EDITED BV JOHN GREENLEAi riER ^IJ'H ILLUSTRATIONS iSOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES EDITED BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER J^ou00t)olu CDition WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY -> ■< 3 J J > J :> i i COPYEIGHT, 1875. Bt JAMES R. OSGOOD k CO. Copyright, 1890, Bl HOUGUION, MIFFLIN & Ctt All rights reserved. ) r?^ PREFACE. < f^ TT would be doing injustice to the compiler of this volume to suppose jJL that his work implied any lack of appreciation of the excellent antholo- gies already published in this country. Dana's "Household Book of Poetry" (^s no misnomer ; and the honored names of Bryant and Emerson are a suf- S^icient gi;aranty for " Parnassus " and the " Library of Song." With no thought of superseding or even of entering into direct competition with rxjthese large and valuable collections, it has been my design to gather up in a Q_comparatively small volume, easily accessible to all classes of readers, the cowisest thoughts, rarest fancies, and devoutest hymns of the metrical authors of the last three centuries. To use Shelley's definition of poetry, I have en- deavored to give something like " a record of the best thoughts and happiest V moments of the best and happiest minds." The plan of my work has com- A pelled me to confine myself, in a great measure, to the lyrical productions >vi of the authors quoted, and to use only the briefer poems of the old drama- ^ tists and such voluminous writers as Spenser, Milton, Dryden, Cowper, Pope, I Byron, Scott, Wordsworth, and the Brownings. Of course, no anthology, >) however ample its extracts, could do justice to the illimitable genius of Shakespeare. ; It is possible that it may be thought an undue prominence has been given * to the poetry of the period beginning with Cowper and reaching down to , v' Tennyson and his living contemporaries. But it must be considered that I'i the last century has been prolific in song ; and, if Shakespeare and Milton "^ still keep their unapproachable position, " souls like stars that dwell apart," vj there can be little doubt that the critical essayist of the twentieth century will make a large advance upon the present estimate, not only of Cowper and Burns, but of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, Browning, Ten- nyson, and Emerson. It will be seen that the middle of the sixteenth century is the earliest date of my citations. The great name of Chaucer does not appear ; and some of the best of the early ballad poetry of England and Scotland has been reluc- 'j^^^i^i^n IV PREFACE. tantly omitted. James I., whose Queen's Quhair has hidden his kingly- crown under the poet's garland, William Dunbar, and Sackville, Earl of Dorset, may well be thought worthy of a place in any collection of English verse, hut the language and rhythm of these writers render them wellnigh unintelligible to the ordinary reader. The selections I have made indicate, in a general way, my preferences ; but I have not felt at liberty to oppose my own judgment or prejudice to the best critical authorities, or to attempt a reversal of the verdicts of Time. It would be too much to hope that I have, in all cases, made the best possi- ble exposition of an author's productions. Judging from my own experi- ence in looking over selected poems, I cannot doubt that my readers will often have occasion to question the wisdom of my choice, and regret the omission of favorite pieces. It is rarely that persons of equal capacity for right judging can be found to coincide entirely in regard to the merits of a particular poem. The canons of criticism are by no means fixed and infalli- ble ; and the fashion of poetry, like that of the world, " passeth away." Not only every age, but every reader, holds the right of private judgment. It would be difficult for any literary inquisitor-general to render a good reason for condemning as a heretic the man who finds the " Castle of Indo- lence" pleasanter reading than the "Faerie Queene," who prefers Cowperto Dryden, Scott to Byron, and Shelley to Scott, who passes by Moore's " Lalla Kookh " to take up Clough's " Bothie of Tober-na Vuolich," who thinks Emerson's " Threnody " better than Milton's " Lycidas," and who would not exchange a good old ballad or a song of Burns for the stateliest of epics. The considerable space which I have given to American authors will, I trust, find its justification in the citations from their writings. The poetical literature of our country can scarcely be said to have a longer date than that of a single generation. As a matter of fact, the very fathers of it are still living. It really commenced with Bryant's " Thanatopsis " and Dana's " Buccaneer." The grave, philosophic tone, chaste simplicity of language, freedom of versification, and freshness and truth of illustration, which marked the former poem, and the terse realism of the " Buccaneer," with its stem pictures of life and nature drawn with few strokes sharp and vigorous as those of Retzsch's outlines, left the weak imitators of an artificial school without an audience. All further attempts to colonize the hills and pastures of New England from old mythologies were abandoned ; our boys and girls no longer figured in impossible pastorals. If we have no longer ambitious Columbiads and Conquests of Canaan, we have at least truth and nature, -Wat and wisdom, in Bryant's " Robert of Lincoln," Emerson's " Hum- blebee," Lowell's " Courtin'," and " The One-Hoss Shay " of Holmes. In dealing with contemporary writers I have found myself embarrassed by PREFACE. T the very large number of really noticeable poems, many of which, although in my own estimation vastly better than those of some of the old versifiers whose age and general reputation have secured them a place in this volume, I have been compelled to omit solely from lack of space. The future gleaner in the fields over which I have passed will doubtless find many an ungar- nered sheaf quite as well worth preserving as these I have gathered within the scanty limits of my compendium. The rare humorists of our time, espe- cially such poets as Holmes and Lowell, can be only partially represented in these necessarily brief selections. It may be observed that the three divisions of the book do not strictly correspond to the headings which indicate them, — the first, for instance, beginning before Shakespeare and ending somewhat after MUton. It is dif- ficult to be quite exact in such classifications ; and as it seemed desirable to make their number as small as possible, I trust the few leading names men- tioned may serve to characterize the periods they accompany with a sufii- cient degree of accuracy. Pope was doubtless the great master of what is sometimes spoken of as artificial verse, shaping the mould of poetic thought for his own and the succeeding generation ; but as Dryden stands in point of time nearer to the colossal name which closes the first period of English song, he has been chosen as a representative of the second, in connection and contrast with Bums, who, in his vigorous rebound from the measured pomp of rhymed heroics to the sturdiest and homeliest Scottish simplicity, gave to the modern lyric its inspiration, striking for the age the musical pitch of true and tender emotion, as decidedly as Wordsworth has touched for it the key-note of the thoughtful harmonies of natural and intellectual beauty. Tennyson undoubtedly stands at the head of all living singers, and his name might well serve as the high-water mark of modem verse ; but as our vol- ume gives a liberal space to American authorship, I have ventured to let the name of the author of " Evangeline " represent, as it well may, the present poetic culture of our English-speaking people at home and abroad. While by no means holding myself to a strict responsibility as regards the sentiment and language of the poems which make up this volume, and while I must confess to a large tolerance of personal individuality manifesting it- self in widely varying forms of expression, I have still somewhat scrupu- lously endeavored to avoid in my selections everything which seemed liable to the charge of irreverence or questionable morality. In this respect the poetry of the last quarter of a century, with a few exceptions, has been note- worthy for purity of thought and language, as well as for earnestness and re- ligious feeling. The Muse of our time is a free but profoundly reverent inquirer ; it is rarely found in " the seat of the scomer." If it does not always speak in the prescribed language of creed and formula, its utterances often give evidence of fresh communion with that Eternal Spirit whose Tl " PEEFACE. responses are never in any age or clime withheld from the devout ques- tioner. My great effort has been to make a thoroughly readable book. With this in view I have not given tedious extracts from dull plays and weary epics, but have gathered up the best of the old ballads and short, time- approved poems, and drawn largely from contemporary writers and the waifs and estrays of imknown authors. I have also, as a specialty of the work, made a careful selection of the best hymns in our language. I am prepared to find my method open to criticism from some quarters, but I have catered not so much for the scholarly few as for the great mass of readers to whose " snatched leisure " my brief lyrical selections would seem to have a special adaptation. It only remains for me to acknowledge the valuable suggestions and aid I have received from various sources during the preparation of this volume, and especially the essential assistance I have had from Lucy Larcom of Beverly Farms, to whose services I have before been indebted in the com- pilation of " Child Life." J. G. W. Amesbubt, 9th mo., 1875 NOTE TO REVISED EDITION. Is offering the public a somewhat enlarged edition of the " Songs of Three Centuries " it may be well to say that the closing portion of the col- lection was never, in some respects, quite satisfactory to the arranger. The time of its preparation was limited, and some things were thus overlooked which would have added to the value of the volume. It was not intended, however, to make a large book, and the fifty or more new poems which now appear, do not greatly swell its size, while they bring the selections down to the present date, carrying out the pwrpose of the compiler, as indi- cated in his Preface. November, 1890. i CONTENTS. FROM SHAKESPEARE TO MILTON. Thottght Lord Tlwmas Vaux Majesty of God Thomas Sternhold No Age content with his own Estate . . H. Howard, Earl of Surrey Pleasure mixed with Pain . . . . . . Sir Thomas Wyatt A Description of such a one as he would love " " " The Passionate Shepherd to his Love . . Christopher Marlowe The Nvmph's Reply . . . . Sir Walter Raleigh The Pilgrim " . " " The Soul's Errand ," . " " Sonnets. Sir Philip Sidney Lament, for Astrophel (Sir Philip Sidney) Matthew Roydon Angelic Ministry Edmund Spenser The True Woman , . . From the.Epithalamium Una .AND THE Lion The .House of Riches The Bower of Bliss Content and Rich . A Summer's Day The Soul Sir John Davies Contj;ntment Thomas Nash . The .Lessons of Nature ......... William Drummond To his 3I1STRESS, THE Queen of Bohemia , . Sir Henry Wotton The .Good. Man ,,,...,,."."," Revenge of Injuries ,...,, Lady Elizabeth Carew From an Epistle to the Countess of ,Cu.mb.er- LAND .,,,,, Samuel Daniel . My Mind to me a Kingdom is , , , ^ ^ William Byrd ... Songs : . . .... Ariel's Song William Shakespeare The Fairy to Puck " " Robert Soiithwell Alexander Hume Page 3 3 3 4 4 4 5 5 5 6 7 7 7 8 8 9 9 10 10 11 12 12 13 13 13 14 15 16 16 CONTENTS. Amiens's Song A Sea Diege Hark ! hakk ! the Lark ! .... Under the Greenwood-Tree . . . Dirge for Fidele Sonnets The Noble Nature Song of Hesperus On Lucy, Countess of Bedford . . . The Sweet Neglect How near to Good is what is Fair ! . Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H Love will fini) out the Way . . . May-Day Song Begone Dull Care ! Farewell to the Fairies Robin Goodfellow Edom o' Gordon Take thy Auld Cloak about thee . . The Barring o' the Door He that loves a Rosy Cheek. . . . The Sirens' Song Song Fair and Unworthy Music Good-Morrow Search after God Sic Vita Elegy I 'll never love thee more .... Death the Leveller Celinda TFil 'mm Shakespeare Ben Jonson it Unknoum Bishop Richard Corbett Unknoivn .... Thomas Carew . William Browne << <( Sir Robert Ayton . William Strode . Thomas Heywood Henry King Evening Hymn "Wishes To Althea To Lucasta To Daffodils To Blossoms To keep a true Lent Virtue The Flower Rest The Bird They are all gone For one that hears himself much praised Marquis of Montrose James Shirley . . E. Herbert {Earl ofCherhury) Sir Thmnas Broume . Richard Crashaw Sir Richard Lovelace <( <( (( Robert Herrick (( <( <( (( George Herbert <( (( (( << Henry Vaughan « <( George Wither CONTENTS. XI Companionship of the Muse George Wither Thoughts in a Garden Andrew Marvell The Bermudas " " Hymn on the Nativity John Milton . Sonnets : On arriving at the Age of twenty-three " " On his Blindness " *' Prayer Thomas Elwood Resignation Richard Baxter In. Prison Sir Roger L' Estrange Old Age and Death Edmund Waller Of Myself Abraham Cowley Liberty " " FROM DRYDEN TO BURNS. Song for Saint Cecilla's Day, 1687 . . . Under Milton's Picture Character of a Good Parson Reason Morning Hymn Hymn Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII The Universal Prayer Happiness Song The Painter who pleased Nobody and Every- body Careless Content From the "Castle of Indolence" .... A Hymn Grongar Hill The Braes of Yarrow The Heavenly Land Ye Golden Lamps of Heaven, farewell ! . Jesus, Lover of my Soul Love Divine, all Love excelling .... On the Death of Dr. Levett The Schoolmistress Elegy avritten in a Country Churchyard . Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College Dirge in Cymbeline Ode to Evening The Chameleon From "The Deserted Village" Johii Dryden t( << Thomas Ken . . Joseph Addison . (( << Alexander Pope . Allan Ramsay . John Gay . . . John Byrom . . James Thomson . John Dyer . . . William Hamilton Isaac Watts . . Philip Doddridge Charles Wesley . Augustus M. Toplady Samuel Johnson . William Shenstone Thomas Gray , . William Collins . James Merrick Oliver Goldsmith . xu CONTENTS. The Fhiar of Orders Gray .... Loss OF THE Royal George Lines to my Mother's Picture . . . Mysteries of Providence The Mariner's "Wife The Hermit The Dead The Three Warnings The Sabbath of the Soul The Death of the Virtuous .... Life AVhat ails this Heart o' mine? . . . To the Cuckoo Yarrow Stream Bonnie George Campbell Waly, waly, but love be Bonny . . Lady Mary Ann The Boatie rows Glenlogie John Davidson Had 1 A Heart for Falsehood framed The Minstrel's Song in Ella .... Isaac Ashford A Wish Italian Song Of a' the Airts the Wind can blaw . Mary Morlson Highland Mary To Mary in Heaven A Vision A Bard's Epitaph Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson AuLD Robin Gray The Tiger To the Muses The Gowan glitters on the Sward . The Land o' the Leal The Soldier's Return Lament for Flodden The Midges dance aboon the Burn The Braes o* Balquhither To the Lady Anne Hamilton .... The Dead who have died in the Lord Night and Death Ode to an Indian Gold Coin .... Thomas Percy William Cowper , William Julius Mickle James Beattie . . John La.nghorne . Mrs. Thrale . . Anna L. Barhauld Susanna Blamire John Logan Unknown Richard B. Sheridan Thomas Chatterton George Crabbe . . Samuel Rogers Robert B urns . K n (( <( << << <( i< Lady Anne Barnard William, Blake . (( << Joanna Baillie Lady Caroline Nairn Robert Bloomfield Jane Elliott . . Robert Tannahill William R. Spencer James Glassford . Joseph Bla'oco White John Leyden . . CONTENTS. Xlll Written after Eecotery from a Dangerous Illness Sir Humphry Davy Cupid grown careful George Croly . . To the Herb Rosemary Henry Kirke White To AN Early Primrose " " " The Star of Bethlehem " " " Lines written in Richmond Churchyard, Yorkshire Herbert Knowles . 90 91 92 92 93 93 FROM WORDSWORTH TO LONGFELLOW. Intimations of Immortality William Wordsworth 97 The Daffodils " " 99 To THE Cuckoo " " 100 A Memory " " 100 She was a Phantom of Delight " " 100 Yarrow unvisited " " 101 On a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm . " " 101 Ode to Duty " " 102 To Sleep " " 103 The World " " 103 To THE River Duddon " " 103 Young Lochintar Sir Walter Scott . . 104 A Serenade " " " . . 105 Song " " *' . . 105 Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman ....** " " . . 105 The Trosachs " " " . . 105 Coronach " " " • • 1^6 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid " " " • • 107 Christmas-Time " " " • • -^^^ Genevieve Samuel Taylor Coleridge 108 Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Cha- mouni Christabel Stanzas Robert Southey The Inchcape Rock Brough Bells The Housekeeper Charles Lamb The Old Familiar Faces Hester When Maggy gangs away James Hogg . The Rapture of Kilmeny *' " • Fly to the Desert Thomas Moore The Mid Hour of Night The Vale of Avoca 109 110 117 117 118 120 120 120 121 121 123 124 124 XIV CONTENTS. THOU WHO dry' ST THE MoURNER's TeAR Thou art, God ! She walks in Beauty The Destruction of Sennacherib . . . The Lake of Geneva Mdnt Blanc The Immortal Mind Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples To a Skylark OxE Word is too often profaned , . . The Eve of Saint Agnes The Common Lot Forever with the Lord Prayer Whilst Thee I seek There was Silence in Heaven .... To A bereaved Mother Lament The Last Man Glenara Lord Ullin's Daughter Hymn to the Flowers Address to an Egyptian Mummy . . . A Ghost at Noon Forest Worship Corn-Law Hymn If thou WERT BY MY SiDE Not ours the Vows An Angel in the House Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel . . . A AVet Sheet and a Flowing Sea . . . Thou hast sworn by thy God .... She's gane to dwall in Heaven . . . The Evening Cloud I'rom the Recesses Hymn Thomas Moore << << Lord Byron Percy Bysshe Shelley John Keats . . . James Montgomery . Helen Maria Williams Unknown .... John Qtiincy Adams Walter Savage Landor Thomas Campbell Horace Smith (( << Ubenezer Elliott (( << (( (< Reginald Heher Bernard Barton Leigh Hunt . . Allan Cunningham The Bucket After a Summer Shower Mariner's Hymn The Soul's Defiance 0, why should the spirit of mortal be PROUD ? The Jackdaw of Rheims My Life is like the Summer Rose . . . The Burial of Sir John Moohe .... John Wilson . . Sir John Bowring . Samuel Woodworth Andrews Norton Caroline Bowles Soutliey Lavinia Stoddard . William Knox . . Richard H. Barham Riclmrd Henry Wilde Charles Wolfe . . CONTENTS. XV Sweet Home John Howard Payne . . . 153 The Childe's Destiny Felicia Hemans 153 Kindred Hearts " *' 154 Marriage Maria Brooks 154 May James G. Percival .... 155 To Seneca Lake ...... .... 155 The Fall of Niagara John G. C. Brainard . . . 155 Epithalamium " " '* ... 156 The Memory of the Heart .... Daniel Webster 156 TiiE American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake . . . 156 Passing away John Pierpont 157 To Congress " " 158 Jeanie Morrison William Motherwell . . . 159 The Song of the Shirt Thomas Hood 160 Morning Meditations " *' 160 Song " " 161 Ruth " " 161 Hymn of Nature W. B. 0. Peabodtj .... 162 I would not live alway W. A. Muhlenberg . . . . 162 The Irish Emigrant Lady Dufferin 163 The Belle of the Ball Winthrop M. Praed . . . 163 Love and Friendship William Leggett .... 165 A Health Edward Coate Pinkney . . 165 Burns Filz-Greene Halleck . . . 165 On a Portrait of Red Jacket ... " " .... 166 Sonnet William Lloyd Garrison . . 168 Ambition John Neal 168 Pilgrim Song George Lunt 168 The Family Meeting Charles Sprague .... 169 Our Mary Henry ^coit Riddell . . . 169 The Forging of the Anchor .... Samuel Ferguson .... 170 The Bells of Shandon Francis Mahony (Father Prout) 171 Unseen Spirits Nathaniel Parker Willis . . 172 From Melanie " " " . . 172 BiNGEN ON THE Rhine Caroline Elizabeth Norton . 173 The Sabbath Edivard Lord Lytton . . . 174 Faith Frances Anne Kemble . . . 175 Hymn John Sterling 175 Labor Frances S. Osgood .... 175 The Present Heaven Jozies Very 176 To the Painted Columbine << .. I^g Evening Song Thomas Miller 177 Morning John Keble 177 Inward Music .... 178 Saviour ! whose Mercy Sir Robert Grant 178 XVI CONTENTS. Trust Dean of Cantcrlu-ry . , . 179 A Petition TO TiiTE B. JV. Procter (Barry Cornwall) 179 A Prayer in Sickness " " " " . 179 The Brookside Richard Mmickton Milnes . . 181 The Men of Old " " " . , 180 The Palm and the Pine " " " . . 180 Tibbie Inglis Mary Howitt 181 The Departure of the Swallow . . William Howitt .... 182 Lucy's Flittin' William Laidlaw .... 182 Summer L»ays Unknown 183 Losses Frances Browne 184 We are Brethren a' Eobert Nicoll 184 The Island Eiclvard H. Dana .... 185 The Pirate «.<.<« .... 186 The Spectre Horse <<<««« .... 185 To A Waterfowl William Cullen Bryant . . 187 Thanatopsis " " " . . 187 The Death of the Flowers .... " " *' . . 188 To the Fringed Gentian " " " . . 189 The Battle-Field " " " . . 189 From "The Rivulet" " " " . . 190 The Burial of Love " " " . . 190 The Sleep Elizabeth Barrett Browning . 190 Bertha in the Lane " " " . 191 A Musical Instrument " " " . 193 Cowper's Grave " " " .194 At the Church Gate William Makepeace Thackeray 195 Mariana Alfred Tennyson . "Break, break, break ! " " " Memory Doubt The Larger Hope " " Garden Song ** " Bugle Song " " The Apology Ralph Waldo Emerson To Eva Thine Eyes still shone " " " Each and All " " " The Problem " " " Boston Hymn " " " The Soul's Prophecy •' " " The Bells Edgar A. Poe . . . Evelyn Hope Robert Browning . . Rabbi Ben Ezra " " . • The Lost Leader " " . • 195 196 196 197 197 198 199 199 199 200 200 200 201 202 202 203 204 207 CONTENTS. XVll Paul Revere's Ride Henry W, Longfellow 207 Maidenhood <( <( << *WOOD-TREE. Under the greenwood-tree Who loves to lie with me. And tune his mern," note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither ; Here shall he see No enemy. But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun. Seeking the food he eats. And pleased with what he gets. Come hither, come hither, come hither ! Here shall he see No enemy. But winter and rough weather. DIRGE FOR nDELE. Fear no more the heat 0' the sun. Nor the fiirious winter's rages ; Thou thy worldly task hast done. Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : WILLIAM SHAKESPEAEE. 17 Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great. Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; Care no more to clothe, and eat ; To thee the reed is as the oak : The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightmng flash, Kor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; Fear not slander, censure rash ; Thou hast finished joy and moan : All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to" thee, and come to dust. "So exerciser harm thee ! "Not no witchcraft charm thee ! Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! Nothing ill come near thee ! Quiet consummation have ; And renowned be thy grave. SONXETS. When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state. And trouble deaf heaven with my boot- less cries. And look upon myself, and curse my fate, "Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed. Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, "With what I most enjoy contented least ; Yet in these thoughts myself almost de- spising. Haply I think on thee, — and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heav- en's gate ; For thy sweet love remembered, such wealth brings. That then I scorn to change my state with kings. "Whex to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I 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 date- less night. And weep afresh love's long-since-can- celled woe. And moan the expense of many a van- ished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And hea\"ily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, AH losses are restored, and sorrows end. That time of year thou mayst in me be- hold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day. As after sunset fadeth in the west. Which by and by black night doth take away. Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire. That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must ex- pire. Consumed with that which it was nour- ished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave erelong. They that have power to hurt and wHl do none. That do not do the thing they most do show, "Who, moving others, are themselves as stone. Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow ; They rightly do inherit heaven's graces. And husband nature's riches from ex- pense; 18 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others but stewards of their excellence. The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die ; But if that flower with base infection meet. The basest weed outbraves his dignity : For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. Alas, 'tis true, I have gone hereandthere, And made myself a motley to the view. Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear. Made old ofi"ences of aff'ections new. Most true it is, that I have looked on truth Askance and strangely ; but, by all above. These blenches gave my heart another youth. And worse essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, save wbat shall have no end: Mine appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A God in love, to whom I am confined. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends with the remover to remove ; O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering bark. Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken. Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me jiroved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. No ! Time, thou shalt not boast that 1 do change : Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ; They are but dressings of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old ; And rather make thefn bom to our desire, Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy, Notwonderingatthepresentnorthe past ; For thy records and what we see do lie, Made more or less by thy continual haste : This I do vow, and this shall ever be, I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. BEN JONSON. [1574-1637.] THE NOBLE NATTJRE. It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To faE a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night, — It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see ; And in short measures life may perfect be. SONG OF HESPERTJS. Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair. State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light. Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose ; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did close : Bless us then with wished sight. Goddess excellently bright. UNKNOWN. 19 Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver ; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever : Thou that makest a day of night, Goddess excellently bright. ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, What kind of creature I could most desire. To honor, serve, and love ; as poets use, I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise. Of greatest blood, and yet more good than gi-eat ; I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride ; I meant each softest virtue there should meet. Fit in that softer bosom to reside. Only a learned and a manly soul I purposed her; that should, with even powers. The rock, the spindle, and the shears control Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. Such when I meant to feign, and wished to see, My Muse bade, Bedford wi'ite, and that was she. THE SWEET NEGLECT. Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast: Still to be powdered, still perfumed •. Lady, it is to be presumed. Though art's hid caiises are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face. That makes simplicity a grace ; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : Such sweet neglect more taketh me. Than all the adulteries of art. That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. HOW NEAR TO GOOD IS WHAT IS FAIR I 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 still, and prove What ways we may deserve ; We court, we praise, we more than love. We are not grieved to serve. EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. WouLDST thou hear what man can say In a little ? — reader, stay ! Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die, — Which in life did harbor give To more virtue than doth live. If at all she had a fault. Leave it buried in this vault. One name was Elizabeth, — The other, let it sleep with death. Fitter where it died to tell, Than that it lived at all. FareweU ! UNKNOWN. [Before 1649.] LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAT. Over the mountains. And under the waves, Over the fountains, And under the graves. Under floods which are deepest, Which Neptune obey. Over rocks which are steepest, Love will find out the way. Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie. Where there is no place For the receipt of a fly, Where tlie gnat dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay. If Love come he will enter. And find out the way. If that he were hidden. And all men that are. Were strictly forbidden That place to declare > 20 SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. Winds that have no ahidings, Pitying their delay, Woukl come and bring him tidings, And direct him the way. If the earth should part him, He would gallop it o'er ; If the seas should o'erthwart him. He would swim to the shore. Should his love become a swallow. Through the air to stray, Love ^\'ill lend wings to follow. And will find out the way. There is no striving To cross his intent, There is no contriving His plots to prevent ; But if once the message greet him, That his true love doth stay, If death should come and meet him, Love will find out the way. UNKNOWN. [Beiore 1689.] MAY-DAY SONG. Remember us poor Mayers all ! And thus do we begin To lead our lives in righteousness, Or else we die in sin. We have been rambling all the night, And almost all the day ; And now returned back again, AVe have brought you a branch of ^lay. A branch of May we have brought you, And at your door it stands : It is but a sprout, But it 's well budded out By the work of our Lord's hands. The heavenly gates are open wide, Our paths are beaten plain ; And if a man be not too far gone. He may return again. The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light, A little before it is day ; So God bless you all, both great and small. And send you a joyful May ! UNKNOWN. [Before 1649.] BEGONE DULL CARE I Begone dull care ! I prithee begone from me : Begone dull care ! Thou and I can never agree. Long while thou hast been tarrying here, And fain thou wouldst me kill ; But i' faith, dull care, Thou never shalt have thy will. Too much care AVill make a young man gray ; Too much care Will turn an old man to clay. My wife shall dance, and I will sing, So merrily jiass the day ; For 1 hold it is the wisest thing, To drive dull care away. Hence, dull care, I '11 none of thy company ; Hence, dull care, Thou art no pair for me. We 'U hunt the wild boar through th« wold. So merrily pass the day ; And then at night, o'er a cheerful bowl. We '11 drive dull care away. BISHOP EICHAED CORBETT. [1582 -1635.] FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES. Farewell rewards and fairies ! Good housewifes now may say. For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do ; Yet who of late, for cleanliness. Finds sixpence in her shoe ? Lament, lament, old Abbeys, The fairies' lost command; They did but change priests' babies. But some have changed your land ; And all your children sprung from thence Are now grown Puritans j UNKNOWN. 21 Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your domains. At morning and at evening both, You merry were and glad, So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had ; When Tom came home from labor, Or Cis to milking rose, Then merrily went their tabor, And nimbly went their toes. Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain. Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain ; But since of late Elizabeth, And later, James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been. By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession, Their songs were Ave-Maries, Their dances were procession : But now, alas ! they all are dead. Or gone beyond the seas ; Or farther for religion fled ; Or else they take their ease. A tell-tale in their company They never could endure, And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punished sure ; It was a just and Christian deed, To pinch such black and blue : 0, how the commonwealth doth need Such justices as you ! UNKNOWN. [Before 1649 ] ROBIN GOODFELLOW. From Oberon, in fairy- land. The king of ghosts and shadows there, Mad Robin I, at his command. Am sent to view the night-sports here. What revel rout Is kept about. In every comer where I go, I will o'ersee. And merry be. And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho ! More swift than lightning can I fly About this airy welkin soon, And, in a minute's space, descry Each thing that 's done below the moon. There's not a hag Or ghost shall wag, Or crv, 'ware goblins ! where I go; But Robin I Their feasts will spy. And send them home with ho, ho, he ! Whene'er such wanderers I meet. As from their night-sports they trudge home. With counterfeiting voice I greet. And call them on with me to roam : Through woods, through lakes ; Through bogs, through brakes ; Or else, unseen, with them I go. All in the nick. To play some trick. And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho ! Sometimes I meet them like a man, Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound ; And to a horse I turn me can. To trip and trot about them round. But if to ride My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go, O'er hedge and lands. Through pools and ponds, I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with junkets fine; Unseen of all the company, I eat their cakes and sip their wine ! And, to make sport, I puff and snort: And out the candles I do blow ; The maids I kiss, They shriek— Who 's this? I answer naught but ho, ho, ho ! Yet now and then, the maids to please, At midnight I card up their wool ; And, while they sleep and take their ease, With wheel to threads their flax I pull. I grind at mill Their malt up still ; I dress their hemp ; I spin their tow ; If any wake, And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 22 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. When any need to borrow aught, We lend them what they do require : And for tlie use demand we naught ; Our own is all we do desire. If to repay They do delay, Abroad amongst them then I go, And night by night, I them afl'right, With pinehings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho! When lazy queans have naught to do, But study how to cog and lie ; To make debate and mischief too, 'Twixt one another secretly : I mark their gloze. And it disclose To them whom they have wronged so : When I have done I get me gone, And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho! When men do traps and engines set In loopholes, where the vermin creep. Who from their folds and houses get Their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep ; I spy the gin. And enter in, And seem a vermin taken so ; But when they there Approach me near, I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho ! By wells and rills, in meadows green. We nightly dance our heyday guise; And to our fairy king and queen, We chant our moonlight minstrelsies. When larks 'gin sing. Away we fling ; And babes new-born steal as we go ; And elf in bed We leave in stead. And wend us laughing ho, ho, ho ! From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I Thus nightly revelled to and fro ; And for my pranks men call me by The name of llobin Goodfellow. Fiends, ghosts, and sprites. Who haunt the nights, The hags and goblins do me know; And beld.inifs old My feats have told. So vale, vale ; ho, ho, ho ! UNKNOWN. [Before 1649.] EDOM O' GORDON. It fell about the Martinmas, When the wind blew shrill and cauld, Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, " We maun draw to a hauld. ' ' And whatna hauld sail we draw to. My merry men and me ? We will gae to the house of the Rodes, To see that fair ladye." The lady stood on her castle wa', Beheld baith dale and down ; There she was aware of a host of men Came riding towards the town. "0 see ye not, my merry men a', see ye not what I see ? Methinks I see a host of men ; 1 marvel who they be." She weened it had been her lovely lord, As he cam' riding hame ; It was the traitor, Edom 0' Gordon, Wha recked nor sin nor shame. She had nae sooner buskit hersell, And putten on her gown. Till Edom 0' Gordon an' his men Were round about the town. They had nae sooner supper set, Nae sooner said the grace. But Edom o' Gordon an' his men Were lighted about the place. The lady ran up to her tower-head, As fast as she could hie. To see if by her fair speeches She could wi' him agree. " Come doun to me, ye lady gay, Come doun, come doun to me ; This night sail ye lig within mine anns, To-morrow my brid(! sail be. " ' ' I winna come down, ye fause Gordon, I winna come down to thee; I winna forsake my ain dear lord, — And he is na far frae me." UNKNOWN. 23 " Gie owre your house, ye lady fair, Gie owre your house to me ; Or I sail burn yoursell therein, But and your babies three." " I ^\inna gie owre, ye fause Gordon, To nae sic traitor as thee ; And if ye burn my ain dear babes. My lord sail mak' ye dree. " Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, And charge ye weel my gun ; For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher. My babes, we been undone !" She stood upon her castle wa', And let twa bullets flee : She missed that bluidy butcher's heart. And only razed his knee. "Set fire to the house !" quo' fause Gordon, Wud wi' dule and ire : "Fause ladye, ye sail rue that shot As ye bum in the fire ! " "Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man ! I paid ye weel your fee ; Why pu' ye out the gi'und-wa' stane, Lets in the reek to me ? "And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man ! I paid ye weel your hire ; Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane. To me lets in the fire?" "Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye. Ye paid me weel my fee : But now I 'm Edom o' Gordon's man, — Maun either do or dee. " then bespake her little son, Sat on the nurse's knee : Says, "O niitherdear, gie owretliishouse. For the reek it smothers me." " I wad gie a' my goud, my bairn, Sae wad I a' my fee, For ae blast o' the western wind. To blaw the reek frae thee." then bespake her daughter dear, — She was baith jimp and sma' ; " row' me in a pair o' sheets, And tow me o'er the wa' !" They row'd her in a pair o' sheets, And tow'd her owre the wa' ; But on the point o' Gordon's spear She gat a deadly fa'. bonnie, bonnie was her mouth. And cherry were her cheeks, And clear, clear was her yellow hair, Whereon the red blood dreeps. Then wi' his spear he turned her owre ; gin her face was wan ! He said, "Ye are the first that e'er 1 wished alive again." He cam' and lookit again at her ; gin her skin was white ! " I might hae spared that bonnie face To hae been some man's delight." " Busk and boun, my merry men a', For ill dooms I do guess ; — 1 cannot look on that bonnie face As it lies on the grass." ' ' Wha looks to freits, my master dear, Its freits will follow them ; Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' Gordon Was daunted by a dame." But when the ladye saw the fire Come flaming o'er her head. She wept, and kissed her children twain, Says, "Bairns, we been but dead." The Gordon then his bugle blew, And said, "Awa', awa' ! This house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame ; 1 hauld it time to ga'." And this way lookit her ain dear lord. As he came owre the lea ; He saw his castle a' in a lowe, Sae far as he could see. " Pat on, put on, my wighty men. As fast as ye can dri'e ! For he that 's hindmost o' the thrang Sail ne'er get good o' me." Then some they rade, and some they ran, Out-owre the grass and bent ; But ere the foremost could win up, Baith lady and babes were brent. And after the Gordon he is gane, Sae fast as he might dri'e ; And soon i' the Gordon'sfoulheart'sblude He 's wrokeu his fair ladye. 24 SONGS OF THEEE CENTURIES. UNKNOWN. TAKE THY AULD CLOAK ABOUT THEE. In winter, when the rain rained canld, And frost and snow were on the hiU, And Boreas with his blasts sae bauld Was threat'ning all our kye to kill ; Then Bell, my wife, wha loves not strife, She said to me right hastilie, "Get up, gudenian, save Crummie's life, And take thy auld cloak about thee ! "Cow Crummie is a useful cow, . And she is come of a good kin' ; Aft has she wet the bairnies' mou', And I am laith that she should pine : Get up, gudeman, it is fu' time ! The sun shines frae the lift sae hie ; Sloth never made a gracious end, — Gae, take thy auld cloak about thee ! " " My cloak was once a gude gray cloak, "When it was litting for my wear; But now it 's scantly worth a groat, For 1 hae worn 't this thirty year : Let 's spend the gear that we hae won, We little ken the day we '11 dee ; Then I '11 be proud, since I hae sworn To hae a new cloak about me." " In days when our King Robert reigned. His breeches cost but half a crown ; He said they were a groat too dear. And ca'd the tailor thief and loim. He was the king that wore the crown, And thou the man of low degree : It 's pride puts a' the country down, Sae take thy auld cloak about thee !" " Bell, my wife, why dost thou flout? Now is now, and then was then. Seek anywhere the world thi'oughout. Thou ken'st not clowns from gentle- men. They are clad in black, green, yellow, and giay, Sae lar above their ain degree : Once in my life I '11 do as they. For I '11 have a new cloak about me." " Gudeman, I wot it 's thirty year Sin' we did ane anither ken, Anut hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come: And slow howe'er my marches be, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution "With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive Tlie crime, — I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet, and never part. MAEQUIS OF MONTROSE. [i6i2- 1650.] I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE. My dear and only love, I pray That little Avorld of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchy : For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, I '11 call a synod in my heart, And never love thee more. As Alexander I will reign. And I will reign alone ; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small. Who dares not put it to the touch. To gain or lose it all. JAMES SHIRLEY. [1596- 1666.] DEATH THE LEVELLER. The glories of our blood and state Are sliadows, not substantial things ; There is no armor against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down. And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, Andmustgiveup their nuirmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor- victim bleeds : Sm THOMAS BEOWNE. — RICHARD CRASHAW. 29 Your heads must come To the cold tomb ; Only the actions of the just SmeU sweet, and blossom in their dust. EDWARD HERBERT, (EARL OP CHERBURY.) [1581-1648.] CELINDA. Walking thus towards a pleasant grove, Which did, it seemed, in new delight The pleasures of the time unite To give a triumph to their love, — They stayed at last, and on the grass Keposed so as o'er his breast She bowed her gracious head to rest, Such a weight as no burden was. Long their fixed eyes to heaven bent, Unchanged they did never move, As if so great and pure a love No glass but it could represent. " These eyes again thine eyes shall see. Thy hands again these hands infold. And all chaste pleasures can be told, Shall with us everlasting be. Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch. Much less your fairest mind invade ; Were not our souls immortal made, Our equal loves can make them such." SIR THOMAS BROWNE. [1605- 1682.] EVENING HYMN. The night is come ; like to the day, Depart not thou, great God, away. Let not my sins, black as the night, Eclipse the lustre of thy light. Keej) in my horizon : for to me The sun makes not the day, but thee. Thou whose nature cannot sleep, On my temples sentry keep : Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes. Whose eyes are open while mine close. Let no dreams my head infest But such as Jacob's temples blest. WhUst I do rest, my soul advance ; Make my sleep a holy trance : That I may, my rest being wrought, Awake into some holy thought. And with as active vigor run My course, as doth the nimble sun. Sleep is a death ; 0, make me try. By sleeping, what it is to die : And as gently lay my head On my grave as now my bed. Howe'er I rest, great God, let me Awake again at last with thee. And thus assured, behold I lie Securely, or to wake or die. These are my drowsy days ; in vain I do now wake to sleep again : 0, come that hour when I shall nevei Sleep thus again, but wake forever. RICHARD CRASHAW. [1605-1650.] WISHES. 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 shady 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 IjUsses, 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 Tafl"eta or tissue can. Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 30 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. A face that 's best By its own beauty drest, Aud can alone command the rest/ A face made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flow- ers. "Whate'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, says, friend." ' Welcome, I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish — no more. — Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows ; Her that dares be What these lines wish to see: I seek no further, it is She. 'T is She, and here 1,0 ! T unclothe and clear lly wishes' cloudy character. Such worth as this is Shall fix my ilying wishes. And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory. My fancier, lly before ye ; Be ye my fictions: — but her story. Sm RICHARD LOVELACE. [1618-1658.] TO ALTHEA. When love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates. And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fettered to her eye. The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage : If I have freedom in my love. And in my soul am free, — Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty. TO LTJCASTA. Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnerj' Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind, To war and arms 1 fly. True : a new mistress now I chase. The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such, As you too shall adore ; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more. ROBERT IIERRICK. [1591 - 1674.] TO DAFFODILS. Fair Dafl"odils, we weep to see You haste away so soon : As yet the early-rising sun Ha^j not attainc(l his noon : Stay, stay. GEOKGE HERBERT. 31 Until the hasting day Has run But to the even song ; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay as you, AVe 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. 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 An hour or half's delight. And so to bid good-night? 'T was pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you 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. TO KEEP 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, ypt 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? No : 't is a fast to dole Thy sheaf of wheat, And meat, Unto the hungry 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. GEORGE HERBERT. [1593 -1633.] VrRTUE. Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright. The bridal of the earth and sky, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave. Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave. And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box wliere sweets compacted lie. My music shows ye have your closes. And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul. Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal. Then chiefly lives. THE FLOWER. How fresh, Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in spring ;_ To which, besides their own demesne, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing. 32 SONGS OF THEEE CENTURIES. Who would have thought my shriv- elled heart Could have recovered greenness ? It was gone Quite under ground ; as flowers depart To see their mother- root, when they have blown ; Where they together, All the hard weather. Dead to the world, keep house un- known. These are thy wonders. Lord of power, KilUng and quickening, bringing down to hell And up to heaven in an hour ; Making a chiming of a passing bell. We say amiss, This or that is : Thy word is all, if we could spell. that I once past changing were. Fast ia thy Paradise, where no flower can wither ! Many a spring I shoot up fair Ofi"ering at heaven, growing and groan- ing thither ; Nor doth my flower Want a spring-shower. My sins and 1 joining together. But while I grow in a straight line. Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own. Thy anger comes, and I decline : What frost to that ? what pole is not the zone Where all things burn. When thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown ? And now in age I bud again. After so many deaths I live and write ; I once more smell the dew and rain. And relish versing : my only Light, It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night. These are thy wonders. Lord of love. To make us see we are but flowers that glide ; Which when we once can find and prove, Thou hnst a garden for us, where to bide. Who would be more. Swelling through store. Forfeit their i'aradise by their pride. REST. When God at first made man. Having a glass of blessings standing by, "Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can : Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span." So strength first made a way ; Then beauty flowed; then wisdom, honor, pleasure : When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, Eest in the bottom lay. " For if I should," said he, " Bestow this jewel also on my creature. He would adore my gifts instead of me. And restin nature, not the God of nature ; So both should losers be. "Yet let him keep the rest. But keep them with repining restlessness : Let him be rich and weary, that at least. If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast." HENRY VAUGHAN. [1614-1695.] THE BIRD. Hither thou com'st. The busy wind all night Blew through thy lodging, where thy own wai-m wing Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm, For which coarse man seems much the fitter bom. Rained on thy bed And harmless head ; And now, as fresh and cheerful as the light, Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing Unto that Providence whose unseen arm Curbed them, and clothed thee well and warm. All things that be praise Him ; and had Their lesson taught them when first made. So hills and valleys into singing break ; And though poor stones have neither speech nor tongue, GEORGE WITHER. 33 Wliile active winds and streams both run and speak, Yet stones are deep in admiration. Thus praise and prayer here beneath the sun Make lesser mornings, when the great are done. For each inclosed spirit is a star Inlightning his owu little sphere. Whose light, though fetcht and borrowed from far. Both mornings makes and evenings there. But as these birds of light make a land glad, Chirping their solemn matms on each tree; So in the shades of night some dark fowls be. Whose heavy notes make all that hear them sad. The turtle then in palm-trees mourns, While owls and satyrs howl ; The pleasant land to brimstone turns, And all her streams grow foul. Brightness and mirth, and love and faith, all fly. Till the day-spring breaks forth again from high. THEY ARE AT.T. GONE. They are all gone into the world of light, And I alone sit lingering here ! Their very memory is fair and bright. And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this liill is drest After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory. Whose light doth trample on my days ; My days, which are at best but dull and hoary. Mere glimmering and decays. holy hope ! and high humility, — High as the heavens above ! 3 These are your walks, and you have showed them me 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 strange 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 lockt her up gives room. She '11 shine through aU the sphere. Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under thee ! Resume thv 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. GEORGE WITHER. [1588-1667.] FOR ONE THAT HEARS HTMSET.F MUCH PRAISED. My sins and follies. Lord ! by thee From others hidden are. That such good words are spoke of me, As now and then I hear ; 34 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. For sure if others knew me such, Such as myself 1 know, I should have been dispraised as much As I am praised now. The praise, therefore, which I have heard, Delights not so my mind. As those things make my^ heart afeard, Which in myself I find: And I had rather to be blamed. So I were blameless made, Than for much virtue to be famed, When I no virtues had. Though slanders to an innocent Sometimes do bitter grow. Their bitterness procures content, If clear himself he know. And when a virtuous man hath erred. If praised himself he hear. It makes him grieve, and more afeard. Than if he slandered were. Lord ! therefore make my heart upright, Whate'er my deeds do seem ; And righteous rather in thy sight. Than in the world's esteem. And if aught good appear to be In any act of mine, Let thankfulness be found in me, And all the praise be thine. COMPANIONSHIP OF THE MUSE. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow ; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace. And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments. In my former days of bliss. Her divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw I could some invention draw. And raise pleasure to her height. Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring. Or the least bough's rustleing. By a daisy, whose leaves spread. Shut when Titan goes to bed ; Or a shady bush or tree. She could more infuse in me, Tlian all nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten glad- ness. In the very gall of sadness. The dull loneness, the black shade. That these hanging vaults have made ; The strange music of the waves. Beating on these hollow caves ; This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss ; The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight ; This my chamber of neglect. Walled about with disrespect, — From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this. Poesy, thou sweet'st content That e'er heaven to mortals lent : Though they as a trifle leave thee. Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee; Though thou be to them a scorn, That to naught but earth are born, — Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee ! ANDEEW MAHVELL. [1620-1678.] THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. How vainly men themselves amaze. To win the palm, the oak, or bays : And their incessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree. Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid ; While all the flowers and trees do close. To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. And Innoc(;nce, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred jilants, if here below, Only among these plants will grow. JOHN MILTON. 35 Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know or heed, How far these beauties her exceed ! Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. What wondrous life is this I lead ! Ripe apples drop about my head. The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine. The nectarine, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach. Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness, — The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; Yet it creates transcending these, Far other worlds and other seas ; Annihilating all that 's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide ; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight. Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was the happy garden state. While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet ! But 't was beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there : Two paradises are in one. To live in paradise alone. How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! WTiere, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run : And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flow- ers? THE BERMUDAS. Where the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied. From a small boat that rowed along, The listening winds received this song : " What shoxild we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Where he the huge sea monsters racks, That lift the deep upon their backs. Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own ? He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything. And sends the fowls to us in care. On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright. Like golden lamps in a green night. And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet, With apples, plants of such a price. No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by his hand, From Lebanon he stores the land ; And makes the hollow seas that roar. Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The gospel's pearl upon our coast ; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound his name. 0, let our voice his praise exalt, Till it arrive at heaven's vault. Which then perhaps rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexic bay." Thus sang they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note ; And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time. JOHN MILTON. [1608^-1674.] HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. It was the winter wild. While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies ; Nature, in awe of him. 36 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Had doffed her gaudy trim, With hergreat Master so to sympathize : It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty para- mour. Only with speeches fair She wooes the gentle air, To hide her guilty front with innocent snow ; And on her naked shame. Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden-white to throw ; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deform- ities. But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace : She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger. With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. No war or battle's sound Was heard the world around ; The idle spear and shield were high up- hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood ; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; And kings sat still with awful eye. As if they surely knew their sovereign lord was by. But peaceful was the night, Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began : The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed. Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, WTio now hath quite forgot to rave. While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze. Bending one way their precious influ- ence; And win not take their flight, For all the morning light. Or Lucifer had often warned them thence ; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlightened world no more should need ; He saw a greater sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axle- tree, could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn. Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them be- low; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal fingers strook. Divinely warbled voice Answering the stringed noise. As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loath to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. Nature, that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling. Now was almost won, To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame-faced night arrayed ; The helmed cherubim, JOHN MILTON. 37 And sworded seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn quire, "With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born heir. Such music as 't is said Before was never made. But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep. And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. King out, ye crystal spheres. Once bless our human ears. If ye have power to touch our senses so ; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time ; And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow; And, with your ninefold harmony, Make up full concert to the angelic sjrm- phony. For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold ; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die. And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould ; And Hell itself will pass away. And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men. Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between. Throned in celestial sheen. With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. But wisest Fate says no. This must not yet be so ; The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, So both himself and us to glorify : Yet first, to those ychained in sleep. The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang. While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbi'ake ; The aged earth aghast. With terror of that blast. Shall from the surface to the centre shake ; When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. And then at last our bliss, Full and perfect is. But now begins ; for, from this happy day. The old dragon, underground, In straiter limits bound. Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb ; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell. Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. The lonel}'^ mountains o'er, And the resoi;nding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; From haunted spring and dale. Edged with poplar pale, ThepartingGenius is with sighing sent ; With flower-inwoven tresses torn. The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth. And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures mourn with mid- night plaint. In urns and altars round, 9_J fee? If love for love thou wilt na gie. At least be pity to me shown ; A tliought ungentle canna be The thought 0' Mary Morison. HIGHLAND MARY. Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be j'our woods, andfair your flowers. Your waters never drumlie ! There simmer first imfauld her robes And there the langest tarry ! For there 1 took tlie last fareweel 0' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gaj' green birk. How rich the hawthorn's blossom. As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. "Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender ; And pledging aft to meet again, "We tore ourselves 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 ilary ! pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! And closed for aye the .sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly ! And mouldering 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. 83 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thoit lingering star, with lessening ray. That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. Mary ! dear, departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest 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 pressed. The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, 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 deeper makes. As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary ! dear, departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? A VISION. As I stood by yon roofless tower. Where the wa' -flower scents the dewy air. Where the howletmoumsinherivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky ; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant-echoing glens reply. The stream, adown its hazelly path. Was rushing by the ruined wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; Athort the lift they start and shift, Like fortune's favors, tint as win. By heedless chance I turned mine eyes, And by the moon-beam, shook, to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise. Attired as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane. His darin look had daunted me : And on his bonnet graved was plain, The sacred posy — Libertie ! And frae his harp sic strains did flow. Might roused the slumbering dead to hear; But 0, it was a tale of woe. As ever met a Briton's ear ! He sang wi' joy his former day. He weeping wailed his latter times ; But what he said it was nae play, I winna ventur 't in my rhymes. A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre' proud to snool. Let him draw near. And owre this grassy heap sing dool. And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, 0, pass not by ! But with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer. Yet runs himself life's mad career. Wild as the wave : Here pause, and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave. This poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, 84 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame ; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stained lus name ! Eeader, attend, — whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit ; Know prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON. He 's gane, he 's gane ! he 's frae us torn. The ae best fellow e'er was born ! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exiled. Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns Where echo slumbers ! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns. My wailing numbers ! Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! Ye burnies, wimplin downi your glens, Wi' toddlin din, Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin. Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea ; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs ; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs. At dawn, when every grassy blade Droops with a diamond at its head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, r tir rustling gale. Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade. Come join my wail. Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; Yc wliistling plover ; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; He 's gane forever ! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; Ye flsher herons, watching eels ; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake ; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake. Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' daj', 'Mang fields o' flow'ring claver gay ; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore. Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore. Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r. In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, Sets up her horn. Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn. rivers, forests, hiUs, and plains ! Oft have ye heard my canty strains ; But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe ? And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year ! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear; Thou, Summer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head. Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear For him that 's dead ! Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast. Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we 've lost ! Mourn him, thou Sun,great source of light ; Mourn, Empress of the silent night ! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. My Matthew mourn ! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight. Ne'er to return. Henderson ; the man ! the brother ! And art thou gone, and gone forever! And hast thou crost that unknown river, Life's dreary bound ! Like thee, where shall I find another. The world around ? Go to your sculptured tombs, ye Great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! LAEY ANNE BAENAED. — WILLIAM BLAKE. 85 But by thy honest turf I '11 wait, Thou man of worth ! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. LADY ANNE BARNARD. [1705-1825.] ATJLD ROBIN" GEAY. When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye come hame, And a' the weary warld to sleep are gane ; The waes 0' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, While my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and socht me for his bride ; But saving a croun, he had naething else beside ; To mak that croun a pund, my Jamie gaed to sea ; And the croun and the pund they were baith for nie. He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa : My mither she fell sick, — my Jamie was at sea. And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin ; 1 tolled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win ; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee', Said, "Jeannie, for their sakes, will ye na marry me?" My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back ; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ; The ship it was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee ? Or why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? My father urged me sair : my mither didna speak ; But she lookit in my face till my heart Hras like to break ; They gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea ; And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When, mournfu'as I sat en thestaneatmy door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he, Till he said, "I 'm come home, love, to marry thee." 0, sair did we greet, and muckle say of a' ! I gie'd him but ae kiss, and bade him gang awa' : I wish I were dead ! but I 'm no like to dee; And why do I live to cry, Wae 's me ? I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I '11 do my best a gude wife to be. For auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me. WILLIAM BLAKE. [1757-1827.] THE TIGER. Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright, In the forests of the night ; What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? In what distant deeps or skies Burned the fire of thine eyes ? On what wings dare he aspire ? What the hand dare seize the fire ? And what shoulder, and what art. Could twist the sinews of thine heart ? And when thy heart began to beat. What dread hand ? and what dread feet ? What the hammer, what the chain ? In what furnace was thy brain ? What the anvil ? what dread gi'asp Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, 86 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Did he smile his work to see ? Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee ? Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright, In the forests of the night, "What iumiortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? TO THE MUSES. "Whether on Ida's shady brow Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, which now From ancient melodies have ceased ; "Whether in Heaven ye wander fair. Or the green corners of the earth. Or the blue regions of the air, "Where the melodious winds have birth, "Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, "Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry, How have you left the ancient lore That bards of old engaged in you ! The languid strings do scarcely move. The sound is forced, the notes are few. JOAMA BAILLIE. [1762- 1831.] THE GO"VP"AN GLITTERS ON THE S"WARD. The gowan glitters on the sward. The lav'rock 's in the sky. And Collie on my plaid keeps ward. And time is passing by. 0, no! sad and slow, And lengthened on the ground ; The shadow of our trysting bush It wears so slowly round. My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, My lambs are bleating near; But .still the sound that I love best. Alack ! I canna hear. 0, no ! sad and slow, Tlie shadow lingers still ; And like a lanely ghaist I stand. And croon upon the hill. I hear below the water roar, The mill wi' clacking din, And Lucky scolding frae the door. To ca' the bairnies in. 0, no ! sad and slow. These are nae sounds for me ; The shadow of our trysting bush It creeps sae drearily. I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam, A snood o' bonnie blue, And promised, when our trysting cam', To tie it round her brow. 0, no ! sad and slow. The mark it winna' pass ; The shadow 0' that dreary bush Is tethered on the grass. now I see her on the way ! She 's past the witch's knowe ; She 's climbing up the brownies brae ; My heart is in a lowe, 0, no ! 't is not so, 'T is glamrie I hae seen ; The shadow o* that hawthorn bush Will move nae mair till e'en. My book o' grace I '11 try to read. Though conned wi' little skill ; When Collie barks 1 '11 raise my head. And find her on the hill. 0, no ! sad and slow. The time will ne'er be gane ; The shadow o' our trysting bush Is fixed like ony stane. LADY CAROLINE NAIRN. [1766-1845.] THE LAND O' THE LEAL. I 'm wearin' awa', Jean, Like snaw in a thaw, Jean, I 'm wearin' awa' To the Land 0' the Leal. There 's nae sorrow there, Jean, Tliere 's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is ever fair In tlie Land o' the Leal. You 've been leal and true, Jean, Your tnsk is ended noo, Jean, And 1 '11 welcome you To the Land 0' the Leal. ROBEET BLOOMFIELD. 87 Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean ; My soul langs to be free, Jean ; And angels wait on nie To the Land o' the Leal. Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And we grudged her sair To the Land o' the Leal ! But sorrow 's self wears past, Jean, And joy 's a comin' fast, Jean, The joy that 's aye to last. In the Land o' the Leal. A' our friends are gane, Jean ; "We 've lang been left alane, Jean ; But we '11 a' meet again In the Land o' the Leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean ! This world's care is vain, Jean ! We '11 meet, and aye be fain In the Land o' the Leal. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. [1766- 1823.] THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air. And take possession of my father's chair ! Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, Appeared the rough initials of my name, Cut forty years before ! The same old clock Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock I never can forget. A short breeze sprung. And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue, Caught the old dangling almanacs be- hind. And up they flew like banners in the wind ; Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went. And told of twenty years that I had spent Far from my native land. That instant came A robin on the threshold; though so tame, At first he looked distrustful, almost shy. And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye. And seemed to say, — past friendship to renew, — " Ah ha ! old worn-out soldier, is it you ?" While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still, On beds of moss spread on the window- sill, I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green. And guessed some infant hand had placed it there. And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose ; My heart felt everything but calm repose ; I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years. But rose at once, and bursted into tears ; Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, And thought upon the past with shame and pain ; I raved at war and all its horrid cost. And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused, And cursed the murdering weapons I had used. Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard. One bespoke age, and one a child's ap- peared. In stepped my father with convulsive start. And in an instant clasped me to his heart. Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid ; And stooping to the child, the old man said, "Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again ; This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain." The child approached, and with her fingers light Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight. But why thus spin my tale, — thus tedious be? Happy eld soldier ! what 's the world to me? 88 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. JANE ELLIOTT. [1781-1849.] LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. I Ve heard them lilting at our ewe-mUk- Lasses a' lilting before dawn 0' day ; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing. Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and rankled, and gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — The Flowers of the Forest are weded away. Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border ! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We '11 hear nae mair lilting at the ewe- milking ; "Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loan- ing— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. ROBERT TANNAHILL. [1774- 1810.] THE MIDGES DAJSTCE ABOON THE BURN. The midges dance aboon the bum ; The dews begin to fa' ; The paitricks down the rushy holm Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings through the briery shaw. While flitting gay the swallows play Around the castle wa'. Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay ; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm tlie ling' ring day ; While weary yaldrins 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 I'ar to me. THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. Let us go, lassie, go, To the braes o' Balquhither, Where the blae-berries grow 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the roe, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day On the braes o' Balquhither. I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, And I '11 cover it o'er Wi' the flowers of the mountain ; I will range through the wilds. And the deep glens sae drearie, And I'eturn wi' the spoils To the bower o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, WILLIAM K. SPENCER. — JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 89 And the roar of the linn On the night breeze is swelling, So merrily we '11 sing, As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear shieling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus. Now the summer 's in prime Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balc[uliither. WILLIAM R. SPENCER. [1770 -1834.] TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. Too late I stayed, forgive the crime. Unheeded flew the hours ; How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers ! What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of his glass. When all its sands are diamond sparks That dazzle as they pass ! Ah ! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings. When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage to its wings ? JAMES GLASSFORD. [1772- .] THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE LORD. Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent ; But weep not for him who is gone to his rest. Nor mourn for the ransomed, nor wail for the blest. The sun is not set, but is risen on high, Nor longin corruption his body shall lie ; Then let not the tide of thy griefs over- flow. Nor the music of heaven be discord below ; Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord, Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord. Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament. Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent ; But give to the living thy passion of tears, Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears ; Who are pressed by the combat, in dark- ness are lost. By the tempest are beat, on the billows are tossed : 0, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more. Whose warfare is ended, whose trial is o'er; Let the song be exalted, triumphant the chord. And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord. JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. [1775-1841.] NIGHT AND DEATH. Mysterious night ! when our first par- ent knew Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name. Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue ? Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew. Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, And lo ! creation widened in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, sun ! or who could find. Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? 90 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, Why do we, then, shun death with anx- ious strife ? If light can thus deceive, wherefore not lile? JOHN LEIDEN. [177S-1811.] ODE TO AN EfDIAN GOLD COIN. WRITTEN IN CHERICAL, MALABAR. Slave of the dark and dirty mine 1 What vanity has brought thee here ? How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear? — The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear. For twilight converse, arm in arm ; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear Whom mirth and music wont to chami. By Cherical's dark wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild. Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot loved while still a child. Of castled rocks stupendous pUed By Esk or Eden's classic wave, Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! — The perished bliss of youth's first prime. That once so bright on fancy played. Revives no more in after time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave ; The daring thoughts that soared sub- lime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widowed heart to cheer ; Her eyes are dim with many a tear. That once were guiding stars to mine : Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that loved me true ! I crossed the tedious ocean -wave. To roam in climes unkind and new. The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my withered heart : the grave Dark and untimely met my view, And all for thee, vile yellow slave !* Ha ! «omest thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banished heart forlorn. Now that his frame the lightning shock Of sun-rays ti^t with death has borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey, Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! SIR HUMPHRY DAVY. [1778- 1829.] WRITTEN AFTER RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS ILLNESS. Lo ! o'er the earth the kindling spirits pour The Hames of life that bounteous na- ture gives ; The limpid dew becomes the rosy flower, The insensate dust awakes, and moves, and lives. All speaks of change : the renovated forms Of long-forgotten things arise again ; The light of suns, the breath of angry storms, The everlasting motions of the main, — These are but engines of the Eternal will. The One Intelligence, who.se potent sway Has ever acted, and is acting still. Whilst stars, and worlds, and systems all obey ; Without whose power, the whole of mor- tal things Were dull, inert, an imharmonious band, Silent as are the harp's untuned strings Without the touches of tlie poet's hand. GEORGE CROLY. 91 A sacred spark created by His breath, The immortal mind of man His image bears ; A spirit living 'midst the forms of death, Oppressed but not subdued by mortal cares ; A germ, preparing in the winter's frost To rise, and bud, and blossom in the spring ; An unfledged eagle by the tempest tossed. Unconscious of his future strength of wing; The child of trial, to mortality And all its changeful influences given ; On the green earth decreed to move and die, And yet by such a fate prepared for heaven. Soon as it breathes, to feel the mother's form Of orbed beauty through its organs thrill, To press the limbs of life with rapture warm. And drink instinctive of a living rill ; To view the skies with morning radiance bright. Majestic mingling with the ocean blue. Or bounded by green hills, or mountains white. Or peopled plains of rich and varied hue; The nobler charms astonished to behold. Of living loveliness, — to see it move. Cast in expression's rich and varied mould. Awakening sympathy, compelling love; The heavenly balm of mutual hope to taste, Soother of life, affliction's bliss to share ; Sweet as the stream amidst the desert waste, As the first blush of arctic daylight fair; To mingle with its kindred, to descry The path of power; in public life to shine ; To gain the voice of popularity. The idol of to-day, the man divine ; To govern others by an influence strong As that high law which moves the murmuring main. Raising and carrying all its waves along. Beneath the full-orbed moon's merid- ian reign ; To scan how transient is the breath of praise, A winter's zephyr trembling on the snow, Chilled as it moves ; or, as the northern rays. First fading in the centre, whence they flow. To live in forests mingled with the wliole Of natural forms, whose generations rise, In lovely change, in happy order roll. On land, in ocean, in the glittering skies ; Their harmony to trace ; the Eternal cause To know in love, in reverence to adore ; To bend beneath the inevitable laws. Sinking in death, its human strength no more ! Then, as awakening from a dream of pain. With joy its mortal feelings to re- sign ; Yet all its living essence to retain, The undying energy of strength divine ! To quit the burdens of its earthly days. To give to nature all her borrowed powers, — Ethereal fire to feed the solar rays. Ethereal dew to glad the earth with showers. GEORGE CROLY. [1780 -i860.] CUPID GROWN CAREFUL. Theke was once a gentle time When the world was in its prime ; And every day was holiday. And every month was lovely May. Cupid then had but to go With his purple wings and bow ; 92 SONGS OF THKEE CENTUKIES. And in blossomed vale and grove Every shepherd knelt to love. Then a rosy, dimpled cheek, And a blue eye, fond and meek ; And a ringlet-MTeathen brow, Like hyacinths on a bed of snow : And a low voice, silver sweet, From a lip without deceit ; Only those the hearts could move Of the simple swains to love. But that time is gone and past, Can the summer always last ? And the swains are wiser groTvn, And the heart is turned to stone, And the maiden's rose may wither ; Cupid 's fled, no man knows whither. But another Cupid 's come, AVith a brow of care and gloom : Fixed upon the earthly mould, Thinking of the sullen gold ; In his hand the bow no more, At his back the household store, That the bridal gold must buy : Useless now the smile and sigh : But he wears the pinion still. Flying at the sight of ill. O, for the old true-love time, When the world was in its prime ! HEKRT KIRKE WHITE. [1785-1806.] TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. Sweet-scented flower ! who 'rt wont to bloom *^n January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume ! Come, thoushalt form my nosegay now. And I will bind thee round my brow ; And as I twine the mournful wreath, I '11 weave a melancholy song : And sweet the strain sliall be and long, The melody of death. Come, funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell With the pale corpse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom A sweet decaying smelL Come, press my lips, and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder-tree. And we will sleep a pleasant sleep. And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude So peaceful and so deep. And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies. Moans hoUow in the forest trees, And sailing on the gusty breeze, Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower! that requiem wild if mine. It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead ; My grave shall be in yon lone spot. Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. Mild off'spring of a dark and sullen sire ! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms. And cradled in the winds. Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter'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 unobserved ; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. HERBERT KNOWLES. 93 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. When marshalled on the nightly plain, The glittering liost bestud the sky ; One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem : But one alone the Saviour speaks, It is the Star of Bethlehem. Once on the raging seas I rode. The storm was loud, the night was dark. The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze, Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose, — It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all. It bade my dark forebodings cease ; And through the storm and dangers' thrall, It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moored, my perils o'er, I '11 sing, first in night's diadem. Forever and forevermore The Star !