL. 
 
 FROM " HENRY VIII." 
 
 Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
 This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth 
 The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow lilossoms. 
 And bears his blusliing honors thick upon him : 
 The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; 
 And — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
 His greatness is a ripening — nips his root, 
 And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured. 
 Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
 This many summers in a sea of glory ; 
 But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
 
 SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 243 
 
 At length broke uuder me ; and now has left me, 
 AVeary and old with seiviee, to the mercy 
 Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 
 A'ain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : 
 1 feel my lieart new opened. 0, how wretched 
 Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors ! 
 There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
 That sweet aspect of j)rinces, and their ruin. 
 More pangs and fears than wars or women have : 
 And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
 Never to hope again. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL. 
 
 FROM ■' HENRV VMl." 
 
 Ckomwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
 In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me. 
 Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
 Let 's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Crom- 
 well ; 
 And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be. 
 And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention 
 Of me more must be heard of — say, I taught thee. 
 Say, Wolsey — that once trod the ways of glory. 
 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor — 
 Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
 A sui'e and safe one, though thy master missed it. 
 Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. 
 Cromwell, I charge thee, Hing away ambition : 
 By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 
 The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't \ 
 Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate 
 
 thee : 
 Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
 Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace. 
 To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's. 
 Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, 
 
 Cromwell ! 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. 
 Serve the king ; and — pr'j'thee, lead me in : 
 There take an inventory of all I have. 
 To the la.st jjenny ; 't is the king's : my robe. 
 And my integrity to heaven, is all 
 I dare now call mine own. Cromwell, Cromwell ! 
 Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
 I served my king, he would not in mine age 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies ! 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 THE LATE SPRING. 
 
 She stood alone amidst the April fields, — 
 Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare. 
 
 "The spring is late," she said, "the faithless 
 spring. 
 That should ha ve come to make the meadows fair. 
 
 " Their sweet South left too soon, among the trees 
 The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro ; 
 
 For them no green boughs wait, — their memories 
 Of last year's April had deceived them so." 
 
 She watched the homeless birds, the slow, sad 
 spring. 
 
 The barren fields, and shivering, naked trees. 
 " ThusGodhasdealt withme, his child, "she said; 
 
 ' ' 1 wait my spring-time, and am cold like these. 
 
 "To them will come the fullness of their time ; 
 Their spring, though late, wEl make the mead- 
 ows fair ; 
 Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed ? 
 I am his own, — doth not my Father care ? " 
 Louise chandler moulton. 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 WORLD ! Life ! Time ! 
 On whose last steps I climb. 
 
 Trembling at that where I had stood before ; 
 When will return the glory of your prime ? 
 No more, — nevermore ! 
 
 Out of the day and night 
 A joy has taken flight : 
 
 Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
 Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 
 No more, — nevermore ! 
 
 I'ERCV BVSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 'WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?" 
 
 Spring it is cheery. 
 
 Winter is dreary. 
 Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly ; 
 
 When he 's forsaken. 
 
 Withered and shaken, 
 What can an old man do but die ? 
 
 Love will not clip him. 
 
 Maids will not lip him, 
 Maud and Marian jiass him by ; 
 
 Youth it is sunny. 
 
 Age has no honey, — 
 What can an old man do but die ? 
 
 June it was jolly, 
 
 for its folly ! 
 A dancing leg and a laughing eye ! 
 
 Youth may be silly. 
 
 Wisdom is chilly, — 
 What can an old man do but die ? 
 
 i
 
 244 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 Friends they are scanty, 
 
 Beggars are plenty, 
 If he has followers, I know why ; 
 
 Gold 's in his clutches 
 
 (Buying him crutches ! ) — 
 What can an old man do but die ? 
 
 THOMAS Hood. 
 
 WHEN SHALL WE ALL MEET AGAIN? 
 
 When shall we all meet again ? 
 When shall we all meet again ? 
 Oft shall glowing hope expire, 
 Oft shall wearied love retire. 
 Oft shall death and sorrow reign. 
 Ere we all shall meet again. 
 
 Though in distant lands we sigh, 
 Parched beneath a hostile sky ; 
 Though the deep between us rolls. 
 Friendship shall unite our souls. 
 Still in Fancy's rich domain 
 Oft shall we all meet again. 
 
 When the dreams of life are fled. 
 When its wasted lamps are dead ; 
 When in cold oblivion's shade. 
 Beauty, power, and fame are laid ; 
 AVliere immortal spirits reign. 
 There shall we all meet again. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE LAST LEAT. 
 
 I SAW him once before. 
 As he passed by the door ; 
 
 And again 
 The pavement-stones resound 
 As he totters o'er the ground 
 With his cane. 
 
 They say that in his prime. 
 Ere the pruning-kuife of time 
 
 Cut him down. 
 Not a better man was found 
 By the crier on his round 
 
 Through the town. 
 
 But now he walks the streets. 
 And he looks at all he meets 
 
 So forlorn ; 
 And he shakes his feeble head. 
 That it seems as if he said, 
 
 " They are gone." 
 
 The mossy marbles rest 
 
 On the lips that he has pressed 
 
 In their bloom ; 
 And the names he loved to hear 
 Have been carved for many a year 
 
 On the tomb. 
 
 My grandmamma has said — 
 Poor old lady ! she is dead 
 
 Long ago — 
 That he had a Roman nose. 
 And his cheek was like a rose 
 
 In the snow. 
 
 But now his nose is thin. 
 And it rests upon his chin 
 
 Like a staff ; 
 And a crook is iu his back, 
 And a melancholy crack 
 
 In his laugh. 
 
 I know it is a sin 
 For me to sit and grin 
 
 At him here, 
 But the old three-cornered hat. 
 And the breeches, — and all that. 
 
 Are so queer ! 
 
 And if I should live to be 
 The last leaf upon the tree 
 
 In the spring. 
 Let them smile, as I do now. 
 At the old forsaken bough 
 
 Where I cling. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 THE APPROACH OF AGE. 
 
 FROM "TALES OF THE HALL." 
 
 Six years had passed, and forty ere the six, 
 When Time began to play his usual tricks : 
 The locks once comely in a virgin's sight. 
 Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching 
 
 white ; 
 The blood, once fervid, now to cool began. 
 And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. 
 I rode or walked as I was wont before, 
 But now the bounding spirit was no more ; 
 A moderate pace would now my body heat, 
 A walk of moderate length distress my feet. 
 I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime. 
 But said, "The view is poor, we need not climb. " 
 .\t a friend's mansion I began to dread 
 The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed ; 
 At home I felt a more decided taste. 
 And must have all things in my order placed. 
 I ceased to hunt ; my hoi-ses pleased me less, — 
 My dinner more ; I learned to play at chess. 
 I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
 
 -L 
 
 SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 245 
 
 Was disappointed that I did not shoot. 
 
 My morning walks I now could bear to lose, 
 
 And blessed theshowerthat gave me not to choose. 
 
 In fact, I felt a languor stealing on ; 
 
 The active arm, the agile hand, were gone ; 
 
 Snlall daily actions into habits grew, 
 
 Aud new dislike to forms and fashions new. 
 
 I loved my trees in order to dispose ; 
 
 1 numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ; 
 
 Told the same story oft, — in short, began to prose. 
 
 GEORGE CRABBE. 
 
 OLD. 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
 Sat a hoaiy pilgi'im, sadly musing ; 
 
 Oft I marked him sitting there alone. 
 All the landscape, like a page, perusing | 
 Poor, unknown. 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 
 Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat ; 
 
 Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding ; 
 Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat ; 
 
 Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding ; 
 There he sat ! 
 Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. 
 
 Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, 
 No one sympathizing, no one heeding, , 
 
 None to love him for his thin gi-ay hair. 
 And the furrows all so mutely pleading 
 Age and care : 
 
 Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 
 
 It was summer, and we went to school. 
 Dapper country lads and little maidens ; 
 
 Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool," — 
 
 Its grave import still my fancy ladens, — 
 
 "Here 's a fool ! " 
 
 It was summer, and we went to school. 
 
 When the stranger seemed to mark our play, 
 Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted, 
 
 I remember well, too well, that day ! 
 Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, 
 Woidd not stay 
 
 When the stranger seemed to mark our play. 
 
 One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, 
 0, to me her name was always Heaven ! 
 
 She besought him all his grief to tell, 
 (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) 
 Isabel ! 
 
 One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 
 
 "Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ; 
 Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 
 
 Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." 
 Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow, 
 Down it rolled ! 
 "Angel," said he sadly, " I am. old. 
 
 " I have tottered here to look once more 
 On the pleasant scene where I delighted 
 
 In the careless, happy days of yore. 
 
 Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
 To the core : 
 
 I have tottered here to look once more. 
 
 "All the picture now to me how dear ! 
 
 E'en this gray old rock where I am seated. 
 Is a jewel worth my journey here ; 
 
 Ah that such a scene must he completed 
 With a tear ! 
 All the picture now to me how dear ! 
 
 " Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same ; 
 
 There 's the very step I so oft mounted ; 
 There 's the window creaking in its frame. 
 
 And the notches that I cut and counted 
 For the game. 
 Old stone school-house, it is stUl the same. 
 
 "In the cottage yonder I was bom ; 
 
 Long my happy home, that humble dwelling ; 
 There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn ; 
 
 There the spring with limpid nectar swelling ; 
 Ah, forlorn ! 
 In the cottage yonder I was bom. 
 
 " Those two gateway sycamores you see 
 Then were planted just so far asunder 
 
 That long wcU-polo from the path to free, 
 
 And the wagon to pass safely under ; 
 
 Ninety- three ! 
 
 Those two gateway sycamores you see. 
 
 "There 's the orchard where we used to climb 
 When my mates and I were boys together. 
 
 Thinking nothing of the flight of time. 
 
 Fearing naught but work and rainy weather ; 
 Past its prime ! 
 
 There 's the orchard where we used to climb. 
 
 "There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. 
 Round the pasturewheretheflockswerc grazing, 
 
 Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails 
 In the crops of buckwheat we were raising ; 
 Traps and trails ! 
 
 There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. 
 
 " There 's the mill that ground our yellow grain ; 
 Pond and river still serenely flowing ;
 
 Cot there nestling in the shaded lane, 
 
 Where the lily of my heart was blowing, — 
 Mary Jane ! 
 There 's the mill that ground our yellow grain. 
 
 "There 'a the gate on which I used to swing, 
 Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable ; 
 
 But alas ! no more the morn shall bring 
 That dear gi'oup arouud my father's table ; 
 Taken wing ! 
 
 There 's the gate on which I used to swing. 
 
 " I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled. 
 
 Yon green meadow was our place for playing ; 
 That old tree can tell of sweet things said 
 
 When around it Jane and I were straying ; 
 She is dead ! 
 I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled. 
 
 ' ' Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, 
 Tracing silently life's changeful story. 
 
 So familiar to my dim old eye, 
 
 Points me to seven that are now in glory 
 There on high ! 
 
 Yon white spire, a pencil ou the sky. 
 
 " Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 
 Guided thither by an angel mother ; 
 
 Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; 
 Sire and sisters, and my little brother, 
 Gone to God ! 
 
 Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 
 
 " There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways ; 
 
 Bless the holy lesson ! — hut, ah, never 
 Shall I hear again those songs of praise. 
 
 Those sweet voices sUent now forever ! 
 
 Peaceful days ! 
 
 There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. 
 
 " There my Mary blest me with her hand 
 When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing. 
 
 Ere she hastened to the spirit-land. 
 
 Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ; 
 Broken band ! 
 
 There my Mary blest me with her hand, 
 
 " I have come to see that grave once more. 
 And the sacred place where we delighted. 
 
 Where we worshiped, in the days of yore. 
 Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
 To the core ! 
 
 I have come to see that grave once more. 
 
 "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old ; 
 Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow. 
 
 Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." 
 In his eye another pearl of sorrow, 
 Down it rolled ! 
 "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone, * 
 
 Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; 
 Still I marked him sitting there alone. 
 All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; 
 Poor, unknown ! 
 By the wayside, ou a mossy stone. 
 
 RALPK Hoyj. 
 
 THE WIDOWS MITE. 
 
 A WIDOW — she had only one ! 
 A puny and decrepit son ; 
 
 But, <lay and night. 
 Though fretful oft, and weak and small, 
 A loving child, he was her all — 
 
 The Widow's Mite. 
 
 The Widow's Mite — ay, so sustained. 
 She battled ouward, nor complained, 
 
 Though frieuds were fewer : 
 And while she toiled for daily fare, 
 A little crutch upon the stair 
 
 Was music to her. 
 
 I saw her then, — and now T see 
 
 That, though resigned and cheerful, she 
 
 Has sorrowed much : 
 
 She has. He gave it tenderly. 
 
 Much faith ; and carefully laid by. 
 
 The little crutch. 
 
 Frederick Locker. 
 
 THE DREAMER. 
 
 FROM " POEMS BY A SEAMSTRESS." 
 
 Not in the laughing bowers. 
 Where by green swinging elms a pleasant shade 
 At summer's noon is made. 
 
 And where smft-footed hours 
 
 Steal the rich breath of enamored flowers. 
 Dream I. Nor where the golden glories be. 
 At sunset, laving o'er the flowing sea ; 
 And to pure eyes the faculty is given 
 To trace a smooth ascent from Earth to Heaven ! 
 
 Not on a couch of ease. 
 With all the appliances of joy at hand, — 
 Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command ; 
 Viands that might a godlike palate please. 
 And music's soul-creative ecstasies. 
 Dream I. Nor gloating o'er a wide estate. 
 Till the full, self-complacent heart elate.
 
 SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 247 
 
 Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth, 
 Sighs for an immortality on Earth ! 
 
 But where the incessant din 
 Of iron hands, and roar of brazen throats, 
 Join their unmiugled notes, 
 
 While the long summer day is pouring in. 
 Till day is gone, and darkness doth begin. 
 Dream I, — as in the corner where I lie. 
 On wintry nights, just covered from the sky ! — 
 Such is my fate, — and, barren though it seem, 
 Yet, thou blind, soulless scorner, yet I di'eam ! 
 
 And yet I dream, — 
 Dream what, were men more just, I might have 
 
 been ; 
 How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene. 
 Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien ; 
 The conscious crown to Nature's blissful scene. 
 In just and equal brotherhood to glean. 
 With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen, — 
 
 Such is my di-eam ! 
 
 And yet I dream, — 
 I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eyes, 
 
 Bright with the luster of integrity, 
 In unappealing wretchedness, on high, 
 And the last rage of Destiny defy ; 
 Kesolved alone to live, — alone to die. 
 
 Nor swell the tide of human misery ! 
 
 And yet I dream, — 
 Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come. 
 My last, my first, my only welcome home ! 
 Rest, unbeheld since Life's beginning stage, 
 Sole renmant of my glorious heritage. 
 Unalienable, I shall find thee yet. 
 And in thy soft embrace the past forget ! 
 
 Thus do I dream ! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 A EOTJGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER. 
 
 THH ENGLISH GAME LAWS. 
 
 The merry brown hares came leaping 
 
 Over the crest of the hill, 
 Where the clover and corn lay sleeping. 
 
 Under the moonlight still. 
 
 Leaping late and early, 
 
 TOl under their bite and their tread. 
 The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley 
 
 Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead. 
 
 A poacher's widow sat sighing 
 
 On the side of the white chalk bank. 
 
 Where, under the gloomy fir-woods. 
 One spcjt in the lea throve rank. 
 
 She watched a long tuft of clover. 
 
 Where rabbit or hare never ran. 
 For its black sour haulm covered over 
 
 The blood of a murdered man. 
 
 She thought of the dark plantation. 
 And the hares, and her husband's blood. 
 
 And the voice of her indignation 
 Kose up to the throne of God : 
 
 "I am long past wailing and whining, 
 
 I have wept too much in my life : 
 I 've had twenty years of pining 
 
 As an English laborer's wife. 
 
 ' ' A laborer in Christian England, 
 Where they cant of a Saviour's name. 
 
 And yet waste men's lives, like the vermin's. 
 For a few more brace of game. 
 
 ' ' There 's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire. 
 There 's blood on your pointer's feet ; 
 
 There 's blood on the game you sell, squire. 
 And there 's blood on the game you eat. 
 
 ' ' You have sold the laboring man, squire, 
 
 Both body and soul to shame. 
 To pay for your seat in the House, squire, 
 
 And to pay for the feed of your game. 
 
 "You made him a poacher yourself, squire. 
 When you 'd give neither work :ior meat. 
 
 And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden 
 At our starving children's feet ; 
 
 ' ' When, packed in one reeking chamber, 
 JIan, maid, mother, and little ones lay ; 
 
 While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed. 
 And the walls let in the day ; 
 
 " When we lay in the burning fever. 
 
 On the mud of the cold clay floor. 
 Till you parted us all for three months, squire, 
 
 At the cui'sM workhouse door. 
 
 " We quarreled like brutes, and who wonders ? 
 
 What self-respect could we keep. 
 Worse housed than your hacks and your pointera. 
 
 Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep ? 
 
 "Our daughters, with base-born babies. 
 Have wandered away in their shame ; 
 
 If your misses had slept, squire, where they did. 
 Your misses might do the same. 
 
 "Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking. 
 
 With handfuls of coals and rice. 
 Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting 
 
 A little below cost price ? 
 
 T
 
 " You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, 
 And take to allotments and schools, 
 
 But you 've run up a debt that wUl never 
 Be repaid us by penny-club rules. 
 
 " In the season of shame and sadness. 
 
 In the dark and dreary day, 
 When scrofula, gout, and madness 
 
 Are eating your race away ; 
 
 " When to kennels and liveried varlets 
 You have cast your daughters' bread, 
 
 An<l, worn out with liiiuor and harlots. 
 Your heir at your feet lies dead ; 
 
 " When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed 
 rector. 
 
 Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave. 
 You will find in your God the protector 
 
 Of the freeman you fancied your slave." 
 
 She looked at the tuft of clover, 
 And wept till her heart grew light ; 
 
 And at last, when her passion was over, 
 Went wandering into the night. 
 
 But the merry brown hares came leaping 
 
 Over the uplands still, 
 Where the clover and com lay sleeping 
 
 On the side of the white chalk hill. 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEV. 
 
 Loms XV. 
 
 The king with all the kingly train had left his 
 Pompadour behind. 
 
 And forth he rode in Senart's wood the royal 
 beasts of chase to find. 
 
 That day by chance the monarch mused, and turn- 
 ing suddenly away, 
 
 He struck alone into a path that far from crowds 
 and courtiers lay. 
 
 He saw the pale green shadows play upon the 
 
 brown untrodden earth ; 
 He saw the birds around him flit as if he were of 
 
 peasant birth ; 
 He saw the trees that know no king but him that 
 
 bears a woodland ax ; 
 He thought not, but he looked about like one 
 
 who still in thinking lacks. 
 
 Then close to him a footstep fell, and glad of 
 
 human sound was he. 
 For, truth to say, he found himself but melancholy 
 
 comjiany ; 
 
 But that which he woiUd ne'er have guessed befora 
 
 him now most plainly came ; 
 The man upon his weary back a coffin bore of 
 
 modest frame. 
 
 "^\^ly, who art thou?" exclaimed the king, "and 
 
 what is that I see thee bear .' " 
 " I am a laborer in the wood, and 't is a coffin 
 
 for Pierre. 
 Close by the royal huuting-lodge you may have 
 
 often seen him toil ; 
 But he will never work again, and I for him must 
 
 dig the soil." 
 
 The laborer ne'er had seen the king, and this he 
 
 thought was but a man, 
 Who made at first a moment's pause, and then 
 
 anew his talk began ; 
 " I think I do remember now, — he had a dark 
 
 and glancing eye. 
 And I have seen his sturdy arm with wondrous 
 
 strokes the pickax ply. 
 
 "Pray tell me, friend, what aecidentcan thus have 
 
 kUled our good Pien'e ?" 
 "0, nothing more than usual, sir, he died of 
 
 living upon air ! 
 'T was hunger killed the poor good man, who long 
 
 on empty hopes relied ; 
 He could not pay Gabelle and tax, and feed his 
 
 children, so he died." 
 
 The man stopped short, and then went on, — " It 
 is, you know, a common story, 
 
 Our children's food is eaten up by courtiers, 
 mistresses, and glory." 
 
 The king looked hard upon the man, and after- 
 wards the coffin eyed. 
 
 Then spurred to ask of Pompadour, how came it 
 that the peasants died. 
 
 JOHN WILSON 
 (CHRISTOPHER NORTH). 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. 
 
 St.\y, lady, stay, for mercy's sake. 
 
 And hear a helpless orphan's tale ; 
 Ah, sure my looks must pity wake, — 
 
 'T is want that makes my c'neek so pale ; 
 Yet I was once a mother's pride, 
 
 And my brave father's hope and joy ; 
 But in the Nile's proud fight he died. 
 
 And I am now an orphan boy ! 
 
 Poor, foolish chOd ! how pleased was I, 
 When news of Nelson's victory came. 
 
 Along the crowded streets to fly, 
 To see the lighted windows flame !
 
 SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 249 
 
 -K 
 
 To force me home my mother sought, — 
 She could not bear to hear my joy ; 
 
 For with my father's life 't was bought, — 
 And made me a poor orphan boy ! 
 
 The people's shouts were long and loud ; 
 
 My mother, shuddering, closed her ears ; 
 "J!cjince I rejoice!" still cried the crowd, — 
 
 Jly mother answered with her tears ! 
 " 0, why do tears steal down your cheek," 
 
 Cried I, "while others shout for joy?" 
 She kissed me ; and in accents weak, 
 
 She called me her poor orphan boy ! 
 
 " What is an orphan boy ?" I said ; 
 
 When suddenly she gasped for breath, 
 And her eyes closed ! 1 shrieked for aid. 
 
 But ah ! her eyes were closed in death. 
 My hardships since I will not tell ; 
 
 But now, no more a parent's joy, 
 Ah ! lady, I have learned too well 
 
 What 't is to be an orphan boy 1 
 
 0, were I by your bounty fed ! 
 
 Nay, gentle lady, do not chide ; 
 Trust me, 1 mean to earn my bread, — 
 
 The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
 Lady, you weep ; what is 't you say ? 
 
 You '11 give me clothing, food, employ ? 
 
 Look down, dear parents ! look and see 
 
 Your happy, happy orphan boy ! 
 
 Amelia Opie. 
 
 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 Mt chaise the village inn did gain, 
 
 Just as the setting sun's last ray 
 Tipped with refulgent gold the vane 
 
 Of the old church across the way. 
 
 Across the way I silent sped, 
 
 The time till supper to beguile, 
 In moralizing o'er tlie dead 
 
 That moldered round the ancient pile. 
 
 There many a humble green grave showed 
 Where want and pain and toil did rest ; 
 
 And many a flattering stone I viewed 
 O'er those who once had wealth possest. 
 
 A faded beech its shadow brown 
 
 Threw o'er a grave where soiTOW slept. 
 
 On which, though scarce with grass o'ergrown, 
 Two ragged children sat and wept. 
 
 A piece of bread between them lay. 
 
 Which neither seemed inclined to take, 
 
 And yet they looked so much a prey 
 To want, it made my heart to ache. 
 
 " My little children, let me know 
 Why you iu such distress appear. 
 
 And why you wasteful from you tlirow 
 
 That bread which many a one might cheer ? ' 
 
 The little boy, in accents sweet, 
 
 Replied, while tears each other chased, — 
 " Lady ! we've not enough to eat, 
 
 Ah ! if we had, we should not wivste. 
 
 " But Sister Mary 's naughty gi-own. 
 
 And will not eat, whate'er 1 say. 
 Though sure I am the bread 's lier own. 
 
 For she has tasted none to-day." 
 
 "Indeed," the wan, starved Mary said, 
 " Till Henry eats, I '11 eat no nioie. 
 
 For yesterday 1 got some bread, 
 
 He 's had none since the day before." 
 
 My heart did swell, my bosom heave, 
 I felt as though deprived of speech ; 
 
 Silent I sat upon the grave, 
 
 And clasped the clay-cold hand of each. 
 
 With lOoks of woe too sadly true. 
 
 With looks that spoke a gi-ateful heart. 
 
 The shivering boy then nearer drew. 
 And did his simple tale impart : 
 
 " Before my father went away, 
 Enticed by bad men o'er the sea. 
 
 Sister and I did naught but play, — 
 We lived beside yon great ash-tree. 
 
 " But then poor mother did so cry, 
 And looked so changed, I cannot tell ; 
 
 She told us that she soon should die, 
 And bade us love each other well. 
 
 " She said that when the war was o'er. 
 Perhaps we might our father see ; 
 
 But if we never saw him more. 
 That God our father then would be ! 
 
 "She kissed us both, and then she died, 
 And we no more a mother have ; 
 
 Here many a day we 've sat and cried 
 Together at poor mother's grave. 
 
 " But when my father came not here, 
 I thought if we could find the sea. 
 
 We should be sure to meet him there, 
 And once again might happy be. 
 
 " We hand in hand went many a mile. 
 And asked our way of all we met ; 
 
 And some did sigh, and some did smile. 
 And we of some did victuals get. 
 
 -•- 
 
 "r
 
 " But when we reached the sea and found 
 'T was one great water round us spread, 
 
 We thought that father must be drowned, 
 And cried, and wished we both were dead. 
 
 " So we returned to mother's grave. 
 
 And only longed with her to be ; 
 Tor Goody, when this bread she gave, 
 
 Said father died beyond the sea. 
 
 "Then since no parent we have here, 
 "We '11 go and search for God around ; 
 
 Lady, pray, can you tell us where 
 
 That God, our Father, may be found ? 
 
 "He lives in heaven, our mother said. 
 And Goody says that mother 's there ; 
 
 So, if she knows we want his aid, 
 
 1 think perhaps she 'U send him here." 
 
 I clasped the prattlers to my breast. 
 And cried, "Come, both, and live with me ; 
 
 I '11 clothe you, feed you, give you rest. 
 And will a second mother be. 
 
 " And God shall be your Father still, 
 'T w'as he in mercy sent me here, 
 
 To teach you to obey his will, 
 Your steps to guide, your hearts to cheer." 
 
 ANONVMOU i. 
 
 LOKDON CHURCHES. 
 
 I STOOD, one Sunday morning, 
 Before a large church door. 
 The congregation gathered 
 And carriages a score, — 
 From one out stepped a lady 
 I oft had seen before. 
 
 Her hand was on a prayer-book. 
 And held a vinaigrette ; 
 The sign of man's redemption 
 Clear on the book was set, — 
 But aliove the Cross there glistened 
 A golden Coronet. 
 
 For her the obsequious beadle 
 The inner door Hung wide ; 
 Lightly, as up a ball-room, 
 Her footsteps seemed to glide, — 
 There might be good thoughts in her, 
 For all her evil pride. 
 
 But after her a woman 
 Peeped wistfully within. 
 On whose wan face was graven 
 Life's hardest discipline, — 
 The trace of the sad trinity 
 Of weakness, pain, and sin. 
 
 The few free-seats were crowded 
 Where she could rest and pray ; 
 With her worn garb (.'ontrasted 
 Each side in fair array, — 
 " God's house holds no poor sinners," 
 She sighed, and crept away. 
 
 Richard Mo.nckton milnes. 
 
 TWO WOMEN. 
 
 The shadows lay along Broadway, 
 
 'T was near the twilight-tide, 
 And slowly there a lady fair 
 
 Was walking in her pride. 
 jVlone walked she ; but, viewlessly, 
 
 Walked spirits at her side. 
 
 Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 
 
 And Honor charmed the air ; 
 And all astir looked kind on her. 
 
 And called her good as fair, — 
 For all God ever gave to her 
 
 She kept with chary care. 
 
 She kept with care her beauties rare 
 
 From lovers warm and true, 
 For her heart was cold to all but gold. 
 
 And the rich came not to woo, — 
 But honored well are charms to sell 
 
 If priests the selling do. 
 
 Now walking there was one more fair, — 
 
 A slight girl, lily-pale ; 
 And she had unseen company 
 
 To make the spirit quaU, — 
 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, 
 
 And nothing could avail. 
 
 No mercy now can clear her brow 
 
 For this world's peace to pray ; 
 For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air. 
 
 Her woman's heart gave way ! — 
 But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 
 
 By man is cursed alway ! 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis 
 
 BEATJTIFUL SNOW. 
 
 THE snow, the beautiful snow, 
 Filling the sky and the earth below ! 
 Over the house-tops, over the street. 
 Over the heads of the people you meet. 
 Dancing, 
 
 Flirting, 
 
 Skimming along. 
 
 T 
 
 J-
 
 4. 
 
 SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 251 
 
 Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing wrong. 
 Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek ; 
 Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak ; 
 Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, 
 Pure as an angel and fickle as love ! 
 
 the snow, the heautiful snow ! 
 How the flakes gather and laugh as they go ! 
 Whirling about in its maddening fun, 
 It plays in its glee with every one. 
 Chasing, 
 
 Laughing, 
 
 Hurrying hy. 
 It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ; 
 And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, 
 Snap at the crj-stals that eddy around. 
 The town is alive, and its heart in a glow. 
 To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. 
 
 How the wild crowd go swaying along, 
 Hailing each other with humor and song ! 
 How the gay sledges like meteors flash by, — 
 Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye ! 
 Kinging, 
 
 Swinging, 
 
 Dashing they go 
 Over the crest of the beautiful snow : 
 Snow so pure when it falls from the sky. 
 To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by ; 
 To be trampled and ti-acked by the thousands of feet 
 Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street. 
 
 Once I was pnre as the snow, — but I fell : 
 Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven — to hell : 
 Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street : 
 Fell, to be scoSed, to be spit on, and beat. 
 Pleading, 
 Cursing, 
 
 Dreading to die. 
 Selling my soul to whoever would buy. 
 Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread. 
 Hating the living and fearing the dead. 
 Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ? 
 And yet I was once like this beautiful snow ! 
 
 Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, 
 With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow ; 
 Once I was loved for my innocent grace, — 
 Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. 
 Father, 
 
 Mother, 
 
 Sisters all, 
 God, and myself, I have lost by my fall. 
 The veriest wretch that goes shivering by 
 Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh ; 
 For of all that is on or about me, I know 
 There is nothing that 's pure but the beautiful 
 snow. 
 
 How Strange it should be that this beautiful 
 
 snow 
 Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! 
 How strange it would be, when the night comes 
 
 again. 
 If the snow and the ice struck my desperate 
 brain ! 
 
 Fainting, 
 
 Freezing, 
 
 Dying alone. 
 Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan 
 To be heard in the crash of the crazy town. 
 Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down ; 
 To lie and to die in my tenible woe. 
 With a bod and a shroud of the beautiful snow ! 
 James w. W'atson. 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 " Drowned 1 drowned ! " — HAMLET. 
 
 One more unfortunate, 
 Weary of breath, 
 Kashly importunate, 
 Gone to her death ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly. 
 Lift her with care ! 
 Fashioned so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Look at her garments 
 Clinging like cerements. 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clotliing ; 
 Take her up instantly, 
 Loving, not loathing ! 
 
 Touch her not scornfully ! 
 Think of her mournfully. 
 Gently and humanly, — 
 Not of the stains of her ; 
 All that remains of her 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 Into her mutiny. 
 Rash and undutiful ; 
 Past all dishonor. 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the beautifuL 
 
 StiU, for all slips of hers, — 
 One of Eve's family, — 
 Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
 Oozing so clammily.
 
 252 
 
 POEMS OF SOEROfF AND DEATH. 
 
 Loop up her tresses 
 Escaped from the comb, — 
 Her fair auburn tresses, — 
 Whilst wonderment guesses 
 Where was her home ? 
 
 Who was her father ? 
 Who was her mother ? 
 Had she a sister ? 
 Had she a brother > 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 Yet, tlian all other ? 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun ! 
 0, it was pitiful ! 
 Near a w hole city full, 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly. 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 Feelings had changed, — 
 Love, by harsh evidence, 
 Thrown from its eminence ; 
 Even God's providence 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 So far in the river, 
 With many a light 
 From window and casement. 
 From gaiTet to basement. 
 She stood, with amazement. 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 Tlie bleak wind of ilarch 
 Made her tremble and shiver ; 
 But not the dark arch. 
 Or the black flowing river ; 
 Mad from life's history, 
 Glad to death's mystery, 
 Swift to be hurled — 
 Anywhere, anywhere 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 In she plunged boldly, — 
 No matter how coldly 
 The rough river ran — 
 Over the brink of it ! 
 Picture it — think of it, 
 Dissolute man ! 
 Lave in it, drink of it, 
 Then, if you can ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly. 
 Lift her with care ! 
 
 Fashioned so slenderly. 
 Young, and so tair ! 
 
 Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
 Stiffen too rigidly. 
 Decently, kindly, 
 Smooth and compose them ; 
 And her eyes, close them, 
 Staring so blindly ! 
 Dreadfully staring 
 Through muddy impurity, 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing 
 Fixed on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily. 
 Spurred by contumely, 
 Cold inhumanity, 
 Burning insanity, 
 Lito her rest ! 
 Cross her hands humbly. 
 As if praying dumbly. 
 Over her breast ! 
 
 Owning her weakness, 
 Her eiil behavior, 
 And leaving, with meekness. 
 Her sins to her Saviour ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. 
 
 Little Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and 
 
 down the street ; 
 The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is on 
 
 her feet. 
 The rows of long, dark houses without look cold 
 
 and damp. 
 By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker 
 
 of the lamp. 
 The clouds ride fast as horses, tlie wind is from 
 
 the north, 
 But no one cares for Gretchen, and uo one looketh 
 
 forth. 
 Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces 
 
 bright. 
 And happy hearts are watching out the old year's 
 
 latest night. 
 
 With the little box of matches she could not sell 
 
 all day. 
 And the thin, tattered mantle the wind blows 
 
 every way. 
 She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the 
 
 gloom, — 
 There are parents sitting snugly by the firelight 
 
 in the room ; 
 
 T"
 
 SORROW AND ADVERHITY. 
 
 253 
 
 And children with grave faces are whispering one 
 
 another 
 Of presents for tlie New Year, for father or for 
 
 mother. 
 But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears 
 
 her speak ; 
 No breath of little whisperers comes warmly to 
 
 her cheek. 
 
 Her home is cold and desolate ; no smile, no food, 
 
 no fire. 
 But children clamorous for bread, and an impa- 
 tient sire. 
 So she sits down in an angle where two great 
 
 houses meet. 
 And she curleth up beneath her for warmth her 
 
 little feet ; 
 And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the 
 
 colder sky, 
 And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up 
 
 on high. 
 She hears the clock strike slowly, up high in a 
 
 church-tower, 
 With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the 
 
 midnight hour. 
 
 She remembered her of stories her mother used 
 
 to tell, 
 And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's 
 
 twilight fell, 
 Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy 
 
 Child, 
 Who was cradled in a manger when winter was 
 
 most wild ; 
 Who was poor, and cold, and hungi-y, and deso- 
 late and lone ; 
 And she thought the song had told her he was ever 
 
 with his own, 
 And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones 
 
 were his, — 
 "How good of him to look on me in such a place 
 
 as this!" 
 
 Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel 
 
 it now. 
 For the pressure on her bosom, and the weight 
 
 upon her brow ; 
 But she struck one little match on the wall so 
 
 cold and bare. 
 That she might look around her, and see if he 
 
 was there. 
 The single match was kindled ; and, by the light 
 
 it threw. 
 It seemed to little Maggie that the wall was rent 
 
 in two. 
 And she could see the room within, the room all 
 
 warm and light, 
 With the fire-glow red and blazing, and the tapers 
 
 burning bright. I 
 
 And kindred there were gathered round the table 
 richly spread. 
 
 With heaps of goodly viands, red wine, and pleas- 
 ant bread. 
 
 She could smell the fr.agrant odor ; she could hear 
 them talk and play ; 
 
 Then all was darkness once again — the match 
 had burned away. 
 
 She struck another hastily, and now she seemed 
 to see. 
 
 Within the same warm chamber a glorious Christ- 
 mas-tree. 
 
 The branches all were laden down with things 
 that children prize ; 
 
 Bright gifts for boy and maiden they showed he- 
 fore her eyes. 
 
 And she almost seemed to touch them, and to 
 join the w^elcome shout ; 
 
 Then darkness fell around her, for the little match 
 was out. 
 
 Another, yet another, she has tried, — they will 
 not light ; 
 
 Then all her little store she took, and struck 
 with all her might. 
 
 And the whole place around her was lighted with 
 the glare : 
 
 And lo ! there hung a little Child before her in 
 the air ! 
 
 There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spear- 
 wound in his side. 
 
 And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands 
 sjiread wide. 
 
 And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that 
 he had known 
 
 Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow, — ay, equal to 
 her own. 
 
 And he pointed to the laden board and to the 
 
 Christmas-tree, 
 Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretchen 
 
 come with me ?" 
 The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her 
 
 eyeballs swim. 
 And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her 
 
 dead mother's hymn ; 
 And she folded both her thin white hands and 
 
 turned from that bright board. 
 And irom the golden gifts, and said, " With thee, 
 
 with thee, O Lord ! " 
 
 Tlie chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull 
 
 skies 
 On the city WTapt in vapor, on the spot where 
 
 Gretchen lies. 
 In her scant and tattered garments, with her back 
 
 against the wall. 
 She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no 
 
 call. 

 
 They lifted her up fearfully, and shuddered as 
 they said, 
 
 " It was a bitter, bitter night ! the child is frozen 
 dead." 
 
 The angels sang their greeting for one more re- 
 deemed from sin ; 
 
 Men said, "It was a bitter night ; would no one 
 let her in?" 
 
 Andthey shivered as they spoke of her, andsighed : 
 they could not see 
 
 How much of happiness there was after that 
 misery. 
 
 From the Danish of HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 
 Plying her needle and thread, — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
 She sang the "Song of the Shirt !" 
 
 " Work ! work ! work 
 
 While the cock is cromng aloof ! 
 And work — work — work 
 
 Till the stars shine tlirough the roof! 
 It 's, 0, to be a slave 
 
 Along with the barbarous Turk, 
 Where woman lias never a soul to save. 
 
 If this is Christian work ! 
 
 ' ' Work — work ^ work 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim ! 
 Work — work — work 
 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
 Seam, and gusset, and band. 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, — 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 
 
 And sew them on in a dream ! 
 
 "0 men with sisters dear ! 
 
 men with mothers and wives ! 
 It is not linen you 're wearing out. 
 
 But human creatures' lives ! 
 Stitch — stitch — stitch, 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt, — 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
 
 A shroud as well as a shirt ! 
 
 " But why do I talk of death, — 
 That phantom of grisly bone ? 
 
 1 hardly fear his terrible shape, 
 It seems so like my own, — 
 It seems so like my own 
 
 Because of the fasts 1 keep ; 
 God ! that bread should be so dear. 
 And flesh and blood so cheap ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 My labor never flags ; 
 And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 
 
 A crust of bread — and rags. 
 That shattered roof — and this naked floor — 
 
 A table — a broken chair — 
 And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 
 
 For sometimes falling there ! 
 
 " Work — work — work 
 
 From weary chime to chime ! 
 Work — work — work 
 
 As prisoners work for crime ! 
 Band, and gusset, and seam. 
 
 Seam, and gusset, and band, — 
 Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, 
 
 As well as the weary hand. 
 
 " Work — work — work 
 
 In the duU December light I 
 And work — work — work 
 
 When the weather is warm and bright ! 
 While underneath the eaves 
 
 The brooding swallows cling, 
 As if to show me their sunny backs, 
 
 And twit me with the Spring. 
 
 ' ' 0, but to breathe the breath 
 
 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, — 
 With tlie sky above my head. 
 
 And the grass beneath my feet ! 
 For only one short hour 
 
 To feel as I used to feel. 
 Before I knew the woes of want 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal ! 
 
 ' ' 0, but for one short hour, ^ 
 
 A respite, however brief ! 
 No blessed leisure for love or hope, 
 
 But only time for grief! 
 A little weeping would ease my heart ; 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 
 Hinders needle and thread ! " 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavj' and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 
 
 Plying her needle and thread, — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
 Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — 
 
 She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " 
 
 Thomas Hood.
 
 SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 255 
 
 GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER. 
 
 THE IRISH FAMINE. 
 
 Give me three grains of corn, mother, — 
 
 Only three grains of corn ; 
 It will keep the little life I have 
 
 Till the coming of the morn. 
 I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, — 
 
 Dying of hunger and cold ; 
 And half the agony of such a death 
 
 lly lips have never told. 
 
 It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother, — ■ 
 
 A wolf that is fierce for blood ; 
 All the livelong day, and the uight beside. 
 
 Gnawing for lack of food. 
 I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, 
 
 And the sight was heaven to see ; 
 I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, 
 
 But you had no bread for me. 
 
 How could I look to you, mother, — 
 
 How could I look to you 
 For bread to give to your starving boy, 
 
 When you were starving too ? 
 For I read the famine in your cheek, 
 
 And in your eyes so wild, 
 And I felt it in your bony hand. 
 
 As you laid it on your child. 
 
 The Queen has lands and gold, mother, — 
 
 The Queen has lands and gold. 
 While you are forced to your empty breast 
 
 A skeleton babe to hold, — 
 A babe that is dying of want, mother. 
 
 As I am dying now, 
 With a ghastly look in its sunken eye. 
 
 And famine upon its brow. 
 
 What has poor Ireland done, mother, — 
 
 What has poor Ireland done, 
 That the world looks on, and sees us starve. 
 
 Perishing one by one ? 
 Do the men of England care not, mother, — 
 
 The great men and the high, — 
 For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, 
 
 Whether they live or die ? 
 
 There is many a brave heart here, mother. 
 
 Dying of want and cold, 
 While only across the Channel, mother. 
 
 Are many that roll in gold ; 
 There are rich and proud men there, mother. 
 
 With wondrous wealth to view. 
 Anil the bread they fling to their dogs to-night 
 
 Would give life to m£ and you. 
 
 Come nearer to my side, mother. 
 Come nearer to my side. 
 
 And hold me fondly, as you held 
 
 My father when he died ; 
 Quick, for 1 cannot see you, mother, 
 
 lly breath is almost gone ; 
 Mother ! dear mother ! ere I die. 
 
 Give me three grains of corn. 
 
 Miss EDWARDS. 
 
 THE miOT BOY. 
 
 It had pleased God to form poor Ned 
 
 A thing of idiot mind ; 
 Yet to the poor, uiueasoning boy 
 
 God had not been unkind. 
 
 Old Sarah loved lier helpless child. 
 Whom helplessness made dear. 
 
 And life was everything to him 
 Who knew no hope or fear. 
 
 She knew his wants, she understood 
 
 Each half-articulate call. 
 For he was everything to her, 
 
 And she to him was all. 
 
 And so for many a year they lived, 
 
 Nor knew a wish beside ; 
 But age at length on Sarah came, 
 
 And she feU sick and died. 
 
 He tried in vain to waken her, 
 
 He called her o'er and o'er ; 
 They told him she was dead, — the word 
 
 To him no import bore. 
 
 They closed her eyes and shrouded her, 
 Whilst he stood wondering by. 
 
 And when they bore her to the grave 
 He followed silently. 
 
 They laid her in the narrow house, 
 
 And sung the funeral stave. 
 And when the mournful train dispersed 
 
 He loitered by the gi-ave. 
 
 The rabble boys that used to jeer 
 Whene'er they saw poor Ned, 
 
 Now stood and watched him at the grave. 
 And not a word was said. 
 
 They came and went and came again, 
 
 And night at last drew on ,- 
 Yet still he lingered at the place 
 
 Till every one had gone. 
 
 And when he found himself alone 
 He quick removed the clay.
 
 256 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 And raised the coffin in Ids arms 
 And bore it quick away. 
 
 Straight went he to his mother's cot 
 
 And laid it on the floor, 
 And with the eagerness of joy 
 
 He barred the cottage door. 
 
 At once he placed his mother's corpse 
 
 Upright within her chair, 
 And then he hsaped the hearth and blew 
 
 The kindling fire with care. 
 
 She now was in her wonted chair, 
 
 It was her wonted place, 
 And bright the fire blazed and flashed, 
 
 Reflected from her face. 
 
 Then, bending down, he 'd feel her hands. 
 
 Anon her face behold ; 
 "Why, mother, do you look so pale, 
 
 And why are you so cold ? " 
 
 And when the neighbors on next morn 
 
 Had forced the cottage door. 
 Old Sarah's corpse was in the chair. 
 
 And Ned's was on the floor. 
 
 It had pleased God from this poor boy 
 
 His only friend to call ; 
 Yet God was not unkind to him. 
 
 For death restored him all. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEV. 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! 
 
 She is not mad who kneels to thee ; 
 For what I 'm now too well I know. 
 
 And what 1 was, and what should be. 
 1 '11 rave no more in proud despair ; 
 
 My language shall 1w mild, though sad ; 
 But yet I fundy, truly swear, 
 
 / am not viad, I am not mad I 
 
 My tyrant husband forged the tale 
 
 Which chains me in this dismal cell ; 
 My fate unknown my friends bewail, — • 
 
 jailer, haste that fate to tell ! 
 0, haste my father's heart to cheer ! 
 
 His heart at once 't will grieve and glad 
 To know, though kept a captive here, 
 
 / arti not mad, I am not mad I 
 
 He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; 
 
 He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; 
 His glimmering lamp still, still I see, — 
 
 'T is gone ! and all is gloom again. 
 
 Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light ! 
 
 Life, all thy comforts once 1 had ; 
 Yet here I 'm chained, this freezing night. 
 
 Although not mad ; no, no, — not mad I 
 
 'T is sure some dream, some vision vain ; 
 
 What ! /, the child of rank and wealth, — 
 Am / the wretch who clanks this chain, 
 
 Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? 
 Ah ! wdiile I dwell on blessings fled. 
 
 Which nevermore my heart must glad. 
 How aches my heart, how burns my head ; 
 
 But 't is not mad ; no, 't is not mad I 
 
 Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, 
 
 A mother's face, a mother's tongue ? 
 She '11 ne'er forget your parting kiss, 
 
 Nor round her neck how last you clung ; 
 Nor how with her you sued to stay ; 
 
 Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; 
 Nor how — I '11 drive such thoughts away ! 
 
 They 'U make me mad, they '11 'niakc me mad! 
 
 His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! 
 
 His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! 
 None ever bore a lovelier child. 
 
 And art thou now forever gone ? 
 And must I never see thee more. 
 
 My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? 
 I will be free ! unbar the door ! 
 
 / am not mad ; / am not mad ! 
 
 0, hark ! what mean those yells and cries ? 
 
 His chain some furious madman breaks ; 
 He comes, — I see his glaring eyes ; 
 
 Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. 
 Hdf ! Hclj} ! — He 's gone ! — 0, fearful woe, 
 
 Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! 
 My brain, my brain, — I know, I know 
 
 I am not mad, but soon shall be. 
 
 Yes, soon ; — for, lo you ! while I speak, — 
 
 Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare ! 
 He sees me ; now, with ilrcadful shriek. 
 
 He whirls a serpent high in air. 
 Horror ! — the reptile strikes his tooth 
 
 Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; 
 Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; — I feel the truth ; 
 
 Your task is done, — I 'm mad ! I 'm map ! 
 
 Matthew Gkegokv Lewis. 
 
 THE PATJPER'S DEATH-BED. 
 
 Tread softly, — bow the head, 
 In reverent silence bow, — 
 
 No passing-bell doth toll, 
 
 Yet an immortal soul 
 Is passing now. 
 
 t
 
 stranger ! however great, 
 
 Witli lowly revercuce bow; 
 There 's one in that poor shed — 
 One by that paltry bed — 
 
 Greater than thou. 
 
 Beneath that beggar's roof, 
 Lo ! Death doth keep his state. 
 
 Enter, no crowds attend ; 
 
 Enter, no guards defend 
 This palace gate. 
 
 That pavement, damp and cold, 
 
 No smiling courtiers tread ; 
 One silent woman stands. 
 Lifting witli meager hands 
 
 A dying head. 
 
 No mingling voices sound, — 
 
 An infant wail alone ; 
 A sob suppressed, — again 
 That short deep gasp, and then — 
 
 The parting groan. 
 
 change ! wondrous change ! 
 
 Burst are the prison bars, — 
 This moment, there, so low, 
 So agonized, and now, — 
 
 Beyond the stars. 
 
 O change ! stupendous change ! 
 There lies the soulless clod ; 
 ■ The sun eternal breaks. 
 The new immortal wakes, — 
 
 Wakes with his God 1 
 
 Caroline Anne Bowles 
 (Mrs. southev). 
 1 
 
 THE PATJPER'S DRIVE. 
 
 There 's a grim one-horse Jiearse in a jolly round 
 trot, — 
 
 To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot ; 
 
 The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs ; 
 
 And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings : 
 Hatth his hones over the stnncs / 
 He 's mily a pauper whom nobody owns I 
 
 0, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there are none ; 
 
 Hehas left not a gapin the world, nowhe's gone, — 
 
 Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; 
 
 To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can : 
 Rattle his hones over th^ stones I 
 He 's only a pauper whom nobody oimis I 
 
 What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and 
 
 din ! 
 The whip, how it cracks ! and the wheels, liow they 
 
 spin! 
 
 How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is 
 hurled ! — 
 
 The pauper at length makes a noise in the world ! 
 Eallle his bones over the stones I 
 He 's only a pauper whom nobody owns I 
 
 Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach 
 To gentility, now that he 's stretched in a coach ! 
 He 's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; 
 But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast : 
 
 Rattle his bones over the stones! 
 
 He 's only a pauper whom nobody owns I 
 
 You bumpkins ! who stare at your brother con- 
 veyed. 
 Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! 
 And be joyful to think, when by death you 're 
 
 laid low. 
 You ' ve a chance to the grave like a gemman to go ! 
 Rattle his bones over tlie stones ! 
 He 's only a pauper whom, nobody owns I 
 
 But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad. 
 To think that a heart in humanity clad 
 Should make, like the brute, such a desolate end. 
 And depart fromthelightwithoutleavingafriend ! 
 
 Bear soft his bones over the stones/ 
 
 Though ajiauper, lie 's one whom his Maker yet 
 owns I 
 
 THOMAS NOEL. 
 
 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
 
 I.S there for honest poverty 
 
 Wha hangs his head, and a' that ? 
 The coward slave, we pass him by ; 
 
 We dare be poor for a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 Our toil's obscure, and a' that ; 
 The rank is but the guinea's stamp, — 
 
 The man 's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 What though on hamely fare we dine. 
 
 Wear hoddiu gray, and a' that ? 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,- 
 
 A man 's a man for a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
 The honest man, though e'er sae poor. 
 
 Is king o' men for a' that. 
 
 Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wlia struts, and stares, and a' that, — 
 Though hundreds worship at his word, 
 
 He 's but a coof for a' that ; 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 His riband, star, and a' that ; 
 The man of independent mind. 
 
 He looks and laughs at a' that.
 
 A prince can ni:ik a belted knight, 
 
 A nuu-i[uis, duke, and a' that ; 
 But an honest man 's aboon his might, — 
 
 Guid faith, ho maunua fa' that ! 
 For a' that, and a' tliat ; 
 
 Their dignities, and a' tliat, 
 The [lith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 
 
 Are liigher ranks than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may, — 
 
 As come it will for a' that, — 
 Tliat sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 
 
 May bear the gree, and a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 It 's coming yet, for a' that, — 
 ■When man to man, the warld o'er, 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that ! 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 0, SAY, what is that thing called Light, 
 
 Which I must ne'er enjoy? 
 What are the blessings of the sight, 
 
 0, tell your poor blind boy ! 
 
 You talk of wondrous things you see. 
 You say the sun shines bright ; 
 
 I feel him warm, but how can he 
 Or make it day or night ? 
 
 My day or night myself I make 
 
 Whene'er I sleep or play; 
 And could I ever keep awake 
 
 With me 't were always day. 
 
 With heavy sighs I often hear 
 
 You mourn my hapless woe ; 
 But sure with patience I can bear 
 
 A loss I ne'er can know. 
 
 Tlien let not what I cannot have 
 
 My cheer of mind destroy : 
 Whilst tlms 1 sing, 1 am a king, 
 
 Although a poor blind boy. 
 
 COLLEY CIBBER. 
 
 DIVERSITIES OF FORTtTNE. 
 
 FROM "MISS KILMANSEGG." 
 
 What different dooms our birthdays bring ! 
 For instance, one little manikin thing 
 
 Survives to wear many a wrinkle ; 
 AVhile death forbids another to wake. 
 And a son that it took nine moons to make 
 
 Expires without even a twinkle : 
 
 Into this world we come like ships. 
 
 Launched from the docks, and stocks, and slips. 
 
 For fortune fair or fatal ; 
 And one little craft is cast away 
 In its very first trip in Babbicome Bay, 
 
 While another rides safe at Port Katal. 
 
 What different lots our stars accord ! 
 
 Tills babe to be hailed and wooed as a lord, 
 
 And that to be slimmed like a leper ! 
 One, to the world's wine, honey, and com, 
 Another, like Colchester native, born 
 
 To its vinegar only, and pepper. 
 
 One is littered under a roof 
 Neither wind nor water proof, — 
 
 That 's the prose of Love in a cottage, — 
 A puny, naked, shivering wretch. 
 The whole of whose birthright would not fetch, 
 Though Robins himself drew up the sketch, 
 
 The bid of " a mess of pottage." 
 
 Born of Fortunatus's kin. 
 Another comes tenderly ushered in 
 
 To a prospect all bright and burnished : 
 No tenant he for life's back slums, — 
 He comes to the world as a gentleman conies 
 
 To a lodging ready furnished. 
 
 And the other sex — the tender — the fair — 
 
 What wide reverses of fate are there ! 
 
 Whilst Margaret, channed by the Bulbul rare. 
 
 In a garden of Gul reposes. 
 
 Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street 
 
 Till — think of that, who find life so sweet! — 
 
 She hates the smell of roses ! 
 
 THOMAS Hood. 
 
 THE END OF THE PLAY. 
 
 The play is done, —the curtain drops. 
 
 Slow I'alling to the prompter's bell ; 
 A moment yet the actor stops. 
 
 And looks around, to say farewell. 
 It is an irksome word and task ; 
 
 And, when he 's laughed and said his say, 
 He shows, as lie removes the mask, 
 
 A face that 's anything but gay. 
 
 One word, ere yet the evening ends, — 
 
 Let 's close it with a parting rhjnne ; 
 And pledge a hand to all young friends. 
 
 As fits the merry Christmas time ; 
 On life's wide scene you, too, have parts 
 
 That fate erelong shall bid you play ; 
 Good night!— with honest, gentle hearts 
 
 A kindly greeting go alway ! 
 
 7
 
 SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 Good night ! — I 'd say tlie gvit-fs, the joys, 
 
 Just hinted in this niiniii- page, 
 The triumphs and defeats of hoys, 
 
 Are but repeated in our age ; 
 I 'd say your woes were not k^ss keen, 
 
 Your hopes more vain, than tliose of men, — 
 Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 
 
 At forty-five played o'er again. 
 
 I 'd say we suffer and we strive 
 
 Not less nor more as men than boys, — 
 With grizzled beards at forty-five. 
 
 As erst at twelve in corduroys ; 
 And if, in time of sacred youth, 
 
 We learned at home to love and pray, 
 Pray Heaven that early love and truth 
 
 May never wholly pass away. 
 
 And in the world, as in the school, 
 
 I 'd say how fate may change and shift, — 
 The prize be sometimes with the fool. 
 
 The race not always to the swift : 
 The strong may yield, the good may fall. 
 
 The great man be a vulgar clown. 
 The knave be lifted over all. 
 
 The kind cast pitilessly down. 
 
 Who knows the inscrutable design ? 
 
 Blessed be He who took and gave ! 
 Why should your mother, Charles, not mine. 
 
 Be weeping at her darling's grave ; 
 We bow to Heaven that willed it so, 
 
 That darkly rules the fate of all. 
 That sends the respite or the blow, 
 
 That 's free to give or to recall. 
 
 This crowns his feast with wine and wit, — 
 Who brought him to that mirth and state? 
 
 His betters, see, below him sit. 
 Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
 
 Who Ijade the mud from Dives' wheel 
 
 To spurn the rags of Lazarus? 
 Come, brother, in that dust we '11 kneel. 
 
 Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 
 
 So each shall mourn, in life's advance, 
 
 Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; 
 Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance 
 
 And longing passion unfulfilled. 
 Amen ! — whatever fate be sent. 
 
 Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
 Althougli tlie lu'ad with cares be bent. 
 
 And whitened with the winter snow. 
 
 Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 
 
 Let young and old accept their part, 
 And bow before the awful will. 
 
 And bear it with an honest heart. 
 Who misses, or who wins the prize, — 
 
 Go, lose or contjuer as you can ; 
 But if you fail, or if you rise. 
 
 Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 
 
 A gentleman, or old or young ! 
 
 (Bear kindly with my humble lays ;) 
 The sacred chorus first was sung 
 
 Upon the first of Christmas days; 
 The shepherds heard it overhead, — 
 
 The joyful angels raised it then : 
 Glory to Heaven on high, it said. 
 
 And peace on earth to gentle men ! 
 
 My song, save this, is little worth ; 
 
 I lay the weary pen aside. 
 And wish you health and love and mirth. 
 
 As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
 As fits the holy Christmas birth, 
 
 Be this, good friends, our carol still, — 
 Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 
 
 To men of gentle will. 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 ~1^ 
 
 I I
 
 4- 
 
 1^ 
 
 260 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH, 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 
 But one dead lamb is there ! 
 There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
 
 But has one vacant chair ! 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 
 
 Not from the ground arise, 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and vapoi-s ; 
 
 Amid these earthly damps 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
 
 May be heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 There is no Death ! What seems so is transition : 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian. 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
 She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 
 
 But gone unto that school 
 A\Tiere she no longer needs our poor protection,. 
 
 And Christ himself doth rule. 
 
 In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 
 
 By guardian angels led. 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 
 
 She lives whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day, we think what she is doing 
 
 In those bright realms of air ; 
 Year after year, her tender steps pursuing. 
 
 Behold her gi-own more fair. 
 
 Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 
 The bond which nature gives. 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though un- 
 spoken, 
 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Kot as a child shall we again behold her; 
 
 For when with raptures wild 
 In our embraces we again enfold her. 
 
 She will not be a child : 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion. 
 
 Clothed with celestial grace ; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
 And though, at times, impetuous with emotion 
 
 And anguish long suppressed, 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
 
 That cannot be at rest, — 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We may not wholly stay ; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing. 
 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
 Henry wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 BURIED TO-DAY. 
 
 Buried to-day : 
 
 When the soft green buds are bursting out, 
 And up on the south-wind comes a shout 
 
 Of village boys and girls at play 
 
 In the mild spiing evening gray. 
 
 Taken away. 
 
 Sturdy of heart and stout of limb. 
 
 From eyes thatdrewhalf theirlightfromhim, 
 
 And put low, low underneath the clay, 
 
 In his spring, — on this spring day. 
 
 Passes away 
 
 All the pride of boy-life begun. 
 
 All the hope of life yet to run ; 
 Who dares to fjuestion when One saith "Nay." 
 Murmur not, — only pray. 
 
 Entei-s to-day 
 
 Another body in churchyard sod. 
 Another soul on the life in God. 
 
 His Christ was buried — and lives alway : 
 
 Trust Him, and go your way. 
 
 DINAH MULOCK CKAIK. 
 
 GRIEF FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 HEARTS that never cease to yeani ! 
 
 brimming tears that ne'er are dried ! 
 The dead, though they depart, return 
 
 As though they had uot died !
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 2G1 
 
 The livinj; are the only dead ; 
 
 The dead live, — nevermore to die ; 
 And often, when we mourn them fled, 
 
 They never were so nigh ! 
 
 And though they lie beneath the waves, 
 Or sleep within the churchyard dim, 
 
 (Ah ! through how many dill'erent graves 
 God's children go to him !) 
 
 Yet eveiy grave gives up its dead 
 Ere it is overgrown with grass ; 
 
 Then why should hopeless tears be shed. 
 Or need we cry," ' ' Alas " ? 
 
 Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom. 
 And like a sorrowing mourner craped, 
 
 Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb, 
 Whose captives have escaped ? 
 
 'T is but a mound, — and will be mossed 
 Whene'er the summer gi-ass appears ; 
 
 The loved, though wept, are never lost ; 
 We only lose — our tears ! 
 
 Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead 
 By bending forward where they are ; 
 
 But Memory, with a backward tread, 
 Communes with them afar. 
 
 The joys we lose are but forecast. 
 
 And we shall find them all once more ; 
 
 We look Ijehind us for the Past, 
 But lo ! 't is all before ! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE MOTTRNERS CAME AT BREAK OF DAY. 
 
 The mourners came at break of day. 
 
 Unto the garden sepulcher. 
 With saddened heai'ts to weep and pray 
 
 For him, the loved one, buried there. 
 What radiant light dispels the gloom ? 
 An angel sits beside the tomb. 
 
 The earth doth mourn her treasures lost, 
 All sepulchered beneath the snow, 
 
 When wintry winds and chilling frost 
 Have laid her summer glories low ; 
 
 The spring returns, the flowerets bloom, — 
 
 An angel sits beside the tomb. 
 
 Then mourn we not belovM dead ; 
 
 E'en while we come to weep and pray, 
 The happy spirit hath but fled 
 
 To brighter realms of heavenly day ; 
 
 Immortal hope dispels the gloom, — 
 
 An angel sits beside the tomb. 
 
 Sarah f. Adams 
 
 LINES 
 
 TO THE MEHORV OF " ANNIE." WHO DIED AT MILAN. 
 JUNE 6.1860. 
 
 " Jesus saith unto her. Woman, why wcepest thou? whom scck- 
 est thou T She. supposinij him to be the tl.irdener. saith ulilo h ni. 
 Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid 
 him." — yohn xx 15. 
 
 In the fair gardens of celestial peace 
 Walketh a gardener in meekness clad ; 
 
 Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, 
 And his mysterious eyes arc sweet and sad. 
 
 Fair are the sUent foldings of his robes. 
 Falling with saintly calmness to his feet ; 
 
 And when he walks, each floweret to his will 
 With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat. 
 
 Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart, 
 In the mild summer radiance of his eye ; 
 
 No fear of stoim, or cold, or bitter frost. 
 
 Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh. 
 
 And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love 
 Are nurseries to those gardens of the air ; 
 
 And his far-darting eye, with starry beam, 
 Watches the growing of his treasures there. 
 
 We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears, 
 O'envatched with restless longings night and 
 day; 
 
 Forgetful of the high, mysterious right 
 
 He holds to bear our cherished jilants away. 
 
 But when some sunny spot in those bright fields 
 Needs the fair presence of an added flower, 
 
 Down sweeps a starry angel in the night : 
 
 At mom the rose has vanished from our bower ! 
 
 Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a gi-ave ! 
 
 Blank, sUent, vacant ; but in worlds above, 
 Like a new star outblossomed in the skies. 
 
 The angels hail an added flower of love. 
 
 Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound, 
 Strewed with the red and yellow auttimn leaf. 
 
 Drop thou the tear, but r.aise the fainting eye 
 Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief. 
 
 Thy garden rosebud bore within its bre.ast 
 Those mysteries of color, warm and bright. 
 
 That the bleak climate of this lower sphere 
 Could never waken into form and light. 
 
 Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence. 
 Nor nmst thou ask to t.ake Iier thence away ; 
 
 Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour. 
 Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day. 
 Harriet Eeecher stowe.
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 1 ^ ~ — -" 
 
 262 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 
 FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 
 
 I have been laugluug, I have been carousing, 
 Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; 
 
 
 When the hours of Jay are numbered, 
 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 
 And the voices of the night 
 
 
 
 Wake the better soul that slumbered 
 
 I loved a Love once, fairest among women : 
 
 
 To a holy, calm delight ; 
 
 Closed are lier doors on me, I must not see her, — 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 
 Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
 
 
 And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
 
 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : 
 
 
 Shadows from the fitful firelight 
 
 Like an ingrate, 1 left my friend abruptly ; 
 
 
 Dance upon the parlor wall ; 
 
 Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 
 
 
 Tlicn the forms of the departed 
 
 Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my child- 
 
 
 Enter at the open door, — 
 
 hood, 
 
 
 The beloved ones, the true-hearted, 
 
 Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse. 
 
 
 Come to visit me once more : 
 
 Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
 
 
 He, the young and strong, who cherished 
 
 Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
 
 
 Noble longings for tlie strife, 
 
 Why wert not thou born in my fatlier's dwelling? 
 
 
 By the roadside fell and perished, 
 
 So might we talk of the old familiar faces. 
 
 
 Weary with the march of life ! 
 
 How some they have died, and some they have 
 
 
 They, the holy ones and weakly. 
 
 left me. 
 
 
 Who the cross of suffering bore. 
 
 And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
 
 
 Folded their pale hands so meekly. 
 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 
 Spake with us on earth no more ! 
 And with them the being beauteous 
 
 CHARLES Lamb. 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 WTio unto my youth was given. 
 
 THE BURIED FLOWKR. 
 
 
 More than all things else to love me, 
 
 
 
 And is now a saint in heaven. 
 
 In the silence of my chamber. 
 When the night is still and deep, 
 
 
 With a slow and noiseless footstep 
 
 And the drowsy heave of ocean 
 
 
 Comes that messenger divine. 
 
 Mutters in its charmed sleep. 
 
 u 
 
 Takes the vacant chair beside me. 
 Lays her gentle hand iu mine ; 
 
 And she sits and gazes at me 
 
 With those deep and tender eyes, 
 
 Like the stars, so still and saint-like. 
 Looking downward from the skies. 
 
 Uttered not, yet comprehended. 
 Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 
 
 Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. 
 Breathing from her lips of air. 
 
 0, though oft depressed and lonely, 
 
 All my fears are laid aside 
 If I but remember only 
 
 Such as these have lived and died ! 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAE FACES. 
 
 I IIAVK had playmates, I have had companions. 
 In my daysof childhood, in my joyful school-days 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 Oft I hear the angel voices 
 
 That have thrilled me long ago, — 
 Voices of my lost companions, 
 
 Lying deep beneath the snow. 
 
 Where are now the flowers we tendeil ' 
 Withered, broken, branch and stem : 
 
 Wliere are now the hopes we cherished ? 
 Scattered to the winds with them. 
 
 For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones ! 
 
 Nursed in hope and reared in love. 
 Looking fondly ever \ipward 
 
 To the clear blue heaven above ; 
 
 Smiling on the sun th.at cheered us. 
 Rising lightly from the rain. 
 
 Never folding up your freshness 
 Save to give it forth again. 
 
 0, 't is sad to lie and reckon 
 AH the days of faded youth. 
 
 All the vows that we believed in. 
 All the words we spoke in truth.
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 2G3 
 
 -I- 
 
 Sevcrcil, — were it severed only 
 
 By iui idle thought of strife, 
 Such as time may kuit together ; 
 
 Not the broken chord ol' lil'e ! 
 
 0, I lling my spirit backward, 
 And 1 pass o'er years of pain ; 
 
 All 1 loved is rising round me, 
 All the lost returns again. 
 
 Brighter, fairer far than lining, 
 
 With no trace of w'oe or pain, 
 liobed in everlasting beauty, 
 
 Shall 1 see them once again. 
 
 By the light that never fadeth, 
 
 Underneath eternal skies. 
 When the dawn of resurrection 
 
 Breaks o'er deathless Paradise. 
 
 William edmopjstowne Avtoun. 
 
 THE FUTURE LITE. 
 
 Hciw shall I know thee in the sphere which kecjis 
 The disembodied spirits of the dead, 
 
 When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 
 And perishes among the dust we tread ? 
 
 For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain 
 If there 1 meet thy gentle presence not ; 
 
 Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 
 In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 
 
 Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ? 
 
 That heart whose fondest throbs to me were 
 given ; 
 My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 
 
 And wilt thou never utter it in heaven ? 
 
 In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing 
 wind, 
 
 In the resplendence of that glorious sphere. 
 Anil larger movements of the unfettered mind, 
 
 Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here ? 
 
 The love that lived through all the stormy past. 
 And meekly with my harsher nature bore. 
 
 And deeper grew, ami tenderer to the last. 
 Shall it expire with life, and be no more ? 
 
 A happier lot than mine, and larger light. 
 Await thee there ; for thou hast bowed thy will 
 
 In cheerful homage to the rule of right. 
 And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 
 
 For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, 
 Shrinkand consume my heart, as heat the scroll ; 
 
 And wrath has left its sear — that fire of hell 
 Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 
 
 Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the .sky. 
 Wilt tliou not keep the same beloved name. 
 
 The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye. 
 Lovelier in heaven'ssweet climate, yet thesame ! 
 
 Slialt tliou not teach me, in that calmer home. 
 The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — 
 
 The wisilom which is love — till 1 become 
 Thy lit companion in that land of bliss ? 
 
 William Cullln bKYA.\T. 
 
 THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. 
 
 A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN. 
 
 To weary hearts, to mourning homes, 
 God's meekest Angel gently comes ; 
 No power has he to banish pain. 
 Or give us back our lost again ; 
 And yet in tenderest love our dear 
 And heavenly Father sends him here. 
 
 There 's quiet in that Angel's glance, 
 
 Tliere 's rest in his still countenance ! 
 
 He mocks no grief with idle cheer, 
 
 Kor wounds with words the mourner's ear ; 
 
 But ills and woes he may not cure 
 
 He kindly trains us to endure. 
 
 Angel of Patience ! sent to calm 
 Our feverish brows with cooling palm ; 
 To lay the storms of hope and fear. 
 And I'econcile life's smile and tear ; 
 The throbs of wounded pride to still. 
 And make our own our Father's will ! 
 
 thou who mournest on thy way, 
 With longings for the close of day ; 
 He walks with thee, that Angi'l kind. 
 And gently whispers, " Be resigned : 
 Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell 
 The dear Lord ordercth all things well ! " 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 
 FRIENDS DEPARTED. 
 
 Thet are all gone into the world of light. 
 
 And I alone sit lingering here ! 
 Their very memory is fair and bright. 
 And my sail thoughts doth clear ; 
 
 It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast. 
 Like stars upon some gloomy grove, — 
 Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 
 After the sun's remove. 
 
 § 
 
 -0-9-
 
 264 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 I see them walking in an air of glory, 
 
 Whosi' light doth trample on my days, — 
 My days which are at best but dull and hoary, 
 Jlere glimmering and decays. 
 
 holy hope ! and high humility, — 
 
 High as the arching heavens above ! 
 These are your walks, and you have showed them 
 nic. 
 To kindle my cold love. 
 
 Dear, beauteous death, — the jewel of the just, — 
 
 Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 
 
 What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 
 
 Could man outlook that mark ! 
 
 He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may 
 know, 
 At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 
 But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 
 That is to him unknown. 
 
 And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 
 
 Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
 So some sti'ange thoughts transcend our wonted 
 themes. 
 And into glory peep. 
 
 If a star were confined into a tomb. 
 
 Her captive flames must needs burn there. 
 But when the hand that locked her up gives room. 
 She '11 shine through all the sphere. 
 
 Father of eternal life, and all 
 
 Created glories under thee ! 
 Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 
 Into true liberty. 
 
 Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 
 
 My perspective still as they pass ; 
 
 Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
 
 Where I shall need no glass. 
 
 Henry VauChan. 
 
 THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 
 
 The snow had begun in the gloaming, 
 
 And busily aU the night 
 Had been heaping field and highway 
 
 With a silence deep and white. 
 
 Every pine and fir and hemlock 
 Wore ermine too dear for an earl. 
 
 And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
 Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 
 
 From sheds new-roofed witli Carrara 
 Came Chanticleer's muflled crow, 
 
 The stitr rails were softened to swan's-down. 
 And still fluttered down the snow. 
 
 I stood and watched by the window 
 
 The noiseless work of the sky. 
 And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
 
 Like brown leaves whirling by. 
 
 I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
 Where a little headstone stood ; 
 
 How the Hakes were folding it gently. 
 As did robins the babes in the wood. 
 
 Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
 
 .Saying, " Father, who makes it snow ?" 
 And I told of the good All-father 
 
 Who cares for us here below. 
 
 Again I looked at the snow-fall. 
 
 And thought of the leaden sky 
 That arched o'er our first gi-eat sorrow. 
 
 When that mound was heaped so high. 
 
 I remembered the gi-adual patience 
 That fell from that cloud like snow. 
 
 Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
 The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 
 
 And again to the child I whispered, 
 
 "The snow that husheth all. 
 Darling, the merciful Father 
 
 Alone can make it fall ! " 
 
 Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; 
 
 And she, kissing back, could not know 
 That mil kiss was given to her sister. 
 
 Folded close under deepening snow. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 There is a Eeaper whose name is Death, 
 
 And, with his sickle keen. 
 He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. 
 
 And the flowers that grow between. 
 
 "Shall 1 have naught that is fair?" saith he ; 
 
 "Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
 Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
 
 I will give them all back again." 
 
 He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
 
 He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
 It was for the Lord of Paradise 
 
 He bound them in his sheaves. 
 
 " My Lord has need of these flowerets gaj'," 
 The Reajjer said, and smiled ; 
 
 7
 
 WfcAAAAA V/. o/'0->V 
 
 FORDS. HOWARD &BV13ZKT,^^
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 265 
 
 " Dear tokens of the earth are tliey, 
 Where he was once a child. 
 
 "They sliall all bloom in fields of light, 
 
 Transplanted by my care, 
 And saints, ujjon their garments white, 
 
 These sacred blossoms wear." 
 
 And the mother gave, in tears and pain. 
 The flowers she most did love ; 
 
 She knew she should find them all again 
 In the fields of light above. 
 
 0, not in cruelty, not in wrath. 
 
 The Reaper came that day ; 
 'T was an angel visited the green earth, 
 
 And took the flowers away. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 OVER THE EIVEE. 
 
 Over the river they beckon to me. 
 
 Loved ones who 've crossed to the farther side, 
 The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 
 
 But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. 
 There 's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
 
 And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
 He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 
 
 And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
 We saw not the angels who met him there. 
 
 The gates of the city we could not see : 
 Over the river, over the river, 
 
 My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 
 
 Over the river the boatman pale 
 
 Carried another, the household pet ; 
 Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale. 
 
 Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 
 She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands. 
 
 And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
 We felt it glide from the silver sands, 
 
 And all our sunshine grew strangely dark ; 
 We know she is safe on the farther side. 
 
 Where all the ransomed and angels be": 
 Over the river, the mystic river, 
 
 My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 
 
 For none return from those quiet shores, 
 
 Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; 
 We'hear the dip of the golden oars, 
 
 And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; 
 Audio ! they have passedfromouryearning hearts. 
 
 They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
 We may not sunder the veil apart 
 
 That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 
 We only know that their barks no more 
 
 May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
 
 Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. 
 They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 
 
 And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 
 
 Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
 I shall one day stand by the water cold. 
 
 And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; 
 I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, 
 
 1 shall hear the Iroat as it gains the strand, 
 I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, 
 
 To the better shore of the spirit land. 
 1 shall know the loved who have gone before, 
 
 And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
 When over the river, the peaceful river. 
 
 The angel of death shall carry me. 
 
 Nancy Woodbury Priest. 
 
 THE TWO WAITINGS. 
 
 Dear hearts, you were waiting a year ago 
 
 For the glory to be revealed ; 
 You were wondering deeply, with bated breath, 
 
 What treasure the days concealed. 
 
 0, wouhl it be this, or would it be that ? 
 
 Would it be girl or boy? 
 Would it look like father or mother most ? 
 
 And what should you do for joy ? 
 
 And then, one day, when the time was full, 
 And the spring was coming fast, 
 
 'The tiembling veil of the body was rent, 
 And you saw your baby at last. 
 
 Was it or not what you had dreamed ? 
 
 It was, and yet it was not ; 
 But O, it was better a thousand times 
 
 Than ever you wished or thought. 
 
 And now, dear hearts, you are waiting again, 
 While the spring is coming fast ; 
 
 For the baby that was a future dream 
 Is now a di'eam of the past : 
 
 A ilrcam of sunshine, and all that 's sweet ; 
 
 or all that is pure and bright ; 
 Of eyes that were blue as the sky by day. 
 
 And as soft as the stars by night. 
 
 You are waiting again for the fullness of time. 
 
 And the glory to be revealed ; 
 You are wondering deeply with aching hearts 
 
 What treasure is now concealed. 
 
 r
 
 I 
 
 266 
 
 POEMS OF SOBROJF AND DEATH. 
 
 0, will she be this, or will she be that ? 
 
 And what will there be in her face 
 That will tell you sure that she is your own, 
 
 When you meet in the heavenly pkce ? 
 
 As it was before, it will be again, 
 Fashion your dream as you will ; 
 
 When the veil is rent, and the glory is seen. 
 It \\[l\ more than your hope fulfill. 
 
 John White Chadwick. 
 
 ON AN INFANT'S DEATH. 
 
 A LITTLE life. 
 Five summer months of gladness 
 
 Without one cloud of sorrow, sin, or strife, 
 Cut short by sudden gloom and wintry sadness. 
 
 A little mound 
 Dy buttress gray defended. 
 
 Watered with tears and garlanded all round, 
 V,y loving hands alfectionately tended. 
 
 A little cot, 
 Eiu|ity, forlorn, forsaken. 
 
 Silent remembrancer that lie is not, — 
 Gone — past our voice to lull, or kiss to waken. 
 
 A little frock 
 He wore, a hat that shaded 
 
 His innocent brow, seen with a sudden shock 
 Of gi icf for that dear form so quickly faded. 
 
 A little flower, 
 Because he touched it cherished. 
 
 Fragile memorial of one happy hour 
 IJefore the beauty of our blossom peiished. 
 
 A little hair. 
 Secured with trembling fingers. 
 
 All that is left us of our infant fair, 
 All we shall see of him while tliis life lingers. 
 
 A little name. 
 In parish records written, 
 
 A passing sympathy to claim 
 From other fathers for a father smitten. 
 
 But a great trust 
 Irradiates our sorrow, 
 
 That though to-day his name is writ in dust. 
 We shall behold it writ in heaven to-morrow. 
 
 And a great peace 
 Our troubled soul possesses. 
 
 That though to embrace him these poor arms 
 must cease. 
 Our lamb lies folded in the Lord's caresses. 
 
 A little pain. 
 To point his lile's brief story. 
 
 A few hours' mortal weariness, to gain 
 Unutterable rest and endless glory. 
 
 A little prayer. 
 By lips Divine once spoken, 
 
 " Thy will be done !" is breathed into the air 
 From hearts submissive, though with accents 
 broken. 
 
 A little while. 
 And Time no more shall sever ; 
 
 But we shall see him with his own sweet smile, 
 And clasp our darling in oiu- arms forever ! 
 
 Ai\OiNV.MOUS. 
 
 lake. ■ 
 
 FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. 
 
 TilF. night is late, the house is still ; 
 The angels of the hour fulfill 
 Their tender ministries, and move 
 From couch to couch in cares of love. 
 They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, 
 The happiest smile of Charlie's life, 
 And lay on baby's lips a kiss. 
 Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ; 
 And, as they pass, they seem to make 
 A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's 
 
 My listening heart takes up the strain. 
 And gives it to the night again, 
 Fitted with words of lowly praise. 
 And patience learned of mournful days, 
 And memories of the dead child's ways. 
 
 His will be done, His will be done ! 
 Who gave and took away my son. 
 In "the far land " to shine and sing 
 Before the Beautiful, the King, 
 Who every day doth Christmas make, 
 All stari'cd and belled for Charlie's sake. 
 
 For Charlie's sake I will arise ; 
 
 I will anoint me where he lies, 
 
 And change my raiment, and go in 
 
 To the Lord's house, and leave my sin 
 
 Without, and seat me at his board. 
 
 Eat, ami be glad, and praise the Lord. 
 
 For wherefore should I fast and weep. 
 
 And sullen moods of mourning keep ? 
 
 I cannot bring him back, nor he. 
 
 For any calling, come to me. 
 
 The bond the angel Death did sign, 
 
 God scaled — for Charlie's sake, and mine. 
 
 JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER. 
 
 T
 
 •"-(>-<»- 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 2G7 
 
 
 "ONLY A YEAR." 
 
 One year ago, — a ringing voice, 
 
 A clear blue eye, 
 Anil clustering curls of sunny hair, 
 
 Too fair to die. 
 
 Only a year, — no voice, no smile, 
 
 No glance of eye, 
 No clustering curls of golden hair, 
 
 Fail- but to die ! 
 
 One year ago, — what loves, what schemes 
 
 Far into life ! 
 What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 
 
 AVhat generous strife ! 
 
 The silent picture on the wall. 
 
 The burial-stone 
 Of all that beauty, life, and joy. 
 
 Remain alone ! 
 
 One year, — one year, — one little year, 
 
 And so much gone ! 
 And yet the even flow of life 
 
 Moves calmly on. 
 
 The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, 
 
 Above that head ; 
 No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray 
 
 Says he is dead. 
 
 No pause or hush of merry birds 
 
 That sing above 
 Tells us how coldly sleeps below 
 
 The form we love. 
 
 Where hast thou been this year, beloved ? 
 
 What hast thou seen, — 
 What visions fair, what glorious life. 
 
 Where thou hast been ? 
 
 Tlie veil ! the veil ! so thin, so strong ! 
 
 'Twixt us and thee ; 
 The mystic veil ! when shall it fall. 
 
 That we may see ? 
 
 Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone. 
 
 But present still. 
 And waiting for the coming hour 
 
 Of God's sweet will. 
 
 Lord of the living and the dead. 
 
 Our Saviour dear '. 
 We lay in silence at thy feet 
 
 This sad, sad year. 
 
 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 MY CHILD. 
 
 I c.^sxoT make him dead ! 
 
 His fair sunshiny head 
 vcr l.iounding round my study chair ; 
 
 Vi-t when my eyes, now dim 
 
 With tears, 1 turn to liim, 
 ' vision vanishes, — he is not there ! 
 
 Th( 
 
 I walk my parlor floor. 
 
 And, thiougli tlie open door, 
 I hear a footfall on the cliamber stair ; 
 
 1 'm stepping toward the hall 
 
 To give the boy a call ; 
 And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 
 
 1 thread the crowded street ; 
 
 A satcheled lad I meet. 
 With the same beaming eyes and colored hair ; 
 
 And, as he 's running by. 
 
 Follow him with my eye. 
 Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! 
 
 I know his face is hid 
 
 Under the coffin lid ; 
 Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 
 
 My hand that marble felt ; 
 
 O'er it in prayer 1 knelt ; 
 Vet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 
 
 I cannot make liim dead ! 
 
 When passing by the lied. 
 So long watched over with parental care. 
 
 My spirit and my eye 
 
 Seek him inquiringly. 
 Before the thought comes, that — he is not there ! 
 
 Wlicn, at the cool gray break 
 
 or day, from sleep 1 wake, 
 With my first breathing of the morning air 
 
 My soul goes up, with joy. 
 
 To Him who gave my boy ; 
 Then comes the sa<l thought that— he isnot there ! 
 
 A\'hen at the day's calm close. 
 
 Before we seek repose, 
 I 'm with his mother, offering up our prayer ; 
 
 Whate'er I may be saying, 
 
 1 am in spirit praying 
 For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! 
 
 Not there ! — Where, then, is he ? 
 
 The form I used to see 
 Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 
 
 The grave, that now doth press 
 
 U[ion that cast-olf dress, 
 Is but his wardrobe locked ; — he is not there !
 
 268 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 He lives ! — In all the past 
 
 He lives ; nor, to the last, 
 Of seeing him again will 1 despair ; 
 
 In dreams 1 see him now ; 
 
 And, on his angel brow, 
 I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there! " 
 
 Yes, we all live to God ! 
 
 Father, thy chastening rod 
 So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear. 
 
 That, in the spirit land, 
 
 Meeting at thy right hand, 
 'T will be our heaven to find that— he is there ! 
 
 John pierpont. 
 
 CASA WAPPY. 
 
 THE CHILD'S PET NAME, CHOSEN BY HIMSELF. 
 
