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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.

3Tcin IJorfi

Fords, Howard, &- Hulbert

-•HI-*-

-^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

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»-»-

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

CONTENTS.

-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.

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

208

529

299

S37

167

273

762

188

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.;^

,\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>

INDEX OF AUTHuns.

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 ....

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.

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^

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

Nocturnal Sketch . . •

Ruth

I Sailor's Consolation, The

I Song of the Shirt, The . . • •

395

25'

25S

810

868

291

422

qo2

705

868

397
ciiS

5QO

254

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

151

764

605

449

• 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

fK,8

('4
665

765.

132

665

679

125
76S
449
750
236

675

27
536

2go
3°3
301

=47
270
577
57t>

KNOWLES, HERBERT.

linyland, 1798-1827.

Richmond Churchyard, Lines written in .

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

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

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

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

INDEX OF AUTHORS.

XXlll

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

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

INDEX OF AUTHOBS.

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

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

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

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

.^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

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;

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

723

724

327
146
S14
2S1
8^6
4S0
683
360
157

19
go8
758
246
479
503
917
355
S7S
895
203

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.

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.

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-

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

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.

MEMOIR

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."

-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

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

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."

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.

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."

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

•^ $ 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

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.''

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

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

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-

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

■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

—

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."

-•-•-

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.

-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

-*-•

-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. ' '

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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

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

INTRODUCTION. 13

)

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.^

^^^---^^ ^-..^ 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>(

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.

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.

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 ?

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.

-11-»-

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.

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.

— **-»-^

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.

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.

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.

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

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 ?)

INFANCY.

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.

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 ;

«-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-»-

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 ?

9 1

•

IXFANCY.

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

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.

IXFAXCY.

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 !

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.

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.

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.

YUUTH.

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

PUEMS OF IXFAyCY AXD YUUTH.

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.

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 ?

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 ^

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-^

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

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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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.

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,

POEMS OF FHIEXnSHIP.

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.

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.

O-

-U

POEMS OF FIUEXLSUir.

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^

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.

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.

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,

FUEMS OF FlilEMiSUIP.

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

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.

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.

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.

• ■ »

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.

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.

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.

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, —

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.

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.

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 :

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.

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.

-\-

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.

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.

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.

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,

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

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 !

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,

♦ '

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^

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 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

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."

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 :

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,

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.

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.

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

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 !

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.

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,

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.

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.

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,

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.

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^

■

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.

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.

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.

'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.

_^>_

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^

^^^^r~\

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.

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-

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

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-

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-

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

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.

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.

-♦HH^-

=>iJ

^ ^^

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.

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 ;

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.

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 —

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 :

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.

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 !

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.

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 ;

^^^Mv

h ^

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-^

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.

182

POEMS OF HUME.

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^ \^

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 :

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.

-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.

(:^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.

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.

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.

)

(

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 ?

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 !

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 ?

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

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,

-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.

• « »

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 ;

♦ ■ <

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.

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.

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 ?

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 :

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 !

■

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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.

\ »

}

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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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 !

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 ;

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 ;

-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.

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 ?

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 ?

" 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.

-•-

" 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.

J-

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 ;

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.

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 !

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

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.

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 ;

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.

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.

•"-(>-<»-

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.

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.

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 !

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.

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, —

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."

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 ;

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^

-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 :

284

POEMS OF SORROW AND DEATH.

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 !

BEREAVEMENT AXD DEATH.

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.

— •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 ?

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.

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.

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 !

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 ;

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."

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 ?

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 :

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

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

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,

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.^

(

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.

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

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 ;

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 :

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

•^

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 ;

_^^^_ . —

;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 !

■

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.

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 !

314

POEMS OF RELIGION.

Tuba mirum spargens aonum
Per sepulcra regionum,
Coget omnes ante thronum.

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.

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 ?

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 ?

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 !

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 ?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 ;

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.

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

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.

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 !

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 ;

■

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 ;

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 ;

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.

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 ;

■

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.

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-

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.

356

POEMS OF EELIGIOX.

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.

(

►

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.

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

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.

W v,-^ -^

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.

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

564

POEMS OF NATURE.

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

-•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 :

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.

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.

370 POEMS OF

1
NATURE.

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.

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.

' 'il''
irlli!'

if if;

i|i||ih'

w
>

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 ?

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

rOKMS OF XATUllR.

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,

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 ;

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 ;

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.

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.

POEMS OF NATURE.

383

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 !

-^ ■ ♦

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 !"

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,

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

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

-•-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 ;

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,

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

III

■. =! c '-C

V J' 1^ «

S?;^S

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.

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.'

• 1

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.

412 POEMS 01

NATURE.

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.

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 ;

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 !

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.

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 ;

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 ;

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.

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.. SOUTHERN HLuldNAl I IBRARV FAniiTi

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