Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES Women's Voices ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING Swia Eleilric En{riins_C.' Women's Voices An Anthology of the most Characteristic Poems by English, Scotch, and Irish Women SELECTED, ARRANGED. AND EDITED BY MRS. WILLIAM SHARP THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD. LONDON AND FELLING-ON-TYNE NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE College Xabrai) TO ALL WOMEN. TO MY MOTHER. 1092T70 PREFACE. VARIOUS circumstances have occurred to delay the publication of this volume. It was originally intended to be an anthology from the writings of women- poets between 1685 and 1885 ; but I do not regret the delay in its appearance, for I have thereby been enabled to include no inconsiderable amount of fine poetic work which has appeared during the last two and a-half years. It is a somewhat hackneyed remark, that if some of the poetry of our younger writers had appeared a century ago, the authors would have achieved a fame, or at any rate a reputation, beyond all comparison with the scanty meed of acknowledgment which is their present reward. It is, however, not generally recognised how much of verse of high intellectual and artistic quality has been written by women during the last two centuries. One or two names have a high place on the roll of fame ; others are rewarded with honourable if somewhat patronising mention and approval ; and many whose productions are of a quality exceptionally noteworthy are totally forgotten, or as in the case of living authors strangely, and one is V1 PREFACE. inclined to say, ungenerously neglected. In the great and ever-increasing pressure of literary production it would be unreasonable to expect that every true voice should make itself heard, even for the brief while of its singing-days : many, indeed most poets, must be content with the selfish reward of their art. Of book-making there is no end ; but if the production of books by those who, like myself, have no faculty for original work, is reprehensible, there is, at least, good reason for anthologies. Since much that is fine in itself, so illustrative of the development of character, so represen- tative of an age, must perish, it is surely well that the quintessence of it the amber left by subsided seas, so to speak should be preserved. If one's many words are to be as dead and withered leaves, it is a fortunate guerdon from fate if a single lyric, a single sonnet, carries its music or its message to a few hearts here and there among those who come after us. It does not matter if one's name be forgotten, though it is a pleasant thought that it may be mentioned approvingly in days to come. "The Land o' the Leal," " Auld Robin Gray," and other familiar lyrics and poems by women, have survived, not only on account of their pathetic humanity and lyrical sweetness, but also in some measure, at least, because they came into existence at a time when there were far fewer voices than at present, and when the national inheritance of song was not so manifold as it now is. PREFACE. vii Mere selections serve, I fear, no important end : of still less value are these when they are, as is so often the case, fragmentary in themselves, and collectively invertebrate. I think Womerfs Voices speak for themselves ; and it is no presumption, but only conformity to a not unwise custom, which induces me to say a few words on behalf of my own work, to put forth my claim. There have been many anthologies, lyrical treasuries, sonnet collections, and so forth, and among them a few compilations devoted entirely to woman's work in poetry. The latter may be divided into three sections : books dealing with poets according to locality or nationality books dealing with song-writers, pure and simple and books dealing with extracts from popular authors. There has not, so far as I am aware, been any anthology formed with the definite aim to represent each of our women-poets by one or more essentially characteristic poems. Too often, on the other hand, women have been represented by their most indifferent productions : generally, the various selections have been given anyhow, after a predetermined arrangement in chronological or alphabetical sequence. In this volume it has been my endeavour not only to represent each woman with whose writings I am acquainted or with whose writings I have come in contact, but to do so characteristically. I do not, there- fore, claim that in every instance a writer is represented by her supreme achievement : each, I hope, is herein introduced viii PREFACE, by lines at once noteworthy for their own sake and eminently characteristic of the author's genius or talent. The scope of the volume covers it will thus be seen practically new ground. I do not think that the poetry enshrined herein requires any apology from me or from any one : it speaks for itself, and to my mind, at any rate conclusively enough. No inconsiderable portion of it is culled from the writings of unknown writers and of authors of very limited reputation : but I am convinced that the selection is not inferior to any that might be made from the poetry of men of similar standing. I have been fortunately placed for an acquaintance with much fugitive poetry, and can assert with emphasis that there is a greater wealth of really fine poetic writing at present appearing in more or less obscure quarters than has ever appeared at any other period of our literary history. It is perhaps beside the mark and I may be accused of bias and prejudice but I am glad to be able to express at least one opinion when I say, that among the minor poets of this generation women have written more that is worthy to endure than men have done. It is, however, not a question of assertion or denial : the settlement of the question is within the power of every one who cares to go into the matter intelligently, sympathetically, and with- out prejudice. The idea of making this anthology arose primarily from the conviction that our women-poets had never been PREFACE. ix collectively represented with anything like adequate justice ; that the works of many are not so widely known as they deserve to be ; and that at least some fine fugitive poetry could thus be rescued from oblivion. My claim, now that my task is at an end, is, that the following selections will further emphasise the value of women's work in poetry for those who are already well acquainted with English Literature, and that they will convince many it is as possible to form an anthology of " pure poetry " from the writings of women as from those of men. It was because I felt so assured I would have to make no apology that the labour has been to me one of love. Women have had many serious hindrances to contend against defective education, lack of broad experience of life, absence of freedom in which to make full use of natural abilities, and the force of public and private opinion, both of which have always been prone to prejudge her work unfavourably, or at best apologetically. These deterrent influences are gradually passing away, with the result that an ever-widening field for the exercise of their powers is thus afforded to women. Herein was an additional reason for the chronological arrangement of this volume. I found, as I trust others may, that the collection thus made pointed to a steady development of intellectual power, certainly not unaccompanied by artistic faculty a fact which gives further sanction to the belief that still finer work will be produced in the future by women-poets. x PREFACE. I wish here to acknowledge the collaboration of living writers who have so courteously contributed poems to my anthology, or who have afforded me permission to make such selection from their works as I desired. If there are any authors, or copyright-holders, with whom I have unwit- tingly omitted to communicate, I trust they will not consider themselves aggrieved : between the injustice of omission and the liberty of representation without consent there could be little hesitation on my part. To the various publishers, also, who have kindly consented to my use of copyright matter, I desire to express my indebtedness, more especially to Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co., to Messrs. Bentley & Son, and to Messrs. Kegan Paul & Co. To Mr. Richard Garnett my thanks are due for much kind help in calling my attention to certain poems with which I should other- wise have remained unacquainted ; and also to Professor Eric S. Robertson, whose biographical and critical English Poetesses has been of great assistance to me in the compilation of this book. ELIZABETH A. SHARP. CONTENTS. LADY ELIZABETH CAREW PACE Revenge - * MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE Song by Lady Happy - 3 KATHERINE PHILIPS Friendship's Mystery 4 APHRA BEHN A Song 6 LADY WINCHELSEA A Nocturnal Reverie - 7 LADY GRISELL BAILLIE Werena my Heart Licht 9 JEAN ADAMS There's nae Luck about the House 12 ALISON COCKBURN The Flowers of the Forest - 15 JANE ELLIOT The Flowers of the Forest - - - 16 xii CONTENTS. HESTER PIOZZI PAGE The Three Warnings - - 18 ISOBEL PAGAN Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes - -22 ANNE HUNTER My mother bids me bind my hair - 24 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD Life - .... 25 HANNAH MORE The Inflexible Captive - 27 SUSANNA BLAMIRE And ye sail walk in silk attire - - 33 What ails this heart o' mine ? - 35 ANNA SEWARD An Evening in November - 37 Rich Auld Willie's Farewell - 38 CHARLOTTE SMITH Written at the close of Spring - 41 LADY ANNE BARNARD Auld Robin Gray 42 ANNE GRANT On a Sprig of Heather - 44 JEAN GLOVER O'er the Muir amang the Heather - 46 ELIZABETH HAMILTON My Ain Fireside - - - - . - 47 CONTENTS. xiii JOANNA BAILLIE The Chough and Crow Woo'd and Married and a' Tarn o' the Lin The Weary Fund o' Tow - The Death of Ethwald 57 CAROLINE, BARONESS NAIRNE The Land o' the Leal Caller Herrin' - The Auld House - The Laird o' Cockpen - Wha'll be King but Charlie ? MARY TIGHE Written at Killarney The Lily -. HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS To Hope 7S FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS The Summer's Call The Treasures of the Deep From " The Forest Sanctuary " JANET HAMILTON A Ballad of Memorie - The Way o' the Warl' SARA COLERIDGE Phantasmion's Quest of larine - Song From " Phantasmion" Zelneth's Lament Lines on the common saying that Love is Blind XIV CONTENTS. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON- The Unknown Grave - The Frozen Ship - HARRIET MARTINEAU August - PAGE 92 94 97 MARY HOWITT The Fairies of the Caldon Low 99 CAROLINE NORTON Ifs Babel - LADY DUFFERIN The Lament of the Irish Emigrant 103 104 1 06 CATHERINE FANSHAWE The Letter H 109 JANE WELSH CARLYLE To a Swallow building under our Eaves MARY COWDEN-CLARKE Body and Soul. At Midnight of All Souls 112 "3 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING The Cry of the Human The Dead Pan Rhyme of the Duchess May Grief - The Poet and the Bird Perplexed Music The Soul's Expression Sonnets from the Portuguese - 114 119 - 133 156 - 157 158 - 159 160-161 CONTENTS. x? MARGARET M. INGLIS PAGE Young Jamie - - 162 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE Winter - 163 Sonnet I hear a low voice in the sunset woods - 164 Sonnet Art thou already weary of the way ? - 165 Written on Cramond Beach 166 ELIZA COOK Old Cries 167 EMILY BRONTE The Old Stoic - 171 Stanzas 172 A Death Scene - 173 Remembrance - 176 Last Lines - - 178 LADY WILDE (" SPERANZA ") The Brothers - 1 80 DORA GREENWELL Songs of Farewell - 184 MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY A Character - 1 86 The Little Fair Soul - 188 GEORGE ELIOT Two Lovers 191 Arion - 193 " O, may I join the choir invisible '" - 196 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR Incompleteness - - 198 xvi CONTENTS. DINAH MARIA CRAIK PAGE Rothesay Bay - - - 200 Semper Fidelis 202 Philip my King - - - 204 Thoughts in a Wheat-field - 206 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI Dream-Land - ... 208 A Birthday - 210 Confluents - - 211 Echo - 213 The Hour and the Ghost - - 214 Rest - 217 Love Lies Bleeding - 218 The World - 219 Later Life - 220-221 KATHERINE S. MACQUOID The Silent Pool 222 JEAN INGELOW Divided - -225 An Ancient Chess King 231 Work - 232 ISA CRAIG-KNOX The Ballad of the Brides of Quair - 233 FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL The Song of a Summer Stream - - 236 HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING Baron Giovanni Nicotera - 239 Sunrise on Monte Rosa - - 248 AUGUSTA WEBSTER Circe - - 250 In a Day - 258 The Rivulet 263 The Flowing Tide - 264 The Flowers to Come - 265 CONTEN2S, xvii VIOLET FANE P* Rest . 266 Forbidden Love SARAH WILLIAMS (" SADIE") Song of the Water-Nixies - 269 Growth 2 ? ! ISA RI.AGDEN Sorrow ..- Endurance - ' 2 73 EMILY PFEIFFER " Peace to the Odalisque " - 2 74 Evolution To Nature When the Brow of June A Song of Winter .... HON. MRS. WILLOUGHBY Mackenzie's Farewell - FREDERIKA RICHARDSON MACDONALD Prayer - . . 284 New Year's Eve Midnight - ALICE MEYNELL Song As the inhaslening tide doth roll - - 289 Thoughts in separation Renouncement . The Modern Poet 2 9* Builders of Ruins - 2 94 THE HON. MRS. O. N. KNOX Sunday A Calm at Sea 297 b xvW CONTENTS, LADY CHARLOTTE ELLIOT PAGE The Wife of Loki - - 298 Faith in Doubt .... 300 LOUISA S. BEVINGTON The Valley of Remorse -301 ADELAIDE L. HOGG Little Goddess in Grey ~ 308 MATHILDE BLIND Love-Trilogy - ... 309 The Dead - 313 Nirvana ... 314 Wings - -SIS The Sower- - - 316 The Street-Children's Dance - 318 E. H. HICKEY Paddy , , 323 A. MARY F. ROBINSON Fire-Flies 329 Will - 330 Prelude 33 1 Janet Fisher - 335 CONSTANCE C. W. NADEN Sunset - - 345 The Pantheist's Song of Immortality - 546 AMY LEVY Sonnet Most wonderful and strange it seems - 348 Sonnet Two terrors fright my soul by night and day - 349 E. M. CLERKE The Flying Dutchman 35 xix ELLICE HOPKINS Life in Death . -, * 357 A Vision of Womanhood 360 ROBINA F. HARDY The Laird's Wooing ..... 362 G. NOEL HATTON Death and Life ..... 365 MAY PROBYN - Sudden Death - . -, . - . -368 Villanelle .... -369 ROSA MULHOLLAND - Poverty . . . 371 The Children of Lir . . . . . 372 EVELYN PYNE - A Witness --..-.. 380 KATHARINE TYNAN Fra Angelico at Fiesole - . - 385 Poppies ....... 386 JANE LECK Robin and Meg ..... 389 MARGARET D1XON A Legend of the Water-Spirit caKed Neckan - - 392 BESSIE CRAIGMYLE Under Deep Apple Boughs .... 395 A Wasted Day - . . . . - 396 xx CONTENTS. E. NESBIT - PAGE Pessimism .... 