— the Star of Bethlehem ! HERBERT KNOWLES. [1798- 1827.] LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE. " It is good for us to be here ; if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles ; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias." — Matt. xvii. 4. 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 ? 0, no ! Aff'righted, he shrinketh away ; For, see! they would pin him be- low. 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 — Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore. For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride — The trappings which dizen the proud ? Alas ! 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 turn have been hid : The treasures are squandered again ; And here in the grave are all metals for- bid. But the tinsel that shines on the dark cofRn-lid. Methinks it is good to be here ; If thou wilt, let us build — but whom ? Nor Elias nor Moses appear, To Mirth can for the pleasures which afford, — The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! But the guests are all mute as their piti- ful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here. Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no ! they have withered and died. Or fled with the spirit above ; Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side. Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 94 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. The dead cannot Unto Sorrow ? grieve ; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could re- lieve ! Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear, — peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here ! Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no ! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow ! Beneath — the cold dead, and around — the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown ! The first tabernacle to Hope 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. Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. FROM WORDSWORTH TO LONGFELLOW. From Wordsworth to Longfellow. oj*;oo- WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. [1770-1850.] INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FKOM Eecollections OF Eaely Childhood. There Avas a time ■when meadow, grove, and stream. The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in cele,stial light. The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — Turn wheresoe'er I may. By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes. And lovely is the rose ; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair ; The sunshine is a glorious birth : But yet I know, where'er I go. That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief; A timely utterance gave that thought relief. And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, — No more shall grief of mine the season wrong : I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. The winds come to me from the fields of sleep. And all the earth is gay ; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Do-th every beast keep holiday; — Thou child of joy. Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou hai)py shejiherd boy ! Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. evil day ! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet ilay morning. And the children are culling. On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide. Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm. And the babe leajis up on his mother's ami: — 1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! — But there 's a tree, of many one, A single field which I have looked upon, — Both of them speak of something that is 98 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat. Whither is iied the visionary gleam ? Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? Our birth is but a sleep and a forget- ting : The soul that rises with us, our life's star. Hath had elsewhere its setting, And Cometh from afar ; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness. But trailing clouds of glory, do we come From God, who is our home : Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy ; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, — He sees it in his joy. The youth who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest. And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended ; At length the man perceives it die away. And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. And even with something of a mother's mind. And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man. Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pygmy size ! See wlicre mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes ! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. Some fragment from his dream of human life. Shaped by himself with newly learned art, — A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral, — And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song : Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part ; Filling from time to time his humorous stage With all the persons, down to palsied age, That Life brings with her in her equipage ; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity ; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage ; thou eye among the blind. That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, thedarknessof thegrave ; Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be piit by ; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, Why with sucli earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the ine\'itable yoke. Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live; That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thouglit of our past years in me doth breed Perpetiial benediction : not indeed For that wliich is most worthy to be blest ; D(>lic;lit and libci'ty, the simple ci'eed Of cbildliond, whether busy or at rest. With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: — WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 99 Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things. Fallings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence : truths that wake, To perish never ; Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- deavor, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be. Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither ; Can in a moment travel thither. And see the children sport upon the shore. And hear the mighty waters rolling ever- more. Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! We, in thought, will join your throng. Ye that pipe and ye that play. Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May ! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight ; Th ough n oth ing can bring back t h e h our Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower, — We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind ; In the primal sympathy Which, having been, must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering ; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves. Forebode not any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; I only have relinquished one delight, To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret. Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; The innocent brightness of a new-bom day Is lovely yet ; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mor- tality ; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live. Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears. To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. THE DAFFODILS. I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden dafi'odils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay -. Ten thousand saw I at a glance. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company ! I gazed— and gazed— but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought ; For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude : And then my heart with pleasure fills ; And dances with the daSbdils. 100 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. TO THE CTJCKOO. BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, 1 liear thee, and rejoice : cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice ? While I am l.ving on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear ; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of tiowers. Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the spring ! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery ; The same whom in my school-boy days 1 listened to ; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways. In bush and tree and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen ! And I can listen to thee yet ; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed bird ! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place That is fit home for thee ! A MEMORY. Three 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 wiU make A lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be Both law and im[)ulse ; and •H^th me The girl, in rock and plain. In eartli and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall tc('l 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 storm 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 place, 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 I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Naturespake. The work was done — How soon my Lucy's race was ruu ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been. And nevermore will be. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. She was a phantom of delight AVhen 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 j\Iay-time and the cheerful dawn", A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay, I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which diy the hymns of a far countrye. She awaked on a couch of the silk sae slim. All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ; And lovely beings round were rife. Who erst had travelled mortal life ; And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer, "What spirit has brought this mortal here?" They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair. They kissed her cheek, and they kerned her hair. And round came many a blooming fere, Saying, "Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here ! "0, would the fairest of mortal kind Aye keep the holy truths in mind, That kindred spirits their motions see, Who watch their ways with anxious e'e. And grieve for the guilt of humanitye ! 0, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer, And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! And dear to Heaven the words of truth. And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth ! And dear to the viewless forms of air. The minds that kythe as the body iair ! bonny Kilmeny ! free frae stain. If ever you seek the world again, — That world of sin, of sorrow, and fear, — 0, tell of the joys that are waiting here. And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be." They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, And she walked in the light of a sunless day : The sky was a dome of crystal bright. The fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; Tlie emerald fields were of dazzling glow, And the flowers of everlasting blow. Then deep in the stream her body they laid. That her youth and beauty never might fade; And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie In the stream of life that wandered by. And she heard a song, she heard it sung. She kend not where ; but sae sweetly it rung. It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn : "0, blest be the day Kilmeny was bom ! Now shall the land of the spirits see. Now shall it ken what a woman may be ! The sun that shines on the world sae bright, A borrowed gleid of the fountain of light ; And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun. Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair. And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. But lang, lang after baith night and day. When the sun and the world have elyed away ; When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom ! " Then Kilmeny begged again to see The friends she had left in her own coun- trye, To tell of the place where she had been. And the glories that lay in the land un- seen; THOMAS MOORE, 123 To warn the living maidens fair, The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care, That all whose minds unmeled remain Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. AVith distant music, soft and deep. They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep ; And when she awakened, she lay her lane. All happed with flowers in the greeu-wood wene. When seven long years were come and lied; When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name, Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came hame ! And 0, her beauty was fair to see, But still and steadfast was her e'e ! Such beauty bard may never declare. For there was no pride nor jiassion there ; And the soft desire of maiden's een In that mild face could never be seen. Her seymar was the lily flower, And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower. And her voice like the distant melodye, That floats along the twilight sea. But she loved to raike the lanely glen. And keeped afar frae the haunts of men ; Her holy hymns unheard to sing, To suck the flowers, and drink the spring. But wherever her peaceful form appeared, The wild beasts of the hill were cheered ; The wolf played blithely round the field. The lordly bison lowed and kneeled ; The dun deer wooed with manner bland, And cowered aneath her lily hand. And when at even the woodlands rung. When hymns of other worlds she sung In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 0, then the glen was all in motion ! The wild beasts of the forest came, Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame. And goved around, charmed and amazed ; Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. And munnured, and looked with anxious pain For something the mystery to explain. The buzzard came with the throstle-cock ; The corby left her houf in the rock ; The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; The wolf and the kid their raike began, And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran ; The hawk and the hern attour them hung, Aud the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young ; And all in a peaceful ring were hurled ; — It was like an eve in a sinless world ! When a month and a day had come and gane, Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; There laid her down on the leaves sae green. And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. But 0, the words that fell from her mouth Were words of wonder, and words of trath ! But all the land were in fear and dread, For they kendna whether she was living or dead. It wasna her hame, and she couldna re- main; She left this world of sorrow and pain, And returned to the Land of Thought again. THOMAS MOORE. [1779- 1852.] FLY TO THE DESERT. Fly to the desert, fly with me. Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; But, 0, the choice what heai't can doubt, Of tents with love, or thrones without ? Our rocks are rough, but smiling there The acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness. Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gayly springs As o'er the marble courts of kings. Then come, — thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia-tree, The antelope, whose feot shall bless With their light sound thy loveliness. 0, there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart, As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it through life had sought ; 124 SONGS OF THKEE CENTUEIES. As if the very lips and eyes Predestined to hare all our sighs, And never be ibrgot again, Sparkled and spoke before us 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. THE MID HOUK OF NIGHT. At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye ; And 1 think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air, To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky ! Then I sing the wild song 't was once such pleasure to hear. When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear ; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, my love ! 't is thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls, Faintly answering still the notes that orce were so dear. 'iHE VALE OF AVOCA. There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet As that vale, in whose 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 Iler purest of crystal and briglitest of green ; 'T was not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, — 0, no ! it was something more exquisite still. 'T was that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near. Who made every dear scene of enchant- ment more dear. And who felt how the best charms o( nature improve, When we see them i-eflected from looks that we love. Sweet Vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best ; Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease. And our hearts, like thy waters, be min- gled in peace. O THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURN- ER'S TEAR. Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear ! How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here. We could not fly to thee. The friends who in our sunshine live. When winter comes, are flown ; And he wlio has but tears to give Must weep those tears alone. But thou wilt heal that broken heart Which, like the plants that tlirow Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe. When joy no longer soothes or cheers. And e'en the hope that threw A moment's sparkle o'er our tears Is dimmed and vanished too, 0, who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not thy wing of love Come, brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above ? Then sorrow, touched by thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray ; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day ! THOU ART, O GOD! Thou art, God ! the life and light Of all tliis wondrous world we see ; Its glow by day, its smile by niglit, Are but reflections caught from thee. GEOEGE GORDON (LORD BYKON). 125 Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine. When day, with farewell beam, delays Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven, — Those hues that make the sun's decline So soft, so radiant. Lord ! are thine. When night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies. Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes, — That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless, Lord ! are thine. When youthful springaroundusbreathes. Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; And every flower the summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn, thy glories shine. And all things fair and bright are Thine. LORD BYRON. [1788- 1824] SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that 's best of dark and bright Meets 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 every raven tress. Or softly lightens o'er her face. Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling- place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow. So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 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 '. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. The Ass3rrian came down like the wolf on the fold. And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was hke stars on the sea. When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when sum- mer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when au- tumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill. And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still ! And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride : And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beat- ing surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale. With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the ban- ners alone. The lances unlifted, the trumpet un- blown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 126 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. THE LAKE OF GENEVA. Cleak, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft mur- muring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved. That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear. Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen. Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore. Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more : He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill. But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weei)ing themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. MONT BLANC. Mont Bi.anc is the monarch of moun- tains ; They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow. Around his waist are forests braced. The avalanche in his hand ; But ere it fall, that thundering ball Must pause for my command. The glacier's cold and restless mass Moves onward day by day ; But I am he who bids it pass. Or with its ice delay. I am the spirit of the place, Could make the mountain bow And quiver to his caverned base, — And what with me wouldst Thou? THE IMMORTAL MIND. Whex coldness wraps this sufl'ering clay, Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? It cannot die, it cannot stay. But leaves its darkened dust behind. Then, unembodied, doth it trace By steps each planet's heavenly way? Or fill at once the realms of space, A thing of eyes, that all survey ? Eternal, boundless, imdecayed, A thought unseen, but seeing all, All, all in earth or skies displayed. Shall it survey, shall it recall : Each fainter trace that memory holds So darkly of departed years. In one broad glance the soul beholds. And aU that was at once appears. Before creation peopled earth. Its eyes shall roll through chaos back ; And where the farthest heaven had birth, The spirit trace its rising track. And where the future mars or makes, Its glance dilate o'er all to be, Wliile sun is quenched or system breaks, Fixed in its own eternity. Above or love, hope, hate, or fear. It lives all passionless and pure : An age shall fleet like earthly year ; Its years as moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing. O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly,- A nameless and eternal thing. Forgetting what it was to die. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 127 PEKCT BYSSHE SHELLEY. [1792-1822.] STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light : The breath of the moist air is light Around its unexpanded buds ; Like many a voice of one delight, — The winds', the birds', the ocean- floods', — The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- tude's. I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 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, — Pow sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion ! 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 pleasure ; 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 My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last mo- notony. TO A SKYLARK, Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert. That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest. And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun O'er which clouds are brightening. Thou dost float and run. Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight ; Like a star of heaven. In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not ; What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not ; 128 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower ; Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view ; Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers. All that ever was Joyous and clear and fresh thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird. What sweet thoughts are thine ! I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chant Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt, — A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What fields, or waves, or mountains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind ? what igno- rance of pain ? With thy clear, keen joyance Languor cannot be ; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee : Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream. Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? We look before and after. And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ; Our sweetest songs are those that teU of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear ; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound. Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scomer of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now ! ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED. One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like despair For ])rudence to smother. And pity from thee is more dear Than that from another. I can give not what men call love ; But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above. And the heavens reject not, — The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow ? JOHN KEATS. 129 JOHN KEATS. [1796-1821.] THE EVE OF SAINT AGNES. Saint Agnes' Eve, — ah, bitter cliill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold : Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told His rosary, andwhilehis frosted breath. Like pious incense from a censer old. Seemed taking flight for heaven with- out a death, ftist the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, A.nd back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : The sculptui'ed dead, on each side, seem to freeze. Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails : Knights, ladies, praying in dumb ora- t'ries, He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails •Jo think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he tumeth through a little door. And scarce three 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 Saint Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. That ancient beadsman heard the prel- ude soft ; And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, 9 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 their 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 stuffed in youth with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away. And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there. Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day. On love, and winged Saint Agnes' saint- ly care, As she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how, upon Saint Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight. And soft adorings from their loves re- ceive Upon the honeyed middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright ; As, supperless to bed they must re- tire. And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. FuU of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : The music, yearning like a god in pain. She scarcely heard; her maiden ej'es divine. Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweep- ing train Pass by, — she heeded not at all : in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. And back retired ; not cooled by high disdain. 130 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. But she saw not ; her heart was other- where ; She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweet- est of the year. She danced along with vague, regard- less 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 whispers, or in anger or in sport ; Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwinked with fairy fancy ; all amort, Save to Saint 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 iire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Made- line, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss, — in sooth, such things have been. He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper tell; All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel. For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes. Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage; not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, Save one old beldame, weak iu body and in soul. Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came. Shuffling along with ivory - headed wand, 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 bloodthirsty race ! "Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarf- ish Hildebrand; 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 his gray hairs — Alas me! flit! Flit like a ghost away. " — "Ah I gossip dear. We 're safe enough ; here in this arm- chair sit, And tell me how" — "Good saints! not here, not here ; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." He followed through a lowly arched way. Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume, And as she muttered "Well-a — well- a-day !" He found him in a little moonlit room. Pale, latticed, chill,andsilentasatomb. "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, "0, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they Saint Agnes' wool are weaving piously." "Saint Agnes ! Ah ! it is Saint Agnes' Eve,— Yet men will murder upon holy days ; Thou must hold waterinawitch'ssieve. And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays. To venture so: it fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro ! — Saint Agnes Eve! JOHN KEATS. 131 God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays This very night ; good angels her de- ceive ! But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time to grieve." Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Poi-phyro upon her face dothlook, 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 enchant- ments cold, And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full- blown rose. Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot ; then doth he pro- pose 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 seem." "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear!" Quoth Porphyro ; " 0, may I ne'er find grace, When my weak voice shall whisper its 'jast prayer. If c ae of her soft ringlets I displace. Or look with ruffian passion in her face : Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; Or I will, even in a moment's space. Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, ^d beard them, though they be more fanged than wolves and bears." "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church- yard thing, Whose passing-bell may ere the mid- night toll ; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she bring jV gentler speech from burning Por- phyro ; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which 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. While legioned fairies paced the cover- let. And pale enchantment held her sleepy- eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met. Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous debt. "It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame : "All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this 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, my 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 dame 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 ; 132 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. Her faltering hand upon the balus- trade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, Saint Agnes' charmed maid. Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware ; With 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 ring- dove frayed and fled. Out went the taper as she hurried in. Its little smoke in pallid 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. 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. And twilight saints, and dim embla- zonings, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the win- try moon. And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon : Eose-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 mortal taint. Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by de- grees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea- weed. Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair Saint Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 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 limbs, and soul fatigued away ; Flown, like a thought, until the mor- row-day ; Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; Clasped like a missal where swart Pajrnims pray ; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. As thougli a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stolen to this paradise, and so en- tranced, Porphy7-o gazed upon her empty dress, And listened to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; JOHN KEATS. 133 Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself : then from the closet crept. Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo ! — how fast she slept. Then by the bedside, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! The boisterous, midnight, festive clar- ion. The kettle-drum, and far-heard clar- ionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and laven- dered, While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucid syrops, tinct with cinna- mon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferred From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, Prom silken Samarcand to cedared Leb- anon. These delicates he heaped with glow- ing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, Filling the chilly room with perfume light.— "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! '5^hou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : Open thine eyes, formeek Saint Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains : — 't was a mid- night charm Impossible to melt as iced stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed fan- tasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — Tumultuous, — and, in chords that ten- derest be, He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence called, "La belle dame sans mercy" ; Close to her ear touching the melody : Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan ; He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- sculptured stone. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : There was a painful change, that nigh expelled The blisses of her dream so pure and deep ; At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless words witli many a sigh ; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep, Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly. "Ah, Porphyro !" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. 134 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear; How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear ! Give me that voice again, my PorphjTO, Those looks immortal, those complain- ings dear ! 0, leave me not in this eternal woe, For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go." Beyond a mortal man impassioned far At these voluptuous accents, he arose. Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet, — Solution sweet : meantime the frost- wind blows Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes ; Saint Agnes' moon hath set. 'T is dark : quick pattereth the flaw- blown sleet : "This is no dream, my bride, my Mad- eline !" 'Tis dark: the iced giists still rave and beat : * ' No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Thouglitliouforsakestadeceived thing; A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, un- pruned wing." •'My Madeline! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famislied pilgrim, — saved by miracle. Though 1 liave found, I will not rob thy nest Savingof thy sweet self ; if thouthink'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel." "Hark ! 't is an elfin-storm from fairy« land. Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : Arise, — arise ! the morning is at hand*, The bloated wassailers will never heed : Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see. Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." She hurried at his words, beset with fears. For there were sleeping dragons all around. At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears, — Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found, — In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-dropped lamp was flickering by each door ; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound. Fluttered in the besieging wind's up- roar. And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ; Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, Wliere lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl. With a huge empty flagon by his side : The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide. But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide ; The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones ; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. And they are gone : ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the baron dreamt of many a woe. And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form JAMES MONTGOMERY. 135 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin- worm, Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old. Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform. The beadsman, after thousand aves told. For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. JAMES MONTGOMEHY. [1771-1854.] THE COMMON LOT. Once, in the flight of ages past. There lived a man ; and who was he? Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth, The land in which he died 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 ! Oblivion hides the rest. 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 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 light, To him exist 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 man ! FOREVER WITH THE LORD. Forever with the Lord ! Amen ! so let it be ! Life from the dead is in that word, And immortality. Here in the body pent. Absent from Him I 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 laud I love. The bright inheritance of saints, Jerusalem above ! Yet clouds will intervene. And all my prospect flies ; Like Noah's dove, I flit between Kough 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 armies 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'erpowei Then, then I feel that He, Remembered or forgot. The Lord, is never far from me, Though I perceive him not. 136 SONGS OF TIIKEE CENTURIES, 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 is thy will, The promise of that faithful word Unto thy child fulfil ! So, when my latest breath Shall rend the veil in twain. By death I shall escape from death. And life eternal gain. PRAYER. Prater is the soul's sincere desire Uttered or unexpressed. The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear ; The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near. Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try ; Prayer the subliraest strains that reach The Majesty on high. Prayer is the Christian's vital breath. The Chiistian's native air ; His watchword at the gates of death : He enters heaven by prayer. Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice Returning from his ways ; While angels in their songs rejoice, And say, " Behold he prays ! " Thou, by whom we come to God, The Life, the Truth, the Way, The path of prayer thyself hast trod : Lord, teach us how to pray ! HELEN MAEIA WILLIAMS. [1762-1827.] WHILST THEE I SEEK. Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power, Be my vain wishes stilled ! And may this consecrated hour With better hopes be filled. Thy love the power of thought bestowed; To thee ray thoughts would soar : Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed. That mercy I adore. In each event of life, how clear Thy ruling hand I see ! Each blessing to my soul more dear, Because conferred by thee. In every joy that crowns my days. In every pain I bear, My heart shall find delight in praise, Or seek relief in prayer. When gladness wings my favored hour, Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower, My soul shall meet thy will. My lifted eye, without a tear. The gathering storm shall see ; My steadfast heart shall know no fear; That heart shall rest on thee. UNKNOWN. THERE WAS SILENCE IN 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 flow To languish wiith 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. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. — WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 137 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. 0, what is silence here below ? The fruit of a concealed despair ; The pause of pain, the dream of woe ; — It is the rest of rapture there. And to the wayworn pilgrim here. More kindred seems that perfect peace. Than the full chants of joy to hear Koll on, and never, never cease. From earthly agonies set free. Tired with the path too slowly trod. May such a silence welcome me Into the palace of my God. 0, think ! the darlings of thy love, Divested of this earthly clod. Amid unnumbered saints, above. Bask in the bosom of their God. O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend ; For thee the Lord of life implore ; And oft from sainted bliss descend Thy wounded quiet to restore. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear ; Their part and thine inverted see. Thou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. [U. S. A., 1767- 1848.] TO A BEKEAVED MOTHER. Sure, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest. The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise, Beyond where worlds material roll. Till some fair sister of the skies Receives the unpolluted soul. That inextinguishable beam. With dust united at our birth. Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam The more it lingers upon earth. But when the Lord of mortal breath Decrees his bounty to resume, And points the silent shaft of death Which speeds an infant to the tomb. No passion fierce, nor low desire. Has quenched the radiance of the flame ; Back to its God the living fire Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner ! be that solace thine ! Let Hope her healing charm impart. And soothe, with melodies divine. The anguish of a mother's heart. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOE. [1775-1864.] LAMENT. I LOVED him not ; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I 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 vex 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 groimd He hid his face amid the shades of death ! I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me ! but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep. And waking me to weep Tears that had 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 mould. Where children spell, athwart the church- yard gate, His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be. And, 0, pray, too, for me ! 138 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. THOMAS .CAMPBELL. [1777- 1844.] THE LAST MAN. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality ! I saw a vision in my sleep. That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of time ! I saw the last of human mould That shall creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime ! The sun's eye had a sickly glare, The earth with age was wan ; The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man ! Some had expired in fight, — the brands Still rusted in their bony hands. In plague and famine some ! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb ! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high. That shook the sere leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by. Saying, Weare twinsin death, proud Sun ! Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'T is Mercy bids thee go ; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill ; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth The vassals of his will ? Yet mourn I not thy parted sway. Thou dim, discrowned king of day ; For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men. Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again : Its piteous pageants bring not back. Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe ; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword. Like grass beneath the scythe. Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire ; Test of all sumless agonies. Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death, ^^ Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall. The majesty of darkness shall Receive my parting ghost ! This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark ; Yet think not. Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark ! No ! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By him recalled to breath. Who captive led captivity. Who robbed the grave of victory. And took the sting from death ! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste, — Go, tell the night that hides thy face. Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On earth's sepulchral clod. The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God ! GLENARA. 0, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale. Where a band cometh slowly with weep- ing and wail ? 'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud : THOMAS CAMPBELL. 130 Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around ; They marched all in silence, — they looked on the ground. In silence they marched over mountain and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar : "Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn : Why speak ye uo word?" — said Glenara the stern. "And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse. Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain : — no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger dis- played. " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud ; "And empty that shroud and that cofRn did seem : Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream !" O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween. When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen ; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn : "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief : On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream ! " In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found ; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne, — ITow joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn! LORD TJLLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry ! And I '11 give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the feriy." "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water ? " "0, 1 'm the chief of Ulva's isle. And this Lord Ullin's daughter. " And fast before her father's men Three daj's we 've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. " His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?" Out spoke the hardy Highland wight : "1 '11 go, my chief, — I 'm ready; It is not for your silver bright. But for your winsome lady ; "And by my word ! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry : So, though the waves are raging white, I '11 row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace. The water-wraith was shrieking ; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, — Their trampling sounded nearer. "0, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I '11 meet the raging of the skies. But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, — When, O, too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her ! And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing : Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; His wrath was changed to wailing. 140 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover ; One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. "Comeback! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water; And I '11 forgive your Highland chief. My daughter ! — my daughter !" 'T was vain ; — the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing ; The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. HORACE SMITH. [1779- 1849.] HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. Day-staks ! that ope your eyes with morn, to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's crea- tion, And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle As a libation. Ye matin worshippers! 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 beauty The floor of nature's temple tessellate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create ! 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth. And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath planned ; To that cathedral, boundless as our won- der, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply ; Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky. There, as in solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod. Awed by the silence, reverently I ponder The ways of God, Your voiceless lips, flowers ! are living preachers. Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book. Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor "Weep withoutwoe, and blush without a crime," 0, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender Your lore sublime ! "Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory. Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours; How vain your grandeur ! ah, how tran- sitory Are human flowers !" In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist, With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all ! Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure ; Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night, From every source yoiir sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? HORACE SMITH. 141 Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories! angel-like collec- tion ! Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Ye are to nie a type of resurrection, A second birth. Were I, God ! in churchless lands re- maining. Far from all voice of teachers or di- vines, My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, Priests, sermons, shrines ! ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. And thou hast walked about — how strange a story ! — In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago ! When the Memnonium was in all its gl?ry, And time had not begun to over- throw Those temples, palaces, and piles stupen- dous. Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; Thou hast a tongue, — come, let us hear its tune ! Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, mummy ! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, — Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures. But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features ! Tell us, — for doubtless thou canst recol- lect, — To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either pyramid that bears his name ? Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbid- den. By oath, to teU the mysteries of thy trade ; Then say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? Perhaps thou wert a priest ; if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles ! Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat. Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat ; Or dotfed thine own, to let Queen Dido pass ; Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch, at the great temple's dedica, tion! I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled ; For thou wert dead, and buried, and em^ balmed. Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : Antiquity ay)pears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou couldst develop, if that withered tong\ie Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world looked when it was fresh and young, And the great deluge still had left it green ; Or was it then so old that history's pages Contained no record of its early ages ? Still silent! — Incommunicative elf! Art swoni to secrecy ? Then keep thy vows ! But, prithee, tell us something of thy- self, — Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered. What hast thou seen, what strange ad- ventures numbered? 142 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations ; The Roman Empire has begun and ended, New workls have risen, we have lost okl nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled. While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, — And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder. When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? If the tomb's secrets may not be con- fessed. The nature of thy private life unfold ! A heart hath throbbed beneath that leathern breast. And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled ; Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ? What was thy name and station, age and race ? Statue of flesh ! Immortal of the dead ! Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, — who quitt'st thy narrow bed. And standest undecayed within our presence ! Thou wilt hear nothing till the judg- ment morning. When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning ! Why should this worthless tegument endure. If its undying guest be lost forever? 0, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue, — that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame con- sume. The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! EBENEZER ELLIOTT. [1781-1849.] A GHOST AT NOON. The day was dark, save when the beara Of noon through darkness broke ; In gloom I sat, as in a dream. Beneath my orchard oak ; Lo ! splendor, like a spirit, came, A shadow like a tree ! While there I sat, and named her name Who once sat there with me. I started from the seat in fear; I looked around in awe, But saw no beauteous spirit near, Though all that was I saw, — The seat, the tree, where oft, in tears, She mourned her hopes o'erthrown, Her joys cut off" in early years, Like gathered flowers half blown. Again the bud and breeze were met. But Mary did not come ; And e'en the rose, which she had set. Was fated ne'er to bloom ! The thrush proclaimed, in accents sweet, That winter's reign was o'er ; The bluebells thronged around my feet. But Mary came no more. FOREST WORSHIP. Within the sunlit forest. Our roof the bright blue sky. Where fountains flow, and wild-flowers blow. We lift our hearts on high : Beneath the frown of wicked men Our country's strength is bowing; But, thanks to God ! they can't prevent The lone wild-flowers from blowing I High, high above the tree-tops, The lark is soaring free ; Where streams the light through broken clouds His speckled breast I see : Beneath the might of wicked men The poor man's worth is dying; But, tlianked he God ! in spite of them, The lark still warbles flying ! REGINALD HEBER, 143 The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us !" "Lord, bless us !" echo cries ; "Amen !" the breezes murmur low ; "Amen !" the rill replies : The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts The proud with pangs are paying. But here, God of earth and heaven ! The humble heart is praying. How softly, in the pauses Of song, re-echoed wide, The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, O'er rill and river glide ! With evil deeds of evil men The affrighted land is ringing ; But still, Lord, the pious heart And soul- toned voice are singing ! Hush ! hush ! the preacher preacheth : "Woe to the oppressor, woe !" But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun And saddened flowers below ; So frowns the Lord ! — but, tyrants, ye Deride his indignation, And see not in the gathered brow Your days of tribulation ! Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher ! The tempest bursts above : God whispers in the thunder; hear The terrors of his love ! On useful hands and honest hearts The base their wrath are wreaking ; But, thanked be God ! they can't prevent The storm of heaven from speaking. CORN-LAW HYMN. LORli ! call thy pallid angel. The tamer of the strong ! And bid him whip with want and woe The champions of the wrong ! 0, say not thou to ruin's flood, "Up, sluggard! why so slow?" But alone let them groan, The lowest of the low ; And basely beg the bread they curse, Where millions curse them now ! No ; wake not thou the giant Who drinks hot blood for wine, And sliouts unto the east and west, In thunder-tones like thine. Till the slow to move rush all at once, An avalanche of men. While he raves over waves That need no whirlwind then ; Though slow to move, moved all at once, A sea, a sea of men ! EEGINALD HEBER. [1783- 1826.] IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE. 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 paJe bear* I miss thee from my side. I spread my books, my pencil try. The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind, approving eye. Thy meek, attentive ear. But when of morn or 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 be onward still ; O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads. O'er bleak Almorah's hill. That course nor Delhi's kingly gates Nor wild Malwah detain ; For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, thej say. Across the dark -blue sea; But ne'er were lieavts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee ! 144 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, BERNARD BARTON. [1784- 1849.] NOT OURS THE VOWS. Not ours the vows of such as plight Their troth in sunny weather, While leaves are green, and skies are bright, To walk on flowers together. Bnt 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 drawn 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. LEIGH HUNT. [1784-1859.] AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. How sweet it were, if without feeble fright. Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, An angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine (^yes, and bring us from his bowci's News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed, — as we shall know forever. Alas ! we tliink not what we daily see About our hearths, angels, that are to be. Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls aud ours to meet in happy air, — A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL, Abou Ben Adeem (may his tribe in- crease ! ) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. And saw within the moonlight in his room. Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom. An angel, writing in a book of gold ; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writestthou?" The vision raised its head. And with a look made of all sweet accord. Answered, ' ' The names of those who love the Lord." ' ' And is mine one ? " said Abou. ' ' Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. But cheerly still ; and said, ' ' I pray thee, then. Write me as one that loves his fellow- men." The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed. And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led aU the rest. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. [1785-1S42.] A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast. And fills tlie wliite and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast, — Anil bends the gallant mast, my boys. While, like the eagle free. " A wet slieel and a flowiivj; sea." Page 144. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 145 Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on our lee. for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the swelling breeze, And white waves heaving high, — The white waves heaving high, my lade, The good ship tight and free ; The world of waters is our home, And meny men are we. THOTJ HAST SWORN BY THY GOD. Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, By that pretty white hand o' 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 sown thick owre heaven, That thou shalt aye be mine. Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands. An' the heart that wad part sic luve ; But there 's nae hand can loose my band. But the finger o' God abuve. Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, And my claithing e'er so mean, I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve. Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. Her white arm wad be a pillow for me Far safter than the down ; And Luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings, An' sweetly I 'd sleep, an' soun'. Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve, Come here, and kneel wi' me ! The mom is fu' o' the presence o' God, An' I canna pray without thee. The mom-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers. The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie ; Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dyke, And a blj^the auld bodie is he. The Beuk maun be taen when the carle comes hame, "Wi' the holie psalmodie; 10 And thou maun speak o' me to thy God, And I wUl speak o' thee. SHE 'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN. She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, She 's gane to dwaU in heaven : Ye 're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, For dwalling out o' heaven ! 0, what '11 she do in heaven, my lassie? 0, what '11 she do in heaven ? She '11 mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, An' make them mair meet for heaven. She was beloved by a', my lassie, She was beloved by a' ; But an angel fell in love wi' her, An' took her frae us a'. Low there thou lies, my lassie, Low there thou lies ; A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, Nor frae it will arise ! Fu' soon I '11 follow thee, my lassie, Fu' soon I '11 follow thee ; Thou left me naught to covet ahin', But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, I looked on thy death-cold face ; Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud. An' fading in its place. I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, I looked on thy death-shut eye ; An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven Fell time shall ne'er destroy. Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie. Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; But gane was the holy breath o' heaven, To sing the evening psalm. There 's naught but dust now mine, lassie, There 's naught but dust now mine ; My saul 's wi' thee i' the cauld grave. An' why should I stay behin' 1 146 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. JOHN WILSON. [1785-1854.] THE EVENING CLOITD. A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ! Even in its very motion there was rest ; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul. To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given ; And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven, Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. SIR JOHN BOWEINQ. [1792 .] FROM THE RECESSES. From the recesses of a lowly spirit My humble prayer ascends : Father ! hear it. Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meek- ness, Forgive its weakness. I know, I feel, how mean and how un- worthy The trembling sacrifice I pour before thee ; What can I offer in thy presence holy, But sin and folly ? For in thy sight, who every bosom view- est. Cold are our warmest vows, and vain our . truest ; Thoughts of a hurrying hour, our lips repeat them, Our hearts forget them. We see thy hand, — it leads us, it sup- ports us ; We hear thy voice, — it counsels and it courts us ; And then we turn away, — and still thy kindness Forgives our blindness. And still thy rain descends, thy sun i3 glowing, Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath us blowing. And, as if man were some deserving crea- ture, Joy covers nature. 0, how long-suffering. Lord ! but thou delightest To win with love the wandering; thou invitest. By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors, Man from his errors. Who can resist thy gentle call, appeal- ing To every generous thought and grateful feeling, — That voice paternal, whispering, watch- ing ever, — My bosom? — never. Father and Saviour! plant within this bosom The seeds of holiness ; and bid them blossom In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal. And spring eternal ! Then place them in those everlasting gardens. Where angels walk, and seraphs are the wardens ; Where every flower that climbs through death's dark portal Becomes immortal. HYMN. FATnER, thy paternal care Has my guardian been, my guide. Every hallowed wish and ]irayer Has thy hand of love snp])lied. Thine is every thought of bliss Left by hours and days gone by ; SAMUEL WOODWOKTH. — ANDREWS NOETON. 147 Every hope thy offspring is, Beaming from futurity. Every sun of splendid ray, Every moon that shines serene, Every morn that welcomes day, Every evening's twilight scene, Every hour that wisdom brings. Every incense at thy shrine, — These, and all life's holiest things. And its fairest, all are thine. And for all, my hymns shaU rise Daily to thy gracious throne ; Thither let my asking eyes Turn unwearied, righteous One"! Through life's strange vicissitude, There reposing all my care ; Trusting still, through ill and good, Fixed, and cheered, and counselled there. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. [U. S. A., 1785-1842.] THE BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! — The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it. The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell. The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it. And e'en the rude bucket that 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 hailed as a treasure ; For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exr^uisite 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 emblem of truth over- flowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well, — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the weU. How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive 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 habitation. The tears of regret will intrusively swell. As fancy reverts to my father's planta- tion. And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well, — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, that hangs in the well. -♦ — ANDEEWS NOETOK [U. 8. A., 1786-1853.]' AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. The rain is o'er. How dense and bright Yon pearly clouds reposing lie ! Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, Contrasting with the dark blue sky ! In grateful silence earth receives The general blessing ; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. The softened sunbeams pour around A fairy light, uncertain, pale ; 148 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. The -wind flows cool ; the scented ground Is breathing odors on the gale. Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest, to gaze below awhile, Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth ; from off the scene Its floating veil of mist is flung ; And all the wilderness of green With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on Nature, — yet the same, — Glowing with life, by breezes fanned. Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, Fresh inheryouth, from God'sownhand. 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. Drink in her influence ; low-born care. And all the train of mean desire. Refuse to breathe this holy air, And mid this living light expire. CAEOLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY. [1787-1854-] MARINER'S HYMN. Launch thy bark, mariner ! Christian, God speed thee! Let loose the rudder-bands, — Good angels lead thee ! Set thy sails warily, Tempests will come ; Steer thy course steadily : Christian, steer home ! Look to the weather-bow. Breakers are round thee ; Let fall the plummet now, Shallows may ground thee. Reef in the foresail, there ! Hold the helm fast ! So — let the vessel wear — There swept the blast. "What of the night, watchman? What of the night?" "Cloudy — all quiet — No land yet — all 's right." Be wakeful, be vigilant, — Danger may be At an hour when all seemeth Securest to thee. How ! gains the leak so fast ? Clean out the hold, — Hoist up thy merchandise. Heave out thy gold ; There — let the ingots go — Now the ship rights ; HuiTah ! the harbor 's near — Lo ! the red lights ! Slacken not sail yet At inlet or island ; Straight for the beacon steer, Straight for the high land ; Crowd all thy canvas on, Cut through the foam : Christian ! cast anchor now, — Heaven is thy home ! LAVINIA STODDARD. [U. S. A., 1787 -1820.] 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 meagre train. Come on, — your threats I brave; My last poor life-drop you may drain. And crash me to the grave ; Yet still the spirit that endures Shall mock your force the while. 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 s]>irit, which you see Undaunted by your wiles. Draws from its own nobility Its highborn smiles. WILLIAM KNOX. 149 I said to Friendship's menaced blow, Strike deep, — my heart shall bear; Thou canst but add one bitter woe To those alreadj'^ 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, firm and free, Unrufiled by this last dismay, Wrapt in its own eternity. Shall pass away. WILLIAM KNOX. [1789- 1825.] O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? 0, WHY should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high. Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's aff"ection who proved. The husband that mother and infant who Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and ideasure, — her tri- umphs are by ; And the memory of those who have loved her and praised. Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath bonie. The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap. The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep. The beggar who wandered in search of his bread. Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven. The sinner who dared to remain unfor- given, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just. Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed. That wither away to let others succeed ; So the multitude comes, even those we behold. To repeat every tale that hath often been told. For we are the same things our fathers have been ; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, — We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And run the same course that our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking onr fathera would think ; From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink ; To the life we are clinging to, they to« would cling ; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. 150 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 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 ; They joyed, but the voice of their glad- ness is dumb. They died, — ay ! they died ; and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. Who make in their dwellings a transient abode. Meet the changes they met on their pil- grimage road. Yea, hope and despondence, and 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 'T is the twink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the pale- ness of death. From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — 0, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? EICHARD H. BARHAM. [1788-1843.] THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair ; Bishop and abbot and prior were there ; Many a monk and many a friar. Many a knight and many a squire. With agreat many more of lesser degree, — In sooth, a goodly company ; And they served the Lord Primate on bendeil knee. Never, I ween, Was a prouder seen, Eead of in books or dreamt of in dreams. Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Eheims ! In and out, Through the motley rout, The little Jackdaw kept hopping about; Here and there, Like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cates And dishes and plates, Cowl and cope and rochet and paU, Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all. With a saucy air He perched on the chair Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat. In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; And he peered in the face Of his Lordship's Grace, With a satisfied look, as if to say, ' ' We two are the greatest folks here to- day!" And the priests with awe. As such freaks they saw, Said, "The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw !" The feast was over, the board was cleared, The flawns and the custards had all dis- appeared, And six little singing-boys, — dear little souls ! — In nice clean faces and nice white stoles, Came, in order due. Two by two. Marching that grand refectory through ! A nice little boy held a golden ewer. Embossed, and filled with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheiras and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match . Two nice little boys, rather more grown. Poured lavender-water and eau-de-Co- logne; Andanice littleboyhadanice cake of soap Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope ! One little boy more A napkin bore Of the best white diaper fringed with pink, And a cardinal's hat marked in perma- nent ink. ThegreatLord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white ; From his finger he draws His costly turq^uoise : EICHAED H. BAEHAM. 151 And, not thinking at all about little Jack- daws, Deposits it straight By the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Emi- nence wait ; Till, when nobody 's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring! There 's a cry and a shout, And a deuce of a rout. And nobody seems to know what they 're about. But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out ; The friars are kneeling. And hunting and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew Off each plum-colored shoe. And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps, and he feels In the toes and the heels. They turn up the dishes, — they turn up the plates, — They take up the poker and poke out the grates, — They turn up the rugs. They examine the mugs; But, no ! — no such thing, — They can't find the king ! And the Abbot declared that "when nobody twigged it. Some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it ! " The Cardinal rose with a dignified look. He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief He solemnly cursed that rascally thief ! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the Devil, and wake in a fright. He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, cursed him in cor ing, in winking; He cursed him in coughing, in sneez- He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying ; He cursed him living, he cursed him dying! — Never was heard such a terrible curse I But what gave rise To no little surprise. Nobody seemed one penny the worse ! The day was gone. The night came on. The monks and the friars they searched till dawn ; When the sacristan saw, On crumpled claw. Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw ! No longer gay. As on yesterday ; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way; — His pinions drooped, — he could hardly stand, — His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim. So wasted each limb. That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "That 's him ! That 's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing, That 's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!" The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw. Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ; And turned his bald head as much as to say, "Fray be so good as to walk this way ! " Slower and slower He limped on before. Till they came to the back of the belfry door, Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw. Was the ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw ! Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book. And off that terrible curse he took ; The mute expression Served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full resti- tution. The Jackdaw got plenary absolution 1 152 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. When those words were heard That poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 't was really absurd : He grew sleek and fat ; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before ; But no longer it wagged with an impu- dent air, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair. He hopped now about With a gait devout ; At matins, at vespers, he never was out ; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds. He always seemed teUing the Confessor's beads. If any one lied, or if any one swore, Or slumbered in prayer-time and hap- pened to snore, That good Jackdaw Would give a great "Caw !" As much as to say, "Don't do so any more !" While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw ! " He long lived the pride Of that country side. And at last in the odor of sanctity died ; When, as words were too faint His merits to paint. The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know. It 's the custom at Rome new names to bestow. So they canonized him by the name of Jem Crow ! EICHARD HENRY WILDE. [U. S. A., 1789- 1847.] IHY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky. But ere the shades of evening close Is scattered on the ground — to die. Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see, — But none shall weep a tear for me ! My life is like the autumn leaf. That trembles in the moon's pale ray; Its hold is frail, its date is brief; Restless, and soon to pass away ! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade. The winds bewail the leafless tree, — But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! My life is like the prints Avhich feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand ; Yet, as if grieving to etiace All vestige of the human race. On that lone shore loud moans the sea, — But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! CHARLES WOLFE. [1791-1823.] THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'erthe grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night. The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the strugglingmoonbeams' misty light. And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast. Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said. And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed. And smoothed down his lonely pillow, JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. — FELICIA HEMANS. 153 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow ! Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down. From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, — But we left him alone with his glory. JOHN HOWAED PAYNE. [U. S. A., 1792 -1852.] SWEET HOME. Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home ! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here. Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home, 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 gayly that came at my call; — 0, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than all ! Home, home, sweet home ! There 's no place like home ! FELICIA HEMANS. [1794-1835.] THE CHILDE'S DESTINY. No mistress of the hidden skill. No wizard gaunt and grim. Went up by night to heath or hill To read the stars for him ; The merriest girl in all the land Of vine-encircled France Bestowed upon his brow and hand , Her y)hilosophic glance. "I bind thee with a spell," said she, "I sign thee with a sign ; No woman's love shall light on thee, No woman's heart be thine ! "And trust me, 't is not that thy cheek Is colorless and cold. Nor that thine eye is slow to speak What only eyes have told ; For many a cheek of paler white Hath blushed with passion's kiss, And many an eye of lesser light Hath caught its fire from bliss : Yet while the rivers seek the sea, And while the young stars shine, No woman's love shall light on thee, No woman's heart be thine ! " And 't is not that thy spirit, awed By beauty's numbing spell, Shrinks from the force or from the fraud Which beauty loves so well ; For thou hast learned to watch and wake. And swear by earth and sky. And thou art very bold to take What we must still deny : I cannot tell ; the charm was wrought By other threads than mine ; The lips are lightly begged or bought. The heart may not be thine ! "Yet thine the brightest smile shall be That ever beauty wore, And confidence from two or three. And compliments from more ; And one shall give, perchance hath given, What only is not love, — Friendship, 0, such as saints in heaven Kain on us from above. If she shall meet thee in the bower, Or name thee in the shrine. 154 SONGS OF THKEE CENTUEIES. 0, wear the ring, and guard the flow- er,— Her heart may not be thine ! "Go, set thy boat before the blast, Thy breast before the gun, — The liaven shall be reached at last. The battle shall be won ; Or muse upon thy country's laws. Or strike thy country's lute. And patriot hands shall sound applause. And lovely lips be mute : Go, dig the diamond from the wave, The treasure from the mine. Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave, — No woman's heart is thine ! " I charm thee from the agony "Which others feel or feign. From anger and from jealousy. From doubt and from disdain ; I bid thee wear the scorn of years Upon the cheek of youth. And curl the lip at passion's tears, And shake the head at truth : While there is bliss in revelry, Forgetfulness in wine, Be thou from woman's love as free As woman is from thine ! " KINDRED HEARTS. O, ASK not, hope thou not, too much Of sympathy below ; Few are 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 ours Too fair for aught so fleet. It may be that thy brother's eye Sees not as thine, which 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 ! Tlic iiicloipn tliirstv and de- I And flashes in the moonlight gleam, Suffers, recoils, - then, thirsty ana ae ^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ spairing , i • Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught. JAMES G. PEECIVAL. [u. s. A., 1795 >8s6-] MAY. I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; The winds, that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fall the sail, Tell of serener 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 daUying of the west-wind play ; And the full-brimming floods. As gladly to their goal they run, Hail the returning sun. TO SENECA LAKE. On thy fair bosom, silver lake. The wild swan spreads his snowy sail. And round his breast the ripples break As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, wave! ess stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, The waves along thy pebbly shore, _ As blows the north-wind, heave their foam. And curl around the dashing oar. As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view _ Thy golden mirror spreading wide. And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet ox silver spreads below, And swift she cuts, at highest noon, Light clouds, hke wreaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 0, I could ever sweep the oar. When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er ! JOHN G. C. BRAINAED. [U. S. A., 1796- 1828.] THE FALL OF NLA.GARA, The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain. While I look upward to thee. It would As if God poured thee from his hollow liand, And hung his bow upon thine awtul iront ; And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him _ , Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour s The sound' of many waters ; and had bade Thv flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks. Deep oalleth unto deep. And what are we, . That hear the question of that voice sub- lime ? 0, what are all the notes that ever rung 156 SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. From war's vain trumpet, by thy thun- dering side ? Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains? — a light wave. That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. EPrrHALAMITTM. 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. In peace each other greeting ; Calm was their course through banks of green, While 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 ie peace. DANIEL WEBSTER. [U. S. A., 1782 - 1852.] THE MEMORY OF THE HEART. If stores of dry and learned lore we gain. We keep them in the memory of the brain ; Names, things, and facts, — whate'er we knowledge call, — There is the common ledger for them all ; And images on this cold surface traced Make slight impression, and are soon effaced. But we 've a page, more glowing and more bright, On which our friendship and our love to write ; That these maynever from the soul depart, Wetrustthem to the memory of the heart. There is no dimming, noeftacement there ; Each newpulsation keeps the record clear ; Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill. Nor lose their lustre tiU the heart stands still. JOSEPH EODMAN DRAKE. [U. S. A., 1795-1820.] THE AMERICAN FLAG. When Freedomfrom hermountainheight Unfurled her standard to the air. She tore the azure robe of night. And set the stars of glory there ; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies. And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light ; Then from liis mansion in the sun She called her eagle-bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. Flag of the brave, thy folds shall fly. The sign of hope and triumph high ! When speaks the signal-trumpet tone. And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-bom glories burn. And as his springing steps advance. Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud. And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas, on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; When death, careering on the gale. Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, JOHN PIERPONT. 157 And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given, Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? JOM PIERPONT. [U. S. A., 1785 -1866.] PASSING AWAY. Was it the chime of a tiny bell That came so sweet to my dreaming ear. Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell That he winds, on the beech, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie to- gether asleep. And the Moon and the Fairy are watch- ing the deep, She dispensing her silvery light, And he his notes as silvery quite, While the boatman listens and ships his oar. To catch the music that comes from the shore ? Hark ! the notes on my ear that play Are set to words ; as they float, they say, ' ' Passing away ! passing away ! " But no ; it was not a fairy's shell, Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear ; Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, Striking the hour, that filled my ear. As I lay in my dream ; yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung (As you 've sometimes seen, in a little ring That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird swing) ; And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, "Passing away ! passing away !" 0, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow ; And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold. Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo ! she had changed : in a few short hours Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung This way and that, as she, dancing, swung In the fulness of grace and of womanly pride. That told me she soon was to be a bride ; Yet then, when expecting her happiest day. In the same sweet voice I heard her say, "Passing away ! passing away ! " While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade Of thought or care stole softly over, Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made. Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels. That marched so calmly round above her. Was a little dimmed, — as when Evening steals Upon Noon's hot face. Yet one could n't but love her. For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day ; And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say, ' ' Passing away ! passing away ! " Wliile yet I looked, what a change there came ! Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan : 158 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Stooping and staffed was her withered I'lame, Yet just as busily swung she on ; The garland beneathherhad fallen to dust; The wheelsabove her were eaten with rust ; The hands, that over the dial swept, Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept, And still there came that silver tone From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone (Let me never forget till my dying day The tone or the burden of her lay), "Passing away ! passing away !" TO CONGRESS. A WORD FROM A PETITIONER, 1837. What ! ourpetitionsspurned ! The prayer Of thousands — tens of thousands — cast. Unheard, beneath your Speaker's chair ! But ye will hear us, first or last. The thousands that last year ye scorned Are millions now. Be warned ! Be warned ! "The ox that treadeth out the com Thou shaltnot muzzle." — Thus saith God. And will ye muzzle the free-born, — The man, — the owner of the sod, — Who "gives the grazing ox his meat," And you — his servants here — your seat ? There 's a cloud, blackening up the sky ! East, west, and north its curtain spreads ; Lift to its muttering folds your eye ! Beware ! for bursting on your heads, It hath a force to bear you down ; — 'T is an insulted people's frown. Ye may have heard of the Soultan, And how his Janissaries fell ! Their barracks, near the Atmeidan, He barred, and fired ; and their death- yell Went to the stars, and their blood ran In brooks across the Atmeidan. The despot spake; and, in one night, The deed was done. He wields, alone, The sceptre of the Ottomite, And brooks no brother near bis throne. Even now, the bow-string, at his beck, Goes round his mightiest subjects' neck; Yet will he, in his saddle, stoop — I 've seen him, in his palace-yard — To take petitions from a troop Of women, who, behind his guard, Come up, their several suits to press, To state their wrongs, and ask redress. And these, into his house of prayer, I 've seen him take ; and, as he spreads His own before his Maker there. These women's prayers he hears or reads; — For, while he wears the diadem, He is instead of God to them. And this he must do. He may grant, Or may deny ; but hear he must. Were his Seven Towers all adamant. They'd soon be levelled with the dust, And "public feeling "make short work — Shouldhe not hear them — with the Turk. Nay, start not from your chairs, in dread Of cannon-shot or bursting shell ! These shall not fall upon your head, As once upon your house they fell. We have a weapon, firmer set And better than the bayonet, — A weapon that comes down as still As snow-flakes fall upon the sod. But executes a freeman's will As lightning does the will of God ; And from its force nor doors nor locks Can shield you; — 'tis the ballot-box. Black as your deed shall be the balls That from that box shall pour like hail ! And when the storm upon you falls. How will your craven cheeks turn pale ! For, at its coming though ye laugh, 'T will sweep you from your hall, like chaff. Not women, now, — the people pray. Hear us, — or from us ye will hear ! Beware ! — a desperate game ye play! The men that thicken in your rear — Kings though ye be — may not be scorned Look to your move! your stake! Ye 'nB WAKNED. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 159 Wn.LIAM MOTHERWELL. [1798-1835.] JEANIE MORRISON. I 'VE wandered east, I Ve wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day ! The lire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cool. 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 ither weel, 'T was then we twa did part ; Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 'T was then we sat on ae laigh biuk, To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones and looks and smiles were shed. Remembered 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 cleeked thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The scule then skail't at noon) When we ran aff to speel the braes, — The broomy braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about. My heart flows like a sea. As ane by ane the thochts rush back 0' scule-time and o' thee. mornin' life ! mornin' luve ! lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our heaiis 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 hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood, The throssil 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 hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 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 freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, unsung ! 1 marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin 1 hae been 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' langsyne? I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west, 1 've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, 1 've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die. Did I but ken your heart still flreamed 0' bygane days and me I 160 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. THOMAS HOOD. [1798 -1845.] 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 crowing aloof I And work — work — work. Till the stars shine through the roof! It s, oh ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If THIS is Christian work I "Work —work — work I 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 my dream ! "0 men with sisters dear! men with mothers and wives ! It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives ! S titch — stitch — stitch. In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; Sewing at once, with a double thread, A SHKOUD as well as a shirt ! "But why do I talk of death, That phantom of grisly bone ? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own! It seems so like my own Because of the fast I 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 : A 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 I From weary chime to chime ; Work — work — work. As prisoners work, for crime I Band, and gusset, and seam ; Seam, and gusset, and band ; Till the heart is sick, and the brain be- numbed. As well as the weary hand ! "Work — work — work ! In the dull December light, And work — work — work When the weather is warm and bright : While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows clin^, 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 the 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 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 — Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — She sang this "Song of the Shirt !" MORNING MEDITATIONS. Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy. How well to rise while nights and larks are flying, — THOMAS HOOD. 161 For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying. What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out, — Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly ? I 'm not a trout. Talknottome of bees and such-like hums. The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime, — Only lie long enough, and bed becomes A bed of time. To me Dan Phoebus and his car are naught, His steeds that paw impatiently about, — Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, The first turn-out ! Right beautiful the dewy meads appear Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl ; What then, — if I prefer my pillow-beer To early pearl ? My stomach is not ruled by other men's, And, grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs ? Why from a comfortable pillow start To see faint flushes in the east awaken ? A fig, say I, for any streaky part, Excepting bacon. An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn. Who used to haste the dewy grass among, "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn," — Well, — he died young. With charwomen such early hours agree, And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup; But I 'm no climbing boy, and need not be AU up, —all up! So here I lie, my morning calls deferring, Till something nearer to the stroke of noon; — A man that 's fond precociously of stirring Must be a spoon. SONG. Lady, leave thy silken thread And flowery tapestry — There 's living roses on the bush, And blossoms on the tree. Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet ; Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find The daisy at thy feet. 'T is like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom ; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume ; There 's crimson buds, and white and blue — The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers. There 's fairy tulips in the east, — The garden of the sun ; The very streams reflect the hues. And blossom as they run ; While morn opes like a crimson rose, Still wet with pearly showers : Then, lady, leave the silken thread Thou twinest into flowers. RUTH. She stood breast high amid the com, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun. Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened ; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with com. Round her eyes her tresses fell, — Which were blackest none could tell ; But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim ; — Thus she stood amid the stocks. Praising God with sweetest looks. 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. 162 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. W. B. 0. PEABODY. [U. S. A., 1799 -1848.] HYMN OF NATI7RE. God of the earth's extended plains ! The dark green fields contented lie ; The mountains rise like holy towers, Where man mightcommune with the sky ; The tall cliff' challenges the storm Tluit lowers upon the vale below, "Where shaded fountains send their streams, With joyous music in their flow. God of the dark and heavy deep ! The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm Hath summoned up their thundering bands ; Then the white sails are dashed like foam. Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas. Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes. Depart in peace. God of the forest's solemn shade ! The grandeur of the lonely tree. That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; But more majestic far they stand, When, side by side, their ranks they form. To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm. God of the light and viewless air ! Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might. The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; All— from the evening's plaintive sigh. That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — Breathe forth the language of thy power. God of the fair and open sky ! How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue. Suspended on the rainbow's rings. Each brilliant star, that sparkles through ; Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee. God of the rolling orbs above ! Tliy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze, Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun. And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven, Were kindled at thy burning throne. God of the world ! the hour must come, And nature's self to dust return ! Her crumbling altars must decay, Her incense fires shall cease to burn ! But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow ; For hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below. W. A. MUHLENBERG. [U. S. A.] I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAT. I WOULD not live alway : I ask not to stay "WTiere storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found ; Where hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air, Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of despair. And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray. Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin. Temptation without, and corruption within ; In a moment of strength, if I sever the chain, Scarce the victory is mine ere I 'm cap- tive again. E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, And the cup of thanksgi^ang with peni- tent tears. The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. I would not live alway: no, welcome the tomb ; Immortality's lamp burns there bright mid the gloom. LADY DUFFERIN. — WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 163 There, too, is the pillow where Christ bowed his head ; 0, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed ! And then the glad morn soon to follow that night, When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight. And the full matin-song, as the sleepers arise To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies. Who, who would live alway, away from his God, Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode. Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains. And the noontideof glory etemallyreigns; Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, While the anthems of rapture unceas- ingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul? That heavenly music ! what is it I hear? The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear ! And see soft unfolding those portals of gold, The King all arrayed in his beauty behold ! 0, give me, 0, give me the wings of a dove ! Let me hasten my flight to those man- sions above : Ay ! 't is now that my soul on swift pinions would soar, And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. LADY DUPFERm. [1807- 1S67.] THE miSH EMIGRANT. I 'm sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May morning long ago, When iirst j'ou were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high. And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary ; The day 's as 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 warm breath on my cheek. And 1 still keep listening for the words You nevermore may speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, The village 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. Where 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 ! iVnd you were all I had, Mary, JVIy blessing and my pride ; There 's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. I 'm bidding you a long farewell. My ]\Iary kind and true. But I '11 not forget you, darling. In the land I 'm going 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 less fair. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. [1801-1839-1 THE BELLE OF THE BALL. Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty ; Ere I had done with writing themes. Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, — 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 a county ball ; There, when the sound of tlute and fiddle 164 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Ofall that sets young hearts romancing : She was our queen, our rose, our star ; And when she danced — Heaven, her dancing ! 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, I wondered whei-e she 'd left her spar- rows. She talked of politics or prayers, Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets. Of daggers or of dancing bears. Of battles or the last new bonnets ; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock. To me it mattered not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed ; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling. My father frowned ; but how should gout Find any happiness in kneeling ? She was the daughter of a dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; She had one brother, just thirteen, Wliose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother, for many a year. Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second-cousin was a peer, 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, 0, what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses ; He cares as little for the stocks As Baron Rothschild 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 Catalani jealous : She touched the organ ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with aU an album's glo- ries, — Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories. Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; Her poodle dog- was quite adored ; Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed, — 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 ; I was the first, the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute : I knew it, for she told me so. In phrase which was divinely moulded ; She wrote a charming hand, and 0, How sweetly aU 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 lock 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 J For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers, And she was not the ball-room belle. But only Mrs. — Something — Rogers- WILLIAM LEGGETT. — FITZ-GREENE HALLEGK. 165 WILLIAM LEGGETT. [U. S. A., 1802- 1839.] LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. The birds, when winter shades the sky, Fly o'er the seas away, Where laughing isles in sunshine lie, And summer breezes play ; And thus the friends that flutter near While fortune's sun is warm Are startled if a cloud appear, And fly before the storm. But when from winter's howling plains Each other warbler 's past, The little snow-bird still remains, And chirrups midst the blast. Love, like that bird, when friendship's throng With fortune's sun depart. Still lingers with its cheerful song. And nestles on the heart. EDWAKD COATE PINKNET. [U. S. A., 1802- 1828.] A HEALTH. I FILL this cup to one made up of loveli- ness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon ; To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 't is less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds. And something more than melody dwells ever in her words ; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the rose. Afi'ections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours ; Her feelings have the fragrancy, 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 nigh my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up of loveli- ness 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 weari- ness a name. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. [U.S. A., 1795- 1867.] BURNS. He kept his honesty and truth. His independent tongue and pen. And moved in manhood as in youth, Pride of his fellow-men. Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A hate of tyrant and of knave, A love of right, a scorn of wrong. Of coward and of slave, — A kind, true heart, a spirit high. That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard ! his words are driven, Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown. Where'er beneath the sky of heaven The birds of fame have flown. 1G6 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Praise to the man ! a nation stood Beside his coffin with wet eyes, Her brave, her beautiful, her good, As when a loved one dies. And still, as on his funeral day. Men stand his cold earth -couch around, With the mute homage that we pay To consecrated ground. And consecrated ground it is. The last, the hallowed home of one Who lives upon all memories. Though with the buried gone. Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines, Shrines to no code or creed confined, — The Delphian vales, the Palestiues, The Meccas of the mind. ON A PORTRAIT OF RED JACKET, CHIEF OF THE TDSCARORAS. Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven. First in her files, her Pioneer of mind, — A wanderer now in other climes, has proven His love for the young land he left behind ; And throned her in the senate-hall of nations, Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven- wrought. Magnificent as his own mind's creations, And beautiful as its green world of thought ; And faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted As law authority, it passed nem. con. : He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted, The most enlightened people ever known ; That all our week is happy as a Sunday In Paris, full of song and dance and laugh ; And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fuiidy, There 's not a bailiff or an epitaph ; And furthermore — in fifty years, or sooner. We shall export our poetry and wine ; And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner. Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line. If he were with me, King of Tnscarora ! Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now, In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory. Its eye's dark beauty, and its thought- ful brow, — Its brow, half martial and half diplo- matic ; Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings, — Well might he boast that we, the Demo- cratic, Outrival Europe, even in our kings ! For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages Tell not the planting of thy parent tree. But that the forest tribes have bent for ages To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. Thy name is princely, — if no poet'smagic Could make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme. Though some one with a genius for the tragic Hath introduced it in a pantomime, Yet it is music in the language spoken Of thine own land ; and on her herald roll. As bravely fought for, and as proud a token As Cceur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. Thy garb, — though Austria's bosom-star would frighten That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton, A more becoming evening dress than thine ; oy. 7€'7^ fy?^ or^ Cy'c ()/ FITZ-GEEENE HALLECK. 167 Yet 't is a brave one, scorning wind and weather, And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood. As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather, Or forest green for England's Robin Hood. Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's ? Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong As earth's firstkings, — the Argo's gallant sailors. Heroes in history, and gods in song. Is beauty? — Thine has with thy youth departed ; But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, And she who perished, young and broken- hearted, Are — But I rhyme for smiles and not for tears. Is eloquence? — Her spell is thine that reaches The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport ; And there 's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, The secret of their mastery, — they are short. The monarch mind, the mystery of com- manding. The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, Of winning, fettering, moulding, wield- ing, banding The hearts of millions till they move as one, — Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded The road to death as to a festival ; And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded With banner-folds of glory the dark pall. Who will believe, — not I; for in de- ceiving Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream: I cannot spare the luxury of believing That all things beautiful are what they seem, — Who will believe that, with a smile whoso blessing Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a dying hour ; With voice as low, as gentle, and caress- ing, As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower ; With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil; With motions graceful as a bird's in air, — Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair ! That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain. Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree ; And in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o'- mountain Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee ! And underneath that face, like summer ocean's. Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear. Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emo- tions, — Love, hatred, pride, hope, soitow, — all save fear. Love — for thy land, as if she were thy daughter. Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars; Hatred — of missionaries and cold water; Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; Hope — that thy wrongs may be by the Great Spirit Remembered and revenged when thou art gone ; Sorrow — that none are left thee to in- herit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne ! 168 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. [U. S. A.] SONNET. WRITTEN WHILE IN PRISON FOR DENOUNCING THE DOMESTIC SLAVE-TRADE, High walls and huge the body may con- fine, And iron gates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, And massive bolts may baffle his design. And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways ; But scorns the immortal mind such base control : No chains can bind it and no cell en- close. Swifter than light it flies from pole to pole, And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes. It leaps from mount to mount ; from vale to vale It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers ; It ^asits home to hear the fireside tale And in sweet converse pass the joyous hours ; 'T is up before the sun, roaming afar. And in its watches wearies every star. JOHN NEAL. [U. S. A.] AMBITION. I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry. And panted at the drum's deep roll, And held my breath, when, floating high, I saw our starry banners fly. As, challenging the haughty sky, They W(Mit like battle o'er my soul. For I was so ambitious then, I longed to be the slave of men ! I stood and saw the morning light, A standard swaying far and free, And loved it like th, Yet yonder halts the quiet mill ; The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, How motionless and still ! Six days' stern labor shuts the poor From Nature's careless banquet-hall ; The seventh an angel opes the door, And, smiling, welcomes all ! A Father's tender mercy gave This holy respite to the breast. To breathe the gale, to watch the wave, And know — the wheel may rest ! Six days of toil, poor child of Cain, Thy strength thy master's slave must be; The seventh the limbs escape the chain, — A God hath made thee free ! The fields that yester-morning knew Thy footsteps as their serf, survey ; On thee, as them, descends the dew, The baptism of the day. Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale, But yonder halts the quiet mill ; The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, How motionless and still ! So rest, weary heart ! — but, lo. The church-spire, glistening up to heaven. To warn thee where thy thoughts shouldgo The day thy God hath given ! Lone through the landscape's solemn rest. The spire its moral points on high. soul, at peace within the breast, Rise, mingling with the sky ! They tell thee, in their dreaming school, Of power from old dominion hurled. When rich and poor, with juster rule, Shall share the altered world. Alas ! since time itself began. That fable hath but fooled the hour; Each age that ripens power in man But subjects man to power. Yet every day in seven, at least. One bright republic shall be known ; FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. — FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 175 Man's world awhile hath surely ceased, When God proclaims his own ! Six days may rank divide the poor, O Dives, I'rom thy banquet-hall ; The seventh the Father opes the door, And holds his feast for all ! FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. FAITH. Better trust all and be deceived, And weep that trust and that deceiving, Than doubt one heart that if believed Had blessed one's life with true believing. 0, in this mocking world too fast The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth ; Better be cheated to the last Than lose the blessed hope of truth. JOHN STERLING. [1806- 1844.] HYMN. 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 every- where. The mountain-ridge against the purple sky Stands clear and strong, with darkened rocks and dells, And cloudless brightness opens wide on 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 Hash and shadow stirs like inward life; The ship's white sail glides onward far away, Unhaunted by a dream of storm or strife. Thou, the primal fount of life and peace, Who shedd'st thy breathing quiet all around. In me command that pain and conflict cease, And turn to music every jarring sound ! How longs each pulse within the weary soul To taste the life of this benignant hour, To be at one with thy untroubled whole. And in itself to know thy hushing power. In One, who walked on earth a man of woe. Was holier peace than even this hour inspires ; From him to me let inward quiet flow. And give the might my failing will requires. So this great All around, so he, and thou, The central source and awful bound of things. May fill my heart with rest as deep as now To land and sea and air thy presence brings. FRANCES S. OSGOOD. [U. S. A., 1812- 1850.] LABOR. Pause not to dream of the future before us; Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us ; Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus, Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing ; Never the little seed stops in its growing ; More and more richly the rose heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. "Labor is worship!" the robin is sing- ing; "Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing : 176 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES Listen ! that eloquent whisper, npspring- Speaks to thy soul from out nature s great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; From the rough sod blows the soft-breath- ing flower ; From the small insect, the rich coral bower ; Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. Labor is life ! — 'T is the still water fail- eth ; Idleness ever despaireth, bewail eth; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ; Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labor is glory !— the flying cloud light- ens; Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; Idle hearts only the dark future fright- ens : Play the sweet keys, wovddst thou keep them in tiuae ! Labor is rest from the sorrows that gi-eet us. Best from all petty vexations that meet us. Rest from sin-promptings that ever en- treat us. Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Work, — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow ; "Work, — thou shalt ride over Care's com- ing billow ; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weep- ing willow ! Work with a stout heart and resolute will! Labor is health ! — Lo ! the husbandman reaping. How through his veins goes the life-cur- rent leaping ! How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping. True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Labor is wealth, — in the sea the pearl groweth ; Rich the queen's robe from the frail co- coon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; Temple and statue the marble block hides. Droopnot.thoughshame, sin, andanguish are round thee ; Bravely fling ofl" the cold chain that hath bound thee ! Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee : Rest not content in thy darkness, — a clod! Work for some good, be it fver so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly : Labor! — all labor is noble and holy; Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. JONES VERY. [u. s. A.] THE PRESENT HEAVEN. Father ! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have sel- dom strayed ; Around us ever lies the enchanted land. In marvels rich to thine own sons dis- played. In finding thee are all things round us found ; In losing thee are all things lost beside ; Ears have we, but in vain sweet voices sound. And to our eyes the vision is denied. Open our eyes, that we that world may see! Open our ears, that we thy voice may hear, And in the spirit-land may ever be, And feel thy presence with us, always near. TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. Brioht image of the early years When glowed my cheek as red as thou, THOMAS MILLER. — JOHN KEBLE. 177 And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'ermy sunny brow! Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art ; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. The morning's blush, she made it thine ; The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee ; And in thy look, my Columbine ! Each fond-remembered spot she bade me see. I see the hill's far-gazing head. Where gay thou noddest in the gale ; I hear liglit-bounding footsteps tread Thegrassypath that winds along the vale. I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well- known tree, And, on light pinions borne along. Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. O'er the dark rock the dashing brook. With look of anger, leaps again. And, hastening to each flowery nook. Its distant voice is heard far down the glen. Fair child of art ! thy charms decay. Touched by the withered hand of Time; And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the stream- let's chime : But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled; And, rich with memory's sweet per- fume. Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed. There shalt thou live and wake the glee That echoed on thy native hill ; And when, loved flower ! I think of thee. My infant feet will seem to seek thee still. 12 THOMAS MILLER. EVENmG SONG. How many days with mute adieu Have gone down yon untrodden sky, And still it looks as clear and blue As when it first was hung on high. The rolling sun, the frowning cloud That drew the lightning in its rear. The thunder tramping deep and loud. Have left no foot-mark there. The village-bells, with silver chime, Come softened by the distant shore ; Though I have heard them many a time, They never rung so sweet before. A silence rests upon the hill, A listening awe pervades the air ; The very flowers are shut and still, And bowed as if in prayer. And in this hushed and breathless close, O'er earth and air and sky and sea, A still low voice in silence goes. Which speaks alone, great God, of thee. The whispering leaves, the far-off" brook, The linnet's warble fainter grown, The hive-bound bee, the building rook, — All these their Maker own. Now Nature sinks in soft repose, A living semblance of the grave ; The dew steals noiseless on the rose. The boughs have almost ceased to wave ; The silent sky, the sleeping earth. Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod. All tell from whom they had their birth, And cry, " Behold a God ! " JOHN KEBLE. [1796- 1821.] MORNING. 0, TIMELY happy, timely wise. Hearts that with rising morn arise ! Eyes that the beam celestial view. Which evermore makes all things new ! New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prov^ 178 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life and power and thought. New mercies, each returning day, Hover around us while we pray ; New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven. If, on our daily course, our mind Be set to hallow all we find, New treasures still, of countless price, God will provide for sacrifice. Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be, As more of Heaven in each we see ; Some softening gleam of love and prayer Shall dawn on every cross and care. As for some dear familiar strain Untired we ask, and ask again, Ever in its melodious store Finding a spell unheard before, — Such is the bliss of souls serene, When they have sworn, and steadfast mean. Counting the cost, in all to espy Theii- God, in all themselves deny. 0, could we learn that sacrifice, What lights would all around us rise ! How would our hearts with wisdom talk Along life's dullest, dreariest walk ! We need not bid, for cloistered cell. Our neighbor and our work farewell, Nor strive to wind ourselves too high For sinful man beneath the sky. The trivial round, the common task, Will furnish all we ought to ask ; Room to deny ourselves ; a road To bring us, daily, nearer God. Seek we no more : content with these. Let present rapture, comfort, ease, As Heaven shall bid them, come and go ; The secret this of rest below. Only, Lord, in thy dear love Fit us for perfect rest above ; And help us, this and every day, To live more nearly as we pray ! nrWARD MTJSIC. There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of the everlasting chime ; Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart. Plying their daily toil with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat. SIR EGBERT GRANT. [1814-1838.] SAVIOUR I WHOSE MERCY. Saviour ! whose mercy, severe in its kindness, Hath chastened my wanderings and guided my way, Adored be the power that illumined my blindness. And weaned me from phantoms that smiled to betray. Enchanted with all that was dazzling and fair, I followed the rainbow, I caught at the toy ; And still in displeasure thy goodness was there, Disappointing the hope and defeating the joy. The blossom blushed bright, but a worm was below ; The moonlight shone fair, there was blight in the beam ; Sweet whisi)ered the breeze, but it whis- pered of woe ; And bitterness flowed in the soft-flow- ing stream. So cured of my folly, yet cured but in part, 1 turned to the refuge thy pity dis- plaved ; And still "did this eager and credulous heart Weave visions of promise that bloomed but to fade. DEAN OF CANTEEBURY. — BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 179 I thought that the course of the pilgrim to heaven Would be bright as the summer and glad as the morn : Thou showedst me the path ; it was dark and uneven, All rugged with rock and all tangled with thorn. I dreamed of celestial rewards and re- nov\rn, I grasped at the triumph that blesses the brave ; I asked for the palm-branch, the robe, and the crown, I asked, and thou showedst me a cross and a grave ! Subdued and instructed, at length to thy will -^ My hopes and my wishes I freely re- 0, give me a heart that can wait and be still. Nor know of a wish or a pleasure but thine. There are mansions exempted from sin and from woe. But they stand in a region by mortals untrod ; There are rivers of joy, but they roll not below ; There is rest, but 'tis found in the bosom of God. DEAN OF CANTERBURY. TRUST. I KNOW not if or dark or bright Shall be my lot ; If that wherein my hopes delight Be best, or not. It may be mine to drag for years Toil's heavy chain ; Or day and night ray meat be tears On bed of pain. Dear faces may surround my hearth With smiles and glee ; Or I may dwell alone, and mirth Be strange to me. My bark is wafted to the strand By breath divine ; And on the helm there rests a hand Other than mine. One who has known in storms to sail I have on board ; Above the raving of the gale I hear my Lord. He holds me when the billows smite, — I shall not fall. If sharp, 't is short ; if long, 't is light, — He tempers all. Safe to the land, safe to the land, — The end is this; And then with Him go hand in hand Far into bliss. BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL). [1787- 1874.] A PETITION TO TIME. Touch us gently. Time ! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently, — as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream ! Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, 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 ! A PRAYER IN SICKNESS. Send down thy winged angel, God ! Amid this night so wild ; And bid him come where now we watch, And breathe upon our child ! 180 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. She lies upon her pillow, pale, And moans within her sleep. Or wakeneth with a patient smile, And striveth not to weep. How gentle and how good a child She is, we know too well. And dearer to her parents' hearts Than our weak words can tell. We love, — we watch throughout the night To aid, when need may be ; We hope, — and have despaired, at times, But now we turn to thee ! Send down thy sweet-souled angel, God ! Amid the darkness wild. And bid him soothe our souls to-night, And heal our gentle child ! KICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON). THE BROOKSIDE. I ■WANDERED by the brookside, I wandered by the mill ; I could not hear the brook flow, — The noisy wheel was still ; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird. But the beating of my own heart Was aU the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree ; I watched the long, long shade, And, as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid ; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word, — But the beating of my own heart Was aU the sound I heard. He came not, — no, he came not, — The night came on alone, — The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne ; The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred, — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing. When something stood behind ; A hand was on my shoulder, — I knew its touch was kind : It drew me nearer, — nearer, — We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. THE MEN OF OLD. I KNOW not that the men of old Were better than men now, Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, Of more ingenuous brow ; I heed not those who pine for force A ghost of time to raise. As if they thus could check the course Of these appointed days. Still is it true and over-true, That I delight to close This book of life self-wise and new, And let my thoughts repose On all that humble happiness The world has since foregone, — The daylight of contentedness That on those faces shone ! With rights, though not too closely scanned, Enjoyed as fat as known, — With will, by no reverse unmanned, — With pulse of even tone, — Tliey from to-day and from to-night Expected nothing more Than yesterday and yesternight Had proffered them before. To them was life a simple art Of duties to be done, A game where each man took his part, A race where all must run ; A battle whose great scheme and scope They little cared to know. Content, as men-at-arms, to cope Each with his fronting foe. Man now his virtue's diadem Puts on, and proudly wears, — Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, Like instincts unawares ; Blending their souls' sublimest needs With tasks of every day, MARY HOWITT. 181 They went about their gravest deeds, As noble boys at play. A man's best things are nearest him, Lie close about his feet ; It is the distant and the dim That we are sick to greet : For flowers that grow our hands be- neath We struggle and aspire, — Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh desire. But, brothers, who up reason's hill Advance with hopeful cheer, — 0, loiter not, those heights are chill, As chill as they are clear ; And still restrain your haughty gaze The loftier that ye go, Kemembering distance leaves a haze On all that lies below. THE PALM AND THE PINE. Beneath an Indian palm a girl Of other blood reposes ; Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl. Amid that wild of roses. Beside a northern pine a boy Is leaning fancy-bound, Nor listens where with noisy joy Awaits the impatient hound. Cool grows the sick and feverish calm, Relaxed the frosty twine, — The pine-tree dream eth of the palm, The palm-tree of the pine. As soon shall nature interlace Those dimly visioned boughs. As these young lovers face to face Renew their early vows ! MARY HOWITT. TIBBIE INGLIS. Bo?rNT Tibbie Inglis ! Through sun and stormy weather, Shp kept upon the broomy hUls Her father's flock together. Sixteen summers had she seen, — A rosebud just unsealing ; Without sorrow, without fear. In her mountain shealing. She was made for happy thoughts, For playful wit and laughter; Singing on the hills alone. With echo singing after. She had hair as deeply black As the cloud of thunder ; She had brows so beautiful. And dark eyes flashing under. Bright and witty shepherd-girl, Beside a mountain water, I found her, whom a king himself Would proudly call his daughter. She was sitting 'mong the crags. Wild and mossed and hoaiy ; Reading in an ancient book Some old martyr story. Tears were starting to her eyes, Solemn thought was o'er her ; When she saw in that lone place A stranger stand before her. Crimson was her sunny cheek, And her lips seemed moving With the beatings of her heart; — How could I help loving ? On a crag I sat me down. Upon the mountain hoary. And made her read again to me That old pathetic story. Then she sang me mountain songs, Till the air was ringing With her clear and warbling voice, Like a skylark singing. And when eve came on at length, Among the blooming heather. We herded on the mountain-side Her father's flock together. And near unto her father's house I said "Good night!" with sorrow, And inly wished that I might say, "We '11 meet again to-morrow." I watched her tripping to her home ; I saw her meet her mother. 182 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. "Among a thousaud maids," I cried, "There is not such another!" I wandered to my scholar's home, It lonesome looked and dreary; I took my books, but could not read, Methought that I was weary. I laid me down upon my bed, My heart with sadness laden ; I dreamed but of the mountain wold, And of the mountain maiden, I saw her of the ancient book The pages turning slowly ; I saw her lovely crimson cheek, And dark eye drooping lowly. The dream was like the day's delight, A life of pain's o'erpayment : I rose, and with unwonted care. Put on my Sabbath raiment. To none I told my secret thoughts, Not even to my mother, Nor to the friend who, from my youth, Was dear as is a brother. I got me to the hills again ; The little liock was feeding : And there young Tibbie Inglis sat, But not the old book reading. She sat as if absorbing thought With heavy spells had bound her. As silent as the mossy crags Upon tlie mountains round her. I thought not of my Sabbath dress ; I thought not of my learning : I thought but of the gentle maid Who, 1 believed, was mourning. Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! How her beauty brightened. Looking at me, half abashed. With eyes that flamed and lightened 1 There was no sorrow, then I saw. There was no thouglit of sadness : life ! what after-joy hast thou Like love's first certain gladness? 1 sat me down among the crags. Upon the mountain hoary ; But read not then the ancient book, — Love was our pleasant story. And then she sang me songs again. Old songs of love and sorrow ; For our sufficient happiness Great charm from woe could borrow. And many hours we talked in joy. Yet too much blessed for laughter : I was a happy man that day. And happy ever after ! WILLIAM HOWITT. THE DEPARTITRE OF THE SWALLOW. And is the swallow gone ? Who beheld it? Which way sailed it ? Farewell bade it none ? No mortal saw it go ; — But who doth hear Its summer cheer As it flitteth to and fro ? So the freed spirit flies ! From its surrounding clay It steals away Like the swallow from the skies. Whither? wherefore doth it go? 'T is all unknown ; We feel alone That a void is left below. WILLIAM LAIDLAW. [1780-1845.] LUCY'S ELITTIN'. 'T WAS when the wan leaf frae the birk- tree was fa'in, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year. That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't. And left her auld maister and neibours sae dear: For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer ; UNKNOWN. 183 She cam there afore the bloom cam on the pea ; An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin' ; Kicht sair was his kind heart her flittin' to see. "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" quo' Jamie, and ran in ; The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee. As down the bumside she gaed slow wi' her flittin', "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" was Uka bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the trees sittin', And the robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang. "0, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee ? If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be? I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither ; Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see ; I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. "Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon. The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me; Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin', I '11 never forget the wae blink o' his ee. Though now he said naethiug but 'Fare ye weel, Lucy ! ' It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see : He couldna say mair but just, ' Fare ye weel, Lucy ! ' Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee." The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it 's droukit ; The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea ; But Lucy likes Jamie; — she turned and she lookit. She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless ! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn ! For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return ! UNKNOWN. SUMMER DAYS. In summer, when the days were long. We walked together in the wood ; Our heart was light, our step was strong, Sweet flutterings were in our blood, In summer, when the days were long. We strayed from morn tUl evening came; We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; . We walked mid poppies red as flame, Or sat upon the yellow downs ; And always wished our life the same. In summer, when the days were long. We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook ; And still her voice flowed forth in song. Or else she read some graceful book. In summer, when the days were long. And then we sat beneath the trees, With shadows lessening in the noon ; And in the sunlight and the breeze We feasted, many a gorgeous June, While larks were singing o'er the leas. In summer, when the da)'s were long. On dainty chicken, snow-white bread, We feasted, with no grace but song; We plucked wild strawberries, ripe and red. In summer, when the days were long. We loved, and yet we knew it not, — For loving seemed like breathing then ; 184 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. "We found a heaven in every spot ; Saw angels, too, in all good men ; And dreamed of God in grove and grot. In summer, when the days are long, Alone I wander, muse alone. I see her not ; but that old song Under the fragrant wind is blown, In summer, when the days are long. Alone I wander in the wood : But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; And half I see, so glad and good, The honest daylight of her eyes. That charmed me under earlier skies. In summer, when the days are long, I love her as we loved of old. My heart is light, my step is strong ; For love brings back those hours of gold. In summer, when the days are long. Some talked of vanished gold. Some of pi'oud honors told, Some spake of friends that were their trust no more ; And one of a green grave, Beside a foreign wave. That made him sit so lonely on the shore. But when their tales were done. There spake among them one, A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : "Sad losses have ye met. But mine is heavier yet ; For a believing heart hath gone from me." "Alas!" these pilgrims said, "For the living and the dead, — For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross. For the wrecks of land and sea ! But, however it came to thee. Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss." FRANCES BROWNE. LOSSES. Upon the white sea-sand There sat a pilgrim band. Telling the losses that their lives had known ; While evening waned away From breezy cliff and bay. And the strong tides went out with weary moan. One spake, with quivering lip. Of a fair freighted ship. With all his household to the deep gone down ; But one had wilder woe, — For a fair face, long ago Lost in the darker depths of a great town. There were who mourned their youth With a most loving ruth. For its brave hopes and memories ever green ; And one upon the west Turned an eye that would not rest, For far-off hills whereon its joys had been. ROBERT NICOLL. [1814-1837.] WE ARE BRETHREN" A'. A HAPPY bit hame this auld world would be. If men, when they're here, could make shift to agree. An' ilk said to his neighbor, in cottage an' ha', "Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are brethren a'." I ken na why ane wi' anither should fight, When to 'gree would make ae body cosie an' right. When man meets wi' man, 't is the best way ava. To say, "Gi'e me your hand, — we are brethren a'." My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine. And I maun drink water, while you may drink wine ; But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted to shaw : Sae gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- ren a'. EICHAED H. DANA. 185 The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride ; Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on your side ; Sae would I, an' naught else would I value a straw : Ttengi'e nie your hand, — we are breth- ren a'. Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man ; I hand by the right aye, as weel as I can ; We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a' : Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- ren a'. Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e ; An' mine has done for me what mithers can do ; We are ane high an' laigh, an' we shouldna be twa : Sae gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- ren a'. We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair ; Hame ! 0, how we love it, an' a' that are there ! Frae the pure air of heaven the same life we draw : Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- ren a'. Frail shakin' auld age will soon come o'er us baith, An' creeping alang at his back will be death ; Syne into the same mither-3drd we will fa': Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- ren a'. Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. But when the light winds lie at rest. And on the glassy, heaving sea The black duck, with her glossy breast. Sits swinging silently ; How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. And inland rests the gi-een, warm dell ; The brook comes tinkling down its side; From out the trees the Sabbath bell Rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks. That feed about the vale among the rocks. Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat In former days within the vale ; Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet ; Curses were on the gale ; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men; Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. But calm, low voices, words of grace, Now slowly fall upon the ear ; A quiet look is in each face. Subdued and holy fear : Each motion gentle ; all is kindly done ; — Come, listen, how from crime this isle was won. RICHARD H. DANA. [U. S. A.] (Prom "The Buccaneer," published in 1827.) THE ISLAND. The island lies nine leagues away. Along its solitary shore, Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar, THE PIRATE. Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee Held in this isle unquestioned sway ; A dark, low, brawny man was he ; His law, — "It is my way." Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light broke From small gray eyes ; his laugh a triumph spoke. Cruel of heart and strong of arm. Loud in his sport and keen for spoil. He little recked of good or harm, Fierce both in mirth and toil ; Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were ; Speak mildly, when he would, or look in fear. 186 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Amid the uproar of the storm, And by the lightning's sharp, red glare, Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form ; His axe glanced quick in air : "Whose corpse at mom is floating in the sedge ? There 's blood and hair, Mat, on thy axe's edge. THE SPECTRE HORSE. He 's now upon the spectre's back. With rein of silk and curb of gold. 'Tis fearful speed ! — the rein is slack Within his senseless hold ; Upborne by an unseen power, he onward rides, Yet touches not the shadow-beast he strides. He goes with speed ; he goes with dread ! And now they 're on the hanging steep ! And, now ! the living and the dead, They '11 make the horrid leap ! The horse stops short ; — his feet are on the verge. He stands, like marble, high above the surge. And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, With red, hot spars, and crackling flame. From hull to gallant, nothing 's gone. She burns, and yet 's the same ! Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night, On man and horse, in their cold, phos- phor light. Through that cold light the fearful man Sits looking on the burning ship. He ne'er again will curse and ban. How fast he moves the lip ! And yet he does not speak, or make a sound ! What see you, Lee? the bodies of the drowned ? "I look where mortal man may not, — Into the chambers of the deep. I see the dead, long, long forgot ; I see them in their sleep. A dreadful power is mine, which none can know Save he who leagues his soul with death and woe." Thou mild, sad mother, — waning moon, Thy last, low, melancholy ray Shines toward him. Quit him not so soon! Mother, in mercy, stay ! Despair and death are with him; and canst thou. With that kind, earthward look, go leave him now ? 0, thou wast bom for things of love ; Making more lovely in thy shine Whate'er thou look'st on. Stars above, In that soft light of thine, Bum softer ; earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven. Thou 'rt going down ! — hast left him unibrgiven ! The far, low west is bright no more. How still it is ! No sound is heard At sea, or all along the shore. But cry of passing bird. Thou living thing, — and dar'st thou come so near These wild and ghastly shapes of death and fear ? Now long that thick, red light has shone On stem, dark rocks, and deep, still l^ay, On man and horse, that seem of stone, So motionless are they. But now its lurid fire less fiercely bums : The night is going, — faint, gray dawn returns. That spectre-steed now .slowly pales, Now changes like the moonlit cloud ; That cold, thin light now slowly fails. Which wrapped them like a shroud. Both ship and horse are fading into air. Lost, mazed, alone, — see, Lee is stand- ing there ! The morning air blows fre.sh on him ; The waves dance gladly in his .sight ; The sea-birds call, and wheel, and .skim, — blessed morning light ! He doth not hear their joyous call ; he sees No beauty in the wave, nor feels the breeze. M KBi itlillflllillliWIfll l|ii|l!!|!l!ilili!l «;< I ( WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 187 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. [U. S. A.] TO A WATERFOWL. WuiTHER, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong. As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side ? There is a Power, whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — The desert and illimitable air, — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmos- phere ; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest. And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart : He who, from zone to zone. Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. In the long way that I must tread alone. Will lead my steps aright. THANATOPSIS. To him who in the lore 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 gentle 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 in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thoii go To mix forever with the elements ; To be a brother to the insensible rock. And to the sluggish clod which the iiide swain Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world, — with kings. The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills, 188 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Rock-ribbed, and ancient as tlie sun ; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness be- tween ; 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 great 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, and the Barcan desert pierce. Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone ! So shalt thou rest, — and what if thou shalt fall Unnoticed by the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe "Will share thy destinj^ The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod 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 Of ages glide away, the sons of men — The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid. The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off — 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 innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, 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. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. The melancholy days are come, the sad- dest of the year. Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.- Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, 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 beau- teous 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 per- ished long ago ; And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; "WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 189 But on tlie hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men. And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the 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 onewhoin her youth- ful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest 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 beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 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 brooksand springs unseen. Or columbines, in purple drest, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late, and com'st alone. When woods are bare, and birds ai-e flown. And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near its end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue, 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. THE BATTLE-FIELD. Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands. Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah ! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave, — Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet. Upon the soil they fought to save. Now all is calm and fresh and still ; Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and stagger- ing wain ; Men start not at the battle-cry, — 0, be it never heard again ! Soon rested those who fought ; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life. A friendless warfare ! lingering long Through weary day and weary year ; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front and flank and rear. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof. And blench not at thy chosen lot ; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown, — yet faint thou not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, — The eternal years of God are hers ; 190 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who helped thee tlee in fear. Die full of hope and manly trust. Like those who fell in battle here ! Another hand the sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. FROM "THE RIVULET." And I shall sleep ; and on thy side, As ages after ages glide, Children their early sports shall try. And pass to hoary age, and die. But thou, unchanged from year to year, Gayly shalt play and glitter here : Amid young flowers and tender grass Thy endless infancy shalt pass; And, singing down thy narrow glen, Shalt mock the fading race of men. THE BURIAL OF LOVE. Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, Sat where a river rolled away. With calm, sad brows, and raven hair ; And one was pale, and both were fair. Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown ; Bring forest blooms of name nnkno\vn ; Bring budding sprays from wood and wild. To strew the bier of Love, the child. Close softly, fondly, while ye weep. His eyes, that death may seem like sleep ; And fold his hands in sign of rest. His waxen hands, across his breast. And make his grave where violets hide, W liere star-tlowers strew the rivulet's side, And bluebirds, in the misty spring. Of cloudless skies and summer sing. Place near him, as ye lay him low. His idle shafts, his loosened bow, The silken fillet that around His waggish eyes in sport he wound. But we shall mourn him long, and miss His ready smile, his ready kiss. The patter of his little feet, Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet ; And graver looks, serene and high, A light of heaven in that young eye : All these shall haunt us till the heart Shallache andache, — and tears will start. The bow, the band, shall fall to dust ; The shining arrows waste with rust ; And all of Love that earth can claim Be but a memory and a name. Not thus his nobler part shall dwell, A prisoner in this narrow cell ; But he, whom now we hide from men In the dark ground, shall live again, — Shall break these clods, a form of light, With nobler mien and purer sight, And in the eternal glory stand Highest and nearest God's right hand. ELIZABETH BAMETT BROAVNING. [1809- 1861.] THE SLEEP. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep. Now tell me if that any is For gift or grace surpassing this, — "He giveth His beloved sleep" ? What would we give to our beloved ? The hero's heart, to be unmoved ; The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep ; The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse; The monarch's crown, to light the brows ? "He giveth His beloved sleep." ^^^lat do we give to our beloved? A little faith, all undisproved ; A little dust, to overweep ; And bitter memories, to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. "He giveth His beloved sleep." "Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say But have no tune to charm away ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 191 Sad dreams tliat through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when "He giveth His beloved sleep." 1 earth, so full of dreary noises ! men, with wailing in your voices ! delved gold, the wallers heap ! strife, curse, that o'er it fall ! God strikes a silence through you all, And "giveth His beloved sleep." lis dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still. Though on its slope men sow and reap. More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, "He giveth His beloved sleep." Ay, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man. Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; But angels say, and through the word 1 think their happy smile is heard, — "He giveth His beloved sleep." For me, my heart, that erst did go Jlost like a tired child at a show. That see through tears the mummersleap. Would now its wearied vision close. Would childlike on His love repose Who "giveth His beloved sleep !" And, friends, dear friends, when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me. And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one, most loving of you all. Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall, — He giveth His beloved sleep." BERTHA 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 ! — B}'^ God's love I go to meet, Love I thee with love complete. Lean thy face down ! drop it in These two hands, that I may hold 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, 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 That the lashes, hung with tears, Grow too heavy to upraise ! I would wound thee by no touch Which thy 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 undefiled, "Child, be mother to this child !" 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 crowned. Love that left me with a wound, Life itself, that turned around ! Mother, mother, thou art kind. Thou art standing in the room, In a molten glory shrined, That rays off into the gloom ! But thy smile is bright and bleak. Like cold waves, — I cannot speak ; I sob in it, and grow weak. Ghostly mother, keep aloof One hour longer from my soul. For I still am thinking of Earth's warm-beating joy and dole ! On my finger is a ring Which I still see glittering. When the night hides everything. Little sister, thou art pale ! Ah, I have a wandering brain, — But I lose that fever-bale. And my thoughts grow calm again. Lean down closer, closer still ! 192 SONGS OF THEEE CENTUKIES. I have words thine ear to fill, And would kiss thee at my will. Dear, I heard thee in the spring. Thee 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. What a day it was, 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 wandered, I and you, — With the bowery tops shut in. And the gates that showed the view ; How we talked there ! thrushes soft Sang our pauses out, or oft Bleatings took them from the croft. Till the pleasure, grown too strong, Left me muter evermore ; 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, A.nd the far sound of your speech Did not promise any pain ; And 1 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 What you wished me not to hear. Do not weep so, do not shake — 0, I heard thee. Bertha, make Good, true answers for my sake. Yes, and he too ! let him stand In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. Could he help it, if my hand He had claimed with hasty claim ! Tliat was wrong perhaps, but then Such 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 before To our kin in Sidmouth town. AVheu he saw thee, who art best Past compare, 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 poplaj swings about ! And that hour — beneath the beech — 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, — I saw the moon ; And the stars, each in its place. And the May-blooms on the grass, 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, "Wlien you met me at the door ; And I only heard the dew Dripping from me to the floor; And the flowers I bade you see Were too withered for the bee, — As my life, henceforth, for me. Do not weep so • — dear — heart-warm ! It was best as it befell ! If I say he did me harm, I speak wild, — I am not well. All his words were kind and good, — ' He esteemed me ! Only bliod Runs so faint in womanhood. Then I always was too grave, Liked the saddest ballads sung, ELIZABETH BARKETT BROWNING. 193 With that look, besides, we have In our faces who die young. I had died, dear, all the same, — Life's long, joyous, jostling game Is too loud for my meek shame. We are so unlike each other. Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother, But for mutual tenderness. Thou art rose-lined from the cold, And meant, verily, to hold Life's pure pleasures manifold. I am pale as crocus grows Close beside a rose-tree's root ! Whosoe'er would reach the rose Treads the crocus underfoot ; 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 candles 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 might say. Nay ? So best ! — So angels would Stand off clear from deathly road, Not to cross the sight of God. Colder grow my hands and feet : When I wear the shroud I made, Let the folds lie straight and neat, And tlie 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 woollen shroud I wear 1 shall feel it on my face. 13 Rather smile there, blessed one, Thinking of me in tne 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 I 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 ! Jesus, Victim, comprehending Love's divine self-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 fire ! — I aspire while I expire ! A MUSICAL mSTRUMENT. What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river ? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies ailoat With the dragon-fly on the river? He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep, cool bed of the river. The limpid water turbidly ran. And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had iled away. Ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river. And hacked and hewed as a great god can With his hard, bleak steel at the patient reed. Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river. He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the rivpr !) 194 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Then drew the pith like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, Then notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sate by the river. "This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sate by the river!) "The only way since gods began To make sweet music, they could suc- ceed." Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed. He blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, Pan, Piercing sweet by the river ! Blinding sweet, great god Pan ! The sun on the hill forgot to die. And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh, as he sits by the river. Making a poet out of a man. The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain, — For the reed that grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds of the river. COWPER'S GRAVE. It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying. It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying : Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence languish ! Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish. poets ! from a maniac's tongije was poured the deathless singing ! Christians ! at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging ! men ! this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling. Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling ! And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story. How discord on the music fell, and dark- ness on the glory, And how, when one by one sweet sounds and wandering lights departed. He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted ; He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration ; Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken ; Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken. With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him. With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won him , — Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind him ; But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him ; And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses As hills have language for, and stars harmonious influences ! The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number ; And silent shadows from the trees re- freshed him like a slumber. Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home-caresses, Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses : The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways removing. Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving. But though in blindness he remained unconscious of that guiding, And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing, He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy desolated, — Nor man nor nature satisfy whom only God created ! Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses, And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses ; That turns his fevered eyes around, "My motlu-r! where's my mother?"^ As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other '. — WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. — ALFRED TENNYSON. 195 The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him ; Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him ! — Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him, Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, which closed in death to save him ! Thus ? 0, not tlms ! no type of earth can image that awaking. Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs, round him breaking, Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted ; But felt those eyes alone, and knew "if?/ Saviour! not deserted!" Deserted! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love was manifested ? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted. What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted ? Deserted! God could separate from his own essence rather : And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father ; Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath shaken, — It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken !" It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost creation, That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation ; That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition. And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his i-apture in a vision ! WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. [1811-1863.] AT THE CHURCH GATE. Although I enter not. Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover j And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait. Expectant of her. The minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout. And noise and humming; They 've hushed the minster beU : The organ 'gins to swell ; She 's coming, she 's coming ! My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast, 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 Eound the forbidden place. Lingering a minute Like outcast spirits who wait And see through heaven's gata Angels within it. ALFEED TENNYSON. MAELAJfA. With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all. The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden-wall- The broken sheds looked sad and strange, Unlifted was the clinking latch. Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, "I am aweary, aweary ; I would that I were dead !" Her tears fell with the dews at even ; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven. Either at morn or eventide. 196 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He Cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Upon the middle of the night. Waking she heard the night-fowl crow ; The cock sung out an hour ere light : From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her : without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn. Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mom About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He Cometh not," she said ; She said, "I am aweary, aweary. And I would that I were dead !" About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small. The clustered marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway. All silver-green with gnarled bark, For leagues no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He Cometh not," she said ; She said, "1 am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" And ever when the moon was low. And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and and fro. She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low. And wild winds bound within theircell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, He Cometh not," she said ; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked. The blue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered through the doors. Old footsteps trod the upper floors. Old voices called her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour When the thick -mo ted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bovver. Then, said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wejrt, " I am aweary, aweary, God, that I were dead!" "BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 1" 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 I well for the sailor lad. That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill ; But for the touch of a vanished hand. And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break. At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead AVill never come back to me. MEMORY. I CLIMB the hill : from end to end Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that does not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend ; No gray old grange, or lonel)' fold. Or low morass and whispering reed. Or simple stile from mead to mead. Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trenched along the hill, And haunted by the wrangling daw. ALFRED TENNYSON. 197 Unwatched, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down ; Unloved, that beech will gather brown, This maple burn itself away; Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air; Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser Wain Is twisting round the polar star ; Uncared for, gird the windy grove, Andflood the haunts of hern and crake ; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove ; Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger's child ; As year by year the laborer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills. DOUBT. Yotr say, but with no touch of scorn, Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies, You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. I know not : one indeed I knew In many a subtle question versed, Who touched a jarring Ij're at first. But ever strove to make it true : Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt. Believe me, than in half the creeds. He fought his doubts and gathered strength. He would not make his judgment blind. He faced the spectres of the mind And laid them : thus he came at length To find a stronger faith his own ; And Power was with him in the night, Wliich makes the darkness and the light. And dwells not in the light alone, But in the darkness and the cloud, As over Sinai's peaks of old, While Israel made their gods of gold, Although the trumpet blew so loud. THE LARGER HOPE. YET we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; That nothing walks with aimless feet ; That not one life shall be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete ; That not a worm is cloven in vain ; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain. Behold, we know not anything ; I can but trust that good shall fall At last — far off" — at last, to all. And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream : but what am I ? An infant crying in the night : An infant crying for the light : And with no language but a cry. The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul ? Are God and Nature, then, at strife. That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the tyjie she seems. So careless of the single life ; That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod. And falling with my weight of cares 198 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope through darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope. And gather dust and chaff, and call To what 1 feel is Lord of all. And faintly trust the larger hope. "So careful of the type?" but no. From scarped cliif and quarried stone She cries, ' ' A thousand types are gone : I care for nothing, all shall go. "Thou makest thine appeal to me: I bring to life, I bring to death ; The spirit does but mean the breath : I know no more." And he, shall he, Man, her last work, who seemed so fair. Such splendid purpose in his eyes. Who rolled the psalm to wintry skies. Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law, — Though Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravin, shrieked against his creed, — Who loved, who suffered countless ills. Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust, Or sealed within the iron hills ? No more ? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime. That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music matched with him. life as futile, then, as frail ! for thy voice to soothe and bless ! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil. GARDEN SONG. Come into the garden, ]\Iaud, 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 that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky. To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his 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 with 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, "The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. young lord-lover, what sighs are those, For one that will never be thine ? But mine, but mine," so I sware 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 March-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, RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 199 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 Howers, and be their sun. There has fallen 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 I lain for a century dead ; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. BUGLE SONG. The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story : The long light shakes across the lakes. And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dy- ing, dying. hark, hear ! how thin and clear. And thinner, clearer, farther going ! sweet and far from clifl" and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens reply- ing: Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dy- ing, dying. love, they die in yon rich sky. They faint on hill or field or river ; Our echoes roll from soul to soul. And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dy- ing, dying. KALPH WALDO EMEESON. [U. S. A.] THE APOLOGY. Think me not unkind and rude, That I walk alone in grove and glen ; I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men. Tax not my sloth that I Fold my arms beside the brook ; Each cloud that floated in the sky Writes a letter in my book. Chide me not, laborious band. For the idle flowers I brought; Every aster in my hand Goes home loaded with a thought. There was never mj^stery But 't is figured in the flowers ; Was never secret history But birds tell it in the bowers. One harvest from thy field Homeward brought the oxen strong ; A second crop thy acres yield. Which I gather in a song. TO EVA. fair and stately maid, whose eyes Were kindled in the upper skies At the same torch that lighted mine ; For so I must interpret still Thy sweet dominion o'er my will, A sympathy divine. Ah, let me blameless gaze upon Features that seem at heart m}' own ; Nor fear those watchful sentinels. Who charm the more their glance forbids, Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids. With fire that draws while it repels. 200 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. THINE EYES STILL SHONE. Thine eyes still shone for me, though far I lonely roved the land or sea: As I behold yon evening star, Which yet beholds not me. This morn I climbed the misty hill, And roamed the pastures through ; How danced thy form before my path, Amidst the deep-eyed dew ! When the red-bird spread his sable wing. And showed his side of flame, — When the rosebud ripened to the rose, — In both I read thy name. EACH AND ALL. Little thinks, in the field, yon red- cloaked clown Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon. Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height ; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one ; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven. Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; I brouglit him home, in his nest, at 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 jiearls to their enamel gave ; And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; But 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 tlie oaks and firs ; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; Over me soared the eternal sky. Full of light and of deity ; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird ; — Beauty through my senses stole ; I yielded myself to the perfect whole. THE PROBLEM. I LIKE a church, I like a cowl, I love a prophet of the soul, And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles, Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure. Which I could not on me endure? Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle ; Out from the heai-t of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old ; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame. Up from the burning core below, — The canticles of love and woe. The hand that rounded Peter's dome, And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity. Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew ; The conscious stone to beauty grew. Know'st thou what wove yon wood- bird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast j Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. Painting with morn each annual cell; Or how the sacred pine-tree adds RALPH WALDO EJVIERSON. 201 To lier old leavef? new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon As the best gem upon her zone ; And morning opes with haste her lids To gaze upon the Pyramids ; O'er England's Abbeys bends the sky As on its friends with kindred eye ; For, out of Thought's interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air, And Nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race. And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat. These temples grew as grows the grass ; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast Soul that o'er him planned, And the same power that reared the shrine. Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the iiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host. Trances the heart through chanting choirs. And through the priest the mind in- spires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; The word by seers or sibyls told. In groves of oak or fanes of gold. Still floats ujmn the morning wind. Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the Fathers wise, — The book itself before me lies, — Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line. The younger Golden Liin or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines ; His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear. And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be. BOSTON HYMN. The word of the Ivord by night To the watching Pilgrims came, As they sat by the seaside. And filled their hearts with flame. God said, I am tired of kings, I sufi'er them no more ; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor. Think ye I made this ball ' A field of havoc and war, Where tyrants great and tyrants small Might harry the weak and poor ? My angel, — his name is Freedom, — Choose him to be your king ; He shall cut pathways east and west. And fend you with his wing. Lo ! I uncover the land, Which I hid of old time in the Wt«t, As the sculptor utocovers the statue When he has wrought his best ; I show Columbia, of the rocks Which dip their foot in the seas, And soar to the air-borne flocks Of clouds, and the boreal fleece. , I will divide my goods ; Call in the wretch and the slave : None shall rule but the humble, And none but Toil shall have. I will have never a noble, No lineage counted great ; Fishers and choppers and ploughmen Shall constitute a state. Go, cut down trees in the forest. And trim the straightest boughs ; Cut down trees in the forest. And build me a wooden house. Call the people together. The young men and the sires. The digger in the harvest-field. Hireling, and him that hires ; And here in a pine state-house They shall choose men to rule In every needful faculty. In church and state and school. Lo, now ! if these poor men Can govern the land and sea, And make just laws below the sun. As planets faithful be. And ye shall succor men ; 'T is nobleness to serve ; Help them who cannot help again : Beware from right to swerve. 