Dr. ENGLISH'S ELF t„,^j^i — ^«^,^^ aiotttell IwtBccBxtB Eihtacg atljata, JNtw Sotfe BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF^THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. SAGE 1891 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021982479 THE SELECT POEMS OF Dr.THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH (EXCLUSIVE OF THE "BATTLE LYRICS") EDITED BY ALICE ENGLISH 1 NEWARK, NEW JERSEY PUBLISHED BY PRIVATE SUBSCRIPTION 1894 e Copyright by Alice English, 1894. INTRODUCTION. At the instance of a number of gentlemen, who desire to have in book form a selection from the fugitive poems of my father, I have compiled the present, private subscrip- tion edition. I have excluded the " Battle Lyrics," be- cause of the prohibition of my father, he not desiring to interfere with the sale of the collection under that name issued by Harper & Brothers. I have possibly included some that do not meet with the approval of the poet him- self, he not considering them fair specimens of his powers. But I did this because they have attained a certain popu- , larity, and have gone into many collections, and I hold that the public are, perhaps, better judges of the merit of an author than himself, much as I respect his judgment. I am unused to this kind of literary work, and it is pos- sible a number of errors may have escaped my eye. For that I can offer no apology. IV INTRODUCTION. To those publishers who have given permission to the author to include anything printed in their respective pub- lications in any collection of his work, I return his and my thanks. In further acknowledgment I have printed in the table of contents the names of the periodicals in which the poems first appeared. ALICE ENGLISH. Newark, N. J., January i, 1894, TABLE OF CONTENTS. Introduction iii Legknds and Lays i Kallimais , . . . The Aldine 3 Fionn and the Fairies Ne^u York Ledger 20 The Wolf-Girl " " 26 The Rescue of Niav " " 33 The Sleeping Fianna A'ew York Independent 38 The Bell of Cil-Mihil Ne-.i) York Ledger 43 The Beggar's Word Harper's MonlJily 49 Owen Roe's Vow Nnv York Independent 55 The White Dove New York Ledger 60 The Legend of the O'Donoghue " " 65 King Con Mac Lir. . " " 69 The Broken Word " " 75 Feargal Mac Congal " " 79 The Lady of the Rock " " 85 The White Doe New York Mercury 89 The Legend of Ogrecastle Barpei^s Monthly 93 Cedric New York Ledger 98 Sir Guy Trelease " " 102 Ruins " " 10& Ward Burton " " 109 The Phantom Barque " " 113 That Royal James " " U? The Fairy Island New York Independent 122 The Three Blows New York Ledger 128 The Visit of Llewellyn " " 132 The Milk-white Cow " " 137 The Rescue of Albrit " " 140 The Diamond's Story " " I45 The Lady of Montfort's Raid " " I49 Deserted The Aldine 153 The Grey Knight New York Ledger 158 The Ballad of Adlerstein New York Mercury 161 The Robber Chief ^"t' Vork Ledger 166 vi TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE The Gnome-king's Bride New York Ledger 169 The Story of tlie Sword Nnu York Independent 174 Tlie Ballad of Nar\aez . ^'nt-| York Ledger 178 The Game Knut Played Appleton's Journal 182 The Hunter New York Ledger 185 A Legend of Phrygia Appleton's Journal 188 Akeratos Harper's Weekly 191 The Parrot of Rumi Ne^v York Ledger 194 Abd's Lesson " " 19^ The Ballad of Babette '--St. Nicholas 201 The Bell of Justice Ne-w York Ledger 205 The City of the Plain " " 209 Rural Sketches 211 Rafting on the Guyandotte Appleton's Journal 213 Ben Bolt New York New Mirror (1843) 217 Blown Up New York Ledger 218 The Old Wife's Tale New York Independent 221 Gauley River Southern Literary Messenger 225 The Old Tenor's Last Song Nai.< York Ledger 227 The Old Mill Harper's Monthly 230 The Logan Grazier Philadelphia Courier 231 ' ' For the Sake of Mother "......' A^enu York Ledger 235 Sue New York Mereitry 236 The Browns New York Ledger 239 Kate Vane Philadelphia Visitor 241 Breakneck Hill New York Mercury 242 Haymaking New York Ledger 245 The Roadside Spring New York Independent 247 Helen New York Mercury 249 Barton Geer New York Ledger 251 The Country Boy's Letter " " 253 Rachel Mayne " " 255 Going Home " " 258 Barker's Boy " " 260 The Old Home " " 263 Dora Lee Graham's Magazine 265 The Sleigh-ride Nhti York Ledger 268 Milly " " 270 The Hickory Fire " " 272 Snow " " 275 The Mountain Stream . . . . , " " 277 The Westerbridge Inn "" " 279 Guyandotte Musings New York Courier 281 TABLE OF CONTENTS. vii PAGE Barbara and I ' ^^ York Ledger 284 Paul Sees the Lovers " " jgy The Idyl of the Peach " " 290 "A Fine Day in the Morning " Hearth and Home 293 How He Won Milly 'New York Ledger 294 The Might-Have-Been " " 296 The Old Hearth-Fire " " 299 Only a Cur " " 301 The Old School-house " " 303 The Two Songs " " 306 Slain " " 308 The Delaware " " 311 The Boone Wagoner " " 312 Phillis " ■■ 317 The Double Rescue " " 318 Phillis, My Darling " " 320 John Trevanion's Story " " 322 Gideon " " 324 The Bride's Story Hearth and Home (?) 326 The Mountain Hunter New York Ledger 327 Margaret Neville " " 330 Come Back " " 332 Urban Verses .^ , 335 The Builder's Story Harper's Weekly 337 Under the Trees Harper's Monthly 339 Bonnibel New York Ledger 341 The Old Negro Minstrel A^ew York Mercury 343 The Drama of Three Harper's Weekly 347 The Bankrupt's Visitor New York Ledger 349 Vinogenesis . . . , New York Mercury 352 On the Stream Old Guard 353 The Old Church-bell New Yo7-k Ledger 355 Optimus Brown " " 357 The Bread Snatcher Lrish Citizen 359 The Surgeon's Story New York Ledger 362 Risen from the Lapstone " " 365 The Dying Clerk " " 366 The Crownless Hat . " " 369 The Merchant's Dream " " 371 The Rose and Sparrow New York Mercury 373 At the River " " 375 The Old Man's Christmas ' New York Ledger 378 Smiting the Rock " " 380 vin TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE The Night Before 1 Harper's Weekly 382 The Widow's Christmas New York Mercury 385 The Old Man's Day-dream New York Ledger 387 King Thread " " 388 The Defective Nail '' " 391 Here and There " " 393 Out in the Streets . Harper'' s Monthly 395 The Shoemaker's Daughter Hacper't Weekly 397 Little Madge's Window-garden New York Independent 399 The Dark Lane = . Old Guard 402 Take a Fresh Hold New York Ledger 404 Dialect Studies 407 Momma Phoebe Scribnei^s Monthly 409 Leonard Grimleigh's Shadow Lippincott's Magazine 413 Csesar Rowan Scribner's Monthly 418 Mahs' Lewis's Ride Appleton's Journal 421 " Found Dead in His Bed " Harper's Weekly 425 John Kempstone New York Meretiry 429 Moses Parsley " " 434 Occasional Lines Newark Journal 437 The Miller's Oe Scottish American 440 Bizarre Rhymes .^ 443 The Great Rhode Island Seam New York Monthly 445 Kinderkamack Nick-nax 457 Daly's Cow Hackensack Democrat 464 The Beggars Scribner's Monthly 469 . The Story of Arion " " 472 Brant's Tail Nno York Mercury 475 The Iron-barred Philosopher New York Ledger 478 Jes So Harper's Weekly 481 King Death's Decision New York Courier 483 The Broker's Story New York Sun 487 The Fatal Cup Newark Journal 489 Wine New York Ledger 491 Her Grand-aunt Jane " " aoa Thomas and I New York Mercury 496 Grandfather's Talk " " ^gg King Dollar Neoj -York Herald 500 The Brown Jug New York Ledger 502 Overcropping the Brain t" " 503 The Tramp's Defence New York Sun 506 The Power of Numbers , " " 508 The Tramp's Friend New York Mercury 509 TABLE OF CONTENTS. ix PAGE The Coal Baron : .New York Mercury 5 10 The Spider " " 511 Pests " " 514 The Two Treats " " 515 The Ballad of Bill Magee Dick's Readings and Recitations 518 Miscellaneous . . . 523 The Three Kings Harper's Monthly 525 Song of Fire " " 531 The Locomotive Harper's Weekly 534 The Ballad of the Colors Harper's Bazar 536 My Place in Dream-land •. . . . New York Ledger 539 The River Old Guard 541 Oblivion Xt-iv York Ledger 542 The Old Farm Gate Harpei's Weekly 545 Lullaby Harper's Bazar 546 The Island of the Soul New York Independent 547 At the Grave of Alice New York Sun 550 My Farm " " 552 The Three Sisters '. Harper's Monthly 554 Tom Saxon Southe7-n Literary Messenger 555 The Railway Ride . Scrilmer's Monthly 557 Our Christmas Turkey .Appleton's Journal 559 Twilight Ne^w York Indepeudenl 561 " Psyche Loves Me " Graham's Magazine 563 Palingenesia Scribner's Monthly 564 Two Days Southern Literary Messenger 565 Good-night " ," " 5^7 Her Singing Aristidean c,(>'J The King's Visit New York I^edgcr 56S His Ideal New York Mercury 570 My Ship at Sea " " 571 Nomansland Old Guard 573 Robin and Robin Harper's Bazar 575 The Lock of Hair New York Mercury 576 Wanted New Ydrk Ledger 578 Crossing the River Harper's Weekly 580 " Keep a Stiff Upper Lip " Ne%a York Ledger 582 " Don't Look for the Bridge till you Come to the Stream" " " 583 William Cullen Bryant Nrw York Independent 585 Wrecked " " 5*6 A Heart-burst Aristidean 588 The Earl's Daughter Southern Literary Messenger 588 X TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE " He Should Have Spoken '' Mew York Ledger 592 The City in the Clouds Mew York Independent 594 Philip Kearny A'ewnri Sunday Call 596 The Telegraph Wires New York Independent 598 The Neighbors " " (?) (io\ " The Gay Young Man from Town " New York Ledger 603 The Rescue of Sevier " " 606 The Raid on Ramapo " " 609 The Officers' Call New York Independent 612 Nancy Hart " " 614 The Loving that Never Grows Old /AVic Yoi'k Mercury 618 The Christmas-tree iXew York Ledger 619 Dead jW-w York Mercury 622 At Seventy-two Newark Sunday Call 623 McManus' Cow N'ew York Mercury 625 Our First Baby " " 627 Sassiety Newark Evening N'ews 628 The Dead Hand New York Ledger 63 1 The Quarrel of the Wheels " " 634 Haunted New York Independent 636 The Castle in Air A'ew York Ledger 638 Vamos, John Newark Sunday Call 640 The Money-king's Chorus A^eto York Mercury 641 The Iron-clad New York Independent 643 All Dead iWa' York Ledger 646 The End of It All " " 648 Matty Raines NeTJi York Mcrcurv 650 Story of the Mound New York Ledger 652 Now I am Old Newark Sunday Call 655 Taking it Easy Neiu York Mercuiy 657 The Ragpicker New York Independent 658 On Christmas Eve iXew York Herald 661 The Kitchen Quarrel A^ew York Ledger 669 Ode (Now Paid) " " 671 Ponipey the Fiddler Old Guard 673 The Hundredth Year AVju York Mercury 675 Montgomery at Quebec •' " 677 The Dispute of the Hammers New York Ledger 680 After One Hundred Years New York Herald 682 Content New York Independent 684 The Strife of Brothers Newark Sunday Call 686 The Irish Famine Newark Journal 691 p^ass OP si^oTEi^ Bi^owHE^s, nbwa:rk» k. J. KALLIMAIS. I. Once — once upon a time in Nomansland, Hard by the dim shore of the Mythic Sea, Went forth in arms a young and valiant knight, Sir Huon of the Rose, with whom there rode Bold Ferribrand, his stout and trusty 'squire. These through an oaken forest all day long Seeking adventures fearless forced their way Where limbs and leafy branches oveirhead. And mighty trunks with mossy bark begirt Standing on every hand made dismal shade ; But not a human creature met their eyes, Nor things of life indeed, save once a deer That scurried fast before the tramp of steeds, And one scared lizard, warted, rough and grey, Which for an instant threw a startled glance From the dead trunk of an uprooted tree, Then darted into covert. All day long Thus rode the twain till darker grew the shadows. When at the sunset hour they came upon A treeless space, where in a garden fair, 3 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. With rose R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Promise me this upon yoiu- knightly faith, And I your loving lady will become, And you henceforth shall be my gracious lord, The master of my life and all I have." To her Sir Huon in a burst of joy^ " Freely I promise this which is a trifle, As I would more than this — I would 'twere more ! Not as condition for the hand you grant, But from affection, and the yielding love Which may deny you nothing. So* I pledge." And so in due time wedded were the twain — The king, of whom the Lady Kallimais Held land in fee, the match approving well ; And noble lords and ladies gentle born Made festival through all the honeyrhoon. And tenantry and vassals loud rejoiced ; And for a year the pair lived happily, Naught to arrest the current of their bliss And mutual fondness growing day by day. II. An old compagnon found Sir Huon' soon — Sir Ranulph of the Thistle — who at times The palace visited, and since the tvi^ain Had been in arms together in the p*ast, Was feasted and made welcome when he came. Brave was Sir Ranulph, little fearing man. Not fearing God at all — an envious wight. And wicked, though his wickedness he hid Beneath his roistering manner as a cloak. Frank in his speech, but secret in his deed. Open in manner, but with envy gnawed. KALLIMAIS. He felt chagrined Sir Huou sliould ha\e won Richos so groat and eke a lovely dame \\'lio loved him doaily, and he strove to find Some spot of weakness in the life of either AX'hieh he might pierce and tluis his malice sate. And so he peered into the household ways. And looked where no one saw his envious glance, -And heard where no one thought he used his ears, 'l~ill, bit by bit, from casual words he learned That from the cock-crow till the sunset hour On every Friday, l.adv Kallimais, Locked in an inner chamber where no eve, Sa\e tiod's. could see her, passed the hours atone. And marvelled not the household, for it deemed, The day being one of fast, the lady there In abstinence and prayer and meditation. Ami wholesome niortilication of the flesh, -\s well became a sinful mortal, strox'e To purge the spirit of its earthly dross. Sir Ranulph smiled at this — some mystery. Ilo thought, was there beyond what met tlie senses \\'hich he would open. Hence he laid his plans. Anil so it fell one Fridav. ere the noon Sir Ranulph came, and stayed till fish was .served. And learned the ladv was at her devotions. And could not be disturbed, for so her loixi, Having love and confidence, in truth believed. Then, full of evil thought. Sir Ranutph said — " .\ ha]^p> man arc \ ou, my dear old friend, To have so good a wife, so j^iotis too. Of whom, and of whose wa)s you are asstu'ed. Ah me ! that there are men less bleSt than you ! Ah me ! that there are dames less true than voui-s ! T)/;. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. I knew a noble knight whose wife retired Weekly as does the Lady Kallimais, Your pure and virtuous consort. As for her, A wicked wretch, and he, a man abused. He knew not as he would not of her ways, So confident was he ; but chance revealed. There was a smart young page — but that is naught: The dame is dead — she was a wicked woman ; In truth I know not how the story came Thus to my memory. Whence had you, pray, This wine of Cyprus? 'Tis a toothsome drink. And good for mind and body. Pledge me now To the old days when both were bachelors. And wish me some fair dame in whom I'll hold That quiet trust you have, and should, in yours." Then he began to bring again to mind Their old adventures, when they had the world All free before them, and their swords were new, And hearts were eager, and their thoughts were young ; And talking all, and listening none, soon wore The hours, then took his leave and went away — A wasp that ere it flew had left a sting. Strode through the hall Sir Huon all alone, And out the portals to the garden fair. And up and down the walks ; but neither rose, Of odorous petals tinged with delicate hues. Nor stately lily with its snowy bell, Nor modest violet from its timid lips Offering its fragrance, had a charm for him. He thought upon his dame, fair Kallimais — So sweet, so pure, so true, fair Kallimais — And yet so strange her ways, fair Kallimais. Why, if devotion were alone her purpose, Should she shut out the path to heaven above KALLIMAIS. 1 1 She trod in to the loving lord she loved ? She was no wicked dame, fair Kallimais, As she of whom his friend, Sir Ranulph, spake ; But good and sweet and filled with piety, And fond of him beside — yea! loved him well. And yet a wife who was a loving wife Should have no secrets from her other self, Not even in her intercourse with heaven ; A whole day in devotion ; but one day, And six which showed no thought of prayer or praise. He might not spy — 'twere mean indeed to spy ; He might not follow her — his promise barred The way to that ; he might not questions ply. So he was pledged. Sir Huon's lot was hard. And yet if by some mode outside his vow He could discover aught, could find him why Her fast was lone, and what she did within That inner chamber from the world- shut out. Why then, his mind at ease, and then — and then. So on another day, she being out. He furtive sought that inner room, and found But a mean altar with a crucifix, A missal, and a vase of holy water, A praying-stool of wood, and nothing more. The stool was worn, and bore the marks of knees ; The missal worn, and bore the marks of use. Never a man so shamed of his suspicions ; And yet when he beheld in the partition A small round knot that outward fell on pressure, And struck the floor of the adjoining room, He let it stay there as it fell — of course. When Friday next came on, so ill at ease Sir Huon, that he wandered round the house Until he came to that same empty chamber T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT "POEMS. Next where his pious wife was knelt in prayer. He crept tnere softly, like a thief he; crept, And would have shrunk away, had not his glance Fell on the hole from which the knot had dropped. Then curiosity o'ercame resolve, And so he stood before the aperture. And slowly placed his eye thereto, and saw. And this he saw. At first a tiny mouse That capered up and down the room — then, lioiTor! A tigress body, supple, long and strong — Black stripes and white upon a yellow ground — Fearfully beautiful, with frightful paws. And cruel claws, and slender limbs and strong — A tigress body, with no tigress head, A tigress body, with a human^head, A tigress body, and the head his wife's — The head was that of Lady KalUmais, The golden hair down falling hke a mane. The blue eyes raining floods of earnfest tears, The rosy lips with mental woe contorted — Enchantress, or enchanted, who might know ? Meanwhile the mouse kept capering up and down, Frolic and joyous, leaping here and there ; And every time the eyes of Kallimais Rested upon the tiny creature's form, A shudder ran through body and through limbs, A newer shadow on the forehead passed, A sharper pang of anguish on the face, While the salt tears fell ever faster, faster ; And the poor creature, whatsoe'er it was, Monster, or form enchanted, or a vision, Would rest its fore-paws on the altar there, And bow its head before the crucifix. And seem to pray ; whereat the mpuse would leap, And jump and frohc as the thing were mad. K ALU MA IS. 13 Sir Huon had a noble soul and kind, And knew some doom had fallen bn his wife, A fearful doom and weird and terrible. Sucfi agony had come not of, her will ; 'Twas dealt by one who had the mastery, Or by her fault, or by his greater power ; But he would not believe 'twas through her fault And so he left, and sought the open air. And marvelled. A\'hen they met that night no word Dropt from his lips to teO what he -had seen ; But when she fell asleep upon his breast He lay awake all night, and pondered much How and through whom he might deliver her, His dear wife Kallimais, from sore distress, And free her from her bonds, nor break his vow ; For such liis love that he believed her wronged. And such his love he knew her innocent ; But innocent or guilty, nevertheless. Or wronged or wronger, he would save her yet — For, innocent or guilty, she was his, Or wronged, or wronger, he was still her lord : — For weal or woe he wedded that fair dame ; In weal or woe his love was still the same. III. Deep in the forest, in a mossy hut. By boughs o'ershaded, where a bubbling spring Rose eager from between the ferns and mosses, And filled its basin with a crystal flood Wherein the watercresses loved to grow, There dwelt the anchorite Heremiton. A saint was he who had a scholar .been — And hence a sinner, for who knows all things Will do all things, and most of deeds are sin — Master of every tongue, and every science 14 DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Permitted and forbidden, but of those Forbidden he forebore. The mate of lords, The favorite of kings, he left them all, Flung riches, pomp and honors far away, ' And came to end his days in solitude Where man but rarely was, God evermore. And there he lived a lonely, quiet life, Save when some hind, sore smitten by disease. Called forth his skill in leechcraft to his aid — His food fresh herbs ; his drink the limpid flow ; Rushes his bed ; his thoughts upon the grave. Sir Huon sought him out, and told him all. The anchorite a moment mused, then said — ■ " A capering mouse, the other seems to fear it ? Saw you no human being in the place ? " " Why, no,'' replied the knight ; " naught save these two — And one is human surely though deformed. The tigress body with my lady's head, But saving this no trace of man pr woman. The mouse, the altar, and the crucifix, The vase of holy water and the stool — The room held nothing more — of that be sure." " And so this form — your wife, or whatsoe'er The creature be, if not illusion, knelt Before the altar and the crucifix. And not it seems in mockery. That proves The shape and change is not the fault or will Of Lady Kallimais. She has a foe So potent as to scoff at holy symbols. So strong it bids defiance to the church. Book, bell and candle will not chase the fiend, For here no fiend, but something even worse, KALUMy4IS. 15 A raging woman. Has there ever been A rival for your love who seeks revenge On her who won your love? You shake your head. Had then the gentle l^ady Kallimais No bitter foe who strikes for fancied wrongs ? No rival beauty whom in maiden' frolic,- By some Ught word she wounded in her pride ? " The knight replied — " My lady h|is no foes, That I have ever heard of — could not have ; For she is gentle as the morning dew, And kindly is to every living things And ever was. The only one who hated — And she because my lady being heir Barred her from all our lands — is : leagues away, The Princess Pharmakis. She is not here, But far from hence in Paynim lands, where dwells Her father, of a province there pashaw." Then said the anchorite — " Be 't whom it may Be sure she comes, and in the mouse's shape ; And ere the charm be broken she must die, Or when the charm is loosened she must die. My magic staff, my books of magic art. Are buried deep, and I had never thought To bring them to the light. Nathless, I will. And now observe me well. On Thursday night. When twelve has told its number from the bell, And loosed uneasy spirits from the graves, I will be waiting at the postern gate ; Admit me then, and to that oratory Where prays and suffers Lady Kallimais, Conduct and leave me. Then at: cockcrow go, When once thy lady shall have left her couch, And seek thy spot of vantage. Look within, i6 -DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Note what shall meet thy gaze, then go thy way ; Come thou again at nightfall, and again Note what thou seest, and there remain until I call thee, and be- glad of heart meanwhile ; For if I read this tale of thine aright, And potence has not left me through disuse, The sufferer shall from wrong delivered be, The wronger perish at the place of wrong. The saints protect and guard thee — go ! " And so on Thursday at the midnight hour, When the clock struck Sir Huon left his couch — His wife still wrapt in slumber — oped the door, And took Heremiton with book and staff Straight to that inner chamber where he left him, Then to his couch returned, but not to sleep. Ere the- cock crowed the Lady Kalhmais Arose and touched her lord, who slumber feigned, Then kissed him fondly as he lay and said — " The Holy Mother be his shield ! " and then Hastily robing to her sorrow glided. Whereat the knight with tenderness was filled. Then crowed the cock within the palace yard, And rising from his couch Sir Huon now Followed, and sought his former hiding place From whence he looked upon the scene within. His wife was kneeling at the altar'^ foot, Her sweet head bowed the crucifix before. When suddenly a dame, in velvet clad. Her back toward him, in the room appeared. The stranger spake not, stirred not, but a thrill Went through her form, and then it shrunk and shrunk, Smaller and smaller, shape and substance changing KALLIMAIS. 1 7 Until it changed into a mouse which ran And capered gaily in the chamber's space, Then came and fixed its bright eyes on the dame. Then rose the lady from the altar, rose As one enforced, and in the centre stood, And trembled there ; and then a change began. Her robe spread to a tigress' hide, her limbs Were clad with fur, her fingers armed with claws ; And bit by bit, all but her face and neck Became a ravening, savage brute,, while tears Fell from her eyes, and o'er her tortured features There spread a veil of woe. And then the mouse Ran here and there, and leapt and frolicked fast, Whereon Sir Huon softly went away. He dared not enter, for his oath forbade. But all that day he neither ale nor drank. And waited till the night was drawing nigh. When he returned, and looked again, and saw. There was the Lady Kallimais yet, pacing. And there the mouse was capering as before. And now the last rays of the setting sun Streamed through the oriel level from the west, Wrapping them both in radiance like a flame, When sudden stopt the tigress, so the mouse. And shook the tigress, an expectant gaze Crossing the face. The body shook and shook, And bit by bit, the furred hide passed away. The silken robes succeeding, and the limbs Grew human once again, and on the stool Before the crucifix the lady knelt And thanked the Blessed Lord. Stood still the mousey And shook and shook, but on the instant then A grey cat from beneath the altar crept. i8 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. With ears bent back, and whiskers quivering, And sprang upon the mouse, and struck its claws Into the creature's skull, and slew it straight. Astounded stood the Lady Kallimais,, Then in a moment more the cat was changed, And, book and stafif in hand, before her stood The grave, grey anchorite Heremiton. The -anchorite remained withiri ; the knight Came to the door and met his wife, who swooned Into his arms ; and then he kissed her lips. Whereat once more she came to life, and o'er Her cheeks and lips the blood took course again. Called loudly by the anchorite, they entered ; And there upon the floor, a lifeless corse, The velvet-covered Princess Pharmakis Lay stretched before theni. But Heremiton, Shunning their thanks, bade them thank God alone, And left the palace for his woodland cell. That night the lady told her lord, with tears. How once a beggar to the palace came — A loathsome leper asking care and food. Whereat she shuddered and avoided him. On which he cursed her for a wretch, and then. Her anger being roused, she bade her serfs To scourge him off, of which she sore repented. Up to that time the spells of sorcery Of Pharmakis had never power ; frorii thence They fell in force ; and, for she had a heart So like a tigress on that day, was punished By being made a tigress in her form Wheii fell the day she drove the leper off. KALLIMAIS. IV. When came Sir Ranulph on one Friday mom, And saw Sir Huon and his stately dame Together in the garden, well he kneyv Was happily solved the mystery of that pair But not for him ; and so he held his peace, And leaving them, and going to the, wars. Was slain in a melde. No more of him. But nevermore the Lady Kallimais Knew change of form ; the fearful doom had passed ; And hved her lord and she in happiness For many years, and died upon one day. From them the house of Tourblanc came, whose crest, A tigress demi, with a woman's head. Rampant, surmounts its arms, a turret argent, Proper, upon an azure field displayed. So ends the tale of Lady Kallimais. FIONN AND THE FAIRIES. Fionn MacCumhail (the Finn MacCooI, of the common tongue) takes a place in Irish legends, somewhat like that of Arthur, in the circle of the Knights of the Kound Table, or Roland, among the twelve peers of Charlemagne. The Fingal of Mac- Pherson's romance is a mere pinchbeck counterfeit of the original. Fionn is the leader of the Fianna, but in keenness and might, Oscur and others of his followers surpass him. He is a chevalier sans peur, but not sajis reprocke. The bardic tradi- tions paint him as possessed of the weaknesses of a nxan, as well as the courage of a hero. In the story which follows, we have a leading idea which, in some shape, is common to the folk-lore of all countries. Arthur'^ Sleeping Heroes, the Seven Sleepers and Rip Van Winkle are all of this class. We find the abstraction of mor- tals by fairies a leading feature in Cymric folk-lore ; but there the result is usually tragic. On the return of the unfortunate guest, he falls to ashes or dwindles and dies. Fionn, who in those days was chief of the Fianna, Started to seek in the mountains: his prey; With him his wolf-hounds, Brann, Brod and Lomluath, Making o'er mead and through woodland their way, Down to the glen of the thunderstruck oak-tree, Cleft in the rocks that were grasSless and grey. Presently Brann stopped and scented, then bounded Eagerly forward, the rest after him — Ah! they were fleet and of noble endurance, Massive of jaw and of muscular hmb ; Woe to the elk or the wolf they encountered — Triumph for them, but destruction to him ! Fionn followed fast, in the chase eyer earnest, Came where the hounds stood in front of their prey ; Not theirs to hann aught that seemed to be human ; This a dwarf harper, old, withered and grey, On a stone seated, unheeding their presence, Twanging his harp-strings, and chanting his lay. FIONN AND THE FAIRIES. 21 Wizen-faced, small and deformed, but he sat there Calm, as though nobles and ladies among ; Never before did a harp make such music. Never such song by a mortal was sung ; Fionn heard in wonder ; the hounds in a circle Sat on their haunches, outlolling each tongue. Then, when at last died the sound of the harp-strings, Fionn asked the dwarf : " Why alone in the glen ? Brutes only live in the chffs and the wild wood, Harpers and bards in the dwellings of men. Follow me straight to the camp of the Fianna ; Sing there the song of the heroes again." " Fionn of the Fianna ! " the harper responded, " Waste not a pity unneeded on rne ; Wander I may at my will and my pleasure — Harp and its owner are equally free, I am an elf — Cnu Deroil, so they call me. Servant to Una, the Queen of the Sighe. " But unto you for to-day is my mission. Chief of the heroes and pride of the land ; On you, through me, does my mistress lay geasa, Not for a service by spear or by brand. But as her guest, by the vow you have taken, Never to fail at a woman's comniiand." Opened a way as he spake in the hill-side — There was a portal where none was before ; Wide was the entrance ; Fionn followed the harper — True to their vows were the heroes of yore ; Then when they passed it, closed clanging behind them, Ponderous wings of the great brazen door. 2 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TQEMS. Ah! what a vision of ravishing beauty Burst on Fionn's sight ! How surpassingly fair! Blue sky above him, and lush grass around him ; Silvery fountains to freshen the air ; Pathways that led through the roses and Ulies ; Birds ever singing with melody rare. There on the lawn rose a palace of marble, Azure in shadow and snowy in light ; Turrets and pinnacles, casements and doorways Studded with rubies and diamonds bright ; Seneschal grave at the door to receive him. Soldiers in saffron, and maidens in white. Fionn, with his wolf-hounds at hand, entered boldly, Towering his figure, athletic and tall, Ushered with welcome where, robed in rich colors, Courtiers and ladies were grouped in the hall ; There on her throne sat the golden-haired Una, Gracious, and fairer by far than them all. " Hero of heroes ! " the Sighe-queen addressed him, " Honor and service are yours where I sway ; All things around you are yours to partake of, All of my subjects your orders obey ; Only one thing to you here is forbiddeh ; Use all the rest with what freedom you may. " Here in the hall is a spring overflowing, Limpid as ether, no crystal so clear ; Draught it has yet never furnished to mortal. Meant but for those who are bom to it here ; Touch it not, taste it not, else woe betide you. Even one drop of it costing you dedr." FIONN AND THE FAIRIES. 2j Nothing for Fionn from that moment but pleasure, Feasted and served with a homage profound ; Every dehght that the fairies could tender, Pleasing to sight or to taste or to sound ; Hours they went by on the swiftest of pinions, Life was an evermore merry-go-round. So, for six days a continual revel, Even the hounds of the feasting partook ; Then on the seventh satiety followed, Fionn on his face wore a wearisome look ; Brann, Brod and Lomluath, all growing sullen, Crept to one side in a sheltering liook. What were the dainties around in profusion ? What were the wines of the puresf and best ? What were the homage and service they gave him ? What was fulfilment of every request ? What were the smiles of the golden-haired Una? Draught from that fountain was worth all the rest. Fionn, with a thirst that was fierce a:nd resistless, Stooped to the water and drank to his fill ; Shrieks all around him ; rose bristhng the wolf-hounds, Went through their master a tremulous thrill ; Broke with the draught all the magical fetters Closing his vision and binding his will. Elves clad so finely wore dead leaves for garments, Everything round him was squalid and base. Lawn, groves and hall were one damp, dripping cavern, Noisome and gloomy the look of the place ; Una was changed to a hag, old and withered, Crooked in figure, and wrinkled in face. 24 "DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. Fled he in horror ; a few rotting faggots Crossing the door made no barrier to him ; Out in the sunhght, he stood there and shivered, Muscles were weakened and vision was dim — What made the wolf-hounds so old and decrepit, Gaunt, trembhng, toothless and feeble of Umb? Marvelous change on himself ! All unshaven, Down reached his beard to the waist-buckle near,* Over his person his dress hung in tatters', Tangled the locks that fell over each ear, Rusted his glaive till it clung to the scabbard, Rotten and worthless the haft of his spear. Vanished the door that had been in the hill-side, Leaving the rock on it grassless and bare ; Pathway that led to it covered with brambles. Tracks to it leading no longer were there, What had been meadow was grown up with coppice. Grass where the birches and hazel-trees were. Making their way through the much-tangled thicket, Out carhe they all on a wide, open road ; There they beheld a stout, vigorous peasant, Bearing of branches a staggering load- — Gleaned from the forest — and merrily whistled. Cheerily seeking his humble abode. "When was this road made?" asked Fibnn, of the other; " Seven days since, and no pathway was here." "You are a stranger," the cotter made answer, " Else you would know all about it, that's clear. Cormac, the king, had it cut when Fionn left him ; Seven years that, on this day, to a year, * The Fianna shaved the cheeks and chin, leaving only the mustache. FIONN AND THE FAIRIES. 25 " Strange, too, it was ; Fionn was traced to yon hill-side. He and his hounds ; then, no tokens were found ; Some say he went off to join 'the good people,'* Others, he wandered to far foreign ground. No one knows rightly. He was a bold hero ; Much they lament him when this day comes round," " And who leads the Fianna now ? " " Diarmuid, the dauntless ; Courts he Fionn's widow, I hear gossips say ; Makes but poor speed, I am told, in his wooing ; Still the fair Maghneiss rephes to him " nay,' Tells him that Fionn will retm-n from his travel ; But she'll come round. Women do. 'Tis their way. " Fionn heard no more, but strode steadily forward. Doubt and amazement fast kindling to wrath — " He who depends upon love, or on friendship. Little of hope for his happiness hath," Then, whistling sharp to the three feeble wolf-hounds, Sadly pursued to his dwelling the path. Soon he was there ; when he came to the portal. Looking forlorn, 'twas a beggar, they thought ; All were new servants, proud, arrogant, heartless — Vainly the needy their kindliness sought. Maghneiss above, who had come to a casement. Threw him an alms-gift, which deftly he caught. " Give the poor wanderer food, drink and shelter,'' Maghneiss exclaimed. " On this day of the year * Daoine Maith — good people, i.e., fairies-. The Irish peasant, like the Welsh, never speaks of these mysterious beings in any other way. 26 TlR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. No one shall go without dole and a welcome Due to his memory ever held dear. Ife would have done it, for he was kind-hearted." " Maghneiss, my darling," cried Fionn, " I am here ! " THE WOLF-GIRL. This legend is current, in some form, in all the northern countries of Europe, and similar stories may be found in the folk-lore of the East, In some cases, the en- chanted woman takes the form of a serpent or a dragon ; and, in others, is hideously scarred, or otherwise repulsively deformed. It is always a kiss, generally the third given, which breaks the charm and restores the victim to her original beauty. Occa- sionally, the sex is reversed, as in the instances of Beauty and the Beast, or the Brown Bear of Norway. In these last, however, it is positive affection, and not the mere semblance of it, which works the deliverance. There is a characteristic anach- ronism in the usual Irish legend which introduces a Christian priest to perform the marriage service, although the Fianna were undoubtedly Pagans, and their last chief, Fionn MacCumhatl, was slain more than five centuries before the advent of St. Patrick. Filial affection, like a respect for female purity, holding so high a place among the ancient Irish — and in that respect the race has not degenerated — I- have chosen to effect the release of the father through the self-sacrificing effort of the son. The Fianna sat at a banquet there, From ovens drawn the heath. And heaped on platters huge the meats That steaming lay beneath — ' The mighty joints of cattle black, Leaf-wrapped the lake-caught fish ; While bowls of meadh went circling round For those who drink might wish. Foul-mouthed, bald-headed Conan sought By coarsest jests to glean Some scattered grains of thoughtless mirth — "Where now," he cried, "is Fionn? Some damsel lures our grey-haired chief From comradeship to stray ; And makes him laggard at the feast, Who still is first at fray. THE IVOLF-GIRL. 2-j " We miss our Diarmuid much to-day ; His sword was of the best ; And well as that his hand could wield, His tongue could hurl a jest ; But now, with much of meat a\id meadh, The Fianna all are dumb ; And even peerless Oscur here Is long of face and glum." " Be silent, ribald ! " Oscur said ; " Such gibes are out of plaqe ; I have a cause for looks forlorn ; Your words are scant of grace. Life gloomy seems as here I sit, For eighteen years to-day Have passed since Lir, the Druid vile, Stole Aebh, my child, away. " Pursuit was made, but all in vain ; We searched the country round ; None know if she be hving or dead ; No trace of her was found ; This day each year my soul is sad, The sunbeams give no light ; I feel no pleasure in the feast. No longing for the fight." There as he spake came slowly Fionn, With faint and tottering pace. And grimly beckoned Oisin then. And drew him from the place. A gloom came over all aroundj Even Conan had no word, As earnestly and silently The son and sire conferred. 28 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " My son,'' said Fionn, " your sire is weak, Nor could his life to save Find needed force to hurl the spear, Or strength to wield the glaive." " Whence comes such weakness,'' Oisin asked, " Oh, sire, and chief of men ? " " I fell this mom within her power. The Wolf- Girl of the Glen." O'erspread with pallor Oisin's face, As Fionn rehearsed the tale — " She met me at the pile of rocks- Before the Glann-na-Gael. I strove to spurn the wretched thing. And bade her from me flee ; She only growled and bared her fangs, And spake these words to me : " ' Henceforth no strength be in your frame, No courage in your heart ; A beardless stripling in the fight Shall play a manlier part. Henceforward pointless be your spear, And dull of edge your sword. Till I am wedded by your son, Despite my form abhorred." " Her curse has struck ; a weakling now, To exile hence I go." He turned, but Oisin stayed his steps— " No, father dear, not so ! Sweet Saebh, my mother, was- your wife ; Here with our comrades stay ; And have a priest ere I return. For Oisin weds to-day." THE IVOLF-GIRL. 29 Forth Oisin strode to Glenn-na-Gael, And at its mouth beheld A woman of such fearful mieii, That honor she compelled. She lacked not grace, though clad in rags, And moved with supple hmb ; But on her neck and shoulders wore A wolf's head, fierce and grim. The jaws were strong and told of blood, The fangs were long and white. Out lolled the red and dripping tongue — It was a loathly sight ; But when the Wolf-Girl spake, the voice, To Oisin's great surprise, Was gentle, sweet and tender-toned, Despite those cruel eyes. " What seeks young Oisin herq," she asked, " Since Oisin it must be. For one so loathly to the eye. None else would care to see ? You love me not, you could not love— You're coming here alone To free a father from the spetl By magic o'er him thrown." " I come," said Oisin, shuddering, " To do as you demand ; It is not love or heart you seek ; You ask, I give my hand. I swear to wed with you before The Fianna all to-day. And what so geasa you impose Will faithfully obey." 3° T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. A hideous sight that wolfish head, A thing to scare and harm ; Yet, as the tears fell from her eyes, He felt a secret charm ; Such gentle way, such silvery tones, Such hthe and subtle grace* — Alas! to find them illy joined To such a loathly face. He took her gently by the hand. And wondered at the sight — A woman with a head so foul, And hands so fair and white. But ere with fitting courtesy The Wolf-Girl thence was led, She paused, and to the hstening youth, In gentle tones she said : " As soon as we shall wedded be, My first and sole command — You bow to east and west and north. And kiss me on each hand : And then, despite these fangs and lips, Lout lowly to the south, Then clasp your arm around my waist, And kiss me on the mouth. " For thus and thus, and thus alone, You break the potent spell, That from the Druid's wrath through me Upon your father fell ; And thus and thus, and thus alone. You may another free. If, where the Fiannan heroes- are, You give me kisses three." THE IVOLF-GIRL. 31 They came to where the Fianna sat ; The priest was waiting there, While weakling Fionn far sat apart, With dull and gloomy air. Quoth Conan, with a grin : " Such bride No bridegroom dare abuse ; Some wives have ready finger-nails, But this her teeth might use." Amazed the stout companions all When Oisin stood beside, As blithe as though her face were fair, His weird and fearful bride ; And heard him tell the trembling priest To speed the nuptial rite, With voice as gay as though such fere Would be his heart's delight. With mistletoe and mystic sign, The priest had made them one ; But still the Fianna silent sat When all was featly done. And no one dared salute the bride ; Even Conan made a pause Before those wild and cruel eyes, Those fanged and bony jaws. But Oisin there, before them all, Bowed north and east and west. And fearlessly his shuddering lips Upon h,er hands he pressed j A tremulous motion shook the bride ; He bowed him to the south. Then clasped his arms around her waist, And kissed her on the mouth. 32 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT "POEMS. A thrill ran through the comrades here — What wondrous thing was this? What transformation strange had come Upon that triple kiss? To silk, bedecked with jewels bright, Changed were the rags she wore ; And she, as lovely as the dawn, A Wolf-Girl now no more. In speechless rapture Oisin stoo.d ; Cried Oscur as he rose : " Oh, Una's living image ! come To bless my life-time's close ! Speak! tell me who you are, fair bride! " She knelt at Oscur's knee — " One time the Druid stole me. Aebh, Your daughter — I am she ! " Sprang Fionn to feet with lusty bound, His olden strength returned ; New vigor filled his stalwart frame ; New fire within him burned. He backward drew his ponderous spear And hurled it at an oak ; The spear-head found the hither side, The shaft in splinters broke. THE RESCUE OF N!AV. The myth, whose solution is found in the last stanza of this ballad, is not peculiar to Ireland, but is found in some shape or other in every country of the Old World. The contest between truth and error, right and wrong, hght and darkness, plays a prominent part in the folk-lore of Europe and Asia. This particular story is not drawn from the legends of the Irish Fianna, but is characteristic. The suit of armor known as the Corrbolg, and the sword and spear that went with it, were in the cus- tody of Meadbh [Maev}, the Sighe Queen, and it was their absence which enabled Goll, of Connaught, to overcome Cumhail, the father of the famous Fionn. As for Fear Doirche, he plays important part in Irish story, and as Fir Dorocha, the vulgar form, he is the hero of a well-known bit of demon-lore. The Fianna were seated at banquet, with Fionn, the un- daunted, at head, And Oscur sat there on his right hand, but nothing to comrades he said. Of the savory dishes around him, his. lips and his hand took no heed, And beside him, undrained and untasted, there stood the great beaker of mead. Quoth Conan, the bald and the foul-mouthed : " Our Oscur is troubled, methinks ; The youth who pins faith to a woman may look for a trick from the minx. Better that before marriage than after ; in sorrow it softens the pain To know we are free to seek others, not tethered by pad- lock and chain." Ere Oscur could rise to rebuke him, in came with nor warning nor leave. Dust-covered and breathless and footsore, the page of the fair Lady Niav. 33 34 'DR, ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Low louted he there before Oscur, and this was the story- he told : " Fear Doirche has seized on my lady, and borne her away to his hold !" Sprang the Fianna around to their weapons, so ready they were for the fray, And quick at battle as banquet ; but Fionn bade them sternly to stay ; " Though each charge on ten of the foemen, when cotirage a triumph compels, Fear Doirche scorns courage and numbers, so guarded by magical spells. " He is bound by his oath to a combat, to combat with one and no more. The wealth of the vanquished the victor's, whenever the conflict be o'er ; And so long as that oath be unbroken, the stronghold where safely he Hes, Though a thousand may be its assailants, their stoutest of efforts defies. " At the door of his castle a war-horn is hung for a foeman to sound ; When its notes have awakened the echoes. Fear Doirche to fight there is bound ; But nothing of doubt has the Dark-Man^ no terror of spirit to feel — Our swords are of bronze and fire-hardened, but his of in- vincible steel." "And yet will I meet him," cried Oscur; "his spells and his steel I defy ; To rescue sweet Niav from his thraldom, I fight till I con- quer or die. THE T^ESCUE OF O^IAy. 35 Follow after who will to behold me ; forbidden to aid, ye may see If your comrade be worthy of friendship, if fit for a curadh he be." Strode Oscur alone, while they tarried awaiting permission of Fionn ; Through the glen, o'er the plain, past the wildwood, his feet sought the distance to win ; But when passing Cairn Gorey in silence, his hand on his well-tempered glaive, Came a lady of ravishing beauty, the Si ghe- Queen, the powerful Meadbh. " Stay thy steps at my geasa," she uttered ; " to conquer thy foe in the fight The arms of the Clann-Sighe are needed to match those of magical might." Then she struck on the three stones: beside her ; they opened, and forth from them came Three dwarfs, and each one bore a burden^ — three dwarfs, and not one had a name. One bore the invincible Corrbolg, and one the infallible spear, One carried Skullbiter, the falcon — who bears it no foeman should fear. " Take this," said the Sighe, " for thine armor ; take these for thy weapons from me ; Thus armed, thou may'st equal Fear Doirche ; the rest will depend upon thee." Then vanished the dwarfs and their mistress. The Corr- bolg by Oscur was donned, Skullbiter he grasped with his right hand, his left twirled the spear like a wand ; 36 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Then, firm in his purpose and eager, he sped on the rough, rocky way To the fir-studded cleft in the mountain, where Niav as a prisoner lay. And there, at the gate of the castle, the bright, golden war- horn was hung ; A grasp ! to the lips ! and defiance in air to Fear Doirche was flung ; And scarce had the notes summoned echo, the echo that came as they rang, When opened the great iron portals, an'd flung themselves back with a clang. Forth came, in black armor, Fear Doirche, his magical blade in his hand ; No word left his hps, and no warning*; he spalce by the sweep of his brand. And there Oscar's mouth was as speechless; he came not to talk, but to fight, To peril his life for his lady, to do his devoir for the right. Fear Doirche was black-haired and swarthy ; his dark eyes were snake-hke and cold ; Young Oscur was fair-skinned and blue-eyed ; his locks in the sunshine were gold ; Fear Doirche was built like the oak-tree, the blast of the tempest to take ; Like the tall, slender ash-tree was Osc.ur, to bend some, but never to break. The grey rock is smitten by lightning, and stands there un- moved by the shock ; So each in attack was the lightning, and each in resistance the rock ; THE TiESCUE OF ^lA^. 