 And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 
 
 Our fond, dear boy, — 
 The realms where sorrow dare not come, 
 
 Where life is joy ? 
 Pure at thy death as at thy birth, 
 Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
 Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Despair was in our last farewell, 
 
 As closed thine eye ; 
 Tears of our anguish may not tell 
 
 When thou didst die ; 
 Words may not paint our grief for thee ; 
 Sighs are but buljbles on the sea 
 Of our uufathomed agony ; 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thou wert a vision of delight. 
 
 To bless us given ; 
 Beauty embodied to our sight, 
 
 A type of heaven ! 
 So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
 Even less thine own self, than a part 
 Of mine, and of thy mother's heart, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thy bright, brief day knew no decline, 
 
 'T was cloudless joy ; 
 Sunrise and night alone were thine. 
 
 Beloved boy ! 
 This moon lieheld thee blithe and gay ; 
 That found thee prostrate in decay ; 
 And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 
 
 Earth's undefiled. 
 Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, 
 
 Our dear, sweet child ! 
 
 Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 
 Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
 Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 We mourn for thee when blind, blank night 
 
 The chamber fills ; 
 We pine for thee when morn's first light 
 
 Reddens the hills : 
 The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea. 
 All — to the wallflower and wild pea — 
 Are changed ; we saw the world through thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 And though, perchance, a smile may gleam 
 
 Of casual mirth, 
 It doth not own, whate'er may seem. 
 
 An inward birth ; 
 We miss thy small step on the stair ; 
 We miss thee at thine evening prayer ; 
 All day we miss thee, — everywhere, — 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, 
 
 In life's spring-bloom, 
 Do\vn to the appointed house below, — 
 
 The silent tomb. 
 But now the green leaves of the tree. 
 The cuckoo, and "the busy bee," 
 Return, — but with them bring not thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 'T is so ; but can it be — while flowers 
 
 Revive again — 
 Man's doom, in death that we and ours 
 
 For aye remain ? 
 0, can it be, that o'er the grave 
 The grass renewed should yearly wave, 
 Yet God forget our child to save ? — 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 It cannot be ; for were it so 
 
 Thus man could die. 
 Life were a mockery, thought were woe. 
 
 And truth a lie ; 
 Heaven were a coinage of the brain ; 
 Religion frenzy, virtue vain. 
 And all our hopes to meet again, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Then be to us, dear, lost child ! 
 
 With beam of love, 
 A star, dentil's uncongenial wild 
 
 Smiling above ! 
 Soon, soon thy little feet have trod 
 The skyward path, the.seraph's road. 
 That led thee back from man to God, 
 Casa Wappy ! 

 
 
 
 
 "^ 
 
 ' 
 
 1 m ' 
 
 
 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 269 
 
 
 
 Yet 't is sweet balm to our despair. 
 
 Take her away from me, boys, 
 
 
 
 Fond, fairest boy, 
 
 As she lay on her death-bed. 
 
 
 
 That heaven is God's, and thou art there, 
 
 The bones of her thin face, boys. 
 
 
 
 A\'ith him in joy ; 
 
 As she lay ou her death-bed ! 
 
 
 
 There past are deatli and all its woes ; 
 
 I don't kuow how it be, boys. 
 
 
 
 There beauty's stream forever Hows ; 
 
 When all 's done and said. 
 
 
 
 And pleasure's day no sunset kuows, 
 
 But 1 see her looking at me, boys. 
 
 
 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Wherever I turn my head ; 
 Out of the big oak-tree, boys, 
 
 
 
 Farewell, then, — for a while, farewell, — 
 
 Out of the garden-ljed. 
 
 
 
 I'ride of my heart ! 
 
 And the lily as pale as she, boys. 
 
 
 
 It cannot be that long we dwell, 
 
 And the rose that used to be red. 
 
 
 
 Thus torn ajiart. 
 
 
 
 
 Time's shadows like tlie shuttle flee ; 
 
 There 's something not right, lx)ys. 
 
 
 
 And dark howe'er life's night may be, 
 
 But I think it 's not in my head, 
 
 
 
 Beyond the grave 1 '11 meet with thee, 
 
 1 've kept my precious sight, boys, — 
 
 
 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 The Lord be hallowed ! 
 
 
 
 DAVID Macbeth Moir. 
 
 Outside and in 
 
 The ground is cold to my tread, 
 
 The hills are wizen and thin. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 TOMMY'S DKAT1. 
 
 The sky is shriveled and shred, 
 The hedges down by the loan 
 
 
 
 You may give over plow, boys. 
 
 I can count them bone by bone, 
 
 
 
 You may take the gear to the stead, 
 
 The leaves are open and spread. 
 
 
 
 All the sweat o' your brow, boys, 
 
 But I see the teeth of the land. 
 
 
 
 Will never get beer and bread. 
 
 And hands like a dead man's hand, 
 
 
 
 The seed 's waste, I know, boys, 
 
 And the eyes of a dead man's Iiead. 
 
 
 
 There 's not a blade will grow, boys, 
 
 
 
 
 'T is cropped out, I trow, boys, 
 
 There 's nothing but cinders and sand, 
 
 
 
 And Tommy 's dead. 
 
 The rat anil the mouse have fed, 
 And the summer 's empty and cold ; 
 
 
 
 Send the colt to fair, boys, • 
 
 Over valley and wold 
 
 
 
 He 's going blind, as I said. 
 
 Wherever 1 turn my head 
 
 
 
 My old eyes can't bear, boys. 
 
 There 's a mildew and a mold. 
 
 
 
 To see him in the shed ; 
 
 The sun 's going out overhead, 
 
 
 
 The cow 's dry and spare, boys. 
 
 And 1 'm very old. 
 
 
 
 She 's neither here nor there, boys, 
 
 And Tommy 's dead. 
 
 
 
 I doubt she 's badly bred ; 
 
 
 
 
 Stop the mill to-mom, boys. 
 
 What am I staying for, boys. 
 
 
 
 There '11 be no more com, boys. 
 
 You 're all born and bred. 
 
 
 
 Neither white nor red ; 
 
 'T is fifty years and more, boys. 
 
 
 
 There 's no sign of grass, boys, 
 
 Since wife and I were wed, 
 
 
 
 You may sell the goat and the ass, boys. 
 
 And she 's gone before, boys. 
 
 
 
 The land 's not what it was, boys. 
 
 And Tommy 's dead. 
 
 
 
 And the beasts must be fed : 
 
 
 
 
 You may turn Peg away, boys, 
 
 She was alw.ays sweet, boys, 
 
 
 
 You may pay off old Ned, 
 
 Upon his curly head, 
 
 
 
 "We 've had a dull day, boys, 
 
 She knew she 'd never see "t, boys, 
 
 
 
 And Tommy 's dead. 
 
 And she stole off to bed ; 
 
 I 've been sitting up alone, boys. 
 
 
 
 Move my chair on the floor, boys. 
 
 For he 'd come home, he said. 
 
 
 
 Let me turn my head : 
 
 But it 's time I was gone, boys. 
 
 
 
 She 's standing there in the door, boys, 
 
 For Tommy 's dead. 
 
 
 
 Your sister Winifred ! 
 
 
 
 
 Take her away from me, boys. 
 
 Put the shutters up, boys. 
 
 
 
 Your sister Winifred ! 
 
 Bring out the beer and bread, 
 
 
 
 Move me round in my place, boys. 
 
 Make haste and sup, boys, 
 
 
 
 Let me turn my head, 
 
 For my eyes are heavy as lead ; 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 

 
 270 
 
 rUEMS OF SORROiy AND DEATH. 
 
 X 
 
 There 's something wrong i' the cup, boys, 
 There 's something ill %vi' the bread, 
 I don't care to sup, boys, 
 And Tommy 's dead. 
 
 I 'm not right, I doubt, boys, 
 I 've such a sleepy head, 
 I shall nevermore be stout, boys, 
 You may carry me to bed. 
 What are you about, boys ? 
 The prayers are all said. 
 The lire 's raked out, boys. 
 And Tommy 's dead. 
 
 The stairs are too steep, boys. 
 You may carry me to the head. 
 The night 's dark and deep, boys, 
 Your mother's long in bed, 
 'T is time to go to sleep, boys, 
 And Tommy 's dead. 
 
 I 'm not used to kiss, boys. 
 
 You may shake my hand instead. 
 
 All things go amiss, boys, 
 
 You may lay me where she is, boys. 
 
 And I '11 rest my old head : 
 
 'T is a poor world, this, boys. 
 
 And Tommy 's dead. 
 
 SIDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 THE MERRY LARK. 
 
 The merry, merry lark was up and singing. 
 
 And the hare was out and feeding on the lea. 
 And the merry, merry bells below were ringing, 
 
 When my child's laugh rang through me. 
 Now the hape is snared and dead beside the 
 snowyard. 
 
 And the lark beside the dreary winter sea. 
 And my baby in his cradle in the churchyard 
 
 Waiteth there until the bells bring me. 
 
 CHARLES Kl.NGSLEY. 
 
 THE MORNING-GLORY. 
 
 We wi'cathed about our darling's head 
 
 The morning-glory bright ; 
 Her little face looked out beneath 
 
 So full of life and light. 
 So lit as with a sunrise. 
 
 That we could only say, 
 " She is the morning-glory true. 
 
 And her poor types are they." 
 
 So always from that happy time 
 We called her by their name. 
 
 And very fitting dirl it seem, — 
 For sm'e as morning came. 
 
 Behind her cradle bars she smiled 
 
 To catch the first faint ray. 
 As from the trellis smiles the flower 
 
 And opens to the day. 
 
 But not so beautiful they rear 
 
 Their airy cups of blue. 
 As turned her sweet eyes to the light. 
 
 Brimmed with sleep's tender dew ; 
 And not .so close their tendrils fine 
 
 Hound their supports are thrown. 
 As those dear arms whose outstretched plea 
 
 Clasped all hearts to her own. 
 
 We used to think how she had come. 
 
 Even as comes the iiower. 
 The last and perfect added gift 
 
 To croBTi Love 's morning hour ; 
 And how in her was imaged forth 
 
 The love we could not say, 
 As on the little dewdrops round 
 
 Shines back the heart of day. 
 
 The morning-glory's blossoming 
 
 Will soon be coming round, — 
 We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves 
 
 Upspringing from the gi'ouud ; 
 The tender things the winter killed 
 
 Renew again their birth. 
 But the glory of our morning 
 
 Has passed away from earth. 
 
 Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 
 
 Stretch over thy green plain ! 
 Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air. 
 
 Her spirit to sustain ; 
 But up in groves of Paradise 
 
 Full surely we shall see 
 Our morning-glory beautiful 
 
 Twiue round our dear Lord's knee. 
 
 Maria white Lowell. 
 
 ARE THE CHTLDREN AT HOME? 
 
 E.iCH day, when the glow of sunset 
 
 Fades in the western sky, 
 And the wee ones, tired of playing. 
 
 Go tripping lightly by, 
 I steal away from my husTxind, 
 
 Asleep in his easy-chair. 
 And watch from the open doorway 
 
 Their faces fresh and fair. 
 
 Alone in the dear old homestead 
 That once was full of life. 
 
 Ringing %vith girlish laughter, 
 Echoing boyish strife.
 
 ^ B ♦ — 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 We two are waiting together ; 
 
 And oft, as the shadows come, 
 With tremulous voice he calls uie, 
 
 " It is night ! are the children home ?' 
 
 " Yes, love ! " I answer him gently, 
 
 " They 're all home long ago " ; — 
 And I sing, in my i|uiveriiig treble, 
 
 A song so soft and low. 
 Till the old man drops to slumber. 
 
 With his head upon his hand. 
 And 1 tell to myself the number 
 
 At home in the better laud. 
 
 At home, where never a sorrow 
 
 Shall dim their eyes with tears ! 
 Where the smile of God is on them 
 
 Through all the summer years ! 
 I know, — yet my arms are empty. 
 
 That fondly folded seven, 
 And the mother heart within me 
 
 Is almost starved for heaven. 
 
 Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, 
 
 I only shut my eyes, 
 And the children are all about me, 
 
 A \Tsion from the skies : 
 The babes whose dimpled fingers 
 
 Lost the way to my breast. 
 And the beautiful ones, the angels. 
 
 Passed to the world of the blest. 
 
 AVith never a cloud upon them, 
 
 I see their radiant brows ; 
 My boys that I gave to freedom, — 
 
 The red sword sealed their vows ! 
 In a tangled Southern forest. 
 
 Twin brothers bold and brave, 
 They fell ; and the flag they died for, 
 
 Thank God ! floats over their grave. 
 
 A breath, and the vision is lifted 
 
 Away on wings of light. 
 And again we two are together, 
 
 All alone in the night. 
 They tell me his miud is failing. 
 
 But I smile at idle fears ; 
 He is only back with the children. 
 
 In the dear and peaceful years. 
 
 And still, as the summer sunset 
 
 Fades away in the west. 
 And the wee ones, tired of playing, 
 
 Go trooping home to rest, 
 My husband calls from his corner, 
 
 "Say, love, have the children come?" 
 And I answer, with eyes uplifted, 
 
 " Yes, dear ! they are all at home." 
 
 Mrs. M. E. m. sangster. 
 
 THE L0:5T SISTER. 
 
 TllF.Y waked me from my slee]>, 1 knew not why, 
 And bade me lui.sten where a midnight lamp 
 Gleamed from an inner chamber. There she lay, 
 With brow so pale, whoyester-niorn breathed forth 
 Through joyous smiles her supertiu,\ of bliss 
 Into the hearts of others. By her side 
 Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed 
 Upon the stricken idol, — all dismayed 
 Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nursed 
 That fair young creature at her gentle breast, 
 And oft those sunny locks had decked with buds 
 Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wiped the dews 
 Which death distills. 
 
 The sufferer j ust had given 
 Her long farewell, and for the last, last time 
 Touched with cold lips his cheek who led so late 
 Her footsteps to the altar, and received 
 In the deep transport of an ardent heart 
 Her vow of love. And she had striven to press 
 That golden circlet with her bloodless hand 
 Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave 
 At the bright bridal morn. So there she lay 
 In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb 
 Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast 
 The dreaded bitterness of death had passed. 
 
 But a faint wail disturbed the silent scene, 
 
 And in its nurse's arms a new-born babe 
 Was borne in utter helplessness along, 
 Before that dying e}'e. 
 
 Its gathered film 
 Kindled one moment with a sudden glow 
 Of tearless agony, — and fearful pangs. 
 Racking the rigid features, told how strong 
 A mother's love doth root itself. One cry 
 Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer. 
 Went up to Heaven, — and, as its cadence sank, 
 Her spirit entered there. 
 
 Jlorii after morn 
 Rose and retired ; yet still as in a dream 
 I seemed to move. The certainty of loss 
 Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept 
 As weep the sisterless. — For thou wert fled^ 
 My only, my beloved, my sainted one, — 
 Twin of my spirit ! and my numbered days 
 Must wear the sable of that midnight hour 
 Which rent thee from me. 
 
 LVDIA H. SIGOURNEV. 
 
 GO TO THY REST. 
 
 Go to thy rest, fair child I 
 Go to thy dreamless bed. 
 While yet so gentle, undefiled. 
 With blessings on thy head. 
 
 i-
 
 Fresh roses in thy hand, 
 Buds ou thy pillow laid, 
 Haste from this dark and fearful land, 
 Where flowers so quickly fade. 
 
 Ere sin has seared the breast. 
 Or sorrow waked the tear, 
 Rise to thy throne of changeless rest. 
 In yon celestial sphere ! 
 
 Because thy smile was fair. 
 Thy lip and eye so bright. 
 Because thy loving cradle-care 
 Was such a dear delight. 
 
 Shall love, with weak embrace. 
 Thy upward wing detain ? 
 No ! gentle angel, seek thy place 
 Amid the cherub train. 
 
 Lydia h. sigourney. 
 
 "THET AEE DEAR FISH TO MK" 
 
 The farmer's wife sat at the door, 
 
 A pleasant sight to see ; 
 And blithesome were the wee, wee beirns 
 
 That played around her knee. 
 
 When, bending 'neath her heavy creel, 
 
 A poor iish-vvife came by, 
 And, turning from the toilsome road, 
 
 Unto the door drew nigh. 
 
 She laid her burden on the green, 
 
 And spread its scaly store ; 
 With trembling hands and pleading words 
 
 She told them o'er and o'er. 
 
 But lightly laughed the young guidwife, 
 " We 're no sae scarce o' cheer ; 
 
 Tak' up your creel, and gang your ways, — 
 I '11 buy nae fish sae dear. " 
 
 Bending beneath her load again, 
 
 A weary sight to see ; 
 Eight sorely sighed the poor iish-wife, 
 
 "They are dear fisli to me ! 
 
 " Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night. 
 And when the storm blew o'er, 
 
 My husband, and my three brave sons. 
 Lay corpses on the shore. 
 
 " I 've been a wife for thirty ycai's, 
 
 A childless widow three ; 
 I maun buy them now to sell again, — 
 
 They are dear fish to me !" 
 
 The farmer's wife turned to the door, — • 
 
 What was 't upon her cheek ? 
 What was there rising in her breast, 
 
 That then she scarce could speak ? 
 
 She thought upon her ain guidman. 
 
 Her lightsome laddies three ; 
 The woman's words had pierced her heart, — 
 
 " They are dear fish to me ! " 
 
 "Come back," she cried, with quivering voice, 
 
 And pity's gathering tear ; 
 "Come in, come in, my poor woman, 
 
 Ye 're kindly welcome here. 
 
 " 1 kentna o' your aching heart, 
 
 Your weary lot to dree ; 
 1 '11 ne'er forget your sad, sad words : 
 
 ' They are dear fish to me ! ' " 
 
 Ay, let the happy-hearted learn 
 
 To pause ere they deny 
 The meed of honest toil, and think 
 
 How much their gold may buy, — 
 
 How much of manhood's wasted strength. 
 
 What woman's misery, — 
 What breaking hearts might swell the cry : 
 
 " They are dear fish to me ! " 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 CORONACH. 
 
 FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE." 
 
 He is gone on the mountam, 
 
 He is lost to the forest. 
 Like a summer-dried fountain 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The font, reappearing. 
 
 From the rain-drops shall borrow. 
 But to us comes no cheering. 
 
 To Duncan no morrow ! 
 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary ; 
 But the voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glory. 
 The autumn winds rushing 
 
 AVaft the leaves that are searest. 
 But our flower was in flushing 
 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the correi. 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber. 
 Red hand in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber !
 
 4 
 
 UKEEAVEMEST AXD DEATH. 
 
 Like the dew on the mountain, 
 
 Like tlie foam on the river, 
 
 Like the bubble on tlie fountain, 
 
 Thou art gone and forever ! 
 
 siK Walter Scott. 
 * 
 
 m TTF.AYEN. 
 
 " Their angels do always behold Uie face of my Father." 
 
 Silence filled the courts of heaven, 
 
 Hushed were seraphs' harp and tone. 
 When a little new-born cherub 
 
 Knelt before the Eternal Throne ; 
 While its soft white hands were lifted. 
 
 Clasped as if in earnest prayer, 
 And its voice in dove-like murmurs 
 
 Rose like music on the ear. 
 Light from the full fount of glory 
 
 On his robe of whiteness glistened, 
 And the white-winged seraphs near him 
 
 Bowed their radiant heads and listened. 
 
 "Lord, from thy throne of gloiy here 
 
 My heart turns fondly to another ; 
 Lord my God, the Comforter, 
 
 Comfort, comfort my sweet mother ! 
 Many sorrows hast thou sent her, — 
 
 Meekly has slie drained the cup. 
 And the jewels thou hast lent her 
 
 Unrepining yielded up. 
 
 Comfort, comfort my sweet mother ! 
 
 ' ' Earth is growing lonely round her ; 
 
 Friend and lover hast thou taken ; 
 Let her not, though woes surround her. 
 
 Feel herself by thee forsaken. 
 Let her think, when faint and weary. 
 
 We are waiting for her lure ; 
 Let each loss that makes earth dreary 
 
 Make the hope of Heaven more dear. 
 Comfort, comfort my sweet mother ! 
 
 "Thou who once, in nature human, 
 
 Dwelt on earth a little child. 
 Pillowed on the breast of woman, 
 
 BlessW Mary undefiled ; 
 Thou who, from the cross of sufTering, 
 
 Marked thy mother's tearful face. 
 And bec[ueathed her to thy loved one. 
 
 Bidding him to fill thy place, — 
 
 Comfort, comfort my sweet mother ! 
 
 "Thou who once, from heaven descending. 
 Tears and woes and conflicts won ; 
 
 Thou who, nature's laws suspending, 
 Gav'st the wi<low back her son ; 
 
 Thou who at the grave of Lazarus 
 
 Wept with tliose who wept their dead ; 
 
 Thou who once in mortal anguish 
 Bowed thine own anointed head, ■ — 
 
 Comfort, comfort my sweet mother ! " 
 
 The dove-like murmurs died away 
 
 Upon the radiant air ; 
 But still the little suppliant knelt 
 
 With hands still chisped in prayer. 
 Still were those mildly pleading eyes 
 
 Turned to the sapjihire throne. 
 Till golden harp and angel voice 
 
 liiuig forth in mingled tone. 
 And as the swelling immbers flowed. 
 
 By angel voices given. 
 Rich, sweet, and clear, the anthem rolled 
 
 Through all the courts of heaven : 
 "He is the widow's God," it said, 
 
 "Who spared not his own Son." 
 The infant cherub bowed its liead : 
 
 " Thy will, Lord, be dime ! " 
 
 THOMAS WesTWOOD. 
 
 MOTHER AlTD POET.* 
 
 TURIN, — AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA. i86i. 
 
 Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east. 
 And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 
 
 Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast 
 And are wanting a great song for Italy free, 
 Let none look at mc ! 
 
 Yet I was a poetess only last year. 
 
 And good at my art, for a woman, men said ; 
 But this woman, this, who is agonized here. 
 
 The east sea ami west sea rhyme on in her head 
 Forever instead. 
 
 What art can a woman be good at ? 0, vain ! 
 
 What art is she good at, but hurting her breas-.; 
 With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at th(^ 
 pain ? 
 Ah, boys, how yon hurt ! j'ou were strong a i 
 you jiressed. 
 And I proud, by that test. 
 
 What art 's for a woman ? To hold on her knee? 
 Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her 
 throat 
 Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees 
 And 'broider the long-clothes andneat little coat ; 
 To dream and to dote. 
 
 To teach them. . . It stings there ! /made them 
 indeed 
 Speak jilain the word "country," / taught 
 them, no doubt, 
 
 • This was I^ura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose 
 sons wtTC Icilled at Ancon.i and Gaeta. 
 
 li
 
 274 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 That a country 's a thing men should ilie for at 
 need. 
 I prated of liberty, rights, and about 
 The t)Tant cast out. 
 
 And when their eyes flashed. . . O my beautiful 
 eyes ! . . 
 I e.xulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheels 
 Of the guns, and denied not. — But then the sur- 
 prise. 
 When one sits quite alone ! — Then one weeps, 
 then one kneels ! 
 — God ! how the house feels ! 
 
 At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled 
 
 With my kisses, of cami)-life, andglory, andhow 
 
 They both loved me, and soon, coming home to 
 
 be spoiled, 
 
 In return would fan off every fly from my brow 
 
 With their green laurel-bough. 
 
 Then was triumph at Turin : " Ancona was free ! " 
 And some one came out of the cheers in the street 
 
 With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. 
 — My Guido was dead ! — I fell down at his feet, 
 While they cheered in the street. 
 
 I bore it ; — friends soothed me : my grief looked 
 sublime 
 As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 
 To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time 
 When the first grew immortal, while both of us 
 strained 
 To the height he had gained. 
 
 And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, more 
 strong, 
 Writ now but in one hand : " I was not to faint. 
 One loved me for two — would be with me ere long : 
 And 'Viva Italia' ht died for, our saint, 
 Who forbids our complaint." 
 
 My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware 
 Of a presence that turned off the balls — was 
 imprest 
 It was Guido himself, who knew what I could 
 bear. 
 And how't was impossible, quite dispossessed, 
 To live on for the rest." 
 
 On which without pause up the telegraph line 
 Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : — 
 " Shot. 
 Tell his mother." Ah,ah, "his" "their "mother; 
 not "mine." 
 Novoicesays " my mother " again tome. What ! 
 You think Guido forgot ? 
 
 Aresouls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, 
 Theydropearth'saffections, conceive not of woe ! 
 I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven 
 Through that Love and Sorrow which recon- 
 ciled so 
 The above and below. 
 
 Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst 
 through the dark 
 To the face of thy mother ! consider, I pray. 
 How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, 
 Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes 
 turned aw.ay. 
 And no last word to say ! 
 
 Both boys dead ! but that 's out of nature. We all 
 Have been patriots, yet each house must always 
 keej) one. 
 'T were imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall. 
 And when Italy 's made, for what end is it done 
 If we have not a son ? 
 
 Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta 's taken, what then < 
 When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her 
 sport 
 Of the fire-balls of death crashingsouls out of men. 
 When your guns at Cavalli with final retort 
 Have cut the game short, — 
 
 Wlien Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, 
 
 When your flag takes all heaven for its white, 
 
 green, and red, 
 
 Wlien you have your country frommountain to sea. 
 
 When King Victor has 1 taly's crown on his head, 
 
 (And I have my dead,) — 
 
 What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your 
 
 bells low, 
 .\nd burn your lights faintly ! — My country 
 
 is there. 
 Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow. 
 My Italy 's there, — with my brave civic pair, 
 To disfranchise despair ! 
 
 Forgive me. Some women bear children in 
 .strength. 
 And bite hackthe cryof theirpain inself-scorn. 
 But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at 
 length 
 Into such wail as this ! — and we sit on forlorn 
 When the man-child is born. 
 
 Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east. 
 And one of them shot in the west by the sea ! 
 Both ! both my boys ! — If in keeping the feast 
 You want a great song for your Italy free. 
 Let none look at mc ! 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett browning.
 
 THE GOLDEN RINGLET. 
 
 Here is a little golden tress 
 
 Of soft unbraii-leil hair, 
 The all that 's left of loveliness 
 
 That once was thought so fair ; 
 And yet, though time hath dimmed tts sheen, 
 
 Thougli all beside hath fled, 
 I hold it here, a link between 
 
 Wy spirit and the dead. 
 
 Yes I from this shining linglet still 
 
 A mournful memory springs. 
 That melts my heart, and sheds a thiill 
 
 Through all its trembling strings. 
 1 think of her, the loved, the wept, 
 
 Upon whose forehead fair 
 For eighteen years, like sunshine, slept. 
 
 This golden curl of hair. 
 
 sunny tress ! the joyous brow 
 
 Where thou didst lightly wave, 
 With all thy sister-tresses now 
 
 Lies cold within the grave ; 
 That cheek is of its liloom bereft ; 
 
 That eye no more is gay ; 
 
 Of all her beauties thou art left, 
 
 A solitary ray. 
 
 Amelia b. welbv. 
 
 EVELYN HOPE 
 
 BE.iiiTirtTL Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
 
 Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
 That is her book -shelf, this her bed ; 
 
 She plucked that piece of geranium-flower. 
 Beginning to die too, in the glass. 
 
 Little has yet been changed, 1 think ; 
 The shutters are shut, — no light may pass 
 
 Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died ! 
 
 Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name, — 
 It was not her time to love ; beside. 
 
 Her life had many a hope and aim. 
 Duties enough and little cares ; 
 
 And now was quiet, now astir, — 
 Till God's hand beckoned unawares, 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of her. 
 
 Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 
 
 What ! your soul was pure and true ; 
 The good stars met in your horoscope. 
 
 Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
 And just because I was thrice as old, 
 
 And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
 Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 
 
 We were fellow-mortals, — naught beside ? 
 
 No, indeed ! for God above 
 
 Is great to grant as mighty to make. 
 And creates the love to reward the love ; 
 
 I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
 Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet. 
 
 Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; 
 Much is to learn and much to forget 
 
 Ere the time be come for taking you. 
 
 But the time will come — at last it will — 
 
 When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, 
 In the lower earth, — in the years long still, — 
 
 That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
 Why your hair was amber I shall divine. 
 
 And your mouth of your own geranium's red, — 
 And what you would do with me, in fine. 
 
 In the new life come in the old one's stead. 
 
 I have lived, I shall say, so much since then. 
 
 Given up myself so many times. 
 Gained me the gains of various men. 
 
 Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
 Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full scope, 
 
 Either I missed or itself missed me, — 
 And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 
 
 What is the issue ? let us see ! 
 
 I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 
 
 My heart seemed full as it could hold, — 
 There was place and to spare for the frank young 
 smile. 
 
 And the red young mouth, and the hair's young 
 gold. 
 So, hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; 
 
 See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
 There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 
 
 You will wake, and remember, and understaml, 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 It was many and many a year ago, 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea. 
 That a maiden lived, whom you may know 
 
 By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
 And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
 
 Than to love, and be loved by me. 
 
 I was a child and she was a child. 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea ; 
 But we loved with a love thatwas more than love, 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee, — 
 With a love that the wingfed seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that long ago, 
 In this kingdom by the sea,
 
 -^IH 
 
 276 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 So that her bigh-boiu kinsman came, 
 
 And bore her away from nie, 
 To shut her up in a sepulcher, 
 
 In his kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not so happy in heaven. 
 
 Went envying her and me. 
 Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 
 Of those who were older than we. 
 
 Of many far wiser than we ; 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea. 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
 For the moon never beams without bringing me 
 dreams 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
 And the stars never rise but 1 feel the bright eyes 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
 Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride. 
 
 In her sepulcher there by the sea, 
 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 EDGAR ALLEN POE. 
 
 FLORENCE VANE. 
 
 I LOVED thee long and dearly, 
 
 Florence Vane ; 
 My life's bright dream and early 
 
 Hath come again ; 
 I renew in my fond vision 
 
 My heart's dear pain. 
 My hopes and thy derision, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 The ruin, lone and hoary. 
 
 The ruin old, 
 Where thou didst hark my story. 
 
 At even told, — 
 That spot, the hues elysian 
 
 Of sky and plain, 
 1 treasure in my vision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
 
 In their prime ; 
 Thy voice excelled the closes 
 
 Of sweetest rhyme ; 
 
 Thy heart was as a river 
 
 Without a main, 
 Would I had loved thee never, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 But fairest, coldest wonder ! 
 
 Thy glorious clay 
 Lieth the green sod under ; 
 
 Alas the day ! 
 And it boots not to remember 
 
 Thy disdain. 
 To quicken love's pale ember, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 The lilies of the valley 
 
 By young graves weep, 
 The daisies love to dally 
 
 Wliere maidens sleep : 
 May their bloom, in beauty vying, 
 
 Never wane 
 Where thine earthly part is lying, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 PHILIP p. COOKH 
 
 FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL. 
 
 [" A lady of the name of Helen Irving or Bell (for this is disputed 
 by the two clans}, daughter of thel.aird of Kirkconnell. in Dtulifries- 
 shire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentle- 
 men in the neighborhood. The name of the favored suitor was 
 Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick ; that of the other has escaped tra- 
 dition, although it has been alleged that he was a Bell of Blackct 
 Mouse. The addresses of the latter were, however, favored by the 
 friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet 
 in secret, and by night, in the churchyard of Kirkconnell, a roman- 
 tic spot surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private 
 interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on 
 the opposite bank of the stream, and leveled his carabine at the 
 breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, re- 
 ceived in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate 
 and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in 
 which the latter was cut to pieces. Other accounts say that Flem- 
 ing pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in the streets of 
 Madrid." — Sir WALTER SCOTT.] 
 
 I WISH I were where Helen lies ; 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 
 that I were where Helen lies. 
 On fair Kirkconnell lea ! 
 
 Cm-st be the heart that thought the thought. 
 And curst the hand that fired the shot. 
 When in my arms burd Helen dropt. 
 And died to succor me ! 
 
 0, think na but my heart was sair, 
 
 AVhen my love dropt down and spake nae mair ! 
 
 1 laid her down wi' meikle care. 
 On fair Kirkconnell lea. 
 
 .\s I went down to the water-side. 
 None but my foe to be my guide. 
 None but my foe to be my guide, 
 On fair Kirkconnell lea, — 
 
 1.
 
 7 
 
 U 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 277 
 
 I liglited down, my sword did draw, 
 1 hacked him in pieces sma, 
 1 hacked liim iii pieces sma. 
 For lier sake that died for me. 
 
 Helen fail-, beyond compare ! 
 
 1 'II make a garland of thy hair 
 Shall bind my heart forevermair 
 
 L'util the day I dee ! 
 
 that I were where Helen lies ! 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 Out of my bed she bids me rise, 
 Says, " Haste, and come to me ! " 
 
 Helen fair ! Helen chaste ! 
 If 1 were with thee I were blest, 
 Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest. 
 
 On fair Kirkconnell lea. 
 
 1 wish my gi'ave were growing green ; 
 A winding-sheet drawn ower my eeu, 
 And 1 in Helen's arms lying 
 
 On fail- Kirkconnell lea. 
 
 I wisli I were where Helen lies ; 
 Night and day on me she cries, 
 And I am weary of the skies. 
 For her sake that died for me ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 Ye banks and braes and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There simmer first unfauld her robes. 
 
 And there the langest tarry ; 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 
 0' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
 As underneath their fragrant shade 
 
 I clasped hi-r to my bosom ! 
 The golden hours on angel wings 
 
 Fiew o'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me as light and life 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace 
 
 Onr parting was fu' tender ; 
 And pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursels asunder ; 
 But, 0, fell death's untimely frost. 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early ! 
 Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay, 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary ! 
 
 O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
 
 1 aft liae kissed sae fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
 And moldering now in silent dust 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 Robert burns. 
 
 HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLN- 
 SHIRE. 
 
 The old mayor climbed the belfry tower. 
 The ringers rang by two, by three ; 
 
 " Pull ! if ye never i)ulled before ; 
 Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 
 
 " Play uppe, play uppc, Boston bells ! 
 
 Ply all your changes, all your swells 1 
 Play uppe The Brides of Etulcrbij!" 
 
 Men say it wa-s a " stolen tyde," — 
 The Lord that sent it, he knows all. 
 
 But in niyne ears doth still abide 
 The message that the bells let fall ; 
 
 And there was naught of strange, beside 
 
 The flights of mews and peewits pied. 
 
 By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. 
 
 I sat and spun within the doore ; 
 
 My thread brake olf, I raised mync eyes : 
 The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
 
 Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
 And dark against day's golden death 
 She moved where Lindis wandereth, — 
 My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 
 
 " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
 Ere the early dews were falling, 
 Faire away I heard her song. 
 "Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along ; 
 Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 
 
 Floweth, floweth. 
 From the meads where melick groweth, 
 Faintly came her milking-song. 
 
 " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
 " For the dews will soone be falling ; 
 Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 
 
 Mellow, mellow ! 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! 
 Come uppc, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot! 
 Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 
 
 Hollow, hollow ! 
 Come uppe, .letty ! rise and follow ; 
 From the clovers lift your head ! 
 Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot! 
 Come uppe, .Jetty ! rise and follow, 
 Jetty, to the milking-shed." 
 
 r
 
 If it be long — ay, long ago — 
 Wlien I beginne to tliink howe long, 
 
 Againe 1 hear the Lindis flow, 
 
 Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; 
 
 And all the aire, it seemeth mee, 
 
 Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 
 
 That ring the tune of Enderby. 
 
 AUe fresh the level pasture lay. 
 And not a shadowe mote be seene, 
 
 Save where, full fyve good miles away, 
 The steeple towered from out the greene. 
 
 And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 
 
 Was heard in all the country side 
 
 That Saturday at eventide. 
 
 The swannerds, where their sedges are. 
 Moved on in sunset's golden breath ; 
 
 The shepherde lads I heard afarre, 
 And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
 
 Till, lloating o'er the grassy sea, 
 
 (.'ame dowiie that kyndly message free, 
 
 The Brides of Mavis Enderby. 
 
 Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
 And all along where Lindis flows 
 
 To where the goodly vessels lie, 
 
 And where the lordly steeple shows. 
 
 They sayde, " And why should this thing he, 
 
 AV'hat danger lowers by land or sea ? 
 
 They ring the tune of Enderby. 
 
 " Foi' evil news from Mablethorpe, 
 Of pyrate galleys, warping down, — 
 
 For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe. 
 
 They have not spared to walce the towne ; 
 
 But while the west bin red to see, 
 
 And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
 
 Why ring The Brides of Enderby ? 
 
 1 looked without, and lo ! my sonne 
 Came riding downe with might and main ; 
 
 He raised a shout as he drew on. 
 Till all the welkin rang again : 
 
 " Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! " 
 
 (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 
 
 " The olde sea-wall (he cryed) is downe ! 
 
 The rising tide comes on apace ; 
 And boats adrift in yonder towne 
 
 Go sailing uppe the market-place ! " 
 He shook as one that looks on death : 
 "God save you, mother ! " straight he sayth ; 
 ■ ' Where is my wife, Elizabeth ? " 
 
 "Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away 
 With her two bairns I marked her long ; 
 
 And ere yon bells beganne to play. 
 Afar I heard her milking-song. " 
 He looked across the grassy sea, 
 To right, to left. Ho, Enderby ! 
 They rang The Brides of Enderby, 
 
 With that he cried and beat his breast ; 
 
 For lo ! along the river's bed 
 A mighty eygre reared his crest. 
 
 And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
 It swept with thunderous noises loud, — 
 Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud. 
 Or like a demon in a shroud. 
 
 And rearing Lindis, backward pressed. 
 
 Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; 
 Then madly at the eygre's breast 
 
 Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
 Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout, - 
 Then beaten foam flew round about, — 
 Then all the mighty floods were out. 
 
 So farre, so fast, the eygre drave. 
 The heart had hardly time to beat 
 
 Before a shallow seething wave 
 Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : 
 
 The feet had hardly time to flee 
 
 Before it brake against the knee, — 
 
 And all the world was in the sea. 
 
 Upon the roofe we sate that night ; 
 
 The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 
 I marked the lofty beacon light 
 
 Stream from the church tower, red and high, - 
 A lurid mark, and dread to see ; 
 And awsome bells they were to mee, 
 That in the dark rang Enderby. 
 
 They rang the sailor lads to guide, 
 
 From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 
 
 And I, — my sonne was at my side, 
 And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 
 
 And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 
 
 "0, come in life, or come in death ! 
 
 lost ! my love, Elizabeth ! " 
 
 And didst thou visit him no more ? 
 
 Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ! 
 The waters laid thee at his doore 
 
 Ere yet the early dawn was clear : 
 Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
 The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
 Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 
 
 That flow strewed wrecks about the grass. 
 That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea, — 
 
 A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 
 To nianye more than niyne and mee ;
 
 i^. 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 279 
 
 But each will mourne his own (she aaytli) 
 And sweeter women ne'er drew breath 
 Tlian my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 
 
 I shall never hear her more 
 By the reedy Lindis shore, 
 "Cusha! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling, 
 Ere the early dews be falling ; 
 1 shall never hear her song, 
 "Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along. 
 Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 
 
 Goeth, floweth. 
 From the meads where melick groweth. 
 Where the water, winding down, 
 Onward floweth to the town. 
 
 I shall never see her more, 
 
 Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 
 
 Shiver, quiver. 
 Stand beside the sobbing river, — 
 Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, 
 To the sandy, lonesome shore ; 
 I shall never hear her calling, 
 " Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
 
 Mellow, mellow ! 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! 
 Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ! 
 Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 
 
 Hollow, hollow ! 
 Come uppe, Lightfoot ! rise and follow ; 
 
 Lightfoot ! Whitefoot ! 
 
 From your clovers lift the head ; 
 
 Come uppe, Jetty ! follow, follow. 
 
 Jetty, to the milking-shed ! " 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 [Composed by Bums, in September, 1789, on the anniversary of 
 the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary 
 Campbell.] 
 
 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 
 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usher'st in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget, — 
 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove. 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met 
 
 To live one day of parting love ? 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past ; 
 Thy image at our last embrace ; 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 't was our last ! 
 
 Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 
 
 Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
 
 The birds sang love on every spray, — 
 Till soon, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ! 
 Time but the impression stronger makes, 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 
 ROBERT Burns. 
 
 O, SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM I 
 
 0, SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom ! 
 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ! 
 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year. 
 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 
 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
 
 -And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
 
 Fond WTetch ! as if her step disturbed the dead ! 
 
 Away ! we know that tears are vain, 
 That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
 Will this unteach us to complain ? 
 Or make one mounier weep the less ? 
 And thou, who tell'st me to forget. 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 LORD BYRON, 
 
 THE MAID'S LAMENT, 
 
 I LOVKD him not ; and yet, now he is gone, 
 
 I feel I am alone, 
 1 checked him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, 
 
 Alas ! I would not check. 
 For reasons not to love him once I sought. 
 
 And wearied all my thought 
 To ve.x myself and him : I now would give 
 
 My love, could he but live 
 Who lately lived for me, and when he found 
 
 'T was vain, in holy ground 
 He hid his face amid the shades of death ! 
 
 1 waste for him my breath 
 Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns. 
 
 And tliis lone bosom burns
 
 --r- 
 
 280 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 With stilling lioat, heaving it up in sleep, 
 
 XuA waking nic to weep 
 Tears tliat liad melted his soft heart : for years 
 
 Wept he as bitter tears ! 
 " Merciful God !" such was his latest prayer, 
 
 " These may she never share ! " 
 Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 
 
 Than daisies in the mold, 
 Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate 
 
 His name and life's brief date. 
 Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be. 
 
 And 0, pray, too, for me ! 
 
 WALTER Savage Landor. 
 
 THY BRAES WERE BONNY. 
 
 Thy braes were bonny. Yarrow stream, 
 When tirst on them I met my lover ;. 
 
 Thy braes how dreary. Yarrow stream. 
 When now thy waves his body cover. 
 
 Forever now, YaiTow stream ! 
 
 Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
 For never on thy banks shall I 
 
 Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 
 
 He promised me a milk-white steed. 
 
 To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
 He promised me a little page. 
 
 To 'squire nie to his father's towers ; 
 He promised me a wedding-ring, — 
 
 The wedding-day was ti.\ed to-morrow ; 
 Now he is wedded to his grave, 
 
 Alas, his wateiy grave, in Yarrow ! 
 
 Sweet were his words when last we met ; 
 
 My passion I as freely told him : 
 Clasped in his anns, I little thought 
 
 That I should nevermore behold him ! 
 Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 
 
 It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
 Thrice did the water-wraith ascend. 
 
 And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. 
 
 His mother from the window looked 
 
 With all the longing of a mother ; 
 His little sister weeping walked 
 
 The greenwood jiath to meet her brother. 
 They songht him east, they sought him west. 
 
 They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
 They only saw the cloud of night. 
 
 They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 
 
 No longer from thy window look. 
 
 Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
 
 No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; 
 Alas, thou liast no more a brother ! 
 
 No longer seek him east or west. 
 
 And search no more the forest thorough ; 
 
 For, wandering in the night so dark. 
 He fell a lifeless corse in YaiTow. 
 
 The tear shall never leave my cheek, 
 No other youth shall be my marrow ; 
 
 1 '11 seek thy body in the stream. 
 And then with thee I '11 sleep in Yarrow. 
 
 JOHN LOGAN. 
 
 MARY'S DREAM. 
 
 The moon had climbed the highest hill 
 
 Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
 And from the eastern summit shed 
 
 Her silver light on tower and tree. 
 When Mary laid her down to sleep. 
 
 Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea. 
 When, soft and slow, a voice was heard 
 
 Say, " Mary, weep no more for me ! " 
 
 She from her pillow gently raised 
 
 Her head, to ask who tliere might be, 
 And saw young Sandy shivering stand, 
 
 AVith visage pale, and hollow e'e. 
 "0 Mary dear, cold is my clay ; 
 
 It lies beneath a stoi-my sea. 
 Far, far from thee I sleep in death ; 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 
 
 "Three stormy nights and stormy days 
 
 AVe tossed upon the raging main ; 
 And long we strove our bark to save, 
 
 But all our striving was in vain. 
 Even then, when horror chilled my blood, 
 
 Jly heart was filled with love for thee : 
 The storm is past, and I at rest ; 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 
 
 " maiden dear, thyself prepare ; 
 
 We soon sh.all meet upon that shore. 
 Where love is free from doubt and care. 
 
 And thou and I shall part no more ! " 
 Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, 
 
 No more of Sandy could she see ; 
 But soft the passing spirit said, 
 
 "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me ! " 
 
 John Lowb. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
 
 In the old likeness that I knew, 
 I would be so faithful, so loving, Dougla.s, 
 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
 I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do ; —
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 281 
 
 Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 to call back the days that are not ! 
 
 My eyes were blinded, your words were few : 
 Do you know the truth now up in heaven, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 
 
 1 never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 
 
 Not half worthy the like of you : 
 Now all men beside seem to me like shadows, — 
 I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
 Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; 
 
 As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and tnie. 
 
 Dinah Moloch Craik. 
 
 FIRST SPRING FLOWERS. 
 
 I AM watching for the early buds to wake 
 
 Under the snow : 
 From little beds the soft white covering take. 
 
 And, nestling, lo ! 
 
 They lie, with pink lips parted, all aglow ! 
 
 darlings ! open wide your tender eyes ; 
 
 See ! I am here — 
 Have been here, waiting under winter skies 
 Till you appear — 
 You, just come up from where he lies so near. 
 
 Tell me, dear flowers, is he gently laid. 
 
 Wrapped round from cold ; 
 Has spring about him fair gi-een garments made. 
 
 Fold over fold ; 
 
 Are sweet things growing with him in the 
 mold? 
 
 Has he found quiet resting-place at last. 
 
 After the light ? 
 What message did he send me, as you passed 
 
 Him in the night, 
 
 Eagerly jiushing upward toward the light ? 
 
 1 will not pluck you, lest his hand sliould be 
 
 Close clasping you : 
 These slender fibers which so cling to me 
 Do grasp him too — 
 
 What gave these delicate veins their blood- 
 red hue ? 
 
 One kiss I press, dear little bud, half shut. 
 
 On your sweet eyes ; 
 For when the April rain falls at your foot. 
 And April sun yearns downward to your root 
 
 From soft spring skies. 
 
 It, too, may reach him, where he sleeping lies. 
 Mrs. Howland. 
 
 AN APRIL VIOLET. 
 
 Under the larch, with its tassels wet, 
 Wliile the early sunbeams lingered yet. 
 In the rosy dawn my love 1 met. 
 
 Under the larch, when the sun was set, 
 He came with an April violet : 
 Forty years — and I have it yet. 
 
 Out of life, with its fond regi-et. 
 What have love and memoiy yet ? 
 Only an April violet. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 A SIGH. 
 
 It was nothing but a rose I gave her. 
 
 Nothing but a rose 
 Any wind might rob of half its savor, 
 
 Any wind that blows. 
 
 When she took it from my trembling fingers 
 
 With a hand as chill — 
 Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers. 
 
 Stays, and thrills them still ! 
 
 Withered, faded, pressed between the pages. 
 
 Crumpled fold on fold, — 
 Once it lay upon her breast, and ages 
 
 Cannot make it old ! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 MINSTREL'S SONG. 
 
 0, SING unto my roundelay ! 
 
 0, drop the briny tear with me ! 
 Dance no more at holiday ; 
 Like a running river be ; 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone lo his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Black his hair as the winter night. 
 White his neck as summer snow. 
 
 Ruddy his face as the morning light ; 
 Cold he lies in the grave below : 
 ^fy love is dead, etc. 
 
 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ; 
 
 Quick in dance as thought can be ; 
 Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 
 
 0, he lies by the willow-tree ! 
 My love is dead, etc. 
 
 Hark ! the raven flaps his wing 
 In the briered dell below ; 
 
 r
 
 282 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 Hark ! tbe dcatli-owl loud ilotli sing 
 To the niglitiiiares as tliey go. 
 My !i/vc is (lead, etc. 
 
 See ! the white moon shines on high ; 
 
 Whiter is my true-love's shroud, 
 Whiter than the morning sky, 
 
 Whiter than the evening cloud. 
 J/y lore is dead, etc. 
 
 Here, upon my true-love's grave 
 Shall the barren flowers be laid, 
 
 Kor one holy saint to save 
 All the coldness of a maid. 
 Afy love is dead, etc. 
 
 With my hands 1 '11 bind the briers 
 
 Round his holy corse to gre ; 
 Elfiu-fairy, light your fires ; 
 
 Here my body still shall be. 
 My love is dead, etc. 
 
 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 
 Drain my heart's blood all away ; 
 
 Life and all its good 1 scorn. 
 Dance by night, or feast by day. 
 My love is dead, etc. 
 
 Water-witches, crowned with reytes, 
 
 Bear me to your lethal tide. 
 1 die ! I come ! my true-love waits. 
 
 Thus the damsel spake, and died. 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 LAMENT FOR BION. 
 
 FonF.ST dells and streams ! Dorian tide ! 
 Groan with my grief, since lovely Bion died : 
 Ye ]ilnuts and copses, now his loss bewail : 
 Flowers, from your tufts a sad perfume e.xhale : 
 Anemones and roses, mournful show 
 Your crimson leaves and wear a Ijlush of woe : 
 And hyacinth, now more than ever spread 
 The woeful "ah," that marks thy petaleil head 
 With lettered grief : the beauteous minstrel 's 
 dead ! 
 
 Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe : 
 
 Ye nightingales, whose plaintive warblings flow 
 
 From the thick leaves of some embowering wood. 
 
 Tell the sad loss to Arethusa's flood : 
 
 The shepherd Bion dies : with him is dead 
 
 The life of song : the Doric Muse is fled. 
 
 Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe : 
 
 Tlie herds no more that chant melodious know : 
 
 No more beneath the lonely oak he sings. 
 
 But breathes his strains to Lethe's sullen springs ; 
 
 The mountains now are mute : the heifers pass 
 Slow-wandering by, nor browse the tender grass. 
 
 Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe : 
 For thee, Bion ! in the grave laid low, 
 Apollo weeps : dark palls the sylvan's shroud ; 
 Fauns ask thy wonted song, and wail aloud : 
 Each fountain-nymph disconsolate appears. 
 And all her waters turn to trickling tears : — 
 Mute Echo pines the silent rocks around. 
 And mourns those lips that waked their sweetest 
 sound. 
 
 Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe : 
 But retribution sure will deal the blow : 
 I, in this trance of grief, still drop the tear, 
 And mourn forever o'er thy livid bier : — 
 
 that, as Orpheus, in the days of yore, 
 Ulysses, or Alcides, passed before, 
 
 1 could descend to Pluto's house of night. 
 And mark if thou wouldst Pluto's ear delight, 
 And listen to the song : then rehearse 
 Some sweet Sicilian strain, bucolic verse, 
 
 To soothe the maid of Euna's vale, who sang 
 These Doric songs, while ^-Etna's upland rang. 
 Not unrewarded should thy ditties prove : 
 As the sweet harper, Orpheus, erst could move 
 Her breast to yield his dear departed wife. 
 Treading the backward road from death to life. 
 So should he melt to Bion's Dorian strain. 
 And send him joyous to his hills again. 
 0, could my touch command the stops like thee, 
 I too would seek the dead, and sing thee free ! 
 
 From the Greek of MOSCHUS. 
 
 by Charles Abraham Elton. 
 
 LYCIDAS. 
 
 fin memory of a young clerical friend of the poet's, drowned 
 A D, 1637.] 
 
 Yf.t once moi-e, ye laurels, and once more. 
 Ye mjTtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
 I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude ; 
 And, with forced fingers rude. 
 Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
 Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear. 
 Compels mc to distui-b your season due : 
 For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
 Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
 Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
 He must not float upon his watery bier 
 Unwept, and welter to the paiching wind. 
 Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
 
 Begin, then, sisters of the .sacred well 
 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; 
 Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
 Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse : 
 
 -^r^ 
 
 t
 
 -4- 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AM) DEATH. 
 
 283 
 
 So may soiiK' gentle JIhso 
 
 With liitky words favor my destineil um ; 
 
 And, as lie passes, turn, 
 
 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 
 
 For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill. 
 Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill ; 
 Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
 Tiider the opening eyelids of the morn, 
 ■\Ve drove afield, and both together heard 
 AVhat time the gray fly winds her sultry horn. 
 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews ol' night. 
 Oft till the sUir, that rose at evening bright, 
 Towards hcaveu'sdescent had sloped his westering 
 
 wheel. 
 Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute. 
 Tempered to the oaten flute ; 
 Rough Satyi's danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 
 From the glad sound wouM not be absent long ; 
 And old Daniretas loved to hear our song. 
 
 But, the heavy change now thou art gone, 
 Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
 Thee, shejiherd, thee tlic woods, and desert caves, 
 AVith wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 
 And all their echoes, mourn. 
 The willows, and the hazel copses gi'een, 
 Shall now no more be seen 
 Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
 As killing as the canker to the rose, 
 <1r taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 
 Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrolie wear, 
 AVhen first the white-thorn blows ; 
 Such, Lycidas, thy lo.ss to shepherds' ear. 
 
 Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless 
 deep 
 Closed o'er the head of yonr roved Lycidas ? 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
 Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie. 
 Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. 
 Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : 
 Ay me ! I fondly dream. 
 
 Had ye Wen there : for what could that have done ? 
 A\'hat could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore. 
 The Muse herself, for her enchanting son. 
 Whom \miversal nature did lament, 
 When, by the rout that made the hideous roar. 
 His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
 Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? 
 
 Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
 To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, 
 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
 Were it not better done, as others use, 
 To sport with Amarj-llis in the shade, 
 Or with the tangles of Xenera's hair ? 
 Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
 (That last infirmity of noble minds) 
 To scorn delights, and live laljorious days ; 
 I'lUt the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
 
 Comes the blind Fury with the abhoried shears. 
 And slits thethin-spun life. " But not the praise," 
 riiiilais leplied, and touched my trembling ears ; 
 " Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
 Nor in the glistering foil 
 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies : 
 But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, 
 And perfect witness of aD-judging Jove ; 
 As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 
 Of .so much fame in heaven expect thy meed ! " 
 fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood, 
 I Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds! 
 That strain 1 heard was of a higher mood : 
 But now my oat proceeds. 
 And listens to the herald of the sea 
 That came in Neptune's [ilea ; 
 He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, 
 What hard mishap hath doomed thisgentle swain? 
 And c[Ucstioned every gust of rugged wings, 
 That blows from olf each beaked promontory : 
 They knew not of his story ; 
 And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
 That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed : 
 The air was calm, and on the level brine 
 Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
 It was that fatal and perfidious bark. 
 Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark. 
 That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
 
 Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 
 llis mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge. 
 Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
 Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 
 "Ah ! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest 
 
 pledge ? " 
 Last came, and last did go. 
 The pilot of the Galilean lake : 
 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, 
 (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,) 
 He shook his mitered locks, and stem bespake : 
 "How well could I have spared for thee, young 
 
 swain. 
 Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake. 
 Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold .' 
 Of other care they little reckoning make, 
 Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 
 And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 
 Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how- 
 to hold 
 A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the lea.st 
 That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs ! 
 What recks it them ? What need they ? Tcey are 
 
 sped ; 
 And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
 Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; 
 The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 
 But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist tliey 
 
 draw. 
 Rot inwardly, and foul contagion .spread : 

 
 4^ 
 
 284 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 "T 
 
 Besides what the grim wolf witli privy paw 
 Daily devours apace, and nothing said : 
 But that two-handed engine at the door 
 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. 
 
 Return, Aljiheus, the dread voice is past. 
 That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
 And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
 Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
 Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
 Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks 
 On whose fresh lap the swart-st^xr sparely looks ; 
 Throw hither all your ijuaint enameled eyes. 
 That on the gi-een turf suck the honeyed showers, 
 And puijile all the ground with vernal flowers. 
 ISring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
 The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 
 The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 
 The glowing violet. 
 
 The musk-rose, and the well-attired Woodbine, 
 With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. 
 And every flower that sad embroidery w'ears : 
 Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed. 
 And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 
 To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 
 For, so to interpose a little ease. 
 Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise ; 
 Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding 
 
 seas 
 Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled. 
 Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
 AVhere thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide. 
 Visit' St the bottom of the monstrous w-orld ; 
 Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
 Sleep' st by the fable of Bellerus old. 
 Where the great vision of the guarded moimt 
 Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold ; 
 Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth ; 
 And, ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 
 
 Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more ; 
 For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 
 Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; 
 So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed. 
 And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
 And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 
 So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted tigh. 
 Through the dear might of Him that walked the 
 
 waves ; 
 Where, other groves and other streams along. 
 With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. 
 And hears the unexpressive nuptial song. 
 In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
 There entertain him all the saints above. 
 In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 
 That sing, and, singing, in their glory move. 
 And wipe the tears forever from his eyes. 
 Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
 Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, 
 
 In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
 To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
 
 Thus sang the imcouth swain to the oaks and 
 rills. 
 While the still mom went out with sandals gray ; 
 He touched the tender stops of various cpiills. 
 With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : 
 And now the sun had stretched out all the hUls, 
 And now was dropt into the western bay : 
 At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue ; 
 To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 
 
 JoH.N Milton. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMORIAM." 
 
 [ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, OB. 1S53.] 
 
 GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE. 
 
 I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 
 To put in words the grief 1 feel ; 
 For words, like Nature, half reveal 
 
 And half conceal the Soul within. 
 
 But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
 A use in measured language lies ; 
 The sad mechanic exercise, 
 
 Like dull narcotics, numbing paiu. 
 
 In words, like weeds, I '11 WTap me o'er, 
 Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 
 But that large grief which these enfold 
 
 Is given in outline and no more. 
 
 DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND. 
 
 Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
 Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
 With my lost Arthur's loved remains. 
 
 Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er ! 
 
 So draw him home to those that mouni 
 In vain ; a favorable speed 
 Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead 
 
 Through prosperous floods his holy um ! 
 
 All night no ruder air perplex 
 
 Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
 As our pure love, through early light 
 
 Shall glimmer on the dewy decks ! 
 
 Sphere all your lights around, above ; 
 
 Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow ; 
 
 Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, 
 My friend, the brother of my love ; 
 
 My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
 Till all my widowed race be ran ; 
 Dear as the mother to the son. 
 
 More than my brothers are to me ! 
 
 i
 
 BEREAVEMENT AXD DEATH. 
 
 4- 
 
 THE PEACE OF SOKKOW. 
 
 Calm is the morn, without a sound, 
 Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 
 And only through tlie faded leaf 
 
 The chestnut pattering to the ground : 
 
 Calm and deep peace on this high wold 
 And on these dews that drench the furze. 
 And all the silvery gossamers 
 
 That twinkle into gi'een and gold : 
 
 Calm and still light on yon great ]^lain 
 That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, 
 And crowded farms and lessening towers, 
 
 To mingle with the bounding main : 
 
 Calm and deep peace in this wide air. 
 These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
 And in my heart, if calm at all, 
 
 If any calm, a calm despair : 
 
 Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 
 
 And waves that sway themselves in rest, 
 And dead calm in that noble breast 
 
 Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 
 
 TIME AXD ETERNITY. 
 
 If Sleep and Deatli be truly one, 
 And every spirit's folded bloom 
 Through all its intervital gloom 
 
 In some long trance should slumber on ; 
 
 Unconscious of the sliding hour, 
 Bare of the body, might it last, 
 And silent traces of the past 
 
 Be all the color of the flower : 
 
 So then were nothing lost to man ; 
 
 So that still garden of the souls 
 
 In many a figured leaf enrolls 
 The total world since life began ; 
 
 And love will last as pure and whole 
 As when he loved me here in Time, 
 And at the spiritual prime 
 
 Rewaken with the dawning soul. 
 
 PERSONAL RESURRECTION. 
 
 Th.^t each, who seems a separate whole. 
 Should move his rounds, and fusing all 
 The skirts of self again, should fall 
 
 Remerging in the general Soul, 
 
 Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 
 Eternal form shall still divide 
 The eternal soul from all beside ; 
 
 And 1 shall know him when we meet : 
 
 And we shall sit at endless feast. 
 Enjoying each the other's good : 
 What vaster dream can hit tlie mood 
 
 Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 
 
 Upon the last and sharpest height, 
 Before the spirits fade away. 
 Some landing-place to clasp and say, 
 
 " Farewell ! We lose ourselves in light." 
 
 SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP. 
 
 Do we indeed desire the dead 
 
 Should still be near us at oitr side ? 
 Is there no baseness we would hide ? 
 
 No inner vileness that we dread ? 
 
 Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
 I. had such reverence for his blame. 
 See with clear eye some hidden shame. 
 
 And I be lessened in his love ? 
 
 I wrong the grave with fears untrue : 
 Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? 
 There must be wisdom with great Death : 
 
 The dead shall look me through and through. 
 
 Be near us when we climb or fall : 
 Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
 With larger other eyes than ours, 
 
 To make allowance for us all. 
 
 MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
 I know that in thy place of rest. 
 By that broad water of the west, 
 
 There comes a glory on the walls ; 
 
 Thy marble bright in dark appears, 
 
 As slowly steals a silver flame 
 
 Along the letters of thy name. 
 And o'er the number of thy years. 
 
 The mystic glory swims away ; 
 
 From off my bed the moonlight dies : 
 And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, 
 
 I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 
 
 And then I know the mist is drawn 
 A lucid vale from coast to coast. 
 And in the dark church, like a ghost. 
 
 Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 
 
 DEATH IN life's PRIME. 
 
 So many worlds, so much to do. 
 So little done, such things to be. 
 How know I what had need of thee ? 
 
 For thou wert strong as thou wert true. 
 
 T
 
 — •H 
 
 ( 
 
 1-^ 
 
 
 
 286 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 
 The fame is quenched that I foresaw, 
 
 But what binds us, friend to friend, 
 
 
 The liead hath missed an earthly wreath : 
 
 But that soul with soul can blend ? 
 
 
 I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 
 
 Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 
 
 
 For nothing is that errs from law. 
 
 Let us walk in soul once more. 
 
 
 We pass ; the path that each man trod 
 
 Take, boatman, thrice thy fee, 
 
 
 Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : 
 
 Take, I give it willingly ; 
 
 
 What fame is left for human deeds 
 
 For invisible to thee, 
 
 
 In endless age ? It rests with God. 
 
 Spirits twain have crossed with me. 
 
 From the German of Ludwig Uhland, 
 
 
 hollow wraith of dying fame. 
 
 
 
 Fade wholly, while the soul exults, 
 And self-enfolds the large results 
 
 
 
 
 
 Of force that would have forged a name. 
 
 HOME TUKY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD. 
 
 FROM "THE PRINCESS." 
 
 
 THE poet's tribute. 
 
 Home they brought her warrior dead : 
 
 
 What hope is here for modern rhyme 
 
 She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ; 
 
 
 To him who turns a musing eye 
 
 All her maidens, watching, said. 
 
 
 On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie 
 
 " She must weep or she will die." 
 
 
 Foreshortened in the tract of time ? 
 
 Then they praised him, soft and low, 
 
 
 These mortal lullabies of pain 
 
 Called him worthy to be loved, 
 
 
 May bind a book, may line a box. 
 
 Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
 
 
 May serve to curl a maiden's locks : 
 
 Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 
 Or, when a thousand moons shall wane, 
 
 Stole a maiden from her place. 
 
 
 A man upon a stall may find. 
 
 Lightly to the warrior stept, 
 
 
 And, passing, turn the page that tells 
 
 Took the face-cloth from the face, 
 
 
 A grief, then changed to something else, 
 
 Yet she neither moved nor wept. 
 
 
 Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 
 
 
 But what of that ? My darkened ways 
 
 Eose a nurse of ninety years. 
 Set his child upon her knee, — 
 
 Like summer tempest came her tears, — 
 " Sweet my child, I live for thee." 
 
 
 Shall ring with music all the same ; 
 
 
 To breathe my loss is more than fame, 
 
 
 To utter love more sweet than praise. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 
 ALFRED Tennyson. 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 THE FLOWER OF FINAE. 
 
 
 THE PASSAGE. 
 
 A BRIGADE BALLAD. 
 
 
 Many a year is in its grave 
 
 tEarly in the eighteenth century, the flower of the Catholic youth 
 
 
 Since I crossed this restless wave : 
 
 of Ireland were drawn away to recruit the ranks of the Irish Bri- 
 
 
 And the evening, fair as ever. 
 
 gade in the ser\'ice of the Kin? of France. These recruits were 
 popularly known as " Wild Geese." Few returned.] 
 
 
 Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 
 
 Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough 
 
 
 Then in this same boat beside. 
 
 Slieelin, 
 
 
 Sat two comrades old and tried, — 
 
 A cool gentle breeze from themountain isstealing, 
 
 
 One with all a father's truth, 
 
 While fair round its islets the small ripples play, 
 
 
 One with all the fire of youth. 
 
 But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae. 
 
 
 One on earth in silence wrought, 
 
 Her hair is like night, and her eyes like gray 
 
 
 And his grave in silence sought ; 
 
 morning. 
 
 
 But the younger, brighter form 
 
 She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning, 
 
 
 Passed in battle and in storm. 
 
 Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day, 
 Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae. 
 
 
 So, whene'er I turn mine eye 
 
 
 
 Back upon the days gone by, 
 
 But who down the hillside than red deer runs 
 
 
 Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, 
 
 fleeter ? 
 
 
 Friends that closed their course before me. 
 
 And who on the lakeside is hastening to greet her ? 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 
 r
 
 AVho but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay, 
 The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae ? 
 
 One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of glad- 
 ness ; 
 Ah ! why do theychangeona sudden to sadness, — 
 He has told his hard fortune, norinore can he stay. 
 He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. 
 
 For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land. 
 And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from 
 
 Ireland ; 
 He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away. 
 But he vowshe'll comeback to the Flowerof Finae. 
 
 He fought at Cremona, — she hears of his story ; 
 He fought at Cassano, — she 's proud of his glory. 
 Yet sadly she sings " Shule Aroon " all the day, 
 "0, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae." 
 
 Eight long years have passed, till she 's nigh 
 
 broken-hearted. 
 Her reel, and her rock, and her flax she has 
 
 p.arted ; 
 She sails with the " Wild Geese " to Flanders away. 
 And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae. 
 
 Lord Clare on the field of Itamillics is charging. 
 Before him the.Sassanach sfiuadrons enlarging, — 
 Behind liim the Cravats their sections display, — 
 Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae. 
 
 On the slopes of La .Tudoigne the Frenchmen are 
 
 flying, 
 Lord Clare andliis squadrons, the foe still defying, 
 Outnumbered, and •wounded, retreat in array ; 
 And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae. 
 
 In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, 
 And by it a pale weeping maiden is prating ; 
 That flag's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray. 
 This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae. 
 
 Thomas Davis. 
 
 ELEONORA. 
 
 ELEGV ON THE COUNTESS OF ABINGDON. 
 
 No single virtue we could most commend, 
 Whether the wife, the mother, or the friend ; 
 For she was all, in that supreme degi-ee, 
 That, as no one prevailed, so all was she. 
 The several parts lay hidden in the piece ; 
 The occasion but e.xerted that, or this. 
 A wife as tender, and as true witlial. 
 As the first woman was before her fall : 
 Made for the man, of whom she was a part ; 
 Made to attract his eyes, and keep his heart. 
 
 A second Eve, but by no crime accursed ; 
 As beauteous, not as brittle, as the first. 
 Had she been first, still Paradise had been. 
 And death liad found no entrance by her sin. 
 So she not only had preserved from ill 
 Her sex and ours, but lived their pattern still. 
 
 Love and obedience to her lord she bore ; 
 She much obeyed him, but she loved him more : 
 Not awed to duty by superior sway, 
 But taught by his indulgence to obey. 
 Thus we love God, as author of our good. 
 
 Yet unemployed no minute .slipped away ; 
 Moments were precious in so short a stay. 
 The haste of Heaven to have her was so great 
 That some were single acts, though each complete ; 
 But every act stood ready to repeat. 
 
 Her fellow-saints with busy care will look 
 For her blest name in fate's eternal book ; 
 And, pleased to be outdone, with joy will see 
 Numberless virtues, endless charity : 
 But more will wonder at so short an age. 
 To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page ; 
 And with a pious fear begin to doubt 
 The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out. 
 But 't was her Saviour's time ; and could there be 
 A copy near the original, 't was she. 
 
 As precious gums are not for lasting fire, 
 They but perfume the temple, and expire ; 
 So was she soon exhaled, and vanished hence, — 
 A short sweet odor, of a vast expense. 
 She vanished, we can scarcely say she died ; 
 For but a now did l>eaven and earth divide : 
 She passed serenely with a single breath ; 
 This moment perfect health, the next was death : 
 One sigh did her eternal bliss assure ; 
 So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure. 
 As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue ; 
 Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new ; 
 So close they follow, such wild order keep. 
 We think ourselves awake, and are asleep : 
 So softly death succeeded life in her : 
 She did but dream of heaven, and she was there. 
 
 No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise ; 
 Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice ; 
 As an old friend is beckoned to a feast, 
 .•\nd treated like a long-familiar guest. 
 He took her as he found, but found her so. 
 As one in hourly readiness to go : 
 E'en on that day, in all her trim prepared ; 
 As early notice she from heaven had heard. 
 And some descending courier from above 
 Had given her timely warning to remove ; 
 Or counseled her to dress the nuptial room, 
 For on that night the bridegroom was to come. 
 He kept his hour, and found her where she lay 
 Clothed all in white, the livery of the day. 
 I John drvden.
 
 4^ 
 
 288 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 
 
 I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 
 
 Whei'e we sat side bj* side 
 On a bright May niornin' long ago, 
 
 When first you were my bride ; 
 The corn was springin' fresh and green, 
 
 And the lark sang loud and high ; 
 And the red was on your liji, Maiy, 
 
 And the love-light in your eye. 
 
 The place is little changed, Mary ; 
 
 The day is bright as then ; 
 The lark's loud song is in my ear, 
 
 And the corn is green again ; 
 But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 
 
 And your breath, warm on my cheek ; 
 And 1 still keep list'uin' for the words 
 
 You nevermore will speak. 
 
 'T ia but a step down yonder lane. 
 
 And the little church stands near, — 
 The church where we were wed, Mary ; 
 
 I see the spire from here. 
 But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 
 
 And my step might break your rest, — 
 For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep. 
 
 With your baby on your breast. 
 
 I 'm very lonely now, Mary, 
 
 For the poor make no new friends ; 
 But, 0, they love the better still 
 
 The few our Father sends ! 
 And you were all I had, Mary, — 
 
 My blessin' and my pride ; 
 There 's nothing left to care for now, 
 
 Since my poor Mary died. 
 
 Yours was the good, brave heart. Mar}', 
 
 That still kept hoping on, 
 When the trust iu God had left my soul. 
 
 And my arm's young strength was gone ; 
 There was comfort ever on your lip, — 
 
 And the kind look on your brow, — 
 I bless you, Mary, for that same. 
 
 Though you cannot hear me now. 
 
 I thank you for the patient smile 
 
 When your heart was fit to break, — 
 ■When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, 
 
 And you hid it for my sake ; 
 I bless you for the pleasant word. 
 
 When your heart was sad and soi'e, — 
 0, I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 
 
 Where grief can't reach you more ! 
 
 I 'm biddin' you a long farewell. 
 
 My Mary — kind and true ! 
 But 1 '11 not forget you, darling. 
 
 In the land 1 'm goin' to ; 
 
 They say there 's bread and work for all, 
 And the sun shines always there, — 
 
 But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 
 Were it fifty times as fair ! 
 
 And often in those grand old woods 
 
 I '11 sit, and shut my eyes. 
 And my heart will travel back again 
 
 To the place where Mary lies ; 
 And I 'U think 1 see the little stile 
 
 Where we sat side by side. 
 And the springin' corn and the bright May mom. 
 
 When first you were my bride. 
 
 (Formerly the HON. 
 
 Lady dufferin 
 mrs. blackwood). 
 
 THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 
 
 Word was brought to the Danish king 
 
 (Hurry!) 
 That the love of his heart lay suffering, 
 And pined for the comfort his voice would bring ; 
 
 (O, ride as though you were flying !) 
 Better he loves each golden curl 
 On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
 Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl : 
 And his rose of the isles is dying ! 
 
 Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 
 
 (Hurry !) 
 Each one mounting a, gallant steed 
 Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 
 
 (0, ride as though you were flying !) 
 Spui-s were struck in the foaming flank ; 
 Worn-out chargers staggered and sank ; 
 Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst ; 
 But, ride as they would, the king rode first, 
 For his rose of the isles lay dying ! 
 
 His nobles are beaten, one by one ; 
 
 (Hurry!) 
 They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward 
 
 gone ; 
 His little fair page now follows alone, 
 
 For strength and for courage trying ! 
 The king looked back at that faithful child ; 
 Wan was the face that answering smiled ; 
 They passed the drawbridge with clattering din. 
 Then he dropped ; and only the king rode iu 
 Where his rose of the isles lay dying ! 
 
 The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn ; 
 
 (Silence !) 
 No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 
 An echo returned on the cold gray morn. 
 
 Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
 The castle jiortal stood grimly wide ; 
 None welcomed the king from that weary ride ;
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 289 
 
 For dead, in the light of the dawniug day, 
 Tlie pale sweet form of the welcomor lay. 
 Who had yearned for his voice while dying ! 
 
 The panting steed, with a drooping crest. 
 
 Stood weary. 
 Tlie king returned from her cliamber of rest, 
 The thick sobs choking in his breast ; 
 
 And, that dumb companion eying. 
 The tears gushed fortli wlvich he strove to check ; 
 He bowed his head on his charger's neck : 
 "0 steed, that every nerve didst strain, 
 Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 
 To the halls where my love lay dying ! " 
 
 Caroline H. Norton. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. 
 
 [Tllis ballad relates to the execution of Cockburnc of HeiiUei. 
 land, a border freebooter, hanued over the gate of his own tower 
 by James V. in his famous expedition, in 15=9. against the maraud- 
 ers of the border. In a deserted burial-plate near the ruins of the 
 i-astle. the monument of Cockburne and his lady is still shown 
 Tlie following inscription is still legible, though defaced: "HFRli 
 LVES PERVS OF COKBURNK AND HIS \V\-FE MARJOR-\-.' — 5/y 
 llal/erSco//.] 
 
 My love he built me a bonnie bower, 
 And clad it a' wi' lily flower ; 
 A bi-awer bower ye ne'er ilid .see. 
 Than my true-love he built for me. 
 
 There came a man, by middle day, 
 He spied his sport, and went away ; 
 And brought the king tliat very night. 
 Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. 
 
 He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; 
 He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear : 
 My servants all for life did flee. 
 And left me in extremitie. 
 
 I sewed his sheet, making my mane ; 
 I watched the corpse mysell alane ; 
 I watched his body night and day ; 
 No living creature came that way. 
 
 I took his body on my back, 
 
 And whiles 1 gaed, and whiles 1 sat ; 
 
 I digged a giave, and laid him in. 
 
 And happed him with the sod sae green. 
 
 But think na ye my heart was sair. 
 When I laid the raoul' on his yellow hair ? 
 0, think na ye my heart was w'ae. 
 When I turned about, away to gae ? 
 
 Nae living man I '11 love again. 
 Since t^at my lively knight is slain ; 
 Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair 
 I '11 chain my heart forevennair. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 FAKEWELL TO THEE, AKABY'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 IKOM 'THE FIRE.WORSHIPERS." 
 
 Farewell, —farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! 
 
 (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea ;) 
 No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water 
 
 More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. 
 
 (), fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, 
 How light was thy heart till love's witchery 
 came, 
 Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lulc 
 blowing, 
 And hushedall itsmusic and withereditsfranie '. 
 
 But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands. 
 Shall maids and theiilovers remember the doom 
 
 (.)f her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, 
 With naught but the sea-star to liglit up her 
 tomb. 
 
 .■\ik1 still, when the merry date-season is burning. 
 And calls to the palm-groves tlie young and the 
 old, 
 
 The happiest there, from their pastime returning 
 At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. 
 
 The young village maid, when with flowers she 
 dresses 
 
 Her dark-flowing hair for some festival day. 
 Will think of thy fate, till neglecting her tresses. 
 
 She mournfully tunis from the mirror away. 
 
 Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero, forget thee, — 
 Though tyrants watch over her tears as they 
 start. 
 Close, close by the side of that hero she '11 set 
 thee. 
 Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. 
 < 
 Farewell ! — be it ours to embellish thy pillow 
 With everything beauteous that grows in the 
 deep ; 
 Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow 
 Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. 
 
 Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
 That ever the sonowing sea-bird has wept ; 
 
 With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed 
 chamber. 
 We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept. 
 
 We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, 
 And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; 
 
 We '11 seek where the sands of the Caspian are 
 sparkling. 
 And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. 
 
 i 
 
 r 
 
 i
 
 + 
 
 290 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 Farewell ! — farewell ! — until pity's sweet foun- 
 tain 
 Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, 
 They '11 weep for the chieftain who died on that 
 mountain, 
 They '11 weep for the maiden who sleeps in the 
 wave. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 GKIEF. 
 
 FROM "HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK." 
 
 Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color 
 off, 
 And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. 
 Do not, forever, with thy veiled lids 
 Seek for thy noble father in the dust : 
 Thou know'st 't is common, — all that live must 
 
 die, 
 Passing through nature to eternity. 
 
 Hamlet. Ay, madam, it is common. 
 
 Queen. If it be. 
 
 Why seems it so particular with thee ? 
 
 Ham. Seems, madam ! nay, it is ; I know not 
 seems. 
 'T is not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 
 Nor customary suits of solemn black, 
 Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, 
 No, nor the fruitful river in the eye. 
 Nor the dejected havior of the visage, 
 Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief. 
 That can denote nie truly : these, indeed, seem, 
 For they are actions that a man might play ; 
 But I have that within, which passeth show ; 
 These but the trappings and the suits of woe. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL WIFE. 
 
 Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed. 
 
 Never to be disquieted. 
 
 My last " Good Night !" Thou wUt not wake 
 
 Till I thy fate shall overtake ; 
 
 Till age, or grief, or sickness must 
 
 Marry my body to that dust 
 
 It so much loves, and fill the room 
 
 My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 
 
 Stay for me there : I will not fail 
 To meet thee in that hollow vale ; 
 And think not much of my delay, 
 I am already on the way ; 
 And follow thee with all the speed 
 Desire can make or sorrows breed. 
 Each minute is a short degree, 
 And every hour a step toward thee. 
 
 At night, when 1 betake to rest, 
 
 Ne.xt morn I rise nearer my west 
 
 Of life, almost by eight hours' saU, 
 
 Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. 
 
 Henry Kin(^ 
 
 TO DEATH. 
 
 Methinks it were no pain to die 
 On such an eve, when such a sky 
 
 O'er-canopies the west ; 
 To gaze my fill on yon calm deep, 
 And, like an infant, fall asleep 
 
 On Earth, my mother's breast. 
 
 There 's peace and welcome in you sea 
 Of endless blue ti-anquUlity : 
 
 These clouds are living things : 
 1 trace their veins of liquid gold, 
 I see them solemnly unfold 
 
 Their soft and fleecy wings. 
 
 These be the angels that convey 
 Us weary children of a day — 
 
 Life's tedious nothing o'er — 
 Where neither passions come, nor woes. 
 To vex the genius of repose 
 
 On Death's majestic shore. 
 
 No darkness there divides the sway 
 With startling dawn and dazzling day ; 
 
 But gloriously serene 
 Are the interminable plains : 
 One fixed, eternal sunset reigns 
 
 O'er the wide silent scene. 
 
 I cannot doff all human fear ; 
 I know thy greeting is severe 
 
 To this poor shell of clay : 
 Yet come, O Death ! thy freezing kiss 
 Emancipates ! thy rest is bliss I 
 
 I would I were away ! 
 
 From the German of GLUCK. 
 
 INDIAN DEATH-SONG. 
 
 The sun sets in night.and the stars shun the day ; 
 But glory remains when their lights fade away. 
 Begin, ye tormentors ! your threats are in vain, 
 For the son of Alknomook will never complain. 
 
 Remember the arrows he shot from his bow ; 
 Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low ! 
 Why so slow > do you wait till I shrink from the 
 
 pain ? 
 No ! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 291 
 
 Kemember the wood where in amhush we lay, 
 Aud the scalps which we bore from your nation 
 
 away ! 
 Now tha flame rises fast, you exult in my pain ; 
 But the son of Alknomook can never complain. 
 
 I go to the land where my father is gone ; 
 
 His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. 
 
 Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from 
 pain ; 
 
 And thy son, Alknomook ! has scorned to com- 
 plain. 
 
 ANNE Home hunter. 
 
 NOW AND AFTERWARDS. 
 
 ** Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past." 
 
 RUSSIAN Proverb. 
 
 " Two hands upon the breast, 
 
 And labor 's done ; 
 Two pale feet crossed in rest, — 
 
 The race is won ; 
 Two eyes with coin-weights shut. 
 
 And all tears cease ; 
 Two lips where grief is mute, 
 
 Anger at peace " : 
 So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot ; 
 
 God in his kindness answereth not. 
 
 " Two hands to work addrest 
 
 Aye for his praise ; 
 Two feet that never rest 
 
 Walking his ways ; 
 Two eyes that look above 
 
 Through all their tears ; 
 Two lips still breathing love, 
 
 Not wrath, nor fears " : 
 So pray we afterwards, low on our knees ; 
 Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear these ! 
 Dinah mulock Craik. 
 
 FAREWELL, LITE. 
 
 WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS. APRIL. 1845. 
 
 Fakewell, life ! my senses swim, 
 And the world is growing dim ; 
 Thronging shadows cloud the light. 
 Like the advent of the night, — 
 Colder, colder, colder still. 
 Upward steals a vapor chUl ; 
 Strong the earthy odor grows, — 
 I smell the mold above the rose ! 
 
 Welcome, life ! the spirit strives ! 
 Strength returns and hope revives ; 
 Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
 Fly like shadows at the morn, — 
 
 O'er the earth there comes a bloom ; 
 Sunny light for sullen gloom, 
 Warm perfume for vapor cold, — 
 I smell the rose above the mold ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 REST. 
 
 LINES FOUND UNDER THE PILLOW OF A SOLDIER WHO 
 DIED IN HOSPITAL AT PORT ROYAL, VA. 
 
 I LAY me down to sleep, 
 
 With little care 
 Whether my waking find 
 
 Me here, or there. 
 
 A bowing, burdened head 
 That only asks to rest. 
 
 Unquestioning, upon 
 A loving breast. 
 
 My good right-hand forgets 
 
 Its cunning now ; 
 To march the weary march 
 
 I know not how. 
 
 I am not eager, bold, 
 
 Nor strong, — all that is past ; 
 I am ready not to do, 
 
 At last, at last. 
 
 My half-day's work is done, 
 And this is all my part, — 
 
 I give a patient God 
 My patient heart ; 
 
 And grasp his banner still. 
 Though all the blue be dim ; 
 
 These stripes as well as stars 
 Lead after him. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 HANG VT HIS HARP; HE'LL WAKE NO 
 MORE I 
 
 His young bride stood beside his bed, 
 
 Her weeping watch to keep ; 
 Hush ! hush ! he stirred not, — was he dead. 
 
 Or did he only sleep ? 
 
 His brow was calm, no change was there, 
 
 No sigh had filled his breath ; 
 0, did he wear that smile so fair 
 
 In slumber or in death ? 
 
 "Reach down his harp," she wildly cried, 
 
 " And if one spark remain. 
 Let him but hear ' Loch Erroch's Side ' ; 
 
 He 'U kindle at the strain. 
 
 + 
 
 . I
 
 292 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 "That tune e'er held his soul iu thrall ; 
 
 It uever breathed In vain ; 
 He '11 waken as its echoes fall, 
 
 Or never wake again." 
 
 ' The strings were swept. 'T was sad to hear 
 Sweet music floating there ; 
 For every note called forth a tear 
 Of anguish and despair. 
 
 "See ! see ! " she cried, " the tune is o'er : 
 
 No opening eye, no breath ; 
 Hang up his harp ; he '11 wake no more ; 
 
 He sleeps the sleep of death." 
 
 iiLizA Cook. 
 
 BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. 
 