202 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. I break your bonds and mastersbips, And 1 unchain the slave : Free be his heart and hand henceforth As wind and wandering wave. I cause from every creature His proper good to flow ; As much as he is and doeth, So much he shall bestow. But, laj-ing hands on another, To coin his labor and sweat, He goes in pawn to his victim For eternal years in debt. To-day unbind the captive. So only are ye unbound ; Lift up a people from the dust, Trump of their rescue, sound ! Pay ransom to the owner. And fill the bag to the brim. Who is the owner? The slave is owner. And ever was. Pay him. O North ' give him beauty for rags, And honor, South ! for his shame ; Nevada ! coin thy golden crags With Freedom's image and name. Up ! and the dusky race That sat in darkness long, — • Be swift their feet as antelopes, And as behemoth strong. Come, East and West and North, By races, as snowflakes. And carry my purpose forth, Which neither halts nor shakes. My will fulfilled shall be. For, in daylight or in dark. My thunderbolt has eyes to see His way home to the mark. THE SOTTL'S PROPHECY. All before us lies the way ; Give the past unto the wind; All before us is the day, Night and darkness are behind. Eden with its angels bold. Love and flowers and coolest sea, Is less an ancient story told Thun a glowing prophecy. In the spirit's perfect air, In the passions tame and kind, Innocence from selfish care. The real Eden we shall find. When the soul to sin hath died, True and beautiful and sound, Then all earth is sanctified, Upsprings paradise around. From the spirit-land afar All disturbing force shall flee ; Stir, nor toil, nor hope shall mar Its immortal unity. EDaiE, A. POE. [u. S. A., l8ll - 1849.] THE BELLS. Hear the sledges with the bells, — Silver bells, — VYhat a world of merriment their melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic i-hyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells , bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, — From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight ! From the molten-golden notes. And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon ! 0, from out the sounding cells. What a gush of euphony voluminously wells 1 ROBERT BROWNING. 203 How it swells ! How it dwells On the Future ! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells. Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, — To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! Hear the loud alarum bells, — Brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbu- lency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now — now to sit or never. By the side of the pale-faced moon. 0, the bells, bells, bells. What a tale their terror tells Of Despair ! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging. And the clanging. How the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling. How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — Of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. Bells, bells, bells, — In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! Hear the tolling of the bells, — Iron bells ! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! In the silence of tlie night. How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone ! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people, — ah, the people, — They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone. And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone, — They are neither man nor woman, — They are neither brute nor human, — They are Ghouls : And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls. Rolls A psean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells ! And he dances and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the ptean of the bells, — Of the beUs : Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the throbbing of the bells, — Of the bells, bells, bells, — To the sobbing of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells. In a happy Runic rhyme. To the rolling of the bells, — Of the bells, bells, bells, — To the tolling of the bells. Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, — Bells, bells, bells, — To the moaning and the groaning of the beUs. ROBERT BROWNING. EVELYN HOPE. Beatjtiftjl 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 clianged, I think, — 204 SONGS OF THKEE CENTUKIES. 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 lite 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, Evelj^n 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 T 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, Ajid your mouth of your own gera- nium'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 understand. RABBI BEN EZRA. Grow old along with me ! The best is yet to be. The last of life, for which the first wag made: Our times are in His hand Who saith, "A whole I planned. Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, fior be afraid!" Not that, amassing flowers. Youth sighed, " Which rose make ours. Which lily leave and then as best recall ?" Not that, admiring stars. It yearned, " Nor Jove, nor Mars ; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all ! " Not for such hopes and fears, Annulling youth's brief years. Do I remonstrate, — folly wide the mark ! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without. Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. Poor vaunt of life indeed. Were man but formed to feed On jo}% to solely seek and find and feast: Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men ; Irks care the crop-full bird ? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast ? Rejoice we are allied To That which doth provide And not partake, eff'ect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod ; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe. KOBEKT BROWNING. 205 Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go ! Be our joys three parts pain ! Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, never grudge the throe ! For thence — a paradox "Which comforts while it mocks — Shall lite succeed in that it seems to fail : What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me : A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. What is he but a brute Whose flesh hath soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test, — Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ? Yet gifts should prove their use : I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn : Eyes, ears took in their dole. Brain treasured up the whole ; Should not the heart beat once, "How good to live and learn ?" Not once beat, "Praise be Thine ! I see the whole design, I, who saw Power, shall see Love perfect too : Perfect I call Thy plan : Thanks that I was a man ! Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what thou shalt do !" For pleasant is this flesh ; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest : W^ould we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did best ! Let us not always say, "Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" As the bird wings and sings, Let us cry, "All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul ! " Therefore I summon age To gi'ant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term : Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute ; a God though in the germ. A ud I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new : Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next. What weapons to select, what armor to indue. Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby ; Be the fire ashes, what survives is gold : And I shall weigh the same, Give life its praise or blame : Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know, being old. For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed oft", calls the glory from the gray : A whisper from the west Shoots, "Add this to the rest. Take it and try its worth : here dies another day." So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife. Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "This rage was right i' the main. That acquiescence vain : The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth. 206 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. Toward making, than repose on aught found made ; So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedst age ; wait death nor be afraid ! Enough now, if the Right And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own. With knowledge absolute. Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. Be there, for once and all. Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned. Were they, my soul disdained, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last ! Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I re- ceive ; Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me : we all surmise. They, this thing, and I, that : whom shall my soul believe? Not on the vulgar mass Called "work," must sentence pass. Things done, that took the eye and had the price ; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand. Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice : But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb. So passed in making up the main account ; All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount : Thoughts hardly to be packed into a narrow act. Fancies that broke through language and escaped ; All I could never be. All men ignored in me, This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. Ay, note that Potter's wheel, That metaphor ! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, — Thou, to whom fools propound, When the wine makes its round, ' ' Since life fleets, all is change ; the Past gone, seize to-day ! " Fool ! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall ; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure : What entered into thee, That was, is, and shall be : Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter and clay endure. He fixed thee mid this dance Of plastic circumstance. This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest : Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent. Try thee and turn thee forth, sufiSciently impressed. What though the earlier grooves AVhich ran the laughing loves Around thy base, no longer pause and press ? What though, about thy rim. Skull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? Look not thou down, but up ! To uses of a cup. The festal board, lamp's flash, and trum- pet's peal. The new wine's foaming flow. The Master's lips aglow ! Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel ? But I need, now as then. Thee, God, who mouldest men ; And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I — to the wheel of life With sliapes and colors rife, Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to slake "Thy thirst : HENKY W. LONGFELLOW. 207 So, take and use Thy work ! Amend what Haws may lurk, "What strain o' the stuif, what warpings past the aim ! My times be in Thy hand ! Perfect the cup as planned ! Let age api)i-ove of youth, and death complete the same! THE LOST LEADER. Just for a handful of silver he left us ; Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat, — Found tlie one gift of which fortune be- reft us. Lost all the others she lets us devote. They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver. So much was theirs who so little allowed. How all our copper had gone for his ser- vice! Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud ! We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him. Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. Learned his great language, caught his clear accents. Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen ; He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! We shall march prospering, — not through his presence ; Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre ; Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence. Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, — record one lost soul more. One task more declined, one more foot- path untrod. One more triumph for devils, and sor- row for angels. One wrong more to man, one more in- sult to God ! Life's night begins ; let him never come back to us ! There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain. Forced praise on our part, — the glimmer of twilight, Never glad, confident morning again ! Best tight on well, for we taught him, — strike gallantly. Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his own ; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne ! HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. [U. S. A.] PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; And I on the opposite shore will be. Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm. For the country folk to be up and to arm." Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay. Where swinging wide at her moorings la}' The Somerset, British man-of-war ; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magni- fied By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, 208 SOXGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet. And the measured tread of the grenadiers. Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed the tower of tlie Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead. And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, — By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall. Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town. And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead. In their night-encamjmient on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent. And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, WHiere the river widenstomeetthebay, — A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Re- vere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth. And turned and tightened his saddle- girth ; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo ! as he looks, on thebelfry'sheight A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns. But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns ! A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. And beneath, from the pebbles, in pass- ing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light. The fate of a nation was riding that night ; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the IMystic, meeting the ocean tides ; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock. And the barking of the farmer's dog. And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock. When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the mooidight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare. As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock. And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and a.sleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead. Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read. How the British Regulars fired and fled, — HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 209 flow the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane. Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere ; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, — A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore ! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last. In the hour of darkness and peril and need. The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed And the midnight message of Paul Re- vere. 0, thou child of many prayers ! Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares I Care and age come unawares ! Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon. May glides onward into June. 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, Womanhood 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 ? 14 Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered; — Age, that bough with snows encumbered. Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows. Bear a lily in thy hand ; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 1 n thy heart the dew of youth. On thy lips the smile of truth. 0, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart. For a smile of God thou art. A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers. And things are not what they geem. Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. 210 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. In tlie world's broad field of battle, 111 the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a liero in the strife ! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, — act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time ;- Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'^r life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate. Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. 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 aiflic- tions Not from the ground arise. But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 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 affec- tion, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor pro- tection. And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister's stillness and seclu- sion, By guardian angels led. Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pol- lution. 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 pursu- Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives. Thinking that our remembrance, though nnspoken, May reach her where she lives. Not 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 man- sion. Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul's expan- sion 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 feel- ing We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The giief that must have way. HENEY W. LONGFELLOW. 211 SANTA FILOMENA. Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls. And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs. And by their overflow Raise us from what is low ! Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead. The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp, — The wounded from the battle-plain. In dreary hospitals of pain. The cheerless corridors, Tlie cold and stony floors, Lo ! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss. The speechless suff'erer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went. The light shone and was spent. On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past. A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood. Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The s}Tnbols that of yore Saint Filoraena bore. HAWTHOKNE. May 23, 1864. How beautiful it was, that one bright day In the long week of rain ! Though all its splendor could not chase away The omnipresent pain. The lovely town was white with apple- blooms, And the great elms o'erhead Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms Shot through with golden thread. Across the meadows, by the gray old manse. The historic river flowed : I was as one who wanders in a trance. Unconscious of his road. The faces of familiar friends seemed strange ; Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change Their meaning to my ear. For the one face I looked forwas not there, The one low voice was mute ; Only an unseen presence filled the air. And baffled my pursuit. Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream Dimly my thought defines ; I only see — a dream within a dream — The hill-top hearsed with pines. I only hear above his j)lace of rest Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast, The voice so like his own. There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold. Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen. And left the tale half told. Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magio power, And the lost clew regain ? The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower Unfinished must remain ! 212 SONGS OF THKEE CENTUEIES. GEKALD MASSEY. TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. High hopes that burned like stars sublime Go down the heavens of Freedom, And true hearts perish in the time We bitterliest need them ! But never sit we down, and say There 's nothing left but sorrow; We walk the wilderness to-da}% The promised land to-morrow. Our birds of song are silent now. There are no liowers blooming ; Yet life beats in the frozen bough. And Freedom's spring is coming ! And Freedom's tide comes up alway, Though we may stand in sorrow ; And our good bark aground to-day Shall float again to-morrow. Through all the long, dark nights of years The people's cry ascendeth, And earth is wet with blood and tears ; But our meek sufferance endeth ! The few shall not forever sway, The many toil in sorrow ; The powers of earth are strong to-day, But Heaven shall rule to-morrow. Thoughhearts brood o'erthe past, our eyes With smiling features glisten ! For lo ! our day bursts up the skies : Lean out your souls and listen ! The world rolls Freedom's radiant way And ripens with her sorrow ; Keep heart ! who bear the cross to-day Shall wear the crown to-morrow. Youth ! flame earnest, still aspire, With energies immortal ! To many a heaven of desire Our yearning opes a portal : And though age wearies by the way, And hearts break in the furrow, We '11 sow the golden grain to-day, And harvest comes to-morrow. Build up heroic lives, and all Be like a sheathen sabre, Eeady to flash out at God's call, chivalry of labor ! Triumph and toil are twins ; and aye, Joy suns the cloud of sorrow ; And 't is the martyrdom to-day Biings victory to-morrow. JOHN G. WHITTIER. [U. S. A.] THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE. Where the Great Lake's sunny smiles Dimple round its hundred isles, And the mountain's granite ledge Cleaves the water like a wedge, Ringed about with smooth, gray stones, Rest the giant's mighty bones. Close beside, in shade and gleam. Laughs and ripples Melvin stream ; Melvin water, mountain-born. All fair flowers its banks adorn ; All the woodland's voices meet, Llingling with its murmurs sweet. Over lowlands forest-gi"own. Over waters island-strown. Over silver-sanded beach. Leaf-locked bay and misty reach, Melvin stream and burial-heap, Watch and ward the mountains keep. Who that Titan cromlech fills ? Forest-kaiser, lord o' the hills? Knight who on the birchen tree Carved his savage heraldry? Priest o' the pine-wood temples dim, Prophet, sage, or wizard grim ? Rugged type of primal man, Grim utilitarian, Loving woods for hunt and prowl. Lake and hill for fish and fowl, As the brown bear blind and dull To the grand and beautiful : ISTot for him the lesson drawn From the mountains smit with dawn. Star-rise, moon-rise, flowers of May, Sunset's purple bloom of day, — Took his life no hue from thence. Poor amid such alfluence ? Haply unto hill and tree All too near akin was he : JOHN G. WHITTIER. 213 Unto him who stands afar Nature's marvels greatest are ; Who the mountain purple seeks Must not climb the higher peaks. Yet who knows in winter tramp, Or the midnight of the camp, What revealings faint and far, Stealing down from moon and star. Kindled in that human clod Thought of destiny and God ? Stateliest forest patriarch, Grand in robes of skin and bark, What sepulchral mysteries. What weird funeral-rites, were his? What sharp wail, what drear lament, Back scared wolf and eagle sent ? Now, whate'er he may have been, Low he lies as other men ; On his mound the partridge drums. There the noisy blue -jay comes; Rank nor name nor pomp has he In the grave's democracy. Part thy blue lips, Northern lake ! Moss-grown rocks, your silence break ! Tell the tale, thou ancient tree ! Thou, too, slide-worn Ossipee ! Speak, and tell us how and when Lived and died this king of men ! Wordless moans the ancient pine ; Lake and mountain give no sign ; Vain to trace this ring of stones ; Yain the search of crumbling bones : Deepest of all mysteries. And the saddest, silence is. Nameless, noteless, clay with clay Mingles slowly day by day ; But somewhere, for good or ill. That dark soul is living still ; Somewhere yet that atom's force Moves the light-poised universe. Strange that on his burial-sod Harebells bloom, and golden-rod. While the soul's dark horoscope Holds no starry sign of hope ! Is the Unseen with sight at odds? Nature's pity more than God's ? Thus I mused by Melvin's side, While the summer eventide Made the woods and inland sea And the mountains mystery ; And the hush of earth and air Seemed the pause before a prayer, — Prayer for him, for all who rest, Mother Earth, upon thy breast, — Lapped on Christian turf, or hid In rock-cave or pyramid : All who sleep, as all who live, Well may need the prayer, "Forgive ! " Desert-smothered caravan. Knee-deep dust that once was man. Battle-trenches ghastly piled. Ocean-floors with white bones tiled. Crowded tomb and mounded sod, Dumbly crave that prayer to God. O the generations old Over whom no church-bells tolled, Christless, lifting up blind eyes To the silence of the skies ! For the innumerable dead Is my soul disquieted. Where be now these silent hosts ? Where the camping-ground of ghosts? Where the spectral conscripts led To the white tents of the dead ? What strange shore or chartless sea Holds the awful mystery ? Then the warm sky stooped to make Double sunset in the lake ; While above I saw with it. Range on range, the mountains lit ; And the calm and splendor stole Like an answer to my soul. Hear'st thou, of little faith. What to thee the mountain saith, What is whispered by the trees ? — "Cast on God thy care for these; Trust him, if thy sight be dim : Doubt for them is doubt of him. "Blind must be their close-shut eyes Where like night the sunshine lies. Fiery-linked the self-forged chain Binding ever sin to pain, Strong their prison-house of will, But without He waiteth still. "Not with hatred's undertow Doth the Love Eternal flow ; 214 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. Every chain that spirits wear Crumbles in the breath of prayer ; And the penitent's desire Opens every gate of fire. "Still thy love, Christ arisen ! Yearns to reach these souls in prison? Through all depths of sin and loss Drops the plummet of thy cross ! Never yet abyss was found Deeper than that cross could sound !" Therefore well may Nature keep Equal faith with all who sleep, Set her watch of hills around Christian grave and heathen mound, And to cairn and kirkyard send Summer's flowery dividend. Keep, pleasant Melvin stream, Thy sweet laugh in shade and gleam ! On the Indian's grassy tomb Swing, flowers, your bells of bloom ! Deep below, as high above. Sweeps the circle of God's love. MY BIRTHDAY. Beneath the moonlight and the snow Lies dead my latest year ; The winter winds are wailing low Its dirges in ray ear. I grieve not with the moaning wind As if a loss befell ; Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well ! His light shines on me from above, His low voice speaks within, — The patience of immortal love Outwearying mortal sin. Not mindless of the growing years Of care and loss and pain, My eyes are wet with thankful tears For blessings which remain. If dim the gold of life has grown, I will not count it dross, Nor turn from treasures still my own To sigh for lack and loss. The years no charm from Nature take ; As sweet her voices call. As beautiful her mornings break. As fair her evenings fall. Love watches o'er my quiet ways, Kind voices speak my name. And lips that find it hard to praise Are slow, at least, to blame. How softly ebb the tides of will ! How fields, once lost or won. Now lie behind me green and still Beneath a level sun ! How hushed the hiss of party hate, The clamor of the throng ! How old, harsh voices of debate Flow into rhythmic song ! Methinks the spirit's temper grows Too soft in this still air. Somewhat the restful heart foregoes Of needed watch and prayer. The bark by tempest vainly tossed May founder in the calm. And he who braved the polar frost Faint by the isles of balm. Better than self-indulgent years The outflung heart of youth. Than pleasant songs in idle ears The tumult of the truth. Rest for the weary hands is good, And love for hearts that pine, But let the manly habitude Of upright souls be mine. Let winds that blow from heaven refresh, Dear Lord, the languid air ; And let the weakness of the flesh Thy strength of spirit share. And, if the eye must fail of light. The ear forget to hear. Make clearer still the spirit's sight. More fine the inward ear ! Be near me in mine hours of need To soothe, to cheer, or warn. And down these slopes of sunset lead As up the hills of morn ! JOHN G. WHITTIER. 215 THE VANISHERS. Sweetest of all childlike dreams In the simple Indian lore Still to me the legend seems Of the shapes who flit before. Flitting, passing, seen and gone, Never reached nor found at rest, Baffling search, but beckoning on To the Sunset of the Blest. From the clefts of mountain rocks. Through the dark of lowland firs, Flash the eyes and flow the locks Of the mystic Vanishers ! And the fisher in his skiff, And the hunter on the moss. Hear their call from cape and cliff", See their hands the birch-leaves toss. Wistful, longing, through the green Twilight of the clustered pines, In their faces rarely seen Beauty more than mortal sliines. Fringed with gold their mantles flow On the slopes of westering knolls ; In the wind they whisper low Of the Sunset Land of Souls. Doubt who may, friend of mine ? Thou and I have seen them too; On before, with beck and sign Still they glide, and we pursue. More than clouds of purple trail In the gold of setting day ; More than gleams of wing or sail Beckon from the sea-mist gray. Glimpses of immortal youth, Gleams and glories seen and flown, Far-heard voices sweet with truth. Airs from viewless Eden blown, — Beauty that eludes our grasp, Sweetness that transcends our taste, Loving hands we may not clasp. Shining feet that mock our haste, — Gentle eyes we closed below, Tender voices heard once more, Smile and call us, as they go On and onward, still before. Guided thus, friend of mine ! Let us walk our little way, Knowing by each beckoning sign That we are not quite astray. Chase we still, with baffled feet, Smiling eye and waving hand. Sought and seeker soon shall meet, Lost and found, in Sunset Land ! IN SCHOOL-DAYS. Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning ; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry-vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official ; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial ; The charcoal frescos on its wall ; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing ! Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting ; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled ; His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered; — As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt The soft hand's light caressing. And heai-d the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. "I 'm sorry that I spelt the word : 1 hate to go above you. 216 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Because," — the brown eyes lower fell,- " Because, you see, I love you!" Still memory to a gi-ay-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing ! He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss. Like her, — because they love him. LAITS DEO I ON HEARING THE BELLS RING ON THE PASSAGE OP THE CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT ABOL- ISHING SLAVERY. It is done ! Clang of bell and roar of gun Send the tidings up and down. How the belfries rock and reel ! How the great guns, peal on peal. Fling the joy from town to town ! King, bells ! Every stroke exulting tells Of the burial hour of crime. Loud and long, that all may hear, Ring for every listening ear Of Eternity and Time ! Let ns kneel : God's own voice is in that peal, And this spot is holy ground. Lord, forgive us ! What are we, That our eyes this glory see. That our ears have heard the sound ! For the Lord On the whirlwind is abroad; In the earthquake he has spoken ; He has smitten with his thunder The iron walls asunder. And the gates of brass are broken ! Loud and long Lift the old exulting song; Sing with Miriam by the sea He has cast the mighty down ; Horse and rider sink and drown ; " He hath triumphed gloriously ! " Did we dare. In our agony of prayer. Ask for more than He has done ? When was ever his right hand Over any time or land Stretched as now beneath the sun ? How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, In this wonder of our days. When the cruel rod of war Blossoms white with righteous law, And the wrath of man is praise ! Blotted out ! All within and all about Shall a fresher life begin ; Freer breathe the universe As it rolls its heavy curse On the dead and buried sin ! It is done ! In the circuit of the sun Shall the sound thereof go forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice, It shall give the dumb a voice, It shall belt with joy the earth ! Ring and swing. Bells of joy ! On morning's wing Send the song of praise abroad ! With a sound of broken chains Tell the nations that He reigns, Who alone is Lord and God ! THE EVE OF ELECTION. From gold to gray Our mild sweet day Of Indian summer fades too soon ; But tenderly Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon. In its pale fire. The village spire Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance : The painted walls Whereon it falls Transfiscured stand in marble trance ! O'er fallen leaves The west-wind grieves, Yet comes a seed-time round again ; And morn shall see The State sown free With baleful tares or healthful grain. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 217 Along the street The shadows meet Of Destiny, whose hands conceal The moulds of fate That shape the state, And make or mar the common weal. Around I see The powers that be ; I stand by Empire's primal springs; And princes meet In every street. And hear the tread of uncrowned kings ! Hark ! through the crowd The laugh runs loud. Beneath the sad, rebuking moon. God save the land A careless hand May shake or swerve ere morrow's noon ! No jest is this ; One cast amiss May blast the hope of Freedom's year. O, take me where Are hearts of prayer, And foreheads bowed in reverent fear ! Not lightly fall Beyond recall The written scrolls a breath can float ; The crowning fact The kingliest act Of Freedom is the freeman's vote ! For pearls tbat gem A diadem The diver in the deep sea dies ; The regal right We boast to-night Is ours through costlier sacrifice ; The blood of Vane, His prison pain Who traced the path the Pilgrim trod, And hers whose faith Drew strength from death, And prayed her Russell up to God ! Our hearts grow cold, We lightly hold A right which brave men died to gain ; The stake, the cord. The axe, the sword. Grim nurses at its birth of pain. The shadow rend, And o'er us bend, Omartyrs, with your crownsand palms, — Breathe through these throngs Your battle songs. Your scaffold prayers, and dungeon psalms ! Look from the sky, Like God's great eye. Thou solemn moon, with searching beam ; Till in the sight Of thy pure light Our mean self-seekings meaner seem. Shame from our hearts Unworthy arts, The fraud designed, the purpose darkj And smite away The hands we lay Profanely on the sacred ark. To party claims And private aims. Reveal that august face of Truth, Whereto are given The age of heaven. The beauty of immortal youth. So shall our voice Of sovereign choice Swell the deep bass of duty done, And strike the kej'^ Of time to be. When God and man shall speak as one ! WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. THE TOUCHSTONE. A MAN there came, whence none could tell. Bearing a touchstone in his hand ; And tested all things in the land By its unerring spell. Quick birth of transmutation smote The fair to foul, the foul to fair ; Purple nor ermine did he spare, ' Nor scorn the dusty coat. Of heirloom jewels, prized so much. Were many changed to chips and clods. And even statues of the gods Crumbled beneath its touch. 218 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Then angrily the people cried, "The loss outweighs the profit far; Our goods suffice us as they are ; We will not have them tried." And since they could not so avail To check this unrelenting guest, They seized him, saying, "Let him test How real is our jail ! " But, though they slew him with the sword, And in a fire his touchstone burned, Its doings could not be o'erturned, Its undoings restored. And when, to stop all future harm, They strewed its ashes on the breeze; They little guessed each grain of these Conveyed the perfect charm. CHARLES MACKIY. SMALL BEGINNINGS. A TRAVELLER through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea ; And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree. Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe his early vows ; And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to bask beneath its boughs; The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore ; It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore. A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern, A passing stranger scooped a well, where weary men might turn ; He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink ; He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink. He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried. Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues, and saved a life beside. A dreamer dropped a random thought ; 't was old, and yet 't was new ; A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, and, lol its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame : The thought was small ; its issue great ; a watch-fire on the hill ; It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley stilL A nameless man, amid a crowd that thronged the daily mart. Let fall a word of Hope and Love, un- studied, from the heart ; A whisper on the tumult thrown, — a transitory breath, — It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death. germ ! fount ! word of love ! O thought at random cast ! Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last. TUBAL CAIN. Old Tubal Cain was a man of might In the days when Earth was young ; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright The strokes of his hammer rung ; And he lifted high his brawny hand On the iron glowing clear. Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers. As he fashioned the sword and spear. And he sang, "Hurrah for my handi- work ! Hurrah for the spear and sword ! Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be king and lord ! " To Tubal Cain came many a one. As he wroTight by his roaring fire. And each one prayed for a strong steel blade As the crown of his desire : And he made them weapons sharp and strong. Till they shouted loiid for glee, And gave him gifts of pearl and gold, And spoils of the forest free. And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Who hath given us strength anew ! Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire, Aud hurrah for the metal true ! " OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 219 But a sudden change came o'er his heart Ere the setting of the sun, And Tubal Cain was tilled Avith pain For the evil he had done ; He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with the blood they shed In their lust for carnage blind. And he said, "Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan. The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man." And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe ; And his hand forbore to smite the ore. And his furnace smouldered low. But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright, courageous eye. And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high. And he sang, "Hun'ah for my handi- craft!" And the red sparks lit the air ; "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made" ; And he fashioned the first ploughshare. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. [U. S. A.] THE LIVING TEMPLK Not in the world of light alone, Wliere God has built his blazing throne, Nor yet alone in earth below. With belted seas that come and g!>. And endless isles of sunlit green, Is all thy Maker's glory seen : Look in upon thy wondrous frame, •^■ Eternal wisdom still the same ! The smooth, soft air with pulse-like wave? Flows murmuring through its hidden caves, Whose streams of brighteningpurple rush. Fired with a new and livelier blush, ''Vhile all their burden of decay The ebbing current steals away, And red with Nature's flame they start From the wann fountains of the heart. No rest that throbbing slave may ask. Forever quivering o'er his task, While far and wide a crimson jet Leaps forth to fill the woven net Which in unnumbered crossing tides The flood of burning life divides. Then, kiudUng each decaying part. Creeps back to find the throbbing heart. But warmed with that unchanging flame Behold the outward moving frame. Its living marbles jointed strong With glistening band and silvery thong. And linked to reason's guiding reins By myriad rings in trembling chains, Each graven with the threaded zone Which claims it as the master's own. See how yon beam of seeming white Is braided out of seven-hued light. Yet in those lucid globes no ray By any chance shall break astray. Hark how the rolling surge of sound. Arches and spirals circling round. Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ed.> With music it is heaven to hear. Then mark the cloven sphere that holds All thought in its mysterious folds, That feels sensation's faintest thrill, And flashes forth the sovereign will ; Think on the stormy world that dwells Locked in its dim and clustering cells ! The lightning gleams of power it sheds Along its hollow glassy threads ! Father ! grant thy love divine To make these mystic temples thine I When wasting age and wearying strife Have sapped the leaning walls of life. When darkness gathers over all, And the last tottering pillars fall, Take the poor dust thy mercy warms. And mould it into heavenly forms ! DOROTHY Q. A FAMILY PORTRAIT. Grandmother's mother; herage, Iguess, Thirteen summers, or something less ; Girlish bust, but womanly air. Smooth, square forehead, with uproUed hair, Lips that lover has never kissed. Taper fingers and slender wrist, 220 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade, — So they painted the little maid. On her hand a parrot green Sits unmo^-ing and broods serene ; Hold up the canvas full in view, — Look ! there 's a rent the light shines through. Dark with a century's fringe of dust, — That was a Redcoat's rapier-thrust ! Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. Who the painter was none may tell, — One whose best was not over well ; Hard and dry, it must be confessed, Flat as a rose that has long been pressed ; Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, Dainty colors of red and white ; And in her slender shape are seen Hint and promise of stately mien. Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — Dorothy Q. was a lady bom ! Ay ! since the galloping Normans came, England's annals have known her name ; And still to the three-hilled rebel town Dear is that ancient name's renown. For many a civic wreath they won. The youthful sire and the gray-haired son. damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. ! Strange is the gift that I owe to you ; Such a gift as never a king Save to daughter or son might bring, — All my tenure of heart and hand, All my title to house and land ; Mother and sister, and child and wife, And joy and sorrow, and death and life ! What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered. No, When forth the tremulous question came That cost the maiden her Norman name ; And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill ? Should I be I, or would it be One tenth another to nine tenths me ? Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : Not the light gossamer stirs with less ; But never a cable that holds so fast Through all the battles of wave and blast. And never an echo of speech or song That lives in the babbling air so long ! There were tones in the voice that whis- pered then You may hear to-day in a hundred men ! lady and lover, how faint and far Your images hover, and here we are, Solid and stirring in flesh and bone,- • Edward'sand Dorothy's — all theirown — A goodly record for time to show Of a syllable spoken so long ago ! — Shall \ bless you, Dorothy, or forgive, For the tender whisper that bade me Utc ? It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 1 will heal the stab of the Redcoat's blade. And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame. And gild with a rhyme your househohl name, So you shall smile on us brave and bright As first you greeted the morning's lighf^ And Live untroubled by woes and fears ' Through a second youth of a hundred years. THE VOICELESS. Wk count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slum- ber. But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who wiU stoop to number ? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them : — Alas for those that never sing. But die with all their music in them! Nay, gi'ieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts' sad story, — Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory ! Not where Leucadian's breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine^ Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses, — If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE. Page 221 OLIVEK WENDELL HOLMES. 221 ROBINSON OF LEYDEN. He sleeps not here ; in liope and prayer His wandering flock had gone before, But he, the shepherd, might not share Their sorrows on the wintry shore. Before the Speedwell's anchor swung. Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was spread, While round his feet the Pilgrims clung. The pastor spake, and thus he said : — "Men, brethren, sisters, children dear! God calls you hence from over sea ; Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer, Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee. "Ye go to bear the saving word To tribes unnamed and shores untrod : Heed well the lessons ye have heard From those old teachers taught of God. "Yet think not unto them was lent All light for all the coming days. And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent In making straight the ancient ways : "The living fountain overflows For every flock, for every lamb, Kor heeds, though angry creeds oppose, With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam." He spake : with lingering, long embrace. With tears of love and partings fond, They floated down the creeping Maas, Along the isle of Ysselmond. They passed the frowning towers of Briel, Tiie "Hook of Holland's" shelf of sand. And grated soon with lifting keel The sullen shores of Fatherland. No home for these ! — too well they knew The mitred king behind the throne ; — The sails were set, the pennons flew. And westward ho ! for worlds unknown. — And these were they who gave us birth. The Pilgrims of the sunset wave, Who won for us this virgin earth. And freedom with the soil they gave. The pastor slumbers by the Ehine, — In alien earth the exiles lie, — Their nameless graves our holiest shrine, His words our noblest battle-cry ! Still cry them, and the world shall hear, Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea ! Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer, Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee ! THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OK, THE WONDERFUL " ONE-HOSS SHAY." A LOGICAL STORY. Have you heard of the wonderful one- " hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day. And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, I '11 tell you what happened without delay. Scaring the parson into fits. Frightening people out of their wits, — Have you ever heard of that, I say? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive, — Snuify old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what. There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will, — Above or below, or within or without, — And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out. But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou ") He would build one shay to beatthetaown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; It should be so built that it could n break daown : — "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain 222 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Thut the weakes' place mus' stan the strain ; 'n' the way t' fix it, iiz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest. " So the Deacon inquired of the village folk "Where he could find the strongest oak, That could n't be split nor bent nor broke, — That was for spokes and floor and sills ; He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; The crossbars were ash, from the straight- est trees. The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs of logs from the " Settler's ellum," — Last of its timber, — they could n't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw. Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he ' ' put her through. " — "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" Do ! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less ! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray. Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren, — where were they ? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day I Eighteen- hundred; — it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and .sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten ; — "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came; — Kunning as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its youth. So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large ; Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra charge.) First of November, — the Earthquake- day.— There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay. But nothing local as one may say. That could n't be, — for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there was n't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills. And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And thewhippletreeneitherlessnormore, And the back - crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it wiU be worn out! First of November, 'Fifty-five I This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way I Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay. Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. ' ' Huddup ! " said the parson. — OS" went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text, — Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still. Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. — First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill, — And the parson was sitting upon a rock. At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, — Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! — What do you think the parson found. When he got up and stared around ? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound. As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce, How it went to pieces aU at once, — • OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 223 All at once, and notliing first, Just as bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say. THE CHAMBERED NAUTILTJS. This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign. Sails the unshadowed main, — The venturous bark that tiings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings. And coral reefs lie bare. Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! And every chambered cell. Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, — Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil ; Still, as the spiral grew. He left the past year's dwelling for the new. Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn ! From thy dead lips a clearer note is bom Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — Build thee more stately mansions, my soul, As the swift seasons roll .' Leave thy low-vaulted past ! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! UNDER THE VIOLETS. Her hands are cold ; her face is white ; No more her pulses come and go ; Her eyes are shut to life and light; — Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, And lay her where the violets blow. But not beneath a graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes ; A slender cross of wood alone Shall say, that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies. And gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round To make the scorching sunlight dim That drinks the greenness from the ground, And drop their dead leaves on her mound. When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, And through their leaves the robins call, And, ripening in the autumn sun. The acorns and the chestnuts fall. Doubt not that she will heed them all. For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high. And every minstrel-voice of Spring, That trills beneath the April sky. Shall greet her with its earliest cry. When, turning round their dial-track, Eastward the lengtheningshadows pass, Her little mourners, clad in black. The crickets, sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass. At last the rootlets of the trees Shall find the prison where she lies, And bear the buried dust they seize In leaves and blossoms to the skies. So may the soul that warmed it rise 1 224 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. If any, bom of kindlier blood, Should ask, What maiden lies below? Say only this : A tender bud, That tried to blossom in the snow, Lies withered where the violets blow. JAMES KUSSELL LOWELL. [U. S. A.] THE HEKITAGE. The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft, white hands, And tender tiesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old ; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits cares ; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn ; A heritage, it seems to me. One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare ; With sated heart, he hears tlie pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair ; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art ; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings ; A lieritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned by being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it. A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door ; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. rich man's son ! there is a toil, That with all others level stands ; Large charity doth never soil. But only whiten, soft, white hands, — This is the best crop from thy lands ; A heritage, it seems to me. Worth being rich to hold in fee. poor man's son ! scorn not thy state ; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign ; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod. Are equal in the earth at last ; Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past ; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee. NEW ENGLAND SPRING. (From " The Biglow Papers.") I, COUNTRY-BORN an' bred, know where to find Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind, An' seem to metch the doubtin' blue- bird's notes, — Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats. Blood-roots, whose rolled-up leaves ef fur oncurl. Each on em 's cradle to a baby-pearl, — But these are jes' Spring's pickets ; sure ez sin. The rebble frosts '11 try to drive 'em in ; For half our May 's so awfully like May n't 'T would rile a Shaker or an evrige saint ; Though I own up I like our back'ard springs Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things, An' when you 'most give up, 'ithout more words, Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an birds : JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 225 Thet 's Norfhun natur', slow an' apt to doubt, But when it does git stirred, there 's no gin-out ! Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees, An settlin' things in windy Congresses, — Queer politicians, though, ibr I '11 be skinned Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind. 'Fore long the trees begin to show belief. The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, Then saffron swarms swing otf from all the willers, So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, Then gray hosschesnuts leetle hands un- fold Softer 'n a baby's be a' three days old : Thet 's robin-redbreast's almauick ; he knows Thet arter this ther' 's only blossom- snows ; So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse, He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. "Ihen seems to come a hitch, — things lag behind, Till some fine momin' Spring makes up her mind. An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their dams Heaped up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams, A leak comes spirtin' thru some pin-hole cleft, Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, Then all the waters bow themselves an' come, Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin foam, Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune An' gives one leap from April into June ; Then all comes crowdin' in ; afore you think, Young oak -leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink ; The cat-bird in the laylock-bush is loud ; The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud ; Eed-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it. An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet ; The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade ; In ellum shrouds the flashin' hang-bird clings. An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings ; All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers, Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try With pins — they '11 worry yourn so, boys, bimeby ! But I don't love your cat'logue style, — do you? — • Ez ef to sell off Natur' by vendoo ; One word with blood in 't 's twice ez good ez two : Nuff sed, June 's bridesman, poet of the year, Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here ; Half hid in tip-top ajtple- blooms he swings, Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiv- erin' wings, Or, giviii' way to 't in a mock despair. Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air. THE COURTIN'. God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen. Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten. Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to bender. A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in — There warnt no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her. An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung. An' in amongst 'em rusted Theole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 226 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. A.n' she looked full ez rosy ag:in Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clean grit an' human natur' ; None could n't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighten He 'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em. Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — All is, he couldn't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple. The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir ; Hy ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring. She knowed the Lord was nigher. An' she "d blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 0' blue eyes sot upon it. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-ra.spin' on the scraper, — All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' I'itered on the mat. Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hem went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal .... no .... I come da- signin' " — "To see my Ma ? She 's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-moiTer's i'uiu'." To say why gals act so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t' other, An' on which one he felt the wust He could n't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I 'd better call agin" ; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' .... Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes. All kin' o' sniily roun' the lips An' teary rouu' the lashes. For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary. Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday. AMBROSE. Never, surely, was holier man Than Ambrose, since the world began ; With diet spare and raiment thin He shielded himself from the father of sin ; With bed of iron and scourgings oft. His heart to God's hand as wax made soft. Through earnest prayer and watchings long He sought to know 'twixt right and wrong. Much WTestling with the blessed Word To make it yield the sense of the Lord, That he might build a storm-proof creed To fold the flock in at their need. At last he builded a porfect faith. Fenced round about with The Lord thui saith ; To himself he fitted the doorway's size. Meted the light to the need of his eyaa. JAMES KUSSELL LOWELL. 227 And knew, by a sure and inward sign, That the work of his fingers was divine. Then Ambrose said, "All those shall die The eternal death who believe not as I" ; And some were boiled, some burned in fire. Some sawn in twain, that his heart's de- sire, For the good of men's souls, might be satisfied, By the drawing of all to the righteous side. One day, as Ambrose was'seeking the truth In his lonely walk, he saw a youth Eesting himself in the shade of a tree ; It had never been given him to see So shining a face, and the good man thought *T were pity he should not beUeve as he ought. So he set himself by the young man's side. And the state of his soul with questions tried ; But the heart of the stranger was hard- ened indeed, Nor received the stamp of the one true creed, And the spirit of Ambrose waxed sore to find Such face the porch of so narrow a mind. "As each beholds in cloud and fire The shape that answers his own desire. So each," said the youth, "in the Law shall find The figure and features of his mind ; And to each in his mercy hath God al- lowed His several pillar of fire and cloud." The soul of Ambrose burned with zeal And holy Avrath for the youngman'sweal : "Belie vest thou then, most wretched youth," Cried he, "a dividual essence in Truth? I fear me thy heart is too cramped with sin To take the Lord in his glory in." Now there bubbled beside them where they stood A fountain of waters sweet and good ; The youth to the streamlet's brink drew near Baying, "Ambrose, thou maker of creeds, look here !" Six vases of crystal then he took. And set them along the edge of the brook. "As into these vessels the water I pour, There shall one hold less, another more. And the water unchanged, in every case, Shall put on the figure of the vase ; thou, who wouldst unity make through strife. Canst thou fit this sign to the Water of Life?" When Ambrose looked up, he stood alone, The youth and the stream and the vases were gone ; But he knew, by a sense of humbled grace. He had talked with an angel face to face, And felt his heart change inwardly. As he fell on his knees beneath the tree. AFTER THE BirRLA.L. Yes, faith is a goodly anchor ; When skies are sweet as a psalm, At the bows it lolls so stalwart. In bluff, broad-shouldered calm. And when over breakers to leeward The tattered surges are hurled. It may keep our head to the tempest. With its grip on the base of the world. But, after the shipwreck, tell me What help in its iron thews. Still true to the broken hawser, Deep down among sea- weed and ooze ? In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, When the helpless feet stretch out And find in the deeps of darkness No footing so solid as doubt. Then better one spar of Memory, One broken plank of the Past, That our human heart may cling to, Though hopeless of shore at last ! To the spirit its splendid conjectures, To the flesh its sweet despair. Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket With its anguish of deathless hair ! Immortal ? I feel it and know it. Who doubts it of such as she ? But that is the pang's very secret, — Immortal away from me. 228 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. There 's a narrow ridge in the graveyard Would scarce stay a cliild in his race, But to me and my thought it is wider Than the star-sown vague of Space. Your logic, my friend, is perfect, Your morals most drearily true ; But, since the earth clashed on her coffin, 1 keep hearing that, and not you. Console if you will, I can bear it ; 'T is a well-meant alms of breath ; But not all the preaching since Adam Has made Death other than Death. It is pagan ; but wait till you feel it, — That jar of our earth, that dull shock When the ploughshare of deeper passion Tears down to our primitive rock. Communion in spirit ! Forgive me, But I, who am earthy and weak, Would give all my incomes from dream- land For a touch of her hand on my cheek. That little shoe in the comer, So worn and wTinkled and brown, With its emptiness confutes you, And argues your wisdom down. COMMEMORATION ODE. Harvard University, July 21, 1865. • * • • Life may be given in many ways. And loyalty to Truth be sealed As bravely in the closet as the field, So generous is Fate ; But then to stand beside her, When craven churls deride her. To front a lie in arms, and not to yield, — This shows, methinks, God's plan And measure of a stalwart man, Limbed like the old heroic breeds. Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid earth, Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Fed from within with all the strength he needs. Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, Whom late the Nation he had led. With ashes on her head. Wept with the passion of an angry grief : Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn. And hang my wreath on his world-hon- ored urn. Nature, they say, doth dote. And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote : For him her Old- World moulds aside she threw, And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new. Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. How beautiful to see Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed. Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by anj^ cheat of birth. But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering .skill, And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind. Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A seaTuark now, now lost in vapors blind ; Broad prairie rather, genial, level- lined, Fniitful and friendly for all human kind. Yet also nigh to Heaven and loved of loftiest stars. Nothing of Europe here. Or, then, of Europe fronting momward still. Ere any names of Serf and Peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface ; Here was a type of the true elder race. And one of Plutarch's men talked wi' . U3 face to face. MARIA. WHITE LOWELL. 229 I praise him not ; it were too late ; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he : He knew to bide liis time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums. Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes : These all are gone, and, standing like a tower. Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American. We sit here in the Promised Land That flows with Freedom's honey and milk : But 't was they won it, sword in hand, Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. We welcome back our bravest and our best ; — Ah, me ! not all ! some come not with the rest, Who went forth brave and bright as any here! I strive to mix some gladness with my strain, But the sad strings complain, And will not please the ear; I sw^eep them for a paean, but they wane Again and yet again Into a dirge, and die away in pain. In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps. Dark to the triumph which they died to gain: Fitlier may others greet the living. For me the past is unforgiving; I with uncovered head Salute the sacred dead, Who went, and who return not, — Say not so I 'T is not the grapes of Canaan that repay. But the high faith that failed not by the way ; Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave ; No bar of endless night exiles the brave ; And to the saner mind We rather seem the dead that stayed be- hind. Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow ! For never shall their aureoled presence lack: I see them muster in a gleaming row, With ever-youthful brows that nobler show; We find in our dull road their shining track ; In ever}' nobler mood We feel the orient of their spirit glow, Part of our life's unalterable good. Of all our saintlier aspiration ; They come transfigured back. Secure from change in their high-hearted ways, Beautiful evermore, and with the rays Of morn on their white Shields of Ex- pectation ! MARIA WHITE LOWELL. [U. S. A., 1821-1853.] THE ALPINE SHEEP. When on my ear your loss was knelled, And tender sympathy upburst, A little spring from memory welled. Which once had quenched my bitter thirst. And I was fain to bear to you A portion of its mild relief, That it might be as healing dew, To steal some fever from your grief. After our child's untroubled breath Up to the Father took its way. And on our home the shade of Death Like a long twilight haunting lay, And friends came round, with us to weep Her little spirit's swift remove, The story of the Alpine sheep Was told to us by one we love. 230 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. They, in the valley's sheltering care, Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare, The shepherd strives to make them climb To airy shelves of pasture green. That hang along the mountain's side, "Where grass and flowers together lean, And down through mist the sunbeams slide. But naught can tempt the timid things The steep and rugged paths to try, Though sweet the shepherd calls aud sings, And seared below the pastures lie, Till in his arms their lambs he takes, Along the dizzy verge to go ; Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, They follow on, o'er rock and snow. And in those pastures, lifted fair, More dewy-soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, Aud sheep and lambs together feed. This parable, by Nature breathed. Blew on me as the south-wind free O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed From icy thraldom to the sea. A blissful vision, through the night, Would all my happy senses sway, Of the good Shepherd on the height, Or climbing up the starry way, Holding our little lamb asleep, — While, like the murmur of the sea, Sounded that voice along the deep, Saying, "Arise and follow me!" THOMAS W. PARSONS. [U. S. A.] CAMPANILE DE PISA. Snow was glistening on the mountains, but the air was that of June, Leaves were falling, but the runnels play- ing still their summer tune, And the dial's lazy shadow hovered nigii the brink of noon. On the benches in the market, rows oi languid idlers lay. When to Pisa's nodding belfry, with a friend, I took my way. From the top we looked around us, and as far as eye might strain. Saw no sign of life or motion in the town, or on the plain. Hardly seemed the river moving, through the willows to the main ; Nor was any noise disturbing Pisa from her drowsy hour, Save the doves that fluttered 'neath us, in and out and round the tower. Not a shout from gladsome children, or the clatter of a wheel. Nor the spinner of the suburb, winding his discordant reel, Nor the stroke upon the pavement of a hoof or of a heel. Even the slumberers, in the churchyard of the Campo Santo seemed Scarce more quiet than the living world that iinderneath us dreamed. Dozing at the city's portal, heedless guard the sentry kept. More than oriental dulness o'er the sunny farms had crept, Near the walls the ducal herdsman by the dusty roadside slept ; While his camels, resting round him, half alarmed the sullen ox. Seeing those Arabian monsters pasturing with Etruria's flocks. Then it was, like one who wandered, late- ly, singing by the Rhine, Strains perchance to maiden's hearing sweeter than this verse of mine. That we bade Imagination lift us on her wing divine. And the days of Pisa's greatness rose from the sepulchral past, When a thousand conquering galleys bore her standard at the mast. Memory for a moment crowned her sov- ereign mistress of the seas, W^hen she braved, upon the billows, Ven- ice and the Genoese, Daring to deride the Pontiff", though ho shook his angry keys. THOMAS W. PARSONS. 231 When her admirals triumphant, riding o'er the Soldan's waves, Brought from Calvary's holy mountain fitting soil for knightly graves. When the Saracen surrendered, one by one, his pirate isles, And Ionia's marbled trophies decked Lungarno's Gothic piles. Where the festal music floated in the light of ladies' smiles ; Soldiers in the busy court-yard, nobles in the hall above, 0, those days of arms are over, — arms and courtesy and love ! Down in yonder square at sunrise, lo ! the Tuscan troops arrayed. Every man in Milan annor, forged in Brescia every blade : Sigismondi is their captain — Florence ! art thou not dismayed ? There 's Lanfranchi ! there the bravest of Gherardesca stem, Hugolino — with the bishop ; but enough, enough of them. Now, as on Achilles' buckler, next a peaceful scene succeeds ; Pious crowds in the cathedral duly tell their blessed beads ; Students walk the learned cloister; Ariosto wakes the reeds ; Science dawns ; and Galileo opens to the Italian youth. As he were a new Columbus, new dis- covered realms of truth. Hark ; what murmurs from the million in the bustling market rise ! All the lanes are loud with voices, all the windows dark with eyes ; Black with m en the marble bridges, heaped the shores with merchandise ; Turks and Greeks and Libyan merchants in the square their councils hold, And the Christian altars glitter gorgeous with Byzantine gold. Look ! anon the masqueraders don their holiday attire ; Every palace is ilh;mined, — all the town seems built of fire, — Rainbow-colored lanterns dangle from the top of every spire. Pisa's patron saint hath hallowed to him- self the joyful day. Never on the thronged Rialto showed the Carnival more gay. Suddenly the bell beneath us broke the vision with its chime ; "Signors," quoth our gray attendant, "it is almost vesper time" ; Vulgar life resumed its empire, — down we dropt from the sublime. Here and there a friar passed us, as we paced the silent streets. And a cardinal's rumbling carriage roused the sleepers from the seats. ON A BUST OF DANTE. See, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how gi'im The father was of Tuscan song. There but the burning sense of wrong. Perpetual care and scorn abide ; Small friendship for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world beside. Faithful if this wan image be. No dream his life was, — but a fight ; Could any Beatrice see A lover in that anchorite? To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight Who could have guessed the visions came Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light. In circles of eternal flame ? The lips, as Cumse's cavern close. The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose. But for the patient hope within. Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe. Which, through the wavering days of sin. Keep itself icy-chaste and clear. Not wholly such his haggard look Wlien wandering once, forlorn he strayed. With no companion save his book. To Corvo's hushed monastic shade: Wliere, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the pilgrim -guest. The single boon for which he prayed The convent's charity was rest. 232 SOXGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Peace dwells not here, — this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose ; Tlie sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. Such was his mien when first arose Tlie tliought of that strange tale divine, "Wlien hell he peopleil with liis foes, The scourge of many a guilty line. War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth; Baron and duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of Time. Time ! whose verdicts mock our own, The only righteous judge art thou; That poor old exile, sad ami lone, Is Latium's other Virgil iu3w : Before his name the nations bow : His words are parcel of mankind. Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow. The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. JOHN G. SAXE. [U. S. A.] WISHING. Of all amusements for the mind, From logic down to fishincr, There is n t one that you can find So very cheap as "wishing." A very choice diversion too. If we but rightly use it. And not, as we are apt to do. Pervert it, and abuse it. I wish — a common wish, indeed — My purse were somewhat fatter. That 1 might cheer the child of need, And not my pride to flatter ; That I might make Oppression reel. As only gol. But in its kind and supplicating grace, It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be more Friend to the friendless than thou wasi; before ; Learn from the loved one's rest serenity; To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound. And thou repose beneath the whisper- ing tree. One tribute more to this submissive ground; — Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride. Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride : Rather to those ascents of being turn, Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the year Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires burn Of unspent holiness and goodness clear, — Forget man's littleness, deserve the best, God's mercy in thy thought and life confest. JULIA WARD HOWE. [U. S. A.] FROM "A TRIBUTE TO A SERVANT." Not often to the parting soul Does Life in dreary grimness show ; Earth's captive, leaving prison-walls. Beholds them touched with sunset glow. And she forgot her sleepless nights. Her weary tasks of foot and hand, And, soothed with thoughts of pleasant- ness. Lay floating towards the silent land. The talk of comfortable hours. The merry dancing tunes 1 played. Gay banquets with the children shared, And summer days in greenwood shade, — They lay far scattered in the past. Through the dim vista of disease ; But when I spake, and held her hand, The parting cloud showed things like these. 236 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. I questioned not her peace with God, Nor pried into her guiltless mind, Like those unskilful surgeon-priests "Who rack the soul with probings blind. For I 've seen men who meant not ill Compelling doctrine out of Death, With Hell and Heaven acutely poised Upon the turning of a breath ; While agonizing judgments hung Ev'n on the Saviour's helpful name ; As mild Madonna's form, of old, A hideous torture-tool became. I could but say, with faltering voice And eyes that glanced aside to weep, " Be strong in faith and hope, my child ; He giveth his beloved sleep. "And though thou walk the shadowy vale Whose end we know not, He will aid ; His rod and staff shall stay thy steps." "I know it well, "she smiled and said. She knew it well, and knew yet more Jly deepest hope, though unexprest. The hope that God's appointed sleep But heightens ravishment with rest. My children, living flowers, sliall come And strew with seed this gravQ of thine, And bid the blushing growths of Spring Thy dreary painted cross entwine. Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, Shall rest in emblems of her own ; Beauty still springing from Decay, The cross-wood budding to the crown. BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : He is trampling out the vintage where the grap(>s of wrath are stored ; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword ; His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps ; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in bur- nished rows of steel : "As j'e deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal ; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel. Since God is marching on," He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat : 0, be swift, my soul, to answer him ! be jubilant, my feet ! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea. With a glory in his bosom that trans- figures you and me : As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free. While God is marching on. H. D. THOREAU. [U. S. A.] INSPIRATION. If with light head erect I sing. Though all the Muses lend their force, From my poor love of anything. The verse is weak and shallow as its source. But if with bended neck I grope. Listening behind me for my wit, With faith superior to hope. More anxious to keep back than ward it ; for- Making my soul accomplice there Unto the flame my heart hath lit. Then will the verse forever wear, — Time cannot bend the line which has writ. God I hearing get, who had but ears. And sight, who had but eyes before ; ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL. C. F. ALEXANDER. 237 I moments live, who lived hut years, And truth discern, who knew but learn- ing's lore. Kow chiefly is my natal hour, And only now my prime of life, Of manhood's strength it is the flower, 'T is peace's end, and war's beginning strife. It comes in summer's broadest noon. By a gray wall, or some chance place, Unseasoning time, insulting June, And vexing day with its presuming face. I will not doubt the love untold Which not my worth nor want hath bought, Which wooed me young, and wooed me old, And to this evening hath me brought. ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL. [U. S. A.] MILTON'S PRAYER IN BLINDNESS. I AM old and blind ! Men point at me as smitten by God's frown ; Afflicted and deserted of my kind ; Yet I am not cast down. I am weak, yet strong ; I murmur not that I no longer see ; Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong. Father supreme ! to thee. merciful One ! When men are farthest, then thou art most near ; When friends pass by me, and my weak- ness shun. Thy chariot I hear. Thy glorious face Is leaning toward me ; and its holy light Shines in upon my lonely dwelling- place, — And there is no more night. On my bended knee I recognize thy purpose clearly shown : My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see Thyself, — thyself alone. I have naught to fear ; This darkness is the shadow of thy wing; Beneath it 1 am almost sacred ; here Can come no evil thing. 0, I seem to stand Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been. Wrapped in the radiance of thy sinless land. Which eye hath never seen ! Visions come and go : Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng ; From angel lips I seem to hear the flow Of soft and holy song. It is nothing now. When heaven is opening on my sight- less eyes ? — When airs from paradise refresh my brow. The earth in darkness lies. In a purer clime My being fills with rapture, — waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit, — strains sublime Break over me unsought. Give me my lyre ! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine : Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, Lit by no skiU of mine. C. F. ALEXANDER. THE BURIAL OF MOSES, By Nebo's lonely mountain On this side Jordan's wave. In a vale in the land of Moab There lies a lonely grave. And no man knows that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er. For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. 238 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth : Noiselessly as the daylight Comes back when night is done,^ And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun, Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves ; So without sound of music Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle On gray Beth-Peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie Looked on the wondrous sight ; Perchance 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 in the war, "With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow his funeral car ; They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won. And after him lead his masterless steed, AVhile peals the minute-gun. Amid the noblest of the land, ■\Ve lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place With costly marble drest. In the great minster transept Where lights like glories fsiU, And the organ rings and the sweet choir sings Along the emblazoned wall. This was the truest warrior That ever buckled sword. This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word ; And never eaith's philosopher Traced witli his golden pen. On tlie deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor, — The hillside for a pall To lie in state while angels wait With stars for tapers tall. And 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 the grave ? In that strange grave without a name Whence his uncotiined clay Shall break again, wondrous thought ! Before the judgment-day. And stand with glory wrapt around On the hiUs he never trod. And speak of the strife that won our life With the Incarnate Son of God. lonely grave in Moab's land ! dark Beth-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 deep, like the hidden sleep Of him he loved so well. E. H. SEARS. [U. S. A.] CHRISTMAS HTMN. Calm on the listening ear of night Come Heaven's melodious strains, Where wild Judsea stretches far Her silver-mantled plains ! Celestial choirs, from courts above, Shed sacred glories there ; And angels, with their sparkling lyres. Make music on the air. The answering hills of Palestine Send back the glad reply ; And greet, from all their holy heights, The dayspring from on high. On the blue depths of Galilee There comes a holier calm. And Sharon waves, in solemn praise, Her silent groves of palm. THEODOKE PARKEK. — FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. 239 " Glory to God ! " the sounding skies Loud with their anthems ring ; Peace to the earth, good-will to men, From heaven's Eternal King ! Light on thy hills, Jerusalem ! The Saviour now is born ! And bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains Breaks the first Christmas morn. THEODORE PARKEE. [U. S. A., 1812- i860.] THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE. THOU 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 woe, — We look to thee ! thy truth is still the Light Which guides the nations, groping on their way. 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 given. FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. [181S-1863.] THE WILL OF GOD. I "WORSHIP thee, .sweet Will of God ! And all thy ways adore. And every day I live I seem To love thee more and more. When obstacles and trials seem Like prison-walls to be, I do the little I can do. And leave the rest to thee. I have no cares, blessed Will ! For all my cares are thine ; I live in triumph. Lord ! for thou Hast made thy triumphs mine. And when it seems no chance or change From grief can set me free, Hope finds its strength in helplessness, And gayly waits on thee. Man's weakness waiting upon God Its end can never miss. For men on earth no work can do More angel-like than this. He always wins who sides with God, To him no chance is lost ; God's will is sweetest to him when It triumphs at his cost. Ill that he blesses is our good, And unblest good is ill ; And all is right that seems most wrong, If it be his sweet Will ! 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 are 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. lU masters good, good seems to change To ill with 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. 