37 And long they fought keenly and fiercely, and neither a syllable spoke, Their blades flashing fast in the sunlight, as clashing stroke followed on stroke. Niav stood on the rampart above them, and eagerly noted each blow ; And she cried : " Who would master Fear Doirche, to do it must never strike low ! " Oscur heard, and he pressed with more vigor ; on the hel- met his blows fell like rain. And, as Fionn and the Fianna came near them, Fear Doirche fell, clave to the brain. Came the Dark-Man's retainers all htimbly, the victor's commands to receive ; And down in her ravishing beauty, there came, joy-trans- figured, sweet Niav. Though Truth had been captured by Error, stout Courage had rescued her straight ; And Courage and Truth, with the Fianna, they entered the wide castle gate. THE SLEEPING FIANNA. The legend of warriors sleeping underground and awaiting the time for action, is one common to many countries. The Welsh have it, and talk about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, who, with their followers, lie asleep under Craig-y-Dinas, until the day when the Briton shall arise and expel the hated Saxon. In German folk-lore Frederick Barbarossa figures in a similar way. In most cases the summons is to be made by sound of trumpet; but there is a wise provision in the legend that he who seeks to become the champion must arm himself before he utters defiance — he must draw the sword before he blows the horn. The legend among the Irish varies only in the character of the sleepers. One, which I prefer, makes the sleepers to be Fionn MacCumhail * and the Flanna. Their sleep- ing-place is variously located in Ulster, Monster or C5nnaught, but the details are always the same. The legend is evidently mythical and based on the sleep of Nature during winter, waiting to be awakened by the rays of the spring sun. Study shows that most folk-lore is mythical in its nature, and not a legendary debasement of history. Darkly the falling twilight lay On Sliabh-na-Bhan at close of day, Where Con O'Regan made his way. A desolate spot, the slopes of green And scattered furze the rocks between Were scarcely through the darkness seen. By rounded mound and cliff-side tall, Heart throbbing at the night-owl's call, He reached at last the Glann-na-Small. * The pronunciation of this famous hero's name, the Finn MacCool, of the vulgar tongue, and the Fingal, of MacEherson's romance, is difficult to convey to other than Irish ears. Fee'un Mac'Coow'uU, with the unaccented syllables so hurriedly pronounced that Fionn and Cumhail sound almost like monosyllables, -will give the reader a notion. 38 THE SLEEPING FIANNA. 39 Glancing around in fear, he spied, In-swinging at the steep hill-side, A gate of bronze that opened wide. Light issued thence, but came no sound ; A stream of radiance smote the ground, And deepened more the darkness round. Con knew the story often told. How Fionn MacCumhail, with comrades bold. Lay sleeping in some cavern-hold — Waiting till one with mighty hand Should come to lead the dauntless band. And purge of Sagsain's brood the land — To lead them forth, and victor then. To reign the very king of men. While Eire would be free again. He oft had heard that in the cave Lay war-horn bright and tempeired glaive. Biding the coming of the brave. What one these magic gifts should gain. And on the war-horn wind a strain. O'er Ireland as its king should reign. Ambitious, though with timor filled, Desirous, though uncertain-willesd. He entered, while his pulses thrilled. The gate swung wider at his touch, Yet somewhat lingered in his clutch. The sight he saw appalled so much. 40 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Ten lines of steeds were standing there, Extending miles ; and none were bare — Caparisoned with trappings rare. By each a warrior couch had made, His form in saffron garb arrayed, And at his side were spear and bladf. Rigid and silent all were they ; Yet each, though motionless he lay, Seemed well equipped for bloody fray. Bronze cressets pendant overhead, A dim light, faint and wavering, shed On those long lines of living dead. Where horses stood and warriors lay, Fainter in distance grew each ray Till lost in darkness far away. An altar at the entrance bore The sword and horn, the same he wore — Stout Fionn MacCumhail — in days of yore. A harper, where these arms were set. In stony silence sat, and yet He seemed to sing a bargaret. Of what in olden days occurred, A voiceless song without a word. By quick ears of the spirit heard. Con stood there terrified ; alone With men and horses silent grown By time and sleep to things of stone. THE SLEEPING F I ANN A. 41 The warriors seemed like giants tall, The steeds in size past those in stall, The dust of years encrusting all. Huge shapes of ill the shadows grew, And creatures weird of sombre hue, Flitted the space cavernous thraugh. Yet, faint of heart, his timid hand The horn with trembling fingers spanned — He dared not touch the warlike brand. At this, to feet the sleepers sprang, And spear and sword together rang, Filling the cave with martial clang. The horses tossed their heads and neighed. And champed their bits ; the wdrtiors swayed Their forms, and bared each tempered blade. As went the stir the host among, A banner green aloft was swung — " Has the time come ? " on every tongue. Con felt it was enchanted ground ; But courage at the last he found. The horn with feeble breath to sound. At notes so tremulous and thin, Laughter arose the place within, And spake a voice above the din : " Better the wretch had ne'er been bom, Who holds my famous sword in scorn. And, ere he draw it, blows the horn. 42 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " Leader to whom all men will bow, In time will come ; he comes not now ; Nor such one, venturous fool, art thou. " No weakling varlet may command The Fiannan host with spear and brand, To smite the foe and free the land. " To wield as one the headstrong throng, To raise the right and crush the wrong, A leader must in heart be strong. " For halting will and feeble deed; Rashness and folly caused by greed. Destruction be thy proper meed ! " He ceased ; but when the speech was o'er, A whirlwind rose with rush and roar. And Con to outer darkness bore. Closed then the rock ; when morn came round, Some peasants Con O'Regan found Stretched, dying, on the stony ground. He told his tale ere life had gone^ Within the wilds of Sliabh-na-Bhan, The last who saw the cave was Con. Ere eyes again that spot may see. Ere time arrives its host to free, A hundred years must numbered be. THE BELL OF CIL-MIHIL. The legend of Lough Ennel confuses dates. Going back in Irish history as far as Irish history can be dissevered from bardic tradition, we find frequent mention of the beautiful sheet of water known by the name, which seems to have existed when Patrick made his advent as apostle and bishop, at or about a.d. 432. It was the same lake which, five hundred and thirty years later. King Donald, then ard-righ of Ireland, made the base of his internaval operations against the Munster insurgents. If the legend had been based on any convulsion of nature, the event must have occurred anterior to the conversion of the Gael to Christianity. No vale of more beauty than Ennel Could vision or fancy reveal, As it lay stretched in emerald beauty For miles round the rath of ua Nial, While crowning a mound in the center Rose, mossy and hoary, Cil-MihiL* Woods here and woods there in the valley. The farms of the peasants between. Tipped with light and low-nestled in shadow, Flecked the whole with their varying green ; And far to the northward, copse-sheltered. There bubbled the fountain of >Caoin, In the days of the power of the Druids, They laid on that grove in the dell. By charms and by doings unholy; A deep and a mystical spell ; * " Cil-Mihil," the " Church of Michael." The Irish " C (Coll) " is always hard. Thus: "Cil," "Coll," " Cnoc," " Celt " and " Caoin," are pronounced " Keel," " Kul," " Knoc," " Kelt" and " Keen " respectively. 43 44 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. And its name told the destiny fearful In future attached to the well. Said the Druids : " So long as around it Shall truth, love and justice abound, So long shall its clear crystal waters Flow freely and sink in the ground, And peace to near dwellers and comfort And plenty and gladness be found. " But whenever, if ever, arises A niler unjust and unwise, At whose hands, in the fury of passion, A holy man innocent dies. The well shall burst forth in a torrent And cover the land where it lies." The Druids had gone, and the Christians Came there, and they builded Cil-Mihil ; They taught men the truths of the Gospel, The ills of our nature to heal. Till the time when to rule o'er the valley Came the worst of the tribe of O'Neil. His smile fell in blight upon woman ; His frown fell in wrath upon man ; And the wrong and the shame of the chieftain Infected the hearts of the clan', Till, in face of the world, prince and vassals A race in iniquity ran. When the priest rose to preach in the lecturn. They scoffed at both sermon and text ; With jeering at matins and vespers, The soul of the good father vext ; THE BELL OF CIL-MIHIL. 45 While each night that they wasted in riot Was only the type of the next. Prince Brian was first in the revel, And first in the scoffing as well ; On the priest and the young, pallid curate His sarcasm bitterly fell ; But his anger waxed highest whenever They rang, night or morning, the bell. Yet that bell to the church had been given By Lorcan, his grandsire of old ; It was wrought in a pattern of beauty. Sounding sweetly through silver and gold. From coins that were flung in the metal As molten it ran to the mold. The bishop had sprinkled and blessed it, And hallowed by mass and by prayer ; An anthem was reverent chanted By silver-voiced choristers there, And sweet-smelling incense ascended As high rose the bell in the air. And there in the turret suspended The spires of the grey church among. It was said that on Sundays and feast-days The music in air that it flung* Brought kneeling the chiefest of sinners, Subdued by its musical tongue. When it rang at the birth of an infant, With blessing the ringing was rife ; It assured, when 'twas pealed at the bridal. Sweet concord for husband and wife ; ^ 46 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. When tolled at the earthing thd knelling Gave hopes of a heavenly life. But now, under Brian, the wicked. Men scoffed at its sweet, silver note ; No longer on senses of hearers Remorse for their wickedness smote ; They bowed not in humble contrition When the Angelus pealed from its throat. But, one night, in the month of November — Heaven guard us ! — it sudden befell, While the valley was covered w'ith slumber, Resounded the clang of the bell. Awful, slow, through the murk of the midnight^, \Vaking all with its funeral knell. Rose the sexton from bed at the tolling To learn who the ringer might be ; Half-clad came the folk from the village, And roisterers checked in their glee. Terror-struck, when below at the; bell-rope Mortal ringer no vision could see. Then the boldest climbed up to the turret. Whence came the deep sound to the air ; The bell it was swinging and ringing. But no mortal ringer was there ; And he quickly descended where bended The priest and the curate at prayer. Came a giolla in haste from the castle, And said to the neighbors around : " Ochone ! for the son of Prince Brian Dead, dead in his bed has been found — THE BELL OF CIL-MIHIL 47 In the bed where his nurse left him sleeping — An hour ere the bell gave a sound! " Later on, when the corpse came for burial, Prince Brian, who stood at its head — " Take the bell from yon turret and break it. Not alone for its jangling," he said ; " But the bell that has tolled for my Eoghan Shall sound for no commoner dead ! " In vain did the priest, horror-stricken, The sacrilege ban in despair ; The Kerns, at command of their master. Climbed, eager, the steep turret stair ; The belfry before them was erfipty ; The bell which they sought was not there. Then Brian broke forth in his fury — "A trick, done to thwart me !" cried he. " Somewhere in the church it is hidden ; We'll gain it, wherever it be. Rack the place ! Tear to pieces the altar ! Bring the bell from its hiding to me ! " High the Host held the old priest before him. " Bad man, from thy purpose refrain ! Lost is he, both in body and spirit, Who the House of Our Lord would profane ! " Prince Brian he blenched not, and feared not. Though shrank back the Kerns in his train. Like cords stood the veins in his forehead ; His face grey as ashes, then red. " For insolence die by the sword-strokes, A. warning to others ! " he said. 48 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. _ And, their blood sprinkled over the altar, The priest and the curate fell dead. A shock hke the shock of an earthquake ; A crash like the loud thunder's sound ; Burst the fountain of Caoin in a torrent. Surged the fierce-rushing waters around. At noon were church, valley and castle — At night, but Lough Ennel was found. Next morning, the priest and the curate Were found in their robes on the shore ; With rites of the church, and with mourning, Their forms to the church-yard they bore ; But the others, engulfed in the waters. Were seen of the world never more. And to-day, when the death-angel hovers O'er one of the house of O'Neil, The pitiful wail of the Bean Sigh« * They hear o'er the dark waters steal, While wells from the depths of Lough Ennel The sound of the bell of Cil-Mihil. * *' Banshee," woman fairy, whose office it is, in all families of pure Milesian descent, to give warning of impending death. THE BEGGAR'S WORD. The name of the wicked prince in this legend is arbitrary, though the ancient Irish had an nrd righ (high king, or emperor) thus called. Of the latter is told, with some variations, the tale of Midas. The story was; eaught probably from some monk in the days when Ireland stood pre-eminent in classical as well as theological learning, and it became filtered through the peasants' sieve. This Labhradh Loing- seacb — Lora Lonshach of the common tongue (Leary?)^was gifted with a pair of horse's, not ass's, ears. The barber relieved his mind; of the awful secret not by whispering it to a hole in the ground, but into a split which he made in a willow. Of this the king's musician chanced to make a harp that treacherously, at a public festival, uttered the barber's words, "Z)rt Ckhtais Chapail ar Labhyadh Loingseach" — i.e., Lora Lonshach has horse's ears. As for Donn, called Firineach — the teller of truth — from the invariable fulfilment of his predictions, he may be set down as an Irish Thomas the Rhymer. His identity is not fixed.* Sometimes he is called a local fairy king, and sometimes set down as a son of Milesius, the conqueror of Ireland, who has taken up his residence in a rocky hill, waiting until the country recovers its nationality. , Proudly arose Cnocfirinn's height, at that time clothed with trees, Whose many leaves showed Hght or dark, synchronic with the breeze. A castle stood upon its crown — now lie its ruins low — But that was in the olden time, twelve hundred years a'go. And there the cruel Lora reigned, the king of all that land ; No trace of justice in his heart, no mercy in his hand ; To noble high, or peasant low, denying ruth orright : Black be his memory, Lora-na-ard, the tyrant of the height ! His wrath the worst on Cormac fell — on Cormac of the Glen; His hate for him was twice of that he felt for other men — His cousin Cormac, rightful heir, whose crown usurped he wore, Who Glann-a-dord alone retained of all he held before. 49 5° 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. But naught for sway did Cormac long; a noble, shunning strife ; His greatest treasures, children twain and Amarach his wife — Oscur, his son, a stripling tall, of proud and noble air, And Niav — bright well Fiongalla * called — the innocent and fair. Long time had Lora set his eyes on daughter and on land ; To wrest the last, to wreck the first, a deadly scheme he planned ; For tempting from his lofty towers, in all its pride complete, Was Glann-a-dord, its woods and fields — and Niav was young and sweet. So when one morning Niav went forth, with handmaids in her train, As was her wont, to taste the air that swept the dewy plain, There sudden from behind a knoll rode gallowglasses base. Who rudely seized the lady fair and bore her from the place. Thfe gallowglasses of the king their saffron jerkins showed. And to the summit of the hill the vile marauders rode. The royal rath they entered, and with victory elate. With shouts their lovely prize they bore within the castle gate. Her brother heard her piteous shrieks, and snatching spear and brand, Sprang light of foot up rock and dlifi to intercept the band ; But only gained the castle gates to find them closed to him, And at a wicket, sheltered well, the warder old and grim. * Fair-Cheek. THE BEGGAR'S IVORD. 5' " What do you here,'' the warder cried, " with spear and glaive displayed? Our royal lord no comer brooks in hostile guise arrayed. Begone, rash boy, or dread his wrath ! " " 'Tis Lora's self I seek. Where skulks this coward king of yours, oppressor of the weak ? " Oped at the words the castle gates, and poured the wretches forth. The vile assassin kerns well armed, the hirelings from the North. The first went down before the sword, two others followed fast; But all too many they for one, who, wounded, fell at last. They haled him soon where Lora sat, and grimly said the king, " For this, at dawn, before your house, on gallows-tree you swing ; And for the treason that is bred in nest at Glann-a-dord, Your father's lands are forfeited unto his sovereign lord ! " 111 news will travel fast; and hence, ere quite an hour had flown, A mother's heart was throbbing quick, a mother's voice made moan ; A white-haired father bent in grief, all pride and state laid by, His only son, his hope, his pride, next morn was doomed to die. Amid their grief the sunset fell, the hour was growing late. When came a tattered beggar there, and rapped upon the gate. 52 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " I am," said he, " the poorest man atnong the sons of men ; God save ye kindly! give me bed and supper at the Glen." " Alas, poor man," a servant said, " seek not for shelter here ; Avoid a house upon whose roof there falls such grief and fear." " Nay, nay," said Cormac ; " spurn him not ! Whatever be our woes, No man in need, while yet I rule, from hence unsuccored goes." They let the beggar in the gate, they set him at the board, Where some one told him of the doom that hung on Glann- a-dord. " Oh, sha gu dheine / " * said he then. " But Oscur shall not die : Not his, but Lora's race is run, 1 say, w|io cannot lie ! " The night had passed, the dawn was there, no cloud upon the sky ; And soon they raise before the door t^ie ghastly gallows high; And soon with mournful sound of horns the sad procession shows — The troops of Lora on the march, and Oscur bound with those. Came forth the beggar with his hosts, and with scarce-hid- den laugh, Exclaimed in measured accents, as he leaned upon his staff: * Is that so? THE BEGGAR'S IVORD. S3 " Last night there was no banshee's cry, that ever death portends ; Take comfort, gracious Bhan-a-teagh,* the right the right defends 1 " Proud Lora prances on his steed, and lightly leaps to ground ; He gazes on the gloomy tree, then looks revengeful round, When Amarach, with tottering steps, approaches where he stands, And on her knees for mercy begs with high uplifted hands. " The boy shall die ! " the monarch said, " so treason may be checked, And vassals taught their sovereign's will to hold in due re- spect." "You err, O king," the beggar said;: "not he, but you shall die. I say it, I, Donn Firineach, the one who cannot lie!" " Peace, fool ! " replied the king. "And learn, O Cormac, to your cost, Your son his life and you the lands of Glann-a-dord have lost. But as for Niav, my leman she, to grace my palace hall." " Thou liest, king ! " the beggar said. " She has escaped thy thrall." "Now who are you," the monarch cried, "who dares to wake my wrath ? Far better in the woodland stand within the wild wolf's path. Vile beggar-churl, this insolence to-day. you well shall rue; The tree which they have reared for one, has room enough for two ! " * Vanithee {vulg. diet.) — i.e., woman of the house. 54 TIR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. A noise as though the lightning-stroke a thunder-cloud had kissed. Cnocfirinn opened at its base, poured forth a cloud of mist. Impetuous over rock and mead in mighty mass it rolled, And hid the beggar from their sight witljin its silver fold. All stood appalled. What sign is this ? Now guard us, Holy Rood ! Closer the cloud of mist advanced to where the monarch stood ; An arm in glittering mail came forth, a hand that bore a glaive ; It rose in air, then sweeping down, the head of Lora clave. Then shrank the cloud away, dispersed, ; and showed a glit- tering ring Of warriors bold in green and gold, and at their head their king- Beggar no more — Donn Firineach, who one time ruled the land ; And to her sire the Lady Niav he led with kindly hand. " From my deep sleep in yonder hill," he said, " I heard your woe, And came to raise the humbled right, and wrong to over- throw. There Hes the tyrant's worthless corse ; inearth the soulless clay. King Cormac has his own again, and none shall say him nay." His green-clad soldiers formed in rank ; they marched toward the hill ; The awe-struck throng in wonder stood, their breathing low and still. KBrnamtuanawaoaaammmm OIVEN %OE'S VOiV. 55 Cnocfirinn opened wide its base ; the green elves entered there ; It closed ; and rock and cliff around again were grey and bare. Then joy was in the people's cup, o'erflowing at the brim ; For Cormac ruled o'er Munster wide, and Oscur followed him; And Niav, before a year had gone, her young heart fairly won, Was Queen of Ulster in the North, and bride of Nessa's son. OWEN ROE'S VOW. Lord Talbot rode at even forth With fifty merry men, And as the darkness lower fell. Swept through the Wizard's Glen. Through straight ravin.e, past treacherous bog, Their steps to safely guide, A peasant, in a russet coat, Rode by Lord Talbot's side. No sound was heard but tramp of hoofs. When sudden, left and right, Broke forth, with startling discord there. The voices of the night. Pierced through the sombre shade around The hooting of the owl ; And in the distance far was heard The wild wolf's fearful howl. 5o TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " These ominous sounds," Lord Talbot said, "Are not for us, I know ; They bode the fall of him and his. The outlaw, Owen Roe. " Too long a terror to the Pale, His course will soon be run ; We'll root the breed, and scotch the seed. Before to-morrow's sun — " Both him and his, the comely wife, The children young and fair. The very babe that hugs the breast ; Nor sex, nor age, we'll spare." " I know. Lord Talbot," quoth the guide, " Your lordship's manner well; And how, a score of years ago. Your wrath on wretches fell. " The band of Cormac Roe O'Neil, A hundred gallant men. With you four times their number met Within the Wizard's Glen. " One-third your men you lost that day ; One-half of his were slain ; You promised ' grace ' if they would yield — The terms they made were plain. " A little space beyond it is — We'll reach ere long the place Where Cormac and his sons were killed. Exempted from the ' grace.' OIVEN T^OE'S VOIV. 57 " You spared the wife, but when she begged Her sons' lives, bending low, At least the fair-haired youngster there, You sternly answered, ' No ! ' ■" She saw them die on gallows tree, And said : ' For this, thy sin, I have another son, who'll wash His hands thy blood within.' " " You know the tale ? " Lord Talbot cried. As quick his rein he drew ; " None heard the woman's words save me ; Who, peasant, then are you ? " He raised his good sword as he spake, And smote, but missed his mark ; The peasant swerved his horse aside. And vanished in the dark. What sound is that ? The raven's cry ! Whoever yet had heard Within the murky gloom of night,, The croaking of the bird ? That was the cry of Owen Roe — The signal of his wrath : The men-at-arms their horses reined Within the narrow path, For sudden came, in front and rear, A mass of eager foes, And these, within the rock-walled gorge, Upon the horseman close. 58 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. A wall of pikes, before, behind, Steep cliffs on either hand — " Stand steady ! strike the rascal kerns ! " Was Talbot's vain command. As well strike wasps upon the wing, As men in such a space ; As one went down ten others came. Eager to fill his place. Great rocks were hurled from heights above, Came thrusts of pikes below ; And vainly the beleaguered men. Dealt fiercely blow on blow. Not one of all the men-at-arms Who rode at eve of day. Hemmed in, and barred on every side. Escaped the fatal fray. Lord Talbot there alone was left ; " Come on, vile knaves ! " cried he. " Stay ! " said a voice ; " you've, dealt with them : Their leader leave to me ! " With that a form came from the dark, Full-armed from top to toe. " You asked just now who I might be ; Learn I am Owen Roe. " My kinsmen's blood cries from the ground, And racks this heart of mine ;; It will not cease till I have washed My hands in blood of thine." OIVEN T{OE'S VOIV. 59 Quick there a dozen torches blazed, Not one who held them stirred— As moveless they as cliffs around, And no one spake a word. No sound to break the stillness there, Except the clash of steel, So stern was each, and scant of speech, Intent their blows to deal. There stood the living men at bay, The living men around, And, in their ghastly stillness; lay The dead men on the ground. Lord Talbot's treacherous weapon broke ; Its fragments flew apart. As Owen's blade relentlessly Pierced through his foeman's heart. Then, thrusting in the welling blood His hands, he bathed them both — " Now, mother, rest in peace," he said, " Thy son has kept his oath." Since then four hundred years have gone ; Yet glooms the Wizard's Glen ; But never has that lonely spot Seen deed of blood again. Nettles and night-shade grow therein ; Moss forms on tree and stone; But where Lord Talbot's blood was spilled. The grass has never grown. 6o T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT 'POEMS. And whoso watches in the place, That same night of the year, The spectral torches' light may see, The clash of blades may hear. THE WHITE dove: The rapid conversion of the ancient Irish from Druidism to Christianity, compared to the slow progress of missionary efforts among other Northern nations, may be accounted for by the fact that the dominant people in Ireland were of a different race from those of England, Wales and the northern part of Europe. Originally, doubt- less, Ireland was settled by the branch of the family known as Kelts, as other parts were by the branches usually called Belga: and Teutones. Comparatively few in numbers, they gave way before the Teutonic sea-kings, : the Fermorians, who were in turn displaced by the Belgae, or Firbolgs, who were in turn driven out or extermi- nated by what appears to have been a Dacian invasion — the Tuatha de Danaan. All these seem to be of the same race — all of large, coarse build, with blue eyes and yel- low or golden hair — the exceptions being so rare as to call for distinctive names when they appeared. The last invaders, who maintained permanent possession, were of a different race, and of different physical characteristics. IJhey were called Milesian;;, or Gael, from their leaders, or Scoti, from the mother of Mil^ius, and came mediately through Spain from the Greek islands of the Mediterranean, between which and Ireland there can be traced some similarity of customs^. They differed from the Kelto-Belgo- Ten tonic race in appearance, their figures being more graceful, their hair dark, and their eyes blue — the ruling Irish type to-day. Their mythology was more intellectual, their habits less barbarous, their practices more chivalrous, and their folk-lore more innocent than that of their Keltic, Belgic or Teutonic prede- cessors. Hence probably their easier conversion. But it was nearly a century before Druidism was entirely destroyed, and the supremacy of the Gael practically established. At that time lived Achy, the Druid, and Vauria, his wife, in a cot Which stood in a glen of Sliabh Boughta, a lone and a desolate spot. A Druid and Pagan was Achy; while Christians were others around, He clung to the faith he was bred in, and for Crom kept undaunted his ground. THE IVHITE 'DOyE. 6i With the pair was their twelve-year granddaughter, of kin,. but she was not of kind ; Sweet her face as the dawning of morning ; as pure as the night-dew her mind ; Her hair of the tint of the sunHght; her eyes, of the sky overhead ; And her smile thrilled the heart of the gazers- — 'twas visible music, they said. A life full of woe for the orphan, to toil for her grandsire compelled ; He hated her much for her father, but more for the faith that she held ; To make her deny or forsake it, nor curse nor caress could avail — Though her face was the face of the Firbolg, her heart was the heart of the Gael. "Disobedient your mother," said Achy, "sole child, and she scoffed my desire ; She fled with a hated Milesian, in spite of the ban of her sire; She was false to the faith of her father, the worship of Crom she disdained, And you, of the union sole offspring, in pestilent error she trained. " Your father was slain in a battle, your mother soon sick- ened and died ; The haughty Milesians disowned you, and drove you away in their pride. I gave you that shelter and succor which vainly from others you sought. Yet you cling to their creed and defy me, and Crom and our rites set at naught." f'2 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. And so they were cruel to Aoife, however their love she implored, Her dress of the coarsest, in tatters, her food what was left on the board ; But she clung to the Blessed Redeemer, she lacked in no duty she owed. Was gentle in speech and in manner, and bore with sweet patience her load. Grew daily the wrath of her grandsire, and hotter the fire of his hate, And blows fell at times with his curses ; and sadder and sadder her fate, Till at last, in a frenzy of passion, he drove her away from the door. And bade her go forth to the strangfer, and trouble his household no more. Sore-beaten, heart-heavy and tearful, went Aoiffe perforce on that day. Bewildered, through forest and coppice, she wearily wended her way. Till sudden, a low, gentle cooing she heard in the branches around. And then came a dove from the covert, and fearlessly stood on the ground. It was white as the snow-drift in winter, on body and pin- ions and crest. Save a cross that was colored like blood-drops, and borne plainly marked on the breast ; And Aoif^, forgetting her sorrow, bent forward to give it her care. When it fluttered before as she followed, and rose now and then in the air. THE IVHITE TDOyE. 63 Absorbed in pursuit, she pressed forward, her woe and her bruises unfelt, Till she came where the forest was ended, and spread there the green Brugh-na-Celt; Behind her the maze of the woodland ; .before in the dis- tance there lay, With glassy repose on its surface, the beautiful water, Lough Rea. Went the dove out of view for the moment, for there, in the sight of the maid. Swept near from a break in the forest, a noble and proud cavalcade, Brave lords and fair ladies well mounte.d, with servants in waiting beside, And they paused, when the figure before them, shy, blush- ing and trembling, they spied. "Now, who," said the young prince who led them, "be you who are wandering here — Are you one of the good fairy people, or wood-nymph awaiting her fere ? And why, child, those rough, ragged garments, where beauty rich velvets would grace. And what is the cause of the trouble that mantles with sorrow your face ? " The dove came and sat on her shoulder, and lovingly cooed in her ear, And the child, unabashed at their presence, spake then with nor shyness nor fear : " For my faith I am homeless. Prince Cormac ; few words, and my story is told ; My grandsire is Achy the Druid, my father was Nessa the bold." 64 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Up spake Lady Saav, Cormac's mother: "My son, she claims wardship from you, For brother-at-arms to your father was: Nessa, the brave and the true. That dove on her. shoulder is token, for Nessa, her sire, on his shield, Bore it argent, cross gules on its bosom, displayed on a fair azure field. " She is heiress to all wide Cioncarragh ; her uncle, proud Ronan the Red, Seized her land, drove her off to her grandsire, and told all the world she was dead. The tale, it appears, was a false one ; Red Ronan relies on his might ; You are prince of lar Conacht ; your duty to see that the wronged has her right." A sound in the distance like thunder, a^ trash and a far- distant cry ; The dove in the air swiftly circled, then melted away in the sky ; And soon came a giolla swift riding, to. tell how a cliff overhead Had fallen and crushed the lone cottage, and Achy and Vauria were dead. Nine years rolled away, and a banquet for noble and peasant was spread, When Aoife, the Flower of Cioncarragh, to Cormac, of Conacht, was wed ; And her lord threw aside the half-Kon, he had borne up to then as his crest, For the dove that was white as a snow-drift, a cross of blood-red on its breast. THE LEGEND OF THE O'DONOGHUE. The great O'Donoghue ! he ruled the land around Lough Lean ; The tree-clad hills that kissed the clouds, and many a fer- tile plain ; And happy were his people all, for in that blessed day, Harvest rewarded honest toil, and justice held its sway. Content the peasant in his cot, his tenure fixed and sure ; No Duine Uasal dared oppress the holiest, worthy poor ; Each had his right, and leaned thereon ; he reverenced king and law — O'Donoghue gave the good his love, and kept the bad in awe. The king a feast to vassals gave upon the first of May, And gallant knights and ladies fair were gathered there that day ; And Conn, the white-haired harper, sat in honor nigh the king, The daring deeds of warlike knights and damsels' charms to sing. Majestic sat O'Donoghue amid the glittering throng, And gazed well-pleased upon the scene, and listened to the song; But suddenly his gladness passed, he drooped his noble head ; • And then; while all around were hushed, these startling words he said : 65 66 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " The gift of prophecy is mine — ah ! would it were not so ! My sight beholds a thousand years with all their scenes of woe. Where now four potent monarchs rule, with one the chief of all, The stranger shall usurp their power and hold the land in thrall. " What follies, crimes and misery shall darken all the land ; Wrong sitting in the highest place knd modest virtue banned ; The fierce invader break the oaks whose trunks he may not bend, And men, grown wolves, with eager fangs their brothers' throats shall rend. " It will not be that Irish hearts or Irish courage fail ; It will not be through sword alone the stranger shall pre- vail ; But bitter feud and warring kings and treachery and sin ■ Shall tear the bonds of love apart, and aid the foe to win. " By Irish hands shall Ireland fall, and not through alien blows ; False sons shall thrust their mother fortli, and profit by her woes ; By venal wretches, in their greed, a people shall be sold, And Esau yield his birthright for a title and for gold. " The world shall see from year to year, however men may strive. The patriot on the gibbet die, the spy arid traitor thrive, The cabins lone and desolate, the castles ivy-grown. The priests before the altar slain, the churches overthrown. THE LEGEND OF THE O'DONOGHUE. 67 " Famine shall smite the stricken land, and fever burn and slay; The best and bravest of our sons to distant climes will stray ; And Ireland's valor, learning, wit, all other lands shall stir. And give them progress and renown, but not, alas ! for her. " So shall our race endure a fate of agony and tears ; The stranger's yoke shall gird its neck for twice five hun- dred years ; Then, right shall be a thing of might, and wrong be stricken low, And conscience strike on Pharaoh's heart to let our people go. " Ah, then ! what blessings shall be hers, our Erin green and fair ! No longer war, no longer hate, but peace and concord there ; The hum of busy industry make music to the ear, The hammers clink, the shuttles whir through all the thriv- ing year. o " Obey my son ; but as for me, I may not see this woe ; From hence, till right is might again, O'Donoghue will go ; But once in every hundred years my presence here shall be, And those alone whose hearts are true may hope to gaze on me." He ceased, and, striding from the hall, while they were still with fear, He re9.ched the strand and walked alone upon the waters clear ; His stately figure all could see, touched with the sunset light, Receding till the twiUght mists had hidden it from sight. 68 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. And now, in every hundred years, those who are pure in- deed May see the great O'Donoghue upon his milk-white steed. He sits there at the water's edge, as> in his manhood's . prime, And looks, and shakes his head, and says: "Too soon! it is not time ! " Then, wheehng round his courser good, the surface o'er he gUdes, Lost in the mist that settles down from Toomies' lofty sides, While floats a strain of music, like a melancholy wail, Above the murmurs of the wave and sighing of the gale. But when the thousand years have gone, upon the placid lake All men shall see O'Donoghue his joyous progress make; His horse's hoofs shall touch again Killarney's grassy shore, And Ireland cast her burden off, and rule herself once more. KING CON MAC LIR. The enchanted island, Tir-na-n-oge, of Irish folk-lore, like Flath Innis, of the Scottish, and Gwerddonau Llion of the Welsh romances, is an isolated land of untold delights, lying far off in the Western Atlantic, and only found by mortals whom those who people it desire as guests. It is ruled by the fairy-queen, Meabdh [Maev], whom some Irish writers think to be identical with Queen Mab. The latter, however, is evidently from the Welsh [mali — a little child]. Either Shake- speare himself or the writers of some of the many plays which he revised for the stage, and which are mixed with his own, were well acquainted with Welsh fairy mythology, as numerous allusions testify. The isle of Prospero. bears more resemblance to Gwerddonau Llion than to Tir-na-n-oge. One legend tells of a visit to the place by Oisin [Ossian?], the son of Fionn [Fingal?], the son of Cumhail, but I prefei a variant of the story. Something should be said, for the general reader, about the Fianna of Connaught, who, like the Fianna of Leinstgr and the L'laun-Degaid of Munster, are supposed to be an order of chivalry. Neither they nor the Red Branch Knights of Ulster could be said to be knights at all. Though pledged to be loyal to the king, kind to the poor and profoundly respectful tct woman, and only becoming a Curaik^ or companion, of the order, after prescribed* ceremonies, the Fian was merely a laoch [hero], and the order bore no relation to knighthood, which was a Christian institution. Nor, beyond a helmet and shield, did the Fian wear defensive armor. The Fianna appear to have formed a superior part of the standing army of the native pnnces of which the galloglasses and kernes made up the bulk. Past sixteen hundred years ago, a prince, devoid of fear, Was King of Conacht, known of men, as potent Con Mac Lir, Who, from the Shannon to the sea, o'er all the land held sway, Beyond Lough Gill upon the north, and southward to Lough Rea. He held no court at Cruchain while thp summer days were fine, But in his rath at Brugh-na-ard, upon the Ceann-na-Slyne ; And there, within the banquet-hall, where mead and wine were poured. White-bearded counsellors and bards sat at the well-filled board. 69 7° T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Around him were the Fianna brave,- each laoch with weapon keen, 'Neath where the yellow hon blazed upon its field of green ;'' And there fair dames and damsels sat, with locks of ebon hue, And arms and hands of creamy white, and eyes of heav- enly blue. King Con grew tired of mirth one day, and sought the open air, And seated him to gaze upon the heaving ocean there, When slumber overcame his sense ; but, waking soon, he found Two things enwrought with cunning hand beside him on the ground. Wondering, he raised them both — a branch, of silver pure and white, With golden leaves and jewelled fruit, a fair and wondrous sight ; And near it, golden-hilted, lay a finely-teinpered glaive. And on the branch and on the sword was cut the name of Maev. " The queen of Tir-na-n-oge ! " he cried. " Ah ! would that I might be Her guest within that happy isle, from care and sorrow free — The country of perpetual bliss, perpetual summer there, Where men are ever stout and brave, and women ever fair ! " He girded on the magic sword, the branch he took in hand. When suddenly beside him there he saw a lady stand, * This is an anachronism by poetical license. The lion or on a field vert, belonged to the Red Branch Knights of six centuries later. KING CON MAC LIR. 71 A damsel fair of high-born air, and of such gracious mien, The monarch's spirit knew her well, the mighty fairy-queen. " That sword is yours, that branch is mine ; and know, oh, King ! " quoth she, " Who bears that token of my love himself belongs to me ; My barque awaits your coming, moored impatient on the shore ; Your eyes shall soon behold my realm, but these at hand no more," She glided noiseless down the crags ; half-way within the tide There lay a barque of oak and pearl, with oars on either side ; He followed her as in she stept, and hands unseen began To bend the sails, and move the oars, and shape the course they ran. They sailed that day, they sailed that night, till at the dawn was seen, Set like a gem within the wave, an isle of emerald green, A lovely land of birds and flowers,. t)f sweetly singing streams. Of tree-clad hills and bosky dells — a land of daylight dreams. With harp and flute, and joyous song, ajid light and twink- ling feet, Down came a troop of tiny elves the royal pair to meet, And led them to a. palace tall, its gates with gems aglow, Its massive towers and slender spires as white as driven snow. They entered by a corridor whose sides were flecked with gold. Whose rosy satin hangings fell in many a sheeny fold, 72 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. To where a throng of courtiers stood within a glittering hi..l. "Behold my realm," the Bean Sighe said-; "and you are lord of all ! " Thenceforth all joys that thought could form were laid be- fore the King ; A wish required no words of his the object sought to bring ; His word was law, his frown was fate, and though a mor- tal, he Was served by all the Daoine Maith upon the bended knee. Six days of perfect happiness, and swift the moments went ; But who of mortal mold is yet with what he hath content? Excess of bliss became a pain ; his soul began to pine For Druids, bards and Fianna brave within his rath at Slyne. Queen Maev, she saw, and seeing, smiled ; and thus to him said she : " To-day a longing fills your heart the home you left to see. Go, then ; but take this flask, and should you tire of Conacht, then Shatter the glass, 'twill bring you back to Tir-na-n-oge again." He sailed upon the fairy barque, and soon on Galway strand, Where rose the rocks of Ceann-na-Slyne, he leapt upon the land ; He climbed- the crags ; he reached the Brugh — the land around was bare ; No garden fine, no stately rath, no sign of life was there. KING CON MAC LIR. 73 A pile of crumbling stones remained, moss-grown were these and drear ; He looked around ; no trace was found of dwelling far or near. Until at length, in wandering 'round, s.ome wretched huts he saw. Whose inmates on the stranger looked with wonder mixed with awe. Old folk and children were they all. King Con demanded then Of one old man who nearest stood : " Where are the younger men ? " *' They're at the war," the man replied, "but most of them were slain In battle at Clontarf, what time King Brian beat the Dane." " Brian ! who's he ? " " He was Ard Righ, and fell when fight was o'er. And now the princes Malachy have made Ard Righ once more." "The princes, they have made him? " §pake the monarch, frowning. "Nay! In such a making. Con, your king, has yet a word to say." " King Con! " the other cried. "Goll rules ; and Con we do not know ; They say he Uved within the land, six hundred years ago. I heard a bard the tale recite, how Con in Conacht reigned, In days ere good St. Patrick came, and Druids yet re- mained." 74 TlR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " By Crom! but this is strange ! " Con cried. " Oh, sir! " the old man said, " Such wicked oath as that might bring a curse upon your head. Crom was a heathen god of old. We bow to the Most High, And heathen gods and Satan's works all Christian men defy." Con muttered: "Wondrous things are these! What change a little time! My rath a heap of moss-grown stones! My faith in Crom a crime ! Another king usurps my throne ! The land around a grave ! Conacht, farewell ! Come, Tir-na-n-oge ! Greet me once more, sweet Maev!" Swiftly he strode across the ground, with light and lusty limb ; The wretched cottars vainly strove to keep their pace with him ; They saw him leap from crag to crag, and on the sea-beach stand — What did he then? A crystal flask he crushed upon the sand. A tiny wreath of smoke arose, which swelled and larger grew, Till it became a cloud of mist, and hid King Con from view ; It seaward moved, huge, white and dense, and on the wave they saw A barque of oak inlaid with pearl, nearer and nearer draw. THE 'BROKEN IVORD. 