397 The Last Envoy - - 39& MARY ROWLES Hoar Frost ... - 400 MARY C. GILLINGTON Atlantis - - 43 The Home Coming - 4S f ALICE E. GILLINGTON A West-County Love-Song * - 48 NOTES ':'.: -409 LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. REVENGE. THE fairest action of our human life Is scorning to revenge an injury ; For who forgives without a further strife, His adversarie's heart to him doth tie. And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said, To win the heart, than overthrow the head. If we a worthy enemy do find, To yield to worth it must be nobly done ; But if of baser metal be his mind, In base revenge there is no honour won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow And who would wrestle with a worthless foe ? We say our hearts are great and cannot yield ; Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor : Great hearts are tasked beyond their powers but seld, The weakest lion will the loudest rear Truth's school for certain doth this same allow, High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn To scorn to owe a duty overlong ; To scorn to be for benefits forborne ; To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong ; To scorn to bear an injury in mind ; To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind. LAD Y ELIZABETH CARE W. But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind ; Do we his body from our fury save, And let our hate prevail against our mind ? What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be, Than make his woe more worthy far than he ? Mariam, the Fair Queen of Jewry, Act iv. THE DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. SONG BY LADY HAPPY AS A SEA-GODDESS. MY cabinets are oyster-shells, In which I keep my Orient pearls ; And modest coral I do wear, Which blushes when it touches air. On silvery waves I sit and sing, And then the fish lie listening : Then resting on a rocky stone I comb my hair with fishes' bone ; The whilst Apollo with his beams Doth dry my hair from soaking streams, His light doth glaze the water's face, And make the sea my looking-glass. So when I swim on waters high I see myself as I glide by, But when the sun begins to burn, I back into my waters turn, And dive unto the bottom low : Then on my head the waters flow In curled waves and circles round, And thus with eddies I am crowned. From the " Convent of Pleasure." KATHERINE PHILIPS. (" The Matchless Orinda.") FRIENDSHIP'S MYSTERY. COME, my Lucasia, since we see That miracles men's faith do move, By wonder and by prodigy, To the dull, angry world let's prove There's a religion in our love. For though we were designed to agree That fate no liberty destroys, But our election is as free As angels, who with greedy choice, Are yet determined to their joys. Our hearts are doubled by the loss, Here mixture is addition grown ; We both diffuse, and both ingross ; And we whose minds are so much one, Never, yet never are alone. We court our own captivity Than thrones more great and innocent, 'Twere Banishment to be set free Since we wear fetters whose intent Not bondage is, but ornament. KATHERINE PHILIPS. Divided joys are tedious found, And griefs united easier grow ; We are ourselves but by rebound, And all our titles shuffled so, Both princes, and both subjects too. Our hearts are mutual victims laid, While they (such power in friendship lies) Are altars, priests, and offerings made ; And each heart which thus kindly dies Grows deathless by the sacrifice. APHRA BEHN. A SONG. LOVE in fantastic triumph sate, Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed, From whom fresh pains he did create, And strange tyrannic power he showed ; From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurled ; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough to undo the amorous world. From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty, From me his languishment and fears, And every killing dart from thee ; Thus thou and I the god have armed, And set him up a deity ; But my poor heart alone is harmed, While thine the victor is, and free. From " Abdelazar" LADY WINCHELSEA. A NOCTURNAL REVERIE. IN such a night, when every louder wind Is to its distant cavern safe confined, And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings, And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings, Or from some tree, framed for the owl's delight, She, hollowing clear, directs the wanderer right, In such a night, when passing clouds give place, Or thinly veil the heaven's mysterious face, When in some river, overhung with green, The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen, When freshened grass now bears itself upright And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, Whence spring the woodbine and the bramble-rose, And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows, Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, Yet chequers still with red the dusty brakes, When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine, Shew trivial beauties, watch their hour to shine, While Salisbury stands the test of every light, In perfect charms, and perfect beauty bright ; When odours, which declined repelling day, Through temperate air uninterrupted stray ; When darkened groves their softest shadows wear, And falling waters we distinctly hear ; When through the gloom more venerable shows Some ancient fabric awful in repose ; While sunburned hills their swarthy looks conceal, And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale ; LADY WINCHELSEA. When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads, Comes slowly grazing thro' the adjoining meads, Whose stealing pace and lengthened shade we fear, Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear ; When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, And unmolested kine rechew the cud ; When curlews cry beneath the village-walls, And to her straggling brood the partridge calls; Their short-lived jubilee the creatures keep, Which but endures, whilst tyrant man doth sleep j When a sedate content the spirit feels, And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals ; But silent musings urge the mind to seek Something too high for syllables to speak ; Till the free soul to a composedness charmed, Finding the elements of rage disarmed, O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, Joys in the inferior world, and thinks it like her own ; In such a night let me abroad remain, Till morning breaks and all's confused again Our cares, our toils, our clamours all renewed, Our pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued. LADY GRISELL BAILLIE. WERENA MY HEART LIGHT. THERE was ance a may and she loo'd 1 na men : She biggit 2 her bonnie bower down i' yon glen ; But now she cries Dool ! and Well-a-day ! Come down the green gate and come here away. But now she cries, etc. When bonnie young Johnnie cam' owre the sea, He said he saw naething sae lovely as me ; He hecht 3 me baith rings and mony braw things, And werena my heart licht I wad dee. He hecht me, etc. His wee wilfu' tittie 4 she loo'd na me, I was taller and twice as bonnie as she ; She raised sic a pother 'twixt him and his mother, That werena my heart licht I wad dee. She raised, etc. The day was set for the bridal to be, The wife took a dwam 5 and lay down to dee ; She mained and she graned 6 wi' fause dolour and pain, Till he vow'd he never wad see me again. She mained, etc. Built 3 Promised. * Sister. 5 Fit of sickness. 6 Moaned and groaned. io LADY GR1SELL BAILL1E. His kindred socht 1 ane o' higher degree, Said, Would he wed ane was landless like me ? Although I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie, And werena my heart licht I wad dee. Although I was bonnie, etc. They said I had neither coo nor cawf, 2 Nor dribbles o' drink coming through the draff, 3 Nor pickles 4 o' meal rinnin' frae the mill-e'e ; And werena my heart licht I wad dee. Nor pickles, etc. His tittie she was baith wylie 5 and slee, She spied me as I cam' ower the lea ; And then she ran in, and made a loud din ; Believe your ain e'en an ye trow na me. And then she ran in, etc. His bonnet stood aye fu' round on his brow ; His auld ane look'd better than mony ane's new ; But now he let's 't wear ony 6 gait it will hing, And casts himsel' dowie 7 upon the corn-bing. But now he, etc. 1 Sought 2 Cow nor calf. s Grain. 4 Small quantities. 8 Wily and sly. 6 Any way it will hang. 7 Dolefully. LADY GR1SELL BAILLIE. u And now he gaes daundrin' 1 about the dykes, 2 And a' he dow do is to hound the tykes : 3 The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks 4 his e'e ; And werena my heart licht I wad dee. The live-lang nicht, etc. Oh ! were we young now as we ance hae been, We should hae been gallopin' down on yon green, And linkin' it ower the lily-white lea ; And werena my heart licht I wad dee. And linkin' it, etc. 1 Loitering. J Stone walls between fields. a Dogs. 4 Shuts his eye. 12 JEAN ADAMS. THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. AND are ye sure the news is true ? And are ye sure he's weel ? Is this a time to think o' wark ? Ye jauds, 1 fling by your wheel. Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin's at the door ? Rax me my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava ; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'. And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop-satin gown ; For I maun tell the bailie's wife That Colin's come to town. My turkey slippers maun gae on, My hose o' pearl blue ; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. 'Jades, maids. JEAN ADAMS. 13 Rise up and male' a clean fireside, Put on the muckle 1 pot : Gie little Kate her Sunday gown, And Jock his button coat ; And mak' their shoon 2 as black as slaes, 8 Their hose as white as snaw ; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been lang awa'. There's twa fat hens upon the bank, They've fed this month and mair, Mak' haste and thraw 4 their necks about, That Colin weel may fare ; And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka 5 thing look braw ; For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa' ? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller 6 air ; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downricht dizzy wi' the thocht, In troth I'm like to greet. 7 Large. 2 Shoes. 8 Sloes. * Wring. Every. 6 Fresh. 7 Weep. 14 JEAN ADAMS. The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, That thrilled through my heart, They're a' blown by ; I ha'e him safe, Till death we'll never part : But what puts parting in my heid, It may be far awa' ; The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw. Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I hae nae mair to crave : Could I but live to mak' him blest, I'm blest aboon the lave r 1 And will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downricht dizzy wi' the thocht, In troth I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck about the house, There' nae luck ava ; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'. i Rest. MS. ALLISON COCKBURN. 15 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. I'VE seen the smiling Of Fortune beguiling ; I have felt all its favours, and found its decay. Sweet was its blessing, Kind its caressing, But now it has fled fled far away. I've seen the forest Adorned the foremost, With Flowers of the Forest most pleasant and gay, Sae bonnie was their blooming, Their scent the air perfuming ; But now they are withered, and a' wede away. I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempests storming before the mid-day. I've seen the Tweed's siller stream Glittering in the sunny beam, Grow drumly and dark as they row'd on their way. Oh, fickle Fortune, Why this cruel sporting ? Oh, why still perplex us poor sons of the day. Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me, For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 16 MISS JANE ELLIOT. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. I'VE heard them lilting, 1 at our yowe-milking, Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day ; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning, The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At buchts, 2 in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, The lasses are lanely and dowie 3 and wae ; Nae daffin', 4 nae gabbin', but sighin' and sabbin', Ilk ane lifts her hylen 5 and hies her away. In hairst, 6 at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, The bandsters 7 are lyart, and runkled, and grey ; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching, 8 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies 9 are roaming Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle 10 to play, But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie : The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 1 Singing. 2 Sheep-pens. 3 Doleful. * Romping. 5 Milk-pail. 6 Harvest. 7 Sheaf-binders. 8 Cajoling. 9 Gallants. 10 Hide and seek. MISS JANE ELLIOT. 17 Dule 1 and wae to the order sent our lads to the Border, The English for ance by guile won the day ; The Flowers of the Forest, that focht 2 aye the foremost, The prime of our land are cauld in the clay. We'll hae nae mair lilting at the yowe-milking ; Women and bairns are heartless and wae, Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning : The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 1 Sorrow ana sadness. * Fought. 1 8 MRS. HESTER PIOZZL THE THREE WARNINGS. A TALE. THE tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground ; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, That love of life increased with years, So much that, in our latter stages, When pain grows sharp and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. This great affliction to believe, Which all confess but few perceive, If old affections can't prevail, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round and all were gay, On Neighbour Dobson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room : And looking grave, "You must," says he, " Quit your sweet bride and come with mc.' : " With you ! and quit my Susan's side ? With you ? " the hapless husband cried : " Young as I am ; 'tis monstrous hard ; Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared : My thoughts on other matters go, This is my wedding-night, you know." What more he urged I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger, So Death the poor delinquent spared, And left to live a little longer. AfRS. HESTER PIOZZl- 19 Yet calling up a serious look, His hour-glass trembled while he spoke, " Neighbour," he said, "farewell. No more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour ; And further, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, And fit you for your future station, Three several warnings you shall have Before you're summoned to the grave : Willing, for once, I'll quit my prey, And grant a kind reprieve ; In hopes you'll have no more to say, But, when again I call this way, Well-pleased the world will leave." To these conditions both consented, And parted perfectly contented. What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he lived, how wise, how well, How roundly he pursued his course, And smoked his pipe and stroked his horse, The willing muse shall tell : He chaffered, then, he bought, he sold, Nor once perceived his growing old, Nor thought of death as near ; His friends not false, his wife no shrew, Many his gains, his children few, He passed his hours in peace ; But while he viewed his wealth increase, While thus along life's dusty road The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 20 MRS. HESTER PJOZ'/J. Brought him his eightieth year. And now one night in musing mood, As all alone he sat, The unwelcome messenger of fate Once more before him stood. Half stilled with anger and surprise, " So soon returned ! " old Dobson cries. " So soon, d'ye call it ? " Death replies : " Surely, my friend, you're but in jest ; Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore." "So much the worse," the clown rejoined, " To spare the aged would be kind ; However, see your search be legal, And your authority, is't regal ? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Besides,. you promised me three warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings ; But for that loss of time and ease I can recover damages." " I know," cries Death, " that at the best I seldom am a welcome guest ; But don't be captious, friend ; at least I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable ; Your years have run to a great length, I wish you joy, though, of your strength." " Hold ! " says the farmer, " not so fast, I have been lame these four years past." "And no great wonder," Death replies; " However, you still keep your eyes, MRS. HESTER PIOZZT, 21 And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends." " Perhaps," says Dobson, " so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight." " This is a shocking story, faith, Yet there's some comfort still," says Death. " Each strives your sadness to amuse, I warrant you have all the news." " There's none," cries he, " and if there were I'm grown so deaf I could not hear." " Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, " These are unjustifiable yearnings ; If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, You've had your three sufficient warnings. So come along, no more we'll part," He said, and touched him with his dart; And now old Dobson, turning pale, Yields to his fate so ends my talc. 22 ISABEL PAGAN, CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES. CA' the yowes 1 to the knowes, Ca 1 them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie. As I gaed down the water-side, There I met my shepherd lad, He row'd 2 me sweetly in his plaid, An' he ca'd me his dearie. " Will ye gang down the water-side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide ? The moon it shines fu' clearly. " Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet, Calf-leather shoon 3 to thy white feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, And ye shall be my dearie." 1 Ewes. - Wrapped. 3 Calf leather shoes. ISABEL PAGAN. 23 " If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang 1 wi' you, my shepherd lad, And ye may row me in your plaid, And I shall be your dearie." " While water wimples to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie, Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'o, Ye shall be my dearie." 'Go. 24 ANNE HUNTER. MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR. MY mother bids me bind my hair With bands of rosy hue, Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare, And lace my bodice blue. " For why," she cries, " sit still and weep, While others dance and play ? " Alas ! I scarce can go or creep, While Lubin is away. 'Tis sad to think the days are gone, When those we love are near ; I sit upon this mossy stone, And sigh when none can hear. And while I spin my flaxen thread, And sing my simple lay, The village seems asleep or dead, Now Lubin is away. ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 25 LIFE. l Animnla, vagula, blandttfa? LIFE ! I know not what thou art, But I know that thou and I must part \ And when, or how, or where we met, I own to me's a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled, Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be As all that there remains of me. Oh whither, whither dost thou fly, Where bend unseen thy trackless course ? And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell me where I must seek this compound, I To the vast ocean of empyreal flame From whence thy essence came, Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed From matter's base encumbering weed ? Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank oblivious years th' appointed hour, To break thy lance and reassume thy power? Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be ? Oh, say, what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee ? 26 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. Life ! we've been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear ; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time ; Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. HANNAH MORE. 27 THE INFLEXIBLE CAPTIVE. FROM ACT V. \Scene with sight of Tiber Ships ready for the embarkation of REGULUS attd HAMILCAR, the Carthaginian Ambassador Tribune and people stopping tip the passage MANLIUS the Consul, and Lictors endeavouring to clear //.] [MANLIUS and LICINIUS (a tribune), advance.] Lie. ROME will not suffer Regulus to go. Man. I thought the Consul and the Senators Had been a part of Rome. Lie. I grant they are But still the people are the greater part. Man. The greater, not the wiser. Lie. The less cruel ; Full of esteem and gratitude to Regulus, We would preserve his life. Man. And we his honour. Lie. His honour ! Man. Yes. Time presses. Words are vain. Make way there clear the passage. Lie. On your lives Stir not a man. Man. I do command you, go. Lie. And I forbid it. Man. Clear the way, my friends. How dares Licinius thus oppose the Consul ? Lie. How dar'st thou, Manlius, thus oppose the Tribune ? 28 HANNAH MORE. Man. I'll show thee what I dare, imprudent boy ! Lictors, force through the passage. Lie. Romans, guard it. Man. Gods ! is my power resisted then with arms ? Thou dost affront the Majesty of Rome. Lie. The Majesty of Rome is in the people ; Thou dost insult it by opposing them. People. Let noble Regulus remain in Rome. Man. My friends, let me explain this treacherous scheme. People. We will not hear thee Regulus shall stay. Man. What ! none obey me ? People. Regulus shall stay. Man. Romans attend. People. Let Regulus remain. Enter REGULUS, followed by PUBLIUS, ATTILLA. HAMILCAR, BARCE, etc. Keg. Let Regulus remain ! What do I hear ? Is't possible the wish should come from you ? Can Romans give, or Regulus accept, A life of infamy ? Is't possible ? Where is the ancient virtue of my country ? Rise, rise, ye mighty spirits of old Rome ! I do invoke you from your silent tombs ; Fabricus, Codes, and Camillus, rise, And show your sons what their great fathers were. My countrymen, what crime have I committed ? Alas ! how has the wretched Regulus Deserv'd your hatred ? Lie. Hatred ? ah ! my friend, It is our love would break these cruel chains. Reg. If you deprive me of my chains, I'm nothing ; HANNAH MORE. 29 They are my honours, riches, titles, all 1 They'll shame my enemies, and grace my country ; They'll waft her glory to remotest climes, Beyond her provinces and conquer'd realms, Where yet her conq'ring eagles never flew ; Nor shall she blush hereafter if she find Recorded with her faithful citizens The name of Regulus, the captive Regulus. My countrymen, what think you, kept in awe The Volsci, Sabines, ^Equi, and Hermini ? The arms of Rome alone ? no, 'twas her virtue ; That sole surviving good, which brave men keep Though fate and warring worlds combine against them : This still is mine I will preserve it, Romans ! The wealth of Plutus shall not bribe it from me ! If you, alas ! require this sacrifice, Carthage herself was less my foe than Rome j She took my freedom .she could take no more ; But Rome, to crown her work, would take my honour. My friends ! if you deprive me of my chains, I am no more than any other slave : Yes, Regulus becomes a common captive, A wretched, lying, perjur'd fugitive ! But if, to grace my bonds, you leave my honour, I shall be still a Roman though a slave. Lie. What faith should be observ'd with savages? What promise should be kept which bonds extort ? Reg. Unworthy subterfuge ! ah ! let us leave To the wild Arab and the faithless Moor These wretched maxims of deceit and fraud : Examples ne'er can justify the coward : The brave man never seeks a vindication, Save from his own just bosom and the gods ; 30 HANNAH MORE. From principle not precedent he acts. As that arraigns him, or as that acquits, He stands or falls ; condemn'd or justified. Lie. Rome is no more if Regulus departs. Reg. Let Rome remember Regulus must die ! Nor would the moment of my death be distant If nature's work had been reserved for nature ; What Carthage means to do, she would have done As speedily, perhaps, at least as surely. My wearied life has almost reach'd its goal ; The once warm current stagnates in these veins, Or through its icy channels slowly creeps View the weak arm ; mark the pale furrow'd cheek, The slackened sinew, and the dim sunk eye, And tell me then I must not think of dying ! How can I serve you else ? My feeble limbs Would totter now beneath the armour's weight, The burden of that body it once shielded. You see, my friends, you see, my countrymen, I can no longer show myself a Roman, Except by dying like one. Gracious Heaven Points out a way to crown my days with glory ; Oh, do not frustrate, then, the will of Jove, And close a life of virtue with disgrace ! Come, come, I know my noble Romans better I see your souls, I read repentance in them ; You all applaud me nay, you wish my chains : 'Twas nothing but excess of love misled you, And as you're Romans you will conquer that. Yes ! I perceive your weakness is subdu'd Seize, seize the moment of returning virtue ; Throw to the ground, my sons, those hostile arms : Retard no longer Regulus's triumph ; HANNAH .WORE. 31 I do request it of you as a friend, I call you to your duty as a patriot, And were I still your gen'ral, I'd command you. Lie. Lay down your arms let Regulus depart. [To the People, who clear the way, and quit their amis.} Reg. Gods ! gods ! I thank you you indeed are righteous. Pub. See every man disarm'd. Oh, Rome ! oh, father ! At. Hold, hold my heart. Alas ! they all obey. Reg. The way is clear. Hamilcar, I attend thee. Ham. Why, I begin to envy this old man ! \Aside. Man. Not the proud victor on the day of triumph, Warm from the slaughter of dispeopled realms, Though conquer'd princes grace his chariot wheels, Though tributary monarch wail his nod, And vanquish'd nations bend the knee before him, E'er shone with half the lustre that surrounds This voluntary sacrifice for Rome ! Who loves his country will obey her laws ; Who most obeys them is the truest patriot. Reg. Be our last parting worthy of ourselves, Farewell ! my friends. I bless the gods who rule us, Since I must leave you, that I leave you Romans. Preserve the glorious name untainted still, And you shall be the rulers of the globe, The arbiters of earth. The farthest east, Beyond where Ganges rolls his rapid flood, Shall proudly emulate the Roman name. (Kneels.') Ye gods, the guardians of this glorious people, Who watch with jealous eye Eneas' race, The land of heroes I commit you ! This ground, these walls, this people be your care ! 32 HANNAH MORE. Oh ! bless them, bless them with a liberal hand ! Let fortitude and valour, truth and justice, For ever flourish and increase among them ! And if some baneful planet threat the Capitol With its malignant influence, oh, avert it ! Be Regulus the victim of your wrath. On this white head be all your vengeance pour'd, But spare, oh spare, and bless immortal Rome ! Ah ! tears ? my Romans weep ? Farewell ! farewell ! ATTILLA struggles to get to REGULUS is prevented she faints he fixes his eye steadily on her for some time^ and then departs to the ships. Man. (looking after him.} Farewell ! farewell 1 thou glory of mankind ! Protector, father, saviour of thy country ! Through Regulus the Roman name shall live, Shall triumph over time, and mock oblivion. Farewell ! the pride of the immortal coast ! 'Tis Rome alone a Regulus can boast. SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 33 AND YE SALT. WALK IN SILK ATTIRE. AND ye sail walk in silk attire, And siller hae to spare, Gin ye'll consent to be his bride, Nor think o' Donald mair. 1 O wha wad 2 buy a silken gown Wi' a puir broken heart ; Or what's to me a siller crown, Gin frae 3 my love I part ? The mind wha's every wish is pure, Far dearer is to me ; And ere I'm forced to break my faith I'll lay me down an' dee ! For I hae pledged my virgin troth Brave Donald's fate to share ; And he has gi'en to me his heart, Wi' a' its virtues rare. 1 More. 8 Who would. 3 Since from SUSANA'A BLAMIRE. His gentle manner won my heart, He gratefu' took the gift ; Could I but think to tak' it back- It would be waur 1 than theft ! For langest life can ne'er repay The love he bears to me ; And ere I'm forced to break my troth I'll lay me down an' dee. 1 Worse. SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 35 WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? WHAT ails this heart o' mine ? What fills this watery e'e? What gars 1 me turn as caul' as death When I tak' leave o' thee ? When thou art far awa', Thou'lt dearer grow to me ; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy gee. 2 When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning ear*, 3 Ilk 4 rustling bush will seem to say, " I used to meet thee there." There I'll sit down and cry, And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's in my lap, I'll ca't 5 a word frae thee. I'll hie me to the bower That thou wi' roses tied, And where with mony a blushing bud, I strove myself to hide. 1 Makes. a Go, roam. 8 Early. < Each. 5 I'll call it. 36 SUSANNA BLAM1RE. I'll doat on ilka 1 spot Where I hae been wi 1 thee, And ca' to mind some kindly word By ilka burn and tree. Wi' sic 2 thoughts i' my mind, Time through the world may gae, And find my heart in twenty years The same as 'tis to-day. 'Tis thoughts that bind the soul, And keep friends i' the e'e ; And gin 3 I think I see thee aye, What can part thee and me ? 1 Every. 4 Such. 3 If. ANNA SEWARD. 