240 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. "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 tlest 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 he who can divine Where real right 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 ! DAVID A.WASSON. [U. S. A.] SEEN AND TJNSEEN. The wind ahead, the billows high, A whited wave, but sable sky. And many a league of tossing sea. Between the hearts I love and me. The wind ahead : day after day These weary words the sailors say ; To weeks the days are lengthened now, — Still mounts the surge to meet our prow. Through longing day and lingering night I still accuse Time's lagging flight, Or gaze out o'er the envious sea. That keeps the hearts I love from me. Yet, ah, how shallow is all grief ! How instant is the deep relief! And what a hypocrite am I, To feign forlorn, to 'plain and sigh ! The wind ahead ? The wind is free J Forevermore it favoreth me, — To shores of God still blowing fair. O'er seas of God my bark doth bear. The surging brine 7 do not sail. This blast adverse is not my gale ; 'T is here I only seem to be, But really sail another sea, — Another sea, pure sky its waves. Whose beauty hides no heaving graves,— A sea all haven, whereupon No hapless bark to wreck hath gone. The winds that o'er my ocean run, lieach through all heavens beyond the sun ; Through life and death, through fate, through time. Grand breaths of God they sweep sub- lime. Eternal trades, they cannot veer. And blowing, teach us how to steer; And well for him whose ^oj, whose care, Is but to keep before them fair. 0, thou God's mariner, heart of mine, Spread canvas to the airs divine ! Spread sail ! and let thy Fortune be Forgotten in thy Destiny ! For Destiny pursues us well, By sea, by land, through heaven or hell ; It suffers Death alone to die, Bids life all change and chance defy. Woiild earth's dark ocean suck thee down? Earth's ocean thou, Life, shalt drown, Shalt flood it with thy finer wave. And, sepulchred, entomb thy grave ! Life loveth life and good : then trust AVhat most the spirit would, it must ; Deep wishes, in the heart that be. Are blossoms of necessity. A thread of Law runs through thy prayer, Stronger than iron cables are ; And Love and Longing toward her goal, Are pilots sweet to guide the soul. So Life must live, and Soul must sail, And Unseen over Seen prevail. And all God's argosies come to shore. Let ocean smile, or rage and roar. And so, mid storm or calm, my bark With snowy wake still nears her mark; Cheerly the trades of being blow, And sweeping down the wind I go. EICHAKD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 241 ALL'S WELL. Sweet-voic]6d Hope, thy fine discourse Foretold not half life's good to me : Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force To show how sweet it is to Be ! Thy witching dream And pictured scheme To match the fact still want the power ; Thy promise brave From birth to grave Life's boon may beggar in an hour. Ask and receive, — 't is sweetly said ; Yet what to plead for know 1 not ; For "Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped, And aye to thanks returns my thought. If I would pray, I 've naught to say But this, that God may be God still ; For Him to live Is still to give. And sweeter than my wish His will. wealth of life, be}Tond all bound ! Eternity each moment given ! "What plummet may the Present sound? Who promises a,fut%ire heaven? Or glad, or grieved. Oppressed, relieved. In blackest night, or brightest day, Still pours the flood Of golden good. And more than heart-full fills me aye. My wealth is common ; I possess No petty province, but the whole ; What 's mine alone is mine far less Than treasure shared by every soul. Talk not of store. Millions or more, — Of values which the purse may hold, — But this divine ! I own the mine WTiose grains outweigh a planet's gold. 1 have a stake in every star. In every beam that fills the day ; All hearts of men my coffers are. My ores arterial tides convey ; The fields, the skies, And sweet replies Of thought to thought are my gold dust, — The oaks, the brooks, And s])eaking looks Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust. 16 Life's youngest tides joy -brimming flow For him who lives above all years. Who all-immortal makes the Now, And is not ta'en in Time's arrears : His life 's a hymn The seraphim Might hark to hear or help to sing, And to his soul The boundless whole Its bounty aU doth daily bring. "All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith : ' ' The wealth I am, must thou become : Richer and richer, breath by breath, — Immortal gain, immortal room !" And since all his Mine also is. Life's gift outnins my fancies far, And drowns the dream In larger stream. As morning di-inks the morning star. ROYALTY. That regal soul I reverence, in whose eyes Suffices not all worth the city knows To pay that debt which his own heart he owes ; For less than level to his bosom rise The low crowd's heaven and stars : above their skies Runneth the road his daily feet have pressed ; A loftier heaven he beareth in his breast. And o'er the summits of achieving hies With never a thought of merit or of meed ; Choosing divinest labors through a pride Of soul, that holdeth appetite to feed Ever on angel-herbage, naught beside ; Nor praises more himself for hero-deed Than stones for weight, or open seas for tide. EICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. THE KINGDOM OF GOD. I SAY to thee, do thou repeat To the first man thou mayest meet. In lane, highway, or open street, — That he, and we, and all men move Under a canopy of Love, As broad as the blue sky above : 242 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. That doubt and troiible, fear and pain, And au^niish, all are sorrows vain ; That death itself shall not remain : That weary deserts we may tread, A dreary labyrinth may thread, Through dark ways underground be led ; Yet, if we will our Guide obey, The dreariest path, the darkest wa^. Shall issue out in heavenly day. And we, on divers shores now cast. Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, All in our Father's home at last. And ere thou leave them, say thou this. Yet one word more : They only miss The winning of that final bliss ^^^^o win not count it true that Love, Blessing, not cursing, rules above. And that in it we live and move. And one thing further make him know. That to believe these things are so, This firm faith never to forego, — Despite of all which seems at strife With blessing, and with curses rife, — That this is blessing, this is life. AUTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. [1819-1861.] THE NEW SINAI. Lo, here is God, and there is God ! Believe it not, man ! In such vain sort to this and that The ancient heathen ran ; Thougli old Religion shake her head. And say, in bitter grief. The day behold, at first foretold. Of atheist unbelief: Take better part, with manly heart, Thine adult spirit can ; Receive it Tiot, believi^ it not, Believe it not, Man ! As men at dead of nir;ht awaked With cries, "The king is here," Rush forth and greet whome'er they meet. Whoe'er shall first appear ; And still repeat, to all the street, '"T is he,— the king is here" ; The long procession moveth on. Each nobler form they see, With changeful suit they still salute, And cry, '"Tishe! 'tis he!" So, even so, when men were young. And earth and heaven was new, And His immediate presence he From human hearts withdrew, The soul perplexed and daily vexed With sensuous False an » '^"ue. Amazed, bereaved, no less believed. And fain would see Him too. "He is!" the prophet-tongues pro- claimed ; Id joy and hasty fear, "He is!" aloud replied the crowd, "Is, here, and here, and here." "He is ! They are !" in distance seen On yon Olympus high. Id those Avernian woods abide. And walk this azure sky : "They are ! They are !" to every show Its eyes the baby turned. And blazes sacrificial, tall. On thousand altars burned : "They are! They are!" — On Sinai's top Far seen the lightning's shone. The thunder broke, a trumpet spoke, ARd God said, "'am One." God spake it out, "1, God, am One" ; The unheeding ages ran, And baby thoughts again, again. Have dogged the growing man : And as of old from Sinai's top God said that God is One, By Science strict so speaks he now To tell us. There is None ! Earth goes by chemic forces ; Heaven '3 A Mecanique Celeste ! And heart and mind of human kind A watch- work as the rest ! Is this a Voice, as was the Voice Whose speaking told abroad. When thunder pealed, and mountain reeled. The ancient truth of God? Ah, not the Voice ; 't is but the cloud, The outer darkness dense, Where image none, nor e'er was seen Similitude of sense. AETHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 243 T is but the cloudy darkness dense, That wrapt the Mount around ; While in amaze the peoyjle stays, To hear the Coming Sound. Some chosen prophet-soul the while Shall dare, sublimely meek. Within the shroud of blackest cloud The Deity to seek : Mid atheistic systems dark. And darker hearts' despair, That soul has heard perchance his word, And on the dusky air. His skirts, as passed He by, to see Hath strained on their behalf. Who on the plain, with dance amain, Adore the Golden Calf. 'T is but the cloudy darkness dense ; Though blank the tale it tells. No God, no Truth ! yet He, in sooth, Is there, — within it dwells ; Within the sceptic darkness deep He dwells that none may see. Till idol forms and idol thoughts Have passed and ceased to be : Ko God, no Truth ! ah though, in sooth. So stand the doctrine's half ; On Egypt's track return not back, Nor own the Golden Calf. Take better part, with manlier heart. Thine adult spirit can : No God, no Truth, receive it ne'er — Believe it ne'er — Man ! But turn not then to seek again What first the ill began ; No God, it saith ; ah, wait in faith God's self-completing plan ; Eeceive it not, but leave it not. And wait it out, man ! The Man that went the cloud within Is gone and vanished quite ; " He cometh not," the people cries, "Nor bringeth God to sight" : "Lo these thy gods, that safety give, Adore and keep the feast !" Deluding and deluded cries The Prophet's brother-Priest : And Israel all bows down to fall Before the gilded beast. Devout, indeed ! that priestly creed, Man, reject as sin ! The clouded hill attend thou still. And him that went within. He yet shall bring some worthy thing For waiting souls to see ; Some sacred word that he hath heard Their light and life shall be ; Some lofty part, than which the heart Adopt no nobler can, Thou shalt receive, thou shalt believe. And thou shalt do, Man ! FROM THE "BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA- VUOLICH." Where does Circumstance end, and Prov- idence, where begins it ? What are we to resist, and what are we to be friends with ? If there is battle 't is battle by night ; I stand in the darkness, Here in the midst of men, Ionian and Dorian on both sides. Signal and password known ; which is friend, which is foeman ? Is it a friend ? I doubt, though he speak with the voice of a brother. that the armies indeed were arrayed ! joy of the onset ! Sound, thou trumpet of God, come forth Great Cause, and array us ! King and leader appear, thy soldiers an- swering seek thee. Would that the armies indeed were arrayed. where is the battle ! Neither battle I see, nor arraying, nor King in Israel, Only infinite jumble and mess and dis- location. Backed by a solemn appeal, "For God's sake do not stir there ! " THE STREAM OF LIFE. STREAM descending to the sea. Thy mossy banks between. The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow, The leafy trees are green. In garden plots the children play, "rhe fields the laborers till, The houses stand on either hand. And thou descendest still, life descending into deatlk. Our waking eyes behold. 244 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. Parent and friend tliy lapse ittend, Conipauions young and old. Strong purposes our minds possess, Our hearts affections till, We toil and earn, we seek and learn, And thou descendest still. end to which our currents tend, Inevitable sea, To which we flow, what do we know, What shall we guess of thee ? A roar we hear upon thy shore, As we our course fulfil ; Scarce we divine a sun will shine And be above us still. QUA CTJRSUM VENTTJS. 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, de- scried ; When fell the night, upsprung 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 filled. And onward each rejoicing steered : Ah, neither blame, for neither willed. Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, Brave barks ! Inlight, in darkness too, Througli winds and tides one compass guides, — To that, and your own selves, be true. But blithe breeze, and great seas, Thoughne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide phiin they join again, Together lead them home at last ! One port, methought, alike they sought. One purpose hold where'er they fare, — bounding breeze, O rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there SAMUEL LONGFELLOW. [U. S. A.] THE GOLDEN SUNSET. The golden sea its mirror spreads Beneath the golden skies. And but a narrow strip between Of land and shadow lies. The cloud-like rocks, the rock-like clouds, Dissolved in glory float. And, midway of the radiant flood, Hangs silently the boat. The sea is but another sky, The sky a sea as well. And which is earth, and which the heav- ens. The eye can scarcely teU. So when for us life's evening hour Soft passing shall descend. May glory born of earth and heaven, The earth and heavens blend; Flooded with peace the spirit float. With silent rapture glow. Till where earth ends and heaven begins The soul shall scarcely know. SARAH J. WILLIAMS. QUIET FROM GOD. QrriET 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 youth's bright eye, Bends not joy's lofty brow. No guiltless ecstasy Need in its presence 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 s)>here, Mountain paths, boundless fields, O'er billows its career : This is the power it yield.s. ELIZA SCUDDER. SARAH F. ADAMS. 245 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 The gladness which His spirit doth reveal ; Not to deem evil gom From every earthly scene ; To see the storm come on. But feel 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 AU-Merciful hath given ; To feel, when we awake, and when we sleep, Its incense round us, like a breeze from heaven ! Quiet at hearth and home, Where the heart's joys begin ; Quiet where'er we roam. Quiet around, within. Vfiio shall make trouble? — not the evil minds "Which like a shadow o'er creation lower, The spirit peace hath so attuned, finds There feelings that may own the Calmer's power ; What may she not confer, E'en where she must condemn ? They take not peace from her. She may speak peace to them ! When over dizzy heights we go, One soft hand blinds our eyes, The other leads us, safe and slow, Love of God most wise ! And though we turn us from thy face, And wander wide and long, Thou hold'st us still in thine embrace, Love of God most strong ! The saddened heart, the restless soul, The toil-worn frame and mind, Alike confess thy sweet control, Love of God most kind ! But not alone thy care we claim, Our wayward steps to win ; We know thee by a dearer name, Love of God within ! 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 SCUDDER. [U. S. A.] 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 ! SARAH F. ADAMS. NEARER, 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 send'st to me In mercy given ; Angels to beckon me Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee ! 246 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 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 wang Cleaving the sky. Sun, moon, and stars forgot. Upwards I fly. Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee ! ANNA L. WAKINa. MY TIMES ARE IN" THY HAND. Father, 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 I 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 joj'ful 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 treated as a child. And guided where I go. Wliprever 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. Ami a mind to blend with outward life, While kee|)iiig at thy side. Content to fill a little siiace, 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. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. [U. S. A.] CANA. Dear Friend ! whose presence in the house. Whose gracious 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 homely household 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. The miracle again is wrought. And water turned to wine. HORATIUS BONAR, — W. ALEXANDER. 247 HOEATIUS BOMR. THE INNER CALM. Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, While these hot breezes blow ; Be like the night-dew's cooling balm Upon earth's fevered brow. Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, Soft resting on thy breast ; Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm, And bid my spirit rest. Calm me, my God, and keep me calm ; Let thine outstretched wing Be like the shade of Elim's palm Beside her desert spring. Yes, keep me calm, though loud and rude The sounds my ear that greet, Calm in the closet's solitude, Calm in the bustling street ; Calm in the hour of buoyant health, Calm in my hour of pain, Calm in my poverty or wealth. Calm in my loss or gain ; Calm in the sufferance of wrong, Like Him who bore my shame. Calm mid the threatening, taunting throng, Who hate Thy holy name ; Calm when the great world's news with power My listening spirit stir ; Let not the tidings of the hour E'er find too fond an ear ; Calm as the ray of sun or star Which storms assail in vain. Moving unruffled through earth's war. The eternal calm to gain. 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, needs The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen. Great Master, touch us with thy skilful 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 Ue! Spare not the stroke ! do with us as thou wilt ! Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred ; Complete thy purpose, that we may be- come Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord! W. ALEXANDER. UP ABOVE. Down below, the wild November whist- ling Through the beech's dome of burning red. And the Autumn sprinkling penitential Dust and ashes on the chestnut's head. Down below, a pall of airy purple Darkly hanging from the mountain-side ; And the sunset from his eyebrow staring O'er the long roll of the leaden tide. Up above, the tree with leaf unfading. By the everlasting river's brink ; And the sea of glass, beyond whose margin Never yet the sun was known to sink. Down below, the white wings of the sea- bird Dashed across the furrows, dark with mould. Flitting, like the memories of our child- hood. Through the trees, now waxen pale and old. Down below, imaginations quivering Through our human spirits like the wind; Thoughts that toss, like leaves about the woodland ; Hope, like sea-birds, flashed across the mind. 248 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Up above, the host no man can number, In wliite robes, a {laliu in every hand, Each some work sublime forever working, I n the spacious tracts of that great land. Up above, the thoughts that know not anguish ; Tender care, sweet love for us below ; Noble jtity, free from anxious terror ; Larger love, without a touch of woe. Pown below, a sad, mysterious music \V' ailing through the woods and on the shore, Burdened with a grand majestic secret, That keeps sweeping from us evermore. Up above, a music that entwineth With eternal threads of golden sound, Tlie great poem of this strange existence, All whose wondrous meaning hath been found. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. [U. S. A.] THE OTHER WORLD. It lies around us like a cloud, — A world we do not see ; Yet the sweet closing of an eye May bring us there to be. Its gentle breezes fan our cheek ; Amid our worldly cares Its gentle voices whisper love, And mingle with our prayers. Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, Sweet helping hands are stirred, And palpit.ates the veil between With breathings almost heard. The silence — awful, sweet, and calm — Tlipy have no power to break ; For mortal words are not for them To utter or partake. So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, So near to press they seem, — Tliey st-em to lull us to our rest, 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 ear, Wrapped in a trance of bliss. And gently di'eam in loving arms 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. MRS. LEWES (GEORGE ELIOT). O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE I MAY I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence ; live In pulses stirred to generosity. In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn Of miserable aims that end with self. In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge men's minds To vaster issues. So to live is heaven : To make undjing music in the world, Breathing a beauteous order, that con- trols With growing sway the gro\ving life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed, and agonized With widening retrospect that bred de- spair. Rebellious tlesh that would not be sub- dued, CHARLES KINGSLEY. 249 A vicious parent shaming still its child. Poor anxious penitence, is quick dis- solved ; Its discords quenched by meeting har- monies, Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer self, That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burden of the world, Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better, — saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary, And shaped it forth before the multitude. Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love, — That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb. Unread forever. This is life to come. Which martyred men have made more glorious For us, who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, — be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony. Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cnielty, Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense ! So shall I join the choir invisible, "Whose music is the gladness of the world. CHARLES KINGSLEY. [1819-1874.] THE THREE FISHERS. Three fishers went sailing out into the west, Out into the west as the sun went down ; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town ; For men must work, and women must weep, And there 's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower. And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down. They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower. And the night rack came rolling up ragged and brown ! But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning. Three corpses layout on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wring- ing their hands For those who will never come back to the town ; For men must work, and women must weep. And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep, — And good by to the bar and its moaning. THE SANDS OF DEE. "0 Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home. And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee" ; The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand. And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The roUins mist came down and hid the land, — And never home came she. " 0, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, — A tress o' golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea ? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee," They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, 250 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea : But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee ! A MYTH. A FLOATING, a floating Across the sleeping sea, All night I heard a singing bird Upon the topmast tree. "0, came you from the isles of Greece, Or from the banks of Seine, Or off some tree in forests free. Which fringe the Western main?" "I came not off the old world, — Nor yet from off the new, — But I am one of the birds of God Which sing the whole night through." "0 sing and wake the dawning, whistle for the wind ; The night is long. My boat it lags behind. the current strong, " The current sweeps the old world, The current sweeps the new ; The wind will blow, the dawn will glow Ere thou hast sailed them through." DIME MULOCK CEAIK. COMING HOME. The lift is high and blue, And the new moon glints through The bonnie corn-stooks o' Strathairly; Jly sliip 's in Largo Bay, And I ken it weel, — the way Up the steep, steep brae of Strathairly. When I sailed ower the sea, — A liuldii' bold and free, — The corn sjinuig green on Strathairly ; When 1 come back again, 'T is an auld man walks his lane. Slow and sad through the fields o' Strathairly. Of the shearers that I see, Ne'er a body kens me, Though I kent them a' at Strathairly ; And this tisher-wife I pass. Can she be the braw lass That I kissed at the back of Strathairly? 0, the land 's fine, fine ! I could buy it a' for mine. My gowd 's yellow as the stocks o' Strathairly ; But I fain yon lad wad be, That sailed ower the salt sea. As the dawn rose gray on Strathaiiiy. TOO LATE. Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angela do; — 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 true. OUTWARD BOUND. Out upon the unknown deep, Where the unheard oceans sound. Where the unseen islands sleep, — Outward bound. HARRIET WIN SLOW SEW ALL, 251 Following towards tlie silent west O'er the horizon's curved rim, On, to islands of the blest ; He with me and I with him, Outward bound. Nothing but a speck we seem In the waste of waters round; Floating, floating like a dream, Outward bound. But within that tiny speck Two brave hearts with one accord, Past all tumult, pain, and wreck, Look up calm, and praise the Lord, Outward bound. ELIZABETH A. ALLEN. [U. S. A.] UNTIL DEATH. Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend. To love me, though I die, tliy whole life long. And love no other till thy days shall end, — Nay, it were rash and wrong. If thou canst love another, be it so ; I would not reach out of my quiet grave To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go;— Love should not be a slave. My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns, Above the jealousies and envies keen Which sow this life with thorns. Thou wouldstnot feel my shadowy caress. If, after death, my soul should linger here; Men's hearts crave tangible, close ten- derness, Love's presence, warm and near. It would not make me sleep more peace- fully That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe For my poor sake ; what love thou hast for nie, Bestow it ere I go ! Carve not upon a stone when I am dead The praises which remorseful mourners give To women's graves, — a tardy recom- pense, — 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 will love and serve thee night and day With 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 I Hve, be true ! HAREIET WINSLOW SEWALL. [U. S. A.] 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 ! Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching All thy restless yearnings it would still, Leaf and flower and laden bee are preach- ing Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw, If no silken chord of love hath bound thee To some little world through weal and woe ; If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, No fond voices answer to thine own. 252 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten By daily sympathy and gentle tone. Not by deeds that gain the world's ap- plauses, Not by works that win thee world renown, Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses. Canst thou win and wear the immor- tal crown. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Every day a rich reward will give ; Thou wilt find by hearty striving only. And truly loving, thou canst truly live. Dost thou revel in the rosy morning When all nature hails the Lord of light, And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorn- ing, Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and height ? Other hands may grasp the field and forest. Proud proprietors in pomp may shine. But with fervent love if thou adorest. Thou art wealthier, — all the world is thine. Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest. Sighing that they are not thine alone, Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest, And their beauty and thy wealth are gone. COVEXTllY PATMORE. WOMAN. All powers of the sea and air, All interests of hill and plain, I so can sing, in seasons fair. That who hath felt may feel again : Nay, more; the gracious muses bless At times my tongue, until I can With moving emphasis express The likeness of tlie perfect man : Elated oft with such free songs, I think with utterance free to raise That hymn for which the whole world longs, — A worthy hymn in woman's praise ; The best half of creation's best. Its heart to feel, its eye to see. The crown and complex of the rest, Its aim and its epitome. Yet now it is my chosen task To sing her worth as maid and wife; And were such post to seek, I 'd ask To live her laureate all my life. On wings of love uplifted free. And by her gentleness made great, I 'd teach how noble man should be. To match with such a lovely mate ; Until (for who may hope too much From her who wields the powers of love). Our lifted lives at last should touch That lofty goal to which they move ; Until we find, as darkness rolls Far ofi", and fleshly mists dissolve. That nuptial contrasts are the poles On which the heavenly spheres revolve. THE CHASE. She wearies with an ill unknown ; In sleep she sobs and seems to float, A water-lily, all alone Within a lonely castle-moat ; And as the full moon, spectral, lies Within the crescent's gleaming arms, The present shows her heedless eyes A future dim \vith vague alarms : She sees, and yet she scarcely sees ; For, life-in-life not yet begun, Too many are life's mysteries For thought to fix t'ward any one. She 's told that maidens are by youths Extremely honored and desired ; And sighs, "If those sweet tales be truths, What bliss to be so much admired !" The suitors come ; she sees them grieve ; Her coldness fills them with despair: She 'd pity if she could believe ; She 's sorry that she cannot care. Who 's this that meets her on her way ? Comes he as enemy, or friend ; Or both ? Her bosom seems to say He cannot pass, and there an end. Whom does he love? Does he confer His heart on worth that answers his? LETITIA E. LANDON. 253 Perhaps he 's come to worship her : She fears, she hopes, she thiuks he is. Advancing stepless, quick, and still. As in the grass a serpent glides. He fascinates her fluttering will, Then terrifies with dreadful strides : At first, there 's nothing to resist : He fights with all the forms of peace ; He comes about her like a mist, With subtle, swift, unseen increase; And then, unlooked for, strikes amain Some stroke that frightens her to death ; And grows all harmlessness again. Ere she can cry, or get her breath. At times she stojis, and stands at bay ; But he, in all more strong than she, Subdues her with his pale_ dismay, Or more admired audacity. All people speak of him with praise : How wise his talk ; how sweet his tone ; What manly worship in his gaze ! It nearly "makes her heart his own. With what an air he speaks her name : His manner always recollects Her sex : and still the woman's claim Is taught its scope by his respects. Her charms, perceived to prosper first In his beloved advertencies. When in her glass they are rehearsed. Prove his most powerful allies. Ah, whither shall a maiden flee. When a bold youth so swift pursues. And siege of tenderest courtesy, With hope perseverant, still renews ! Why fly so fast ? Her flattered breast Thankshim whofinds herfair andgood ; She loves her fears ; veiled joys arrest The foolish terrors of her blood ; By secret, sweet degrees, her heart. Vanquished, takes warmth from desire : She makes it more, with bashful art, And fuels love's late dreaded tire. The gallant credit he accords To all the signs of good in her, Redeems itself; his praiseful words What they attribute still confer. Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss. She 's three times gentler than before : He gains a right to call her his, Now she through him is so much more ! Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved, Behold his tokens next her breast, At all his words and sighs perceived Against its blithe upheaval pressed. But still she flies : should she be won. It must not be believed or thought She yields : she's chased to death, undone, Surprised, and violently caught. THE LOVER. He meets, by heavenly chance express. His destined wife ; some hidden hand Unveils to him that loveliness Which others cannot understand. No songs of love, no summer dreams Did e'er his longing fancy fire With vision like to this ; she seems In all things better than desire. His merits in her presence grow. To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of Paradise. The least is well, yet nothing' s light In all the lover does ; for he Who pitches hope at such a height Will do all things with dignity. She is so perfect, true, and pure. Her virtue all virtue so endears, That often, when he thinks of her. Life's meanness fiUs his eyes with tearfc» his LETITIA E. LANDON. THE SHEPHERD-BOY. Like some vision olden Of far other time. When the age was golden ,_ In the young world's prime Is thy soft pipe ringing, lonely shepherd-boy. What song art thou singing. In thy youth and joy? Or art thou complaining Of thy lowly lot. And thine own disdaining. Dost ask what thou hast not ? Of the future dreaming. Weary of the past. For the present scheming. All but what thou hast. 254 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. No, thou art delighting In thy summer home, "Where the flowers inviting Tempt the bee to roam ; Where tlie cowslip bending With its golden bells, Of each glad hour's ending With a sweet chime tells. All wild creatures love liim When he is alone, Every bird above him Sings its softest tone. Thankful to high Heaven, Humble in thy joy. Much to thee is given. Lowly shepherd-boy. DEATH AKD THE YOTTTH. "Not yet, the flowers are in my path, The sun is in the sky ; Not yet, my heart is full of hope, I 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 !" AUBREY DE VERE. THE SISTERS. " I KNOW not how to comfort thee ; Yet dare not say, Weep on ! I know how little life is worth When love itself is gone. ' ' The mighty with the weak contend ; The many with the few : The hard and heavy hearts oppress The tender and the true. "Had he been capable of love, His love had clung to thee ; He was too weak a thing to bear That noble energy. "Lift, lift your forehead from my lap. And lay it on my breast : I too have wept ; but you I deemed Still safe within your nest." Her words were vain, but not her tears; The mourner raised her eyes. Subdued by the atoning power Of pitying sympathies : Subdued at first, erelong consoled. At last she ceased to moan ; For those who feel another's pain Will soon forget their own. ye whom broken vows bereave, Your vows to heaven restore ; ye for blighted love who grieve, Love deeper and love more ! The arrow cannot wound the air, Nor thunder rend the sea, Nor injury long afflict the heart That rests, Love, in thee ! The winds may blow, the waves may swell; But soon those tumults cease. And the pure element subsides Into its native peace. ALICE GARY. [U. S. A.] KRUMLEY. BLUSHING flowers of Krumley ! 'T is she who makes you sweet. 1 envy every silver wave That laughs about her feet. How dare the waves, how dare the flowers^ Rise up and kiss her feet ? Ye wanton woods of Krumley ! Ye clasp her with your boughs. And stoop to kiss her all the way Beside her homeward cows. I hate ye, woods of Krumley, I 'm jealous of your boughs ! ALICE CAKEY. 255 I fpn j^e, banks of Knimley, 'T is not your sunny days That set your meadows up and down With blossoms all ablaze. The Howers that love her crowd to bloom Along her trodden ways. dim and dewy Krumley, 'T is not your birds at all That make the air one warble From rainy spring to fall. They only mock the sweeter songs That from her sweet lips fall. bold, bold winds of Krumley, Do ye mean my heart to break, So light ye lift her yellow hair, So lightly kiss her cheek ? flower and bird, wave and wind, Ye mean my heart to break ! THE SITRE WITNESS. The solemn wood had spread Shadows around my head, — "Curtains they are," I said, "Hung dim and still about the house of prayer" ; Softly among the limbs. Turning the leaves of hymns, I hear the winds, and ask if God were there. No voice replied, but while I listening stood. Sweet peace made holy hushes through the wood. With ruddy, open hand, I saw the wild rose stand Beside the green gate of the summer hills, And pulling at her dress, I cried, "Sweet hermitess. Hast thou beheld Him who the dew dis- tils ?" No voice replied, but while I listening bent. Her gracious beauty made my heart con- tent. The moon in splendor shone, — "She walketh Heaven alone. And seeth all things," to myself I mused ; "Hast thou beheld Him, then, Who hides himself from men In that great power through nature in- terfused?" No speech made answer, and no sign ap- peared. But in the silence I was soothed and cheered. Waking one time, strange awe Thrilling my soul, I saw A kingly splendor round about the night ; Such cunning work the hand Of spinner never planned, — The finest wool may not be washed so white. "Hast thou come out of Heaven ?" I asked ; and lo ! The snow was all the answer of the snow. Then my heart said, Give o'er; Question no more, no more ! The wind, the snow-storm, the wild her- mit flower. The illuminated air. The pleasure after prayer. Proclaim the unoriginated Power ! The mystery that hides him here and there. Bears the sure witness he is everywhere. HER LAST POEM. Earth with its dark and dreadful ills, Eecedes 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 I feared so long Are full of life and light. My pulses faint and fainter beat, My faith takes wider bounds ; I feel grow firm beneath my feet The green, immortal grounds. The faith to me a courage gives. Low as the grave to go, — I know that my Redeemer lives, — That I 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? 256 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. PIKEBE CAPtY. [U. S. A.] FIELD PREACHING. I HAVE been out to-day in field and wood, Listeningtopraiscssweetandcounselgood Such as a little child had understood, That, in its tender youth, Discerns the simple eloquence of truth. The modest blossoms, crowding round my way, Though they had nothing great or grand to say. Gave out their fragrance to the wind all day; Because His loving breath, With soft persistence, won them back from death. And the right royal lily, putting on Her robes, more rich than those of Solo- mon, Opened her gorgeous missal in the sun, And thanked Him, soft and low, Whose gracious, liberal hand had clothed her so. When wearied, on the meadow-grass I sank ; So narrow was the rill from which I drank. An infant might have stepped from bank to bank ; And the tall rushes near Lapping together, hid its waters clear. Yet to the ocean joyously it went ; And rippling in the fulness of content. Watered the pretty flowers that o'er it leant ; For all the banks were spread With delicate flowers that on its bounty fed. The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight. With serried spear-points bristling sharp and briglit, Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight. To all their tawny length. Like Samson, glorying in his lusty strength. And every little l)ird upon the tree. Ruffling his plumage bright, for ecstasy, Sang in the wild insanity of glee ; And seemed, in the same lays. Calling his mate and uttering songs of praise. The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing ; The plain bee, busy with her housekeep- ing. Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing, As if she understood That, with contentment, labor was a good. I saw each creature, in his own best place, To the Creator lift a smiling face, Praising continually his wondrous grace ; As if the best of all Life's countless blessings was to live at all ! So with a book of sermons, plain and true, Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through, I went home softly, through the falling dew. Still listening, rapt and calm. To Nature giving out her evening psalm. While, far along the west, mine eyes dis- cerned. Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned. The tree-tops, un consumed, to flame were turned ; And I, in that great hush. Talked with His angels in each burning bush! NEARER HOME. One sweetly welcome thought, Comes to me o'er and o'er ; I 'm nearer home to-day Than I 've ever been before ; Nearer my Father's house Where the many mansions be ; Nearer the Great White Throne, Nearer the Jasper Sea ; Nearer that bound of life, Where we lay our burdens dovra, — Nearer leaving the cross. Nearer gaining the crown. But lying dimly between. Winding down through the night, Lies the dark and uncertain stream That leads us at length to the light. SYDNEY DOBELL. 257 Closer and closer my steps Come to the dark abysm, Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism ; Father, perfect my trust ! Strengthen my feeble faith ! Let me feel as 1 shall, when I stand On the shores of the river of death : Feel as I would, were my feet Even now slipping over the brink, - For it may be I am nearer home, Nearer now, than I think ! PEACE. Land, of every land the best, — Land, whose glory shall increase ; Now in your whitest raiment drest For the great festival of peace : Take from your flag its fold of gloom. And let it float undimmed above, Till over all our vales shall bloom The sacred colors that we love. On mountain high, in valley low, Set Freedom's living fires to bum; Until the midnight sky shall show A redder glory than the morn. Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride. Your veterans from the war-path's track ; You gave your boys, untrained, untried ; You bring them men and heroes back ! And shed no tear, though think you must With sorrow of the martja-ed band ; Not even for him whose hallowed dust Has made our prairies holy land. Though by the places where they fell. The places that are sacred ground, I)eath, like a sullen sentinel. Paces his everlasting roimd. Yet when they set their country free, And gave her traitors fitting doom, They left their last great enemy. Baffled, beside an empty tomb 17- Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go Where all the paths are sweet with flowers ; They fought to give us peace, and lo ! They gained a better peace than ours. SYDNEY DOBELL. KEITH OF RAVELSTON. HAPPY, happy maid, In the year of war and death She wears no sorrow ! By her face so young and fair, By the happy wreath That rules her happy hair. She might be a bride to-morrow ! She sits and sings within her moonlit bower. Her moonlit bower in rosy June, Yet ah, her bridal breath. Like fragrance from some sweet night- blowing flower, Moves from her moving lips in many a mournful tune ! She sings no song of love's despair, She sings no lover lowly laid. No fond peculiar grief Has ever touched or bud or leaf Of her unblighted spring. She sings because she needs must sing } She sings the sorrow of the air Whereof her voice is made. That night in Britain howsoe'er On any chords the fingers strayed They gave the notes of care. A dim sad legend old Long since in some pale shade Of some far twilight told. She knows not when or where, She sings, with trembling hand on trem- bling lute-strings laid : — The murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps tlie shadowy kine, " Keith of P»avelston, The sorrows of thy line ! " Ravelston, Eavelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And through the silver meads ; Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree. 258 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she ! She sang her song, she kept her kine. She sat beneath the thorn A\Tien Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode through the Monday mom ; His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine ! Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line ! Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid. Her misty hair is faint and fair. She keeps the shadowy kine ; Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line ! 1 lay my hand upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold, Tlie burnie that goes babbling by Says naught that can be told. Yet, stranger ! here, from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine ; Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line ! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood: Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, 'T is not the bum I hear ! She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine ; Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line ! THOMAS BUPtBIDGE. EVENTIDE. Comes something down with eventide, Beside the sunset's golden bars, Beside the floating scents, beside The twinkling shadows of the stars. Upon the river's rippling face. Flash after flash the white Broke up in many a shallow place ; The rest was soft and bright. By chance my eye fell on the stream ; How many a marvellous power Sleeps in us, — sleeps, and doth not dream ! This knew I in that hour. For then my heart, so full of strife, No more was in me stirred ; My life was in the river's life, And I nor saw nor heard. I and the river, we were one : The shade beneath the bank, I felt it cool ; the setting sun Into my spirit sank. A rushing thing in power serene I was ; the mystery I felt of having ever been And being still to be. Was it a moment or an hour ? I knew not ; but I mourned When, from that realm of awful power I to these fields returned. EOSB TERRY COOKE. [U. S. A.] THE ICONOCLAST. A THOUSAND years shall come and go, A thousand years of night and day. And man, through all their changing show, His tragic drama still shall play. Ruled by some fond ideal's power, Cheated by passion or despair, Still shall he waste life's trembling hour, In worship vain, and useless prayer. Ah ! where are they who rose in might, Who fired the temple and the shrine, And hurled, through earth's chaotic night, The helpless gods it deemed divine ? Cease, longing soul, thy vain desire I What idol, in its stainless prime. But falls, untouched of axe or fire. Before the steady eyes of Time ? ANNE C. (LYNCH) BOTTA. 259 He looks, and lo ! our altars fall, The shrine reveals its gilded clay, AVith decent hands we spread the pall, And, cold with wisdom, glide away. 0, where were courage, faith, and truth. If man went wandering all his day In golden clouds of love, and youth, Nor knew that both his steps betray ? Come, Time, while here we sit and wait, Be fixitliful, spoiler, to thy trust ! No death can further desolate The soul that knows its god was dust. "IT IS MORE BLESSED." Give ! as the morning that flows out of heaven ; Give ! as the waves when their channel is riven ; Give ! as the free air and sunshine are given ; Lavishly, utterly, carelessly give. Not the waste drops of thy cup overflow- ing. Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing, Not a pale bud from the June rose's blowing ; Give as He gave thee, who gave thee to live. Pour out thy love like the rush of a river Wasting its waters, for ever and ever. Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver ; Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea. Scatter thy life as the Summer shower's pouring ! What if no bird through the pearl-rain is soaring? "VNTiat if no blossom looks upward adoring ? Look to the life that was lavished for thee ! Give, though thy heart may be wasted and weary, liaid on an altar all ashen and dreary ; Though from its pulses a faint miserere Beats to thy soul the sad presage of fate, Bind it with cords of unslaiukiug devo- tion ; Smile at the song of its restless emotion ; 'T is the stern hymn of eternity's ocean ; Hear ! and in silence thy future await. So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses. Evil and thankless the desert it blesses, Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses, Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing. What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses? What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes ? Sweetest ismusicwithminor-keyed closes, Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling. Almost the day of thy giving is over ; Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover. Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover. What shall thy longing avail in the grave ? Give as the heart gives whose fetters are breaking. Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking. Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slak- ino" Thou shalt know God and the gift that he gave. AME C. (LYNCH) BOTTA. [U. S. A.] LOVE. Go forth in life, friend! not seeking love, A mendicant that with imploring eye And outstretched hand asks of the passers-by The alms his strong necessities may move : For such poor love, to pity near allied. Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait, A suppliant whose prayer may be denied Like a spurned beggar's at a palace-gate : But thy heart's afliuence lavish uncon- trolled, — • The largess of thy love give full and free. As monaichs in their progress scatter gold; And be thy heart like the exhaustless sea, That must its wealth of cloud and dew bestow. Though tributary streams or ebb or flow. 260 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. LTDIA H. SIGOURNEY. [U. S. A., 1791-1865.] INDIAN NAMES. Ye say they all have passed away, That noble race and brave ; That their light canoes have vanished From off the crested wave ; That mid the forests where they roamed There rings no hunter's shout ; But their name is on your waters, Ye may not wash it out. 'T is where Ontario's biUow Like ocean's surge is curled, Where strong Niagara's thunders wake The echo of the world. Where red Missouri bringeth Rich tribute from the West, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps. On green Virginia's breast. Ye say their cone-like cabins, That clustered o'er the vale. Have iled away like withered leaves Before the autumn gale ; But their memory liveth on your hills. Their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore. Old Massachusetts wears it Upon her lordly crown. And broad Ohio bears it Amid his young renown ; Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves ; And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse Through all her ancient caves. Wachusett hides its lingering voice Within his rocky heart. And Alleghany graves its tone Throughout liis lofty chart ; !Monailnock on his forehead hoar Both seal the sacred trust ; Your mountains build their monument. Though ye destroy their dust. Ye call these red-browed brethren The insects of an hour, Cru.shed like the noteless worm amid The regions of their power ; Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, Ye break of faith the seal, But can ye from the court of Heaven Exclude their last appeal ? Ye see their unresisting tribes. With toilsome step and slow. On through the trackless desert pass, A caravan of woe ; Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim ? Think ye the soul's blood may not cry From that far land to him ? WILLIAM H. FUENESS. [U. S. A.] ETERNAL LIGHT. Slowly, by God's hand unfurled, Down around the weary world, Falls the darkness ; 0, how still Is the working of his will ! Mighty Spirit, ever nigh. Work in me as silently ; Veil the day's distracting sights, Show me heaven's eternal lights. Living stars to view be brought In the boundless realms of thought ; High and infinite desires, Flaming like those upper fires. Holy Truth, Eternal Right, Let them break upon my sight ; Let them shine serene and still. And with light my being fiU. JAMES T. FIELDS. [U. S. A.] WORDSWORTH. The grass hung wet on Rydal banks. The golden day with pearls adorning, When side by side with him we walked To meet midway the summer morning. The west-wind took a softer breath, The sun himself seemed brighter shin- HENRY HOWAED BROWN ELL. 261 As through the porch the minstrel stepped, — His eye sweet Nature's look enshrining. He passed along the dewy sward, The bluebird sang aloft "good mor- row! He plucked a bud, the flower awoke, And smiled without one pang of sor- row. He spoke of all that graced the scene, In tones that fell like music round us; "We fult the charm descend, nor strove To break the rapturous spell that bound us. We listened with mysterious awe, Strange feelings mingling with our pleasure ; We heard that day prophetic words. High thoughts the heart must always treasure. Great Nature's Priest ! thy calm career With that sweet morn on earth has ended : But who shall say thy mission died When, winged for Heaven, thy soul ascended ! HENEY HOWARD BROWNELL. [U. S. A., 1820- 1872.] THE BinilAL OF THE DANE. Elite gulf all around us, Blue sky overhead, — Muster all on the quarter, We must bury the dead ! It is but a Danish sailor. Rugged of front and form ; A common son of the forecastle. Grizzled with sun and storm. His name and the strand he hailed from We know,— and there 's nothingmore ! But perhaps his mother is waiting In the lonely island of Foh/. Still, as he lay there dying, Reason drifting awreck, "'Tis my watch," he would mutter, "I must go upon deck !" Ay, on deck, — by the foremast! — But watch and lookout are done ; The Union -Jack laid o'er him. How quiet he lies in the sun ! Slow the ponderous engine, Stay the hurrying shaft ! Let the roll of the ocean Cradle our giant craft, — Gather around the grating. Carry your messmate aft ! Stand in order, and listen To the holiest page of prayer ! Let every foot be quiet. Every head be bare, — The soft trade-wind is lifting A hundred locks of hair. Our captain reads the service (A little spray on his cheeks), The grand old words of burial. And the trust a true heart seeks, — "We therefore commit his body To the deep, " — and, as he speaks, Launched from the weather-railing, Swift as the eye can mark. The ghastly, shotted hammock Plunges, away from the shark, Down, a thousand fathoms, Down into the dark ! A thousand summers and winters The stormy Gulf shall roll High o'er his canvas cofiBn, — But, silence to doubt and dole ! There's a quiet harbor somewhere For the poor a-weary soul. Free the fettered engine. Speed the tireless shaft ! Loose to'gallant and topsail. The breeze is fair abaft ! Blue sea all aroimd us, Blue sky bright o'erhead, — Every man to his duty ! We have buried our dead. 262 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. BAYARD TAYLOR. [U. S. A.] THE MOUNTAINS. (From "The Masque of the Gods.") Howk'er the wheels of Time go round, We cannot wholly be discrowned. We bind, in form, and hue, and height. The Finite to the Infinite, And, lifted on our shoulders bare, The races breathe an ampler air. The arms that clasped, the lips that kissed, Have vanished from the morning mist ; The daintyshapes that flashed and passed In spray the plunging torrent cast, Or danced through woven gleam and shade. The vapors and the sunbeams braid. Grow thin and pale : each holy haunt Of gods or spirits ministrant Hath something lost of ancient awe ; Yet from the stooping heavens we draw A beauty, mystery, and might, Time cannot change nor worship slight. The gold of dawn and sunset sheds Unearthly glory on our heads ; The secret of the skies we keep ; And whispers, round each lonely steep. Allure and promise, yet withhold. What bard and prophet never told. While Man's slow ages come and go, Our dateless chronicles of snow Their changeless old inscription show, And men therein forever see The unread speech of Deity. AN ORIENTAL IDYL. A SILVER javelin which the hills Have hurled upon the plain below, The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills. Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. I hear the never-ending laugh Of jostling waves that come and go, And suck the bubbling pipe, and quart" The sherbet cooled in mountain snow. The flocks of sunshine gleam like stars Beneath the cano])y of shade ; And in the distant, dim bazaars, I scarcely hear the hum of trade. No evil fear, no dream forlorn. Darkens my heaven of perfect blue ; My blood is tempered to the morn, — My very heart is steeped in dew. What Evil is I cannot tell ; But half I guess what Joy may be; And, as a pearl within its shell. The happy spirit sleeps in me. I feel no more the pulse's strife, — The tides of Passion's ruddy sea, — But live the sweet, unconscious life That breathes from yonder jasmine-trea Upon the glittering pageantries Of gay Damascus streets I look As idly as a babe that sees The painted pictures of a book. Forgotten now are name and race ; The Past is blotted from my brain ; For Memory sleeps, and will not trace The weary pages o'er again. I only know the morning shines, And sweet the dewy morning air. But does it play with tendrilled vines? Or does it lightly lift my hair? Deep-sunken in the charmed repose, This ignorance is bliss extreme ; And whether 1 be Man, or Rose, 0, pluck me not from out my dream ! THE VOYAGERS. No longer spread the sail ! No longer strain the oar ! For never yet has blown the gale Will bring us nearer shore. The swaying keel slides on. The helm obeys the hand ; Fast we have sailed from dawn to dawn, Yet never reach the land. Each morn we see its peaks, Made beautiful with snow ; Each eve its vales and winding creeks, That sleep in mist below. At noon we mark the gleam Of temples tall and fair ; At midnight watcli its bonfires stream In the auroral air. " The secret of the skies we keep." Page 262. SARA J. LIPPINCOTT (GSACE GREENWOOD). 263 And still the keel is swift, And still the wind is free, And still as far its mountains lift Beyond the enchanted sea. Yet vain is all return, Though false the goal before ; The gale is ever dead astern, The current sets to shore. shipmates, leave the ropes ; And what though no one steers, We sail no faster for our hopes, No slower for our fears. THE SONG OF THE CAMP. "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff. Lay, grim and threatening, under ; And the tawny mound of the MalakofF No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said : " We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon : Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame ; Forgot was Britain's glory : Each heart recalled a different name. But all sang "Annie Laurie." "Voice after voice caught up the song. Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder. Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset's embers, Wliile the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell. And bellowing of the mortars ! And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory ; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of 'Annie Laurie. Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing ; The bravest are the tenderest, — The loving are the daring. SAEA J. LIPPINCOTT (GEACE GEEENWOOD). [U. S. A.] THE POET OF TO-DAY. More than the soul of ancient song is given To thee, poet of to-day ! — thy dower Comes, from a higher than Olympian heaven. In holier beauty and in larger power. To thee Humanity, her woes revealing. Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs rehearse ; Would make thy song the voice of her appealing. And sob her mighty sorrows through thy verse. While in her season of great darkness sharing, Hail thou the coming of each promise- star Which climbs the midnight of her long despairing. And watch for morning o'er the hills afar. Wherever Truth her holy warfare wages. Or Freedom pines, there let thy voice be heard ; Sound like a prophet-warning down the ages The human utterance of God's living word. 264 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. But bring not thou the battle's stormy chorus, The tramp of armies, and the roar of fight, Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o'er us, Kor blaze of pillage, reddening up the night. 0, let thy lays prolong that angel-sing- Girdling with music the Redeemer's star. And breathe God's peace, to earth 'glad tidings ' bringing From the near heavens, of old so dim and far ! -♦ — ALEXANDER SMITH. [1830-1867.] LADY BARBARA. Earl Gawain wooed the Lady Barbara, High-thoughted Barbara, so white and cold ! 'Mong broad-branched beeches in the summer shaw, In soft green light his passion he has told. "When rain-beat winds did shriek across the wold, The Earl to take her fair reluctant ear Framed passion-trembled ditties mani- fold ; Silent she sat his amorous breath to hear. With calm and steady eyes; her heart was otherwhere. He sighed for her through all the sum- mer weeks ; Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughs Bore glorious apples with smooth, shin- ing cheeks, Earl Gawain came and whispered, "Lady, rouse ! Thou art no vestal held in holy vows ; Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath." Her father's blood leapt up unto her brows, — He who, exulting on the trumpet's breath, Came charging like a star across th» lists of death, Trembled, and passed before her high rebuke : And then she sat, her hands clasped round her knee : Like one far-thoughted was the lady'g look, For in a morning cold as misery She saw a lone ship sailing on the sea ; Before the north 'twas driven like a cloud. High on the poop a man sat mournfully : The wind was whistling through mast and shroud. And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud : — "Didst look last night upon my native vales, Thou Sun ! that from the drenching sea hast clomb ? Ye demon winds ! that glut my gaping sails. Upon the salt sea must I ever roam. Wander forever on the barren foam ? 0, happy are ye, resting mariners ! Death, that thou wouldst come and and take me home ! A hand unseen this vessel onward steers, And onward I must float through slow, moon-measured years. " Ye winds ! when like a curse ye drove us on, Frothing the waters, and along our way, Nor cape nor headland through red mornings shone. One wept aloud, one shuddered down to pray, One howled ' Upon the deep we are astray.' On our wild hearts his words fell like a blight : In one short hour my hair was stricken gray, For all the crew sank ghastly in my sight As we went driving on through the cold starry night. "Madness fell on me in my loneliness, The sea foamed curses, and the reeling sky MATTHEW AKNOLD. 265 Became a dreadful face which did oppress Me with the weight of its unwinking eye. It fled, when I burst forth into a cry, — A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep; I hid, but in all corners they did pry. And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap ; They mouthed on me in dream, and tore me from sweet sleep. "Strange constellations burned above my head, Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew, Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear sea fled. As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through , Angering to foam the smooth and sleep- ing blue. " The lady sighed, " Far, far upon the sea, My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you ! The wind blows shrill between my love and me." Fond heart ! the space between was but the apple-tree. There was a cry of joy, with seeking hands She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest; Like washing water on the figured sands. His being came and went in sweet un- rest. As from the mighty shelter of his breast The Lady Barbara her head uprears With a wan smile, "Methinks I 'm but half blest : Now when I 've found thee, after weary years, I cannot see thee, love ! so blind I am with tears." MATTHEW AENOLD. THE TERRACE AT BERNE. Ten years ! — and to my waking eye Once more the roofs of Berne appear; The rocky banks, the terrace high, The stream, — and do 1 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, 'Tis thou ? Or hast thou long since wandered back. Daughter of France ! to France, thy home ; And flitted down 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 m}'^ 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. Passed through the crucible of time ; With spirit vanished, beauty waned. And hardly yet a glance, a tone, A gesture, — anything, — retained Of all that was 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 nrt meant to give ? Like driftwood spars which meet and pass Upon the boundless ocean -plain. 266 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. So on the sea of life, alas ! Man uears 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. TJRANIA. She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, "While we for hopeless passion die ; Yet she could love, those eyes declare, Were but men nobler than they are. Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turned upon the sons of men ; But light the serious visage grew, — She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. Our petty souls, our strutting wits, Our labored puny passion-fits, — Ah, may she scorn them still, till we Scorn them as bitterly as she ! Yet 0, that Fate would let her see One of some worthier race than we, — One for whose sake she once might prove How deeply she who scorns can love. His eyes be like the starry lights, — His voice like sounds of summer nights, — III all his lovely mien let pierce The magic of the universe ! And sh& to him will reach her hand. And gazing in his eyes will stand. And know her friend, and wee]) for glee ! And cry, Long, long I've looked for thee ! Then will she weep, — with smiles, till then. Coldly she mocks the sons of men. Till then her lovely eyes maintain Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. THE LAST WORD. Creep into thy narrow bed. Creep, and let no more be said ! Vain thy onset ! all stands fast ; Thou thyself must break at last. Let the long contention cease ! Geese are swans, and swans are geese. Let them have it how they will ! Thou art tired ; best be still ! They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee. Better men fared thus before thee ; Fired their ringing shot and passed, Hotly charged, — and broke at last. Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall. Find thy body by the wall. EGBERT LORD LYTTON. THE ARTIST. Artist, range not over-wide : Lest what thou seek be haply hid In bramble-blossoms at thy side, Or shut within the daisy-lid. God's glory lies not out of reach. The moss we crush beneath our feet, The pebbles on the wet sea-beach. Have solemn meanings strange and sweet. The peasant at his cottage door May teach thee more than Plato knew ; See that thou scorn him not: adore God in him, and thy nature too. Know well thy friends. The woodbine's breath, The woolly tendril on the vine, Are more to thee than Cato's death, Or Cicero's words to Catiline. The wild rose is thy next in blood : Share Nature with her, and thy heart. The kingcups are thy sisterhood : Consult them duly on thine art. The Genius on thy daily ways Shall meet, and take thee by the hand: But serve him not as who obej's : He is thy slave if thou command : And blossoms on the blackberry-stalks He shall enchant as thou dost pass, ROBERT LORD LYTTON. 267 Till they drop gold upon thy walks, And diamonds in the dewy grass. Be quiet. Take things as they come : Each hour will draw out some surprise. With blessing let the days go home: Thou shalt have thanks from evening skies. Lean not on one mind constantly : Lest, where one stood before, two fall. Something God hath to say to thee Worth hearing from the lips of all. All things are thine estate : yet must Thou first display the title-deeds, And sue the world. Be strong : and trust High instincts more than all the creeds. The world of Thought is packed so tight, If thou stand up another tumbles : Heed it not, though thou have to fight With giants ; whoso follows stumbles. Assert thyself : and by and by The world will come and lean on thee. But seek not praise of men : thereby Shall false shows cheat thee. Boldly be. Each man was worthy at the first : God spake to us ere we were born : But we forget. The land is curst : We plant the brier, reap the thorn. Eemember, every man He made Is different : has some deed to do, Some work to work. Be undismayed, Though thine be humble : do it too. Not all the wisdom of the schools Is wise for thee. Hast thou to speak ? No man hath spoken for thee. Rules Are well : but never fear to break The scaffolding of other souls : It was not meant for thee to mount ; Though it may serve thee. Separate wholes Make up the sum of God's account. Earth's number-scale is near us set ; The total God alone can see ; But each some fraction : shall I fret If you see Four where I saw Three ? A unit's loss the sum would mar ; Therefore if I have One or Two, I am as rich as others are, And help the whole as well as you. This wild white rosebud in my hand Hath meanings meant for me alone, Which no one else can understand : To you it breathes with altered tone : We go to Nature, not as lords. But servants ; and she treats us thus : Speaks to us with indifferent words. And from a distance looks at us. Let us go boldly, as we ought. And say to her, " We are a part Of that supreme original Thought Which did conceive thee what thou art* " We will not have this lofty look : Thou shalt fall down, and recognize Thy kings : we will write in thy book ; Command thee with our eyes." She hath usurpt us. She should be Our model ; but we have become Her miniature-painters. So when we Entreat her softly, she is dumb. Nor serve the subject overmuch : Nor rhythm and rhyme, nor color and form. Know Truth hath all great graces, such As shall with these thy work inform. We ransack History's tattered page : We prate of epoch and costume : Call this, and that, the Classic Age : Choose tunic now, now helm and plume : But while we halt in weak debate 'Twixtthat and this appropriate theme, The offended wild-flowers stare and wait. The bird hoots at us from the stream. Next, as to laws. Wliat 's beautiful We recognize in form and face : And judge it thus, and thus, by rule, As perfect law brings perfect grace : If through the effect we drag the caubsy Dissect, divide, anatomize. Results are lost in loathsome laws, And all the ancient beauty dies : Till we, instead of bloom and light, See only sinews, nerves, and veins; Nor will the effect and cause unite, For one is lost if oae remains : 268 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. But from some higher point behold This dense, perj)lexing complication ; And laws involved in laws unfold, And orb into thy contemplation. God, when he made the seed, conceived The flower; and all the work of sun And rain, before the stem was leaved. In that prenatal thought was done ; The girl who twines in her soft hair The orange-flower, with love's devotion. By the mere act of being fair Sets countless laws of life in motion ; So thou, by one thought thoroughly great, Shalt, without heed thereto, fulfil All laws of art. Create ! create ! Dissection leaves the dead dead still. Burn catalogues. "Write thine own books. What need to pore o'er Greece and Rome? When M'hoso through his own life looks Shall find that he is fully come, Through Greece and Rome, and Middle Age: Hath been by turns, ere yet full-grown, Soldier, and Senator, and Sage, And worn the tunic and the gown. Cut the world thoroughly to the heart. The sweet and bitter kernel crack. Have no half-dealings with thine art. AU heaven is waiting : tui-n not back. If all the world for thee and me One solitary shape possessed, What shall I say ? a single tree. Whereby to type and hint the rest, And I could imitate the bark And foliage, both in form and hue, Or silvery-gray, or brown and dark. Or rough with moss, or wet with dew, But thou, with one form in thine eye, Couldst penetrate all forms : possess The soul of form : and multiply A million like it, more or less, — Which were the Arti-st of us twain? The moral 's clear to understand. Where'er we walk, by hill or plain, Is there no mystery on the land ? The osiered, oozy water, rufBei By fluttering swifts that dip and wink: Deep cattle in the cowslips muflled, Or lazy-eyed upon the briuk : Or, when — a scroll of stars — the night (By God withdrawn) is rolled away, The silent sun, on some cold height, Breaking the great seal of the day : Are these not words more rich than ours ? 0, seize their import if you can ! Our souls are parched like withering flowers, Our knowledge ends where it began. While yet about us fall God's dews. And whisper secrets o'er the earth Worth all the weary years we lose In learning legends of our birth, Arise, Artist ! and restore Their music to the moaning winds. Love's broken pearls to life's bare shore, And freshness to our fainting minds. ANNE WHITNEY. [v. S. A.] BERTHA. The leaves have fallen from the trees ; For under them grew the buds of May, And such is Nature's constant way ; Let us accept the work of her hand. Still, if the winds sweep bare the height. Something is left for hearts' delight. Let us but know and understand. Bertha looked down from the rocky cliff. Whose feet the tender foam-wreaths kist, Toward the outer circle of mist That hedged the old and wonderful sea. Below her, as if with endless hope, Up the beach's marbled slope. The waters clomb eternally. Many a long-bleached sail in sight Hovered awhile, then flitted away, Beyond the opening of the bay ; Fair Bertha entered her cottage late ; "He does not come, "she said, anil smiled, J. H. PERKINS. 269 "But the shore is dark, and the sea is wild, And, dearest father, we stillmustwait." She hastened to her inner room, And silently mused there alone ; " Three springs have come, three winters gone. And still we wait from hour to hour; But earth waits long for her harvest-time, And tlie aloe, in the northern clime. Waits an hundred years for its flower. "Under the apple-boughs as I sit In May-time, when the robin's song Thrills the odorous winds along, The innermost heaven seems to ope ; I think, though the old joys pass from sight. Still something is left for hearts' delight. For life is endless, and so is hope. "If the aloe waits an hundred years, And God's times are so long indeed For simple things, as flower and weed, That gather only the light and gloom. For what great treasures of joy and dole. Of life and death, perchance, must the soul. Ere it flower in heavenly peace, find room ? "I see that all things wait in trust, As feeling afar God's distant ends. And unto every creature he sends That measure of good that fills its scope ; The marmot enters the stiffening mould. And the worm its dark sepulchral fold. To hide there with its beautiful hope." Still Bertha waited on the cliff, To catch the gleam of a coming sail, And the distant whisper of the gale, Winging the unforgotten home ; And hope at her yearning heart would knock. When a sunbeam on a far-off rock Married a wreath of wandering foam. Was it well? you ask — (nay, was it ill?) — Who sat last year by the old man's hearth; The sun liad passed below the earth. And the first star locked its western gate. When Bertha entered hisdarkeninghome. And smiling said, "He does not come. But, dearest father, we still can wait ! " J. H. PEKKINS. [U. S. A.] THE TJPRIGHT S0T7L. Late to our town there came a maid, A noble woman, true and pure. Who, in the little while she stayed. Wrought works that shall endure. It was not anything she said, — i It was not anything she did : It was the movement of her head, The Hfting of her lid. Her little motions when she spoke. The presence of an upright soul. The living light that from her broke. It was the perfect whole : We saw it in her floating hair. We saw it in her laughing eye ; For every look and feature there Wrought works that cannot die. For she to many spirits gave A reverence for the true, the pure, The perfect, that has power to save. And make the doubting sure. She passed, she went to other lands, She knew not of the work she did ; The wondrous product of her hands From her is ever hid. Forever, did I say ? 0, no ! The time must come when she will look Upon her pilgrimage below. And find it in God's book. That, as she trod her path aright. Power from her very garments stole ; For such is the mysterious might God grants the upright soul. A deed, a word, our careless rest, A simple thought, a common feeling. If He be present in the breast. Has from him powers of healing. Go, maiden, with thy golden tresses. Thine azure eye and changing cheek, Go, and forget the one who blesses Thy presence through the week. 270 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, Forget him : he will not forget, But strive to live and testify Thy goodness, when earth's sun has set, And Time itself rolled by. GEORGE MACDONALD. O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL! LASSIE ayont the hill ! Come ower the tap o' the hill, Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, For 1 want ye sair the nicht, 1 'in needin' ye sair the nicht, For I 'm tired and sick o' mysel', A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht, — lassie, come ower the hill ! Gin a body could be a thocht o' grace, And no a sel' ava ! 1 'm sick o' my held, and my ban's and my face. An' my thochts and mysel' and a' ; 1 'm sick o' the warl' and a' ; The licht gangs by wi' a hiss ; For thro' my een the sunbeams fa', But my weary heart they miss. lassie ayont the hill ! Come ower the tap o' the hill. Or roun' the neuk o' the hiU ; Bidena ayont the hill ! For gin ance I saw yer bonnie heid. And the sunlicht o' yer hair, The ghaist o' mysel' wad fa' doun deid ; 1 wad be mysel' nae mair. 1 wad be mysel' nae mair. Filled o' the sole remeid ; Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer hair. Killed by yer body and heid. lassie ayont the hill, etc. But gin ye lo'ed me ever sae sma*. For the sake o' my bonnie dame. Whan I cam' to life, as she gaed awa', 1 could bide my body and name, I micht bide by mysel' tlie weary same; Aye setting up its heid Till 1 turn frae the claes that cover my frame. As pin tliey war roun' the deid. lassie ayont the liill, etc. But gin ye lo'ed me as I lo'e you, I wad ring my ain deid knell ; Mysel' wad vanish, shot through through and Wi' the shine o' yer sunny sel', By the licht aneath yer broo, I wad dee to mysel', and ring my bell, And only live in you. lassie ayont the hill ! Come ower the tap o' the hill. Or roun' the neuk o' the hill. For I want ye sair the nicht, 1 'm needin' ye sair the nicht. For I 'm tired and sick o' mysel*, A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht, — lassie, come ower the hill ! HYMN FOR THE MOTHER. My child is l3'ing on my knees ; The signs of heaven she reads ; My face is all the heaven she sees. Is all the heaven she needs. And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss, If heaven is in my face, — Behind it is all tenderness And truthfulness and grace. I mean her well so earnestly. Unchanged in changing mood ; My life would go without a sigh To bring her something good. I also am a child, and I Am ignorant and weak ; I gaze upon the starry sky. And then I must not speak ; For all behind the starry sky. Behind the world so broad. Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie The Infinite of God. Ay, true to her, though troubled sore, I cannot choose but be : Thou who art peace forevermore Art very true to me. If I am low and sinful, bring More love where need is rife ; Thou knowest what an awful thing It is to be a life. ELIZA SPROAT TURNER. 271 Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap My waywardness about, In doubting safety on the lap Of Love that knows no doubt ? Lo ! Lord, I sit in thy wide space, My child upon my knee ; She looketh up into my face, And I look up to thee. -* — ELIZA SPROAT TURNER. [U. S. A.] AN ANGEL'S VISIT. Shk stood in the harvest-field at noon, And sang aloud for the joy of living. She said : "'T is the sun that I drink like wine. To my heart this gladness giving." Kank upon rank the wheat fell slain ; The reapers ceased. "'Tis sure the splendor Of sloping sunset light that thrills My breast with a bliss so tender." Up and up the blazing hills Climbed the night from the misty meadows. "Can they be stars, or living eyes That bend on me from the shadows?" "Greeting ! " "And may you speak, in- deed?" All in the dark her sense grew clearer ; She 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 glow-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 touch 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 of 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 : "When He made us one in a babe. Was 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, I know Her foot will be there before me. 272 SONGS OF THKEE CENTUKIES. "Howso parted, we must be nigh, Held by old j'ears 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 Eight skies, through clouds so bright and tender. Show me true joy." The angel's smile Lit all 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." CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. AFTER DEATH. The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes ; rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay. Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept. And could not hear him ; but I heard him say, "Poor child! poor child!" and as he turned away. Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Orniffle the smooth pillows formy head. He did not love me living : but once dead He pitied me ; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm, though I am cold. WEARY. I WOTTLD have gone ; God bade me stay : I would have worked; God bade me rest. He broke my will from day to day ; He read my yearnings unexpressed, And said me nay. Now I would stay ; God bids me go : Now I would rest ; God bids me work. He breaks my heart tossed to and fro ; My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk And vex it so ! I go. Lord, where thou sendest me ; Day after day I plod and moil ; But, Christ my Lord, M'hen will it be That I may let alone my toil And rest with thee ? DOEA GREENWELL. THE SUNFLOWER. Till the slow daylight pale, A willing slave, fast bound to one above, I wait ; he seems to speed, and change, and fail ; I know he will not move. I lift my golden orb To his, unsmitten when the roses die, And in my broad and burning disk ab- sorb The splendors of his eye. His eye is like a clear Keen flame that searches through me ; I must droop Upon my stalk, I cannot reach his sphere ; To mine he cannot stoop. I win not my desire. And yet I fail not of my guerdon ; lo ! A thousand flickering darts and tongues of fire Around me spread and glow ; All rayed and crowned, I miss Fo queenly state until the summer wane. The hours flit by; none knoweth of my bliss, And none has guessed my pain ; I follow one above, I track the shadow of his steps, I grow Most like to him I love Of all that shines below. ELIZABETU H. WHITTIEK. 273 VESPERS. When I have said my quiet say, When I have sung my little song, How sweetly, sweetly dies the day The valley and the hill along ; How sweet the summons, "Come away," That calls me from the busy throng ! I thought beside the water's flow Awhile to lie beneath the leaves, I thought in Autumn's harvest glow To rest my head upon the sheaves ; But, lo ! methinks the day was brief And cloudy ; flower, nor fruit, nor leaf I bring, and yet accepted, free, And blest, my Lord, 1 come to thee. What matter now for promise lost, Through blast of spring or summer rains ! What matter now for purpose crost, For broken hopes and wasted pains ; What if the olive little yields, What if the grape be blighted ? Thine The corn upon a thousand fields, Upon a thousand hills the vine. Tliou lovest still the poor ; 0, blest In poverty beloved to be ! Less lowly is my choice confessed, I love tlie rich in loving Thee ! My spirit bare before thee stands, I bring no gift, I ask no sign, I come to thee with empty hands, The surer to be filled from thine ! ELIZABETH H. WHITTIER. [U. S. A., 1816-1848.] CHARITY. The pilgrim and stranger, who, through the day. Holds over the desert his trackless way. Where the terrible sands no shade have known, No sound of life save his camel's moan. Hears, at last, through the mercy of Allah to all, From his tent-door, at evening, the Bed- ouin's call : "Whoever thou art, whose need isgreat. In the name of God, the Compassionate And Merciful One, for thee I wait!" For gifts, in his name, of food and rest, The tents of Islam of God are blest. Thou, who hast faith in the Christ above. Shall the Koran teach thee the Law of Love? Christian ! — open thy heart and door, — Cry, east and west, to the wandering poor, — ' ' Whoever thou art, whose need is great. In the name of Christ, the Compas- sionate And Merciful One, for thee I wait!" THE MEETING WATERS. Close beside the meeting waters, Long I stood as in a dream, Watching how the little river Fell into the broader stream. Calm and still the mingled current Glided to the waiting sea ; On its breast serenely pictured Floating cloud and skirting tree. And I thought, "0 human .spirit! Strong and deep and pure and blest. Let the stream of my existence Blend with thine, and find its rest ! " I could die as dies the river, Inthat current deej) and wide; I would live as live its waters, Flashing from a stronger tide ! liNA D. COOLBRITH. WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME. When the grass shall cover me. Head to foot where I am lying ; When not any wind that blows. Summer bloom or winter snows. Shall awake me to your sighing : Close above me as you pass. You will say, "How kind she was," You will say, "How true she was," When the grass grows over me. When the grass shall cover me, Holden close to earth's warm bosom; While I laugh, or weep, or sing, Nevermore for anything 274 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. You will find in blade and blossom, Sweet small voices, odorous. Tender pleaders of my cause. That shall speak me as I was, — When the grass grows over me. When the grass shall cover me ! Ah, beloved in my sorrow, Very patient can I wait ; Knowing that or soon or late, There will dawn a clearer morrow : When your heart will moan, "Alas, Now I know how true she was ; Now I know how dear she was," — When the grass grows over me. UNKNOWN. AGAIN. 0, SWEET and fair ! 0, rich and rare ! That day so long ago. The autumn sunshine everywhere. The heather all aglow. The ferns were clad in cloth of gold, The waves sang on the shore. Such suns will shine, such waves will sing Forever evermore. 0, fit and few ! 0, tried and true ! The friends who met that day. Each one the other's spirit knew, And so in earnest play The hours flew past, until at last The twilight kissed the shore. We said, "Such days shall come again Forever evermore." One day again, no cloud of pain A shadow o'er us cast ; And yet we strove in vain, in vain. To conjure up the past ; Like, but unlike, — the sun that shone, The waves that beat the shore. The words we said, the songs we sung, Like, — unlike, — evermore. For ghosts unseen crept in between, And, when our songs flowed free, Sang discords in an undertone. And marred our harmony. "Theyiast is ours, not yours," they said: "The waves that beat the shore, Though like the same, are not the same, 0, never, never more ! " LUCY LARCOM. [U. S. A.] A STRIP OF BLUE. I DO not own an inch of land, But all I see is mine, — The orchard and the mowing-fields, The lawns and gardens fine. The winds my tax-collectors are. They bring me tithes divine, — Wild scents and subtle essences, A tribute rare and free : And more magnificent than all, My window keeps for me A glimpse of blue immensity, — A little strip of sea. Richer am I than he who owns Great fleets and argosies ; I have a share in every ship Won by the inland breeze To loiter on yon airy road Above the apple-trees. I freight them with my untold dreams. Each bears my own picked crew ; And nobler cargoes wait for them Than ever India knew, — My ships that sail into the East Across that outlet blue. Sometimes they seem like living shapes, -^ The people of the sky, — Guests in white raiment coming down From Heaven, which is close by : I call them by familiar names. As one by one draws nigh. So white, so light, so spirit -like, From violet mists they bloom ! The aching wastes of the unknown Are half reclaimed from gloom. Since on life's hospitable sea All souls find sailing-room. The ocean grows a weariness With nothing else in sight ; Its east and west, its north and south, Spread out from morn to night : We miss the warm, caressing shore, Its brooding shade and light. A part is greater than the whole ; By hints are mysteries told ; The fringes of eternity, — God's sweeping garment-fold, In that bright shred of glimmering sea, I reach out for, and hold. LUCY LARCOM. 275 The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, Float in upon the mist ; The waves are broken precious stones, — Sapphire and amethyst, Waslied from celestial basement walls By suns unsetting kissed. Out through the utmost gates of space. Past where the gay stars drift, To the widening Infinite, my soul Glides on, a vessel swift ; Yet loses not her anchorage In yonder azure rift. Here sit I, as a little child : The threshold of God's door Is that clear band of chrysoprase ; Now the vast temple floor, The blinding glory of the dome I bow my head before : The universe, God, is home, In height or depth, to me ; Yet here upon thy footstool green Content am I to be ; Glad, when is opened to my need Some sea-like glimpse of thee. BY THE FIRESIDE. What is it fades and flickers in the fire. Matters and sighs, and yields reluctant breath. As if in the red embers some desire. Some word prophetic burned, defying death? Lords of the forests, stalwart oak and pine. Lie down for us in flames of martyr- dom : A human, household warmth, their death- fires shine ; Yet fragrant with high memories they come; Bringing the mountain-winds that in their boughs Sang of the torrent, and the plashy edge Of storm-swept lakes; and echoes that arouse The eagles from a splintered eyrie- 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 ! What rare Octobers drop with every coall Within these costly ashes, dumb and dark. Are hid spring's budding hope, and summer's soul. Pictures far lovelier smoulder in the fire. Visions of friends who walked among these trees. Whose presence, like the free air, could inspire A winged life and boundless sym- pathies. Eyes with a glow like that in the brown beech. When sunset through its autumn beauty shines ; Or the blue gentian's look of silent speech, To heaven appealing as earth's light declines ; Voices and steps forever fled away From the familiar glens, the haunted hills, — Most pitiful and strange it is to stay Without you in a world your lost love fills. 