75 The vessel in the mist was wrapped ; the people stood amazed, And deepest terror filled their hearts, as silently they gazed ; The mist dispersed, and o'er the waves, leaping from crest to crest, The barque, with silken sails outspread, went sailing to the west. THE BROKEN WORD. A LEGEND OF AN IRISH LAKE. Among the most curious of the Irish legends are those which account for the formation of the loughs, or lakes, with which Ireland is picturesquely dotted. Loch Owl had its waters borrowed from one witch by another, and never returned. In other cases they were excavated by Fion MacCumhaii, vulgarly known as Finn MacCool. But the more common and more poetical origin is in consequence of the sudden overflow of a magic spring, through the neglect or fault of a mortal. To this class Lake Inchiquin belongs. ' The following poem tells the legendary story of the origin of the lake, one of the most romantic sheets of water to be seen in the whole picturesque and storied island. It also contains a moral that all who run may read. A THOUSAND years ago there stood a castle proud and tall, With buttress and with barbacan, with moat and lofty wall; A thousand vassals dwelt without, a hundred served within. And o'er them reigned the proud O'Ruarc, the Lord of Inchiquin. A stone-throw from the castle gate a cavern's mouth was seen ; A bubbling fountain near it rose amid a patch of green, O'erflowing to a placid pool that in the sunbeams' Hght Which smote at times its crystals depths, shone hke a mir- ror bright. 76 -DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT T'OEMS. 'Twas told throughout the household there, how at the noon of night, Three ladies from the cavern came arrayed in robes of white ; And doffing those they freely bathed, as- though they noth- ing feared, Then, robing them again, within the cavern disappeared. O'Ruarc resolved that sight to see ; so at the midnight hour. When troubled ghosts re-visit earth, and imps of ill have power. He made his way to see what fate to glad his eye would bring, And cautious lay, in silent wait, beside the haunted spring. And soon came forth the damsels fair, in samite mantles clad, And two of them were wreathed in smiles, and one of them was sad ; And all of them were beautiful, but fairest of the three. The lady of the pensive look — the youngest, too, was she. But as they stood upon the brink, their robes to lay aside, The eldest cast a look around, and there O'Ruarc she spied. Startled to see a mortal there, shrank back the sisters three. And, with alarm upon each face, they turned themselves to flee. The eldest and another fled ; but ere the third could go. She felt O'Ruarc around her form his arms detaining throw. " In vain the struggle, lady fair ! " the; prince in rapture cried : " Be you a mortal maid or not, none else shall be my bride!" THE 'BROKEN IVORV,. 77 He bore her to his castle gate ; in vain her piteous plea ; The more her plaint, the more her tears, the more enamored he ; And ere a week her smiles returned, and blushes followed smiles ; For well the handsome prince was versed in wooers' win- ning wiles. But, ere they wedded, these her words : " One promise you must give, If you would keep me by your side contented wife to live : Swear you, so long as both survive, and you be mate to me, No, guest within our castle home shall e'er invited be.'' He pledged to that his princely word, and then the two were wed ; And happy lives for year on year the happy couple led ; And children twain, a boy and girl, to bless their union came ; And fairer grew, as seasons rolled, the prince's stately dame. But men are changeable and weak ; they even tire of joy ; O'Ruarc of fondness wearied much, the sweets began to cloy; And straying, with excuses fair, in wistful looks despite, In chase he spent the day abroad, in revelry the night. And at the chase he overheard: "O'Ruarc has prudent grown ; A guest he is, but never host.'' Cried he, in angry tone : " I pray you, gallant gentlemen, this day be guests of mine. And when the sun to-morrow comes he'll find us o'er our wine.'' 78 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT "POEMS. With ready shout they answered him, -and turned their steeds in haste ; Then galloped fast and eagerly across the furzy waste, Past the Donn Thir and up the hill, and through the thick green wood, Then down into the pleasant vale where lone the castle stood. Stood at the gate to await her lord, the lady of the land ; She gazed at them with troubled face, her children at her hand ; And ere O'Ruarc, dismounting fast, could reach the place before, She and her children gained the pool, and sank, and rose no more. Up surged the waters from the spring, as though in pangs and throes ; Upward and on remorselessly the angry torrent flows ; Where once the calm and fertile vale and castle proud had been. Spread deep and green the waters of the placid Inchiquin. But he who looks within its depths on one day of the year, Will see that castle's ivied walls and turrets grey appear, Will hear the horse-hoofs clinking loud, a smothered cry, and then The surging roar of waters fierce ; and silence reigns again. FEARGAL MAC CONGAL. Much of the early history of Ireland is obscure, but the incident of the complaint and prophecy of the hermit of Killin, whose black cow had been slain by marauders, is tolerably well authenticated. The cause of the fatal Battle of Almain, at which King Feargal fell (about a.d. 718), was the attempt to collect the odious tribute of Leinster. This special tax had been imposed by Tuathal the Legitimate, which the Constitution of St. Patrick confirmed. The King of Leinster was not only com- pelled to give yearly large herds of cattle, but also to send to the Ard-righ [awrd- ree], or chief king, i.e., king of all Ireland, at Tara, one hundred and fifty young men and maidens to do the menial work of the palace. This degrading act of vas- salage was made sure by the division of the cattle tribute, two thirds of which were divided between Connaught and Ulster, and the remaining third between Munster and the Queen of Ireland. Of course, Leinster evaded or denied this tax whenever opportunity offered, artd this led to many bloody wars, with varying results. Aodh Roin, who figures in the ballad, and who is there made King of Leinster, through poetical need, was really the Prince of Down (Ulidia) and one of Feargal's vassals. Hugh v., Feargal's son, afterward overcame this troublesome fellowj and cut off his head at the church-door. The same monarch fully avenged the defeat at Almain by the victory of Ath-Senaid, where over nine thousand Leinster men were slain. A THRILL of joy in Tara's halls, brave knights and ladies fair, With nods and smiles and courtly ways, were gathered gayly there ; Old counsellors wore looks of youth, and harpers grave and grey Struck well-tuned strings harmonious to many a pleasing lay. The queen had given the king an heiir; rejoicing in his birth Congal had summoned to the place his bards of chiefest worth, And bade them through their , inner skill predict the full career Of him, roydamma,^ who should reign o'er Ireland many a year. * Roydamma^ heir -apparent, and succeedings with the consent of the minor kingdoms, to the throne. 79 8o T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT "POEMS. " Nor tell alone his fortune fair," the royal father said, " Nor how the laurel-leaves of fame may diadem his head ; But rather speak what perils grave may stand within his course, That prudence may avert their blows, or wisdom break their force.'' Quoth Ailleen Mhor, the eldest bard, and chiefest of them all: " From humble source the danger comes upon his head to fall. No foreign foe shall work him ill ; disease shall bring no care ; A black cow may his ruin prove — of her let him beware ! " Loud laughed Congal at words hke these. "A black cow wreck a throne ! Of all the prophecies run mad, the maddest ever known ! A wolf at bay, I've seen at times the boldest bandog tame ; Black cows the neat-herd may assail — kings deal with nobler game ! " Congal was wiser than he spake — he felt of fear a shade ; Howe'er absurd the dangei- seemed, yet prudence he obeyed. No heifer-calf with hide of black was kept on hill or plain. But speedily and cruelly by butcher-harids was slain. Years after that, in health and strength, to lusty manhood grown. When King Congal was laid in earth, Feargal sat on the throne. Of kings not he, perhaps, the worst, but, neither weak nor strong, He was, as whim or passion moved, the friend of right or wrong. FEARGAL MAC CONGAL. 8i In those days, over Leinster reigned the wicked prince Aodh Roin, Who granted no man justice fair, save as a purchased boon, Who smote the great with cruel hand and trampled on the small, And with impartial tyranny denied their rights to all. But grievous wrong makes bitter wrath, and loud the peo- ple swore Their ruler's reckless ways should vex the hapless land no more; Aodh Roin should meet the tyrant's fate — the fate that waits him when The bearers of the burthen sore discover they are men. But Aodh was shrewd as wicked, he was bold as well as bad; To meet the peril of the hour one apt device he had— And so he sent his messengers when Easter-tide began, To summon all his vassals stout to meet him at Almain. Then came each Duine Uasal, and his sword he brought along ; Then came each chief attended by his galloglasses strong ; They came to meet the tyrant there, and learn what he might say ; They came, a thousand men-at-arms, in terrible array. Prince Aodh came forth in armor clad, and stood there sword in hand — "Ye seek," he said, "fair gentlemen, ior freedom in the land. Look to the cause of all your woe, and do not look to me ; Look to the tribute Leinster pays as due to our Ard-righ. 82 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " Ten thousand cattle every year are drained from us by him ; Our neighboring kings the plunder share, and smile in pleasure grim ; But worse than that, the maidens fair and youth we yearly send To Tara's yoke of servitude their necks to meekly bend. " Ye murmur at my iron rule ; remove its cause and then, No more a slave who reigns o'er slaves, I'll own that ye are men. Deny the tribute Tuathal forced, and make our Leinster free. And never a land had kinder king than ye shall find in me." Arose the ready, sharp response : " For Leinster's rights we stand ! Henceforth the tribute we deny. No burthen on the land. Home, home, and arm ! Be ready all with plunderers to deal ; For tale of slaves, give point of spear ; for cattle, edge of steel ! " Feargal of this at Tara heard. " The Leinster clans arise ; King Aodh, with vassals at his back, the tribute due denies. Up, Ulstermen and Connaughtmen, and summon forces forth ! We'll teach the rebels of the east the power of west and north ! " The vassals, save Ulidia's prince, responding to command. Full twenty thousand men-at-arms in line of battle stand ; And at their head the Red Branch Knights, in all their pride, are seen. Their golden lion broidered fair upon its field of green. FEARGAL MAC CONGAL 83 The army of Feargal was strong ; to Leirister's, two to one ; A gallant sight its rows of spears that glistened in the sun ! And right and left its flankers spread on every fertile spot, And spoiled the noble in his hall, the pe'asant in his cot. They trampled down the growing crops, they broke both hedge and wall ; They slew the cattle on the hoof, the pfough-horse in the stall ; And rang the piteous cries of woe the harrowed country through — "Ochon.i Ochon for Leinster here, mo chreach ! Och ! puilleludh .' " * King Aodh his forces marshalled then, and held them well in hand, And, falling back in order, at Almain he made a stand ; And there, both armies fronting, on the battle-field they lay, Awaiting to join issue at the breaking o{ the day. The hioming broke. The eastern sky was filled with yellow light; Deployed both armies martially — it was'a noble sight; When suddenly, in cowl and gown, a figure spare and tall Came wrathfuUy the lines between, and spake to King Feargal. "On yesterday, O King!" he said, "your galloglasses base To Killin came with hands profane, aijd spoiled the holy place ; * "Alas! alas! my sorrow! alas! bloody wars!" The Irish language is noted for the number of these piteous ejaculations, that are never profane. The same may be said of its sister tongue, the Gaelic of Scotland. 84 ■VR. ENGLISH'S SELECT "POEMS. They pilfered from my hermitage, an4 slew my one black cow — I ask for justice on the knaves — I ask for justice now ! " The chieftains round the monarch laughed. Feargal, he bent his brows — " Is this a time or place," he said, " to speak to me of cows ? " " All times, all places justice fit," the hermit bold replied ; " Audacious shaveling, seek the rear ! " Feargal in anger cried. " I tell thee, king of pride and sin, thou mayest repulse me now; Beware lest in the battle's din thou meelest that black cow ! Her symbol or herself beware ; when either here appears, Vain is the keen-edged glaive you bear, and vain your soldiers' spears." They thrust the hermit to the rear, for now the fight began ; The Red Branch Knights on Leinster bore ; Feargal, he led the van. And clash of swords and crash of spears made music on the field, When charged a knight from Leinster's host, a black cow on his shield. Straight through the ranks he made a path ; he slew op- posers all ; Nor stayed his way till face to face he met with King Fear- gal. The monarch saw the symbol dire, arid drew his bridle- rein ; That pause was death ; the stranger's Sword smote fiercely to the brain. THE LADY OF THE ROCK. 85 Ochon ! Ochon, for Ireland now ! vio chreach ! Och / puilleludh / What mourning for the many slain, what keens the country- through ! Ah ! woe for Tuathal's wicked law. A cruel monarch's breath Wrought on seven thousand gallant men the bitterness of death ! THE LADY OF THE ROCK. There are several versions of this grotesque legend ciirrent among the Munster peasantry. In one of these, the host is a gentleman named Barry, who long years before is said to have dwelt on the top of Cairn Thierna. In another, it is Cliodhna, the queen of the Daoine Maith, or "good people," i.e., fairies, who entertains the traveller. The student will observe, not alone much resemblance between Irish and Welsh folk-lore, not strange, since they spring from kindred races, but between the former and some of the Sanskrit and Russian popular tales, a fact not so readily accounted for. This legend, however, smacks of the soil. The sun was sinking to the hills, the twilight growing fast, When in the dusty yellow road a band came riding past — A squadron of the foeman's horse, whose presence brought no joy — Grim-visaged troops of Cromwell these, unwelcome to Fermoy. They halted in the village street, for food and rest inclined. And so the billet-master there they eager sought to find ; And whatsoever hate was felt, none near dare say them nay, For in their camp, a mile beyond, more black MaUgnants lay. 'Squire Considine could hold his own, whichever side arose — Who stood above, he held as friends, who lay below, as foes — 86 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. And so the men he billeted, and sent them here and there ; It was for him to find the hosts — the hosts must find the fare. They left, all save the youngest one, who in the hall had stayed, Caught by the roguish smile and glance of Kate, a serving- maid ; In years scarce more than boy he was, and handsome, frank and free — Unlike his comrades — and he said : "A billet, sir, for me.'' Beyond the town a pile of rock rose upward, bleak and bare ; 'Twas said the fairies haunted it ; no trace of dwelling there ; And Considine, who liked at times some meaner man to mock — " I'll billet you," he said, " upon the Lady of the Rock. " The lady's name is Cleena, and such house you never knew ; It's walls are of the ivied stone, its vaulted roof is blue ; And you may tell her ere you're guest within that mansion fine, That I shall furnish her with meat, and she shall furnish wine." Dick Ashmore started off at once, his billet in his hand. Straight onward he was told to go, and so obeyed com- mand ; The path was clear to reach the rock, but though he made no stay. So dark the night, the road he left, and thus he lost the way, THE LADY OF THE ROCK. 87 A clouded night, and not a star ; jiist then there came a sound — The cheery cHnk of horse's hoofs upon the stony ground. He turned ; a noble cavalcade, and at its head there rode A lady on a palfry white, and light around her glowed. He doffed his morion at the sight, and made a lowly bend ; The lady reined her steed, and said : " What do you here, my friend ? " Dick Ashmore bent his head again. "An please you then," said he, " I seek the Lady of the Rock." " Good soldier, I am she ! " He gave the words of Considine. Said she, with courtly air: " Our thanks are due this gentleman for courtesy so fair. No fairer offer could be made than this of Considine ; His meat shall smoke upon the board, and we will find the wine.'' Then up the rock the cavalcade with merry laughter pressed — Dick Ashmore found it harder work to gain the stony crest ; But, gaining that, a mansion saw, reared grandly and alone, From out whose many casements tall the lights in brilliance shone. Dick, hat in hand, was ushered in ; they sat him at the board With wines of choicest vintage, and- with rarest dainties stored ; He ate and drank ; but chief of all, to hungry Dick's de- hght, A mighty joint of beef, which soon appeased his appetite. 08 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " Now," said the lady, as he rose, " to-morrow when you leave I'll see you not ; but, ere you rest, three gifts of mine re- ceive. Yon black cow's hide, this goblet bright ; give those to Considine, To show that while he furnished meat, 'twas I who fur- nished wine. "And for yourself, this sprig of furze upo'n your breast to wear; 'Twill bring you health and wealth and love while you shall keep it there. Now seek your couch ; be sweet your sleep ; it was not yours to mock, But his, and his has been the loss, — the Lady of the Rock," Sound slept the soldier all that night, sleep drowned till noon his care ; He woke, and gazed around amazed ; nor bed nor mansion there ; His couch was on the barren ground ; but by his side there lay The cow's hide and the goblet, and he bore them both away. Loud laughed the billet-master when his eye on Ashmore fell— "And did you find the lady fair, and did she treat you well? But sad has been your pleasure, man ; your comrades long have gone. And hold you as deserter, for the army m'oved at dawn." THE IVHITE TlOE. 89 But to a look of wonder changed the sly, malicious grin, When Dick the lady's message gave, and with it cup and skin. " 'Tis ill to vex the Dinah Magh 1 " said startled Considine ; " That hide was hers, my favorite cow, the chiefest of my kine." Dick Ashmore never left Fermoy ; all people liked him well; And all the Lady of the Rock had promised him befell, Health, wealth, and love; but ill there came to him who dared to mock The gentle Bean Sighe, Cleena, the Lady of the Rock. THE WHITE DOE. Once on a time, when fairies were, Stood by the Galway shore. Part in the sea, a cold, grey rock, That towered the country o'er. Its sides were like a castle wall. Seamed like an old man's face ; And inward stretc;hed the barrfen sand, ' A mile beyond the. place. One fertile spot there Dermid held — A peasant stout and young, With eye of hawk and raven hair, Strong limbs and silver tongue — An acre only held at rent, And cabin low and white ; And made his way by constant toil From early morn till night. 9° T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT T.OEMS. One morn he rose at break of day, And, sharpened spade in hand. Went forth, and whistled as he went, To dig and delve his land. And looking east, and looking west. Around, above, below, He saw upon the grey rock's crest. Standing, a milk-white doe. There were no deer for miles around. And ne'er had such been seen. For deer seek not the sea-shore sand, But lurk in covert green. And Dermid gazed upon the sight With awe no words can tell. When the doe stretched forth to look at him, And lost its poise and fell. The peasant dropped his spade and ran. And pity came to him. When he saw the deer lie moaning there. With a bleeding, broken Hrhb. He set the bone, and bound it close, And spoke in tender way. And water brought and tufts of grass Where the creature suffering lay. The white doe hcked his kindly hand. And tears ran down each cheek. And looked from out its large, Tound eyes The thanks it could not speak. And Dermid said — " I have no wife. No child is born to me ; This innocent brute in lieu of both, Companion here shall be." THE IVHITE T)OE. 9' A month passed on. One morning came, And, rising at the dawn, Went Dermid out to feed the do.e, And found the doe had gone. But there a fair-haired lady stood, Clad in a robe of white, A short wand in her lily hand. Tipped with a jewel bright. " I was the doe,'' the lady said, " Doomed in that shape to be. Till a human heart in my distress Should pity take on me. Name freely ; I can grant whate'er You need the most in life.'' Said Dermid bluntly then, " I need You, darhng, for a wife." Soon were they wedded, and from thence Fortune on Dermid rained ; New land was his, and flocks and herds. And golden store he gained. Short months and years flew by, and each Seemed fleeter than the last, Until, with five boys round the hearth, Ten happy years had passed. Uprose the fairy wife at dawn, To Dermid thus spoke she : . " At noon I seek my former home, And you must go with me. But, oh! whate'er you see or hear, What others say or do, Keep silence ; utter not a word ; Or I am lost to you." T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. Then forth she went, with wand in hand, And Dermid followed fast, Till garden-gate and hawthorn hedge • And meadow-field were pas§ed. And o'er the sand the way she led To where the rock arose, And on its grey and frowning side She struck three gentle blows. Clang ! came a sound, as of a bell ; Parted the rock before ; And into its recesses deep They passed as through a door ; Through gloomy passage, downward, then, They made their darksome way, Until they came upon a place As bright and clear as day. There, in a palace tall and fair, Entered the silent two ; And Dermid, at the sight he saw, Felt wonder thrill him through ; For on a throne of beaten gold. Within a glittering ring, A crown of diamonds on his brow, There sat the fairy king. "Welcome again, our daughter dear; But who is this you bring ? What mortal boor dare enter here Unbidden ? " cried the king« " My husband, sire," the lady said, " And dearer far to me Than all the rank and all the state I left for him could be." THE LEGEND OF OGRECASTLE. 93 The fairy king arose in wrath; — " Such words to me ! " he cried ; " No mortal wight of base degree Shall keep a fairy bride. He may retire unharmed ; but thou Shalt lie in dungeon chains.'' But Dermid, springing forward, cried — " Not while my strength remains ! " A look of longing and despair O'erspread the lady's face ; Deep darkness fell, and unseen hands Hurled Dermid from the place. The old grey rock was closed again ; The door was lost fore'er ; No more to Dermid's heart or home Came back that lady fair. THE LEGEND OF OGRECASTLE. The Lady May went forth at morn The greenwood round to roam — The greenwood fair that spread for miles Around her castled home ; And plucking flowers to deck her hair, And singing, Lady May Found she had strayed in forest shade Too far from home away. She turned upon her steps, when, lo ! Leapt from a hanging limb. And stood directly in her pathj An ogre dark and grim. 94 "DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Unkempt his locks of yellow hair. His skin was like the pye's, His fingers were like eagle-claws^ And ferret-like his eyes. " Where are you going ? " thundered he, "And why do you wander here. Where mine are trees, and mine are flowers, And mine the tawny deer ? " You've trespassed on my wide domain, And passed your father's by ; This is Amal the ogre's land, Amal the ogre, I." She could not scream, she could not flee, She trembled as he spake, But crossed herself and prayed for aid, For the Blessed Master's sake.: At which the ogre loudly laughed, And to the lady said : " I am of earth, and Christian ban Falls harmless on my head. " Earl Carlon is a childless man Henceforward and for aye, For she who was his darling child Shall be my bride to-day. And months shall come and months shall go, And passing years shall be, Ere he shall see the daughter fair That must away with me.'' Then seizing her within his arms, He bore the maid away ; He bore her to the church's door; She durst not say him nay. THE LEGEND OF OGRECASTLE. 93 And there the old priest made them one, And she, Earl Carlon's pride. Lost home and friends, and so became Amal the ogre's bride. Ten years had come and ten had gone. And children twain were born. When forth to hunt the tawny deer The ogre went one morn. And waiting there for his return, The lady longed to gaze Once more upon the hoiliE wherein She dwelt in other days. She took her son and daughter through The pathway in the wood, And hurried on till they before Earl Carlon's castle stood. The tears they gathered in her eyes The olden pile to see, " My home was there," she murfnured low ; " My father^where is he ? " With knights around rode up the Earl, And stopped his steed, and said ; " This woman is my daughter May, Whom I have mourned as dead. Fair welcome back ! This hour repays For years of grief and pain. But be you maid, or be you wife ? And whose these children twain ? " "I've lived a wife ten years or more, Five miles beyond these towers ; Amal the ogre is my lord ; These children twain are ours. 96 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. A loving husband has he been, And ever kind to me, And honor's self in all his deeds, An ogre though he be." And then Amal came riding up, To seek his dear ones three. Earl Carlon's brow grew black with wrath. And " Seize the wretch ! " said he. And ere Amal could draw his sword, To serve him in his need, A score of burly men-at-arms Had dragged him from his steed. " Unhappy woman,'' cried the Earl, " Learn, to thy deep despair, The lord thou lovest is the one Who slew thy cousin's heir. When died our kinsman Ethelred, He slew his only son, And kept by force of gramarye The lands the murder won. " He closed your eyes by wicked arts, By magic spells and dread. Or with an ogre foul as he You never could have wed. And you and these shall dwell at home, My children all to be ; But for Amal — I'll hang him high Upon the gallows-tree.'' She bent her low, the Lady May, While tears fell o'er her face^ She bent her low, and on her knee Implored her father's grace. THE LEGEND OF OCRECMSTLE. 97 " For know the truth," she sobbing said, " An ogre though he be, The man whom you to death would doom Is all the world to me.'' " Rise up, my daughter," cried the Earl ; " Your prayers are all in vain ; I've sworn before I rest to-nighf The ogre shall be slain. Were I forsworn it were disgrace To one o: lineage high : From hence the ogre's form shall pass, Or I shall surely die." She rose, and snatched a sword from one Of those who stood around. And sprang to where the ogre stood, And cut the bands that bound. " Draw forth your sword, my lord,'' she cried; " We'll fight it out amain ; They shall not grace the gallows-tree Till both of us be slain." ^^'hen, lo! upon her words there came A change of form and face ; The loathly ogre grew to be A knight of courtly grace, A stalwart knight of stately miea — A hideous thing no more. " And who art thou," Earl Carlon cried, " Who ogre was before ? " " I am thy cousin's son ; by me Amal the ogre fell ; But, dying, through his gramarye Upon me laid a spell, gS T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. That I should take his name and shape, And in his stead should be, Until some woman pure and fair Should risk her life for me. " The wife I gained without thy will From thrall her lord hath won ; To-day you have your daughter back, And with her take a son." "In faith, I shall," Earl Carlon said; "And pleasant 'tis, I wis, When from an ogre's form there springs A son as fair as this ! " Earl Carlon hes in cloistered fearth ; The rest have passed away ; The castle where they liyed and died Is now in ruins grey. But where the ogre bore his bride Four stately towers are found. And these are Ogrecastle styled By all who dwell around. CEDRIC. Cedric, the King of Mercia, in those days Ruled justly, yet his people loved him not — Ruled wisely, yet obtained but grudging praise ; Therefore he wearied of his lofty lot And kingrick splendid. CEDRIC. 59 So he, filled with chagrin, and sick at heart, And seeking for hew life, went fxirth one day — He cared not whither so he might depart — ■ And, mounted on his steed he took his way, By none attended. And rode, and rode, until ere fall of night He came to where the highway branched to four, And there he found a pillar square and white, That on each side a plain inscription bore. The traveller guiding. The first: "Who travels here well-fed shall be. But hunger waits the steed that he has brought;" The next : " Who may this road pursue shall see His horse well filled, but he himself get naught For coin or chiding;" The third: "Who takes this path shall fare the best, Both man and horse, but be dismissed with blows;" The last : " Who goes this way finds food and rest For him and his ; but, when next day he goes. His horse he loses." " 111," said the king, " on either path is cast ; Hunger for horse in one, for man the next. Blows in the third, and robbery in the last — The wisest here may feel his mind perplexed Before he chooses. " I hke not blows ; I will not plundered be ; Let those two pass ; while I can hunger bear, The want of this dumb brute I may not see ; So, in the second road we take our way, Whate'er betide us. T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " These be strange folk that in my" kingdom dwell, And strange I never heard of them before ; Things far less singular the gossips tell — But hurry, steed ! the light of day gives o'er, With none to guide us" And so, into the darkness on they rode, The willing steed cheered by his master's tone, Until they came to where a mean abode Stood by the wayside, low-roofed and alone, Smokeless and cheerless. Here, from the horse alighting, rapped the king, Whereat the door was opened, and a wight, Crooked and dwarfish, bade him, muttering, While with his fingers shading there the light, To enter fearless. The entertainer, scanty of his speech. The bridle took, and led the charger in ; Inside there were two stalls with straw in each, And in one corner stood a well-filled bin. Of metal planished. The dwarf in one stall showed the king his bed, Then led the horse within the other, where He stripped and rubbed him ; next, the beast he fed, And added litter to the plenty there. Then quickly vanished. The king lay down, though hungry, happy he To hear his horse's champ, and fell asleep ; But sudden came a burst of melody, And waked the monarch from his slumber deep With its sweet numbers. CEDRIC. loi There stood an angel in a flood of light, And spake : " All selfish feeling having curbed To do thy duty to thy horse aright', No dreams begotten of remorse idisturbed Thy placid slumbers. " Back to thy duty, and in that .be strong ; Therein shall lie reward enough for thee ; Leave joy to others ; crush to earth the wrong; Defend the right ; thy people's father be — King of the lowly." The angel and the glory passed away ; The monarch felt of sleep again the touch ; His slumber lasted till the dawn of day, When he arose, and cheered and strengthened much, Rode homeward slowly. King Cedric ruled o'er Mercia many a year : Found naught affecting right too small for reck ; Gave to the injured ever-willing ear ; Upheld the weak, and kept the strong in check ; Showed law victorious ; By the firm use of measures wise and just, Made labor prosperous and the realm content ; And now, though ages since his form was dust, His laws remain his lasting monunient, His memory glorious. ^ SIR GUY TRELEASE. Sybella, young and debonair, The orphan Baroness of Ware, Heiress of many manors, ward Of Richard, England's sovereign lord, Was close pursued by suitors three, Nobles and knights of high degree — Arthur, the Earl of Anderville, Sir Calvert Beauchamp, Lord of Brill, And Michael, Baron of Ambray, Who warmly wooed her, day by day ; But vain both courtly word and deed — To love the lady was not stirred. Such feeling 'twixt the three arose, That, lest the wooing come to blows. The king, who did not care to see Black feuds arise through rivalry, Declared the tourney should decide What knight or lord should gain the bride. Her titJe and possessions wide. The lists were straightway opened, free To all brave knights, at Enderby, And proclamation widely made That who, in armor there arrayed, Should hold the field at close of day, Would bear this fairest prize away. No braver knight all England through. More known for deeds of derring-do ; SIR GUY TRELEASE. 103 None wiser spake at council board When sage opinion need implored ; None courtlier in time of peace Than he from Cornwall, Guy Trelease. But, penniless knight, his ruined hall And barren acres were his all ;. And, though he felt his bosom stir With tenderness at sight of her. And noted, when his step drew nigh, The lady's color mounted high. He knew his lack of wealth, and hence Ne'er to her fivor made pretence. Now when the news he heard, said he — " 'Tis either life or death to me. Lords Beauchamp, Anderville, Cambray — I've ridden with them in the fray ; In England, Germany or France There are none braver : he whose lance Shall worst such foes as these shall be Accounted flower of chivalry." So, summoning his old esquire, Alan, who well had served his sire, Bade him prepare at break of day To make toward Enderby their way. Which they might reach,: though passing far. By noon, should naught their purpose bar. And so it chanced, when morning glowed, Blithely Sir Guy to tourney rode, The twain on roadsters country-bred,- His war-steed by old Alan led, And reached at length where, in the way, A robbed and wounded pilgrim lay. Pitying his case, the gentle knight Dismounted straight to help the wight. Quoth Alan : " If you stay to aid. 104 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Small chance, Sir Guy, to win tlie maid ; We scarce can gain the hsts in time ; The morning now has passed its prime." " Foul shame," replied his lord, "to me, And foul reproach to chivalry, If, even to win a gentle fere, I left this wretch unaided here." He dressed the wounds with skilful hand. And bound them with his scarf for band, Did all he might to serve the need. Then placed the pilgrim on his steed, And, by his arm supported well. Led on until they found a cell Where, two miles farther on the road, A holy hermit made abode, To whom, with caution sage and grave, The wounded man in charge he gave. Some hours were lost ere this was done ; 'Twas now long past the noonday sun. " This comes of beggars,'" Alan said ; "All hope to reach in time is dead. We may not gain ere close of day The lists, ride quickly as we may." "If so, so be it," said Sir Guy ; " At least the pilgrim will not di€." Yet, strange to say, as on they pressed. The sun slow lingered in the west, And when at last the lists they gained, An hour of daylight yet remained. A joyous passage it had been For those who glory sought to win. He found o'erthrown the I^ord of Brill, Dead in his armor, Anderville, Four others carried from the field ; Ambray alone retained his shield ; SIR GUY TRELEASE. 105 And, seated calmly in his tent, Waited the close of tournament. Sir Guy, a leech, ere he essayed. Sent for the pilgrim's farther aid. Then riding armed across the field, Struck with his lance the champion's shield. Quickly responded then Ambray — "This com-se," he said, "shall end the day." Sir Guy but threw a glance above Where sat the lady of his love. Whose cheeks, so pale with dread the while. Now reddened at her lover's smile. That tell-tale blush ! Why, what to him Was proud Ambray, so stout and grim ? A trumpet's blare ! With whirlwind force The warring knights met in their course ; Their lances shivered ; from his selle Borne by the shock, each champion fell. Rose first Ambray ; but quick Sir Guy Sprang to his feet to do or die ; And speedily a rain of blows Showed the stout courage of the foes. At first it seemed the slender form Of Guy could not resist the storm Of terrible strokes Ambray bestowed ; The lady's heart felt sad forbode. And quaked beneath her samite vest, To see Sir Guy so sorely pressed. The combat's current changed at length ; Ambray wore out his giant's strength, And now defended where before With strong assault he struck so sore. Still fought the twain with eager blow. Until the sun sank red and low ; And, as its glowing couch it found, io6 TIR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Ambray, spent, bleeding, fell to ground. The fight was done ; the king decreed Sir Guy was worthy highest meed ; Worthy before the world to be^r The noble title of Lord Ware ; And worthy of the fair whose eyes Betrayed her heart was willing prize. But, as they sat at board that night, With jocund words and spirits light, The leech returned, and made report Before the king and gathered court That, when the hermit's cell he sought, Cell, hermit, pilgrim, all were naught ; But stood instead a chapel, where The wandering pilgrim might repair To purge his sins by shrift and prayer. And o'er its gate this sentence'bore — " Our Lady of Pity '' — nothing more. RUINS. In a deep woodland, Leaf and bough hidden, By a dark mystery Ever bestridden, Crumbled and blackened, Moss-grown and ho4ry, Moulder some ruins Known not in story. Chimneys long smokeless ; Eaves whence the sparrows Sally at night-fall. Night-flies to harass; TiUiNS. 107 Half-rotted lintels ; Roof tumbled all in ; Vaults choked with rubbish ; Door-steps down-fallen. Once in that house, from Ground-sill to rafter, Pleasantly sounded Music and laughter ; There in the hall-way, Host the guest rneeting, Gave him warm welcome. Heartiest greeting. All through that dwelling Luxury splendid — Twenty young pages Ladies attended ; Twenty tall lackeys Served at the table ; Twenty blood-horses Champed in the stable. In the park, while the Master remained here, Tossed their brown antlers Fifty fleet reindeer ; There youths and daraSels Under leaf arches. Strolled through the shadows Thrown by the larches. Then in the garden, Pinks and stock-gillies Looked up at roses, Lilacs and lilies ; lo8 -DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Quaintly-cut box-trees Stood bv the beeches ; Ripened there cheeries, Gages and peaches. Song-birds in cages, Chirping and twittering, There where the fountain Cast a spray ghttering ; Fish in the basin, Bright, golden-sided,^ Hither and thither Gracefully glided. Now all is silence, All desolation ; Tenantless what was Once habitation ; Guests all departed. None now come hither ; Gone is the master — No one knows whither. Now the park grasses, Copsewood is shading ; Now the trim garden Briars invading ; Fruit-trees untended, Box out of order. Grass in each pathway, Weeds in each border. Warblers no longer Sing, there in cages — ■ There the grey howlet War with birds wages ; IVARD 'BURTON. 109 Choked up the fountain Where it was flowing Nettles and groundsel Rankly are growing. One thing alone there, Ever remaining, Mocks winter's snow-drifts, Mocks summer's raining — Token of terror, Drops from a source ill. Twenty red blood-stains On the grey door-sill. In the deep midnight So the boors tell us — Comes a fair lady With a lord jealous ; Words and a knife-stroke, Curses and laughter — Vanish the phantoms — Silence comes after. V\^ARD BURTON. Lying afar in the Mexican Sea Is a lone and desolate coral key, Where a sparkling fountain gushes free. The land lies pleasantly there and low,' But nothing upon the isle will grow ; No green herb springs by the water's flow. ■D/f. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Thither there came one summer day- One of Morgan's vessels of prey, And furled her sails, and in silence lay. She was short of water, and so tq shore Cask upon cask the long-boat bore, And went again and came with more. Quiet the vessel at anchor lay, And back and forth the livelong day The toiling pirates made their way. One of them still remained on land — The second he was in the lawless band, Next to the captain in command. Older in sin, though not in years. And worse by far than his ruffian peers, Ward Burton, of Morgan's buccaneers. He had left his home in early days, Its fields of wheat and oats and maize, For a life on the sea and its perillous ways. In a whahng-ship he had made his mark. And then in a light-heeled slaving-bark. And then in the pirate service dark. Through tropical heat and tropical rain He had sailed the sea again and again, From the sandy keys to the Spanish Main. If ever a fiend from below set free In human shape on the earth cpuld be, Ward Burton, the buccaneer, was he. IVARD 'BURTON. For not alone did he take delight In the bloody work of the perillous fight, Slaying his victims left and right, But battle over, with manner grim. He forced survivors to sink or swim Where shark fought shark for body or limb. A plea for mercy he met with a sneer ; The name of his Maker brought a jeer ; He scoffed at pity, he felt no fear. And this was the man that all that day Stretched at length by the fountain lay, And watched the long-boat on her way. There are brown-winged doves, with rosy feet. And warm grey plumage, and voices sweet. That like on these coral keys to meet. These, when the pirates first drew near, Startled by sound of curse and jeer, Had flown away with a sudden fear. But presently, when the boat from shore Tracked its path the smooth waves o'er. The doves came back to the spring once more. They noted not the form that lay Gazing upon the shallow bay, Too quiet to startle such as they. A careless look Ward Burton threw At one of these doves with breast of blue. When suddenly it began to coo. TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. That sound in youth he had often heard From the throbbing throat of a plainer bird, And the plaintive notes his spirit stirred. The sea and sky began to dance- Before his eyes, and an inward glance Pierced through his memory like. a lance. He saw the house where he was .born ; He heard his father blow the horn To call the huskers from the corn. He saw the cattle homeward go With steady rolling step and slow, And as they passed he heard them low. He saw his father's furrowed fac6 At the table in the olden place. And laughed to hear him utter grace. He saw his mother in her chair ; He saw a child low kneeling there — Himself — and heard him breathe a prayer. " Our Father " — at the hallowed name Remorse into his dark soul came, And lit it with a melting flame. Conscience awoke that long had slept ; Penitence into his bosom crept. And the bearded pirate silent wept. When the vessel touched the Spanish Main His shipmates sought for the man in vain- Ward Burton was not seen again. THE THANTOM "BARQUE. 113 Some said in a dungeon deep he lay ; Some said with a dame he fled away ; Some said he was slain in sudden fray. But deep in the Western wilds there, dwelt One who at morn and even knelt With a sense of guilt forever felt — Dwelt alone for years and years, Now raised by hopes, now sunk by fears — One of old Morgan's buccaneers. None knew from whence the hermit came. And none di.scovered his race or name ; Yet his neighbors liked him all the same. Nothing to harm would he ever bring, Brute in the forest or bird on the wing ; He was gentle to every living thing. But they said as they laid him down to rest, The cold clay piled on his clay-cold breast, That he loved the dove^ of all things best. THE PHANTOM BARQJJE. We sailed one time a port to seek In the sunny isle of Martinique ; And, sailing fast and saihng free, We left Long Island on our lee. And when the stars shone overhead. Full fifty leagues our course had sped. 114 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Then, suddenly looming through the dark On our quarter came a stranger barque, High of poop and of ancient build. Her decks with a crowd of sea'men filled. Her rigging loose, and torn eaph sail; As though she had fought with storm and gale. Our skipper loud the stranger hailed — " What ship is that? " but away she sailed. No answer came from the stranger barque, Which quickly vanished in the dark ; But we heard in the distance wailing low, An eldritch laugh, and a shriek of woe. " That fellow's a fool ! " the skipper said ; But spin-yarn Ben, he shook his head — Ben was an able-bodied tar, And full of his yarns, as such folks are — " He never replies to him who- hails. And evermore on he sails and sails." When the captain to his cabin had gone, A circle round old Ben was drawn ; And we asked him then to tell the tale. Who it was that must sail and sail ; What was the name of the ship, and why To friendly' hail it would never reply. " Messmates,'' said Ben, and cleared his throat, And buttoned his jacket in lieu of coat. And hitched his trousers, and looked quite wise, And then, with a preface about his eyes, He told us the story, doubtless true, In the very language I give to. you. THE THANTOM BARQUE. ng " In sixteen hundred and ninety-fo.ur. A brigantine left the Enghsh shore, From Hull or London^I don't know where — Bound for Boston. She never got there ; For she hugged the Florida coast each day, Sighting each key in her course that lay. " Her skipper had sailed on many a sea, As wicked a pirate as there might be ; But in sacking a church on the Spanish Main,* The whole of his crew but five were slain, And these were dead, so that none but he The secret knew of the Phantom Key. " To seek for the Key he sailed all day, And to, at night, off the coast he lay. Till the hard- worked sailors grew tired of the game. And grumbled, and called it a burning shame. That North and South they should go for his sport, And never make sail for the proper port. " Then he called the crew on the deck and said : 'You don't .know what's in your skipper's head. I'm cruising around in hopes ta see A desolate spot called the Phantom Key, The spot where we buried our treasures, which When I fiiid it again will make us rich, " ' The spoils of a galleon won in fight. The plunder of towns that we sacked by night, * "The Spanish Main" — i.e., the Spanish mainland; so called to distinguish it from the islands 6n the coast. The term originated with the buccaneers. ii6 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. The golden vessels from ravished shrines, The bars of silver from Southern mines ; With diamonds bright and pearls so fair — A countless treasure is buried there. " ' A week we've searched, and I have not found The landmarks showing our treasure-ground ; But be I living, or be I dead, I shall sail forever,' the captain said, 'Till the Judgment Day, but I'll find that key!' Then shouted the sailors : ' So shall we ! ' " ' I'll speak no vessel, whate'er her stress, Till we land at our golden wilderness ; No port I make, nor in calm or gale Shall I take in even an inch of sail ; But cruise till I find the Phantom Key 1 ' Loud shouted the sailors : ' So shall we ! ' " They sailed along ; on that very day They came where a vessel dismasted lay — ' We're sinking! Help! or our lives are gone!' They paid no heed, but they sailed right on ; And the hapless vessel sank in the sea, But still they sailed for the Phantom Key, '' Upon that voyage they're going yet, With every sail to their royals set: And, as I have heard many sailors say, They will sail and sail till the Judgment Day, Till the dead shall rise from the earth and sea They will search in vain for the Phantom Key." You may smile at the story if you please ; But are we not seeking for Phantom Keys? THA T T{p YAL JAMES. 