 Beyond the smiling and the weeping 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the waking and the sleeping. 
 Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 
 I shall be soou. 
 Love, rest, and home J 
 Sweet hope ! 
 Lord, larry not, bat come. 
 
 Beyond the blooming and the fading 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the shining and the shading, 
 Beyond the hoping and the dreading. 
 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home I etc. 
 
 Beyond the rising and the setting 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the calming and the fretting. 
 Beyond remembering and forgetting, 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home I etc. 
 
 Beyond the gathering and the strowing 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, 
 Beyond the coming and the going, 
 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home J etc. 
 
 Beyond the parting and the meeting 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the farewell and the greeting. 
 Beyond this pulse's fever beating, 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and fwme I etc. 
 
 Beyond the frost chain and the fever 
 I shall be soon ; 
 
 Beyond the rock waste and the river, 
 Beyond the ever and the never, 
 I shall be soon. 
 
 Love, rest, and home J 
 
 Sweet hope ! 
 
 Lord, tarry not, hut come. 
 
 HOKATIUS BONAR. 
 
 THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 
 
 1 'm wearing awa', Jean, 
 
 Like snaw when it 's thaw, Jean ; 
 
 I 'm wearing awa' 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 There 's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
 There 's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
 The day is aye fair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Ye were aye leal and tme, Jean ; 
 Your task 's ended noo, Jean, 
 And I '11 welcome you 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, 
 She was baith guid and fair, Jean : 
 0, we grudged her right sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal ! 
 
 Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
 And angels wait on me 
 
 To the land o' the leal ! 
 Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 
 This warld's care is vain, Jean ; 
 We '11 meet and aye be fain 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Carolina. Baroness Nairn. 
 
 SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. 
 
 Softly woo away her breath. 
 
 Gentle death ! 
 Let her leave thee with no strife. 
 
 Tender, mournful, murmuring life ! 
 She hath seen her happy day, — 
 
 She hath had her bud and blossom ; 
 Now she pales and shrinks away. 
 
 Earth, into thy gentle bosom ! 
 
 She hath done her bidding here, 
 
 Angels dear ! 
 Bear her perfect soul above, 
 
 Seraph of the skies, — sweet love ! 
 Good she was, and fair in youth ; 
 
 And her mind was seen to soar, 
 And her heart was wed to truth : 
 Take her, then, forevermore, — 
 
 Forever — evermore ! 
 
 BRVAN WALLER PROCTER 
 
 (BARRY Cornwall I
 
 IIKREAVKMENT AX1> DEATH. 
 
 •292 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A DAUGHTER. 
 
 'T IS o'er, — in tluit long sigh she past — 
 Th' enfranchised spirit soars at last ! 
 
 And now I gaze with tearless eye 
 On what to view was agony. 
 That panting heart is trauijuil now, 
 And heavenly calm that ruffled bi'ow, 
 And those pale lips which feebly strove 
 To force one parting smile of love. 
 Retain it yet, — soft, placid, mild, 
 As when it graced my living child. 
 
 0, I have watched with fondest care 
 To see my opening flow'ret blow. 
 And felt the joy which parents share. 
 The pride which fathers only know. 
 
 And 1 have sat the long, long night. 
 
 And marked that tender flower decay ; 
 Not torn abruptly from the sight. 
 
 But slowly, sadly, waste away ! 
 The spoiler came, yet paused, as though 
 
 So meek a victim checked his arm, 
 Half gave and half withheld the blow. 
 
 As forced to strike, yet loath to harm. 
 
 We saw that fair cheek's fading bloom 
 The ceaseless canker-worm consume. 
 
 And gazed on hopelessly, 
 Till the mute sufl'ering pictured there 
 Wrung from the father's lip a prayer, 
 God ! the prayer his child might die. 
 
 Ay, from his lip — tlie doting heart 
 E'en then refused to bear its part. 
 
 But the sad conflict 's past, — 't is o'er ; 
 That gentle hosom throbs no more ! 
 The spirit's freed, — through realms of light 
 Faith's eagle-glance pursues her flight 
 
 To other worlds, to happier skies ; 
 Hope dries the tear which sorrow weepeth. 
 No mortal sound, the voice which cries, 
 "The damsel is not dead, but sleepeth ! " 
 
 Richard Hakris barham 
 
 (Thomas iNGOLDsBvt. 
 
 As we hud lent her half our powers 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears. 
 Our fears our hopes belied, — 
 
 We thought her dying when she slept. 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came dim and sad. 
 And chill with early showers, 
 
 Her quiet eyelids closed, — she had 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
 THOMAS Hoon, 
 
 A DEATH-BED. 
 
 Her suffering ended with the day ; 
 
 Yet lived she at its close. 
 And breatlied the long, long night away 
 
 In statue-like repose. 
 
 But when the sun, in all his state, 
 
 Illumed the eastern skies. 
 
 She passed through glory's morning-gate, 
 
 And walked in Paradise ! 
 
 James aldrich. 
 
 •WE WATCHED HER BREATHING. 
 
 We watched her breathing through the night. 
 
 Her breathing soft and low. 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seemed to speak. 
 So slowly moved about, 
 
 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 
 
 WRITTEN IN HOSPITAL. WHILE LYING MORTALLY WOONDED 
 AT CHICAMAUCA. 
 
 " I am dying. Egypt, dying." — SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 I AM dying, Egyiit, dying. 
 
 Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast. 
 And the dark, Plutonian shadows 
 
 Gather on the evening blast. 
 Let thine ai-m, Queen, support me ! 
 
 Hu.sh thy sobs, and bow thine ear ! 
 Hearken to the great heart secrets 
 
 Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 
 
 Though my scarred and veteran legions 
 
 Bear their eagles high no more. 
 And my wrecked and scattered galleys 
 
 Strew dark Actinm's fatal shore ; 
 Though no glittering guards surround me, 
 
 Prompt to do their master's will, 
 I must perish like a Roman, 
 
 Die the great triumvir still. 
 
 Let not Cwsar's servile minions 
 
 Mock the lion thus laid low ; 
 'T was no foeman's hand 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 flung a world away ! 
 
 r
 
 
 
 
 
 
 294 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 
 
 Should the base plebeian rabble 
 
 His fair, pure spirit makes the heavens more 
 
 
 
 Dare assaO my fame at Rome, 
 
 fair. 
 
 
 
 \Vhere tlie noble spouse, Octavia, 
 
 And thither rises all my longing prayer ; 
 
 
 
 Weeps mthin her widowed home. 
 
 There is my treasure, and my heart is there. 
 
 
 
 Seek her, say the gods have told me, 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 
 
 Altars, augurs, circling wings. 
 That her blood, mth mine commingled. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 
 
 WHEN I AM DEAD. 
 
 
 
 And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian ! 
 
 Toll not the bell of death for me 
 
 
 
 Glorious sorceress of the Nile ! 
 
 Wlien I am dead ; 
 
 
 
 Light the path to Stygian horrors 
 
 Strew not the flowery wreath o'er me, 
 
 
 
 With the splendors of thy smile ; 
 
 On my cold bed. 
 
 
 
 Give the Ctesar crowns and arches, 
 
 
 
 
 Let his brow the laurel twine, 
 
 Let friendship's sacred tear 
 
 
 
 I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, 
 
 On my fresh gi-ave appear, 
 
 
 
 Triumphing in love like thine. 
 
 Gemming with pearls my bier — 
 When I am dead. 
 
 
 
 I am dying, Egypt, djang ; 
 
 Hark ! the insulting foeman's cry ! 
 
 No dazzling, proud array 
 
 
 
 They are coming — quick, ray falchion ! 
 
 Of pageantry display, 
 
 
 
 Let me front them ere I die. 
 
 My fate to spread ; 
 
 
 
 Ah ! no more amid the battle 
 
 Let not the busy crowd be near. 
 
 
 
 Shall my heart exulting swell ! 
 
 When I am dead, 
 
 
 
 Isis and Osiris guard thee, 
 Cleopatra ! Rome ! — farewell ! 
 
 WILLIAM H. LVTLE. 
 
 
 
 
 Farming with unfelt sighs my bier. 
 
 
 
 Sighs quickly sped. 
 
 
 
 
 Deep let the impression rest 
 On some fond female breast ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 Then were my memoiy blest, 
 
 
 
 The night has a thousand eyes. 
 
 Wlien 1 am dead. 
 
 
 
 And the day but one i 
 Yet the light of the bright world dies 
 
 Let not the day be writ ; 
 Love will remember it 
 
 
 
 With the dying sim. 
 
 Untold, unsaid. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 
 
 The mind has a thousand eyes, 
 
 And the heart but one ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Yet the light of a whole life dies 
 
 THE FEMAT.E CONVICT. 
 
 
 
 When love is done. 
 
 
 
 
 FRANCIS W. EOtlRDlLLON. 
 
 She shrank from all, and her silent mood 
 M.ade her wi^h only for solitude : 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 THKENODY. 
 
 Her eye sought the ground, as it could not brook. 
 For innermost shame, on another's to look : 
 
 
 
 My heart is there, 
 
 And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear 
 
 
 
 AMiere, on eternal hills, my loved one dwells. 
 
 Like deailliest words, that weie curses to hear ! — 
 
 
 
 Among the lilies and the asphodels : 
 
 She still was young, and she had been fair ; 
 
 
 
 Clad in the brightness of the Great White 
 
 But weather-stains, hunger, toil, and care, 
 
 
 
 Throne, 
 
 Tliat frost and fever that wear the heart. 
 
 
 
 Glad in the smile of Him who sits thereon : 
 
 Had made the colors of youth depart 
 
 
 
 The glory gilding all his wealth of hair. 
 
 From the sallow cheek, save over it came 
 
 
 
 And making his immortal face more fair : 
 
 The burning flush of the spirit's shame. 
 
 
 
 There is my treasure, and my heart is there. 
 
 They were .sailing over the salt sea-foam. 
 
 
 
 My heart is there ; 
 
 Far from her country, far from her home ; 
 
 
 
 With him who made all earthly life so sweet ; 
 
 .\nd all she had left for her friends to keep 
 
 
 
 So fit to live, and yet to die so meet ; 
 
 Was a name to hide and a memory to weep ! 
 
 
 
 So meek, so grand, so gentle, and so brave. 
 
 And her future held forth but the felon'.s lot, — 
 
 
 
 So ready to forgive, so strong to save ; 
 
 1 
 
 To live forsaken, to die forgot! 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 ' 

 
 -f 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 295 
 
 She could not weep, and she could not pray, 
 But she wasted anil withered from day to day. 
 Till you might have counted each sunken vein, 
 When her «Tist was prest by the iron chain ; 
 And sonietiiues 1 thought her large dark eye 
 Had the glisten of red insanity. 
 
 She called me once to her sleeping-place, 
 
 A strange, wild look was upon her face. 
 
 Her eye flashed over her cheek so white, 
 
 Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight. 
 
 And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone, — 
 
 The sound from mine ear hath never gone ! — 
 
 "I had last night the loveliest dream : 
 
 My own land shone in the summer beam, 
 
 I saw the lields of the golden grain, 
 
 I heard the reaper's harvest strain ; 
 
 There stood on the hills the green pine-tree, 
 
 And the thrush and the lark sang merrily. 
 
 A long and a weary way 1 had come ; 
 
 But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet 
 
 home. 
 I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there. 
 With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair ! 
 The Bible lay open upon his knee, 
 But he closed the book to welcome me. 
 He led me next where my mother lay, 
 And together we knelt by her grave to pray, 
 And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear, 
 For it echoed one to my young days dear. 
 This dream has waked feelings long, longsince fled, 
 And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead ! 
 — We have not spoken, but still I have hung 
 On the Northern accents thatdwell on thytongue. 
 To me they are music, to me they recall 
 The things long hidden by Memory's pall ! 
 Take this long curl of yellow hair, 
 And give it my father, and tell him my prayer, 
 My dying prayer, was for him. " .... 
 
 Next day 
 Upon the deck a coffin lay ; 
 They raised it up, and like a dirge 
 The heavy gale swept over the surge ; 
 The corjjse was cast to the wind and wave, — 
 The convict has found in the green sea a giave. 
 
 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 
 
 SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 
 
 FROM "HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK." 
 
 Hamlet. To be, or not to be, — that is the 
 
 question : — 
 Whether 't is nobler in the mind to sufl'er 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 
 And, by opposing, end them ? — To die, — to 
 
 sleep ; — 
 
 No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end 
 The heart-ache, and the thousand natui-al shocks 
 That flesh is heir to, — 't is a consummation 
 Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to sleep ; — 
 To sleep ! perchance to dream : — ay, there 's the 
 
 rub; 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may come. 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. 
 Must give us pause : there 's the respect 
 That makes calamity of so long life ; 
 For who would bear tlie whips and scorns of time, 
 The oppressor's wrong, theproud man's contumely, 
 The pangs of despised love, the law's delay. 
 The insolence of oftice, and the spurns 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes. 
 When he himself might his quietus make 
 With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear, 
 To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 
 But that the dread of something after death, — 
 That undiscovered countrj', from whose bourn 
 No traveler returns, — puzzles the will, 
 And makes us rather bear those ills we have. 
 Than fly to others that we know not of? 
 Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 
 And thus the native hue of resolution 
 Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 
 And enterprises of great pith and moment. 
 With this regard, their currents turn awry, 
 And lose the name of action. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 THE SECRET OF DEATH. 
 
 "SHEisdead!" they said to him. "Comeaway; 
 Kiss her and leave her, — thy love is clay ! " 
 
 They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair ; 
 On her forehead of stone they laid it fair ; 
 
 Over her eyes, which gazed too much, 
 They drew the lids with a gentle touch ; 
 
 With a tender touch they closed up well 
 The sweet, tliin lips that had secrets to tell ; 
 
 About her brows and beautiful face 
 They tied her veil and her marriage-lace, 
 
 And drew on herwlute feetthewhite silk shoes, — 
 Which were the whitest no eye could choose ! 
 
 And over her bosom they crossed her hands, — 
 " Come away," they said, "God understands ! " 
 
 But there was a silence, and nothing there 
 But sOence, and scents of eglaiitere, 
 
 And jasmine, and roses, and roseuhiry. 
 
 And they said, " As a lady should lie, lies she." 
 
 r
 
 296 
 
 POEMS OF .SOKROlV AXD DEATH. 
 
 And they lield their breath as they left the room I "You sliouUl not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, 
 With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and Which of all death's was the chief surprise ; 
 
 gloom. 
 
 But lie who loved her too well to dread 
 The sweet, the stately, and beautiful dead, 
 
 He lit his lamp and took the key 
 
 And turned it. Alone again — he and she ! 
 
 "The very strangest and suddenest thing, 
 Of all the surprises that dying must bring. " 
 
 Ah, foolish world ! 0, most kind dead ! 
 Though he told me, who mil believe it was said? 
 
 Who will believe what he heard her say, 
 With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way? 
 
 He and she ; yet she would not speak, 
 
 Though he kissed, in the .old place, the ([uiet i 
 
 cheek. " The utmost wonder is this, — I hear, 
 
 ' And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear ; 
 He and she ; yet she would not smile, ^ 
 
 Though he called her the name she loved ere- " And am your angel, who was your bride, 
 
 while. I And know that, though dead, I have never died." 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 He and she ; still she did not move 
 To any passionate whisper of love. 
 
 Then he said : "Cold lips, and breast without ' 
 
 breath I 
 Is there no voice, no language of death, 
 
 " Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, 
 But to heart and soul distinct, intense ? 
 
 " See now ; I will listen with soul, not ear ; 
 What was the secret of dying, dear ? 
 
 " Was it the infinite wonder of all 
 That you ever could let life's flower fall ? 
 
 "Or was it a greater marvel to feel 
 The perfect calm o'er the agony steal ? 
 
 " Was the miracle deeper to find how deep. 
 Beyond all dreams, sank downward that sleep ? 
 
 " Did life roll back its record, dear. 
 
 And show, as they say it does, past things clear? 
 
 "0 perfect dead ! dead most dear ! 
 1 hold the breath of my soul to hear ! 
 
 " 1 listen as deep as to horrible hell. 
 
 As high as to heaven, and you do not tell ! 
 
 "There must be a pleasure in djing, sweet. 
 To make you so placid from head to feet. 
 
 ONLY THE CLOTHES SHE WORE. 
 
 There is the hat 
 I With the blue veil thrown 'round it, just as they 
 
 found it, 
 I Spotted and soiled, stained and all spoiled — 
 
 Do you recognize that ? 
 
 i The gloves, too, lie there, 
 
 And in them still lingers the shape of her fingers. 
 That some one has pressed, perhaps, and caressed. 
 So slender and fair. 
 
 There arc the shoes. 
 With their long silken laces, still bearing traces. 
 To the toe's dainty tip, of the mud of the slip. 
 
 The slime and the ooze. 
 
 There is the dress. 
 Like the blue veil, all dabbled, discolored, and 
 
 drabbled — 
 This you should know without doubt, and, if so. 
 
 All else you may gviess. 
 
 I There is the shawl. 
 
 With the striped border, hung next in order, 
 Soiled hardly less than the white muslin dre.ss, 
 
 i .\nd — that is all. 
 
 Ah, here is a ring 
 We were forgetting, with a pearl setting ; 
 There was only this one — name or date ? — none ? 
 
 A frail, pretty thing ; 
 
 " I would tell you, darling, if 1 were dead. 
 And 't were your hot tears upon my brow shed ; 
 
 ] A keepsake, maybe, 
 
 " I would say, though the angel of death had The gift of another, perhaps a brother, 
 
 laid Or lover, who knows ? him her heart chose, 
 
 His sVord on my lips to keep it unsaid. i Or was she heart-free ?
 
 L 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 297 
 
 Does the hat there, 
 With the blue veU around it, tlie same as they 
 
 found it, 
 Summon up a fair face with just a trai-e 
 
 Of gold in tile liair ? 
 
 Or does the shawl. 
 Mutely appealing to some hidden feeling, 
 A form, young and slight, to your mind's sight 
 
 Clearly recall ? 
 
 A month now has passed, 
 And her sad history remains yet a mystery, 
 But these we keep still, and shall keep them until 
 
 Hope dies at last. 
 
 Was she a prey 
 Of some deep sorrow clouding the morrow, 
 Hiding from view the sky's happy blue ? 
 
 Or was there foul play '! 
 
 Alas ! who may tell? 
 Some one or other, perliaps a fond mother. 
 May recognize these when her child's clothes she 
 sees ; 
 
 Then — will it be well? 
 
 N. O. SHEPHERD. 
 
 UKCLE JO. 
 
 I HAVE in memory a little story. 
 
 That few indeed would rhyme about but me ; 
 'T is not of love, nor fame, nor yet of glory, 
 
 Although a little colored with the three, — 
 In very truth, I think, as much, perchance. 
 As most tales disembodied from romance. 
 
 Jo lived about the vUlage, and was neighbor 
 To every one who had hard work to do ; 
 
 If he possessed a genius, 't was for labor 
 
 Most people thought, but there were one or two 
 
 Who sometimes said, when he arose to go, 
 
 "Come in again and see us. Uncle Jo ! " 
 
 The " Uncle " was a courtesy they gave, — 
 And felt they could afford to give to him, — 
 
 Just as the master makes of some good slave 
 An Aunt Jemima, or an Uncle Jim ; 
 
 And of this dubious kindness Jo was glad, — 
 
 Poor fellow, it was all he ever had I 
 
 A mile or so away, he had a brother, — 
 A rich, proud man that people did n't hire ; 
 
 But Jo had neither sister, wife, nor mother. 
 And baked his comeake at his cabin fire 
 
 After the day's work, hard for you or me. 
 
 But he was never tired, — how could he be ? 
 
 They called him dull, but he had eyes of quick- 
 ness 
 
 For everybody that he could befi lend ; 
 Said one .and all, "How kind he is in sickness," 
 
 But there, of course, his goodness had an end. 
 Another praise there was might have been given, 
 For one or more days out of every .seven — 
 
 With his old pickax swung across his shoulder, 
 And downcast eyes, and slow and .solier tread — 
 
 He sought the place of giaves, and each lieholder 
 Wondered and asked .some othei- who was deail ; 
 
 But when he digged all day, nobody thought 
 
 That he had done a whit moie than he ought. 
 
 At length, one winter when the sunbeams slanted 
 Faintly and cold across the churchyard snow. 
 
 The licU tolled out, — alas ! a gi-ave wa.s wanted, 
 And all looked anxiously for Uncle Jo ; 
 
 His spade stood there against his own roof-tree. 
 
 There was his pickax too, but where was he ? 
 
 They called and called again, but no replying ; 
 
 Smooth at the window, and about the door, 
 The snow in cold and heavy drifts was lying, — 
 
 He did not need the daylight any more. 
 One shook him roughly, and another said, 
 " As true as preaching, Uncle Jo is dead ! " 
 
 And when they wrapped him in the linen, fairer 
 
 And finer, too, than he had worn till then, 
 ' They found a picture, — haply of the sharer 
 • Of sunny hope some time, or where or when. 
 They did not care to know, but closed his eyes 
 And placed it in the coffin where he lies ! 
 
 ' None wrote his epitaph, nor saw the beauty 
 
 Of the pure love that reached into the grave, 
 j Nor how in unobtrusive ways of duty 
 
 He kept, despite the dark ; but men less brave 
 ] Have left great names, while not a willow bends 
 Above his dust, — poor Jo, he had no friends ! 
 
 ALICE CARV. 
 
 FOR ANNIE. 
 
 Thank Heaven ! the crisis, — 
 
 The danger is past. 
 And the lingering illness 
 
 Is over at last, — 
 And the fever called " Living' 
 
 Is conquered at last. 
 
 Sadly, I know, 
 
 I am shorn of my strength, 
 And no muscle I move 
 
 As I lie at full length, — 
 But no matter ! — I feel 
 
 I am better at length.
 
 298 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 And I rest so composedly 
 
 Now, ill my bed, 
 That any beholder 
 
 Might fancy me dead, — 
 Sright start at beholding me, 
 
 Thinking me dead. 
 
 The moaning and groaning, 
 The sighing and sobbing. 
 
 Are quieted now, 
 
 With that horrible throbbing 
 
 At heart, — ah, that horrible, 
 Horrible throbbing ! 
 
 The sickness, the nausea. 
 
 The pitiless pain, 
 Have ceased, with the fever 
 
 That maddened my brain, — 
 With the fever called " Living" 
 
 That burned in my brain. 
 
 And 0, of all tortures 
 
 That torture the worst 
 Has abated, — the tenible 
 
 Torture of thirst 
 For the naphthaline river 
 
 Of Passion accurst ! 
 I have drunk of a water 
 
 That quenches all thii'st, — 
 
 Of a water that flows. 
 
 With a lullaby sound. 
 From a spring but a very few 
 
 Feet under ground, — 
 From a cavern not very far 
 
 Down under ground. 
 
 And ah I let it never 
 
 Be foolishly said 
 That my room it is gloomy 
 
 And narrow my bed ; 
 For man never slept 
 
 In a different bed, — 
 And, to sleep, you must slumber 
 
 In just such a bed. 
 
 My tantalized spirit 
 
 Here blandly reposes, 
 Forgetting, or never 
 
 Regretting, its roses, — 
 Its old agitations 
 
 Of myrtles and roses : 
 
 For now, while so quietly 
 
 Lying, it fancies 
 A holier odor 
 
 About it, of pansies, — 
 
 A rosemary odor. 
 
 Commingled with pansies, 
 With rue and the beautiful 
 
 Puritan pansies. 
 
 And so it lies happily. 
 
 Bathing in many 
 A dream of the tJ-uth 
 
 And the beauty of Annie, — 
 Drowned in a bath 
 
 Of the tresses of Annie. 
 
 She tenderly kissed me, 
 
 She fondly caressed, 
 And then I fell gently 
 
 To sleep on her breast, — 
 Deeply to sleep 
 
 From the heaven of her breast. 
 
 When the light was extinguished, 
 
 She covered me warm. 
 And she prayed to the angels 
 
 To keep me from harm, — 
 To the queen of the angels 
 
 To shield me from harm. 
 
 And I lie so composedly 
 
 Now in my bed, 
 (Knowing her love,) 
 
 That you fancy me dead ; — 
 And I rest so contentedly 
 
 Now in my bed, 
 (With her love at my breast,) 
 
 That you fancy me dead, — 
 That you shudder to look at me, 
 
 Thinking me dead : 
 
 But my heart it is brighter 
 
 Than all of the many 
 Stars in the sky ; 
 
 For it sparkles with Aunie, — 
 It glows «-ith the light 
 
 Of the love of my Annie, 
 With the thought of the light 
 
 Of the eyes of my Annie. 
 
 EDGAR Allan PoF- 
 
 THE LYKE-WAKE DIRGE. 
 
 AN ANCIENT FUNERAL CHANT OF THE " .NORTH COU.VTRV, 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 
 
 Every nighte and alle : 
 Fire and fleet and candle-light. 
 
 And Christe receive thy saule. 
 
 When thou from hence away art paste, 
 Eveiy nighte and alle :
 
 J^ 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 299 
 
 To Whinny-muir thou comes at lastc, 
 And C'hriste receive thy sauh'. 
 
 If ever thou gave eitlier hosen or shoon, 
 
 Every iiiglite and alle ; 
 Sit thee down and jiut them on, 
 
 And Christe receive thy saule. 
 
 But if hosen or shoou thou never gave neean, 
 
 Eveiy nighte and alle : 
 The whiuues shall prick thee to the hare beean, 
 
 And Christe receive thy saule. 
 
 From Whinuy-muir when thou may passe, 
 
 Every nighte and alle : 
 To Urig o' Dread thou comes at laste, 
 
 And Christe receive thy saule. 
 
 From Brig o' Dread when thou art paste, 
 
 Eveiy nighte and alle : 
 To Purgatory Fire thou comes at laste, 
 
 An<l Christe receive thy saule. 
 
 If ever thou gave either meat or drinke, 
 
 Every nighte and alle : 
 The fire shall never make thee shrinke. 
 
 And Christe receive thy saule. 
 
 But if milke or driuke thou never gave neean, 
 
 Every nighte and alle : 
 
 The fire shall burn thee to the bare heean, 
 
 And Christe receive thy saule. 
 
 Anonvmous. 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 The face which, duly as the sun. 
 Rose up for me with life begun. 
 To mark all bright hours of the day 
 With hourly love, is dimmed away, — 
 And yet my days go on, go on. 
 
 The tongue which, like a stream, could nm 
 Smooth music from the roughest stone. 
 And every morning with "Good day " 
 Make each day good, is hushed away, — 
 And yet my days go on, go on. 
 
 The heart which, like a staff, was one 
 For mine to lean and rest upon, 
 The strongest on the longest day 
 With steadfast love, is caught away, — 
 And yet my days go on, go on. 
 
 And cold before my summer 's done. 
 And deaf in Nature's general tune, 
 And fallen too low for special fear. 
 And here, with hope no longer here, — 
 While the teais drop, my days go on. 
 
 The world goes whispering to its own, 
 " This anguish pierces to the bone " ; 
 And tender friends go sighing round, 
 " WTiat love can ever cure this wound ? " 
 My days go on, my days go on. 
 
 The past rolls forward on the sun 
 And makes all night. O dreams begun, 
 Not to be ended ! Ended bliss, 
 And life that will not end in this ! 
 My days go on, my days go on. 
 
 Breath freezes on my lips to moan : 
 As one alone, once not alone, 
 1 sit and knock at Nature's door, 
 Heartbare, heart-hungry, very poor, 
 WHiose desolate days go on. 
 
 I knock and cry, — Undone, undone ! 
 Is there no help, no comfort, — none ? 
 No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains 
 Where others drive their loaded wains ? 
 My vacant days go on, go on. 
 
 This Nature, though the snows be down. 
 Thinks kindly of the bird of June : 
 The little red hip on the tree 
 Is ripe for such. What is for me, 
 Whose days so winterly go on ? 
 
 No bird am I, to sing in June, 
 And dare not ask an equal boon. 
 Good nests and berries red are Nature's 
 To give away to better creatures, — 
 And yet my days go on, go on. 
 
 / ask less kindness to be done, — 
 Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon, 
 (Too early worn and grimed) with sweet 
 Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, 
 Till days go out which now go on. 
 
 From gracious Natui'e have 1 won 
 Such liberal bounty ? may I run 
 So, lizard-like, within her side. 
 And there be safe, who now am tried 
 By days that painfully go on ? 
 
 — A Voice reproves me thereupon. 
 
 More sweet than Nature's when the drone 
 
 Of bees is sweetest, and more deep 
 
 Than when the rivers overleap 
 
 The shuddering pines, and thunder on. 
 
 God's Voice, not Nature's. Night and noon 
 
 He sits upon the great white throne 
 And listens for the creatures' praise. 
 What babble we of days and days > 
 The Day-spring he, whose days go on.
 
 -f 
 
 4- 
 
 300 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 He reigns above, he reigns alone ; 
 Systems burn out and leave his throne : 
 Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall 
 Around him, changeless amid all, — 
 Ancient of Days, whose days go on. 
 
 He reigns below, he reigns alone, 
 And, having life in love foregone 
 I'eneath the crown of sovran thorns. 
 He reigns the jealous God. Wlio mourns 
 Or rules with him, while days go on ? 
 
 By anguish which made pale the sun, 
 1 hear him charge his saints that none 
 Among his creatures anywhere 
 Blaspheme against him with despair, 
 However darkly days go on. 
 
 Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown ! 
 No mortal grief deserves that crown. 
 
 supreme Love, chief Misery, 
 The sharp regalia are for Thei, 
 Whose days eternally go on ! 
 
 For us, — whatever 's undergone. 
 Thou knowest, wiliest what is done. 
 Grief may be joy misunderstood ; 
 Only the Good discerns the good, 
 
 1 trust thee while my days go on. 
 
 Whatever 's lost, it first was won : 
 
 We will not struggle nor impugn. 
 
 Perhaps the cup was broken here. 
 
 That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. 
 
 I praise thee while my days go on. 
 
 I praise thee while my days go on ; 
 
 I love thee while my days go on ; 
 
 Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, 
 
 With emptied arms and treasure lost, 
 
 I thank thee while my days go on. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 THE FAraEST THING IN MORTAL EYES. 
 
 [Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age 
 of twenty-two.] 
 
 To make my lady's obsequies 
 
 My love a minster wrought, 
 And, in the chantry, service there 
 
 Was sung by doleful thought ; 
 The tapers were of burning sighs, 
 
 That light and odor gave : 
 And sorrows, painted o'ei' with tears, 
 
 Enluminfed her grave ; 
 
 And round about, in quaintest guise. 
 
 Was carved : " Within this tomb there lies 
 
 The fairest thing in mortal eyes." 
 
 Above her lieth spread a tomb 
 
 Of gold and sapphires blue : 
 The gold doth show her blessedness. 
 
 The sapphires mark her true ; 
 For blessedness and truth in her 
 
 Were livelily portrayed, 
 When gracious God with both his hands 
 
 Her goodly substance made. 
 He framed her in such wondrous wise. 
 She was, to speak without disguise, 
 The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 
 
 No more, no more ! my heart doth faint 
 
 When I the life recall 
 Of her who lived so free from taint, 
 
 So virtuous deemed by all, — 
 
 That in herself was so complete 
 
 I think that she was ta'en 
 By God to deck his paradise. 
 
 And with his saints to reign ; 
 Whom while on earth eiicli one did prize 
 The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 
 
 But naught our tears avail, or cries ; 
 
 All soon or late in death shall sleep ; 
 
 Nor living wight long time may keep 
 The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 
 
 From the French of CHARLES DUKE OF ORLEANS. 
 
 by HENRY FRANCIS CARY 
 
 DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 Underneath the sod low-lying. 
 
 Dark and drear, 
 Sleepeth one who left, in dying. 
 
 Sorrow here. 
 
 Yes, they 're ever bending o'er her 
 
 Eyes that weep ; 
 Forms, that to the cold grave bore her, 
 
 Vigils keep. 
 
 When the summer moon is shining 
 
 Soft and fair. 
 Friends she loved in tears are twining 
 
 Chaplets there. 
 
 Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit. 
 
 Throned above, — 
 Souls like thine with God inherit 
 
 Life and love ! 
 
 JAMES T. Fields
 
 
 \ 
 
 1 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 < 
 
 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 301 
 
 
 
 FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT 0' THE SUN. 
 
 SIC VITA. 
 
 
 
 FROM ■CVMBELINE." 
 
 Like to the falling of a star. 
 
 
 
 Feak no more the heat o' the sun, 
 
 Or a.s the flights of eagles are. 
 
 
 
 Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
 
 Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
 
 
 
 Tliou thy worldly task hast done, 
 
 Or silver drops of morning dew. 
 
 
 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : 
 
 Or like a wind that chafes tlie tlood. 
 
 
 
 Golden lads and girls all must. 
 
 Or bubbles wliich on water stood, — 
 
 
 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 
 E'en such is man, whose borrowed light 
 Is straight called in, and paid to-night. 
 The wind blows out, the bublile dies. 
 
 
 
 Fear no more the frown o' the gieat. 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
 Care no more to clothe, and eat ; 
 
 
 
 
 The spring entombed in autumn lies. 
 
 
 
 The dew dries up, the star is shot. 
 
 
 
 To thee the reed is as the oak : 
 
 The flight is past, — ami man forgot ! 
 
 
 
 The scepter, learning, physic, must 
 
 Henr^' King, 
 
 
 
 All follow this and come to dust. 
 Fear no more the lightning flash 
 
 
 
 
 0, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE 
 
 
 
 Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 
 
 PROUD? 
 
 
 
 Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
 
 [The following poem w.is a particular favorite with Abraham Lin- 
 
 
 
 Thou hast finished joy and moan : 
 
 coln, It was first shown to him when A young man by a friend, and 
 afterwards he cut it from a newspaper and learneii it by heart. 
 
 
 
 All lovers young, all lovers must 
 
 He said to a friend. " I would give a great deal to know who wrote 
 
 
 
 Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
 
 it, but have never been able to ascertain." He was told, in 1864.1 
 
 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be ]irouil ' 
 
 
 
 
 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Man passes from life to his rest in (lie grave. 
 
 
 
 DEATH THE LEVELEE. 
 
 
 
 
 fThese verses are said to have " chilled the heart " of Oliver 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
 
 
 
 Cromwell.] 
 
 Be scattered around and together be laid ; 
 
 
 
 The glories of our birth and state 
 
 And the young and the old, and the low and the 
 high. 
 
 
 
 Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
 
 
 
 There is no armor against fate, — 
 
 Shall molder to dust and together shall lie. 
 
 
 
 Death lays his icy hand on kings ; 
 Scepter and crown 
 Must tumble down. 
 
 The infant a mother attended and loved. 
 
 
 
 The mother that infant's aflection who proved ; 
 
 
 
 And in the dust be equal made 
 
 With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
 
 The husband that mother and infant who blessed. 
 
 
 
 Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 
 
 
 
 
 The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in 
 
 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the field. 
 
 whose eye. 
 
 
 
 And plant fresh laurels wliere they kill ; 
 
 Shone beauty and pleasure, — hertriumphsareby; 
 
 
 
 But their strong nerves at last must yield, — 
 
 And the memory of those who loved her and prai.sed, 
 
 
 
 They tame but one another still ; 
 
 Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 
 
 
 
 Early or late 
 
 
 
 
 They stoop to fate. 
 
 The hand of the king that the .scepter hath borne. 
 
 
 
 And must give u]> their murmuring breath. 
 
 The brow of the priest that the miter hiith worn. 
 
 
 
 When they, pale captives, creep to death. 
 
 The eye of the sage, and the heart of the biave, 
 Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 
 
 
 
 The garlands wither on your brow, — 
 
 
 
 
 Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
 
 The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap. 
 
 
 
 Upon death's purple altar, now 
 
 The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the 
 
 
 
 See where the victor victim bleeds ! 
 
 steep. 
 
 
 
 All heads must come 
 
 The beggar who wandered in gearch of his bread, 
 
 
 
 To the cold tomb, — 
 
 Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 
 
 
 
 Only the actions of the just 
 
 
 
 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 
 
 The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven. 
 
 
 
 James Shirley. 
 
 The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven. 
 
 '^ 
 
 ( 
 
 
 ^ I 
 
 * 

 
 The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
 Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 
 
 So the multitude goes, like the Hower and the weed 
 That mther away to let otliers succeed ; 
 So the multitude comes, even those we behold, 
 To repeat every tale that has often been told. 
 
 Kor we are the same that our fathers have been ; 
 We .see the same sights that our fathers have seen, — 
 We drink the same stream and view the same sun, 
 And ran the same course that our fathers have run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would 
 
 think ; 
 From the death we are shrinking from, they too 
 
 would shrink. 
 To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling ; 
 But it speeds from the earth, like a bird on the wing. 
 
 They loved, but their story we cannot unfold ; 
 They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 
 They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers 
 
 will come ; 
 Thay joyed, but the voice of their gladness is 
 
 dumb. 
 
 They died, — ay ! they died : and we things that 
 
 are now, 
 ■Wlio walk on the tiu'f that lies over their brow, 
 Wio make in tlieir dwelling a transient abode. 
 Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage 
 
 road. 
 
 Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain. 
 Are mingled together in sunshine and rain ; 
 And the smile and the tear, the song and the 
 
 dirge, 
 Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 
 
 'T is the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of abreath, 
 From the blossom of health to the palenessof death. 
 From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — 
 0, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 
 William Knox. 
 
 VIRTUE IMMORTAL. 
 
 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. 
 The bridall of the earth and skie : 
 The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
 For thou must die. 
 
 Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
 Thy root is ever in its gi'ave. 
 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, 
 A box where sweets compacted lie. 
 Thy musick shows ye have your closes, 
 And all must die. 
 
 Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, 
 Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
 But, though the whole world turn to coal. 
 Then chiefly lives. 
 
 George Herbert, 
 
 MAN'S MORTALITY. 
 
 Like as the damask rose you see. 
 
 Or like the lilossom on the tree. 
 
 Or like the dainty flower in May, 
 
 Or like the morning of the day. 
 
 Or like the sun, or like the shade. 
 
 Or like the gourd which Jonas hiid, — 
 
 E'en such is man ; whose thread is spun, 
 
 Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. — 
 
 The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 
 
 The flower fades, the morning hasteth. 
 
 The sun sets, the shadow flies. 
 
 The gourd consumes, — and man he dies ! 
 
 Like to the gi-ass that 's newly sprung, 
 Or like a tale that 's new begun. 
 Or like the bird that 's here to-day, 
 Or like the pearlfed 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 gi'ass 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 
 
 IF THOU WILT EASE THINE HEART. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 If thou wilt ease thine heart 
 Of love, and all its smart, — 
 Then sleep, dear, sleep ! 
 And not a sorrow 
 
 Hang auy tear on your eyelashes ; 
 
 Lie still and deep. 
 Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes 
 The rim o' the sun to-morrow, 
 In eastern sky. 
 
 But wilt thou cure thine heart 
 Of love, and all its smart, — 
 
 Then die, dear, die ! 
 'T is deeper, sweeter, 
 
 4
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 303 
 
 -I- 
 
 Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming 
 
 ■\Vith folded eye ; 
 And then alone, amid the beaming 
 Of love's stai-s, thou 'It meet her 
 
 In eastem sky. 
 
 THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 FROM "THE GIAOUR." 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
 Ere the first day of death is fled, 
 The fii-st dark day of nothingness, 
 The last of danger and distress, 
 ( Before Decay's effacing fingers 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingei'S,) 
 And marked the mild angelic air. 
 The rapture of repose, that 's there. 
 The fixed yet tender traits that streak 
 The languor of the placid cheek, 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow. 
 Where cold Obstruction's apathy 
 Appalls the gazing mourner's heart. 
 As if to him it could impart 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
 Yes, but for these and these alone, 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour. 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
 So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, 
 The first, last look by death revealed ! 
 Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
 'T is Greece, but living Greece no more ! 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 
 We start, for soul is wanting there. 
 Hers is the loveliness in death, 
 That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
 But beauty with that fearful bloom. 
 That hue which haunts it to the tomb. 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 A gilded halo hovering round decay. 
 The farewell beam of Feeling past away ; 
 Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. 
 Which gleams, but warms no more its cheri-shed 
 earth ! 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 THE DIRGE. 
 
 What is the existence of man's life 
 
 But open war, or slumbered strife ? 
 
 Where sickness to his sense presents 
 
 The combat of the elements ; 
 
 And never feels a perfect peace, 
 
 Till Death's cold hand signs his release 1 
 
 It is a stonn — where the hot blood 
 Outvies in rage the boiling flood ; 
 And each loud passion of the mind 
 Is like a furious gust of wind, 
 Which beats his bark with many a wave. 
 Till he casts anchor in the grave. 
 
 It is a flower — which buds and grows 
 And withere as the leaves disclose ; 
 Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep. 
 Like fits of waking before sleep ; 
 Then shrinks into that fatal mold 
 Where its first being was enrolled. 
 
 It is a dream — whose seeming truth 
 Is moralized in age and youth ; 
 Where all the comforts he can share 
 As wandering as his fancies are ; 
 Till in the mist of dark decay 
 The dreamer vanish quite away. 
 
 It is a dial — which points out 
 The sunset as it moves about ; 
 And shadows out in lines of night 
 The subtle stages of Time's flight. 
 Till all-obscuring earth hath laid 
 The body in perpetual shade. 
 
 It is a weary interlude — 
 Which doth short joys, long woes, include ; 
 The world the stage, the prologue tears, 
 The acts vain hopes and varied fears ; 
 The scene .shuts up with loss of breath. 
 And leaves no epilogue but death. 
 
 ■ HENRY KING. 
 
 THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S GRAVE. 
 
 Husband and wife ! no converse now ye hold. 
 As once ye did in your young days of love. 
 On its alai-ms, its anxious hours, delays. 
 Its silent meditations and glad hopes. 
 Its fears, impatience, qmet sympathies ; 
 \or do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss 
 Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares 
 Call 5'ou not now together. Earnest talk 
 On what your children may be moves you not. 
 Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence ; 
 Not like to that in which ye rested once 
 Most happy, — silence eloquent, when heart 
 With heart held speech, and your mysterious 
 
 frames. 
 Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat 
 Touched the soft notes of love. 
 
 A stillness deep. 
 Insensible, unheeding, folds you round. 
 And darkness, as a stone, baa sealed you in ;
 
 304 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 Away from all the living, here ye rest, 
 In all the nearness of the naiTOW tomb, 
 Yet feel ye not each other's presence now ; — 
 Dread fellowship ! — together, yet alone. 
 
 Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then. Love? 
 And doth dcatli cancel the great bond that holds 
 ( 'ommingling spirits ? Are thoughts that know 
 
 no bounds, 
 But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
 The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought, — 
 Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? — 
 Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms 
 Of uncreated light have visited, and lived ? — 
 Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne 
 Wliich One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh 
 Lifting that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed 
 In glory ? — throne before which even now 
 Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down 
 Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? — 
 Souls that thee know by a mysterious sense. 
 Thou awful unseen Presence, — are they ipienched ' 
 Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
 By that bright day which ends not ; as the sun 
 His robe of light flings round the glittering stars ? 
 
 And do our loves all perish witli our frames ? 1 
 Do those that took their root and i)ut forth buds, 
 And then soft leaves unfolded in the warmth 
 Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, 
 Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers ? 
 Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give 
 
 speech. 
 And make it send forth wintiing harmonies, 
 Tliat to the cheek do give its living glow, 
 Ami vision in the eye the soul intense 
 ■\Vith that for which there is no utterance, — 
 Are these the body's accidents, no more '! 
 To live in it, and when that dies go out 
 Like the burnt taper's flame ? 
 
 listen, man ! 
 A voice within us speaks the startling word, 
 " Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices 
 Hymn it around our souls ; according harps. 
 By angel fingers touched when the mild stars 
 Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
 Tlie song of our great immortality ; 
 Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
 The tall, dark mountains and the deep-toned seas, 
 Join in this solemn, universal song. 
 
 listen, ye, our spirits ! drink it in 
 From all the air ! 'T is in the gentle moonlight ; 
 Is floating in day's setting glories ; Night, 
 Wrapped in her sable rohe, with silent step 
 Comes to our bed and breathes it in our eai-s ; — 
 Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful 
 
 eve, 
 All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 
 As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 
 
 By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
 Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
 The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth 
 Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
 To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 
 
 Why is it that I linger round this tomb ? 
 What holds it ? Dust that cumbered those I 
 
 mourn. 
 They shook it off', and laid aside earth's robes. 
 And put on those of light. They 're gone to dwell 
 In love, — their God's and angels' ! Mutual love, 
 That bound them here, no longer needs a speech 
 For full communion ; nor sensations .strong. 
 Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain 
 To be .set free, and meet their kind in joy. 
 Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each 
 By natures new impart themselves, though silent. 
 Each quickening sense, each throb of holy love, 
 Afl'ections sanctified, and the full glow 
 01 being, which expand and gladden one. 
 By union all mysterious, thrill and live 
 In lioth immortal frames ; — sensation all, 
 .\nd thought, pervading, mingling sense and 
 
 thought ! 
 Ye paired, yet one ! wrapt in a consciousness 
 Twofold, yet single, — this is love, this life ! 
 Why call we, then, the square-built monument. 
 The upright column, and the low-laid slab 
 Tokens of death, memorials of decay'? 
 Stand in this solemn, stiU assembly, man, 
 And learn thy proper nature ; for thou seest 
 In these shaped stones and lettered tables figures 
 Of life. Then be they to thy soul as those 
 Which he who talked on Sinai's mount with God 
 Brought to the old Judeans, — types are these 
 Of thine eternity. 
 
 I thank thee. Father, 
 That at this simple grave on which the dawai 
 Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath 
 No close, th«u kindly unto my dark mind 
 Hast sent a .sacred light, and that away 
 From this green hillock, whither I liad come 
 In sorrow, thou art leading me in joy. 
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 
 
 THE ENDS OF LIFE. 
 
 A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, 
 
 A beauty fading like the April flowers, 
 
 A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined, 
 
 A pl»asure passing ere in thought made ours. 
 
 An honor that more fickle is than wind, 
 
 A glory at opinion's frown that lowei's, 
 
 A treasury which bankrupt time devours, 
 
 A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind, 
 
 A vain delight our equals to command,
 
 J.^ 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 ( 
 
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 305 
 
 
 A style of gi-eatness, in etVect a dream, 
 
 The willow hangs with slieltering grace 
 
 
 A swelling thought of holding sea and land, 
 
 And benediction o'er their sod, 
 
 
 A servile lot, decked with a pompous name, — 
 
 And Nature, hushed, assures the soul 
 
 
 Are the strange ends we toil for here below. 
 
 They rest in God. 
 
 
 Till wisest death make us our errors know. 
 
 
 
 WlLLEAM DRUMMONU 
 
 weary hearts, what rest is here. 
 
 From all that curses yonder town ! 
 So deep the peace, I almost long 
 
 
 
 
 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 To lay me down. 
 
 
 They grew in beauty, side by side, 
 
 For, 0, it will lie blest to sleep, 
 
 
 They filled one home with glee ; — 
 
 Nor dream, nor move, that silent night, 
 
 
 Their graves are severed far and wide. 
 
 Till wakened in immoi-tal strength 
 
 
 By mount and stream and sea. 
 
 And heavenly light ! 
 
 Crammond Kennedy. 
 
 
 The same fond mother bent at night 
 O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 She had each folded flower in sight, — 
 
 GOD'S-ACRE. 
 
 
 Where are those dreamers now ? 
 
 I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls 
 
 
 One midst the forest of the West, 
 
 The burial-ground God's- Acre ! It is just; 
 
 
 By a dark stream is laid, — 
 
 It consecrates each grave within its walls, 
 
 
 The Indian knows his place of rest. 
 
 And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 
 
 
 Far in the cedar shade. 
 
 God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
 
 
 The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, — 
 
 Comfort to those who in the grave have sown 
 
 
 He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
 
 Tlie seed that they had garnered in their hearts, 
 
 
 Me was the loved of all, yet none 
 
 Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 
 
 
 O'er his low bed may weep. 
 
 Into its furrows shall we all be cast. 
 
 
 One sleeps where Southern vines are drest. 
 
 In the sure faith that we shall rise again 
 
 
 Above the noble slain ; 
 
 At the gi-eat harvest, when the archangel's blast 
 
 
 He wrajit his colors round his breast 
 
 Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and giain. 
 
 
 On a blood-red field of Spain. 
 
 Then .shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 
 
 
 And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
 
 In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 
 
 
 Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 
 
 And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 
 
 
 She faded midst Italian flowers, — 
 
 With that of flowers which never bloomed on 
 
 
 The last of that bright band. 
 
 earth. 
 
 
 And parted thus they rest, who played 
 Beneath the same green tree ; 
 
 With thy rude plowshare. Death, turn up the .sod. 
 
 And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 
 This is the field and Acre of our God, 
 
 
 Whose voices mingled as they prayed 
 Around one parent knee ! 
 
 This is the place where human harvests glow I 
 
 
 HENRV WADSWORTri LONGFELLOW. 
 
 
 They that with smiles lit up the hall. 
 And cheered with song the hearth — 
 
 
 
 
 
 Ala.s ! for love, if thxm wert all. 
 
 THE OLD BURYING-GROUND. 
 
 
 And naught beyond, earth ! 
 
 
 
 Felicia Hemans. 
 
 Plumed ranks of tall wild-cherry 
 
 And birch surround 
 The half-hid, solitary 
 
 
 
 
 GREENWOOD CEMETERY. 
 
 Old burying-ground. 
 
 
 How calm they .sleep beneath the shade 
 
 All the low wall is crumbled 
 
 
 Who once were weary of the strife. 
 
 And overgrown. 
 
 
 And bent, like us, beneath the load 
 
 And in the turf lies tunibliMl 
 
 
 Of human life ! 
 
 Stone upon stone. 
 
 \
 
 u 
 
 306 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 Ouly the school-boy, scrambling 
 
 After his arrow 
 Or lost ball, — searching, trampling 
 
 Tlie tufts of yarrow, 
 
 Of milkweed and slim mullein, — 
 
 The place disturbs ; 
 Or bowed wise-woman, culling 
 
 Her magic herbs. 
 
 No more the melancholy 
 
 Dark trains draw near ; 
 The dead possess it wholly 
 
 This many a year. 
 
 The headstones lean, winds whistle, 
 
 The long grass waves, 
 Rank grow the dock and thistle 
 
 Over the graves ; 
 
 And all is waste, deserted, 
 
 And drear, as tliough 
 Even the gliosts departed 
 
 Long years ago ! 
 
 The sciuirrels start forth and chatter 
 
 To see me pass ; 
 Grasshoppers leap and patter 
 
 In the dry grass. 
 
 I hear the drowsy drumming 
 
 Of woodpeckers, 
 And suddenly at my coming 
 
 The quick gi-ouse whirs. 
 
 Untouched through all mutation 
 
 Of times and skies, 
 A bygone generation 
 Around me lies ; 
 
 Of high and low condition, 
 
 Just and unjust, 
 Th» patient and physician. 
 
 All turned to dust. 
 
 Suns, snows, drouth, cold, birds, blossoms, 
 
 Visit the spot ; 
 Rains drench the quiet bosoms 
 
 Which heed them not. 
 
 Under an aged willow. 
 
 The earth my bed, 
 A mossy mound my pillow, 
 
 I lean my head. 
 
 Babe of this mother, dying 
 
 A fresh young bride, 
 Tltat old, old man is lying 
 
 Here by her side ! 
 
 I muse : above me hovers 
 
 A haze of dreams : 
 Bright maids and laughing lovers, 
 
 Life's morning gleams ; 
 
 The past with all its passions, 
 
 Its toils and wiles. 
 Its ancient follies, fashions. 
 
 And teal's and smiles ; 
 
 With thirsts and fever-rages, 
 
 And ceaseless pains. 
 Hoarding as for the ages 
 
 Its little gains ! 
 
 Fair lives that bloom and wither, 
 
 Their summer done ; 
 Loved fonns with heart-break hither 
 
 Borne one by one. 
 
 Wife, husband, child, and mother. 
 
 Now reck no more 
 Which mourned on earth the other. 
 
 Or went before. 
 
 Tlie soul, risen from its embers, 
 
 In its blest state 
 Perchance not even remembers 
 
 Its earthly fate ; 
 
 Nor heeds, in the duration 
 
 Of spheres sublime. 
 This pebble of creation, 
 
 This wave of time. 
 
 For a swift moment only 
 
 Such dreams arise ; 
 Then, turning fi'om this lonely, 
 
 Tossed field, my eyes 
 
 Through clumps of whortleberry 
 
 And brier look down 
 Toward yonder cemetery. 
 
 And modern town. 
 
 Where still men build, and marry. 
 
 And strive, and mourn. 
 
 And now the dark pall carry. 
 
 And now arc borne. 
 
 John T. TfowBRiDCE, 
 
 ELEOY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHTTRCH- 
 YARD. 
 
 The curfew tolls the kneU of parting day ; 
 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 
 The plowman homeward plods his weary way. 
 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
 
 GOD'S-ACRE. 
 
 ■•/ like that ancient Saxon pltyasc -<vhicli calls 
 The burial-ground God's-Acre! It a just .- 
 ft consecrates each grave -.oithin its -.calls. ^ 
 
 And breathes a benis.>n e'er the sUef'i dust.
 
 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 
 
 307 
 
 4 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the siglit, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning lliglit, 
 And drowsy tiuklings lull the distant folds ; 
 
 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near Iier secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 
 
 [Hark ! how the holy calm that breathes around 
 Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease ; 
 
 In still small accents whispering from the ground 
 The grateful earnest of eternal peace.] * 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a moldering 
 heap. 
 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built 
 shed. 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield '. 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 
 stroke ! 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. 
 
 Await alike the inevitable hour ; 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
 If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
 
 Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
 vault, 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn, or animated bu.st. 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
 Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 
 
 Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 
 
 • Removed by the author from the original poeiii. 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
 
 Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; 
 
 But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
 ! Rich witli the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 
 t'hill penury repressed their noble rage. 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem of jiurest ray serene 
 
 The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
 And w;iste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless 
 breast, 
 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
 Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's Ijlood. 
 
 The applause of listening senates to command. 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes. 
 
 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
 Their gi'owingvirtues, buttheircrimesconfined : 
 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
 To nuench the blushes of ingeimous shame, 
 
 Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
 With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
 Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
 
 Along the cool, se<iuestered vale of life 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
 decked. 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the unletteied 
 muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 
 This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 
 
 On some fond I)reast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
 
 X 
 
 308 
 
 PoKAia OF SORROIV AND DEATH. 
 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, wlio, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
 
 If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : — 
 " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the ilews away. 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
 That wreathes its old, lantastic roots so high. 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 ' ' Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
 Muttering his wajnvard fancies, he would rove ; 
 
 Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 
 
 "One morn I missed him on the customed hill. 
 Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 
 
 .\nother came, — nor yet beside the rill. 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the w'ood was he ; 
 
 ' ' The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 
 Slow through the church-way path we saw him 
 borne ; — 
 
 .•\ pproach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
 Ciraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. " 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
 
 A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 
 Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, 
 
 And melancholy marked him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 
 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 
 He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 
 
 He gained from heaven ('t was all he wished) a 
 friend. 
 
 No fuither seek his merits to disclose. 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, — 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 THOMAS GRA^". 
 
 INSCRIPTIOK ON MELROSE ABBEY. 
 
 The earth goes on the earth glittering in gold, 
 The earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold ; 
 The earth builds on the earth castles and towers, 
 The earth says to the earth — All this is oui's. 
 
 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 To him who, \'i the love of Nature, holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language : for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
 Into his darker musings with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals away 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, 
 Go forth under the open sky, and list 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
 Comes a still voice: — Yet a few days, and thee 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. 
 Nor ui the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 Thyimage. Earth, that nourished thee, shallclaim 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 To mix forever with the elements ; 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
 .\nd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thnu retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
 With patriarchsof the infantworld, — with kings. 
 The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good, 
 Fail- forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
 All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills. 
 Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 The venerable woods : rivers that move 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 
 That make the meadows green ; and, poured round 
 
 all. 
 Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 Of the gi-eat tomb of man ! The golden sun, 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
 Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 ^\'^lere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
 Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are there ! 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first
 
 ■♦Hl-^ 
 
 nKUKAVEMESi AM) DKATII. 
 
 309 
 
 TIic flight of years began, have laid them down 
 111 their last sleep, — the dead reign thi^re alone ! 
 So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw 
 In silence from the living, and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
 \\' hen thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 I'lod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
 His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall 
 
 come 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
 0{ ages glide away, the sons of men — 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
 111 the full strength of years, matron and maid. 
 The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — 
 Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side 
 By those who In their turn shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumei'able caravan that moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 
 
 soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLLN BRYANT. 
 
 THE COMMON LOT. 
 
 Once, in the flight of ages past. 
 
 There lived a Man ; — and who w.\.s he ? 
 — Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast. 
 
 That Man resembled thee. 
 
 Unknown the region of his birth, 
 
 The land in which he ilied unknown : 
 
 His name has perished from the earth. 
 This truth survives alone : — 
 
 That joy and grief, and hope and fear. 
 Alternate triumphed in his breast : 
 
 His bliss and woe — a smile, a tear ! 
 — Obli\'ion hides the rest. 
 
 The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 
 The changing spirit's rise and fall, — 
 
 AVe know that these were felt by him. 
 For these are felt hy all. 
 
 He suffered, — but his pangs are o'er ; 
 
 Enjoyed, — but his delights are fled ; 
 Had friends, — his friends are now no more ; 
 
 And foes, — his foes are dead. 
 
 He loved, — but whom he loved, the grave 
 Hath lost in its unconscious womb : 
 
 0, she was fair, — but naught could save 
 Her beauty from the tomb. 
 
 He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 
 
 Encountered all that troubles thee ; 
 He was — whatever thou hast been ; 
 
 He is — what thou shalt be. 
 
 The rolling seasons, day and night, 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 
 
 Erewhile his portion, life and liglit, 
 To him e.xist in vain. 
 
 The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
 That once their shades and glory threw. 
 
 Have left in yonder silent sky 
 No vestige where they flew. 
 
 The annals of the human race. 
 Their ruins, since the world began, 
 
 Of him afford no other trace 
 Than this, — There lived a max. 
 
 James Mon-tgomerv, 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCH- 
 YARD, YORKSHIRE. 
 
 " It is i;uod for u& to be here; it thou wilt, let us make liere 
 three tabernacles : one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for 
 Elias." — MaU. xvii. 4. 
 
 Methixks it is good to be here ; 
 If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom ? 
 
 Xor Elias nor Moses appear. 
 But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, 
 The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 
 
 Shall we build to Ambition ? O, no ! 
 Affrighted, he shrinketh away ; 
 
 For, see ! they would pin him below. 
 In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, 
 To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 
 
 To Beauty '! ah, no ! — she forgets 
 The charms which she wielded before — 
 
 Xor knows the foul wonn that he frets 
 The skin which hut yesterday fools coukl adore 
 For the smoothiiess it held, or the tint which it 
 
 Shall we build to the purple of Pride — 
 The trappings which dizen the proud .' 
 
 Alas 1 they are all laid aside ; 
 And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed. 
 But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the 
 shroud. 
 
 To Riches ? alas ! 't is in vain ; 
 Who hid, in their tuni have been hid :
 
 f 
 
 4- 
 
 310 
 
 POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH. 
 
 The treasures are squaudered again ; 
 And here in the grave arc all metals forbid, 
 But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid. 
 
 To the pleasures which Jlirth can att'ord, — 
 The revel, the laugh, and the jeer >. 
 
 Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
 Hut the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 
 And none but the worm is a reveler here. 
 
 Shall we build to All'ection and Love ? 
 Ah, no ! they have withered and died, 
 
 Or lied with the spirit above ; 
 Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, 
 Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 
 
 Unto Sorrow t — The dead cannot grieve ; 
 Not a sob, not a sigh meets mme ear, 
 
 Which compassion itself could relieve I 
 Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor 
 
 fear, — 
 Psace, peace is the watchword, the only one here ! 
 
 Lf nto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? 
 Ah, no ! for his empire is known, 
 
 And here there are tropliies enow ! 
 Beneath — the cold dead, and around — the dark 
 
 stone, 
 Are the signs of a scepter that none may disow n. 
 
 The first tabernacle to Hoj* we will build, 
 And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; 
 
 The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled ; 
 And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 
 AVho bcciucathed us them both when he rose to 
 the skies. 
 
 HERBERT KNOWLHS. 
 
 r 
 
 -r
 
 •^ 

 
 \ 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY. 
 
 [The poem De Contetnftit Mtiiiiii wa^ written in dactylic hcxain- 
 clcr Latin verse by Bernard de Morlaix, Monk of Cliini who lived 
 in the earlier half of the twelfth century. It contained three thou- 
 sand lines divided into three books. The poem commences: — 
 
 Hora novissinia. tempora pessima 
 
 Sunt, vigilemus. 
 Ecce niinaciter immiiict arbiter 
 
 llle supremus. 
 Imminet, iniminet et mala terminet. 
 
 .-Equa coronet. 
 Recta remuneret, anxia liberct. 
 
 .Ctliera donet. 
 .\uferat aspera duraquc pondcra 
 
 Mentes onustie 
 Sobria muniat, improba puniat, 
 
 Utraque juste. 
 
 ^V'hich ha\e been rendered : — 
 
 Hours of the latest 1 times of the basest! 
 
 Our vigil before us 1 
 Judgment etenial of Beintj supernal 
 
 Now hanging o'er us! 
 Evil to terminate, equity vindicate. 
 
 Cometh the Kingly ; 
 Righteousness seeing, anxious hearts freeing. 
 
 Crowning each singly. 
 Bearing life's weariness, tasting life's bitterness. 
 
 Life as it must be 
 Th' righteous retaining, sinners arraigning. 
 
 Judging all justly. 
 
 The translation following is of a portion of the poem distinguished 
 by the sub-title " LAUS PATRI^ CCELESTls." 
 
 The world is very evil, 
 
 The times are waxing late ; 
 Be sober and keep vigil, 
 
 The Judge is at the gate, — 
 The .Judge that comes in mercy. 
 
 The .ludge that comes with might. 
 To terminate the evil. 
 
 To diadem the right. 
 When the just and gentle Monarch 
 
 Shall summon from the tomb. 
 Let man, the guilty, tremble. 
 
 For Man, the God, shall doom J 
 
 Arise, arise, good Christian, 
 
 Let right to ^vrong succeed ; 
 I,et penitential sorrow 
 
 To heavenly gladness lead, — 
 To the light that hatli no evening, 
 
 That knows nor moon nor sun, 
 
 Tile light so new and golden, 
 The light that is but one. 
 
 And when the Sole-Begotten 
 
 Shall render up once more 
 The kingdom to the F.^THER, 
 
 Whose own it was before. 
 Then glory yet unheard of 
 
 Shall shed abroad its ray, 
 Resolving all enigmas. 
 
 An endless Sabbath-day. 
 
 For thee, dear, dear Country ! 
 
 Mine eyes their vigils keep ; 
 For very love, beholding 
 
 Thy happy name, tliey weep. 
 The mention of thy glory 
 
 Is unction to the breast. 
 And medicine in sickness. 
 
 And love, and life, and rest. 
 
 one, only Mansion ! 
 
 Paradise of Joy, 
 Where tears are ever banished. 
 
 And smiles have no alloy! 
 Beside thy living waters 
 
 All plants are, great and siii.ill. 
 The cedar of the forest. 
 
 The hyssop of the wall ; 
 With jaspers glow thy bulwarks. 
 
 Thy streets with emerald.s blaze. 
 The sardius and the topaz 
 
 Unite in thee their rays ; 
 Thine ageless walls are bonded 
 
 With amethyst unpriced ; 
 Thy Saints build up its fabric. 
 
 And the corner-stone is Cmiisr. 
 
 The Cross is all thy splendor. 
 
 The Crucified thy praise ; 
 His laud and benediction 
 
 Thy ransomed people raise : 
 "Jesus, the Gem of Beauty, 
 
 True God and Man," they sing, 
 "The never-failing Garden, 
 
 The ever-golden Ring ;
 
 J 
 
 
 
 
 n 
 
 _^^^_ . — 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 ;il2 POEMS UF 
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 
 
 The Door, the Pledge, tlie Husliaiid, i 
 
 Tlicie is the Throne of David, 
 
 
 
 The Guardian of his (.'oiut ; 
 
 And there, from care released, 
 
 
 
 The Day-star of Salvation, 
 
 The song of them that triumph. 
 
 
 
 The iVirter and the Poi-t ! " 
 
 The shout of them that feast ; 
 .\ud they who, with their Leader, 
 
 
 
 Tliou hast no shore, fair ocean ! 
 
 hiave conquered in the tight. 
 
 
 
 Thou hast no time, bright day ! 
 
 Ki irever and forever 
 
 
 
 Dear fountain of refreshment 
 
 .Are clad in robes of white '. 
 
 
 
 To pilgrims far away ! 
 
 
 
 
 I'pon the Rock of Agea 
 
 holy, placid harp-notes 
 
 
 
 They raise thy holy tower ; 
 
 Of that eternal hymn ! 
 
 
 
 Thine is the victor's laurel, 
 
 O sacred, sweet rellection. 
 
 
 
 And thine the golden dower ! 
 
 -Vnd peace of Seraphim '. 
 O thirst, forever ardent. 
 
 
 
 Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, 
 
 Yet evermore content ! 
 
 
 
 Bride that know'st no guile. 
 
 O ti'ue peculiar vision 
 
 
 
 The Prince's sweetest kisses. 
 
 Of Cod cunctijjotent ! 
 
 
 
 The Prince's loveliest snule ; 
 
 ■^'c know the many mansions 
 
 
 
 V iilading lilies, bracelets 
 
 Kor many a glorious name. 
 
 
 
 Of living pearl thine own ; 
 
 And divers retribution.-, 
 
 
 
 The Lamb is ever near thee. 
 
 That divers merits claim ; 
 
 
 
 The Bridegroom thine alone. 
 
 l'"or midst the constellations 
 
 
 
 The Crown is he to guerdon, 
 
 That deck our earthly sky. 
 
 
 
 The Buckler to protect, 
 
 This star than that is brighter — 
 And so it is on high. 
 
 
 
 And he himself the Mansion, 
 
 
 
 And he the Architect. 
 
 
 
 
 The only art thou needest — 
 Thanksgiving for thy lot ; 
 
 .Jerusalem the glorious 1 
 The glory of the Elect ! 
 
 
 
 The only joy thou seekest — 
 The Life where Death is not. 
 
 O dear and future vision 
 
 
 
 That eager hearts expect ! 
 
 
 
 And all thine endless leisure. 
 
 Kven now by faith I see tliee. 
 Even here thy walls discern ; 
 
 
 
 In sweetest accents, sings 
 
 
 
 
 The ill that was thy merit. 
 
 The wealth that is thy King's ! 
 
 To thee my thoughts are kindled. 
 
 
 
 And strive, and pant, and yearn. 
 
 
 
 Jerusalem the golden. 
 
 Jerusalem the only. 
 
 
 
 With milk and honey blest. 
 
 That look'st from heaven below, 
 
 
 
 Beneath thy contemplation 
 
 In thee is all my glory. 
 
 
 
 Sink heart and voice opjiressed. 
 
 In me is all my woe ; 
 
 
 
 I know not, I know not, 
 
 And though my body may not. 
 
 
 
 What social joys are there I 
 
 My spirit seeks thee fain. 
 
 
 
 What radiancy of glory. 
 
 Till flesh and earth return me 
 
 
 
 What light beyond compare ! 
 
 To earth and flesh again. 
 
 
 
 And when I fain would sing them. 
 
 none can tell thy bulwarks. 
 
 
 
 ily s|iirit fails and faints ; 
 
 How gloriously they rise ! 
 
 
 
 And vainly would it image 
 
 none can tell thy capitals 
 
 
 
 The assembly of the Saints. 
 
 Of beautiful device 1 
 Thy loveliness oppresses 
 
 
 
 They stand, those halls of Zion, 
 
 All human thought and heart ; 
 
 
 
 Conjubilaut with song, 
 
 And none, peace, Zion, 
 
 
 
 And bright with many an angel, 
 
 Can sing thee as thou art ! 
 
 
 
 And all the martyr throng ; 
 
 
 
 
 The Prince is ever in them. 
 
 New mansion of new people, 
 
 
 
 The daylight is serene ; 
 
 Whom God's own love and light 
 
 
 
 The pastures of the Blessed 
 
 Promote, increase, make holy, 
 
 
 
 Are decked in glorious sheen. 
 
 Identify, unite ! 
 
 ■
 
 4^ 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 313 
 
 Thou City of the Angels ! 
 
 Thou City of the Lojd ! 
 Whose everlasting music 
 
 Is the glorious (lecaihord ! 
 
 And there the band of Prophets 
 
 United praise ascribes, 
 And there the twelvefold chorus 
 
 (If Israel's ransomed tribes, 
 The lily-beds of virgins, 
 
 The roses' martyr-glow, 
 The cohort of the Fathers 
 
 ■Who kept the faith below. 
 
 And there the Sole-Begotten 
 
 Is Lord in regal state, — 
 He, Judah's mystic Lion, 
 
 He, Lamb Immaculate. 
 O fields that know uo sorrow ! 
 
 state that fears no strife ! 
 
 princely bowers ! laud of flowers ! 
 
 realm and home of Life ! 
 
 Jerusalem, exulting 
 On that securest shore, 
 
 1 hope thee, wish thee, sing tliee. 
 
 And love thee evermore ! 
 1 ask not for my merit, 
 
 1 seek not to deny 
 Jly merit is destruction, 
 
 A child of wrath am I ; 
 But yet with faith I venture 
 
 And hope upon my way ; 
 For those perennial guerdons 
 
 I labor night and day. 
 
 ■The best and dearest Fatiikii, 
 
 Who made me and who saved, 
 Unre witli mo in delilcment. 
 
 And from defilement laved, 
 Wlien in his strength I struggle, 
 
 For very joy I leap. 
 When in my sin I totter, 
 
 I weep, or trj' to weep : 
 Then gi'ace, sweet grace celestial, 
 
 Shall all its love display. 
 And David's Royal Fountain 
 
 Purge every sin away. 
 
 O mine, my golden Zion ! 
 
 lovelier far than gold, 
 With laurel-girt battalions, 
 
 And safe victorious fold ! 
 sweet and blessed Country, 
 
 Shall I ever see thy face ? 
 
 sweet and blessed Country, 
 Shall I ever win thy grace ? 
 
 1 have the hope within me 
 To comfort and to bless ! 
 
 Shall I ever win the prize itself ? 
 tell me, tell me. Yes ! 
 
 Exult ! dust and ashes ! 
 
 The Lord shall be thy part ; 
 His only, his forever. 
 
 Thou shalt be, and thou art ! 
 Exult, dust and ashes ! 
 
 The Lord shall be thy part ; 
 His only, his forever. 
 
 Thou shalt be, and thou art ! 
 
 Translated from the Latin of BERNARD DE MORLAIX. 
 
 by JOHN Mason Neale. 
 
 DIES IR^. 
 
 [A Latin poem by Thomas of Celano (a NeapoliUn villaRe). about A. D. 1=50. Perhaps no poem has been more frequently translated. 
 A German collector published eighty-seven versions in German. Dr. Coles, of Newark, N. J., has made thirteen. Seven are given in 
 the " Seven Great Hymns oi the Medieval Church," Randolph & Co.. N. Y. The vcrsionhere given preserves the measure of the 
 original.] 
 
 DIES IR/E. DIES ILLA. rfifJ tributationis el aitgustia, dies ca- THAT DAY, A DAY OF WRATH, a day 0/ trouble and distress, a 
 lantitatis et miseria, dies tenebrarunt et catizi*tis, dies nebula el day 0/ -wasleness and desolation, a day 0/ darkness and stootni- 
 turbinis, dies tuba et clangoris super civitatis munitas, et super ness, a day of clouets and thick darkness, a day 0/ the trumpet and 
 angiUosexeelsosl—Zo^\\osa<&\, 15, 16. alarm against the fenced cities, and against the high towers I — 
 
 Zephaniah i. 15, 16. 
 
 I. 
 
 Dies irs, dies ilia ! 
 Solvet saeclum in favilla, 
 Teste David cum Sybilla. 
 
 Day of vengeance, without morrow ! 
 Earth shall end in flame and sorrow, 
 As from Saint and Seer we borrow. 
 
 Quantus tremor eat futunis, 
 Quando Judex est venturus, 
 Cuncta stricte discussurus ! 
 
 Ah ! what terror is impending, 
 When the Judge is seen descending. 
 And each secret veil is rending ! 
 
 I 
 
 r
 
 314 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 Tuba mirum spargens aonum 
 Per sepulcra regionum, 
 Coget omnes ante thronum. 
 
 3. 
 
 To the throne, the trumpet sounding, 
 Through the sepulchers resounding. 
 Summons all, with voice astounding. 
 
 Mors stupebit, et natura, 
 Quum resurget creatura, 
 Judicanti responsura. 
 
 Liber scriptus proferetur, 
 In (juo totum continetur, 
 Unde mundus judicetur. 
 
 Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking. 
 When, the grave's long slumber breaking, 
 Man to judgment is awaking. 
 
 5. 
 
 On the written Volume's pages. 
 Life is shown in all its stages — 
 Judgment-record of past ages. 
 
 Judex ergo cum sedebit, 
 Quidquid latet, apparebit : 
 Nil inultum remanebit. 
 
 Quid sum, miser ! tunc dicturus, 
 Quem patronum rogaturus, 
 Quum vix Justus sit securus ? 
 
 Kex tremendfe majestatis. 
 Qui salvandos salvas gratis, 
 Salva me, fons pietatis ! 
 
 Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning, 
 Darkest mysteries explaining. 
 Nothing unavenged remaining. 
 
 7. 
 What shall I then say, unfriended. 
 By no advocate attended. 
 When the just are scarce defended ? 
 
 8. 
 
 King of majesty tremendous. 
 By thy saving grace defend us. 
 Fount of pity, safety send us ! 
 
 Kecordare, Jesu pie. 
 Quod sum causa tufe vise ; 
 Ne me perdas ilia die ! 
 
 Quaerens me, sedisti lassus, 
 Redemisti, crucem passus : 
 Tantus labor non sit cassus ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Juste Judex ultionis, 
 Donum fac remissionis 
 Ante diem rationis ! 
 
 Holy Jesu.s, meek, forbearing. 
 
 For my sins the death-crown wearing. 
 
 Save me, in that day, despairing ! 
 
 10. 
 
 Worn and weary, thou hast sought me ; 
 By thy cross and passion bought me — 
 Spare the hope thy labors brought me ! 
 
 11. 
 
 Righteous Judge of retribution, 
 Give, give me absolution 
 Ere the day of dissolution ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 lugemisco tanquam reus, 
 Culpa rubet vultus meus ; 
 Supplicanti parce, Deus ! 
 
 12. 
 
 As a guilty culprit groaning. 
 Flushed my face, my errors owning. 
 Hear, God, my spirit's moaning ! 
 
 Qui Mariam absolvisti, 
 Et lati-onem exaudisti, 
 Mihi quoque spem dedisti. 
 
 13. 
 
 Thou to Mary gav'st remission, 
 Heard'st the dying thief's petition, 
 Bad'st me hope in my contrition.
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 315 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Preces mca; non sunt dignae, 
 Sed tu Ixiuus fac benigne 
 Ne perenni cremer igue ! 
 
 Inter oves locum piasta, 
 Et ab hfedis me sequestra, 
 Statuens in parte dextra. 
 
 Confutatis maledictis, 
 Flammis acribus addictis, 
 Voca me cum benedictis ! 
 
 Oro supplex et acclinis, 
 Cor contritum quasi ciuis, 
 Gere curam mei finis ! 
 
 Lacrymosa dies ilia, 
 Qua resurget ex favilla 
 Judicandus homo reus ; 
 Huic ergo parce, Deus ! 
 
 Thomas a Celano. 
 
 14. 
 In my prayers no grace discerning, 
 Yet on nie thy favor turning, 
 Save my soul from endless burning ! 
 
 15. 
 Give me, when thy sheep confiding 
 Thou art from the goats dividing, 
 On thy right a place abiding ! 
 
 16. 
 
 When the wicked are confounded, 
 And by bitter flames surrounded. 
 Be my joyful pardon sounded ! 
 
 17. 
 
 Prostrate, all my guUt discerning, 
 Heart as though to ashes turning ; 
 Save, save me from the burning ! 
 
 18. 
 
 Day of weeping, when from ashes 
 Man shall rise mid Ughtning flashes, — 
 Guilty, trembling with contrition, 
 Save him. Father, from perdition ! 
 
 JOHN A. DIX. 
 
 STABAT MATER DOLOROSA. 
 
 [A Latin poem, written in the thirteenth century by Jacopone. a Franciscan friar, of Umbria. Of this and the two preceding poems 
 Dr. Neale says ; " The Vc ConUmptu is the most lovely, the DUs Ira the most sublime, and the Stabat Mater the most pathetic, of 
 medieval poems."] 
 
 Stabat Mater dolorosa 
 Juxta crucem lacrj-mosa, 
 
 Dum pendebat filius ; 
 Cujus animam gementem, 
 Contristatam et dolenteni, 
 
 Pertransivit gladius. 
 
 O quam tristis et afilicta, 
 Fuit ilia benedicta 
 
 Mater unigeniti, 
 Quae mcerebat et dolebat, 
 Pia mater, dum ridebat 
 
 Nati pcenas inclyti ! 
 
 Quis est homo qui non fleret, 
 Christi matrem si videret 
 
 In tanto supplicio ? 
 Quis non posset contristari 
 Piam matrem contemplari 
 
 Dolentem cum filio ? 
 
 1. 
 
 Stood the afflicted mother weeping. 
 Near the cross her station keejiing 
 
 'WTiereon hung her Son and Lord ; 
 Through whose spirit sympathizing. 
 Sorrowing and agonizing. 
 
 Also passed the cruel sword. 
 
 2. 
 Oh ! how mournful and distressed 
 Was that favored and most blessed 
 
 Mother of the only Son, 
 Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving. 
 While perceiving, scarce believing, 
 
 Pains of that Illustrious One ! 
 
 3. 
 
 Who the man, who, called a brother, 
 Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother 
 
 In such deep distress anil wild ? 
 Who could not sad tribute render 
 Witnessing that mother tender 
 
 Agonizing with her chDd ? 
 
 i-
 
 4- 
 
 316 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 Pro peccatis suse gentis, 
 Vidit Jesum in tormentis, 
 
 Et flagellis subditum. 
 Vidit suum dulcem natum, 
 Morientem, desolatum, 
 
 Dum emisit spiritum. 
 
 Eia mater, fons amoris, 
 Me sentire vim doloris 
 
 Fac, ut tecum lugeam. 
 Fac ut ardeat cor meum 
 In amando Christum Deuui, 
 
 Ut illi complaceam. 
 
 Sancta Mater, istud agas, 
 Crucifixi fige plagaa 
 
 Cordi meo valide. 
 Tui nati vuliierati, 
 Tam dignati pro me pati, 
 
 Pcenas mecum divide. 
 
 Fac me vere tecum flere, 
 Crucifixo condolere. 
 
 Donee ego vixero ; 
 Juxta crucem tecum stare, 
 Et tibi me sociare 
 
 In planctu desidero. 
 
 Virgo virginura prseclara, 
 Mihi jam non sis amara ; 
 
 Fac me tecum plangere; 
 Fac ut portem Christi mortem, 
 Passionis fac consortem, 
 
 Et plagas recolere. 
 
 4. 
 
 For his people's sins atoning, 
 Him she saw in torments groaning, 
 
 Given to the scourger's rod ; 
 Saw her darling offspring dying, 
 Desolate, forsaken, crying. 
 
 Yield his spirit up to God. 
 
 5. 
 
 Make me feel thy sorrow's power, 
 That with thee I tears may shower. 
 
 Tender mother, fount of love ! 
 Make my heart with love unceasing 
 Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing 
 
 1 may be to him above. 
 
 6. 
 
 Holy mother, this be granted. 
 
 That the slain one's wounds be planted 
 
 Firmly in my heart to bide. 
 Of him wounded, all a-stounded — 
 Depths unbounded for me sounded — 
 
 All the pangs with me divide. 
 
 7. 
 
 Make me weep with thee in union ; 
 With the Crucified, communion 
 
 In his grief and suffering give ; 
 Near the cross, with tears unfailing, 
 I would join thee in thy wailing 
 
 Here as long as I shall live. 
 
 8. 
 
 Maid of maidens, all excelling ! 
 Be not bitter, me repelling ; 
 
 Make thou me a mourner too ; 
 Make me bear about Christ's dying. 
 Share his passion, shame defying ; 
 
 All his wounds in me renew. 
 
 Fac me plagis vulnerari, 
 Cruce hac inebriari, 
 
 Et cruore filii ; 
 Inflammatus et accensus. 
 Per te, Virgo, sim defensus 
 
 In die judicii. 
 
 Woimd for wound be there created ; 
 With the cross intoxicated 
 
 For thy Son's dear sake, I pray — 
 May I, fired with pure affection, 
 Virgin, have through thee protection 
 
 In the solemn Judgment Day. 
 
 Fac me cruce custodiri, 
 Morte Christi prsmuniri, 
 
 Confoveri gratia. 
 Quando corpus morietur, 
 Fac ut animse donetur 
 
 Paradisi gloria. 
 
 Fra jacopone. 
 
 10. 
 
 Let me by the cross be warded, 
 By the death of Christ be guarded, 
 
 Nourished by divine supplies. 
 When the body death hath riven. 
 Grant that to the soul be given 
 
 Glories bright of Paradise. 
 
 ABRAHAM Coles.
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 317 
 
 VENI SANCTE SPIRITTJS. 
 
 (This hymn was written in the tenth century by Robert II.. the ncntle son ot Hugh Capet It is often mentioned as second In rank 
 to the Ihes Ira. \ 
 
 I. '• 
 
 Come, Holy Ghost ! thou fire divine ! 
 From highest heaven on us tlowTi shine ! 
 
 Veni, Sancte Spiritus, 
 Et emitte ccelitus 
 Lucis tuae radium. 
 
 Comforter, be thy comfort mine ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Veni, pater pauperum, 
 Veni, dator muuerimi, 
 Veni, lumen cordiuin. 
 
 2. 
 
 Come, Father of the poor, to earth ; 
 Come, with thy gifts of precious worth ; 
 Come, Light of all of mortal birth ! 
 
 Conaolator optime, 
 Dulcis hospes animse, 
 Dulce refrigeriiuu. 
 
 Thou rich in comfort ! Ever blest 
 The heart where thou art cou.stant guest, 
 Who giv'st the heavy-laden rest. 
 
 In labore requies, 
 In sestu temperies, 
 In fletu solatium. 
 
 4. 
 
 Come, thou in whom our toil is sweet. 
 Our shadow in the noon-day heat. 
 Before whom mourning flieth fleet. 
 
 O lux beatissima ! 
 Reple cordis intima, 
 Tuorum fidelium. 
 
 5. 
 
 Bright Sun of Grace ! thy sunshine dart 
 On all who cry to thee apart, 
 And fill with gladness every heart. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sine tuo numine, 
 Nihil est in homine. 
 Nihil est innoxium. 
 
 6. 
 
 Whate'er without thy aid is wrought, 
 Or skillful deed, or wisest thought, 
 God counts it vain and merely naught. 
 
 Lava quod est sordidum, 
 Riga quod est aridum, 
 Sana quod est saucium. 
 
 cleanse us that we sin no more, 
 O'er parchfed souls thy waters pour ; 
 Heal the sad heart that acheth sore. 
 
 Flecte quod est rigidum, 
 Fove quod est fiigidum, 
 Rege quod est devium. 
 
 Thy otU be ours in all our ways ; 
 melt the frozen with thy rays ; 
 Call home the lost in error's maze. 
 
 Da tuis fidelibus, 
 In te confidentibus. 
 Sacrum septenarium ; 
 
 9. 
 