37 AN EVENING: IN NOVEMBER j IN A MOUNTAINOUS COUNTRY. CEAS'D is the Rain : but heavy drops yet fall From the drencht roof: yet murmurs the sunk wind Round the dim hills yet can a passage find Whistling through yon cleft rock and ruin'd wall. The swoln and angry torrents heard, appal, Though distant. A few stars, emerging kind, Shed their green trembling beams. With lustre small The moon, her swiftly passing clouds behind, Glides o'er the shaded Hill. Now blasts remove The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain's brow Full orb'd she shines. Half sunk within its cove Heaves the lone boat with gulphing sound ! and lo, Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove The vale's blue rills, and glitter as they flow. 3 8 ANNA SEWARD. RICH AULD WILLIE'S FAREWELL. A FREEBOOTER, TAKEN BY THE ENGLISH IN A BORDER BATTLE, AND CONDEMNED TO BE EXECUTED. FAREWELL, my ingle, i bleezing bright When the snell 2 storm's begun ; My bouris casements, O ! sae light ! When glints the bonny sun ! Farewell, my deep glens, speckt wi' sloes, O' tangled hazels full ! Farewell, my thymy lea, where lowes My kine, and glourin' bull. Farewell, my red deer, jutting proud, My rooks o' murky wing ! Farewell, my wee birds, lilting loud, A' in the merry spring. Farewell, my sheep, that sprattle on, In a lang line, sae braw ; Or lie on yon cauld cliffs aboon, 3 Like late-left patch o' snaw. 4 1 Fireside. 2 Biting. 3 Above. * Snow. ANNA SEWARD. 39 Farewell, my brook, that wimplin' rins, My clattering brig 1 o' yew ; My scaly tribe wi' gowden 2 fins, Sae nimbly flickering through ! Farewell, my boat, and lusty oars, That scelp't 8 wi' muckle* spray ! Farewell, my birks 5 o' Teviot shores, That cool the simmer 6 day ! Farewell, bauld 7 neighbours, whase swift steed O'er Saxon bounds has scour'd, Swoom'd 8 drumlie floods when moons were dead, And ilka star was smoor'd. 9 Maist dear for a' ye shared wi' me, When skaith 10 and prey did goad, And danger, like a wraith did flee Alang our moon-dead road. Farewell, my winsome wife, sae gay ! Fu* fain frae hame to gang, Wi' spunkie 11 lads to geek and play, The flow'rie haughs 12 amang ! 1 Bridge. 2 Golden. 8 S' ruck, splashed. * Big, much. s Birches. 8 Summer. 7 Bold. 8 Swam muddy. 8 Smothered, w Danger. n Sportive. u Meadows. 40 ANNA SEWARD. Farewell, my gowk, 1 thy warning note Then aft-times ca'd aloud, Tho' o' the word that thrilled thy throat, Gude faith, I was na proud ! And, pawkie 2 gowk, sae free that mad'st Or ere I hanged be, Would I might learn if true thou saidst, When sae thou saidst to me ! 1 Cuckoo. a Sly. JlfRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 41 WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING. THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower which she has nurs'd in dew. Anemonies, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair, And the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care Bid all thy fairy colours flee away ! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; Ah ! why has happiness no second spring ? 42 LAD Y ANNE BARNARD. AULD ROBIN GRAY. WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, 1 and the kye 2 at hame, And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, The waes of my heart fall in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie loe'd me well, and sought me for his bride ; But, saving a crown, he had naething mair beside. To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea ! And the crown and the pound were baith for me. He hadna been awa a week, but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and our cow was stawn 3 awa'; My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea, An' auld Robin Gray came a-courting me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin, I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win. And Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e, Said, " Jeanie, for their sakes, will you no marry me ? " 1 Fold. 2 Cows. 3 Stolen. LADY ANNE BARNARD. 43 My heart it said na ; I looked for Jamie back, But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ; His ship it was a wrack. Why didna Jeanie dee ? Oh ! why do I live to say, " Wae's me !" My father argued sair, my mother didna speak, But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break, So she gied him my hand, though my heart was at the sea, And Auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week, but only four, When, mournful as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist ; I couldna think it he, Till he said, " I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee : " Oh, sair did we greet I 1 and mickle 2 did we say ; I gi'ed him a kiss, and bade him gang awa'. I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee, O ! why was I born to say, " Wae's me 1 " I gang like a ghaist, an* I care not to spin ; I darena think on Jamie, for that would be a sin, But I will do my best a gude wife to be, For Auld Robin Gray he is kind to me. 1 Weep. 2 Much. 44 ANNE GRAXT. ON A SPRIG OF HEATHER. FLOWER of the waste ! the heath-fowl shuns For thee the brake and tangled wood To thy protecting shade she runs, Thy tender buds supply her food ; Her young forsake her downy plumes, To rest upon thy opening blooms. Flower of the desert though thou art ! The deer that roam the mountain free, The graceful doe, the stately hart, Their food and shelter seek from thee ; The bee thy earliest blossom greets, And draws from thee her choicest sweets. Gem of the heath ! whose modest bloom Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor ; Though thou dispense no rich perfume, Nor yet with splendid tints allure, Both valour's crest and beauty's bower, Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower. Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow Adorns the dusky mountain's side, Not the gay hues of Iris' bow, Nor garden's artful varied pride, With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, Like thee the hardy mountaineer. ANNE GRAXT. 45 Flower of his heart ! thy fragrance mild Of peace and freedom seem to breathe ; To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, And deck his bonnet with the wreath, Where dwell of old his rustic sires Is all his simple wish requires. Flower of his dear-loved native land ! Alas, when distant far more dear ! When he from some cold foreign strand, Looks homeward through the blinding tear, How must his aching heart deplore, That home and thee he sees no more. 4 6 JEAN GLOVER. O'ER THE MUIR AMANG THE HEATHER. COMIN' through the craigs o' Kyle, Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather, There I met a bonnie lassie Keepin' a' her flocks thegither. Ower the muir 1 amang the heather, Ower the muir amang the heather, There I met a bonnie lassie Keepin' a' her flocks thegither. Says I, my dear, where is thy hame ? 2 In muir or dale, pray tell me whither ? Says she, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the bloomin' heather. Ower the muir, etc. We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunnie was the weather ; She left her flocks at large to rove Among the bonnie bloomin' heather. Ower the muir, etc. She charmed my heart, and aye sinsyne 3 I couldna think on ony ither ; 4 By sea and sky ! she shall be mine, The bonnie lass amang the heather. Ower the muir, etc. 1 Moor. - Home. a Ever since then. * Any other. ELIZABETH HAMILTON. 47 MY AIN FIRESIDE. OH ! I hae seen great anes 1 , and sat in great ha's, 2 'Mong lords and 'mong ladies a' covered \vi' braws, :; At feasts made for princes, wi' princes I've been, Where the grand shine o' splendour has dazzled my e'en ; But a sight sae delightfu', I trow, I ne'er spied, As the bonnie blythe blink o' my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, O cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, O there's nought to compare wi' my ain fireside. Ance mair, Gude be praised, round my ain hearthsome ingle, 4 Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle ; Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad, I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad ; Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear, But truth to delight me, and friendships to cheer ; Of a' roads to happiness ever were tried, There's nane half so sure as ane's ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, O there's nought to compare wi' my ain fireside. 1 Ones, 3 Halls. * Finery. 4 Fireside. 48 EL IZABE TH HA MIL TON. When I draw in ray stool on my cosy hearthstane, My heart loups 1 sae light I scarce ken't 2 for my ain, Care's down on the wind, it is clean out o' sight, Past troubles they seem but as dreams o' the night. There but kind voices, kind faces I see, And mark saft 3 affection glent 4 fond frae ilk e'e ; 5 Nae fleechings o' flattery, nae boastings o' pride, Tis heart speaks to heart at ane's ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, O cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, there's nought to compare wi' my ain fireside. 1 Leaps. 3 Know it. 3 Soft. 4 Shines. :> l-'rom each eye. JOANNA BAILLIE. 49 THE CHOUGH AND CROW. THE chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wild fire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men ! It is our opening day. Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And closed is every flower, The winking tapers faintly peep High from my lady's bower ; Bewildered hinds with shortened ken Shrink in their murky way. Uprouse ye, then, my merry men ! It is our opening day. No board nor garner own we now, Nor roof nor latched door, Nor kind mate bound by holy vow To bless a poor man's store ; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night has grown our day ; Uprouse ye, then, my merry men ! It is our opening day. 50 JOANNA BAILLIE. WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A', THE bride she is winsome and bonny, Her hair it is snooded 1 sae sleek, And faithfu' and kind is her Johnny, Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek. New pearlins 2 are cause of her sorrow New pearlins and plenishing 3 too ; The bride that has a' to borrow, Has e'en right mickle ado. 4 Woo'd and married and a' ! Woo'd and married and a' ! Isna she very weel aff To be woo'd and married and a' ! Her mither then hastily spak : " The lassie is glaikit' 5 wi' pride, In my pouch 6 I had never a plack 7 The day that I was a bride. E'en tak to your wheel and be clever, And draw out your thread in the sun ; The gear 8 that is gifted, it never Will last like a gear that is won. 1 Hooded. 2 Lace. 3 Furnishings. 4 Much to do. 8 Glaikit. 6 Pocket. 7 Penny. 8 Goods. JOAtfKA ttAfl.Llfi. $T Woo'd and married and a' ! Wi' bavins 1 and tocher 2 sae sma' ! I think ye are very weel aff To be woo'd and married and a' ! " " Toot ! toot ! " quo' her grey-headed faither, "She's less of a bride than a bairn; She's ta'en like a cout 3 frae the heather, Wi' sense and discretion to learn. Half husband, I trow, and half daddy, As humour inconstantly leans, The chiel 4 maun be patient and steady That yokes wi' a mate in her teens. A' kerchief sae douce and sae neat O'er her locks that the wind used to blaw. I'm baith like to laugh and to greet 5 When I think o' her married at a' I " Then out spak the wily bridegroom ; Weel waled 6 were his wordies I ween ; " I'm rich, though my coffer be toom, 7 Wi' the blink o' your bonny blue e'en. 8 I'm prouder of thee by my side, Though thy ruffles and ribbons be few, Than if Kate o' the Crafts were my bride, Wi' purples and pearlies enow ! 1 Dress. a Dowry so small. 8 Colt. * Fel!ow. B Weep. ' Chosen. 7 Empty- 8 Eyes. 52 JOANNA BA1LL1E. Dear and dearest of ony ! Ye're woo'd and beecket, 1 and a' ! And do you think scorn of your Johnny And grieve to be married at a' ? " She turned, and she blushed, and she smiled, And she lookit sae bashfully down ; The pride of her heart was beguiled, And she played wi' the sleeve o' her gown. She twirled the tag o' her lace, And she nippit her bodice sae blue, Syne 2 blinkit sae sweet in his face, And aff, like a mawkin, 3 she flew. Woo'd and married and a' ! Wi' Johnny to roose 4 her and a' ! She thinks hersel' very weel aff To be woo'd and married and a' 1 Housed. 2 Then. 3 Rabbit. 4 Extol. JOANNA BAILLIE. 53 "TAM O' THE LIN." TAM o' the Lin was fu' o' pride, And his weapon he girt to his valorous side, A scabbard of leather wi' de'il hair't 1 within, " Attack me wha daur ! " quo' Tarn o' the Lin. Tarn o' the Lin, he bought a maer ; 2 She cost him five shillings, she wasna dear ; Her back stuck up, and her sides fell in, ' A fiery yaud 3 ! " quo' Tarn o' the Lin. Tam o' the Lin, he courted a May ; She stared at him sourly, and said him nay j But he stroked down his jerkin, and cocked up his chin, " She aims at a laird, then ! " quo' Tam o' the Lin. Tam o' the Lin, he gaed to the fair, Yet he looked wi' disdain on the chapman's ware ; Then chucked out a sixpence, the sixpence was tin, " There's coin for the fiddlers," quo' Tam o' the Lin. Tam o' the Lin wad show his lear, 4 And he scained 5 o'er the book wi' wise-like stare ; He muttered confusedly, but didna begin, " This is Dominie's business," quo' Tam o' the Lin. 1 A bit. a Mare. 'Jade. 4 Learning. s ConnetL 54 JOANNA BAILLIE. Tarn o' the Lin had a cow wi' ae horn, That likit to feed on his neighbour's corn ; The stanes he threw at her fell short o' the skin, " She's a lucky auld reiver 1 ," quo' Tarn o' the Lin. Tam o' the Lin, he married a wife, And she was the torment, the plague of his life ; She lays so about her and makes sic a din, "She frightens the baby," quo' Tam o' the Lin. Tam o' the Lin grew dowie and douce, 2 And he sat on a stane at the end o' his house ; " What ails, auld chield ! " he looked haggard and thin, " I'm no very cheery," quo' Tam o' the Lin. Tam o' the Lin lay down to die, And his friends whispered softly and wofully : " We'll buy you some masses to scour away sin," " And drink at my lyke-wake 3 ," quo' Tam o' the Lin. Robber. 2 Sad and sedate. 3 The watching a dead body. JOANNA BAILLIE. 55 THE WEARY FUND O' TOW. A YOUNG gude wife is in my house, And thrifty means to be ; But aye she's rinnin' to the town Some ferlie 1 there to see. The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o' tow ! I soothly think, ere it be spun, I'll wear a lyart pow. 2 And when she sets her to her wheel To draw the threads wi' care, In comes the chapman 3 wi' his gear, And she can spin nae mair. The weary pund, etc. And she, like mony merry May, At fairs maun still be seen, At kirkyard preaching, near the tent, At dances on the green. The weary pund, etc. Wonder. s Grey head. s Pedlar. 56 JOANNA BAILLIE. Her dainty ear a fiddle charms, A bagpipe's her delight, But for the croonings of her wheel She doesna care a mite. The weary pund, etc. You spak, my Kate, of snow-white webs Made of your linkum-twine, But ah ! I fear our bonnie burn 1 Will ne'er lave 2 web of thine. The weary pund, etc. Nay, smile again, my winsome Kate, Sic jibings mean nae ill j Should I gae sarkless 3 to my grave, I'll lo'e and bless thee still. The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o' tow ! T soothly think, ere it be spun, I'll wear a lyart pow. 1 Stream. a Wash. 3 Shirtless. JOANNA BAILLIE. 