1 1 1 For keys, where the treasure is wealth or fame Or love — the purpose is much the same. And we never shall reach the wished-for shore, But be saihng, sailing for evermore. THAT ROYAL JAMES. It happened once upon a time, There came to France's sunny -clime A Scottish knight, of manner fair. Gallant and gay and debonair, With figure cast in perfect mould. With ruddy cheeks and locks of gold, With eyes like skies, and skin like milk — Sir Nigel Kempstone of that ilk. Ready upon the tilted plain, Prompt at a lady's bridle-rein. Foremost at feast and first at ffay, In battle fierce, at banquet gay, At court, in joust, in hall, at chase. Sir Nigel found a leading place. And wielded sword or handled lance With any gentleman of France ; And not a demoiselle but felt Before his glance her coldness melt. He might have chosen, did he care, From many who were young and fair. Less did the demoiselles admire The handsome Scotsman's homely 'squire- But one esquire attended him. Tall in his stature, lank of Umb, With hair of sable, half unkempt, Eyes set, as though he waking dreamt ii8 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT 'POEMS. And yet at times his glance was fire, More knight in" bearing than esquire. Once chafed, So proud his looks and port, There came a saying at the court : " 'Tis hard to. read the riddle right, Which is esquire, and which is knight." And then, ere long, a whisper ran That o'er the master ruled the man ; And from some vOw perchance, at night. Withdrawn from others' prying sight, The knight cast off his rank, and he Served the esquire on bended knee ; Until at last the lords and dames Nicknamed the 'squire, " that royal James." King Louis had a daughter young, Whose charms by every minstrel sung. Had spread her name so far arid wide That princes sought her for a bride. Denmark and Burgundy and' Spain, Each sent an envoy with his train, Who carried to the Frankish land Fair off ers for the lady's hand ; But, whole of heart, or hard to please. The princess would have none of these. And Louis said : " Let her refuse : She has the poweir to fi^eely choose. Our kingdom stands abroad so high. It needs not thus to gain ally ; And should our daughter change her state, She shall select her proper mate ; Royal or noble, I reck not which, Her dowry makes hirri passing rich." 'Twas not the custom to allow Such breadth of choice, nor' is it now ; THAT T{OYAL JAMES. , 119 But Louis was a monarch known For ways and manners of his own ; And some who closely viewed the thing, And knew the favorite of the king \Vas this Sir Nigel, thought him: weak Or not to woo, or not to speak. So far from being first to press A suit with eager tenderness, The princess he avoided then, Was less with dames and more with men, And left his dark esquire to bear Fitful commands of lady fair, While he, at banquet or in chase, Held more than ever foremost place. And chiefly that esquire was seen To serve the Princess Ysoline. To her Sir Nigel was no more Then stranger from a foreign shore, While of esquires and pages round Sir Nigel's only favor found ; And since she knew, or that she thought He most of zeal to service brought, Whene'er she rode abroad, her whim Was to be cavaliered by him. And now it chanced upon a day When king and court had made their way With men-at-arms and huntsmen good To chase the wild boar in the wood, They longed to let their ladies see Their daring feats of venerie, And so the dames on palfreys splendid, By donzels and esquires attended, Rode to a hillock whence they might Keep many hunters in their sight. •DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT 'POEMS. The princess there dismounted; nigh her Attending was Sir Nigel's 'squire, Standing erect with bearing high,. Yet something tender in his eye While gazing at the group, and there Chatted the ladies young and fair. They with their spirits gay and light. Jested upon that gloomy wight. Or listened to the coming sounds Of winded horns and baying hounds, Until a mot, three notes, no more. Announced the starting of the boar. Sudden that laughing group among, From coppice dense a wild-boar sprung, And passing others on the path. Upon the princess charged in wrath. Slain were the Princess Ysoline But for the dark 'squire's falchion keen. Which pierced the brute, but not before The boar's tusks bathed themselves with gore, And in the bold squire's body sent Made in the flesh a ghastly rent. And lay, within the princess' sight, Slayer and slain a piteous plight. The 'squire long languished, but at length Leech-craft and care renewed his strength ; And then by royal order, he Waited upon his majesty. Attended by his court, the king Stood centre of a glorious ring. Nobles and knights of great renown. Trusted and honored by the crown; And high-born dames and demoiselles. Whom Vsoline so far excels. THAT TiOYAL JAMES. There standing by her father's throne, That James sees only her alone. Bowed the esquire, but never spoke — King Louis first the silence broke — " Courage is courage. everywherCj And should its crown of honor wear, And though at home, and not afield, Your service came, our thanks we yield. Kneel down Esquire, arise Sir James ; Nor does that rank acquit your claims. Ask what you will at' our command. Titles or honors, place or land, Or aught our mandate may secure — Speak bold and free, and hold it sure.'' Out spake Sir James, with conscious pride, While drew Sir Nigel to his side : "Titles and lands I do not seek. Honors and place to me are weak ; Who saves a life may claim a hand — For bride the princess I demand." A murmur went around ; but ere The words of men their anger bear, The monarch waved his hand, and said : " The princess may a sovereign wed, A noble may become her lord — Such was, in truth, our royal word — But not a gentleman alone, And he untitled and unknown." " Were I a peasant born, beau sire," Replied Sir James, devoid of fear, " For justice I would scorn to creep ; His phghted word a king must keep." Silence a space, then sudden broke — " Have your demand! " King Louis spoke ; " But portionless your bride shall be, •DR. ENGUSH'S SELECT TOEMS. And banished with you o'er the sea, Nor evermore while time goes on, As daughter of our house be known." Loud laughed Sir James. " It seems," quoth he, " Consent is given unwillingly. What says the princess? " She replied By steahng timid to his side. " King Louis," cried Sir James, elate, " The princess loses not in state. Kempstone of Kempstone, belted earl ; See of thy master's crown the pearl ; A princess now, but more, I ween. When she is crowned as Scotland's queen." THE FAIRY ISLAND. Young Gitto Bach, Llewellyn's" son. Sat by the calm Llyn Glas, Watching the shadows of the clouds Across its surface pass. His goats and kids amid the rocks Roved frolicsome and free ; The summer sun looked smiling "down ; Then why so sad was he? Upon a little ten-year boy What weighty trouble bore? Object of parents' care and love, What could he wish for more? THE FAIRY ISLAND. 123 There in the placid Uyn afar A purple isle he saw, With glittering towers that rose on high Above the greenwood' shaw. There rainbow tints stole in and out, Through a veil of purple mist, That lilac was where touched by' light, In shadow, amethyst. " And oh,'' said Gitto, wistfully,^ " That wondrous island fair, A fairy-land of all delights. If I were .only there ! " He turned him to the cliff-side tall, Where he had often been. And saw what ne'er before he' Saw, A door the rock within. Down leading from the open door He saw sorrie steps of stone, And ciuriotlsly, and fearlessly, He entered there alone. The dimly lighted passage through He made his tedious way,'^ Till, at the end, by steps again. He found the Hght of day. It opened in a bosky grove. None fairer in the isle ; And there he found a hundred elves Who met him with'a smile. 124 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. They prisoned him with fri-endly hands Within their fairy ring, And then they bore him joyously Before the elfin king. The monarch sat upon his throne, Within the royal hall, Around him grouped in proud array, His guards and courtiers all, " And so we have a mortal child. As guest," exclaimed the king ; " We welcome him to every joy The fairy isle can bring. "All rare delights the Gwraigedd know, Partaking day by day. All precious things around to use, But none to bear away.. " I give thee to my eldest son, Companion good to be. And near to him shall be thy state. As his is near to me." What happy life had Gitto then. With servitors at hand. To serve him as they served the Prince, The heir to all the land. They clad him in the satin red, And cloak of velvet blue. With diamonds bright and rubies rare To shine on cap and shoe. THE FAIRY ISLAND. 1^5 His food was of the dead-ripe fruit That hung at left and right ; His drink was of the honey-dew From golden goblets bright. And there it seemed for hour on hour He played amid the flowers, With tricksy elves at pleasant sports, Through groves and rosy bowers. They tossed a hollow golden ball From hand to hand in play ; And when he caught it, mockiiigly, From them he ran away. He hid from them within the grove, 'Twas portion of the game ; And there he saw the downward steps By which that morn he came. The memory of his home came back, In spite of present bhss ; He longed to hear his father's voice, To taste his mother's kiss. So on with golden ball in hand. Ere those who sought him knew, Adown the steps he made his way. And thrid the passage through. He stood upon the spot whereat He left his goats before ; The goats had gone ; he turned around, But entrance found no more. 126 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. The door had vanished. Came a voice, In accents stern and low : " You took the golden ball away, The theft shall bring you woe." Alarmed, he ran with tottering steps To seek his father's cot, But found it gone, a field of corn Grew rankly on the spot. He wandered till he met a man, Old, worn and weak of limb, Who stopped, and leaned upon his staff, And wondering gazed at him. " Now who be you,'' the old man said, " Who to the sight appears No taller than a little boy. Yet marked with sixty years? " Deep seams and wrinkles on your face, White locks upon your head, A tottering gait ; 'twould seem your life Has very near been sped.'i Quoth Gitto : " I am but a boy, Last birthday only ten ; I'm Gitto Bach ; my father is Llewellyn, of the Glen." " Heaven guard us well! " the old man cried, "With fairies you have been ; 'Tis fifty years since Gitto Bach Was drowned within the llyn. THE FAIRY ISLAND. 127 " At least his people lost hirii there ; He never more came back ; They sought him east, they sought him west, But found no trace nor track. " Llewellyn was a worthy man, Well liked by people here ; Rut he, and Betti Rhys, his wife, Are dead for many a year." '' I've only been short time away," Cried Gitto, " 'twas no sin ; And stayed to play awhile ■\yith gwraigs, Out yonder in the llyn. " In proof, behold the golden ball, And they have many such " — He showed it, 'twas a puff-ball now. And crumbled at the touch. " Your face has old Llewellyn's look," Trembhng, the old man said ; " The gwraigs have held you in their thrall, While all believed you dead." Soon were the neighbors gathered round The withered dwarf to scan, And kindly hands to roof and board Led off the little man. It was not long ; the following day, " It was my fault,'' he cried ; "Woe's me! I stole the golden ball!" And with these words he died. THE THREE BLOWS. A FAIR domain was Castle Rhys, Gained both by gold and sword, Ere wanton waste those acres broad Had parted from their lord : But now all friendless from the pile Where first his race began, Sir Powel Rhys, when twilight fell. Walked forth a ruined man. On Coldwell Rocks he stood, and gazed Upon the winding Wye, That, shrunk from swell of spring-time floods, Went creeping slowly by ; And saw within a golden boat That crossed his startled view, A lady fair in yellow hair, And robe of samite blue. And through the weir, and from the shore, And o'er the waters still. She steered the boat with silver oar Hither and thither at will. And then the saying crossed his mind Of the fay of Owen's Weir — " Who wins her from her boat of gold, No want through life may fear." Sir Powel sought the river-shore. And gazed upon her face ; And thought no maid the wide world o'er Could match her looks and grace. 128 THE THREE 'BLOIVS. 129 " O lady sweet ! " he wildly cried, " Whate'er thy race may be, Without thy smile, without thy love, The world is dark to me ! " The lady listened as he spake, Then with a blush replied — " Much risks the sprite from fairy-land To be a mortal's bride. For woe to you, and grief to both, When wedded wife I be. If moved by passion thrice you lay Unkindly hand on me." And then the lady stepped on shore, And nestled at his side, And hearkened favoring to the words That wooed her for his bride. And arm in arm they sought the priest At kirk, who made them one ; And then returned to Castle Rhys When holy rites were done. Sir Powel left, in going forth,, One lackey in his hall, A single cow in paddock there. One horse within the stall ;' But, coming back with bride on arm, A herd o'erspread the meads. There met him iifty serving-men. The stalls had fifty steeds. So ere three twelvemonths rolled away, He gained of wealth untold, His lands grew \yide on every side, His coffers filled with gold. 13° 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. His sweet wife's fondness grew the more, And still at will or whim, The lovely Lady Gladys strove To love and honor him. It chanced one day the twain were bid A bridal feast to share, The groom, a lord of fourscore years. The bride both young and fair. But when the Lady Gladys came, Her looks were filled with woe. And, seated at the festal board, She let the tears down flow. Shuddered the bride, the bridegroom frowned^ But still the lady wept, Her husband chid her angrily, As to his side she crept. " Pardon ! " she said — " I weep to see The ruin in their path— " With that Sir Powel grasped her arm And thrust her back in wrath. A year passed on : a child had died, A babe of tender years ; The mother moaned, and all around Dissolved in pitying tears ;' But Lady Gladys loudly laughed. And through the burial day To her it seemed a festival, So light her words and gay. The guests in whispers spoke of her; She said — "And why be sad? I see it with the angels thercj And therefore I am glad."* THE THREE 'BLOIVS. 131 Her husband dragged her from the place, And turning in his track, In answer to her loving smile, He pushed her rudely back. Another year — a christening feast, And honored guests were they ; It was a neighbor's first-born son. And all were blithe and gay. But slowly Lady Gladys made. Her way among her peers, And o'er her sudden-pallid cheeks Rolled floods of bitter tears. "What folly this? " Sir Powel cried; "Alas! my lord," quoth she — » " This sweet child in its winding-sheet A year from this I see." " This passes patience ! " cried her lord, And in a wrathful mood, He seized her with a sudden grasp, And shook her where she stood. The lady grew like marble pale, Her tears the faster fell, She gazed a moment in his fade. And then she sobbed — "Farewell!" She turned and sought the river-side. He followed to the shore ; But into naught the golden boat The vanished lady bore. And ere a twelvemonth passe4 away, Sir Powel's wealth had fled, A murrain slew his thousand kine, His steeds in stall were dead. 13^ 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. His monarch seized his lands in fee, And filled with grief and moanj In foreign lands, a banished man, Sir Powel died, alone. THE VISIT OF LLEWELLYN. A WELSH LEGEND. The EngUsK peasant, with simple frankness, speaks of " the fairies": but those of Keltic origin treat such supernatural beings with more respect. The Irish style them Daoine Maiih — "the good people," and the Welsh, y^Tylivyt/i Teg—*'i\i^ fair folk." The Welsh fairies differ from those of the Irish, and*are in greater variety. At times, they array themselves gorgeously and admit mortals to their revels. But the man who gets into the charmed circle finds it diiificult to -escape, unless he be expelled by some fault, as in the legend, which is didactic as well as fantastic, and teaches an obvious lesson. This legend, it will be seen, is a variant of " Fionn and the Fairies," but the Welsh ending is gloomier than the Iri.sh. Llewellyn stood on Frennisach, Upon a summer day, And raised his eyes to Frennifawr, That mountain bare and grey ; And there upon the summit saw, Within the noonday light, Dancing hke spattering water-drops, .Some pigmy creatures bright — ■ " Y Tylwyth Teg ! " he murmured low. Astounded at the sight. He slowly chmbed the mountain-side And gained the circle where Moved merrily a thousand elves, And each seemed young and fair; He saw them turn and leap and prance, And yet no music sweet THE yiSIT OF LLEIVEUYN. 133 Smote on his ear with melody, Though they, with tiny feet, Moved in the windings of the dance As though to measured beat. Soon losing all the hesitance That filled his heart at first'. He stepped within the ring, and lo! What music on him burst — . The harmony of fairy harps That thrilled his spirit through ; While round him crowded eagerly The joyous elfin crew. Some clad in robes of linen white, And some in red or blue. They clung to and caressed hiim much, They welcomed him with joy. With every blandishment that love And kindness could employ. They led him to a palace hall Bedecked with pearls and gold, Lined on all sides with malachite And silks in heavy fold, W^ith sapphires studded overhead, And diamonds untold. And there he saw, upon his throne. Crowned with a laurel wreath, His golden scepter in his hand. The potent Gwin ap Neeth,* Who towered, in all his majesty, His pigmy subjects o'er ; * Gii'vn ap Nudd. So spelled, but pronounced as in the text. This potentate is also King of Annwn, a place whose English name is not mentioned in cultured society. 134 'VR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. For none of these were three feet six, While he was over four ; And well both height and kingly state The gentle monarch bore. " Llewellyn, free thou art," he said, "To roam our realm at will; With every joy our vassals know Thy every sense to thrill. One thing alone forbidden. Mark ! The fountain in yon square. Which throws aloft its glittering jet That breaks to gems in air. Drink not from that ; thrust not thy hand Within the water there." Naught cared Llewellyn for such drink. While for his thirst they brought The rarest wines in golden cups, With curious work enwrought. What was a water draught to him Who had such precious win^;? Who longs for coarse and homely fare When fed on dainties line ? Who sighs for berries wild, amid The orange, fig and pine ? Served by the fairest demoiselles Alive at beck and nod. Accompanied by all respect Whatever path he trod, Llewellyn soon forgot his home-, The humble cot which lay Down in the peaceful Pembroke dell That seemed so far away — THE VISIT OF LLEIVELLYN. 135 Its slated roof, its casements low, Its rough walls mossed and grey. His bounding goats, his lowing kine — \\'hy, what were these to him? His wife, and children at their play — A something vague and dim, A mist that spread before his eyes Below the enchanted heights ; And so he passed the pleasant days, And slept refreshing nights, To wake when rose each morning sun, And bask in fresh delights. At last the pleasure wearied him ; He sighed for something more- Men thus may tire of happiness When once its flush is o'er. He lingered at the fountain side. And watched there, day by day. The many-colored fishes that Within the basin lay, Or darted hither and thither in Their wild and frolic play. At last a raging thirst he felt — If he could only drink A little of the limpid draught There at the basin's brink! His hand within the water clear He thrust with eager haste ; The fishes vanished from his sight ; The elves his arm enlaced With theirs and strove to draw it back, And pleaded not to taste. 136 T>R. ENGLISH S SELECT "POEMS. Too strong his thirst ! He only plunged His hand the further in, And raised it to his Hps. Arose A wild and eldritch din. He heeded not the uproar wild'; The phantoms strange and weird That flitted near, and shrieked and cried, He neither saw nor feared ; He drank. Elves, fountain, palace, all Forever disappeared. On Frennisach and Frennifawr' The sun again grew bright ; Llewellyn, bent to earth with age. Descended from the height ; He sought his home ; the spot was changed, Another look it bore ; Gone was his dwelling-place, whose porch Green vines had clambered o'er; And there a stately mansion stood, Llewellyn's cot no more. He rapped. A lackey came. He asked : "Llewellyn's cot stood hereS" "Why, yes," the footman^said, "it did, But not for many a year. Llewellyn, fifty years ago, I 've heard old people tell, Was by the fairies borne away ;> His people left the dell — " He shrank in dread. Llewellyn's form Crumbled to dust, and fell. THE MILK-WHITE COW. The Welsh are of the Keltic race (the Keltoi and Galloi of the Greeks) and of the same branch as the Armoricans of Brittany. They ma/be considered to be brothers of the Manxmen and Cornishmen, But the two main divisions, the Cwmry and Gael, differ somewhat in customs and folk-lore. The Welsh feS-ies exist in greater variety than the Irish, and have the national passion for music and cheese. The merrow, or mermaid of the Irish coast, does not appear in Wales. In place of her there is the gwraig, or gwrag, a lake fairy, who is not fishy in the lower extremities, but a good- looking gentlewoman, who sometimes marries, to the prosperity of the bridegroom, with a mortal. The gwragedd generally appear clad in green and are attended by white hounds. They possess a breed of milk-white, hornless cattle, who come up now and then from the lake and feed on the meadows at the side. The legend that follows, simple as it is, is not without its obvious moral.; One variation of the story has it that one of the cows remained, turned black and became the ancestress of the present race of Welsh cattle. [Llyn is Welsh for " lake." — Author.] Than Llyn Barfog no fairer lake Lies placidly to tribute take From crystal springs and trickling rills, Amid Caermathen's rocky hills. Bordered with crag and bush and tree, Its surface glistens glassily, '\\'hile here and there on either side Slope grassy meadows, green and wide. At times from out this lake at morn, A milk-white herd, devoid of horn, Of elfin cattle, quick emerge,. And to the shore their hoofsteps urge. They scatter o'er the meadows wide, And ceaseless graze till eventide, Then, when the twilight crowns the day, Beneath the waters sink away. 137 138 T)R. ENGLISH'S SF.LECT TOEMS. Once near this lake lived Rowli Pugh, No poorer swain the country through ; Fortune, to others kind, to him Presented aspect harsh and grim. So when his neighbors brought him word His meadow held the elfin herd~^ "That might be best for some," quoth he ; "The visit bodes no good to me." But when at night the shrill-toned call Brought Rowh's two lean kine td stall, The wondering milkmaid found a third Was added to that httle herd, Silken of coat, and mild of eye, Who chewed the cud the others by, And pail on pail of creamy spoil Give to reward the milker's toil. From that time forth began a change In Rowli's fortune, kind and strange. And when some thirty years had passed His herds (her progeny) were vast ; His acres grew, and for his needs Spread far around his fertile meads ; While where was once his cottage rude A farmhouse, half a palace, stood. But avarice, so declares the sage, Is evermore the vice of age. The cow grew old. The master said — " This useless brute is costly fed. She breeds no more ; no milk she gives ; A drain on purse while here she lives, Profit remains not with the cow; We'll fatten her for slaughter now." THE m/LK-lVHITE CO!V. 139 Well fed in stall the cow remained, And wondrous was the weiglit she gained ; And soon so sleek and fat was she, Crowds came the wondrous brute to see. Amid them all some few there, were Who said that Pugh her life should spare ; 'Twas only greed of gain, they thought, To slay the cow who wealth had brought. They led her forth. Her gentle eyes Looked on the butcher with surprise, She seemed to know ; her pleading look The spirit of her doomster shqpk. She licked his hand, then bent her head And gently lowed. The butcher said — " The gentle creature fawns on you; Shall I not spare her? " " Strike! " cried Pugh. The man his pole-ax raised on* high And struck. There came a sob and cry. The blow had only smote the air ; The smitten brute had vanishe*d — where? And at the lakeside, on a crag, There stood a stately, fair gwrag. Who loudly cried, " Come to the Llyn, Ye milk-white kine, and join your kin! " From stall, from byre, from field and mead, Rushed forth the kine of elfin breed ; They crossed the paths, they leapt the close. They trampled all who dared oppose, They climbed the crag, they pierced the brake, They headlong plunged within; the lake. And as Pugh stood in wild amaze Farmhouse and barns burst into blaze. 14° TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. From thence the tide of fortune turned : To ashes barns and farmhouse burned ; The corn was blasted in the ear ; The grass was withered far and near ; The land refused its fruits to bear ; The spot all men avoided there ; And underneath the elfin ban Went Rowli Pugh, a beggared man. THE RESCUE OF ALBRET. When Count d'Albret had passed away, he left no son as heir; And so his many seignories fell to his daughter fair ; To keep the name alive he willed that on her wedding- day The mate she chose should take the^ arms and title of Albret. She dwelt within her castle old, this noble demoiselle, Almost as much from life apart as in the convent cell ; Ten men-at-arms the place to guard ; ten servants at her call, A white-haired priest, a saucy page, four maidens — these were all. But many a needy gentkman bethought him of the prize, For him who favor found within the noble lady's eyes. And waited with impatience till, a twelyemonth being o'er At court the Countess IsoHne would: show herself once THE T^ESCUE OF ^LBRET. 141 The free companion, John Lanceplaine^ a soldier basely bred, Heard of it, too, and thought : " Methinks 'tis time that I were wed. A lady passing fair is much, and more the fertile land. But most of all, nobility. I'll win the maiden's hand. " I am not one to sue and court, am all devoid of grace, Advanced in years and grey of beard,, with scarred and wrinkled face ; I may not woo with courtly phrase, as might some silken lord. My winning shall my wooing be; I'll gain her by my sword. "She bides at home, my spies report, not twenty miles away ; They say she has ten men-at-arms, no more, to guard Albret. The dwellers in the village near, I little reck for those. We'll brush them off like trifling gnats when we the hold enclose." He called around his men-at-arms — a base and cruel band. Part of the scum that overflowed that time the hapless land — And said : "At daybreak forth we ride to storm a castled hold. Its walls contain a wife for me, for you, rich store of gold." A motley troop before the place next day* drew bridle-rein — Two hundred ruffians, at their head, the grisly John Lance- plaine. Rode through the town with oath and jest, and camping on the field. Sent message to the chatelaine, and sumrnoned her to yield. 142 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT 'POEMS. " We mean," 'twas said, " but courtesy ; we promise treat- ment fair ; But woe to those in leaguered hold who may resistance dare." The countess showed no craven fear ; she sent defiance back, And waited with the garrison the robber-knaves' attack. It was not long to wait : they come with confidence elate. With scaling-ladders for the walls, and rams to force the gate. It was not long before they found their frantic efforts vain, ^^'ith twenty sorely wounded men, and five among them slain. " We'll spare more loss," cried John Lanceplaine ; " of food they have no store ; Famine shall do the work for us before a week be o'er.'' And so he ordered watch and ward, while careless, day by day. The ruffians, sure to win at last, before the castle lay. When bread fell short, Girard Beaujeu, the page, he eager said: " My great and noble lady, thus our fate must sure be sped. Give me to seek a mode by which an exit may be made To find some gallant gentleman whose arms may give us aid." " Go forth, Girard," the lady said, " go forth, for yet per- chance May be some knights who keep afield, and wield the sword and lance ; THE RESCUE OF t^LBRET. i43 Go forth, and if your eager search bring succor in our need, Honors and lands, as well as thanks, shall surely be your meed." From postern gate, at dead of night, with sword in hand, he steals ; Now creeps by bush, now crawls by stone, now stoops half bent, now kneels ; He finds the sentinels asleep, and makes his way to where The horses of the losel knaves lie in the open air. He saddles one and bridles one, and slowly leads him down The grassy slope and o'er the road, and past the sleeping town ; Then mounts with care, and cautious rides, till from all hearing passed. Then urges on the wakened steed, and gallops hard and fast. Sir Hugh d'Espaign, with nine his friends, were holding revel fair Within a httle hostelry, " Le Lion Rouge," at Aire ; In burst Girard, and said to him : " If honor you essay. Come where a rabble rout besiege my lady of Albret." Sir Hugh gave ear to tale he told, and to the others then He said : " There are two hundred there, and here we are but ten. Why, that is but a score apiece ; 'twill heighten the mel- lay; Let's mount at once, fair friends, and r£ach the spot ere break of day." 144 -TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. They armed themselves, they mounted fast ; Sir Hugh was in the lead ; And as they neared the robbers' camp they checked their horses' speed ; Slowly along the road they made in silentness their way, Until they came where, through the dark, loomed sullenly Albret. Asleep Lanceplaine and all his men, the sentries nodding there — The castle guard more watchful were, for succor making prayer — When came the sound of thundering hoofs, a rush of horse, pell-mell, And thrust of lance and stroke of sword, on coat and cui- rass fell. Awake, Lanceplaine, from pleasant dreams of lands and lady fair! He dreams no more ; Sir Hugh's good lance has slain him then and there. Awake the rest, to fight and fall, for well the wretches know A shriftless cord shall be his fate, who 'scapes the thrust and blow. In peril dire, Girard, the page ; two knaves had set or' • him ; His was a slender build, and they were tall and stout of hmb. But steady blows he gives and takes, nof stays for help tC call. And from the castle as they gaze, they see his foemen fal! THE "DIAMOND'S STORY. H5 AVave kerchiefs from the battlements ; the field is lost and won ; A joyous shout of triumph goes to greet *the rising sun, And welcomed by the countess fair, the champions brave, who brought Swiit rescue to beleagured ones, and well on robbers wrought. And thus it was. Sir Hugh d'Espaign won lands and lady sweet ; And thus it was Girard Beaujeu won guerdon, fair and meet. And poets sing, throughout the land, in many a pleasant lay, The doings of the knights who rode to the rescue of Albret. THE DIAMOND'S STORY. Gems that on the brow of beauty, in their splendor flash and glow, From whose sunlight-smitten centres liquid rainbows ever flow, These could many a tale of wonder tell to eager-listening ears — Tales made up of joy and sorrow, hope, depression, smiles and tears ; Tales of passion quick and fiery ; tales of avarice slow and cold ; Such as sang the Wander-singers in the wondrous days of old. 146 TtR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. This my story — mine. He found me, on a morning calm and still — He, a thick-lipped, ebon bondman — in the sands of the Brazil. High he leapt, and loud he shouted, " 'Tis a twenty carat stone ! How it glitters! Blessed Mother! now my manhood is my own ! " For the finding broke his shackles, and my purity and size. By the custom of the miners, brought his freedom as a prize. I was carried thence to Holland, where a workman wan and grey Gave back beauty for the fragments that his wheel-rim wore away ; There the dealers came to view me, and the burghers, young and old. And the high-born dames and stately, till one morning I was sold — Sold unto a proud French noble, old in vice, in years a boy, And he sent me to an actress, as he might have sent a toy. Much the laughing beauty loved me, showed me to admir- ing dames ; Sat alone and gazed upon me, calling me endearing names ; More she loved me than the giver, as it took no seer to see ; While his gifts she craved, her fancy sought a lower man than he — Sought a workman strong and rugged, all devoid of courtly grace, AVith the muscles of a wrestler, and a lion's grimly face. THE T)IAMOND'S STORY. i47 Rose the long down-trodden masses — cap of wool against the crown — Heaved the earthquake of a people, toppling fane and palace down ; Seed of wrong sown broadcast, growing, threw up many a blossoming shoot. Coming up to plague the sowers with a crop of bloody fruit ; Day and night at horrid revel, fiends in shape of man were seen ; ' Day and night were hapless victims wedded to the guillo- tine. Fell my mistress : ere they slew her, to her swarthy lover she Sent — his death in turn awaiting — as a parting token, me ; He, ere dying, to a comrade, for a draught of brandy, gave What were ransom for a monarch, then went drunken to his grave ; And that comrade would have followed in a little fort- night more. Had not Robespierre's bitter ending opened wide the prison door. Me he looked at and remembered as the gem he'd given away Long before he hid from hunters but to later be their prey ; Some he thought of earlier pleasure, ere he used his limbs for hire, Ere his wealth was snatched by spoilers, ere his castles fell by fire ; But he merely shrugged his shoulders, then he sold me gold to gain That Avould bear him o'er the mountains to a shelter safe in Spain. 148 'VR. ENGLISH'S SELECT t6eMS. When Napoleon's star of glory blazing to its zenith rose, When he stood, self-made, a monarch, aver abject kings, his foes, I was bought, and set with others on the* crown imperial's rim- On the crown whose inches never added stature unto him — Him who never sought for jewels, lustre to his deeds to lend ; Him who ever spurned such baubles, save as means to reach an end. Monarchs four since then have worn me — what care I for such as they ? What showed they to match in glory aught in great Napo- leon's day? One a gross, good-natured creature, lazily lolling on his throne ; One a senseless bigot, losing power by folly of his own ; One a money-changer selfish, with a head shaped hke a pear; One a cross of fox and jackal, sitting in a lion's lair. I have seen, while here in Paris, two great emperors and their train Rise and fall ; two monarchs hunted, and another caged and slain ; Two republics sink and perish, and a third in peril thrown — War and revolution round me — I unchanged, unhurt, alone. Now to-day the foe surrounds us ; busily spin the sisters three ; At the gate I hear the Prussian— whose to-morrow shall I be? THE LADY OF MONTFORT'S RAID. BRITTANY, A.D. 1 342. What time to Nantes one pleasant day the Count of Montfort came, And all our burghers welcomed him, and most his lovely- dame ; Not one amid that shouting throng coul4 ever have fore- told The timid woman at his side would prove a warrior bold ; And when her lord in prison died would make the fight alone, To place her son in Brittany upon the ducal throne. The courage of a man was hers. She felt no craven fear ; She waged a fight for her young son's right, and has for many a year ; She kept the town of Hennebon safe, that other had been lost, Till now Sir Walter Manny's troops the English sea have crossed ; And well, a woman though she be, she wielded axe and blade. And led her knights and men-at-arms upon a gallant raid. It was when Charles of Blois, who claimed the duchy as his right. Had brought his force to Hennebon, and besieged it day and night, 149 15° 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. And raised a tower for breaching, and attempt at storm- ing made, Our lady, who the battle at the barriers had surveyed, Cried to her knights, as there she stood, all steel-clad cap^ a-pie : " Their rich camp lies unguarded ! who will dare to fol- low me? " Sir Oliver of Vendel and Sir Hugh of Monlinverde, With thrice a hundred men-at-arms, stood forward at her word ; And, sallying through the rearmost gate, they made a cir- cuit round. And speedily the foemen's tents, and stores and baggage found, \\'here hangings rich and velvet cloaks and silken stuffs they saw — The bravery of the gentlemen who followed Charles of Blois. They cut and slashed to ribbons there these braveries so fine ; They burst the bags of wheaten flour and bilged the casks of wine ; They slew the knaves of armorers, an"d then, with ham- mer stroke, They shattered casques and corslets, and great sheaves of arrows broke ; They hacked the gay pavilions, and they plundered at desire, And piled the stuff on broken wains, and set the camp on fire. As from the tents and wains arose the clouds of smoke and flame. The starded foe the barriers left, and furiously they came. THE LADY OF 3\40NTFORT'S T{A1D. 151 " Fair gentlemen," the countess said, " these gallants mean no play ; They've placed a thousand men-at-arms to bar our home- ward way ; We're far too few their force to fight; a safe retreat is best; Now for a race, with the dogs in chase, to the castled hold of Brest." The countess, with her raiders, spurred, and so the race began ; The angry foemen followed her — Lord Charles was in the van. Sir John of Brie his fellows passed, and merrily cried he: " Let those who will pursue the knights — the lady fair for me! But as at horse's head he strove to grasp her bridle-rein. The lady raised her battle-axe and sank it in his brain. His 'squire dismounted where he fell, and gazed upon his face ; Some reined their steeds a moment there, and then kept on the chase ; And all who passed were wroth of soul that by a woman's hand Should fall the gallant John of Brie, the flower of all the land ; Yet no one wished the lady ill, for well, each rider knew It was a deed of fair defence, if not of derring-do. Our lady, she was mounted well ; her palfrey strong and fleet Bore her away that stirring day on never-tiring feet ; IS2 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. And light she laughed at those behind; who made pur- suit too late, As she and hers right cheerfully rode through the castle gate; While Charles of Blois in wrath exclaimecl : " I swear be- fore all men, ,To draw the fangs of this she-wolf if she ever come back again ! " But, tarrying not too long in Brest, she sought the field once more, And with six hundred men-at-arms who Reen-edged weap- ons bore. Before the dawn had cleared the sky she started on her way. And, circling past where on the ground her tentless foemen lay, She entered Hennebon, where the shouts taught braggart Charles of Blois That, came she back as come she had, her teeth he might not draw. She is a valiant dame and fair, and hard for year on year Her troops have fought her foes of Fratice, and held the country here ; And soon shall pass the hope of Charles our Brittany to seize With rogues from Spain and knaves from France, and scum of Genoese ; For England's king hath succor sent to aid her in the fight, And England's king hath sworn an oath her son shall have his right. DESERTED. THE LEGEND OF RABENSt'eiN. On the Raven's Rock a ruin stands, Seen plainly from the lower lands. Weeds grow thickly in the fosse ; Buttress and barbican hide in moss ; The hall is roofless, the chambers bare ; Ranpike trees in the court-yard there ; And over the riven and crumbling walls The hungry ivy creeps and crawls. Where knights and dames of high degree Once moved with a lofty courtesy, And minnesingers chanted free, The toad and bat hold revelry ; And the tongues those blackened stones within Speak less what is than what has been ; But over the gateway men may see. Cut from the stone with chisel free. In bold relief a knightly shield. With a sable raven on silver field, And a legend carved in a single line— " True to the House of Rabenstein." The foot whence grew a noble stem. Sir Armeric von Heidenhemm, Who gold and fame in the wars had won, Came hither with his wife and son ; And once, when hunting on this rock, A robber met in deadly lock — A giant the knave, and brave and strong — And the angry pair contended long. 15.1 154 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. The knight was stout, and never yet One more his match than this had met, And would his doom that daj have found, Had not a raven who hovered round — His favorite for a year or so — Driven his beak in the eyes of his foe, Whose grip relaxed through sudden pain : The knight was saved, the robber slain. No wight more grateful was, they say Than good Sir Armeric on that day. He called the rock " The Ra'^en Stone " ; He took that name in lieu of his own ; And there he built a castle tall. With deep-cut moat and massive wall ; And wore a raven on his shield, The sole device on its silver field ; And for his motto took the line — " True to the House of Rabenstein.'' For he said — " If adverse fate assail, Our house for lack of heirs should fail, The Kaiser resume again his fee, And our castle in ruins desertSd be, Forever through the varying year One being of life shall hnger here. The .sable symbol of our line To guard the name of Rabenstein." Sir Armeric lived as live the just ; Sir Armeric's body passed to dust. And his soul to heaven, all good men trust. But from his loins there sprang, a brood Of knights and nobles stout and good ; And these through all the ages long Found higher titles round them throng ; 'DESERTED. 155 A thousand vassals at their call Attended them in field or hall ; To them the base-born sons of toil Paid rent-gold for the fertile soil Extending widely on the Rhine, And held in fee of their lordly hne. A noble race it was and proud, And haughty to the common crowd ; ♦ But when the reigning counts rode out, And with them rode their vassals stout. Or sought the tourney's dangerous sport, Or visited the Kaiser's court, Or sat as guests at banquet splendid, A tame black raven still attended ; And what a hawk or hound might be, As favorite or companion free, To others sprung from lordly stem. That sable raven was to them. Men still agreed that naught of base, Or mean, or cruel marked the race ; But woe betide the scoffer heard To jeer the black and awkward bird. To other words they paid no heed — Too proud to notice such indeed ; But he who held that raven light. Upon their honor did despite-; And he who held that raven low. Proclaimed himself the master's foe ; And on the offender fell condign Wrath of the House of Rabenstein, So past the years. At last there came One godless noble of the name, Truthless and ruthless, wild and grim, A hundred vices met in him — 156 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Rupert the Reckless — last of his line, Cause of the fall of Rabenstein. With boon companions left and right Count Rupert reveled long one night ; With ribald jest and jeer profane, TJie red wine firing blood and brain, They shouted and screamed like madmen all, Till the rafters shook in the oaken hall. At length, in a frenzy, Rupert there The raven seized that sat on the chair — For such the custom of the line. When its chief sat down to meat or wine — And, wringirrg the helpless creg.ture's neck, Exclaimed — " With a thousand serfs at beck To work our will or back our deed, A better sign than this we need. The raven's a loathly bird, we know. Its voice is harsh, its habits low ; Too long it has been the baleful sign That brought disgrace on a lordly line. To every soaring thought a bar; The eagle's a better bird by far. We'll give him a place upon our shield — An eagle shall soar on an azure field. Fill your beakers with good red wine, And toss them off, boon friends of mine, To the new-made symbol of our line. To Adlerstein we'll change our name^ Discard the raven and his shame — Let the black bird elsewhere flutter and flit ; An eagle in his stead shall sit. Fill high! drink deep, dear frifends of mine, A long farewell to Rabenstein." 'DESERTED. iS7 Three heavy knocks on the portals rang, The great gates opened with a clang, And a figure clad in links of steel, In chain-cloth armed from head to heel, Stalked to the head of the table where Count Rupert shrank in his gilded chair. The guests arose and fled, for they Dared not with the dead at revel to stay ; And here were the first and last of the line, The two dead counts of Rabgnstein. The body of Rupert rest has found But not in consecrated ground ; Far in the forest where human eyes So rarely rest, he mouldering lies ; While the stately home of his lordly race Is the lizard's and bat's abidin'g-place ; And lest his fault forgotten be; Or his name should pass from memory, About the ruins by night and day The race's raven is doomed to stay ; From stone to stone he hops and flits, Or on some leafless hmb he sits. No one has ever heard him speak ; No one has known him to flesh his beak ; Mate of his kind he has never known — In the ruined pile he dwells alone. The hunter or boor who passes there Signs the sign of the cross in the air ; For well he remembers the tale he heard In early youth of the mystic bird ; And knows till the terrible Judgment Day, The raven will haunt the place alway. By day or night, through cloud or shine, " True to the House of Rabenstein." mimit.'' THE GREY KNIGHT. The lands of Otto, the Ritter Grau, Prince-count of Heidenstein, Spread many miles from the barren peaks To the swiftly-flowing Rhine, As a lion old in his safe stronghold, He sits in his castle grey. Holding the power of life and death O'er all who own his sway ; Sole male survivor of his race, With him his family fails, And the grand old line of Hei4enstein Expires for want of males. The grim old count had once a son, But he has no son to-day ; 'Tis more than five-and-twenty years Since he drove the boy away. So Konrad died in foreign lands, And now the Grey Knight grim, The daughter of his sister's son Has only left to him. And she is a maiden fair to see, Though a very child in years. And the old man thinks her heart is free From loving hopes and fears. There is a boy, half page, half groom, In the Countess Klara's train. Who follows the lady's will and whim, And tends her bridle-rein. i;8 THE GREY KNIGHT. 159 A hag had brought him years before, But his birth she would not tell ; And he had been taught to wield a blade, And back a war-horse well ; And as in years his age increased His graces greater grew, And he loved and served his mistress well, As all the vassals knew. The Baron of Stahlberg held .a fee Just next to Heiden stein ; He was a knight of courage stout, And came of a noble line. He wooed the Lady Klara there, But though he gave much heed, His suit proceeded tardily, His wooing had no speed. "She never," so the Baron said To the Grey Knight, " says me nay ; She will not let me plead — methinks Yon page is in the way." Then to fhe page Count Ottd spake : " Fortune too oft defers Her favors till men's locks are white ; To-day you win your spurs. The robber Ruprecht has been seen Heading his felon band ; Take Streichel and his men-at-arms. And scour the lower land. Who dares high flight needs pinions strong, As a falcon young must learn : Go then ; from midnight here till dawn I'll wait for thy return." i6o TJ/i. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. The page went forth ; he deemed the skies Were tinged with rosy red ; And the Prince-count for Fritz Streichel sent, And these were the words he said : " The servant hears and then obeys, But his own voice is dumb : Should Ruediger return alive, Thou hadst not better come." With that he turned, and Streichel went '\\'ith the rest to join the page ; And the force rode out with spirit stout On Ruprecht war to wage. That night a priest to the castle came : " O, great Prince-count,'' said he, " I shrived a dying one to-day, And this was her tale to me : She was nurse to the child of ypur only son. Born far beyond the tide ; And stood by the couch of the noble pair When both on one day died ; And long years since she brought the boy, And here to the castle came. And gave him to you to train as page, And Ruediger his name." The old Grey Knight said never a word, If the news were ill or good ; But strode through the gate to the open air And there on the terrace stood. Then silently the men-at-arms Rode up, and Streichel said '. " I am sorry to tell the noble Count That the page is behind us — dead." THE 'BALLAD OF ^DLERSTEIN. i6i A shriek from the oriel just above — Quoth the Count: " His spurs to earn Our niece's page went forth ; we'll wait Till dawn for his return." When the raven sits on the withered limb, And croaks to the peaceful Rhine, And the moonhght deepens the shadows brown Of the ruins of Heidenstein, At the midnight hour, when the elves have power, The Grey Knight gaunt and grim Paces the crumbling terrace th*ere. And all men shrink from him ; For every night when the bell strikes twelve. He comes from his grave below. And, till the cock crows thrice at dawn. Moves wearily to and fro. THE BALLAD OF ADLERSTEIN. Rode forth the Countess Ermintrude, at dawning of the day, With waiting-maids and men-at-arms, to wildwood making way. With hawk and hound fair gentlemen were there on either hand To pay their court to her who was the fairest in the land. From Erlendorf to Aarchenberg, from Gruenwald to the Rhine, Extended far the fair domains of Aarch and Adlerstein ; i62 T^R. ENGLISH'S SELECT 'POEMS. Heiress of both the damosel, and who her lord should be, Seignior of Aarch, Count Adlerstein, would hold those lands in fee. What wonder, then, from every part such eager suitors came To win a count's estate and rank and g?iin a lovely dame? But though she smiled on all alike and bade them welcome there, They sped but little in their suit who wooed that maiden fair. Upon that summer morn they rode through bosky nook and glade, And laugh and jest and bay of hound rang through the woodland shade, When lo! the deer-hounds pricked their ears and shrank in terror back As came, drawn by a stag of ten, a chariot in their track. The chariot was of burnished gold, its wheels of silver white. And from it, as it halted there, stepped forth an armed knight — A knight of fair and shapely form, and air of noble grace ; And then the stag the chariot turned and scurried from the place. The knight approached the wondering group, who sat in silence there And louted him full courteously, yet with a haughty air, And said : " God save thee, lady sweet ; God save ye, gentles here! Come ye to breathe the woodland air or hunt the dappled deer? " THE ^ALLyiD OF ^DLERSTEIN. 163 Spake out the Countess Ermintrude — a fearless maiden she — " ^^'elcome, fair sir, but let us know your name and your degree." And he replied : " I am a knight of hneage old and high ; My castle stands in Thoul^ land, Sir Rolph von Hirschen I." The knight that day who strangely came within the wood- land shade. And walked beside her palfrey white, her guest the maiden made; And from that day all those around their praise on him bestowed, As in the chase, or at the tilt, the foremost knight he rode. Now, ere a twelvemonth passed away. Sir Rolph success- ful sued. And won the heart and then the hand of Lady Ermintrude ; From her he took the wide domains from Gruenwald to the Rhine ; Through her became the Lord of Aarch and Count of Ad- lerstein. But to his bride, fair Ermintrude, the day that they were wed. From church returned, these warning words the knightly bridegroom said : " Sweet, never how I came to thee in woodland shade re- call, Or, we must part, and ruin fierce upon our house will fall." Now, five-and-twenty years have gone since they were man and wife, A stalwart son and daughter fair had crowned their wedded life. i64 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. When, on a summer eve, went forth the Countess Ermin- trude, Count Rolph, her husband, at her side, to stroll within the wood. There said the countess to her lord : " 'Tis five-and-twenty years Since I became your loving dame — how. short the time appears ! Our feet since then on roses tread ; no strife between us two ; Upon our heads, from year to year, new blessings fall like dew. " Our little Rolph has grown a knight, sjing in the min- strel's rhyme ; Our daughter Ermie is the bride of princely Ardenheim. What current smooth of wedded bliss has" flowed for you and me Since first the stag your chariot drew here in the woodland free!" Count Rolph embraced his lovely dame, but not a word could speak ; He kissed her lips right tenderly, and tears fell on his cheek. A shadow darkened o'er her heart, a thrilling terror then, For there the golden chariot stood, and there the stag of ten. He stopped not at her frantic cry, he stayed not at her prayer ; Into the chariot straight he leapt, then vanished into air. THE 'BALL/ID OF ^DLERSTEIN. 165 The summer past, the winter came ; succeeding o'er and o'er, The seasons all returned again ; the count came never- more. The lady sought the castle straight, and summoned all her men To search the woods, and scour the plains, and seek through nook and glen ; And all night long, and all next day, they sought and then came back ; No print of hoof on earth was seen ; the chariot left no track. In came a messenger next day, and knelt, and faltering said : " I bring sad news, most noble dame : the count, your son, is — dead. The sharp lance of a stranger knight in tilt-yard pierced him through — Heaven rest the soul of young Count Rolph! he was both brave and true! " In came another messenger, and knelt with moiurnful look ; The countess gazed upon him while her frame in anguish shook. " No words it needs of thine,'' she spake, " thy manner tells instead ; I know the Princess Ardenheim, thy master's wife, is dead." That week the Countess Ermintrude in mould of church- yard lay, And fire destroyed the castled pile upon the funeral day. The Adler lands, the fief of Aarch, went to another hne ; The brown bat flits, the grey owl sits, in rtjined Adlerstein. THE ROBBER CHIEF. Conrad, our mighty emperor, High nobles gathered round, Seated at board with meat and wine, For trouble solace found. " Let's feast," he said, " since in our realm Justice exists for all ; Throughout the land the weak are strong When on the law they call." Loud plaudits from the nobles broke ; But soon, in accents low. Spake Rupert, Count of Ingelheim — "Alas! my liege! not so. Count Rauberstein this motto flaunts Plain in the sight of all : ' The strong may take, the strong may hold, The weak go to the wall.' "Well do his deeds agree with words, As in his stronghold grey. With men-at-arms and vassals stout. He waits to grasp his prey. Burgher or merchant, priest or clown. Who journeys by the Rhine, Must pay his toll of goods or gold To Rolf of Rauberstein. " So for a twelvemonth has been done. Your edict stern despite. And none as yet has raised his arm To do the wronged ones right.. 1 66 THE T{OBBER CHIEF. 167 The robber noble holds in scorn The emperor's decree," , Said Conrad, " Let us feast to-night ; To-morrow we shall see." Next morn Count Rolf in castle sat When came a vassal in — " My lord, a train within the vale Gives hope of spoils to win. One knight at head in sable mail — " Said Rolf, in humor grim : " Strike at the train the men-at-arms. And I'll attend to him." In haste they armed and out they poured Of men-at-arms a score ; And vassals of the baser sort More than as many more ; And down the rocks they hurried fast, Then gazed the road upon Where, headed by a tall Black Knight, A train came slowly on. On palfreys, fifty hooded monks Rode, each in friar's gown ; And after these stout burghers came, All clad in jerkins brown ; And these led fifty sumpter mules. That, doubtless, carried store ; And after these came men on foot Who led as many more. " Here's store of plunder! " Rolf exclaimed ; "Assail them left and right! Strike down the monks, should they resist ; I'll deal upon the knight!" 1 68 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. When, lo! the monks shed hoOds and gowns, And fifty knights there were ; The men in jerkins axes showed — The wolves were in the snare! Shedding their covers from the mules, Sprang men-at-arms to -ground ; And stricken here, and stricken there, The knaves no mercy found. Count Rolf before the Black Knight's lance Was borne to earth and slain — Through bars and vizor there the point Pierced to the felon's brain. The black-mailed emperor doffed his helm. And there his will made known, To raze the castle to the ground From roof to comer-stone. One portion there he bade them spare, And write upon the wall — " Throughout the land the weak are strong When on the law they call." Conrad and all with him are d;ust ; Dead are the robber bands, And there the hold of Rauberstein A heap of ruins stands. On crumbling stones the grey o'wl roosts, The lizards crawl below ; But on the tower, untouched by time, The carven letters show. THE GNOME-KING'S BRIDE. ^\'HERE shadows brown forever sleep Within the woodland dark and deep, Miles distant from the travelled way, There stood a cabin old and grey, Where dwelt a woodman, Franz his name — Franz Rupp — with Elisabeth his dame. Hard toiler Franz, from morn till night, And ever poor in toil's despite, He bore without complaint his life. And cherished well his buxom wife, And loved his daughter young and fair — Sweet Bertha of the sunlight hair. Near by the cabin, from the ground There rose a green and treeless mound ; Who raised it there no mortal knew. But on it flowers and herbage grew, And oft the story round was told That gnomes beneath it stored their gold. Few dared too near that mound approach ; None dared within its bounds encroach ; Although 'twas said who there would delve, When night was on the stroke of twelve, And silently his labors speed, Would gain great riches for his meed. 169 17° T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Now spread a sickness far and wifie, And half of those it seized on died ; And who escaped its fatal stroke Rose from their beds with spirit, broke And forms enfeebled with disease — And poor Franz Rupp was one of these. Worst of all troubles hunger is,- And hunger came to him and his ; Till, desperate with the famine grim, That in his cabin glared at him, He sought at night the gnome-king's mound, And dug within the enchanted ground. His spade and mattock there he* plied In silence at the midnight tide ; But ere a dozen strokes he dealt A presence in the place i he felt, And words, in accents loud and clear, Fell thus upon his awe-struck ear : " Nothing for nothing ; here is store Of dearworth coin from yellow ore ; This chest contains the treasure which Shall make its owner wondrous rich — Something for something ; this be thine Thy daughter Bertha's hand be mine. " Take it, or leave it ; if you leave, An orphan Bertha soon will grieve. Take it, or leave it ; if you take, A promise to the gnome you make. And in a twelvemonth and a day He comes to bear his bride away." THE GNOME-KING'S BRIDE. 171 A moated castle, tall and stout, Looked o'er the country round about ; Great fields of wheat, and meadows wide, And orchards vast on either side ; Of all the rich — no meagre host — Franz Rupp of Ruppenheim had most. Men envied much his wealth and state, And wondered at the happy fate Of him, the year before a boor Cribbed in a cabin, sick and poor, Who, through a kinsman's strange devise, (So ran the story) thus had rise. But Franz himself grew wan- and pale ; Health, spirit, hope began to fail As slipt the allotted term away. Space of a twelvemonth and a day, At close of which the gnome would stand To claim the gentle Bertha's hand. Where Iser pierces Linden Wood, Six leagues away a convent stood, And Franz sought Father Boniface, The good superior of the place, And soon to him the tale he told How Bertha's hand was pledged for gold. Long mused the abbot. " Son," he said, " No Christian with a gnome should wed ; No priest such couple may unite With blessed ring and holy rite ; But having made a promise, you Must keep it to the letter true. 1?^ ''DR. ENGLISH S SELECT TOEMS. " With you this missal take, and bide What time the gnome will seek his bride ; And then let Bertha utter prayer And sign the Holy Cross in air, And with this Blessed Book in hands, Thrice kiss the gnbme-king where he stands. '' No demon, if the gnome be such, This Blessed Book may dare to touch ; If he should be a thing of good, He will not turn befol'e the' Rood ; If he be evil, as he may, At kisses three he'll flee away." Yet something more the abbot said, How men with fortune on* them shed To Holy Church some gold should spare — • "The convent chapel needs repair — " And then, to lighten Franz's woe, With book and blessing ba^e him go. With steady step the night came on, And long the light had past and gone, When in his sad and splendid home Sat Franz, woe-watching for the gnome — Franz and his dame, and, trembling there, Sweet Bertha with the ripphng hair,. Ah ! could the bargain be* undone. Scattered the wealth the promise won. And, for the horror of that day. Take back the cottage thatched and grey! Something for something : hope not so ; The gnome will not his claim forego. THE GNOME-KING'S BRIDE. 173 Ten strokes! eleven — twelve! and now The luckless three in terror bow ; For howls the angry wind without, Sweep storm and tempest round about, And sounds a voice above the din ; " Open, and let the bridegroo.m in! " Start bolts, fall bars, and opeii flies The oaken door. Before their eyes The gnome-king with his elfish train. His black locks flaked with storm and rain, And wet his robes of cramoisie. Short, swart and full of wrath is he. With frowning brow he mutters low : " Is't thus you pay the debt ypu owe? And would you dare to-night refuse All that I claim as rightful dues? Speak! must I right myself, or take Freely this maid for honor's sake? The holy sign the maiden made — The gnome was not thereby dismayed ; She bore aloft the Blessed Book — The gnome nor fled, nor shrunk, nor shook ; She looked within his eyes so bright. And kissed him on his forehead white. She kissed him once— he said' no word ; She kissed him twice — he never stirred ; She kissed him thrice — what change befell! Good saints and angels, guard us well! The dwarfish gnomes dissolved in air ; A prince, with nobles round, stood there. L 1/4 T>R. ENGLISH -S SELECT TOEMS. Ring, silvern bells in spire and tower — The prince escapes the eldrich power ; Let song and feasting round us be — • They break the spell, those kisses three ; Weave garlands brave of white and green — The gnome's bride is the Saxon queen. THE STORY OF THE SWORD. " Sabre, hanging on the wall Of this silent German hall, (Hilt of gold and sheath of leather — Strange these two should mate together!) On your scabbard there is dust. On, your blade are spots of rust ; Tell me how and why and when You were felt and used by men. Tell of battles lost and won ; Tell your story, lightning's son!" " Stranger, wandering in this hall. Thus I answer to your call ; Thus my voice recites the story Of my one day's battle, gory ; Why I slumber in the dust ; When my blade was marked by rust; How I flashed in keen-edged wrath On my owner's devious path. In one terrible conflict borne. Never since by mortals worn. " By the flame begot on ore, Born within the furnace roar, THE STORY OF THE SIVORD. 175 Forged with ave, rolled with credo, Came my metal to Toledo. There they fashioned well my blade ; There my hilt and sheath were made ; There an old and proud grandee, From my fellows. choosing me. Sent me with a friendly line To the Prince von Dietrichstein. " Said the Prince, when me he saw : ' ' Tis a blade without a flaw, Decked too fine for age to wear it, And I have no son to bear it. Death is coming sure and swift ; Mine is dole and prayer and shrift From my soul its sins to purge. Here upon the next world's verge. Take this weapon to the hall ; Hang it high upon the wall' " Little thought the Prince that he Soon in fight should brandish me, Knowing not that God disposes Otherwise than man proposes. Even as he spoke, the blare Of a trumpet stirred the air. And a rider came to say, Scarce a dozen leagues away, Full a thousand men in force Were the Magyars, foot and horse. " ' What! ' he cried, ' and would they dare Track the old wolf to his lair. Deeming he may safe be hunted, Now with age his fangs are blunted? 176 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Clang the great bell! Summon here What of vassals may be near! Man the walls and let them see Dietrich's banner floating free! Let them know that Dietrich's rock \\'ell abides the rudest shock ! '' " Seven days the Magyars plied Force in vain on every side ; Seven days their cannon thundered ; On the eighth the leagured wondered As they saw the Magyar foe Off in headlong hurry go. They' had heard the Archduke John Was in force their track upon,: And, though brave, they dared not stay When grim John was on the way. " ' Out! ' cried Dietrichstein, ' fo.r these Ne'er from hence must ride in ease. Saddle horses, bare your sabres, Hot pursue the fleeing slabbers, Spanish sword, you now may show If your steel be good or no. To my hand your hilt be wed, As my vassals here I head. Forward! charge! and let them feel Rain of lead and storm of steel! ' " Then the sound of hoofs was heard ; Then the air with strife was stirred ; Then the sight of sabres flashing ; Then the sound of sabres clashing. Here ran many a riderless horse, Here lay many a soulless corse ; THE STORY OF THE SIVORD. i77 Curses mixed with deadly blows ; None asked quarter from his foes, As upon the shattered line Smote the men of Dietrichstein. " Coolly through the din and jar Rode a giant-like huszar. Marked he well those white locks flowing, And my bright blade ever going. Scorning others in the fray Blocked he there the Prince's way. 'Ah ! ' he cried, ' old man, at length Rank is front to front with strength ; Here: the strongest arm is lord — Vengeance lies within my sword! ' " Glared the Prince ; a tremor came, Not with fear, across his frame. ' Still ahve? ' he asked. ' His brother? No! a suckling with thy mother When the block its victim won. Who then art thou, man? ' ' His son! I am he whose sire your hate Bore to undeserved fate. Son of him your anger slew, I am his avenger, too ! ' " Crossed their sabres. One was old ■ ^.-j' ; The story of the sword is told. ■ _ Failed for want of males the line . -^ Of the princely Dietrichstein." /■ ' &-?. I THE BALLAD OF NARVAEZ. Narvaez, the magnanimous, Our bitter foeman he, And yet our Moorish nobles Applaud his chivalry ; Our poets all recite his deeds, Our maidens bless his n'ame, And through our whole Granada He hath a happy fame ; Though Christian he, and We are Moors, Our homage he hath w6n, For what he did for Yuss^, Our great Alcalde's sonl The Spaniard planned to strike a blow As fitted warrior stout, But first, to scour the country. Sent fifty lances out — Sent fifty gallant men-at-arms. Who lance and falchion bore. Under the brave Don Ramon, The knight of Pefiaflor ; , And these returning from their search, Fruitless for many a mile. Meet with a Moorish rider Within a deep defile. He was a gallant cavalier' With mood and bearing high ; But he was one to fifty — 'Twas only yield or die : 178 THE 'BALLAD OF (TiARyAEZ. 179 A young and handsome cavalier Who gallantly was dressed In velvet, trimmed with silver; And azure satin vest, Diamonds and rubies on the Hilt Of the falchion at his side — ■. He looked the gay young bridegroom Gone forth to meet his bride. They brought him to Narvaeq then, Who asked him his degree. " My father rules in Ronda, Alcalde there," said he ; And then he burst in bitter tears. Said the Spaniard, " By my beard, A stranger sight before me Hath never yet appeared! Thy father is a warrior stout, Of fearless port and brow ; His son in tears, and beardedl AVhat kind of man art thou? " " 'Tis not," replied the cavalier, " That in these bonds I be ;. Nor fetters, nor the torturCv Could wring these tears from me ; But when your force o'erwhelined me, I \\'as making eager way To meet my dear Zorayda, To fix our wedding-day. She never failed her promise yet, And now I be not there, The maid may hold me faithless — So judge of my despair." T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " Nay," cried Narvaez, " it were shame A noble cavalier, Whose word is pledged to woman. Should meet with hindrance, here. A grace of four-and-twenty hours I freely give to thee ; Go thou and meet the damsel, And then return to me.'' And Yussef promised gratefully Before them every one, To render him a captive, Ere sank the morrow's sun. Then Yussef to the trysting-place. His jaded courser spurred. And there he told Zorayda How he had given his word To thrall to speedily return, And how he might remain Through many a weary twelvemonth To drag a captive's chain ; And from her promise, lest it cloud Her life, he set her free ; To which replied Zorayda, " That, Yussef, may not be. " It is not that thou lovest me le.ss. My love thou wouldst refuse ; Thou fearest if I follow, My freedom I shall lose. Think' St thou I am less generous? Beside thee let me be ; Where love is, there is freedom ; Where thou art, I am free. THE BALLAD OF V^AR^AE?:. Behold this casket filled with gems ; With these a sum we gain Enough to pay thy ransom, Or both as slaves maintain." Narvaez learned Zorayda's words : — " Certes it seems," said he, " Devoted is this maiden, This youth all chivalry. Let me within the casket place More jewels rich and rare. To add unto the ornaments Beseeming one so fair ; Then mount the pair on milk-white steeds Caparisoned in state, And, with a noble escort, Send them to Ronda straight." Narvaez, the magnanimous, Our bitter foe is he, And yet our Moorish nobles Applaud his courtesy; Our minstrels sing his nobleness^ Our maidens bless his name. And rings through wide Granada His honor and his fame. Praise to the champion of Castile, Our homage he hath won, By what he did for Yussef, Our great Alcalde's son. THE GAME KNUT PLAYED. A PAGE who seemed of low degree, And bore the name of Knut, was he ; The high-born Princess Hilga she. And that the youth had served her long, Being quick at errands, skilled in song, To jest with him she thought no wrong. And so it chanced one summer: day, At chess, to while the time away. The page and princess sat at play. At length she said, " To play for naught Ts only sport to labor brought, So let a wager guerdon thought.'' He answered, " Lady, naught have 1 Whose worth might tempt a princess high Her uttermost of skill to try." " And yet this ruby ring," she said, " I'll risk against the bonnet red With snow-white plume that crowns thy head. " And should I win, do not forget, Or should I lose, whichever yet, I'll take my due, or pay my debt.'' And so they played, as sank the sun ; But when the game they played was done, The page's cap the princess won. 1S2 THE GAME KNUT PLAYED. 183 " My diamond necklace,'' the'n she cried, "I'll match against thy greatest pride, The brand held pendant at thy side.'' " Not so," he said — " that tempered glaive, Borne oft by noble hands and brave, To me my dying father gave. " Fit only for a true man's touch, I hold it dear and prize it much — No diamond necklace mates with such. " But, though my father's ghost be wroth, I'll risk the weapon, nothing loth. Against thy love and virgin troth." Reddened her cheeks at this in ire. This daughter of a royal sire. And flashed those eyes of hers like lire. " Thy words, bold youth, shall work thee ill: Thou canst not win against my skill, But I can punish at my will. " Begin the game ; that hilt so fine Shall nevermore kiss hand of thine. Nor thou again be page of mine; " Answered the page : " Do not forget, Or win or lose, whichever yet, I'll take my due, or pay my debt. " And let this truth the end record ; I risk to-day my father's swoid To be no more thy page, but lord." I §4 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Down sat the pair to play once more, Hope in his bosom brimming o'er, And hers with pride and anger sore. From square to square the bishops crept, The agile knights eccentric leapt. The castles onward stately swept. Pawns fell in combat, one by one ; Knights, rooks and bishops could not shun Their fate before that game was done. Well fought the battle was, I ween. Until two castles and a queen Guarding the kings alone were seen. " Check! " cried the princess, all elate ; " Check!" cried the page, and sealed the fate Of her beleaguered, king with '" mate! "' The princess smiled, and said, " I lose, Nor can I well to pay refuse ; From my possessions pick and choose. " Or costly robes to feed thy pride. Or coursers such as monarchs ride, Or castles tall, or manors wide^ " These may be thine to have and hold ; Or diamonds bright, or chests of gold. Or strings of pearls of wealth untold. " Any or all of such be thine ; But, save he spring from royal line, No husband ever can be mine." THE HUNTER. 185 " Nor jewels rich, nor lands in fee, Steeds, robes, nor castles pleasure me ; Thy love and troth be mine," said he. " Nor shalt thou lack of state and pride "When seated crowned thy lord beside, As Knut, the King of Denmark's bride 1 " Ring marriage-bells from sun to sun. And tell the gossips, as they run, How Sweden's princess has been won. THE HUNTER. At noonday a hunter made wearisome way Over rocks and through woodland, one bright summer day, His face flushed and brown with the fierce-blazing sun. No game in his pouch for his recompense won ; And there at the door of Giovanni's old mill He sought for a draught from the swift-flowing rill. Giovanni laughed loud at the civil request For a cup, that was made by his dust-covered guest. "A cup to get water in! Signer, not so ; The water belongs to my mill-wheel, you know ; But here is a cup of the rich, ruddy wine That was pressed from the grapes in this vineyard of mine. Sit down in the shade of the arbor with me. And, taking our nooning hke comrades so free. Our glasses shall clink and our voices shall ring, As we drink to the health of the brave-man king, Victor Emanuel." 1 86 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT T'OEMS. The hunter his strap from his shoulder unslung, Pouch and knife on the ground there before him he flung, Leaned his gun on a stool ere the grape-juice he quaffed, Bowed his than-ks, and then drained the whole cup at a draught ; ^\'hile Giovanni's sole daughter, a damsel of nine, ^\"llo had brought to her father the pitcher of wine, Said : " 'Tis better to sit in the shade here, and drink, Than to work and get naught in the sunh'ght, I think." At the wisdom she uttered the tired traveller smiled, And drew to him gently the olive-skinned child. "While you," he said, "maiden, do nothing but play." " I do a great deal," she replied, " every day. I turn out the goats to the hills in the morn ; I chase off the sparrows that come for the corn ; I sweep and I knit, and quite often I sing A ditty in praise of the brave-man king,, Victor Emanuel." Said the miller : " She's right ; you had hard luck to-day ; No game in your pouch ; that's all work, and no pay ; But I'll give you a chance. There's a wolf lurks around, And no one his hiding-place dreamed of,,or found, Till this morning at dawn, as I looked from the mill, I saw the rogue enter yon cave on the hjill. 'Tis perilous rather to pierce to his den ; But you seem a bold-hearted fellow, and then, ' Should you kill him, my thanks, and a scudo beside — " " 'Tis a bargain ; I'll do it! " the hunter' replied, And, grasping his gun, he strode whisthng away In search of the wolf and that scudo of pay ; While Giovanni said, watching the man'S sturdy wr.lk: " l!y my faith! that's a chap of more action than talk! What a soldier he'd make! how his rifle would ring In some fight for the land and the brave-man king, Victor Emanuel!" THE HUNTER. 187 There, watching the hunter, the mill-people stood, And saw him pass vineyard, and cornfield, and wood, And then in the mouth of the cave disappear, And waited the sound of his firelock to hear. "The wolf has escaped!" cried the miller; but, no! There's a shot in the cave that sounds muffled and low. He comes — what is that which the hunter has found? He approaches, and throws a dark mass .on the ground. " You wanted the wolf? Well, I bring you his head! " "And there is your scudo," Giovanni he said. " That rascal has carried olT many a kid, And till now he has managed to keep himself hid. You'll be welcome, my friend, as the guest of the mill, And as friend to the neighborhood, come when you Y.ill ; The service you've done through the country shall ring — It may yet reach the ears of the brave-man king, Victor Emanuel." The hunter he looked at the scudo and laughed. " I've earned it," he said, "and beside that a draught Of the wine that I drank but a little while since ; 'Twas of very good vintage, and fit for a prince. Here, miller, your health ; many thanks for the sport, To say naught of this scudo, your wages paid for't. And, thanks for your wine ; I'll return that you see, If you come to the town, and drink Chianti with me. Tie my hand, httle maiden ; his sharp teeth went through Ere my knife did the work which my gun failed to do. And bring you this little one— ^that do not miss ; I've some ribbons to spare in return for a kiss.'' " We'll come," said the miller, " Bianca and I, And to find you among all those people we'll try ; But I haven't your name, friend ; we're strangers, you know ; So whom shall I ask for, and where shall I go. iS*^ TDK. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. When little Bianca to see you, I bring? " " Go straight to the Palace, and ask for the king, Victor Emanuel." A LEGEND OF PHRYGIA. Zeus, greatest of immortals Who on Olympos sit, their ivory brows With ichor sprinkled, beings who carouse In halls whose rainbow portals Are closed to those of mortal birth — Zeus, tired of incense that had failed to please, Weary of prayers of men, and bended knees. With Hermes for attendant, came to earth. The Thunderer doffed his glory, His port majestic laid aside, his crown Changed for a cap, and dropping noiseless down To Phrygia — so the story — Put on a beggar's seeming then ; AVhite-haired, and blind, and suffering much. And led by Hermes, who assumed a crutch. The blind and lame asked charity from men. Where shepherds flocks attended; Or in the vales, or on the grassy ades Of hills that gently rose where swiftly glides The Sangaris silvery splendid — Not of the boors, but of each lord Who, in the palaces that lofty rose On tree-decked knolls, took comfort and repose — Coin, food, or shelter, humbly they implored. ^ LEGEND OF VHRYGI'A. 1S9 Through fertile valleys wending Their tedious journey, at each palace-gate Their suit presenting to the rich a*nd great, In abject manner bending. But still repulsed with gibe and scorn, Nor food nor shelter finding on their road, And not an obolus on them bestowed, The nightfall found them hungered and forlorn. At length of travel weary. They came to where a shepherd poor and old. Having penned his fleecy charge within the fold. Sought, with a spirit cheery, His hut, low-walled, low-roofed, low-doored — Philemon named ; he pitied much the twain Who seemed to drag their way with grief and pain. And sought relief which he could ill afford. Yet, with a welcome glowing. He bade them enter, made his Baukis stir, And food prepare for them, and him, and her. Such as he had bestowing ; Then when the frugal meal was o'er. Talked cheerfully' before the crackling fire. And when for rest his guests expressed desire, Gave them the only bed, and sought the floor. That night a tempest raging Shook the mean hut until it trembled to Its poor foundation ; fiercer yet it blew. As though the winds were waging A battle over hill and plain ; Flashes of hghtning there continuous blazed, And peal on peal of thunder men amazed, While poured in one unceasing flood the rain. igo 'VR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Philemon, restless pacing The earthen floor, but gently le^t he'd rouse His wearied guests who slept wi*th placid brows Whereon there showed no traciflg Of aught save still and dreamless sleep. Said there to Baukis, " These good men must be Who slumber so profound and dreamlessly, When all the winds this hurly-b^rly keep." Next morn the sun rose blazingj And with the sun both hosts and guests arose, And these prepared the morning meal for those, When lo! a sight amazing! ^^'here hills and valleys stood before A stretch of water spread in wide expanse — A grass-framed lake of silver met the glance, Meadow, and vale, and forest, there no more. The wrath of Zeus swift falling Had overwhelmed the heartless in a night ; The shepherd pair stood trembling at the sight Mysterious, appalling ; When lo! in air the roof uprose. The mean room widened to a spacious hall. To lofty height aspired the cottfige-wall, And ice-like fretwork on the ceiling froze. The wide hall brightening. Celestial glory on the place was shed : Zeus stood revealed ; around his sovereign head Tresses of waving hghtning ; And then the god, with look benign. Spake, as with reverent awe they bent the knee— " This one-lime hut my temple hence shall be. And ye remain the guardians of the shrine. 3W^E>t3M ^KERATOS. 191 "If otherwise your needing, A life of quiet ease and riches great, Or doubtful honors of a high estate, Or length of years exceeding, Freely demand it now of me." Answered Philemon, " Toil, not ease, is best, But grant we pass together to our rest," Zeus, vanishing, replied, " So let it be ! " Long years the couple tended The temple grand, and kept the fire aUght Upon the inner altar, till one night Their labor was suspended. They disappeared, and ne'er were traced ; But at the temple-door there sudden grew Two gnarly, mossy, grey-barked trees of yew. With boughs and branches closely interlaced. AKERATOS. To Argos, after Troia fell, there came, Seeking for alms and ease, one sunny day, A soldier, battle-scarred and old and grey — Akeratos his name. He would not beg without amends.for alms: So with a lyre the passers-by he stopped, Hoping thereby to see some silver dropped From givers' willing palms-. In early days his skill was well maintained ; But rough campaigns had robbed him of his power ; And so he stood there twanging,, hour on hour, Without one lepton gained*. 192 TlR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. At length, all wearied, hungered and athirst. He ceased and leaned against a pillar there. And thought himself, so utter his despair, Forsaken and accurst. Then came a stranger where he leaned, and said, " Why not play on, old man, and strive to please The passing crowd ? You, who won victories. Might now perchance win bread." Akeratos looked up. His eyes were filled With weakhng tears ; again he bowed his head — That once proud soldier — and he humbly said, " I am no longer skilled." " Then," said the stranger, in a pleasant way, " Why not to me a thing so usless hire? Here's a didrachmon : give me n*ow the lyre : For one hour let me play.'' The soldier smiled. " My lord," he said, " the sum Would buy three lyres like this df mine, mayhap." " It is a bargain, then. Hold out your cap ; Be motionless and dumb." The stranger took the lyre and swept the chords, And through the air a startling prelude rang ; Then with a clear and stirring voice he sang — Voice like the clang of swords — How Hektor perished, slain by Achilleus ; How Herakles fair Hippolute slew ; How Zeus the mighty Titans overthrew — The sire-dethroning Zeus ; ^KERATOS. 193 The rush of chariots and the clash of blades ; O'er beaten earth the ring of iron hoofs ; The crackling roar of flames fro'm burning roofs ; The screams of frighted maids ; The curses of the priests of plundered fanes ; The dying groan upon the bloody field Of some stout warrior, pillowed on his shield, Life ebbing through his veins. And as he sang the people stopped to hear, And crowds from every quarter gathered round, Breathless and eager, swallowing every sound With rapt, attentive ear ; And when the song was o'er the people filled The soldier's cap with golden coins, and cried, "O singer! silver-tongued and fiery-eyed. Whose tones our souls have thrilled — " Singer, whose voice from sirens on the shore Has sure been borrowed, and whose fingers rain Such music on the strings, oh, sing again — • Sing us a song once more! "• And once again that wondrous voice was heard ; This time it sang not of affairs of arms. But of the sea-foam's daughter and her charms, Till all men's hearts were stirred. A purple vapor seemed to fill the place ; Fragrance and light and music in the air — Each man majestic and each wonjan fair — One, dignity ; one, grace ; ■HIMHMiMlBm 194 -fR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Till, in their joy, before that soldier old Not coins alone they cast, but silvery bands And rings and bracelets, gems from foreign lands, . And ornaments of gold ;, And when the heap had to its utmost grown, Making the soldier rich in all men's sight, Around the singer's form a blaze of light In dazzling glory shone. The men of Argos stood in hushed surprise, As there the god of poetry and song, Phoibos ApoUon, from the aw*e-struck throng . , , , Ascended to the skies. THE PARROT OF RUMI. Here looking at the purple clouds That wrap the closing day, My thoughts go back to Rumi's tale About the parrot grey. A merchant ere his journey, To his parrot thus said he ; " I go from hence to the parirot-land, Where wondrous things there be. " What shall I bring to please my bird From distant climes afar. Where the rose it grows and the spice-wind blows, And the pearls and diamonds are? mm THE TARROT OF "KUMl. 195 "Shall I bring you a ruby necklace, And a cage of gold so fine, Or a cup from a single amethyst To hold your bread and wine ? " Then answered him the mournful bird : " For these I have no care ; But when you reach the parrot-land, This message safely bear. " I pine all day upon my perch, And they at pleasure rove ; I beat my wings against the bars. They flutter through the grove. " Though white my bread and red my wine, These are not sweet to me ; Then let my brothers send me word How best I may be free." The merchant heard and left the bird. And went by steel and star. Till he came to the beautiful parrot-land, In the southern climes afar. And there the parrots of every Jcind And every hue he saw, The green and grey, with the paroquet gay. And the spiteful, bright macaw. He summoned them all to hear the tale That he was bidden to tell ; And he used the very words that from The beak of his parrot fell. 196 T}R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. And when he had closed, an ash-grey bird Which sat another beside, Heaved its breast and fluttered its wings, And fell from its perch and died. And a parrot whose head was marked with red. And body was apple-green, Cried out, " Go back and tell your bird The sight which you have seep." "Ah me!" the sorrowing merchant said, " That was my parrot's mate, Who died with grief to hear from me Her old companion's state." The parrots gathered round the bird That on the greensward lay ; And sad at heart to see their woe. The merchant turned away. He left behind the scented vines, And the grove of cinnamon trees. And spread his vessel's yellow sails To catch the homeward breeze. First to the east and then to the west He sailed a month or more, And then he travelled a week on land To reach'his open door. He kissed his wife and his children all ; Gay gifts around he flung, And then he sought the garden, where The parrot's cage was hung. THE "PARROT OF T{UMl. igT To and fro the cage was swinging From the Hmb of a citron tree ; And the parrot was swinging in the cage, And gayly chatted he. " Fair welcome back, good master mine! " The parrot voice was clear — " Have you been to the beautiful parrot-land, And what did you see and hear? " " I have been to the parrot-land afar, Your message there I bore To [jarrots grey and parrots green, Who think of you no more. " Of those but two remember you; One, sitting its mate beside. So grieved to hear the tale I brought It fell to earth and died. " The other sat on a bough above, And plumed its feathers green, And bade me back and tell you what My eyes that day had seen." The parrot made no answer then, Its breast began to swell; It gasped for breath, it closed its eyes. And from its perch it fell. " Ah me ! " the merchant sorrowing said, " That I should have such woe=, To lose in death the beautiful bird Whose talking pleased me so. ■HilHilliliHi 19^ "DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " I'll dig it a grave both wide and deep, And o'er it plant a rose, And think upon the bird I loved* Whene'er the leaves unclose." Then from the cage the lifeless bird With careful hand he drew, When it opened its eyes and spread its wings, And up in the air it flew. And with it flew another bird — The merchant knew it well As that which in the parrot-land From the bough of cinnamon fell. Off to the land of spice and gems. The couple flew away ; And never more the merchant's eyes Beheld the parrot grey. ABD'S LESSON. I Down in an eastern valley where The herbage was both short anfl rare. And where alone from earnest toil Came profit from the grudging soil, Dwelt one of life laborious, which. With thrift, had made him passing rich. He tilled his fields in quiet peace, Beheld his flocks and herds increase, His purse grew full of silver coin, New acres to his acres join ; UMBO'S LESSON. 199 And while the proud effendis round In chase or revel pleasure found, Let them their way of life pursue, And, following his, the richer grew. But never yet was mortal known To let the well-enough alone, And Abd-ul-Assis, though no fool, Made no exception to the rule. He fretted at his growing store, And, having much, he wanted more ; Sighed for the honors and the state Attending movements of the great ; And, ere his life was half-way spent Felt envy move, and discontent. He envied much the life of those Whose stately mansions round him rose ; And most of all the grand vizier. Whose summer palace standing near Rose from a park of trees and flowers, Studded with minarets and towers. " The palm," said Abd, " its shadow throws Upon the small and lowly rose : How lordly that, how humble this! Nature has done her work amiss. That stands in leafy glory where Its plumy top adorns the air ; This scarcely shows of life a sign Beneath the other's shade malign. As to the shrub the lofty tree. So is the grand vizier to me. Why have not I as proud a fate? Why am not I among the great? 200 T)R, ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. I'll sell my herds ; I'll sell my land ; I'll make my way to Samarcand, Who knows but, in a wider sphere, I may not rise to be vizier? " That night, reposing on his bed, Bright visions flitted through his head. Far from his native vale he dwelt, Where wondering crowds before him knelt, Bey, then pacha, and sultan last. Reigning assured o'er countries vast, Imposing on the mass his yoke, He made viziers from meaner folk. And found his highest hopes were gained. And all his heart desired, attained. While Abd was wrapt in fearless sleep, A storm had risen the vale to sweep, So when he rose, his vision found Wrecks from the tempest scattered round. The palm he much admired before Lay prostrate at his cottage door ; But, blooming in its beauty fair. The rose, erect, refreshed, was there. Just then a neighbor neared the place. And stopped, a story in his face. " Great news," he said, " you needs must hear- Ill-fortune to the grand vizier. His towering pride his place has cost ; His master's favor has been lost ; His wealth is gone ; in dungeon grim The fatal bowstring waits for him. How lucky, Abd, are you and I, Who never reached such station high. THE 'ByiLLAD OF "BABETTE. 2< We are not subject to the fate That seems the noble to await ; The storm the palm-tree overthrows, But kindly spares the humble rose ; The wrath that struck the proud vizier Has left unscathed us peasants here.'' The neighbor passed ; Abd closed the door, Sat down to think, and dreamed no more. Henceforth he worked with busy hand. And fed his flocks, and tilled his land ; And gave his thanks to Allah, since He was nor bey, pacha, nor prince ; But just a man whom kindly fate Had given a safe and low estate. THE BALLAD OF BABETTE. Babette, the peasant maiden, The guileless, graceful child, To gather nuts and berries, Went to the copsewood wild. And glancing in the fountafij. Beneath the shadows brown. She saw her comely features And russet-linsey gown. " Fine birds come from fine feathers," The little maiden said — " Had I crown of rubies To wear upon my head ; TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " If this poor gown were silken; And I among the girls Had maidens four to serve me, And a necklace made of pearls ; " And I had silvern slippers Upon these little feet, A prince would come to woo me. And call me fair and sweet." Then suddenly before her A wounded dove was seen, With drops of blood down falling Upon the leaves of green. It trembled when she touched ij:. Rut had no power to fly ; And in her face looked upward With scared and piteous eye. She washed the red drops gently. That started from the wound, And the weary bird lay quiet, As though content it found. Then when her hand was opened, It made a plaintive coo. And rising slowly upward. Far in the distance flew. Then on the maiden wandered Till, by a hazel there, Escaped from cruel hunters. She saw a panting hare. THE 'BALLAD OF HABETTE. 203 Her words of loving kindness It did not seem to hear, Till from her quivering eyelids Dropped on it many a tear. When lo ! it rose and trembled, Its eyes grew full of light. And through the briers and hazels It bounded out of sight. And throbbed the maiden's bosom With pleasing, painful start. And happy thrills of gladness Made music in her heart. When lo! on purple pinions, A flock of doves there came ; The first one bore a ruby. And each one had the same. And still came flying, flying. The doves on pinions fleet ; And rubies there on rubies They laid before her feet. And they made her a crown of rubies. Of rubies bright and red, And they made her a crown of rubies, And placed it on her head. And next of hares, a hundred Came from the north and south, And each in coming carried A great pearl in hi.s mouth. 204 "DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT fPOEMS. And still came running, running, More hares, with motion fleet, And pearls, in countless npmber, They laid before her feet. And they made her a lovely necklace Of pearls without a speck, And they made her a lovely necklace And placed it on her neck. Was it the poor dove's hfe-blood That now in rubies burned? And from Babette's kind weeping Had tears to pearls beeh turned? , And then the doves flew over, And cooed with voices sweet. And a pair of silvern slippers She found upon her feef. And then the hares ran round her. And her skin grew white as milk, And her gown of russet-linsey Was changed to one of silk. And lo! there came four maidens To wait on her, forsooth! Simplicity, and Pity, And Innocence, and Truth. And the dove became a fairy, And touched her with her wand ; And the hare became Prince Charming, And he was young and fond. THE BELL OF JUSTiqE. 205 And a train of lords and ladies, The little maiden met ; And the Prince, he walked beside her. The downcast-eyed Babette. And never in the copsewood Was the little maiden seen, For she dwells all time in Elf -land, As the good King Charming's queen. THE BELL OF JUSTICE. O'er Thoule, in the olden day, A wise and mighty king held sway, Who, after storms of war had, past. Peacefully ruled dominion vast. And, in a castle strong and tall. With lofty towers and massive wall, By men-at-arms and knights attended. Dwelt in a state assured and splendid. Beloved this gentle king because So kind his sway, so mild his laws ; Justice he dealt throughout his State, Not merely to the rich and great. But patient heard, and judged with rare, As well the poor man's humble prayer. The lowest peasant in the land Might seek the throne of AldoWand ; And all, though mean, or even bad. Strict right and rigid justice had. Judges in every town he set Wherein injustice might be met. £•» 2o6 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT 'POEMS. That fraud and crime might be controlled, And justice given to all, not sold. But yet he kept, lest wrong ensue, The power all cases to review ; And on his castle high there hung A silver bell with iron tongue, A silken cord for ringing which Was at the gateway in a niche ; And he,, defrauded of his right. Might freely come, by day or night. And there the Bell of Justice ring. And so have audience of the king- But as the judges all were just, The bell grew black, its tongue had rust ; Right so in all that land abourided That none had ever heard it sounded; And to its rope that useless hung An unpruned grapevine climbed and clung. One day it chanced at banquet there. The king rechning in his chair, Meats had been taken from the board, And generous wine for all outpoured. And when for minstrel, harp in hand, Who sang the deeds of Aldobrand, Throughout the hall loud plaudits rang. There came in air a sudden clang ; The Bell of Justice, silent long, Pealed out in fitful notes and strong. And nobles, ranged that board around, Were startled at the unwonted sound. " Learn," said the king, " who* asks our ear. And bring the injured suppliant here. Gentle or simple, man or brute — At once we'll hear, and judge his suit.'' wmm THE BELL OF JUSTICE. 