 And grant us, Lord, who C17 to thee, 
 And hold the Faith in unity. 
 Thy precious gifts of charity ; 
 
 Da virtutis meritum, 
 Da salutis exitum. 
 Da perenne gaudium ! 
 
 Robert H.. of France. 
 
 10. 
 
 That we may live in holiness, 
 And find in death our happiness, 
 And dwell with thee in lasting bliss ! 
 
 CAIHARINE WlNKWORTH,
 
 Hh-»- 
 
 318 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS. 
 
 (This hyma, one of the most unportant in the service of the Latin Church, has been sometimes attributed to the Emperor Chailemagne, 
 The better opinion, however, inclines to Pope Gregory I., called the Great, as the author, and fixes its origin somewhere in the Sixth 
 Century.] 
 
 Veni, Creator Spiritus, 
 Mentes tuorum visita, 
 Imple superna gratia, 
 QuiB til creasti peetora. 
 
 Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
 
 The world's foundations first were laid. 
 
 Come visit every pious mind, 
 
 Come pour thy joys on human kind ; 
 
 From sin and sorrow set us free, 
 
 And make thy temples worthy thee. 
 
 Qui diceris Paraclitus, 
 Altissimi donuni Dei, 
 Fous vivus, ignis, carita-s, 
 Et spiritalis unctio. 
 
 source of uncreated light, 
 The Father's promised Paraclete ! 
 Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire. 
 Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ; 
 Come, and thy sacred imction bring, 
 To sanctify us while we sing. 
 
 Tu septiformis munere, 
 Dextrae Dei tu digitus 
 Tu rite promissuin Patris, 
 Sermone ditans guttura. 
 
 Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 
 
 Rich in thy seven-fold energy ! 
 
 Thou strength of his almighty hand, 
 
 Whose power does heaven and earth command ! 
 
 Proceeding Spirit, our defense, 
 
 Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, 
 
 And crown' st thy gift with elotjuence ! 
 
 Accende lumen sensibus, 
 Infunde amorem cordibus, 
 Infiima nostri corporis 
 Virtute fia-mans perpeti. 
 
 4. 
 Hefine and purge our earthly parts ; 
 But, 0, inflame antl fire our hearts ! 
 Our frailties help, our vice control, 
 Submit the senses to the soul ; 
 And when rebellious they are gro\ni, 
 Then lay thy hand and hold 'em down. 
 
 Hostem repellas longius, 
 Pacemque dones protinus : 
 Ductore sic te prsevio 
 Vitemus omne noxlum. 
 
 5. 
 Chase from our minds th' infernal foe. 
 And peace, the fniit of love, bestow ; 
 And, lest our feet should step astray. 
 Protect and guide us on the way. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Per te sciamus da Patrem, 
 Noscamus attiue Filium ; 
 Te utriusque Spiritum 
 Credamus omni tempore. 
 
 6. 
 
 Make us eternal truths receive. 
 And practice all that we believe ; 
 Give us thyself, that we may see 
 The Father and the Son by thee. 
 
 VII. 
 Deo Patri sit gloria 
 Et Filio ([ui a mortuis 
 Sarrexit, ac Paraclito, 
 In sseculorum sfecula. 
 
 St. Gregorv the Great. 
 
 Immortal honor, endless fame, 
 Attend the Almighty Father's name ; 
 The SaWour Son be glorified, 
 Wlio for lost man's redemption died ; 
 And equal adoration be. 
 Eternal Paraclete, to thee. 
 
 JOHN DRYDHN 
 
 i 
 
 i
 
 + 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 310 
 
 VEXILLA REGIS. 
 
 The Royal Banners fonvard go ; 
 The cross shines forth in mystic glow ; 
 Where He in flesh, our flesh who made, 
 Our sentence bore, our ransom paid ; 
 
 Where deep for us the spear was dyed. 
 Life's torrent rushing from his side. 
 To wash us in that precious flood 
 Where mingled water flowed, and blood. 
 
 FidfiUed is all that David told 
 
 In true prophetic song of old ; 
 
 Amidst the nations God, saith he. 
 
 Hath reigned and triumplicd from the tree. 
 
 O Tree of Beauty ! Tree of Light ! 
 Tree with royal purple dight ! 
 Elect on whose triumphal breast 
 Those holy limbs should find their rest ; 
 
 On whose dear arms, so widely flung. 
 The weight of this world's ransom hung, 
 The price of human kind to pay. 
 And spoil the Spoiler of his prey ! 
 
 Cross, our one reliance, hail ! 
 This holy Passion-tide, avail 
 To give fresh merit to the saint, 
 And pardon to the penitent. 
 
 To thee, eternal Three in One, 
 Let homage meet by all be done ; 
 Whom by the Cross thou dost restore, 
 Preserve and govern evermore ! 
 
 From the Latin of VENANTtuS FORTUNATUS, 
 by JOHN Mason Neale. 
 
 LITANY. 
 
 S.wiOTTR, when in dust to thee 
 Low we bend the adoring knee ; 
 When, repentant, to the skies 
 Scarce we lift our weejiiiig eyes, — 
 0, by all thy pains and woe 
 Suffered once for man below. 
 Bending from thy thi'one on high. 
 Hear our solemn litany ! 
 
 By thy helpless infant years ; 
 By thy life of want and tears ; 
 By thy days of sore distress 
 In the savage wilderness ; 
 By the dread mysterious hour 
 Of the insulting tempter's power, - 
 Turn, O, turn a favoring eye, 
 Hear our solemn litany ! 
 
 By the sacred griefs that wept 
 O'er the grave where Lazarus slept ; 
 By the boding tears that flowed 
 Over Salem's loved abode ; 
 By the anguished sigh that told 
 Treachei-y lurked within thy fold, — 
 From thy seat above thy sky 
 Hear our solemn litany ! 
 
 By thine hour of dire despair ; 
 By thine agony of prayer ; 
 By the cross, the nail, the thorn, 
 Piercing spear, and torturing scorn ; 
 By the gloom that veiled the skies 
 O'er the dreadful sacrifice, — 
 Listen to our humble cry, 
 Hear our solemn litany 1 
 
 By thy deep expiring groan ; 
 
 By the sad sepulchral stone ; 
 
 By the vault whose dark abode 
 
 Held in vain the rising God ! 
 
 0, from earth to heaven restored, 
 
 Mighty, reascended Lord, — 
 
 Listen, listen to the cry 
 
 Of our solemn litany ! 
 
 SIR Robert Grant. 
 
 THE HOLY SPIKIT. 
 
 In the hour of my distress, 
 When temptations me oppress. 
 And when I my sins confess. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When I lie within my bed, 
 Sick at heart, and sick in head, 
 And with doubts discomforted. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 WTien the house doth sigh and weep. 
 And the world is drowned in sleep. 
 Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the artless doctor sees 
 No one hope but of his fees, 
 And his skill runs on the lees. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When his potion and his pill 
 Has or none or little skill. 
 Meet for nothing but to kill, — 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the paiising-bell doth toll. 
 And the Furies, in a shoal. 
 Come to fright a parting soul. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
 
 320 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 When the tapers now burn blue, 
 And the comforters are few, 
 And that number more than true, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the priest his last hath prayed, 
 And I nod to what is said 
 Because my speech is now decayed, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When, God knows, I 'm tost about 
 Either with despair or doubt. 
 Yet before the glass be out. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the tempter me pursu'th 
 With the sins of all ray youth, 
 And half damns me with untruth, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the flames and hellish cries 
 Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, 
 And all terrors me sui-prise. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the judgment is revealed, 
 And that opened which was sealed, — 
 When to thee I have appealed. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK. 
 
 'GOD. 
 
 THOU eternal One ! whose presence bright 
 All space doth occupy, all motion guide ; 
 Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight ; 
 Thou only God ! .There is no God beside ! 
 Being above all beings ! Three in one ! 
 Whom none can comprehend, and none explore; 
 Who fiU'st existence with thyscJf alone ; 
 Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er ! — 
 I'leing whom we call God — and know no more ! 
 
 In its sublime research, philosophy 
 Hay measure out the ocean deep, — may count 
 The sands or the sun's rays, — but God ! for thee 
 There is no weight nor measure ; — none can 
 
 mount 
 Up to thy mysteries. Reason's brighte.st spark, 
 Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try 
 To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 
 And thought is lost ere thought can soar so 
 
 high, — 
 E'en like past moments in eternity. 
 
 Thou from primeval nothingness didst call, 
 Fir.'it chaos, then existence ; — Lord ! on thee 
 
 Eternity had its foundation ; — all 
 Sprung fortli from thee, of light, joy, harmony. 
 Sole origin ; — all life, aU beauty, thine. 
 Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
 Thy splendor fills aU space with rays divine ; 
 Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious, 
 Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 
 Tliy chains the unmeasured universe sur- 
 round ; 
 Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath ! 
 Tliou the beginning with the end hast bound. 
 And beautifully mingled life and death ! 
 As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, 
 So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from 
 
 thee. 
 And as the spangles in the sunny rays 
 Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
 Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise. 
 
 A million torches, lighted by thy hand. 
 Wander unwearied through the blue abyss : 
 They own thy power, accomplish thy command. 
 All gay with life, aU eloquent with bliss. 
 What shall we call them ? Pyres of crystal light, 
 A glorious company of golden streams, 
 Lamps of celestial ether burning bright. 
 Suns lighting systems with their joyful beams ? 
 But thou to these art as the noon to night. 
 
 Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea. 
 All this magnificence in thee is lost ; — 
 What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee ? 
 And what am / then ? Heaven's unniunbered 
 
 host, 
 Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
 In all the glory of sublimest thought. 
 Is but an atom in the balance weighed 
 Against thy greatness, — is a cipher brought 
 Against infinity ! What am / then ? Naught ! 
 Naught ! But the effluence of thy light divine. 
 Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too ; 
 Yes, in my spirit doth thy spirit shine, 
 As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
 
 Naught ? but I live, and on hope's pinions fly 
 Eager toward thy presence ; for in thee 
 I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high 
 Even to the throne of thy divinity. 
 1 am, O God ! and surely tlwa must be ! 
 Thou art ! directing, guiding all, thou art ! 
 Direct my understanding then to thee ; 
 Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart ; 
 Though but an atom midst immensity. 
 Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand. 
 I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and earth. 
 On the last verge of mortal being stand. 
 Close to the realm where angels have their birth. 
 Just on the boundaries of the spirit land ! 
 Tlie chain of being is complete in me ; 
 In me is matter's last gradation lost. 
 And the next step is spiiit — Deity !
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 321 
 
 I can command the lightning, and am dust ! 
 A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a god ! 
 Whence came I here, and how ? so marvelously 
 Constructed and conceived? Unknown! this 
 
 clod 
 Lives surely through some higher energy ; 
 For from itself alone it could not be ! 
 Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and thy word 
 Created iiie I Thou source of life and good ! 
 Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 
 Thy light, thy love, in the bright plenitude, 
 Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
 Over the abyss of deatli, and bade it wear 
 The garments of eternal day, and wing 
 Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere 
 Even to its source, — to thee, its author tliere. 
 
 thoughts ineflable ! visions blest ! 
 Thougli worthless our conception all of thee. 
 Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, 
 And waft its homage to thy Deity. 
 God ! thus alone my lonely thoughts can soar ; 
 Thus seek thy presence. Being wise and good ; 
 Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; 
 And, when the tongue is eloquent no more, 
 The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 
 
 From the Russian of DERZHAVIN, 
 by Dr. Bowring. 
 
 DESIKE. 
 
 Tnotr, who dost dwell alone ; 
 Thou, who dost know thine own ; 
 Thou, to whom all are known. 
 From the cradle to the grave, — 
 Save, 0, save ! 
 
 From the world's temptations ; 
 From tribulations ; 
 From that fierce anguish 
 Wherein we languish ; 
 From that torpor deep 
 Wherein we lie asleep. 
 Heavy as death, cold as the gi'ave, ■ 
 Save, 0, save ! 
 
 When the soul, growing clearer. 
 Sees God no nearer ; 
 'When the soul, mounting higher, 
 To God comes no nigher ; 
 But the arch-fiend Pride 
 Mounts at her side. 
 Foiling her high emprise, 
 Sealing her eagle eyes, 
 And, when she fain would soar. 
 Makes idols to adore ; 
 Changing the pure emotion 
 Of her high devotion. 
 
 To a skin-deep sense 
 Of her own eloquence ; 
 Strong to deceive, strong to enslave, — 
 Save, 0, save ! 
 
 From the ingrained fashion 
 
 Of this earthly nature 
 That mars thy creature ; 
 From grief, that is but passion ; 
 From mirth, that is but feigning ; 
 From tears, that bring no healing ; 
 From wild and weak complaining ; — 
 Thine old strength revealing. 
 Save, save ! 
 
 From eloubt, where all is double, 
 Where wise men are not strong ; 
 Where comfort turns to trouble ; 
 Where just men suffer wrong ; 
 Wliere sorrow treads on joy ; 
 Where sweet things soonest cloy ; 
 Where faiths are built on dust ; 
 Where love is half mistrust. 
 Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea ; 
 0, set us free ! 
 
 O, let the false dream fly 
 
 Where our sick souls do lie. 
 
 Tossing continually. 
 
 0, where thy voice doth come, 
 
 Let all doubts be dumb ; 
 
 Let all words be mild ; 
 
 All strife be reconciled ; 
 
 All pains beguiled. 
 
 Light bring no blindness ; 
 
 Love no unkindness ; 
 
 Knowledge no ruin ; 
 
 Fear no undoing. 
 
 From the cradle to the grave, — 
 
 Save, 0, save ! 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 MY GOD, I LOVE THKE. 
 
 My God, I love thee ! not because 
 I hope for heaven thereby ; 
 
 Nor because those who love thee not 
 Must bum eternally. 
 
 Thou, my Jesus, thou didst me 
 
 Upon the cross embrace ! 
 For me didst bear the nails and spear, 
 
 And manifold disgrace, 
 
 And griefs and torments numberless. 
 
 And sweat of agony. 
 Yea, death itself, — and all for one 
 
 That was thine enemy. 
 
 r
 
 1 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 322 POEMS OF UELIGtON. 
 
 
 
 Then why, blessed Jesus Christ, 
 
 And all the nations of the earth 
 
 
 
 Should 1 uot love thee well ? 
 
 To thee their honors bring. 
 
 
 
 Not for the hope of winning heaven, 
 
 
 
 
 Nor of escaping hell ; 
 
 Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place 
 Full sore I long to see ; 
 
 
 
 Not with the hope of gaining aught, 
 
 that my sorrows had an end. 
 
 
 
 Not seeking a reward ; 
 
 That I might dwell in thee ! 
 
 
 
 But as tliyself hast lovW me. 
 
 
 
 
 everlasting Lord ! 
 
 I long to see Jerusalem, 
 The comfort of us all ; 
 
 
 
 E'en so I love thee, and will love. 
 
 For thou art fair and beautiful, — 
 
 
 
 And in thy praise will sing, — 
 
 None 01 can thee befall. 
 
 
 
 Solely because thou art my God, 
 
 
 
 
 And my eternal King. 
 
 No candle needs, no moon to shine. 
 
 
 
 From the Latin of ST. FRANCIS XAVIER, 
 
 No glittering star to light ; 
 
 
 
 by EDWARD CASWALL. 
 
 For Christ the King of Righteousness 
 
 
 
 
 Forever shineth bright. 
 0, passing happy were my state, 
 
 
 
 THE NEW JERUSALEM. 
 
 
 
 
 Might I be worthy found 
 
 
 
 [Founded on a Latin liymn of tlie eiglitli century, obscurely 
 traced, as to its original conception, to St. Augustine.] 
 
 To wait upon my God and King, 
 His praises there to sound ! 
 
 
 
 MOTHER dear, Jerusalem, 
 
 
 
 
 When shall I come to thee ? 
 
 Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 
 
 
 
 When shall my sorrows have an end, — 
 
 Thy joys fain would I see ; 
 
 
 
 Thy joys when shall I see ? 
 
 Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief, 
 And take me home to tliee ! 
 
 
 
 happy harbor of God's saints ! 
 
 DAVID DiCKSOr* 
 
 
 
 sweet and pleasant soil ! 
 
 
 
 
 In thee no sorrow can be found. 
 
 
 
 
 Nor grief, nor care, nor toil. 
 
 DROP, DROP, SLOW TEARS, 
 
 
 
 No dimly cloud o'ershadows thee. 
 Nor gloom, nor darksome night ; 
 
 Dbop, drop, slow tears, 
 
 And bathe those beauteous feet 
 
 
 
 But every soul shines as the sun. 
 
 Which brought from heaven 
 
 
 
 For God himself gives light. 
 
 
 
 
 .W ^H- . ^ ^ 
 
 The news and jirince of peace ! 
 
 
 
 Thy walls are made of precious stone. 
 Thy bulwarks diamond-scjuare, 
 
 Cease not, wet eyes. 
 His mercies to entreat ; 
 
 To cry for vengeance 
 Sin doth never cease ; 
 
 
 
 Thy gates are all of orient pearl, — 
 God ! if I were there ! 
 
 
 
 
 In your deep floods 
 
 
 
 my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 
 Thy joys when shall I see? — 
 
 Drown all my faults and fears ; 
 
 
 
 Nor let his eye 
 
 
 
 The King sitting upon thy throne, 
 And thy felicity ? 
 
 Thy gardens and thy goodly walks 
 
 See sin but through my tears. 
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Continually are green, 
 
 DARKNESS IS THINNING. 
 
 
 
 Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers 
 
 
 
 
 As nowhere else are seen. 
 
 Darkness is thinning ; shadows are retreating ; 
 Morning and light are coming in their beauty ; 
 
 
 
 Quite through the streets with pleasing sound 
 
 Suppliant seek we, with an earnest outcry. 
 
 
 
 The flood of life doth flow ; 
 
 God the Almighty ! 
 
 
 
 And on the banks, on every side. 
 
 
 
 
 The trees of life do grow. 
 
 So that our Master, having mercy on us. 
 May repel languor, may bestow salvation. 
 
 
 
 Those trees each month yield ripened fruit ; 
 
 Granting us. Father, of thy loving-kindness 
 
 
 
 Forevermore they spring. 
 
 Glory hereafter ! 
 
 "^ 
 
 1 
 
 

 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 323 
 
 This, of his mercy, ever-blessM Godhead, 
 Father, and Son, and Holy Sjiirit, give us, — 
 Whom through the wide world celebrate forever 
 Blessing and glory ! 
 
 From tile Latin df ST. GRECORV THE GREAT, 
 by J. M. NhaLE. 
 
 DELIGHT IN GOD. 
 
 I LOVE, and have some cause to love, the earth, — 
 
 She is my Maker's creature, therefore good ; 
 She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
 
 She is my tender nurse, she gives me food ; 
 
 But what 's a creature. Lord, compared with 
 thee? 
 
 Or what 's my mother or my nurse to me ? 
 
 I love the air, — her dainty sweets refresh 
 
 My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; 
 
 Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their 
 flesh. 
 And with their pol)'phonian notes delight me : 
 But what 's the aii', or all the sweets that she 
 Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee ? 
 
 1 love the sea, — she is my fellow-creature, 
 My careful purveyor ; she provides me store ; 
 
 She walls me round ; she makes my diet greater ; 
 She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : 
 But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, 
 What is the ocean or her wealth to me ? 
 
 To heaven's high city I direct my journey. 
 
 Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ; 
 Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, 
 Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky : 
 But what is heaven, great God, compared to 
 
 thee? 
 Without thy presence, heaven 's no heaven to 
 me. 
 
 Without thy presence, eartli gives no refection ; 
 
 Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure ; 
 Without thy presence, air 's a rank infection ; 
 
 Without thy presence, heaven 's itself no pleas- 
 ure : 
 
 If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee, 
 
 What 's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me ? 
 
 The highest honors that tlie world can boast 
 Are subjects far too low for my desire ; 
 
 The brightest beams of glory are, at most, 
 But dying sparkles of thy living fire ; 
 The loudest flames that earth can kindle be 
 But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee. 
 
 Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares ; 
 Wisdom but folly ; joy, disquiet — sadness ; 
 
 Friendship is treason, and delights are snares ; 
 Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing 
 
 madness ; 
 Without thee. Lord, things bo not what they be, 
 N or ha ve theii- being, when compared with tliee. 
 
 In having all things, and not thee, what have I ! 
 
 Not having thee, what have my labors got ? 
 Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I ? 
 
 And having thee alone, what have I not ? 
 
 I wish nor sea nor land ; nor would I be 
 
 Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of 
 
 thee! 
 
 Francis quarles. 
 
 A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE. 
 
 Lord, thou hast given me a cell, 
 
 Wherein to dwell ; 
 A little house, whose humble roof 
 
 Is weather-proof. 
 Under the spars of which I lie 
 
 Both soft and dry ; 
 Where thou, my chamber for to ward, 
 
 Hast set a guard 
 Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep 
 
 Me while I sleep. 
 Low is my porch, as is my fate, 
 
 Both void of state ; 
 And yet the threshold of my door 
 
 Is worn by the poor, 
 TiVHio hither come, and freely get 
 
 Good words or meat. 
 Like as my parlor, so my hall, 
 
 And kitchen small ; 
 A little buttery, and therein 
 
 A little bin, 
 Which keeps my little loaf of bread 
 
 Unchipt, unflead. 
 Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier 
 
 Make me a fire, 
 Close by whose living coal I sit. 
 
 And glow like it. 
 Lord, I confess, too, when I dine, 
 
 The jiulse is thine. 
 And all those other bits that be 
 
 There placed by thee. 
 The worts, the purslain, and the mess 
 
 Of water-cress. 
 Which of thy kindness thou hast sent : 
 
 And my content 
 Makes those, and my belovM beet. 
 
 To be more sweet. 
 'T is thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 
 
 With guiltless mirth ; 
 And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, 
 Spiced to the brink.
 
 324 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 Lord, 't is thy plenty-dropping hand 
 
 That sows my land : 
 All this, and better, dost thou send 
 
 Me for this end : 
 That I should render for my part 
 
 A thankful heart, 
 Which, fired with incense, I resign 
 
 As wholly thine : 
 But the acceptance — that must be, 
 
 Lord, by thee. 
 
 Robert herrick. 
 
 'WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS, 
 THER SHADOW OF TURNING." 
 
 NEI- 
 
 1t fortifies my soul to know 
 That, though I perish. Truth is so 
 That, howsoe'er I stray and range, 
 Whate'er I do. Thou dost not change. 
 I steadier step when I recall 
 That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall. 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 TWO WENT XTP TO THE TEMPLE TO PRAT. 
 
 Two went to pray ? 0, rather say, 
 One went to brag, the other to pray ; 
 
 One stands up close and treads on high, 
 Where the other dsires not lend his eye ; 
 
 One nearer to God's altar trod, 
 The other to the altar's God. 
 
 RICHARD CRASHAW. 
 « 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 
 
 My staff of faith to walk upon ; 
 My scrip of joy, immortal diet ; 
 
 My bottle of salvation ; 
 My gown of glory, hope's true gauge. 
 And thus I '11 take my pilgrimage ! 
 Blood must be my body's 'balmer, 
 No other babn will there be given ; 
 Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, 
 Traveleth towards the land of Heaven, 
 Over the silver mountains 
 Where spring the nectar fountains. 
 There will 1 kiss the bowl of bliss, 
 And drink mine everlasting fill 
 Upon everj' milken hUl. 
 My soul will be a-dry before. 
 But after, it will thirst no more. 
 Then by that happy, blissful day. 
 More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, 
 
 That have cast off their rags of clay, 
 
 And walk appareled fresh like me. 
 
 I '11 take them first to quench their thirst. 
 
 And taste of nectar's suckets 
 
 At thoss clear wells where sweetness dwells 
 
 Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. 
 
 And when our bottles and all we 
 
 Are filled with immortality. 
 
 Then the blest paths we '11 travel, 
 
 Strewed with rubies thick as gravel, — 
 
 Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, 
 
 High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. 
 
 From thence to Heaven's biibeless hall, 
 
 Where no corrupted voices brawl ; 
 
 No conscience molten into gold, 
 
 No forged accuser, bought or sold. 
 
 No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, 
 
 For there Christ is the King's Attorney ; 
 
 Who pleads for all without degrees. 
 
 And he hath angels, but no fees ; 
 
 And when the grand twelve-million juiy 
 
 Of our sins, with direful fury, 
 
 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, 
 
 Christ pleads his death, and then we live. 
 
 Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, 
 
 Unblotted lawyer, true proeeeder ! 
 
 Thou giv'st salvation even for alms, — 
 
 Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. 
 
 And this is mine eternal plea 
 
 To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea. 
 
 That, since my flesh must die so soon, 
 
 And want a head to dine next noon, 
 
 Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread, 
 
 Set on my soul an everlasting head : 
 
 Then am I, like a palmer, fit 
 
 To tread those blest paths which before I writ. 
 
 Of death and judgment, heaven and hell. 
 
 Who oft doth think, must needs die well. 
 
 SIR Walter Raleigh. ' 
 
 A TRUE LENT. 
 
 Is this a fast, — to keep 
 The larder lean, 
 And clean 
 From fat of veals and sheep ? 
 
 Is it to quit the dish 
 
 Of flesh, yet still 
 To fill 
 The platter high with fish ? 
 
 Is it to fast an hour. 
 Or rag'd to go. 
 Or show 
 A downcast look, and sour ?
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 325 
 
 No ! 't is a fast to dole 
 
 Thy sheaf of wheat, 
 And meat, 
 Unto the huugiy soul. 
 
 It is to fast from strife, 
 From old debate 
 And hate, — 
 To circumcise thy life. 
 
 To show a heart grief-rent ; 
 To starve thy sin, 
 Not bin, — 
 And that 's to keep thy Lent. 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK. 
 
 A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 
 
 Long porad St. Austin o'er the sacred page. 
 
 And doubt and darkness overspread his mind ; 
 On God's mysterious being thought the Sage, 
 
 The Triple Person in one Godhead joined. 
 
 The more he thought, the harder did he find 
 To solve the various doubts which fast arose ; 
 
 And as a ship, caught by imperious wind, 
 Tosses where chance its shattered body throws. 
 So tossed his troubled soul and nowhere found 
 repose. 
 
 Heated and feverish, then he closed his tome. 
 
 And went to wander by the ocean-side. 
 Where the cool breeze at evening loved to come, 
 
 Murmuring responsive to the murmuring tide ; 
 
 And as Augustine o'er its margent wide 
 Strayed, deeply pondering the puzzling theme, 
 
 A little child before him he espied : 
 In earnest labor did the urchin seem, 
 Working with heart intent close by the sounding 
 stream. 
 
 He looked, and saw the child a hole had scooped. 
 
 Shallow and narrow in the shining sand. 
 O'er which at work the laboring infant stooped. 
 
 Still pouring water in with busy hand. 
 
 The saint addressed the child in accents bland : 
 "Fair boy," quoth he, "I pray what toil is thine ? 
 
 Let me its end and purpose understand." 
 The boy replied : " An easy task is mine. 
 To sweep into this hole all the wide ocean's brine. " 
 
 " foolish boy ! " the saint exclaimed, " to hope 
 That the broad ocean in that hole should lie ! " 
 
 "0 foolish saint!" exclaimed the hoy ; "thyscope 
 Is still more hopeless than the toil 1 ply. 
 Who think'st to comprehend God's nature high 
 
 In the small compass of thine human wit ! 
 Sooner, Augustine, sooner far, shall 1 
 
 Co»fine the ocean in this tiny pit. 
 
 Than finite minds conceive God's nature infinite ! " 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 I WOULD I WERE AN EXCELLENT DIVINE - 
 
 1 WOL-LD I were an excellent divine 
 
 Tliat had the Bible at my lingers' ends ; 
 
 That men miglit hear out of this mouth of mine 
 How GoA doth make his enenues his friends ; 
 
 Kather than with a thundering and long prayer 
 
 Be led into presumption, or despair. 
 
 This would 1 be, and would none other be. 
 But a religious servant of my God ; 
 
 And know there is none other God but he. 
 And willingly to suffer mercy's rod, — 
 
 Joy in his grace, and Uve but in his love. 
 
 And seek my bliss but in the world above. 
 
 And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer. 
 For all estates w^ithin the state of glace. 
 
 That careful love might never know despair, 
 Nor servile fear might faithful love deface ; 
 
 And this would I both day and night devise 
 
 To make my humble spirit's exercise. 
 
 And I would read the rules of sacred life ; 
 
 Persuade the troubled soul to patience ; 
 The husband care, and comfort to the wife. 
 
 To child and servant due oljedience ; 
 Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor peace. 
 That love might live, and ijuarrels all might cease. 
 
 Prayer for the health of all that are diseased. 
 Confession unto all that are convicted. 
 
 And patience unto all that are displeased. 
 And comfort unto all that are afflicted. 
 
 And mercy unto all that have offended. 
 
 And grace to all, that all may be amended. 
 
 NICHOLAS BRETO.N. 
 
 DTJM VTVTMUS, VIVAMUS. 
 
 " Live while you live ! " the epicure would say, 
 " And seize the pleasures of the present day ! " 
 " Live while you Uve ! " the sacred Preacher cries, 
 "And "ive to God each moment as it flies ! " 
 Lord, in my view let both united be, 
 I live in pleasure while I live to thee. 
 
 PHILIP DODDRIDGE. 
 
 ADAM'S MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE. 
 
 These are thy glorious works. Parent of good. 
 Almighty, thine this universal frame, 
 Thus wondrous fair ; thyself how wondrous then 
 Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens 
 To us invisible, or dimly seen 
 In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 326 POEMS OF 
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 
 
 Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
 
 I go to church ; help me to wings, and I 
 
 
 
 Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
 
 Will thither Hie ; 
 
 
 
 And. choral symphonies, day without night, 
 
 Or, if I mount unto the skie. 
 
 
 
 Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye in Heaven, 
 
 I will do more. 
 
 
 
 On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol 
 
 
 
 
 Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. 
 
 Man is all weaknesse : there is no such thing 
 
 
 
 Fairest of stars, last in the train of night. 
 
 As Prince or King : 
 
 
 
 If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
 
 His arm is short ; yet with a sling 
 
 
 
 Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling mom 
 
 He may do more. 
 
 
 
 With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 
 
 
 
 
 While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
 
 A herb destilled, and drunk, may dwell nextdoore. 
 
 
 
 Thou sun, of tliis great world both eye and soul. 
 
 On the same floore, 
 
 
 
 Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise 
 
 To a brave soul : Exalt the poore, 
 
 
 
 In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
 
 They can do more. 
 
 
 
 And when high noon hast gained, and when thou 
 
 
 
 
 fall'st. 
 
 0, raise me then ! poore bees, that work all day, 
 
 
 
 Moon, that now meets the orient sun, now fliest. 
 
 Sting my delay. 
 
 
 
 With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies. 
 
 Who have a work, as well as they. 
 
 
 
 And ye five other wandering fires that move 
 
 And much, much more. 
 
 
 
 In mystic dance not without song, resound 
 
 TT* ' 1 1^11 111 I'll 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 
 
 His praise, who out of darkness called up light. 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 
 
 
 
 
 Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
 
 UP HILL. 
 
 
 
 Pei'ju'tual circle, multiform, and mix 
 
 Does the road wind up hill all the way ? 
 
 
 
 And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change 
 
 Ves, to the very end. 
 Will the day's journey take the whole long d.ay ? 
 
 
 
 A''ary to our great Maker still new praise. 
 
 
 
 Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 
 
 Prom mom to night, my friend. 
 
 
 
 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray. 
 
 
 
 
 Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold. 
 
 But is there for the night a resting-place ? 
 
 
 
 In honor to the world's great Author rise. 
 
 A roof for when the slow dark hours begin ? 
 
 
 
 Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky, 
 
 May not the darkness hide it from my face ? 
 
 
 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers. 
 
 You cannot miss that inn. 
 
 
 
 Eisiiig or falling, still advance his praise. 
 
 
 
 
 His praise, ye winds, that fromfour quarters blow, 
 
 Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? 
 
 
 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 
 
 Tlwse who have gone before. 
 
 
 
 With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
 
 Then must I knock, or call when just in sight ? 
 
 
 
 Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow. 
 
 They will not keep you standing at that door. 
 
 
 
 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 
 
 
 
 
 Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds. 
 
 Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak ? 
 
 
 
 That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend. 
 
 Of labor you shall find tlie sum. 
 
 
 
 Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 
 
 Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? 
 
 
 
 Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
 
 Yea, beds for all who come. 
 
 
 
 The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep. 
 
 CHRISTINA G, ROSSETTl. 
 
 
 
 Witness if I be silent, morn or even. 
 
 To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Made vocal by my song, .and taught his praise. 
 
 THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD. 
 
 
 
 Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still 
 
 
 
 
 To give us only good ; and if the night 
 
 Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom. 
 
 
 
 Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed. 
 
 Lead thou me on ! 
 
 
 
 Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 
 
 The night is dark, and I am far from home, — 
 
 
 
 MILTON, 
 
 Lead thou me on ! 
 
 
 
 
 Keep thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
 
 
 
 PRAISE. 
 
 The distant scene, — one step enough for me. 
 
 
 
 To write a verse or two is all the praise 
 
 I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou 
 
 
 
 That 1 can raise ; 
 
 Shouldst lead me on : 
 
 
 
 Mend my estate in any wayes. 
 
 I loved to choose and see my path, but now 
 
 
 
 Thou shalt have more. 
 
 Lead thou me on '. 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 327 
 
 I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
 Pride ruled my wUl : remember not past years. 
 
 So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still 
 
 Will lead me on ; 
 O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 
 
 The night is gone ; 
 And with the morn those angel faces smile 
 Which I have loved long since, and lost ^awhile. 
 John Henkv Newman. 
 
 THE CHURCH PORCH. 
 
 Thou whose sweet youth and early hopes enhance 
 Thy rate and price, and mark thee for a treasure. 
 Hearken unto a Verser, who may chance 
 Khyme thee to good, and make a bait of pleasure : 
 A verse may find him who a sermon Hies 
 And turn delight into a sacrifice. 
 
 AVhen thou dost purpose aught (within thy power). 
 Be sure to doe it, though it be but small ; 
 Constancie knits the bones, and make us stowre. 
 When wanton pleasures beckon us to thrall. 
 
 Who breaks his own bond, forfeitetli himself : 
 What nature made a ship, he makes a shelf. 
 
 By all means use sometimes to be alone. 
 
 Salute thyself : see what thy soul doth wear. 
 
 Dare to look in thy chest ; for 't is thine own : 
 
 And tumble up and down what thou find'st there. 
 Who cannot rest till he good fellows finde. 
 He breaks up house, turns out of doores his 
 minde. 
 
 In clothes, cheap handsomenessedothbearthe bell. 
 Wisdome 's a trimmer thing tlian shop e'er gave. 
 Say not then. This with that lace will do well ; 
 But, This with ray discretion will be brave. 
 
 Much curiousnesse is a perpetual wooing ; 
 
 Nothing, with labor ; folly, long a doing. 
 
 When once thy foot enters the church, be bare. 
 God is more there than thou ; for thou art there 
 Only by his pemiission. Then beware. 
 And make thyself all reverence and fear. 
 
 Kneeling ne'er spoiled silk stockings ; quit 
 thy state ; 
 
 All equal are within the church's gate. 
 
 Eesort to sermons, but to prayers most : 
 Pnaying 's the end of preaching. 0, be drest ! 
 Stay not for th' other pin : why thou hast lost 
 A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell doth jest 
 Away thy blessings, and extremely flout thee, 
 Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose 
 about thee. 
 
 Judge not the preacher ; for he is thy judge : 
 If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not. 
 God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge 
 To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. 
 
 The worst speak something good : if «// want 
 sense, 
 
 God takes a text, and preacheth patience. 
 
 GHOROE HERBERT. 
 
 ANCIENT HYMN. 
 
 Art thou weary, art thou languid, art thou sore 
 
 distrest ? 
 "Come to me," saith One — and, "coming, 
 
 Be at rest ! " 
 Hath he mark to lead me to him — if he be my 
 
 guide ? 
 In his feet and hands are wound-piints, 
 
 And his side. 
 Is tlierediadem, as monarch, that his browadoms ? 
 Yea ; a crown, in very surety, — 
 
 But of thorns ! 
 If I find him, if I follow, what his guerdon here ? 
 Many a sorrow, many a labor, 
 
 Many a tear ! 
 If I still hold closely to him, what hath he at last ? 
 Sorrow vancpiished, labor ended, 
 
 Jordan passed ! 
 If I ask him to receive me, will he say me nay ? 
 Not till cai'th, and not till heaven. 
 
 Pass away ! 
 
 Tending, following, keeping, struggling, is he 
 
 sure to bless ? 
 
 Angels, martyrs, prophets, pilgrims, 
 
 Answer "Yes!" 
 
 Anonv-mous. 
 
 TO HEAVEN APPROACHED A SUFI SAINT. 
 
 To heaven approached a Sufi Saint, 
 From gi-oping in the darkness late. 
 
 And, tapping timidly and faint. 
 Besought admission at God's gate. 
 
 Said God, "Who seeks to enter here ? " 
 "'T is I, dear Friend," the Saint replied. 
 
 And trembling much with hope and fear. 
 " If it be thou, without abide." 
 
 Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned. 
 To bear the scourging of life's rods ; 
 
 But aye his heart within him yearned 
 To mix and kise its love in God's. 
 
 He roamed alone through weary years, 
 By cruel men still scorned and mocked, 
 
 Until from faith's pure fires and tears 
 Again he rose, and modest knocked.
 
 -i 
 
 328 POEMS OF 
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 
 Asked God, "Who now is at the door?" 
 
 And lookest on each grief of mine 
 
 
 "It is thyself, beloved Lord," 
 
 And if 't were thine : 
 
 
 Answered the Saint, in doubt no more, 
 
 What, then, though foes may try me, 
 
 
 But clasped and rapt in his reward. 
 
 Though thorns be in my path concealed ? 
 
 
 From the Persian of DSCHELLALEDDIN RUMI, 
 
 World, do thy worst ! God is my shield ! 
 And will be ever nigh me. 
 
 
 by William R. Alger. 
 
 
 
 Translaied from Mary, Queen of Hungary. 
 — « 
 
 
 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HTa SOUL. 
 
 
 
 PER PACEM AD LTICEM. 
 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame '. 
 
 
 
 Quit, 0, quit this mortal frame ! 
 
 I DO not ask, Lord, that life may be 
 
 
 Trembling, hoping, lingering, living, 
 
 A pleasant road ; 
 
 
 0, the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
 
 I do not ask that thou wouldst take from me 
 
 
 Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
 
 Aught of its load : 
 
 
 And let me languish into life ! 
 
 I do not ask that flowers should always spring 
 
 
 Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 
 Sister spirit, come away ! 
 What is this absorbs me quite ? 
 
 Beneath my feet ; 
 I know too well the poison and the sting 
 
 
 Of things too sweet. 
 
 
 Steals my senses, shuts my sight. 
 
 For one thing only. Lord, dear Lord, I plead, 
 
 
 Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
 
 Lead me aright — 
 
 
 Tell me, niy soul, can this be death .' 
 
 Though strength should falter and though heart 
 should bleed — 
 
 
 The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
 
 Heaven opens on my eyes ! my eara 
 
 O .»— -Q«w- 
 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring : 
 
 I do not ask, Lord, that thou shouldst shed 
 
 
 Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
 
 Full radiance here ; 
 
 
 Grave ! where is thy victoiy ? 
 
 Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread 
 
 
 Death ! where is thy sting ? 
 
 Without a fear. 
 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 I do not ask my cross to understand, 
 
 
 
 
 
 My way to see ; 
 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 Better in darkness just to feel thy hand, 
 And follow thee. 
 
 
 God ! though sorrow be my fate, 
 
 
 
 And the world's hate 
 
 Joy is like restless day ; but peace divine 
 
 
 For my heart's faith pursue me. 
 
 Like quiet night ; 
 
 
 My peace they cannot take away ; 
 
 Lead me, Lord — till perfect day shall shine — 
 
 
 From day to day 
 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
 
 Thou dost anew imbue me ; 
 
 ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. 
 
 
 Thou art not far ; a little while 
 
 
 
 Thou hid'st thy face with brighter smile 
 
 
 
 Thy father-love to show me. 
 
 THE MARTYRS' HYMN. 
 
 
 Lord, not my will, but thine, be done ; 
 
 Flung to the heedless winds, 
 
 
 If I sink down 
 
 Or on the waters cast. 
 
 
 When men to terrors leave me. 
 
 The martyrs' ashes, watched. 
 
 
 Thy father-love still warms my breast ; 
 
 Shall gathered be at last ; 
 
 
 All 's for the best ; 
 
 And from that scattered dust. 
 
 
 Shall man have power to grieve me, 
 
 Around us and abroad. 
 
 
 Wlien bliss eternal is my goal, 
 
 Shall spring a plenteous seed 
 
 
 And thou the keeper of my soul. 
 
 Of witnesses for God. 
 
 
 Who never wiU deceive me ? 
 
 The Father hath received 
 
 
 Thou art my shield, as saith the Word. 
 
 Their latest living breath ; 
 
 
 Christ Jesus, Lord, 
 
 And vain is Satan's boast 
 
 
 Thou standest pitying by me, 
 
 Of victory in their death ; 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 
 ■
 
 4. 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 329 
 
 still, still, though dead, they speak, 
 
 And, trunipet-tongued, pioclaiiii 
 To many a wakening laiul 
 The one availing name. 
 
 From the German of Martin Luther. 
 by W. J. FOX 
 
 THE FIGHT OF FAITH. 
 
 [The author of this poem, one of the victims of the persecuting 
 Henry VIII.. was burnt to death at Smithfield in 1546. It was made 
 and sung by her while a prisoner in Newgate.] 
 
 Like as the armed Knighte, 
 Appointed to the fielde. 
 With this world wil I tight, 
 And faith shal be my shilde. 
 
 Faith is that weapon stronge, 
 Which wil not faile at nede ; 
 My foes therefore amonge. 
 Therewith wil I procede. 
 
 As it is had in strengthe. 
 And forces of Christes waye. 
 It wil prevaUe at lengthe. 
 Though all the devils saye 7iaye. 
 
 Faithe of the fathers olde 
 Obtainfed right witness. 
 Which makes me verye bolde 
 To fear no worldes distress. 
 
 I now rejoice in harte. 
 And hope bides me do so ; 
 For Christ wil take my part. 
 And ease me of my wo. 
 
 Thou sayst. Lord, whoso knocke, 
 To them wilt thou attende ; 
 Unilo, therefore, tlie locke. 
 And thy stronge power sende. 
 
 More enemies now I have 
 Than heeres upon my head ; 
 Let them not me deprave, 
 But fight thou in my steade. 
 
 On thee my care I cast. 
 For all their cruell spight ; 
 I set not by their hast, 
 For thou art my delight. 
 
 I am not she that list 
 My anker to let fall 
 For every drislinge mist ; 
 My shippe's substancial. 
 
 Not oft I use to wright 
 In prose, nor yet in rjTne ; 
 Yet wil 1 shewe one sight. 
 That I sawe in my time : 
 
 I sawe a loyall throne. 
 Where Justice shulde have sitte ; 
 But in her steade was One 
 Of moody cruell witte. 
 
 Absorpt was rightwisness, 
 As by the raginge floude ; 
 Sathan, in his excess, 
 Sucte up the guiltlesse bloude. 
 
 Then thought I, — Jesus, Lorde, 
 When thou .shalt judge us all, 
 Harde is it to recorde 
 On these men what will fall. 
 
 Yet, Lorde, I thee desire, 
 For that they doe to me. 
 Let them not taste the lure 
 Of their initiuitie. 
 
 ANNE ASKEWE. 
 
 HOW LONG? 
 
 My God, it is not fretfulness 
 
 That makes me say, " How long ? " 
 
 It is not heaviness of heart 
 That hinders me in song ; 
 
 'T is not desj)air of truth and right, 
 Nor coward dread of wrong. 
 
 But how can I, with such a hope 
 
 Of glory and of home. 
 With such a joy before my eyes, 
 
 Not wish the time were come, — 
 Of years the jubilee, of days 
 
 The Sabbath and the sum ? 
 
 These years, what ages they have been ! 
 
 Tills life, how long it seems ! 
 And how can I, in evil day.s. 
 
 Mid unknown hills and streams. 
 But sigh for those of home and heart, 
 
 And visit them in dreams ? 
 
 Yet peace, my heart, and hush, my tongue ; 
 
 Be calm, my troubled breast ; 
 Each restless hour is hastening on 
 
 The everlasting rest : 
 Thou knowest that the time thy God 
 
 Appoints for thee is best. 
 
 Let faith, not fear, nor fretfulness, 
 
 Awake the cry, " How long ?" 
 Let no faint-heartednpss of soul 
 
 Damp thy aspiring song : 
 Right comes, truth dawns, the night departs 
 
 Of error and of wrong. 
 
 HORATIUS BoNAR.
 
 330 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 When I consider how my liglit is spent 
 
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
 And tliat one talent, which is death to hide, 
 Lodged with ine useless, though my sold more 
 bent 
 
 To serve tlierewith my Maker, and present 
 My true account, lest he returning chide ; 
 "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" 
 I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 
 
 That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need 
 Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his 
 state 
 
 Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 They also serve wlio ouly stand and wait. " 
 
 SAID I NOT SO? 
 
 Said I not so, — that I would sin no more ? 
 
 Witness, my God, I did ; 
 Yet I am run again upon the score : 
 
 My faults cannot be hid. 
 
 What shall I do ? — Make vows and break them 
 still ? 
 
 'T will be but labor lost ; 
 My good cannot prevail against mine ill : 
 
 The business will be crost. 
 
 0, say not so ; thou canst not tell what strength 
 'Thy God may give thee at the length. 
 
 Renew thy vows, and if thou keep the last. 
 Thy God will pardon all that 's past. 
 
 Vow while thou canst ; while thou canst vow, 
 thou mayst 
 Perhaps perform it when thou thinkest least. 
 
 Thy God hath not denied thee all. 
 Whilst he permits thee but to call. 
 Call to thy God for grace to keep 
 Thy vows ; and if thou break them, weep, 
 ep for thy broken vows, and vow again : 
 Vows made with tears cannot be still in vain. 
 Then once again 
 I vow to mend my ways ; 
 
 Lord, say Amen, 
 And thine be all the praise. 
 
 George Herbert. 
 
 W 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 BEAUTEOUS God ! uncircumscribfed treasure 
 Of an eternal pleasui'e ! 
 Thy throne is seated far 
 Above the highest star, 
 
 Where tliou preparest a glorious place, 
 
 Within the brightuess of thy face, 
 
 For every spirit 
 
 To inherit 
 
 That builds his hopes upon thy merit. 
 
 And loves tliee witli a holy charity. 
 
 What ravished heart, seraphii^ tongue, or eyes 
 
 Clear as the morning rise. 
 
 Can speak, or think, or see 
 
 That bright eternity. 
 
 Where the great King's transparent throne 
 
 Is of au entire jasper stone ! 
 
 There the eye 
 
 U' the chrysolite. 
 
 And a sky 
 
 Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase, — 
 
 And above all thy holy face, — 
 
 Makes an eternal charity. 
 
 When thou thy jewels up dost bind, that day 
 
 Remember us, we pray, — 
 
 That where the beryl lies, 
 
 And the crystal 'bove the .skies. 
 
 There thou mayest appoint us place 
 
 Within the brightness of thy face, — 
 
 And our soul 
 
 In the scroll 
 
 Of life and blissfulness enroll, 
 
 That we may praise thee to eternity. AUelujah ! 
 
 JEREMY TAYLOR. 
 
 "ROCK OF AGES." 
 
 "Such hymns are never forgotten. They cling to us through our 
 whole hfe. We carry them with us upon our journey. We sing 
 them in the forest. The workman follows the plow with sacred 
 songs. Children catch them, and singing only for the joy it gives 
 them now. arc yet laying up for all their life food of the sweetest 
 
 jny."— Henry ward beecher. 
 
 "Rock of ages, cleft for me," 
 
 Thoughtlessly the maiden sung. 
 Fell the words unconsciously 
 
 From her girlish, gleeful tongue ; 
 Sang as little children sing ; 
 
 Sang as sing the birds in June ; 
 Fell the words like light leaves down 
 
 On the current of the tune, — 
 ' ' Rock of ages, cleft for me. 
 
 Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 " Let me hide myself in thee." — 
 
 Felt her soul no need to hide, — 
 Sweet the song as song could be, 
 
 And she had no thought beside ; 
 All the words unheedingly 
 
 Fell from lips untouched by care. 
 Dreaming not that they might be 
 
 On some other lips a jjrayer, — 
 ' ' Rock of ages, cleft for me. 
 
 Let me hide myself in thee. " 
 
 -•HI-»-
 
 MILTON ON HIS P.IlNliNESS. 
 
 ■ Doth Cod exact day-'abor, light denied ' '' 
 l/audtyask: But ratiLtiee, /a firever.: 
 Tliat murmur, siwit r,/>ites 
 
 ' They also iervt %uho t/nly stand and wait,"
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 331 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me," 
 
 'T was a woman suug thcui now, 
 Pleadingly and prayerfully ; 
 
 Every word her heart did know. 
 Rose the song as storm-tossed bird 
 
 Beats with weary wing the air, 
 Every note with sorrow stirred. 
 
 Every syllable a Jirayer, — 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me. 
 Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me," — 
 
 Lips grown aged sung the hymn 
 Trastingly and tenderly. 
 
 Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim, — 
 " Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 Trembling though the voice and low. 
 Rose the sweet strain peacefully 
 
 Like a river in its flow ; 
 Sung as only they can sing 
 
 Who life's thorny path have passed ; 
 Sung as only they can sing 
 
 Who behold the promised rest, — 
 ' ' Rock of ages, cleft for me. 
 Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me," 
 
 Sung above a coffin lid ; 
 Underneath, all restfully. 
 
 All life's joys and sorrows hid. 
 Nevermore, storm-tossed soul ! 
 
 Nevermore from wind or tide. 
 Nevermore from billow's roll, 
 
 Wilt thou need thyself to liide. 
 Could the sightless, sunken eyes. 
 
 Closed beneath the soft gi'ay hair, 
 Could the mute and stiffened lips 
 
 Move again in pleading prayer. 
 
 Still, aye still, the words would be, — 
 
 " Let me hide m3'self in Thee." 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE SPIRIT-LAND. 
 
 Father ! thy wonders do not singly stand. 
 
 Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed ; 
 
 Around us ever lies the enchanted land. 
 
 In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed. 
 
 In finding thee are all things round us found ; 
 
 In losing thee are all things lost beside ; 
 
 Eare have we, but in vain strange voices sound ; 
 
 And to our eyes the vision is denied. 
 
 We wander in the country far remote. 
 
 Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell ; 
 
 Or on the records of past greatness dote. 
 
 And for a buried soul the living sell ; 
 
 While on our path bewildered falls the night 
 
 That ne'er returns us to the fields of light. 
 
 JONES VHRV. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 Bkyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies. 
 
 Beyond death's cloudy portal, 
 There is a land where beauty never dies. 
 
 Where love becomes immortal ; 
 
 A land whose life is never dimmed by shade, 
 
 AVhose fields are ever vernal ; 
 Where nothing beautiful can ever fade. 
 
 But blooms for aye eternal. 
 
 We may not know how sweet its balmy air. 
 
 How bright and fair its flowers ; 
 We may not hear the songs that echo there. 
 
 Through those enchanted bowers. 
 
 The city's shining towers we may not see 
 
 With our dim earthly vision, 
 For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key 
 
 That opes the gates elysian. 
 
 But sometimes, when adowii the western sky 
 
 A fieiy sunset lingers. 
 Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly. 
 
 Unlocked by unseen fingers. 
 
 And while they stand a moment half ajar. 
 
 Gleams fi-om the inner glory 
 Stream brightly through the azure vault afar 
 
 And half reveal the story. 
 
 land unknown ! land of love divine ! 
 
 Father, all-wise, eternal ! 
 0, guide these wandering, waywoin feet of mine 
 
 Into those pastures venial ! 
 
 Nancy A. w. Priest. 
 
 "ONLY WAITING." 
 
 [A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doing 
 low. He replied. " Only waiting."] 
 
 Only waiting till the shadows 
 
 Are a little longer grown. 
 Only waiting till the glimmer 
 
 Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
 Till the night of eartli is faded 
 
 From the heart, once full of day ; 
 Till the stars of heaven are breaking 
 
 Through the twilight soft and gi'ay. 
 
 Only waiting till the reapers 
 
 Have the last sheaf gathered home, * 
 For the summer time is faded. 
 
 And the autumn winds liave come. 
 Quickly, reapers ! gather quickly 
 
 The last ripe hours of my heart. 
 For the bloom of life is withered, 
 
 And 1 hasten to depart.
 
 332 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 Only waiting till the augels 
 
 Open wide the mystic gate, 
 At whose feet I long have lingered, 
 
 Weary, poor, and desolate. 
 Even now I hear the footsteps, 
 
 And their voices far away ; 
 If they call me, I am waiting. 
 
 Only waiting to obey. 
 
 Only waiting till the shadows 
 
 Are a little longer grown, 
 Only waiting till the glimmer 
 
 Of the day's last beam is flown. 
 Then from out the gathered darkness, 
 
 Holy, deathless stars shall rise. 
 By whose light my soul shall gladly 
 
 Tread its pathway to the skies. 
 
 Adelaide Anne Procter. 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 Come, Brother, turn with me from pining 
 thought 
 And all the inward ills that sin has wrought ; 
 Come, send abroad a love for all who live. 
 And feel the deep content in turn they give. 
 Kind wishes and good deeds, — they make not 
 
 poor ; 
 They '11 home again, full laden, to thy door ; 
 The streams of love flow back where they begin. 
 For springs of outward joys lie deep within. 
 
 Even let them flow, and make the places glad 
 W here dwell thy fellow-men. Shouldst thou be sad. 
 And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press 
 Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness 
 More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear 
 The music of those waters running near ; 
 And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream, 
 And thine eye gladden with the playing beam 
 That now upon the water dances, now 
 Leaps up and danoes in the hanging bough. 
 
 Is it not lovely ? Tell me, where doth dwell 
 The power that wrought so beautiful a spell '! 
 In thine own bosom. Brother ? Then as thine 
 Guard with a reverent fear this power divine. 
 
 And if, indeed, 't is not the outward state. 
 But temper of the soul by which we rate 
 Sadness or joy, even let thy bosom move 
 With noble thoughts and wake thee into love ; 
 And let each feeling in thy breast be given 
 Ail honest aim, which, sanctified by Heaven, 
 And springing into act, new life imparts. 
 Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts. 
 
 Sin clouds the mind's clear vision ; 
 Around the self-starved soul has spread a dearth. 
 The earth is full of life ; the living Hand 
 Touched it with life ; and all its forms e.\pand 
 
 With principles of being made to suit 
 Man's varied powers and raise him from the brute. 
 And shall the earth of higher ends be full, — 
 Earth which thou tread' st, — and thy poor mind 
 
 be dull? 
 Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep ? 
 Thou "living dead man," let thy spirit leap 
 Forth to the day, and let the fresh air blow 
 Through thy soul's shut-up mansion. Wouldst 
 
 thou know 
 Something of what is life, shake off this death ; 
 Have thy soul feel the universal breath 
 With which all nature 's quick, and leani to be 
 Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see ; 
 Break from thy body's grasp, thy spirit's trance ; 
 Give thy soul air, thy faculties expanse ; 
 Love, joy, even sorrow, — yield thyself to all ! 
 They make thy freedom, groveler, not thy thrall. 
 Knock ofl' the shackles which thy spirit bind 
 To dust and sense, and set at large the mind ! 
 Then move in sympathy with God's great whole. 
 And be like man at first, a liviny soul. 
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 
 
 SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL. 
 
 Sit down, sad soul, and count 
 
 The moments flying ; 
 Come, tell the sweet amount 
 
 That 'a lost by sighing ! 
 How many smiles ? — a score ? 
 Then laugh, and count no more ; 
 For day is dying ! 
 
 Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, 
 
 And no more measure 
 The flight of time, nor weep 
 
 The loss of leisure ; 
 But here, by this lone sti'eam. 
 Lie down witli us, and dream 
 Of starry treasure ! 
 
 We dream ; do thou the same ; 
 
 We love, — forever ; 
 We laugh, yet few we shame, — 
 
 The gentle never. 
 Stay, then, till sorrow dies : 
 Then — hope and happy skies 
 Are thine forever ! 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS. 
 
 Tell me, ye winged winds. 
 That round my pathway roar. 
 
 Do ye not know some spot 
 Where mortals weep no more ?
 
 Some lone and pleasant dell, 
 
 Some valley in the west. 
 Where, free from toil and jiain, 
 The weaiy soul may rest ? 
 The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, 
 And sighed for pity as it answered, — " No." 
 
 Tell me, thou mighty deep. 
 
 Whose billows round mo play, 
 Know'st thou some favored spot, 
 
 Some island far away. 
 Where weary man may find 
 
 The bliss for which he sighs, — 
 Where sorrow never lives. 
 And friendship never dies ? 
 Tile loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow. 
 Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer, — 
 "No." 
 
 And thou, serenest moon. 
 
 That, with such lovely face, 
 Dost look upon the earth. 
 
 Asleep in night's embrace ; 
 Tell me, in all thy round 
 
 Hast thou not seen some spot 
 Where miserable man 
 
 May find a happier lot ! 
 Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, 
 And a voice, sweet but sad, responded, — " No." 
 
 Tell me, my secret soul, 
 
 0, tell me, Hope and Faith, 
 Is there no resting-place 
 
 From sorrow, sin, and death ? 
 Is there no happy spot 
 
 Where mortals may be blest. 
 Where grief may find a balm. 
 And weariness a rest ? 
 Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortalsgiven. 
 Waved their bright wings, and whispered, — 
 "Yes, in heaven ! " 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
 NOTHING BUT LEAVES. 
 
 Nothing but leaves ; the spirit grieves 
 
 Over a wasted life ; 
 Sin committed while conscience slept. 
 Promises made, but never kept, 
 
 Hatred, battle, and strife ; 
 Nothing but leaves I 
 
 Nothing but leaves ; no garnered sheaves 
 
 Of life's fair, ripened grain ; 
 Words, idle words, for earnest deeds ; 
 We sow our seeds, — lo ! tares and weeds : 
 
 We reap, with toil and pain. 
 Nothing but loaves I 
 
 Nothing but leaves ; memory weaves 
 
 N o veil to screen the past ; 
 As we retrace our weary way, 
 t'ounting each lost and misspent day, 
 
 We find, sadly, at last. 
 Nothing but leaves I 
 
 And shall we meet the Ma.stcr so, 
 
 Bearing our withered leaves ? 
 The Saviour looks for perfect fruit ; 
 We stand before him, humbled, mute ; 
 Waiting the words he breathes, — 
 "Nothing but leaves?" 
 
 Lucy E. Akerman. 
 
 THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 
 
 Father of all ! in every age. 
 
 In every clime adored. 
 By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
 
 Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 
 
 Thou great First Cause, least understood. 
 
 Who all my sense confined 
 To know but this, that thou art good. 
 
 And that myself am blind ; 
 
 Yet gave me, in this dark estate. 
 
 To see the good from ill ; 
 And, binding nature fast in fate. 
 
 Left free the human will : 
 
 What conscience dictates to be done. 
 
 Or warns me not to do. 
 This, teach me more than hell to shun, 
 
 That, more than heaven pursue. 
 
 What blessings thy free bounty gives 
 
 Let me not cast away ; 
 For God is paid when man receives, 
 
 To enjoy is to obey. 
 
 Yet not to earth's contracted span 
 
 Thy goodness let me bound. 
 Or think thee Lord alone of man, 
 
 When thousand worlds are round : 
 
 Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
 
 Presume thy bolts to throw. 
 And deal damnation round the land 
 
 On each I judge thy foe. 
 
 If I am right, thy gi-ace impart 
 
 Still in the right to staj' ; 
 If I am wrong, O, teach my heart 
 
 To find that better way !
 
 334 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 f 
 
 Save mc alike from foolish pride 
 
 And impious discontent 
 At aught thy wisdom has denied, 
 
 Or aught thy goodness lent. 
 
 Teach me to feel another's woe, 
 
 To hide the fault I see ; 
 That mercy I to others show, 
 
 That mercy show to me. 
 
 Mean though I am, not wholly so, 
 Since quickened hy thy breath ; 
 
 0, lead me whereso'er I go, 
 
 Through this day's life or death ! 
 
 This day be bread and peace my lot ; 
 
 All else beneath the sun. 
 Thou know'st if best bestowed or not. 
 
 And let thy will be done. 
 
 To thee, whose temple is all space. 
 Whose altar, earth, sea, skies, 
 
 One chorus let all Being raise. 
 All Nature's incense rise ! 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 WRESTLINa JACOB. 
 
 FIRST PART. 
 
 Come, thou Traveler unknown, 
 "VVliom still I hold, but cannot see ; 
 
 My company before is gone. 
 And I am left alone with thee ; 
 
 With thee all night I mean to stay, 
 
 And wTestle till the break of day. 
 
 1 need not tell thee who I am ; 
 
 My sin and miseiy declare ; 
 Thyself hast called me by my name ; 
 
 Look on thy hands, and read it there ; 
 But wlio, 1 ask thee, who art thou ? 
 Tell me thy name, and tell me now. 
 
 In vain thou strugglest to get free ; 
 
 I never will unloose my hold : 
 Art thou tlie Man that died for me ? 
 
 The secret of tliy love unfold ; 
 AVrestling, I will not let tliee go 
 Till I thy name, thy nature know. 
 
 Wilt thou not yet to me reveal 
 Thy new, unutterable name ? 
 
 Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell ; • 
 To know it now resolved I am ; 
 
 Wrestling, I will not let thee go 
 
 Till I thy name, thy nature know. 
 
 What though my shrinking flesh complain 
 And murmur to contend so long, 
 
 I rise superior to my pain ; 
 
 When I am weak, then am I strong ! 
 
 And when my all of strength shall fail, 
 
 I shall with the God-man prevail. 
 
 SECOND PART. 
 
 Yield to me now, for 1 am weak, 
 
 But confident in self-despair ; 
 Speak to my heart, in blessings speak ; 
 
 Be conquered by my instant prayer ; 
 Speak, or thou never hence slialt move, 
 And tell me if thy name be Love. 
 
 'T is Love ! 't is Love ! Thou diedst for me ; 
 
 I hear thy whisper in my heart ; 
 The morning breaks, the shadows flee ; 
 
 Pure, universal Love thou art ; 
 To me, to all, thy bowels move ; 
 Thy nature and thy name is Love. 
 
 My prayer hath power with God ; the grace 
 
 Unspeakable I now receive ; 
 Through faith 1 see thee face to face ; 
 
 I see thee fece to face and live ! 
 In vain I have not wept and strove ; 
 Thy nature aiul thy name is Love. 
 
 I know thee. Saviour, who thou art, 
 Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend ; 
 
 Nor wilt thou witli the night depart. 
 But stay and love me to the end ; 
 
 Thy mercies never shall remove ; 
 
 Thy nature and thy name is Love. 
 
 The Sun of Righteousness on me 
 
 Hath risen, with healing in his wings ; 
 
 Withered my nature's strength ; from thee 
 My soul its life and succor brings ; 
 
 My help is all laid up above ; 
 
 Thy nature and thy name is Love. 
 
 Contented now upon my thigh 
 
 I halt till life's short journey end ; 
 
 All helplessness, all weakness, I 
 On thee alone for strength depend ; 
 
 Nor have I power from thee to move ; 
 
 Thy nature and thy name is Love. 
 
 Lame as I am, I take the prey ; 
 
 Hell, earth, and sin with ease o'ercome ; 
 I leap for joy, pursue my way, 
 
 And, as a bounding hart, fly home ; 
 Through all eternity to prove 
 Thy nature and thy name is Love. 
 
 CHARLES Wesley. 
 
 I 
 
 r
 
 "I WILL THAT MEN PRAY EATERYWHERE." 
 
 To prayer ! to prayer ! — for the morning breaks, 
 
 And eartli in lier Maker's smile awakes. 
 
 His liglit is on all, below and above, — 
 
 The lifjht of gladness and life and love. 
 
 (), then on the breath of this early air, 
 
 .Send upward the incense of grateful prayer. 
 
 To prayer ! — for the glorious sun has gone. 
 And the gathering darkness of night comes on. 
 Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows. 
 To shade the couch where his children repose. 
 Then kneel, whUe the watching stars are bright, 
 And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of 
 night. 
 
 To prayer ! for the day that God has blest, 
 Comes tranriullly on with its welcome rest. 
 It speaks of creation's early bloom. 
 It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. 
 Then sunmion the spirit's exalted powers, 
 And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours. 
 
 There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes, 
 
 For her new-born infant beside her lies. 
 
 0, hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows 
 
 With rapture a mother only knows ; — 
 
 Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ; 
 
 Let it swell up to Heaven for her precious care. 
 
 There are smiles and teare in that gathering band. 
 Where the heart is pledged with the trembling 
 
 hand. 
 What trying thoughts in her bosom swell. 
 As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! 
 Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair. 
 And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer. 
 
 Kneel down by the dying sinner's side. 
 
 And pray for his soul, through Him who died. 
 
 Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow : — 
 
 O, what are earth and its pleasures now ? 
 
 And what shall assuage his dark despair 
 
 But the penitent cry of humble prayer ? 
 
 Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, 
 And hear the last words the believer saith. 
 He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends : 
 There is peace in his eye that upward bends ; 
 There is peace in his calm confiding air : 
 For his la-s-t thoughts are God's, — his last words, 
 prayer. 
 
 The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! — 
 A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. 
 It commends the spirit to God who gave ; 
 It lifts the thoughts from the cold dark grave ; 
 
 It points to the glory where He .shall reign, 
 Who whispered, "Thy brother shall rise again." 
 
 The voice of prayer in the world of bliss ! — 
 But gladder, purer, than rose from this. 
 The ransomed shout to their glorious King, 
 When no sorrow shades the soul as they sing ; 
 But a sinless and joyous song they raise, 
 And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. 
 
 A\vake ! awake ! and gird up thy strength 
 To join that holy band at length. 
 To Him who unceasing love disjilays, 
 Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise, 
 To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ; 
 For a life of prayer is the life of Heaven. 
 
 HUNRY WAKE. JR. 
 
 A MIGHTY FORTRESS IS OUR GOD. 
 
 Ein" feste burg ist unser Gott 
 
 A MIGHTY fortress is our God, 
 
 A bulwark never failing ; 
 Our helper he amid the flood 
 
 Of mortal ills prevailing. 
 For still our ancient foe 
 Doth seek to work us woe ; 
 His craft and power are great, 
 And, armed with equal hate, 
 
 On earth is not his equal. 
 
 Did we in our own .strength confide, 
 Our striving would be losing ; 
 
 Were not the right man on our side, 
 The man of God's own choosing. 
 
 Dost ask who that may be ? 
 
 Christ Jesus, it is he. 
 
 Lord Sabaoth his name. 
 
 From age to age the same. 
 And he must win the battle. 
 
 From the German of Martin Luther, 
 by F. H. Hedge. 
 
 IT KINDLES ALL MY SOtTL. 
 
 Urit me Patrke decor. 
 
 It kindles all my soul, 
 Jly country's loveliness ! Those starry choirs 
 
 That watch around the pole, 
 And the moon's tender light, and heavenly fires 
 
 Through golden halls that roll. 
 chorus of the night ! planets, sworn 
 
 The music of the spheres 
 To follow ! Lovely watchers, that think scorn 
 
 To rest till day appears ! 
 Me, for celestial homes of glory born,
 
 Why here, 0, why so long, 
 Do ye behold an exile from on high ? 
 
 Here, ye shining throng, 
 With lilies spread the mound where I shall lie : 
 
 Here let me drop my chain, 
 And dust to dust returning, east away 
 
 The trammels that remain ; 
 The rest of me shall spring to endless day ! 
 
 From the Latin of CASIMIR OF POLAND, 
 
 JEWISH HYMN IN BABYLON. 
 
 God of the thunder ! from whose cloudy seat 
 
 The fiery mnds of Desolation flow ; 
 Father of vengeance ! that with purple feet 
 
 Like a full wine-press treail'st the world below ; 
 The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, 
 \or springs the beast of havoc on his prey, 
 Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way, 
 Till thou hast marked the guilty land for woe. 
 
 God of the rainbow ! at whose gi'aoious sign 
 
 The billows of the proud their rage suppress ; 
 Father of mercies ! at one word of thine 
 
 An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness, 
 .\ud fountains sparkle in the arid sands, 
 And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands, 
 -Vnd marble cities crown the laughing lands, 
 And pillared temples rise thy name to bless. 
 
 O'er .Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord ! 
 
 The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate, 
 Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's sword. 
 
 Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; 
 And heaps her ivory palaces became. 
 Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame. 
 Her temples sank amid the smoldering flame. 
 
 For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate. 
 
 O'er .Judah's land thy rainbow. Lord, shall beam. 
 
 And the sad City lift her crownless head, 
 And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam 
 I n streets where broods the silence of the dead. 
 The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers. 
 On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers 
 To deck at blushing eve their bridal bowers. 
 And angel feet the glittering Sion tread. 
 
 Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand. 
 
 And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves. 
 AVith fettered steps we left our pleasant land. 
 
 Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. 
 The strangers' bread with bitter tears we steep. 
 And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep. 
 In the mute midnight we steal forth to weep. 
 Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves. 
 
 The bom in sorrow shaU bring forth in joy ; 
 
 Thy mercy. Lord, shall lead thy children home; 
 He that went forth a tender prattling boy 
 
 Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come ; 
 And Canaan's vines for us their fruit shall bear. 
 And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare. 
 And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer. 
 
 Where o'er the cherub-seated God fidl blazed 
 the irradiate dome. 
 
 Henry Hart ^tlLMAN. 
 
 THE DYING SAVIOUR. 
 
 SACKED Head, now wounded. 
 
 With grief and shame weighed down ; 
 Now scornfully suiTOunded 
 
 With thorns, thy only crown ; 
 sacred Head, what glory. 
 
 What bliss, rill now was thine ! 
 Yet, though despised and gory, 
 
 1 joy to call thee mine. 
 
 noblest brow and dearest. 
 
 In other days the world 
 All feared when thou appearedst ; 
 
 What shame on thee is hurled ! 
 How art thou pale with anguish. 
 
 With sore abuse and scorn I 
 How does that visage languish 
 
 Which once was bright as morn ! 
 
 What language shall I borrow. 
 
 To thank thee, dearest Friend, 
 For this thy dying sorrow. 
 
 Thy pity without end ! 
 0, make me thine forever. 
 
 And should I fainting be, 
 Lord, let me never, never. 
 
 Outlive my love to thee. 
 
 If I, a wretch, should leave thee, 
 
 .Tesus, leave not me ! 
 In faith may I receive thee. 
 
 When death shall set me free. 
 WTien strength and comfort languish. 
 
 And I must hence depart, 
 Release me then from anguish. 
 
 By thine own wounded heart. 
 
 Be near when I am djnng, 
 
 0, show thy cross to me ! 
 And for my succor flj'ing. 
 
 Come, Lord, to set me free. 
 These eyes new faith receiving. 
 
 From Jesus shall not move ; 
 For he who dies believing 
 
 Dies safely — through thy love. 
 
 PAUL GERIIARDT.
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 337 
 
 THE MTNISTRY OF ANGELS. 
 
 And is there care in heaven ? And is tliere love 
 In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, 
 That may compassion ol' tlieir evils move ? 
 There is: — else much more wretched were the 
 
 case 
 Of men than beasts : but the exceeding grace 
 Of Highest God ! that loves his creatures so, 
 And all his workes with mercy doth embrace, 
 That blessed angels he sends to and IVo, 
 
 To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe ! 
 
 How oft do they their silver bowers leave, 
 To come to succour us that succour want ! 
 How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
 The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant. 
 Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant ! 
 They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, 
 And their bright squadrons round about us 
 
 plant ; 
 And all for love, and nothing for reward ; 
 
 0, why should heavenly God to men have such 
 
 regard ! 
 
 Edmund Spenser. 
 
 NEAHER, 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 the 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 ; 
 Angels to beckon me 
 Nearer, my God, to thee. 
 
 Nearer to thee ! 
 
 Then with my waking thoughts. 
 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 1 fly ; 
 Still all my song shall be, — 
 Nearer, my (rod, to thee. 
 
 Nearer to thee. 
 
 Sarah flower Adams. 
 
 FROM THE RECESSES OF A LOWLY SPIRIT. 
 
 From the recesses of a lowly s]jirit, 
 Our humble prayer ascends ; Tather ! liear it. 
 Upsoaring on the wings of awe ai^d meekness, 
 Forgive its weakness ! 
 
 We see thy hand, — it leads us, it supports us ; 
 We hear thy voice, — it counsels and it courts us ; 
 And then we turn away ; and still thy kindness 
 Forgives our blindness. 
 
 0, how long-suffering, Lord ! but thon delightest 
 To win with love the wandering : thou invitest. 
 By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors, 
 Man from his errors. 
 
 Father and Saviour ! jilant within each bo<om 
 The .seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom 
 In fragrance and in beauty bright and vriiial, 
 And spring eternal. 
 
 John Luw ici.NG. 
 
 NEARER HOME. 
 
 One .sweetly solemn thought 
 Comes to me o'er and o'er ; 
 
 I 'm nearer my home to-day 
 Than I ever have been before ; 
 
 Nearer my Father's house. 
 
 Where the many mansions be ; 
 
 Nearer the great white tln'one. 
 Nearer the crystal sea ; 
 
 Nearer the bound of life. 
 
 Where we lay our burdens down ; 
 Nearer leaving the cross. 
 
 Nearer gaining the crown ! 
 
 But the waves of that silent sea 
 Roll dark before my siglit 
 
 That brightly the other side 
 Break on a shore of light. 
 
 0, if my mortal feet 
 
 Have almost gained the brink ;
 
 If it be I am nearer home 
 Even to-day than I think, — 
 
 Father, perfect my trust ! 
 
 Let my spirit feel, in death. 
 That her feet are firmly set 
 
 On the Rock of a living faith ! 
 
 PUCEBE CARV. 
 
 THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH. 
 
 The spacious finnament on high, 
 
 With all the blue ethereal sky, 
 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 
 Their great Original proclaim ; 
 
 The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
 
 Does his Creator's power display. 
 
 And publishes to every land 
 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tale. 
 And niglitly to the listening earth 
 Repeats the story of her birth ; 
 While all the stars that round her bum. 
 And all the ])lanets in their turn, 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll. 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
 What though no real voice or sound 
 Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 
 In Reason's ear they all rejoice. 
 And utter forth a glorious voice. 
 Forever singing, as they shine, 
 " The Hand that made us is divine!" 
 
 Joseph Addison. 
 
 LORD I WHEN THOSE GLORIOUS LIGHTS I 
 SEE — 
 
 HV.MN AND PRAYER FOR THE USE OF BELIEVERS. 
 
 Lord ! when those glorious lights I see 
 
 With which thou hast adorned the skies. 
 Observing how they moved be, 
 
 And how their splendor fills mine eyes, 
 Methinks it is too large a grace. 
 
 But that thy love ordained it so, — 
 That creatures in .so high a place , 
 
 Should sei-vants be to man below. 
 
 The meanest lamp now shining there 
 
 In size and lustre doth exceed 
 The nolilest of thy creatures here. 
 
 And of our friendship hath no need. 
 
 Yet these upon mankind attend 
 For secret aid or public light ; 
 
 And from the world's e.xtremest end 
 Repair unto us every night. 
 
 0, had that stamp been undefaced 
 
 Which first on us thy hand had set, 
 How highl}' should we have been graced, 
 
 Since we are so much honored yet ! 
 Good God, for what but for the sake 
 
 Of thy beloved ami only Son, 
 Who did on him our nature take, 
 
 Were these e.xceeding favors done ? 
 
 As we by him have honored been. 
 
 Let us to him due honors give ; 
 Let his uprightness hide our sin, 
 
 And let us worth from him receive. 
 Yea, so let us by gi'ace improve 
 
 What thou by nature doth bestow. 
 That to thy dwelling-place above 
 
 We may be raised from below. 
 
 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 HYMN 
 
 BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 
 
 H.\ST thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald, awful head, sovereign Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 Rave cea.selessly ; but thou, most awful Form, 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines 
 How silently ! Around thee and above. 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, — 
 An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it. 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal slirine, 
 Thy haliitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and silent Mount I I gazed upon thee. 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 
 Didst vanish from ray thought. Entranced in 
 
 prayer 
 
 1 worshiped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
 So sweet we know not we .are listening to it. 
 Thou, the mean while, wast blending with my 
 
 thought, — 
 Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy, — 
 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 
 Into the mighty vision passing, there. 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
 Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. 
 Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy ! Awake,
 
 FOKDS.HOWARD i HULBERT.NY
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 339 
 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awiikc, my heart, awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale I 
 0, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
 And visited all niglit by troops of stars, 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they sink, 
 Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 Co-herald, — wake, 0, wake, and utter pi-aise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in eartli ? 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fieively glail ! 
 Who called you forth from night and utter death. 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 Forever shattered and the same forever ? 
 Wlio gave you your invulnerable life, 
 Yourstrength, yourspeed, your fury, andyour joy. 
 Unceasing thunder ami eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded (and the silence came), 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
 Ton-ents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
 Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, witli living 
 
 flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
 God ! — let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God I 
 God ! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome 
 
 voice ! 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like 
 
 sounds ! 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow. 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
 Ye signs an<l wonders of the elements ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 
 
 Thou, too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing 
 
 peaks. 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 
 
 serene. 
 Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast, — 
 Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
 That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
 
 In adoration, upward from thy base . 
 Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
 To rise before me, — Kise, O, ever rise I 
 liise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among tli(^ hills, 
 Tliou dread ambassador from Eartli to Heaven, 
 Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising s\in, 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 SAMUm. TAV.oK COI r.KlUCE. 
 
 AMAZING, BEAUTEOUS CHANGE I 
 
 AM.A.ZIXG, beauteous change ! 
 A world created new ! 
 My thoughts with transport range, 
 The lovely scene to view ; 
 
 In all 1 trace. 
 
 Saviour divine. 
 
 The work is thine, — 
 
 Be thine the praise ! 
 
 See crystal fountains play 
 Amidst the burning saiuls; 
 The river's winding way 
 Shines through the thirsty lands ; 
 
 New gi'ass is seen, 
 
 And o'er the meads 
 
 Its carpet spreads 
 
 Of living green. 
 
 ■Where pointed brambles grew, 
 Intwined with hoiTid thom, 
 Gay flowers, forever new-. 
 The painted fields adorn, — 
 
 The blushing rose 
 
 And lily there. 
 
 In union fair. 
 
 Their sweets disclo.se. 
 
 Where the bleak mountain stood 
 All bare and disarrayed. 
 See the wide-branching wood 
 Diff"use its grateful shade ; 
 
 Tall cedars nod, 
 
 And oaks and pines. 
 
 And elms and vines 
 
 Confess the God. 
 
 The ts'rants of the plain 
 Their savage chase give o'er, — 
 No more they rend the slain. 
 And thirst for blood no more ; 
 
 But infant hands 
 
 Fierce tigers stroke, 
 
 And lions yoke 
 
 In flowery bands. 
 
 i
 
 340 
 
 POEMS OF IlELIGIOX. 
 
 0, when, Almighty Lord ! 
 Shall these glaJ seenes arise, 
 To verity thy wonl, 
 And bless our wondering eyes ? 
 Tliat earth may raise. 
 With all its tongues, 
 United songs 
 Of ardent praise. 
 
 PHILIP Doddridge. 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 How still the morning of the hallowed day ! 
 Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed 
 The plowboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. 
 The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath 
 Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers. 
 That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze ; 
 Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the 
 
 hum 
 Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, 
 The distant bleating, midway up the hill. 
 Calnmess sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. 
 To him who wanders o'er the upland leas 
 The blackbird's note comes mellower from the 
 
 dale ; 
 And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark 
 Warbles his heaven-tuned song ; the lulling brook 
 Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; 
 While from yon lowly roof, whose circling smoke 
 tl'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals 
 The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. 
 With dovelike wings Peace o'er yon village 
 
 broods ; 
 The dizzying ndll-wheel rests ; the anvil's din 
 Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. 
 Less fearful on this day, the limping hare 
 Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on 
 
 man. 
 Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, 
 Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; 
 And as his stiif, unwieldy bulk he rolls. 
 His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. 
 
 jAiMES GRAHAME. 
 
 THE MEETING. 
 
 The elder folk shook hands at last, 
 
 Down seat by seat the signal passed. 
 
 To simjile ways like ours unused. 
 
 Half solemnized and half amused, 
 
 With long-drawn breath and shrug, my guest 
 
 His sense of glad relief expressed. 
 
 Outside, the hills lay warm in sun ; 
 
 The cattle in the mea<low-run 
 
 Stood lialf-leg deep ; a single bird 
 
 The green rejwse above us stirred. 
 
 " Wliat part or lot have you," he said, 
 " In these dull rites of drowsy- head ? 
 Is silence worship ? Seek it where 
 It soothes with dreams the summer air ; 
 Not in this close and rude-benched hall, 
 But where soft lights and shadows fall, 
 .\nd all the slow, sleep-walking hours 
 Glide soundless over grass and flowei'S ! 
 From time and place and form apart. 
 Its holy ground the human heart, 
 Nor ritual-bound nor templeward 
 Walks the free spirit of the Lord ! 
 Our common Master did not pen 
 His followers up from other men ; 
 His service liberty indeed. 
 He built no church, he framed no creed ; 
 Out while the saintly Pharisee 
 Made broader his phylactery. 
 As from the synagogue was seen 
 The dusty-sandaled Nazai'ene 
 Through ripening cornfields lead the way 
 Upon the awful Sabbath day, 
 His sermons were the healthful talk 
 That shorter made the mountain-walk, 
 His wayside texts were flowers and birds, 
 Where mingled with his gracious words 
 The rustle of the tamarisk-tree 
 And ripple-wash of Galilee." 
 
 "Thy words are well, friend," I said ; 
 
 " Unmeasured and unlimited. 
 
 With noiseless slide of stone to stone. 
 
 The mystic Church of God has grown. 
 
 Invisible and silent stands 
 
 The temple never made with hands. 
 
 Unheard the voices still and small 
 
 Of its unseen confessional. 
 
 He needs no special plai'e of prayer 
 
 Whose hearing car is everywhere : 
 
 He brings not back the childish days 
 
 That ringed tlie earth with stones of ))i'aise. 
 
 Roofed Karnak's hall of gods, and laid 
 
 The plinths of Philai's ccilonnade. 
 
 Still less he owns the selfish good 
 
 And sickly growth of solitude, — 
 
 The worthless grace that, out of sight. 
 
 Flowers in the desert anchorite ; 
 
 Dissevered from the suffering whole, 
 
 Love hath no power to save a soul. 
 
 Not out of Self, the origin 
 
 And native air and soil of sin, 
 
 The living waters spring nnd flow, 
 
 The trees with leaves of healing grow. 
 
 "Dream not, friend, because I seek 
 This quiet shelter twice a week, 
 I better deem its pine-laid floor 
 Than breezy hill or sea-sung shore ;
 
 I'UEMS OF HELRIIOS. 
 
 341 
 
 wooJ ; 
 
 But nature is not solitude ; 
 She crowds us with licr thronging 
 Her many liands reach out to us, 
 Her many tongues arc garrulous ; 
 Perpetual riddles of sur]irise 
 She oti'crs to our ears and eyes ; 
 She will not leave our seuses still, 
 But drags tlieni captive at her will ; 
 And, making earth too great for heaven, 
 She liides the Giver in the given. 
 