57 THE DEATH OF ETHWALD. FROM " ETHWALD," A TRAGEDY. ACT V. SCENE 5. ETHWALD'S apartment. He is discovered sitting by his couch, with his elbows resting upon his knees, and supporting his head between both his hands ; the QUEEN standing by him. Ethw. (listening with alarm.} Hark ! someone comes. Queen. Be not disturbed, it is your faithful groom Who brings the watch-dog ; all things are secure. Ethw. Nay, but I heard the sound of other feet. [Running to the door, and pushing in a great bar. Say, who art thou without ? Voice without. Your groom, my lord, who brings your faithful dog. Ethw. (to Queen.} Didst thou not hear the sound of other feet ? Queen. No, only his ; your mind is too suspicious. Ethw. I in his countenance have mark'd of late That which I liked not : were this dreary night But once o'ermaster'd, he shall watch no more. [Opens the door suspiciously, and enters an armed man leading in a great watch-dog; t/ie door is shut again hastily, and the bar is replaced. 58 JOANNA BAILLIE. (To the dog.} Come, rough and surly friend ! Thou only dost remain on whom my mind Can surely trust. I'll have more dogs so trained. [Looking steadfastly at groom. Thy face is pale : thou hast a haggard look : Where hast thou been ? \Seizing him by the neck. Answer me quickly ! Say, where hast thou been ? Gr. Looking upon the broad and fearful sky. Queen. What say'st thou ? Gr. The heavens are all a-flaming o'er our heads, And fiery spears are shivering through the air. Ethw. Hast thou seen this ? Gr. Ay, by our holy saint ! Queen. It is some prodigy, dark and portentous. Gr. A red and bloody mantle seems outstretch'd O'er the wide welkin, and Ethw. Peace, damned fool ! Tell me no more : be to thy post withdrawn. \Exit groom by a small side door, leading the dog with him Ethw. (To himself^ ajter musing for some time.} Heaven warring o'er my head, there is in this Some fearful thing betoken'd. If that, in truth, the awful term is come, The fearful boundary of my mortal reach, O'er which I must into those regions pass Of horror and despair, to take my place With those who do their blood-earn'd crowns exchange For ruddy circles of devouring fire : Where hopeless woe, and gnashing agony Writhe in the dens of torment ; where things be Yet never imaged in the thoughts of man, Dark, horrible, unknown I'll mantle o'er my head, and think no more. JOANNA BAILLIE. 59 Coi'ers his hecui with his cloak^ and sinks down upon tlie couch. Queen. Nay, rather stretch you on the fleecy bed. Ethw. Rest, if you canst, I do not hinder thee. Queen. Then truly I will lean my head awhile, I am o'erspent and weary. [Leans on the couch. Ethw. (hastily uncovering his face.} Thou must not sleep : watch with me and be silent : It is an awful hour ! [A long pause : then ETHWALD starting up from his couch with alarm.} I hear strange sounds ascend the winding stairs. Queen. I hear them, too. Ethw. Ha ! thou dost also hear it? . Then it is real, (listening.) I hear the clash of arms. Ho ! guard, come forth. Re enter GROOM. Go, rouse my faithful dog. Dark treason is upon us. Gr. (disappearing and then re-entering?) He sleeps so sound, my lord, I cannot rouse him. Ethw. Then, villain, I'm betray'd! thou hast betray'd me! But set that brawny strength against that door, And bar them out : if thou but seem'st to flinch, This sword is in thy heart [A noise of armed men is now heard at the door, ouieavouring to break it open, -whilst ETHWALD and the Groom set their shoulders to it to prevent it. Enter DwiNA hastily from an inner apartment, and with the QUEEN assists in putting their strengths also against the door, as the force without increases. The door is at last broken open, and HERUELF, with the rebel chiefs, burst in, siuord in hand. Her. (to ETHWALD.) Now, thou fell ruthless lion, thou hast made With bloody rage thy native forest waste ! 60 JOANNA BAILLIE. The spearmen are upon thee ! to the strife Turn thy rough breast : thou canst no more escape. Ethw. Quick to thy villain's work, thou wordy coward, Who in the sick man's chamber seek'st the fame Thou darst not in th' embattled field attain ! I am prepared to front thee and thy mates, Were ye twice numbered o'er. {Sets his back to a pillar, and puts himself in a posttire of defence. Her. The sick man's chamber ! darest thou, indeed, Begrimed as thou art with blood and crimes 'Gainst man committed, human rights assume ? Thou art a hideous and envenom'd snake, Whose wounded length even in his noisome hole, Men fiercely hunt, for love of human kind ; And wert thou scotch'd to the last ring of life, E'en that poor remnant of thy curs'd existence, Should be trod out in dust. Ethw. Come on, thou boasting fool ! give thy sword work, And spare thy cursed tongue. Her. Ay, surely will I ! It is the sword of noble Ethelbert : Its master's blood weighs down its heavy stroke; His unseen hand directs them. \Theyfight: ETHWALD defends himself furiously, but at last falls, and the conspirators raise a loud shout. \st. Ch. Bless heaven, the work is done! znd. Ch. Now Mercia is reveng'd, and free-born men May rest their toil'd limbs in their peaceful homes. yd Ch. (going nearer the body.) Ha ! does he groan ? 2nd Ch. No, he dies sullenly, and to the wall Turns his wither'd form and death-distorted visage. [A solemn pause, whilst ETHWALD, after some convulsive motion*, expires. ] JOANNA BAILLIE. 61 Her. Now hath his loaded soul gone to its place, And ne'er a pitying voice from all his kind Cries "God have mercy on him ! " yd Ch. I've vow'd to dip my weapon in his blood. \st Ch. And so have I. [Several of them advancing with their swords towards the body, a young man steps forth and stretches out his arm to keep them off. Young Man. My father in the British war was seiz'd A British prisoner, and with all he had Unto a Mercian chief by lot consign'd ; Mine aged grandsire, lowly at his feet, Rent his grey hair ; Ethwald, a youthful warrior, Received the old man's prayer and set him free ; Yea even to the last heifer of his herds Restor'd his wealth. For this good deed, do not insult the fallen, He was not ruthless once. 6 2 CAROLINE, BARONESS NAIRNE. THE LAND O' THE LEAL. I'M wearin' awa', John, Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John, I'm wearin' awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John, There's neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn's there, John, She was baith gude and fair, John, And oh ! we grudged her sair To the land o' the leal. But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, And joy is comin' fast, John, The joy that's aye to last, In the land o' the leal Sae dear that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought To the land o' the leal. CAROLINE, BARONESS NAIRN1L. 63 Oh, dry your glist'ning e'e, John, My soul langs to be free, John, And angels beckon me To the land o' the leal. Oh ! baud ye leal and true, John, Your day it's wearing through, John, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now, fare ye well, my ain John, This world's cares are vain, John, We'll meet, and we'll be fain In the land o' the leal 6 4 CAROLINE, BARONESS NAIRNE. CALLER 1 HERRIN'. WHA'LL buy my caller herrin' ? They're bonnie fish and halesome farin' ; Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth ? When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, Dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows, Darkling as they faced the billows, A' to fill the woven willows ? Buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? They're no brought here without brave darin', Buy my caller herrin', Haul'd thro' wind and rain. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? etc. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? Oh, ye may ca' 2 them vulgar farin' ; Wives and mithers maist 3 despairin', Ca' them lives o' men. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? etc. 1 Fresh. a Call. 8 Most, CAROLINE, BARONESS NAIRNE. 65 When the creel o' herrin' passes, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw 1 pelisses, Cast their heads and screw their faces. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? etc. Caller herrin's no got lightlie, Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie \ Spite o' taunting, flauntin', flingin', Gow* has set you a' a-singin*. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? etc. Neebour wives, now tent 2 my tellin', When the bonnie fish ye're sellin', At ae 3 word be in your dealin' Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? They're bonnie fish and wholesome farin' ; Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth ? 1 Fine. 'Attend. 'One. * A celebrated fiddler, who compiled a collection of Scotch Reels, Pibrochs, and Strathspeys, etc. 66 CAROLINE, BARONESS NAIRNE. THE AULD HOUSE. OH, the auld house, the auld house, What tho' the rooms were wee ! Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there. And bairn ies fu' o' glee. The wild rose and the jessamine Still hang upon the wa', 1 How mony cherished memories Do they, sweet flowers, reca' ! Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird ! Sae canty, 2 kind, and crouse, 8 How mony did he welcome to His ain wee dear auld house ! And the leddy too, sae genty, There sheltered Scotland's heir, And dipt a lock wi' her ain hand Frae his lang yellow hair. The mavis 4 still doth sweetly sing, The blue-bells sweetly blaw, The bonny Earn's clear winding still, But the auld house is awa'. 1 Wall. 2 Shrewd. 3 Jovial. < Thrush CAROLINE, BARONESS NAIRNE. 67 The auld house, the auld house Deserted though ye be, There ne'er can be a new house Will seem sae fair to me. Still flourishing the auld pear-tree The bairnies liked to see, And oh, how often did they speir 1 When they ripe a' wad be ! The voices sweet, the wee bit feet Aye rinnin' here and there, The merry shout oh ! whiles we greet To think we'll hear nae mair ? For they are a' wide scattered now, Some to the Indies gane, And ane, alas ! to her lang hame ; Not here we'll meet again. The kirkyaird 2 , the kirkyaird ! Wi' flowers of every hue, Sheltered by the holly's shade An' the dark sombre yew. The setting sun, the setting sun, How glorious it gaed doon ! The cloudy splendour raised our hearts To cloudless skies aboon ! The auld dial, the auld dial ! It tauld how time did pass ; The wintry winds hae dung it doon, 8 Now hid 'mang weeds and grass. Ask 2 Churchyard. * Have flung it down. 68 CAROLINE, BARONESS NA1RNE. THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN. THE Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud an' he's great, His mind is ta'en up wi' things o' the State ; He wanted a wife his braw 1 house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fashious 2 to seek. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she'd look well McClish's ae 3 daughter o' Claverse-ha'-Lee, A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was well pouthered and as gude as new, His waistcoat was white, and his coat it was blue ; He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat And wha could refuse the laird wi' a' that ! He took the grey mare and rade cannily, 4 An' rapped at the gate o' Claverse-ha'-Lee : " Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben, 5 She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen." Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine : " An' what brings the Laird at sic a like time ? " She put aff her apron and on her silk gown, Her mutch 6 wi' red ribbons, an' gaed 7 awa' doon. Fine. 2 Vexatious. 3 One. 4 Rode cautiously. 8 In. 6 Cap. 7 Went. CAROLINE, BARONESS NAIRNE. 69 An' when she cam ben he bowed fu' low, An' what was his errand he soon let her know ; Amazed was the laird when the lady said " Na, 1 ' And wi' a laigh 2 curtsie she turned awa'. Dumfoundered he was, nae sigh did he gie, 8 He mounted his mare, and rade cannily ; And aften he thought, as he gaed thro' the glen, She's daft 4 to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. 1 No. Light. 8 Give. * Crazy. 70 CAROLINE, BARONESS NAIRNE. WHA'LL 1 BE KING BUT CHARLIE? THE news frae Moidart cam' yestreen 2 Will soon gar mony ferlie ; 3 The ships o' war hae just come in And landit Royal Charlie. Come through the heather, around him gather, Ye're a' the welcomer early ; Around him cling wi' a' your kin ; For wha'll be king but Charlie ? Come through the heather, around him gather, Come Ronald, come Donald, come a' thegither, And crown your rightfu', lawfu' king ! For wha'll be king but Charlie ? The Hieland clans, wi' sword in hand, Frae John o' Groats to Airlie, Hae to a man declared to stand Or fa' with Royal Charlie. Come through the heather, etc. The Lowlands a', baith great an' sma', Wi' mony a lord and laird, hae Declared for Scotia's King and law, And speir 4 ye wha but Charlie. Come through the heather, etc. 1 Who. 2 Yesterday. 2 Make many wonder. 4 Ask. CAROLINE, BARONESS NAIRN E. 71 There's ne'er a lass in a' the Ian' But vows, baith late an' early, She'll ne'er to man gie heart nor han' Wha wadna fecht 1 for Charlie. Come through the heather, etc. Then here's a health to Charlie's cause, And be't complete an' early, His very name our heart-blood warms To arms for Royal Charlie ! Come through the heather, around him gather, Ye're a' the welcomer early ; Around him cling wi' a' your kin, For wha'll be king but Charlie ? Come through the heather, around him gather, Come Ronald, come Donald, come a' thegither, And crown your rightfu', lawfu', king ! For whall be king but Charlie ? 1 Fight 72 MARY TIGHE. WRITTEN AT KILLARNEY. JULY 27, 1800. How soft the pause ! the notes melodious cease, Which from each feeling could an echo call ; Rest on your oars, that not a sound may fall To interrupt the stillness of our peace : The fanning west-wind breathes upon our cheeks, Yet glowing with the sun's departed beams. Through the blue heavens the cloudless moon pours streams Of pure resplendent light, in silver streaks Reflected on the still, unruffle I lake. The Alpine hills in solemn silence frown, While the dark woods night's deepest shades embrown. And now once more the soothing strain awake ! Oh, ever to my heart, with magic power, Shall those sweet sounds recall this rapturous hour ! MAR Y TIGHE. 73 THE LILY. How withered, perished, seems the form Of yon obscure unsightly root ! Yet from the blight of wintry storm It hides secure the precious fruit. The careless eye can find no grace, No beauty in the scaly folds, Nor see within the dark embrace What latent loveliness it holds. Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, The lily wraps her silver vest, Till vernal suns and vernal gales Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap The undelighting slighted thing ; There in the cold earth buried deep In silence let it wait the Spring. Oh ! many a stormy night shall close In gloom upon the barren earth, While still, in undisturbed repose, Uninjured lies the future birth : 74 MARY TIGHE. And Ignorance, with sceptic eye, Hope's patient smile shall wondering view Or mock her fond credulity, As her soft tears the spot bedew. Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear ! The sun, the shower indeed shall come ; The promised verdant shoot appear, And nature bid her blossoms bloom. And thou, O virgin queen of Spring ! Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed, Bursting thy green sheath's silken string, Unveil thy charms and perfume shed ; Unfold thy robes of purest white, Unsullied from their darksome grave, And thy soft petals' silvery light In the mild breeze unfettered wave. So Faith shall seek the lowly dust Where humble Sorrow loves to lie, And bid her thus her hopes intrust, And watch with patient, cheerful eye ; And bear the long, cold wintry night, And bear her own degraded doom ; And wait till Heaven's reviving light, Eternal Spring ! shall burst the gloom. HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. 75 TO HOPE. O EVER skilled to wear the form we love I To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart ; Come, gentle Hope ! with one gay smile remove The lasting sadness of an aching heart. Thy voice, benign enchantress ! let me hear ; Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom, That fancy's radiance, friendship's precious tear, Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom. But come not glowing in the dazzling ray Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye; O, strew no more, sweet flatterer ! on my way The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die : Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not happiness, but longs for rest. 76 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. THE SUMMER'S CALL, COME away ! The sunny hours Woo thee far to founts and bowers 1 O'er the very waters now, In their play, Flowers are shedding, beauties glow- Come away ! Where the lilies' tender gleam Quivers on the glancing stream, Come away 1 All the air is filled with sound, Soft, and sultry, and profound ; Murmurs through the shadowy grass Lightly stray ; Faint winds whisper as they pass, Come away ! Where the bee's deep music swells From the trembling foxglove bells, Come away ! In the skies the sapphire blue Now hath won its richest hue ; In the woods the breath of song Sheds a ray, FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 77 Dreamy, starry, greenly bright Come away ! Where the boughs with dewy gloom Darken each thick bed of bloom, Come away ! In the deep heart of the rose Now the crimson love-hue glows ; Now the glow-worm's lamp by night Sheds a ray, Dreamy, starry, greenly bright Come away ! Where the fairy cup-moss lies With the wild-wood strawberries, Come away ! Now each tree by summer crown'd Sheds its own rich twilight round ; Glancing there from sun to shade, Bright wings play ; There the deer its couch hath made, Come away ! Where the smooth leaves of the lime Glisten in their honey-time, Come away away 1 78 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, Thou hollow sounding and mysterious main ? Pale, glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more ! What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness lies ! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! Earth claims not these again. Yet more, the depths have more ! Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by ! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. Dash o'er them, Ocean ! in thy scornful play : Man yields them to decay. Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! Give back the true and brave ! FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 79 Give back the lost and lovely ! those for whom The place was kept at board and health so long, The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, But all is not thine own. To thee the love of woman hath gone down, Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown ; Yet must thou hear a voice Restore the dead I Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! Restore the dead, thou sea I 8o FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. FROM "THE FOREST SANCTUARY." LXXVII. A MIGHTY minster, dim, and proud, and vast ! Silence was round the sleepers whom its floor Shut in the grave ; a shadow of the past, A memory of the sainted steps that wore Erewhile its gorgeous pavement, seemed to brood Like mist upon the stately solitude ; A halo of sad fame to mantle o'er Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men ; And all was hushed as night in some deep alpine glen. LXXVIII. More hushed, far more ! for there the wind sweeps by Or the woods tremble to the stream's loud play ; Here a strange echo made my very sigh Seem for the place too much a sound of day ! Too much my footsteps brook the moonlight, fading, Yet arch through arch in one soft flow pervading, And I stood still : prayer, chant had died away ; Yet past me floated a funereal breath Of incense. I stood still as before God and death. FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. &i LXXIX. For thick ye gird me round, ye long departed ! Dust-imaged forms with cross, and shield, and crest. It seemed as if your ashes would have started Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest ! Yet ne'er, perchance, did worshipper of yore Bear to your thrilling presence what / bore Of wrath, doubt, anguish, battling in the breast I could have poured words, on that pale air, To make your proud tombs ring. No, no, I could not there. LXXX. Not midst those aisles, through which a thousand years, Mutely as clouds, and reverently, had swept ; Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears And kneeling votaries on their marble kept ! Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloom And trophied aye, O temple, altar, tomb ! And you, ye dead ! for in that faith ye slept, Whose weight had grown a mountain's on my heart, Which could not there be loosed. I turned me to depart. LXXX I. I turned : what glimmered faintly on my sight Faintly, yet brightening as a wreath of snow Seen through dissolving haze ? The moon, the night, Had waned, and down poured in gr^y, shadowy, slow, 6 82 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. Yet dayspring still ! a solemn hue it caught, Piercing the storied windows darkly fraught With stoles and draperies of imperial glow ; And, soft and sad that coloured gleam was thrown Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone. LXXXII. Thy form, Thou Son of God ! a wrathful deep, With foam, and cloud, and tempest round Thee spread, And such a weight of night ! a night, when sleep From the fierce rocking of the billows fled. A bark showed dim beyond Thee, with its mast Bowed, and its rent sail shivering to the blast ; But, like a spirit in Thy gliding tread, Thou, as o'er glass, didst walk that stormy sea Through rushing winds, which left a silent path for Thee. LXXXIII. So still Thy white robes fell ! no breath of air Within their long and slumberous folds had sway. So still the waves of parted shadowy hair From Thy clear brow flowed droopingly away ! Dark were the heavens above Thee, Saviour ! dark The gulfs, Deliverer ! round the straining bark ! But Thou ! o'er all Thine aspect and array Was poured one stream of pale, broad, silvery light : Thou were the single star of that all-shrouding night ! JANET HAMILTON. 83 A BALLAD OF MEMORIE. NAE mair, alas ! nae mair I'll see Young mornin's gowden 1 hair Spread o'er the lift 2 the dawnin' sheen O' simmer mornin' fair ! Nae mair the heathery knowe 3 I'll speel, An' see the sunbeams glancin', Like fire-flauchts ower the loch's lane breast, Ower whilk* the breeze is dancin'. Nae mair I'll wanner ower the braes, Or thro' the birken shaw, 5 An' pu' the wild-wud flowers amang Thy lanely glens, Roseha' ! How white the haw, how red the rose, How blue the hy'cinth bell, Whaur fairy thim'les woo the bees In Tenach's breckan dell ! Nae mair when hinnysuckle hings Her garlands on the trees, And hinny breath o' heather bells Comes glaffin" on the breeze ; Vor whan the burstin' birken buds, And sweetly scented brier, Gi'e oot their sweets, nae power they ha'e My dowie heart to cheer. 1 Golden. a Air, sky. KnolL 4 Which. - Birch-wood. 84 JANE T HA MIL TON, Nae mair I'll hear the cushie-doo, 1 Wi' voice o' tender wailin', Pour out her plaint ; nor laverock's 2 sang, Up 'mang the white clouds sailin' ; The lappin' waves that kiss the shore, The music o' the streams, The roarin' o' the linn nae mair I'll hear but in my dreams. Whan a' the hoose are gane to sleep I sit my leefu' 3 lane, An' muse till fancy streaks her wing, An' I am young again. Again I wanner thro' the wuds, Again I seem to sing Some waefu' auld-warld ballant strain, Till a' the echoes ring. Again the snaw-white howlit's wing Out ower my heid is flaffin', When frae her nest 'mang Calder craigs I fley't 4 her wi' my daffin' f An' keekin' 6 in the mavis' 7 nest O naked scuddies 8 fu', I feed wi' moolins 9 out my pouch Ilk gapin' hungry mou. 10 1 Wood-dove. 2 Lark. 3 Joyful, happy. 4 Frighten, startle. 5 Merriment. fi Peeping. 7 Thrush. a Nude. Crumbs. iu Mouth. JANET HAMILTON. 85 Again I wanner ower the lea, " An' pu' the gowans 1 fine ; Again I paidle 2 in the burn," But, oh, its lang-sin-syne ! 3 Again your faces blythe I see, Your gladsome voices hear Frien's o' my youth a' gane, a' gane ! An' I sit blinlins 4 here. The star o' memory lichts the past ; But there's a licht abune 5 To cheer the darkness o' a life That maun be endit sune. An' aft I think the gowden morn, The purple gloamin' 6 fa', Will shine as bricht, an' fa' as saft, Whan I hae gane awa'. 1 Daisies. a Paddle. 3 Long-since-then. 4 Blind. 5 Above. Twilight 86 JANET HAMILTON. THE WAY O' THE WARL'. 1 IT'S the Way o' the WarP when your troubles are sair, An' yer doon i' the dirt, aye tae tramp ye the mair ; Ye may warsle 2 and grane, 3 ye may murther an' cry, Wi' a glunch 4 or a sneer she will gang her wa's by ! It's the Way o' the Warl' tae think maist o' braid-claith An 1 the weel-plenisht purse oh, hoo weel she likes baith ! The thin ragged doublet she canna weel thole, 5 An' she ne'er could pit up wi' a pouch an' a hole ! It's the Way o' the Warl' aye tae soun' weel the fame- Nae odds hoo he gat it o' the chiel 6 wi' a name ; But the nameless, though giftit, are caul' 7 i' the yird, Ere a sang or a word i' their praise she wull mird ! Then maybe she'll say, when he's streekit 8 and caul' " Puir chiel ! I aye thocht him a gude kin' o' saul ; " And syne ower 10 his grave she'll big a wheen stanes, 11 An' sit on the tap o't, and greet 12 ower his banes ! 1 World. 2 Struggle. 3 Groan. * Glance. 6 Suffer. Fellow. 7 Cold. 8 Stretched. 9 Soul. 10 Then. u Pile of stones. 12 Cry. JANET HAMILTON. 87 Noo, yer Way wi' the Wart's jist tae let her alane, Ne'er fash her wi' yammerin' 1 ne'er mak' ye a mane, 2 Ne'er haud up yersel' an' yer sairs tae her een She's ower thrang 3 wi' hersel', an' she cares na a preen ! l Just keep ye yersel', an' there's Ane that wull help : Whtn the wart' steeks 5 ye oot, ne'er sit down an' yelp Like a doug, but bear bauldly yer heid, like a man Keep yer e'e and yer hert aye abune gif ye can ! Noo, Warl', hae I wrang : t thee ? thou kens best thysel' ; Let them that hae try't thee an' lippen't 6 thee tell ; But, hark i' yer lug, 7 my puir hard-workin' brither, Lippen aye maist tae Heaven, tae yersel', an' yer mither. 1 Grumbling. 2 Moan 3 Taken up. 4 Pin. 5 Shuts. 6 Listen. 7 Ear. SARA COLERIUGE. PIIANTASMION'S QUEST OF IARINE. YON changeful cloud will soon thy aspect wear, So bright it grows : and now, by light winds shaken,- O ever seen yet ne'er to be o'ertaken ! Those waving branches seem thy billowy hair. The cypress glades recall thy pensive air ; Slow rills that wind like snakes amid the grass, Thine eye's mild sparkle fling me as they pass, Yet murmuring cry, This fruitless Quest forbear! Nay e'en amid the cataract's loud storm, Where foaming torrents from the crags are leaping, Methinks I catch swift glimpses of thy form, Thy robe's light folds in airy tumult sweeping ; Then silent are the falls : 'mid colours warm, Gleams the bright maze beneath their splendour sweeping. SARA COLERIDGE. 89 SONG. FROM " PHANTASMTON." How high yon lark is heavenward borne ! Yet, ere again she hails the morn, Beyond where birds can wing their way, Our souls may soar to endless day, May hear the heavenly quires rejoice, While earth still echoes to her voice. A waveless flood supremely bright, Has drown'd the myriad isles of light ; But ere, that ocean ebbed away, The shadowy gulfs their forms betray, Above the stars our course may run, 'Mid beams unborrow'd from the sun. In this day's light what flowers will bloom, What insects quit the self-made womb ! But ere the bud its leaves unfold, The gorgeous fly his plumes of gold, On fairer wings we too may glide, Where youth and joy no ills betide. Then come, while yet we linger here, Fit thoughts for that celestial sphere, A heart which under keenest light, May bear the gaze of spirits bright, Who all things know, and nought endure That is not holy, just, and pure. go SARA COLERIDGE, ZELNETH'S LAMENT. FROM " PHANTASM ION." BY the storm invaded Ere thy arch was wrought, Rainbow, thou hast faded Like a gladsome thought, And ne'er mayst shine aloft in all earth's colours fraught. Insect tranced for ever In thy pendent bed, Which the breezes sever From its fragile thread, Thou ne'er shall burst thy cell and crumpled pinions spread. Lily born and nourish'd 'Mid the waters cold, Where thy green leaves flourish'd, On the sunburnt mould How canst thou rear thy stem and sallow buds unfold ? Snowy cloud suspended O'er the orb of light, With its radiance blended Ne'er to glisten bright, It sinks, and thou grow'st black beneath the wings of night. SARA COLERIDGE. 