207 The seneschal, with wand in hand, Obedient to the king's command, Went forth, but soon returned and bowed. And said unto the king aloud : " I have not dared to bring, beau sire, The suppliant, as you bade me, here. An old white steed, so gaunt, so lean. The crows esteem his meat too mean. Turned out to die, it so befellj Cropping the vine4eaves, rang the bell." "Well," said the king, "the horse had need, What if he be a sorry steed — Old, gaunt, weak, friendless and forlorn ? Faithful his owner he has borne ; And now, with youth and strength gone by, Is heartlessly turned out to die. Who thus has recompensed the brute, Shall answer to this suitor mute. Find me his master ; bring me both ; To judge the case I'm nothing loth." It was not long ere in the hall A white-haired man, grim, lean and tall, Ragged of dress, yet proud of port. Appeared before the king and court : And then they brought the courser white. Who whinnied at his master's sight, And placed his head with fondest air Upon the old man's shoulder there. " Speak," said the king, "and answer me, Why this unkind neglect of thee Of such a fond and faithful steed? " " O king! " he answered, " 'tis from need! P'reely I gave my arms and truth. To middle life from early youth. 2o8 -£>;?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. To one who, when I older grew, His favor from me then withdrew. Ill-fared the twain, my steed and I, Both in old age turned out to die." " Now, by my faith as crowned king," The monarch said, " I'll mend this thing. If in my realm the man shall be Who brought this twain to misery, Their honest service to requite^ He shall be forced to do them right. Give me thy name and his, and he Shall make amends to thine antl thee, Or find scant mercy at my hand." " My name is Rolph : his, Aldobrand. When years agone this mighty realm The Keltic hordes would overwhelm. And give it o'er to blood and wrack, I led the force that drove them back, Pierced singly all their legions through, And on the field their leader slew. But old, dismissed from service, since No longer needed by my prince, The rags that cover me attest Whose deeds are fairest, fares not best ; And if this steed of noble strain Drags to his end, in want and pain. Not mine the fault that, worn and scarred, His age is wretched, life is hard." The monarch bit his lips, and said, " They brought me word Sir Rolph was dead. Their words shall not be false — what ho! Guards, there! let not this couple go! Thy worn-out war-horse in this ring, Asks justice on thee from thy king. THE CITY OF THE PLAIN. 209 Perish, Sir Rolph ; but from thy knee, Rise as the Count of Campanie ; Castles and lands and honorslfair Be thine, and velvet robes to wear ; But as thou hast, with swelling port. Reproached thy monarch in his court. As punishment well due thy guilt, Be thou my guest whene'er thou wilt ; My palace to thy entrance free. Come when or how thou mayst to me ; And ever welcome to the stall As is his master to the hall, The steed who served thy purpose well What time he rang the silver bell." THE CITY OF THE PLAIN. There was a city once, the rabbins teach, Whereto there came one day to seek for alms, One of those needy wights with whining speech. Who for your dole extend their earnest palms. Each generous citizen who heard him sue, Gave him a coin which bore the giver's name ; To bear these gifts he had enough to do — But lo! how soon his joy to sorrow came! Not one in all the place would gijve him food, Not one in all the place a crumb would sell ; Famished, though rich in coin, the beggar stood — He could not even steal — they* watched too well. ■D/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. With hunger weak he tottered up and down, The jeering crowd gave way on either side ; No food, no drink for him, within the town ; And there, with all his gold upon him, died. Then, each, devoid of shame, when as he lay, And, eager from the dead man's store to draw, The coin that had his name on bore away — Then left the carcass for the dogs to gnaw. "Ah, piteous deed! " I hear a voice complain — "A stricken man to such a fate to doom ; Well did the fire from Heaven finally rain Upon the town such wretches to consume." But stay! have we no City of the Plain? Will not our land the same reproaches bear? When sons of genius ask, do they not gain That empty laud which only proves a snare? Marked with our names we give the coin of praise ; We load them with our gifts of idle breath. Which buy no comfort for their weary days. Nor yet preserve them from a beggar's death. They live in wretchedness and starving die ; For bread our empty honors will not pay ; And then, as in their wooden house, they lie. The praise we gave we fain would take away. T/iere disappointment checks our base desire ; We cannot rob the dead one of his fame ; TAaf kindles at our efforts into fire, Consuming those who strive to quench its flame. RAFTING ON THE GUYANDOTTE. Who at danger never laughed, Let him ride upon a raft Down Guyan, when from the drfiins Pours the flood of many rains, And a stream no plummet gauges In a furious freshet rages. With a strange and rapturous fear, Rushing water he will hear ; Woods and cliff-sides darting by. These shall terribly glad his eye. He shall find his life-blood leaping Faster with the current's sweeping ; Feel his brain with frenzy swell; Hear his voice in sudden yell Rising to a joyous scream O'er the roar of the raging stream. Never a horseman bold who strides Mettled steed and headlong rides, With a loose and flowing rein. On a bare and boundless plain ; Never a soldier in a fight, When the strife was at its height. Charging through the slippery gore 'Mid bayonet-gleam and cannon-roar ; Never a sailor helm in hand. Out of sight of dangerous land, With the storm-winds driving clouds And howHng through the spars and shrouds Feels such wild delight as he On the June rise riding free. 213 214 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. Thrice a hundred logs together Float as lightly as a feather ; On the freshet's foaming flow, Swift as arrows shoot, they go Past the overhanging trees, Jutting rocks — beware of these! Over rapids, round the crooks. Over eddies that fill the nooks. Swirling, whirling, hard to steer, Manned by those who know no fear. Tough-armed raftsmen guide each oar, Keeping off the mass from shore ; While between the toiling hands Mid-raft there the pilot stands, Wa.tching the course of the rushing sluice From the top of the dirt-floored, rough caboose. Well it is, in the seething hiss Of a boihng, foaming flood like this, That the oars are stoutly boarded, And each log so safely corded That we might ride on the s*alt-sea tide. Or over a cataract safely glide. If the pins from hickory riven Were not stout and firmly driven, Were the cross-trees weak and limber, Woe befall your raft of timber! If the withes and staples start And the logs asunder part. Off each raftsman then would go In the seething, turbid flow, And the torrent quick would bear him To a place where they could spare him. Brawny though he be of limb. Full of life and nerve and vim, Like a merman though he .swim. Little hope would be for him. %AFTING ON THE GUYANDOTTE. 215 Hither the logs would go and thither ; But the jolly raftsman — whither? Now we pass the hills that throw Glassy shadows far below ; Pass the leaping, trembhng rills, Ploughing channels in the hills ; Pass the cornfields green that glide (We seem moveless on the tide) In a belt of verdure wide, Skirting us on either side. Now a cabin meets us here. Coming but to disappear. Now a lean and russet deer Perks his neck and pricks his ear ; Then, as we, rise up before him. Feels some danger looming o'er him, Thinks the dark mass bodes him ill, Turns and scurries up the hill. Now some cattle, at the brink Stooping of the flood to drink, Lift their heads awhile to gaze In a sleepy, dull amaze ; Then they, lest we leap among them, Start as though a gadfly stung them. Past us in a moment fly Fields of maize and wheat and rye ; Dells and forest-mounds and meadows Float away like fleeting shadows ; But the raftsmen see not these — Sharp they look for sunken trees, Stumps with surface rough and ragged, Sandstone reefs with edges jagged, Hidden rocks at the rapids' head, New-made shoals in the river's bed ; 2i6 -BR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Steering straight as they pass the comb Of the sunken dam and its cradle of foam. Now through narrow channel darting, Now upon a wide reach starting, Now they turn with shake and quiver In a short bend of the river, Tasking strength to turn the oar That averts them from the shore. Ah! they strike. No! missed it barely ; They have won their safety- fairly. Now they're in the strait chute's centre ; Now the rapids wild they enter. Whoop ! that last quick run has brought her To the eddying, wide back-water. There's the saw-mill ! — now for landing ; Now to bring her up all standing! Steady! brace yourselves! a jar Thrills her, stranded on the bar. Out with lines! make fast, and rest On the broad Ohio's breast' Where's the fiddle? Boys, be gay! Eighty miles in half a day. Never a pin nor cross-tie started, Never a saw-log from us parted, Never a better journey run From the morn to set of sun. Oh, what pleasure! how inviting! Oh, what rapture! how exciting! If among your friends there be One who something rare would see, One who dulness seeks to change For a feeling new and strange. 'BEN -BOLT. 217 To the loggers' camp-ground send him, To a ride like this commend him — Ride that pain and sorrow dulces, Stirring brains and quickening pulses, Making him a happier man Who has coursed the fierce Guyan When the June-rain freshet swells it, And to yellow rage impels it. BEN BOLT. Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt — Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile. And trembled with fear at your frown ? In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone. They have fitted a slab of the granite so grey, And Alice lies under the stone. Under the hickory-tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill. Together we've lain in the noonday shade, And listened to Appleton's mill. The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in. And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze Has followed the olden din. Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, At the edge of the pathless wood. And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs. Which nigh by the doorstep stood? 2i8 TJR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek for in vain ; And where once the lords of the fo'rest waved Are grass and the golden grain. And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With the master so cruel and grirn, And the shaded nook in the running brook Where the children went to swim ? Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, The spring of the brook is dry, And of all the boys who. were schoolmates then There are only you and I. There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new ; But I feel in the deeps of my spirit-the truth, There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends — yet I hail Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, Ben Bolt of the salt -sea gale. BLOWN UP. Take care and move me easy, boys, and let the doctor see 'F there's any use to try and patch what little's left of me. There — that'll do. It's all no use — I see it in your eye. You needn't purse your mouth that way^Van Valen's got to die : And if there really be no chance to savC: a fellow's life — Well, well! the blast was quite enough; and we'll excuse the knife. 'BLOIVN UP. 219 Just loose my collar gently, boys — it hurts me as I lie ; Put something underneath my head — don't raise me quite so high ; And let me have some water — ah-h ! I tell you that's the stuff; It beats old rye — I ought to know, I've surely drunk enough. You'll say, whatever were my faults, to sa,y the thing that's right, That Jim Van Valen never shirked his liquor or a fight. The circuit-rider? What's the use? I hardly think one prayer, , However long, has power enough my whole account to square : And at the Day of Judgment, when the world its work is through. And all the miners round about account for what they do, The Lord above, who knows all' things, will be as just to me And merciful — at all events, with him I'll let it be. Somehow my mind goes backward, boys, to many years ago, To the Valley of the Overproek and the farm-house long and low. When I wandered on the Palisades to gather Pinxter bloom, And, mixed with lilacs, mother placed them in our sitting- room. I see them in the fireplace, in that pitcher white and high : What queer things come across the mind when one's about to die! Why, I can see the orchard, boys, upon the sideling hill ; The place I fished for killies in the crooked Pellum Kill ; 2 20 73/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT "POEMS. The deep hole where the pickerel lay — the rascal long and lank, I caught him with a noose of wire, and snaked him on the bank; The places in the meadow where I went to trap the mink ; The mill-pond by the roadside where I .drove the cows to drink. And there was little Kitty, boys, her house was close to ours. The gardens almost joined, but she was prettier than the flowers. We went to school in winter time upon the Tineck road. And when I put her books with mine it seemed to ease the load ; But when we both grew up, somehow I wasn't quite so near; She married Peter Brinkerhoff — and that is why I'm here. There was my good old father, boys, with stern and rugged brow ; I used to think him hard on me — I know him better now. And, then, my dear old mother, with that pleasant smile of hers — Oh, what a gush of tenderness the thought within me stirs ! Come, father, raise me in your arms ; and, mother, stroke my brow — Your hand is cool — what odd conceit! they're neither hving now. They're gone, the old Van Valens, boys ; there's no one left but me, And I am going, too — and so I send no word, you see. The boys I used to play with, and the girls I used to know, Grown up to men and women, have forgot me long ago ! THE OLD IVIFE'S TALE. 221 I've not been to Bergen County, now, for many and many a day. And no one there would care to hear what I might have to say. I find I'm getting weaker, boys ; my eyes are growing dim ; There's something dancing in the air ; my head begins to swim. Water! That's good! that stirs me up! that gives me Ufa again ! You talk about your dead men — why, I'm just as good as ten. There's something heavy on my breast — you take the thing away — Mother! there's Kitty Demarest — may I go out — to — play! THE OLD WIFE'S TALE. A TERRIBLE wind, sir! Through the vale And down the road it sweeps, Hurrying fast, and whirling past With the maddest bounds and leaps : It strips the crown of the hill of snow And gathers the spoil in heaps. And it blows, blows, and goes, goes, Till the flesh on a body creeps. When the storm outside is doing its worst, You'd best in shelter stay. And while a tight roof covers your head Remain there while you may ; 322 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT' TOEMS. But, if you'll not, when John comes home He'll show you on your way. For every road around to him Is clear by night or day. yes, sir! John's my only boy, Though really not my son ; And if I be no mother of hjs, A mother he has none ; But he is near and dear to me. As though I had been one. Now twenty years since first he came Their changing course have run. A stormy night hke this, when I The fire sat bending o'er, There came a fierce and sudden rap Upon our cottage door ; But I scarcely heeded it at first Amid the shock and roar^ Of the tempest wild that shook the house, And swept from sea to shore. But presently came a fainter rap In the lull of the wind-storm's spite, And with it was a muffled cry That thrilled my heart witli fright. 1 opened the door. A sudden blast Of wind blew out the light, And some one staggered wearily in From out the gloomy night. At first, if this were woman or man Was quite beyond my ken ; But I shut the door and bolted it, And lit the hght again. THE OLD IVIFE'S TALE. 223 And roused from bed my good man Dick ; And I remember then The whirring bell of our eight-day clock Rang out the hour of ten. A woman it proved, with babe in arms Well wrapped in cloth and fur ; But, think of it! out on such a night — Not fit for a worthless cur! I called on Dick to freshen the fire, And took the child from her, While she on yonder settle fell, And did not move or stir. I held the baby in my arms — It was a lovely child — And the little darling looked at me. And crowed and crowed and smiled ; And when it calmly sank to sleep. While howled the tempest wild, I thought of the babe of Bethlehem, The Saviour meek and mild. Dick growled a little — 'twas his way — At being roused from bed; And turned and sharply questioned her. But not a word she said. Face downward, motionless she lay. Her hands clasped o'er her head ; There were four of us that stormy night, And one of the four was dead. From whence she came, or why she came, Through storm-winds driving free. Wet, cold, forlorn, with babe; in arms. Was mystery to me ; 2 24 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. For the baby's furs, her linen and lace, Her silks, a sight to see, Those hands and feet — a lady born If ever were one, was she. It was her heart, the doctor said. When he and the coroner carne, And, by her golden wedding-ring, She was a married dame. And when we knew the orphan boy Was not a child of shame. We craved to keep him for our own — O yes ! we found her name. " Grace Oswald " on her handkerchief ; Her linen marked " G. O.'' ;- "John Oswald" on the baby's clothes — Dear me! how pale you grow! The town-clerk has the things she left, And that is all I know — But are you ill? Your eyes are wild ; What makes you tremble so? Ah, John, you're back. This stranger stopped A guide to town to seek ; He seemed a stout old man enough Though now so faint and weak. And see ! he stretches his hand to you, While tears roll down each cheek — How like their faces! Father and son, If features truth can speak. He must not stir from here to-night. No matter who he be ; For the tempest, with a mighty voice, Cries over land and sea. GAULEY Rll^ER. 225 I hear the breakers, on the beach As they surge there drearily ; And it blows, blows, as it did the night When John was brought to me. GAULEY RIVER. The waters of Gauley, Wild waters and brown, Through the hill-bounded valley, Sweep onward and down ; Over rocks, over shallows. Through shaded ravines, Where the beautiful hallows Wild, varying scenes ; Where the tulip tree scatters Its blossoms in Spring, And the bank-swallow spatters With foam its sweet wing ; Where the dun deer is stooping To drink from the spray, And the fish-eagle swooping Bears down on his prey — Brown waters of Gauley, That sweep past the shore — Dark waters of Gauley That move evermore. Brown waters of Gauley, At eve on your tide, My log canoe slowly And careless I guide, 2 26 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. The world and its troubles I leave on the shore, I seek the wild torrent And shout to its roar. The pike glides before me In impulse of fear, In dread of the motion That speaks of the spear; — Proud lord of these waters, He fears lest I be A robber rapacious And cruel as he. He is off to his eddy, In wait for his prey ; He is off to his ambush, And there let him stay. Brown waters of Gauley, Impatient ye glide, To seek the Kanawha, And mix with its tide — Past hillside and meadow, Past cliff and morass. Receiving the tribute Of streams as ye pass, Ye heed not the being Who floats on your breast, Too earnest your hurry, Too fierce your unrest. His, his is a duty As plain as your own ; But he feels a dulness Ye never have known. He pauses in action. He faints and gives o'er ;. THE OLD TENOR'S LAST SONG. 227 Brown waters of Gauley, Ye move evermore. Brown waters of Gauley, My fingers I lave In the foam that lies scattered Upon your brown wave. From sunlight to shadow, To shadow more dark, 'Neath the low-bending birches I guide my rude barque ; Through the shallows whose brawling Falls full on my ear. Through the sharp, mossy masses My vessel I steer. What care I for honors, The world might bestoW, What care I for gold, With its glare and its glow ; The world and its troubles I leave on the shore Of the waters of Gauley, That move evermore. THE OLD TENOR'S LAST SONG. Before the village inn I checked my steed, To ask my proper way. When came along a wandering son of need, And, as excuse to beg, began to play. I 2 28 TlR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. He looked a most disreputable tramp, Unshaven and unshorn, His forehead with the dew of travel damp. His hat a fragment, and his clothing torn. And yet a something in his wrinkled face My interest awoke ; About his way a spent and lingering" grace Of better days and higher fortunes spoke. He had a battered fiddle, cracked and vile, And o'er it drew a bow That gave a sound at first much like a file, Then softened to an air of wailing woe. I sat there motionless as carven storte, I could not move away ; It seemed from that wild, weird, despairing tone, A lost soul prisoned in the fiddle lay. At length he stopped, and, bending body low, Held open palm to me, But spoke no begging word meanwhile, as though I was the only one to pay his fee. I gave him then what silver coins I had — They were a due not dole ; For though the wretch was poor, and might be bad, I gave the tribute to that prisoned soul. Then with a warmth born of Italian sun, A tale he briefly told. How on the lyric stage he laurels won, In days when he was neither poor-nor old. THE OLD TENOa'S LAST SONG. 229 Keenly he fixed his deep black eyes on me, And gathered by my way, I thought his story false; then suddenly He sang aloud a soft Italian lay. At first, his voice was like his fiddle, cra.cked, And trembled in his throat ; But steadily the music he attacked, And purer grew each true and silvery note. A flood of melody arose in air. Filling the space around ; And from their houses people gathered there. And drank with willing ear the welcome sound. The smith his hammer dropped, and at. the door Of the stithy stood to hear ; The loungers on the porch their talk gave o'er ; Voice, breath and motion all gave place to ear. The last note died away ; the spell was broke ; Loud rang applause around ; And in apology some words I spoke. When my lost courage and my voice I found. A pallor on the minstrel's face o'erspread I sprang at once to ground ; And pillowing on my breast his drooping head, Made speech of low-toned praise and soothing sound. I said his voice was sweeter than a bird's ; When he, with a smile of pride, And — uttering in a gasping way the words, " The swan sings in his dying, Signoi; " — died. THE OLD MILL. Here from the brow of the hill I look, Through a lattice of boughs and leaves, On the old grey mill with its gambrel roof. And the moss on its rotting eaves. I hear the clatter that jars its walls, And the rushing water's sound, And I see the black floats rise and fall As the wheel goes slowly round. I rode there often when I was young. With my grist on the horse before, And talked with Nelly, the miller's girl. As I waited my turn at the door. And while she tossed her ringlets, bjown. And flirted and chatted so free, The wheel might stop or the wheel might go, It was all the same to me. 'Tis twenty years since last T stood On the spot where I stand to-day. And Nellie is wed, and the miller is dead, And the mill and I are grey. But both, till we fall into ruin and wreck. To our fortune of toil are bound ; And the man goes and the stream flows. And the wheel moves slowly round. 230 THE LOGAN GRAZIER. At dawn to vhere the herbage grows, Up yonder hill the grazier goes. Obedient to his every word, Before him stalk the sullen herd, \ Reluctant in the misty morn. With stamping hoof and tossing horn, With lengthened low and angry moan, Go black and dappled, red and roan. Through drain and hollow, up the hill They pass, obedient to his will. The slender ox and mighty bull, The grazier thinks them beautiful. You see less beauty in the herd Than in yon orange-tinted bird ; You fix your better-pleasfed gaze On yon broad sweep of emerald maize. Yon maples on the hill-side high, Or on yon field of waving rye : More pleased with bird, or grain, or trees — The grazier's sight is set on these. He sees a netted purse of gold In every bellowing three-year-old. He sees new comforts round his home, When buyers down from Tazewell roam ; 231 \ 232 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. He sees his cabin nigh the creek, Its mud-daubed chimney changed to brick ; Its rude logs hid by clapboards sawed, New shingles on its roof so bro^d, New puncheons on the worn-out floor; A picket fence before the door, While cups of tin and plates of delf And pewter spoons adorn the shelf. Close where the rifle hangs on hooks, On cupboard top are rows of books — The Pilgrim of the dreaming John, And Weems's Life of Marion ; The well-thumbed speeches of Calhoun ; The pictured life of Daniel Boone ; D'Aubign^'s story, told so well, How Luther fought and Cranmer fell ; To please his wife a yellow gown. And beads to deck his daughters brown ; A jack-knife for his youngest son, A rifle for his eldest one. All these to him the cattle low As up the hill they slowly go. He fears no ravage of disease 'Mong brutes as strong and fat as these. There's salt enough for them in. store, Brought from Kanawha's muddy shore ; THE LOGAN GRAZIER. 233 The herbage on the hill is goo'd ; The fern is thick within the ■wood ; There's tender grass in yonder drain, And pea-vine on the summit plain. High thought of gain that moment thrills The herdsman of the Logan hills. He envies not the hero bold ; He cares not who may office hold ; The statesman's toil, the stout man's limb. The lover's hopes, are nought to him. His mind three things alone receives — His wife, his children, and his beeves. So these may flourish and grow fair, All else to him is smoke and air. O Logan grazier, stout and strong, Despising fraud, defying wrong, Brave as forefathers stern who bore The stress of combat long and sore. And fearless met in battle shock, The wild and painted Shawanpck ; True as the rifle in thy hand, And generous as thy fertile land — Full oft I've eaten at thy side The maizen cakes and venison fried ; Oft in thy cabin as thy guest Have stretched my wearied Ifmbs to rest ; 234 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. I love to' note thy honest brow, Warm friend and true companion thou ; And know no manlier form is seen Than that within thy coat of jean. Truth fills those eyes so keenly set Beneath thy fox-skin cap ; and yet I would not that thy lot were mine ; I would not that my lot were thine. Guard thou thy beeves and count thy gold ; Be glad when those great hferds are sold. For me, by midnight lamp I pore My manuscript in silence o'er. Each to the path that suits his feet ; Each toil, for time is moving fleet, And soon, in woollen shroud arrayed, Both in our narrow coflfins laid. It matters not if cattle fair, Or making lays has been our care. The poet's and the herdsman's form Shall feed alike the greedy worm ; Shall pass the poet's glowing words, Shall pass the herdsman's lowing herds, And from man's memory fade away Both herdsman's shout and poet's lay. "FOR THE SAKE OF HIS MOTHER." We looked for his sign in the mountains, And hunted him there far and wide, The last of the band of marauders Who had harried the country-side. Too long of the land a terror, We said, if we met with him, A rope and a hickory sapling Should rid us of Terrible Jim. Worn out by our steady pursuing. We caught him asleep one day, And one of us, up to him creeping, Stole gun and revolvers away. ^ But his knife, in a desperate fury. He used on so many around. That our leader replied with his rifle, And brought the mad wretch to the ground. But he said, on his hand half-rising — " Let your rope be a strong one, hounds! Jim is six feet, one, in his stockings. And weighs over two hundred pounds! " He looked at the blood that was flowing From the ugly wound in his side. And murmuring softly — " mother! " Sunk back on the earth, and died. Had we kept the same pitiless feeling We felt for the man we had slain. In that desolate rift of the mountain His corse had been left to remain ; 235 236 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. We'd have left it behind us unburied, Alone where the blue billet smote, As feast for the ravaging vulture, As food for the howling coyote. But the word that he uttered in dying Our memory carried that day To the hearth-stones and roof-trees of childhood, And bitterness melted away. Each thought of his far-away mother ; " He was some mother's s5n," it was said ; So we dug him a grave, and we laid him To wait till they summon the dead. Since then thirty years have .passed over, And Terrible Jim is forgot. Except when some wandering hunter Shall happen to pass by a spot Where he finds a long slab of white marble — Who brought it there never was known — With the words, " For the sake of his mother," Cut deep in the face of the stone. SUE. In good old Brantford village, when I ran around a lad of ten. There was no boy or girl but knew. Pitied and loved old Crazy Sue. Her elf-locks white, her withgred face, Her downcast glance, her mincing pace- I seem to see them clearly now. When age's wrinkles seam the brow, SUE. 237 As in my boyish days, and hear, As then, her voice in treble clear Pipe out the words: " Oh! happy me, The day when John comes back from sea!" Scarce forty years before, 'twould seem, Her beauty was the village theme- Eyes with a deeper shade than blue, Tinged with the pansy's purple hue ; Locks falling in a waving fold. In shadow fawn, in sunlight gold ; Skin where the blushes' restless stream With rose hues flushed the tint of cream ; A form that was as lithe and free As in the breeze the willow tree ; And with them all sweet winning ways — Such Crazy Sue in early days. She loved — but that's a tale as old As when the earth knew age of gold ; She loved, and thought him man of men ; She loved, and was beloved again. A handsome sailor came to woo. And won the heart of pretty Sue, Who vowed to be his wife when he Came back from off the Indian Sea. They parted ; ere a year had flown She found her truth survived alone ; A richer bride her John had wed Out in Calcutta, shipmates said. In perilous state for many a day, 'Twixt Hfe and death the maiden lay. At length came back, the struggle o'er, Her life ; but reason nevermore. 238 TDR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. She quite forgot her lover's wrong, Her faith she kept within her strong, And waited patient, long and fond. His coming from the far beyond. In life she toiled for others' weal, Her woe forgot, or could not fefil, And constant said : "Oh! happy me. The day when John comes back from sea! " Henceforth all Brantford surely knew The mission meant for Crazy Sue ; To every hut where want was found She with her basket went around ; Where'er the sick in anguish lay She tender nursed them day by day ; At every needy creature's call. She shared her substance with them all ; But spoke not, save one sentence, which Kept John an idol in a niche For her to worship, waiting when He'd come to her from sea again. She seemed as happy as a queen — (But are queens happy?) never seen To show a frown, or drop a tear ; And, though her brain were far from clear, Perhaps that gave her sorrow rest^ — God knows ; he knows all things the best ; And all things loved her, brute and man! The little children to her ran ; _: The birds, when she threw crumbs of bread, Came fearless to her feet and fed. Even the starveling, homeless cur, Who shrank from others, followed her. THE 'BROIVNS. 239 They missed her from the street one day, And found her where at home she lay, Dying alone. The people heard, Their hearts with tender pity stirred, Their gentle hands her pillow smoothed, Their kindly words her anguish soothed ; And, waiting words of hers to show If reason had returned or no. They heard her say before her death. With tremulous voice and struggling breath, Yet joyous tone : " Ah, happy me ! John has at last come back from sea! " THE BROWNS. Margery Brown in her arm-chair sits, Stitching and darning and patching for life ; The good woman seems at the end of her wits — No end to the toil of a mother and wife. She'd like to be far from her home on the farm ; She sighs for the pleasure and rush of the town ; She counts every stitch, and she longs to be rich — Pity the troubles of Margery Brown. Here is a coat with a rent in the sleeve ; Here is a sock with a hole in the toe ; This wants a patch on the arm, you perceive ; That must be darned at once, whether or no. It is patching and darning and sewing of rents. From dawn till the moment the sun goes down ; And all from those boys full of mischief and noise- Pity the troubles of Margery Brown, 24° VR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Timothy Brown starts a-field in the morn, To follow the plough-tail for many an hour ; The drought has been curling the leaves of the corn, And stirring the ground meets the lack of a shower. From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun, Through the terrible rays that pour fierily down, He treads in his toil o'er the parched, dusty soil — Pity the troubles of Timothy Brown, He reaches his home at the close of the day — The oven wood has to be chopped for next morn ; The horse must be given his oats and hi« hay. The cows have their mess, and the pigs get their corn. He would like for a moment to glance at the news In the journal that yesterday came from the town ; But when he has fed he must hurry to bed — Pity the troubles of Timothy Brown. Riding along is the rich Hector Graeme, With his wife by his side ; both are sickly and wan ; They have not a child left them to carry their name — The one that they owned to the churchyard has gone. He looks at the boys perched aloft on the fence ; S/ie sees the stout wife in the skimpiest of gowns — " These have children and health ! " and the people of wealth Envy the lot of those fortunate Browns. I think that the world is made up just like this — Discontent gnaws the higher as well as the low ; The Browns think the Graemes reach the summit of bliss ; The Graemes think the Browns are exempt from all woe. We are all Browns or Graemes as oiu- stations may be ; We look to our crosses much more than our crowns ; And while Brown and his wife, they repine at their life, Graemes pass in their coaches and enVy the Browns. KATE VANE. I WELL remember when at mom We twain to school would go, In summer heat, in winter chill — Unheeding sun or snow. I think of when I used to gaze Within your bonnet on those days — Perchance to steal a kiss, K^ate Vane. Ah, would that we were ydung again! I think of when I " did the sums " That puzzled so your pate, And, when I went to say my task, Slipped in your hands the slate. Oft would I claim and get for this ' What now were worth a world — a kiss : You did not think it harm, Kate Vane — Ah, would that we were young again! I think of when the brindle cow Adown the cattle track Chased you, and I with stick and stone In triumph beat her back. Your little cheek was on my breast, Your little lips to mine were prest. Your eyes were filled with love, Kate Vane- Ah, would that we were young again! I think of when I halved with you My cherished, childish store, And only wished, for your dear sake. It might be ten times more. 241 242 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Our schoolmates, in their petty strife With us, would call us "man and wife ; " None call us that just now, Kate Vane — Ah, would that we were young again! I see you now when years have passed. And find you full as fair ; Time has not soiled your purity. Nor marked your face with ^are. I love you as I did before — Yea! deeper, stronger, better, more. What! are you in my arms, Kate Vane? Dear love, we both are young again! BREAKNECK HILL. Seeking each once-familiar spot, Which memory holds though tinie may not, I stand within the town again, A stranger at three score and ten. No trace of what I used to know In boyhood, sixty years ago. Houses on houses ranged in rows — I mind green fields instead of those ; Wliere stands yon mansion tall and fair, I think the schoolhouse once stood there ; They've filled the pond, torn down the mill ; No landmark left but Breakneck Hill. 'Ti.s Summer now, and all is green, But memory paints a Winter scene, As on the hill when school was through Down its steep slope our cutters iflew. •BREAKNECK HILL. 243 Some there were furred — the children these Of folk who walked the paths of ease ; Some clad but poorly — children they Of those who trod a harder way ; But all essayed with toil and time, Dragging their sleds the hill to climb ; And, when they reached its summit, then ^^'ith laugh and shout, glide down again. Well I remember years away. One bitter cold December day. When 1, with Melton, Jack and Phil, My playmates, climbed that very hill. All these had richer sires than I, Their fathers thought their stations high ; While mine, whose purse was poorly filled, His rude, unfertile acres tilled ; But that ne'er marred our childish joys — Democracy's the creed of boys ; As equals there we climbed, and then Each swiftly glided down again. In after life each played the game ; Jack slowly climbed the hill of fame ; By painful steps and hard he rose, The wonder of both friends and foes. His learning struck the crowd with awe, His smile was honor, word was law ; He reached the summit ; for a while Fortune seemed on her son to smile ; Admired, caressed, by flatterers sought. The fiend of drink a victim caught. Jack tottered on his throne, and then He slid below, nor rose again. 244 T^R- ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Phil strove to climb the hill of wealth, For this he bartered truth and health ; He lost no chance for gain, and still Climbed higher on the muddy hill ; No conscience barred, nor shame dismayed, No pity checked nor mercy stayed, Until upon the summit there He stood confessed a millionairfe: The failure of a scheme one day Swept Phil's ill-gotten gains away, Left him a load of debt, and then He never climbed the hill again. With different aim from Jack or Phil, Melton went climbing pleasure's' hill. His father left him rich, and he A man of fashion chose to be ; Kept racers and some other things That gave his fortune fleetest wings ; Drove four-in-hand and sailed a yacht, Did all a provident man should not, And, when one-half his store was drained. By gaming scattered what remained. He tottered on the summit, then Slid down, and never rose again. In Winter, man, at Breakneck Hill, May climb and coast it at his will.; Down from the summit he may sweep, And upward next unhindered creep — From low to high, from high to low Upon that sloping plane of snow ; But he who gains the highest ground Where pleasure, wealth and fame are found HAYMAKING. 245 Must let no effort be undone To keep the foothold he has won, For, should he fall, 'tis certain then He'll never climb that height again. HAYMAKING. Their homage men pay to the mowing machine Which does all the work of a dozen as one, And, cutting a passageway smoothly and keen, Keeps steadily on till its labor is done ; But I like to remember the primitive way When I joined with my fellows to gather the hay. And labor was pleasantly tempered by play. The sweep of the scythe as it came and it went. And the fall at its switeh of the green crescent swath ; The swing of the mower with body well-bent, As the steel gave him room on its pitiless path : The pause for a moment each haymaker made. When the grass clogged a little and progress was stayed, And the clickety-click as he whetted the blade. The farmer behind with the fork in his grip To scatter the ridges of grass to the light, Grim, busy and steady, no smile on his lip. And a hope that the work would be over by night ; His glances were cast now and then to the sky. And in fear that some sign of a rain storm was nigh. He watched every cloud that went lazily by. The fun of the nooning out under the trees Where the dainties I mowed as my scythe had the grass, 246 "DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT 'POEMS. Where I lolled back in hope of a puff of the breeze, And saw the gay butterflies flutter and pass, And laughed at some worn, but yet ever new joke, And felt my heart beat with a trip-hammer stroke When to her I loved dearly another one spoke. The calm hush of noonday was pleasantly stirred By the buzz of our voices, the noise of our glee ; And once in a lull cometh notes of a bird, Undisturbed by our presence, far up in a tree. We sat at our ease as we chatted and laughed. While our mugs of cool switchel we carelessly quaffed, And thought that Jove's nectar ne'er equalled the draught. But the frolic next day was the best of -it all. When in windrows they raked the dried grass as it lay, The girls with us then — there was one, Katy Ball, Our neighbor's fair daughter, who helped with the hay. I wore her sunbonnet and she wore my hat — I dare say I looked like a great, awkward flat ; But what did I care at the moment for that? For at night when we loaded our wains with the crop Till they seemed like dark blots on a background of sky, And Katy with me rode in one on the top. What monarch in state was so happy as I? With my darling, all blushes, enthroned by my side, I sat there in tremulous pleasure and pride — Dear Katy! ah, black was the day when she died! A wonderful thing is your mowing macHine, That sweeps o'er the meadow in merciless way ; But I sigh for the scythe, curved and tempered and keen. And the labor and joy of the earlier day ; THE RO^DStlOE SPRING. 247 I sigh for the toil that was mingled with fun, The contentment we felt when the end had been won, And the sound, peaceful slumber when daylight was done. The lush grass of Lehigh, it grows as of yore. The hay smells as sweetly, the sun is as iiright ; But all the old glory of hay-time is o'er, And the. toil of the season has lost its dehght ; The scythe and the hay rake are hung up for show, The fork gives the tedder its place in the row ; And gone are the joys of the loved long ago. THE ROADSIDE SPRING. Tall houses crowd the rising ground, where stood the woods before, But still unchanged the crystal spring and as it was of yore — The yellow log through which it wells, its bottom strewn with sand, The gourd hung on the alder bough, so ready to the hand, The lush grass growing on the edge, the bushes drooping low — It is the same old roadside spring of fifty years ago. Here one time was the grazing farm where I was born and bred; There stood the farm-house — they have built a mansion there instead ; This street was once the turnpike road, o'er which in drought or rain There used to pass, on creaking wheels, the Conestoga wain; 248 T)R. ENGLISH'S' SELECT TOEMS. And here, however given was he a stronger draught to take. The driver always stopped awhile his ceaseless thirst to slake. How frequent, on my way to school, I tarried at the brink, And looked within its crystal depth before I bent to drink. There is no change — the water still the purest and the best; That gourd — it seems the very same my lips so often pressed ; The grass around is quite as green ; the log as mossy seems ; How vividly the past comes back, like figures seen in dreams ! Out yonder stands a church, whose spire is piercing through the air, Where stood the schoolhouse in a field of grass and bushes bare; A little wooden house it was, one-storied, narrow, low — Old Griifin was the teacher then ; he died here long ago ; Hard-featured, stern — the neighbors, said he was a learned man : One thing he knew beyond all doubt — the use of his rattan. Down that side street, so thickly built, the path lay to the glen— The short road to the village mill; they've arched the stream since then. That dusty, dun, three-storied mill, with ever open door ; The champing brutes that bore the gjist ranged in a row before ; The black wheel turning slowly round, the wafer falling free; The clatter and the whir within — how plain they are to me. HELEN, 249 Mill, woodland, schoolhouse, field and farm — they all have passed away ; This is a strange and alien land wherein I stand to-day ; The scenes of youth I longed to see, at my approach have fled; Here is the burial place of dreams, and here the past lies dead; And yet one verdant spot remains within the desert drear, One oasis within the waste — the roadside spring is here. HELEN. The Winter of my life is here : Leafless the trees around appear : The straggling sunbeams faintly glow ; . Sheeted the dying year in snOw ; Yet memory, at three score and ten, Creates life's early Spring again. Before these worn and dimming eyes What phantoms of the past arise! The lost love of my early days Appears to my enraptured gaze : And then events before me pass Like figures in Agrippa's glass. Where green Passaic foaming sweeps By grassy slopes and rocky .steeps, My Helen dwelt, no fairy she, And yet it ever seemed to me, All coarser things from thenge were banned, The place around her fairy land. 25° 'VR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. She was a child, and I a child, Both born within the woodland wild ; We roamed together playmates there ; I cared not were she swart or fair ; But when to womanhood she grew My soul her wondrous beauty knew. 'Twas sunset. At the gate we stood ; We had been wandering in th*e wood, Gathering the flowers beneath the trees, The bluets and anemones, And these within her hand she held When tongue to speak my heart impelled. I said — I know not what I said ; Blushing, my darling drooped her head (Her heart's blood showing through the thin And delicate confine of her skin), And, sinking on my throbbing breast. Without a word her love confessed. Sunny the morn when we were wed ; The day of June its fragrance shed ; The breath of roses filled the air ; The birds sang tunes beyond compare ; Earth changed to heaven, life grew divine, For I was hers and she was mine. Two happy years — then evermore The Springtime of my hfe gaye o'er. Upon a dark and gloomy day We bore to earth her lifeless clay, And left her to her lonely rest,, Her new-born babe utjon her breast. BARTON GEER. 251 I was alone — I am alone ; Though forty years have slowly flown ; No other mate was mine since then ; I did not care to mate again ; My heart was locked and barred, and she There in her coffin held the key. Spring, Summer, Autumn, all have passed, And aged Winter holds me fast ; And yet, beneath my memory fond. As though through some enchanter's wand, Above the ice, above the snows. Blossom the lily and the rose. BARTON GEER. Here, from the red-brick forests to the greener, From dusty streets to grassy rural ways, . I come with quiet heart and calm demeanor. To find, while fixing on this scene my gaze, The mind grow clearer, and the vision keener. The spirit piercing through its mental haze. No tinge of wrong to darken sinless matter ; No grasping avarice, and no sordid fear ; No stooping in this place to fawn or flatter ; No greed of gain, as in a city, here — Ah! how such language sounds like bitter satire While looking at the house of Barton Geer! Yonder it stands — the great stone buildings by it. Stables and barns, one time with plenty lined — 25^ T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. Where a wild spendthrift wasted gold in riot Gay in the present, to the future blind, While Barton Geer himself in mouldering quiet, Lay in his grave, his riches left behind. There were no arts devised to heap up treasure Too low for Barton's use ; no cunning mode Too vile for him ; too base he found no measure ; He gained his goal by any crooked road ; To see his riches grow his only pleasure ; " Get when you can," comprised his moral code. " Cheating can't prosper," here nor yei hereafter, And even knaves should hence refrain to cheat ; He gave such musty proverbs scornful laughter, Relaxed no grip no matter who'd entreat. And, though you filled his house from sill to rafter With victims' moans, would think it»music sweet. Though through his life to impulse kin>d defiant, He left his wealth a hospital to build ; And, doing that, upon his craft rehant. Being in devices eminently skilled. Was his own lawyer, with a fool for client. With his own will, and failed in what he willed. A bachelor, he had one kinsman solely, A distant cousin whom he hated much. And whom he swore, with many an oath unholy, Should never his po.ssessions hold oi; touch, Not even when their owner's form lay lowly, And its cold hands no more his gold could clutch. They broke the will ; the one so fiercely hated Was held the heir, and took the wealth of Geer ; THE COUNTRY-BOY'S LETTER. 