 "And so I find it well to come 
 
 For deeper rest to this still room, 
 
 For here the habit of the soul 
 
 Feels less the outer world's control ; 
 
 The strength of mutual purpose pleads 
 
 More earnestly our common needs ; 
 
 And from the silence multiplied 
 
 By these still forms on either side, 
 
 The world that time and sense have known 
 
 Falls otr and leaves us Uod alone. 
 
 "Yet rarely through the charmed repose 
 Unmi.xed the stream of motive flows, 
 A flavor of its many springs. 
 The tints of earth and sky it lirings ; 
 In the still waters needs must be 
 Some shade of human sympathy ; 
 And here, in its accustomed place, 
 I look on memory's dearest face ; 
 The blind by-sitter guesscth not 
 AVhat shadow haunts that vacant spot ; 
 No eyes save mine alone can see 
 The love wherewith it welcomes me ! 
 And still, with those alone my kin. 
 In doubt and weakness, want and sin, 
 I bow my head, my heart 1 bare 
 As when that face was living there. 
 And strive (too oft, alas ! in vain) 
 The peace of simple trust to gain. 
 Fold fancy's restless wings, and lay 
 The idols of my heart away. 
 
 "Welcome the silence all unbroken. 
 
 Nor less the words of fitness spoken, — 
 
 Such golden words as hers for whom 
 
 Our autumn flowers have just made room ; 
 
 Whose hopeful utterance through and through 
 
 The freshness of the morning blew ; 
 
 Who loved not less the earth that light 
 
 Fell on it from the heavens in sight, 
 
 But saw in all fair forms more fair 
 
 The Eternal bea\ity mirrored there. 
 
 Whose eighty yeare but added grace 
 
 And saintlier meaning to her face, — 
 
 The look of one who bore away 
 
 niail tidings from the hills of day. 
 
 While all our hearts went forth to meet 
 
 The coming of her beautiful I'eet ! 
 
 Or haply heis whose pilgrim tread 
 
 Is in the jiatlis where .lesus led ; 
 
 Who dreaiiis her eliiidhood's sabbatli dream 
 
 By Jordan's willow-shaded stream. 
 
 And, of the liyuuis of hope and faith. 
 
 Sung by the monks of Nazaretli, 
 
 Heai's pious echoes, in the call 
 
 To [iraycr, from Moslem minarets fall. 
 
 Repeating where His works were wrought 
 
 The lesson that her llaster taught, 
 
 Of whom an elder Sibyl gave, 
 
 The prophesies of Cunife's cave ! 
 
 " I ask no organ's soulless breath 
 
 To drone the themes of life and death, 
 
 No altar candle-lit by day, 
 
 No ornate wordsman's rhetoric-play. 
 
 No cool philosophy to teach 
 
 Its bland audacities of speech 
 
 To doubled-tasked idolatci-s, 
 
 Themselves their gods and woi-shipers, 
 
 No pulpit hammered by the fist 
 
 Of loud-asserting dogmatist. 
 
 Who borrows for the hand of love 
 
 The smoking thunderbolts of Jove. 
 
 I know how well the fathers taught. 
 
 What work the later schoolmen wrought ; 
 
 I reverence old-time faith and men, 
 
 But fiod is near us now as then ; 
 
 His force of love is still unspent, 
 
 His hate of sin as imminent ; 
 
 And still the measure of our needs 
 
 Outgrow's the cramping bounds of creeds ; 
 
 The manna gathered yesterday 
 
 Already savors of decay ; 
 
 Doubts to the woi-ld's child-heart unknown 
 
 Question us now from star and stone ; 
 
 Too little or too nuieh we know, 
 
 And sight is swift au<l faitli is slow ; 
 
 The power is lost to self-deceive 
 
 With shallow forms of make-believe. 
 
 We walk at high noon, and the bells 
 
 Call to a thousand oracles. 
 
 But the sound deafens, and the light 
 
 Is stronger than our dazzled sight ; 
 
 The letters of the sacred Book 
 
 Glimmer and swim beneath our look ; 
 
 Still struggles in the Age's breast 
 
 With deepening agony of quest 
 
 The old entreaty ; ' Art thou He, 
 
 Or look we for the Christ to be ?' 
 
 "God should be most where man is least ; 
 So, where is neither church nor priest, 
 And never rag of form or creed 
 To clothe the nakedness of need, — 
 Where farmer- folk in .silence meet, —
 
 
 342 FOEMS OF 
 
 liKLlGluN. T 
 
 
 I turn my bell-uiisiimmoned feet ; 
 
 The blessed means to holiest ends. 
 
 
 
 I lay the critic's glass aside, 
 
 Not masters, but benignant friends ; 
 
 
 
 I tread upon my lettered pride, 
 
 That the dear Christ dwells not afar. 
 
 
 
 And, lowest-seated, testily 
 
 The king of some remoter star. 
 
 
 
 To the oneness of humanity ; 
 
 But flamed o'er all the thronging host 
 
 
 
 Confess the universal want, 
 
 The baptism of the Holy Ghost ; 
 
 
 
 And share whatever Heaven may grant. 
 
 Heart answers heart : in one desire 
 
 
 
 He tindeth not who seeks his own. 
 
 The blending lines of prayer aspire ; 
 
 
 
 The soul is lost that 's saved alone. 
 
 ' Where, in my name, meet two or three, ' 
 
 
 
 Not on one favored forehead fell 
 
 Our Lord hath said, ' I there will be ! ' " 
 
 
 
 Of old the fire-tongued miracle, 
 
 John Greenleaf W'hittier. 
 
 
 
 But flamed o'er all the thronging host 
 
 
 
 
 The baptism of the Holy Ohost ; 
 
 
 
 
 Heart answers heart : in one desire 
 
 A PRATER FOR Llt'E. 
 
 
 
 The blending lines of pi-ayer aspire ; 
 
 
 
 
 ' Where, in my name, meet two or three, 
 
 Father, let me not die young ! 
 
 
 
 Our Lord hath said, ' I there will be ! ' 
 
 Earth's beauty asks a heart and tongue 
 To give true love and praises to her worth ; 
 
 
 
 " So sometimes comes to soul and sense 
 
 Her sins and judgment-sufi'erings call 
 
 
 
 The feeling which is evidence 
 
 For fearless martyrs to redeem thy Earth 
 
 
 
 That very near about us lies 
 
 From her disastrous fall. 
 
 
 
 The realm of spiritual mysteries. 
 
 For though her summer hills and vales might 
 
 
 
 The sphere of the supernal powers 
 
 seem 
 
 
 
 Impinges on this world of ours. 
 
 The fair creation of a poet's dream, — 
 
 
 
 The low and dark horizon lifts. 
 
 Ay, of the Highest Poet, 
 
 
 
 To light the scenic terror shifts; 
 
 Whose wordless rhythms are chanted by the 
 
 
 
 Tlie breath of a diviner air 
 
 gyres 
 
 
 
 Blows down the answer of a prayer : — 
 
 Of constellate star-choirs. 
 
 
 
 That all our soitow, pain, and doubt 
 
 That with deep melody flow and overflow it, — 
 
 
 
 A great compassion clasps about. 
 
 The sweet Earth, — very sweet, despite 
 
 
 
 And law and goodness, love and force, 
 
 The rank grave-smell forever drifting in 
 
 
 
 Are wedded fast beyond divorce. 
 
 Among the odors from her censers white 
 
 
 
 Then duty leaves to love its task. 
 
 Of wave-swungliliesandofwind-swungroses, — 
 
 
 
 The beggar Self forgets to ask ; 
 
 The Earth sad-sweet is deeply attaint with 
 
 
 
 AVith smile of trust and folded hands. 
 
 sin ! 
 
 
 
 The passive soul in waiting stands 
 
 The pure air, which encloses 
 
 
 
 To feel, as flowers the sun and dew. 
 
 Her and her starry kin, 
 
 
 
 The One true Life its own renew. 
 
 Still shudders with the unspent palpitating 
 Of a great Curse, that to its utmost shore 
 
 
 
 "So, to the calmly gathered thought 
 
 Thrills with a deadly shiver 
 
 
 
 The innermost of truth is taught, 
 
 Which has not ceased to quiver 
 
 
 
 The mystery dindy understood, 
 
 Down all the ages, nathlcss the strong beating 
 
 
 
 That love of God is love of good, 
 
 Of Angel-wings, and the defiant roar 
 
 
 
 And, chiefly, its divinest trace 
 
 Of Earth's Titanic thunders. 
 
 
 
 In Him of Nazareth's holy face ; 
 
 
 
 
 That to be saved is only this, — 
 
 Fair and sad. 
 
 
 
 Salvation from our selfishness, ' 
 
 In sin and beauty, our beloved Earth 
 
 
 
 From more than elemental fire. 
 
 Has need of all her sons to make her glad ; 
 
 
 
 The soul's uusanctified desire. 
 
 Has need of martjTS to refire the hearth 
 
 
 
 From sin itself, and not the pain 
 
 Of her quenched altars, — of heroic men 
 
 
 
 That warns us of its chafing chain ; 
 
 With freedom's sword, or Troth's supernal pen. 
 
 
 
 That worship's deeper meaning lies 
 
 To shape the worn-out mold of nobleness again. 
 
 
 
 In mercy, and not sacrifice. 
 
 And she has need of Poets who ran string 
 
 
 
 Not proud humilities of sense 
 
 Their harps with steel to catch the lightning's 
 
 
 
 And posturing of penitence. 
 
 fire, 
 
 
 
 But love's unforced obedience ; 
 
 And pourher thunders from the clanging wire. 
 
 
 
 That Book and Church and Day are given 
 
 To cheer the hero, mingling with his cheer, 
 
 
 
 For man, not God, — for earth, not hearen, — 
 
 Arouse the laggard in the battle's rear. 
 
 
 • 1 
 
 
 • ' 

 
 FOEMS UF RELIGION. 
 
 4 
 
 Daunt the stern wicked, and fiom discord wring 
 
 Prevailing Imrniony, wliile the Immblest soul 
 Who keeps the tune the warder angels sing 
 In golden choirs above, 
 And only wears, tor crown and aureole, 
 
 The glow-worm light of lowliest human love, 
 Shall liU with low, sweet undertones the 
 
 chasms 
 Of silence, 'twixt the booming thunder- 
 spasms. 
 And Earth has need of Prophets fiery-lipped 
 And deep-souled, to announce the glorious 
 dooms 
 Writ on the silent lieavens in starry serijit. 
 And flashing titfuUy from her shuddering 
 tombs, — 
 Commissioned Angels of the new-born Faith, 
 
 To teach the iunnortality of Good, 
 The soul's God-likeness, Sin's coeval death, 
 And Man's indissoluble Brotherhood. 
 
 Yet never an age, when God has need of him. 
 Shall want its Man, predestined by that need, 
 .To pour his life in tiery word or deed, — 
 The strong Archangel of the Elohim ! 
 
 Earth's hollow want is prophet of his coming : 
 In the low murmur of her famished cry, 
 And heavy sobs breathed up desiiairingly. 
 
 Ye hear the near invisible humming 
 Of his wide wings that fan the lurid sky 
 Into cool ripples of new life and hope. 
 While far in its dissolving ether ope 
 Deeps beyond deeps, of sapphire calm, to cheer 
 With Sabbath gleams the troubled Now and 
 Here. 
 
 Father ! thy will be done ! 
 Holy and righteous One ! 
 Though the reluctant years 
 May never crown my throbbing brows w'ith 
 white. 
 Nor round my shoulders turn the golden light 
 Of my thick locks to wisdom's royal ermine ; 
 Yet by the solitary tears, 
 Deeper than joy or sorrow, — by the thrill. 
 Higher than hope or terror, whose rjuick germin, 
 
 In those hot tears to sudden vigor sprung. 
 Sheds, even now, the fruits of graver age, — 
 By the long wrestle in which inward ill 
 Fell like a trampled viper to the ground, — 
 By all that lifts me o'er my outward peers 
 To that supernal stage 
 Where soul dissolves the bonds by Nature 
 bound, — 
 Fall when I may, by pale disease unstrung. 
 Or by the hand of fratricidal rage, 
 
 1 cannot now die young ! 
 
 GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. 
 
 ■WHEN. 
 
 If I were told that I must die to-morrow. 
 
 That the next sun 
 Whichsinks should bearme pastallfearandsoiTow 
 
 For any one. 
 All the fight fought, all the short journey through. 
 
 What should 1 do '{ 
 
 I do not think that I should shrink or I'alter, 
 
 But just go on. 
 Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter 
 
 Aught that is gone ; 
 But rise and move and love and smile and pray 
 
 For one more day. 
 
 And, lying down at night for a last .sleeping. 
 
 Say in that ear 
 Which hearkens ever : ' ' Lord, within thy keeping 
 
 How should I fear ? 
 And when to-moiTow brings thee nearer still. 
 
 Do thou thy will." 
 
 I might not sleep for awe ; but peaceful, tender. 
 
 My soul would lie 
 All the night long ; and when themorningsplendor 
 
 Flushed o'er the sky, 
 I think that I could smile — could calmly say, 
 
 " It is his day." 
 
 But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder 
 
 Held out a scroll. 
 On which my life was writ, and I with wonder 
 
 Beheld unroll 
 To a long century's end its mystic clue. 
 
 What should 1 do ? 
 
 AVliat could I (In, blessed Guiile and Master, 
 
 Other than this : 
 Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, 
 
 Nor fear to miss 
 The road, although so very long it be. 
 
 While led by thee ? 
 
 Step after step, feeling thee close beside me. 
 
 Although unseen, 
 Tlirough thorns, through flowers, whether the 
 tempest hide thee. 
 
 Or heavens serene, 
 Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray. 
 
 Thy love decay. 
 
 I may not know ; my God, no hand revealeth 
 
 Thy counsels wise ; 
 -■ilong the path a deepening shadow stealeth. 
 
 No voice replies 
 To all my questioning thought, the time to tell ; 
 
 And it is well. 
 
 t"^
 
 344 
 
 PUEMS UF RELIGION. 
 
 Let nie keep on, abiding and uiifearing 
 
 Thy will always, 
 Through a long century's ripening fruition 
 
 Or a short day's ; 
 Thou canst not come too soon ; and I can wait 
 
 If thou come late. 
 
 SUSAN COOLIDGE. 
 
 THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Til icKE 's a legend that 's told of a gypsy who dwelt 
 
 In the lands where the pyramids be ; 
 And her robe was embroidered with stars, and her 
 belt 
 
 With devices right wondrous to see ; 
 And she lived in the days when our Lord wasachild 
 
 On his mother's immaculate breast ; 
 When he fled from his foes, — when to Egypt exiled, 
 
 He went down with St. Joseph the blest. 
 
 ThisEgyptianheldconversewith magic, methinks, 
 
 And the future was given to her gaze ; 
 For an obelisk marked her abode, and a sphinx 
 
 On her threshold kept vigil always. 
 She was pensive and ever alone, nor was seen 
 
 In the haunts of the dissolute crowd ; 
 I!ut communed with the ghosts of the Pharaohs, 
 I ween, 
 
 Or with visitors wrapped in a shroud. 
 
 And there came an old man from the desert oneday. 
 
 With a maid on a mule by that road ; 
 And a child on her bosom reclined, and the way 
 
 Led them straight to the gypsy's abode ; 
 And they seemed to have traveled a wearisome 
 path, 
 
 From thence many, many a league, — 
 From a tyrant's pursuit, from an enemy's wrath. 
 
 Spent with toil and o'ercome with fatigue. 
 
 And tlie gypsy came forth from her dwelling, and 
 prayed 
 
 That the pilgrims would rest them awhile ; 
 And she offered her couch to that delicate maid. 
 
 Who had come many, many a mile. 
 And she fondled the babe with affection's caress, 
 
 And she begged the old man would repose ; 
 "Here the stranger," she said, "ever finds free 
 access. 
 
 And the wanderer balm for his woes. " 
 
 Then her guests from the glare of the noonday 
 she led 
 To a seat in her grotto so cool ; 
 Where she spread them a banquet of fruits, and 
 a shed. 
 With a manger, was found for the mule ; 
 
 With the wine of the palm-tree, with dates newly 
 culled. 
 
 All the toil of the day she beguiled ; 
 And with song in a language mysterious she lulled 
 
 On her bosom the wayfaring child. 
 
 When the gypsy anon in her Ethiop hand 
 
 Took the infant's diminutive palm, 
 0, 'twas fearful to seehowthe features she scanned 
 
 Of the babe in his slumbers so calm ! 
 Well she noted each mark and each furrow that 
 crossed 
 
 O'er the tracings of destiny's line : 
 "Whence came ye?" she cried, in astonish- 
 ment lost, 
 
 " For this Child is of LiXE.iOE Divine ! " 
 
 " From the village of Nazareth," Joseph replied, 
 
 " Where we dwelt in the land of the Jew, 
 We have fled from a tyrant whose garment is dyed 
 
 In the gore of the children he slew : 
 We were told to remain till an angel's command 
 
 Should appoint us the hour to return ; 
 But till then we inhabit the foreigners' land, 
 
 And in Egypt we make our sojourn." 
 
 "Then ye tarry with me," cried the gypsy in joy, 
 
 " And ye make of my dwelling your home ; 
 Many years have I prayed that the Israelite boy 
 
 (Blessed hope of the Gentiles !) would come." 
 And she kissed both the feet of the infant and knelt. 
 
 And adored him at once ; then a smile 
 Lit the face of his mother, who clieerfully dwelt 
 
 With her host on the banks of the Nile. 
 
 Francis Mahony (Father prout). 
 
 BTTRIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 " And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against 
 Beth-peor : but no man knoweth of his sepulcher unto this day." — 
 Dgit/. xxxiv. 6. 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain. 
 
 On this side Jordan's wave. 
 
 In a vale in the land of Moab, 
 
 There lies a lonely grave ; 
 
 But no man built that sepulcher, 
 
 And no man saw it e'er ; 
 
 For the angels of God upturned the sod, 
 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the gi-andest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on earth ; 
 
 Yet no man heard the trampling. 
 
 Or saw the train go forth : 
 
 Noiselessly as the daylight 
 
 Comes when the night is done. 
 
 And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
 
 Grows into the great sun ; 
 
 i
 
 T' 
 
 rOEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 345 
 
 Noiselessly as tlie siiring-time 
 
 Her crown of venUue weaves, 
 
 And all the trees on all tlie hills 
 
 l-'ni'okl Ihcir thousand h-aves : 
 
 So without sound of music 
 
 Or voice of them that wept, 
 
 Silently down from the mountain's crown 
 
 The great jirocession swept. 
 
 Perchance the bald old eagle 
 
 On gray Tieth-peor's height 
 
 Out of his rocky eyry 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
 
 rcrchance the lion stalking 
 
 Still shuns that hallowed spot ; 
 
 For beast and bird have seen and heard 
 
 That which man knoweth not. 
 
 But, when the warrior dieth, 
 
 His comrades of the war. 
 
 With arms reversed and muffled drums. 
 
 Follow the funeral car : 
 
 They show the banners taken ; 
 
 They tell his battles won ; 
 
 And alter him lead his masterless steed, 
 
 \Vhile peals the minute-gun. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land 
 
 Jlen lay the sage to rest. 
 
 And give the bard an honored place, 
 
 ■\Vith costly marbles drest. 
 
 In the gi-eat minster transept 
 
 Where lights like glories fall. 
 
 And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings 
 
 Along the emblazoned hall. 
 
 This was the bravest wanior 
 
 That ever buckled sword ; 
 
 This the most gifted poet 
 
 That ever breathed a word ; 
 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Traced with his golden jien 
 
 On the deathless page truths half so sage 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 
 And had he not high honor? — 
 
 The hillside for a jiall ! 
 
 To lie in state while angels wait, 
 
 With stars for tapers tall ! 
 
 ^nd the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, 
 
 Over his bier to wave, 
 
 And God's own hand, in that lonely land, 
 
 To lay him in his grave ! — 
 
 In that strange grave without a name, 
 Whence his uncoftined clay 
 Shall break again — wondrous thought ! — 
 Before the judgment-day. 
 
 And stand, with glory wrapped around, 
 On the hills lie never trod. 
 And speak of the strife that won our life 
 With the incarnate Son of God. 
 
 lonely tomb in Jloab's land ! 
 
 dark I3eth-peor's hill ! 
 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 
 
 And teach them to be still : 
 
 God hath his mysteries of grace, 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell, 
 
 He hides them dceji, like the secret sleep 
 
 Of him he loved so well. 
 
 Cecil Frances Alexander. 
 
 THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 
 
 GEORGE HL AND A DYING WOMAN IN WINDSOR FOREST. 
 
 Outstretched beneath the leafy shade 
 
 Of Windsor forest's deepest glade, 
 
 A dying woman lay ; 
 Three little children round her stood, 
 And tliere went up from the greenwood 
 
 A woful wail that day. 
 
 " mother ! " was the mingled cry, 
 "0 mother, mother ! do not die, 
 
 And leave ns all alone." 
 " My filcssed babes ! " she tried to say, 
 But the faint accents died away 
 
 In a low sobbing moan. 
 
 And then, life struggled hard with death. 
 And fast and strong she drew her breath. 
 
 And u]i she raised her head ; 
 And, peering througli the deep wood maze 
 With a long, shai-p, unearthly gaze, 
 
 " Will she not come ? " she said. 
 
 Just then, the parting boughs between, 
 A little maid's light form was seen, 
 
 All breathless with her speed ; 
 And. following close, a man came on 
 (A portly man to look upon). 
 
 Who led a panting steed. 
 
 " Mother ! " the little maiden cried, 
 Or e'er she reached the woman's side, 
 
 And kissed her clay-cold cheek, — 
 " I have not idled in the town, 
 But long went wandering up and down. 
 
 The minister to seek. 
 
 " They told me here, they told me there, — 
 I think they mocked me everywhere ; 
 And when 1 found his home,
 
 346 
 
 POKMS UF RELIGION. 
 
 And begged him on my bended knee 
 
 To bring his book and come with me, 
 
 Mother ! lie would not come. 
 
 "I told him how you dying lay, 
 And could not go in peace away 
 
 Without the minister ; 
 I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, 
 But 0, my heart was fit to break, — 
 
 Mother ! he would not stir. 
 
 " So, though my tears were blinding me, 
 I ran back, fast as fast could be, 
 
 To come again to you ; 
 And here — close by — this squire I met, 
 Who asked (so mild) w^hat made me fret ; 
 
 And when 1 told him true, — 
 
 " ' I will go with you, child,' he said, 
 'God sends me to this dying bed,' — 
 
 Mother, he 's here, hard by." 
 While thus the little maiden spoke. 
 The man, his back against an oak. 
 
 Looked on with glistening eye. 
 
 The bridle on his neck hung free, 
 
 With quivering flank and trembling knee, 
 
 Pressed close his bonny bay ; 
 A statelier man, a statelier steed. 
 Never on greensward paced, I rede. 
 
 Than those stood there that day. 
 
 So, while the little maiden spoke, 
 The man, his back against an oak. 
 
 Looked on with glistening eye 
 And folded arms, and in his look 
 Something that, like a sermon-book, 
 
 Preached, — "All is vanity." 
 
 But when the dying woman's face 
 Turned toward him with a wishful gaze. 
 
 He stepped to where she lay ; 
 And, kneeling down, bent over her. 
 Saying, ' ' I am a minister, 
 
 My sister ! let us pray." 
 
 And well, withouten book or stole, 
 (God's words were jirinted on his soul !) 
 
 Into the dying ear 
 He breathed, as 't were an angel's strain, 
 The things that unto life pertain. 
 
 And death's dark shadows clear. 
 
 He spoke of sinners' lost estate. 
 In Christ renewed, regenerate, — 
 
 Of God's most blest decree. 
 That not a single soul should die 
 Who turns rejientant, with the cry 
 
 " Be mercil'al to me." 
 
 He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, 
 Endured but for a little while 
 
 In ]jatience, laith, and love, — 
 Sure, ill God's own good time, to be 
 Exchanged for an eternity 
 
 Of happiness above. 
 
 Then, as the spirit ebbed away. 
 
 He raised his hands and eyes to pray 
 
 That peaceful it might pass ; 
 And then — the orphans' sobs alone 
 Were heard, and they knelt, every one, 
 
 Close round on the green grass. 
 
 Such was the sight their wandering eyes 
 Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise. 
 
 Who reined their coursers back. 
 Just as they found the long astray. 
 Who, in the heat of chase that day. 
 
 Had wandered from their track. 
 
 But each man reined his pawing steed, 
 And lighted down, as if agreed, 
 
 In silence at his side ; 
 And there, uncovered all, they stood, — 
 It was a wholesome sight and good 
 
 That day for mortal pride. 
 
 For of the noblest of the land 
 
 Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band ; 
 
 And, central in the ring, 
 By that dead pauper on the ground. 
 Her ragged orphans clinging round. 
 
 Knelt their anointed king. 
 
 Robert and Caroline southev. 
 
 THE KELIGION OF HUDIBRAS. 
 
 He was of that stubborn crew 
 Of errant saints, whom all men grant 
 To be the true church militant ; 
 Such as do build their faith upon 
 The holy text of pike and gun ; 
 Decide all controversies by 
 Infallible artillery'. 
 And prove their doctrine orthodox 
 By apostolic blows and knocks ; 
 Call fire, and sword, and desolation 
 A godly, thorough Eeformation, 
 Which always must be carried on 
 And still be doing, never done ; 
 As if religion were intended 
 For nothing else but to be mended. 
 A sect whose chief devotion lies 
 In odd perverse antipathies ; 
 In falling out with that or tliis, 
 And finding somewhat still amiss ; 
 
 t
 
 More peevish, cross, and splenetic, 
 Tlian dog distract, or monkey sick ; 
 Tliat witli more care keep holiday 
 The wrong than others the right way ; 
 Compound lor sins they are inclined to, 
 By damning those they have no mind to ; 
 Still so perverse and opposite, , 
 
 As if they worshiped God for spite ; 
 The selfsame thing they will abhor 
 One way, and long another for. 
 
 SAMUEL BUTLER. 
 
 THE FAITHFUL ANGEL. 
 
 FROM '■ PARADISE LOST." 
 
 The seraph Abdiel, faithful found 
 Among the faithless, faithful only he ; 
 Among innumeraljle false, unmoved. 
 Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified. 
 His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal ; 
 Kor number, nor example with him wrought 
 To swerve from truth, or changeliis constantmind, 
 Though single. From amidst them forth hepassed, 
 Long°vay through hostile scorn, which he sus- 
 tained 
 Suiicrior, nor of violence feared aught ; 
 And with retorted scorn his back he turned 
 On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 THE REAPER'S DREAM. 
 
 The road was lone ; the grass was dank 
 
 With night-dews on the briery bank 
 
 Whereon a weary reaper sank. 
 
 His garb was old ; his visage tanned ; 
 
 The rusty sickle in his hand 
 
 Could find no work in all the land. 
 
 He saw the evening's chilly star 
 
 Above his native vale afar ; 
 
 A moment on the horizon's bar 
 
 It hung, then sank, a-s with a sigh ; 
 
 And there the crescent moon went by. 
 
 An empty sickle down the sky. 
 
 To soothe his pain. Sleep's tender palm 
 Laid on his brow, its touch of balm ; 
 His brain received the slumberous calm ; 
 And soon that angel without name, 
 Her robe a dream, her face tlie same, 
 The giver of sweet Wsions came. 
 
 She touched his eyes ; no longer sealed, 
 They saw a troop of reapers wield 
 Their swift blades in a ripened field. 
 
 At each thrust of their snowy sleeves 
 A thrill ran through the future sheaves 
 Kustling like rain on forest leaves. 
 
 They were not brawny men who bowed, 
 With harvest- voices rough and loud, 
 But spirits, moving as a cloud. 
 Like little lightnings in their hold, 
 The silver sickles manifold 
 Slid musically through the gold. 
 
 0, bid the morning stars combine 
 
 To match the chorus clear and fine. 
 
 That rippled lightly down the line, — 
 
 A cadence of celestial rhyme, 
 
 The language of that cloudless clime, 
 
 To which their shining hands kept time ! 
 
 Behind them lay the gleaming rows. 
 Like those long clouds the sunset shows 
 On amber meadows of repose ; 
 But, like a wind, the binders bright 
 Soon followed in their mirthful might, 
 And swept them into sheaves of light. 
 
 Poubling the splendor of the plain. 
 There rolled the great celestial wain, 
 To gather in the fallen giain. 
 Its frame was built of golden bars ; 
 Its glowing wheels were lit with stars ; 
 The royal Harvest's car of cars. 
 
 The snowy yoke that drew the load. 
 
 On gleaming hoofs of silver trode ; 
 
 And music was its only goad. 
 
 To no command of word or beck 
 
 It moved, and felt no other check 
 
 Than one white-arm laid on the neck, — 
 
 The neck, whose light was overwound 
 With bells of lilies, ringing round 
 Their odors till the air was drowned : 
 The starry foreheads meekly borne. 
 With garlands looped from horn to horn. 
 Shone like the many-colored morn. 
 
 The field was cleared. Home went the bands, 
 Like children, lirddng happy hands. 
 While singing through their father's lands ; 
 Or, arms about each other thrown. 
 With amber tresses backward blown, 
 They moved as they were music's own. 
 
 The vision brightening more and more. 
 
 He saw the garner's glowing door. 
 
 And sheaves, like sunshine, strew the floor,— 
 
 The floor was jasper, — golden flails. 
 
 Swift-sailing as a whirlwiml sails. 
 
 Throbbed mellow nmsic down the vales. 
 
 T
 
 POEMS OF RELIGIO^r. 
 
 He saw tlie mansion, — all repose, — 
 Great corritlors and porticoes, 
 Propped with the columns, shining rows ; 
 And these — for beauty was the rule — 
 The polished pavements, hard and cool, 
 Redoubled, like a crystal pool. 
 
 And there the odorous feast was spread ; 
 The fruity fragrance, widely shed. 
 Seemed to the floating music wed. 
 Seven angels, like the Pleiad seven, 
 Their lips to silver clarions given. 
 Blew welcome round the walls of heaven. 
 
 In skyey garments, silky thin. 
 The glad retainers floated in 
 A thousand forms, and yet no din : 
 And from the visage of the Lord, 
 Like splendor from the Orient poured, 
 A smile illumined all the board. 
 
 Far flew the music's circling sound ; 
 Then floated back, with soft rebound, 
 To join, not mar, the converse round, — 
 Sweet notes, that, melting, still increased. 
 Such as ne'er cheered the liridal feast 
 Of king in the enchanted East. 
 
 Kid any great door ope or close, 
 1 1 seemed the birth-time of repose, 
 Tlie faint sound died where it arose ; 
 .\nd they who passed from door to door, 
 Their soft feet on the polished floor 
 Met their soft shadows, — nothing more. 
 
 Then once again the groups were draxvn 
 Through corridors, or down the lawn, 
 Which bloomed in beauty like a dawn : 
 Where countless fountains leapt alway, 
 Veding their silver heights in spray. 
 The choral people held their way. 
 
 There, midst the brightest, brightly shone 
 Dear forms he loved in years agone, — 
 The earliest loved, — the earliest flown. 
 Me heard a mother's sainted tongue, 
 A sister's voice, who vanished young. 
 While one still dearer sweetly sung ! 
 
 No further might the scene unfold ; 
 The gazer's voice could not withhold ; 
 The very rapture made him bold : 
 He cried aloud, with clasped hands, 
 ' ' happy fields ! happy bands, 
 Who reap the never-failing lands ! 
 
 " master of these broad estates, 
 
 Behold, before your very gates 
 
 A worn and wanting laborer waits ! 
 
 Let me but toil amid your grain, 
 
 Or be a gleaner on tlie plain. 
 
 So I may leave these fields of pain ! 
 
 " A gleaner, I will follow far. 
 With never look or word to mar, 
 Behind the Harvest's yellow car ; 
 All day my hand shall constant be. 
 And every happy eve shall see 
 The precious burden borne to thee ! " 
 
 At morn some reapers neared the place, 
 Strong men, whose feet recoiled apace ; 
 Then, gathering round the upturned face. 
 They saw the lines of pain and care. 
 Yet read in the e.vpressiou there 
 The look as of an answered prayer. 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN. ESQ. 
 
 " Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
 Their lioniely joys and destiny obscure ; 
 Nor grandeur liear. with a disdainful smile. 
 The short but simple annals of the poor." — GRAY. 
 
 My loved, my honored, mueh-respected friend. 
 
 No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
 With honest pride I scorn each selfiah end ; 
 
 My dearest meed, a friend'sesteemand praise. 
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
 
 The lowly train in life's setiuestered scene ; 
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
 
 AVhat Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
 Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier 
 there, I ween. 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
 
 The shortening winter-day is near a close ; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh. 
 
 The blackeningtrains o' craws to theirrepose ; 
 The toilworn cotter frae his labor goes, — 
 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end, — 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 
 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- 
 ward bend. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher 
 through 
 To meet their dad, wi'flichterin' noise an'glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily. 
 
 His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's 
 smile,
 
 £<ng^ b^G-eo L renne New'tirK 
 
 'Otj^ dlU^^?!^ 
 
 ^ORDS. HOWARD SrHULBERT.Ny
 
 The lisping infant prattling on liis knee, 
 Docs a' his weaiy calking cares beguile, 
 And makes liim ipiite Ibrget his labor and his toil. 
 
 Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in. 
 
 At service out aniang the lanuers roun' ; 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
 
 A caunie errand to a neibor town ; 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
 
 In youthl'u' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e. 
 Conies hame, perhaps, to shew a bra' new gown. 
 
 Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet. 
 
 An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
 The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed Meet ; 
 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view : 
 The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheai-s, 
 
 tiarsauld clacs lookamaist as weel 's the new ; 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's command. 
 
 The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
 And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand. 
 
 And ne'er, though onto' sight, tojaukorplay ; 
 "An' 0, be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 
 
 An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
 Lest in temptation's jwth ye gang astray. 
 
 Implore his counsel and assisting might ; 
 They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
 aright ! " 
 
 But, hark ' a rap comes gently to the door. 
 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
 Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor. 
 
 To do some errands and convoy her hame. 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
 Wi' heart-struck an.>dous care inquires his 
 name, 
 While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
 Weel pleased the mother hearsit 's naewild, worth- 
 less r.ake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 
 
 A strappin' youth ; he taks the mother's e'e ; 
 Blithe Jenny sees the visit 's no ill ta'en ; 
 
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, andkye. 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
 Butblateandlathefu', scarce can weel behave ; 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae 
 grave ; 
 Weel pleased to think her bairn 's respected like 
 the lave. 
 
 ha]ipy love ! where love like this is found ! 
 lieartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare I 
 
 1 've paced much this weary mortal ro\ind. 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare : — 
 If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. 
 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the even- 
 
 Is there, in human fomi, that bears a heart, 
 
 A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth. 
 That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 
 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
 Curse on his perjured arts ! dissemblingsniooth ! 
 
 Are hoimr, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
 Is there no pity, no relenting i-uth. 
 
 Points to the parentsfondliiigo'ertheir child. 
 Then paints the ruined maid, and their distrac- 
 tion wild ! 
 
 But now the supper crowns their simple board. 
 
 The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; 
 The soupe their only hawkie does afford. 
 
 That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; 
 The dame brings forth, in complimental mood. 
 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hainedkebbuek fell. 
 An' aft he 's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
 
 The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
 How 't was a towiuond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
 bell. 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 
 
 The big ha'- Bible, ance his father's pride ; 
 His bonnet reverently is laid aside. 
 
 His lyart halfcts wearing thin an' bare : 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. 
 
 He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And " Let us worship God ! " he says with solemn 
 air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far thenoblcst aim : 
 Perhaps "Dundee's" wild-warbling measures 
 rise. 
 
 Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy of the name; 
 Or noble " Elgin " beets the heavenward flame. 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compared with these, It.alian trills are tame ; 
 
 The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creatoi's praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, — 
 ■ How Abram was the friend of God on high ;
 
 ■ 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 350 POEMS OF 
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 
 
 Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road, 
 
 
 
 With Amalek's uiigraeioiis progeny, 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind : 
 
 
 
 Or how the royal bard liid groaning lie 
 
 What is a lordling's pomp ? — a cumbrous load. 
 
 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
 
 
 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing ciy ; 
 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 
 
 
 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
 
 
 
 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
 
 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, — 
 
 sent. 
 
 
 
 Howguiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
 
 
 
 How He, who bore in heaven the second name. 
 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
 
 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his liead : 
 
 content ! 
 
 
 
 How his first followers and servants sped ; 
 
 And, 0, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 
 
 
 The precepts sage they wroteto many a land ; 
 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
 
 
 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets he rent, 
 
 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. 
 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
 
 
 
 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by 
 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved 
 
 
 
 Heaven's command. 
 
 isle. 
 
 
 
 Then, kneeling down, to heaven's eternal King, 
 
 Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide, 
 
 
 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
 
 That streamed through Wallace's undaunted 
 
 
 
 Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
 
 heart ; 
 
 
 
 Tliat thus tliey all shall meet in future days ; 
 
 Who dared to nobly stem tjn-annic pride. 
 
 
 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
 
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part. 
 
 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
 
 (The patriot's God peculiarly tliou art. 
 
 
 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise. 
 
 His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
 
 
 
 In such society, yet still more dear ; 
 
 0, never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 
 
 
 
 While circling Time moves round in an eternal 
 
 But still the patriot and the patriot bard 
 
 
 
 sphere. 
 
 In bright succession raise, herornamentandguard ! 
 
 
 
 Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 
 
 Robert burns. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 In all the pomp of method and of art. 
 
 
 
 
 When men display to congregations wide. 
 
 TUJi; OTHER WORLD. 
 
 
 
 Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! 
 The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
 
 
 
 
 It lies around us like a cloud, — 
 
 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
 
 A world we do not see ; 
 
 
 
 But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 
 
 Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
 
 
 
 May hear, well pleased, the language of the 
 soul ; 
 And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. 
 
 May bring us there to be. 
 
 
 
 Its gentle breezes fan our cheek ; 
 
 
 
 Amid our worldly cares 
 
 
 
 
 Its gentle voices wliisper love. 
 And mingle witli our prayers. 
 
 
 
 Then homeward all take ofl" tlieir several way ; 
 
 
 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
 
 
 
 
 The parent-])air their secret homage pay. 
 
 Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
 
 
 
 And profl'er up to Heaven the warm request. 
 
 Sweet helping hands are stirred, 
 And palpitates the veil between 
 
 
 
 That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest. 
 
 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flowery pride. 
 
 With breathings almost heard. 
 
 
 
 Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
 
 
 
 
 For them and for their little ones provide ; 
 
 The silence — awful, .sweet, and calm — 
 
 
 
 But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine pre- 
 
 Tliey have no power to break ; 
 
 
 
 side. 
 
 For mortal words are not for them 
 To utter or partake. 
 
 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
 
 
 
 
 springs. 
 
 So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 
 
 
 
 That makes herlovedathome, revered abroad; 
 
 So near to press they seem, — 
 
 
 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
 
 They seem to lull us to our rest. 
 
 
 
 "Anhonestman'sthe noblestwork of God !" 
 
 And melt into our dream. 
 
 
 ^-
 
 And in the hush of rest they bring 
 
 'T is easy now to see 
 How lovely and how sweet a pass 
 
 The hour of death may be. 
 
 To close the eye, and close the car, 
 
 AVi-apped in a trance of bliss, 
 And geutly dream in loving arras 
 
 To swoon to that — from this. 
 
 Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, 
 
 Scarce asking where we are, 
 To feel all evil sink away, 
 
 All sorrow and all care. 
 
 Sweet souls around us ! watch us still, 
 
 Press nearer to our side. 
 Into our thoughts, into our prayers, 
 
 With gentle helpings glide. 
 
 Let death between us be as naught, 
 A dried and vanished stream ; 
 
 Your joy be the reality. 
 
 Our suffering life the dream. 
 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe. 
 
 THE LOVE OF GOD. 
 
 All things that are on earth shall wholly pass 
 
 away, 
 Except the love of God, which shall live and last 
 
 for aye. 
 The fonns of men shall be as they had never been ; 
 The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender 
 
 green ; 
 The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant 
 
 song. 
 And the nightingale shall cease to chant the even- 
 ing long. 
 Thekine of tlie pasture shall feel the dart that kills. 
 And all the fair «-l\ite flocks shall perish from the 
 
 hills. 
 The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox. 
 The wild boar of. the wood, and the chamois of 
 
 the rocks. 
 And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden 
 
 dust shall lie ; 
 And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty 
 
 whale, shall die. 
 And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be 
 
 no more. 
 And they shall bow to death, who ruled from 
 
 shore to shore ; 
 And the great globe it.self, so the holy writings tell, 
 AVith the rolling firmament, where tlie starrj' 
 
 annies dwell. 
 
 Shall melt with fervent heat — they shall all jiass 
 
 away, 
 Except the love of God, which shall live and last 
 
 for aye. 
 
 From the Pfovcn(;aI of BERNARD RASCAS, 
 
 by William cullen brva.\t. 
 
 THE MASTER'S TOUCH. 
 
 In the still air the music lies unheard ; 
 
 In the rough marble beauty hides unseen : 
 To make the music and the beauty, )ieecls 
 
 The master's touch, the .sculptor's chisel keen. 
 
 Great Master, touch us with thy skillful hand ; 
 
 Let not the music that is in us die ! 
 Great Sculptor, hew and polish us ; nor let, 
 
 Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie ! 
 
 Spare not the stroke ! do with us as thou wilt ! 
 
 Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred ; 
 Complete thy purpose, that we may become 
 
 Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord ! 
 
 HORATiUS BONAR. 
 
 ALL'S WELL. 
 
 The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep, 
 My weary spirit seeks repose in thine ! 
 
 Father, forgive my trespasses, and keep 
 This little life of mine ! 
 
 With loving kindness curtain thou my bed, 
 And cool in rest my burning pilgi'ini feet ; 
 
 Thy pardon be the pillow for my head : 
 So shall my rest be sweet. 
 
 At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and thee, 
 No fears my soul's unwavering faith can shake ! 
 
 AH's uxll, whichever side the grave for me 
 The morning light may break. 
 
 llARRltl" .MCEWE.N KIMKALL. 
 
 CANA. 
 
 DE.\r. Friend ! whose presence in the house, 
 
 Whose gi-acious word benign. 
 Could once, at Cana's wedding feast. 
 
 Change water into wine ; 
 
 Come, visit us ! and when dull work 
 
 Grows weary, line on line. 
 Revive our souls, and let us see 
 
 Life's water turned to wine. 
 
 Gay mirth shall deepen into joy. 
 Earth's hopes grow half divine. 
 
 When Jesus visits us, to make 
 Life's water glow as wine.
 
 The social talk, the evening fire, 
 The liomely liousehold shrine, 
 
 Grow bright with angel visits, when 
 The Lord pours out the wine. 
 
 For when self-seeking turns to love, 
 Not knowing mine nor thine, 
 
 Tlie miracle again is wrought, 
 And water turned to wine. 
 
 James Freeman Clarke. 
 
 QtriET FROM GOD. 
 
 Quiet from God ! It cometh not to still 
 The vast and high aspirings of the soul. 
 The deep emotions which the spirit fill, 
 And speed its purpose onward to the goal ; 
 It dims not youtli's bright eye, 
 
 Bends not joy's lofty brow, 
 No guiltless ecstasy 
 
 Need in its ijresence bow. 
 
 It comes not in a sullen form, to place 
 
 Life's greatest good in an inglorious rest ; 
 Through a dull, beaten track its way to trace, 
 And to lethargic slumber lull the breast ; 
 Action may be its sphere, 
 
 Jlountain paths, boundless fields, 
 O'er billows its career : 
 
 This is the power it yields : 
 
 To sojourn in the world, and yet apart ; 
 
 To dwell with God, yet still with man to feel ; 
 To bear about forever in the heart 
 
 Tlie gladness which his spirit doth reveal ; 
 Not to deem evil gone 
 
 From every earthly scene ; 
 To see the storm come on. 
 But feci his shield between. 
 
 It giveth not a strength to human kind. 
 
 To leave all suffering powerless at its feet, 
 But keeps within the temple of the mind 
 A golden altar, and a mercy-seat ; 
 A spiritual ark, 
 
 Bearing the peace of God 
 Above the waters dark. 
 And o'er the desert's sod. 
 
 How beautiful within our souls to keep 
 
 This treasure, the All-Merciful hath given ; 
 To feel, when we awake, and wlien we sleep. 
 Its incense round us, like a breeze from heaven ! 
 Quiet at heartli and home. 
 
 Where the heart's joys begin ; 
 Quiet where'er we roam. 
 Quiet around, within. 
 
 Wlio sliall make trouble 1 — not the evil minds 
 
 Which like a shadow o'er creation lower; 
 The spiirit peace hath so attuned, finds 
 
 There feelings that may own the Calmer's power ; 
 What may she not confer. 
 
 E'en where she must condenm ? 
 They take not peace from her. 
 She may speak peace to them ! 
 
 A.NONVMOUS. 
 
 THE WAT, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE. 
 
 THOtT, great Friend to all the sons of men. 
 Who once appeared in humblest guise below. 
 
 Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain, 
 And call thy brethren forth from want and 
 
 We look to thee ! thy truth is still the Light 
 Whichguides the nations, groping on theirway. 
 
 Stumbling and falling in disastrous night. 
 Yet hoping ever for the perfect day. 
 
 Yes ; thou art still the Life, thou art the Way 
 The holiest know; Light, Life, the Way of 
 heaven ! 
 
 And they who dearest hope and deepest pray. 
 Toil by the Light, Life, Way, which thou hast 
 
 give 
 
 THEODORE Parker. 
 
 THERE WAS SILENCE m HEAVEN. 
 
 Can angel spirits need repose 
 In the full sunlight of the sky? 
 
 And can the veil of slumber close 
 A cherub's bright and blazing eye ? 
 
 Have seraphim a weary brow, 
 
 A fainting heart, an aching breast ? 
 
 No, far too high their pulses How 
 To languish with inglorious rest. 
 
 0, not the death-like calm of sleep 
 Could hush the everlasting song ; 
 
 No fairy dream or slumber deep 
 Entrance the rapt and holy throng. 
 
 Yet not the lightest tone was heard 
 From angel voice or angel hand ; 
 
 And not one plumed pinion stirred 
 Among the pure and blissful band. 
 
 For there was silence in the sky, 
 A joy not angel tongues could tell, 
 
 As from its mystic fount on high 
 The peace of God in stillness fell. 
 
 i-
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 353 
 
 0, what is silence here below ? 
 
 The fruit of ;i concealed despair ; 
 The pause of pain, the dream of woe ; — 
 
 It is the rest of rapture there. 
 
 And to the wayworn pilgrim hero, 
 
 Jlore kindred seems that perfect peace, 
 
 Than the full chants of joy to hear 
 Roll on, and never, never cease. 
 
 From earthly agonies set free. 
 
 Tired witli the path too slowly trod, 
 
 May such a silence welcome me 
 Into the palace of my God. 
 
 ^ ANONYMOUS. 
 
 FOREVER WITH THE LORD. 
 
 FoREVEK with the T<ord ! 
 Amen ! so let it he ! 
 Life from the dead is in that word, 
 And immortality. 
 
 Here in the hody pent. 
 Absent from him 1 roam. 
 Yet nightly pitch my moving tent 
 A day's march nearer home. 
 
 My Father's house on high, 
 Home of my soul ! how near, 
 At times, to faith's foreseeing eye 
 Thy golden gates appear ! 
 
 Ah ! then my spirit faints 
 To reach the land I love, 
 The bright inheritance of saints, 
 Jerusalem above ! 
 
 Yet clouds will intervene, 
 And all my prosjiect flies ; 
 Like Noah's dove, I (lit between 
 Rough seas and stormy skies. 
 
 Anon the clouds depart. 
 The winds and waters cease ; 
 While sweetly o'er my gladdened heart ■ 
 Expands the bow of peace ! 
 
 Beneath its glowing arch, 
 Along the hallowed ground, 
 I see cherubic annies march, 
 A camp of fire around, 
 
 I hear at morn and even. 
 At noon and midnight hour, 
 The choral harmonies of heaven 
 Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower. 
 
 Then, then 1 feci that he, 
 liememhered or forgot, 
 The Lord, is never far from mo, 
 Though I perceive him not. 
 
 In darkness as in light, 
 Hidden alike from view, 
 I sleep, I wake, as in his sight 
 Who looks all nature through. 
 
 All that I am, have been. 
 All that I yet may be, 
 He sees at once, as he hath seen, 
 And shall forever see. 
 
 "Forever with the Lord" : 
 Father, if 't U thy will. 
 The promise of that faithful word 
 Unto thy child fulfill ! 
 
 So, when my latest breath 
 Shall rend the veil in twain. 
 By death I shall escape from death, 
 And life eternal gain. 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMCRV. 
 
 THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL. 
 
 Sluep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares. 
 
 Of earth and folly born ; 
 Ye shall not dim the light that streams 
 
 From this celestial morn. 
 
 To-moiTow will be time enough 
 
 To feel your harsh control ; 
 Yc shall not violate, this day. 
 
 The Sabbath of my soul. 
 
 Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts ; 
 
 Ixt fires of vengeance die ; 
 And, purged from sin, may I behold 
 
 A God of purity ! 
 
 ANNA L. BARBAULD. 
 
 SEARCH AFTER GOD. 
 
 I SOUGHT thee round about, thou my God ! 
 
 In thine abode. 
 I said unto the earth, "Speak, art thou he ?" 
 
 She answered me, 
 "1 am not." I inquired of creatures all, 
 
 In general, 
 Contained therein. They with one voice proclaim 
 That none amongst them challenged .such a name. 
 
 I asked the seas and all the deeps below. 
 
 My God to know; 
 I asked the reptiles and whatever is 
 
 In the abyss, — 
 
 I I
 
 ■^f- 
 
 L. 
 
 354 
 
 POEMS UF RELiaiOX. 
 
 Even from the shrimp to the leviathan 
 
 Im^liury ran ; 
 But in those deserts which no line can sound, 
 The God I sought for was not to be foimd. 
 
 I asked the air if that were he ; but lo ! 
 
 It told me "No." 
 I from the towering eagle to the wren 
 
 Demanded then 
 If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were such ; 
 
 But they all, much 
 Offended with my question, in full choir, 
 Answered, "To find thy God thou must look 
 higher." 
 
 I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars ; but 
 they 
 
 Said, "We obey 
 The God thou seekest. " I asked what eye or ear 
 
 Could see or hear, — 
 What in the world I might descry or know 
 
 Above, below ; 
 With an unanimous voice, all these things said, 
 " We are not God, but we by him were made." 
 
 1 asked the world's great universal mass 
 
 If that God was ; 
 Which with a mighty and strong voice replied. 
 
 As stupefied, — 
 " I am not he, man ! for know that I 
 
 By him on high 
 Was fashioned first of nothing ; thus instated 
 And swayed by Mm by whom I was created." 
 
 I sought the court ; but smooth-tongued flattery 
 there 
 
 Deceived each ear ; 
 In the thronged city there was selling, buying, 
 
 Swearing, and lying ; 
 r the country, craft in simpleness anayed. 
 
 And then I said, — 
 ' ' Vain is my search, although my pains be gi'eat ; 
 Where my God is there can be no deceit." 
 
 A scrutiny within myself I then 
 
 Even thus began : 
 " man, what art thou ? " AVhat more could I 
 say 
 
 Thau dust and clay, — 
 Frail, mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast. 
 
 That cannot last ; 
 Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn. 
 Formed from tliat earth to which I must return ? 
 
 I asked myself what tliis great God might be 
 
 That fashioned me. 
 I answered : The all-potent, sole, immense, 
 
 Surpassing sense ; 
 
 Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal. 
 
 Lord over all ; 
 The only terrible, strong, just, and true. 
 Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. 
 
 He is the well of life, for lie doth give 
 
 To all that live 
 Both breath and being ; he is the Creator 
 
 Both of the water. 
 Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist 
 
 He hath the list, — 
 Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims. 
 He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their 
 names. 
 
 And now, my God, by thine illumining grace, 
 
 Th)' glorious face 
 (So far forth as it may discovered be) 
 
 Slethinks I see ; 
 And though invisible and infinite. 
 
 To human sight 
 Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest. 
 In which, to our weak sense, thou comest nearest. 
 
 0, make us apt to seek and quick to find. 
 
 Thou, God, most kind ! 
 Give us love, hope, and faith, in thee to trust, 
 
 Thou, God, most just ! 
 Remit all our offenses, we entreat, 
 
 Most good ! most great ! 
 
 Grant that our willing, though unworthy quest 
 
 Hay, through thy grace, admit us 'mongst tlie 
 
 blest. 
 
 Thomas He\-\vood. 
 
 HTTMILrrT. 
 
 The bird that soars on highest wing 
 Builds on the ground her lowly nest ; 
 
 And she that dotli most sweetly sing. 
 Sings in the shade when all things rest : 
 
 In lark and nightingale we see. 
 
 What honor hath Humility. 
 
 When Marj' chose the better part. 
 
 She meekly sat at Jesus' feet ; 
 And Lvdia's gently opened heart 
 
 Was made for God's own temple meet. 
 Fairest and best adorned is she 
 Whose clothing is Humility. 
 
 The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown. 
 
 In deepest adoration bends ; 
 The weight of glory bears him down 
 
 The most when most his soul ascends. 
 Nearest the throne itself must be 
 The footstool of Humility. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 -•-♦-•-
 
 EDWIN AND PAUXINUS: 
 
 THE CONVERSION OF NORTHUMBRIA- 
 
 The black-haired gaunt Paulinus 
 
 By ruddy Edwin stood : — 
 " Bow down, king of Deira, 
 
 Before tlie blessed Kood ! 
 Cast out thy heathen idols, 
 
 And worship Christ our Lord." 
 ^ But Edwin looked and pondered. 
 
 And answered not a word. 
 
 Again the gaunt Paulinus 
 
 To ruddy Edwin spake : 
 "God oilers life immortal 
 
 For his dear Son's own sake ! 
 AVilt thou not hear his message, 
 
 Who bears the keys and sword ? " 
 — But Edwin looked and pondered, 
 
 And answered not a word. 
 
 Rose then a sage old warrior 
 
 Was fivescore winters old ; 
 Whose beard from chin to girdle 
 
 Like one long snow-wreath rolled : - 
 "At Yule-time in our chamber 
 
 We sit in warmth and light, 
 While cold and howling round us 
 
 Lies the black land of Night. 
 
 "Athwart the room a sparrow 
 
 Darts from the open door : 
 Within the happy hearth-light 
 
 One red flash, — and no more ! 
 AVe see it come from darkness. 
 
 And into darkness go : — 
 So is our life, King Edwin ! 
 
 Alas, that it is so ! 
 
 " But if this pale Paulinus 
 
 Have somewhat more to Ml ; 
 Some news of Whence and Whither, 
 
 And where the soul will dwell ; — 
 If on that outer darkness 
 
 The sun of Hope m.iy shine ; — 
 He makes life worth the living ! 
 
 I take his God for mine ! " * 
 
 So spake the wise old warrior ; 
 
 And all about him cried, 
 "Paulinus' God hath conquered ! 
 
 And he shall be our guide : — 
 For he makes life worth living 
 
 Who brings this message plain, 
 When our brief days are over. 
 
 That we shall live again." 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE LOVE OF GOD SUPREME. 
 
 Thou hidden love of God, whose height. 
 Whose depth unfathomed no man knows, 
 
 I see from far thy beauteous light. 
 Inly I sigh for thy repose. 
 
 My heart is pained, nor can it be 
 
 At rest till it finds rest in thee. 
 
 Thy secret voice invites me still 
 
 The sweetness of thy yoke to prove. 
 
 And fain I would ; but though my will 
 Be fi.\t, yet wide my passions rove. 
 
 Yet hindrances strew all the way ; 
 
 I aim at thee, yet from thee stray. 
 
 " 'T is mercy all that thou hast brought 
 My mind to seek her [jeace in thee. 
 
 Yet while I seek but lind thee not 
 
 No peace my wand'ring soul shall see. 
 
 Oh ! when shall all my wand' rings end, 
 
 And all my steps to-thee-ward tend ? 
 
 Is there a thing beneath the sun 
 
 That strives with thee my heart to share ? 
 Ah ! tear it thence and reign alone. 
 
 The Lord of every motion there. 
 Then shall my heart from earth be free, 
 AVhen it has found reiiose in thee. 
 
 Oh ! hide this self from me, that I 
 No more, but Christ in me, may Wve. 
 
 My vile affections crucify. 
 
 Nor let one darling lust survive. 
 
 In all things nothing may I see, 
 
 Nothing desire or seek but thee. 
 
 Love, thy sovereign aid imi>art, 
 To save me from low-thougbted care ; 
 
 Chase this self-will through all my heart. 
 Through all its latent mazes there. 
 
 Make me thy duteous child, that I 
 
 Ceaseless may Abba, Father, cry. 
 
 Ah ! no ; ne'er will I backward turn : 
 Thine wholly, thine alone I am. 
 
 Thrice happy he who views with scorn 
 Earth's toys, for thee his constant flame. 
 
 Oh ! help, that I may never move 
 
 From the blest footsteps of thy love. 
 
 Each moment draw from earth away 
 My heart, that lowly waits thy call. 
 
 Speak to my inmost soul, and say, 
 " I am thy Love, thy.God, thy All." 
 
 To feel thy power, to hear thy voice, 
 
 To taste thy love is all my choice. 
 
 John Wesley. 
 
 1-
 
 356 
 
 POEMS OF EELIGIOX. 
 
 t 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 As sliadows cast by cloud and sun 
 
 Flit o'ei' the summer grass, 
 So, iu thy sight. Almighty One, 
 
 Earth's generations pass. 
 
 And while the yeai-s, an endless host. 
 
 Come pressing swiftly on. 
 The briglitest names that earth can boast 
 
 Just glisten and are gone. 
 
 Yet doth the Star of Bethlehem shed 
 
 A luster piu'e and sweet. 
 And still it leads, as once it led. 
 
 To the Messiah's feet. 
 
 Father, may that holy star 
 Grow every year more bright, 
 
 And send its glorious beams afar 
 To fill the world with light. 
 
 \VILLIA.M CCLLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THE RIGHT MUST WIN. 
 
 0, IT is hard to work for God, 
 
 To rise and take his part 
 Upon this battle-field of earth. 
 
 And not sometimes lose heart ! 
 
 He hides himself so wondrously, 
 As though there were no God ; 
 
 He is least seen when all the powers 
 Of ill arc most abroad. 
 
 Or he deserts us at the hour 
 
 The fight is all but lost ; 
 And seems to leave us to ourselves 
 
 Just when we need him most. 
 
 Ill masters good, good seems to change 
 
 To ill witli greatest ease ; 
 And, worst of all, the good with good 
 
 Is at cross-purposes. 
 
 Ah ! God is other than we think ; 
 
 His ways are far above. 
 Far beyond reason's height, and reached 
 
 Only by childlike love. 
 
 Workman of God ! O, lose not heart, 
 But learn what God is like ; 
 
 And in the darkest battle-field 
 Thou shalt know where to strike. 
 
 Thrice blest is he to whom is given 
 The instinct that can tell 
 
 That God is on the field when he 
 Is most invisible. 
 
 Blest, too, is lie who can divine 
 
 Where real riglit doth lie. 
 And dares to take the side that seems 
 
 Wrong to man's blindfold eye. 
 
 For right is right, since God is God ; 
 
 And right the day must win ; 
 To doubt would be disloyalty. 
 
 To falter would be sin ! 
 
 Frederic William Faber. 
 
 A DYING HYMN. 
 
 Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills, 
 
 Recedes and fades away ; 
 Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills ; 
 
 Ye gates of death, give way ! 
 
 My soul is full of whispered song, — 
 
 My blindness is my sight ; 
 The shadows that 1 feared so long 
 
 Are full of life and light. 
 
 The while my pulses fainter beat, 
 
 My faith doth so abound ; 
 I feel grow firm beneath my feet 
 
 The green, immortal gi'ouud. 
 
 That faith to me a courage gives 
 
 Low as the grave to go : 
 I know tliat my Redeemer lives, — 
 
 That 1 shall live I know. 
 
 The palace walls I almost see 
 
 Where dwells my Lord and King! 
 
 grave, where is thy victory ? 
 death, where is thy sting ? 
 
 ALICE Caky. 
 
 HOPEFULLY WArriNG. 
 
 " Blessed are they who are homesick, for they shall come at last 
 to their Father's house." — HEINRJCH SriLLlNG. 
 
 Not as you*meant, learned man, and good ! 
 Do I accept thy words of truth and rest ; 
 God, knowing all, knows what for me is best. 
 And gives me what 1 need, not what he could. 
 
 Nor always as I would ! 
 I shall go to the Father's house, and see 
 
 Him and the Elder Brother face to face, — 
 What day or hour I know not. Let me be 
 Steadfast in work, and earnest in the race. 
 Not as a homesick child who all day long 
 AVhines at its play, and seldom speaks in song. 
 
 JU
 
 ( 
 
 ► 
 
 
 L 
 
 1 
 
 POEMS OF 
 
 1 
 RELKJIUN. 357 
 
 ' • 
 
 
 If for a time some loved one goes a\v;i)', 
 
 Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses, 
 
 
 
 And leaves us our iqiiiointed work to do, 
 
 Not by works that win thee world-renown. 
 
 
 
 fan we to him or to ourselves be true 
 
 Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, 
 
 
 
 In mourning his departure day by day, 
 
 And so our work delay ? 
 Nay, if we love and honor, we shall make 
 
 Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. 
 Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely. 
 
 
 
 The absence brief by doing well our task, — 
 
 Kvery day a rich reward will give ; 
 
 
 
 Not for ourselves, but for the dear One's sake. 
 And at his coming only of him ask 
 
 Thou wilt find by hearty striving only. 
 And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 
 
 
 
 Approvd of the work, which most was done, 
 Not for ourselves, but our Beloved One. 
 
 Dost thou revel in the rosy morning 
 When all nature hails the Lord of light, 
 
 
 
 Our Father's house, I know, is broad and grand ; 
 
 And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorning. 
 
 
 
 In it how many, many mansions are ! 
 And far beyond the light of sun or star. 
 Four little ones of mine through that fair land 
 
 Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and height ? 
 Other hands may grasp the field and forest, 
 
 
 
 Aie walking hand in hand ! 
 Tliink yon 1 love not, or that I forget 
 
 Proud proprietors in ]iomp may shine, 
 But with fervent love if thou adorest. 
 
 
 
 These of my loins / Still this world is fair. 
 
 Thou art wealthier, — all the world is thine. 
 
 
 
 And 1 am singing while my eyes are wet 
 With weeping in tliis balmy summer air : 
 
 Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest. 
 
 
 
 Yet 1 'ni not homesick, and the children lure 
 
 Sighing that they are not thine alone. 
 
 
 
 Have need of me, and so my way is clear. 
 
 I would be joyful as my days go by. 
 
 Counting God's mercies to me. He wlio bore 
 Life's heaviest cross is mine forevermore, 
 
 Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest, 
 And their beauty and thy wealth are gone. 
 Harriet winslow sewall 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 And 1 who wait his coming, shall not I 
 
 On his sure word rely ? 
 And if sometimes the way be rough and steep, 
 
 Be heavy for the grief he sends to me, 
 Or at my waking I would only weep, 
 
 Let me remember these are things to be. 
 
 THE LOVE OF GOD. 
 
 Thou Grace Divine, encircling all, 
 A soundless, shoreless sea ! 
 
 Wherein at last our souls must fall, 
 Love of God most free ! 
 
 
 
 To work his blessed will until he come 
 To take my hand, and lead me safely home. 
 A. D. F. Randolph. 
 
 When over dizzy heights we go. 
 One soft hand blinds our eyes, 
 
 The other leads us, safe and slow, 
 Love of God most wise ! 
 
 
 
 WHY THUS LONGING? 
 
 
 
 Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 
 For the far off, unattained, and dim. 
 
 While the beautiful, all round thee lying. 
 Offers up its low perpetual hymn ? 
 
 And though we turn us from thy face, 
 And wander wide and long. 
 
 Thou liold'st us still in thine embrace, 
 Love of God most strong ! 
 
 
 
 Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching. 
 All thy restless yearnings it would .still. 
 
 Leaf and flower and laden Ijee arc pr.eaching 
 Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 
 
 The saddened heart, the restless soul, 
 The toilworn frame and mind, 
 
 Alike confess thy sweet control, 
 Love of God most kind ! 
 
 
 
 Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
 Thou no ray of light and joy can.st throw. 
 
 If no silken chord of love hath bound thee 
 To some little world through weal and woe ; 
 
 But not alone thy care we claim. 
 Our wayward steps to win ; 
 
 We know thee by a dearer name, 
 Love of God within ! 
 
 
 
 If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten. 
 No fond voices answer to thine o\ni, 
 
 If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten 
 By daily s}Tnpathy and gentle tone. 
 
 And filled and quickened by thy breath. 
 
 Our souls are strong and free 
 To rise o'er sin and fear and death, 
 
 Love of God, to thee ! 
 
 Eliza ScuDorR. 
 
 
 r 
 
 r
 
 L 
 
 558 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND. 
 
 Fathek, I know that all my life 
 
 Is portioned out for me, 
 And the changes that will surely come, 
 
 I do not fear to see ; 
 But 1 ask thee for a present mind 
 
 Intent on pleasing thee. 
 
 I ask thee for a thoughtful love. 
 Through constant watching wise, 
 
 To meet the glad with joyful smiles, 
 And to wipe the weeping eyes ; 
 
 And a heart at leisure from itself, 
 To soothe and sympathize. 
 
 I would not have the restless will 
 
 That hurries to and fro. 
 Seeking for some great thing to do, 
 
 Or secret thing to know ; 
 I would be ti-eated as a child. 
 
 And guided where I go. 
 
 AVherever in the world I am. 
 
 In whatsoe'er estate, 
 I have a fellowship with hearts 
 
 To keep and cultivate ; 
 And a work of lowly love to do, 
 
 For the Lord on whom I wait. 
 
 So I ask thee for the daily strength, 
 
 To none that ask denied ; 
 And a mind to blend with outward life. 
 
 While keeping at thy side. 
 Content to fill a little space, 
 
 If thou be glorified. 
 
 And if some things I do not ask 
 
 In my cup of blessing be, 
 I would have my spirit filled the more 
 
 With grateful love to thee ; 
 And careful, less to serve thee much 
 
 Than to please thee perfectly. 
 
 There are briers besetting every path, 
 
 Which call for patient care ; 
 There is a cross in every lot. 
 
 And an earnest need for prayer ; 
 But a lowly heart that leans on thee 
 
 Is happy anywhere. 
 
 In a service which thy love appoints. 
 
 There are no bonds for me ; 
 For my secret heart is taught "the truth" 
 
 That makes thy children " free" ; 
 
 And a life of self-renouncing love 
 
 Is a life of liberty. 
 
 Anna L. Waring. 
 
 THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE. 
 
 I .SAID to Sorrow's awful storm 
 
 That beat against my breast, 
 Rage on, — thou mayst destroy this form. 
 
 And lay it low at rest ; 
 But still the spirit that now brooks 
 
 Thy tempest, raging high. 
 Undaunted on its fury looks. 
 
 With steadfast eye. 
 
 I said to Penury's meager train, 
 
 Come on, — your threats I brave ; 
 My last poor life-drop you may drain. 
 
 And crush me to the grave ; 
 Yet still the spirit that endures 
 
 Shall mock your force the wliile, 
 And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 
 
 With bitter smile. 
 
 I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 
 
 Pass on, — I heed you not ; 
 Ye may pursue me till my form 
 
 And being are forgot ; 
 Yet still the spirit, which you see 
 
 Undaunted by your wiles. 
 Draws from its own nobility 
 
 Its highborn smiles. 
 
 I said to Friendship's menaced blow. 
 
 Strike deep, — my heart shall bear ; 
 Thou canst but add one bitter woe 
 
 To those already there ; 
 Yet still the spirit that sustains 
 
 This last severe distress 
 Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 
 
 And scorn redress. 
 
 I said to Death's uplifted dart. 
 
 Aim sure, — 0, why delay ? 
 Thou wilt not find a fearful heart, 
 
 A weak, reluctant prey ; 
 For still the spirit, fimi and free. 
 
 Unruffled by this last dismay, 
 
 AYrapt in its own eternity, 
 
 Shall pass awav. 
 
 Lavinia Stoddard. 
 
 I SAW THEE. 
 
 "When thou wast under the fig.tree, I saw thee." 
 
 I SAW thee when, as twilight fell. 
 And evening lit her fairest star. 
 Thy footsteps sought yon quiet dell. 
 The world's eoufusion left afar. 
 
 I saw thee when thou stoodst alone, 
 Where drooping branches thick o'erhung 
 
 +
 
 X 
 
 rOEMS OF IIELIUIUS. 
 
 359 
 
 Thy still retreat to all unknown, 
 Hid in deep shadows darkly flung. 
 
 I saw thee when, as died each sound 
 Of bleating flock or woodland bird, 
 Kneeling, as if on holy ground. 
 Thy voice the listening silence heard. 
 
 I saw thy calm uplifted eyes, 
 "And marked the heaving of thy breast, 
 When rose to heaven thy heartfelt sighs 
 For purer life, for perfect rest. 
 
 I saw the light that o'er thy face 
 
 Stole with a soft, suffusing glow. 
 
 As if, within, celestial grace 
 
 Breathed the same bliss that angels know. 
 
 I saw — what thou didst not — above 
 Thy lowly head an open heaven ; 
 And tokens of thy Father's love 
 AVith smiles to thy rapt spirit given. 
 
 I saw thee from that sacred spot 
 AVith fimi and peaceful soul depart ; 
 I, Jesus, saw thee, — doubt it not, — 
 And read the secrets of thy heart ! 
 
 Ray palmer- 
 
 FROM "SAINT PAUL." 
 
 Christ ! I am Christ's ! and let the name suffice 
 
 Ay, for me too he greatly hath sufficed : 
 Lo, with no winning words I would entice you, 
 Paul has no honor and no friend but Christ. 
 
 Yes, without cheer of sister or of daughter. 
 Yes, without stay of father or of son. 
 
 Lone on the land and homeless on the water. 
 Pass I in patience till the work be done. 
 
 Yet not in solitude if Christ anear me 
 
 Waketh him workers for the gi-eat employ, 
 
 0, not in solitude, if souls that hear me 
 Catch from my joyance the surprise of joy. 
 
 Hearts 1 have won of sister or of brother. 
 Quick on the earth or hidden in the sod, 
 
 Lo. every heart awaiteth me, another 
 Friend in the blameless family of God. 
 
 Wliat was their sweet desire and subtle yearning. 
 Lovers, and ladies whom their song enrolls ? 
 
 Faint to the flame which in my breast is burning, 
 Less than the love with which I ache for souls. 
 
 Then witli a ripple and a radiance through me 
 Rise and be manifest, Morning Wtar ! 
 
 Flow on my soul, thou .Spirit, and renew me. 
 Fill with thyself, and let the rest be far. 
 
 Safe to the hidden house of thine abiding 
 
 Carry the weak knees and the heart that faints ; 
 
 Shield from the scorn and cover from the ■hiding ; 
 Give the world joy, but patience to the saints. 
 
 Saints, did I say ? with your remembered faces, 
 Dear men and women, whom 1 sought and slew! 
 
 Ah, when we mingle in the heavenly places, 
 How will I weep to Stephen and to you ! 
 
 for the strain that rang to our reviling 
 
 Still, when the bruised limbssank upon thesod ; 
 
 for the eyes that looked their last in smiling, 
 Last on this world here, but their flrst on God ! 
 
 0, could I tell, ye surely would believe it '. 
 
 0, could I only say what I have seen ! 
 How should 1 tell or how can ye receive it. 
 
 How, till He bringeth you where I have been ? 
 
 Therefore, Lord, I will not fail or falter ; 
 
 Nay, but I ask it, nay, but I desire ; 
 Lay on my lips thine embers of the altar. 
 
 Seal with the sting and furnish with the fire ; 
 
 Give me a voice, a cry and a conijilaining, — 
 0, let my sound be stormy in their ears ! 
 
 Throat that would shout but cannot stay for 
 straining. 
 Eyes that would weep but cannot wait for tears. 
 
 Quick in a moment, infinite forever, 
 Send an arousal better than I pray ; 
 I Give me a grace upon the faint endeavor. 
 Souls for my hire and Pentecost to-day I 
 
 Hark what a sound, and too divine for hearing, 
 ! Stirs on the earth and trembles in the air ! 
 Is it the thunder of the Lord's appearing? 
 Is it the music of his people's prayer ? 
 
 Surely he cometh, and a thousand voices 
 
 Shout to the saints and to the deaf are dumb ; 
 
 Surely he cometh, and the earth rejoices. 
 Gild in his coming who hath sworn, I come. 
 
 This hath he done, and shall we not adore him ? 
 
 This shall he do, and can we still despair ? 
 Come, let us ijuickly fling ourselves before him, 
 
 Cast at his feet the burden of our care. 
 
 Flash from our eyes the glow of our thanksgiving. 
 Glad and regretful, confident and calm ; 
 
 Then through all life and what is after living 
 Thrill to the tireless music of a psalm. 
 
 ^
 
 oGO 
 
 POEMS OF RELIGION. 
 
 Yea, 
 
 and 
 
 through life, death, through so 
 through sinning, 
 He shall suffice me, for he hath sufficed : 
 Christ is the end, for Christ was the beginning. 
 Christ the beginning, for the end is Christ. 
 
 FREDERIC W. H. MYERS, 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN CALLINQ. 
 
 Thy night is dark ; behold, the shade was deeper 
 In the old garden of Gethsemane, 
 ■\Vhen that calm voice awoke the weary sleeper : 
 "Couldst thou not watch onehouralonewithme?" 
 
 thou, so weary of thy self-denials ! 
 And so impatient of thy little cross. 
 Is it so hard to bear thy daily trials, 
 To count all earthly things a gainful loss ? 
 
 What if thou alwnys suffer tribulation, 
 And if thy Christian warfare never cease ; 
 The gaining of the ipiict habitation 
 Shall gather thee to everlasting peace. 
 
 Rut here we all must suffer, walking lonely 
 The path that .Tesus once himself hath gone : 
 ■\Vatcli thou in patience through the dark hour 
 
 only. 
 This one dark hour, — before the eternal dawn. 
 
 The captive's oar may pause upon the galley, 
 The soldier sleep beneath his ]ilunied crest. 
 And Peace may fold her wing o'er hill and valley, 
 But thou, Christian ! must not take thy rest. 
 
 Thou must walk on, however man upbraid thee. 
 With Him wjio trod the wine-press all alone ; 
 Thou wilt not find one human hand to aid thee. 
 One human soul to comprehend thine own. 
 
 Heed not the images forever thronging 
 From out the foregone life thou liv'st no more ; 
 Faint-hearted mariner ! still art thou longing 
 For the dim line of the receding shore. 
 
 Canst thou forget thy Christian supersciption, 
 " Behold, we count them happy which endure" ? 
 What treasure wouldst thou, in tlie land Egyptian, 
 Repass the stormy water to secure ? 
 
 Poor, wanderingsoul ! Iknowthatthouartseeking 
 Some easier way, as all have sought before. 
 To silence the reproachful inward speaking, — 
 Some landward path unto an island shore. 
 
 0, that thy faithless soul, one great hour only. 
 Would comprehend the Christian's perfect life ; 
 
 Despised witli Jesus, sorrowful and lonely. 
 Yet calmly looking upward in its strife. 
 
 In meek obedience to the heavenly Teacher, 
 Thy weary soul can find its only peace ; 
 Seeking no aid from any human creature, — 
 Looking to God alone for his release. 
 
 And he will come in his own time and power 
 To set his earnest-hearted children free ; 
 Watch only through this dark and painful hour. 
 And the bright morning yet will break for thee. 
 
 ANO.NV.MOUS. 
 
 THE SOTTL'S CRY. 
 
 •• I cr>* unlo Thee daily." — Ts. Ixxxvi. 3. 
 
 0, EVER from the deeps 
 
 Within my soul, oft as I muse alone. 
 
 Comes forth a voice that pleads in tender tone ; 
 
 As when one long unblest 
 
 Sighs ever after rest ; 
 
 Or as the wind perpetual iiiurmuring keeps. 
 
 1 hear it when the day 
 
 Fades o'er the hills, or 'cross the shimmering sea ; 
 
 In tlie soft twilight, as is wont to be, 
 
 ^\'ithout my wish or will. 
 
 While all is hushed and still. 
 
 Like a sad, plaintive cry heard far away. 
 
 Not even the noisy crowd. 
 
 That like some mighty ton'ent rushing down 
 
 Sweeps clamoring on, this cry of want can drown ; 
 
 But ever in my heart 
 
 Afresh the echoes start ; 
 
 1 hear them still amidst the tumult loud. 
 
 Each waking morn anew 
 
 The sense of many a need returns again ; 
 
 I feel myself a child, helpless as when 
 
 I watched my mother's eye, 
 
 .\s the slow hours went by, 
 
 And from her glance my being took its hue. 
 
 T cannot shape my way 
 
 Where nameless perils ever may betide. 
 
 O'er sli]ipery steeps whereon my feet may slide ; 
 
 Some mighty hand I crave, 
 
 To hold and help and save. 
 
 And guide me ever when my steps would stray. 
 
 There is but One, 1 know. 
 That all my liourly, endless wants can meet ; 
 Can shield from harm, recall my wandering feet ; 
 My God, thy hand can feed 
 And day by day can lead 
 
 Wheie the sweet streams of peace and safety flow. 
 
 Ray Palmer.
 
 L 
 
 W v,-^ -^ 
 
 
 j- 
 
 ^ 
 
 s
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 WORLDLINESS. 
 
 The World is too much with us ; late and soon, 
 Getting and spemUng, we lay waste our powers ; 
 Little we see in nature that is ours ; 
 
 \Ve have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
 
 This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 
 The winds that will be liowdiiig at all hours 
 And are up-gatlieicd now like sleeping (lowers. 
 
 For this, for eveiything, we are out ol' tunc ; 
 
 It moves us not. — Great God ! 1 'd rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, — 
 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 
 TIavcglimpsesthat would make me less forloni ; 
 
 Have sight of Proteus rising fiom the sea ; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 WILLIA.M WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 TiiK bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, 
 I'jccausc my feet find measure with its call ; 
 The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, 
 I'or 1 am known to them, both great and small. 
 The flower that on the lonely hillside grows 
 Expects me there when spring its bloom hasgiven ; 
 .■\nil many a tree and busli my wanderings knows 
 Ami e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven ; 
 For he who with Iiis Jtaker walks aright. 
 Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; 
 His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, 
 Each oliject wear the dress that then it wore ; 
 .\ud he, as when erect in so>d he stood. 
 Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. 
 
 Jones \'erv. 
 
 ITNTEEN ABBEY. 
 
 I HAVE learned 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes 
 The still, .sad mu.sic of humanity. 
 Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 
 Of something far more dec]ily interfused, 
 
 Who.se dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 
 And the round ocean, and the living air, 
 
 And the blue sky, and, in the mind of man, 
 
 A motion and a spirit that imiiels 
 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 
 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am 1 
 
 still 
 A lover of the meadows, and the woods, 
 And motintaius, and of all that we behold 
 From this gi-een earth ; of all the mighty world 
 Of eye and car, both what they half create 
 And what perceive ; well plcivsed to lecognize 
 In nature and the language of the sense 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts. 
 
 WILL1A.M Wordsworth 
 
 CORRESPONDENCES. 
 
 HEXAMETERS AND PENTAMETERS. 
 
 All things in nature are beautiftd types to the 
 soul that reads them ; 
 Nothing exists u]ion earth but for unspeakable 
 ends ; 
 Every object that speaks to the senses was meant 
 for the spiiit ; 
 Nature is but a scroll ; God's handwriting 
 thereon. 
 Ages ago, when man was pure, ere the flood over- 
 whelmed him. 
 While in the image of God every soul yet liveil, 
 Evcrytliing stood as a letter or word of a language 
 familiar. 
 Telling of truths which now only the angels 
 can read. 
 Lost to man was the key of those sacred hiero- 
 glyphics. 
 Stolen away by sin, till Heaven restored it ; 
 Now with infinite pains we here and there spell 
 out a letter. 
 Here and there will the sense feebly shine 
 through the dark. 
 
 r
 
 4 
 
 562 
 
 ruEJJ.S UF y ATI' HE. 
 
 When we perceive tlie light that breaks through 
 tlie visible sj'mbol, 
 What exultation is ours ! We the discovery 
 have made, 
 Yet is the meaning the same as when Adam lived 
 sinless in Eden, 
 Only long hidden it slept, and now again is 
 revealed. 
 Man unconsciously uses figures of speech every 
 moment. 
 Little dreaming the cause why to such terms 
 he is prone. 
 Little dreaming that everj-thing here has its own 
 correspondence 
 Folded within its form, as in the body the soul. 
 Gleams of the mystery fall on us still, though 
 much is forgotten. 
 And through our commonest speech illumine 
 the path of our thoughts. 
 Thus doth the lordly sun shine forth a type of 
 God-head ; 
 Wisdom and love the beams that stream on a 
 darkened world. 
 Thus do the sparkling waters flow, giving joy to 
 the desert, 
 And the fountain of life opens itself to the 
 thirst. 
 Thus doth the word of God distill like the rain 
 and the dew-drops ; 
 Thus doth the warm wind breathe like to the 
 spirit of God ; 
 And the green grass and the flowers are signs of 
 the regeneration. 
 
 thou Spirit of Truth, visit our minds once 
 more ; 
 IS to 1 
 celestial, 
 
 Written all over the earth, written all over the 
 the sky, — 
 Thus may we bring our hearts once more to know 
 our Creator, 
 Seeing in all things around, types of the Infi- 
 nite Mind. 
 
 Christopher P. Cranch. 
 
 NATURE'S CHAIN. 
 
 FRO.M "THE ESSAY ON MAN." 
 
 Look round ourworld ; behold the chainof love 
 Combining all below and all above. 
 See plastic nature woi'king to this end, 
 The single atoms each to other tend, 
 Attract, attracted to, the next in place. 
 Formed and impelled its neighbor to embrace. 
 See matter next, with various life endued, 
 
 Press to one center still, the general good. 
 See dying vegetables life sustain. 
 See life dissolving vegetate again : 
 All forms that perish other forms supply 
 (By turns we catch the vital breath, and die); 
 Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, 
 They rise, they break, and to that sea return. 
 Nothing is foreign ; parts relate to whole ; 
 One all-extending, all-preserving Soul 
 Connects each being, greatest with the least ; 
 Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast ; 
 All served, all serving ; nothing stands alone ; 
 The chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown. 
 
 Has God, thou fool ! worked solely for thy good. 
 Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food ? 
 Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, 
 For him as kindly spreads the flowery hnvn. 
 Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings ? 
 Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. 
 Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? 
 Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. 
 The bounding steed you pompousl)' bestride 
 Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. 
 Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? 
 The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. 
 Thine the full harvest of the golden year '. 
 Part pays, and justh', the deserving steer : 
 The hog that plows not, nor obeys thy call, 
 Lives on the labors of this lord of all. 
 
 Know, Nature's children all divide her care ; 
 The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear. 
 While man exclaims, "See all things for my use !" 
 "See man for mine ! " replies a pampered goose : 
 And just as short of reason he must fall 
 Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. 
 
 Grant that the powerful still the weak control ; 
 Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole : 
 Nature that tjTant checks ; he only knows, 
 And helps, another cre^ature's wants and woes. 
 Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, 
 Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove ? 
 Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings ? 
 Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings ? 
 Man cares for all : to birds he gives his woods, 
 To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods ; 
 For some his interest prompts him to provide. 
 For more his pleasure, yet for more his pride : 
 All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy 
 The extensive blessing of his luxury. 
 That very life his learned hunger craves. 
 He saves from famine, from the .savage saves ; 
 Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast. 
 And, till he ends the being, makes it blest ; 
 Which sees no more the stroke, or feels the pain, 
 Than favored man by touch ethereal slain. 
 The creature had his feast of life before ; 
 Thou too must perish when thy feast is o'er ! 
 