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. And tints and perfumes of the wood- land sod ? Dear for your sake the fireside where we sit Watching these sad, bright pictures come and go That waning years are with your memory lit, Is the one lonely comfort that we know. Is it all memory ? Lo, these forest-boughs Burst on the hearth into fresh leaf and bloom ; 276 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. "Waft a vagiie, far-off sweetness through the house. And give close walls the hillside's breathing-room. A second life, more spiritual than the first, They find, a life won only out of death. — sainted souls, within you still is nursed For us a flame not fed by mortal breath ! Unseen, ye bring to us, who love and wait. Wafts from the heavenly hills, immor- tal air ; No flood can quench your hearts' warmth, or abate ; Ye are our gladness, here and every- where. CHARLOTTE P. HA WES. [U. S. A.] DOWN THE SLOPE. Who knoweth life but questions death With guessings of that dimmer day When one is slowly lift from clay On winged breath ? But man advances: far and high His forces fly with lightning stroke : Till, worn with years, his vigor broke, He turns to die : When lo ! he finds it still a life ; New ministration and new trust; Along a happy way that 's just Aside from strife. And all day following friendly feet That lead on bravely to the light, As one walks downward, strong and bright, The slanted street, — And feels earth's benedictions wide, Alike on forest, lake, or town ; Nor marks the slope,— he going down The sunniest side. 0, bounteous natures everywhere ! Perchance at least one need not fear A change to cross from your love here To God's love there. UNKNOWN. THE TWO WORLDS. Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain. Whose magic joys we shall not see again: Bright haze of morning veils its glim- mering shore. Ah, truly breathed we there Intoxicating air, — Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of Nevermore. The lover there drank her delicious breath MTiose love has yielded since to change or death ; The mother kissed her child whose daj^s are o'er. Alas ! too soon have fled The irreclaimable dead : We see them — visions strange — amid the Nevermore. The merry song some maiden used to sing, The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling To temples long clay-cold : to the very core They strike our weary hearts As some vexed memory starts From that long faded land,— the realm of Nevermore. It is perpetual summer there. But here Sadly we may remember rivers clear, And harebells quivering on the mead- ow-floor. For brighter bells and bluer, For tenderer hearts and truer. People that happy land — the realm of Nevermore. Upon the frontier of tbis shadowy land We, pilgrims of eternal sorrow, stand : What realm lies forward, with its hap- pier store Of forests green and deep, Of valleys hushed in sleep. And lakes most peaceful? 'T is the land of Evermore. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. — NANCY A. W. PRIEST. 277 Yery far off its marble cities seem, — Very far off — beyond our sensual dream — Its woods, unruffled by the wild winds' roar: Yet does the turbulent surge Howl on its very verge. One moment, — and we breathe within the Evermore. They whom we loved and lost so long ago, Dwell in those cities, far from mortal woe. Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carollings soar. Eternal peace have they : God wipes their tears away : They drink that river of life which flows for Evermore. Thither we hasten through these regions dim, But lo ! the wide wings of the seraphim Shine in the sunset ! On that joyous shore Our lightened hearts shall know The life of long ago : The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for Evermore. ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. [U. S. A.] SUNLIGHT AND STARLIGHT. God sets some souls in shade, alone ; They have no daylight of their own : Only in lives of happier ones They see the shine of distant suns. God knows. Contenttheewiththynight, Thy greater heaven hath grander light. To-day is close ; the hours are small ; Thou sit'st afar, and hast them all. Lose the less joy that doth but blind ; Reach forth a larger bliss to find. To-day is brief: the inclusive spheres Kain raptures of a thousand years. 'I WILL ABIDE IN THINE HOUSE." Among so many, can He care ? Can special love be everywhere ? A myriad homes, — a m jTiad ways, — And God's eye over every place. Over ; but in ? The world is full ; A grand omnipotence must rule ; But is there life that doth abide With mine own living, side by side ? So many, and so wide abroad : Can any heart have all of God ? From the great spaces, vague and dim. May one small household gather Him? I asked : my soul bethought of this : — In just that very place of his Where He hath put and keepeth you, God hath no other thing to do ! NANCY A. W. rPJEST. [U. S. A.] OVER THE RIVER. Over the river they beckon to me, — Loved ones who 've crossed to the far- ther side ; The gleam of their snowy robes I see. But their voices are drowned in the rushing 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 hand.s, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; 278 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. We watched 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,— And lo ! they have passed from our yearn- ing heart ; They cross the stream, and are gone for aye; "We may not sunder the ved 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; I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; I shall pass from sight, with the boat- man pale. To the better shore of the spirit land ; I 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. ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. JUDGE NOT. JuPGE not ; the workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst nof see ; What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, In God's pure light may only be A scar, brought from some well-won field, Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. The look, the air, that frets thy sight May be a token that below The soul has closed in deadly fight With some infernal fiery foe. Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace. And cast thee shuddering on thy face ! The fall thou darest to despise, — May be the angel's slackened hand Has suffered it, that he may rise And take a firmer, surer stand ; Or, trusting less to earthly things, May henceforth learn to use his wings. And judge none lost ; but wait and see, With hopeful pity, not disdain ; The depth of the abyss may be The measure of the height of pain And love and glory that may raise This soul to God in after days ! FRIEND SORROW. Do not cheat thy heart, and tell her^ ' ' Grief will pass away ; Hope for fairer times in future. And forget to-day." Tell her, if you will, that Sorrow Need not come in vain ; Tell her that the lesson taught her Far outweighs the pain. Cheat her not with the old comfort (Soon she will forget) ; — Bitter truth, — alas ! but matter Rather for regret. Bid her not seek other pleasures. Turn to other things ; Rather, nurse her caged Sorrow Till the captive sings. Bid her rather go forth bravely, And the stranger greet. Not as foe, with "shield and buckler. Bat as dear friends meet. Bid her with a strong grasp hold her By the dusky wings. And she '11 whisper, low and gently, Blessings that she brings. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. THOMAS BUCHANAN EEAD. 279 [U. S. A.] THE CLOSING SCENE. Within his sober realm of leafless trees The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; Like some tanued reaper in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray bams looking from their hazy hills O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, Sent down the air a greeting to the mills. On the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The hills seemedfartherandthestreams sang low ; As in a dream the distant woodman hewed His winter log with many a mufiied blow. The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, Their banners bright with every martial hue. Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old. Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight; The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint ; And like a star slow drowning in the light, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew. Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before, — Silent till some replying warder blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, Made garrulous trouble round her un- fledged young, And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, By every light wind like a censer swung: — Where sang the noisymasons of the eaves, The busy swallows circling ever near. Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year;— Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast, Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn. To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — All now was songless, empty, and for- lorn. Alone from out the stubble piped the quail. And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom ; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage loom. There was no bud, no bloom, upon the bowers ; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night ; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flow- ers. Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; Amid all this, the centre of the scene, The white-haired matron with monoto- nous tread, Plied the swift wheel, and with her joy- less mien. Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. She had known Sorrow, — he had walked with her. Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen crust ; And in the dead leaves still he heard the stir Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 280 SONGS OF THEEE CENTURIES. While yet her cheet was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned and she gave her all ; And twice War bowea to her his sable plume, — Regave the swords to rust upon her wall. Regave the swords, — but not the hand that drew And struck for Liberty its dying blow, Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low munnur of a hive at noon ; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapped : her head was bowed ; Life dront the distaff through his hands serene ; And loving neighbors smoothed her care- ful shroud, While death and winter closed the autumn scene. JEAN INGELOW. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. (1571.) The old ma3'or climbed the belfry tower, Tlie ringers ran by two, by three ; " Pull, if ye never pulled before ; Good ringers, pull yourbest, " quoth he. " Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells ! Ply all your changes, all your swells. Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.' " ilen say it was a stolen tyde — The Lord that sent it, he knows all ; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall : And there was naught of strange, beside The "ij:;!.^ of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea- wall. I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies ; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wanderp.th. My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre 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 soon be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; Comme uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, 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, aye, long ago, When 1 beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow. Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong ; And all the aire it seemeth me Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee). That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene. Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from outthegreene. 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 b7'eath, The shepherde lads 1 heard afarre, And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, The " Brides of Mavis Enderby.' JEAN IKGELOW. 281 Then some looked iippe 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 be. What danger lowers by land or sea ? They ring the tune of Enderby ! "For evil news from Mablethorpe, Gf pyrate galleys warping down ; For shippes ashore beyond the seorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne ; But while the west bin red to see. And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ' ? " I 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 cried) is downe. The rising tide conies 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 saith ; "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 noise, loud ; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud. Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis backward pressed. Shook all her trembling bankesamaine ; 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 our 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 awesome 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. Tlie 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 swejit out the flocks to sea ; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! To manye more than myne and me : But each will mourn his own (she saith). And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 1 shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha, Cusha, Cusha!" calling. Ere the early dews be falling ; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha, Cusha!" all along. Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth ; From the meads where melick groweth, '282 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. When the water winding down Onward liovveth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver ; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobl>ing, 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 Light- foot ; 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." SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. 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 cuckoo-buds slender and small ! Here 's two bonny boys, and here 's mother's own lasses. Eager to gather them all. Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge- sparrow. That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain ; Sing, ' ' Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow," Sing once, and sing it again. Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups! 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 daugliter.s. 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 down on their pleasure smiles pass- ing its measure, God that is over us all ! SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME. A SONG of a boat : — There was once a boat on a billow : Lightly she rocked to her port remote. And the foam was white in her wake like snow. And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow. And bent like a wand of willow. I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtsying over the billow, I marked her course till, a dancing mote. She faded out on the moonlit foam. And I stayed behind in the dear-loved home; And my thoughts all day were about the boat. And my dreams upon the pillow. I pray you hear my song of a boat, For it is but short : — My boat you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port. Long I looked out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea. And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, For he came not back to me — Ah me! A song of a nest : — There was once a nest in a hollow ; Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, Soft and warm and full to the brim. Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, With buttercup-buds to follow. I pray you hear my song of a nest, For it is not long : You shall never light in a summer quest The bushes among, — BEFORE THE RAIN. Pase 283. THOMAS BAILEY ALDEICH. 283 Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestful, nor ever know A softer sound than their tender twitter, That wind-like did come and go. I had a nestful once of my own, Ah, happy, happy I ! Eight dearly 1 loved them; but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly. 0, one after one they flew away. Far up to the heavenly blue. To the better country, the upper day, And — I wish I was going too. I pray you, what is the nest to me. My empty nest ? And what is the shore where I stood to see My boat sail down to the west ? Can I call that home where I anchor yet. Though my good man has sailed ? Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope hath failed ? Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be: There is the home where my thoughts are sent. The only home for me — Ah me! THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. [v. S. A.] BEFORE THE RAIN. We knew it would rain, for all the morn, A spirit on slender ropes of mist Was lowering its golden buckets down Into the vapory amethyst Of marshes and swampsanddismalfens, — Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, Dipping the jewels out of the sea. To sprinkle them over the land in showers. We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrank in the wind, — and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain ! AFTER THE RAIN. The rain has ceased, and in my room The sunshine pours an airy flood ; And on the church's dizzy vane The ancient Cross is bathed in blood. From out the dripping ivy-leaves, Antiquely carven, gray and higli, A dormer, facing westward, looks Upon the village like an eye : And now it glimmers in the sun, A square of gold, a disk, a speck : And in the belfry sits a Dove With purple ripples on her neck. PISCATAQUA RIVER. Thou singest by the gleaming isles, By woods, and fields of corn. Thou singest, and the heaven smiles Upon my birthday morn. But I within a city, I, So full of vague unrest. Would almost give my life to lie An hour upon thy breast ! To let the wherry listless go, And, wrapt in dreamy joy. Dip, and surge idly to and fro, Like the red harbor-buoy ; To sit in happy indolence. To rest upon the oars, And catch the heavy earthy scents That blow from summer shores ; To see the rounded sun go down, And with its parting fires Light up the windows of the town And burn the tapering spires ; And then to hear the muffled tolls From steeples slim and white, And watch, among the Isles of Shoals, The Beacon's orange light. River ! flowing to the main Through woods, and fields of com. 284 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Hear thou my longing and my pain This sunny birthday morn ; And take this song which sorrow shapes To music like thine own, And sing it to the cliffs and capes And crags where 1 am known ! EGBERT BUCHANAN. THE GKEEN GNOME. A MELODY. Ring, sing! ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells ! Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! through dales and dells ! Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sab- bath bells ! Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells ! And I galloped and I galloped on my palfrey white as milk, lly robe was of the sea-green woof, my serk was of the silk ; My hair was golden-yellow, and it floated to my shoe ; My eyes were like two harebells bathed in little drops of dew ; My palfrey, never stopping, made a music sweetly blent With the leaves of autumn dropping all around me as I went ; And I heard the bells, grown fainter, far behind me peal and play. Fainter, fainter, fainter, till they seemed to die away ; And beside a silver runnel, on a little heap of sand, I saw the green gnome sitting, with his cheek upon his hand. Then he started up to see me, and he ran with a cry and bound. And drew me from my palfrey white and set me on the ground. crimson, crimson were his locks, his face was green to see. But he cried, "O light-haired lassie, you iire bound to marry me ! " He clasped me round the middle small, he kissed me on the cheek, He kissed me once, he kissed me twice, I could not stir or speak ; He kissed me twice, he kissed me thrice ; but when he kissed again, I called aloud upon the name of Him who died for men. Sing, sing ! ring, ring ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! through dales and dells ! Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sab- bath bells ! Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields and fells ! faintly, faintly, faintly, calling men and maids to pray, So faintly, faintly, faintly rang the bells far away ; And as I named the Blessed Name, as in our need we can. The ugly green gnome became a tall and comely man : His hands were white, his beard was gold, his eyes were black as sloes, His tunic was of scarlet woof, and silken were his hose ; A pensive light from faeryland still lin- gered on his cheek. His voice was like the running brook when he began to speak : "0, you have cast away the charm my step-dame put on me, Seven years have I dwelt in Faeryland, and you have set me free. 0, I will mount thy palfrey white, and ride to kirk with thee. And, by those dewy little eyes, we twain will wedded be!" Back we galloped, never stopping, he before and I behind. And the autumn leaves were dropping, red and yellow in the wind; And the sun was shining clearer, and my heart was high and proud. As nearer, nearer, nearer rang the kirk- bells sweet and loud. And we saw the kirk, before us, as we trotted down the fells. And nearer, clearer, o'er us, rang the welcome of the bells. Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells ! Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! through dales and dells ! E. C. STEDMAN. 285 Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sab- bath bells ! Chime, sing! rhyme, and fells ! ring! over fields E. C. STEDMAN. [U. S. A.] THE DOORSTEP. The conference-meeting through at last, We boys around the vestry waited To see the girls come tripping past, Like snowbirds willing to be mated. Not braver he that leaps the wall By level musket-flashes litten. Than 1, who stepped before them all. Who longed to see me get the mitten. But no ; she blushed, and took my arm ! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lover's by-way. I can't remember what we said, 'T was nothing worth a song or story, Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed, and in a glory. The snow was crisp beneath our feet. The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was beaming. The little hand outside her muff — sculptor, if you could but mould it ! — So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it. To have her with me there alone, — 'T was love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended. The old folks, too, were almost home ; Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, We heard the voices nearer come, Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. She shook her ringlets from her hood. And with a "Thank you, Ned," dis- sembled ; But yet 1 knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud passed kindly overhead. The moon was slyly peeping through it. Yet hid its face, as if it said, "Come, now or never ! do it ! do it!" My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow, full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — 1 kissed her! Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still, listless woman, weary lover ! To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill 1 'd give — But who can live youth over? PAN IN WALL STREET. A. D. 1867. Just where the Treasury's marble front Looks over Wall Street's mingled na- tions, — Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quota- tions, — Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people. The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinity's undaunted steeple; — . Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor, Above the cries of greed and gain. The curbstone war, the auction's ham- mer, — And swift, on Music's misty ways. It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude. And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel where he stood At ease against a Doric pillar : One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impas- sioned. 286 SONGS 01- THREE CENTURIES. T was Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty ! The demigod had crossed the seas, — From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times, — to these Far "shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head : But — hidden thus — there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread. His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting ; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes. Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them. And trousers, patched of divers hues. Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. He filled the quivering reeds with sound. And o'er his mouth their changes shifted. And with his goat's-eyes looked around Where'er the passing current drifted; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him. Even now the tradesmen from their tills, With clerks and porters, crowded near him. The bulls and bears together drew From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true. Came beasts from every wooded valley ; The random passers stayed to list, — A boxer iEgon, rough and merry, — A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. A one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tattered cloak of army pattern. And Galatea joined the throng, — A blowsy, apple-vending slattern ; While old Silenus staggered out From some new-fangled lunch-house handy. And bade the piper, with a shout. To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy ! A newsboy and a peanut-girl Like little Fauns began to caper : His hair was all in tangled curl. Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And still the gathering larger grew, Andgave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her, — • Even here, as on the vine-clad hill. Or by the Arethusan water ! New forms may fold the speech, new lands Arise within these ocean-portals. But Music waves eternal wands, — Enchantress of the souls of mortals f So thought I, — but among us trod A man in blue, with legal baton. And scoffed the vagrant demigod. And pushed him from the step I sat on. Doubting I mused upon the cry, "Great Pan is dead!" — and all the people Went on their ways : — and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple. ALGERNON CHAELES SWINBURNE. 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 ftowerful closes, Green pleasure or gray grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon ; If I were what the words are And love were like the tune. If you were life, my darling. And I your love were death. We 'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weathe* K. H. STODDAKD. — J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 287 With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath ; If you were life, my darling, And 1 your love were death. If you were thrall to sorrow, And 1 were page to joy, We 'd play for lives and seasons, With loving looks and treasons, And tears of night and morrow, And laughs of maid and boy ; If you were thrall to sorrow. And I were page to joy. If you were April's lady. And I were lord in May, We 'd throw with leaves for hours. And draw for days with flowers. Till day like night were shady. 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 I were king of pain. K. H. STODDARD. [U. S. A.] NEVER 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 seek it everywhere, On the earth and in the air. But it never comes again ! LANDWARD. The sky is thick upon the sea. The sea is sown with rain, And in the passing gusts we hear The clanging of the crane. The cranes are flying to the south ; We cut the northern foam : The dreary land they leave behind Must be our future home. Its barren shores are long and dark, And gray its autumn sky ; But better these than this gray sea. If but to land — and die ! NOVEMBER. The wild November comes at last Beneath a veil of rain ; The night-wind blows its folds aside^ Her face is full of pain. The latest of her race, she takes The Autumn's vacant throne : She has but one short moon to live, And she must live alone. A barren realm of withered fields : Bleak woods of fallen leaves : The palest morns that ever dawned : The dreariest of eves : It is no wonder that she comes, Poor month ! with tears of pain : For what can one so hopeless do But weep, and weep again ! J. T. TROWBRIDGE. [v. S. A.] AT SEA. The night was made for cooling shada For silence, and for sleep ; And when I was a child, I laid My hands upon my breast, and prayed. And sank to slumbers deep. Childlike, as then, I lie to-night. And watch my lonely cabin-light. 288 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Each movement of the swaying lamp Shows how the vessel reels, And o'er her deck the billows tramp, And all her timbers strain and cramp With every shock she feels ; It starts and shudders, while it bums, And in its hinged socket turns. Now swinging slow, and slanting low, It almost level lies : And yet I know, while to and fro I watch the seeming pendule go With restless fall and rise. The steady shaft is still upright, Poising its little globe of light. hand of God ! lamp of peace ! promise of my soul ! Though weak and tossed, and ill at ease Amid the roar of smiting seas, — The ship's convulsive roll, — 1 own, with love and tender awe. Yon perfect type of faith and law. A heavenly trast my spirit calms, — My soul is filled with light ; The ocean sings his solemn psalms ; The wild winds chant ; I cross my palms ; Happy, as if to-night. Under the cottage roof again, I heard the soothing summer rain. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (FLOEENCE PERCY). [v. S. A.] IN THE DEFENCES. AT WASHINGTON. Along the ramparts which surround the town I walk with evening, marking all the while How night and autumn, closing softly down. Leave on the land a blessing and a smile. In the broad streets the sounds of tumult cease. The gorgeous sunset reddens roof and spire. The city sinks to quietude and peace, Sleeping, like Saturn, in a ring of fire ; Circled with forts, whose grim and threat- ening walls Frown black with cannon, whose abated breath Waits the command to send the fatal balls Upon their errands of dismay and death. And see, directing, guiding, silently Flash from afar the mystic signal-lights. As gleamed the fiery pillar in the sky Leading by night the wandering Israel- ites. The earthworks, draped with summer weeds and vines. The rifle-pits, half hid with tangled briers, But wait their time ; for see, along the lines Rise the faint smokes of lonesome picket-fires, Where sturdy sentinels on silent beat Cheat the long hours of wakeful lone- liness With thoughts of home, and faces dear and sweet, And, on the edge of danger, dream of bliss. Yetataword, how wildand fierce a change Would rend and startle all the earth and skies With blinding glare, and noises dread and strange. And shrieks, and shouts, and deathly The wide-mouthed guns would war, and hissing shells Would pierce the shuddering sky with fiery thrills. The battle rage and roU in thunderous swells. And war's fierce anguish shake the solid hills. But now how tranquilly the golden gloom Creeps tip the gorgeous forest-slopes, and flows Down valleys blue with fringy aster- bloom, — An atmosphere of safety and repose. EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 289 Against the sunset lie the darkeninghiils, Mushroomed with tents, the sudden growth of war ; The frosty autumn air, that blights and chills. Yet brings its own full recompense therefor ; Rich colors light the leafy solitudes. And far and near the gazer's eyes behold The oak's deep scarlet, warming all the woods, And spendthrift maples scattering their gold. The pale beech shivers with prophetic woe. The towering chestnut ranks stand blanched and thinned, Yet still the fearless sumach dares the foe, And waves its bloody guidons in the wind. Where mellow haze the hill's sharp out- line dims. Bare elms, like sentinels, watch silently. The delicate tracery of their slender limbs Pencilled in purple on the saffron sky. Content and quietude and plenty seem Blessing the place, and sanctifying all ; And hark ! how pleasantly a hidden stream Sweetens the silence with its silver fall ! The failing grasshopper chirps faint and shrill. The cricket calls, in massy covert hid, Cheery and loud, as stoutly answering still The soft persistence of the katydid. With dead moths tangled in its blighted bloom. The golden-rod swings lonesome on its throne. Forgot of bees ; and in the thicket's gloom , The last belated peewee cries alone. The hum of voices, and the careless laugh Of cheerful talkers, fall upon the enr; The flag flaps listlessly adown its staff; And still the katydid pipes loud and near. And now from far the bugles mellow throat Pours out, in rippling flow, its silver tide; 19 And up the listening hills the echoes float Faint and more faint and sweetly multiplied. Peace reigns ; not now a soft-eyed nymph that sleeps Unvexed by dreams of strife or con- queror. But Power, that, open-eyed and watchful, keeps Unwearied vigil on the brink of war. Night falls ; in silence sleep the patriot bands ; The tireless cricket yet repeats its tune, And the still figure of the sentry stands In black relief against the low full moon. EDNA DEAN PROCTOE. [U. S. A.] HEROES. The winds that once the Argo bore Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines, And her hull is the drift of the deep sea- floor, Thouuh shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. You may si-ek her crew on every isle Fair in the foam of jEgean seas. But, out of their rest, no charm can wile Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. And Priam's wail is heard no more By windy llion's sea-built walls; Nor great Achilles, stained with gore, Shouts, "O ye Gods! 'tis Hector falls!" On Ida's mount is the shining snow. But Jove has gone from its brow away, And red on the plain the poppies prow Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day. Mother Earth ! Are the Heroes dead ? Do they tlnill the soul of the years no more ? Are the pleaining snows and the poppies red All that is left of the brave of yore ? Are there none lo ti;;ht as Theseus fought Far in the yoiinj:- world's nii?ty dawn 1 Ortotcacii nsgray-haireil Nestor tiiuj: lit ' Mother Earth! Are the Heroes tone? 290 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Gone'? In a q:rander form they rise; Dead ? We may clasp their hands in ours; And catch the light of their clearer eyes, And wreathe their brows wiih immor- tal flowers. "Wherever a noble deed is done 'Tis the pulse of a Hero's heart is stirred ; Wherever Right has a triumph won There are the Heroes' voices heard. Their armor rings on a fairer field Than the Greek and the Trojan fiercely trod, For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield. And the gleam above is the smile of God. So, in his isle of calm delight, Jason may sleep the years away ; For the Heroes Hve, and the sky is bright. And the world is a braver world to-day. GEORGE H. BOKER. [U. S. A.] DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. Close his eyes ; his work is done ! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow ! What cares he ? he cannot know : Lay him low ! As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow ! What cares he ? he cannot know : Lay him low ! Fold him in his country's stars. Roll the drum and fire the volley ! What to him are all our wars, What but death-bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow ! What cares he ? he cannot know : Lay him low ! Leave him to God's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by : God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low. In the clover or the snow ! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low ! LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. [U. S. A.] THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW. It stands in a sunny meadow. The house so mossy and brown. With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, And the gray roof sloping down. Thetreesfold their green arms round it, — The trees a century old ; And the winds go chanting through them. And the sunbeams drop their gold. The cowslips spring in the marshes, The roses bloom on the hill, And beside the brook in the pasture The herds go feeding at will. Within, in the wide old kitchen, The old folks sit in the sun. That creeps through the sheltering wood- bine. Till the day is almost done. Their children have gone and left them ; They sit in the sun alone ! And the old wife's ears are failing As she harks to the well-known tone That won her heart in her girlhood. That has soothed her in many a care, And praises her now for the brightness Her old face used to wear. She thinks again of her bridal, — How, dressed in her robe of white, She stood by her gay young lover In the morning's rosy light. 0, the morning is rosy as ever, But the rose from her cheek is fled ; NOEA PERRY. 291 And the sunshine still is golden, But it falls on a silvered head. And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, Come back in her winter-time, Till her feeble pulses tremble With the thrill of spring-time's prime. And looking forth from the window. She thinks how the trees have grown Since, clad in her bridal whiteness, She crossed the old door-stone. Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure. And dimmed her hair's young gold, The love in her girlhood plighted Has never gi-own dim or old. They sat in peace in the sunshine Till the day was almost done. And then, at its close, an angel Stole over the threshold stone. He folded their hands together, — He touched their eyelids with balm. And their last breath floated outward. Like the close of a solemn psalm ! Like a bridal pair they traversed The unseen, mvstical road That leads to the' Beautiful City, "Wliose builder and maker is God. Perhaps in that miracle country They will give her lost youth back. And the flowers of the vanished spring- time Will bloom in the spirit's track. One draught from the living waters Shall call back his manhood's prime ; And eternal years shall measure The love that outlasted time. But the shapes that they left behind them, The wrinkles and silver hair, — Made holy to us by the kisses The angel had printed there, — We will hide away 'neath the willows, When the day is low in the west, Where the sunbeams cannot find them, IsoT the winds disturb their rest. And we '11 suffer no telltale tombstone, With its age and date, to rise O'er the two who are old no longer. In the Father's house in the skies. 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 have 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. "Thus God has dealt with me, his chUd," she said ; " I wait my spring-time, and am cold like these. " To them ■will come the fulness of their time; Their spring, though late, will make the meadows fair ; Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed? I am His own, — doth not my Father caie?" NORA PERRY. [U. S. A.] IN JUNE. So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see ; So blithe and gay the humming-bird iigoing From flower to flower, a hunting with the bee. So sweet, so sweet the calling of th« thrushes. The calling, cooing, wooing, every- where ; 292 SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. So sweet the water's song through reeds and rushes, The plover's piping note, now here, now there. So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover. The west-wind blowing, blowing up the hill ; So sweet, so sweet with news of some one's lover. Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer still. So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes ; Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear ; And, water, hush your song through reeds and rushes, That I may know whose lover cometh near. So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling, Plover or blackbird never heeding me ; So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, falling, O'er bar and bank, in brawling, bois- terous glee. So loud, so loud ; yet blackbird, thrush, nor plover, Nor noisy mill-stream, in its fret and fall. Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover, My lover calling through the thrushes' calL "Come down, come down!" he called, and straight the thrashes From mate to mate sang all at once, "Come down !" And while the water laughed through reeds and rushes, The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, "Come down!" Then down and off, and through the fields of clover, I followed, followed, at my lover's call ; Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover. The water's laugh, the mill-stream's fret and fall. AFTER THE BALL. They sat and combed their beautiful hair. Their long, bright tresses, one by one. As they laughed and talked in the cham- ber there. After the revel was done. Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille, Idly they laughed, like other girls, Who over the fire, when all is still. Comb out their braids and curls. Robe of satin and Brussels lace. Knots of flowers and ribbons, too, Scattered about in every place, For the revel is through. And Maud and Madge in robes of white, The prettiestnightgowns under the sun, Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, For the revel is done, — Sit and comb their beautiful hair. Those wonderful waves of brown and gold. Till the fire is out in the chamber there, And the little bare feet are cold. Then out of the gathering winter chill, ^All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, While the fire is out and the house is still, Maud and Madge together, — Maud and Madge in robes of white, The prettiest nightgownsuiidertliesun, 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 lustres 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. G. W. THORNBURY. 293 As down the royal bannered room, To the golden gittern's straiu, 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. 0, Maud and Madge, dream on together. With never a pang of jealous fear ! For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather Shall whiten another year, Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, Braided brown hair and golden tress. There '11 be oidy one of you left for the bloom Of the bearded lips to press, — Only one for the bridal pearls. Tile robe of satin and 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 has just begun ; But for her who sleeps in your arms to- night The revel of Life is done ! But robed and crowned with your saintly bliss. Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, beautiful Maud, you '11 never miss The kisses another hath won ! G. W. THORNBURY. THE JESTER'S SERMON. The Jester shook his head and bells, and leaped upon a chair, The pages laughed, the women screamed, and tossed their scented hair ; The falcon whistled, staghounds bayed, the lapdog barked without, The scullion dropped the pitcher brown, the cook railed at the lout ! The steward, counting out his gold, let pouch and money fall, And why? because the Jester rose to say gi-ace in the hall ! The page played with the heron's plume, the steward with his chain. The butler drummed ui)on the board, and laughed with might and main ; The grooms beat on their metal cans, and roared till they were red, But still the Jester shut his eyes and rolled his witty head; And when they grew a little still, read half a yard of text. And, waving hand, struck on the desk, then frowned like one perplexed. "Dear sinners all," the fool began, "man's life is but a jest, A dream, a shadow, bubble, air, a vapor at the best. In a thousand pounds of law I find not a single ounce of love ; A blind man killed the ])arson's cow in shooting at the dove ; The fool that eats till he is sick must fiist till he is well ; The wooer who can flatter most wiU bear away the belle. ' ' Let no man halloo he is safe till he is through the wood ; He who will not when he may, must tarry when he should ; He who laughs at crooked men should need walk very straight ; 0, he who once has won a name may lie abed till eight ! Make haste to purchase house and land, be very slow to wed ; True coral needs no painter's brush, nor need be daubed with red. "The friar, preaching, cursed the thief (the pudding in his sleeve). To fish for sprats with golden hooks is foolish, by your leave, — To travel well, — an ass's ears, ape's face, hog's mouth, and ostrich legs. He does not care a pin for thieves who limps about and begs. Be always first man at a feast and last man at a fray ; The short way roimd, in spite of all, is still the longest way. When the hungry curate licks the knife, there 's not much for the clerk ; When the pilot, turning pale and sick, looks up, —the storm grows dark." 294 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Then loud they laughed, the fat cook's tears ran down into the pan : The steward shook, that he was forced to drop the brimming can ; And then again the women screamed, and every staghound bayed, — And why? because the motley fool so wise a sermon made. -• — ANNIE FIELDS. [U. S. A.] CLIMBING. He said, "0 brother, where 's the use of climbing ? Come rather to the shade beside me here, And break the bread, and pour the plen- teous wine ! "Why thus forever climbing one sad way? Kather burn cedar on the marble hearth. And sleep, and wake, and hear the singers pass. "Come! Stay thy feet, and pant and climb no more ! Stay Jollity, stay Wit, and Grace, and Ease, Nor spend your strength of days in scal- ing heights ! " But Wit had clomb full well, and passed beyond. While he who stayed, cried, "Brother, where 's the use?" And Jollity went mingling with the sad, Still passing onward, up the difficult road. While Grace accompanied, — and all, but Ease; And Ease and he two dull companions made. Forever after said he not, "What use !" Grew weary of sweet cedar and soft couch ; And wistful gazed to watch those climb- ing feet. HELEN HUNT. [U. S. A.] CORONATION. At the king's gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun ; Into the drowsy snare too soon The guards fell one by one. Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, "This brings Me chance, at last, to see if men Fare better, being kings." The king sat bowed beneath his crown, Propping his face with listless hand ; Watching the hour-glass sifting down Too slow its shining sand. ' ' Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?" The beggar turned, and, pitying, Replied, like one in a dream, "Of thee, Nothing. I want the king." Uprose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown and threw it by. ' ' man, thou must have known, " he said, "A greater king than I !" Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand. Whispered the king, "Shall I know when Before his throne I stand?" The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste Were wiping from the king's hot brow The crimson lines the crown had traced. "This is his presence now." At the king's gate, the crafty noon Unwove its yellow nets of sun ; Out of their sleep in terror soon The guards waked one by one. ' ' Ho here ! Ho there ! Has no man seen The king?" The cry ran to and fro ; Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, The laugh that free men know. On the king's gate the moss grew gray : The king came not. They called him dead ; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father's stead. DAirrE GABRIEL ROSSETTL — CELIA THAXTER, 295 THE WAY TO SING. The birds must know. Who wisely sings Will sing as they ; The common air has generous wings, Songs make their way. No messenger to run before, Devising plan ; No mention of the place or hour To any man ; No waiting till some sound betrays A listening ear ; No different voice, no new delays, If steps draw near. "What bird is that? Its song is good." And eager eyes Go peering through the dusky wood. In glad surprise ; Then late at night, when by his fire The traveller sits. Watching the flame grow brighter, higher, The sweet song flits By snatches through his weary brain To help him rest ; When next he goes that road again, An empty nest On leafless bough will make him sigh, "Ah me ! last spring Just here I heard, in passing by, That rare bird sing !" But while he sighs, remembering How sweet the song, The little bird, on tireless wing, Is borne along In other air, and other men With weary feet. On other roads, the simple strain Are finding sweet. The birds must know. Who wisely sings Will sing as they ; The common air has generous wings, Songs make their way. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL THE SEA-LIMITS. Consider the sea's listless chime ; Time's self it is made audible, — The munnur of the earth's own ahell, Secret continuance sublime Is the era's end. Our sight may pass No furlong farther. Since time was, This sound hath told the lapse of time. No quiet which is death's, — it hath The mournfulness of ancient life, Enduring always at dull strife. As the wodd's heart of rest and wrath, Its painful pulse is on the sands. Lost utterly, the whole sky stands Gray and not known along its path. Listen alone beside the sea. Listen alone among the woods ; Those voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to thee. Hark where the murmurs of thronged men Surge and sink back and surge again, — Still the one voice of wave and tree. Gather a shell from the strewn beach, And listen at its lips ; they sigh The same desire and mystery. The echo of the whole sea's speech. And all mankind is thus at heart Not anything but what thou art ; And earth, sea, man, are all in each. CELIA THAXTER. [U. S. A.] A SITMMER DAY, At daybreak in the fresh light, joyfully The fishermen drew in their laden net ; The shore shone rosy purple, and the sea Was streaked with violet. And pink with sunrise, many a shadowy sail Lay southward, lighting up the sleep- ing bay ; And in the west the white moon, still and pale, Faded before the day. Silence was everywhere. The rising tide Slowly filled every cove and inlet small ; A musical low whisper, multiplied. You heard, and that was all. 296 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. No clouds at dawn, but as the sun climbed liigher, White columns, thunderous, splendid, up the sky Floated and stood, heaped in his steady fire, A stately company. Stealing along tlie coast from cape to cape The weird mirage crept tremulously on, In many a magic change and wondrous shape, Throbbing beneath the sun. At noon the wind rose, swept the glassy sea To sudden ripple, thrust against the clouds A strenuous shoulder, gathering steadily Drove them before in crowds ; Till all the west was dark, and inky black Tlie level-ruffled water underneath, Audup the wind-cloudtossed, — aghostly rack, — In many a ragged wreath. Then sudden roared the thunder, a great peal Magnificent, that broke and rolled away ; And down the wind plunged, like a furi- ous keel. Cleaving the sea to spray ; And brought the rain sweeping o'er land and sea. And then was tumult ! Lightning sharp and keen. Thunder, wind, rain, — a mighty jubilee The heaven and earth between ! Loud the roused ocean sang, a chorus grand ; A solemn music rolled in undertone Of waves that broke about on either hand The little island lone; Where, joyful in his tempest as his calm. Held in the hollow of that hand of his, I joined with heart and soul in God's great psalm. Thrilled with a nameless bliss. Soon lulled the wind, the summer storm soon died ; The shattered clouds went eastward, drifting slow ; From the low sun the rain-fringe swept aside, Bright in his rosy glow, And wide a splendor streamed through all the sky ; O'er sea and land one soft, delicious blush. That touched the gray rocks lightly, tenderlj^ ; A transitory flush. Warm, odorous gusts blew off the distant land. With spice of pine-woods, breath of hay new-mown. O'er miles of waves and sea-scents cool and bland, Full in our faces blown. Slow faded the sweet light, and peacefully The quiet stars came out, one after one : The holy twilight fell upon the sea, The summer day was done. Such unalloyed delight its hours had given. Musing, this thought rose in my grate- ful mind. That God, who watches all things, up in heaven. With patient eyes and kind, Saw and was pleased, perhaps, one child of his Dared to be happy like the little birds. Because He gave his children days like this, Rejoicing beyond words ; Dared, lifting up to Him untroubled eyes Ingi-atitudethat worship is, and prayer. Sing and be glad with ever new surprise, He made his world so fair ! SUBMISSION. The sparrow sits and sings, and sings ; Softly the sunset's lingering light Lies rosy over rock and turf, And reddens where the restless surf Tosses on high its plumes of white. Gently and clear the sparrow sings, While twilight steals across the sea, •'The holy twilight fell upon the sea." Page 296. WILLIAM MORRIS. — HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL. 297 And still and bright the evening star Twinkles above the golden bar That in the west lies quietly. 0, steadfastly the sparrow sings, And sweet the sound ; and sweet the touch Of wooing winds; and sweet the sight OF happy Nature's deep delight In her fair spring, desired so much ! But while so clear the sparrow sings A cry of death is in my ear ; The crashing of the riven wreck, Breakers that sweep the shuddering deck, And sounds of agony and fear. How is it that the birds can sing? Life is so full of bitter pain ; Hearts are so wrung with hopeless grief; "Woe is so long and joy so brief; Nor shall the lost return again. Though rapturously the sparrow sings, No bliss of Nature can restore The friends whose hands I clasped so warm. Sweet souls that through the night and storm Fled from the earth forevermore. Yet still the sparrow sits and sings, Till longing, mourning, sorrowing love. Groping to find what hope may be Within death's awful mystery, Eeaches its empty arms above ; And listening, while the sparrow sings, And soft the evening shadows fall, Sees, through the crowding tears that blind, A little light, and seems to find And clasp God's hand, who wrought it all. The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. Welcome, March ! whose kindly days and dry Make April ready for the throstle's song. Thou first redresser of the winter'swrong ! Yea, welcome, March ! and though I die ere June, Yet for the hope of life I give thee 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 begun ! What happiness to look upon the sun !" 0, what begetteth all this storm of bliss. But Death himself, who, crying solemnly. Even from the heart of sweet Forgetful- ness. 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 MORRIS. MARCH. Slayer of winter, art thou here again ? welcome, thou that bring' st the sum- mer nigh ! HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL. [U. S. A.] THE CRICKETS. Pipe, little minstrels of the waning year, In gentle concert pipe ! Pipe the warm noons ; the mellow har- vest near ; The apples dropping ripe ; The tempered sunshine, and the softened shade ; The trill of lonely bird ; The sweet, sad hush on Nature's glad- ness laid ; The sounds through silence heard ! Pipe tenderly the passing of the year ; The summer's brief reprieve ; The dry husk rustling round the yellow ear; The chill of mom and eve ! 298 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Pipe the untroubled trouble of the year ; Pipe low the painless pain ; Pipe your unceasing melancholy cheer ; The year is in the wane. 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 pilgrim feet; Thy pardon be the pillow for my head, — So shall my sleep be sweet. At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and thee. No fears my soul's unwavering faith can shake ; All 's well, whichever side the grave for me The morning light may break ! HARRIET W. PRESTON. [U. S. A.] THE SURVIVORS. Ix this sad hour, so still, so late. When flowers are dead, and birds are flown. Close-sheltered from the blasts of Fate, Our little love burns brightly on, Amid the wrecks of dear desire That ride the waves of life no more ; As stranded voyagers light their fire Upon a lonely island shore. And though we deem that soft and fair. Beyond the tempest and the sea, Our heart's true homes are smiling, where In life we never more shall be, — Yet we are saved, and we ma}"^ rest ; And, hearing each the other's voice, We cannot hold ourselves uublest. Although we may not quite rejoice. We '11 warm our hearts, and softly sing Thanks for the shore whereon we 're driven ; Storm-tossed no more, we '11 fold the wing. And dream forgotten dreams of heaven. HIRAM RICH. [U. S. A.] IN THE SEA The salt wind blows upon my cheek, As it blew a year ago, When twenty boats were crushed among The rocks of Norman's Woe. 'T was dark then ; 't is light now, And the sails are leaning low. In dreams, I pull the sea-weed o'er, And find a face not his. And hope another tide will be More pitying than this : The wind turns, the tide turns, — They take what hope there is. My life goes on as life must go, With all its sweetness spilled : My God, why should one heart of two Beat on, when one is stilled ? Through heart-wreck, or home-wreck, Thy happy sparrows build. Though boats go down, men build again Whatever wind may blow ; If blight be in the wheat one year, They trust again, and sow. The grief comes, the change comes, The tides run high or low. Some have their dead, where, sweet and calm, The summers bloom and go ; The sea withholds my dead, — I walk The bar when tides are low, And wonder how the gi-ave-grass Can have the heart to grow ! FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 299 Flow on, unconsenting sea, And keep my dead below; The uight-watch set for me is long. But, through it all, I know. Or life comes or death comes, God leads the eternal flow. FRANCIS BRET HARTE. [U. S. A.] CONCHA. PRESIDIO DE SAU FRAUCISCO. 1800. Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and quaint. By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint, — Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apos- tate to the creed, On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden reed; All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed away, And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day. Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering eye, — Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by ; Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold With the plain and homespun present, and a love that ne'er grows old ; Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust, — Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust. II. Count von Eesanotf, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar, Stood beside the deep embrasures where the brazen cannon are. C He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene debate On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state ; He, from grave provincial magnates, oft had turned to talk apart With the Comandante's daughter, on the questions of the heart, Until points of gravest import yielded slowly, one by one, And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun ; Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar ; Till beside the brazen cannon the be- trothed bade adieu. And, from sally-port and gateway, north the Russian eagles Hew. III. Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are. Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar ; Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow empty breeze, — Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling seas ; Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather cloaks, — Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain of oaks ; Till the rains came, and far-breaking, on the fierce southwester tost, Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished and were lost. So each year the seasons shifted ; wet and warm and drear and dry ; Half a year of clouds and flowers, — half a year of dust and sky. Still it brought no ship nor message, — brought no tidings ill nor meet For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet. 300 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside : "He will come," the flowers whispered; "Come no more," the dry hills sighed. Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze, — Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented seas; Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown, And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down ; Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress, And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress. Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are, Comforted the maid with proverbs, — wisdom gathered from afar ; Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech : " 'Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he ' ; 'Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree.' " 'He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies' ; 'In the end God grinds the miller' ; 'In the dark the mole has eyes.' '"He whose father is Alcalde, of his trial hath no fear,' — And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear." Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would teach Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech ; And on "Concha," "Conchirita," and "Concliita," he would dwell With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well. So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt, Everv day some hope was kindled, flick- ered, faded, and went out. IV. Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately cavalcade. Bringing revel to vacpiero, joy and com- fort to each maid ; Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport ; Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love- making in the court. -vainly Yainly then at Concha's lattice, as the idle wind Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind ; Yainly, leaning from their saddles, ca- balleros, bold and fleet, Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang's feet ; So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay scrapes blazed. Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised. Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more with patient mien The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine, — Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone. Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone. Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze. Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas. Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay ; And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey. FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 301 And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest, All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveller and guest. Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, And exchanged congratulation with the English baronet ; rill the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine Some one spoke of Concha's lover, — heedless of the warning sign. Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson : "Speak no ill of him, I pray. He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day. "Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse. Left a sweetheart too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course ! " Lives she yet ? " A death-like silence fell on banquet, guests, and hall. And a trembling figure rising fixed the awe-struck gaze of all. Two black eyesin darkened orbitsgkamed beneath the nun's white hood ; Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood. "Lives she yet?" Sir George repeated. All were hushed as Concha drew Closer yet her nun's attire. "Senor, pardon, she died too ! " DICKENS m CAMP. Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting. The river sang below ; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face, and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth ; TiU one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew. And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew ; And then, while round them shadows gathered faster. And as the firelight fell. He read aloud the book wherein the Had writ of " Little Nell." Perhaps 't was boyish fancy, — for the reader Was youngest of them all, — But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall ; The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows. Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with " Nell " on English meadows. Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken As by some spell divine — Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : And he who wrought that spell ? Ah, towering pine, and stately Kentish spire. Ye have one tale to tell ! Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths entwine. Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,- This spray of Western pine I 302 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. ANNIE D. GREEN (MARIAN DOUGLAS). [U. S. A.] THE PURITAN 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 bright- ened. Just conscious of each 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 stem the time; they dwelt with Care; And Fear was oft a comer ; A sober April ushered in The Pilgrim's toilful summer. And stern their creed ; they tarried here Mere desert-land sojoiirners : They must not dream of mirth or rest, God's humble lesson-learners. The temple's sacred perfume round Their week-day robes was clinging ; Their mirth was but the golden bells On j)riestly garments ringing. But as to-day they softly talked. That serious youth and maiden. Their jdainest words strange beauty wore, Like weeds with dewdrops laden. The saddest theme had something sweet. The gravest, something tender. While with slow steps they wandered on, Mid 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 life-everlasting, — A silvery bloom, with fadeless leaves 5 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 smiles, And if my father 's willing ! " No idle passion swayed her heart, This quaint New England beauty 1 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 gravely cheerful ; He left her at her father'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 praised 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 tiirobbing heart, In bloom and breath undying, A few life-everlasting flowers. Her lover's gift, were lying. Venus' myrtles, fresh and green ! Cupid's blushing roses ! Not on your classic flowers alone The sacred light reposes ; Though gentler care may sliicld your buds From north -winds rude and blasting. As dear to Love, those few, pale flowers Of white life-everlasting. WILLIAM D. HOWELLS, S. M. B. PIATT. 303 WILLIAM D. HOWELLS. [U. S. A.] BEFORE THE GATE. fiiET gave the whole long day to idle laughter, To fitful song and jest, To moods of soberness as idle, after. And silences, as idle too as the rest. But when at last upon their way retum- . ing. Taciturn, late, and loath, Through the broad meadow in the sun- set burning, They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them botli. Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish Such as but women know That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish, And what they would, would rather they would not so ; Till he said, — man-like nothing compre- hending Of all the wondrous g\iile That women won win themselves with, and bending Eyes of relentless asking on her the while, — "Ah, if beyond this gate the path united Our steps as far as death. And I might open it! — " His voice, affrighted At its own daring, faltered under his breath. Then she — whom both his faith and fear enchanted Far beyond words to tell, Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted The art he had that knew to blunder so well — Shyly drew near, a little step, and mock- ing, "Shall we not be too late For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking : Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you — open the gate?" S. M. B. PIATT. [U. S. A.] MY OLD KENTUCKY NTJRSE, I KNEW a Princess : she was old, Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look Such as no dainty pen of gold Would write of in a Fairy Book. So bent she almost crouched, her face Was like the Sphinx's face, to me. Touched with vast patience, desert grace, And lonesome, brooding mystery. What wonder that a faith so strong As hers, so sorrowful, so still. Should watch in bitter sands so long. Obedient to a burdening will ! This Princess was a Slave, — like one I read of in a painted tale ; Yet free enough to see the sun, And aU the flowers, without a vail. Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring, The helpless, powerful Slave was she, But of a subtler, fiercer Thing : She was the Slave of Slavery. Court-lace nor jewels had she seen : She wore a precious smile, so rare That at her side the whitest queen Were dark, — her darkness was so fair. Nothing of loveliest loveliness This strange, sad Princess seemed to lack ; Majestic with her calm distress She was, and beautiful though black : Black, but enchanted black, and shut In some vague Giant's tower of air, Built higher than her hope was. But The True Knight came and found her there. The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid His shadowy lance against the spell That hid her Self: as if afraid. The cruel blackness shrank and fell. Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep, He took her with him through the night, And swam a River cold and deep. And vanished up an awful Height. 304 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. And, in her Father's House be3'ond, They gave her beauty, robe, and crown, ^Onme, 1 think, far, faint, and fond. Her eyes to-day look, yearning, down. B. F. TAYLOR. [U. S. A.] THE OLD-FASHIONED CHOIR. I HAVE fancied sometimes, the old Bethel- bent beam. That trembled to earth in the Patriarch's dream. Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest From the pillow of stone to the Blue of the Blest, And the angels descending to dwell with us here, "Old Hundred" and "Corinth" and "China" and "Mear." All the hearts are not dead, nor under the sod, That those breaths can blow open to Heaven and God ! Ah, "Silver Street" leads by a bright golden road, ^-0, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed, — But those sweet human psalms in the old-fashioned choir. To the girl that sang alto, — the girl that sang air ! "Let us sing in His praise," the good minister said. All the jjsalm-books at once fluttered open at "York," Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read, While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, And politely picked up the key-note with a fork. And the vicious old viol went growling along, At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song. I need not a wing, — bid no genii come, With a wonderful web from Arabian loom. To bear me again up the river of Time, When the world was in rhythm and life was its rhyme ; Where the stream of the years flowed so noiseless and narrow, That across it there floated the song of the sparrow ; For a sprig . of green caraway carries me there. To the old village church and the old village choir, When clear of the floor my feet slowly swung And timed the sweet pulse of the praise as they sung Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun ! You may smile at the nasak of old Dea- con Brown, Who followed by scent till he ran the tune down, — And dear sister Green, with more good- ness than grace, Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place. And where "Coronation" exultantly flows. Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes ! To the land of the leal they have gone with their song. Where the choir and the chorus together belong. 0, be lifted, ye Gates ! Let me hear them again, — Blessed song, blessed Sabbath, forever Amen ! LAURA C. REDDEN. [U. S. A.] MAZZINI. A LIGHT is out in Italy, A golden tongue of purest flame. We watched it burning, long and lone, And every watcher knew its name. And knew from whence its fervor came: That one rare light of Italy, Which put self-seeking souls to shame ! This light which burnt for Italy Through all the blackness of her night, JOHN HAY. 305 She doubted^, once upon a time, Because it took away her sight, She looked and said, "There is no light !' It was thine eyes, poor Italy ! That knew not dark apart from bright. This flame which burnt for Italy, It would not let her haters sleep. They blew at it with angry breath. And only fed its upward leap. And only made it hot and deep. Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep. This light is out in Italy, Her eyes shall seek for it in vain ! For her sweet sake it spent itself. Too early flickering to its wane, — Too long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again ! UNAWARES. The wind was whispering to the vines The secret of the summer /light ; The tinted oriel window gleamed But faintly in the misty light ; Beneath it we together sat In the sweet stQlness of content. Till from a slow-consenting cloud Came forth Diana, bright and bold. And drowned us, ere we were aware, In a great shower of liquid gold ; And, shyly lifting up my eyes, I made acquaintance with your face. And sudden something in me stirred. And moved me to impulsive speech. With little flutterings between. And little pauses to beseech. From your sweet graciousness of mind, Indulgence and a kindly ear. Ah ! glad was I as any bird That softly pipes a timid note. To hear it taken up and trilled Out cheerily by a stronger throat. When, free from discord and constraint. Your thought responded to my thought. I had a carven missal once, With graven scenes of "Christ, his Woe." One picture in that quaint old book Will never from my memorv go, 20 Though merely in a childish wise I used to search for it betimes. It showed the face of God in man Abandoned to his watch of pain. And given of his own good-will To every weaker thing's disdain ; But from the darkness overhead Two pitying angel eyes looked down. How often in the bitter night Have I not fallen on my face. Too sick and tired of heart to ask God's pity in my grievous case; Till the dank deadness of the dark. Receding, left me, pitiless. Then have I said : " Ah ! Christ the Lord ! God sent his angel unto thee ; But both ye leave me to myself, — Perchance ye do not even see ! " Then was it as a mighty stone Above my sunken heart were rolled. Now, in the moon's transfiguring light, I seemed to see you in a dream ; Your listening face was silvered o'er By one divinely radiant beam ; I leant towards you, and my talk Was dimly of the haunting past. I took you through deep soundings where My freighted ships went down at noon, — Gave glimpses of deflowered plains, Blown over by the hot Simoon ; Then I was silent for a space : ' ' God sends no angel unto me ! " My heart withdrew into itself. When lo ! a knocking at the door: ' ' Am I so soon a stranger here. Who was an honored guest before ? " Then looking in your eyes, I knew You were God's angel sent to me! JOHN HAT. [U. S. A.] A WOMAN'S LOVE. A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory Heard this shrill wail ring out from Pur- gatory : "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story ! 306 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. "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. " I do not rage against his high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ; But for my love on earth who mourns for me. "Great Spirit! Let me see my love again And comfort him one hour, and I were fain To pay a thousand years of fire and pain. " Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent That wild vow ! Look, the dial-finger 's bent Down to the last hour of thy punish- ment ! " 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. And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing. She sobbed, "I found him by the sum- mer 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 expiate my sorrow and my sin." The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher I To be deceived in your true heart's desire Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire 1 " I ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. [U. S. A.] ON THE BRIDGE OP SIGHS. It chanceth once to every soul. Within a narrow hour of doubt and dole, Upon Life's Bridge of Sighs to stand, A palace and a prison on each hand. palace of the rose-heart's hue ! How like a flower the warm light falls from you ! prison with the hollow eyes ! Beneath your stony stare no flowers arise. palace of the rose-sweet sin \ How safe the heart that does not enter in 1 blessed prison-walls ! how true The freedom of the soul that chooseth you! ALL THE RIVERS. "All the rivers run into the sea." Like the pulsing of a river. The motion of a song, Wind the olden words along The tortuous windings of my thought, whenever I sit beside the sea. All the rivers run into the sea. you little leaping river. Laugh on beneath your breath ! With a heart as deep as death. Strong stream, go patient, brave and hasting never, I sit beside the sea. All the rivers run into the sea. Why the striving of a river. The passion of a .soul ? Calm the eternal waters roll Upon the eternal shore. Somewhere, whatever Seeks it finds the sea. All the rivers run into the sea. O thou bounding, burning river, Hurrying heart ! — I seem To know (so one knows in a dream> That in the waiting heart of God forever Thou too shalt find the sea. REBECCA S. PALFREY. — WILLIAM C. GANNETT. 307 EEBECCA S. PALFREY. [U. S. A.] WHITE UNDERNEATH. Into a city street, Narrow and noisome, chance had led my feet; Poisonous to every sense ; and the sun's rays Loved not the unclean place. It seemed that no pure thing Its whiteness here would ever dare to bring ; Yet even into this dark place and low, God had sent down his snow. Here, too, a little child Stood by the drift, now blackened and defiled ; And with his rosy hands, in earnest play. Scraped the dark crust away. Checking my hurried pace. To watch the busy hands and earnest face, I heard liim laugh aloud in ])ure delight, That underneath, 't was white. Then, through a broken pane, A woman's voice summoned him in again, With softened mother-tones, that half excused The unclean words she used. And as I lingered near. His baby accents fell upon my ear : "See, I can make the snow again for you, All clean and white and new ! " Ah ! surely God knows best. Our sight is short ; faith trusts to him the rest. Sometimes, we know, he gives to human hands To work out his commands. Perhaps he holds apart. By baby fingers, in that mother's heart. One fair, clean spot that yet may spread and grow. Till all be white as snow. WILLIAM C. GANNETT. [U. S. A.] LISTENING FOR GOD. I HEAR it often in the dark, I hear it in the light, — Where is the voice that calls to me With such a quiet might ? It seems but echo to my thought, And yet beyond the stars ; It seems a heart-beat in a hush, And yet the planet jars. 0, may it be that far within My inmost soul there lies A spirit-sky, that opens with Those voices of surprise ? And can it be, by night and day. That fiimament serene Is just the heaven where God himself The Father, dwells unseen ? God within, so close to me That every thought is plain, Be judge, be friend, be Father still, And in thy heaven reign ! Thy heaven is mine, — my very soul! Thy words are sweet and strong ; They fill my inward silences With music and with song. They send me challenges to right. And loud rebuke my ill ; They ring my bells of victory. They breathe my "Peace, be still!" They ever seem to say, "My child. Why seek me so all day? Now journey inward to thyself. And listen by the way.' MARY G. BRAINERD. [U. S. A.] GOD KNOWETH. I KNOW not what shall befall me, God hangs a mist o'er my eyes. And so, each step of my onward path, He makes new scenes to rise. And every joy he sends me comes As a sweet and glad surprise. SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. , step before me, lead on another year ; past is still in God's keeping, Tture his mercy shall clear, And wiiat looks dark in the distance May brighten as I draw near. For perhaps the dreaded future Has less bitter than I think ; The Lord may sweeten the waters Before I stoop to drink, Or, if Marah must be ilarah. He will stand beside its brink. It may be he keeps waiting Till the coming of my feet Some gift of such rare blessedness. Some joy so strangely sweet. That my lips shall only tremble With the thanks they cannot speak. restful, blissful ignorance ! 'T is blessed not to know. It holds me in those mighty arms Which will not let me go. And hushes my soul to rest On the bosom which loves me so ! So I go on not knowing ; I would not if I might ; 1 would rather walk in the dark with God, Than go alone in the light ; I would rather walk with Him by faith. Than walk alone by sight. My heart shrinks back from trials Which the future may disclose. Yet I never had a sorrow But what the dear Lord chose ; So I send the coming tears back. With the whispered word, " He knows." JOHN W. CHADWICK. [U. S. A.] A SONG OF TRUST. Love Divine, of all that is The sweetest still and best, Fain would I come and rest to-night Upon thy tender breast ; As tired of sin as any child Was ever tired of play. When evening's hush has folded iu The noises of the day ; When just for very weariness The little one will creep Into the arras that have no joy Like holding him in sleep ; And looking upward to thy face. So gentle, sweet, and strong, In all its looks for those who love, So pitiful of wrong, I pray thee turn me not away, For, sinful though I be. Thou knowest everything I need, And all my need of thee. And yet the spirit in my heart Says, Wherefore should I pray That thou shouldst seek me with thy love. Since thou dost seek alway ; And dost not even wait until I urge my steps to thee ; But in the darkness of my life Art coming still to me ? I pray not, then, because I would ; I pray because I must ; There is no meaning in my prayer But thankfulness and trust. I would not have thee otherwise Than M'hat thou ever art : Be still thyself, and then I know We cannot live apart. But still thy love will beckon me. And still thy strength will come, In many ways to bear me up And bring me to my home. And thou wilt hear the thought I mean, And not the words I say ; Wilt hear the thanks among the words That only seem to pray ; As if thou wert not always good. As if thy loving care Could ever miss me in the midst Of this thy temple fair. For, if I ever doubted thee. How could I any more 1 PAUL H. HAYNE. 309 This very night my tossing bark Has reached the happy shore ; And still, for all my sighs, my heart Has sung itself to rest, Love Divine, most far and near, Upon thy tender breast. PAUL H. HAYNE. [U. S. A.] PRE-EXISTENCE. While sauntering through the crowded street. Some half-remembered face I meet. Albeit upon no mortal shore That face, methinks, has smiled before. Lost in a gay and festal throng, I tremble at some tender song, — Set to an air whose golden bars I must have heard in other stars. In sacred aisles I pause to share The blessings of a priestly prayer, — When the whole scene which greets mine eyes In some strange mode I recognize As one whose every mystic part I feel prefigured in my heart. At sunset, as I calmly stand, A stranger on an alien strand, Familiar as my childhood's home Seems the long stretch of wave and foam. One sails toward me o'er the bay, And what he comes to do and say ' I can foretell. A prescient lore Springs from some life outlived of yore. swift, instinctive, startling gleams Of deep soul-knowledge ! not as dreams For aye ye vaguely dawn and die, But oft with lightning certainty Pierce through the dark, oblivious brain, To make old thoughts and memories plain, — Thoughts which perchance must travel back Across the wild, bewUdering track Of countless seons ; memories far, High-reaching as yon paUid star. Unknown, scarce seen whose flickering grace Faints on the outmost rings of space ! FROM THE WOODS. Why should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen. Lament that here, in this half-desert scene. My lot is placed ? At least the poet-winds are bold and loud, — At least the sunset glorifies the cloud. And forests old and proud Rustle their verdurous banners o'er the waste. Perchance 't is best that I, whose Fate's eclipse Seems final, — I, whose sluggish life- wave slips Languid away, — Should here, within these lowly walks, apart From the fierce throbbings of the pop- ulous mart, Commune with mine own heart, While Wisdom blooms from buried Hope's decay. Nature, though wild her forms, sus- tains me still ; The founts are musical, — the barren hill Glows with strange lights ; Through solemn pine-groves the small rivulets fleet Sparkling, as if a Naiad's silvery feet, In quick and coy retreat. Glanced through the star-gleams on calm summer nights ; 310 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. And the great sky, the royal heaven above, Darkens with storms or melts in hues of love ; While far remote, Just where the sunlight smites the woods with fire. Wakens the multitudinous sylvan choir ; Their innocent love's desire Poured in a rill of song from each har- monious throat. My walls are criunbling, but immortal looks Smile on me here from faces of rare books : Shakespeare consoles My heart with true philosophies ; a balm Of spiritual dews from humbler song or psalm Fills me with tender calm, Or througli huslied heavens of soul Mil- ton's deep thunder rolls ! And more than all, o'er shattered wrecks of Fate, The relics of a happier time and state, My nobler life Shines on umiuenched ! deathless love that lies In the clear midnight of those passion- ate eyes ! Joy waneth ! Fortune flies ! "What then ? Thou still art here, soul of my soul, my Wife ! ISA CRAIG KNOX. BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR. A STILLNESS crept about the house, At evenfall, in noontide glare ; Upon the silent hills looked forth The many-windowed House of Quair. The jieacock on the terrace screamed ; Browsed on the lawn the timid hare ; The great trees grew i' the avenue, Calm by the sheltered House of Quair. The pool was still ; around its brim Tlie alders sickened all the air; There came no murmur from the streams, Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, and Quair. The days hold on their wonted pace. And men to court and camp repair, Their part to fill, of good or ill, While women keep the House of Quair. And one is clad in widow's weeds. And one is maiden-like and fair. And day by day they seek the paths About the lonely fields of Quair. To see the trout leap in the streams, The summer clouds reflected there. The maiden loves in pensive dreams To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. Within, in pall-black velvet clad. Sits stately in her oaken chair — A stately dame of ancient name — The mother of the House of Quair. Her daughter broiders hj her side. With heavy drooping golden hair, And listens to her frequent plaint, — "111 fare the brides that come to Quair. "For more than one hath lived in pine. And moi-e than one hath died of cara^ And more than one hath sorely sinned. Left lonely in the House of Quair. "Alas ! and ere thy father died I had not in his heart a share. And now^ — may God forfend her ill — Thy brother brings his bride to Quair." She came ; they kissed her in the hall, They kissed her on the winding stair, They led her to the chamber high. The fairest m the House of Quair. They bade her from the window look. And mark the scene how passing fail', Among whose ways the quiet days Would linger o'er the wife of Quair. "'T is fair," she said on looking forth, "But what although 't were bleak and bare — " She looked the love she did not speak. And broke the ancient curse of Quair. "Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes, His dangers and his toils I share. " What need be said, — she was not one Of the ill-fated brides of Quair, HENRY TIMROD. — WALTER F. MITCHELL. 311 HENRY TIMROD. [U. S. A.] SPRING IN CAROLINA. Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden sxms and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine bums Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons. In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee, And there's a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of Winter in the land. Save where the maple reddens on the lawn. Flushed by the season's dawn ; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind. The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of autumn corn. As yet the turf is dark, althougb you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. In gardens you may note amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth ; And near the snowdrop's tender white and green. The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows need must pass Along the budding grass. And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose's mouth. Still there 's a sense of blossoms yet un. born In the sweet airs of morn ; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart, A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, "Behold me! I am May!" WALTER F. MITCHELL. [U. S. A.] TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. The weather-leech of the topsail shivers, The bow-lines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers. And the waves with the coming squall- cloud blacken. Open one point on the weather-bow. Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island Head? There 's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, And the pilot watches the heaving lead. I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze. Till the muttered order of "i^wW andby!" Is suddenly changed iav" Full for stays!' The ship bends lower before the breeze. As her broadside fair to the blast she lays , And she swifter springs to the rising seas, As the pilot calls, ''Stand by for stays!" It is silence all, as each in his place, With the gatliered coil in his hardened hands. By tack and bowline, by sheet and braci.'. Waiting the watchword impatient stands. 312 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. And the light on Fire Island Head draws near, As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear, "With the welcome call of, "Ready! About!" No time to spare ! It is touch and go ; And the captain growls, "Down, helm! hard down ! " As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, While heaven grows black with the storm- cloud's frown. High o'er the knight-heads flies thespra}', As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; And my shoulder stiff" to the wheel I lay, As I answer, ''Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a lee!" With the swerving leap of a startled steed The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, And the headland white we have left behind. The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse. And belly and tug at the groaning cleats ; The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps ; And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!" Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, Hisses the rain of the rushing squall : The sails are aback from clew to clew, And now is the moment for, "Mainsail, haul!" And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, liy fifty strong arms are swiftly swung : She liolds her way, and I look'with joy Forthe (irst white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. "Let go, and haul!" 'T is the last com- mand, And the head-sails fill to the blast once more; Astern and to leeward lies the land. What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall ? I steady the helm for the open sea ; The first mate clamors, "Belav there. all!" _ ^ ' And the captaia's breath once more comes free. And so off shore let the good ship fly ; Little care I how the gusts may blow, In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry. Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. HAKRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. [U. S. A.] HEREAFTER. Love, when all these years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast, Wlien no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us. And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed, — Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth. Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth ; Fragrance fanning oflP from flowers, melody of summer showers, Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy autumn hearth. That 's our love. But you and I, dear, • — shall we linger with it yet. Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net, — On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen, but you the blossom, Stream on sunset winds and be the haze with which some hill is wet ? Or, beloved, — if ascending, — when we have endowed the world Withtlie best bloom of our being, whither will our way be wliirled, Through wliat vast aTid starry spaces, •■■r.,, . , ,- — —...., I toward what awful holy places, NN itli Its breakers white on the shingly With a white li^lit on our faces, spirit ^"°^^- ' over spirit furled? WILLIAM WINTEK. — JOAQUIN MILLEE. 313 Only this our yearning answers, — where- so'er that way defile, Not a film shall Y)art us through the aeons of that mighty while, In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together. Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of God's gi-eat smile ! SONG. In the summer twilight, While yet the dew was hoar, I went plucking purple pansies Till my love should come to shore. The fishing-lights their dances Were keeping out at sea, And, "Come," I sang, "my true love, Come hasten home to me !" But the sea it fell a-moaning, And the white gulls rocked thereon. And the youngmoon dropped from heaven, And the lights hid, one by one. All silently their glances Slipped down the cruel sea. And, "Wait," cried the night and wind and storm, — "Wait tin I come to thee." WILLIAM WINTER. [U. S. A.] AZRAEL. Come with a smile, when come thou must, Evangel of the world to be, And touch and glorify this dust, — This shuddering dust that now is me, — And from this prison set me free ! Long in those awful eyes T quail. That gaze across the giim profound : Upon that sea there is no sail, Nor any light, nor any sound, From the far shore that girds it round. Only — two still and steady rays, That those twin orbs of doom o'ertop ; Only — a quiet, patient gaze That drinks my being, drop by drop. And bids the pulse of nature stop. Come with a smile, auspicious friend. To usher in the eternal day ! Of these weak terrors make an end. And charm the paltry chains away That bind me to this timorous clay ! And let me know my soul akin To sunrise and the winds of mom, And every grandeur that has been Since this all-glorious world was bom, Nor longer droop in my own scorn. Come, when the way grows dark and chill. Come, when the baffled mind is weak, And in the heart that voice is still Which used in happier days to speak, Or only whispers sadly meek. Come with a smile that dims the sun ! With pitying heart and gentle hand ! And waft me, from a work that 's done. To peace that waits on thy command. In God's mysterious better land! JOAQUIN MILLER. [U. S. A.] FROM "WALKER IN NICARAGUA." Success had made him more than king; Defeat made him the vilest thing In name, contempt or hate can bring : So much the loaded dice of war Do make or mar of character. Speak ill who will of him, he died In all disgrace ; say of the dead His heart was black, his hands were red, — Say this much, and be satisfied. I lay this crade wreath on his dust, Inwove with sad, sweet memories Recalled here by these colder seas. I leave the wild bird with his trust. To sing and say him notliing wrong; I wake no rivalry of song. He lies low in the levelled sand. Unsheltered from the tro])ic sun. And now of all he knew, not one Will speak him fair, in that far land. Perhaps 't was this that made me seek, Disguised, his grave one winter-tide; 314 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. A weakness for the weaker side, A siding with the helpless weak. A palm not far held out a hand ; Hard by a long green bamboo swung, And bent like some great bow unstrung, And quivered like a willow wand; Beneath a broad banana's leaf. Perched on its fruits that crooked hung, A bird in rainbow splendor sung A low, sad song of tempered grief. No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, But at his side a cactus green Upheld its lances long and keen; It stood in hot red sands alone, Jlat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears ; One bloom of crimson crowned its head, A dro]) of blood, so bright, so red. Yet redolent as roses' tears. In my left hand I held a shell. All rosy lipp(!d and pearly red; I laid it by his lowly bed. For he did love so passing well The grand songs of the solemn sea. shell ! sing well, wild, with a will, When storms blow hard and birds be still. The wildest sea-song known to thee ! 1 said some things, with folded hands, Soft whispered in the dim sea-sound. And eyes held humbly to the ground, And frail knees sunken in the sands. He had done more than this for me. And yet I could not well do more: I turned me down the olive shore, And set a sad face to the sea. SUNRISE IN VENICE. Night seems troubled and scarce asleep ; Her brows are gathered in broken rest; Sullen old lion of dark St. Mark, And a star in the east starts up from the deep ; White as my lilies that grow in the west. Hist ! men are passing hurriedly. I see the yellow wide wings of a bark Sail silently over my morning-star. I see men move in the moving dark, Tall and silent as columns are, — (heat sint?wy men that are good to see. With hair jnished back and with open breasts ; Barefooted fishermen seeking their boats. Brown as walnuts and hairy as goats, — Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea, First to their labors and last to their rests. Ships are moving ! I hear a horn ; A silver trumpet it sounds to me. Deep-voiced and musical, far a-sea . . . Answers back, and again it calls. 'T is the sentinel boats that watch the towTi All night, as mounting her watery walls. And watching for jnrate or smuggler. Down Over the sea, and reaching away, And against the east, a soft light falls, — Silvery soft as the mist of morn. And I catch a breath like the breath of day. The east is blossoming ! Yea, a rose, Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss, Sweet as the presence of woman is. Rises and reaches and widens and grows Right out of the sea, as a blossoming tree ; Richer and richer, so higher and higher. Deeper and deeper it takes its hue ; Brighter and brighter it reaches through The space of heaven and the place of stars, Till all is as rich as a rose can be, And my rose-leaves fall into billows of fire. Then beams reach upward as arms from a sea; Then lances and arrows are aimed at me. Then lances and spangles and spars and bars Are broken and shivered and strown on the sea; And around and about me tower and spire Start from the billows like tongues of fire. UNKNOWN. DIFFERENT POINTS OF VIEW. Saith the white owl to the martin folk, In the belfry tower so grim and gray : "Why do they deafen us with these bells? Is any one dead or born to-day?" A martin peeped over the rim of its nest. And answered crossly: "Why, ain't you heard That an heir is coming to the great estate?" "I 'aven't," the owl said, "'pon my word." ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL. 315 "Are men bom so, with that white cock- ade?" Said the little field-mouse to the old brown rat. "Why, you silly child," the sage replied, "This is the bridegroom, — they know him by that." Saith the snail sosnugrnhisdappledshell. Slowly stretching one cautious horn. As the beetle was hurrying by so brisk, Much to his snailship's inward scorn : "Why does that creature ride by so fast ? Has a fire broke out to the east or west?" "Your Grace, he rides to the wedding- feast," — "Let the madman go. What I want's rest." The swallows around the woodman skimmed. Poising and turning on flashing wing ; One said : " H ow liveth this lump of earth ? Intheair, he can neither soar nor spring. "Over the meadows we sweep and dart, Down with the flowers, or up in the skies ; While these poor lumberers toil and slave. Half starved, for how can they catch their jlies?" Quoth the dry-rot worm to his artisans In the carpenter's shop, as they bored away : "Hark to the sound of the saw and file ! What are these creatures at work at, — say? From his covered passage a worm looked out, And eyed the beings so busy o'erhead : "I scarcely know, my lord; but I think They 're making a box to bury their dead!" Says a butterfly with his wings of blue All in a flutter of careless 'oy. As he talks to a dragon-fly over a flower: "Ours is a life, sir, with no alloy. "What are those black things, row and Winding alongby the new-mown hay ? "That is a funeral," says the Ay : „ "The carpenter buries his son to-day. ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL. [U. S. A.] BmCH STREAM. At noon, within the dusty town, Where the wild river rushes down. And thunders hoarsely all day long, I think of thee, my hermit stream, Low singing in thy summer dream, Thine idle, sweet, old, tranquil song. Northward, Katahdin's chasmed pile Looms through thy low, long, leafy aisle. Eastward, Olamon's summit shines ; And I upon thy grassy shore, The dreamful, happy child of yore, Worship before mine olden shrines. Again the sultry noontide hush Is sweetly broken by the thrush. Whose clear bell rings and dies away Beside thy banks, in coverts deep, Where nodding buds of orchis sleep In dusk, and dream not it is day. Again the wild cow-lily floats Her golden-freighted, tented boats. In thy cool coves of softened gloom, O'ershadowed by the whispering reed, And purple plumes of pickerel-weed. And meadow-sweet in tangled bloom. The startled minnows dart in flocks Beneath thy glimmering amber rocks, If but a zephyr stirs the brake ; The silent swallow swoops, a flash Of light, and leaves, with dainty plash, A ring of ripples in her wake. — Without, the land is hot and dim; The level fields in languor swim. Their stubble-grasses brown as dust ; And all along the upland lanes. Where shadeless noon oppressive reigns, Dead roses wear their crowns of rust. Within, is neither blight nor death, The fierce sun woos with ardent breath, But cannot win thy sylvan heart. Only the child who loves thee long. With faithful worsliip pure and strong, Can know how dear and sweet thou art. 316 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. So loved I thee in days gone by, So love I yet, though leagues may lie Between us, and the years divide; — A breath of coolness, dawn, and dew, - A joy forever fresh and true. Thy memory doth with me abide. KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. [U. S. A.] DRIVING HOME THE COWS. Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river lane ; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again. Under the willows, and over the hill. He patiently followed their sober pace ; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face. Only a boy ! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go : Two already were lying dead, Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done. And the frogs were loud in the mead- ow-swamp. Over his shoulder he slung his gun. And stealthily followed the footpath damp. Across the clover, and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim. Though cold was the dew on his hurry- ing feet. And the blind bat's flitting startled him. Thricesince then had thelanes been white. And the orchards sweet with apple- bloom ; And now, when the cows came back at night. The feeble father drove them home. For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain ; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again. The summer day grew cool and late : He went for the cows when the work was done ; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one : Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, — But who was it following close behind ? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue ; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair. Looked out a face that the father knew. For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn. And yield their dead unto life again : And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane. The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb : And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home. LIZZIE G. PARKER. [U. S. A.] ■WAITING. For a foot that will not come. For a song that will not sound, I hearken, wait and moan alway, And weary months go round. Never again in the world Shall that lost footstep be ; Nor sea, nor bird, nor reedy wind Can match that song to me. But in the chants of heaven. And down the golden street. My heart shall single out that song And know that touch of feet. EDWIN ARNOLD. 317 EDWIN ARNOLD. "HE AND SHE." "She is dead ! " they said to him. ' ' Come away ; Kiss her and leave her, thy love is clay ! " They smoothed her tresses of dark brown liair ; On her forehead of stone they laid it fair; Over her eyes that gazed too much They drew the lids with a gentle touch; With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; About her brows and beautiful face Tliey tied her veil and her marriage lace, And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes — Which were the whitest no eye could choose — And over her bosom they crossed her hands. ' * Come away ! " they said ; * ' God under- stands." And there was silence, and nothing there But silence, and scents of eglantere. And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary ; And they said, " As a lady should Ue, lies she." And they held their breath till they left the room. With a shudder, to glance at its still- ness and gloom. But he who loved her too well to dread The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead. He lit his lamp and took the key And turned it, —alone again— he and she. He and she ; but she would not speak, Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek. He and she ; yet she would not smile, Thougli he called her the name she loved erewhile. He and she ; still she did not move To any one passionate whisper of love. Then he said : " Cold lips and breasts without breath. Is there no voice, no language of death? " Dumb to the ear and still to the sense. But to heart and to soul distinct, intenae? ' ' 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 greater tofind how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep ? " Did life roll back its records, dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear? " And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so, what a wisdom love is ? " perfect dead ! dead most dear, I hold the breath of my soul to hear ! " I listen as deep as to horrible hell, As high as to heaven, and you do not tell. " There must be pleasure in dying, sweet. To make you so placid from head to feet! "I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, And 't were your hot tears upon my brow shed; "I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. "You should not ask vainly, with stream- ing eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest sur- prise, "The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring." 318 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Ah, foolish world ! most kind dead ! Though he told me, who will believe it was said ? Who will believe that he heard her say, With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way ; *' The utmost wonder is this, — 1 hear And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear ; " And am your angel, who was your bride, And know tliat, though dead, 1 have never died. " AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA. He who died at Azan sends This to comfort all his friends: Faithful friends ! It lies, I know, Pale and white and cold as suow; And ye say, "Abdallah's dead!" Weeping at the feet and head, 1 can see your falling tears, I can hear your sighs and prayers; Yet 1 smile and whisper this, — "/am not the thing you kiss; Cease your tears, and let it lie; It was mine, it is not 1." Sweet friends ! Wliat the women lave, For its last bed of the grave. Is but a hut which 1 am quitting. Is a garment no more fitting, Is a cage from which, at last, Like a hawk my soul hath passed. Love the inmate, not the room, — The wearer, not the garb, — the plume Of the falcon, not the bars Which kept him from those splendid stars. Loving friends! Be wise and dry Straightway every weeping eye, — Wliat ye lift upon the bier Is not worth a wistful tear. 'T is an empty sea-shell, — one Out of wliich the pearl is gone ; The shell is broken, it lies tiiere ; The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. *T is an earthen jar, whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid That treasure of his treasury, A mind that loved him ; let it lie! Let the shard be earth's once more, Since the gold shines in his store ! Allah glorious ! Allah good ! Now thy world is understood; Now the long, long wonder ends ; Yet ye weep, my erring friends. While the man whom ye call dead. In unspoken bliss, instead, Lives and loves you ; lost, 't is true, V>Y such light as shines for you; But in the light ye cannot see Of unfulfilled felicity, — In enlarging paradise. Lives a life that never dies. Farewell, friends ! Yet not farewell ; Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell. 1 am gone before your face, A moment's time, a little space. When ye come where 1 have stepped. Ye will wonder why ye wept; Ye will know, by wise love taught. That here is all, and there is naught. Weep awhile, if ye are fain, — Sunshine still must ibllow rain; Only not at death, — for death, Now I know, is that first breath Which our souls draw when we enter Life, which is of all life centre. Be ye certain all seems love. Viewed from Allah's throne above ; Be ye stout of heart, and come Bravely onward to your home ! La Allah ilia Allah ! yea! Thou love divine! Thou love alway! He that died at Azan gave This to those who made his grave. UNKNOWN. UNSEEN. At the spring of an arch in the great north tower, High \\y on the wall, is an angel's head; And beneath it is carved a lily flower, Witli delicate wings at the side out spread. IIAERIET 0. NELSON. 319 They say that the sculptor wrought from the face Of his youth's lost love, of his prom- ised bride, And when he had added the last sad grace To the features, he dropped his chisel and died. And the worshippers throng to the shrine below, And the sight-seers come with their curious eyes, But deep in the shadow, where none may know Its beauty, the gem of his carving lies. Yet at early mom on a midsummer's day, "When the sun is far to the north, for the space Of a few short minutes, there falls a ray Through an amber pane on the angel's face. It was Avrought for the eye of God, and it seems That he blesses the work of the dead man's hand With a ray of the golden light that streams On the lost that are found in the deathless land. —4 HAREIET 0. NELSON. [U. S. A.] THE QUIET MEETING. Dear friend of old, whom memory links "With sunny hour and summer weather. Do you with me remember yet That Sabbath mom together, When straying from our wonted ways, From })rayer and song and priestly teacher. Those kind, sweet helps by which the Lord Stoops to his yearning creature, And led by some faint sense of need Which each in each perceived unut- tered, Some craving for an unknown good, That in the spirit fluttered, Our footsteps sought the humble house Unmarked by cross or towering steeple. Where for their First-day gathering came God's plain and simple people ? The air was soft, the sky was large, The grass as gay with golden Jlowers As if the last night's sky had fallen On earth in starry showers. And, as we walked, the apple-trees Shed their late bloom for every comer; Our souls drank deep of joy and peace, For it was youth and summer. Yet through the doorway, rude and low, The plain -robed folk we followed after, Our steps, like theirs, demure and slow, Our lips as free from laughter. We sat apart, but still were near As souls may draw unto each other Who seek through stronger love to God A nobler love to brother. How deep the common silence was ; How pure and sweet those woman faces, Which patience, gentleness, and peace Had stamped with heavenly graces. No noise of prayer came through the hush. No praise sang through the portals lowly, Save merry bird-songs from ^vithout, And even those seemed holy. Then daily toil was glorified. And love was something rarer, finer; The whole earth, sanctified througk Christ, And human life, diviner. And when at length, by lips of age. The silent hour was fitly broken. Our hearts found echo in the words From wise experience spoken. Then at the elder's clasp of hand We rose and met beneath the portal; Some earthly dust our lives had lost. And something gained immortal. Since then, when sermon, psalm, and rite. And solemn organ's tuneful pealing. 320 SOXGS OF THEEE CEN'TTRTES. All fail to raise my sluggish sense To higher thought and feeling, Mr mind goes back the ■winding track Of years whose flight hath left me lonely, Once'more my soul is upward drawn, And hears "the spirit only. "W. J. LKTOX. •MID WlSrUK- MrnwrsTER comes to-morrow My welcome guest to be ; "Vniite-haired, wide-winged sorrow. With Christmas gifts for me. Thy angel, God : — I thank thee still. Thy will be done, thy bener will : I thank thee. Lord I — the whiteness Of winter on my heart Shall keep some gunt of brightness. Though sun and stars depart. Thou smilest on the snow ; thy will Is dread and drear, but lorely stilL DEFESinoXS. WISCOM. The perfect sight of duty ; thought which moulds A rounded life, and its true aims beholds. REVEBEXCE. Obeisance unto greatness understood ; The first step of a human life toward good. SEETTCE. Think what God doth for man ; so mayst thou know How godlike service is, and serve also. DESPATR. The shadow of a slave who turns his back ^.__ , On the light, and cries, "The universe JoVs parience; and the lesson Lazarus is black!" , taught. BOrBT. The mountain's image trembling in the lake: Look up. Perhaps the mountain does not quake. DEFEAT. One of the stairs to heaven. Halt not to count "What you have trampled on. Look up, and mount. FAILTTRE. Who knows? — Each year, as does the wheat-seed, dies: And so God harvests Ms eternities. FOBGITENTESS. The condonation of a wrong. What then ? Even the wrong-doers are otir brother- men! OBSTIXACT. A mule with blinkers. Ay, he goes quite straight, Ktms at the gate-post, and will miss the gate. PBrDEXCE. The saddle-girth of valor. Thou art wise To gird it well, but not around thy eyes. PATBIOXISM. Xot the mere holding a great flag un- furled, But making it the goodliest in the world. XAERO'VrN'ESS. Be narrow ! — as the bud, the flame, the dart; But narrow in thy aim, not at thy heart. WEALTH. Cornelia's jewels ; blind old Milton's thought ; JIAEGAEET J. PEESTON. — EEASTUS W. ELLSWOETH. 521 MAEaAEET J. PEESTOX. li:. s. A.] BZADY. I worxD be ready, Loid, Mt house in order set, Xone of the work thou gavest me To do, nnfinisiied vet. I would be watching. Lord, With lamp well trimmed and clear, Quick to throw open wide the door, What time thou drawest near. I would be waiting. Lord, Because I cannot know If in the night or morning watch, I mar be called to go. I would be working. Lord, Each day, each hour, for thee ; Assured that thus I wait thee well. Whene'er thy coming be. I would he living. Lord, As ever in thine eye ; For whceo lives the nearest thee The fittest is to die. A EIPJ>-S srrsisTET. Fbom his home in an Eastern bungalow. In sight of the everlasting snow Of the grand Himalayas, row on row. Thus wrote mv Mend : — "I had travelled far From the Afghan towers of Candahar, Through the sand-white plains of Sinde- Sagar; 1 ' ' And once, when the dafly march was o'er, As tired I sat in my tented door, Hope failed me, as never it failed before. | "In swarming city, at wayside fane. By the Indus' bank, on the scorching . plain, ' I had taught, — and my teaching all seemed vain. " 'Xo glimmer of light (T sighed) appears ; The Moslem's Fate and ^e Buddhist's feai3 :^1 Have gloomed their worship this thoa- sand years. " 'For Christ and his tnith I stand alone In the midst of millions : a sand-«»TaiB blown Arairjt yon temple of aii;ir:Lt stone •■ 'As soon may level it '. ' Fa;:l fcrs&ck My sonL as I turned on the [i- lo k>jk : - .--:. r. : ^, my saddened way I took "To its lofty roof, for the cooler air: T _. _ . _ J njarvelled; — how crumbled TL C *%a.^- 1 "For, - 1 deemed so firm and fair ! : of themassn-estone^ :*- ^ --; done, --Town : " Whose gradnal The crevice, an i The temple, wLi._ stand exrand *'The tree in its living verdure ! — Who Could ocHnpa^ the thought? — kTi.-. \izi that flew Hitherward, dropping a s^ . :i : ^"^'^, "Did more to shiver thU ar Than earthquake, — war. — -- . all The centuries, in their lapse a l : , — or Asmv- elt by the riven g: ' '"''X)k off its we: jlearonthe:: ' ' ' The living seeds I have dropped remain In the deft : Lord, qnicken inxh. dew and rain, TTien temple and tDosqne shall be tent in twain )•" EEASTTS w. ELLSWOEliL [r. ^ A.] U HAT IS THK USK? I SAW a man, by some accounted wise. For some things said and done before their eyes. 322 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Quite overcast, and in a restless muse, Pacing a patli about, And often giving out : "What is the use?" Then I, with true respect : "What meanest thou By those strange words, and that unset- tled brow? Health, wealth, the fair esteem of ample views, To these things thou art bom But he, as one forlorn : "What is the use?" "I have surveyed the sages and their books, Man, and the natural world of woods and brooks. Seeking that perfect good that I would choose ; But find no perfect good. Settled and understood. What is the use? "Life, in a poise, hangs trembling on the beam, Even in a breath boundingto each extreme Of joy and sorrow; therefore I refuse AH beaten ways of bliss. And only answer this : What is the use ? •'The hoodwinked world is seeking hap- piness. 'Which way!' they cry, 'here?' 'no!' 'there?' 'who can guess?' And so they grope, and grope, and grope, and cruise On, on, till life is lost. At blindnian's with a ghost. What is the use ? "Love first, with most, then wealth, dis- tinction, fame, Quicki'ii tlie blood and spirit on the game. Sonic try tlicni all, and all alike accuse : 'I have been all,' said one, 'And find that all is none.' What is the use ? "In woman's love we sweetly are undone, Willing to attract, but harder to be won, Hardertokeepisslicwho.se love we choose. Loves are like flowers that grow In soils on fire below. What is the use? "Some pray for wealth, and seem to pray aright ; They heap until themselves are out of sight ; Yet stand, in charities, not over shoes, And ask of their old age As an old ledger page, What is the use ? . . . . "The strife for fame and the high praise of power. Is as a man, who, panting up a tower. Bears a great stone, then, straining all his thews, Heaves it, and sees it make A splashing in a lake. What is the use ? . . . . "Should some new star, in the fair even- ing sky, Kindle a blaze, startling so keen an eye Of flamings eminent, athwart the dews, Our thoughts would say. No doubt That star will soon burn out. What is the use ? "Who'll care for me, when I am dead and gone ? Not many now, and surely, soon, not one ; And should I sing like an immortal Muse, Men, if they read the line, Eeacl for their good, not mine ; Wliat is the use ? . . . . "Spirit of Beauty! Breath of golden lyres! Perpetual tremble of immortal wires I Divinely torturing rapture of the Muse ! Conspicuous wretchedness ! Thou starry, sole success ! — What is the use ? ' ' Doth not all struggle tell, upon its brow. That he who makes it is not easy now, But hopes to be ? Vain hope that dost abuse ! Coquetting with thine eyes, And fooling him who sighs. What is the use ? "Go pry the lintels of the pyramids; Lift the old kings' mj'sterious eofiiii-lids — This dust was theirs whose names these stones confuse. These mighty monuments Of mighty discontents. What is the use ? EEASTTJS W. ELLSWORTH. 323 " Did not he sum it all , whose Gate of Pearls Blazed royal Ophir, Tyre, and Syrian girls, — 'i'he great, wise, famous monarch of the Jews? Though rolled in grandeur vast, He said of all, at last : What is the use ? "0, but to take, of life, the natural good, Even as a hermit cavemed in a wood. More sweetly tills my sober-suited views. Than sweating to attain Any luxurious pain. What is the use ? "Give me a hermit's life, without his beads, — His lantern-jawed, and moral-mouthing creeds ; Systems and creeds the natural heart abuse. What need of any book, Or spiritual crook ? What is the use ? "I love, and God is love; and I behold Man, Nature, God, one triple chain of gold, — Nature in all sole oracle and muse. What should I seek, at all, More than is natural? What is the use?" Seeing this man so heathenly inclined, — So wilted in the mood of a good mind, I felt a kind of heat of earnest thought ; And studying in reply. Answered him, eye to eye: Thou dost amaze me that thou dost mis- take The wanderingrivers for the fountain lake. W^hat is the end of living? — happiness? An end that none attain. Argues a purpose vain. Plainly, this world is not a scope for bliss. But duty. Yet we see not all that is. Or may be, some day, if we love the light. What man is, in desires. Whispers where man aspires. But what and where are we ? what now — to-day? Souls on a globe that spins our lives away,— A multitudinous world, where Heaven and Hell, Strangely in battle met, Their gonfalons have set. Dust though we are, and shall return to dust. Yet being born to battles, fight we must ; Under which ensign is our only choice. We know to wage our best, God only knows the rest. Then since we see about us sin and dole, And some things good, why not, with hand and soul. Wrestle and succor out of wrong and sorrow, — Grasping the swords of strife, Making the most of life ? Yea, all that we can wield ij worth the end, If sought as God's and man's most loyal friend. Naked we come into the world, and take Weapons of various skill, — Let us not use them ill. As for the creeds, Nature is dark at best; And darker still is the deep human breast. Therefore consider well of creeds and books. Lest thou mayst somewhat fail Of things beyond the vail. Nature was dark to the dim starry age Of wistful Job : and that Athenian .sage. Pensive in piteous thought of Faith's distress ; For still she cried, with tears : "More light, ye crystal spheres !" But rouse thee, man ! Shake off this hideous death ! Be man ! Stand up ! Draw in a mighty breath ! This world has quite enough emasculate hands, Dallying with doubt and sin. Come — here is work — begin! Come, here is work — and a rank field — begin. Put thou thine edge to the great weeds of sin; 324 SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. So shalt thou find the use of life, and see Thy Lord, at set of sun. Approach and say, "Well done !" This at the last : They clutch the sapless fruit. Ashes and dust of the Dead Sea, who suit Their course of life to compass happiness ; But be it understood That, to be greatly good, All is the use. TOM TAYLOR. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. (From " The London Punch.") You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer. His length of shambling limb, his fur- rowed face. His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair. His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease. His luck of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please. You, whose smart pen backed up the jjcucil's laugh. Judging each step, as though the way were plain ; Kcckless, so it could point its paragraph, Of chiefs perplexity or people's pain. Beside this corpse, that bears for wind- ing-sheet The stars and stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurril-jester, is there room for you? Yes, he had lived to shame me from my sneer. To lame my pencil, and confute my pen,— To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of men. My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, Noting howtooccasion's height he rose, How his quaint wit mide home-truth seem more true, How, iron-like, his temper grew by bLows. How humble, yet how hopeful he could be . How in good fortune and in ill the same: Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he. Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. He went about his work, — such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, — As one who knows, where there 's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good gi'ace command ; Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow. That God makes instruments to work his will, If but that will we can arrive to know. Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. So he went forth to battle on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Eight's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwart- ing mights, — The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron bark that turns the lumbertu-s axe, The rapid that o'er bears the boatman's toil, The prairie, hiding the mazed wander- er's tracks. The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear, — Such were the needs that helped his youth to train : MRS. MILES. 325 Rough culture,— but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. So he grew up, a destined work to do, Aud lived to do it ; four long-suffering years' 111 -fate, ill-feeling, ill -report, lived through. And then he heard the hisses change to cheers. The taunts to tribute, the ahuse to praise, And took both with the same unwaver- ing mood : Till, as he came on light, from darkling days. And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon had, between the goal and him, Keached from behind his back, a trigger prest, — And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest ! The words of mercy were upon his lips. Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen. When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good- will to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame ! Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high ; Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came. A deed accurst ! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore ; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out. Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven ; And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be for- given. MRS. MILES. HYMN TO CHRIST. Thou, who didst stoop below To drain the cup of woe, Wearing the form of frail mortality, Thy blessed labors done, Thy crown of victory won, Hast passed from earth, — passed to thy throne on high. Our eyes heboid thee not, Yet hast thou not forgot Those who have placed their hope, their trust, in thee: Before thy Father's face Thou hast prepared a place. That where thou art, there may they also be. It was no path of ilowers. Through this dark world of ours, Beloved of the Father, thou didst tread ; And shall we in dismay Shrink from the narrow way. When clouds and darkness are around it spread ? Thou who art our life, Be with us through the strife ; AVas not thy head by earth's fierce tem- pests bowed? Raise thou our eyes above To see a Father's love Beam, like a bow of promise, through the cloud. E'en through the awful gloom, Which hovers o'er the tomb, That light of love our guiding star shall be ; Our spirits shall not dread The shadowy way to tread. Friend! Guardian! Saviour! which doth lead to thee ! 326 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. F. M. FINCH. [U. S. A.] THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead; — Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the judgment day ; — Under the one, the Blue ; Under the other, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe;^ Under the sod and the dew, AVaiting the judgment day ; — Under the roses, the Blue"; Under the lilies, the Gray. So with an equal splendor The morning sun-rays fall. With a touch, impartially tender. On the blossoms blooming for aU; — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day ; — 'Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain; — Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the judgment day; — Wet with the rain, the Blue ; Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding. The generous deed was done ; In the storm of the years that are fading, ^o braver battle was won ; — Un.ler the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; — Under tlie blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war-cry sever. Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When tiiey laureJ the graves of our dead ! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day ;- Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. HENRY ABBEY. THE STATUE. In Athens, when all learning centred there. Men reared a column of surpassing height In honor of Minerva, wise and fair. And on the top, that dwindled to the sight, A statue of the goddess was to stand. That wisdom might obtain in all the land. And he who, with the beauty in his heart. Seeking in faultless work immortal youth, Would mould this statue with the finest art. Making the wintry marble glow with truth. Should gain the prize. Two sculptors sought the fame ; The prize they craved was an enduring name. Alcamenes soon carved his little best ; But Phidias, beneath a dazzling thought That like a bright sun in a cloudless west Lit up his wide, great soul, with pure love wrought A statue, and its face of changeless stone With calm, far-sighted wisdom towered and shone. Then to be judged the labors were un- veiled ; But at the marble thought, that by degrees Of hardship Phidias cut, the people railed. "The lines are coarse; the form too large," said these; "And he who sends this rough result ol haste Sends scorn, and offers insult to our taste. * JOHN BURROUGHS. — SARAH WOOLSEY. 327 Alcamenes* praised work was lifted high Upon the capital where it might stand ; But there it seemed too small, and 'gainst the sky- Had no proportion from the uplooking land; So it was lowered, and quickly put aside. And the scorned thought was mounted to be tried. Surprise swept o'er the faces of the crowd, And changed them as a sudden breeze may change A field of fickle grass, and long and loud Their mingled shouts to see a sight so strange. The statue stood completed in its place. Each coarse line naelted to a line of grace. So bold, great actions, that are seen too near. Look rash and foolish to unthinking eyes ; They need the past for distance to ap- pear In their true grandeur. Let us yet be wise And not too soon our neighbor's deed malign. For what seems coarse is often good and fine. JOHN BMKOUGHS. [U. S. A.] "WAITING. Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea ; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate. For lo ! my own shall come to me. I stay my haste, I make delays. For what avails this eager pace ? I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face. Asleep, awake, by night or day. The friends I seek are seeking me ; No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny. What matter if I stand alone ? I wait with joy the coming years ; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And gamer up its fruit of tears. The waters know their own and draw Thebrook that springs in yonder height ; So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight. The stars come nightly to the sky ; The tidal wave unto the sea ; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me. SAEAH WOOLSEY. [U. S. A.] IN THE MIST. Sitting all day in a silver mist. In silver silence all the day, Save for the low, soft hiss of spray And the lisp of sands by waters kissed, As the tide draws up the bay. Little I hear and nothing I see. Wrapped in that veil by fairies spun ; The solid earth is vanished for me And the shining hours speed noiselessly, A woof of shadow and sun. Suddenly out of the shifting veil A magical bark, by the sunbeams lit. Flits like a dream — or seems to flit — With a golden prow and a gossamer sail, And the waves make room for it. A fair, swift bark from some radiant realm, Its diamond cordage cuts the sky In glittering lines, all silently A seeming spirit holds the helm And steers. Will he pass me by? Ah ! not for me is the vessel here, Noiseless and swift as a sea-bird's flight She swerves and vanishes from the sight ; No flap of sail, no parting cheer, — She has passed into the light. Sitting some day in a deeper mist, Silent, alone, some other day. 328 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. An unknown bark, from an unknown bay, By unknown waters lapped and kissed. Shall near me through the spray. No flap of sail, no scraping of keel. Shadowy, dim, with a banner dark, It will hover, will pause, and 1 shall feel A hand which grasps me, and shivering steal To the cold strand, and embark. Embark for that far, mysterious realm Where the fathomless, trackless waters flow. Shall I feel a Presence dim, and know Thy dear hand. Lord, upon the helm. Nor be afraid to go ? And through black waves and stormy blast And out of the fog-wreaths, dense and dun. Guided by thee, shall the vessel run. Gain the fair haven, night being past, And anchor in the sun ? JOHN JAMES PIATT. [O. S. A.] THE MORNING STREET. Alone I walk the morning street. Filled with the silence vague and sweet : All seems as strange, as still, as dead, As if unnumbered years had fled. Letting the noisy Babel lie I'reathless and dumb against the sky; The light wind walks with me alone Where the hot day flame-like was blown, Where the wheels roared, the dust was beat ; The dew is in the morning street. Where are the restless throngs that pour Along this mighty corridor While tlie noon shines? — the hurrying crowd Whose footsteps make the city loud, — The myriad faces, — hearts that beat No more in tlie deserted street ? Tlinse footsteps in their dreaming maze Cross thresholds of forgotten days ; Those faces brighten from the years In rising suns long set in tears ; Those hearts, — far in the Past they beati Unheard within the morning street. A cit}' of the world's gray prime, Lost in some desert far from Time, Where noiseless ages, gliding through, Have only sifted sand and dew, — Yet a mysterious hand of man Lying on all the haunted plan. The passions of the human heart Quickening the marble breast of Art, — • Were not more strange to one who first Upon its ghostly silence burst Than this vast quiet where the tide Of life, upheaved on either side. Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat With human waves the morning street. Ay, soon the glowing morning flood Breaks through the charmed solitude : This silent stone, to music won. Shall murmur to the rising sun ; The busy place, in dust and heat, Shall rush with wheels and swarm with feet; The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream Unseen within the morning gleam ; The life shall move, the death be plain ; The bridal throng, the funeral train, Together, face to f;ice, shall meet And pass within the morning street. RICHAKD W. GILDER. [U. S. A.] DAWN. The night was dark, though sometimes a taint star A little while a little space made bright. The night 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 WILUAM BELL SCOTT. 329 Eose-colored like the sky. A white gull flew Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East, Where slowly the rose gathered and in- creased. It was as on the opening of a door By one that in his hand a lamp doth hold, Whose Hame is hidden by the garment's fold, — The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. More bright the East became, the ocean turned Dark and more dark against the bright- ening 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 burned ; Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, A blade of gold flashed on the horizon's rim. THE SOWER. A Sower went forth to sow, His eyes were wild with woe ; He crushed the flowers beneath his feet, Nor smelt the perfume, warm and sweet, That prayed for pity everywhere. He came to a field that was harried By iron, and to heaven laid bare : He shook the seed that he carried O'er that brown and bladeless place. He shook it, as God shakes hail Over a doomed land. When lightnings interlace The sky and the earth, and his wand Of love is a thunder-flail. Thus did that Sower sow ; His seed was human blood, And tears of women and men. And I, who near him stood. Said : When the crop comes, then There will be sobbing and sighing, Weeping and wailing and crying. And a woe that is worse than woe. II. It was an autumn day When next I went that way. And what, think you, did 1 see ? What was it that I heard ? The song of a sweet- voiced bird ? Nay, — but the songs of many. Thrilled through with praising prayer. Of all those voices not any Were sad of memory : And a sea of sunlight flowed. And a golden harvest glowed ! On my face I fell down there ; I hid my weeping eyes, I said : God, thou art wise ! And I thank thee, again and again, For the Sower whose name is Fain. WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. THE DAKCE. (From " The Witch's Ballad.") 0, I HAE come from far away, From a warm land far away, A southern land ayont the sea. With sailor lads about the mast MeiTy and canny and kind to me. And I hae been to yon town. To try my luck in yon town : Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too, Right braw we were to pass the gate Wi' gowden clasps on girdles blue. Mysie smiled wi' miming mouth, Innocent mouth, miming mouth ; Elspie wore her scarlet gown, Nort's gray eyes were unco' gleg. My Castile comb was like a crown. We walked abreast all up the street, Into the market uj) the street : Our hair wi' marygolds was wound, Our bodices wi' love-knots laced. Our merchandise wi' tansy bound. Nort had chickens, I had cocks. Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks; Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes. For a wee groat or a pound. We lost nae time wi' gives and takes. SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. ilae time, for weel we knew, /our sleeves fu' weel we knew, tn the gloaming came that night, _ ,ck nor drake, nor hen nor cock, Would be found by candlelight. When our chaffering a' was done. All was paid for, sold and done, We drew a glove on ilka hand. We sweetly curtsied each to each, And deftly danced a saraband. The market lasses looked and laughed. Left their gear and looketl and laughed ; They made as they would join the game, But soon their mithers, wild and wud, Wi' whack and screech they stopped the same. Sae loud the tongues o' raudies grew. The flitin' and the skirlin' grew, At a' the windows i' the place, Wi" spoons and knives, wi' needle or awl, AVas thrust out ilka hand and face. And down ea^h stair they thronged anon ; Gentle, simj)le, thronged anon ; Souter and tailor, frowzy Nan, Tlie ancient widow young again Simpering behind her fan. Without choice, against their will. Doited, dazed against their will, The market lassie and her mither, The farmer and his husbandman. Hand in hand danced a' thegether. Slow at first, but faster soon, Still increasin' wild and fast. Hoods and mantles, hats and hose, 151indly doffed, and frae them cast, Left them naked, heads and toes. They would hae torn us limb frae limb. Dainty limb frae dainty limb ; But never aiie o' them could win Across the line that 1 had drawn Wi" bleeding thumb a-witherskin. There was Jeff the provost's son, Jeff the provost's only son ; Tiiere was Father Auld himsel', The Lombard frae the hostelrie. And the lawyer Peter Fell. All (Tondly men we singled out, Willed them well and singled out, And drew them by the left hand in, Mysie the i)riest, and Elspie won The Lombard, Nort the lawyer curie, And I my mysel' the provost's son. Then wi' cantrip kisses seven. Three times round wi' kisses seven, Warped and woven there spun we. Arms and legs and flaming hair, Like a whirlwind on the sea. Like the wind that sucks the sea, Over and in and on the sea. Good sooth, it was a mad delight : And ilka man o' all the four Shut his eyes and laughed outright, — Laughed as long as they had breath. Laughed while they had sense or breath ; And close about us coiled a mist Of gnats and midges, wasps and flies ; Like the whirlwind shaft it rist. Drawn up was I right off my feet. Into the mist and off my feet; And, dancing on each chimney-top, I saw a thousand darling imps Keeping time wi' skip and hop. We ^11 gang ance mair to yon town, Wi' better luck to yon town : We '11 walk in silk and cramoisie. And 1 shall wed the prevost's son ; My lady o' the town 1 '11 be ! For I was born a crowned king's child, Born and nursed a king's child, King o' a land ayont the sea. Where the Blackamoor kissed me first And taught me art and glamouiie. The Lombard shall be Elspie's man, Elspie's gowden husbandman ; Nort shall take the lawyer's hand ; The priest shall swear another vow. We '11 dance again the saraband ! JOSEPH BRENNAN. COME TO ME, DEAREST. Come to me, dearest, I 'm lonely with- out tliee, Day-time and night-time, I 'm thinking about thee ; CHARLES G. LELAND. 331 Kiglit-time and day-time, 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 inthy lovingness, queenly and holy. Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, Telling of spring and its joyous renew- ing And thoughts of thy love, and its mani- fold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. Spriugof my spirit, Mayof my bosom, Shine out on my soul, till 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. Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, Where shadow and sunshine are chas- ing each other ; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple; — 0, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened ; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love. As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love : I cannot weep but your 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 OD 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 arms which alone should caress thee. Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee ! CHARLES G. LELMD. [U. S. A.] THE MUSIC-LESSON OF COlfFtJCITJS. The music-lesson of Koung-tseu the wise, Known as Confucius in the western world. Of all the sages of the Flowery Land None knew so well as great Confucius The ancient rites ; and when his mother died. Three years he mourned alone beside her tomb As the Old Custom bade, nor did he miss A single detail of the dark old forms Required of the bereaved, for he had made Himself a model for all living men : A mirror and a pattern of the Past. Now when the years of mourning with their rites Were at an end, Confucius came forth And wandered as of old with other men, Giving his counsel unto many kings; But still the hand of grief was on hi heart, And his dark hue set forth his darkened hours. To drive away these sorrows from hid soul, 332 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. Eemembering that music had been made A moral motive in the golden books Of wisdom by the sacred ancestors, He played upon the Kin — the curious lute Invented by Fou-Hi in days of ohl ; Fou-Hi of the bull's head and dragon's form, The Lord of Learning who upraised mankind From being silent brutes to singing men. In vain Confucius played upon the lute ; He found that music would not be to him What it had been of old, — a pastime gay: For he had borne through three long years of grief Stupendous knowledge, and his mighty soul. Grasping the lines which link aU earthly lore. Had been by suffering raised to greater power : For he who knows and suffers, if he will May raise himself unnumbered scales o'er man. The music spoke no more its wonted sounds, But whispered mysteries in a broken tongue Which urged him sorely. Then Con- fucius said : •' secret Music ! sacred tongue of God ! I hear thee calling to me, and I come ! Of old 1 did but know thy outer form. And dreamed not of the spirit hid within ; The Goddess in the Lotus. Yes, I come. And will not rest, — nor will I calm my doubt Till I have seen thee plainly with mine eyes. And palpably have touched thee with my hand, Then shall I know thee, — raised to life for me For what thou truly art. Lo ! I have heard That in the land of Kin a master lives, So deeply skilled in music, that mankind Begin attain to give a glowing faith Unto till' golden stories wliieh are told Of the strange harmonies which built the world, And of the melody whose key is God. Now I will travel to the laud of Kin, And know this sage of music, great Siang, And learn the secret lore which hides within All sweet well-ordered sounds." He went his way. Nor rested till he stood before the man. Thus spoke Siang unto Confucius : "Of all the arts, great Music is the art To raise the soul above all earthly storms ; For in it lies that purest harmony Which lifts us over self and up to God. Thou who hast studied deeply the ^oi^a — • The eight great symbols of created things — Knowest the sacred power of the line Which when unbroken flies to all the worlds As light unending, — but in broken forms Falls short as sky and earth, clouds, winds, and fire. The deep blue ocean and the mountain high, And the red lightning hissing in the wave. The mighty law which formed what thou canst see. As clearly lives in all that thou canst hear, And more than this, in all that thou canst feel. Here, take thy lute in hand. I teach the air Made by the sage Wen Wang of ancient days." Confucius took the lute and played the air Till all his soul seemed passing into song ; Then he fell deep into the solemn chords As though his body and the lute were one. And every chord a wave which bore him on Through the great sea of ecstasy. His hands Then ceased to play, — but in his raptured look They saw him following out the harmony. Five days went by, and still Confucius Played all day long the ancient simple air; CHAELES G. LELAND. 333 And when Siang would teach him more, he said: "Not yet, my master, I would seize the thought. The subtle thought which hides within the tune." To which the master answered: "It is well. Take five days more!" And when the time was passed Unto Siang thus spoke Confucius : "I do begin to see, — yet what I see Is very dim. I am as one who looks And nothing sees except a luminous cloud : Give me but five more days, and at the end If I have not attained the great idea Hidden of old within the melody, I will leave music as beyond my power." "Do as thou wilt, pupil !" cried Siang In deepest admiration; "never yet Had I a scholar who was like to thee." And on the fifteenth day Confucius rose And stood before Siang, and cried aloud : "The mist which shadowed me is blown away, I am as one who stands upon a cliff And gazes far and wide upon the world, For I have mastered every secret thought. Yea, every shadow of a feeling dim "Which flitted through the spirit of Wen Wang When he composed that air. I speak to him, I hear him clearly answer me again ; And more than that, I see his very form : A man of middle stature, with a hue Half blended with the dark and with the fair; His features long, and large sweet eyes which beam With great benevolence, — a noble face ! His voice is deep and full, and all his air Inspires a sense of virtue and of love. 1 know that I behold the very man, The sage of ancient days, Wen Wang the just." Then good Siang lay down upon the dust. And said : " Thou art my master. Even thus The ancient legend, known to none but me. Describes our first great sire. And thou hast seen That which I never yet myself beheld. Though I have played the sacred song for years. Striving with all my soul to penetrate Its mystery unto the master's form, JV''hilst thou hast reached it at a single bound : — Henceforth the gods alone can teach thee tune." MINE OWN. And 0, the longing, burning eyes ! And 0, the gleaming hair Which waves around me, night and day, O'er chamber, hall, and stair ! And 0, the step, half dreamt, half heard ! And 0, the laughter low ! And memories of merriment Which faded long ago ! 0, art thou Sylph,— or truly Self, — Or either at thy choice ? 0, speak in breeze or beating heart, But let me hear thy voice ! "0, some do call me Laughter, love; And some do call me Sin" : — "And they may call thee what they will, So I thy love may win. "And some do call me Wantonness, And some do call me Play" : — ' ' O, they might call thee what they would If thou wert mine alway ! " "And some do call me Sorrow, love, And some do call me Tears, And some there be who name me Hope, And some that name me Fears. "And some do call me Gentle Heart, And some Forgetfulness " : — " And if thou com'st as one or all. Thou comest but to bless !" "And some do call me Life, sweetheart. And some do call me Death ; And he to whom the two are one Has won my heart and faith." She twined her white arms round his neck: — The tears fell down like rain. "And if I live or if I die, We'll never part again." 334 SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. HELEN BARRON BOSTWICK. [U. S. A.] TJRVASI. T IS a story told by Kalidasa, — Hindoo poet, — in melodious rhjTne, How with train of maidens, young Urvasi Came to keep great Indra's festal time. 'T was her part in worshipful confession Of the god-name on that sacred day. Walking Hower-crowned in the long pro- cession, "I love Puru-shotta-ma" to say. Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges, Heaven -descended, soon to heaven withdrawn, Fairer than the moon-flower of the Ganges, Was Urvasi, Daughter of the Dawn. But it happened that the gentle maiden Loved one Puru-avas, — fateful name ! — And her heart, with its sweet secret laden. Faltered when her time of utterance came. "I love" — then she stopped, and people wondered ; "I love" — she must guard her secret well ; Then from sweetest lips that ever blun- dered, "I love Puru-avas, " trembling fell. Ah, what terror seized on poor Urvasi ! Misty grew the violets of her eyes. And her form bent like a broken daisy, While around her rose the mocking cries. But great Indra said, "The maid shall marry Him whose image in her faithful heart She so near to that of God doth carry. Scarce her lips can keep their names apart." Call it then not weakness or dissem- bling, If, in striving the high name to reach. Through our voices runs the tender trembling Of an earthly name too dear for speech ! Ever dwells the lesser in the greater ; In God's love the human : we by these Know he holds Love's simplest stam- mering sweeter Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees. UNKNOWN. THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL. Up on the breezy headland the fisher- man's grave they made, Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed ; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June, And under the cliffs the billows were chanting their ceaseless time : For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore, Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more. The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird, and the priest's low tone were blent In the breeze that blew from the moor- land, all laden with country scent ; But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains. Or of lilies deep in the wild-wood, or roses gemming the lanes. Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed men who gathered around the grave. Where lay the mate who had fought with them the battle of wind and wave. How boldly he steered the coble across the foaming bar. When the sky was black to the eastward and the breakers whiteon the Scar ! How his keen eye caught the squall ahead, how his strong hand furled the sail. As we drove o'er the angry waters before the raging gale ! How cheery he kept all the long dark night ; and never a parson spoke Good words, like those he said to us, when at last the morning broke ! So thought the dead man's comrades, as silent and sad they stood, W^lxile the prayer was prayed, the blessing said, and the dull earth struck the wood ; UNKNOWN. 335 And the widow's sob and the orphan's wail jarred through the joyous air ; How could the light wind o'er the sea, hlow on so fresh and fair? How could the gay waves laugh and leap, landward o'er sand and stone, While he, who knew and loved them all lay lapped in clay alone ? But for long, when to the beetling heights the snow-tipped billows roll, When the cod, and skate, and dogfish dart around the herring shoal ; When gear is sorted, and sails are set, and the merry breezes blow. And away to the deep sea-harvest the stalwart reapers go, A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they will give to him who lies Where the clover springs, and the heather blooms, beneath the northern skies. JOHN C. FREMONT. ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUN- TAINS IN WINTER, AFTER MANY YEARS. Long years ago I wandered here, In the midsummer of the year, — Life's summer too ; A score of horsemen here we rode, The mountain world its glories showed, All fair to view. These scenes in glowing colors drest. Mirrored the life within my breast, Its world of hopes ; The whispering woods and fragrant breeze That stiired the grass in verdant seas On billowy slopes. And glistening crag in sunlit sky, Mid snowy clouds piled mountains high, Were joys to me ; My path was o'er the prairie wide, Or here on grander mountain-side, To choose, all free. The rose that waved in morning air. And spread its dewy fragrance there In careless bloom, Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue, O'er my glad life its color threw And sweet perfume. Kow changed the scene and changed the eyes. That here once looked on glowing skies, Where summer smiled ; These riven trees, this wind-swept plain Now show the winter's dread domain, Its fury wild. The rocks rise black from storm-packed snow. All checked the river's pleasant flow, Vanished the bloom ; These dreary wastes of frozen plain Reflect my bosom's life again, Now lonesome gloom. The buoyant hopes and busy life Have ended all in hateful strife. And thwarted aim. The world's rude contact killed the rose, No more its radiant color shows False roads to fame. Backward, amidst the twilight glow Some lingering spots yet brightly show On hard roads won. Where still some grand peaks mark the way Touched by the light of parting day And memory's sun. But here thick clouds the mountainshide. The dim horizon bleak and wide No pathway shows, And rising gusts, and darkening sky. Tell of "the night that cometh," nigh. The brief day's close. UNKNOWN. JULY DAWNING. We left the city, street and square. With lamplights glimmering through and through. And turned us toward the suburb, where — Full from the east — the fresh wind blew. One cloud stood overhead the sun, — A glorious trail of dome and spire, — Ihe last star flickered, and was gone; The first lark led the matin choir. 336 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick -dewed the bramble by the way; The lichen had a lovelier red, The elder-flower a fairer gray. And there was silence on the land. Save when, from out the city's fold. Stricken by Time's remorseless wand, A bell across the morning tolled. The beeches sighed through all their boughs ; The gusty pennons of the pine Swayed in a melancholy drowse, But with a motion sternly fine. One gable, full against the sun, Flooded the garden-space beneath With spices, sweet as cinnamon. From all its honeysuckled breath. Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke. The windmill shook its slanted arms, The sun was up, the country woke ! And voices sounded mid the trees Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees, — From fields which promised tented sheaves ; Till the day waxed into excess. And on the misty, rounding gray, — One vast, fantastic wilderness. The glowing roofs of London lay. UNKNOWN. THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS. The sea is calling, calling. AVife, is there a log to spare? Fling it down on the hearth and call them in, The boys and girls with their merry din, 1 am loth to leave you all just yet, In the light and the noise I might forget. The voice in the evening air. The sea is calling, calling, Along the hollow shore. I know each nook in the rocky strand. And the crimson weedsonthegoldeu sand, And the worn old cliff where the sea- pinks cling. And the winding caves where the echoes ring. I shall wake them nevermore. How it keeps calling, calling, It is never a night to sail. I saw the "sea-dog" over the height. As I strained through the haze my fail- ing sight. And the cottage creaks and rocks, well- nigh. As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by, In the moan of the rising gale. Yet it is calling, calling. It is hard on a soul, I say, To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark. Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark; While the foam flies thick on the bitter blast. And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, Where the black buoy marks the bay. Do you hear it calling, calling ? And yet, I am none so old. At the herring fishery, but last year. No boat beat mine for tackle and gear, And I steered the coble past the reef. When the broad sail shook like a with- ered leaf. And the rudder chafed my hold. Will it never stop calling, calling? Can't you sing a song by the hearth ? A heartsome stave of a merry glass. Or a gallant fight, or a bonnie lass ? Don't you care for your grand-dad just so much? Come near then, give me a hand to touch, Still warm with the warmth of earth. You hear it calling, calling? Ask her why she sits and cries. She always did when the sea was up. She would fret, and never take bit or sup When I and the lads were out at night, And she saw the breakers cresting white Beneath the low black skies. But, then, it is calling, calling, No summons to soul was sent. Now — Well, fetch the parson, find the book. It is up on the shelf there if you look ; c •J MARY N. PRESCOTT. — ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 337 The sea has been friend, and fire, and bread ; Put me, where it will tell of me, lying dead, How It called, and I rose and went. MAEY N. PRESCOTT. [U. S. A.] WORK. Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been? "I 've been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky ; I 've been grinding a grist in the mill hard by ; I 've been laughing at work while others sigh; Let those laugh who win ! ' Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing? "I 'm urging the corn to fill out its cells ; I 'm helping the lily to fashion its bells ; I 'm swelling the torrent and brimming the wells ; Is that worth pursuing?" Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done? "I 've been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie ; I 've sung them to sleep with a lullaby ; By and by I shall teach them to fly. Up and away, every one ! " Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you go- ing? "To fill my basket with precious pelf; To toil for my neighbor as well as myself; To find out the sweetest flower that grows. Be it a thistle or be it a rose, — A secret worth the knowing!" Each content with the work to be done. Ever the same from sun to sun : Shall you and I be taught to work By the bee and the bird, that scorn to shirk? Wind and rain fulfilling His word! Tell me, was ever a legend heard Where the wind, commanded to blow, deferred ; Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, de- murred ? 22 TWO MOODS. I PLUCKED the harebells as I went Singing along the river-side ; The skies above were opulent Of sunshine. "Ah! whate'er betide, The world is sweet, is sweet," I cried, That morning by the river-side. The curlews called along the shore ; The boats put out from sandy beach ; Afar I heard the breakers' roar. Mellowed to silver-sounding speech; And still I sang it o'er and o'er, "The world is sweet forevermore ! " Perhaps, to-day, some other one, Loitering along the river-side. Content beneath the gracious sun, May sing, again, "Whate'er betide, The world is sweet." 1 shall not chide, Although my song is done. AETHUPt O'SHAUGHNESSY. SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. I FOUND a fellow-worker when I deemed I toiled alone : My toil was fashioning thought and sound, and his was hewing stone ; I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the common street. And it seemed his toil was gieat and hard, while mine was great and sweet. I said,"0 fellow-worker, yea, for I am a worker too. The heart nigh fails me many a day, but how is it with you? For while I toil great tears of joy will sometimes fill my eyes. And when I form my perfect work it hves and never dies. "I carve the marble of pure thought until the thought takes form. Until it gleams before my soul and makes the world grow warm ; Until there comes the glorious voice and words that seem divine, And the music reaches all men's hearts and draws them into mine. 338 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. "And yet for days it seems my heartshall blossom never more, And the burden of my loneliness lies on me very sore : Therefore, hewer of the stones that pave base human ways, How canst thou bear the years till death, made of such thankless days?" Then he replied : "Ere sunrise, when the pale lips of the day Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at warmth of the first ray, A great thought rose within me, how, while men asleep had lain. The thousand labors of the world had grown up once again. "The sun grew on the world, and on my soul the thought grew too, — A great appalling sun, to light my soul the long day through. I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began With man's gigantic strength to do the labor of one man. "I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hundred men, The worker with the chisel and the worker with the pen, — The restless toilers after good, who sow and never reap. And one who maketh music for their souls that may not sleep. "Each passed me with a dauntless look, and my undaunted eyes Were almost softened as they passed with tears that strove to rise At sight of all those labors, and because that every one. Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little were undone. "They passed me, having faith in me, and in our several ways. Together we began to-day as on the other days: I felt their mighty hands at work, and, as the day wore through. Perhaps they felt that even 1 was help- ing somewhat too : "Perhaps they felt, as with those hands they lifted mightily The burden once more laid upon the world so heavily, That while they nobly held it as each man can do and bear. It did not wholly fall my side as though no man were there. "And so we toil together many a day from morn till night, I in the lower depths of life, they on the lovely height ; For though the common stones are mine, and they have lofty cares. Their work begins where this leaves off, and mine is part of theirs. "And 't is not wholly mine or theirs I think of through the day, But the great eternal thing we make to- gether, I and they ; Far in the sunset I behold a city that man owns. Made fair with all their nobler toil, buUt of my common stones. "Then noon ward, as the task grows light with all the labor done. The single thought of all the day be- comes a joyous one : For, rising in my heart at last where it has lain so long. It thrills up seeking for a voice, and grows almost a song. "But when the evening comes, indeed, the words have taken wing, The thought sings in me still, but I am all too tired to sing ; Therefore, you my friend, who serve the world with minstrelsy. Among our fellow-workers' songs make that one song for me." ARCHDEACON HARE. ITALY. A PROPHECY. 1818. Strike thelovedharp; let the prelude be, Italy! Italy! That chord again, again that note of glee,— Italy! Italy! Italy ! T taly ! the very sound it charmeth; Italy! Italy! the name my bosom warm- eth. High tliought of si'lf-devotions. Compassionate emotions, T. K. HERVEY. 339 Soul-stirring recollections, "With hopes, their bright reflections. Rush to my troubled heart at thought of thee. My own illustrious, injured Italy. Dear queen of snowy mountains. And consecrated fountains, Within whose rocky, heaven -aspiring pale Beauty has fixed a dwelling All others so excelling To praise it right, thine own sweet tones would fail ; Hail to thee ! hail ! How rich art thou in lakes to poet dear. And those broad pines amid the sunniest glade So reigning through the year. Within the magic circle of their shade No sunbeam may appear ! How fair thy double sea 1 In blue celestially Glittering and circling ! but I may not dwell On gifts, which, decking thee too well. Allured the spoiler. Let me fix my ken Rather upon thy godlike men. The good, the \vise, the valiant, and the free. On history's pillars towering gloriously, A trophy reared on high upon thy strand, That every people , every clime May mark and understand. What memorable courses may be run. What golden T,ever-failing treasures won, From time. In spite of chance, And worser ignorance, If men be ruled by Duty's firm decree. And wisdom hold her paramount mas- tery. What art thou now ? Alas ! Alas ! Woe, woe ! That strength and virtue thus should pass From men below ! That so divine, so beautiful a Maid Should in the withering dust be laid. As one that— Hush ! who dares with impious breath To speak of death ? The fool alone and unbeliever weepeth. We know she only sleepeth ; And from the dust. At the end of her correction, Truth hath decreed her joyous resurrec- tion : She shall arise, she must. For can it be that wickedness hath power To undermine or topple down the tower Of virtue's edifice ? And yet that vice Should be allowed on sacred ground to plant A rock of adamant ? It is of ice. That rock soon destined to dissolve away Before the righteous sun's returning ray. But who shall bear the dazzling radiancy, When first the royal Maid awaking Darteth around her wild indignant eye, When first her bright si)ear shaking. Fixing her feet on earth, her looks on sky, Slie standeth like the Archangel prompt to vanquish, Yet still imploring succor from on high ? days of weary hope and passionate anguish, "\(\Tien will ye end ! Until that end be come, until I hear The Alps their mighty voices blend, To swell and echo back the soand most dear To patriot hearts, the cry of Liberty, 1 must live on. But when the glorious Queen As erst is canopied with Freedom's sheen. When I have prest, mth salutation meet, With reverent love to kiss her honored feet, I then may die. Die how well satisfied ! Conscious that I have watched the second birth Of her I 've loved the most upon the earth. Conscious beside That no more beauteous sight can here be given : Sublimer visions are reserved for heaven. T. K. HERVEY. EPITAPH. Fareavell ! since never more for thee The sun comes up our eastern skies, licss bright henceforth shall sunshine he To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. 340 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. There are who for thy last, long sleep Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, — Shall weep because thou canst not weep, And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. Sad thrift of love ! the loving breast On which the aching head was thrown, Gave up the weary head to rest. But kept the aching for its own. FEEDERICK TENNYSON. THE BLACKBIRD. How sweet the harmonies of afternoon ! The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze 3is ancient song of leaves, and summer boon; Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering trees ; And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, And listen fondly — while the Blackbird sings. How soft the lovelight of the west re- poses On this green valley's cheery solitude. On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings Its bubbling freshness — while the Black- bird sings. The very dial on the village church Seems as 't were dreaming in a dozy rest; The scribbled benches underneath .the porch Bask in the kindly welcome of the west : But the broad casements of the old Three Kings Blaze like a furnace — while the Black- bird sings. And there beneath the immemorial elm Three rosy revellers round a table sit, And through gray clouds give laws unt* the realm, Curse good and great, but worship their own wit, And roar of lights, and fairs, and junket- ings. Corn, colts, and curs — the while the Blackbird sings. Before her home, in her accustomed seat. The tidy grandaia spins beneath the shade Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid; To her low chair a little maiden clings. And spells in silence — while the Black- bird sings. Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gar- dens green. While the far fields with sunlight over- flowed Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen ; Again the sunshine on the shadow springs, And fires the thicket — where tho Black- bird sings. The woods, the lawn, the peaked manor- house, With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud, The trim, quaint garden-alleys, screened with boughs. The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud. The mossy fountain with its murmur- . i"Ss, Lie in warm sunshine — while the Black- bird sings. The ring of silver voices, and the sheen Of festal garments, — and my lady streams With her gay court across the garden green ; Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams; And one calls for a little page ; he strings Her lute beside her — while the Black- sings. JOHN A. DOKGAN. — MARY BOLLES BRANCH. 341 A little while — and lo! the charm is heard ; A youth, whose life has teen all sum- mer, steals Forth from the noisy guests around the board, Creeps by her softly ; at her footstool kneels ; And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things Into her fond ear — while the Blackbird sings. The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher. And dizzy things of eve begin to float Upon the light; the breeze begins to tire. Half-way to sunset with a drowsy note The ancient clock from out the valley swings ; The grandam nods — and still the Black- bird sings. Far shouts and laughter from the farm- stead peal. Where the great stack is piling in the sun; Through narrow gates o'erladen wagons reel, And barking curs into the tumult run ; While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings The merry tempest — and the Blackbird sings. On the high wold the last look of the sun Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream ; The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun ; The grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream ; Only a hammer on an anvil rings ; The day is dying — still the Blackbird sings. Now the good vicar passes from his gate. Serene, with long white hair ; and in his eye Burns the clear spirit that hath conquered Fate, And felt the wings of immortality ; His heart is thronged with great imagin- ings. And tender mercies — while the Black- bird sings. Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through A lowly wicket; and at last he stands Awful beside the bed of one who grew From boyhood with him, — who with lifted hands And eyes seems listening to far welcom- ings And sweeter music — than the Black- bird sings. Two golden stars, like tokens from the blest, Strike on his dim orbs from the set- ting sun ; His sinking hands seem pointing to the west; He smiles as though he said, " Thy will be done ! " His eyes, they see not those illuminings; His ears, they hear not — what the Blackbird sings. JOHN A. DOPtGAN. [ U. S. A. ] FATE. These withered hands are weak, But they shall do my bidding, though so frail ; These lips are thin'and white, but shall not fail The appointed words to speak. Thy sneer I can forgive. Because I know the strength of destiny; Until my task is done, I cannot die; And then, I would not live. MAEY BOLLES BRANCH. [ V. S. A. ] THE PETRIFIED FERN. In a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender, Veining delicate and fibres tender; Waving when the wind crept down go low; 342 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it. Drops of dew stole in by nigbt, and crowned it, But no foot of man e'er trod that way; Earth was young and keeping holi- day. Monster fishes swam the silent main, Stately forests waved their giant branches, Mountains hurled their snowy ava- lanches. Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain ; Nature revelled in grand mysteries ; But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees. Only grew and waved its wild sweet way,— No one came to note it day by day. Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean ; Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood, Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay, Covered it, and hid it safe away. 0, the long, long centuries since that day! 0, the agony, 0, life's bitter cost. Since that useless little fern was lost ! Useless ! Lost ! There came a thought- ful man Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep ; From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and fine. And the fern's lite lay in every line ! So, I think, God hides some souls away. Sweetly to surprise us the last day. LATER POEMS. Later poems. PHILIP FRENEAU. [U. S. A., I752-1832.] THE INDIAN BURTING-GROUND.i In spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep ; The posture that we give the dead Points out the soul's eternal sleep. Not so the ancients of these lands, — The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his frienils, And shares again the jo\'ous feast. His imaged birds, and painted bowl. And venison, for a jor.rney dressed. Bespeak the nature of the soul. Activity that knows no rest. His bow, for action ready bent, And arrows, with a head of stone. Can only mean that life is spent. And not the finer essence gone. Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, No fraud upon the dead commit, — Observe the swelling turf, and say They do not lie, but here they sit. Here still a lofty rock remains, On whicii the curious eve may trace (Now wiisted, half, by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race. Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far-projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) The children of the forest played ! 1 This poem and a few others are included to gupply omtBsions in the earlier eectioos. There oft a restless Indian queen — (Pale Shebab, with her braided hair — ) And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers there. By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews. In vestments for the chase arrayed. The hunter still the deer pursues. The hunter and the deer, a shade ! And long shall timorous fancy see The painted chief and pointed spear. And Reason's self sliall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here. DNKNOWN. NAPOLEONS TELEGRAPH ON MONT- MARTRE. I SEE thee standing on thy height, A form of mystery and might ; Tossing thy arms with sudden swing,— Thou strange, uncouth and shapeless thing ! Like the bare pinions of some monstrous bird. Or skeleton, by its own spirit stirred. Now to thy long lank sides they fall. And thou art but a pillar tall. Standing against the deep blue sky ! Then in an instant out they fly, Making triangle, arc and curve and square — A thousand mad caprices in the air. And wast thou but a toy of state 1 Thou wast an oracle — a fate ! 346 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. In thy deep silence was a voice ! And well might all earth's Kings re- joice. Thou lone wild herald of earth's wildest will, In the glad hour when thou at last wert still. All eyes upon thy tossings gazed. Asking what city bled or blazed ; All conscious that thy mystic freight, Was fierre ambition, — tyrant hate, Darting like flashfs from one fiery throne, The secret seen by all — by all unknown. Eound the wide world that mandate shot — Embodied thought — and swift as thought. From frozen pole to burning line, The whole vast realm of ruin thine ! Death sweeping over sea, and mount and plain, Wherever man could slay, or man be slain. I saw thee once. The eve was mild, And snow was on the vineyard piled : The forest bent before the gale : And thou, amid the twilight pale, Towering above thy mountain's misty spine, Didst stami, like some old lightning- blasted pine. But evil instinct seemed to fill Thy ghostly form. With sudden thrill I saw thee fling thine arms on high, As if in challenge to the sky : Aye, all its tempests, — all its fires were tame, To thy fierce flight — thy words of more than flame ! The thunderbolt was launched that hour — Borlin — that smote thy royal tower ! That sign tlie living deluge rolled, By Poland's dying groan foretold : One rising sun — one bloody setting shone, And dust and ashes were on Frederick's throne ! Talk of the necromancer's spell ? In forests depths — in magic cell, W^as never raised so fierce a storm, As when thy solitary form Into the troubled air its wild spells hurled — Thou suUen shaker of a weary world ! I saw thee once again. 'T was mom ; Sweet airs from summer fields were borne ; The sun was in the laughing sky : I saw thy startling limbs outfly — And felt that in that hour I saw the birth Of some new curse that might have clouded earth. The soundless curse went forth — it passed — 'T was answered by the trumpet blast : 'Twas answered by the cannon's roar. Pale Danube! on thy distant shore: That sign of war let loose the iron horde, That crushed in gore the Hapsburg helm and sword. Asain I looked. 