253 It was not long ere that was dissipated — Drinking and gaming swept it in a year. What came by wrong, to go by wrpng was fated ; Who earned, who spent — both bodies moulder here. Slight traces of them now ; few have a notion Which was the miser, which the spendthrift heir ; The heaving billows of Time's restless ocean Shall soon their memory to oblivion bear ; Yet evermore, with ever-ceaseless motion, New life moves on, and nature is as fair. I stand where lived the twain ; the' wind, gay rover, The sweets it steals from blossoms, scatters free ; The blue, unclouded sky is bending over ; The birds they flit and twitter in yon tree ; The bees are droning as they milk the clover — What now am I to Geer, or Ge^r to me? THE COUNTRY-BOY'S LETTER. You needn't tell me of the frolic and glee Down there, in the holiday days ; With the rattle and rush, and the snow and the slush, Of the big city's crowded ways ; The people all frown if you holla in town ; You never dare show them your joy. Nor whistle or shout, if in-doors or out ; And that's rather hard on a boy. But here, in the morn, when John sounds the horn, I look at my snares and my traps?; And they're always complete, for I'm not to be beat In such things by the neighboring chaps. 2 54 VR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. I can yell as I go over hard-crusted, snow Where the doodridges '^ grow by the rocks, To see if each noose be tightened or loose, Or if bunny be caught in a box. When Betty avers that great trouble is hers, With the oven not fit for the bread, The axe then I ply, and the great chips they fly, At the wood-pile under the shed. As the dry billets in I bring with a grin, If Betty complain of the rout, I say : " What would you for the oven-wood do If you hadn't a young man about? " While grandfather there in his straiglit-backed chair, O'er yesterday's newspaper pores, Or sinks in a nap, I get mittens and cap, And go on a lark out of doors. With my sled off I dash and then like a flash I coast from the slope of the hill, Or strap on my skates with their newly-ground plates. At the pond by the old grey mill. To the post-office then with one of our men I ride in the two-horse sleigh ; And John never complains that I handle the reins, But lets me drive all the way. But Dobbin and Ball, they don't like it at all. For I won't stand fooling, you see ; On John they play tricks, but afraid, of my licks. They never cut capers with me. •■ Plum-leaved Viburnum. This lioy must be somewhere in New York State or Northern New Jersey. Farther South tliey call it " sheep-berry." T{ACHEL mAYNE. 255 For the rest of the day I just take my own way, And always have fun at a pinch ; I've a man built of snow in the hoKow below, And high — he's six feet if an inch. And mother, why she's making something for me — A ball, stuffed with rubber and yarn ; And when Perkin's Bill he comes over the hill, Don't we have such high times iij the barn? The shell-barks I've got, you should see what a lot, And with apples the bins are all full ; I'here are bushels of pears in the drawers by the stairs ; And father has sold the old bull. Last summer, you know, the bull frightened you so, And you ran and crawled under the fence ; 'Twas only a cow, not the bull, anyhow — I thought city boys had more sense. You write of your fun, and you think we have none, But you'd better believe we have some At this time of the year ; so join me out here — Coax your mother, and she'll let you come. Bring skates and some twine — I've used all of mine — And some snares I'll soon fix up for you ; We'll skate and we'll trap, and coast, too, old chap ; But don't bring a sled — I have two. I RACHEL MAYNE. No change I see, though seven long years In foreign lands away ; What struck before the eyes arid ears I see and hear to-day. 256 T)R. ENGLISH S SELECT TO EMS. The blue jay's harsh and chattering note Surmounts the hum of bees; The oriole in his flaming coat Flits through the apple-trees ; The sheep upon the hillside browse, The colts in pasture scour ; In yonder close the patient cows Await the milking-hour. There is the house where V was born, Long past from me and mine ; The red barn there to which at mom I went to feed the kine. There is the swape above the well ; There spread the fields of maize ; The osiers edge the marshy fell. As in my early days. The mill is there ; the stream flows free, Piercing the grassy plain ; But where is she who waits for me, My darling, Rachel Mayne? I loved her in the olden tirne As few have loved before; And now, when in my manhood's prime, I love her even more. I asked her father for her Hand, And these the words he said : " Who has not gold, nor herds, nor land Should not with maiden wed. \ACHEL aviAYNE. 257 " For seven long twelvemonths Jacob wrought His Rachel to obtain ; The wealth seven years to you have brought May buy you Rachel Mayne. " Hope of reward, that toil impels, Your lagging life may spur ; Seek other lands, where Fortune dwells, And win both wealth and her." Then here we parted, I and she. With many tears and sighs ; But ever since has dwelt with me Her tender, love-lit eyes. Why comes she not? Why stays she now. When she has naught to fear?* Has she forgot the parting vow She made to meet me here? I wrote her, ere my vessel sailed. To meet me of her grace. If she in truth had never failed. At our old trysting-place. Why comes she not? The sun is high; The hour of noon has passed ; Or means she first my love to try, To bless me at the last? Perchance my letter missed. Therein The reason doubtless lies. I'll seek her, then, her home within, And give her glad surprise. 258 T/R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TQEMS. A strange way, through the churchyard/ this, To reach my darhng's side ; Through death's own home to seek for bhss, O'er tombs to gain a bride. And here a tombstone, gay and tall. The marble yet unsoiled. The name ! She meets me, after all ! Was it for this I've toiled? She is not dead! She could not die! The letters blaze like fire ! Why, I came here to-day to buy My dear one from her sire. I have the price ; where is the ware? Ah, me! why idly rave? My hfe is with my Rachel therei; My heart is in her grave. GOING HOME. It matters httle whose the neghgence, If engineer or switchman were at fault — A crash within the tunnel, known from thence Through all the country round as " Deadman's Vault ; ' And so, brought from the darkness into day. Twelve mangled victims, dead or dying, lay. They sent for me to learn if human art Could save the lives of such as were not past The surgeon's skill, and doing there my part In mercy's work, I came upon at last GOING HOME. 259 One hapless sufferer, crushed in every limb — A shattered wreck, there was no hope for him. True, he was young in years, and youth is strong, But drink had stolen all vigor from his frame ; Whether through weakness, or to drown a wrong. Or sink the memory of some deed of shame, He fell so low, 'tis useless now to pry^ He could not bear the shock, and so must die. He seemed to know it too. " No use in skill," He told me calmly, " for my race is run ; A life ill-spent could only end in ill ; I shall not live to see the setting sun," " I'll write — " I said. He stopped me there. " Not so! 'Twould kill my mother — she must never know. " I've been a wanderer with no aim in Hfe, Not even to live, and now my life is lost ; I'm old in heart, if not in years ; the strife Waged in the past is over to my cost. But promise this : When I am laid to rest, That non'% remove what lies upon my breast," I promised him, then crept upon his eye The film of death, his breath grew short and fast. He gasped and shuddered, drew a heavy sigh — " Mother," he murmured, " I am home at last! " Through the prone body came a sudden thrill, His fingers clenched, unclosed — then all grew still. I found a packet on his breast where lay A well-worn letter and a tress of hair ; The hair was fine and soft and silver-grey ; The writing in the letter nsat and fair. 26o T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " Dear son," it said ; no date, no place it bore ; 'Twas signed " your loving mother,'" and no more. I did not read it ; what therein was writ God knows, she knew, and knew the dead ; I gave The packet rest upon his bosom ; it Went with its owner to his nameless grave. None ever knew his name ; he sleepS alone ; The turf is o'er his body, but no stohe. And she, that loving mother, she shafll wait While lingers life, her prodigal's return ; For him remains unlatched the yearning gate, For him the fire shall glow, the lamp shall burn ; — Nor shall she know that he, her hope and pride, Fixing his thoughts on her in dying, died. And who would tell her? Who all hope would crush? She lives expectant, and such life is joy ; And when alone she sits, upon her rush Sweet, pleasant memories of her wandering boy. So shall she live and love and watch and pray — She shall know all upon the final day. BARKER'S BOY. Yonder he goes, that lad of fourteen years. Denounced by people as "that Barker's boy;" Cause of his father's wrath, his mother's tears ; Plague of the house, the neighborhood's annoy, As nuisance branded ; 'BARKER- S 'BOY. 261 He breaks the palings of the garden- fence ; Throws stones at nothing, reckless where they fall ; Pounds the tin pan with dinning vehemence ; And chalks queer figures on the red brick wall, In style free-handed. He climbs the trees — his clothes were made to tear. He kicks the stones — the cobbler needs employ ; His whoops and yells rise shrilly on the air ; In aimless mischief hes his chiefest joy, All quiet scorning ; Sunburned and freckled, turbulent, untamed, Cats flee his presence, pet dogs keep aloof ; For all unfathered damage he is blamed ; Subject of finger-threatening, sharp reproof, And angry warning. You look upon him as the village pest ; You greet him with a cold, forbidding frown, Or smile contemptuous at his strange unrest. And feel a strong desire to battel down His way defiant ; But, tell me! did you come to being then, Cast at beginning in a perfect m.buld. Ready at birth to take your place with men. Self-poised, self -regulated, self-controlled. And self-reliant? I think that all true men have had his ways — At least were quite as thoughtless at his age ; And, notwithstanding Weems, the preacher, says, That Washington as boy was grave and sage, I doubt the story ; L mmm 262 q)Ji, ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Bacon and Newton both at marbles played, Engaged in mischief, and were flogged at times ; Csesar his father troubled — had he stayed Always a boy, his life had fewer crimes, And he, less glory. This Barker's boy is ill-conditioned, quite ; Yet in the wildest nature ever seen. The darkest spot is not without its light ; The arid waste has still one spot of green To half relieve it ; And when I heard that wrinkled Granny Jones, Who dwells in yonder hovel, weak of Kmb, Poor, lone, and friendless, spoke in feehng tones Her lively sense of gratitude to him, I could believe it. When that old woman sick and bed-fast lay, Shunned by her neighbors as reputed witch, That boy of Barker served her day by day, As tenderly as she were great and rich, Through kindness only ; Begged food and fuel, brought the doctor there, And coaxed his mother to old granny's side ; Roused older people's sympathy through his prayer ; Without his care the woman might have died, Unhelped and lonely. Therefore restrain your stern forbidding looks ; Kindness is best to move a heart that's kind ; Your model boy hves but in story-books. And there dies young ; if not to errors blind, See traits redeeming ; THE OLD HOME. 263 Wait till his manhood to its height is bred ; Wait till the froth of youth has blown away, Till older shoulders find an older head, And on the last behold the kindly ray Of virtue Beaming. THE OLD HOME. Hither I come now years have sped, With trembling limbs and footsteps slow. My heart unchanged, but on my head The crown of age's snow. Before me yonder river lies, And overhead extend the tines ; Upon the bluff in gloom arise The grim and wizard pines. Though man and time have altered not The house, the orchard, and the lawn, The olden pleasance of the spot I find forever gone. There are no more the lofty trees That one time lined the river shores ; Shorn or decayed, I find but these Two hollow sycamores. Where once upon the burdened wain In harvest time I often rode, Weed-overgrown, I see the lane That bears no more a load. V 264 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TO EMS. The garden trim that once I knew A thistly wilderness succeeds ; And where a thousand blossoms grew There are but noxious weeds. The spring that from the hillside burst With sparkling flow and pure' and clear, At which I often quenched my thirst, Oozes impurely here. The huge, wide barn, whose thr&hing-floor To mind long hours of frolic brings, Remains, and to it as of yore The five-leaved creeper clings. ' But where are those who shared my play. The friends in childhood dear to me — The darhng of a later day. Sweet Alice, where is she? From where the past unbars its door A flood of sudden splendor gleams, And there she stands in sight oijce more. The lady of my dreams. The vision fades — she is not herfe ; A shade of gloom succeeds instead ; The ghosts of former things appear, I stand amid the dead. Dead all my childhood's hopes and fears ; Dead those my early hfetime knew ; The feelings of my early years Are dead and buried too. T)OR/l LEE. 265 Hoping with careful providence To save it for a later day, Ere my ambition lured me hence I hid the past aw^ay. Now to its hiding-place alone I eager come at early dawn, And memory rolls away the -stone To find the treasure gone. DORA LEE. The brown log-cabin in the sandy valley, Built at the base of Flat Top mountain tall, — Mountain, from whence the winds at morning sally, To hold harsh converse with the waterfall, — • The waterfall, that o'er the rock is pouring Its sheeted glory to the pool below, AVhile overhead, arrested by its roaring, The eagle floats, self-balanced, sailing slow, — The yellow-beaked and mighty-taloned eagle. With sunk, keen eye, and forest-scaring scream, Self-borne aloft, with manner more than regal. And heart undaunted o'er the brawling stream, — The stream, that moves along in rapid motion, Of kisses rudely ravishing the shore. Then hurrying on to seek the distant ocean, In which it shall be lost for evermore: — Cabin and mountain, waterfall and eagle, Stream, shore, and mighty trees that line the shore, What demons of my fate combine and league ill, That I may see you neve- — nevermore? 266 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. That I have loved you with an earnest feeling, Even as a mother loved the babes she nurst ; That in your presence joy was o'er me steahng To my last glance from when I saw you first; That ye were dear to me, as to a lover The form whereon his vision loves to dwell, — It needed not to any to discover; It needed not these words the truth to tell. My early thoughts, my earliest — yea! my only, \\'ere on your beauties and your simple truth ; And here in this filled city I am lonely, Apart from you — from you, dear scenes of youth. Around you cling those deep-hued recollections. Whose tendrils grasp the grey cliffs of the past, And climb to where the hovering reflections — Dark, lowering clouds — the sky have overcast. Ye are so dear from thoughts of past tirne gladness — Gladness I fear no more on earth for me ; Dearer from many memories tinged witii sadness ; And dearest from the thoughts of Dora Lee, Sweet Dora Lee! Thy name is not for singing; No music in the words save to mine ears ; Yet my life's poetry around it clinging Made rhythm to my soul for many years. Thine was a spirit sweet and pure and holy ; Thy dehcate form a wood-nymph's, a.^ it should By right have been, for though of lineage lowly, Thine heir-loom was the beauty of the wood. The glory of the mountain on thee streaming, Became thy garment, and thine eyes were born Of the sun's rays, through boughs above thee gleaming. Warm, bright and genial, in the early morn. The quiet of the deep old woods around thee Had crept within and nestled in thy heart ; T>ORA LEE. 267 And guilelessness with his tiara drowned thee — To win my fondness being thine only art. Thy soul sank into mine, and tender yearning Went from our mingled spirits, each to each. To show what shows not in a scholar's learning, That feelings speak more audibly than speech. Oh, cabin brown! low-roofed and fast decaying! No kin of mine now dwell within your walls ; Around your ruins now the grey fox straying His step arrests, and to his fellow calls. The mountain, round whose tops the winds are blowing, Still rears its form as lofty to the gaze ; The waterfall yet roars ; the stream is flowing As wildly as it did in other days ; The eagle soars as he was wont ; his screaming Is heard o'erhead as loudly as wheii I, Shading my vision from the sun's hot beaming. Looked up to note his dark form on the sky. Yet I shall see him not ; nor hill, nor valley, Nor waterfall, nor river rushing on ; And though they rise around continually, 'Tis that they are in constant memory drawn. There are they figured deeply as an etching Worked on soft metal by .strong hands could be ; And in the foreground of that life-like sketching, She stands most life-like — long lost Dora Lee. THE SLEIGH-RIDE. Here, at my chamber window, I Watch painted cutters ghding by. And see, along the crowded street, The horses dash with flinging feet : But httle do I reck of those As memory's current backward flows. A winter scene of early days Is spread before the inner gaze — The pleasant hours from dark to dawn, When by the stout farm horses drawn, The sledges, with their laughing loads, Went swiftly o'er the Mansfield roads. John Scudder, in his four-horse sleigh. Four couples in it, led the way ; A dozen others in a string,' With shouts that made the night-air ring, While in my cutter, following fast Myself and Betty came the last. What cared we two that those ahead Faster upon the white road sped? And what cared I if we should win Later our welcome at the inn? She sat beside me — thoughts of her Even now these pulses thrill and stir. Past houses where the sleepers lay Unwakened by the watch-dog's bay, 268 THE SLEIGH-RIDE. 269 Through patches of the woodland where The leafless trees rose gaunt and bare, Through drifts our horses scarce could tread, V\'ith songs and laughter on we sped. How wild the pleasure of that night. Careering o'er the snow-waste white! How tinkled musically clear Our bells within the atmosphere! How gay our mirth and wild our din When once we reached M'Ardle's Inn! The old Scotch landlord, bluff and loud, A ready welcome gave the crowd. Made hostlers take our brutes to stall, Gave us what drink we chose to call, Then led us to the great, wide room Where tallow-dips dispelled the gloom. The fiddler in his corner there Sat ready in his backless chair , And soon the rustic belles and beaux Ranged down the room in double rows, Waiting the music light and sweet To set in motion eager feet. Old Sol, the fiddler, jolly one, Named after David's royal son, (Though litde did that Solomon know Save how to handle fiddle-bow,) Bent down his woolly pate and, grey, Stamped his left foot, and sawed away. Then every one on pleasure bent Danced all night long to heart's content, 270 VR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Wound and unwound, and in and out Moved through the wild, fantastic rout, Changing their partners oft arid free ; But Betty danced alone with ikie. Then swiftly, at the dawning grey. My steel-shod cutter made its way. With Betty, promised as my bride, Well-wrapped, and snuggled at my side, The cold, blue heavens bending o'er, And Dobbin dashing on before. Betty is dead, the rest have g6ne ; But still the stream moves slowly on ; An old man, lone and friendles's now. With wrinkles on my cheeks and brow, I sit and watch the jingling sleighs Swift gliding o'er the city way's. MILLY. The bellows in the stithy sighs and moans, - Upon the anvil rings the metric hammer, AVhile, mingling with the sharp, metallic tones. Some idlers' voices aid to swell the clamor. I peer within ; the smith, with skillful blow, Fashions a shoe to fit yon fractious filly ; He's not the one who, forty years ago, Worked here, and had a pretty daughter, Milly. My mind goes back to childhood's spring again. Though now my life has reached* its wintry weather, 3WILLY. 271 When she was seven, and I scarce* more than ten, And we, on week days, went to school together. The school-boys, when they saw me walk with her, Said I was half a girl, and called me silly ; They knew not how my heart within would stir At every word and glance of gentle Milly. Ten years rolled on, and she had grown more shy. And I more bashful when I chanced to meet her ; But when we threw our childish friendship by, We found instead a feeling deeper, sweeter. What if we both were poor? Who cares in youth. When hearts are warm, if fortune should be chilly? Our common store was in our common truth ; Milly was rich in me, and I in Milly. What castles in the air we builded then! For coming happiness what artless scheming! Ah! of all pleasant thoughts entrancing men, The sweetest is the raptured lover's dreaming! But older heads than ours our future planned ; We youngsters thought their action to be silly When they sent me to seek another land To win a fortune, parting me and Milly. We, tearful, parted then ; and, far away, I toiled straight on, my quest of wealth rewarded ; I kept my love intact for many a day, My vows of truth within my heart recorded ; But gaining much begat the thirst for more ; Love before avarice lifeless grew and stilly ; Absence has deadened thoughts of long before ; Here I return, but not to look for Milly. 272 T>R. ENGLISH S SELECT ¥OEMS. I would not see her now — the Hngering kiss, The tender, sweet embrace when last we parted — These — these — but stay! What apparition's this, So like, that sudden into life has started? She's coming to the forge. Dark violet eyes, Hair like the sun, complexion hke the lily; She has her face, her grace, and even her size — What is your name, my child? I thought so — Milly. She calls her sire to dinner. Yes! I know The story plain — the whole is clear as water ; The faithless Milly wedded long ago, And here we have another blacksmith's daughter. I'll back unto my money-bags again ; I must to avarice yield me willy-nilly ; One sigh for olden memories, and fhen Bury the past, and with it thoughts of Milly. THE HICKORY FIRE. Among the things I most admire, Is the cheerful light of a hickory fire. I like to sit and watch the blaze. That over the back log curls and plays. But more I like the cherry glow, With orange and blue, in the coals below. The embers open a book to me, -'And wonderful pictures its pages be. HIHBIIHI THE HICKORY FIRE. 273 They bring back images from the vast, The shadowy, half-forgotten past. My early trouble and early pain, And early joy come back again. There are the Schuylkill's sloping hills, Its grand old trees, and singing rills. And there the nook wherein one day We sat and dreamed the hours away. But she has gone with her violet eyes ; Within the church-yard old she lies. But she has gone with her locks of gold, And I am childless, grey and old. It changes now to a glowing red — My present life before me spread. Little in that to please I see — The present is too well known to me. Again a change — a burned stick falls ; Sparks arise, and a city's walls. This is the future now I spy, M'ith the boundless grasp of a dreamer's eye. There castle and palace, baton and crown. Rise from the depths and tumble down. Riches so vast they pass all count ; A height it makes one giddy to mount. 274 "DR. ENOUSH'S SELECT TOEMS. And thus for riches, and thus for sway, I come to my hickory fire alway.. Lamp of the genius never I need, Nor the wondrous ring of the gi^eat Djemsheed. For I cross the sticks at an angle — so, For flame above, and for air below. T pile the dry logs high and higher, I grasp the poker, and stir the fire ; And want how much whatever I may, I start to dreamland right away. Is it a wonder that I admire The cheerful light of a hickory fire? Or is it strange that I love to gaze. Dreamily on its flickering blaze? The storm outside may whistle a'nd roar, The sleet may drive, the hail may pour. What does it matter then to me, So long as these pleasant things I see ; And visions of past and future days Rise in the fire to the old man's gaze? SNOW. Now thicker and quicker the flakes appear In the grey of the speckled atmosphere ; Hither and thither they heave and toss Till the roofs grow white with the wintry moss ; Froward and toward the wild snpw shifts In whirls and eddies, in sheets and drifts — Whatever it touches it blanches ; It forms new shapes at the breeze's whim ; Alights and crawls on the oak-tree's limb ; Covers the dead, unsightly leaves ; Builds its nest at my cottage eaves ; Swings from the top of the gloomy pine ; Feathers the tendrils and twigs of the vine ; And creeps through the red cedar's branches. Sweeps to the westward the tempest away ; The deep-blue above us has conquered the grey ; Yet warmth is asleep in the rays of the sun ; Light lies the snow though its falling be done ; Crouch in their mantle the evergreen leaves ; No water-drops drip from the snow-burdened eaves On the twigs of the leafless clematis ; Before me I see the cold regions that lie Where the northern aurora shoots up on the sky Where over the snow, in their light sledges go The broad-visaged Lapp and the dwarf Eskemo ; And thus may I gaze at the scintillant rays That in boreal regions bewilder and blaze, And yet never stir from my lattice. 275 276 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. What to me now are the wonderful homes That are carved in the caverns of earth by the gnomes? What if I never the palace have seen Which the slaves of the Lamp raised for young Alia Deen? Here I behold in the splendor of noon, What no teller of tales to the Caliph Haroun, Ever dreamed in his wildest of fancies ; Rubies and topazes break into blaze ; Opals are throwing out rainbows in rays; Diamonds, emeralds, sapphires their light Dart like the sheen of a sabre in fight ; Column and architrave, cornice and freize Rise on the fences and spring from the trees ; The elves have come out of romances. Bright is the scene as the dream of a child Which you read when he started in slumber and smiled ; Calm as the lives of our Parents, ere sin To the Garden of Eden, a serpent, crept in ; Pure as the love that the mother possest, When first her first-born to her bosom she prest ; And glowing as fondness in woman ; At the wide waste before me of crystalline white, I gaze from the lattice in joy and delight. And believe, though the sage at the fancy may frown. When the flakes from their home in the sky flutter down. So chaste in their nature, so pure in their: glow, That the tears of the angels are frozen to snow, As they weep for the sins that are human. THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. A LONE old man, I stand again Within this wild and rocky, glen, And here the mountain stream I ken — The rocks and trees, the beryl rill,. The lilac mist of yonder hfll. The autumn landscape calm and still. How plainly here my memory sees, By yonder rock beneath the trees. Two lovers — I am one of these. Each of each other seems a part, And one betrays that bashful art Which shows the blossoming of the heart. My eyes are filled with happy light ; My tide of joy is at its height ; I am a king who reigns by, right. Through love in her a rapture glows ; Her face the varying feeling shows — 'Tis now a lily, now a rose. She stands there, half in .shame, half pride, The cherry-lipped and violet-eyed. Timidly nestling at my side. At times she pales, as from a thought That granting me the love I sought Some evil to us both has wrought. 277 2 7*^ TlR. ENGLISH'S SELECT "POEMS. We loved ; we parted, pledged fore'er, The joys and woes of life to sRare ; Truthless the vows that seemed so fair. We parted never more to meet, I to my path with tireless feet , She to another's kisses sweet. 'Tis idle now the past to seek ; It boots not now of wrong to speak ; But wealth is strong and woman weak. She wedded well ; her mate was old, Who let her way be uncontrolled ; Then, dying, left her lands and gold. She lives, a matron, old and gi'ey, " Respected much," the people say ; I pass not in the lady's way. Poor, lonely, childless is my lot, The arrow of my fate o'ershot ; She has all that which I have not. Not as she is I would behold, But see her as she was of old. Now years on years have backward rolled. With heart-thrill words can not express, I hear the rustle of her dress, I see her wondrous loveline.ss. And here, to-day, by memory drawn, The scene returns that long had gone ; It fades; the mountain stream moves on. THE WESTERBRIDGE INN. 'TwAS an old-fashioned tavern, all travellers said, Where horsekind were baited, and mankind were fed, Where they gave entertainment to man and to beast. And the guests had enough, which was good as a feast ; But the landlord who kept it, all folk understood To be a curmudgeon and grasping knd rude. Who, loving no neighbor and having no friends. Used meanness and falsehood to ca;rry his ends ; Cared not for the mode so the thing might be done ; Cared not by what tricks or devices he won, If by these he stocked larder and filled up his bin, And customers brought to the Westerbridge Inn. 'Twas not that Dame Nature through anger or whim Had given hard features to Anthony Grimm ; "I'was not that his eyes had a sinister leer, Creating distrust and awakening fear ; 'Twas not that he always was cruel of speech. With tones that were mixture of mutter and screech ; For hard-featured men with a look and a tone That shock all beholders, rare goodness may own ; Though homely in aspect their actions may be From meanness and cruelty happily free ; Or each, though his faihngs unnumbered may seem. Some generous impulse may partly redeem. But no generous impulse moved Anthony Grimm ; Kind word or kind action seemed folly to him ; The lean, starveling cur that would fawn for a crust. And take your good-will and good-feeling on trust, 279 28o T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Never Anthony's nature a moment mistook, , But, drooping his tail, shrunk away at his look. For Anthony boasted that while he would sell, And for money give money worth fairly and well, He never gave alms. " Let fools do it," said he, " Such weakness as that makes no precept for me ; Good bread brings good money, and will every day ; I'd rather 'twould choke me than give it away." Now it came on a day that was cloudy and damp. Through the mud of the road trudged a beggarly tramp — All ragged, and wretched, and pallid, and thin. Having little outside him and nothing within ; Hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed, with a look tliat foretold His body would shortly lie under the mould ; ,j And he came where old Anthony sat by the door. Having just at the moment no debts he mu|t score. And, timidly stopping, his hat in his hand. Before the old landlord contrived to make stand. And, bowing most humbly, imploringly saidi — " I'd be thankful, kind sir, for a mouthful of bread." " Bread! " cried Anthony—" bread, sir? " — then knitting his brows, " Perhaps you mean gin, and would like a carouse. I never give bread — it is tastele.ss and dry ; I'd recommend something much better to try. Here, John, bring a sandwich! — There, isn't that fine? The whole village praises this sandwich of mine ; A man on such fare might dine, breakfast and sup — It is something like eating to gobble it up." And then, while the beggar expectant stood by. Mouth watering, and hope and delight in his eye. And the people around by the words had been drawn, Ate the sandwich himself as the beggar looked on. GUYANDOTTE MUSINGS. 281 Such a change in the tramp ! All his confident air Was turned to a wan, sullen look of despair ; His skin lost all color, his jaw dropped, he shook As though with an ague — so wild was his look That old Anthony, seized with a spasm of mirth, Shook in laughter, then rolled from his chair to the earth. Where he writhed in convulsions, then motionless lay. While the beggar, recovering, went On his way. Still Anthony stirred not, though black in the face. And the neighbors around ran in haste to the place. They raised him — the morsel of bread he denied Had choked him, and so in his maHce lie died. The inn stands decaying — the sign-post is down. The windows are paneless, the weatherboards brown, Half rotted the door-step ; no mortal may dare For gain or for need to make residence there ; For there at the noontime the passer m'ay hear Strange sounds that impress him with horror and fear : A pitiful plaint from some beggar for bread, And words breathing hope, but deceivingly said ; Then a wild shout of mirth rings from ground-floor to rafter, And silence — the silence of horror comes after. Slow crumbling to ruin, the Westerbridge Inn Tells the story of Anthony Grimm and his sin. GUYANDOTTE MUSINGS. I. Beneath this leafy maple No sunbeam droppeth down ; Yet light surrounds my spirit. Here in the shadows brown — 282 7?/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT 'TOEMS. Delight and love hold torches 'l"o light the shadows brown. My dear wife sits beside me, Her hand is in my own ; I see her downcast lashes, I hear her voice's tone — The distant bells of silver Have not so sweet a tone. Our Ahce sings a ditty. And wots not that we h§ar ; Sad Mary hears the fancies That whisper in her ear — She sits and hears the stories They whisper in her ear. Sage Annie watches Alice, For fear of some mishapi ; Little Florence is cooing and smiling Upon her mother's lap — Her closed hand in her baby mouth, -And she on her mother's lap. Still darker grow the shadows That drip from every lirhb ; They wrap me in their folding, The outer sense grows dim ; — But the light within grows brighter, Though all without be cjim. My thought is vague and dreamy. And misty pictures pass ; The hues are tangled together At every turn of the glass — GUYANDOTTE MUSINGS. 283 Blue, scarlet, green and golden, Whenever I turn the glass. II. I raise my eyes — all passes ; And yonder "Backbone" stands, With coat of grey and cap of green, To watch the lower lands — • With coronet of oak trees To guard the lower lands. And all my plea.sant musings Are idle ones to-day ; My home, my wife, my children, Are many miles away — I linger here no longer — To saddle and away. III. My feet are in the stirrups, The reins my fingers pre.ss ; My mare, with black mane flowing, Neighs loud at my caress — With nostrils wide distended, She neighs at my caress. Faster, black mare of the mountains. Rival the wind in thy speed ; They are watching at home for the master, They hsten the tramp of his steed — A welcome waits the master, A stable waits the steed. The fond, ideal picture That met my spirit's gaze. 284 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Shall soon be true and real Beside the hearth-fire blaze — And ardent be the welcome Beside the hearth-fire blaze. And thou, my good companion, Shalt share this joy of mine ; Annie shall bring thee white cake, And Mary bring thee wjne — And thou shalt eat the wheat loaf, And drink the draught of wine. Fresh oats shall fill thy manger, Sweet hay thy couch shall be ; And all because of my musings Beneath the maple tree^ The maple on Guyandotte river, Where thou didst wait for me. BARBARA AND I. The darling litde Barbara! The best of friends were we, Though she was little more than nine, I nearly twenty- three ; And 'twas a pleasant thing, whene'er we two would chance to meet. To see her smile and nod her head, and blow me kisses sweet. And this was why : Where Maple Creek cuts through the Piny Ridge, Some one (the stream grows narrow there) had felled a tree for bridge, 'B/iRBARA AND 1. 285 'I'he pent-up torrent swiftly ran, and forty rods below The cruel points of jagged rocks fretted to foam the flow. Near that a famous fishing-place, and there, one day was I, With rod in hand to seek for perch, when Barbara came by. While on the bridge, she slipped and fell ; I heard her sud- den scream ; And plunging in, with desperate stroke, I bore her from the stream. Man likes what he has saved at risk ; not often in return The one he rescues finds within a grateful feehng burn ; But she was better than her kind; and so=it grew to be, While I was fond of Barbara, she fonder was of me. To search for wealth, I left my home to be away for years ; Friends, smiling, wished me luck, but she was bathed in childish tears. " You're leaving little Barbara, who loves you,'" faltered she. " You'll soon forget ; she never will, wherever you may be." The child was right. I soon forgot ; and, toihng year on year, I formed new ties, while passed from mind whatever had been dear ; And as from every stream of gain gobd fortune on me rolled, I thought no more of Barbara, but only lands and gold. I fought for riches, and I won ; then, tired of toil at last, With avarice sated, I returned when ten long years had passed. 286 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. I I sought old friends, and her as well ; but when I met her there, The httle Barbara had gone, and left a woman fair. Ten years had changed the winsome maid, a little child no more! Little, indeed! a damosel who stood at five feet four, A lovely girl, of cultured ways, as charming as could be. Replaced the artless little one who had been fond of me. The ways and days of years before had died and made no stir: While time had slowly walked with me, it swiftly fled with her ; But that whene'er we met she blushed and trembled, look- ing shy, My uttermost philosophy could find rio reason why. I built a mansion on my farm (folk called it " Gimcrack Hall"), And fourteen lackeys wages paid to lef me board them all ; Then mingled with the crowd of men, went through a dreary round. And when Miss Barbara I saw, bent \^'ith a bow profound. At length a neighbor gave a " beg." — 'tis fashionable "tone," The rich should ape the rural ways, if country-seats they own ; So, in a huge, capacious barn, of carven stone at that, Upon the waxed and pohshed floor the well-dressed husk- ers sat. The gaping rustics ne'er had seen such bee as that before — The ladies all on tabourets, the others on the floor ; TAUL SEES THE LOWERS. 287 But first they straws for partners drew, and so it was, you see, I sat in front of Barbara, who took the ears from me. What din and chatter filled the barn! We steady worked and still, Till, all by chance, our fingers touched ; then through me passed a thrill ; My eyes met hers ; her eyelids drooped ; the place seemed filled with light ; But when a red ear came to view I dared not claim my right. But why go on? The story's told. 'Twas at that husking- bee Was born my love for Barbara ; not there her love for me ; For when I won confession fond she murmured soft and low ; " The Barbara who loves you, loved you years and years ago." PAUL SEES THE LOVERS. As at my casement here this bright May morning I breathe the early air. The opening of the shutters gives no warning To yonder tender pair. Their outer ears are closed to bar my presence. My voice they have not heard, So filled are they with Love's potential pleasance. So deep their souls are stirred. 2»& 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. The beating of their souls in dulcet rhythm Is all the sound they hear ; The poetry of youthful life is with them, Extending far and near. He, fond and bashful, pleading, as before him So many swains have done, Feels at her silence clouds of doubt pass o'er him That quite obscure the s;in. One hand of hers with apron-string is playing. The other shades her eyes, The while her ear drinks in what he is saying With gladness, not surprise. Their loving conference should have no witness, None listen what they say, Their secret has for secrecy such fitness ; And hence I turn away. But she, who, as her lover strives to woo her. Looks down and blushes so. Brings back Drusilla as I one tjme knew her Not many years ago. Memory, arch-sorcerer, with his wand extended, Summons again the past:; Youth, love and rapture all in one are blended, And wretchedness at last. Now part the gilded walls ; to dust they crumble. My luxury disappears, And I go back to that condition humble I filled in early years. ■VAUL SEES THE LOVEFiS. 289 The long green hills extending in the distance, The sloping river shore, The sandstone diffs — all spring intq existence As in the long-before. Nor are they in my eyes a sight of beauty The gazer's eye to charm ; But witnesses to most unwilling duty Upon the country farm. The red-clay farm where I was doomed to labor Through all the seasons' change. To plough, to mow, run errands to each neighbor. And drive the kine to range. Then, in young manhood, stands Drusilla near me Beneath the elmen tree ; She blushes as she pauses there to hear me, The maid so dear to me. And now at last her smiling promise winning To be one day my wife, I feel that night is over, day beginning To dawn upon my life. Yet, ere a year, a richer lover sought her. And won her, though a tyke ; For was she not a rich man's only daughter? Like ever flows to like. Her father's farm lay next to ours l with tillage Its fertile acres smile ; Thrice ours in size, extending from the village. As the crow flies, a mile. 29° "D/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Another year ; the bitter pang was over, And I had power to bear. To a far land I bent my way, a rover, To seek for fortune ther^e. P'ortune became my slave ; I did but beckon, And in my lap she poured Such golden store that it grew hard to reckon The total of my hoard. I tired of avarice ; a feeling burning To see old haunts again Came over me, and hitherward returning, I built this mansion then. Why need I mourn that misery attended Drusilla's wedded life? Dead now, she lies beneath a tombstone splendid. Who lived a wretched wife. But they, the pair who stand before my villa, Sweet fate to them befall. May she not prove to be a false Drusilla, Nor he another Paul. THE IDYL OF THE PEACH. The golden Melacatoon is here ; Its downy cheek has a ruddy flush. And brings to mind my buried dear, With gipsy skin and sunset blush, The depths of her lustrous, liquid eyes Filled to the brim with shy surprise, THE IDYL OF THE PEACH. 291 When, standing there the leaves among, I whispered love with faltering tongue. And earnest strove the maid to woo In the orchard where the peach-trees grew. And I was young, and she wa's young. And I was fond, and she was fair ; The sunlight fondly stooped and flung A flood of glory on her there ; Sweeter than woodland minstrelsy The tremulous tone of her voice to me, As, drooping on my fluttering breast, Her love she timidly confessed. And earth seemed past and hfeaven in view In the orchard where the peach-trees grew. Beneath us there the meadows spread ; Beyond the woodland waved its boughs ; Some bird passed singing overhead. Tuning its wild notes to our vows ; But charms that nature there displayed Drew no regard from youth and maid ; Such rapture had the moment brought. All things around to them were naught ; Each all-in-all to each, the two, In the orchard where the peach-trees grew. And there we planned our future life. When I should win a name, and fold, And back return to claim a wife From her grim father, stern and old, And she, till toil should conquer fate, A\'ould at the hearth-stone patient wait. And so, with many a \'0w of truth, Parted that day the maid and youth ; 292 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. And never met again those two In the orchard where the peach-trees grew. I won the name I strove to win, I gained me wealth with toil, and then I left behind the city's din And sought the scenes of youth again. Naught stood around that I had known ; I found the air and sky alone; Gone was the meadow, gone the wood ; A mansion where the farmhoi:}se stood ; And they had built a village new In the orchard where the peach-trees grew. They show me her neglected tomb — A grave in the valley brier-grown, A hollow where the bluets bloom, Some remnants of a shattered stone. Whereon the comer scarcely reads A name among the moss and weeds ; That only brings the past to rne, And with the eyes of my heart" I see A loving pair unseen by you In the orchard where the peach-trees grew. Here in this Melacatoon you see Only a luscious peach — no more ; It has a talisman's power for me The early rapture to restore. Returns with this the love tha;t lies Within my darling's dove-like eyes ; Her timid fingers touch my own ; Fills ear and soul that silvern tone ; She meets me, loving, fond, and true. In the orchard where the peaches grew. "A FINE DAY IN THE MORNING." The sun had been gloomy ; the clouds overhead Were in doleful accord with my sorrow ; The pattering of rain made a dirge full of dread, As I hopelessly feared for the morrow. A tramp who for shelter stood under a tree, Saw me look at the east where it darkened, And, taking his pipe from his mouth, said to me. As though to my thought-voice he hearkened — "Just turn your eyes yonder, look upward and high Where the sunset the west is adorning ; Streaks of crimson and gold light the gloom of the sky. And we'll have a fine day in the morning." He was surely a most philosophical tramp, With a figure well-knitted and burly ; He seemed, as he stood there, both hungry and damp. But he neither looked sulky nor surly. I had spurned him the moment before from the place. Cold victuals and shelter denied him ; Yet he gazed with a placid content in my face. As I gloomily stood there beside him. " Yes," he said, " for his own part he let the world go, Its crosses and misery scorning ; He liad learned, though 'twas cloudy at nightfall, to know ^^'hen we'd have a fine day in the morning." Of course, after that I refused him no more, Gave him supper, poor wretch, in the kitchen, And — first putting his pipe on the shelf o'er the door — A bed in the barn, comfort rich in. ' 29.-? 294 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. Next morning, well-fed, he went gaily away, With thanks for the boon unexpected ; But when I suggested hard work aC fair pay, He very serenely objected. " He felt much obliged for the offer," he said, " But the state of his health gave him warning, If he ever with labor fatigued went to bed. He would have no fine day in the" morning." Since then, when the world has been gloomy and sad, And few hopes of success rose before me. Whatever oppression of trouble I had, Or whatever misfortune hung o'er me, Instead of intently regarding the da.rk, Or letting it fill me with sorrow, I set myself out pleasant omens to mark. And from them some comfort to borrow. I turned my eyes westward, looked upward and high. For some sign more of promise than warning. And sought for those warm, glowing tints in the sky That foretold a fine day in the morning. HOW HE WON MILLY. Be sure that no woman worth winning Will suffer to bid her farewell The lover she loves, who is bashful And fears his affection to tell, Be she ever so modest and timid. If loving, true-hearted and young, Ere in silent despair he shall leave her. Her wit will supply him a tongue. HO^y HE WON MILLY. 