 AXF..XANDER POPE. 
 
 -•HI-
 
 THE IDLER. 
 
 AViiKX days are long aiul skii's are bright, 
 When woods arc fiiTcn and fields are breezy, 
 
 I take my lill of air and light, 
 
 And take — yes, take things rather easy. 
 
 You men of figures sneer, I know, — 
 
 Call nie an idle, dreamy fellow ; 
 But my chief liusiness here below 
 
 Is, like the apple, to grow mellow. 
 
 1 coax the fish in cove or creek ; 
 
 My light skiff rocks on rocking billow ; 
 Or, weary, in some shade I seek 
 
 A mossy hummock for my pillow. 
 
 There, stretched upon the checkered grass. 
 Above the bare, brown margin growing, 
 
 I watch the still, soft shadows pass. 
 
 Lulled by the hum of warm airs blowing. 
 
 On bending spray of tallest tree 
 
 The brown thrush balanced takes his station, 
 And now in jest, now soberly, 
 
 Holds forth, hall song and half oration. 
 
 The red -capped workman on a limb. 
 Up, down, in circles briskly hopping. 
 
 Nods to the helpmeet calling him. 
 
 With knowing air his sage head dropping. 
 
 At times, by plashy shore, the still 
 
 White-belted watchman springs his rattle. 
 
 While faintly from the distant hill 
 Come tinkling bells and low of cattle. 
 
 The waves in long procession tread 
 Upon the beach in solemn motion, 
 
 Fringed with white breakers ; overhead, 
 Cloud-islands dot the upper ocean. 
 
 I know you solid men will sneer ; 
 
 Call me a thriftless, idle fellow ; 
 But, as I said, my business here 
 
 Is, like the apples, to grow mellow. 
 
 And since the summer will not stay, 
 .\nd since the winter follows fleetly, 
 
 To fitly use the passing day 
 
 Recjuires my time and thought completely. 
 
 But, if of life I get the best. 
 
 The use of wealth without its fetters, 
 
 Am 1 more idle than the rest. 
 
 Or wiser than the money-getters ? 
 
 H. E. Warner. 
 
 CREATION. 
 
 FROM '■ PARADISE LOST." 
 
 The earth was formed, but in the womb as yet 
 Of waters, embi'yon immature involved. 
 Appeared not ; over all the face of earth 
 Main ocean flowed, not idle ; but, with warm 
 Prolific humor softening all hei' globe. 
 Fermented the great mothci- to conceive. 
 Satiate with genial moisture; when Ood said, 
 " Be gathered now, ye waters under heaven. 
 Into one place, and let dry lanil appear." 
 Immediately the mountains huge appear 
 Emergent, and their broad bare backs upheave 
 Into the clouds ; their tops ascend the sky : 
 So high as heaved the tumid hills, so low 
 Down sunk a hollow bottom broad and deep, 
 Capacious bed of waters : thither they 
 Hasted with glad precipitance, ujirolled. 
 As drups on dust conglobing from the dry : 
 Part rise in crj'stal wall, or ridge direct. 
 For haste; such flight the great command im- 
 pressed 
 On the swift floods ; as armies at the-call 
 Of trumpet (for of armies thou hnst heard) 
 Troop to their standard ; so the watery throng. 
 Wave rolling after wave, where way they found, 
 If steep, with torrent rapture, if through plain, 
 Soft ebbing ; nor withstood them rock or hill ; 
 But they, or under ground, or circuit wide 
 With seri^nt error wandering, found their way. 
 And on the washy ooze deep channels wore ; 
 Easy, ere God had bid the ground be dry. 
 All but within those banks, where rivers now 
 Stream, and perpetual draw their humid train. 
 The dry land. Earth ; and the great rece]>tac le 
 Of congi-egated waters, he called Seas ; 
 And saw that it was good : and said, "Let the 
 
 earth 
 Put forth the verdant grass, herb yielding seed, 
 And frait-tree yielding fruit after her kind, 
 Whose seed is in herself upon the earth." 
 He scarce had said, when the bare earth, till then 
 Desert and bare, unsightly, unadorned. 
 Brought forth the tender grass, whose verdure 
 
 clad 
 Her universal face with pleasant green ; 
 Then herbs of every leaf, that sudden flowered 
 Opening their various colors, and made gay 
 Her bosom, smelling sweet : and, these scarce 
 
 blown. 
 Forth flourished thick the clustering vine, forth 
 
 crept 
 The swelling gourd, up stood the corny reed 
 Embattled in her field, and the humble shrub, 
 And bush with frizzled hair implicit : last 
 Rose, as in dance, the stately trees, and sjiread 
 Their brancheshungwith copious fruit, or gemmed 
 
 T
 
 564 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 f 
 
 Tlieir blossoms : witli liigh woods the fields were 
 
 crowned, 
 With tufts the valleys, and each fountain-side ; 
 AVith horilei's loij;; the rivers : that eartli now 
 Seemed like to heaven, a seat where gods might 
 
 dwell, 
 Or wander with delight, and love to haunt 
 Her sacred shades : though God had yet not rained 
 U|ion tlie earth, and man to till the ground 
 Koue was ; hut from the earth a dewy mist 
 AVent up, and watered all the ground, and each 
 Plant of the field ; which, ere it was in the eartli, 
 God made, and every herb, before it grew 
 On the green stem : God saw that it was good : 
 So even and morn recorded the third day. 
 
 Again the Almighty spake, "Let there be lights 
 High in the expanse of heaven, to divide 
 The day from night ; and let them l;e for signs, 
 For seasons, and for days, and circling years ; 
 And let them be for lights, as 1 ordain 
 Their oltire in the firmament of heaven. 
 To give light on the earth " ; and it was so. 
 And God made two great lights, great for their 
 
 use 
 To man, the greater to have rule by day. 
 The less by night, altern ; and made the stars, 
 And set them in the Hrmament of heaven 
 To illuminate the earth, and rule the day. 
 In their vicissitude, and rule the night. 
 And light from darkness to divide. God saw, 
 Surveying his great work, that it was good : 
 For of celestial boilics first the sun 
 A mighty sphere he framed, unlightsonie first, 
 Tliougli of ethereal mold ; then formed the moon 
 Globose, and every magnitude of stars, 
 And sowed with stars the heaven, thick as a field : 
 Of light by far the greater part he took. 
 Transplanted from her cloudy shrine, and placed 
 In the sun's orb, made porous to receive 
 And drink the liquid light ; firm to retain 
 Her gathered beams, great palace now of light. 
 Hither, as to their fountain, other stars 
 Kepairing, in their golden urns drew light. 
 And hence the morning planet gilds her horns ; 
 By tincture or reflection they augment 
 Their small peculiar, though from human sight 
 So far remote, with diminution seen. 
 First in his east the glorious lamp was seen, 
 Kegent of day, and all the horizon round 
 Invested with bright rays, jocund to run 
 His longitude through heaven's high road ; the 
 
 gray 
 Dawn, and the Pleiades, before him danced. 
 Shedding sweet influence : less bright the moon. 
 But opposite in leveled west was set, 
 His mirror, with full face borrowing her light 
 From him ; for other light she needed none 
 In that aspect, and stiU that distance keeps 
 
 Till night; then in the east her turn she shines, 
 lievolved on heaven's great a.xlc, and her reign 
 With thousand lesser lights dividual holds. 
 With thousand thousand stars, that then appeared 
 Sjiangling the hemisphere ; then first adorned 
 With their bright luminaries that set and rose. 
 Glad evening and glad morn crowned the fourth 
 
 day. 
 And God said, " Let the waters generate 
 Reptile with spawn abundant, living soul : 
 And let fowl fly above the earth, witli wings 
 Displayed on the open firmament of heaven. " 
 And God created the great wliales, and each 
 Soul living, each that crept, which plenteously 
 The waters generated by their kinds ; 
 And every bird of wing after his kind ; 
 And saw that it was good, and blessed them, 
 
 saying, 
 "Be fruitful, multiply, and in the seas. 
 And lakes, and running streams, the watei-s fill ; 
 And let the lowl be multiplied on the earth." 
 Forthwith the sounds and seas, each creek and 
 
 bay 
 With fry innumerable swarm, and shoals 
 Of fish that with their fins, and shining scales. 
 Glide under the green wave, in sculls that oft 
 Bank the mid sea : part single, or with mate. 
 Graze the sea-weed their pasture, and through 
 
 groves 
 Of coral stray ; or sporting with quick glance. 
 Shew to the sun theirwaved coats dropt with gold ; 
 Or, in their pearly .shells at ease, attend 
 Moist nutriment: or under rocks their food 
 In jointed armor watch : on smooth the seal 
 .\nd bended dolphins play : part huge of bulk, 
 Wallowing unwieldy, enormous in their gait. 
 Tempest the ocean : there leviathan, 
 Hugest of living creatures, on the deep 
 Stretched like a promontory, sleeps or swims, 
 And seems a moving land ; and at his gills 
 Draws in, and at his trunk s])outs out, a sea. 
 Meanwhile the tepid eaves, and fens, ami shores. 
 
 Bursting with kindly rupture forth disclosed 
 Their callow young ; but feathered soon and fledge 
 They summed their pens ; and, soaring the air 
 
 sublime, 
 With clang despised the ground, under a cloud 
 In prospect ; there the eagle and the stork 
 On clifl's and cedar-tops their eyries build ; 
 Part loosely wing the region, part more wise 
 In common, ranged in figure, wedge their way. 
 Intelligent of seasons, and set forth 
 Their aery caravan, high over seas 
 Flying, and over lands, with mutual wing 
 Easing their flight ; so steers the pruilent crane 
 Her annual voyage, borne on winds ; the air 
 
 11
 
 -•Hh-*- 
 
 POEMS OF NATUnE. 
 
 365 
 
 Floats as they pass, fniincil witli uiimnnbcrei.1 
 
 Illumes ; 
 From branch to branch the smaller hiviis with 
 
 songs 
 Solaced the woods, and spread their painted wings 
 Till even ; nor then the solemn nightingale 
 Ceased warbling, but all night tnned lier sott lays : 
 Others, on silver lakes and rivere, bathed 
 Their downy breast ; the swan with arched neck. 
 Between her wliite wings mantling proudly, rows 
 Her state with oary feet ; yet oft they (piit 
 The (lank, and, rising on stitV pennons, tower 
 The mid aerial sky : others on ground 
 Walked firm ; the crested cock whose clarion 
 
 sounds 
 The silent hours, and the other whose gay train 
 Adorns him, colored with tlie florid line 
 Of rainbows and starry eyes. Tlie waters tlius 
 ^Vith fish reiilenished, and the air with fowl. 
 Evening and morn solemnized tlie fifth day. 
 
 The sixth, and of creation last, arose 
 With evening harps and matin ; wOien God said, 
 "Let the earth bring fortlisoul living in her kind. 
 Cattle, and creeping things, and beast of the 
 
 earth. 
 Each in their kind." The earth obeyed, and 
 
 straiglit 
 Opening licr fertile womb, teemed at a birth 
 Innumerous living creatures, perfect forms. 
 Limbed and full grown ; out of the ground up 
 
 rose. 
 As from his lair, the wild beast, where he wons 
 In forest wild, in thicket, brake, or den; 
 Among the trees in paiis they rose, they walked : 
 The cattle in the fields and meadows green ; 
 Those rare and solitary, these in Hocks 
 Pasturing at once, and in broad herds upsprung. 
 The grassy clods now calved ; now half appeared 
 The tawny lion, pawing to get free 
 Hishindcr pa rts, tlien springs, asbroke from bonds, 
 Ar.drampant shakes his I)rindcd mane ; the ounce. 
 The libliard, and the tiger, as the mole 
 Rising, tlie crumbled earth aliove them threw 
 In hillocks : tlie swift stag from under ground 
 Bore up his branching head : scarce from his 
 
 mold 
 Behemoth, biggest horn of earth, iqiheaved 
 His vastness : fleeced the flocks and bleating rose. 
 As plants ; aniliiguous between sea and land 
 The river-horse, and scaly crocodile. 
 At once came forth whatever creeps the ground. 
 Insect or worm : those waved their limber fans 
 For wings, ami smallest lineaments exact 
 In all the liveries decked of summcr''s pride, 
 With spots of gold and purple, azure and green ; 
 These as a line their long dimension drew. 
 Streaking the ground with sinuous trace ; not 
 all 
 
 Minims of nature ; some of serpent-kind. 
 Wondrous in length and cor|inlence, involved 
 Their snaky folds, and added wings. First crept 
 The pareimonions emmet, provident 
 Ol luture ; in small room large heart enclosed ; 
 Pattern ornist equality perhaps 
 Hereafter, joined in her popular tribes 
 Of commonalty : swarming next appeared 
 The female bcc, that teeds her husband drone 
 I'elici.iusly, and builds her waxen cells 
 Witli honey slri?d : the n^st are .nimberless, 
 Ajid thou theli natures knowest, ana gavcst them 
 
 names, 
 Needless to thee repeated ; nor unknown 
 The -.crpent, snbti3st bea.st of all the field. 
 Of h ige extent soD etimes, with brazen eyes 
 And liairy mane terrific, though to thee 
 Not iioKioiis, l)Ul oliedient at thy call. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 EACH AND ALL. 
 
 Little Hunks, in ite field, yon red-cloaked 
 
 clown, 
 Of thee from ihe hill-tt'p looking down ; 
 The heil'ei thai, lows in ihe upland fann, 
 Far-heard, hnvs not tliii ! ear to charm ; 
 The sexton, tolling his LjII at noon, 
 Deems not uliat great Nai'oleon 
 Stops his liiu-se, and lists with delight, 
 Whilst his tiles sweep round yon Alpine lieight ; 
 Nor knowest thou what argument 
 Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 
 All are needed l>y each ouc ; 
 Nothing is fair or i^-ood alone. 
 I thought the ;.parrow's note from heaven, 
 Singing at dawn on I he aider bough ; 
 I brought him home, in hi:^ nest, nt even ; 
 He sings the song, but it pleases not now. 
 For I did not bring home the river and sky ; — 
 He sang to my ear, — they sang to my eye. 
 The delicate shells lay on the shore ; 
 The bubbles of the latest wave 
 Fresh pearls to their enamel gave ; 
 And the bellowing of the savage sea 
 Greeted their safe escape to me. 
 I wiped away the weeds and foam, 
 1 fetched my sea-born treasures homo ; 
 I'ut the poor, unsightly, noisome things 
 Had left their beauty on the shore. 
 With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. 
 The lover watched his graceful maid. 
 As mid the virgin train she strayed, 
 Nor knew her beauty's best attire 
 Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 
 At last she came to his hermitage. 
 Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage ; — ■ 
 The gay enchantment was undone, 

 
 A gentle wife, but fairy none. 
 
 Then I said, "I covet truth ; 
 
 Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat ; 
 
 I leave it behind with the games of youth. "- 
 
 As I spoke, beneath my feet 
 
 The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 
 
 Running over the club-moss burrs ; 
 
 I inhaled the violet's breath ; 
 
 Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 
 
 Pine-cones and acorns lay on the gi'ound ; 
 
 Over me soared the eternal sky, 
 
 Full of light and of deity ; 
 
 Again I saw, again 1 heard, 
 
 The rolling river, the morning bird ; — 
 
 Beauty through my senses stole ; 
 
 I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE. 
 
 BENE.4.TH this stony roof reclined, 
 I soothe to peace my pensive mind ; 
 And while, to shade my lowly cave, 
 Emliowering elms their umbrage wave, 
 And while the maple dish is mine, — 
 The beechen cup, unstained with wine, — 
 I scorn the gay licentious crowd, 
 Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. 
 
 Within my limits, lone and still, 
 The blackbird jiipes in artless trill ; 
 Fast by my couch, congenial guest, 
 The wren has wove her mossy nest : 
 From busy scenes and brighter skies, 
 To lurk with innocence, she flies, 
 Here hopes in safe repose to dwell. 
 Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell. 
 
 At morn I take my customed round. 
 To mark how buds yon shrubby mound. 
 And every opening primrose count. 
 That trimly paints my blooming mount ; 
 Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude, 
 That gi'ace my gloomy solitude, 
 1 teach in winding wreaths to stray 
 Fantastic ivy's gadding spray. 
 
 At eve, within yon studious nook, 
 
 I ope my brass-embossed book. 
 
 Portrayed with many a holy deed 
 
 Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed ; 
 
 Then, as my taper waxes dim, 
 
 Chant, ere I sleep, my measured lipnn. 
 
 And, at the close, the gleams behold 
 
 Of parting wings, bedropt with gold. 
 
 ■\Vhile such pure joys my bliss create, 
 'Who but would smile at guilty state ? 
 Who but would wish his holy lot 
 In calm oblivion's humble grot ? 
 Who but would cast liis pomp away. 
 To take my staff, and amice gray ; 
 And to the world's tumultuous stage 
 Prefer the blameless hemiitage ? 
 
 Thomas Warton. 
 
 COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE. 
 
 Come to these scenes of peace, 
 Where, to rivers murmuring. 
 The sweet birds all the summer sing, 
 Where cares and toil and sadness cease ! 
 Stranger, does thy heart deplore 
 Friends whom thou wilt see no more ? 
 Does thy wounded sjiirit prove 
 Pangs of hopeless, severed love ? 
 Thee the stream that gushes clear, 
 Thee the birds that carol near 
 Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie 
 And dream of their wild lullaby ; 
 Come to bless these scenes of peace, 
 Wliere cares and toil and sadness cease. 
 
 William Lisle bowlbs. 
 
 SEE, O SEE I 
 
 See, see ! 
 
 How every tree, 
 
 Every bower, 
 
 Every flower, 
 A new life gives to others' joys ; 
 
 While that I 
 
 Grief-stricken lie. 
 
 Nor can meet 
 
 With any sweet 
 But what faster mine destroys. 
 What are all the senses' pleasures 
 When the mind has lost all measures ? 
 
 Hear, hear ! 
 
 How sweet and clear 
 
 The nightingale 
 
 And water's fall 
 In concert join for others' ear ; 
 
 While to me. 
 
 For harmony, 
 
 Every air 
 
 Echoes despair. 
 And every drop provokes a tear. 
 What are all the senses' pleasures 
 When the soul has lost all measures ? 
 
 JOHN DICBV, earl of BRISTOL.
 
 PUEMS UP' SATUUK. 
 
 367 
 
 ON A BEAUTIFUL DAY. 
 
 UNSEEN Spirit ! now a calm divine 
 
 Comes forth from thee, rejoicing earth and air ! 
 
 Trees, hills, and houses, all distinctly shine, 
 And thy great ocean slumbers everywhere. 
 
 The mountain ridge against the purple sky 
 Stands clear and strong, with darkened rocks 
 and dells. 
 
 And cloudless brightness opens wide and high 
 A home aerial, where thy presence dwells. 
 
 The chime of bells remote, the murmuring sea. 
 The song of birds in whispering copse and wood, 
 
 The distant voice of children's thoughtless glee. 
 And maiden's song, are all one voice of good. 
 
 Amid the leaves' green mass a sunny play 
 Of flash and shadow stirs like inward life ; 
 
 The ship's white sail glides onward far away, 
 Unhaunted by a dream of storm or strife. 
 
 John sterling. 
 
 Those otlier two equaled with me in fate. 
 So were I ciiualed with them in renown, 
 lilind Thamyris and blind ihiionides. 
 And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old : 
 Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move 
 Harmonious numbci-s ; as the wakeful bird 
 Sings daikling, and in shadiest covert hid 
 Tunes her nocturnal note. Tluis with the year 
 Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn. 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose. 
 Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 
 But cloud, instead, and ever-diiring dark. 
 Surrounds me, from the cheei I'ul ways of men 
 Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair 
 Tresented with a universal blank 
 Of nature's works, to me expunged and rased. 
 And wisdom at one entrance ipiite shut out. 
 So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
 Irradiate ; there jilant eyes, all mist from thence 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight. 
 
 INVOCATION TO LIGHT. 
 
 FROM "PARADISE LOST." 
 
 Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born ! 
 Or of the Eternal coeternal beam 
 May I express thee unlilamed ? since God is light. 
 And never but in unapproached light 
 Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee. 
 Bright effluence of bright essence increate ! 
 Or hear' St thou rather pure ethereal stream. 
 Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun. 
 Before the heavens, thou wert, and at the voice 
 Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
 The rising world of waters dark and deep. 
 Won from the void and formless infinite. 
 Thee I revisit now with bolder wing. 
 Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained 
 In that obscure sojoum, while in my flight 
 Through utter and through middle darkness bonie. 
 With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, 
 I sung of Chaos and eternal Night, 
 Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down 
 The dark descent, and up to re-ascend. 
 Though hard and rare : thee I revisit safe. 
 And feel thy sovereign vital lamp ; but thou 
 Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain 
 To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 
 So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs, 
 Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more 
 Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt 
 Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 
 Sniit with the love of sacred song ; hut chief 
 Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, 
 "I'hat wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow. 
 Nightly 1 visit ; nor sometimes forget 
 
 FROM THE "HYMN TO LIGHT." 
 
 Say, from what golden quivers of the sky 
 Do all thy winged arrows fly ? 
 Swiftness and Power by biith are thine : 
 From thy great sire they came, thy sire, the Word 
 Divine. 
 
 Thou in the Moon's bright chariot, proud and 
 
 gay. 
 
 Dost thy bright wood of stars survey ; 
 And all the year dost with thee bring 
 Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal 
 spring. 
 
 Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thylaudsabove 
 The Sun's gilt tent forever move. 
 And still, as thou in pom]) dost go. 
 The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. 
 
 Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn 
 The humble glow-worms to adorn, 
 And with those living spangles gild 
 (0 greatness without pride !) the bushes of the fiehl. 
 
 Night and her ugly subjects thou dost fright. 
 And Sleep, the lazy owl of night ; 
 Ashamed, and fearful to appear, 
 They screen their horrid shapes with the black 
 hemisphere. 
 
 At thy appearance. Grief itself is said 
 
 To .shake his wings, aiul rouse his head : 
 
 f
 
 368 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 And cloudy Care has often took 
 A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look. 
 
 When, goddess, thou lift'st up thy wakened head 
 Out of the morning's purple bed, 
 Thy iiuire of birds about tliee play, 
 And all the joyful world salutes the rising day. 
 
 All the world's bravery, that delights our eyes, 
 Is but thy several liveries ; 
 Thou the rich dye on them bestow' st, 
 Tliy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou 
 go'st. 
 
 A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st ; 
 A crown of studded gold thou bear'st ; 
 The virgin-lilies, in their white, 
 Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. 
 
 The violet. Spring's little infant, stands 
 Girl in thy purple swaddling-bands ; 
 On the fail' tulip thou dost dote ; 
 Thou cloth'st it in a gay and party-colored coat. 
 
 Through the soft ways of Heaven, and au-, and 
 sea. 
 Which open all their pores to thee. 
 Like a clear river thou dost glide. 
 And with thy living stream through the close 
 channels slide. 
 
 But the vast ocean of unbounded day. 
 
 In th' empyrean Heaven does stay. 
 
 Thy rivers, lakes, and springs, below. 
 
 From thence took first their rise, thither .at last 
 
 must flow. 
 
 Abraham Cowley, 
 
 DAYBREAK. 
 
 A WIND came up out of the sea, 
 
 And said, " mists, make room for me ! " 
 
 It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on. 
 Ye mariners, the night is gone !" 
 
 And hun-ied landward far away. 
 Crying, "Awake ! it is the day!" 
 
 It said unto the forest, " Shout ! 
 Hang all your leafy banners out ! " 
 
 It touched the wood-bird's folded wing. 
 And said, "0 bird, awake and sing ! " 
 
 And o'er the farms, "0 chanticleer, 
 Your clarion blow ; the day is near ! " 
 
 It whispered to the fields of com, 
 
 " Bow down, and hail the coming morn I " 
 
 It shouted through tlie bclfry-tower, 
 "Awake, bell ! proclaim the hour." 
 
 It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, 
 
 And said, "Not yet ! in quiet lie." 
 
 HE.NRv Wadswokth Longfellow. 
 
 trP I QUIT THY BOWER I 
 
 Up ! quit thy bower ! late wears the hour. 
 Long have the rooks cawed round the tower ; 
 O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee. 
 And the wild kid sports merrily. 
 The sun is bright, the sky is clear ; 
 Wake, lady, wake ! and hasten here. 
 
 Up, maiden fair ! and bind thy hair, 
 
 And rouse thee in the breezy air ! 
 
 The lulling stream that soothed thy di'eam 
 
 Is dancing in the sunny beam. 
 
 Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay : 
 
 Leave thy soft couch and haste away ! 
 
 Up ! Time will tell the morning bell 
 Its service-sound has chimed well ; 
 The aged crone keeps house alone, 
 The reapers to the fields are gone. 
 Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay : 
 Lo ! while thou sleep' st they halite away ! 
 
 Joanna Baillib. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 In the barn the tenant cock. 
 
 Close to partlet perched on high. 
 
 Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock !) 
 Jocund that the morning 's nigh. 
 
 Swiftly from the mountain's brow, 
 Shadows, nursed by night, retire : 
 
 And the peeping sunbeam now. 
 Paints with gold the village spire. 
 
 Philomel forsakes the thoni. 
 
 Plaintive where she prates at night ; 
 And the lark, to meet the morn, 
 
 Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. 
 
 From the low-roofed cottage ridge, 
 See the chattering swallow spring ; 
 
 Darting through the one-arched bridge. 
 Quick she dips her dappled wing. 
 
 Now the pine-tree's waving top 
 Gently greets the morning gnle : 
 
 K idlings now begin to crop 
 Daisies, on the dewy dale. 
 
 r
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 369 
 
 From tlie balmy sweets, uucloycd 
 (Kestless till her task be iloiie), 
 
 Kow the busy bee 's employed 
 Sijuiing Uew before the sun. 
 
 Trickling through the creviced rock, 
 Where the liiiipid stream distills. 
 
 Sweet refreshment waits the Hock 
 When 't is sun-drove from the hills. 
 
 Colin 's for the promised corn 
 (lire the harvest hopes are ripe) 
 
 Anxious ; — whilst tlie huntsman's horn, 
 Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. 
 
 Sweet, sweet, the warbling throng, 
 On the white eniblossomed spray ! 
 
 Nature's universal song 
 Echoes to the rising day. 
 
 JOHN CUNNl.N'GHAM. 
 
 THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. 
 
 To claim the Arctic came tlie sun 
 With banners of the burning zone. 
 Unrolled upon their airy spars, 
 They froze beneath the light of stars ; 
 And there they float, those streamers old. 
 Those Northern Lights, forever cold ! 
 
 Benjamin r. Taylor. 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 The night was dark, though sometimes a faint 
 star 
 .\ little while a little .space made bright. 
 The niglil was long and like an iron bar 
 Lay heavy on the land : till o'er the sea 
 Slowly, within the East, there grew a light 
 Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be 
 The herald of a greater. The pale white 
 Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height 
 Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew 
 Rose-colored like the sky. A white gull flew 
 Straight towai-d the utmost boundary of the East, 
 Where slowly the rose gathered and increased. 
 It was as on the opening of a door 
 By one that in his hand a lamp doth hold. 
 Whose flame is hidden by the garment's fold, — 
 The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. 
 
 Jlore liright the East became, the ocean turned 
 Dark and more dark again.st the brightening sky, — 
 Sharper against the sky the long sea line. 
 The hollows of the breakers on the .shore 
 Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth shine, 
 Though white the outer branches of the tree. 
 
 From rose to red the level heaven burneil ; 
 Then sudden, as if a swoid fell I'rom on high, 
 A blade of gold flashed on the horizon's rim. 
 Richard w. gilder. 
 
 PACK CLOUDS AWAY. 
 
 P.A.CK clouds away, and welcome day, 
 With night we banish sorrow ; 
 
 Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, lark, aloft, 
 To give my love good morrow. 
 
 Wings from the wind to please her mind, 
 Notes from the lark I '11 borrow ; 
 
 Bird, prune thy wing ; nightingale, sing, 
 To give my love good mori'ow. 
 To give my love good morrow. 
 Notes from them all I '11 borrow. 
 
 Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast, 
 
 Sing, birds, in every fnrrow ; 
 And from each hill let music shrill 
 
 Give my fair love good morrow. 
 Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 
 
 Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, 
 Vou jietty elves, amongst yoursehes. 
 
 Sing my fair love good morrow. 
 
 To give my love good morrow. 
 
 Sing, birds, in every fuirow. 
 
 THOMAS HEVWOOD. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 FROM "THE MINSTREL." 
 
 But who the melodies of morn can tell ? 
 The wild brook babbling down the mountain- 
 side ; 
 The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; 
 The pijie of early shepherd dim descried 
 In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
 The clamorous horn along the dill's above ; 
 The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 
 The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love. 
 And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 
 
 The cottage curs at early jiilgrira bark ; 
 Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid 
 
 sings ; 
 The whistling plowman stalks afield ; and, 
 
 hark ! 
 Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon 
 
 rings ; 
 Through rastling corn the hare astonished 
 
 sjirings ; 
 Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour ; 
 The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 
 Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower. 
 And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 
 
 James beaitie.
 
 Jl 
 
 370 POEMS OF 
 
 1 
 NATURE. 
 
 1 
 
 THE SABBATH MORNING. 
 
 As poised on vibrant wings. 
 Where its sweet treasure swings, 
 
 
 ■VViTH silent awe I hail the sacred morn, 
 
 The honey-lover clings 
 
 
 That slowly wakes while all the fields are still ! 
 
 To the red flowers, — 
 
 
 A soothing calm on every breeze is borne ; 
 
 So, lost in vivid light. 
 
 
 A graver murmur gurgles from the rill ; 
 
 So, rapt from day and night, 
 
 
 And echo answers softer from the hill ; 
 
 I linger in delight, 
 
 
 And sweeter sings the linnet from the thorn ; 
 
 Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours. 
 
 
 The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. 
 
 ROSE TERRY COOKE. 
 
 
 Hail, light serene 1 hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! 
 
 
 
 The rooks float silent by in airy drove ; 
 
 * 
 
 
 The sun a placid yellow luster throws ; 
 The gales that lately sighed along the grove 
 
 
 
 A SUMMER NOON. 
 
 
 Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose ; 
 
 Who has not dreamed a world of bliss 
 
 
 The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move, — 
 
 On a bright sunny noon like this. 
 
 
 So smiled the day when the first morn arose ! 
 
 L'uuclied by his native brook's green maze. 
 
 
 JOHN LEVDEN. 
 
 With comrade of his boyish days, 
 While all around them seemed to be 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 Just as in joyous infancy ? 
 
 
 REVE DU MIDI. 
 
 Who has not loved at such an hour, 
 Upon that heath, in birchen bower, 
 
 
 Whex o'er the mountain steeps 
 
 Lulled in the poet's dreamy mood. 
 
 
 The hazy noontide creeps. 
 
 Its wild and sunny solitude ? 
 
 
 And the shrill cricket sleeps 
 
 While o'er the waste of purple ling 
 
 
 Under the grass ; 
 
 You mark a sultry glimmering ; 
 Silence herself there seems to sleep, 
 Wrapped in a slumber long and deep. 
 Where slowly stray those lonely sheep 
 Through the till fo.xglove's crimson liloom. 
 
 
 When soft the shadows lie, 
 
 
 And clouds sail o'er the sky. 
 And the idle winds go by, 
 "With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass, — 
 
 
 
 And gleaming of the scattered broom. 
 
 
 Then, when the silent stream 
 
 Love you not, then, to list and hear 
 
 
 Lapses as in a dream. 
 
 The crackling of the gorse-flowers near. 
 
 
 And the water-lilies gleam 
 
 Pouring an orange-scented tide 
 
 
 Up to the sun ; 
 
 Of fragrance o'er the desert wide ? 
 
 
 When the hot and burdened day 
 
 To hear the buzzard's whimpering shrill. 
 
 
 Rests on its downward way. 
 
 Hovering above you high and still ? 
 
 
 When the moth forgets to play, 
 
 The twittering of the bird that dwells 
 
 
 And the plodding ant may dream her work is 
 
 Among the heath's delicious hells ? . 
 
 
 done, — 
 
 While round your bed, o'er fern and blade. 
 Insects in green and gold arrayed. 
 
 
 Then, from the noise of war 
 
 The sun's gay tribes have lightly strayed ; 
 
 
 And the din of earth afar, 
 
 And sweeter sound their humming wings 
 
 
 Like some forgotten star 
 
 Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings. 
 
 WILLIAM HOWITT- 
 
 
 Dropt from the sky, — 
 
 
 
 The sounds of love and fear, 
 
 
 
 All voices sad and clear, 
 
 
 
 Banished to silence drear, — 
 
 NOONTIDE. 
 
 
 The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie. 
 
 Bexeath a shivering canopy reclined. 
 Of aspen-leaves that wave without a wind. 
 
 
 Some melancholy gale 
 
 I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir 
 
 
 Breathes its mysterious tale. 
 
 The spiry cones that tremble on the fir ; 
 
 
 Till the rose's lips grow pale 
 
 Or wander mid the dark-green fields of broom, 
 
 
 With her sighs ; 
 
 When peers in scattered tufts the yellow bloom ; 
 
 
 And o'er my thoughts are cast 
 
 Or trace the path with tangling furze o'ernm. 
 
 
 Tints of the vanished past, 
 
 When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun. 
 
 
 Glories that faded fast. 
 
 And pittcring grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill, 
 
 
 Renewed to splendor in my dreaming eyes. 
 
 Pipe giddily along the glowing hill : 
 
 -1 
 
 
 
 \ 

 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 171 
 
 Sweet grasshopper, who lov'st at noon to lie 
 Serenely in the green-ribbed clover's eye, 
 To sun thy tilniy wings and emerald vest, 
 Unseen thy form, and undisturbed thy rest, 
 Olt have 1 listening mused the sultry day, 
 And wondered what thy chirping song might say, 
 When naught was heard along the blossomed lea. 
 To join thy music, save the listless bee. 
 
 JOHN levden. 
 
 THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN. 
 
 The midges dance aboon the burn ; 
 
 The dews begin to fa' ; 
 The pairtricks down the rushy holm 
 
 Set up their e'ening ca'. 
 Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang 
 
 Kings through the briery shaw. 
 While, flitting gay, the swallows plajr 
 
 Around the castle wa'. 
 
 Beneath the golden gloamin' sky 
 
 The mavis mends her lay ; 
 The redbreast pours his sweetest strains 
 
 To charm the lingering day ; 
 While weary yeldrins seem to wail 
 
 Their little nestlings torn, 
 The merry wren, frae den to den, 
 
 Gaes jinking through the thorn. 
 
 The roses fauld their silken leaves. 
 
 The foxglove shuts its bell ; 
 The honeysuckle and the birk 
 
 Spread fragrance through the dell. 
 Let others crowd the giddy court 
 
 Of mirth and revelry. 
 The simple joys that nature yields 
 
 Are dearer far to me. 
 
 ROBERT TaNNAHILL. 
 
 THE EVENING WIND. 
 
 Spirit that breathest through my lattice : thou 
 That cool'st the t^vilight of the sultry day ! 
 
 Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
 Thou hast been out upon the deep at play. 
 
 Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
 Kougliening their crests, and scattering high 
 their spray. 
 
 And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
 
 To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 
 
 Nor I alone, — a thousand bosoms round 
 Inhale thee in the fullness of delight ; 
 
 And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
 Livelier, at coming of the wind of night : 
 
 And languishing to hear thy welcome sound. 
 
 Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. 
 Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, — 
 God's blessing breathed upon the faintiiJg earth ! 
 
 Go, roc'k the little wood-bird in his nest ; 
 
 t.'url thestill waters, brightwithstars ; and rouse 
 The wide old wood from his majestic rest. 
 
 Summoning, from the innumerable bouglis. 
 The strange deep harmonies that haunt his Ijreast. 
 
 Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
 The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. 
 And where the o'ershadowing branches .sweep the 
 grass. 
 
 Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
 The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone, 
 
 That they who near the churchyard willows stray. 
 And listen in the deepening gloom, alone. 
 
 May think of gentle souls that passed away. 
 Like thy pure breath, into the vast imknown. 
 
 Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men. 
 
 And gone into the boundless heaven again. 
 
 The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
 To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep. 
 
 And dry the moistened curls that overspread 
 His temples, while his breathing grows more 
 deep ; 
 
 And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
 Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. 
 
 And softly part his curtains to allow 
 
 Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 
 
 Go, — but the circle of eternal change, 
 Which is the life of nature, shall restore. 
 
 With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range. 
 Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more. 
 
 Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange. 
 Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shoje ; 
 
 And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
 
 He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THE EVENING STAE. 
 
 Star that bringest home the bee, 
 And sett'st the weary laborer free ! 
 I f any star shed peace, 't Is thou. 
 
 That send'st it from above, 
 Ap]iearing when heaven's breath and brow 
 
 Are sweet as hers we love. 
 
 Come to the luxuriant skies, 
 Whilst the landscape's odors rise. 
 Whilst far-oiT lowing herds are heard, 
 And songs, when toil is done, 
 
 ^
 
 372 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 From cottages wliose smoke unstirred 
 Curls yellow iu the sun. 
 
 Star of love's soft interviews, 
 Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
 Their remembrancer in heaven 
 
 Of thrilling vows thou art. 
 Too delicious to be riven 
 
 By absence from the heart. 
 
 Tho.mas Campbell 
 
 CAPE-COTTAGE AT SUNSET. 
 
 We stood upon the ragged rocks, 
 
 When the long day was nearly done ; 
 
 The waves had ceased their sullen shocks. 
 And lapped our feet with murmuring tone, 
 
 And o'er the hay in streaming locks 
 Blew the red tresses of the sun. 
 
 Along the west the golden bars 
 
 Still to a deeper glory grew ; 
 Above our heads the faint, few stars 
 
 Looked out from the unfathomed blue ; 
 And the fair city's clamorous jars 
 
 Seemed melted in that evening line. 
 
 sunset sky ! purple tide ! 
 
 friends to friends that closer pressed ! 
 Those glories have in darkness died. 
 And ye have left my longing breast. 
 
 1 could not keep you by my side. 
 Nor fix that radiance in the west. 
 
 William Belcher Glazier. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 If solitude hath ever led thy steps 
 To the wild ocean's echoing shore. 
 
 And thou hast lingered there 
 
 Until the sun's broad orb 
 Seemed resting on the burnished wave. 
 
 Thou must have marked the lines 
 Of purple gold that motionless 
 
 Hung o'er the sinking sphere : 
 Tliou must have marked the billowy clouds, 
 Kdged with intolerable radiancy. 
 
 Towering like rocks of jet 
 
 Crowned with a diamond wreath. 
 
 .\nd yet there is a moment, 
 
 When the sun's highest point 
 Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge, 
 When those far clouds of feathery gold, 
 Shaded with deepest purple, gleam 
 Like islands on a dark-blue sea ; 
 Then has thy fancy soai-ed above the earth. 
 
 And furled its wearied wing 
 
 Within the Fairy's fane. 
 
 Yet not the golden islands 
 Gleaming in yon flood of light, 
 
 Nor the feathery curtains 
 Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch, 
 Nor the burnished ocean's waves 
 
 Paving that gorgeous dome, 
 So fair, so wonderful a sight 
 As Mab's ethereal palace could att'ord. 
 Yet likest evening's vault, that fairy Hall ! 
 Heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread 
 Its floors of Hashing light, 
 Its vast and azure dome. 
 Its fertile golden islands 
 Floating on a silver sea ; 
 Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted 
 Tlirough clouds of circumambient darkness, 
 And pearly battlements around 
 Looked o'er the irauicnse of heaven. 
 
 PERCY BVSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 NIGHTFALL: A PICTURE. 
 
 Low burns the summer afternoon ; 
 
 A mellow luster lights the scene ; 
 And from its smiling beauty soon 
 
 The purpling shade will chase the sheen. 
 
 The old, quaint homestead's windows blaze ; 
 
 The cedars long, black pictures show ; 
 Anil broadly slopes one path of rays 
 
 Within the barn, and makes it glow. 
 
 The loft stares out — the cat intent, 
 Like carving, on some gnawing rat — 
 
 With sun-bathed hay and rafters bent, 
 
 Nooked, cobwebbcd homes of wasp and bat. 
 
 The harness, bridle, saddle, dart 
 
 Gleams from the lower, rough expanse ; 
 
 At either side the stooping cart. 
 
 Pitchfork and plow cast looks askance. 
 
 White Dobbin through the stable-doors 
 Shows his round shape ; faint color coats 
 
 The manger, where the farmer pours. 
 With rustling rush, the glancing oats. 
 
 A sun-haze streaks the dusky shed ; 
 
 Makes spears of seams and gems of chinks : 
 In mottled gloss the straw is spread ; 
 
 And the gray grindstone dully blinks. 
 
 The sun salutes the lowest west 
 
 With gorgeous tints around it drawn ; 
 
 A beacon on the mountain's breast, 
 A crescent, shred, a star — and gone. 
 
 f
 
 Hl-*- 
 
 POEMS OF NATUllK. 
 
 OT'J 
 
 The landscape now piepai'i'S for night : 
 A gauz\' mist slow settles round ; 
 
 Eve shows lier hues in every sight, 
 
 And blends her voiee with every sound. 
 
 The sheep stream rippling down the dell, 
 Their smooth, sharp I'aees pointed straight ; 
 
 The pacing kine, with tinkling bell, 
 Come grazing through the pasture-gate. 
 
 The ducks are gi'ouped, and talk in fits : 
 One yawns with stretch of leg and wing ; 
 
 One rears and fans, then, settling, sits ; 
 Que at a moth makes awkward spring. 
 
 The geese march grave in Indian file, 
 The ragged patriarch at the head ; 
 
 Then, screaming, flutter oil' awhile. 
 Fold up, and once more stately tread. 
 
 Brave chanticleer shows haughtiest air ; 
 
 Hurls his shrill vaunt with lofty bend ; 
 Lifts foot, glares rounil, then follows where 
 
 His scratching, picking [lartlets wend. 
 
 Staid Towser scents the glittering ground ; 
 
 Then, yawning, draws a crescent deep. 
 Wheels his head-drooping frame around 
 
 And sinks with fore-paws stretched for sleep. 
 
 The oxen, loosened from the plow, 
 
 Rest hy the pear-tree's crooked tniuk ; 
 
 Tim, standing with yoke-burdened brow. 
 Trim, in a mound beside Iiim sunk. 
 
 One of the kine upon the bank 
 
 Heaves her face-lifting, wheezy roar ; 
 
 One smooths, with lapping tongue, her flank ; 
 Witli ponderous droop one finds the floor. 
 
 Freed Dobbin through the soft, clear dark 
 Glimmers across the pillared scene. 
 
 With the grouped geese, — a pallid mark, — 
 And scattered bushes black between. 
 
 The fire-flies freckle every spot 
 
 With fickle light that gleams and dies ; 
 
 The bat, a wavering, soundless blot. 
 The cat, a pair of prowling eyes. 
 
 Still the sweet, fragrant dark o'erflows 
 The deepening air and darkening ground ; 
 
 By its rich scent I trace the rose. 
 The viewless beetle by its sound. 
 
 The cricket scrapes its rib-like bars ; 
 
 The tree-toad purrs in whirring tone ; 
 And now the heavens are set with stars. 
 
 And night and quiet reigu alone. 
 
 ALFRED B. Street. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 FROM •' DO.N JUAN." 
 
 Avu Maria ! o'er the earth and sea. 
 
 That heavenliest hour of heaven is worthiest thee ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour. 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, where 1 so oft 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
 Sink o'er the eartli so beautiful and soft, 
 While swung the deep bell in the distant tower 
 I Or the faint dying day hymn stole aloft, 
 j And not a breath cre]it through the rosy air, 
 ! And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred « ith 
 prayer. 
 
 Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love ! 
 Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
 Ave Maria ! that face so fair ! 
 
 Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty 
 dove, — 
 What though 't is but a pictured image? — 
 
 strike, — 
 That painting is no idol, — 't is too like. 
 
 Sweet hour of twilight ! in the solitude 
 Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
 
 Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood. 
 Hooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er 
 
 To wliere the last Ctesarean fortress stood, 
 Evergreen forest ; which Boccaccio's lore 
 
 And Diyden's lay made haunted ground to me, 
 
 How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 
 
 The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 
 
 Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 
 
 Were the sole echoes, save mj' steed's and mine. 
 And vesper bells that rose the boughs along ; 
 
 The specter huntsman of Onesti's line, 
 
 Hishell-dogs, and theirchase, and the fair tlirong 
 
 Which learned from this example not to fly 
 
 From a true lover, — shadowed my mind's eye. 
 
 Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things, — 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabored steer ; 
 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear. 
 
 Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ; 
 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother'sbreast. 
 
 Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts tlie 
 heart 
 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
 When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
 
 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
 
 374 
 
 PUEMS OF NATUEE. 
 
 As tlie far bell of vesper makes him start, 
 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay : 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
 Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 ODE TO EVENING. 
 
 If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 
 May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, 
 Like thy own solemn springs, 
 Thy sjirings, and dying gales, — 
 
 nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired 
 
 Sun 
 Sits in you western tent, whose cloudy skirts, 
 
 AVith braid ethereal wove, 
 
 O'erhang his wavy bed : 
 
 Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, 
 With short, shrill shriek flits by on leathern 
 wing ; 
 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 
 His small but sullen horn, 
 
 As oft he rises midst the twilight path. 
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum ; 
 Now teach me, maid composed, 
 To breathe some softened strain, 
 
 Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening 
 
 vale. 
 May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 
 
 As, musing slow, I hail 
 
 Thy genial, loved return ! 
 
 For when thy folding-star arising shows 
 His paly circlet, at his warning laiup, 
 
 The fragi'ant Hours, and Elves 
 
 AVho slept in buds the day. 
 
 And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows 
 
 with sedge. 
 And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, 
 
 The pensive Pleasures sweet. 
 
 Prepare thy shadowy car. 
 
 Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene ; 
 Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, 
 
 Whose walls more awful nod 
 
 By thy religious gleams. 
 
 Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain, 
 Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 
 That from the mountain's side 
 Views wilds, and s\yelling floods, 
 
 And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires ; 
 And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 
 
 Thy desvy fingers draw 
 
 The gradual, dusky veil. 
 
 While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he 
 
 wont, 
 And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 
 
 While Summer loves to sport 
 
 Beneath thy lingering light ; 
 
 While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 
 Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air. 
 
 Affrights thy shrinking train, 
 
 And rudely rends thy robes, — 
 
 So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 
 
 Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 
 
 Thy gentlest iiiflueuoe own, 
 
 And love thy favorite name ! 
 
 William Collins. 
 
 STTNSET. 
 
 FROM "CHILDE HAROLD." 
 
 The moon is up, and yet it is not night: 
 Sunset divides the sky with her ; a sea 
 Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
 Of blue Friuli's mountains ; heaven is free 
 From clouds, but of all colors seems to be 
 Melted to one vast Iris of the west, 
 Where the day joins the past eternity ; 
 While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
 Floats through the azure air, an island of the 
 blest. 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhcetian hill, 
 As day and night contending were until 
 Nature reclaimed her order : gently flows 
 The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instill 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
 "Wliich streams upon her stream, and gla.ssed 
 within it glows. 
 
 Filled with the face of heaven, wliich, from 
 
 afar, 
 Oomes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
 From the rich sunset to the rising star. 
 Their m.Tgical variety difl'use : 
 And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
 Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
 Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
 With a new color as it gasps away, 
 The last still loveliest, till 't is gone — and all is 
 
 gray. 
 
 LORD BYRON.
 
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 w 
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 1^
 
 i^ 
 
 PUEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 EVENING IN PARADISE. 
 
 Now came still evening on, anil twiliglit gray 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
 Silenee aeconij)anied ; for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy eoueli, these to their nests. 
 Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ; 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung. 
 Silence was pleased : now glowed the lirmanient 
 With living sapjiliires ; Hesperus, that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length 
 Ajiparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 
 
 When Adam thus to Eve : " Fair consort, the 
 hour 
 Of night, and all things now retired to I'est, 
 Mind us of like repose, since God hath .set 
 Labor and rest, as day and night, to men 
 Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep, 
 Now falling with soft slumberous weight, inclines 
 Our eyelids. Other creatures all day long 
 Hove idle, unemployed, and less need rest ; 
 Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
 Appointed, which declares his dignity. 
 And the regard of Heaven on all his ways ; 
 While other animals unactive range, 
 And of their doings God takes no account. 
 To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 
 With first approach of light, we must be risen, 
 And at our pleasant labor, to refomi 
 You flowery arbors, yonder alleys green, 
 0\n walk at noon, with branches overgrown, 
 That mock our scant manuring, and require 
 More hands than ours to lop their w'anton growth. 
 Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, 
 That lie bestrewn, unsightly and nnsmooth. 
 Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease ; 
 Meanwhile, as Nature wills, night bids us rest." 
 
 To whom thus Eve with perfect beauty adorned : 
 "My author and disposer, what thou bidd'st 
 Unargued I obey ; so God ordains ; 
 God is thy law, thou mine ; to know no more 
 Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. 
 With thee conversing I forget all time ; 
 All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
 Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
 AVIth chaim of earliest birds ; (ilcasant the sun, 
 Wlien first on this delightful land he spreads 
 His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
 Glistering with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
 After soft showers ; and sweet the condng on 
 Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night. 
 With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon. 
 And these the gems of heaven, her starry train ; 
 But neither breath of mom, when she ascends 
 With charms of earliest birds ; nor rising sun 
 On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, 
 
 Glistering with dew ; nor fragrance after showers. 
 Nor gratelul evening mild ; nor silent night 
 With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, 
 Oi' glittering starlight, without thee is sweet." 
 
 Thus talking, hand in hand alone they jia-ssed 
 On to their blissful bower. 
 
 MILTO.N". 
 
 TO NIGHT. 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave. 
 
 Spirit of Night ! 
 Out of the misty eastern cave. 
 Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 
 Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
 
 Swift be thy flight ! 
 
 Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 
 
 Star-inwrought ; 
 Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
 Kiss her until she be wearied out ; 
 Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 
 Touching all with thine opiate wand, — 
 
 Come, long-sought ! 
 
 When I arose and saw the dawn, 
 
 I sighed for thee ; 
 When light rode high, and the dew was gone. 
 And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
 And the weaiy Day turned to her rest, 
 Lingering like an uidoved guest, 
 
 I sighed for thee ! 
 
 Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
 
 " Wouldst thou me ?" 
 Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. 
 
 Murmured like a noontide bee, 
 " Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
 AVouldst thou me ? " — And 1 replied, 
 
 " No, not thee ! " 
 
 Death will couie when thou art dead, 
 
 Soon , too soon, — 
 Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
 Of neither would 1 ask the boon 
 1 ask of thee, beloved Night, — 
 Swift be thine approaching flight. 
 
 Come soon, soon ! 
 
 PERCY Bysshe Shelley. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Mystehiotts Night ! when our first parent knew 
 Thee, from report divine, and heard thy name. 
 Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, — 
 This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 
 
 1^
 
 376 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Yet, 'neatli a curtain of translucent dew, 
 Bathed in tlie rays of the great setting flarae, 
 Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came. 
 And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 
 Who couhl have thought such darkness hay con- 
 cealed 
 Within thy beams, Sun ! or who could find, 
 Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed. 
 That to such countless orbs thou niad'st us blind ! 
 Why do we then shun death with anxious strife ? 
 If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 
 
 Joseph Blanco White. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 FROM "CHILDE HAROLD." 
 
 'T IS night, when Meditation bids us feel 
 We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
 The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal. 
 Though friendless now, will dream it had a 
 
 friend. 
 Who with the weight ofyears would wish tobend. 
 When Youth itself survives j'oung Love and joy ! 
 Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
 Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
 Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be 
 
 a boy? 
 
 Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side. 
 To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected si)herc, 
 The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, 
 And Hies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
 None are so desolate but something dear, 
 Dearer than self, possesses or possessed 
 A tliought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
 A llasliing pang ! of which the weary breast 
 Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 
 
 To sit on locks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
 To slowly trace the foi-est's shady scene. 
 Where things that own not man's dominion 
 
 dwell. 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
 To climb tlie trackless mountain all unseen, 
 Witli the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean, — 
 This is not solitude : 't is but to hold 
 Converse with Nature's charms, aud view her 
 
 stores unrolled. 
 
 But midst the crowd, the hum, theshock of men 
 To hear to see, to feel, aiul to possess. 
 And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
 With none who blessus, none whom wecan bless ; 
 Minions of splendor shrinking from distress ! 
 None that, with kindred consciousness endued, i 
 
 If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
 Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued ; 
 This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 How beautiful this night ! the balmiest sigh 
 Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear 
 Were discord to the speaking cpiietude 
 That wraps this moveless sceue. Heaven's ebon 
 
 vault. 
 Studded with stars unutterably bright. 
 Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur 
 
 rolls. 
 Seems like a canopy which love has spread 
 To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle liills, 
 Kobed in a garment of untrodden snow ; 
 Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, 
 .So stainless that their white and glittering spires 
 Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castle steep. 
 Whose banner hangeth o'er the timeworn tower 
 So idly that rapt fancy deemeth it 
 A metaphor of peace — all form a scene 
 Where nnising solitude might love to lift 
 Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; 
 Where silenc^e undisturbed niiglit watch alone. 
 So cold, so bright, so still. 
 
 Tlie orb of day 
 In southern climes o'er ocean's waveless tield 
 Sinks sweetly smiling : not the faintest breath 
 Steals o'er the unrunied deep ; the clouds of eve 
 Heflect unmoved the lingering beam of day ; 
 And vespei's image on the western main 
 Is beautifully still. To-morrow conies : 
 Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass. 
 Rolls o'er the blackened waters ; the deep roar 
 Of distant thunder mutters awfully; 
 Tempest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom 
 Tliat shrouds tlie boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend. 
 With all hiswinds audliglitniugs, tracks his prey ; 
 The torn deep yawns, — the vessel finds a grave 
 Beneath its jagged gulf. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Night is the time for rest : 
 How sweet, when labors close, 
 
 To gather round an aching breast 
 The curtain of repose. 
 
 Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head 
 
 Down ou oui- own delightful btd 1 
 
 (I
 
 T 
 
 rOKMS OF XATUllR. 
 
 4 
 
 Niglit is the time for ilreains : 
 
 The. gay roiiiance of life. 
 When tiuth that is, and Irntli that seems, 
 
 Mix in fantastic strife ; 
 Ah ! visions, It-ss beguiling far 
 Than waiving dreams l:iy daylight are ! 
 
 Night is the time for toil : 
 
 To [ilow the flassie field, 
 Intent to find the buried spoil 
 
 Its wealthy furrows yield ; 
 Till all is ours that sages taught, 
 That ix)ets sang, and heroes wrought. 
 
 Kight is the time to weep : 
 
 To wet witli unseen tears 
 Those graves of Memory, where sleep 
 
 The joys of other years ; 
 Hopes, tluit were Angels at their birth. 
 But died when young, like things of cartli. 
 
 Night is the time to watch : 
 
 O'er ocean's dark expanse, 
 To hail the Pleiades, or catch 
 
 The full moon's earliest glance. 
 That brings into the homesick mind 
 All we have loved and left behind. 
 
 Night is the time for care : 
 
 Brooding on hours misspent. 
 To see the specter of Despair 
 
 Come to our lonely tent ; 
 Like Brutus, midst liis slumbering host, 
 Summoned to die by Ciesar's ghost. 
 
 Night is the time to think : 
 
 ■\Vhen, from the eye, the soul 
 Takes flight ; and on the utmost brink 
 
 Of yonder starry pole 
 Discerns beyond the abyss of night 
 The dawn of uncreated light. 
 
 Night is the time to pray : 
 
 Our Saviour oft withdrew 
 To desert mountains far away; 
 
 So will his follower do, — 
 Steal from the throng to haunts untrod. 
 And commune there alone with God. 
 
 Night is the time for Death : 
 
 AVlien all around is peace, 
 Calmly to yield the weary breath, 
 
 From sin and s\iffering cease. 
 Think of heaven's liliss, and give the sign 
 To parting friends ; — such death be mine. 
 
 jAMbS Mu.Ml.uMERV. 
 
 HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 
 
 'AffTTaCTlIJ, TptAAlffTO?. 
 
 •ailing garments of 1 
 Sweep through her marble halls ! 
 I .saw her sable skirls all fringed with light 
 From the celestial walls ! 
 
 I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 
 
 Stoop o'er me from above ; 
 The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 
 
 As of the one I love. 
 
 1 heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 
 
 The manifold, soft chimes, 
 That fill the haunteil chambers of the Night, 
 
 Like some old poet's rhymes. 
 
 From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 
 
 My spiiit drank repose ; 
 The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — 
 
 From those deep cisterns Hows. 
 
 holy Night I from thee 1 learn to bear 
 
 AVhat man has borne before ! 
 Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 
 
 And they complain no more. 
 
 Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I b'eathe thisprayer! 
 
 Descend with broad-winged flight, 
 The welcome, the thrice-prayed (or, the most lair. 
 
 The best-beloved Night I 
 
 HE.NRY WaDSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 FROM "IMF, SEASONS." 
 
 TilKSE, as they change. Almighty Father, these 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
 Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
 Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
 Wide flush the fields ; the softening a\r is balm ; 
 Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles; 
 And every sense and every heart is joy. 
 Then comes thy glory in the summer numths. 
 With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 
 Shoots full iierfection through the swelling )-ear; 
 And oft thy voice in lii-eadful thunder speaks. 
 And oft at dawn, dec]) noon, or falling eve, 
 By brooks and groves in hollow-whisiiering gales. 
 Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined. 
 And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
 In winter .awful thou ! with clouds and storms 
 Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled. 
 Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing 
 Hiding sublime, thou biil'st the world adore. 
 And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 
 
 Mysterious round ! whatskill, whatforcedivine. 
 Deep felt, in these appear I a simple train, 
 
 T
 
 Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, 
 Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
 Shade, unpereeived, so softening into sliade ; 
 And all so forming an harmonious whole, 
 That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
 Hut wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
 Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, 
 That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
 Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, 
 
 thence 
 The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring ; 
 Flings from the sun direct tlie flaming day ; 
 Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
 And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
 With transport touches all the springs of life. 
 
 Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. 
 In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 
 One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales. 
 Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness 
 
 breathes : 
 O, talk of him in solitary glooms ; 
 Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
 Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
 .•\nd ye whose bolder note is heard afar. 
 Who shake the astonished world, lift high to 
 
 Heaven 
 The impetuous song, and say from whom you 
 
 rage. 
 His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 
 .A.nd let me catch it as I muse along. 
 Ve headlong torrents, rapid, and profound ; 
 Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
 Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
 A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
 Sound his stupendous praise, — whose greater 
 
 voice 
 Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
 Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and 
 
 flowers, 
 1 n mingled clouds to him, — whose sun exalts. 
 Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil 
 
 paints. 
 Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him ; 
 lireathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
 ."Vs home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 
 Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 
 Unconscious lies, efl'use your mildest beams, 
 Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
 Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
 Great source of day ! best image here below 
 Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide. 
 From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
 On Nature write with every beam his praise. 
 The thunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate world ; 
 While cloud to cloud .'eturns the solemn hymn. 
 Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks, 
 Retain the sound ; the broad responsive low, 
 
 Ye valleys, raise ; for the great Shepherd reigns, 
 And his unsufl'ering kingdom yet will come. 
 Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
 B\irst from the groves ; and when the restless day. 
 Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
 Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
 The listening shades, and teach the night his 
 
 praise. 
 Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles. 
 At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all. 
 Crown the great hymn ! in swai-ming cities vast. 
 Assembled men to the deep organ join 
 The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 
 At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; 
 And, as each mingling flame increases each, 
 In one united ardor rise to heaven. 
 Or if you rather choose the rural shade. 
 And find a fane in every sacred grove, 
 There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay. 
 The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 
 Still sing the God of seasons as they roll. 
 For me, when I forget the darling theme, 
 Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray 
 Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams. 
 Or winter rises in the blackening east, — 
 Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, 
 And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 
 
 Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
 Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes. 
 Rivers unknown to song, — where first the sun 
 Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
 Flames on the Atlantic isles, — 't is naught to me : 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
 In the void waste as in the city full ; 
 And where he vital breathes there must be joy. 
 When even at last the solemn hour shall come. 
 And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
 I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, 
 Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
 Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
 Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
 From seeming evil still educing good. 
 And better thence again, and better still, 
 In infinite progression. But I lose 
 Myself in him, in light ineffable ! 
 Come, then, expressive Silence, muse his praise. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 THE FOTJR SEASONS. 
 
 Springe is yeomen in. 
 Dappled larke singe ; 
 
 Snowe melteth, 
 
 Runnell pelteth, 
 Smelleth winde of newe buddinge. 
 
 Summer is yeomen in, 
 Loude singe cucku ; 
 
 r 
 
 r
 
 T' 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 379 
 
 Groweth seede, 
 Blowetli meaile. 
 And spiingeth the weedc iicwe. 
 
 Autumne is yeomen in, 
 Ceres tUleth home ; 
 Eeaper swinkcth, 
 Farmer drinketh, 
 Creaketh waiiie with uewe corne. 
 
 Winter is yeomen in 
 With stormy sadde cheere ; 
 
 In the jjaddocke, 
 
 Whistle ruddock, 
 Brighte sparke in the dead yeare. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 EPIGiEA ASLEEP. 
 
 Arbutus lies beneath the snows, 
 While Winter waits her brief repose, 
 And says, " No fairer llower grows ! " 
 
 Of sunny April days she dreams, 
 
 Of robins' notes and niunnuring streams. 
 
 And smiling in her sleep she seems. 
 
 She thinks her rosy buds expand 
 Beneath the touch of childhood's hand. 
 And beauty breathes throughout the land. 
 
 The arching elders bending o'er 
 The silent river's sandy shore, 
 Their golden tresses trim once more. 
 
 The pussy-willows in their play 
 Their varnished caps have flung away, 
 And hung their furs on every spray. 
 
 The toads their cheery music chant, 
 The squirrel seeks his summer haunt, 
 And life revives in every plant. 
 
 " I must awake ! I hear the bee ! 
 
 The butterfly 1 long to see ! 
 
 The buds are bursting on the tree ! " 
 
 Ah ! blossom, thou art dreaming, dear, 
 The wild winds howl about thee here, 
 — The dirges of the dying year ! 
 
 Thy gentle eyes with tears are wet ; 
 In sweeter sleep these pains forget ; 
 Thy merry morning comes not yet ! 
 
 WII-LIAM WmiMAN DAILRV. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 Slayki; of winter, art thou here again ? 
 welcome, thou that bring' st the summer nigh ! 
 The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain. 
 Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. 
 Welcome, March ! whose kindly days ami dry 
 Make April ready for the throstle's song, 
 Thou lirst redrcsser of the winter's wrong ! 
 
 Yea, welcome, March ! nnd though I die ere .Tune, 
 Yet for the hope of life 1 give thi'e praise. 
 Striving to swell the burden of the tune 
 That even now I hear thy brown birds raise, 
 Unmindful of the past or coming days ; 
 Who sing, "0 joy ! a new year is Ijegun ! 
 What happiness to look upon the sun ! " 
 
 O, what begetteth all this storm of bliss, 
 But Death himself, who, crying solemnly. 
 Even from the heart of sweet P'ovgetfulness, 
 Bids us, " Rejoice ! lest pleasureless ye die. 
 Within a little time must ye go by. 
 Stretch forth your open hands, and, while ye live. 
 Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give" ! 
 
 WILLIAM MOKKIS. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 FROM " IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Dip down upon the northern shore, 
 sweet new-year, delaying long : 
 Thou doest expectant Nature wrong ; 
 
 Delaying long, delay no more. 
 
 What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
 Thy sweetness from its proper place ! 
 Can trouble live with Ajiril days, 
 
 Or sadness in the summer moons ? 
 
 Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
 The little speedwell's darling blue. 
 Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, 
 
 Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 
 
 thou, new-year, delaying long, 
 Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
 That longs to burst a frozen bud, 
 
 And flood a fresher throat with song. 
 
 Now fades the last long streak of snow ; 
 Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
 About the flowering squares, and thick 
 
 By ashen roots the violets blow. 
 
 Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
 The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
 And drowned in yonder living blue 
 
 The lark becomes a sightless song.
 
 . 
 
 \ 
 
 1-.^ , 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 380 PUEMS Oh 
 
 ' XATURE. 
 
 
 
 Now ilanee tlie lights on lawn and lea, 
 
 Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying. 
 
 
 
 The Hocks are whiter down the vale, 
 
 All tlie winter lay. 
 
 
 
 And milkier every milky sail 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
 
 
 
 On winding stream or distant sea ; 
 
 Sighing for the JIay. 
 
 
 
 Where now the sea-mew pipes, or dives 
 
 Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, 
 
 
 
 In yonder greening gleam, and Hy 
 
 Throlibing for the May, — 
 
 
 
 The happy birds, tliat change their sky 
 
 Throbbing for the seaside billows, 
 
 
 
 To build and brood, that live their lives 
 
 Or the water-wooing willows ; 
 
 Where, in laughing and in sobbing, 
 
 
 
 From land to land ; and in my breast 
 
 Glide the streams away. 
 
 
 
 Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
 
 Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. 
 
 
 
 Becomes an April violet, 
 
 Throbbing for the May. 
 
 
 
 And buds and blossoms like the rest. 
 
 
 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 
 
 
 
 
 Waiting for the May : 
 
 
 
 DIE DOWN, DISMAL DAYI 
 
 Spring goes by with wasted warnings, — 
 Moonlit evenings, sunljright mornings, — 
 
 
 
 Die down, dismal day, and let me live ; 
 
 Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 
 
 
 
 And come, blue deeps, niagiiiticeutly strewn 
 
 Life still ebbs away ; 
 
 
 
 With colored clouds, — large, liglit, and fugitive, — 
 
 Man is ever WTary, weary. 
 
 
 
 By upper winds through pompous motions blown. 
 
 Waiting for the May ! 
 
 
 
 Now it is death in lile, — a vapor dense 
 
 Denis Florence Mac-Carthy. 
 
 
 
 Creeps round my window, till I cannot see 
 
 
 
 
 The far .snow-shining mountains, and the glens 
 
 4 ■ 
 
 
 
 Sliagging the mountain-tops. God ! make free 
 
 
 
 
 WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING. 
 
 
 
 This Ijarren shackled earth, so deadly cold, — 
 
 
 
 
 Breathe gently Ibrth thy siiring, till winter flies 
 
 Wii F.N' the hounds of spring are on winter's traces. 
 
 
 
 In rude auiazoment, feaiful and yet bold. 
 
 The motlier of months in meadow or plain 
 
 
 
 While she performs her customed charities ; 
 
 Fills the shadows and windy places 
 
 
 
 I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare, — 
 
 With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 
 
 
 
 God, foroue clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air ! 
 
 And the brown bright nightingale amorous 
 
 
 
 David Gray. 
 
 Is half assuaged fur Itylu.s, 
 
 For tlie Thracian ships and the foreign faces ; 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 SUMMER LONGINGS. 
 
 The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 
 
 
 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting. 
 
 Come with bows bent and with emptying of 
 
 
 
 Waiting for the May, — 
 
 riuivers, 
 
 
 
 Waiting for the pleasant rambles 
 
 Maiden most perfect, lady of light. 
 
 
 
 Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, 
 
 With a noise of winds and many rivers. 
 
 
 
 With the woodbine alternating. 
 
 With a clamor of waters, and with might ; 
 
 
 
 Scent the dewy way. 
 
 Bind on thy sandals, thou most fleet. 
 
 
 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
 
 Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ! 
 
 
 
 Waiting for the May. 
 
 For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, 
 Eouud the feet of the day and the feetof the night. 
 
 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
 
 
 
 
 Longing for the May, — 
 
 Where shall we find her, how .shall we sing to her. 
 
 
 
 Longing to escape from study 
 
 Fold our hands round her knees and cling ? 
 
 
 
 To the young face fair and ruddy. 
 
 that man's heart were as fire and could spring 
 
 
 
 And the thou,sand charms belonging 
 
 to her, 
 
 
 
 To the summer's day. 
 
 Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring ! 
 
 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
 
 For the stars and tlie winds are unto her 
 
 
 
 Longing for the May. 
 
 As raiment, as songs of the harp-player : 
 For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her. 
 
 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 
 
 And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. 
 
 
 
 Sighing for the May, — 
 
 
 
 
 Sighing for tlieir sure returning. 
 
 For winter's rains and ruins are over. 
 
 
 
 When the summer beams are burning. 
 
 And all the season of snows and sins ; 

 
 I 
 
 POKMS OF NATURE. 
 
 The days diviiliii^ lover and lover, 
 
 The light that loses, the lufjht that wins ; 
 
 And time i-emeiiibered is giiel I'orgotten, 
 
 And IVosts are slain and Dowel's Ijegotten, 
 
 And in i^recn underwood and eover 
 Blossom by blossom tlie spring begins. 
 
 The full streams feed on (lower of rushes, 
 Hipe grasses trammel a traveling loot, 
 
 The Taint fresh llame of t\w. young year flushes 
 From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 
 
 And fruit and h^if are as gold and fire, 
 
 And the oat is heard above the lyre. 
 
 And the liooi'ed heel of a satyr erushes 
 The ehestimt-husk at the ohestnut-root. 
 
 And Pan by noon and Bacehus by iiiglit. 
 
 Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. 
 Follows witli daneing and fills with delight 
 
 Tile Ma'nad and the Bassarid ; 
 And soft as lips that laugh and hide, 
 The laughing leaves of tlie trees divide, 
 And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
 The god pursuing, the maideu hid. 
 
 The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
 Over her eyebrows shading her eyes ; 
 The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
 
 Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; 
 The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, 
 But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
 To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 
 The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 THE WINTER BEING OVER. 
 
 The winter being over, 
 In order comes the spring, 
 Which dotli green herbs discover. 
 And cause the birds to sing. 
 The night also e.xpired. 
 Then comes the morning bright, 
 Whi( h is so much desired 
 By all that love the light. 
 
 This may learn 
 
 Them that mourn 
 To put their grief to flight : 
 The spring suocecdeth winter. 
 And day must follow night. 
 
 He therefore that snstaineth 
 Afllietion or distress 
 Which every member paineth. 
 And findeth no release, — 
 Let such thei'efore despair not, 
 But on firm hope depend, 
 
 Whose griefs immortal arc not, 
 And therefore must have end. 
 
 They that faint 
 
 With complaint 
 Therefore are to blame ; 
 They add to their afllictions, 
 And amplify the same. 
 
 For if they could with patience 
 Awhile possess the mind. 
 By inward consolations 
 They might refreshing find, 
 To sweeten all their crosses 
 That little time they 'dure ; 
 So might they gain by losses. 
 And sharp would sweet procure. 
 
 But if the mind 
 
 Be inclined 
 To unqnietness. 
 That only may be called 
 The worst of all distress. 
 
 He that is uu'lancholy. 
 Detesting all delight, 
 His wits by sottish folly 
 Are ruinated (luite. 
 Sad discontent anil murmurs 
 To him are incident ; 
 Were he possessed of honors, 
 He coidil not be content. 
 
 Sparks of joy 
 
 Fly away ; 
 Floods of care arise ; 
 And all delightlul motion 
 In the conception dies. 
 
 But those that are contented 
 However things do fall, 
 Much anguish is prevented. 
 And they soon freed from all. 
 They finish all their labors 
 With much felicity ; 
 Their joy in trouble savors 
 Of perfect piety. 
 
 Cheerfulness 
 
 rtoth express 
 
 A settled pious mind, 
 
 Which is not prone to grudging. 
 
 From murmuring refined. 
 
 Anne Collins. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 WRITTEN WHILE A PRISONER IN ENGLAND. 
 
 Thk Time hath laid his mantle by 
 Of wind and rain and icy chill. 
 
 And dons a rich embroidery 
 
 Of sunlight poured on lake and hifl. 
 
 I
 
 a 
 
 382 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 I 
 T 
 
 No lieast or liinl in earth or sky, 
 
 Whose voice doth not with gladness tlirill, 
 For Time hath hiid his mantle by 
 
 Of wind and rain and icy chill. 
 
 River and fountain, brook and rill, 
 I5esi>angled o'er with livery gay 
 Of silver droplets, wind their way. 
 All in their new apparel vie. 
 For Time hath laid his mantle by. 
 
 Charles of Orleans. 
 
 RETURN OF SPRING. 
 
 God shield ye, heralds of the spring .' 
 Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing, 
 
 Houps, cuckoos, nightingales, 
 Turtles, and every wilder bird. 
 That make your hundred chirpings heard 
 
 Through tlie green woods and dales. 
 
 God shield ye, Easter daisies all, 
 Fair roses, buds, and lilossoms small. 
 
 And he whom erst the gore 
 Of Ajax and Narciss did print. 
 Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint, 
 
 1 welcome ye once more ! 
 
 God shield ye, bright embroidered train 
 Of butterflies, that on the plain 
 
 Of each sweet herblet sip ; 
 And ye, new swarms of bees, that go 
 Where the pink (lowers and yellow grow 
 
 To kiss them with your lip ! 
 
 A hundred thousand times I call 
 A hearty welcome on ye all ! 
 
 This season how 1 love — 
 This merry din on every shore — 
 For winds and storms, whose sullen roar 
 
 Forbade my steps to rove. 
 
 From the French of PIERRE RoNSARD 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 TilK cock is crowing. 
 The stream is flowing. 
 The small birds twitter. 
 The lake doth glitter. 
 
 The green field sleeps in the sun ; 
 Tlie oiliest and youngest 
 Are at work with the strongest ; 
 The cattle are grazing, 
 Their heads never raising ; 
 
 There are forty feeding like one ? 
 
 Like an army defeated 
 The snow hath retreated, 
 
 And now doth fare ill 
 
 On the top of the bare hill ; 
 The plowboy is whooping — anon — anon ! 
 
 There 's joy on the mountains ; 
 
 There 's life in the fountains ; 
 
 Small clouds are sailing. 
 
 Blue sky prevailing ; 
 The rain is over and gone ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 SONG OF SPRING. 
 
 Laud the first spring daisies ; 
 
 Chant aloud their praises ; 
 
 Send the children up 
 
 To the high hill's top ; 
 
 Tax not the strength of their young hands 
 
 To increase your lands. 
 
 Gather the primroses. 
 
 Make handfuls into posies ; 
 
 Take them to the little girls who are at work in 
 
 mills : 
 Pluck the violets blue, — 
 Ah, pluck not a few ! 
 Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven 
 
 the violet instills ? 
 
 Give the children holidays, 
 
 (And let these be jolly days,) 
 
 Grant freedom to the children in this joyous 
 
 spring ; 
 Better men, hereafter. 
 Shall we liave, for laughter 
 Freely shouted to thewoods, till all the echoes ring. 
 Send the chihlren up 
 To the high hill's top. 
 Or deep into the wood's recesses, 
 To woo spring's caresses. 
 
 See, the birds together, 
 
 In this s]ilendid weather, 
 
 Worship God (for he is God of birds as well as 
 men) ; 
 
 KnA each feathered neighbor 
 
 Enters on his labor, — 
 
 Sparrow, roliin, redpole, finch, the linnet, and the 
 wren. 
 
 As the year advances. 
 
 Trees their naked branches 
 
 Clothe, and seek your pleasure in their green ap- 
 parel. 
 
 Insect and wild beast 
 
 Keep no Lent, but feast ; 
 
 Spring lireathes upon the earth, and their joy 's 
 iiici'eased, 
 
 .\nd the rejoicing birds break forth in one loud 
 carol.
 
 4 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 383 
 
 I 
 
 Ah, conic and woo the siiriug ; 
 
 List to the birds that sing ; 
 
 Pluck tlie primroses ; pluck the violets : 
 
 Pluck the daisies, 
 
 Sing their praises ; 
 
 Friendship with the Hewers some noble thought 
 
 begets. 
 Come forth and gather these sweet elves 
 (More witching are they than the fays of old). 
 Come forth and gather them yourselves ; 
 Learn of these gentle (lowers whose worth is more 
 
 than gold. 
 
 Come, come into the wood ; 
 
 Pierce into the bowers 
 
 Of these gentle flowers, 
 
 Which not in solitude 
 
 Dwell, but with each other keep society : 
 
 And with a simple piety. 
 
 Are ready to he woven into garlands for the good. 
 
 Or, upon summer earth. 
 
 To die, in virgin worth ; 
 
 Or to be strewn before the bride, 
 
 And the bridegroom by her side. 
 
 Come forth on Sundays ; 
 
 Come forth on Mondays ; 
 
 Come forth on any day ; 
 
 Children, come forth to play ; — 
 
 Worship the God of Nature in your childhood ; 
 
 "Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor ; 
 
 AVorship him in your sports ; worship him ever ; 
 
 Worship him in the wildwood ; 
 
 Worship him amidst the flowers ; 
 
 In the greenwood bowers ; 
 
 Pluck the buttercups, and raise 
 
 Your voices in his praise ! 
 
 Edward Voul, 
 
 SPRINa. 
 
 Again the violet of our early days 
 
 Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, 
 
 And kindles into fragrance at his blaze ; 
 
 The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done. 
 
 Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run. 
 
 Wild apjde, thou art blushing into bloom ! 
 
 Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn! 
 
 Wake, buried lily ! spirit, quit thy tom1> ! 
 
 And thou shade-loving hyacinth, be born ! 
 
 Then, haste, sweet rose ! sweet woodbine, hymn 
 
 the mom. 
 Whose dewdrops shall illume with pearly light 
 Each gi-assy blade that thick embattled stands 
 From sea to sea, while daisies infinite 
 Uplift in praise their little glowing liands. 
 O'er every hill that under heaven e.\pands. 
 
 EBENEZl£R ELLIOTT. 
 
 SWEETLY BREATHING, VERNAL AIR. 
 
 Sweetly breathing, vernal air. 
 That with kind warmth doth repair 
 Winter's ruins ; from whose breast 
 All the gums and spice of the East 
 Borrow their perfumes ; whose eye 
 Gilds the morn, and deal's the sky ; 
 Whose disheveled tresses shed 
 Pearls upon the violet lied ; 
 On whose brow, with calm smiles drest 
 The halcyon sits and builds her nest ; 
 P.eauty, youth, and endless spring 
 Dwell upon thy rosy wing ! 
 
 Thou, if stormy Boreas throws 
 Down whole forests when he blows, 
 With a pregnant, flowery birth, 
 Canst refresh the teeming earth. 
 If he nip the early bud, 
 If he blast what 's fair or good, 
 If he scatter our choice flowers, 
 1 f he shake our halls or bowers, 
 If his rude breath threaten us, 
 Thou canst stroke great vEolus, 
 And from him the grace obtain, 
 To bind him iu an iron chain. 
 
 THOMAS CARRW. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Lo ! where the rosy-bosomed Hours, 
 
 Fair Venu.s' train, ap]u'ar, 
 Disclose the long-expecting flowers 
 
 And wake the purple year ! 
 The Attic warbler pours her throat 
 Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 
 The untaught harmony of spring : 
 While, whispering pleasure as they fly. 
 Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky 
 
 Their gathered fragrance fling. 
 
 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 
 
 A broader, browner shade. 
 Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 
 
 O'er-canopies the glade. 
 Beside some water's rushy brink 
 With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 
 How vain the ardor of the crowd, 
 How low, how little are the proud, 
 
 How indigent the great ! 
 
 Still is the toiling hand of care ; 
 
 The panting herds repose : 
 Yet hark, how through the peopled air 
 
 The busy murmur glows ! 
 
 T
 
 -^ ■ ♦ 
 
 384 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 The insect youtli are on the wing, 
 Kagei- to taste the honeyed spring 
 Antl float amid the liijuid noon : 
 Some liglitiy o'er the current skitn, 
 Some show tlieir gayly gilded trim 
 Quick-glancing to the sun. 
 
 To Contemplation's sober eye 
 
 Such is the race of man ; 
 And they that creep, and they that fly, 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 Alike the busy and the gay 
 But flutter through life's little day, 
 In Fortune's varying colors drest : 
 Brusheil by the haml of rough mischance 
 Or chilled by age, their airy dance 
 
 They leave, in dust to rest. 
 
 Jlethinks 1 hoar in accents low 
 
 The sjiortive kind reply : 
 Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? 
 
 A solitary fly ! 
 Thy joys no glittering female meets, 
 No hive hast thou of lioarded sweets. 
 No painted plumage to display ; 
 On hasty wings thy youth is Hown ; 
 Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone, — 
 
 We frolic while 't is May. 
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 SPRING, THE SWEET SPRING. 
 
 Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant 
 
 king ; 
 Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in aring. 
 Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. 
 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 
 
 The pr\lm and may make country houses gay. 
 Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day. 
 And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, 
 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 
 
 The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet. 
 
 Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit. 
 
 In every street these tunes our ears do greet. 
 
 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 
 
 Spring ! the sweet spring ! 
 
 THOMAS Nash. 
 
 And mark ! the flitting sea-birds lave 
 Tlieir plumes in the reflecting wave ; 
 While cranes from hoary winter fly 
 To flutter in a kinder sky. 
 Now the genial star of day 
 Dissolves the murky clouds away. 
 And cultured field and winding stream 
 Are freshly glittering in his beam. 
 
 Now the earth prolific swells 
 With leafy buds and flowery bells ; 
 Gemming .shoots the olive twine ; 
 Clusters bright festoon the vine ; 
 All along the branches creeping. 
 Through the velvet foliage peeping. 
 Little infant fruits we see 
 Nursing into lu.xury. 
 
 From the Creek of An'ACREON, 
 by THOMAS MOORE, 
 
 MAY MORNING. 
 
 Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. 
 Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
 The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
 The yellow cowslip and the pale prinnose. 
 Hail, bounteous May ! that doth inspire 
 Mirth and youth and warm desire ; 
 Woods and groves are of thy dressing. 
 Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
 Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
 And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Behold the young, the rosy Spring 
 Gives to the breeze her scented wing. 
 While virgin graces, warm with May, 
 Fling roses o'er her dewy way. 
 The murmuring billows of the deep 
 Have languished into silent sleep ; 
 
 TO AURELIA. 
 
 See, the flowery spring is blown. 
 Let us leave the smoky town ; 
 From the mall, and from the ring. 
 Every one has taken wing ; 
 Chloe, Strephon, Corydon, 
 To the meadows all are gone. 
 What is left you worth your stay ? 
 Come, Aurelia, come away. 
 
 Come, Aurelia, come and see 
 AN'hat a lodge 1 've dressed for thee ; 
 But the seat you cannot see, 
 'T is so hid with jessamy. 
 With the vine that o'er the walls, 
 And in every window crawds ; 
 Let us there be blithe and gay ! 
 Come, Aurelia, come away. 
 
 Come with all thy sweetest wiles, 
 With thy graces and thy smiles ; 
 Come, and we will merry be. 
 Who shall be so blest as we ?
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 385 
 
 We will frolii: all the day, 
 Haste, Aurclia, while we may : 
 Ay ! and sliouUl not life be gay ? 
 Yes, Aurelia, — come away. 
 
 JOHN DYER, 
 
 MAY. 
 
 May, thou month of rosy beauty, 
 Month when iik'asure is a duty ; 
 Month of maids that milk the kine. 
 Bosom rich, and health divini' ; 
 Month of bees and month of flowers. 
 Month of blossom-laden bowers : 
 Month of little hands with daisies. 
 Lovers' love, and poets' praises ; 
 
 thou merry month complete. 
 May, the very name is sweet ! 
 May was maid in olden times. 
 And is still in Scottish rhymes — 
 May 's the month that 's laughing now. 
 
 1 no sooner write the word, 
 Than it seems as though it heard. 
 And looks up and laughs at me, 
 liike a sweet face, rosily, — 
 Flushing from the paper's white ; 
 Like a bride that knows her power, 
 Startled in a summer bower. 
 
 If the rains that do us wrong 
 Come to keep the winter long 
 And deny us thy sweet looks, 
 I can love thee, sweet, in books. 
 Love thee in the poets' pages, 
 Where they keep thee green for ages ; 
 Love and read thee as a lover 
 Reads his lady's letters over, 
 Breathing blessings on the art 
 Which commingles those that part. 
 