'T was day's decline — Thy mount was purple with the vine ; The clouds in rosy beauty slept ; The birds their softest vespers kept ; The plain all flowers, was one rich paint- ed floor — And thou, wild fiend ! e'en thou wast still once more ! I saw thee from thy slumber start — That blow was, Russia! to thy heart : That hour the shaft was shot, that rent The curtains of the Tartar tent : That voiceless sign to wolf and vulture cried, "Come to your fiercest feast of homi- cide ! " Then swept the sword and blazed the shell :_ Then armies gave the dying yell : Then burning cities lit the gloom — The groans of P^mpire in its doom ! Till all was death : then came the final ban — Then Heaven broke down the strength too strong for man. Then earth was calm : — I saw thee sleep. Once more I saw thy thin arms sweep : Napoleon's blazing star was wan .' The master of the talisman, Was dungeoned far upon the ocean wave : Thine was the silent tidings of his grave ' W. A. CROFUTT. — FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE. 347 W. A. CROFUTT. [U. S. A.] MOUNT HOPE. I STROLL throuf^h verdant fields to-day, Through waving woods and pastures sweet, To the red warrior's ancient seat. Where liquid voices of the bay Babble in tropic tongues around its rocky feet. I put my lips to Philip's spring; 1 sit in Philip's graniie ciiair ; And thence I climb up, stair by stair, And stand where once the savage king Stood, and with eye of hawk cleft the blue round of air. On Narrngansett's sunny breast This necklace of fair islands shone. And Philip, muttering, "All my own ! " Looked north and south and east and west, And waved his sceptre from this alabaster throne. His beacon on Pocasset hill, Lighting the hero's path to fame Whene'er the crafty Pequot came, Blazed as the windows of yon mill Now blaze at set of sun with day's expir- ing flame. Always, at midnight, from a cloud, An eagle hwoops, and hovering nigh This peak, utters one jnercing cry Of wrath and anguish, long and loud, And plunges once again into the silent sky! The Wampanoags, long since dead. Who to these islands used to cling, Spake of this shrieking midnight thing With bated breath, and, shuddering, said, "'Tis angry Philip's voice, — the spectre of the king!" All things are changed. Here Bristol sleeps And dreams within her emerald tent ; Yonder are picnic tables bent Beneath their burden ; np the steeps The martial strains arise and songs of merriment. I pluck an aster on the crest; It is a child of one, I know. Plucked here two hundred years ago, And worn upon the slave -queen's breast, — O, that this blossom had a tongue to tell its woe. FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE. [U. S. A.] LOS ANGELES. She sits amid her orange-trees, Our Lady of Los Angeles, The shining city of the sun. And counts tiie seasons as they flee, Like beads from off a rosary. That slip and sparkle one by one. Upon the outer solitudes The demon of the desert broods, The ocean chafes and murmurs near ; But safe within her garden wall ' She hears these ancient foemen call, With tranquil, inattentive ear. At close of day from yonder height I saw her robed in evening light, One white star like an opal showing; Her roses drooped in slnmher sweet. But oh, the lilies at her feet Upheld their censers overflowing. " Tell me," I said, " O city fair. What dreams pervade this sunset air. What memories stir this purple splen- dor ? For surely magic worketh here. And in the stillness I can hear Reverberations wild yet tender." Was it enchantment? Suddenly all her roses had vanished ! Fled were the vestal lilies, their incense spilled and forsaken, Palace and cottaye were gone, and the orange-groves and the vineynrds Rolled away like a wave and were lost in tlie ocean of sunset. 348 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. It was the twilitrht ape, when gods from the heaveu desceiuliuj!:, Choosiiijif some je grave I pace forevermore. Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore. There is no little child within me now, To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up When June winds kiss me, when an ap- ])le bough Laugh.s into blossoms, or a buttercup Plays with the sunshine, or a violet liances in the glad dew. Alas ! alas ! Th(! meaning of the daisies in the grass I have forgotten ; and if my cheeks are wet It is not with the blitheness of the child, But with the bitter sorrow of sad years. O moaning life, with life irreconciled ; backward-looking thought, O pain, O tears. For us there is not any silver sound Of rhythmic wonders springing from the ground. Woe worth the knowledge and the book- ish lore Which makes men mummies, M'eighs out every grain Of that which was miraculous before, And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain ! Woe worth the peering, analytic days That dry the tender juices in the breast. And put the thunders of the Lord to test, So that no marvel must be, and no praise. Nor any God except Necessity ! What can ye give my poor, starved life in lieu Of this dead cherub which I slew for ye 1 Take back your doubtful wisdom, and re- new My early foolish freshness of the dunce, Whose simple instincts guessed the heavens at once. MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND. [U. S. A.] A -WOMANS WISH. Would I were lying in a field of clover, Of clover cool and soft, and soft and sweet, With dusky clouds in deep skies hanging over. And scented silence at my head and feet. Just for one hour to slip the leash of worry, In eager haste, from Thought's impa- tient neck, And watch it coursing, in its heedless hurry Disdaining Wisdom's call or Duty's beck! Ah ! it were sweet, where clover dumps are meeting. And daisies hiding, so to hide and rest ; No sound except my own heart's steady beating. Rocking itself to sleep within my breast, — Just to lie there, filled with the deepei breathing That comes of listening to a wild bird's song! INA D. COOLBRITH. — GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. 357 Our souls require at times this full un- sheathing ; All swords will rust if scabbard-kept too long. And I am tired — so tired of rigid dutv, So tired of all my tired hands find to do ! I yearn, I faint, for some of life's free beauty, — Its loose beads with no straight string running through 1 Aye, laugh, if laugh you will, at my crude speech ; But women somatimes die of such a greed, — Die for the small joys held beyond their reach, And the assurance they have all they need. INA D. COOLBRITH. [U. S. A.] IN BLOSSOM TIME. It 's O ray heart, my heart, To be out in the sun and sing ! To sing aud shout in the fields about, In the balm aud the blossoming. Sing loud, bird in the tree ; bird, sing loud in the sky, And honey - bees, blacken the clover- beds ! — There are none of you glad as I. The leaves laugh low in the wind, Laugh low, with t'le wiud at play; And the odorous call of the flowers" aU Entices my soul away ! For oh, but the world is fair, is fair. And oh, but the world is sweet! I will out in the gold of the blossoming mould, And sit at the Master's feet. And the love that my heart would speak, 1 will fold in the lily's rim, That the lips of the blossom, more pure and meek, May offer it up to Him. Then sing in the hedgerow green, thrush, O skylark, sing in the blue : Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear. And my soul shall sing with yon ! ALBERT LAIGHTON. [U. S. A., 1829-1887.I UNDER THE LEAVES. Oft have I walked these woodland paths In sadness, not foreknowiug That underneath the withered leaves The flowers of spring were growing. To-day the winds have swept away Those wrecks of autumn splendor. And here the sweet arbutus flowers Are springing, fresh and tender ! O prophet flowers ! with lips of bloom Surpassing in their beauty The pearly tints of ocean-shells — Ye teach me faith and duty. " Walk life's dark ways," ye seem to say " In love and hope, foreknowing That where man sees but withered leaves God sees the sweet flowers growing ! " GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. [U. S. A.] FAIRHAVEN BAY. I PUSH on through the shaggy wood ; I round the hill : 't is here it stood : And there, beyond the crumbled walls. The shining Concord slowly crawls. Yet seems to make a passing stay. And gently spreads its lilied bay. Curbed by this green and reedy shore, Up toward the ancient homestead's dooi But dumbly sits the shattered house. And makes no answer : man and mouse Long since forsook it, and decay Chokes its deep heart with ashes gray. On what was once a garden-ground Dull red-bloomed sorrels now abound ; And boldly whistles the shy quail Within the vacant pasture's pale. 358 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. ^\ strange and savage where he shines, 'Ihe sun seems staring through those pines That once the vanished home could bless With intimate, sweet loneliness. The ignorant, elastic sod The feet of them that dail/ trod Its roods hath utterly forgot : The very lire-place knows them not. For in the weedy cellar, thick The ruined chimney's mass of brick Lies strown. Wide heaven, with such an ease Dost thou, too, lose the thought of these ■? Yet I, although I know no' who Lived here in years that voiceless grew Ere 1 was born — and never can — Am moved, because I am a man. Oh, glorious gift of brotherhood ! Oh, sweet elixir in the blood, That makes us live with those long dead, Or hope for those that shall be bred Hereafter ! No regret can rob IMy heart of this delicious throb ; No thought of fortunes haply wrecked. Nor pang for nature's wild neglect. And, though the hearth be cracked and cold, Though ruin all the place enfold, These ashes that have lost thoir name, Shall warm my heart with lasting llame. S. WEIR MITCHELL lU. S. A.] A CAMP IN THREE LIGHTS. AoAiNST the darkness sharply lined Our still white tents gleamed overhead, And (lancing cones of shadow cast — When sudden flashed the camp-fire red, Where fragrant hummed the moist swamp-spruce, And tongues unknown the cedar spoke, While half a century's silent growth Went up in cheery flame and smoke. Pile on the logs ! A flickering spire Of ruby flame the birch-bark gives. And as we trnck its leaping sparks, Behold in heaven the North-light lives^ An arch of deep, supremest blue, A band above of silver shade. Where, like the frost-work's crystal spears, A thousand lances grow and fade. Or shiver, touched with palest tints Of pink and blue, and changing die. Or toss in one triumphant haze Their golden banners up the sky, With faint, swift, silken murmurings, — A noise as of an angel's flight, Heard like the whispers of a dream Across the cool, clear northern night. Our pipes are out, the camp-flre fades. The wild auroral ghost-lights die. And stealing up the distant wood The moon's white spectre floats on high, And, lingering, sets in awful light A blackened pine-tree's ghastly cross, Then swiftly pays in silver white The faded fire, the aurora's loss. NIGHT ON LAKE HELEN. I LIE in my red canoe On the waters still and deep. And o'er me darkens the sky, And beneath the billows sleep ; Till, between the stars above And those in the lake's embrace, I seem to float like the dead In the noiselessness of space. Betwixt two worlds I drift, A bodiless soul again, — Between the still thoughts of God And those which belong to men ; And out of the height above. And out of the deep below, A thought that is like a ghost Doth gather and gain and grow, Tliat now and forevrrmore This silence of death shall hold. ANDREW LANG. — LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 359 While the nations fade and die, And the countless years are rolled. But I turn the light canoe. And, darting across the night, Am glad of the paddles' noise And the camp-fire's honest light. ANDEEW LANG. HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHEE. Heke I 'd come when weariest ! Here the breast Of the Windburg 's tufted over Deep with bracken ; here his crest Takes the west, Where the wide - winged hawk doth hover. Silent here are lark and plover ; In the cover Deep below, the cushat best Loves his mate, and croons above her O'er their nest, Where the wide -winged hawk doth hover. Bring me here. Life's tired-out guest. To the blest Bed that waits the weary rover ! Here should failure be confessed : Ends my quest, Where the wide - winged hawk doth hover. — Friend, or stranger kind, or lover. Ah, fulfil a last behest ! Let me rest Where the wide -winged hawk doth hover. EGBERT LGUIS STEVENSON. A SONG OF THE ROAD. The gauger walked with willing foot And aye the gauger played the flute : And what should Master Ganger play, But Over the hills and far away ? Whene'er I buckle on my pack, And foot it gayly in the tratk, pleasant gauger, long since dead 1 hear you fluting on ahead. You go with me the self same way — ' The self-same air for nie you play : For I do think, and so do you, It is the tune to travel to. For who would gravely set his face To go to this or t' other place 1 There 's nothing under heaven so blue, That 's fairly worth the travelling to. On every hand the roads begin. And people walk with zeal therein : But wheresoe'er the highways tend, Be sure there 's nothing at the end. Then follow you, wherever hie The travelling mountains of the sky Or let the streams in civil mode Direct your choice upon a road. For one or all, or high or low. Will lead you where you wish to go; And one and all go night and day, Over the hills and Jar away ! LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. [U. S. A.] TEMPTATION. I COME where the wry road leads Thro' the pines and the alder scents Sated of books, with n s'art, Sharp on the gang to-day : Scarce see the Romany steeds, Scarce hear the flap of the tents, — When hillo! my heart, my heart Is out of its leash, and away. Gj psies, gypsies, the whole Tatterdemalion crew ! Brown and sly and severe With curious trades in hand. A string snaps in my soul. The one high answer due If an exile chance to hear The songs of his fatherland. ... To be abroad with the rain. And at home with the forest hush. With the crag, and the flower-urn, And the wau sleek miat upcurled; 860 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. To break the lens and the plane, To burn the pen and the brush, And, clean and alive, return Into the old wild world ! . . . How is it ? O wind that bears Tlie arrow from its mark, The sea-bird from the sea, The moth from his midnight lamp, Fate's self, thou mocker of prayers ! Whirl up from the mighty dark, And even so, even me Blow far from the gypsy camp ! EDITH MATILDA THOMAS. [U S. A.] SOMETHING PASSES. Something passes in the air, That if seen would be most fair ; And if we the ear could train To a keener joy and pain, Sweeter warblings would be heard Than from wild Arabian bird: Something passes. Blithest in the spring it stirs, ^Yakes with earliest harbingers ; Then it peers from heart's-ease faces, Clothes itself in wind-flower graces : Or begirt with waving sedge, Pipes upon the river's edge ; Or its whispering way doth take Through the plumed and scented brake ; Or, within the silent wood. Whirls one leaf in fitful mood. Somethinsr knits the morning dews In a web of seven hues ; Something with the May-fly races, Or the pallid blowball chases Till it darkens 'gainst the moon, Full, upon a night of June: Something passes. Something climbs, from bush or croft. On a gossamer stretched aloft; Siiils, with glistening spars and shrouds. Till it meets the sailing clouds; Else it with the swallow flies, Glimpsed at dusk in southern skies; Glides before the even-star. Steals its light, and beckons fnr. Something si^rhs within the sigh Of the wind, that, whirling by, Strews the roof and flooded eaves With the autumn's dead-rijiC leave* Something — still unknown tome — Carols in the winter tree, Or doth breathe a melting strain Close beneath the frosted jiane : Something passes. Painters, fix its fleeting lines ; Show us by what lii;ht it si inesJ Poets, whom its pinion> fan. Seize upon it, if ye can ! All in vain, for, like the air, It goes through the finest snare : Something passes. A. MAEY r. EOBINSON. MUSIC. Before the dawn is yet the day I lie and dream so deep, So drowsy-deep I cannot say If yet I wake or sleep. But in my dream a tune there is — It rings so fresh and sweet That 1 would rather die than miss The utmost end of it. And yet I know not an it be Some music in the lane. Or but a song that rose with me From sleep, to sink again. And so, alas, and even so I waste my life away ; Nor if the tune be real I know, Or but a dream astray. EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. FROM "THE GOLDEN ISLES." Sad wonld the salt waves be. And cold the singing sea. And dark the gulfs that echo totbeseven^ stringed lyre. If thiturs were what they seem. If life had no fair drenm. No miratre made to tip the dull sea-line with tire. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 361 Then Sleep would have no li^ht, And Death no voice or sight ; Their sister. Sorrow, too, would be as blind as they : And in this world of doubt Our souls would roam about And find no song to sing and no word good to say. But on the shores of time, Hearkening the breakers' chime Falling by night and day along our hu- man strand, The poet sits and sees Borne on the morning breeze The phantom islands float a furlong from the land. White are their crags, and blue Ravines divide them through, And like a violet shell their cliffs recede from sight : Between their fretted capes Fresh isles in lovely shapes Die on the horizon pale, and lapse in liquid light. The poet sits and smiles ; He knows the golden isles ; He never hopes to win their cliffs, their marble mines, Reefs where their green sea raves. The coldness of their caves. Their felspars full of light, their rosy corallines. All these he oft has sought, Led by his travelling thought. Their glorious distance hides no inward charm from him : He would not have their day To common light decay ; He loves their mystery best, and bids their shapes be dim. They solace all his pains ; They animate his strains ; Within their radiant glow he soon forgets the world : They bathe his torrid noons In the soft light of moons ; They leave his lingering evenings ten- derly impearled. As one who walks all day Along a dusty way. May turn aside to plunge in some seques- tered pool. And so may straight forget His weariness and fret. So seeks the poet's heart those islands blue and cool. Content to know them there, Hung in the shining air, He trims no foolish sail to win the hope- less coast ; His vision is enough To feed his soul with love ; And he who grasps too much may even himself be lost. He knows that if he waits. One day the well-worn gates Of life will ope and send him westward o'er the wave ; Then will he reach ere night The isles of his delight : But they must float until they anchor iu the grave. PHILIP BOORKE MARSTON. [1850-1887.] PURE SOULS. Pure souls that watch above me from afar, To whom as to the stars I raise my eyes. Draw me to your large skies. Where God and quiet are. Love's mouth is rose-red, and his voice is sweet, His feet are winged, his eyes are as clear fire ; But I have no desire To follow his winged feet. Friendships may change, or friends may pass away. And Fame 's a bride that men soon weary of; Since rest is not with Love, No joy that is may stay. But they whose lives are pure, whose hearts are high — Those shining spirits by the world un- tamed, May, at the end, unshamed. Look on their days gone by. 362 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. pure, strong souls, so star-like, calm, and blight, If even I before the end might feel. Through quiet pulses, steal Your pureness — with purged sight 1 might Spring's gracious work behold once more. Might hear, as once I heard, long, long ago. Great waters ebb and flow, Might smell the rose of yore, Might comprehend the winds and clouds again, The saintly, peaceful moonlight hallow- ing all. The scent of leaves that fall. The Autumn's tender pain. Ah, this, I fear, shall never chance to me, Yec though I cannot shape the life I would, It surely still is good To look where such lives be. LEWIS MOEEIS. OH, SNOWS SO PURE ! Oh, snows so pure ! oh, peaks so high ! 1 lift to you a hopeless eye. I see your icy ramparts drawn Between the sleepers and the dawn. I see you, when the sun has set, Flush with the dying daylight yet. I see you, passionless and pure. Above the lightnings stand secure; — Bu* may not climb, for now the hours Are spring's, and earth a maze of flowers. And now, 'mid summer's dust and heat, I stay my steps for childish feet. And now, when autumn glows, I fear To lose the harvest of the year. Now winter frowns, and life runs slow ; Even on the plains I tread through suow : While you are veiled, or, dimly seen, Only reveal what might have been ; And where high hope would once aspire Broods a vast storm-cloud dealing fire. Oh, snows so pure ! oh, peaks so high ! I shall not reach you till I die ! NO MORE. " No more, no more ! " the autumnal shadows cry ; " No more, no more ! " our failing hearts reply : Oh, that our lives were come to that calm shore Where change is done, and fading is no more. But should some mightier hand comple- tion send, And smooth life's stream unrippled to its end. Our sated souls, filled with an aching pain. Would yearn for fleeting days and years again. Thrice blessed be the salutary change Which day by day brings thoughts and feelings strange ! Our gain is loss ; we keep but what we give ; And only daily dying may we live. COURAGE. There are who, bending supple knees. Live for no end except to please, Rising to fame by mean degrees ; But creep not thou with these ! They have their due reward ; they bend Their lives to an unworthy end — On empty aims the toil expend Which had secured a friend. But be not thou as these, whose mind Is to the passing hour confined: Let no ignoble fetters bind Thy soul, as free as wind ! Stand upright, speak thy thought, de- clare The truth thou hast, that all may share/ Be hold, proclaim it everywhere 1 They only live, who dare. JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. — PHILLIPS BROOKS. 363 JOHN HExNRY NEWMAN. [1801-1890.] LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom. Lead Thou me on ! The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on ! Keep Thou my feet ! I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldest lead me on : I loved to see and choose my path ; but now Lead Thou me on ! I loved the garish day, and spite of fears. Pride ruled my will: — remember not past years ! So long thy power has blest 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. HORATIO NELSON POWERS. [O. S. A.] HIS DWELLING-PLACE. I SEEK His dwelling-place. Afar I range abysses without bound ; I touch a sun, I touch a star, But nowhere feel the solid ground Darkness in constellated height! Darkness in gulfs of stellar sea! On, on, and yet no home in sight ! Where can the gracious refuge be ? The deeps devour my wordless cry : Fainting, I feel no friendly shore: The myriad worlds go hurtling by — The voids are colder than before. O nameless Good ! Thou m whom Is all that was and is to be. Is tliere not in thy bosom room For a poor, houseless wretch like me ? 'T is warmth and light, 't is love, 't is home, Rest, calm and -sweet, for which I pine : From Thee I came, to Thee I come — How shall thy dwelling-place be mine ? Ah ! who is this that takes my hand 1 That lifts me from the pit and mire " That heals, consoles, and makes me stand, And gives the rest that I desire ■? Dear Son of God ! Thy blessed face Shows where the hungry soul mayflee- Thy heart is home and dwelling-place. And 1 am satisfied with Thee ? PHILLIPS BROOKS. [U. S. A.] LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM. O LITTLE town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie ! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent hours go by. Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light ; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night. For Christ is born of Mary, And, gathered all above. While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love. O morning stars, together Proclaim the holy birth ! And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth. How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given ! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming ; But in this world of sin. Where meek souls will receive him still, The dear Christ enters in. holy Child of Bethlehem, Descend to us, we pray ! Cast out our sin and enter in ; Bo born in us to-day. 664 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell : Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel ! SOLOMON SOLIS-COHEN. [U. S. A.] "I KNOW THAT MY REDEEMER LIVETH.-' Shall the mole, from his night under- ground, call the beasts from the day-glare to flee ! Shall the owl charge the birds : " I am wise. Come, dwell in the shadows with me 1 " Shall a man bind his eyes and exclaim : " It is vain that men weary to see f " Let him walk in the gloom whoso will. Peace be with him ! But whence is his right To assert that the world is in darkness, be- cause he has turned from the light ? Or to sei'k to o'er.shadow my day with the pall of his self-chosen night 1 I have listened, like David's great son, to the voice of the beast and the bird ; To the voice of the trees and the grass ; yea, a voice from the stones I have heard ; And the sun and the moon, and the stars in their courses, reecho the word ! And one word speak the bird and the beast, and the hyssop that springs in the wall. And the cedar that lifts its proud head upon Lebanon, stately and tall, And the rocks, and the sea, and the stars, and " Know ! " is the message of all. for the answer has ever been nigh unto him who would question and learn — How to bring the stars near to his gaze ; in what orbits the planets must turn ; Why the apple must fall from the bough ; what the fuel that .'^un-fires burn. Whence came life ? In the rocks is it writ, and no Finger hath graven it there 1 Whence came light? Did its motions arise without bidding"? Will sci- ence declare That the law ruling all hath npsprung from Nomind, that abideth No- where 1 " Yea, I know ! " cried the true man of old. And whosoe'er wills it may know. " My Redeemer — He liveth ! " I seek for a sign of His presence, and, lo ! As He spoke to the light, and it was, so He speaks to my soul, and I know ! WASHINGTON GLADDEN. [U. S. A.] ULTIMA VERITAS. In the bitter waves of woe. Beaten and tossed about By the sullen winds that blow From the desolate shores of doubt, — When the anchors that faith had cast Are dragging in the gale, I am quietly holding fast To the things that cannot fail. I know that right is right ; That it is not good to lie ; That love is better than spite, And a neighbor than a spy. I know that passion needs The leash of a sober mind ; I know that generous deeds Some sure reward will find; That the rulers must obey ; That the givers shall increase ; That Duty lights the way For the beautiful feet of Peace : — In the darkest night of the year, When the stars have all gone out; That courage is better than fear; That faith is truer than doubt. And fierce though the fiends may fight^ And long though the anirels hide, I know that Truth and Kight Have the universe on their side ; CHARLOTTE M. PACKARD. — ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP. 365 And that somewhere beyond the stars, Is a Love that is better than fate : When the Night unlociis her bars I shall see Him, and I will wait. CHARLOTTE M. PACKAED. [U. S. A.] VESPERS. O 9HADO"w in a sultry land ! The tenderest and bust, Whose love, unfolding like the night Brings quietude and rest Glimpse of the fairer life to be, In foretaste here possessed. From aimless wanderings we come ; From driftings to and fro : The wave of being mingles deep Amid its ebb and flow ; The grander sweep of tides serene Our spirits yearn to know. That which the garish day had lost, The twilight vigil brings, While softlier the vesper bell Its silver cadence rings ; The sense of an immortal trust ! The brush of angel-wings ! Drop down behind the solemn hills, O Day, with golden skies ! Serene above its fading glow. Night, starry-crowned, arise ! So beautiful may heaven be, When life's last sunbeam dies ! MARGARET ELIZABETH SAWGSTER. [U. S. A.] IN COMMON DAYS. In days supreme, of fond delight, When happy thoughts within us dwell, Like vestals robed in stainless white, — Who time their footsteps by the swell Of sweet-voiced bells upon the air, — Then have we least the need for prayer. In days obscured by veiling folds Of grief, or clouded o'er with dread, While dumb suspense relentless holds Its sword above the shrinking head, — Then, even in the soul's despair, Is not the deepest need of prayer. Since to the dark Gethsemane The pitying angels, soon or late, Must come with tenderest ministry. And each blithe day is but the gate To some rich temple, rising fair. Which builds to heaven a golden stair : — God keep us through the common days, The level stretches, white with dust. When thought is tired, and hands upraise Their burdens feebly, since they must ! In days of slowly fretting care, Then most we need the strength of prayer. LILLA CABOT PERRY. [U. S. A.] TOO LATE. While day in dying grew in beauty rare, Of noble deeds I dreamed, soon to be done; When swift betweftn me and the setting sun There swept a vision, sorrowful but fair, — A woman weeping, veiled in shadowy hair. Dimly I felt her grief and I were one ; Yet was such love for her in me begun, I kneeled, and for her grace implored her there. Then her wrung hands slowly unclasped she ; From her pale brow she swept the hai away; Eves too well known looked at me mourn- fully. "Alas ! " she said, " my name is Yester- day. Yours was I once, what did you unto me ? Mourn, mourn too late for her you cast away 1" ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP. [U. S. A.] LOVE NOW The sanctity that is about the dead To make us love them more than lato when here. — 366 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Is it not well to find the livins: dear With sanctity like this, ere they have fled? The tender thoughts we nurture for a loss Of mother, friend, or child, — oh! it were wise To spend this glory on the earnest eyes, The longing heart, that feel life's present cross. Give also mercy to the living here Whose keen-strung souls will quiver at your touch ! The utmost reverence is not too much For eyes that weep, although the lips may sneer. JULIA CAROLINE EIPLEY DORR. [U. S. A.] THE ANGEL SORROW. Trouble ? Dear friend, I know her not. God sent His angel Sorrow on my heart to lay Her hand in benediction, and to say, " Restore, O child ! that which thy Father lent, For he doth now recall it," long ago. His blessed angel Sorrow ! She has walked For years beside me, and we two have talked As chosen friends together. Thus I know Trouble and Sorrow are not near of kin. Trouble distrusteth God, and ever wears Upon her brow the seal of many cares. But vSorrow oft has deepest peace within : She sits with Patience in perpetual calm. Waiting till Heaven shall send the heal- ing balm. MAEGARET DELAND. [U. S. A.] HYMN O PATIENT Christ ! when long ago (J'er old Judea's rugszed hilJs Thy willing feet wont to and fro, To And and comfort human ills — Did once thy tender, earnest eyes, Look down the solenm centuries. And see the smallness of our lives ? Souls struggling for the victory. And martyrs, finding death was guiu, Souls turning from the Truth and Thee, And falling deep in sin and pain — Great heights and depths were surely seen. But oh ! the dreary waste between — Small lives, not base perhaps, but mean! Their selfish efforts for the right, Or cowardice that keeps from sin — Content to only see the height That nobler souls will toil to win ! Oh, shame, to think thine eyes should see The souls contented just to be — The lives too small to take in Thee. Lord, let this thought awake our shame. That blessed shame that stings to life, House us to live for thy dear name, Arm us with courage for the strife ! O Christ ! be patient with us still; Dear Christ ! remember Calvary's hill — Our little lives with purpose fill ! GERTRUDE BLOEDE. [U. S. A.] MY FATHERS CHILD. About her head or floating feet No halo's starry gleam, Still dark and swift uprising, like A bubble in a stream, — A sonl from whose rejoicing heart The bonds of earth were riven, Sped upward through the silent night To the closed gates of heaven : And waiting, heard a voice, — " Wh(? comes To claim Eternity 1 Hero or saint that bled and died Mankind to save or free? " She bent her head. The voice cnce more, — " Didst thou then toil and live JAMES BERRY BENSEL. — MARY MAPES DODGE. 367 For home and children — to thy love Last breath and heart's blood give ? " Her head sank lower still, she clasped Her hands upon her breast, — " Oh, no ! " she whispered, " my dim life Has never been so blest ! " I trod a lonely, barren path ; And, neither great nor good, Gained not a hero's palm, nor won The crown of motherhood ! " Oh, I was naught ! " Yet suddenly The white lips faintly smiled, — " Save, — oh, methinks I was mayhap My Heavenly Father's Child." A flash of light, a cry of joy, — And with uplifted eyes The soul through gates rolled open wide, Passed into Paradise. JAMES BERKY BENSEL. [U. S. A., 1856-1886.] DRIFTING. Drifting, slowly drifting to the great wide stretch of the sea. Drifting, slowly drifting on into God's eternity ; With broken rudder, sailless mast, and oars that idly ride, From home and shore I drift upon the outward-going tide. Drifting, slowly drifting through the vessels in the bay. From those I love upon the shore, I drift and drift away. Drifting, slowly drifting to the great wide stretch of the sea. The breezes fresh from Paradise blow softly over me ; My heart, once filled with strange unrest, is grown so calm and still ! I look beyond the rolling sea to God'a immortal hill. Drifting, slowly drifting on with heart and lips that pray. From those I love upon the shore, I drift and drift away. Drifting, slowly drifting, where the first white streak of the day Grows wide across the darkness spread above the landlocked bay ; I seem to see the gate unfold, the crystal eastern gate, And drift from those I love on shore to those I love who wait. Drifting, slowly drifting, with my earthly struggles done, Alone, unfoUowed, out I drift to God's nnsetting sun. Drifting, slowly drifting to the great wide stretch of the sea, From earth's unrest 1 drift away into eternity ; No bitter sound of fray can reach across my vessel's side. And so I drift in restful peace upon the outward tide. Drifting, slowly drifting through the boats that fill the bay, From those I love upon the shore I drift and drift away. MARY MAPES QODGE. [U. S. A.] THE TWO MYSTERIES. We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still ; The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill ; The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call ; The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all. We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain. The dread to take our daily way and walk in it again. We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go, Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know. But this we know : Our loved and lost, if they should come this day — Should come and ask us, " What is life ? " not one of us could say. Life is a mystery, as deep as ever death can be ; Yet, oh, how dear it is to us — this life we live and see ! 368 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. Then might they say, these vanished ones, — and blessed is the thought, " So death is sweet to us, beloved ! though we may show you naught ; We may not tell it to the quick, this mys- tery of death, — Ye may not tell us, if ye would, the mys- tery of breath." The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, So those who enter death must go as li^le childrfn sent. Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead ; And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. DANSKE DANDRIDGE. [U. S. A.] THE STRUGGLE. " Body, I pray*you, let me go ! " (It is a Soul that struggles so.) " Body, I see on yonder height Dim reflex of a solemn light ; A flame that shineth from the place "Where Beauty walks with naked face ; It is a flame you cannot see — Lie down, you clod, and set me free. " Body, I pray you, let me go ! " (It is a Sold that striveth so.) " Body, I hear dim sounds afar Dripping from some diviner star ; Dim sounds of joyous harmony. It is my mates that sing, and I Must drink that song or break my heart — Body, I pray you, let us part. "Comrade, your frame is worn and frail, Your vital powers begin to fail ; I long for life, but you for rest ; Then, Body, let us both be blest. When you are lying 'neath the dew I '11 come, sometimes, and sing to you ; But you will feel nor pain nor woe — Body, I pray you, let me go.'' Thus strove a Being ; Beauty fain, rie broke his bonds and fled amain. He fled : the Body lay bereft, But on its lips a smile was left. As if that Spirit, looking back. Shouted upon his upward track. With joyous tone and hurried breath, Some message that could comfort Death. WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. [U. S. A ] 10 VICTIS .' I SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life, — The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife ; Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame, — But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart. Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a .silent and desperate part; Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away. From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and ail but their faith overthrown. While the voice of the world shouts its chorus, — its paean for those who have won, — While the trumpet is sounding trium- phant, and high to the breeze and the sun Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned vic- tors, — 1 stand on the field of defeat, In the shadow, with those who are faller, and wounded, and dying, and there Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer, Hold the hand that is helpless, and whis- per, "They only the victory win, Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within ; HENRY KENDALL. 369 Who have held to their faith nnseduced by the prize that the world holds on hifrh ; Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight, — if need he, to die." Speak, History ! who are Life's victors ? UuroU thy long annals and say. Are they those whom the world called the victoi"s — who won the success of a day ? The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans, who fell at Thermopylae's tryst, Or the Persians and Xerxes 1 His judges or Socrates 1 Pilate or Christ ? HENRY KENDALL. TO DAMASCUS. Where the sinister sun of the Syrians beat On the brittle bright stubble, And the camels fell back from the swords of the heat. Came Saul, with a fire in the soles of his feet, And a forehead of trouble. And terrified faces to left and to right Before and behind him, Fled away with the speed of a maddening fright, To the doughs of the bat, and the chasms of night, Each hoping the zealot would fail in his flight To find him and bind him. For, heboid you, the strong man of Tar- sus came down With breathings of slaughter, From the priests of the city, the chiefs of the town, The lords with the sword, and the sires with the gown, — To harry the Christians, and trample and drown. And waste them like water. He was ever a fighter, this son of the Jews — A fighter in earnest ; And the Lord took delight lu the strength of bis thews. For He knew he was one of the few He could choose To fight out His battles, and carry His news Of a marvellous truth through the dark, and the dews, And the desert-lands furnaced ! He knew he was one of the few He could take For His mission supernal ; Whose feet would not falter, whose limbs w^ould not ache, Through the waterless lands of the thorn and the snake, And the ways of the wild — hearing up for the sake Of a Beauty eternal. And therefore the road to Damascus was burned With a swift, sudden brightness ; While Saul with his face in the bitter dust, learned Of the sin which he did, ere he tumbled, and turned Aghast at God 's whiteness ; Of the sin which he did, ere he covered his head From the strange revelation. — But, thereafter, you know of the life that he led, — How he preached to the peoples, and suffered, and sped With the wonderful words which his> Master had said. From nation to nation. Now would we be like him, would suffer as he. If the Chooser should choose us ! For I tell you, brave brothers, whoever you be, It is right, till all learn to look further and see. That our Master should use us ! It is right, till all learn to discover and class. That our Master should task us : For now we may judge of the Truth through a glass ; And the road over which they must ever- more pass, Who would think for the many, and fight for the ma.ss, Is the road to Damascus. 370 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. [U. S. A., 1841-1887.] THE FOOL'S PRAYER. The royal feast was done ; the Kinj^ Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried : " Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer ! " The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the inockinn: court before ; They could not sec the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch's silken stool ; His pleadinc^ voice arose : " O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool ! " No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool ; The rod must heal tiie sin : but Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 'T is not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and riglit, O Lord, we stay; *T is by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. "These clumsy feet, still in the mire. Go ciushing blossoms without end ; These hard, well-meauing hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. "The ill-timed truth we might have kept — Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung ? The word we had not sense to say — Who knows how grandly it had rung ? * Our faults no tenderness should ask ; The chastening stripes must cleanse them all ; But for our blunders — oh, in shame Before the eyes of Heaven we fall. *• Earth bears no balsam for mistakes ; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did hia will ; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool ! " The room was hushed ; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, " Be merciful to me, a fool 1 " THE FUTURE. What may we take into the vast For- ever f That marble door Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor. No fame-wreathed crown we wore. No garnered lore. What can we bear beyond the unknown portal ? No gold, no gains Of all our toiling : iu the life immortal No hoarded wealth remains, Nor gilds, nor stains. Naked from out that far abyss behind us We entered here : No word came with our coming, to re- mind us What wondrous world was near. No hope, no fear. Into the silent, starless Night before us. Naked we glide : No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us. No comrade at our side, No chart, no guide. Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow, Our footsteps fare : The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow — His love alone is there; No curse, no care. GEORGE EDWARD WOOD- BERRY. [U. S. A.l OUR FIRST CENTURY. It cannot he that men who are the seed Of Washington should miss fame's true applause ; Franklin did plan us ; Marshall gave us laws ; And slow the broad scroll grew a people's creed — One land and free ! then at our danger- ous need, Time's challenge coming, Lincoln gave it pause. HELEN GRAY CONE. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 371 Upheld the double pillars of the cause, And dying left them whole — our crown- ing deed. Such was the fathering race that made all fast, Who founded us, and spread from sea to sea A thousand leagues the zone of liberty, And built for man this refuge from his past, Unkinged, unchurched, unsoldiered ; shamed were we, failing the stature that such sires fore- cast! AT GIBRALTAR. England, I stand on thy imperial ground, Not all a stranger ; as thy bugles blow, I feel within my blood old battles flow — The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found. Still surging dark against the Christian bound Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know Thy heights that watch them wander- ing below ; I think how Lucknow heard their gather- ing sound. I turn, and meet the cruel, turbaned face. England, 't is sweet to be so much thy son ! I feel the conqueror in my blood and race ; Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to- day Gibraltar wakened ; hark, thy evening gun Startles the desert over Africa ! II. Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas Between the East and West, that God has built ; Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt, While run thy armies true with his de- crees ; Law, justice, liberty — great gifts are these ; Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt, Lest, mixed and sullied with his coun- try's guilt, The soldier's life-stream flow, and Heaven displease ! Two swords there are : one naked, apt to smite. Thy bhide of war ; and, battle-storied, one Rejoices in the sheath, and hides from light. American am I ; would wars were done ! Now westward, look, my country bids good-night — Peace to the world from ports without a gun ! HELEN GKAY CONE. [v. S. A.] TO-DAY. Voice, with what mounting fire thou singest free hearts of old fashion, English scorners of Spain sweeping the blue sea-way, — Sing me the daring of life for life, the magnanimous passion Of man for man, in the mean, popu- lous streets of To-day ! II. Hand, with what color and power thou couldst show in the ring, hot- sanded, Brown Bestiarius holding the lean, tawny tiger at bay, — Paint me the wrestle of Toil with the wild beast Want, bare-handed;^ Shadow me forth a soul steadily facing To-day ! JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. FROM "A VISTA." Sad heart, what will the future bring To happier men when we are gone 1 What golden days shall dawn for them, Transcending all we gaze upon ? 872 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. These things shall be ! A loftier race Than e'er the M'orld has known, shall rise With flame of freedom in their souls, And light of science in their eyes. They shall be gentle, brave, and strong, — To spill no drop of blood, but dare All that may plant man's lordship firm On earth and tire and sea and air. Nation with nation, land with land Inarmed shall live as comrades free ; In every heart and brain shall throb The pulse of one fraternity. They shall be simple in their homes, And splendid in their public ways, Filling the mansions of the state With music and with hymns of praise. Woman shall be man's mate and peer In all things strong and fair and good. Still wearing on her brows the crown Of sinless sacred motherhood. High friendship, hitherto unknown, Or by great poets half divined. Shall l)urn, a steadfast star, within The calm clear ether of the mind. Man shall love man with heart as pure And fervent as the young-eyed joys Who chant their heavenly songs before God's face, with undiscordant noise. New arts shall bloom, of loftier mould ; And mightier music thrill the skies ; And every life shall be a song. When all the earth is paradise. There shall be no more sin, no shame. Though pain and passion may not die ; For man shall be at one with God In bonds of firm necessity. Tl^se things (they are no dream) shall be For happier men when we are gone : Those golden days for them shall dawn. Transcending aught we gaze upon. ELLEN lACKAY HUTCHIN- SON. [U. S. A.] A CRY FROM THE SHORE. Come down, ye graybeard mariners. Unto the wasting shore ! The morning winds are up, — the gods Bid me to dream no more. Come, tell me whither I must sail What peril there may be, Before I take my life in hand And venture out to sea ! " We may not tell thee where to sail. Nor what the dangers are ; Each sailor soundeth for himseK ; Each hath a separate star : Each sailor soundeth for himself, And on the awful sea What we have learned is ours alone ; We may not tell it thee." Come back, ghostly mariners, Ye who have gone before ! I dread the dark, impetuous tides; I dread the farther shore. Tell me the secret of the waves ! Say what my fate shall be — Quick ! for the mighty winds are up, iVnd will not wait for me. " Hail and farewell, O voyager! Thyself must read the waves; What we have learned of sun and storm Lies with us in our graves : What we have learned of sun and storm Is ours alone to know. The winds are blowing out to sea, — Take up thy life and go ! " INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Page Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 144 About her head or floating feet 366 Above the pines the moon was slowly drift- ing 301 A calm and lovely paradise 172 A chieftain, to the Highlands bound 139 A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun 146 Across the Eastern sky has glowed 353 A face that should content me wondrous well 4 A floating, a floating 250 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 103 Again, how can she but immortal be 11 Against the darkness sharply lined 358 A happy bit hame this auld world would be 184 Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh 105 Alas, 't is true, I have gone here and there 18 A light is out iu Italy 304 All before us lies the way 202 All powers of the sea and air 252 All the rivers run into the sea 306 All thouglits, all passions, all delights 108 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom 138 Alone I walk the morning street 328 Along the ramparts which surround the town 288 Although I enter not 195 A man there came, whence none could teU . . 217 Among so many, can He care ? 277 And are ye sure the news is true ? 71 And I shall sleep ; and on thy side 190 And is the swallow gone ? 182 And is there care in heaven ? And is there love ? 7 And O, the longing, burning eyes ! 333 And thou hast walked about — how strange a story ! 141 A parish priest was of the pilgrim train 46 A sentinel angel sitting high in glory 305 A silver javelin which the hills 262 As I stood by yon roofless tower 83 A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers 173 A song of a boat 282 A Sower went forth to sow 329 As ships becalmed at eve, that lay 244 A stillness crept about the house 310 At daybreak in the fresh light, joyfully 295 A thousand years shall come and go 258 At noon, witliin the dusty town 315 A traveller tlirough a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea 218 At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still 72 At the king's gate the subtle moon 294 At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly 124 Page At the spring of an arch in the great north tower 318 Awake, my soul, and with the sun 46 A weary lot is thine, fair maid 105 A wet sheet and a flowing sea 144 Beat on, proud billows ; Boreas, blow 39 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 203 Before the dawn is yet the day 360 Begone, dull care 20 Beneath an Indian palm a girl 181 Beneath the moonlight and the snow 214 Better trust all and be deceived 175 Blow, blow, thou winter wind 16 Blue gulf all around us 261 " Body, I pray you, let me go ! " 368 Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen 121 Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! 181 Break, break, break 196 Bright image of Wie early years 176 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride 56 By Kebo's lonely mountain 237 By the flow of the inland river 326 Calm me, my God, and keep me calm 247 Calm on the listening ear of night 238 Can angel spirits need repose 136 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake... 126 Close beside the meeting waters 273 Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 290 Come down, ye graybeard mariners 372 Come into the garden, Maud . . 198 Come, live with me, and be my love 4 Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 't is at a white heat now 170 Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace 6 Comes something down witli eventide 25S Come to me, dearest, I 'm lonely without thee 330 Come with a smile, when come thou must. . . 313 Condemned to hope's delusive mine 59 Consider tlie sea's listless chime 295 Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven 166 Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas 250 Creep into thy narrow bed 266 Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn, to twinkle 140 Dear friend of old, whom memory links 319 Dear Friend ! whose presence in the house. . 246 Dear is my little native vale 81 Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars 46 374 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Do not cheat thy heart, and tell her 278 Down below, the wild November whistling . . 247 Drawn out, like lingering bees, to share 302 Drifting, slowly drifting, to the great wide stretch of the sea 367 Earl Gawain wooed the Lady Barbara 264 Earth with its dark and dreadful ills 255 England, I stand on thy imperial ground 371 Fair Daffodils, we weep to see .' 30 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree 31 Farewell rewards and fairies ! 20 Farewell ! since never more for thee 339 Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean . . 49 Father, I know that all my life 246 Father of all ! in every age 48 Father, thy paternal care 146 Father ! thy wonders do not singly stand. ... 176 Fear no more the heat o' the sun 16 Fly to the desert, fly with me 123 For a foot that will not come 316 Forever with the Lord ! 135 Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale. . . 174 From gold to gray 216 From harmony, from heavenly harmony. . . . 45 From his home in an Eastern bungalow 321 From Oberon, in fairy-laud 21 From Stirling Castle we had seen 101 From the recesses of a lowly spirit 146 Full fathom five thy father lies 16 Give ! as the morning that flows out of heaven 259 Give nie my scallop-shell of quiet 5 " Give us a song ! " the soldiers cried 263 Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament 89 God makes sech nights, all white an' still . . . 225 God moves in a mysterious way 71 God of the earth's extended plains ! 162 God sets some souls in shade, alone 277 Go forth in life, O friend ! not seeking love.. 259 Go, soul, the body's guest 5 Grandmother's mother ; her age, I guess .... 219 Grow old along with me ! 204 Had I a heart for falsehood framed 79 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 75 Hail to thee, blithe spirit 127 Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings 16 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star. 109 Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay 221 Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill 107 Hear the sledges with the bells 202 He gathered cherry-stones, and carved them quaintly 355 Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 282 He is gone on the mountain 106 He kept his honesty and truth 165 He meets, by heavenly chance express 253 Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow. ... 59 Here 1 'd come when weariest 359 Her hands ar"! cold ; her face is white 223 He said, " O brother, where 's the use of climbing ? " 294 He 's gane, he 'b gane ! he 's f rao us torn ... 84 He sleeps not here ; in hope and prayer 221 He 'b now upon the spectre's back 186 He that loves a rosy cheek 25 He tliat of a\ich a height hath built his mind 14 Ho who dipif at Azan sends 318 Hie upon Hiclamls 76 High hopes that burned like stars sublime . . 212 High walls and huge the body may confine. . 168 His echoing axe tlie settler swung 234 Hither thou com'st. The busy wind all night 3i How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! 47 How beautiful it was, that one bright day. .. 211 How calmly pass her quiet days 350 How dear to this heart are the scenes of my chUdhood 147 Howe'er the wheels of Time go round 262 How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean 31 How happy is he born and taught 13 How many days with mute adieu 177 How near to good is what is fair ! 19 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth 38 How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air. 87 How sweet it w^ere, if without feeble fright.. 144 How sweet the harmonies of afternoon ! 340 How vainly men themselves amaze 34 I am content, I do not care 51 I am old and blind ! 237 I am tired of planning and toiling 355 I climb the hill ; from end to end 196 I come where the wry road leads 359 I, country-born an' bred, know where to find 224 I do confess thou 'rt smooth and fair 26 I do not own an inch of land 274 I dwell in grace's courts 10 If all the world and love were young 5 If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 64 I feel a newer life in every gale 155 I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone • 1 65 If love were what the rose is 280 I found a fellow-worker when I deemed I toiled alone 337 If stores of dry and learned lore we gain 156 If thou wert by my side, my love 143 If with light head erect I sing 236 I have been out to-day in field and wood 256 I have fancied sometimes, the old Bethel- bent beam 304 I have had playmates, I have had compan- ions 120 I hear it often in the dark 307 I knew a Princess : she was old 303 I know not how to comfort thee 254 I know not if or dark or bright 179 I know not that the men of old 180 I know not what shall befall me 307 I lie in my red canoe 358 I like a church, I like a cowl 200 I loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone. . . 137 I loved to hear the war-horn cry 168 I love to wander through the woodlands hoary 233 I 'in sitting on the stile, Mary 163 I 'm wearin' awa', Jean 86 In Athens, when all learning centered there 326 In a valley, centuries ago 341 In days supreme, of fond delight 365 I never loved ambitiously to climb 12 In lowly dale, fast by a river's side 51 In spite of all the learned have said 345 In svnnmer, when the days were long 183 In the bitter waves of woe 364 In the still air the music lies unheard 247 In the summer twilight 313 In this sad hour, so still, so late 298 Into a city street 307 In winter, when the rain rained cauld 24 I plucked the harebells as I went 337 I push on through the shaggy wood 357 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 375 I said to Sorrow's awiul storm 148 I saw a man, by some accounted wise 321 I saw two clouds at morning 15G I say to thee, do tliou repeat 241 I see thee standing on tliy height 345 I seek His dwelling-place 3G3 I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life 308 I sought thee round about, O thou my God.. 26 Is there a whim-inspired fool 83 Is this a fast, to keep 31 It camiot be that men who are the seed 370 I stroU through verdant fields to-day 347 It chanceth once to every soul 306 It fell about the Martinmas 22 It fell about the Martinmas time 24 I thought of thee, my partner and my guide 103 It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying 194 It is done ! 216 It is not growing like a tree 18 It lies around us like a cloud 248 It's O my heart, my heart 357 It stands in a sunny meadow 290 It was a friar of orders gray 67 It was tlie winter wild 35 I 've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking. . 88 I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west. . . . 159 I wandered by the brookside 180 I wandered lonely as a cloud 99 I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile ! . . IGl I worship thee, sweet Will of God ! 239 I would be ready, Lord 321 I would have gone ; God bade me stay 272 I would not live away : I ask not to stay 162 Jesus, lover of my soul 58 John Davidson and Tib his wife 78 Judge not ; the workings of his brain 278 Just for a handful of silver he left us 207 Just where the Treasury's marble front 285 Laid in my quiet bed 3 Late to our town there came a maid 269 Launch thy bark, mariner ! 148 Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 363 Lest men suspect your tale untrue 50 Let me not to the marriage of true minds. . . 18 Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy . . 160 Let us go, lassie, go 88 Life ! I know not what thou art 75 Life may be given in many ways 228 Like some vision olden 253 Like to the falling of a star 27 Listen, my children, and you shall hear 207 Little tliinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 200 Lo, here is God. and there is God ! 242 Long years ago I wandered here 335 Lo ! o'er the earth the kindling spirits pour 90 Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and quaint 299 Lord ! call thy pallid angel 143 Lord, it belongs not to my care 39 Love divine, all love excelling 58 Love, when all these years are silent, van- ished quite and laid to rest 312 Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes 209 Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend 251 Methinks it is good to be here 93 Mid pl'iasures and palaces though we may roam 153 Midwinter comes to-morrow 320 Mild offspring ot a dark and sullen sire ! 92 Mine be a cot beside the hill 81 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord 236 Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains. . . . 120 More than the soul of ancient song is given . . 263 My cliild is lying on my knees 270 My days among the dead are passed 117 My dear and only love, I pray 28 My hawk is tired of perch and hood 105 My life is like the summer rose 152 My mind to me a kingdom is 15 My only love is always near 350 My sins and follies. Lord ! by thee 33 Mysterious night ! when our first parent knew 89 Nearer, my God, to thee 245 Never, surely, was holier man 226 Next to these ladies, but in naught allied. ... 80 Night seems troubled and scarce asleep 314 No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral stoops 2?5 No longer spread the sail ! 202 No mistress of the hidden skill 153 " No more, no more ! " the autumnal shad- ows cry 362 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea 117 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note . . . 152 No ! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change 18 Not in the world of light alone 219 Not often to the parting soul 235 Not ours the vows of such as plight 144 Not yet, the flowers are in my path 254 O Artist, range not over- wide 20G O, ask not, hope thou not, too much 154 O blithe new-comer ! I have heard 100 O blushing flowers of Krumley ! 254 O fair and stately maid, whose eyes 199 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 82 Of all amusements for the mind 232 Of all the thoughts of God that are 190 Oft has it been my lot to mark 64 Oft have I walked these woodland paths 357 Of them who, rapt in earth so cold 73 Of this fair volume which we World do name 12 O happiness ! our being's end and aim ! 48 O happy, happy maid 257 O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale 138 Oh, Earth and Heaven are far apart 352 Oil, snows so pure ! oh, peaks so high .' 3()2 Oh, what 's the way to Arcady 350 O, I hae come from far away 329 O, it is hard to work for God 239 O Lady, leave thy silken thread 161 O, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle wa' 77 O Land, of every land the best 257 O lassie ayont the hill ! 270 Old Tubal Cain was a man of might 218 O little town of Bethlehem 363 O Love Divine, of all that is 308 O lull me, lull me, charming air 26 O Mary, at thy window be ! . 82 O Mary, go and call the cattle home 249 O may I join the choir invisible ! 248 Once, in the flight of ages past 135 Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands 189 One day, nigh weary of the irksome way i One day to Helbeck I had strolled 118 One sweetly welcome tliought 256 One word is too often profaned 128 376 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. On thy fair boRom, silver lake 155 O patient Christ ! when long ago 3CC Open tlie temple-gates unto my love 8 O Saviour ! whose mercy, severe in its kind- ness 178 O shadow in a sultry land 3G5 O, sing unto my roundelay ! 79 O stream descending to the sea 243 O, sweet and fair ! O, rich and rare ! 274 O tliat those lips had language ! Life has passed 69 O thou, great Friend to all the sons of men. . 239 O thou who dry'st the mourner's tear ! 124 O, timely happy, timely wise 177 O unseen Spirit I now a calm divine 175 ')ur Mary liket weel to stray 169 >ut of the clover and blue-eyed grass 316 Out upon the unknown deep 250 Over hill, over dale 16 Over the mountains 19 Over the mountain wave, see where they come 168 Over the river they beckon to me 277 O, waly, waly up the bank 76 O, weel may the boatie row 77 O, what will a' the lads do 121 O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 149 O yet we trust that somehow good 197 O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west ! 104 Pack clouds away, and welcome day 26 Pause not to dream of the future before us. . 175 Pipe, little minstrels of the waning year .... 297 Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 136 Pure souls that watch above me from afar. . . 361 Put the broidery-frame away 191 Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair 18 Quiet from God ! It cometh not to still 244 Remember us poor Mayers all ! 20 Ring, sing I ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath bells 284 Sad heart, what will the future bring 371 Sad would the salt waves be 360 Saith the white owl to the martin folk 314 See, from this counterfeit of him 231 Send down thy wing(5d angel, God ! 179 Serene, I fold my hands and wait 327 Shall I tell you whom I love ? ... 25 Shall the mole, from his night under-ground 364 She doth tell me where to borrow 34 " She is dead ! " they said to him. " Come away " 317 She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie 145 She sits amid her orange-trees 347 Slie smiles and smiles, and will not sigh 266 She stood alone amidst the April fields 291 She stood breast high amid the corn 161 She stood in the harvest-field at noon 271 She walks in beauty, like the night 125 She wanders up and down the main 354 She was a phantom of delight 100 She wearies with an ill unknown 252 Silent nymph, with curious eye ! 54 Sitting all day in a silver mist 327 Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 90 Slayer of winter, art thou here again ? 297 Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed 28 Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares 74 Slowly, by God's hand unfurled 260 Snow was glistening on the mountains, but the air was that of June 230 Something passes in the air 3G0 So sweet, so sweet the rosea in their blowing 291 Spring, witli that nameless pathos in the air. 311 St. Agnes' Eve, — ah, bitter chill it was ! 129 Steer hither, steer your wingeil pines 25 Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 102 Still sits the school-house by the road 215 Still to be neat, still to be drest 19 Strike the loved harp ; let the prelude be . . . 338 Success had made him more than king 313 Sure, to the mansions of the blest 137 Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright 31 Sweetest of all childlike dreams 215 Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! 74 Sweet-scented flower ! who 'rt wont to bloom 92 Sweet-voiced Hope, thy fine discourse 241 Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close 65 Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been? 337 Tell me not, in mournful numbers 209 Tell me not, sweet, I ara unkind 30 Ten years ! — and to my waking eye 265 That house's form within was rude and strong 9 That regal soul I reverence, in whose eyes. . . 241 That time of year thou mayst in me behold. . 17 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 125 The bard has sung, God never formed a soul 154 The birds, when winter shades the sky 165 The birds must know. Who wisely sings. . . . 295 The clouds are scowling on the hill 349 The conference-meeting through at last 285 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 60 The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept 272 The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep 298 The day was dark, save when the beam 142 The fairest action of our human life 13 The frugal snail, with forecast of repose .... 120 The gauger walked with willing foot 359 The glories of our blood and state 28 The golden sea its mirror spreads 244 The gowan glitters on the sward 86 The grass hung wet on Pvydal banks 260 The island lies nine leagues away 185 The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair 150 The Jester shook his head and bells, and leaped upon a chair 293 The leaves have fallen from the trees 268 The lift is high and blue 250 The Lord descended from above 3 The Lord my pasture shall prepare 47 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year 188 The midges dance aboon the bum 88 The music-lesson of Koung-tseu the wise 331 The night has a thousand eyes 353 The night is come ; like to the day 29 The night was dark, though sometimes a faint star 328 The night was made for cooling shade 287 The old mayor climbed the belfry tower 280 The perfect sight of duty; thought which moulds 320 Tlie pilgrim and stranger, who through the day 273 The rain has ceased, and in my room 2H3 The rain is o'er. How dense and bright 147 There are gains for all our losses 287 There are in this loud stunning tide 178 There are who, bending supple knees 362 There came a Mystic Thouglit to me 352 Tliero is a land of pure delight 57 There is no flock, however watched and tended 210 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 377 There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet 124 There the most dainty paradise on ground. . . 9 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream 97 There was once a gentle time 91 The rich man's son inherits lands 224 The royal feast was done ; the King 370 The salt wind blows upon my cheek 298 The sanctity that is about the dead 365 The sea is calling, calling 336 The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er. 40 These, as tliey change, Almighty Father, these 52 These withered hands are weak 341 The shadows lay along Broadway 172 The sky is thick upon the sea 287 The solemn wood liad spread 255 The sparrow sits and sings, and sings. 296 The splendor falls on castle walls 199 The sun is warm, the sky is clear 127 The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain 155 The time so tranquil is and clear 10 The tree of deepest root is found 73 The weather-leech of the topsail shivers 311 The western waves of ebbing day 105 The wild November comes at last 287 The wind ahead, the billows high 240 The winds that once the Argo bore 289 The wind was whispering to the vines 305 * The word of the Lord by night 201 The world is too much with us ; late and soon 103 They are all gone into the world of light 33 They gave the whole long day to idle laughter 303 They sat and combed their beautiful hair . . . 292 They that have power to hurt and will do none 17 Thine eyes still shone for me, though far .... 200 Think me not unkind and rude 199 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets fain.. 223 This morning, timely rapt with holy fire 19 This only grant me, that my means may lie. 40 This sweet child which both climbed upon my knee 356 Thou art, O God ! the life and light 124 Thou blossom bright with autumn dew 189 Thou Grace Divine, encircling all 245 Thought is deeper than all speech 234 Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie 145 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray 83 Thou singest by the gleaming isles 283 Thou, who didst stoop below 325 Three fishers went sailing out into the west. 249 Three Poets, in three distant ages bom 46 Threescore o' nobles rade up the king's ha'. . 78 Three years she grew in sun and shower 100 Thrice happy she that is so well assured 7 Thy banks were bonnie, Yarrow stream 75 Tiger! Tiger! burning bright 85 Till the slow daylight pale 272 Time goes, you say ? Ah, no ! 351 'Tis a story told by Kalidasa 334 'T is the middle of night by the castle clock. 110 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 63 To him who in the love of Nature holds 187 Toll for the brave ! 69 Too late I stayed, forgive the crime 89 Touch us gently. Time ! 179 Trouble ? Dear friend, I know her not 366 'T was when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in 182 Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee. . . 185 Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day 190 Two wandering angels. Sleep and Death. . .. 232 Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain 276 Under the greenwood tree 16 Unto the glory of thy Holy Name 39 Up on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made 334 Upon the white sea-sand 184 Venomous thorns that are so sharp and keen 4 Voice, with what mounting fire thou singest free hearts of old fashion 371 Walking thus towards a pleasant grove 29 Was it the chime of a tiny bell 157 We are all here 169 We count the broken lyres that rest 220 We left the city, street and square 335 We knew it would rain, for all the mom. . . . 283 We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still 307 We sat at twiliglit nigh the sea 353 We were twin brothers, tall and hale 354 What ails this heart o' mine ? 75 What is it fades and flickers in the fire '275 What way we take into the vast Forever?. . . 370 What ! our petitions spurned ! The prayer. 158 What was he doing, the great god Pan 193 When all is done and said 3 When coldness wraps this suffering clay 126 Whene'er a noble deed is wrought 211 When Freedom from her mountain height.. 156 When God at first made man 32 When ice is thawed and snow is gone 355 When I consider how my light is spent 38 When I have said my quiet say 273 When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 17 When Israel, of the Lord beloved 107 Wlien love with unconfint5d wings 30 When maidens such as Hester die 120 Wlien marshalled on the nightly plain 93 When on my ear your loss was knelled 229 When the grass shall cover me 273 When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye came hame 85 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 17 Where does Circumstance end, and Provi- dence, where begins it ? 243 Where honor or where conscience does not bind 41 Where the bee sucks, there lurk 1 16 Where the Great Lake's sunny smiles 212 Where the remote Bermudas ride 35 Where the sinister sun of the Syrians beat. . 369 Whether on Ida's shady brow 86 While day in dying grew in beauty rare 365 While sauntering through the crowded street 309 Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power 136 Whither, midst falling dew 187 Whoe'er she be 29 Wlio knoweth life but questions death 276 Why should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen 309 Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 251 With blackest moss the flower-pots 195 With deep affection 171 With fingers weary and worn 100 With how sad steps, O Moon I thou climb'st the skies 6 Within his sober realm of leafless trees. ... 279 Within the sunlit forest 142 378 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Woiild I were lying in a field of clover 356 Wouldst thou hear what man can aay 19 Tears, years ago, ere yet my dreams 163 Te banis and braes and streams aromid 82 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers 62 Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell 58 Ye say they all have passed away 260 Yes, faith is a goodly anchor 227 You knew, — who Imew not Astrophel ? 7 You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier 324 You meaner beauties of the night 13 You say, but with no touch of scorn 197 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. Page After Death 272 After Death in Arabia ^» Again 274 Alpine Sheep, The ^^^ Althea, To •••• * AU'BweU 241, 298 Ambition 168 Ambrose ^j:^ Amiens's Song V^ Anchor, The Forging of the I'O An Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland, From 14 AngeUc Ministry 2. Angel in the House, An 14* Angel's Visit, An 271 Apology, The 199 Arcady, The Way to 350 Ariel's Song 16 Artist The ^^ " A Tribute to a Servant," From 235 At Sea 287 Auld Robin Gray °5 Autumn, A still Day in 233 Aroca, The Vale of 124 A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea 144 Azrael 313 BaU, After the 292 BaU, The Belle of the 163 Balquhither, The Braes o' 88 Battle-Field, The 189 Battle Hymn of the Republic 236 Bedford, On Lucy, Countess of 19 Begone, Dull Care ! 20 BeUs, The 202 Bermudas, The 35 Berne, The Terrace at 265 Bertha 268 Bertha in the Lane 191 Bethlehem, O Little Town of 363 Bethlehem, The Star of 93 Bingen on the Rhine l'^3 Birch Stream 315 Bird, The 32 Blackbird, The 340 Blindnesa, On his 38 Blossom Time, In °^ Blossoms, To ^1 Blue and the Gray, The ^^b Bluebird, The 355 Bonnie George Campbell 7t> Boston Hymn 201 " Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich," From the. • . ^4>5 Bower of Bliss, The 9 « Break, break, break ! " 1»6 Page Brides of Quair, The Ballad of the 310 Bridge of Sighs, On the 306 Brookside, The 180 Brough Bells 118 Bucket, The 147 Bugle Song 199 Burial, After the 227 Bums 165 Bust of Dante, On a 231 Camp in three Lights, A 358 Camp, The Song of the 263 Campanile de Pisa 230 Cana 246 Careless Content 51 " Castle of Indolence," From the 51 Celinda 29 Century, Our First 370 Chameleon, The 64 Charity 273 Chase, The 252 Cherry-Stone Artist, The 355 Childe's Destiny, The 153 Choir, The Old-Fashioned 304 Christabel HO Christmas Hymn 238 Christmas-Time 107 Church Gate, At the 195 Climbing 294 Columbine, To the Painted 176 Come to me. Dearest 330 Coming Home 250 Commemoration Ode 228 Common Days, In 365 Companionship of the Muse 34 Concha 299 Confucius, The Music-Lesson of 331 Congress, To 158 Content and Rich 10 Contentment 12 Corn-Law Hymn 143 Coronach 106 Coronation 294 Courage 362 Courtin', The 225 Cowper's Grave 194 Crickets, The 297 Crowing of the Red Cock, The 353 Cuckoo, To the 75, 190 Cupid grown careful 91 Daffodils, The 99 DaffodUs, To 30 Damascus, To 369 Dance, The 329 380 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. Dane, The Burial of the 261 Dawn 328 Deacon's Maaterpiece, The 221 Dead, The 73 Dead who have died m the Lord, The 89 Death and the Youth 254 Death of Dr. Levett, On the 59 Death the Leveller 28 Death, The Sejret of 317 Death, Until 251 Dee, The Sands of 249 Defiance, The Soul's 148 Definitions 320 DereUct 354 Description of such a one as he would love, A 4 Dickens in Camp 301 Different Points of View 314 Dirge for Fidele '. 16 Dirge for a Soldier 290 Dirge in Cimbeliae. 63 Doorstep, The 285 Dorothy Q 219 Doubt 197 Down the Slope 276 Dreamer, The Cry of the 355 Driftmg 367 Driving Home the Cows 316 Duddon, To the River 103 Duty, Ode to 102 DweUing-Placo, His 363 Each and All 200 Edom o' Gordon 22 Election, The Eve of 216 Elegy 28 Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 84 Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 60 Epitaph, A Bard's 83 Epitap)i on Elizabeth L. H 19 EpithiUamium 156 Epithalaraium, From the 8 Errand, The Soul's 5 Eternal Light 260 Eton College, Ode on a distant Prospect of. . 62 Eva, To 199 Evelyn Hope 203 Evening Hymn 29 Evening, Ode to 64 Evening Song 177 Eventide 258 Faces, The old familiar 120 Fair and Unworthy 26 Fairliaveu Bay 357 Faith 175 Family Meeting, The 169 Farewell to the Fairies 10 Fate 341 Fern, The Petrified 311 Field Preaching 256 Fireside, By the 275 Fishers, The Three 249 Flag, T)\e Amorican 156 Flowers, The Death of the 188 Flower, The 31 Ply to the Desert 123 Fool's Prayer, The 370 For one that bears himself much praised. ... 33 Forest Worship 142 Fomver with the Lord 135 Frli'nd Sorrow 278 Fringed (ientian. To the 189 Funeral, The Fiiiherman's 334 Future, The 376 Garden Song 198 Garden, Thoughts in a 34 Gate, Before the 303 Geneva, The Lake of 126 Genevieve 108 Ghost at Noon, A 142 Gibraltar, At 371 Glenara 138 Glenlogie 78 Gnome, The Green 284 God knoweth 307 God, The Kingdom of 241 God, The Love of 245 God, The WiU of 239 Gold Coin, Ode to an Indian 90 Golden Isles, From the 360 Good-Morrow 26 Gowan glitters on the Sward, The 86 Grongar Hill 54 Had I a Heart for Falsehood framed 79 Happiness 48 Hark ! Hark ! the Lark 16 Hawthorne 211 Health, A 165 Heart, The Memory of the 156 Heavenly Land, The 57 Heaven, The Present 176 Heaven, There was Silence in 136 Herb Rosemary, To the 92 Hereafter 312 Heritage, The 224 Her last Poem 255 Hermit. The 72 Heroes 28:i Hester 120 He that loves a rosy Cheek 25 Highland Mary 82 House in the Meadow, The 290 Housekeeper, The 120 How near to Good is what is Fair 10 Hymn 47, 146, 175, 366 Hymn, A 52 Hymn before Sunrise, in the Yale of Cha- mouni 109 Hymn for the Mother 270 Hymn of Nature 162 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid 107 Hymn on the Nativity 35 Hymn to Christ 325 Hymn to the Flowers 140 Iconoclast, The 258 Ideal, The Unrealized 350 If thou wert by my Side 143 " I know that my Redeemer Liveth " 364 Illness, Written after Recovery from a Dan- gerous 90 I '11 never love thee more 28 Inchcnpe Rock, The 117 Indian Burying-Ground, The 345 Indian Names 260 In June 291 In Memoriam 340 Inner Calm, The 247 In Prison 39 In School-Days 215 Inspiration 236 In the Defences 288 In the Mist 327 In the Sea 298 Intimations of Immortality 97 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 381 Inward Music 178 lo Victis !."..!.!. 3G8 Irish Emigrant, The 163 Isaac Ashford 80 Islaud, The 185 Italian Song 81 Italy. A Prophecy 338 " It is more blessed " 259 " I will abide in thine House " 277 I would not live alway 162 Jeanie Morrison 159 Jester's Sermon, The 293 Jeaus, Lover of my Soul 58 John Davidson 78 Judge Not 278 July Dawning 335 Keith of Ravelston 257 Kindred Hearts 151 Krumley 254 Labor 175 Lady Anne Hamilton, To the 89 Lady Barbara 264 Lady Mary Ann 77 Lament 137 Lament for Astrophel (Sir Philip Sidney) ... 7 Lament for Flodden 88 Land o' the Leal, The 86 Landward 287 Laus Deo ! 216 Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman 105 Leader, The Lost 207 Leaves, Under the 357 Lent, To keep a true 31 Liberty 41 Life 75 Light 353 Light, kindly. Lead 363 Lincoln, Abraham 324 Lincolnshire, The High Tide on the Coast of 280 Lines to my Mother's Picture 69 Lines written in Richmond Churchyard, Yorkshire 93 Listening for God 307 Lochinvar, Young 104 Lord Ullin's Daughter 189 Los Angeles 347 Losses 184 Loss of the Royal George 69 Love 259 Love and Friendship 165 Love Divine, all Love excelling 58 Love Now 365 Lovers, The Puritan 302 Lover, The 253 Love, The Burial of 190 Love will find out the Way 19 Lucasta, To 30 Lucy 's Flittin' 182 Maidenhood 209 Maid of Grishomish, The 349 Majesty of God 3 Man, The Last 138 March 297 Marianna 195 Mariner's Hymn 148 Mariner's Wife, The 71 Marriage 154 Mary in Heaven, To 83 Mary Morison 82 Master's Touch, The 247 Match, A 286 May 155 May-Day Song .' 20 Mazziui 304 Meeting, Tlie Quiet 319 Melanie, From 172 Memory 196 Memory, A 100 Men ot Old, The 180 Midwinter 320 Milton's Prayer in Blindness 237 Mind, The Immortal 126 Mine Own 333 Ministry, A Bird's 321 Minstrel's Song in Ella, The 79 Mont Blanc 126 Morning 177 Morning Hymn 46 Morning Meditations 160 Morning Street, The 328 Moses, The Burial of 237 Mother, To a Bereaved 137 Mountains, The 262 Mount Hope 347 Mummy, Address to an Egyptian 141 Muses, To the 86 Music 26 Musical Instrument, A 193 My Birthday 214 My Father's Child 366 My Life is like the Summer Rose 152 My Mind to me a Kingdom is • 15 My old Kentucky Nurse 303 My Slain 356 Mysteries, The Two 367 Mysteries of Providence 71 Myth, A 250 My Times are in thy Hand 246 Napoleon's Telegraph on Montmartre 345 Nature, The Lessons of 12 Nature, The noble 18 Nearer Home 25G Nearer, my God, to thee 245 Never again 287 New England Spring 224 New Sinai, The 242 Niagara, The Fall of 155 Night and Death 89 Night, The mid Hour of 124 Night on Lake Helen 358 No Age content with his own Estate 3 No More 362 Not Ours the Vows 144 November 287 Nymph's Reply, The 5 Of a' the Airts the Wind can blaw 82 Of Myself 40 O Lassie ayont the Hill ! 270 Old Age and Death 40 O may I join the Choir Invisible ! 248 One Word is too often profaned 128 Oriental Idyl, An 262 O Saviour ! whose Mercy 178 O Thou who dry'st the Mourner's tear 124 Our Mary 169 Outward Bound 250 Over the River 277 O, why should the Spirit of Mortal be proud 149 Painter who pleased Nobody and Everybody, The 50 Palm and the Pine, The 181 382 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. Pan in Wall Street 285 Paradox of Time, The 35 Paraplirase of Psalm XXIII -. 47 Parson, Cliaracter of a Good 46 Passing away 157 Paul Revere's Ride 207 Peace 257 Petition to Time, A 179 Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, On a 101 Pilgrim Song , 168 Pilgrim, The 5 Pirate, The 185 Piscataqua River 283 Pleasure mixed with Pain 4 Poet of To-Day, The 263 Portrait of Red Jacket, On a 166 Prayer 39, 136 Prayer in Sickness, A 179 Prayer, The Universal 48 Pre-existence 309 Primrose, To an Early 92 Problem, The 200 Prophecy, The Soul'a 202 Psalm of Life, A 209 Puck, The Fairy to 16 Pure Souls 301 Qua Cursum Ventiis 244 Queen of Bohemia, To his Mistress, the 13 Quiet Days, Her 350 Quiet from God 244 Rabbi Ben Ezra 204 Rain, After the 283 Rain, Before the 283 Ready 321 Reason 46 Recesses, From the 146 Resignation 39, 210 Rest 32 Revenge of Injuries 13 Rheims, The Jackdaw of 150 Riches, The House of 9 Right must win. The 239 Rivers, All the 306 Robin Goodfellow 21 Robinson of Leyden 221 Rocky Mountains in Winter, after many Years, On recrossing the 335 Rough Point, Off 353 Royalty 241 Ruth 161 Sabbath, The 174 Saint Agnes, The Eve of 129 Santa Filomena 211 Schoolmistress, The , 59 Sea Dirge, A 16 Sea-Limits, The 295 Search after God 26 Seen and Unseen 240 Seneca Lake, To 155 Sennaclierib, The Destruction of 125 Sepulchre, His Choice of a 359 Serenade, A 105 Settler, The 234 Seven Times Four 282 Seven Times Seven 282 Shandon, The Bells of 171 Shay, Tlie One-Hoss 221 Shepherd-Boy, The 253 Shepherd to liis Love, The passionate 4 She 's gane to dwall in Heaven 145 She walks in Beauty 125 She was a Phantom of Delight 100 Shirt, The Song of the 160 Shot, A Flight 354 Sic Vita 27 Siren's Song, The 25 Sir John Moore, The Burial of 152 Sisters, The 254 Skylark, To a 127 Sleep and Death 232 Sleep, The 190 Sleep, To 103 Sleepy Hollow 235 Small Beginnings 218 Snows so Pure, Oh 367 Soldier's Return, The 82 Something passes 360 Song 25, 49, 105, 101, 313 Song for Saint Cecilia's Day, 1087 45 Song of a FeUow-Worker 337 Song of Hesperus 18 Song of the Road, A 359 Song of Trust, A 308 Sonnet 168 Sonnets 6, 17 Sorrow, The Angel 366 Soul, The 11 Soul, The Sabbath of the 74 Soul, The Upright 269 Sower, The 329 Spectre Horse, The 186 Spirits, Unseen 172 Spring in Carolina 311 Spring, The Late 291 Stanzas 117, 234 Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples. . . 127 Statue, The 326 Stream of Life, The 243 Strip of Blue, A 274 Struggle, The 368 Submission 296 Summer Day, A 10, 295 Summer Days 183 Summer Shower, After a 147 Summons, The Fisherman's 336 Sunflower, The 272 Sunlight and Starlight 277 Sunset, The Golden 244 Survivors, The 298 Swallow, The Departure of the 182 Sweet Home 153 Tacking Ship oft Shore 311 Take thy auld Cloak about thee 24 Temple, The Living 219 Temptation 359 Thanatopsis 187 The Barring o' the Door 24 The Boatie Rows 77 The Chambered Nautilus 223 The Closmg Scene 279 The Common Lot 135 " The Deserted Village," From 65 The Evening Cloud 146 The Friar of Orders Gray 67 The Good Man 13 The Grave by the Lake 212 The Larger Hope 197 The Midges dance aboon the Bum 88 The Rapture of Kilmeny 151 " The Rivulet," From 190 The Sweet Neglect 19 They are all gone 33 Thine Eyes still Shone 200 Thou art, O God 124 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 383 Thought 3 Thought, The Mystic 352 Thou hast sworn by thy God 145 Tibbie Inglis 181 Tiger, The 85 To-Day 371 To-Day and To-Morrow 212 Too Late 250, 365 Touchstone, The 217 Trosachs, The 105 Trust 179 Tubal Cain 218 Twenty-three, On Arriving at the Age of . . . . 38 Two Moods 337 Ultima Veritas 364 Una and the Lion 8 Unawares 305 Under Milton's Picture 46 Under the Greenwood-Tree 16 Unseen 318 Up Above 247 Urania 266 Urvasi 334 Vanishers, The 215 Venice, Sunrise in 314 Vespers 273, 365 Violets, Under the 223 Virtue 31 Virtuous, The Death of the 74 Vision, A 83 Vista, A, From 371 Voiceless, The 220 Voyagers, The 262 Waiting 316, 327 " Walker in Nicaragua," From 313 Waly, waly, but love be bonny 76 Warnings, The three 73 Waterfowl, To a 187 Waters, The Meeting 273 Way to Sing, The 295 Way, the Truth, and the Life, The 239 We are Brethren a' 184 Weary 272 We Twain 352 What ails this Heart o' mine ? 75 What is the Use ? 321 When Maggie gangs away 121 When the Grass shall cover me 273 Whilst thee I seek 136 White Underneath 307 Why thus longing ? 251 Wish, A 81 Wish, A Woman's 356 Wishes 29 Wishing 232 Witness, The Sure 255 Woman 252 Woman's Love, A 305 Woman, The True 7 Woods, From the.... 309 Wordsworth 200 Word, The Last 266 Work 337 World, The 103 World, The Other 248 Worlds, The Two 276 Yarrow Stream 75 Yarrow, The Braes of 56 Yarrow unvisited 101 Ye Golden Lamps of Heaven, farewell 1 68 '^^ c^ *»-SJ v^ s UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY This book is DUE on the last date stamped below MAYl 1959 I MAV 1 4 iW \ !■ nnii i.-'t —^7- i ^ "^ ^~ - <^,. A UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITV ^>'