91 LINES ON THE COMMON SAYING THAT LOVE IS BLIND. PASSION is blind, not Love : her wond'rous might Informs with threefold pow'r man's inward sight : To her deep glance the soul at large display'd Shews all its mingled mass of light and shade : Then call her blind when she but turns her head, Nor scans the fault for which her tears are shed. Can dull Indifference or Hate's troubled gaze See through the secret heart's mysterious maze ? Can Scorn and Envy pierce " that dread abode," Where true faults rest beneath the eye of God ? Not theirs, 'mid inward darkness, to discern The spiritual splendours how they shine and burn. All bright endowments of a noble mind They, who with joy behold them, soonest find ; And better now its stains of frailty know Than they who fain would see it white as snow. 92 LET1TIA ELIZABETH LANDON. THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. THERE is a little unknown grave Which no one comes to see, The foxglove and red orchis wave Their welcome to the bee. There never falls the morning sun, It lies beneath the wall, But there when weary day is done The lights of sunset fall, Flushing the warm and crimson air, As life and hope were present there. There sleepeth one who left his heart Behind him in his song ; Breathing of that diviner part Which must to heaven belong, The language of those spirit chords, But to the poet known, Youth, love, and hope yet use his words, They seem to be his own : And yet he hath not left a name, The poet died without his fame. How many are the lovely lays That haunt our English tongue ; LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 93 Defrauded of their poet's praise, Forgotten he who sung. Tradition only vaguely keeps Sweet fancies round his tomb ; Its tears are what the wild flower weeps, Its record is that bloom ; Ah, surely nature keeps with her The memory of her worshipper. One of her loveliest mysteries Such spirits blends at last, With all the fairy fantasies Which o'er some scenes are cast : A softer beauty fills the grove, A light is in the grass, A deeper sense of truth and love Comes o'er us as we pass ; While lingers in the heart one line The nameless poet hath a shrine. 94 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. THE FROZEN SHIP. THE fair ship cut the billows, And her path lay white behind, And dreamily amid her sails Scarce moved the sleeping wind The sailors sang their gentlest songs, Whose words were home and love ; Waveless the wide sea spread beneath- And calm the heaven above. But as they sung, each voice turn'd low, Albeit they knew not why ; For quiet was the waveless sea, And cloudless was the sky. But the clear air was cold as clear j 'Twas pain to draw the breath ; And silence and the chill around Were e'en like those of death. Colder and colder grew the air, Spell-bound seem'd the waves to be ; And ere night fell, they knew they were lock'd In the arms of that icy sea. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 95 Stiff lay the sail, chain-like the ropes, And snow passed o'er the main ; Each thought but none spoke of distant home They never should see again. Each look'd upon his comrade's face Pale as funereal stone ; Yet none could touch the other's hand, For none could feel his own. Like statues fix'd, that gallant band Stood on the dread deck to die ; The sheet was their shroud, the wind their dirge, And their churchyard the sea and the sky. Fond eyes watch'd by their native shore, And prayers to the wild winds gave ; But never again came that stately ship To breast the English wave. Hope grew fear, and fear grew hope, Till both alike were done : And the bride lay down in her grave alone, And the mother without her son. Years pass'd, and of that goodly ship Nothing of tidings came ; Till, in after time when her fate had grown But a tale of fear and a name 96 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. it was beneath a tropic sky The tale was told to me ; The sailor who told in his youth had been Over that icy sea. He said it was fearful to see them stand, Nor the living nor yet the dead ; And the light glared strange in the glassy eyes Whose human look was fled. For frost had done one half life's part, And kept them from decay ; Those they had loved had moulder'd, but these Look'd the dead of yesterday. Peace to the souls of the graveless dead ! 'Twas an awful doom to dree ; But fearful and wondrous are thy works, O God, in the boundless sea ! HARRIET MARTINEAU. 97 AUGUST. BENEATH this starry arch, Nought resteth or is still ; But all things hold their march, As if by one great will. Moves one, move all ; Hark to the foot-fall ! On, on, for ever. Yon sheaves were once but seed ; Will ripens into deed; As cave-drops swell the streams, Day-thoughts feed mighty dreams ; And sorrow tracketh wrong, As echo follows song. On, on, for ever. By night, like stars on high, The hours reveal their train They whisper and go by ; I never watch in vain. Moves one, move all ; Hark to the foot-fall ! On, on, for ever. 98 HARRIE T MARTINEA U. They pass the cradle head, And there a promise shed ; They pass the moist new grave, And bid rank verdure wave ; They bear through every clime The harvest of all time. On, on, for ever. MARY HO WITT. 99 THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW. A MIDSUMMER LEGEND. " AND where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me ? " " I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The midsummer night to see ! " " And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low ? " " I saw the blithe sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow." " And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill ? " " I heard the drops of the water made. And the green corn ears to fill." " Oh, tell me all, my Mary All, all that ever you know ; For you must have seen the fairies, Last night on the Caldon-Low." " Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine : A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nire. i oo MAR Y HO WITT. And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, And their dancing feet so small; But, oh, the sound of their talking Was merrier far than all ! " " And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say ? " " I'll tell you all, my mother But let me have my way ! And some they played with the water, And rolled it down the hill ; ' And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill j For there has been no water Ever since the first of May ; And a busy man shall the miller be By the dawning of the day ! Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise ! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both his eyes ! ' And some they seized the little winds, That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, And blew so sharp and shrill : MAR Y HO WITT. 101 * ' And there,' said they, ' the merry winds go, Away from every horn ; And those shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn. Oh, the poor, blind old widow Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands stiff and strong.' And some they brought the brown lintseed, And flung it down from the Low 'And this,' said they, ' by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow 1 Oh, the poor, lame weaver, How will he laugh outright, When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night ! ' And then upspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin ' I have spun up all the tow,' said he, ' And I want some more to spin. I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, And I want to spin another A little sheet for Mary's bed, And an apron for her mother ! ' io2 MAR Y HO WITT. And with that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free ; And then on the top of the Caldon-Low There was no one left but me. And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, The mists were cold and grey, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay. But, as I came down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go. And I peeped into the widow's field ; And, sure enough, was seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn All standing stiff and green. And down by the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were high ; But I saw the weaver at his gate, With the good news in his eye ! Now, this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see ; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can be." CAROLINE NORTON. 103 IFS. OH, if the winds could whisper what they hear, When murmuring round at sunset through the grove \ If words were written on the streamlet clear, So often spoken fearlessly above : If tale-tell stars descending from on high, Could image forth the thoughts of all that gaze, Entranced upon that deep cerulean sky, And count how few think only of their rays ! If the lulled heaving ocean could disclose All that has passed upon her golden sand, When the moon-lighted waves triumphant rose, And dashed their spray upon the echoing strand. If dews could tell how many tears have mixed With the bright gem-like drops that Nature weeps, If night could say how many eyes are fixed On her dark shadows, while creation sleeps ! If echo, rising from her magic throne, Repeated with her melody of voice Each timid sigh each whispered word and tone, Which made the hearer's listening heart rejoice. If nature could, unchecked, repeat aloud All she hath heard and seen must hear and see Where would the whispering, vowing, sighing crowd Of lovers, and their blushing partners, be ? io 4 CAROLINE NORTON. BABEL. KNOW ye in ages past that tower By human hands built strong and high ? Arch over arch, with magic power, Rose proudly each successive hour, To reach the happy sky. It rose till human pride was crushed Quick came the unexpected change ; A moment every tone was hushed, And then again they freely gushed, But sounded wild and strange. Quick, loud, and clear, each voice was heard, Calling for lime, and stone, and wood, All uttered words but not one word, More than the carol of a bird, Their fellows understood. Is there no Babel but that one, The storied tower of other days ? Where, round the giant pile of stone, Pausing they stood their labour done, To listen in amaze. CAROLINE NORTON. 105 Fair springs the tower of hope and fame, When all our life is fairy land ; Till scarcely knowing what to blame, Our fellows cease to feel the same We cease to understand. Then when they coldly smile to hear The burning dreams of earlier days ; The rapid fall from hope to fear, When eyes whose every glance was dear, Seem changing as they gaze : Then, when we feel 'twere vain to speak Of fervent hopes aspirings high Of thoughts for which all words are weak Of wild far dreams, wherein we seek Knowledge of earth and sky : Of communings with nature's God, When impulse deep the soul hath moved- Of tears which sink within the sod, Where, mingling with the valley clod, Lies something we have loved. Then cometh ours ; and better theirs Of stranger tongues together brought, Than that in which we all have shares, A Babel in a world of cares Of feeling and of thought ! 1 06 LADY D UFFERIN. THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'M sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May mornin', long ago, When first you were my bride ; The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek ; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. LAD Y D UFFERIN. 107 I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends, But, oh ! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride ! There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake : I bless you for the pleasant word When your heart was sad and sore Oh, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more ! I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary kind and true 1 But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm going to ; io8 LADY D UFFERIN. They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there But I'll not forget Old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit and close my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. CATHERINE FANSHA WE. 109 THE LETTER H. 'TWAS in heaven pronounced, and 'twas muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell ; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd ; 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death. Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home ! In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drown'd. 'Twill not soften the heart ; but though deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower, Ah ! breathe on it softly it dies in an hour. no JANE WELSH CARLYLE. TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUR EAVES. THOU too hast travelled, little fluttering thing Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing Thou too must rest. But much, my little bird, couldst thou but tell, I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well To build thy nest. Thou hast passed fair places in thy flight ; A world lay all beneath thee where to light ; And, strange thy taste, Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky To choose this waste. Did fortune try thee ? was thy little purse Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse, Felt here secure ? Ah, no ! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one ! Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man Alone is poor. What was it then ? some mystic turn of thought, Caught under German eaves, and hither brought, Marring thine eye For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown A sober thing that does but mope and moan, Not knowing why ? JANE WELSH CARLYLE. in Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask, Since here I see thee working at thy task With wing and beak. A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main, Nor more need'st seek. In truth, I rather take it thou hast got By instinct wise much sense about thy lot, And hast small care Whether an Eden or a desert be Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free To skim the air. God speed thee, pretty bird ; may thy small nest With little ones in all good time be blest. I love thee much ; For well thou managest that life of thine, While I ! oh, ask not what I do with mine ! Would I were such ! ii 2 MARY CO WDEN- CLARKE. BODY AND SOUL. THE roses on thy grave are now breast high : Keen as their thorns the thought that thou must lie Beneath, instead of in my arms and yet Thy spirit, like the fragrance of a rose, Within my heart doth evermore repose. MAR Y CO WDEN-CLARKE. 1 1 3 AT MIDNIGHT OF ALL SOULS. I HEAR the rushing of the sea of Time ; Whose mighty waters in their pauseless whelm, Suck down, resistless, nation, race, and realm, Like rotting sea-weed, drench'd in ooze and slime. Ocean ! incarnardin'd with countless crime, Green with drown'd hopes, and wreck of joyous prime; Salt with the myriad tears of human woes ; Toss'd with the surge and tumult of earth's throes ; We note thy shifting sands, and pace thy shore ; We watch thy ebbing tides, and list thy roar, Heark'ning with awe, th' innumerable things Told in thy billowy thunderings ; Until by the coming of our one appointed wave, We're swept into th' eddy of that universal grave. 