 There is May in books forever : 
 May wiU part from Spencer never ; 
 May 's in Milton, May 's in Prior, 
 May 's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer ; 
 May 's in all the Italian books ; 
 She has old and modern nooks. 
 Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves 
 In happy places they call shelves. 
 And will rise and dress your rooms 
 With a drapery thick with blooms. 
 
 Come, ye rains, then, if ye will. 
 May 's at home and with me stiU ; 
 But come rather, thou good weather. 
 And find us in the fields together. 
 
 LEIGH Hunt. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; 
 
 The winds that fan the flowers. 
 And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, 
 Tell of serencr hours, — 
 Of hours that glide unfelt away 
 Beneath the sky of May. 
 
 The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls 
 
 From his blue throne of air, 
 And where his whispering voice in music falls, 
 Beauty is budding there ; 
 The bright ones of the valley break 
 Their slumbers, and awake. 
 
 The waving verdure rolls along the plain, 
 
 And the wide forest weaves. 
 To welcome back its playful mates again, 
 A canopy of leaves ; 
 And from its darkening shadow floats 
 A gush of trembling notes. 
 
 Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; 
 
 The tresses of the woods 
 With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; 
 And the full-brimming floods, 
 As gladly to their goal they run, 
 Hail the returning sun. 
 
 JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. 
 
 THEY COME I THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 
 
 They come ! the merry summer months of 
 
 beauty, song, and flowers ; 
 They come ! the gladsome months that bring 
 
 thick leafiness to bowers. 
 Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad ; fling cark 
 
 and care aside ; 
 Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful 
 
 waters glide ; 
 Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal 
 
 tree. 
 Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt 
 
 tranquillity. 
 
 The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to 
 the hand ; 
 
 And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is 
 sweet and bland ; 
 
 The daisy and the buttercup are nodding cour- 
 teously ; 
 
 It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless 
 and welcome thee ; 
 
 And mark how with thine own thin locks — 
 tliey now are silvery gray — 
 
 That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whisper- 
 ing, "Be gay !" 
 
 r
 
 A 
 
 386 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of 
 
 yon sky 
 But hatli its own winged mariners to give it 
 
 melody ; 
 Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all 
 
 gleaming like red gold ; 
 And liark ! with shrill pipe musical, their meri-y 
 
 course tlicy hold. 
 God bless them all, those little ones, who, far 
 
 above this earth, 
 Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a 
 
 nobler mirth. 
 
 But soft ! mine ear upcauglit a sound, — from 
 
 yonder wood it came ! 
 The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his 
 
 own glad name ; — 
 Yes, it is he ! the liermit bird, that, apart from 
 
 all his kind. 
 Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft 
 
 western wind ; 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! he sings again, — his notes are 
 
 void of art ; 
 But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep 
 
 founts of tlie heart. 
 
 Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for tliought- 
 crazcd wiglit like me. 
 
 To smell again tliese summer flowers beneath this 
 summer tree ! 
 
 To suck once more iu every breath tlieir little 
 souls away, 
 
 And feed my faucy with fond dreams of youth's 
 bright summer day. 
 
 When, rushing fortli like untamed colt, the reck- 
 less, truant boy 
 
 Wandered through gi-eenwoods all day long, a 
 mighty heart of joy ! 
 
 I 'm sadder now, — I have had cause ; but 0, 
 
 I 'ra proud to think 
 That eacli pure joy-fount, loved of J'ore, I yet 
 
 delight to drink ; — 
 Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the 
 
 calm, unclouded sky. 
 Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the 
 
 days gone by. 
 When summer's loveliness and light fall round 
 
 me dark and cold, 
 I '11 bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart 
 
 that hath wa.xed old ! 
 
 William Motherwell. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 PROM "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL." 
 
 Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; 
 The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in. 
 
 The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us. 
 We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
 
 At the Devil's booth are all things sold. 
 
 Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 
 For a cap and bells our lives we pay. 
 
 Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking : 
 'T is heaven alone that is given away, 
 
 'T is only God may be had for the asking ; 
 
 There is no price set on the lavish summer. 
 
 And June may be had by the poorest comer. 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
 Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune. 
 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays : 
 Whetlier we look, or whether we listen. 
 We hear life munuur, or see it glisten ; 
 Every clod feels a .stir of might. 
 
 An instinct within it that reaches and towers 
 And, grasping blindly above it for light. 
 
 Climbs to a soul in gr.xss and flowers ; 
 The flush of life may well be seen 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
 The cowslip startles in meadows green. 
 
 The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
 And there 's never a leaf or a blade too menu 
 
 To be some happy creature's palace ; 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 
 A-tilt like a blossom among the leaves. 
 And lets his illumined being o'ctrun 
 
 With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
 His mate feels the eggs lieneath her wings. 
 And the heart in lier dumb breast flutters and 
 
 sings ; 
 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
 In the nice ear of Nature, wliich song is the best ? 
 
 Now is the high-tide of the year, 
 
 And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
 Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer. 
 
 Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 
 Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it. 
 We are happy now because God so wills it ; 
 No matter how barren the past may liave been, 
 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
 We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
 How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 
 We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
 That skies are clear and gi'ass is growing ; 
 The breeze comes whispering in our ear. 
 That dandelions are blossoming near. 
 
 That maize has sprouted, that streams are 
 flowing. 
 That the river is bluer than the sky. 
 That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 
 And if the breeze kept the good news back. 
 For other couriers we should not lack ; 
 
 We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, —
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 387 
 
 And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 
 Warmed with the new wine of the year, 
 
 Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 
 Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; 
 Everything is happy now, 
 
 Everj'tliing is upward striving ; 
 'T is as easy now for llie heart to bo true 
 As for grass to be green or sk ies to be blue, — 
 
 'T is the natural way of living : 
 Who knows whither the clouds have fled ? 
 
 In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake. 
 And the eyes forget the tears they liave shed. 
 
 The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
 The soul partakes the season's youtli, 
 
 And the sidpliurous rifts of passion and woe 
 Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth. 
 
 Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 THE CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE. 
 
 Mother, mother, the winds are at play, 
 Prithee, let me be idle to-day. 
 Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie 
 Languidly under the bright blue sky. 
 See, how slowly the streamlet glides ; 
 Look, how the violet roguishly hides ; 
 Even the butterfly rests on the rose. 
 And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. 
 Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun , 
 And the flies go about him one by one ; 
 And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace. 
 Without ever tliinking of washing her face. 
 There flies a bird to a neighboring tree, 
 But veiy lazily flieth he. 
 And he sits and twitters a gentle note, 
 That scarcely ruffles his little throat. 
 
 You bid me be busy ; but, mother, hear 
 How the humdnim grasshopper soundeth near. 
 And the soft west-wind is so light in its play, 
 It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. 
 
 I wish, 0, 1 wish 1 was yonder cloud, 
 That sails about with its nusty .shroud ; 
 Books and work I no more should see. 
 And I 'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee. 
 Caroline Oilman. 
 
 IN SUMMER TIME. 
 
 LiNDEK-TREES ! whose branches high 
 Shut out the noontide's sultry .sky, 
 Throwing a shadow cool and dim 
 Along the meadow's grassy rim, 
 
 How sweet in dreamy rest to lie, 
 Unheeding how the moments fly ; 
 While woodland odors, faint and rare. 
 Of fern and wild rose scent the air, ' — 
 And hear the light winds jilay around 
 From leaf to leaf with rustling sound, — 
 And trill of bird, and insect's hum. 
 And all the lulling tones that come 
 In summer time. 
 
 Linden-trees ! so mossy-old, 
 What pleasant memories you hold 
 Of early childhood, and its days 
 Of frolic, sport, and guileless ways ; 
 A time of joyance, bright and fair, 
 Beneath s mother's tender care. 
 And ever on, till manhood brought 
 Maturer aims and deeper thought, — 
 And Love arose, and life became 
 All radiant with his quenchless flame, 
 As here, within your shelter wide, 
 We met and lingered side by side, 
 
 In summer time. 
 
 Linden-trees ! as now once more 
 
 1 live those happy moments o'er. 
 And, stretched at case upon the grass, 
 See picture after picture pass. 
 Another, brighter vision stays 
 
 My backward thoughts and fills my gaze ; 
 
 For look ! where down yon shaded walk 
 
 A merry troop, in cheei iul talk. 
 
 And gleeful laugh, and shout and song, 
 
 Maud and the children pass along ! 
 
 Lindens ! tell me what could be 
 
 More sweet to hear, or fair to see. 
 
 In summer time ? 
 
 W. W. CALDVreLL, 
 
 SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 FROM "THE SEASONS." 
 
 Short is the doubtful empire of the night ; 
 And soon, observant of approaching day. 
 The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of dews. 
 At first faint gleaming in the dappled east, — 
 Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow. 
 And, from before the luster of her face. 
 White break the clouds away. With quickened 
 
 step. 
 Brown night retires. Young day pours in apace. 
 And opens all the lawny prospect wide. 
 The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, 
 Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. 
 Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents 
 
 shine ; 
 And from the bladed field the fearful hare
 
 388 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Limps, awkward ; wliilo along the forest glade 
 The wild deer trip, aud oftfii turning gaze 
 At early passenger. Music awakes. 
 The native voice of iindissembled joy ; 
 And thick around the woodland hymns arise. 
 Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves 
 His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; 
 And from the crowded fold, in order, drives 
 His flock, to taste the verdure of the mom. 
 
 JAMES Thomson. 
 
 SONG OF THE SXJMMER WINDS. 
 
 Up the dale and down the bourne, 
 
 O'er the meadow swift we fly ; 
 Now we sing, and now we mourn, 
 
 Now we whistle, now we sigh. 
 
 By the grassy-fringed river. 
 
 Through the murmuring reeds we sweep ; 
 Mid the lily-leaves we nuiver, 
 
 To their very hearts we creep. 
 
 Now the maiden rose is blushing 
 
 At the frolic things we say. 
 While aside her cheek we 're rushing, 
 
 Like some truant bees at play. 
 
 Through the blooming groves we rustle. 
 
 Kissing every bud we pass, — 
 As we did it in the bustle. 
 
 Scarcely knowing how it was. 
 
 Down the glen, across the moimtain. 
 
 O'er the yellow heath we roam. 
 Whirling round about the foivntain. 
 
 Till its little breakers foam. 
 
 Bending down the weeping willows. 
 While our vesper hymn we sigh ; 
 
 Then unto our rosy pillows 
 On our weary wings we hie. 
 
 There of idlenesses dreaming. 
 
 Scarce from waking we refrain, 
 Moments long as ages deeming 
 
 Till we 're at our play again. 
 
 George Darley. 
 
 THE STORY OF A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 O PERFECT Light, which shaid away 
 The darkness from the light, 
 
 And set a ruler o'er the day. 
 Another o'er the night ; 
 
 Thy gloiy, when the day forth flies, 
 
 More vively does appear. 
 Than at midday unto our eyes 
 
 The shining sun is clear. 
 
 The shadow of the earth anon 
 
 Removes and drawis by, 
 WhUe in the east, when it is gone. 
 
 Appears a clearer sky. 
 
 Which soon perceive the little laiks. 
 
 The lapwing and the snipe, 
 And time their songs, like Nature's clerks. 
 
 O'er meadow, muir, and stripe. 
 
 Our hemisphere is polished clean. 
 And lightened more and more ; 
 
 While everj-thing is clearly seen. 
 Which seemed dim before ; 
 
 Except, the glistening astres briglit. 
 Which all the night were clear, 
 
 Offusked with a greater light, 
 No longer do ajiijeav. 
 
 The golden globe incontinent 
 
 Sets up his shining head. 
 And o'er the earth and firmament 
 
 Displays his beams abread. 
 
 For joy the birds with boulden throats 
 
 Against his visage sheen 
 Take up their kindly music notes 
 
 In woods and gardens green. 
 
 The dew upon the tender crops, 
 Like pearles white and round. 
 
 Or like to melted silver drops, 
 Refreshes all the ground. 
 
 The misty reek, the clouds of rain 
 From tops of mountains skails. 
 
 Clear are the highest hills and plain, 
 The vapors take the vales. 
 
 The ample heaven, of fabric sure, 
 
 In cleanness does surpass 
 The crystal and the silver pure, 
 
 Or clearest polished glass. 
 
 The time so tranquil is and still, 
 
 That nowhere shall ye find, 
 Save on a high and barren hill, 
 
 The air of peeping wind. 
 
 All trees and simples, great and small, 
 
 That balmy leaf do bear. 
 Than they were painted on a wall, 
 
 No more they move or steir.
 
 
 
 
 
 POEMS OF 
 
 NATURE. 389 
 
 Calm is the deep and purple sea. 
 
 Great is the calm, for everywhere 
 
 Yea, smoother than the sand ; 
 
 The wind is settling down. 
 
 The waves, that weltering wont to he, 
 
 The reek throws riglit up in tlie air 
 
 Are stable like the land. 
 
 From every tower and town. 
 
 So silent is the cessile air. 
 
 The gloaming comes, the day is spent, 
 
 That evpi-y cry and call. 
 
 The sun goes out of .sight. 
 
 The hills and dales and forest fair 
 
 And painted is the Occident 
 
 Again repeats them all. 
 
 With purple sanguine bright. 
 
 The flourishes and fragrant flowers, 
 Through Phnjhus' fostering heat, 
 Refreshed with dew and silver showers, 
 
 The scarlet nor the golden thread, 
 
 Who would their beauty try, 
 
 Are nothing like the color red 
 
 Cast up an odor sweet. 
 
 And beauty of the sky. 
 
 
 Our west horiion circular. 
 
 The clogged, busy liumniing-bees, 
 
 From time the sun be set. 
 
 That never think to drone, 
 
 Is all with rubies, as it were. 
 
 On flowers and flourishes of trees. 
 
 Collect their liquor brown. 
 
 Or roses red o'erfret. 
 
 
 What pleasure were to walk and see, 
 Endlong a river clear, 
 
 The sun, most like a speedy post, 
 
 With ardent course ascends ; 
 The beauty of the heavenly host 
 Up to our zenith tends ; 
 
 The perfect form of every tree 
 Within the deep appear. 
 
 
 0, then it were a seemly thing, 
 
 Not guided by a Phaethon, 
 
 "While all is still and calm, 
 
 Not trained in a chair. 
 
 The praise of God to play and sing 
 
 But by the high and holy One, 
 
 With cornet and with shalm ! 
 
 Who does all where empire. 
 
 
 
 All laborers draw home at even. 
 
 The burning beams down from his face 
 
 And can to other say. 
 
 So fervently can heat, 
 
 Thanks to the gracious God of heaven. 
 
 That man and beast now seek a place 
 
 Which sent this summer day ! 
 
 To save them from the heat. 
 The herds beneath some leafy tree, 
 
 ALE.XANDER HUME. 
 
 
 Amidst the flowers they lie ; 
 
 SIGNS OF RAIN. 
 
 The stable ships upon the sea 
 
 FORTY REASONS FOR NOT ACCEPTING AN IN\'!TATION OF A 
 
 Tend up their sails to dry. 
 
 FRIEND TO MAKE AN EXCURSION WITH HIM. 
 
 
 1 The hollow winds begin to blow ; 
 
 With gilded eyes and open wings. 
 
 2 The clouds look black, the glass is low, 
 
 The cock liis courage sliows ; 
 
 3 The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep. 
 
 With claps of joy his breast he dings. 
 
 4 And spiders from their cobwebs peep. 
 
 5 Last night the sun went pale to bed. 
 
 And twenty times he crows. 
 
 The dove with whistling wings so blue, 
 The winds can fast collect. 
 
 6 The moon in halos hid hei- head ; 
 
 7 The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, 
 
 Her purple pens turn many a hue 
 Against the sun direct. 
 
 8 For see, a rainbow spans the sky ! 
 
 9 The walls are damp, the ditches smell, 
 10 Closed is the pink-eyed p"impernel. 
 
 Now noon is went ; gone is midday. 
 
 11 Hark how the chairs and tables crack ! 
 
 The heat does .slake at last. 
 
 12 Old Betty's nerves are on the rack ; 
 
 The sun descends down west away, 
 
 13 Loud quacks the duck, the peacocks cry, 
 
 For three o'clock is past. 
 
 14 The distant hills are seeming nigh. 
 
 
 15 How restless are the snorting s\vine ! 
 
 The rayons of the sun we see 
 
 16 The busy flies disturb the kine, 
 
 Diminish in their strength. 
 
 17 Low o'er the grass the swallow wings. 
 
 The shade of every tower and tree 
 
 18 The cricket, too, how sharp he sings ! 
 
 Extended is in length. 
 
 19 Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, 
 
 i 
 
 r
 
 390 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 
 20 Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws ; 
 
 And swift and wide, 
 
 
 21 Through the clear streams the fishes rise, 
 
 With a muddy tide, 
 
 
 22 Aiid nimbly catch the incautious flies. 
 
 Like a river down the gutter roars 
 
 
 23 The glowworms, numerous and light. 
 
 The rain, the welcome rain ! 
 
 
 24 IDumed the dewy dell last night ; 
 
 
 
 25 At dusk the squalid toad was seen, 
 
 The sick man from his chamber looks 
 
 
 26 Hopping and crawling o'er the gi'een ; 
 
 At the twisted brooks ; 
 
 
 27 Tlie whirling dust the wind obeys, 
 
 He can feel the cool 
 
 
 28 And in the rapid eddy plays ; 
 
 Breath of each little pool ; 
 
 
 29 The frog has changed his yellow vest, ' 
 
 His fevered brain 
 
 
 30 And in a russet coat is dressed. 
 
 Grows calm again, 
 
 
 31 Though June, the air is cold and still, 
 
 And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 
 
 
 32 The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill ; 
 
 
 
 33 My dog, so altered in his taste, 
 
 34 Quits mutton-bones on gi-ass to feast ; 
 
 From the neighboring school 
 
 
 Come the boys, 
 
 
 35 And see yon rooks, how odd their flight ! 
 
 With more than theii- wonted noise 
 
 
 36 They imitate the gliding kite, 
 
 37 And seem precipitate to fall. 
 
 And commotion ; 
 
 
 And down the wet streets 
 
 
 38 As if they felt the piercing ball. 
 
 Sad their minuc fleets. 
 
 
 39 'T will surely rain ; I see with sorrow, 
 
 Till the treacherous pool 
 
 
 40 Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow. 
 
 Dr. Edward Jfnner. 
 
 Ingulfs them in its whirling 
 And turbulent ocean. 
 
 In the country, on every side. 
 
 
 
 
 SUMMER MOODS. 
 
 Where far and wide. 
 
 Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide. 
 
 
 I LOVE at eventide to walk alone, 
 
 Stretches the plain, 
 
 
 Down narrow glens, o'erhimg with dewy thoni. 
 
 To the dry grass and the drier grain 
 
 
 Where from the long grass underneath, the snail, 
 
 How welcome is the rain ! 
 
 
 Jet black, creejis out, and sprouts his timid horn. 
 
 
 
 I love to muse o'er meadows newly mown. 
 
 In the furrowed laud 
 
 
 Where withering grass perfumes the sultry au' ; 
 
 The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 
 
 
 Where bees seai-ch round, with sad and weary 
 
 Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 
 
 
 drone. 
 
 With their dilated nostrils spread, 
 
 
 In vain, for flowers that bloomed but newly 
 
 They silently inhale 
 
 
 there ; 
 
 The clover-scented gale. 
 
 
 WhDe in the juicy com the hidden quail 
 
 And the vapors that arise 
 
 
 Cries, "Wet my foot" ; and, hid as thoughts 
 
 From the well-watered and smoking soil. 
 
 
 unborn. 
 
 For this rest in the furrow after toil 
 
 
 The fairy-like and seldom-seen land-rail 
 
 Their large and lustrous eyes 
 
 
 Utters "Craik, craik," like voices underground. 
 
 Seem to thank the Lord, 
 
 
 Right glad to meet the evening's dewy veil. 
 
 More than man's spoken word. 
 
 
 And see the light fade into gloom around. 
 
 
 
 JOH.N clarb. 
 
 Near at hand. 
 
 From under the sheltering trees, 
 
 
 
 
 E.ATK IN SUMMER. 
 
 The farmer sees 
 
 His pastures, and his fields of grain, 
 
 
 How beautiful is the rain ! 
 
 As they bend their tops 
 
 
 After the dust and heat. 
 
 To the numberless beating drops 
 
 
 In the broad and tieiy street. 
 
 Of the incessant rain. 
 
 
 In the narrow lane. 
 
 He counts it as no sin 
 
 
 How beautiful is the rain ! 
 
 That he sees therem 
 
 Only his own thrift and gain. 
 
 
 How it clatters along the roofs, 
 
 
 
 Like the tramp of hoofs ! 
 
 These, and far more than these, 
 
 
 How it gushes and struggles out 
 
 The Poet sees ! 
 
 
 From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 
 
 He can behold 
 
 
 Across the window-pane 
 
 Aquarius old 
 
 
 It pours and pours ; 
 
 Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 
 
 
 
 
 -^^
 
 rn^aved l)y Geo,£ Penne 
 
 FORDS. HOWAR!
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 391 
 
 f 
 
 And from each ample fold 
 
 Of the clouds about him rolled 
 
 Scattering everjrvvhere 
 
 The showery rain, 
 
 As the farmer scatters his grain. 
 
 He can behold 
 
 Things manifold 
 
 That have not yet been wholly told, — 
 
 Have not been wholly sung or said. 
 
 For his thought, that never stops. 
 
 Follows the water-drops 
 
 Down to tlie graves of the dead, 
 
 Down through chasms and gulfs profound. 
 
 To the dreary fountain-head 
 
 Of lakes and rivers underground ; 
 
 And sees thorn, when the rain is done, 
 
 On the bridge of colors seven 
 
 Climbing up once more to heaven, 
 
 Opposite the setting sun. 
 
 Thus the Seer, 
 
 With vision clear. 
 
 Sees forms appear and disappear. 
 
 In the perpetual round of strange, 
 
 Mysterious change 
 
 From bu-th to death, from death to birth, 
 
 From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; 
 
 Till glimpses more sublime 
 
 Of things, unseen before, 
 
 Unto his wondering eyes reveal 
 
 The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 
 
 Turning forevennore 
 
 In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 
 
 HENRY WaDSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 STJMMER STORM. 
 
 Untremulohs in the river clear, 
 Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge ; 
 
 So stai the air that I can hear 
 The slender clarion of the unseen midge ; 
 
 Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep. 
 Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases, 
 Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases. 
 
 The huddling trample of a drove of sheep 
 Tilts the loose plank.s, and then as gradually ceases 
 In dust on the other side ; life's emblem deep, 
 A confused noise between two silences. 
 Finding at last in dust precarious peace. 
 On the wide marsh, the purple-blossomed grasses 
 Soak up the sunshine ; sleeps the brimming 
 tide 
 Save when the wedge-shaped w.ake in silence jiasses 
 Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide 
 Wavers the long green sedge's shade ft'om side 
 to side ; 
 
 But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge. 
 Climbs a gi-eat cloud edged with sun-whitened 
 spray ; 
 
 Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge, 
 And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs al way . 
 
 Suddenly all the sky is hid 
 
 As with the shutting of a lid. 
 One by one great diops are falling 
 
 Doubtful and slow ; 
 Down the pane they are crookedly crawling, 
 
 And the wind breathes low ; 
 Slowly the circles widen on the river, 
 
 Widen and mingle, one and all ; 
 Here and there the slenderer Mowers shiver. 
 
 Struck by an icy rain-diop's fall. 
 
 Now on the hUls I hear the thunder mutter, 
 
 The wind is gathering in the west ; 
 The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter, 
 
 Then droop to a fitful rest ; 
 Up from the stream with sluggish Hap 
 
 Struggles the gull and floats away ; 
 Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap, — 
 
 We shall not see the sun go down to-day : 
 Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, 
 
 And tramples the grass mth terrified feet, 
 The startled river turns leaden and harsh. 
 
 You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat. 
 
 Look ! look ! that livid flash ! 
 And instantly follows the rattling thunder. 
 As il' some cloud-crag, split asunder. 
 
 Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash, 
 On the Earth, which crouches in sileuce imder ; 
 
 And now a solid gi'ay wall of rain 
 Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile ; 
 
 For a breath's .space I see the blue wood again, 
 And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile, 
 That seemed but now a league aloof. 
 Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof ; 
 Against the windows the storm comes dashing. 
 Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, 
 The blue lightning flashes, 
 The rapid hail clashes, 
 The white waves are tundjling, 
 
 And, in one baffled roar. 
 Like the toothless sea mumbling 
 
 A rock-bristled shore. 
 The thunder is rumbling 
 And crashing and crumbling, — 
 Will silence retm-n nevermore '! 
 
 Hush ! Still as death. 
 The tempest holds his breath 
 As from a sudden will ; 
 The rain stops short, but from the eaves 
 You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, 
 All is so bodingly still ;
 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 392 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 
 Again, now, now, again 
 
 In gi-ateful silence earth receives 
 
 
 Plashes the rain in heavy gouts. 
 
 The general blessing ; fresh and fair. 
 
 
 The crinkled lightning 
 
 Each flower expands its little leaves. 
 
 
 Seems ever brightening, 
 
 As glad the common joy to share. 
 
 
 And loud and long 
 
 
 
 Again the thunder shouts 
 
 The softened sunbeams pour around 
 
 
 His battle-song, — 
 
 A fairy light, uncertain, pale ; 
 
 
 One quivering flash. 
 
 The wind flows cool ; the scented ground 
 
 
 One ivildering crash, 
 
 Is breathing odoi-s on the gale. 
 
 
 Followed by silence dead and dull. 
 
 
 
 As if tlie cloud, let go. 
 
 Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, 
 
 
 Leapt bodily below 
 
 Methinks some spirit of the air 
 
 
 To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow, 
 
 Might rest, to gaze below awhile, 
 
 
 And then a total lull. 
 
 Then turn to bathe and revel there. 
 
 
 Gone, gone, so soon ! 
 No more my half-crazed fancy there 
 
 The sun breaks forth ; from off' the scene 
 
 
 Its floattug veil of mist is flung ; 
 
 
 Can shape a giant in the air, 
 
 No more I see his streaming hair. 
 
 And all the wilderness of green 
 
 
 With trembling drops of light is hung. 
 
 
 The writhing portent of his form ; — 
 
 
 
 The pale and quiet moon 
 
 Now gaze on Nature, — yet the same, — 
 
 
 Makes her calm forehead bare, 
 
 Glowing with life, by breezes fanned. 
 
 
 And the last fragments of the storm. 
 
 Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, 
 
 
 Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea. 
 
 Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand. 
 
 
 Silent and few, are drifting over me. 
 
 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 Hear the rich music of that voice. 
 Which sounds from all below, above ; 
 
 She calls her children to rejoice, 
 
 And round them throws her arms of love. 
 
 
 
 
 THJi STORM. ■ 
 
 
 
 FROM ■* LEONORE." 
 
 Drink in lier influence ; low-bom care. 
 And all the train of mean desire, 
 
 
 While yet the feeble accents hung 
 
 Refuse to breathe this holy air. 
 
 
 Unfinished on his faltering tongue, 
 Through the tall arches flashing came 
 
 And mid this living light expire. 
 
 ANDREWS Norton. 
 
 
 A broad and livid sheet of flame. 
 
 
 
 Playing with fearful radiance o'er 
 
 
 
 The upraised features of Leonore, 
 
 
 
 The shrinking form of her trembling sire, 
 
 A DROP OF DEW. 
 
 
 The bridegroom's face of scowling ire. 
 
 
 
 And the folded hands and heaving breast. 
 
 See how the orient dew, 
 
 
 And prophet-like mien of the aged priest ! 
 
 Shed from the bosom of the mom 
 Into the blowing roses, 
 
 
 'T was a breathless pause, — but a moment more, 
 
 (Yet careless of its mansion new 
 
 
 And that fierce, unnatural beam was o'er, 
 
 For the clear region wliere 't was bom) 
 Round iu itself encloses. 
 
 
 And a stunning crasli, as if earth were driven 
 
 
 On thundering wheels to the gates of heaven. 
 Burst, pealed, and muttered long and deep, 
 Then sinking, growled itself to sleep, 
 And all was still. 
 
 And in its little globe's extent 
 
 
 Frames, as it can, its native element. 
 
 
 How it the purple flower does slight, 
 
 
 Scarce touching where it lies ; 
 
 
 Margaret Davidsok. 
 
 But gazing back upon the skies. 
 Shines with a mournful light. 
 Like its own tear, 
 
 
 
 
 AITKR A SUMMER SHOWER. 
 
 Because so long divided from the sphere ; 
 Restless it rolls, and unsecure, 
 
 
 The rain is o'er. How dense and bright 
 
 Trembling, lost it gi'ow impure. 
 
 
 Yon pearly clouds reposing lie ! 
 
 TUl the warm sun pities its pain. 
 
 
 Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, 
 
 And to the skies exhales it back again. 
 
 
 Contrasting with the dark blue sky 1 
 
 So the soul, that drop, that ray 
 
 
 I I 
 
 r
 
 -•-II-*- 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 393 
 
 Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 
 Coxild it within the human flower be seen, 
 Remembering still its former height, 
 Shuns tlie sweet leaves and blossoms gi'een, 
 And, recollecting its own light. 
 Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express 
 The greater heaven in a heaven less. 
 In how coy a figure wound. 
 Every way it turns away ; 
 So the world excluding round. 
 Yet receiving in the day. 
 Dark beneath, but bright above ; 
 Here disdaining, there in love. 
 How loose and easy hence to go ! 
 How girt and ready to ascend ! 
 SloWng but on a point below, 
 It all about does upwards bend. 
 Such did the manna's sacred dew distill, 
 White and entire, although congealed and chill,— 
 Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run 
 Into the glories of the Almighty sun. 
 
 AiNDREW MARVELL. 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITA'nON. 
 
 "One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine." — YOUNG. 
 
 'T IS past, — the sultry tyrant of the South 
 Has spent his short-lived rage ; moregratefulhours 
 Move silent on ; the skies no more repel 
 The dazzled sight, but, with mild maiden beams 
 Of tempered luster, court the cherished eye 
 To wander o'er their sphere ; where, hung aloft, 
 Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow. 
 New strung in heaven, lifts its beamy horns 
 Impatient for the night, and seems to push 
 Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines 
 Even in the eye of day ; with sweetest beam 
 Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood 
 Of softened radiance with her dewj- locks. 
 The shadows spread apace ; while meekcned Eve, 
 Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires 
 Through the Hesperian gardens of the West, 
 And .shuts the gates of Day. 'T is now the hour 
 When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts, 
 The cool damp giotto, or the lonely depth 
 Of unpierced woods, where rapt in solid shade 
 She mused away the gaudy hours of noon. 
 And fed on thoughts unripened liy the sun. 
 Moves forward and with radiant finger points 
 To yon blue concave swelled by breath divine. 
 Where; one by one, the living eyes of heaven 
 Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether 
 One boundless blaze ; ten thousand trembling 
 
 fires. 
 And dancing lusters, where the unsteady eye, 
 Eestless and dazzled, wanders unconfined 
 O'er all this field of glories ; spacious field, 
 
 And worthy of the Master, — He whose hand 
 With hieroglyphics elder than the Nik- 
 Inscribed the mystic tablet, hung on high 
 To public gaze, and said, Adore, man ! 
 The finger of thy God. From what pure wells 
 Of milky light, what soft o'erliowing urn, 
 Are all these lamps so filled ? — these friendly 
 
 lamps. 
 Forever streaming o'er the azure deep 
 To point our path, and light us to oui- home. 
 How soft they slide along their lucid spheres. 
 And, silent a.s the foot of Time, i'ulfiU 
 Their destined courses ! Nature's self is hushed, 
 And but a scattered leaf, which rustles through 
 The thick -wove foliage, not a sound is heard 
 To break the midnight air ; though the raised ear. 
 Intently listening, drinks in every breath. 
 How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise ! 
 P.ut are they silent all ? or is there not 
 A tongue in eveiy star that talks with man. 
 And wooes him to be wise ? nor wooes in vain : 
 This dead of midnight is the noon of thought. 
 And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. 
 At this still hour the self-collected soul 
 Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there 
 Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ; 
 An embryo God ; a spark of fire divine, 
 Which must burn on for ages, when the sun 
 (Fair transitory creature of a day !) 
 Has closed his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades, 
 Forgets his wonted journey through the East. 
 
 Ye citadels of light, and seats of gods ! 
 Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul. 
 Revolving periods past, may oft look back. 
 With recollected tenderness, on all 
 The various busy scenes .she left below, 
 Its deep-laid projects and its strange events. 
 As on some fond and doting tale that soothed 
 Her infant hours, — 0, be it lawful now 
 To tread the hallowed circle of your courts. 
 And with mute wonder and delighted awe 
 Approach your burning confines ! Seized in 
 
 thought. 
 On Fancy's wild and rovmg wing I sail. 
 From the green borders of the peopled earth. 
 And the pale moon, her duteous, fair attendant ; 
 From solitary Mars ; from the vast orb 
 Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk 
 Dances in ether like the lightest leaf. 
 To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system. 
 Where cheerless Saturn midst his w-atery moons 
 Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp. 
 Sits like an exiled monarch : fearless thence 
 I launch into the trackless deeps of .space, 
 Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear. 
 Of elder beam, which ask no leave to shine 
 Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light 
 From the proud regent of our scanty day ; 
 
 i-
 
 394 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Sons of the morning, first-bora of creation, 
 And only less than Him who marks their track 
 And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop, 
 Or is there aught beyond ? What hand unseen 
 Impels me onward through the glowing orbs 
 Of habitable nature, far remote, 
 To the dread confines of eternal night, 
 To solitudes of waste unpeopled space. 
 The deserts of creation, wide and wild ; 
 Where embryo systems and unkindled suns 
 Sleep in the womb of chaos ? Fancy droops, 
 And Thought, astonished, stops her bold career. 
 But, thou mighty Mind ! whose powerful word 
 Said, "Thus let all tilings be," and thus they 
 
 were, 
 WHiere shall I seek thy presence ? how unblamed 
 InToke thy dread perfection ? 
 Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld thee? 
 Or does the beamy shoidder of Orion 
 Support thy throne ? 0, look with pity down 
 On erring, guilty man ; not in thy names 
 Of terror clad ; not with those thunders aiTned 
 That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appalled 
 The scattered tribes ; thou hast a gentler voice, 
 That whispers comfort to the swelling heart. 
 Abashed, yet longing to behold her Maker ! 
 But now my soul, unused to stretch her powers 
 In flight so daring, drops her weary wing. 
 And seeks again the known accustomed spot, 
 Drest up %vith sun and shade and lawns and 
 
 streams, 
 A mansion fair and spacious for its guests. 
 And all replete with wonders. Let me here. 
 Content and grateful, wait the appointed time, 
 And ripen for the skies : the hour will come 
 WTien all these splendors bursting on my sight 
 Shall stand unveiled, and to my ravished sense 
 Unlock the glories of the world unknown. 
 
 Anna letitia Barbauld. 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 How fine has the day been ! howbrightwasthesun! 
 How lovely and joyful the course that he nm, 
 Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun, 
 
 And there followed some droppings of imn ! 
 But now the fair ti'aveler 's come to the west. 
 His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best : 
 He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest. 
 
 And foretells a bright rising again. 
 
 Just such is the Christian ; his course he begins, 
 Likethe sun in a mist, whenheraournsforhissins, 
 And melts into tears ; then he breaks out and 
 shines. 
 
 And travels his heavenly way : 
 
 But when he comes nearer to finish his race, 
 
 Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace, 
 
 And gives a sure hope, at the end of his daj's, 
 
 Of rising in brighter array. 
 
 ° Isaac Watts. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Mt heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky ; 
 So was it when my life began. 
 So is it now I am a man. 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The Child is father of the Man; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 MOONLIGHT IN SUMMER. 
 
 Low on the utmost boundary of the sight. 
 The rising vapors catch the silver light ; 
 Thence fancy measures, as they parting fly, 
 AVhich first will throw its shadow on the eye. 
 Passing the source of light ; and thence away, 
 Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. 
 For yet above these wafted clouds are seen 
 (In a remoter sky still more serene) 
 Others, detached in ranges through the air, 
 Spotless as snow, and countless as they 're fair ; 
 Scattered immensely wide from east to west, 
 The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest. 
 These, to the raptured mind, aloud proclaim 
 Their mighty Shepherd's everlasting name ; 
 And thus the loiterer's utmost stretch of soul 
 Climbs the still clouds, or passes those that roll. 
 And loosed imagination soaring goes 
 High o'er his home and all his little woes. 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 Sweet is the voice that calls 
 
 From babbling waterfalls 
 In meadows where the downy seeds are flying ; 
 
 And soft the breezes blow, 
 
 And eddying come and go 
 In faded gardens where the rose is dying. 
 
 Among the stubbled com 
 
 The blithe quail pipes at mom. 
 The merry partridge drums in hidden jilaces, 
 
 And glittering insects gleam 
 
 Above the reedy stream. 
 Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.
 
 POEMS OS' NATURE. 
 
 At eve, cool shadows fall 
 
 Across the gardon wall, 
 And on the clustered grapes to imriilc turning ; 
 
 And pearly vapors lie 
 
 Along the eastern sky, 
 Where the broad harvest moon is redly burning. 
 
 Ah, soon on field and hill 
 The wind shall whistle chill. 
 
 And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, 
 To fly from frost and snow. 
 And seek for lauds where blow 
 
 The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. 
 
 The cricket chirps all day, 
 
 " fairest sunnuer, stay ! 
 The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; 
 
 The wild fowl Hy afar 
 
 Above the foamy bar, 
 And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. 
 
 Now conies a IVagiant breeze 
 
 Tlu'ough the dark cedar-trees, 
 And round about my temples fondly lingers. 
 
 In gentle playfulness. 
 
 Like to the soft caress 
 Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. 
 
 Yet, though a sense of grief 
 
 Comes with the falling leaf. 
 And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, 
 
 In all my autumn dreams 
 
 A future summer gleams, 
 Passing the fairest glories of the present ! 
 
 GEORGE Arnold. 
 
 AtmiMN. 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 The autumn is old ; 
 The sear leaves are flying ; 
 He hath gathered up gold. 
 And now he is dnng : 
 Old age, begin sighing ! 
 
 The vintage is ripe ; 
 Jhe harvest is heaping ; 
 But some that have sowed 
 Have no riches for reaping : — 
 Poor wretch, fall a-weeping ! 
 
 The year 's in the wane ; 
 There is nothing adoniing ; 
 The night has no eve. 
 And the day has no morning ; 
 Cold winter gives warning. 
 
 The rivers run chill ; 
 The red sun is sinking ; 
 And I am grown old. 
 And life is fast shrinking ; 
 Here 's enow for sad thinking ! 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 THE LATTER RATN. 
 
 The latter rain, — it falls in anxious haste 
 Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare. 
 Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste 
 As if it would each root's lost strength repair ; 
 But not a blade grows green as in the spring ; 
 No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves ; 
 The roljins only mid the harvests sing. 
 Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves ; 
 The rain falls still, — tlie fruit all ripened drops. 
 It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell ; 
 The furrowed fields disclo.se the yellow crops ; 
 Each bursting pod of talents used can tell ; 
 And all that once received the early rain 
 Declare to man it was not sent in vain. 
 
 Jones Very. 
 
 AUTXTMN. 
 
 The warm sun is failing ; the bleak wind is 
 
 wailing ; 
 The bare boughs are sighing ; the pale flowers 
 are dying ; 
 And the Year 
 On the earth, her death-bed, in shroud of leaves 
 dead. 
 Is lying. 
 Come, months, come away. 
 From November to May ; 
 In your saddest array 
 Follow the bier 
 Of the dead, cold Year, 
 And like dim shadows watch by her sepulcher. 
 
 The chill rain is falling ; the nipt worm is 
 
 crawling ; 
 The rivers are swelling ; the thunder is knelling 
 
 For the Year ; 
 The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards 
 each gone 
 To his dtt-ellLng ; 
 Come, months, come aw-ay ; 
 Put on white, black, and gray ; 
 Let your light sisters play, — 
 Ye, follow the bier 
 Of the dead, cold Year, 
 And make her grave green with tear on tear. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley.
 
 396 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 THE AtrnJMN. 
 
 The autumn time is with us ! Its approach 
 Was heralded, not many days ago, 
 By hazy skies that veiled the brazen sun, 
 And sea-like murmurs from the rustling com. 
 And low-voiced brooks that wandered drowsDy 
 By purpling clusters of the juicy grape, 
 Swinging upon the vine. And now, 't is here. 
 And what a change hath passed upon the face 
 Of Nature, where thy waring forests spread, 
 Then robed in deepest gi-een ! All through the 
 
 night 
 The subtle frost hath jilied its mystic art, 
 And in the day the golden sun hath wrought 
 True wonders ; and the wings of morn and even 
 Have touched with magic breath the changing 
 
 leaves. 
 And now, as wauders the dilating eye 
 Athwart the varied landscape circling far. 
 What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp 
 Of coloi-s, bursts upon the rarished sight ! 
 Here, where the maple rears its yellow crest, 
 A golden glory ; yonder, where the oak 
 Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash 
 Is girt with flame-like parasite, and broad 
 The dog-wood spreads beneath a rolling field 
 Of deepest crimson ; and afar, where looms 
 The gnarled gum, a cloud of bloodiest red ! 
 
 William d. Gallagher. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 There is a time, just when the frost 
 Begins to pave old Winter's way. 
 
 When Autumn, in a revery lost. 
 The mellow daytime dreams away ; 
 
 When Summer comes, in musing mind. 
 To gaze once more on hill and dell. 
 
 To mark how many sheaves they bind, 
 And see if aU .are ripened well. 
 
 With balmy breath she whispers low ; 
 
 The dyiug flowers look up and give 
 Their sweetest incense ere they go, 
 
 For her who made their beauties live. 
 
 She enters 'neath the woodland shade, 
 Her zephyrs lift the lingering leaf, 
 
 And bear it gently where are laid 
 The loved and lost ones of its grief. 
 
 At last, old Autumn, rising, takes 
 Again his scepter and his throne ; 
 
 With boisterous hand the tree he shakes. 
 Intent on gathering all his own. 
 
 Sweet Summer, sighing, flies the plain, 
 And waiting Winter, gaunt and giim, 
 
 Sees miser Autumn hoai'd his grain, 
 And smiles to think it 's all for him. 
 
 AN0NYMOU& 
 
 KCHO AND SILENCE. 
 
 In eddying course when leaves began to fly, 
 And Autumn in her lap the store to strew 
 As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, 
 
 Through glens untrod, and woods that frowned 
 on high, 
 
 Two sleeping nymphs \vith wonder mute I spy ! 
 And lo, she 's gone ! In robe of dark green hue 
 'T was Echo from her sister Silence flew, 
 
 For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky ! 
 
 In shade affrighted SUence melts away. 
 Not so her sister. Hark ! for onward still. 
 
 With far-heard step, she takes her listening way, 
 Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill. 
 
 All, mark the merry maid in mockful play 
 
 With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill ! 
 Sir egerton brvdges. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 When leaves grow sear all things take somber hue ; 
 The wild winds waltz no more the woodside 
 
 through, 
 And all the faded grass is wet with dew. 
 
 A gauzy nebula films the pensive sky, 
 
 The golden bee supinely buzzes by, 
 
 In sUent flocks the bluebirds southward fly. 
 
 The forest's cheeks are crimsoned o'er with shame. 
 
 The cynic frost enlaces eveiy lane. 
 
 The ground with scarlet blushes is aflame ! 
 
 The one we love grows lustrous-eyed and sad, 
 With sjTupathy too thoughtful to be glad. 
 While all the colors round are running mad. 
 
 The simbeams kiss askant the somber hill, 
 The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill, 
 The breaths that noon exliales are faint and chill. 
 
 The ripened nuts drop downward day by day, 
 Sounding the hollow tocsin of decay, 
 And bandit squhrels smuggle them away. 
 
 Vague sighs and scents pervade the atmosphere, 
 Sounds of inrisible stirrings hum the ear, 
 The morning's lash reveals a frozen tear. 
 
 The hermit mountains gird themselves with mail. 
 Mocking the threshers with an echo flail. 
 The while the afternoons grow crisp and pale.
 
 Inconstant Summer to the tropics flees, 
 
 And, as her rose-sails catch the amorous breeze, 
 
 Lo ! bare, brown Autuum trembles to her knees ! 
 
 The stealthy nights encroach upon the days, 
 The earth with sudden whiteness is ablaze, 
 And all her paths are lost in crystal maze ! 
 
 Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew, 
 Where the spring winds their soft eyes open flew ; 
 Safely they sleep the churlish winter through. 
 
 Though all life's portals are indiced with woe, 
 And frozen pearls are all the world can show, 
 Feel ! Nature's breath is warm beneath the snow. 
 
 Look up, dear mourners ! Still the blue expanse. 
 Serenely tender, bends to catch thy glance ; 
 Within thy tears sibyllic sunbeams dance ! 
 
 With blooms full-sapped again will smile the laud : 
 The fall is but the folding of His hand, 
 Anon with fuller glories to expand. 
 
 The dumb heart hid beneath the pulseless tree 
 Will throb again ; and then the toi'pid bee 
 Upon the ear will drone his drowsy glee. 
 
 So shall the truant bluebirds backward fly, 
 And all loved things that vanish or that die 
 Return to us in some sweet By-and-By. 
 
 ANONYMOUS- 
 
 ■WDTTER SONG. 
 
 Summer joys are o'er ; 
 
 Flowerets bloom no more. 
 Wintry winds are sweeping ; 
 Through the snow-drifts peeping. 
 
 Cheerful evergreen 
 
 Rarely now is seen. ' 
 
 Now no plumkl throng 
 
 Charms the wood mth song ; 
 lee-bound trees are glittering ; 
 Merry snow-birds, twittering, 
 
 Fondly strive to cheer 
 
 Scenes so cold and drear. 
 
 Winter, still I see 
 
 Many charms in thee, — 
 Love thy chilly greeting. 
 Snow-storms fiercely beating. 
 
 And the dear delights 
 
 Of the long, long nights. 
 
 From the German of LUDWIC HoLTY, 
 by CHARLES T. BROOKS. 
 
 NO I 
 
 No sun .^ no moon ! 
 
 No mom — no noon — 
 No dawn — no dust — no proper time of day — 
 
 No sky — no earthly view — 
 
 No distance looking blue — 
 No road — no street — no " t' other side the 
 . way " — 
 
 No end to any Row — 
 
 No indications where the Crescents go — 
 
 No top to any steeple — 
 No recognitions of familiar people — 
 
 No courtesies for showing 'em — 
 
 No knowing 'em ! 
 No ti'aveling at all — no locomotion. 
 No inkling of the way — no notion — 
 
 " No go " — by laud or ocean — 
 
 No mail — no post — 
 
 No news from any foreign coast — 
 No park — no ring — no afternoon gentOity — 
 
 No company — no nobility — 
 No wtirmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease. 
 No comfortable feel in any member — 
 No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees. 
 No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, 
 November ! 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 FROM "THE WINTER MORNING WALK." 
 
 'T is moiTung ; and the sun, with ruddy orb 
 Ascending, fires the horizon ; while the clouds, 
 That crowd away before the driving wind, 
 More ardent as the disk emerges more. 
 Resemble most some city in a blaze. 
 Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting 
 
 ray 
 Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale. 
 And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue. 
 From every herb and every spiry blade 
 Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 
 Mine, spindling into longitude immense, 
 In spite of gravity, and sage remark 
 That I myself am but a fleeting shade. 
 Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
 I view the muscular proportioned Umb 
 Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless 
 
 pair. 
 As they designed to mock me, at my side 
 Take step for step ; and, as I near approach 
 The cottage, walk along the plastered wall. 
 Preposterous sight ! the legs without the man. 
 The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
 Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents, 
 And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest,
 
 398 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE . 
 
 Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
 Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, 
 And, fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. 
 The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence 
 Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep 
 In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait 
 Their wonted fodder ; not, like hungering man, 
 Fretful if unsupplied ; but silent, meek. 
 And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. 
 He from the stack carves out the accustomed load. 
 Deep plunging, and again deep plungmg oft. 
 His broad keen knife into the solid mass : 
 Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, 
 ■\Vith such undeviating and even force 
 He severs it away : no needless care 
 Lest storms shoidd overset the leaning pile 
 Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. 
 Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned 
 Tlie cheerful haunts of men, — to wield the ax 
 And drive tlie wedge in j'onder forest drear. 
 From morn to eve liis solitary task. 
 Shaggy and lean and shrewd with pointed eai-s. 
 And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, 
 His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
 Now creeps he slow ; and now, with manj' a frisk 
 AVide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow 
 AVith ivory teeth, or plows it with his snout ; 
 Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy. 
 
 Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale, 
 AVbere, diligent to catch the first faint gleam 
 Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, 
 Come trooping at the liousewife's well-known call 
 The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing, 
 And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood. 
 Conscious and fearful of too deep a plunge. 
 The sparrows peep, and cjuit the sheltering eaves 
 To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye 
 The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved 
 To escape the impending famine, often scared 
 As oft return, a pert voracious kind. 
 Clean riddance quickly made, one only care 
 Remains to each, the search of sunny nook. 
 Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned 
 To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
 His wonted strut, and, wading at their head 
 With well-considered steps, seems to resent 
 His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. 
 How find the myriads, that in summer cheer 
 The hills ami valleys with their ceaseless songs. 
 Due sustenance, or where subsist thej' now ? 
 Earth yields them naught ; the imprisoned worm 
 
 is safe 
 Beneath the frozen clod ; all seeds of herbs 
 Lie covered close ; and beiTy-bearing thorns. 
 That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), 
 Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. 
 The long protl"acted rigor of the year 
 
 Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and 
 
 holes 
 Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, 
 As instinct prompts ; self-buried ere they die. 
 
 William Cowper- 
 
 NEW ENGLAITD IN "WINTER. 
 
 FROM "SNOW-BOUND." 
 
 The sun that brief December day 
 
 Rose cheerless over hills of gray. 
 
 And, darkly circled, gave at noon 
 
 A sadder light than waning moon. 
 
 Slow tracing down the thickening sky 
 
 Its mute and ominous prophecy, 
 
 A portent seeming less than thi-eat. 
 
 It sank from sight before it set. 
 
 A chill no coat, however stout. 
 
 Of homespun stutl' could ipute shut out, 
 
 A hard, dull bitterness of cold. 
 
 That cliecked, mid-vein, the circling race 
 
 Of life-blood in the sharpened face. 
 
 The coming of the snow-stonn told. 
 
 The wind blew east : we heard the roar 
 
 Of Ocean on his wintry shore. 
 
 And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 
 
 Beat with low rhythm our iidand air. 
 
 Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, — 
 Brouglit in the wood from out of doors. 
 Littered the stiUls, and from the mows 
 Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows ; 
 Heard the horse whinnying for his corn ; 
 And, sharply clasliing horn on horn, 
 Impatient down the stanchion rows 
 The cattle shake their walnut bows ; 
 While, peering from his early perch 
 Uj)on the scaffold's pole of birch, 
 The cock his crested helmet bent 
 And down his querulous challenge sent 
 
 Unwanned bj any sunset light 
 
 The gi-ay day darkened into night, 
 
 A night made hoary with the swarm 
 
 And whirl-dance of the blinding storm. 
 
 As zigzag wavering to and fro 
 
 Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 
 
 And ere the early bedtime came 
 
 The white drift ]iiled the window-frame, 
 
 And tlu-ough the glass the clothes-line posts 
 
 Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 
 
 So all night long the storm roared on : 
 The morning broke without a sun ; 
 In tiny sjiherule traced with lines 
 Of Nature's geometric signs, 
 In starry flake, and pellicle, 
 AU day the hoary meteor fell ; 
 
 -r
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 ' 
 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 399 
 
 
 And, when the second morning shone, 
 
 The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, 
 
 
 We looked upon a world unknown, 
 
 And on the glass the unmeaning beat 
 
 
 On notliing we could call our own. 
 
 Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. 
 
 
 Around the glistening wonder bent 
 
 Beyond the circle of our hearth 
 
 
 The blue walls of the firmament. 
 
 No welcome sound of toil or mirth 
 
 
 No cloud above, no earth below, — 
 
 Unbound the spell, and testified 
 
 
 A univei-se of sky and snow ! 
 
 Of human life and thought outside. 
 
 
 The old familiar sights of ours 
 
 We minded that the sharpest ear 
 
 
 Took marvelous shapes ; strange domes and towers 
 
 The buried brooklet could not hear, 
 
 
 Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood. 
 
 The music of whose lic{uid lip 
 
 
 Or garden wall, or belt of wood ; 
 
 Had been to us companionship. 
 
 
 A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, 
 
 And, in our lonely life, had grown 
 
 
 A fenceless drift what once was road ; 
 
 To have an almost human tone. 
 
 
 The bridle-post an old man sat 
 
 As night drew on, and, from the crest 
 
 
 With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 
 
 Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, 
 
 
 The well-curb had a Chinese roof ; 
 
 The sun, a snow-blown traveler, sank 
 
 
 And even the long sweep, high aloof. 
 
 From sight beneath the smotheiing bank. 
 
 
 In its slant splendor, seemed to teU 
 
 We piled, with care, our nightly stack 
 
 
 Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 
 
 Of wood agaiust the chimney-back, — 
 The oaken log, gi-een, huge, and thick, 
 
 
 A prompt, decisive man, no breath 
 
 And on its top the stout back-stick ; 
 
 
 Our father wasted : " Boys, a path ! "- 
 
 The knotty forestick laid apart. 
 
 
 Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy 
 
 And filled between with curious art 
 
 
 Count such a summons less than joy ? ) 
 
 The ragged lirush ; then, hovering near. 
 
 
 Our buskins on our feet we drew ; 
 
 We watched the first red blaze appear. 
 
 
 With mittened hands, and caps drawn low, 
 
 Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
 
 
 To guard our necks and ears from snow. 
 
 On whitewashed wall and sagging beam. 
 
 
 We cut the solid whiteness through. 
 
 Until the old, rude-furnished room 
 
 
 And, wliere the drift was deepest, made 
 
 Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ; 
 
 
 A tunnel walled and overlaid 
 
 While radiant with a mimic flame 
 
 
 AVith dazzling crystal : we had read 
 
 Outside the sparkling drift became, 
 
 
 Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave. 
 
 And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree 
 
 
 And to our own his name we gave. 
 
 Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. 
 
 
 With many a wish the luck were ours 
 
 The crane and pendent trammels showed ; 
 
 
 To test his lamp's supernal powers. 
 
 The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed ; 
 
 
 We reached the barn with merry din. 
 
 While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
 
 
 And roused the prisoned brutes within. 
 
 The meaning of the miracle, 
 
 
 The old horse thrust his long head out. 
 
 Whispered the old rhyme : " Under the tree, 
 
 
 And grave with wonder gazed about ; 
 
 JFIienfirc outdoors burns merrily, 
 
 
 The cock his lusty greeting said. 
 
 There the witches are making tea." 
 
 
 And forth his speckled harem led ; 
 
 
 
 The o.xen laslied their tails, and hooked, 
 
 The moon above the eastern wood 
 
 
 And mild reproach of hunger looked ; 
 
 Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 
 
 
 The horned patriarch of the sheej). 
 
 Transfigured in the silver flood, 
 
 
 Like Egj'pt's Amun roused from sleep, 
 
 Its blo^vn snows flashing cold and keen. 
 
 
 Shook his sage head with gesture mute, 
 
 Dead white, save where some sharp ravine 
 
 
 And emphasized with stamp of foot. 
 
 Took shadow, or the somber green 
 Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 
 
 
 All day the gusty north-wind bore 
 
 Against the whiteness at their back. 
 
 . 
 
 The loosening drift its breath before ; 
 
 For such a world and such a night 
 
 
 Low circling round its southern zone. 
 
 Most fitting that unwarming light. 
 
 
 The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. 
 
 Which only seemed where'er it fell 
 
 
 No church-bell lent its (.'hristian tone 
 
 To make the coldness visible. 
 
 
 To the savage air, no social smoke 
 
 
 
 Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. 
 
 Shut in from all the world without, 
 
 
 A solitude made more intense 
 
 We sat the clean-winged hearth about. 
 
 
 By dreary-voiced elements. 
 
 Content to let the nortli-wind roar 
 
 
 The shrieking of the mindless wind, 
 
 ■ 
 
 In baffled rage at pane and door. 
 
 

 
 400 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 AVlule the red logs before us beat 
 The frost-line back with tropic heat ; 
 And ever, when a louder blast 
 Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
 The merrier up its roaring draught 
 The great throat of the chinmey laughed ; 
 The house-dog on his paws outspread 
 Laid to the fire his drows}' head. 
 The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
 A couchant tiger's seemed to fall ; 
 And, for the winter fireside meet. 
 Between the andirons' straddling feet, 
 Tlie mug of cider simmered slow. 
 The apples sputtered in a row, 
 And, close at hand, the basket stood 
 "With nuts from brown October's wood. 
 
 John Greenleaf whittier. 
 
 •WTNTER WALK AT NOON. 
 
 The night was winter in his roughest mood, 
 The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon 
 Upon the southern side of the slant hills. 
 And where the wooils fence olf the northern blast, 
 The season smiles, resigning all its rage. 
 And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
 Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
 The dazzling splendor of the scene below. 
 
 Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; 
 And through the trees I view the embattled tower. 
 Whence all the music. 1 again perceive 
 The soothing influence of the wafted strains, 
 And settle in soft nmsings as I tread 
 The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, 
 Whose outspread br.anches overarch the glade. 
 
 No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
 The redbreast warbles still, Init is content 
 With slender notes, and more than half sup- 
 pressed : 
 Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 
 From spray to spray, wliere'er he rests he shakes 
 From many a twig the pendent drops of ice. 
 That tinkle in the withered leaves below. 
 Stillness, accompanied with .sounds so soft, 
 Charms more than silence. Meditation here 
 May think down hours to moments. Here the 
 
 heart 
 May give a useful lesson to the head, 
 And Learning wiser grow without his books. 
 
 William cowper. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 The day had been a calm and sunny day. 
 And tinged with amber was the sky at even ; 
 
 The fleecy clouds at length had rolled away. 
 And lay in furrows on the eastern heaven ; — • 
 
 The moon arose and shed a glimmering ray, 
 And round her orb a misty circle lay. 
 
 The hoar-frost glittered on the naked heath, 
 The roar of distant winds was loud and deep, 
 
 The dry leaves rastled in each passing breath. 
 And the gay world was lost in quiet sleep. 
 
 Such was the time when, on the landscape brown, 
 
 Through a December air the snow came down. 
 
 The morning came, the dreary morn, at last, 
 And showed the whitened waste. The shiv- 
 ering herd 
 
 Lowed on the hoary meadow-ground, and fast 
 Fell the light flakes upon the earth unst-ned ; 
 
 The forest firs with glittering snows o'erlaid 
 
 Stood like hoar priests in robes of white arrayed. 
 
 JOHN H. BRYANT. 
 
 WINTER PICTURES. 
 
 FROM "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNKAL." 
 
 Down swept the chill wind from the mountain 
 peak. 
 
 From the snow five thousand summers old ; 
 On open wold and hill-top bleak 
 
 It had gathered, all the cold. 
 And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek ; 
 It carried a shiver everywhei'e 
 From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; 
 The little brook heard it and built a roof 
 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; 
 All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 
 He groined his arches and matched his beams ; 
 Slender and clear wei'e his crj'stal spars 
 As the lashes of light that trim the stars : 
 He .sculptured every summer delight 
 In his halls and chambers out of sight ; 
 Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 
 Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt. 
 Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 
 Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 
 Sometimes the roof no fretwork k»ew 
 But silvery mosses that downward grew ; 
 Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 
 With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf ; 
 Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear 
 For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and 
 
 here 
 He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 
 And hung them thickly with diamond drops, 
 Which crystaled the beams of moon and sun, 
 And made a star of every one : 
 No mortal builder's most rare device 
 Could match, this winter-palace of ice ; 
 'T was as if every image that mirrored lay 
 In his depths serene through the siunmer day, 
 
 r
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 401 
 
 Each flitting shadow of earth and sky, 
 Lest the happy model should be lost, 
 
 Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 
 By the elfin builders of the frost. 
 
 Within the hall are song and laughter. 
 
 The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly. 
 And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 
 
 With the lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 
 Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
 Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
 The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 
 
 And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
 Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap. 
 
 Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; 
 And swift little troops of silent sparks, 
 
 Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, 
 Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks 
 
 Like herds of startled deer. 
 
 But the wind without was eager and sharp. 
 Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 
 And rattles and wrings 
 The icy strings, 
 Singing, in dreary monotone, 
 A Christmas carol of its own. 
 Whose burden still, as he might guess, 
 •Was —" Shelterless, shelterless, .shelterless!" 
 The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
 As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, 
 And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
 The g:-eat hall-fire, so cheery and bold. 
 Through the window-.slits of the castle old. 
 Build out its piers of raddy light 
 Against the drift of the cold. 
 
 There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 
 The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 
 The river was dumb and could not speak, 
 
 For the frost's swift shuttles its shroud had 
 spun ; 
 A single crow on the tree-top bleak 
 
 From his shining feathers shed ofl'the cold sun; 
 Again it was iflorning, but shrunk and cold. 
 As if her veins were sapless and old. 
 And she rose up decrepitly 
 For a last dim look at earth and sea. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 Through the hushed air the whitening shower 
 
 descends 
 At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 
 Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day 
 With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
 Put on their winter robe of purest white. 
 'T is brightness all ; save where the new snow 
 
 melts 
 Along the mazy current. Low the woods 
 Bow their hoar head ; and, ere the languid sun 
 Faint from the west emits his evening ray, 
 Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill. 
 Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide 
 The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox 
 Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands 
 The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven. 
 Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
 The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
 Which Providence assigns them. One alone. 
 The redbreast, sacred to the household gods. 
 Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky. 
 In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 
 His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 
 His annual visit. Half afraid, he first 
 Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights 
 On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the floor. 
 Eyes all the smiling family askance. 
 And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is : 
 Till, more familiar gi'own, the table-crumbs 
 Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
 Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare. 
 Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 
 By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs. 
 And more unpitjang man, the garden seeks. 
 Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind 
 Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening 
 
 earth, 
 With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed. 
 Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. 
 
 James Thomson 
 
 WINTER SCENES. 
 
 The keener tempests rise ; and fuming dun 
 From all the livid east, or piercing north. 
 Thick clouds ascend ; in whose capacious womb 
 A vajiory deluge lies, to snow congealed. 
 Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ; 
 And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. 
 
 WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL. 
 
 FROM "LOVE'S LABOR'S LOST." 
 
 When icicles hang by the wall, 
 
 And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
 And Tom bears logs into the hall. 
 
 And milk comes frozen home in pail, 
 When blood is nipped, and ways he foul, 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
 
 To-who ; 
 To-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
 "While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 
 
 When all aloud the wind doth blow, 
 And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
 
 And birds sit brooding in the snow, 
 And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
 
 402 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 + 
 
 When roasted crabs hiss in the howl, 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
 
 To- who ; 
 To-whit, to-who, a meny note. 
 While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 Announced by all the tmmpets of the sky, 
 Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, 
 Seems nowhere to alight ; the wliited air 
 Hides hills and woods, the river, and tlie heaven. 
 And veils the farm-honse at the garden's end. 
 The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet 
 Delayed, all friends shut out, tho housemates sit 
 Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
 In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 
 
 Come see the north-wind's masonry ! 
 Out of an unseen quarry, evermore 
 Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
 Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
 Round every windward stake or tree or door ; 
 Speeding, the mjTiad-hauded, his ^vild work 
 So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he 
 For number or proportion. Mocking!)', 
 On coop or kennel he hangs Parian «Teaths ; 
 A sw.an-like form invests the hidden thorn ; 
 Fills UJ1 the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
 Mauger the farmer's sighs ; and at the gate 
 A tapering turret overtops the work. 
 And when his hours are numbered, and the world 
 Is all his own, retii'ing as he were not. 
 Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
 To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone. 
 Built in an .age, the mad wind's night-work. 
 The frolic architecture of the snow. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 THE SNOW-SHOWER. 
 
 Stand here by my side and turn, I pray. 
 On the lake below thy gentle eyes ; 
 
 The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, 
 And dark and silent the water lies ; 
 
 And out of that frozen mist the snow 
 
 In wavering flakes begins to flow ; 
 
 Flake after flake 
 
 They sink in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 See how in a living swai-m they come 
 
 From the chambers beyond that misty veil ; 
 
 Some hover awhile in air, and some 
 
 Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. 
 
 All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, 
 
 lli-et, and are still in the depths below ; 
 Flake after flake 
 
 Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 I Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, 
 ' Come floating downward in airy play, 
 Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd 
 
 That whiten by night the Milky Way ; 
 There broader and burlier niiisses fall ; 
 The sullen water buries them all, — 
 
 Flake after flake, — 
 All drowned in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 And some, as on tender wings they glide 
 
 From their chilly birtli-cloud, dim and gray, 
 
 Are joined in their fall, and, side by side. 
 Come clinging along their unsteady way ; 
 
 As friend witli friend, or husband with wife, 
 
 Makes hand in hand the pass;ige of life ; 
 Each mated flake 
 
 Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 Lo ! while we are gazing, in swifter haste 
 
 Stream down the snows, till the air is white. 
 As, myriads by myi'iads madly chased, 
 
 They fling themselves from their shadowy 
 height. 
 The fau', frail creatures of middle sky. 
 What speed they make, with their gi-ave so nigh ; 
 
 Flake after flake 
 To lie in the dark and silent lake ! 
 
 I see in thy gentle eyes a tear ; 
 
 They turn to me in sorrowful thought ; 
 Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, 
 
 Who were for a time, and now are not ; 
 Like these fair children of cloud and frost, 
 That glisten a moment and then are lost, — 
 
 Flake after flake, — 
 All lost in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 Yet look again, for the clouds divide ; 
 
 A gleam of blue on the water lies ; 
 And far away, on the mountain-side, 
 
 A sunbeam falls from the opening skies. 
 But the hurrying host that flew between 
 The cloud and the water no more is seen ; 
 
 Flake after flake 
 At rest in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 
 
 ■■ ♦ ■ < 
 
 SNOW. — A WINTER SKETCH. 
 
 The blessed mom has come again ; 
 
 The early gi'ay 
 Taps at the slumberer's window-pane, 
 
 And seems to say. 
 Break, break from the enchanter's chain 
 
 Away, away 1
 
 5 
 
 III 
 
 
 ■. =! c '-C 
 
 V J' 1^ « 
 
 S?;^S
 
 4 
 
 U 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 403 
 
 'T is winter, yet there is no sound 
 
 Along the air 
 Of winds along their battle-giound ; 
 
 But gently there 
 
 The snow is falling, — all around 
 
 How fair, how fair ! 
 
 Ralph Hoyt. 
 
 SNOW-FLAKES. 
 
 Out of the bosom of the Air, 
 
 Out of the eloud-folds of her garments shaken. 
 Over the woodlands brown and bare. 
 Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
 Silent aud soft and slow 
 Descends the snow. 
 
 Even as our cloudy fancies take 
 
 Suddenly shape in some divine expression. 
 Even as the troubled heart doth make 
 In the white countenance confession. 
 The troubled sky reveals 
 The grief it feels. 
 
 This is the poem of the air, 
 
 Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
 This is the secret of despair. 
 
 Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
 Now whispered and revealed 
 To wood and field. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 The cold winds swept the mountain's height. 
 And pathless was the dreary wild. 
 
 And mid the cheerless hours of night 
 A mother wandered with her child : 
 
 As through the drifting snow she pressed. 
 
 The babe was sleeping on her breast. 
 
 And colder still the winds did blow, 
 And darker hours of night came on, 
 
 And deeper grew the drifting snow : 
 
 Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. 
 
 "0 God !" she cried in .accents wild, 
 
 " If I must perish, save my child ! " 
 
 She stripped her mantle from her breast. 
 And bared her liosom to the storm. 
 
 And round the chihl she wrapped the vest, 
 And smiled to think her babe was warm. 
 
 With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, 
 
 Aud sunk upon her snowy bed; 
 
 At dawn a traveler passed by, 
 And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; 
 
 The frost of death was in her eye. 
 
 Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale. 
 
 He moved the robe from off the child, — 
 
 The babe looked up and sweetly smiled ! 
 
 SEBA SMITH. 
 
 A SNOW-STORM. 
 
 SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER. 
 
 'T IS a fearful night in the winter time, 
 
 As cold as it ever can be ; 
 The roar of the blast is heard like the chime 
 
 Of the waves on an angiy sea. 
 The moon is full ; but her silver light 
 The storm dashes out with its wings to-night ; 
 And over the sky from south to north 
 Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 
 
 In the strength of a mighty glee. 
 
 All day liad the snow come down, — all day 
 
 As it never came down before ; 
 And over the hills, at sunset, lay 
 
 Some two or three feet, or more ; 
 The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ; 
 The windows blocked and the well-curbs gon» ; 
 The haystack had grown to a mountain lift. 
 And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift. 
 
 As it lay by the farmer's door. 
 
 The night sets in on a world of snow, 
 While the air grows sharp and chill. 
 
 And the warning roar of a fearful blow 
 Is heard on the distant hill ; 
 
 And the norther, see ! on the mountain peak 
 
 In his breath how the old trees writhe and shi'iek ! 
 
 He shouts on the plain, ho-ho ! ho-ho ! 
 
 He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 
 And growls with a savage will. 
 
 Such a night as this to be found abroad. 
 
 In the drifts and the freezing air, 
 Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, 
 
 W^ith the snow in his shaggy hair. 
 He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls ; 
 He lifts his head, and moans and bowls ; 
 Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, 
 His nose is pressed on his quivering feet, — 
 
 Pray, wdiat does the dog do there ? 
 
 A fanner came from the village plain, — 
 
 But he lost the traveled way ; 
 And for hours he trod with might and main 
 
 A jiath for his horse and sleigh ; 
 But colder still the cold winds blew. 
 And deeper still the deep di'ifts grew,
 
 40-J 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 An4 his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 
 At last in her struggles floundered down, 
 Where a log in a hollow lay. 
 
 In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, 
 
 She plunged in the drifting suow, 
 "While her master urged, till his breath grew short, 
 
 With a word and a gentle blow ; 
 But the snow was deeji, and the tugs were tight ; 
 His hands were numb and had lost their might ; 
 So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, 
 And strove to shelter himself till day, 
 
 With his coat and the buflalo. 
 
 He has given the last faint jerk of the rein. 
 
 To rouse up his dying steed ; 
 And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain 
 
 For help in his master's need. 
 For a while he strives with a wistful cry 
 To catch a glance from his drowsj' eye. 
 And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
 The skirt of the buflalo over his lap. 
 
 And whines when he takes no heed. 
 
 The wind goes down and the storm is o'er, — 
 
 'T is the hour of midnight, past ; 
 The old trees writhe and bend no more 
 
 In the whirl of the rushing blast. 
 The silent moon with her peaceful light 
 Looks down on the hills with snow all white, 
 And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
 The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, 
 
 Afar on the plain are cast. 
 
 But cold and dead by the hidden log 
 
 Are they who came from the town, — 
 The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog. 
 
 And his beautiful Morgan brown, — 
 In the wide snow-desert, far and grand. 
 With his cap on his head and the reins in his 
 
 hand, — 
 The dog with his nose on his master's feet. 
 And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, 
 Where she lay when she floundered down. 
 
 Charles Gamage Eastman. 
 
 I And the eternal moon, what time she fills 
 Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, 
 With queenly motions of a Ijridal mood, 
 Through the white spaces of infinitude. 
 
 David Gray. 
 
 O -WINTER I WILT THOU NEVER GO? 
 
 WINTER ! wilt thou never, never go ? 
 O summer ! but I weary for thy coming. 
 Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow, 
 And frugal bees, laboriously humming. 
 Xow the east- wind diseases the infirm, 
 And must crouch in corners from rough weather ; 
 Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm, . — 
 Wlien the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together, 
 And the large sun dips red behind the hills. 
 i, from my window, can behold this pleasure ; 
 
 VIEW FROM THE EUGANEAN HILLS,* NORTH 
 ITALY. 
 
 Many a green isle needs must be 
 
 In the deep wide sea of misery. 
 
 Or the mariner, worn and wan. 
 
 Never thus could voyage on 
 
 Day and night, and night and day. 
 
 Drifting on his dreary way. 
 
 With the solid darkness black 
 
 Closing round his vessel's track ; 
 
 Whilst above, the sunless sky. 
 
 Big with clouds, hangs heavily. 
 
 And behind, the tempest fleet 
 
 Hurries on with lightning feet, 
 
 Kiving sail and cord and plank 
 
 Till the ship has almost drank 
 
 Death from the o'erbrimming deep ; 
 
 And sinks down, down, like that sleep 
 
 When the dreamer seems to be 
 
 Weltering through eternity ; 
 
 And the dim low line before 
 
 Of a dark and distant shore 
 
 Still recedes, as ever still 
 
 Longing with divided will, 
 
 But no power to seek or shun, 
 
 He is ever drifted on 
 
 O'er the unreposing wave 
 
 To the haven of the grave. 
 
 Ay, many flowering islands lie 
 
 In the waters of wide agony : 
 
 To such a one this morn was led 
 
 My bark, by soft \vinds pDoted. 
 
 — Mid the mountains Euganean 
 
 I stood listening to the ptean 
 
 With which the legioned rooks did hail 
 
 The sun's uprise majestical : 
 
 Gathering round with wings all hoar, 
 
 Through the dewy mist they soar 
 
 Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 
 
 Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, 
 
 Flecked with fire and azure, lie 
 
 In the unfathomable sky, 
 
 So their plumes of purple grain. 
 
 Starred with drops of golden rain, 
 
 Gleam above the sunlight woods, 
 
 As in silent multitudes 
 
 On the morning's fitful gale 
 
 Through the broken mist they sail ; 
 
 • The lonely mouQtains which surround what was once the rC' 
 treat, and is now the sepulcher, of Petrarch.
 
 And the vapors cloven anil jjicaining 
 Follow down the dark steep streaming, 
 Till all is bright and clear ami still 
 Round the solitary hill. 
 
 Beneath is spread like a green sea 
 The wavelcss plain of Lombardy, 
 Bounded by the vaporous air, 
 Islanded by cities fair ; 
 Underneath day's azure eyes, 
 Ocean's nui'sling, Venice, lies, — 
 A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
 Amphitrite's destined halls, 
 Which her hoary sire now paves 
 With his blue and beaming waves. 
 Lo ! the sun upsprings behind. 
 Broad, red, radiant, half reclined 
 On the level ipiiveriug line 
 Of the waters crystalline ; 
 And before that chasm of light. 
 As within a furnace bright, 
 Column, tower, and dome, and spire 
 Shine like obelisks of fire. 
 Pointing with inconstant motion 
 From the altar of dark ocean 
 To the sapphire-tinted .skies ; 
 As the flames of sacrifice 
 From the marble shrines did rise, 
 As to pierce the dome of gold 
 Where Apollo spoke of old. 
 
 Sun-girt city ! thou hast been 
 
 Ocean's child, and then his queen ; 
 
 Now is come a darker day. 
 
 And thou soon mu.st be bis prey. 
 
 If the power that raised thee here 
 
 Hallow so thy watery bier. 
 
 A less drear ruin then than now, 
 
 With thy conquest-branded brow 
 
 Stooping to the slave of slaves 
 
 From thy throne among the waves. 
 
 Wilt thou be when the sea-mew 
 
 Flies, as once before it flew, 
 
 O'er thine isles depopulate. 
 
 And all is in its ancient state, 
 
 Save where many a palace-gate 
 
 With green sea-flowers overgrown 
 
 Like a rock of ocean's own, 
 
 Topples o'er the abandoned sea 
 
 As the tides change sullenly. 
 
 The fisher on his watery way 
 
 Wandering at the close of day 
 
 Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
 
 Till he pass the gloomy shore. 
 
 Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 
 
 Bursting o'er the starlight deep, 
 
 Lead a rapid mask of death 
 
 O'er the waters of his path. 
 
 Noon descends around me now : 
 
 'T is the noon of autumn's glow, 
 
 When a soft and purple mist 
 
 Like a vaporous ametliyst. 
 
 Or an air-dissolvM star 
 
 Mingling light and fragrance, far 
 
 From the curved horizon's bound 
 
 To the point of heaven's profound, 
 
 Fills the overflowing sky ; 
 
 And the plains that silent lie 
 
 Underneath ; the leaves unsodden 
 
 Where the infant frost has trodden 
 
 With his morning-winged feet. 
 
 Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 
 
 And the red and golden vines 
 
 Piercing with their trelliscd lines 
 
 The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 
 
 The diui and bladed grass no less. 
 
 Pointing from this hoary tower 
 
 In the windless air ; the flower 
 
 Glimmering at my feet ; the line 
 
 Of the olive-sandaled Apennine 
 
 In the south dimly islanded ; 
 
 And the Alps, whose snows are spread 
 
 High between the clouds and sun ; 
 
 And of living things each one ; 
 
 And my spirit, which so long 
 
 Darkened this swift stream of song, — 
 
 Interpenetrated lie 
 
 By the glory of the sky ; 
 
 Be it love, light, harmony, 
 
 Odor, or the soul of all 
 
 Wliich from heaven like dew doth fall, 
 
 Or the mind which feeds this verse 
 
 Peopling the lone universe. 
 
 Noon descends, and after noon 
 
 Autumn's evening meets me soon, 
 
 Leading the infantine moon 
 
 And that one star, which to her 
 
 Almost seems to minister 
 
 Half the crimson light she brings 
 
 From the sunset's radiant springs : 
 
 And the soft dreams of the morn 
 
 (Which like winged winds had borne 
 
 To that silent isle, which lies 
 
 Mid remembered agonies. 
 
 The frail bark of this lone being) 
 
 Pass, to other sufferers fleeing. 
 
 And its ancient ])ilot, Pain, 
 
 Sits beside the helm again. 
 
 Other flowering isles must be 
 
 In the sea of life and agony ; 
 
 Other spirits float and flee 
 
 O'er that gulf ; even now, perhaps, 
 
 On some rock the wild wave wraps, 
 
 With foldmg winds they waiting sit 
 
 -r
 
 406 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 For my bark, to pilot it 
 
 To some calm and blooming cove, 
 
 Where for me, and those I love. 
 
 May a windless boiver be built, 
 
 Far from passion, pain, and guilt. 
 
 In a dell mid la^vny hills. 
 
 Which the wild sea-murmur fills, 
 
 And soft sunshine, and the sound 
 
 Of old forests echoing round. 
 
 And the light and smell divine 
 
 Of all flowers that breathe and shine. 
 
 — We may live so happy there, 
 
 That the spirits of the air. 
 
 Envying us, may even entice 
 
 To our healing paradise 
 
 The polluting multitude ; 
 
 But their rage would be subdued 
 
 By that clime divine and calm. 
 
 And the winds whose wings rain babn 
 
 On the uplifted soul, and leaves 
 
 Under which the bright sea heaves ; 
 
 While each breathless interval 
 
 In their whisperings musical 
 
 The inspired soul supplies 
 
 With its own deep melodies ; 
 
 And the love which heals all strife 
 
 Circling, like the breath of life. 
 
 All things in that sweet abode 
 
 With its own mild brotherhood. 
 
 They, not it, would change ; and soon 
 
 Every sprite beneath the moon 
 
 Would repent its envy vain, 
 
 And the earth grow young again ! 
 
 Percy bysshe Shelley. 
 
 GRONGAR HILL. 
 
 [The Vale of the To^vy embraces, in its winding course of fifteen 
 miles, some of the loveliest scenery of South Wales. If it be less 
 cultivated than the Vale of Usk. its woodland views are more ro- 
 mantic and frequent. The neighborhood is historic and poetic 
 ground. From Grongar Hill the eye discovers traces of a Roman 
 camp : Golden Grove, the home of Jeremy Taylor, is on the oppo- 
 site side of the river ; Merlin's chair recalls Spenser ; and a farro- 
 house near the foot of Llangumnor Hill brings back the memory 
 of its once genial occupant, Richard Steele. Spenser places the 
 cave of MerUn among the dark wootls of Dinevawr.] 
 
 Silent njTnph, with curious eye, 
 "VVTio, the purple even, dost lie 
 On the mountain's lonely van. 
 Beyond the noise of busy man. 
 Painting fair the form of things, 
 Wliile the yellow linnet sings. 
 Or the tuneful nightuigale 
 Charms the forest with her tale, — 
 Come, with all thy various hues, 
 Come, and aid thy sister Muse. 
 Now, while Phcebus, riding high, 
 Gives luster to the land and sky, 
 Grongar Hill invites my song, — 
 
 Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 
 
 Grongar, in whose mossy cells 
 
 Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 
 
 Grongar, in whose silent shade. 
 
 For the modest Muses made, 
 
 So oft I have, the evening still. 
 
 At the fountain of a rill, 
 
 Sat upon a flowery bed, 
 
 With my hand beneath my head. 
 
 While str.ayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood. 
 
 Over mead and over wood. 
 
 From house to house, from hill to hill. 
 
 Till Contemplation had her fill. 
 
 Aljout his checkered sides I wind. 
 And leave his brooks and meads behind. 
 And groves and gi'ottoes where I lay. 
 And vi.iitas shooting beams of day. 
 Wide and wider spreads the vale. 
 As circles on a smooth canal. 
 The mountains round, unhappy fate ! 
 Sooner or later, of all height. 
 Withdraw their summits from the skies, 
 And lessen as the othei'S rise. 
 Still the prospect wider spreads. 
 Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 
 Still it widens, widens still, 
 And sinks the newly risen hUl. 
 
 Now 1 gain the mountain's brow ; 
 What a landscape lies below ! 
 No clouds, no vapors intervene ; 
 But the gay, the open scene 
 Does the face of Nature show 
 In all the hues of heaven's bow ! 
 And, swelling to embrace the light. 
 Spreads around beneath the sight. 
 
 Old castles on the cliffs arise. 
 Proudly towering in the skies ; 
 Rushing from the woods, the spires 
 Seem from hence ascending fires ; 
 Half his beams Apollo sheds 
 On the yellow mountain-heads, 
 GDds the fleeces of the flocks. 
 And glitters on the broken rocks. 
 
 Below me trees unnumbered rise. 
 Beautiful in various dyes : 
 The gloomy pine, the poplar blue. 
 The yellow beech, the sable j'ew. 
 The slender fir that taper grows, 
 The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs ; 
 And beyond, the purjile grove. 
 Haunt of Phyllis, i\ueen of love ! 
 Gaudy as the opening dawn. 
 Lies a long and level Lawn, 
 On which a dark hill, steep and high, 
 Holds and charms the wandering eye ; 
 Deep are his feet in Towy's flood ; 
 His sides are clothed with waving wood ; 
 And ancient towers crown his brow,
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 "*~ 
 
 < 
 
 
 
 
 
 rOKMS UJ< 
 
 NATURE. 407 
 
 
 
 That cast an awful look below ; 
 
 And never covet what I see ; 
 
 
 
 Whose ragged walls tlio ivy creeps, 
 
 Content me with a humble shade, 
 
 
 
 And with her anus from falling keeps ; 
 
 My jiassions tamed, my wishes laid ; 
 
 
 
 So both a safety from the wind 
 
 For while our wishes wildly roll, 
 
 
 
 In mutual ilopendence lind. 
 
 We luinish ([uict from the .soul. 
 
 
 
 'T is now the raven's bleak abode ; 
 
 'Tis thus the busy beat the air, 
 
 
 
 'T is now the apartment of the toad ; 
 
 And misers gather wealth and care. 
 
 
 
 And there the fox securely feeds ; 
 
 Now, even now, my joys run high, 
 
 
 
 And there the poisonous adder breeds, 
 
 As on the mountain-turf I lie ; 
 
 
 
 Concealed in mins, moss, and weeds ; 
 
 While the wanton Zephyr sings. 
 