1 14 ELIZABE TH BARRETT BRO WNING. THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. " THERE is no God," the foolish saith, But none, " There is no sorrow," And nature oft, the cry of faith, In bitter need will borrow : Eyes, which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised ; And lips say, " God be pitiful," Who ne'er said, " God be praised." Be pitiful, O God ! ii. The tempest stretches from the steep The shadow of its coming The beasts grow tame, and near us creep, As help were in the human Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind, We spirits tremble under ! The hills have echoes ; but we find No answer for the thunder. Be pitiful, O God ! in. The battle hurtles on the plains Earth feels new scythes upon her : We reap our brothers for the wains, And call the harvest . . . honour, ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. 115 Draw face to face, front line to line, One image all inherit, Then kill, curse on, by that same sign, Clay, clay, and spirit, spirit Be pitiful, O God ! IV. The plague runs festering through the town,- And never a bell is tolling ; And corpses, jostled 'neath the moon, Nod to the dead-cart's rolling ! The young child calleth for the cup The strong man brings it weeping ; The mother from her babe looks up, And shrieks away its sleeping. Be pitiful, O God ! v. The plague of gold strikes far and near, And deep and strong it enters : This purple chimar which we wear, Makes madder than the centaur's. Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange ; We cheer the pale gold-diggers Each soul is worth so much on 'Change, And marked, like sheep, with figures. Be pitiful, O God ! 1 1 6 ELIZA BE TH BARRE TT BRO WN1NG. VI. The curse of gold upon the land, The lack of bread enforces The rail-cars snort from strand to strand, Like more of Death's white horses ! The rich preach "rights" and "future days," And hear no angel scoffing ! The poor, die mute with starving gaze On corn-ships in the offing. Be pitiful, O God ! VII. We meet together at the feast To private mirth betake us We stare down in the wine-cup, lest Some vacant chair should shake us ! We name delight, and pledge it round " It shall be ours to-morrow ! " God's seraphs ! do your voices sound As sad, in naming sorrow? Be pitiful, O God ! VIII. We sit together, with the skies, The steadfast skies, above us : We look into each other's eyes, " And how long will you love us ? " The eyes grow dim with prophecy, The voices, low and breathless " Till death us part ! " O words, to be Our best for love the deathless ! Be pitiful, dear God ! ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. 1 1 7 IX. We tremble by the harmless bed Of one loved and departed Our tears drop on the lids that said Last night, " Be stronger-hearted 1 " God, to clasp those fingers close, And yet to feel so lonely ! To see such light upon the brows, Which is the daylight only ! Be pitiful, O God ! x. The happy children come to us, And look up in our faces : They ask us Was it thus, and thus, When we were in their places ? We cannot speak ; we see anew The hills we used to live in ; And feel our mother's smile press through The kisses she is giving. Be pitiful, O God 1 XI. We pray together at the kirk, For mercy, mercy solely Hands weary with the evil work, We lift them to the Holy ! The corpse is calm below our knee Its spirit, bright before Thee Between them, worse than either, we Without the rest or glory. Be pitiful, O God 1 1 18 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. XII. We leave the communing of men, The murmur of the passions ; And live alone, to live again With endless generations. Are we so brave ? The sea and sky In silence lift their mirrors, And, glassed therein, our spirits high Recoil from their own terrors. Be pitiful, O God ! XIII. We sit on hills our childhood wist, Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding ! The sun strikes, through the farthest mist, The city's spire to golden. The city's golden spire it was, When home and health were strongest, But now it is the churchyard grass, We look upon the longest. Be pitiful, O God ! XIV. And soon all vision waxeth dull Men whisper, " He is dying : " We cry no more, "Be pitiful ! " We have no strength for crying ! No strength, no need ! Then, Soul of mine, Look up and triumph rather Lo ! in the depth of God's Divine, The Son adjures the Father BE PITIFUL, O GOD! ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. 1 19 THE DEAD PAN. [Excited by Schiller's " Cotter Griechenlands," and partly founded on a well-known tradition mentioned in a treatise of Plutarch (" De Oraculornm Defectu "), according to which, at the hour of the Saviour's agony, a cry of " Great Pan is dead ! " swept across the waves in the hearing of certain mariners, and the oracles ceased. It is in all veneration to the memory of the deathless Schiller, that I oppose a doctrine still more dishonouring to poetry than to Christianity. As Mr. Kenyon's graceful and harmonious paraphrase of the German poem was the first occasion of the turning of my thoughts in this direction, I take advantage of the pretence to indulge my feelings (which overflow on other grounds) by inscribing my lyric to that dear friend and relative, with the earnestness of appreciating esteem as well as of affectionate gratitude. E. B. BJ I. GODS of Hellas, gods of Hellas, Can ye listen in your silence ? Can your mystic voices tell us Where ye hide ? In floating islands, With a wind that evermore Keeps you out of sight of shore ? Pan, Pan is dead. ii. In what revels are ye sunken In old ^Ethiopia? Have the Pygmies made you drunken, Bathing in mandragora Your divine pale lips, that shiver Like the lotus in the river ? Pan, Pan is dead. 120 ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. in. Do ye sit there still in slumber, In gigantic Alpine rows? The black poppies out of number Nodding, dripping from your brows To the red lees of your wine, And so kept alive and fine ? Pan, Pan is dead IV. Or lie crushed your stagnant corses Where the silver spheres roll on, Stung to life by centric forces Thrown like rays out from the sun ! While the smoke of your old altars Is the shroud that round you welters ? Great Pan is dead. Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas. '.> Said the old Hellenic tongue ! Said the hero-oaths, as well as Poets' songs the sweetest sung ! Have ye grown deaf in a day ? Can ye speak not yea or nay, Since Pan is dead ? ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WN1NG. 1 2 1 VI. Do ye leave your rivers flowing All alone, O Naiades, While your drenched locks dry slow in This cold feeble sun and breeze ? Not a word the Naiads say, Though the rivers run for aye ; For Pan is dead. VII. From the gloaming of the oak wood, O ye Dryads, could ye flee ? At the rushing thunderstroke, would No sob tremble through the tree ? Not a word the Dryads say, Though the forests wave for aye. For Pan is dead. VIII. Have ye left the mountain places, Oreads wild, for other tryst ? Shall we see no sudden faces Strike a glory through the mist ? Not a sound the silence thrills, Of the everlasting hills. Pan, Pan is dead. 122 ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. IX. O twelve gods of Plato's vision, Crowned to starry wanderings, With your chariots in procession, And your silver clash of wings ! Very pale ye seem to rise, Ghosts of Grecian deities Now Pan is dead ! x. Jove ! that right hand is unloaded, Whence the thunder did prevail : While in idiocy of godhead, Thou art staring the stars pale ! And thine eagle, blind and old, Roughs his feathers in the cold. Pan, Pan is dead. XI. Where, O Juno, is the glory Of thy regal look and tread ? Will they lay, for evermore, thee, On thy dim, straight, golden bed ? Will thy queendom all lie hid Meekly under either lid ? Pan, Pan is dead. ELIZA BE TH BARRETT BROWNING. 1 23 XII. Ha, Apollo ! floats his golden Hair all mist-like where he stands ; While the Muses hang enfolding Knee and foot with faint wild hands ? 'Neath the clanging of thy bow, Niobe looked lost as thou ! Pan, Pan is dead. XIII. Shall the casque with its brown iron, Pallas' broad blue eyes, eclipse, And no hero take inspiring From the God-Greek of her lips ? 'Neath her olive dost thou sit, Mars the mighty, cursing it ? Pan, Pan is dead. XIV. Bacchus, Bacchus ! on the panther He swoons, bound with his own vines I And his Maenads slowly saunter, Head aside, among the pines, While they murmur dreamingly, " Evohe ah evohe " All, Pan is dead ! 124 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. xv. Neptune lies beside the trident, Dull and senseless as a stone : And old Pluto deaf and silent Is cast out into the sun. Ceres smileth stern thereat, " We all now are desolate " Now Pan is dead. XVI. Aphrodite ! dead and driven As thy native foam, thou art j With the cestus long done heaving On the white calm of thine heart ! Ai Adonis ! at that shriek, Not a tear runs down her cheek Pan, Pan is dead. XVII. And the Loves, we used to know from One another, huddled lie, Frore as taken in a snow-storm, Close beside her tenderly, As if each had weakly tried Once to kiss her as he died. Pan, Pan is dead. ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. 125 xvm. What, and Hermes ! Time enthralleth All thy cunning, Hermes, thus, And the ivy blindly crawleth Round thy brave caduceus? Hast thou no new message for us, Full of thunder and Jove-glories? Nay ! Pan is dead. XIX. Crowned Cybele's great turret Rocks and crumbles on her head : Roar the lions of her chariot Toward the wilderness, unfed : Scornful children are not mute, " Mother, mother, walk afoot Since Pan is dead xx. In the fiery-hearted centre Of the solemn universe, Ancient Vesta, who could enter To consume thee with this curse ? Drop thy grey chin on thy knee, O thou palsied Mystery ! For Pan is dead. i 2 6 ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. XXI. Gods ! we vainly do adjure you, Ye return nor voice nor sign : Not a votary could secure you Even a grave for your Divine ! Not a grave, to show thereby, Here these grey old gods do lie ! Pan, Pan is dead, XXII. Even that Greece who took your wages, Calls the obolus outworn : And the hoarse, deep-throated ages Laugh your godships unto scorn And the poets do disclaim you, Or grow colder if they name you And Pan is dead. XXIII. Gods bereaved, gods belated, With your purples rent asunder ! Gods discrowned and desecrated, Disinherited of thunder ! Now, the goats may climb and crop The soft grass on Ida's top Now, Pan is dead. ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. 1 2 7 XXIV. Calm, of old, the bark went onward, When a cry more loud than wind, Rose up, deepened, and swept sunward, From the piled Dark behind : And the sun shrank and grew pale, Breathed against by the great wail Pan, Pan is dead. xxv. And the rowers from the benches Fell, each shuddering on his face While departing Influences Struck a cold back through the place : And the shadow of the ship Reeled along the passive deep Pan, Pan is dead. XXVI. And that dismal cry rose slowly, And sank slowly through the air ; Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair ! And they heard the words it said PAN is DEAD GREAT PAN is DEAD PAN, PAN is DEAD. 128 ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. XXVII. 'Twas the hour when One in Sion Hung for love's sake on a cross When His brow was chill with dying, And His soul was faint with loss : When His priestly blood dropped downward, And His kingly eyes looked throneward T/ien, Pan was dead. XXVIII. By the love He stood alone in, His sole Godhead stood complete : And the false gods fell down moaning, Each from off his golden seat All the false gods with a cry Rendered up their deity Pan, Pan was dead. XXIX. Wailing wide across the islands, They rent, vest-like, their Divine ! And a darkness and a silence Quenched the light of every shrine : And Dodona's oak swang lonely Henceforth, to the tempest only, Pan, Pan was dead. ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. 1 29 XXX. Pythia staggered, feeling o'er her, Her lost god's forsaking look, Straight her eyeballs filmed with horror, And her crispy fillets shook And her lips gasped through their foam, For a word that did not come. Pan, Pan was dead. XXXI. O ye vain false gods of Hellas, Ye are silent evermore ! And I dash down this old chalice Whence libations ran of yore. See ! the wine crawls in the dust Wormlike as your glories must ! Since Pan is dead. XXXII. Get to dust, as common mortals, By a common doom and track ! Let no Schiller from the portals Of that Hades, call you back Or instruct us to weep all At your antique funeral. Pan, Pan is dead. 1 30 ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. XXXIII. By your beauty, which confesses Some chief Beauty conquering you, By our grand heroic guesses, Through your falsehood, at the True, We will weep not . . . / earth shall roll Heir to each god's aureole And Pan is dead. xxxiv. Earth outgrows the mythic fancies Sung beside her in her youth : And those debonaire romances Sound but dull beside the truth. Phoebus' chariot-course is run ! Look up, poets, to the sun ! Pan, Pan is dead. XXXV. Christ hath sent us down the angels ; And the whole earth and the skies Are illumed by altar-candles Lit for blessed mysteries. And a Priest's Hand, through creation, Waveth calm and consecration And Pan is dead. ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. 1 3 1 XXXVI. Truth is fair : should we forego it ? Can we sigh right for a wrong? God Himself is the best Poet, And the Real is His song. Sing His truth out fair and full, And secure His beautiful. Let Pan be dead. XXXVII. Truth is large. Our aspiration Scarce embraces half we be. Shame ! to stand in His creation And doubt Truth's sufficiency ! To think God's song unexcelling The poor tales of our own telling When Pan is dead 1 XXXVIII. What is true and just and honest, What is lovely, what is pure All of praise that hath admonisht, All of virtue, shall endure These are themes for poets' uses, Stirring nobler than the Muses Ere Pan was dead. 1 32 ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. XXXIX. O brave poets, keep back nothing ; Nor mix falsehood with the whole ! Look up Godward ! speak the truth in Worthy song from earnest soul !^ Hold, in high poetic duty, Truest Truth the fairest Beauty ; Pan, Pan is dead. ELIZABETH BARRE TT BRO WNING. 133 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. IN the belfry, one by one, went the ringers from the sun, Toll slowly t And the oldest ringer said, " Ours is music for the Dead, When the rebecks are all done." Six abeles i' the kirkyard grow, on the northside in a row, Toll slowly I And the shadows of their tops, rock across the little slopes Of the grassy graves below. On the south side and the west, a small river runs in haste, Toll slou>ly I And between the river flowing and the fair green trees agrowing, Do the dead lie at their rest On the east I sate that day, up against a willow grey : Tollslou