 
 
 While, ever and anon, there fall 
 
 And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
 
 
 
 Huge heaps of hoary, moldered wall. 
 
 AVhile the waters murmur deep ; 
 
 
 
 Yet Time has seen, — that lifts the low 
 
 Wliile the shepherd charms his sheep ; 
 
 
 
 And level lays the lofty brow, — 
 
 While the birds unbounded fly. 
 
 
 
 Has seen this broken pile complete, 
 
 And with music fill the sky, — 
 
 
 
 Big with the vanity of state. 
 
 Now, even now, my joys run high. 
 
 
 
 But transient is the smile of Fate ! 
 
 Be full, ye courts ; be gi-eat who wiU ; 
 
 
 
 A little rule, a little sway. 
 
 Search for Peace with all your skill ; 
 
 
 
 A sunbeam in a winter's day. 
 
 Open wide the lofty door. 
 
 
 
 Is all the proud and mighty have 
 
 Seek her on the marble 'floor : 
 
 
 
 Between the cradle and the grave. 
 
 In vain you search ; she is not there ! 
 
 
 
 And see the rivers, how they run 
 
 In vain you search the domes of Care ! 
 
 
 
 Through woods and meads, in shade and sun. 
 
 Grass and flowers Quiet treads. 
 
 
 
 Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, — 
 
 On the meads and mountain-heads. 
 
 
 
 AVave succeeding wave, they go 
 
 Along with Pleasure, — close aUied, 
 
 
 
 A various journey to the deep, 
 
 Ever by each other's side, — 
 
 
 
 Like human life to endless sleep ! 
 
 And often, by the murmuring rill, 
 
 
 
 Thus is Nature's vesture «Tought 
 
 Hears the thrush, while all is still 
 
 
 
 To instruct our wandering thought ; 
 
 Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 
 
 
 
 Thus she dresses green and gay 
 
 John Dvek. 
 
 
 
 To disperse our cares away. 
 
 
 
 
 Ever charming, ever new. 
 
 DOVER CLIFF. 
 
 
 
 When mil the landscape tire the view ! 
 
 
 
 
 FROM "KING LEAR." 
 
 
 
 The fountain's fall, the river's flow ; 
 
 
 
 
 The woody valleys, warm and low ; 
 
 Come on, sir ; here 's the place : stand still ! 
 How fearful 
 
 
 
 The windy summit, wild and high, 
 
 Roughly rushing on the sky ; 
 
 The pleasant seat, the ruined tower. 
 
 
 
 And dizzy 't is, to cast one's eyes so low ! 
 
 The crows and choughs that wing the midway air 
 
 
 
 The naked rock, the shady bower ; 
 
 The town and village, dome and farm, — 
 
 Show scarce so gross as beetles : half-way down 
 
 
 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire, — dreadful 
 trade ! 
 
 
 
 Each gives each a double charm, 
 As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 
 
 See on the mountain's southern side, 
 
 
 
 Methiuks he seems no bigger than liis head : 
 The fishernien, that walk upon the beach. 
 
 
 
 Where the prospect opens wide. 
 Where the evening gilds the tide. 
 
 Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark. 
 
 
 
 Diminished to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 
 
 
 
 How close and small the hedges lie ! 
 What streaks of meadow cross the eye ! 
 A step, methiuks, may pass the stream. 
 So little distant dangers seem ; 
 
 Almost too small for sight ; the murmuring surge. 
 
 
 
 That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes. 
 
 
 
 Cannot be heard so liigh. — I '11 look no more ; 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
 
 
 
 So we mistake the Future's face, 
 
 Topple down headlong. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE- 
 
 
 
 Eyed through Hope's deluding glass ; 
 As yon summits, soft and fair, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Clad in colors of the air. 
 
 ALPINE HEIGHTS. 
 
 
 
 Which, to those who journey near. 
 
 On Alpine heights the love of God is shed ; 
 
 
 
 Barren, brown, and rough appear ; 
 
 He paints the morning red. 
 
 
 
 Still we tread the same coarse way, — 
 
 The flowerets white and blue, 
 
 
 
 The present 's still a cloudy day. 
 
 And feeds them with his dew. 
 
 
 
 0, may I with myself agree, 
 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 
 
 

 
 408 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 On Alpine lieights, o'er many a fragrant heath, 
 The loveliest breezes breathe ; 
 So free and pure the air, 
 His breath seems floating there. 
 
 On ^Upine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 On Alpine heights, beneath his mild blue eye, 
 
 Still vales and meadows lie ; 
 
 The soaring glacier's ice 
 
 Gleams like a paradise. 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 Down Alpine heights the silvery streamlets flow ; 
 There the bold chamois go ; 
 On giddy crags they stand, 
 And drink from his own hand. 
 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 On Alpine heights, in troops all white as snow, 
 The sheep and wild goats go ; 
 There, in the solitude, 
 He fills their hearts with food. 
 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 On Alpine heights the herdsman tends his herd ; 
 
 His Shepherd is the Lord ; 
 
 For he who feeds the sheep 
 
 Will sure his offspring keep. 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 From the German of KRUMMACHER, 
 by CHARLES T. BROOKS. 
 
 THE GREAT ST. BERNARD. 
 
 Night was again descending, when my mule. 
 That all day long had climbed among the clouds, 
 Higher and higher still, as by a staii' 
 Let down from heaven itself, transporting me. 
 Stopped, to the joy of both, at that low door 
 So near the summit of the Great St. Bernard ; 
 That door which ever on its hinges moved 
 To them that knocked, and nightly sends abroad 
 Ministering spirits. Lying on the watch. 
 Two dogs of gi-ave demeanor welcomed me, 
 All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb ; 
 And a lay-brother of the Hospital, 
 Who, as we toiled below, had heard by fits 
 The distant echoes gaining on his ear. 
 Came and held fast my .stirrup in his hand. 
 While I alighted. 
 
 On the same rock beside it stood the church. 
 Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity ; 
 The vesper-bell, for 't was the vesper-horn', 
 Duly proclaiming through the wilderness, 
 " All ye who hear, whatever be your work. 
 Stop for an instant, — move youi' lips in prayer ! " 
 
 And just beneath it, in that dreary dale, ■ — 
 
 If dale it might be called so near to heaven, — 
 
 A little lake, where never fish leaped up, 
 
 Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow ; 
 
 A star, the only one in that small sky. 
 
 On its dead sui'face glimmering. 'T was a scene 
 
 Kesembling notliing 1 had left behind, 
 
 As though all worldly ties were now dissolved ; — 
 
 And to incline the mind still more to thought. 
 
 To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore 
 
 Under a beetling clitT stood half in shadow 
 
 A lonely chapel destined for the dead, 
 
 For such as, having wandered from their way. 
 
 Had perished miserably. Side by side, 
 
 Within they lie, a mouruful company 
 
 AH in their shrouds, 710 earth to cover them ; 
 
 Their featm'es full of life, yet motionless 
 
 In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change. 
 
 Though the barred windows, barred against the 
 
 wolf, 
 
 Are always open ! 
 
 Samuel RocEsa 
 
 THE DESCENT. 
 
 My mule refreshed, his bells 
 Jingled once more, the signal to depart, 
 And we set out in the gray light of dawn, 
 Descending rapidly, — by waterfalls 
 Fast frozen, and among huge blocks of ice 
 That in their long career had stopt midway ; 
 At length, unchecked, unbidden, he stood still, 
 And all his bells were muffled. Then my guide. 
 Lowering his voice, addressed me : — " Through 
 
 this chasm 
 On, and say nothing, — for a word, a breath. 
 Stirring the ail', may loosen and bring down 
 A winter's snow, — enough to overwhelm 
 The horse and foot that, night and day, defiled 
 Along this path to conquer at Marengo." 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 SONG OF THE BROOK. 
 
 I COME from haunts of coot and hem ; 
 
 1 make a sudden sally 
 And sparkle out among the fern. 
 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 By thirty bills I hurry dovm, 
 Or slip between the ridges, 
 
 By twenty thorps, a little town. 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 To join the brimming river, 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on forever.
 
 PUKMH OF NATURE. 
 
 409 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 
 In little sharps and trebles, 
 I bubble into eddying bays, 
 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks T frot 
 
 By many a field and fallow, 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 
 With willow-weed and mallow. 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
 To join the brimming river ; 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I wind about, and in and out, 
 With here a blossom sailing. 
 
 And here and there a lusty trout, 
 And here and there a grayling, 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as I travel 
 With many a sUveiy waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gi'avol, 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow 
 To join the brimming river ; 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots : 
 
 I slide by hazel covers ; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
 Among my skimming swallows ; 
 
 I make the netted sunbeam dance 
 Against my sandy shallows ; 
 
 I murmur under moon and stars 
 
 In brarably nildernesses ; 
 I linger by my shingly bars ; 
 
 I loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 
 To join the brimming i-iver ; 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 THE EHINE. 
 
 FROM "CHILDE HAROLD." 
 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels 
 
 Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 
 Between the banks which bear the vine, 
 And Iiills all rich ynth. blossomed trees. 
 
 And fields which promise corn and wine. 
 
 .\nd scattered cities crowning these, 
 
 Whose far white walls along them sliine. 
 Have strewed a scene, which I should see 
 With double joy, wert thou with me. 
 
 And peasant-girls, with deep-blue eyes. 
 
 And hands which ofler early flowers. 
 Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
 
 Above, the freipient feudal towers 
 Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 
 
 And many a rock which steeply lowers. 
 And noble arch in proud decay. 
 
 Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
 But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — 
 Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 
 
 I send the lilies given to me. 
 
 Though long before thy hand they touch 
 I know that they must withered be, — 
 
 But yet reject them not as such ; 
 For I have cherished them as dear, 
 
 Because they yet may meet thine eye. 
 And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
 
 Wlicn thou bohold'st them drooping nigh. 
 And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, 
 And ottered from my heart to thine ! 
 
 The river nobly foams and flows. 
 
 The charm of this enchanted ground. 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 
 Some fresher beauty varying round : 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
 
 Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 
 To nature and to me so dear, 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ? 
 
 Lord byron. 
 
 ON THE RHINE. 
 
 'T WAS mom, and beautiful the mountain's 
 brow — 
 Hung with the clusters of the bending vine — 
 Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine 
 We sailed and heard the waters round the prow 
 In murmurs parting ; varying as we go. 
 Rocks after rocks come forward and retire, 
 As some gray convent wall or sunlit spire 
 Starts up along the banks, unfolding slow. 
 Here castles, like the prisons of despair, 
 
 Frown as we pass ; — there, on the vineyard's 
 
 side. 
 The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide ; 
 While Grief, forgetfvil amid scenes so fair. 
 Counts not the hours of a long summer's day, 
 Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 
 
 William Lisle Uowles. 
 
 4-
 
 + 
 
 410 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 THE VALLEY BEOOK. 
 
 Fresh from the fonntains of the wood 
 
 A rivulet of the valley came, 
 And glided on for many a rood, 
 
 Flushed with the morning's ruddy flame. 
 
 The air was fi'csh and soft and sweet ; 
 
 The slopes in spring's new verdure lay, 
 And wet with dew-drops at my feet 
 
 Bloomed the young violets of May. 
 
 No sound of busy life was heard 
 Amid those pastures lone and still, 
 
 Save the faint chirp of early bird, 
 Or bleat of flocks along the hill. 
 
 I traced that ri^^^let's winding way ; 
 
 Kew scenes of beauty opened round, 
 Where meads of brighter verdure lay, 
 
 And lovelier blossoms tinged the gi'ound. 
 
 " Ah, happy valley stream ! " I said, 
 
 " Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers. 
 
 Whose fragrance round thy path is shed 
 Through all the joyous summer hours. 
 
 "0, could my years, like thine, be passed 
 In some remote and silent glen. 
 
 Where I could dwell and sleep at last. 
 Far from the bustling haunts of men ! " 
 
 But what new echoes greet my ear ? 
 
 The \-illage school-boy's merry call ; 
 And mid the village hum I hear 
 
 The murmur of the waterfall. 
 
 I looked ; the widening vale betrayed 
 A pool that shone like burnished steel. 
 
 Where that bright valley stream was stayed 
 To turn the miller's ponderous wheel. 
 
 Ah ! why should I, I thought with shame, 
 
 Sigh for a life of solitude. 
 When even this stream without a name 
 
 Is laboring for the common good. 
 
 No longer let me shun my part 
 
 Amid the busy scenes of life, 
 But with a warm and generous heart 
 
 Press onward in the glorious strife. 
 
 JOH.V HOWARD BRYANT. 
 
 ATTON WATER. 
 
 FLOwgently, sweetAfton, among thy green bra«s ; 
 Flow gently, I '11 sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
 My JIary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through 
 the glen, 
 
 Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den. 
 
 Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 
 bear ; 
 
 1 charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 
 
 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills. 
 Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills ! 
 There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
 Jly flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 
 
 How pleasant thy banks and gieen valleys below. 
 Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ! 
 There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
 The sweet-scented birk shades my Marj' and me. 
 
 Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
 And mnds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
 How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
 As, gathering sweet flo^rerets, she stems thy clear 
 wave ! 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy gi'een braes ; 
 Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
 My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 ROBERT Burns. 
 
 THE SHADED WATER. 
 
 WnpA' that my mood is sad, and in the noise 
 Anil bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke, 
 
 I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys 
 And sit me down beside this little brook ; 
 
 The waters have a music to mine ear 
 
 It glads me much to hear. 
 
 It is a quiet glen, as you may see. 
 
 Shut in from all intrusion by the trees. 
 
 That spread their giant branches, broad and free, 
 The silent growth of many centuries ; 
 
 And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, 
 
 A sabbath of the woods. 
 
 Few know its ijuiet .shelter, — none, like me, 
 Do seek it out with such a fond desire. 
 
 Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree, 
 
 And listening as the voiceless leaves respire, — 
 
 When the far-traveling breeze, done wandering, 
 
 Rests here his weary wing. 
 
 And all the day, with fancies ever new. 
 
 And sweet companions from their boundless 
 store, 
 
 Of merry elves bespangled all with dew. 
 Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, 
 
 Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, 
 
 I fling the hours away.
 
 THE VALLEY nROOK. 
 
 • Fresh from the fountains of the mood 
 A rivulet of the valley came. 
 Av.d gUdcd on for many r. rood. 
 Flushed with the morninl' s ruddy flame.'
 
 J 
 
 
 
 
 • 1 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 411 
 
 
 
 A gracious couch— the root of nn old oiik 
 
 The waves along thy pebbly shore. 
 
 
 
 Wlioso hranchcs yield it moss ami canopy — 
 
 As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, 
 
 
 
 Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke 
 
 And curl around the dashing oar. 
 
 
 
 Secure, shall never be resigned by me ; 
 
 As late the boatman hies him home. 
 
 
 
 It hangs above the stream that idly flies, 
 
 
 
 
 Heedless of any eyes. 
 
 How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
 Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 
 
 
 
 There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent. 
 
 And see the mist of mantling blue 
 
 
 
 Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour, 
 
 Float round the distant mountain's side. 
 
 
 
 While every sense on earnest mission sent, 
 
 
 
 
 Keturns, thought-laden, back with bloom and 
 
 At midnight hour, as shines the moon. 
 
 
 
 flower ; 
 
 A sheet of silver spreads below. 
 
 
 
 Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil. 
 
 And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 
 
 
 
 A profitable toil. 
 
 Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 
 
 
 
 And still the waters, trickling at my feet. 
 
 On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
 
 
 
 Wind on their way with gentlest melody. 
 
 0, I could ever sweep the oar. 
 
 
 
 Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat. 
 
 When early birds at morning wake, 
 
 
 
 Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by, — 
 
 And evening tells us toil is o'er ! 
 
 
 
 Yet not so rudely as to send one sound 
 
 JAMES G. PERCrVAL. 
 
 
 
 Through the thick copse aroimd. 
 
 THE BUGLE. 
 
 
 
 Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest 
 
 
 
 
 Hangs o'er the archway opening thi'ough the 
 
 FROM "THE PRINCESS." 
 
 
 
 trees. 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls 
 
 
 
 Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed 
 
 And snowy summits old in story : 
 
 
 
 On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries, — 
 
 The long light shakes across the lakes. 
 
 
 
 And with awakened vision upward bent, 
 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 
 
 
 I watch the firmament. 
 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 
 
 How like its sure and undisturbed retreat — 
 
 
 
 
 Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm — 
 
 hark ! hear ! how thin and clear. 
 
 
 
 To the pure waters trickling at my feet 
 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
 
 
 
 The bending trees that overshade my form ! 
 
 sweet and far, from clift' and scar. 
 
 
 
 So far as sweetest things of earth may seem 
 
 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
 
 
 
 Like those of which we dream. 
 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 
 
 Such, to my mind, is the philosophy 
 
 
 
 
 The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight. 
 
 love, they die In yon rich sky, 
 
 mi 1* * 1 1*11 <^ii • 
 
 
 
 Sails far into the blue that spreads on high. 
 Until I lose him from my straining sight, — 
 
 They famt on hill or field or river ; 
 
 « 
 
 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
 
 
 
 With a most lofty discontent to fly 
 Upward, from earth to sky. 
 
 William Gilmore Simms. 
 
 And grow forever and forever. 
 
 
 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
 
 
 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, djdng, dying, 
 
 
 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 
 
 THE FAT.T, OF NLA.GARA. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 TO SENECA LAKE. 
 
 The thoughts are strange that crowd into my 
 
 
 
 On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
 
 brain. 
 
 
 
 The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, 
 
 While I look upward to thee. It would seem 
 
 
 
 And round his breast the ripples break, 
 
 As if God poured thee from his hollow hand. 
 
 
 
 As down he bears before the gale. 
 
 And hung his Ijow upon thine awful front. 
 And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him 
 
 
 
 On thy fair bosom, waveless stream. 
 
 Who dwelt in Patnios for his Saviour's sake 
 
 
 
 The dipping paddle echoes far. 
 
 The sound of many waters ; and had bade 
 
 
 
 And flashes in the moonlight gleam. 
 
 Thy flood to chronicle the ages back. 
 
 
 
 And bright reflects the polar star. 
 
 And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks. 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 1
 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 . 
 
 412 POEMS 01 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 r 
 
 
 Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, 
 
 Here it comes sparkling, 
 
 
 
 That hear the question of that voice sublime ? 
 
 And there it lies darkling ; 
 
 
 
 0, what are all the notes that ever rung 
 
 Now smoking and frothing 
 
 
 
 From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ? 
 
 Its tumult and wi'ath in. 
 
 
 
 Yea, what is all the riot man can make 
 
 Till, in this rapid race 
 
 
 
 In his short lile, to thy unceasing roar 1 
 
 On which it is bent. 
 
 
 
 And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him, 
 
 It reaches the place 
 
 
 
 Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far 
 
 Of its steep descent. 
 
 
 
 Above its loftiest mountains ? — a light wave, 
 
 
 
 
 That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. 
 
 The cataract strong 
 
 
 
 John G. c.'Brainard. 
 
 Then plunges along, 
 Strikin*' and racrinc 
 
 
 
 
 As if a war waging 
 
 
 
 THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 
 
 Its caverns and rocks among ; 
 
 
 
 DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY. 
 
 Rising and leaping. 
 
 
 
 " How does the water 
 
 Sinking and creeping. 
 
 
 
 Come down at Lodore ? " 
 
 Swelling and sweeping, 
 
 
 
 My little boy asked me 
 Thus, once on a time ; 
 
 Showering and springing, 
 
 
 
 Flying and flinging. 
 
 
 
 And moreover he tasked me 
 
 Writhing and ringing. 
 
 
 
 To tell him in rhyme. 
 Anon at the word. 
 
 Eddying and whisking. 
 
 
 
 Spouting and frisking. 
 
 
 
 There first came one daughter. 
 
 Turning and twisting. 
 
 
 
 And then came another. 
 
 Around and around 
 
 
 
 To second and third 
 
 With endless rebound ; 
 
 
 
 The request of theu- brother. 
 
 Smiting and fighting. 
 
 
 
 And to hear how the water 
 
 A sight to delight in ; 
 
 
 
 Comes down at Lodore, 
 
 Confounding, astounding. 
 
 
 
 With its rush and its roar, 
 
 Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. 
 
 
 
 As many a time 
 
 
 
 
 They had seen it before. 
 
 CoDecting, projecting. 
 
 
 
 So I told them in rhyme, 
 
 Receding and speeding, 
 
 
 
 For of rhymes I had store ; 
 
 And shocking and rocking. 
 
 
 
 And 'twas in my vocation 
 
 And darting and parting, 
 
 
 
 For their recreation 
 
 And threading and spreading, 
 
 
 
 That so I should sing ; 
 
 And whizzing and hissing, 
 
 
 
 Because I was Laureate 
 
 And dripping and skipping, 
 
 
 
 To them and the King. 
 
 And hitting and splitting, 
 And shining and twining. 
 
 
 » 
 
 From its sources which well 
 
 And rattling and battling, 
 
 
 
 In the tarn on the fell ; 
 
 And shaking and quaking, 
 
 
 
 From its fountains 
 
 And pouring and roaring. 
 
 
 
 In the mountains, 
 
 And waving and raving. 
 
 
 
 Its rills and its gills ; 
 
 And tossing and crossing. 
 
 
 
 Through moss and tlirough brake. 
 
 And flowing and going. 
 
 
 
 It runs and it creeps 
 
 And running and stunning. 
 
 
 
 For a while, tiU it sleeps 
 
 And foaming and roaming. 
 
 
 
 In its own little lake. 
 
 And dinning and spinning, 
 
 
 
 And thence at departing. 
 
 And dropping and hopping. 
 
 
 
 Awakening and starting. 
 
 And working and jerking, 
 
 
 
 It runs through the reeds. 
 
 And guggling and struggling. 
 
 
 
 And away it proceeds. 
 
 And heaving and cleaving. 
 
 
 
 Through meadow and glade, 
 
 And moaning and groaning ; 
 
 
 
 In sun and in shade. 
 
 
 
 
 And through the wood-shelter, 
 
 And glittering and frittering. 
 
 
 
 Among crags in its flurry, 
 
 And gathering and feathering, 
 
 
 
 Helter-skelter, 
 
 And wliitening and brightening. 
 
 
 
 Hurry-skurry. 
 
 And quivering and shivering, 
 
 
 
 

 
 And hurrying and skiirrying, 
 And thundering and floundering ; 
 
 Dividing and gliding and sliding, 
 
 And falling and brawling and sprawling, 
 
 And driWng and riving and sti'iving, 
 
 And spiinkling and twinkling and wrinkling. 
 
 And sounding and bounding and rounding, 
 
 And bubbling and troubling and doubling, • 
 
 And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling. 
 
 And clattering and battering and shattering ; 
 
 Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, 
 Delaying and straying and playing and spraying. 
 Advancing and prancing and glancing and dan- 
 cing, 
 Eecoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling. 
 And gleaming and streaming and steaming and 
 
 beaming, 
 And rushing and flushing and brushing andgush- 
 
 ing. 
 And flapping and rapping and clapping and slap- 
 ping. 
 And curling and whirling and purling and 
 
 twirling, 
 And thumping and plumping and bumping and 
 
 jumping. 
 And dashing and flashing and splashing and 
 
 clashing ; 
 And so never entling, but always descending, 
 Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending 
 All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, — 
 And this way the water comes down at Lodore. 
 
 ROBBRT SOUTHEY. 
 
 WHAT THE WINDS BRING. 
 
 Which is the wind that brings the cold ? 
 
 The north-wind, Freddy, and all the snow ; 
 And the sheep will scamper into the fold 
 
 Wlien the north begins to blow. 
 
 Which is the wind that brings the heat ? 
 
 The south-wind, Katy ; and corn will grow. 
 And j)eaehes redden for you to eat, 
 
 When the south begins to blow. 
 
 Which is the wind that brings the rain ? 
 
 The east-wind, Arty ; and farmers know 
 That cows come shivering up the lane 
 
 When the east begins to blow. 
 
 Wliich is the wind that brings the flowers ? 
 
 The west-wind, Bessy ; and soft and low 
 The birdies sing in the summer hours 
 
 When the west begins to blow. 
 
 EDMUND CI.ARENCB STEDMA:.'. 
 
 THE ORIENT. 
 
 FROM " THE BRIDE OE AiiVDOS. 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypres.s and myrtle 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in their 
 
 clime; 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the 
 
 tmtle. 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 Wliere the flowers ever blossom, tlic beams ever 
 
 shine ; 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with 
 
 perfume. 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ? 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of frait. 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is nmte ; 
 Where the tin tsoftheearth, and thchuesofthesky, 
 In color though varied, in beauty may vie. 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
 Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 'T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of the 
 
 Sun, — 
 Can he smUe on such deeds as his children have 
 
 done ? 
 
 0, vnli as the accents of lover's farewell 
 
 Are the hearts which tliey bear and the tales 
 
 which they tell ! 
 
 Lord Byron, 
 
 SYRIA. 
 
 FROM "PARADISE AND THE PERI." 
 
 Now, upon Syria's land of rosea 
 Softly the light of eve reposes. 
 And, like a gloiy, the broad sun 
 Hangs over sainted Lebanon, 
 Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, 
 
 And whitens with eternal sleet, 
 While .summer, in a vale of flowers, 
 
 Is sleeping rosy at his feet. 
 
 To one who lookcl from upper air 
 O'er all the enchanted regions there. 
 How beauteous must have been the glow, 
 The life, how sparkling from below ! 
 Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks 
 Of golden melons on their bauks, 
 More golden where the sunlight falls ; 
 Gay lizards, glittering on the walls 
 Of ruined shrines, busy and bright 
 As they were all alive with light ; 
 And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 
 Of pigeons, settling on the rocks. 
 With their rich restless wings, that gleam 
 Variously in the crimson beam 
 Of the warm west, — as if inlaid
 
 414 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 With brilliants from the mine, or made 
 
 Of tearless rainbows, such as span 
 
 The unclouded skies of Peristan ! 
 
 And then, the mingling sounds that come. 
 
 Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum 
 
 Of the wQd bees of Palestine, 
 
 Banqueting thi'ough the tiowery vales ; — 
 And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine. 
 
 And woods, so full of nightingales ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 THE VALE OF CASHMERE. 
 
 FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." 
 
 Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 
 With its roses the brightest tliatearth evergave. 
 
 Its temples, and grottoes, and fountains as clear 
 As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their 
 wave ? 
 
 0, 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 min-or at night ere she 
 
 goes ! — 
 When the shrines through the foliage are gleam- 
 ing half shown. 
 And each hallows the hour by some rites of its 
 
 own. 
 Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells. 
 Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is 
 
 swinging. 
 And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 
 Kound 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 ; 
 When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of 
 
 stars. 
 And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of 
 
 Chenars 
 Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet 
 From the cool shining walks where the young 
 
 people meet. 
 Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes 
 A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks. 
 Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one 
 Out of darkness, as they were just born of the 
 
 sun ; 
 When the spirit of fragrance is up with tlie day. 
 From his harem of night-flowers stealing away ; 
 And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a 
 
 lover 
 The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over ; 
 
 When the east is as wai-m as the light of first 
 
 hopes. 
 
 And day, with its banner of radiance unfurled, 
 
 Shines in through the mountainous portal that 
 
 opes, 
 
 Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world ! 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 A FOREST HYMN. 
 
 The groves were God's first temples. Ere man 
 learned 
 To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
 And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed 
 The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
 The somid of anthems ; in the darkling wood. 
 Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down. 
 And otiered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 Might not resist the sacred infiuences 
 Which, from the stilly twilight of the place. 
 And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven 
 Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
 Of the in\'isible breath that swayed at once 
 All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 
 His spirit with the thought of boundless power 
 And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
 Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
 God's ancient sanctuai-ies, and adore 
 Only among the crowd, and mider roofs 
 That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least, 
 Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
 Oft'er one hymn, — thrice happy il' it find 
 Acceptance in his ear. 
 
 Father, thy hand 
 Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
 Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look 
 
 down 
 Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose 
 All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun 
 Budded, and shook their gi'een leaves in thy breeze. 
 And shot towards heaven. The century-living 
 
 crow, 
 Wliose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
 Among their branches, till at last they stood. 
 As now they stand, massy and tall and dark. 
 Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold 
 Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, 
 These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride 
 Report not. No fantastic carvings show 
 The boast of our vain race to change the form 
 Of thy fair works. But thou art here, — thou 
 
 fiU'st 
 The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
 That run along the summit of these trees 
 In music ; thou art in the cooler breath
 
 POEMS OF NATUKE. 
 
 4- 
 
 That from the inmost darkness of the place 
 
 Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, 
 
 The fresh moist ground, aj'e all iivsliuct with thee. 
 
 Here is continual worship ; — natui'e, here. 
 
 In the tranquillity that thou dost love. 
 
 Enjoys thy jiresence. Noiselessly arouud,. 
 
 From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
 
 Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, 
 
 Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots 
 
 Uf half the mighty forest, teDs no tale 
 
 Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
 
 Thyself without a witness, iu these shades. 
 
 Of thy perfections. Grandeur, stivngth, and grace 
 
 Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, — 
 
 By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 
 
 Almost annihilated, — not a prince. 
 
 In all that proud old world beyond the deep. 
 
 E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
 
 Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 
 
 Thy hand has graced lum. Nestled at his root 
 
 Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
 
 Of the bro.ad sun. That delicate forest flower 
 
 With scented breath, and look so like a smile. 
 
 Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mold, 
 
 An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
 
 A visible token of the upholding Love, 
 
 That are the soul of this wide universe. 
 
 My heart is awed within me when I think 
 Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
 In silence, round me, — the perpetual work 
 Of thy creation, fiidshed, yet renewed 
 Forever. Written on thy works I read 
 The lesson of thy own eternity. 
 Lo ! all grow old and die ; but see again. 
 How on the faltering foot-steps of decay 
 Youth presses, — ever gay and beautiful youth 
 In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
 Wave not less proutily that their ancestors 
 Holder beneath them. 0, there is not lost 
 One of Earth's charms ! upon her bosom yet. 
 After the flight of untold centuries, 
 The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
 And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
 Of his arch-enemy Death, — yea, seats himself 
 Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulcher. 
 And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
 Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
 From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 
 
 There have been holy men who hid themselves 
 Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
 Their lives to thought and prayer, till they out- 
 lived 
 The generation bom with them, nor seemed 
 Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
 Around them ; — and there have been holy men 
 Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
 
 But let me often to these solitudes 
 Retire, and iu thy presence reassure 
 My feeble virtue. Here its euemieii, 
 The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 
 And tremble, and are still. God ! when thou 
 Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
 The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 
 With all the waters of the lirmament. 
 The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods 
 And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call. 
 Uprises the gi'eat deep, and throws himself 
 Upon the continent, and overwhehns 
 Its cities, — wdio forgets not, at the sight 
 Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 
 His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? 
 0, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
 Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
 Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
 Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 
 In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 
 And to the beautiful order of thy works 
 Learn to conform the order of our lives. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THE PRIMEVAL FOREST. 
 
 FROM THE INTRODUCTION TO " EVANGELINE." 
 
 This is the forest primeval. The murnmring 
 pines and the hemlocks. 
 
 Bearded with moss, and in garments gieen, in- 
 distinct in the twilight. 
 
 Stand like Di-uids of old, with voices sad and 
 prophetic, 
 
 Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest 
 on their bosoms. 
 
 Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced 
 neighboring ocean 
 
 Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the 
 wail of the forest. 
 
 This is the forest primeval ; but where are the 
 hearts that beneath it 
 
 Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the wood- 
 land the voice of the huntsman ? 
 
 Henry w. Longfellow. 
 
 SONG OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Of all the garden flowers. 
 
 The faii'est is the rose ; 
 Of winds that stir the bowers, 
 
 O, there is none that blows 
 Like the south, the gentle south ; 
 
 For that balmy breeze is ours. 
 
 Cold is the frozen North, 
 
 In its stem and savage mood ; 
 
 W'
 
 Mid the gales come drifting forth 
 Bleak snows and drenching flood ; 
 
 But the South, the gentle South, 
 Thaws to love the willing blood. 
 
 Bethink thee of the vales. 
 
 With their bii'ds and blossoms fair, — 
 Of the darkling nightingales, 
 
 That charm the starry air, 
 In the South, the gentle South ; 
 Ah ! our own dear liome is there ! 
 
 Where doth beauty brightest glow 
 With each rich and radiant charm, 
 
 Eyes of night and brow of snow. 
 Cheery iips, and bosom warm ? 
 
 In the South, the gentle South, — 
 There she waits and works her harm. 
 
 Say, shines the star of love 
 
 From the cle&r and cloudless sky, 
 
 The shadowy gi'oves above, 
 
 Where the nestling ring-doves lie ? 
 
 From the South, the gentle South, 
 Gleams its lone and lucid eye. 
 
 Then turn ye to the home 
 
 Of your brethren and your bride ; 
 
 Far astray your steps may roam. 
 And more joys for thee abide 
 
 In the South, our gentle South, 
 Than in all the world beside. 
 
 David m. moir- 
 
 THE GREEirWOOD. 
 
 0, WHEN 't is summer weather. 
 
 And the yellow bee, with fairy sound. 
 
 The waters clear ii humming round. 
 
 And the cuckoo sings unseen. 
 
 And the leaves are waving green, — 
 
 O, then 't is sweet. 
 
 In some retreat. 
 To hear the murmuring dove, 
 With those whom on earth alone we love. 
 And to mnd through the greenwood together. 
 
 But when 't is winter weather. 
 
 And crosses grieve. 
 
 And friends deceive. 
 
 And rain and sleet 
 
 The lattice beat, — 
 
 0, then 't is sweet 
 . To sit and sing 
 Of the friends with whom, in the days of spiing. 
 We roamed through the greenwood together. 
 
 William lisle Bowles. 
 
 THE BRAVE OLD OAK. 
 
 A SONG to the oak, the brave old oak. 
 
 Who hath ruled in the greenwood long ; ■ 
 Here 's health and renown to his broad green crown, 
 
 And his fifty arms so strong. 
 There 's fear in his frown when the sun goes down. 
 
 And the fire in the west fades out ; 
 And he showeth his might on a wild midnight. 
 
 When the storm throiigh his branches shout. 
 
 Then here 's to the oak, the brave old oak. 
 Who stands in Ids pride alone ; 
 
 And still flourish he, a hale greeu tree, 
 When a hundred years are gone ! 
 
 In the days of old, when the spring with cold 
 
 Had brightened his branches gray. 
 Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, 
 
 To gather the dew of May. 
 And on that day to the rebeck gay 
 
 Tliey frolicked with lovesome swains ; 
 They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard 
 laid. 
 
 But the tree it still remains. 
 Then here 's, etc. 
 
 He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes 
 
 AVere a merry sound to hear. 
 When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small 
 
 Were filled with good English cheer. 
 Now gold hath the sway we all obey. 
 
 And a nithless king is he ; 
 But he never shall send our ancient friend 
 
 To be tossed on the stormy sea. 
 
 Then here 's, etc. 
 
 Henry F. chorley. 
 
 THE ARAB TO THE PALM. 
 
 Next to thee, O fair gazelle, 
 
 Beddowee girl, beloved so well ; 
 
 Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 
 
 Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee ; 
 
 Next to ye both, I love the palm. 
 
 With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm ; 
 
 Ne.ict to ye both, I love the tree 
 Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 
 With love and silence and mystery ! 
 
 Our tribe is many, our poets vie 
 With any under the Arab sky ; 
 Yet none can sing of the palm but I. 
 
 The marble minarets that begem 
 
 Cairo's citadel-diadem 
 
 Are not so light as his slender stem.
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 417 
 
 He lifts his leaves in tlic sunbeam's glance, 
 As the Ahuehs lift theii- arms in dance, — 
 
 A slumberous motion, a passionate sign, 
 That works in the cells of the blood like wine. 
 
 Full of passion and sorrow is he. 
 Dreaming where the beloved may be ; 
 
 And when the warm south-winds arise, 
 He breathes his longing in fervid sighs, 
 
 Quickening odors, kisses of balm. 
 
 That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. 
 
 The sun may flame, and the sands may stir. 
 But the breath of his passion reaches her. 
 
 tree of love, by that love of thine. 
 Teach me how I shall soften mine ! 
 
 Give me the secret of the sim, 
 Whereby the wooed is ever won ! 
 
 If I were a king, stately ti'ee, 
 
 A likeness, glorious as might be, 
 
 In the court of my palace I 'd buQd for thee ; 
 
 With a shaft of sUver, burnished briglit,' 
 And leaves of beryl and malacliite ; 
 
 With spikes of golden bloom ablaze. 
 And fruits of topaz and ehrysoprase ; 
 
 And there the poets, in thy praise, 
 
 Should night and morning frame new lays, — 
 
 New measures sung to tunes divine ; 
 But none, palm, should equal mine ! 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 THE PALM-TEEE. 
 
 Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm, 
 
 On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm ? 
 
 Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm ? 
 
 A ship whose keel is of palm beneath. 
 Whose ribs of palm have a palm-bark sheath, 
 And a rudder of palm it steereth with. 
 
 Branches of palm are its spars and rails, 
 
 Fibers of palm are its woven sails. 
 
 And the rope is of palm that idly trails ! 
 
 What does the good ship bear so well ? 
 The cocoa-nut with its stony shell. 
 And the milky sap of its inner cell. 
 
 '\\Tiat are its jars, so smooth and fine, 
 
 But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine, 
 
 And the cabbage that ripens under the Line ? 
 
 Wlio smokes his nargileh, cool and calm ? 
 
 The master, whose cunning and skill could charm 
 
 Cargo and ship from the bounteous palm. 
 
 In the cabin he sits on a palm -mat soft. 
 From a beaker of palm his drink is q\iafied. 
 And a palm thatch shields from the sun aloft ! 
 
 His dress is woven of palmy strands. 
 
 And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his hands. 
 
 Traced with the Prophet's wise commands ! 
 
 The tmbau folded about his head 
 
 Was daintily wrought of the palm-leaf braid, 
 
 And the fan that cools him of palm was made. 
 
 Of threads of palm was the carpet spun 
 Whereon he loieels when the day is done. 
 And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as one ! 
 
 To him the palm is a gift divine, 
 Wherein all uses of man combine, — 
 House and raiment and food and wine ! 
 
 And, in the hour of his great release, 
 His need of the palm shall only cease 
 With the shroud wherein he lieth in peace. 
 
 "Allah il Allah ! " he sings his psalm 
 On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm ; 
 "Thanks to AUah, who gives the palm ! " 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 THE HOLLY-TREE. 
 
 RE.iDER ! ha-st thou ever stood to see 
 
 The hoUy-tree ? 
 The eye that contemplates it well perceives 
 
 Its glossy leaves 
 Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
 As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 
 
 Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 
 
 Wrinkled and keen ; 
 No gi-azing cattle, through their prickly round, 
 
 Can reach to wound ; 
 But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
 Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 
 
 1 love to view these things with curious eyes, 
 
 And moralize ; 
 And in this wisdom of the holly-tree 
 
 Can emblems see 
 Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme. 
 One which may profit in the after-time. 
 
 +
 
 418 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Thu3, though abroad, perchance, I might appear 
 
 Harsh and austere ; 
 To those who on my leisure would intrude, 
 
 Eeserved and rude ; 
 Gentle at home amid my friends I 'd be. 
 Like the high leaves upon the hoUy-tree. 
 
 And should my youth — as youth is apt, I know — 
 
 Some harshness show, 
 AH vain asperities I, day by day, 
 
 Would wear away, 
 Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
 Like the high leaves upon the hoUy-tree. 
 
 And as, when all the summer trees are seen 
 
 So bright and green. 
 The hoUy-leaves their fadeless hues display 
 
 Less bright than they ; 
 But when the bare and wintry woods we see. 
 What then so cheerful as the holly-tree ? 
 
 So, serious should my youth appear among 
 
 The thoughtless throng ; 
 So would I seem, amid the young and gay, 
 
 More grave than they ; 
 That in my age as cheerful I might be 
 As the green winter of the holly-tree. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEV. 
 
 THE SPICE-TREE. 
 
 The spice-tree Uves in the garden green ; 
 
 Beside it the fountain flows ; 
 And a fair bird sits tlie boughs between. 
 
 And sings his melodious woes. 
 
 No greener garden e'er was knomi 
 
 Within the bounds of an earthly king ; 
 
 No lovelier skies have ever shone 
 
 Than those that Ulumine its constant spring. 
 
 That coil-bound stem has branches three ; 
 
 On each a thousand blossoms grow ; 
 And, old as aught of time can be. 
 
 The root stands fast in the rocks below. 
 
 In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire 
 The fount that builds a silvery dome ; 
 
 And Jlakes of purjJe and ruby fire 
 Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam. 
 
 The fair white bird of flaming crest. 
 And azure wings bedropt with gold, 
 
 Ne'er hasTie known a pause of rest. 
 
 But sings the lament that he framed of old : 
 
 " princess bright ! how long the night 
 Since thou art sunk in the waters clear ! 
 
 How sadly they flow from the depth below, — 
 How long must I sing and thou wilt not hear ? 
 
 " The waters play, and the flowers are gay. 
 
 And the skies are sunny above ; 
 I would that all could fade and fall. 
 
 And I, too, cease to mourn my love. 
 
 " 0, many a year, so wakeful'and drear, 
 
 I have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for thee ! 
 
 But there comes no breatli from the chambers of 
 death, 
 AVhile the lifeless fount gushes under the tree. " 
 
 The skies grow dark, and they glare with red ; 
 
 The tree shakes ott' its spicy bloom ; 
 The waves of the fount in a black pool spread ; 
 
 And in thunder sounds the garden's doom. 
 
 Down springs the bird with?a long shrill cry, 
 
 Into the sable and angiy flood ; 
 And the face of the pool, as he falls from high. 
 
 Curdles in circling stains of blood. 
 
 But sudden again upswells the fount ; 
 
 Higher and higher the waters flow, — 
 In a glittering diamond arch they mount, 
 
 And round it the colors of morning glow. 
 
 Finer and finer the watery mound 
 Softens and melts to a thin-spun veil. 
 
 And tones of music circle around, 
 And bear to the stars the fountain's tale. 
 
 And swift the eddying rainbow screen 
 
 Falls in dew on the grassy floor ; 
 Under the spice-tree the garden's queen 
 
 Sits by her lover, who wads no more. 
 
 John STERLrHG. 
 
 THE GRAPE-VINE SWING. 
 
 Lithe and long as the serpent train, 
 
 Springing and clinging from tree to tree, 
 Now darting upward, now down again. 
 
 With a twist and a twirl that are strange to see ; 
 Never took serpent a deadlier hold. 
 
 Never the cougar a wilder spring. 
 Strangling the oak with the boa's fold. 
 
 Spanning the beech with the condor's wing. 
 
 Yet no foe that we fear to seek, — 
 
 The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace ; 
 Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek 
 
 As ever on lover's breast found place ; 
 On thy waving train is a playful hold 
 
 Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade ; 
 While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold. 
 
 And swings and sings in the noonday shade (
 
 -L 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 419 
 
 giant strange of our southern woods ! 
 
 I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, 
 Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean Hoods, 
 -■Vnd tile northern forest heholds thee not ; 
 
 1 think of thee still with a sweet regret, 
 
 As the cordage yields to my jilayful grasp, — 
 
 Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet ? 
 
 Does the maiden still swing iu thy giant clasp ? 
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 
 
 TO BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree. 
 
 Why do ye fall so fast ? 
 
 Your date is not so past 
 But you may stay yet here awhile 
 
 To blush and gently smile. 
 And go at last. 
 
 What ! were ye born to be 
 
 Ad hour or half's delight. 
 And so to bid good night ? 
 
 'T is pitj^ Nature brought ye forth. 
 Merely to show your worth, 
 And lose 5'ou quite. 
 
 But you are lovely leaves, where we 
 May read how soon things have 
 Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 
 
 And after they have shown their pride 
 Like you awhile, they glide 
 Into the grave. 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK. 
 
 ALMOND BLOSSOM. 
 
 Blossom of the almond-trees, 
 April's gift to April's bees, 
 Birthday ornament of spring. 
 Flora's fairest daughterling ; — 
 Coming when no flowerets dare 
 Trust the cniel outer air, 
 When the royal king-cup bold 
 Dares not don his coat of gold. 
 And the sturdy blackthorn spray 
 Keeps his sUver for the May ; — 
 Coming when no flowerets would, 
 Save thy lowly sisterhood. 
 Early violets, blue and white, • 
 Dying for their love of light. 
 Almond blossom, sent to teach us 
 That the spring days .soon will reach us. 
 Lest, with longing over-tried. 
 We die as the violets died, — 
 Blossom, clouding all the tree 
 With thy crimson broidery, 
 
 Long before a leaf of green 
 
 On the bravest bough is seen, — 
 
 Ah ! when winter winds are swinging 
 
 All thy red hells into ringing, 
 
 Witli a bee in eveiy beU, 
 
 Almond bloom, we greet thee well ! 
 
 EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
 THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. 
 
 Come, let us jilant the apple-tree. 
 Cleave the tough greensward with the spade ; 
 Wide let its hollow bed be made ; 
 There gently lay the roots, and there 
 Sift the dark mold with kindly care. 
 
 And press it o'er them tenderly. 
 As round the sleeping infant's feet 
 We softly fold the cradle-sheet ; 
 
 So plant we the apple-tree. 
 
 What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
 Buds, which the breath of summer days 
 Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 
 Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast, 
 Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest ; 
 
 We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
 A shadow for the noontide hour, 
 A shelter from the summer shower, 
 
 Wlien we plant the apple-tree. 
 
 Wliat plant we in this apple-tree ? 
 Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
 To load the May-wind's restless wings, 
 When, from the orchard row, he pours 
 Its fragrance through our open doors ; 
 
 A world of blossoms for the bee, 
 Flowei's for the sick girl's silent room. 
 For the glad infant sprigs of bloom. 
 
 We plant with the apple-tree. 
 
 What plant we in this apple-tree ! 
 Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
 And redden in the August noon. 
 And drop, when gentle airs come by. 
 That fan the blue September sky, 
 
 Wliile children come, with cries of glee. 
 And seek them where the fragrant gra.s-s 
 Betrays their bed to those who pass. 
 
 At the foot of the apple-tree. 
 
 And when, above this apple-tree, 
 The winter stars are quivering bright. 
 And winds go howling through the night. 
 Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, 
 Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth. 
 
 And guests in prouder homes shall see. 
 Heaped with the grape of (_'intra's \'ine
 
 And golden orauge of the Line, 
 The fruit of the apple-tree. 
 
 The fruitage of this apple-tree 
 Winds aud our flag of stripe and star 
 Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 
 Where men shall wonder at the view. 
 And ask in what fail' gi-oves they grew ; 
 
 And sojourners beyond the sea 
 Shall think of childhood's careless day 
 And long, long hours of summer play. 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree. 
 
 Each year shall give this apple-tree 
 A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
 A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 
 And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 
 The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 
 
 The years shall come aud pass, but we 
 Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 
 The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, 
 
 lu the boughs of the apple-tree. 
 
 And time shall waste this apple-tree. 
 0, when its aged branches throw 
 Thin sliadows on the ground below. 
 Shall fraud and force and iron will 
 Oppress the weak and helpless stiU ? 
 
 What shall the tasks of mercy be, 
 Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
 Of those who live when length of years 
 
 Is wasting this apple-tree ? 
 
 " Who planted this old apple-tree ? " 
 The children of that distant day 
 Thus to some aged man shall say ; 
 And, gazing on its mossy stem. 
 The gray-haired man shall answer them : 
 
 "A poet of the land was he, 
 Born in the rude but good old times ; 
 'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes 
 
 On planting the apple-tree." 
 
 William cullen Bryant. 
 
 THE MAIZE. 
 
 " That precious seed into the furrow cast 
 Earliest in springtime crowns the harvest last." 
 
 PHOEBE Gary. 
 
 A SONG for the plant of my own native West, 
 
 Where nature and freedom reside. 
 By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever blest. 
 
 To the corn ! the green corn of her pride ! 
 In climes of the East has the olive been sung, 
 
 And the grape been the theme of their lays. 
 But for thee shall a harp of the backwoods be 
 strung, 
 
 Thou bright, ever beautiful maize ! 
 
 Afar iu the forest the rude cabins rise, 
 
 And send up theti- pUlars of smoke. 
 And the tops of their columns are lost iu the skies, 
 
 O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak ; 
 Near the skirt of the grove, where the stm-dy arm 
 swiugs 
 
 The ax till the old giant sways. 
 And echo repeats every blow as it rings. 
 
 Shoots the green and the glorious maize ! 
 
 There buds of the buckeye in spring are the first. 
 
 And the willow's gold hair then appeal's. 
 And snowy the cups of the dogwood that burst 
 
 By the red bud, mth pink-tinted tears. 
 And striped the bolls which the poppy holds up 
 
 For the dew, aud the sun's yellow rays. 
 And brown is the pawpaw's shade-blossoming cup, 
 
 In the wood, near the suu-loviiig maize ! 
 
 AVhen through the dark soil the bright steel of 
 the plow 
 
 Tunis the mold from its unbroken bed 
 The plowman is cheered by the finch on the 
 bough. 
 
 And the blackbird doth follow his tread. 
 And idle, afar on the landscape descried. 
 
 The deep-lowing kine slowly graze. 
 And nibbling the grass on the sunny hillside 
 
 Are the sheep, hedged away from the maize. 
 
 With springtime and culture, in martial array 
 
 It waves its green broadswords on high. 
 And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray. 
 
 And the sunbeams, which fall from the sky ; 
 It strikes its green blades at the zephyrs at noon. 
 
 And at night at the swift-flying fays, 
 Wlio ride through the darkness the beams of the 
 moon. 
 
 Through the spears and the flags of the maize ! 
 
 When the summer is fierce still its banners are 
 green, 
 Each warrior's long beard groweth red. 
 His emerald-bright sword is sharp-pointed and 
 keen. 
 And golden his tassel-plumed head. 
 As a host of armed knights set a monarch at 
 naught, . 
 That defy the day-god to his gaze. 
 And, revived evei-y mom from the battle that 's 
 fought,. 
 Fresh stand the green ranks of the maize ! 
 
 But brown comes the autumn, aud sear grows 
 the corn. 
 
 And the woods like a rainbow are dressed, 
 .\nd but for the cock and the noontide horn 
 
 Old Time would be tempted to test.
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 421 
 
 The humming bee fans off a shower of gold 
 From the mullein's long rod as it sways, 
 
 And dry grow the leaves which protecting infold 
 The ears of the well-ripened maize ! 
 
 At length Indian Summer, the lovely, doth come, 
 
 With its blue frost)- nights, and Jays still. 
 When distantly clear sounds the waterfall's hum, 
 
 And the siui smokes ablaze on the hill ! 
 A dim veil hangs over the landscape and flood. 
 
 And the hills are all mellowed in liaze, 
 While Fall, creeping on like a monk 'neath his 
 hood. 
 
 Plucks the thick-rustling wealth of the maize. 
 
 And the heavy wains creak to the barns large 
 and gi'ay. 
 Where the treasure securely we hold, 
 Housed safe from the tempest, di-y-shelteredaway, 
 
 Om- blessing more precious than gold ! 
 And long for this manna that springs from the 
 sod 
 Shall we gratefully give Him the praise. 
 The source of all bomity, our Father and God, 
 Who sent us from heaven the maize ! 
 
 William w. fosdick. 
 
 THE POTATO. 
 
 I 'm a careless potato, and care not a pin 
 
 How into existence I came ; 
 If they planted me drill-wisc' or dibbled me in. 
 
 To me 'tis exactly the same. 
 The bean and the pea may more loftily tower, 
 
 But I care not a button for them ; 
 Defiance I nod with my beautiful flower 
 
 When the earth is hoed up to my stem. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE PtnvrPKIN. 
 
 ONthebanksofthe Xenil, thedarkSpanish maiden 
 Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden ; 
 And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
 Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres 
 
 of gold ; 
 Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, 
 On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looksforth, 
 Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit 
 
 shines. 
 And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 
 
 Ah ! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and 
 
 from West, 
 From North and from South come the pilgrim 
 
 and guest, 
 
 When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round 
 his board 
 
 The old broken links of afl'ection restored. 
 
 When the care-wearied man seeks his mother 
 once more. 
 
 And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled 
 before. 
 
 What moistens the lip, and what brightens the eye ? 
 
 What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin- 
 pie ? 
 
 0, fixdt loved of boyhood ! the old days recalling. 
 When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts 
 
 were falling ! 
 When wild, ugly faces we caiTed in its skin, 
 Glaringoutthrough the dark witha candle within ! 
 When we laughed round the corn-heap, with 
 
 hearts all in tune. 
 Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, 
 Telling tales of thi' fairy who traveled like steam 
 In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her 
 
 team ! 
 
 Then thanks for thy present ! — none sweeter or 
 
 better 
 E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! 
 Fairer hands never wrought at a pastr)' more fine. 
 Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than 
 
 thine ! 
 And the pra3'er, which my mouth is too full to 
 
 express. 
 Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less. 
 That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below. 
 And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine 
 
 grow, 
 And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
 Golden-tinted and fair as thj' own pumpkin-pie ! 
 John Greenleaf whittier. 
 
 HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Day-st.irs! that ope your frownless eyes 
 t\vinkle 
 From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation. 
 And dew-drops on her lonel)- altars sprinkle 
 As a libation. 
 
 Ye matin worshipers ! who bending lowly 
 
 Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, 
 Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
 Incense on high. 
 
 Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beaut}'. 
 
 The floor of Nature's temple tesselate, 
 What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
 Your forms create ! 
 
 to
 
 
 . 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 422 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 
 
 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral hell that 
 
 Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 
 
 
 
 swingeth 
 
 Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
 
 
 
 And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
 
 Ye are to me a type of resurrection 
 
 
 
 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
 
 And second birth. 
 
 
 
 A call to prayer. 
 
 Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, 
 
 
 
 Not to the domes where crumbling arch and coluniu 
 
 Far from all voice of teachers and divines, 
 
 
 
 Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
 
 My soul would find, in flowers of God's ordaining, 
 
 
 
 But to that fane, most catholic and solemn. 
 
 Priests, sermons, shrines ! 
 
 
 
 Which God hath planned ; 
 To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder. 
 
 HORACE SMITH. 
 
 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 
 
 Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon 
 
 
 
 
 supply ; 
 Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, 
 
 I WILL not have the mad Clytie, 
 
 
 
 Whose head is turned by the sun ; 
 
 
 
 Its dome the sky. 
 
 The tulip is a courtly quean. 
 Whom, tliereforc, I will shun ; 
 
 
 
 There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
 
 Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the 
 sod. 
 Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
 
 The cowslip is a country wench. 
 
 The violet is a nun ; — 
 But I will woo the dainty rose, 
 
 
 
 The queen of every one. 
 
 
 
 The ways of God, 
 
 The pea is but a wanton mtch, 
 in too much haste to wed. 
 
 
 
 Your voiceless lips, flowers ! are living preach- 
 
 And clasps her rings on every hand ; 
 
 
 
 ers. 
 
 The wolfsbane 1 should dread ; 
 
 
 
 Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book. 
 
 Nor will 1 dreary rosemarye, 
 
 
 
 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
 
 That always mourus the dead ; — 
 
 
 
 From loneliest nook. 
 
 But 1 will woo the daiuty rose. 
 With her cheeks of tender red. 
 
 
 
 Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor 
 
 
 
 
 "Weep without woe, and blush without a 
 
 The lily is all in white, like a saint. 
 
 
 
 crime," 
 
 And so is no mate for me ; 
 
 
 
 0, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
 
 And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, 
 
 
 
 Your lore sublime ! 
 
 She is of such low degree ; 
 Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, 
 
 
 
 "Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory. 
 
 And the broom's betrothed to the bee ; — 
 
 
 
 Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours ! 
 
 But 1 will plight with the dainty rose. 
 
 
 
 How vain your grandeur ! ah, how transitory 
 
 For fairest of all is she. 
 
 
 
 Are human flowers ! " 
 In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 
 
 hall, 
 
 FROM "HASSAN BEN KHALED." 
 
 
 
 What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
 
 Then took the generous host 
 
 
 
 Of love to all ! 
 
 A basket filled with roses. Every guest 
 
 Cried, " Give me roses ! " and he thus addressed 
 
 
 
 Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for 
 
 His words to all : " He who exalts them most 
 
 
 
 pleasure ; 
 
 In song, he only shall the roses wear." 
 
 
 
 Bloomingo'er field and wave, by day and night, 
 
 Then sang a guest : " The rose's cheeks are fair ; 
 
 
 
 From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
 
 It crowns the purple bowl, and no one knows 
 
 
 
 Harmless delight. 
 
 If the rose colors it, or it the rose." 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 And sang another : "Crimson is its hue, 
 
 
 
 Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 
 
 And on its lireast the morning's crystal dew 
 
 
 
 For sucha world of thought could furnishscope ? 
 
 Is changed to rubies." Then a tliird replied : 
 
 
 
 Each fading calyx a tiiemeiUo mori, 
 
 "It blushes in the sun's enamored siglit. 
 
 
 
 Yet foiuit of hope. 
 
 1 
 
 As a young virgin on her wedding night. 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 ) 
 
 
 
 POEMS OF 
 
 ■NATURE. 423 
 
 
 When from her face the 'bridegroom lifts the veil." 
 
 The spirit paused, in silent thought, — 
 
 
 When all had sung their songs, I, Hassan, tried. 
 
 What grace was there that flower had not ? 
 
 
 "The rose," I sang, " is either red or pale, 
 
 'T was but a moment, — o'er the rose 
 
 
 Like maidens whom the flame of jmssiou bums. 
 
 A veil of moss the angel throws. 
 
 
 And love or jealousy controls, by turns. 
 
 And, robed in nature's simplest weed, 
 
 
 Its buds are lips preparing for a kiss ; 
 
 Could there a flower that rose exceed ? 
 
 
 Its open flowers are like the blush of bliss 
 
 From the Gcnuan of KRUMMACHER. 
 
 
 On lovers' cheeks ; the thorns its armor are. 
 
 
 
 And in its center shines a golden star. 
 
 
 
 As on a favorite's cheek a secpiin glows ; — 
 And thus the garden's favorite is the rose." 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 
 The master from his open basket shook 
 
 FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE." 
 
 
 The roses on my head. 
 
 BAYARD Taylor. 
 
 "The rose is fairest when "t is budding new. 
 
 And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears ; 
 The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew. 
 
 
 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. 
 wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears. 
 
 
 The rose had been washed, just washed in a 
 
 I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave. 
 
 
 shower. 
 
 Emblem of hope and love through future years !" 
 
 
 Which Mary to Anna conveyed. 
 
 Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Armandave, 
 
 
 The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, 
 
 What time the sun arose on Vennachar's broad 
 
 
 And weighed down its beautiful head. 
 
 wave. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 
 The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, 
 And it seemed, to a fanciful view. 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 
 To weep for the buds it had left with regret, 
 
 TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING 
 
 
 On the flourishing bush where it grew. 
 
 DEW. 
 
 Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears 
 Speak grief in you. 
 
 
 I hastily seized it, unfit as it was 
 
 
 For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned. 
 
 Who were but born 
 
 
 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
 
 Just as the mode.st morn 
 
 
 I snapped it, it fell to the ground. 
 
 Teemed her refreshing dew ? 
 Alas ! you have not known that shower 
 That mars a flower. 
 
 
 And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part 
 
 
 Some act by the delicate mind. 
 
 Nor felt the unkind 
 
 
 Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 
 
 Breath of a blasting wind ; 
 Nor are ye worn with years, 
 
 
 Already to sorrow resigned. 
 
 
 This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 
 
 Or warped as we. 
 Who think it strange to see 
 Such pretty flowers, Like to orphans young. 
 Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 
 
 
 Might have bloomed with its owner awhile ; 
 And the tear that is wiped with a little address. 
 May be followed perhaps by a smile. 
 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known 
 
 The reason why 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 THE MOSS ROSE. 
 
 Ye droop and weep ; 
 Is it for want of sleep. 
 
 
 The angel of the flowers, one day, 
 
 Or childish lullaby ? 
 
 
 Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay, — 
 
 Or that ye have not seen as yet 
 
 
 That spirit to whose charge 't is given 
 
 The violet ? 
 
 
 To bathe young buds in dews of heaven. 
 
 Or brought a kiss 
 
 
 Awaking from his light repose. 
 
 From that sweet heart to this ? 
 
 
 The angel whispered to the rose : 
 
 No, no ; this sorrow shown 
 
 
 " fondest object of my I'are, 
 
 By your tears shed. 
 
 
 Still fairest found, where all are fair ; 
 
 Would have this lecture read, — 
 
 
 For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me 
 
 "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth. 
 
 
 Ask what thou wilt, 't is granted thee." 
 
 Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought 
 
 
 "Then," said the rose, with deepened glow. 
 
 forth." 
 
 
 "On me another grace bestow." 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK- 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 )
 
 TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 
 
 Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, 
 And colored with the heaven's own blue. 
 That openest when the quiet light 
 Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; 
 
 Thou comest not when violets lean 
 O'er wandering brooks and sjjrings unseen, 
 Or columbines, in purple dressed. 
 Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 
 
 Thou waitest late, and com'st alone. 
 When woods are bare and birds are flown. 
 And frosts and shortening days portend 
 The aged Year is near his end. 
 
 Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
 Look through its fringes to the sky. 
 Blue -r blue — as if that sky let fall 
 A flower from its cerulean wall. 
 
 I would that thus, when I shall see 
 The hour of death draw near to me, 
 Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
 May look to heaven as I depart. 
 
 William cullen Bryant. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 Ask me why I send you here 
 This sweet Infanta of the yeere ? 
 
 Ask me why I send to you 
 This Primrose, thus bepearled with dew ? 
 
 I will whisper to your eares, 
 The sweets of love are mixt with tears. 
 
 Ask me why this flower does show 
 So yellow-green and sickly too ? 
 
 Ask me why the stalk is weak 
 And bending, yet it doth not break ? 
 
 I will answer, these discover 
 What fainting hopes are in a lover. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 THE EARLY PRIMROSE. 
 
 Mild off"spring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
 Whose modest form, so delicately fine. 
 
 Was nui-sed in whirling storms 
 
 And cradled in the winds. 
 
 Thee, when young Spring first questioned Win- 
 ter's sway. 
 And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
 
 Thee on this bank he threw 
 
 To mark his victory. 
 
 In this low vale the promise of the year. 
 Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 
 
 Unnoticed and alone. 
 
 Thy tender elegance. 
 
 So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
 Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 
 
 Of life she rears her head. 
 
 Obscure and imobserved ; 
 
 While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
 Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 
 
 And hardens her to bear 
 
 Serene the Uls of life. 
 
 Henry kirke White. 
 
 THE RHODORA. 
 
 LINES ON BEING ASKED. WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? 
 
 In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
 I found the fresh rhodora in the woods. 
 Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook. 
 To please the desert and the sluggish brook : 
 The purple petals fallen in the pool 
 
 Made the black waters with their beauty gay, — 
 Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool. 
 
 And court the flower that cheapens his array. 
 Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 
 This charm is wasteel on the marsh and sky. 
 Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing. 
 Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 
 
 Why thou wert there, rival of the rose ! 
 I never thought to ask ; I never knew. 
 
 But in ray simple ignorance suppose 
 The selfsame Powerthat brought me there brought 
 
 you. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 THE BROOM-FLOWER. 
 
 0, THE broom, the yellow broom ! 
 
 The ancient poet sung it. 
 And dear it is on summer days 
 
 To lie at rest among it. 
 
 I know the realms where people say 
 The flowers have not their fellow ; 
 
 I know where they shine out like suns, 
 The crimson and the yellow. 
 
 1 know where ladies live enchained 
 
 In luxury's silken fetters, 
 And "flowers as bright as glittering gems 
 
 Are used for written lettei's. 
 
 But ne'er was flower so fair as this, 
 In modern days or olden ;
 
 
 1 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 '1 
 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 425 
 
 
 
 It groweth ou its nodding stem 
 
 The breath of distant fields upon my brow 
 
 
 
 Like to a garland golden. 
 
 Blows through that open door 
 Thesouud of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low, 
 
 
 
 And all about my mother's door 
 
 And sadder tlian of yore. 
 
 
 
 Shine out its glittering bushes, 
 
 
 
 
 And down the glen, where clear as light 
 
 It comes afar, from that beloved place. 
 
 
 
 The mountain-water gushes. 
 
 And that beloved hour, 
 When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, 
 
 
 
 Take all the rest ; but give me this. 
 
 Like grapes above a bower. 
 
 
 
 And the bird that nestles in it, — 
 
 
 
 
 I love it, for it loves the broom, — 
 
 A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; 
 
 
 
 The gi-eeu and yellow linnet. 
 
 The lark sings o'er my head. 
 Drowned in the sky — 0, pass, ye visions, pass ! 
 
 
 
 Well, call the rose the queen of flowers. 
 
 1 would that I were dead ! — 
 
 
 
 And boast of that of Sharon, 
 
 
 
 
 Of lilies like to marble cups. 
 
 Why hast thou opened that forbidden door. 
 
 
 
 And the golden rod of Aaron : 
 
 From which I ever flee ? 
 vanished joy ! love, that art no more. 
 
 
 
 I care not how these flowers may be 
 
 Let my vexed spirit be ! 
 
 
 
 Beloved of man and woman ; 
 
 
 
 
 The broom it is the flower for me. 
 
 violet ! thy odor through my brain 
 
 
 
 That groweth on the common. 
 
 Hath searched, and stung to grief 
 This sunny day, as if a cui-se did stain 
 
 
 
 0, the broom, the yellow broom ! 
 
 Thy velvet leaf. 
 
 
 
 WILLIAM W. STORY. 
 
 
 
 The ancient poet sung it. 
 And dear it is on summer days 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 To lie at rest among it. 
 
 
 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW, IN APRIL, i;86. 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tippfed flower. 
 Thou 's met me in an evil hour, ' 
 
 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 
 
 Welcome, maids of honor ! 
 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 
 
 You do bring 
 
 Thy slender stem ; 
 
 
 
 In the Spring, 
 
 To spare thee now is past my power. 
 
 
 
 And wait upon her. 
 
 Thou bonny gem. 
 
 
 
 She has virgins many. 
 
 Alas ! it 's no thy neibor sweet. 
 
 
 
 Fresh and fair ; 
 
 The bonny lark, companion meet. 
 
 
 
 Yet you are 
 More sweet than any. 
 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet. 
 
 
 
 Wi' speckled breast. 
 
 
 
 
 Wlien upward springing, blithe to greet 
 
 
 
 Y' are the maiden Posies, 
 
 Tlie purpling east. 
 
 
 
 And, so graced, 
 To be placed 
 'Fore damask roses. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
 
 
 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 Yet cheerfully thuu glinted forth 
 
 
 
 Yet though thus respected. 
 By and by 
 Ye do lie. 
 
 Amid the storm. 
 Scarce reared above the parent earth 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 
 
 Poor gii-ls, neglected. 
 
 Robert herrick. 
 
 The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. 
 High sheltering woods and was maun shield : 
 But thou beneath the random bield 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 0' clod or staue. 
 
 
 
 
 Adorns the histie stibble-field. 
 
 
 
 FAINT, delicious, springtime violet ! 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 
 
 Thine odor, like a key. 
 
 
 
 
 Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 
 
 Tliere, in thy scanty mantle dad, 
 
 
 
 A thought of soiTow free. 
 
 Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
 
 
 
 

 
 426 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Thou lifts thy una«suming head 
 
 In humble guise ; 
 But now the share uptears thy bed, 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the fate of artless maid. 
 Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
 By love's simplicity betrayed, 
 
 And guileless ti'ust, 
 Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple bard. 
 
 On life's rough ocean luckless starred ! 
 
 Unskillful he to note the card 
 
 Of prudent lore. 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 
 
 And whelm him o'er ! 
 
 Such fate to suft'ering worth is given, 
 Who long with wants and woes has striven. 
 By human pride or cunning driven 
 
 To misery's brink. 
 Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 
 
 He, ruined, sink ! 
 
 Even thou who moum'st the daisy's fate, 
 That fate is thine, — no distant date : 
 Stern Ruin's plowshare drives, elate. 
 
 Full on thy bloom. 
 Till crushed beneath the fui'row's weight 
 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 Robert burns. 
 
 THE DAISY. 
 
 Star of the mead ! sweet daughter of the day. 
 Whose opening flower invites the morning ray, 
 From the moist cheek and bosom's chilly fold 
 To kiss the tears of eve, the dew-drops cold ! 
 Sweet daisy, flower of love ! when birds are paired, 
 'T is sweet to see thee, with thy bosom bared, 
 Smiling in virgin innocence serene. 
 Thy pearly crown above thy vest of green. 
 The lark with sparkling eye and rustling wing 
 Rejoins his widowed mate in early spring, 
 And, as he prunes his plumes of russet hue. 
 Swears on thy maiden blossom to be trae. 
 Ol't have I watched thy closing buds at eve. 
 Which for the parting sunbeams seemed to grieve ; 
 And when gay morning gilt the dew-bright plain, 
 Seen them unclasp their folded leaves again ; 
 Nor he who sung " The daisy is so sweet ! " 
 More dearly loved thy pearly form to greet, 
 When on his scai-f the knight the daisy bound. 
 And dames to tourneys shone with daisies crowned, 
 And fays forsook the purer fields above. 
 To hail the daisy, flower of faithful love. 
 
 JOHN LEYDEN. 
 
 THE SUNFLOWER. 
 
 Ah, sunflower ! weary of time. 
 Who countest the steps of the sun, 
 Seeking after that sweet golden clime, 
 Where the traveler's journey is done ; 
 
 Where the youth pined away with desire, 
 And the pale virgin shrouded in snow. 
 Arise from their graves, and aspire 
 Where my sunflower wishes to go. 
 
 William Blake. 
 
 THE DAISY. 
 
 There is a flower, a little flower 
 With silver crest and golden eye. 
 
 That welcomes every changing hour, 
 And weathers every sky. 
 
 The prouder beauties of the field 
 In gay but quick succession shine ; 
 
 Race after race their honors yield, 
 They flourish and decline. 
 
 But this small flower, to Nature dear. 
 While moons and stars their courees run, 
 
 Inwreathes the circle of the year, 
 Companion of the sun. 
 
 It smiles upon the lap of May, 
 
 To sultry August spreads its charm, 
 
 Lights pale October on his way. 
 And twines December's arm. 
 
 The purple heath and golden broom 
 On moory mountains catch the gale ; 
 
 O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume. 
 The violet in the vale. 
 
 But this bold floweret climbs the hiU, 
 Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 
 
 Plays on the margin of the rill. 
 Peeps round the fo.x's den. 
 
 Within the garden's cultured round 
 It shares the sweet carnation's bed ; 
 
 And blooms on consecrateii ground 
 In honor of the dead. 
 
 The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; 
 
 The wild bee murmurs on its breast ; 
 The blue-fly bends its pensile stem 
 
 Light o'er the skylark's nest. 
 
 'T is Flora's page, — in every place, 
 In every season, fresh and fair ; 
 
 It opens with perennial grace. 
 And blossoms everywhere.
 
 rUEMS UF NATURE. 
 
 427 
 
 On waste and woodland, rock and i)lam, 
 
 Its humble buds uulieeded rise ; 
 
 The rose has but a summer reigu ; 
 
 The daisy never dies ! 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 DAFFODILS. 
 
 I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hUls 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, — 
 A host of golden datfodils 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 
 Flutteiing and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 
 Ten thousand saw 1, at a glance, 
 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced, but they 
 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; 
 
 A poet could not but be gay 
 In such a jocund company ; 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — hut little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought. 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie. 
 
 In vacant or in pensive mood. 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
 And dances with the dafi'odils. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 DAFFODILS. 
 
 Fair daffodils, we weep to see 
 
 You haste away so soon ; 
 As yet the early-rising sun 
 
 Has not attained its noon. 
 Stay, .stay. 
 
 Until the hastening day 
 Has ran 
 
 But to the even-song ; 
 And, having prayed together, we 
 
 Will go with you along. 
 
 We have short time to stay as you. 
 
 We have as short a spring ; 
 As quick a growth, to meet decay. 
 As you or anything. 
 
 We die. 
 As your hours do, and dry 
 Away, 
 
 Like to the summer's rain, 
 Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 
 Ne'er to be found again. 
 
 Robert herrick. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE GRASS. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping everywher* ; 
 
 By the dusty roadside. 
 
 On the sunny hillside. 
 
 Close by the noisy brook. 
 
 In every shady nook, 
 I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere ; 
 
 All roimd the open door, 
 
 AVhere sit the aged poor ; 
 
 Here where the children play. 
 
 In the bright and merry May, 
 I come creeiiing, creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping ever3rwhere ; 
 
 In the noisy city street 
 My pleasant face you '11 meet. 
 Cheering the sick at heart 
 Toiling his busy part, — 
 Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
 You cannot see me coming. 
 Nor hear my low sweet humming ; 
 For in the starry night. 
 And the glad morning light, 
 
 I come quietly creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping everj-where ; 
 More welcome tli.an the flowers 
 In summer's pleasant hours ; 
 The gentle cow is glad. 
 And the nieny bird not sad, 
 
 To see me creeping, creeping evcrywheiB. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
 
 When you 're numbered with the dead 
 In your still and narrow bed. 
 In the happy spring I '11 come 
 And deck your silent home, — 
 Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
 
 My humble song of praise 
 
 Most joyfully I raise 
 
 To Him at whose command 
 
 I beautify the land. 
 Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 
 
 sakah robbkts.
 
 428 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 THE IVY GREEN. 
 
 0, A DAINTY plant is the ivy green, 
 
 That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 
 Of right choice food are his meals, I ween. 
 
 In his cell so lone and cold. 
 The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed. 
 
 To pleasure his dainty whim : 
 And the moldering dust that years have made 
 
 Is a merry meal for him. 
 
 Creeping where no life is seen, 
 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green. ■ 
 
 Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 
 
 And a stanch old heart has he ! 
 How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 
 
 To his friend, the huge oak-tree I 
 And slyly he ti-aileth along the gi-ound. 
 
 And his leaves he gently waves, 
 And he joyously twines and hugs around 
 
 The rich mold of dead men's graves. 
 Creeping where no life is seen, 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
 
 Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 
 
 And nations have scattered been ; 
 But the stout old i\'y shall never fade 
 
 From its hale and hearty green. 
 The brave old plant in its lonely days 
 
 Shall fatten upon the past ; 
 For the stateliest building man can raise 
 Is the ivy's food at last. 
 
 Creeping where no life is seen, 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
 
 CHARLES Dickens. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of 
 the year. 
 
 Of wailing winds, and naked wooda, and meadows 
 brown and sear. 
 
 Heaped iu the liollows of the grove, the autumn 
 leaves lie dead ; 
 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rab- 
 bit's tread. 
 
 The robin and the wren are flo\vn, and from the 
 shrubs the jay, 
 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow through all 
 the gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
 
 lately sprang and stood 
 In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous 
 
 sisterhood ? 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race 
 
 of flowers 
 
 Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and 
 
 good of ours. 
 The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold 
 
 November rain 
 Calls not from out the gloomy ^earth the lovely 
 
 ones again. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 
 
 ago. 
 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the 
 summer glow ; 
 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in 
 the wood, 
 
 And the yellow sunflower by the brook in au- 
 tumn beautj' stood. 
 
 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as 
 falls the plague on men, 
 
 And the brightness of their smUe was gone from 
 upland, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as stU! 
 
 such days will come, 
 To call the squin-el and the bee from out their 
 
 winter home ; 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though 
 
 all tlie trees are still. 
 And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the 
 
 rill; 
 The south-wind searches for the flowers whose 
 
 fragrance late he bore, 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by the 
 
 stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youthful 
 
 beauty died. 
 The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded 
 
 by my side. 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the 
 
 forests cast the leaf. 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a 
 
 life so brief ; 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young 
 
 friend of ours. 
 
 So gentle and so beautiftd, should perish with the 
 
 flowers. 
 
 William Culle.n Bryant. 
 
 THE USE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 God might have b.ade the earth bring forth 
 
 Enough for great and small. 
 The oak-tree and the cedar-ti*ee, 
 
 Without a flower at all. 
 We might have had enough, enough 
 
 For eveiy want of ours, 
 For lu.xury, medicine, and toil. 
 
 And yet have had no flowers.
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 " IVAen the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still. 
 And t7uinkle in the smoky light the waters oj" the rillP
 
 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 •429 
 
 Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, 
 
 All dyed with rainbow li^ht. 
 All fashioned with suprenicst grace 
 
 Upsj)ringing day and night : — 
 Springing in valleys green and low, 
 
 And on the mounlaius high. 
 And in the silent wilderness 
 
 Where no man passes by ? 
 
 Our outward life requires them not, — 
 
 Then wherefore had they bii-th ? — 
 To minister delight to man. 
 
 To beautify the earth ; 
 To comfort man, — to whisper hope. 
 
 Whene'er his faith is din»i 
 For who so eareth for the flowers 
 
 Will care much more for him ! 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 BETROTHED AJVEW. 
 
 The sunlight fills the trembling air, 
 And balmy days their guerdons bring ; 
 
 The Earth again is young and fair. 
 And amorous with musky Spring. 
 
 The golden nurslings of the May 
 
 In splendor strew the spangled green, 
 
 And hues of tender beauty play, 
 Entangled where the willows lean. 
 
 Mark how the rippled currents flow ; 
 
 What lusters on the meadows lie ! 
 And hark ! the songsters come and go. 
 
 And trill between the earth and sky. 
 
 Who told us that the years had fled. 
 Or borne afar our blissful youth ? 
 
 Such joys are all about us spread ; 
 We know the whisper was not truth. 
 
 The birds that break from grass and grove 
 Sing every carol that they sung 
 
 When first our veins were rich with love. 
 And May her mantle round ns flung. 
 
 fresh-lit dawn ! immortal life ! 
 
 Earth's betrothal, sweet and true. 
 With whose delights our souls are rife. 
 
 And aye their vernal vows renew ! 
 
 Then, darling, walk with nie this nioi'n ; 
 
 Let your brown tresses drink its sheen ; 
 These violets, ivithin them worn, 
 
 Of floral fays shall make you queen. 
 
 What though there comes a time of pain 
 When autimm winds forbode decay ! 
 
 The days of love are burn again ; 
 That fabled time is far away ! 
 
 And never .seemed the land so fair 
 .\s now, nor birds such notes to sing. 
 
 Since first within your shining liair 
 I wove the blossoms of the spring. 
 
 EDMUND Cl.ARENCn STEDMAN. 
 
 THE LION'S RIDE. 
 
 The lion is the desert's king ; tlirough his do- 
 main so wide 
 
 Right swiftly and right royally this night he 
 means to ride. 
 
 By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds drink, 
 close couches the grim chief ; 
 
 The trembling sycamore above whispers with every 
 leaf. 
 
 At evening, on the Table Mount, when ye can 
 
 see no more 
 The changeful play of signals gay ; when the gloom 
 
 is speckled o'er 
 AVith kraal fires ; when the C'aff"re wends home 
 
 through the lone karroo ; 
 When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by 
 
 the stream the gnu ; 
 
 Then bend your gaze across the waste, — what 
 
 see ye ? The giraffe. 
 Majestic, stalks towards the lagoon, the turbid 
 
 IjTnph to quaff ; 
 With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he 
 
 kneels him down to eool 
 His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the 
 
 foul and brackish pool. 
 
 A rustling sound, a roar, a bound, — the lion sits 
 
 astride 
 Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so 
 
 ride ? 
 Had ever king a steed so rare, caparisons of state 
 To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits 
 
 elate ? 
 
 In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged 
 with ravenous greed ; 
 
 His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of 
 the steed. 
 
 Up leaping mth a hollow yell of anguish and sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Away, away, in wild dismay, the camelopard 
 flies. 
 
 His feet have wings ; see how he springs across 
 
 the moonlit ]ilain ! 
 As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring 
 
 eyeballs strain ; 
 
 r
 
 ' 
 
 430 POEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 
 
 — """• __^ — ■ 
 
 In thick Mack streams of purling blood, full fast 
 
 Sinewy strength is in his reins. 
 
 
 
 his life is fleeting ; 
 
 And the red blood gallops through his veins : 
 
 
 
 The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tu- 
 
 Richer, redder, never ran 
 
 
 
 multuous beating. 
 
 Through the boasting heart of man. 
 He can trace his lineage higher 
 
 
 
 Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, the 
 
 Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — 
 
 
 
 path of Israel traced, — 
 
 Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 
 
 
 
 Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of 
 
 Or O'Brien's blood itself! 
 
 
 
 the waste, — 
 
 
 
 
 From the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout 
 
 He, who hath no peer, was bom 
 
 
 
 from ocean. 
 
 Here, upon a red March mom. 
 
 
 
 A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the 
 
 But his famous fathers dead 
 
 
 
 courser's fieiy motion. 
 
 Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, 
 And the last of that gi-eat line 
 
 
 
 Croaking companion of their flight, the vulture 
 
 Trod like one of* race divine ! 
 
 
 
 whirs on high ; 
 
 And yet, — he was but friend to one 
 
 
 
 Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce 
 
 'Who fed him at the set of sun 
 
 
 
 and sly. 
 
 By some lone fountain fringed with green ; 
 
 
 
 And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join 
 
 With him, a roving Bedouin, 
 
 
 
 in the horrid race ; 
 
 He lived (none else would he obey 
 
 
 
 By the footprints wet with gore and sweat, their 
 
 Through all the hot Arabian day). 
 
 
 
 monarch's course they ti-ace. 
 
 And died imtanied upon the sands 
 Where Balkh amidst the desert stands. 
 
 
 
 They see him on his living throne, and quake with 
 
 BRYAN W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL*. 
 
 
 
 fear, the while 
 
 
 
 
 With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 painted pile. 
 
 
 
 
 On ! on ! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and 
 
 THJi! TIGER. 
 
 
 
 strength remain ! 
 
 
 
 
 The steed by such ariderbackedmay madly plunge 
 
 TiRER ! Tiger ! burning bright. 
 
 
 
 in vain. 
 
 In the forests of the night ; 
 What imnioital hand or eye 
 
 
 
 Eeeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and 
 
 Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 
 
 
 
 breathes his last ; 
 
 
 
 
 The courser, stained with dust and foam,^is the 
 
 In what distant deeps or skies 
 
 
 
 rider's fell repast. 
 
 Burned the fire of thine eyes ? 
 
 
 
 O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is 
 
 On what wiugs dare he aspire ? 
 
 
 
 descried : — 
 
 What the hand dare seize the fire ? 
 
 
 
 Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of 
 
 
 
 
 bea.sts doth ride 
 
 And what shoulder, and what art, 
 
 
 
 From the Gcnnan of FERDINAND FRBILIGRATH. 
 
 Could twist the sinews of thine heart ? 
 And when thy heart began to beat. 
 What dread hand ? and what di'ead feet ? 
 
 What the hammer, what the chain ? 
 
 
 
 THJ:; BLOOD HORSE. 
 
 
 
 
 In what funiace was thy brain ? 
 
 
 
 Gamarra is a dainty steed, 
 
 What the anvil ? what dread grasp 
 Dare its deadly teiTors clasp ? 
 
 
 
 Strong, black, and of a noble breed, 
 
 
 
 Full of fire, and full of bone. 
 
 
 
 
 With all his line of fathers known ; 
 
 When the stars threw down their spears. 
 
 
 
 Fine liis nose, his nostrils thin, 
 
 And watered heaven with their tears, 
 
 
 
 But blown abroad by the pride within ! 
 
 Did he smile his work to see ? 
 
 
 
 His mane is like a river flowing, 
 
 Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee ? 
 
 
 
 And his eyes like embers glowing 
 
 
 
 
 In the darkness of the night, 
 
 Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright, 
 
 
 
 And his pace as swift as light. 
 
 In the forests of the night, 
 WTiat immortal hand or eye 
 
 
 
 Look, — how round his straining throat 
 
 Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 
 
 
 
 Grace and shifting beauty float ; 
 
 William Blake. 
 
 
 
 H»- 
 


 
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