295 If she love him, and know that he loves her, But sees that his courage is: weak, Or his doubt makes him blind* to her favor, She'll give him the cue how to speak. It was long years ago that I learned it — (Dear memory that of my life! ) Since, but for some words that she faltered, I had never won Milly for wife. Young Milly, the red-lipped and bright-eyed, With golden, rebellious curls. That ne'er would lie still when she smoothed them, And teeth with the lustre of pearls. And oh! the white snow of her forehead; And oh! the clear light of *her eye ; The mind that was pure as a fountain, The soul that broke forth in her sigh. A sad life my love for her led me ; My heart-strings were all out of tune ; Her frowns were the clouds of October; Her smiles were tfie sunshine of June. And at last, in her fight for her freedom, She told me, with fire in hey eyes : " Men are ever deceivers ! I hate them. As all maidens would, were they wise!" That last drop the goblet brimmed over, And I said, as I sprang to my feet : " There never was one half so cruel. There never was one half so sweet. How much and how madly I love you No language is able to tell ; But /am a man. Men — you hate them! God bless you, my darling!- Farewell." 296 -D/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. With tears in my eyes from emotion, Half-blinded, I turned me to leave, When I felt her warm breath at my shoulder, And her nervous hand-clutch on my sleeve ; Her face it grew redder and redder, The hue of a peach next the sun, And she murmured : "Thewfw/ yes, I hate them ; But, Frank — I might manage — with — one/ " Ah! quick with my strong arms I pressed her To my heart, amid smiling and tears ; And there she has budded and blossomed In beauty for many long years. And now, when I think of that moment, My pulses they quicken and stir ; For I know we had parted forever Save for words that were uttered by her. There she sits in her chair by the window, Scarce older to me by a day. Though her tresses have altered to silver, And years have flown noiseless away. You may say that her age is near fifty. That lines in her face I may see ; With you the lines deepen to wrinkles ; They're nothing but dimples to me. THE MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN. Alone, within the felon's dock, He waits the doom about to fall ; In look emotionless as rock, He stands unmoved amid them all. THE MIGHT-HAyE-BEEN. 2gf The white-haired judge is speaking now The doom that isolates from men ; Nor shame nor terror cloud his brow ; Hia thoughts are with his youth again. His form is here, his soul is there In yon rough land where he was bred ; The court-room vanishes in air^ The Past is living, Present dead. He sees the grand old granite bills, In rude and jagged outline rise— Their bushy slopes, their leaping rills, Their misty tops, the steely skies. There stands the farmhouse, roofed with moss ; Its door, half open, idly swings : And, where the elms their great arms toss, A robin sits and gaily sings. The wilding flowers the meadows yield Their blossoms one by one unfold ; And, sheeted o'er the pasture-field, The daisies with their eyes of gold. The mowers busy with their math, Upon the sultry summer-day ; And, as they toss the half-dried, swath, i The odor of the new-mown hay. The sheep that browse amid the rocks, The kine at rest' beneath the trees ; And, playing gently with his locks, The burning noontide's scanty breeze. 298 "DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS And she, the farmer's daughter fair, With eyes of blue and hps of red, And wealth of wavy, golden hair, That made a halo round her head. All these are things of long ago. The memories of the early days. Ere, seeking gold and finding wo. He trod the city's crowded ways. He might have led a farmer's life, Devoid of care and want and dread ; He might have taken for his wife Sweet Mirabel — but she is dead.- Dead! She is dead! But what is he? Beside him in his shame and sin. With finger pointed mockingly. The spectre of the Might-have-been. "It might have been!" he cries, and falls. The listeners stand in dumb amaze ; And then, despite the sheriff's calls, They press upon the wretch to gaze. Struck down by memory's fatal ban. He passes from your thrall away ; You doomed to death a living man ; This is a form of lifeless clay. THE OLD HEARTH-FIRE. The hearth-fire of our fathers, With back-logs, huge and round, Of maple, beech, or hickory. The largest to be found ; And on it piled the cord wood sticks To crackle and to roar And snap responses to the wind That howled outside the door. The hearth-fire of our fathers! Each syllable recalls The doings in that red-clay farm Which lay by Glyndon Falls — The husking- time, the thrashing- time — Ah ! that we know no more, When up and down the merry flails Made music on the floor. The hearth-fire of our fathers, Where, on the winter days, John came from barn at dinner-time To warm him at the blaze ; Where hung the caldron o'er the flame By hook suspended low, Looking at jolly Johnny-cakes All baking in a row. The hearth-fire of our fathers, Where, on the winter nights, 2Q9 300 T)R. E^fGUSH'S SELECT TOEMS. The boys and girls were gathered round To find the same dehghts ; The hickory-nuts on sad-irons cracked, The apples from the bin — They munched at these while granny dozed, And gran'ther stroked his chin. The hearth-fire of our fathers, ^ With neighbors gathered round ; Perchance the minister dropped in To give them precepts sound ; His talk how heaven is filled with love Made such impression there, That Peter's hand crept slowly o'er The back of Susan's chair. The hearth-fire of our fathers. Where oft the tale was told", While hstening children sat in awe Of ghosts and witches old ; Where, too, the baby crowed and jumped. And laughed the children aill, When father with his joined hands made The rabbit on the wall. The hearth-fire of our fathers !^ 'Twill never blaze again ; Its great, wide chimney showS no more To glad the eyes of men ; Its embers quenched, its ashes strown, No more its light shall glearp ; The hearth-fire of the past is now A memory and a dream. ONLY A CUR. Only a cur — a blind, old, meagre creature. Mongrel in blood, long-jawed, and lean of limb ; Ugly enough in color, shape and feature — Who seeks a lady's pet would pass by him. And yet within that form uncouth, ungainly, Are things not always linked to human dust — Virtues that oft in man we look for vainly — Courage, affection, faithfulness to trust. Only a cur — 'tis very true, I own it ; I have no record of his pedigree; The stock he sprung from, I have never known it. If high or low his family may be. He should be poor indeed to suit his master, To whom a greenback sometimes is a show ; But not the wealth of Rothschild or of Astor Would tempt me now to let old Towser go. You see that stripling in the meadow mowing — Well-knit for eighteen years, and strong and lithe ; 'Lorgside the foremost in the row g,-going ; Steady as clock-work moves his sweeping scythe. Well, that's my boy, and something like me, rather In face than mind — in habits not, they say ; The son is far more careful than the father, Earns much, spends little — he'll be rich one day. Old Towser one time saved that boy from dying. Twelve years ago — round here the story's known ; You'd scarcely think, as you beholcl him lying, He fought a wolf, and mastered him alone. 301 302 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Even if the service we don't care to measure, The feat's not one that every dog can do — That's right, old Towser! raise your ears with pleasure, And wag your tail — you know I speak of you. Since then the true old dog has stood as sentry Over our household camp by night and day ; Nor rogue nor robber ever made ah entry With Towser's vigilance to stop the way. Not locks, nor bolts, nor bars were^ ever needed ; We slept serenely while he stood on guard ; Each sound suspicious by his quick ears heeded — His fangs intruders from our slumbers barred. Faithful to us, distrustful to a stranger. Obedient to a sign expressing will ; True to his master, fearless of all danger. Ill-fed at times, but fond and grateful still — No sleek and pampered dog of finest breeding, Reared in a palace and with dainties fed. Has ever shown high qualities exceeding Those of this brute, base-born and underbred. Only a cur, indeed! If such you name him. Where be your dogs of honor and degree? Since none with duties left undone can blame him, What brute ranks higher in its kmd than he? If human-kind would do as well its duty, The world were spared one-half its woe and pain, Worth would seem better in our eyes than beauty. And deeds, not looks, our admiration gain. THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. I STAND where two roads meet ; the main one here, And there the long lane leading to the mill ; Here stood a house upon a sand-waste drear, Wherein the youthful mind they used to till. And plant of useful knowledge, seeds ; And now a mansion rises tall and wide, With turrets, oriels and a double door. And all that best accords with human pride ; A marble-bounded fish-pond stands before ; A well-trimmed lawn the sand succeeds. Yet as I stand, and on the raihng lean, Thought gradually shapes the olden place ; Rises before me all the early scene, And bit by bit each portion here I trace Of where one time I went to school. Red-roofed and low and small was learning's seat. The broken plaster seamed with many cracks. The sanded flooring worn by children's feet. The rows of desks, the seats devoid of backs. The dunce's penitential stool ; The platform where the mighty teacher sat. Enthroned in state, half awful, half grotesque. Behind him on a peg his well-kept hat, His lithe rattan before him on his desk — Symbol of majesty and might ; The oblong stove, in winter craiiimed with wood, The faggots near it from the wood-pile brought, The water-pail that in the corner stood, 303 304 'VR. ENGLISH S SELECT TOEMS. With tape-bound gourd by thirsty youngsters sought, And drained with evident dehght. All these arise before me clear and plain ; A half a century rolls its clouds away ; Shaking off age, I am a boy again, Backward at learning, forward at my play, The pleasure of the present mine ; And though before me sits the teacher grim, \\'atching with keen grey eye the little folk, What care I, with my fresh twelve years, for him? Have I not wit enough to ease his yoke. Or shp it, if I so incline? The boys are all around me. Cleaver's Joe — He never has grown up, and gone to sea. Swept overboard and drowned ; that is not so. For there he sits next row but one to me, Trying to do a jjuzzling sum ; And there is Peter — Morse's Peter — who Some one has said was born to be a judge, With patient air to hear long cases through — A\'hat ! restless Peter, full of mischief — fudge ! That life for him could never come., And yonder on the dunce's stool alone. That stupid Ned — Ned Baxter — silly sits ; A\'ho says that he, to vigorous manhood grown. Turned out a scholar great, and prince of wits — Ned with the dull and vacant stare? And, wrigghng at my elbow, Simson's Tim, Restless and reckless, first in every prank The rest annoying, who predicts of him He 'mid divines will take the highest rank, Hisiife sedate and void of care? THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 305 They're here — all here, from fifty years ago ; Back from the churchyard some, some from the seas. And some from later life ; the locks of snow, The wrinkled faces, and the trembling knees, And age-bent bodies cast away ; A group of children, free from present care. The school broke up, all hurrying eager out, Pouring their gladness on the evening- air. With constant chatter, or with sudden shout, As though all life were made for play. And there is Mabel too — ah! now it flies! School-house and pupils all dissolve in air ; For well I know that Mabel with her eyes Of deepest violet, and sunny hair — Mabel grew up to be my bride ; ■I know her grave within the valley made ; The roses, with their buds less sweet than she, Cluster above it ; there her form was laid ; All hope, all pleasure, all repose for me Were lost the day that Mabel died. Again before me stands the palace fair. The half-grown grove, the broad, pretentious lawn; The low-roofed school-house is no longer there ; It, with its memories, in the air has gone, And I am standing lonely here ; I wait my turn to give to ot'hers place, To be a faint remembrance at the best. To leave upon the minds of men no trace. But, after sinking to my final rest, From life and memory disappear. THE TWO SONGS. A THRUSH in a cage, and you ask me to buy And be lord of the little brown captive? Not I, Stay — here is yotu" dollar ; that cage give to me ; The window is open — brown thrush, you are free! The vender has gone with his silver, and you Seem astonished at both what I say and I do. Not strange had you known of the feeling that stirred The depths of my soul at the voice of the bird. When Avice was living, you knew me not then ; She's been dead twenty years — I ne'er married again. Twice won and twice lost was my darling so fair — Twice won by the voice of a thrush in the air. I met with my Avice when .scarce more than boy, I, bashful and fond, and she, timid and coy ; And, as her face reddened and drooped at my gaze, My heart thrilled with rapture, my brain with amaze. Ah ! first love is fond love, and purest of all. The least selfish sentiment known since the Fall ; Let worldlings deride it much as they may, 'Tis the rosy aurora that ushers life's day. Though strong was my feeling, rny purpose was weak ; I could look what I felt, with no courage to speak ; And for nearly two years, though we met day by day, She could not, I dare not — so time rolled away. 30(> THE TiVO SONGS. ' 3°7 How well I remember that morning in June, When the brook with the leaves of the wildwood kept tune. When a party of young folk climbed yonder hill's crest. And Avice and I went along with the reBt. We scattered in couples, as young lovers will. And roamed through the coppice that covered the hill, And gathered the wild blooms that scantily grew, Though httle we noted their odor or hue. As Avice and I walked in silence we heard Arise from a thicket the song of a bird. And Avice's finger held up bade me heai- The notes of a thrush sounding mellow and clear. Our hands chanced to touch, and a thrill went through each Too subtle for telhng, too potent for speech ; And the thrush sang on cheerily, note after note. While our heart-beats kept time with each sound from his throat. We plighted our faith, hand in hand, heart in heart ; We vowed naught asunder our twin souls should part ; The world seemed before us a pathway of flowers, And the light and the glory of loving were ours. But we quarrelled, as lovers will quarrel at times ; For jealousy magnifies trifles to crimes, And friends were still ready to keep us apart, And for faults of the head lay the blame on the heart. A year passed in pain. Oft we met with no word, Whatever emotion within us was stirred ; No look showed the feehngs our bosoms contained, Nor that sparks still ali\-e in the ashes remained. 3o8 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TVEMS. At length I could bear with my suffering no more, And sought change of thought on a far foreign shore ; Five years toiled for fortune, nor sought it in vain ; Then, worn by the struggle, came back o'er the main. I returned on a morning in June, calm and still ; Instinctive my steps sought the path to the hill ; And I stood all alone on the bush-covered crest Where Avice and I had our loving confessed. A rustling of leaves struck my ear in the place — 'Twas Avice. What brought her? No change in her face. I trembled and bowed, would have passed her ; but then The song of six years before sounded again. 'Twas the voice of the thrush with its wonderful strain ; On the fever within us the notes fell like rain ; Love arose from the grave of the long, weary years ; Our hands met, our lips met, with sighing and tears. Ten years she was mine — you must pardon this tear ; She lies in the churchyard, and I linger here. Now you know why the captive I bought and set free, Why the thrush of all birds is the dearest to me. SLAIN. There, where the foul birds Heavily hover, Where the gaunt grey wolf Creeps to his cover. SLAIN. 309 Where with loud cawing Crows come unbidden, Deep in the woodland Something is hidden. ^^'hat lies in covert — Brutal or human, Breathing or breathless, Man, or a woman? Lifeless and livid, Ghastly and horrid. Ball-mark and gore-clot On the white forehead. Did a fierce foeman Meet him in strife here? \\'as it his own hand Ended his life here? Foe's work or self work, Life is concluded — Dead I but the murder No one knows who did. Ha! where yon lizard Hurriedly crosses. Two kinds of footprints Dent the deep mosses ; Broken low branches I,ie there around him ; Crushed is the herbage There where they found him. Here a revolver Found the coarse grass in, Dropped in his fleeing By the assassin. 310. TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. No! Every chamber Heavily loaded, Bullets and powder — Not one exploded. See if those footprints Tidings may render : One is a woman's, Shapely and slender. Was, then, the slaying By her or for her — Doer or witness Of the black horror? Strange is his figure, Stranger his face is ; Name or whence coming, Naught on him traces. High-born or low-born. Married or wifeless ; All that we know is — There he lies lifeless. Ever the hemlocks Mournfully drooping, Ever the fir-trees Sorrowful stooping, Ever the laurels, Gnarled and low-growing, Keep the dread secret Hid from our knowing. THE DELAWARE. My mother, the cloud, cast me down to the ground, And thence through the sand-soil a pathway I found, And broke from the rock at the foot of the hill In a fountain that trickled and swelled to a rill. I gathered my brothers from hill-side and steep, And eagerly hurried my way to the deep — Sauntering slowly through low4ying meadows, Sleeping in nooks beneath willow-tree shadows, Tossing the blades of the o'erhanging grasses. Gliding, meandering, strolling through valleys Where dallies the wind with the flowers as it passes, And flowing and flowing. I swallow the brooks that descend from the hills, I widen from tribute of fountains and rills Who to join me come out from the nooks where they creep, And the cloven ravines where they frolic and leap, While together we dash against rocks in our way. Or in eddies and whirlpools incessantly play. Mine are the button-woods mottled and high. In whose hollows the bears and the catamounts lie ; And mine are the reed and the flag and the lily. And mine are the aster and golden-rod drooping And stooping o'er water so placid and stilly. Yet flowing and flowing. Through the hills and beneath the green arches that grow By limbs interlacing from grey trunks below, I hurry and struggle ahd foam and complain, Till I get to the kiss of the sunlight again. 3" 312 TIR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Then I rest in dark pools in an emerald sleep, Till I gather the force and the strength for a leap, In a torrent of crystal and beryl and snow From the green edge above to the white foam below ; Then over the rocks in my pathway I run, Hissing and roaring and leaping and dashing, And flashing a myriad of gems to the sun. And flowing and flowing. Down through the hills and through valleys that glow With the sun from above and the green from below. On by the cities that lie at my side, Growing deeper and wider, I quietly glide Past where the Schuylkill pays tribute to me. Till I reach in my journey the fathomless sea. There where the ships from the North And the South, And the East and the West, with their keels vex my mouth, I mingle my waters with those of the main. Bury my flood in the flood of the ocean. Whose motion repels me again and again. Yet flowing and flowing. THE BOONE WAGONER. Bring hither to my view again The long-lost Conestoga wain. Its jingling bells with cheery ehime. To chnking hoof-stamps keeping time. Its body curved and painted fed. With canvas canopy o'erhead.* THE BOONE IV AGON ER. 313 Its axles strong and broad tired wheels, Its Norman studs with clumsy heels. Its Lehigh wagoner, honest Fritz, \\'ho in the wheel-house saddle sits. Steady and slowly goes the load Adown the dusty turnpike road. From out my vision's teeming rack, To life again come back. Come back! O vain command! the words give o'er, Come back my early days no more. Nor bells I hear, nor stamping heels, Nor creaking of the burdened wheels. The wagon rots beneath the shed, And honest Fritz long since is dead. But what is this I see below Through Len's Creek valley toiling slow? A wagon dragged in devious line, By wrath-provoking sons of kine. Six ill-matched oxen hard to guide ; A brindle cur the wain beside. Coffee and salt the load which reels Above the worn and creaking wheels — 314 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. The creaking wheels, with narrow tire, That deeply mark the yellow mire. The wagoner with aspect grim, With narrow chest, but sinewy limb. His face, sharp-featured, wrinkled, spare, Crowned with unkempt and raven hair. His whip, beneath the left arm borne — The long lash trailing back forlorn. So much absorbed in thought is he, He has no thought to waste on me. I know him well, by face and name ; From Boone he comes — 'tis Burwell Graeme. His life is one unvarying scene — Is, will be, as it still has been. That which he did on yesterday, To-day he does the self-same way. When sunset comes he pauses near Some bubbling fountain, lone=and clear. Down he the oxen in their yokes, And soon the camp-fire snaps, and smokes. His coffee simmers o'er the blaze, While champ his oxen bladesiof maize. His table is the verdant sod, He sits and eats and thanks his God. THE BOONE WAGONER. S'S His meal despatched, his form he throws Upon the ground to seek repose ; A quilt perchance beneath him spread, A good stout log supports his' head. All night in dreams delight he takes, And cheerful in the morning wakes. III. You scorn, who pass that wagoner by The humble man ; not so do I. For 'neath that torn and tattered coat, A manly spirit well I note. Patient and honest, frank and. free. No guile within his heart has he. A loving husband, tender sire, He never dreams of station higher. Content to hve on scanty fare, So he may shun both debt and care. What matters it to him, the strife That marks the busy haunts of life? The Gallic patriotism burns ; The Gaul a dynasty upturns. In England sink the three-per-cents ; Drop fearfully low the Gallic rentes. 3i6 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. Spain totters on destruction's brink, The Prussian king goes mad through drink. In Mexico a change again ; New rulers weekly, weakly reign. King Ludwig yields and crowns his son ; Sebastopol is lost and won. Yet what are these to Burwell Graeme? He drives the oxen all the same. He lets not these his spirit stir ; He is our Boone philosopher. And humble though the teacher be, His lesson is not lost on me. Hejiceforth I leave the haunts of men, And take me to the hills again. Content and quietude is there, Blue are the skies and sweet the air. , There let me live, there let me die, There let my worn-out body lie. IV. But, stay! the road curves to the right, And shuts my mentor out of sight. Away goes wagoner and wain — I mingle with the world again. THILLIS. 317 My olden life again I feel ; Again revolves Ixion's wheel. With Sisyphus the stone I tiirn, With Tantalus in thirst I burn. The dream of quiet life is o'er ; Pass Burwell Graeme for evermore. PHILLIS. Phillis was out in the garden, Flesh and blood moving in metre ; Fit was her place with the blossoms ; They were not fairer nor sweeter. Vainly I strove to accost her ; Words from my hps would not start ; Frozen I was into silence, Chilled by the ice in her heart. Stately she moved through the roses, Nowise my presence she heeded ; Roses ! why, never their color That of her two lips exceeded. Then, when her eyes fell upon me, Standing dejected apart, Colder and colder her glances. Chilled by the ice in her heart. Desperate made by her scorning. Wild throbbed my heart with emotion; Grasping her fingers, I murmured Words filled with love and devotion. 3i8 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. Low drooped her head on my shoulder- Ah, had her coyness been art? Or had the love that was hidden Melted the ice in her heart? THE DOUBLE RESCUE- You like to view those mettled horses grazing In yonder pasture, brutes of noblest breed ; They make, you say, a picture past all praising, Save one alone — this old and sorry steed. Old — thirty-three ; few horses grow much older ; Eyes dim, but ears that hear my faintest call ; See how he rests his head upon my shoulder! The dear old friend to me is worth them all. In coming here you crossed a streamlet narrow, Creeping its way ; they call it Rocky Run. Shallow in summer, coursing like an arrow , O'er stony rapids ere its mouth be won ; But in the spring time, swollen to a torrent By melting mountain snows, its waters roar. A fearful sight! Yet one time from its current That old horse brought me safely from the shore. " Well, many a horse does that much for his master ;" True ; but old Selim did much more for me ; In two ways there he saved me from disaster ; He saved my life and shaped my destiny. Clouds of disgrace around me lowered horrent, My feet were on the path that leads below ; The least of danger was the foaming torrent. The greater was the one that boi;e to woe. THE DOUBLE RESCUE. 3^9 A wild young man, I led a life of rioi ; My days were idle, drunken were niy nights ; You'd scarcely think it now in one so' quiet ; But I was hero in a dozen fights. The good folk shunned me as a moral leper ; I was accounted of all bad the worst, And kept there sinking deeper, deeper, deeper, A being even to myself accurst. Selim was then a colt, but broken newly, Who stood without where I got drunk within, And in my wandering ever served me truly — Not his to know his master's shame and sin. IjBSS brute than I, he always safely bore me Through storm and darkness to my lonely bed ; If I fell off, he patient waited for me^ Poor, faithful servant ! often badly fed. One night, near morning. Rocky Ruti was roaring In wildest wrath, as by its banks we stood ; To cross was madness while that flood was pouring ; But liquor gave me a defiant mood. The sober man may shrink, however fearless, Where the foolhardy, half-crazed drunkard dares ; So, spurring Selim in that current cheerless, I madly yelled : "We'll cross or drown — who cares? " The cold plunge sobered me ; and then the whirling. Dark, furious stream we effort made to breast ; And Selim struggled till the torrent swirling Had nearly borne us to the rapids' crest. M\- senses left. But better horse or braver Than Selim never perilled rider bore ; By his young vigor, under Heaven's good favor. He gained firm footing on the shelving shore. 320 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. My senses came. The sun was shining brightly, Glinting its slanting beams on bush' and tree ; One foot of mine wedged in the stirrup tightly — Had Selim ran ! — he never stirred from me. I rose and said : " My colt, I have a notion. Your services good liquor should command ; You first, I next." His hoof, with furious motion. To fragments dashed the bottle in my hand. Well, you may smile, sir, but on that May morning A hght shone in my soul which shines there still ; I had a lesson and I had a warning ; I never drank again, and never will. He saved me both ways. Though not now I need him. We two shall never part till one is oold — Why, if 'twould pleasure him, on pearls I'd feed him. Give him a bed of down and shoes:of gold. PHILLIS, MY DARLIMG. The memory of age has beneficent uses, And events of the past in our mind reproduces, Till they rush as the mill-waters flow through their sluices, And joys long departed bring back to our ken-; The loved and the lost in our vision are vivid, The red blood of life paints the lips thaf are livid. And eyes that are closed beam in beauty again. The foremost is Phillis, my darling, my charmer. Whose innocence formed her invincible armor ; There lived not a creature who offered to harm her, To hurt with a glance, or to wound with a word ; THILLIS, MY DARLING. 3^1 A being of impulse, yet faithful to duty, Her mind matched her face in its impress of beauty, Till hearts all ai'ound her to loving were stirred. The beautiful Phillis! No mortal was sweeter; The rose in its loveliness never completer ; Her words flowed unknowing to musical metre ; Her glances to sunlight, that brightened and blessed ; What hope was for me, a rude striphng who tended Mv kine and my flocks? Yet my worship ascended As I bent and I bowed at the shrine with the rest. Yet I fancied at times, for our love feeds our fancies. And my brain tOok the feelings that come of romances, That she dropped, in her mercy, some favoring glances. And fed through her pity, the love in my heart ; And no knight of poor fortune a proud princess serving, His passion to deeds of high derring-do nerving. More manfully played his disconsolate part. The fetters that bound me they galled in the wearing ; I grew helpless and blind ; but the depth of despairing Engendered within me a fever of daring ; I would speak, though she crushed me with anger and scorn ; So there at the twilight I sought her and told her (How my arms ached that moment to fondly enfold her! ) My passion, and turned, feeling lost and forlorn. Came the words, quick and joyous, amid my abasement : " You love me, then, Laurence! " I turned in amazement ; There she stood, framed in mist, in the half-open casement. Her features transfigured, her eyes filled with light. O, triumph, O, rapture! the memory thrills me. And, forty years gone, with its happiness fills me, And youth has returned, and the future is bright. 322 -D/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEIAS. Ah! who would not spurn honor, riches and glory, For the power to recall when our locks have grown hoary, The rapture that followed the ever-new story, When told to the damsel we loved in our youth. When our frame thrilled to madness at favoring glances, ^\'hen the meetings of lovers were magical trances, When life was all fancies, and fancies were truth. JOHN TREV ANION'S STORY. They have laid him to-day in the churchyard old. And I sit by myself in the twilight dim, "With thoughts going back to the earlier days , That I passed at the school or the play-ground with him. Over half of a century memory leaps. And brings the young life into being again, When we were a couple of bare-footed boys, And to him I was Jack, and to me he was Ben. Young Benedict Brown was a shoemaker's boy ; My father, the wealthiest man in the town ; But boys are not sordid, and soon we were known As Damon Trevanion and Pythias Brown. The two of us went to old Morris's school. And were constant companions when school work was done ; But, mark you, though he was at head of the class. In fishing I always caught two to his oiie. AVhile chatting together one day when half-grown We talked of the future, and what we should do When each came to manhood ; I said I would strive To double my fortune before I was through. JOHN TREyANION'S STORY. 32;^ Quoth Ben : " You'll have money to further your plan ; I have nothing but firm, honest purpose, and I Intend to read law, win a name and resppct. And be member of Congress and judge ere I die." I laughed. " 'Tis a very good purpose," I said ; "You aim pretty high, Ben ; but think, after all, How rocky and rugged and steep is the road, How high is the hill, and how far if you fall." He answered: "Though rocky and rugged the road, Its length may be travelled by one witil a will ; And up to the House they call Beautiful, Jack, The Pilgrim must climb by the Difficult Hill." His words brought the story of Bunyan to mind, And the blood to my cheeks by my shame was impelled. For I felt that the man with the muck-rake was I, While he gazed at the crown by an angel upheld. And I knew that, with honor and courage possessed, He would follow the earnest career he had planned ; So I said : " Well, my comrade, whatever your aim, Count on Jack as your friend;" anc^ I gave him my hand. I left him for college, and Ben went to work ; He sat on the shoe-bench and hammered away. Made enough to support him and buy a few books ; The night gave to study, to labor the day. 'Twas but in vacations I saw him for years ; He was there, while I read at my college afar ; But a week ere my bachelor's honors I took. Young Benedict Brown had been called to the bar. I crossed the Atlantic, and roamed foreign lands ; Was gone for ten years ; and, returning again. 3^4 -DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT T^OEMS. I sought for old friends, and among thern I found, Ranking high among lawyers, my school-fellow, Ben. Not rich, but with comforts around him-, and blest With children and wife and his fellows' regard ; But he owned, as we sat after dinner and talked, That the chmbing of Difficult Hill had been hard. He gained, in the end, all he aimed at, and more — Congress, Governor, then was Chief-Justice at last ; And as I_ had become, as I wished, milUonaire, We often recurred to our hopes of the past. Our friendship ne'er checked; you may judge what I felt When the telegraph flashed me a message, to come, If I'd see my old friend ere his bright eyes were closed. And the silvery voice, thrilling thousands, grown dumb. I stood at his bedside ; his fast-glazing eye Lit when he beheld me ; though dying, and weak, His lips moved ; I bent to the pillow my ear, And he managed, in difificult whisper, to speak — " I go to the House they call Beautiful, Jack; I have done with all climbing on Difficult Hill." Then he smiled, and a glory came over his face. And the heart of the Pilgrim forever was still. GIDEON. With his pack on his back, and his yard-stick for stafi, And a nervous look-out for all possible buyers, With burrs on his clothes caught in crossing the fields, And rents and a rip made in passing through briers, With dust on his shoes from the road that he strode From the dawn of the day till the sun sunk in crirnson, GIDEON. 325 With a look that spoke weariness, hunger and thirst, Trudged onward the peddler, old Gideon Simson, For years more than thirty he travelled this way — The sun ra\'s they tanned him, the rain drops they sprinkled — And under the load of his pack and his" years, His hair had grown white, and his face become wrinkled. While rival on rival gave way in disgust, Declaring our trade would not pay for the labor. Old Gideon went round every month of the year, As welcome as ever, from neighbor to neighbor. How Gideon could thrive was a mystery quite To puzzle the wits of the craftiest scholar, For he never took profit on goods that *he sold. For a hundred cents giving what cost him a dollar. Yet somehow this profitless trade that he drove, U'as not to his fortune at all detrimental, Siiice a friend who should know said that Gideon in town Owned a tenement-house with a very large rental. And what was the secret of Gideon's success. That his cents grew to dimes, and his dimes into dollars? Why was it in bondage our women he led. Inclosing their necks in the closest of collars? Each customer felt that she dealt with {i rogue, Vet dealt to the best of her purse's ability — And why? He had mastered the key fo success. Much flattery, mingled with smiling tivility. 1 That hooked nose of his might forbid you to buy, •The craft that peered out from his eyes might alarm vou ; 326 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT -POEMS. But the sweet, simple smile that was wreathed round his lips, And that soft, wheedUng tongue were quite certain to charm you. He handled coarse woollens and talked till the stuff A texture like velvet the dazed eyes begat in ; And a sixpenny print in his fingers was made, To the poor girl who cheapened, a fabric like satin. Old Gideon is dead, and there comes in his stead A peddler who honestly deals, and we know it ; We grumble, and when we can't help it, we buy ; But we don't like the dealer, and don't spare to show it. He may give us the worth of the money we spend, May throw in an inch on the yard in his measure, But where is the flattery Gideon bestowed, The smiles and the falsehood that gave us such pleasure? THE BRIDE'S STORY. When I was but a country lass, now fifteen years ago, I lived where flowed the Overpeck through meadows wide and low ; There first, when skies were bending blue and blossoms blooming free, I saw the ragged little boy who went to school with me. His homespun coat was frayed and Worn, with patches covered o'er ; His hat — ah, such a hat as that was never seen before! THE MOUNTAIN HUNTER. 327 The boys and girls, when first he came, they shouted in their glee, And jeered the little ragged boy who went to school with me. His father was a laboring man, and mine was highly born ; Our people held both him and his in great contempt and scorn. They said I should not stoop to own ^ playmate such as he, The bright-eyed, ragged little boy who \Vent to school with me. For years they had forgotten him, but when again we met' His look, his voice, his gentle ways remained in memory yet; They saw alone the man of mark, but I could only see The bright-eyed, ragged little boy who went to school with me. He had remembered me, it seemed, as T remembered him ; Nor time, nor honors, in his mind, the cherished past could dim ; Young love had grown to older love, and so to-day, you see, I wed the little ragged boy who went to school with me. THE MOUNTAIN HUNTER. Mv footsteps through the forest rove. My heart is in the forest free ; All former days and former love Are playthings of the past to me ; 328 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. And I have learned, within this grove, A hunter of the deer to be. The running brook supplies my* thirst, My rifle finds me daily food : In other days I learned that worst Of evils o'er the city brood ; I fled, and then upon me burst* The glory of the pathless wood. Here sits the scarlet tanager In music upon the hornbeam bough ; Its voice reminds me much of her — What matters such a memory now? She would not know her worshipper With these elf-locks and swarthy brow. Within the hills my cabin stands. Of logs and clay a palace rare, The work of these my brawny hands, Rest, health, and comfort meet me there ; The solitude of these broad lands AVould never fit my lady fair.. Yet could I see her once again,. As in my dreams I often see,, It were a spirit-cheering pain E'en did she frown as erst on* me, And I might gather from it then New strength thus lonely here to be. The wish is vain ; another wears The jewel I had hoped to own ; Of me she neither knows nor cares ; I waste within this wood alone ; THE MOUNTAIN HUNTER. 329 My heart no more to struggle dares Against its hardening into stone. Up, man! forget the gnawing past, Enjoy the freshning morning air ; Be glad whene'er the wildwood blast Shall toss in play thy tangled hair ; And, when the sun is overcast, Go track the wild bear to his lair. There in the laurel-roughs meet him, Acquit thee as a hunter should. Quail not before his brawny limb, Attack him with thy weapon good ; Strike till his eye begins to dim — Thou art the monarch of this wood, A wilder brute than he there lies Hid in thy soul— the bitter wrong She did unto thee with her eyes. Which caused so many fiends to throng Into thy spirit's cell ; arise And conquer that, and so be strong. That is a true man's truest fight ; Who quells his passions is a king To reign within the realm of right ; To him the just their homage bring. And angels wait with garments bright To robe him when his soul takes wing. • Ah! all in vain such counsel brave! My spirit still in Lethe seeks. The fervor of its woe to lave, To drown its pang-betraying shrieks. 330 T)R_ ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. And ever in its breathing grave Its agony and anguish speaks. I may not crush, but bear the asp Which gnaws forever at my heart ; In dreams I feel her gentle clasp, And at her touch to life I start. Then all reality I grasp. And stand alive, from life apart. Here in these grand old woods, whose shade, So dusky brown, befits my lot, I sil within the leafy glade And gaze upon the Guyandotte, And, as I sit, to calm betrayed. Drink deep the beauty of the spot. Last Mistress, Nature ; love no more My soul pursues ; to hunt the deer My sole pursuit ; my youth is o'er, My manhood past, and age draws near; Seared by my sorrows to the core, I own no hope, I feel no fear. MARGARET NEVILLE. His heart is barred with her lily-white hand, And can let no new love enter there ; He is bound to the past by a glittering band, Made of her locks of golden hair. He looks at the scene from the open door; He bows his form and droops his head, And murmurs, "All this I own, and more — What does it matter with Margaret dead? " MARGARET NEVILLE, 331 For fifteen years he had toiled for her ; For fifteen years she waited for him ; He ne\'er knew in the noisy whirr Of his busy hfe how her hope grew dim ; How, tired with waiting, her hope gave way, And a weary hfe at last was sped", Till they sent him the news that summer day That Margaret Neville was lying dead. He had toiled for years, that lonely man, Had felled the forest and ploughed the soil ; One purpose alone through his efforts ran ; One hope had sweetened his ceaseless toil. He couldsee the smiles on the face well known, A halo of' light on the dear one's head ; But tlie vision had flown and he was alone. And Margaret Neville was lying dead. She saw as she faded from earth, the boy — For what had he been when he strolled away? With a springy step, and a face of joy, And dimples where laughter loved to play. And she died in the arms of memory there. Nor knew him a wrinkled man instead, With a frowning brow, and a peevish air, Whose hopes, hke the woman he loved, lay dead. He saw as he sat at the open door, A girlish form and a girlish face. Less perfect if nature had given her more, A being of beauty and love and grace. He did not see that her golden hair Was streaked with silver, her bloom had fled, Her face was pallid, and dull her air — Not so to him was his Margaret dead. 332 7)/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. There are damsels around who'd sell for his land And his flocks and herds their beauty fair ; But they cannot pass her lily-white hand, Nor break those fetters of golden hair. For there he sits at the open door, Hours after the day to the dark has fled. And murmurs, "I live no more, no' more. Now Margaret Neville is dead — is dead!" COME BACK. You say the poor-house is a mile ahead ; It once stood yonder — "That was years ago.'' True, true ! They'll give me supper and a bed ; A job at picking oakum, too, I know, For that's their way. Old Potter always used to find some work, And plenty, for the travelling tramp to do ; And his successor, even if less a Turk, Will follow his example. "So I knew Old Potter, eh / " Of course I did. Not as a pauper though ; I made poor-masters and such things just then; For, strange as it may seem, I'd have you know That I have ranked among the " solid men " Of Brantford town. Now I am mostly in the liquid line When I can get it. Thirty summers since My food was dainty, clothes were superfine — They said I feasted people like a prince — But now I'm down. COME BACK. 333 Who from a high position falls, falls far, And from the distance feels the' more the hurt. The humbler men in life much happier are, For they lie prone already in the dirt, And feel no ill. " Travelled around .' " You bet I have. I left These parts long years ago, and I have been From east to west since then, have felt the heft Of years of trouble, and the sights I've seen A book would fill. Now you're a man of substance ; one whom chance. Or labor, may be, helped to fill his purse — "You've had your troubles? " Every one must dance Just as his fortune fiddles. (He'll disburse At least a dime.) Troubles are nothing with the means to thrive — "Abandoned by your father? " Why, how mean Some people are. If my son were alive He'd be your age. The boy I have not seen A long, long time. A quarter! Thank you. May I ask your name? What! "Aimer Brown/" Your mother? Dead, you say! (There are her eyes and hair — the very same.) These are not tears — the raw east wind to-day Moistens the eyes. You don't object to please an old man's whim By giving me your hand? You mind me much Of one I knew. (My head begins to swim.) "I tremble?" Age and want the sinews touch As manhood flies. 334 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Good-bye. God bless you! He has gone. His smile Had sunlight in it ; zephyrs in his breath — He shall not know how, after this long while, Hither returned to die a pauper's death, His father came. Let the boy prosper. Never let his life Be shadowed by my half-forgotten crime : I've seen and touched him. My poor, patient wife Is dead ; but he is like me in my prime, All but my shame. For me the poor-house, and the pauper's bed, And the pine coffin, and the noteless grave. He shall not blush to know when I am dead He was akin to one, to vice a slave, Who soiled his name. THE BUILDER'S STORY. ^^'HAT tioie we were wedded our prospect was high — First floor down the chimney — my Milly and I ; Our neighbors below thought more happiness theirs, But we ch'mbed up to heaven when we mounted the stairs. Some rickety furniture filled up the place, On the walls our two photographs hung face to face ; A square of old carpet — its pile had been lost ; One teacup between us — less sugar it cost. When sunset was making for darkness a way, And the jack-plane and handsaw I dropped for the day, How I entered the house with a skip and a hop. And two steps at once, climbed the stairs to the topi The teakettle sang a new song when I came ; The fire, at my \ oice, showed a ruddier flame ; And better than lamplight to chase away gloom, The smile of nn- Milly illumined the robm. There were beautiful \-iews o'er the tin-covered roofs. Away from the sound of the street horses' hoofs, With the air cool and pure at the height where we dwelt And the troubles of others unknown and unfelt. The love of my youth and the mate of my prime. The mother of buds that were blossoms in time. How she saved from my earnings what else had been spent,. And with much or with little was always content! 338 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. So saving, so toiling, a few years sVept by, We descended at last from our lodgings on high To a house of our own ; if 'twere not of the best, It made for our fledghngs a snug little nest. In building for others, I built for myself, Gained long rows of houses and great stores of pelf, Till at last, fortune crowning my labor and care, At sixty I wrote myself down " millionaire." And now in a mansion both lofty and wide, I feed me ten lackeys and pay them beside, Tread on triple-piled carpets, on cushions recline, And from silver and porcelain luxurious dine. Rich curtains of damask at windows are found ; Easy-chairs satin-covered in parlors* abound; The chambers are furnished in elegance all, And armor and pictures are hung in" the hajj. And there is my library — gorgeous* indeed ; 'Tis a fine place to smoke in or journals to read ; The books — a wise friend has selected the best ; The bindings are handsome, respected they rest. There is all that conduces to ease and repose. Yet something is lacking. What is it? Who, knows? There is nothing to hope for ; the race has been won, And possession breeds .surfeit when striving is done. And here, as we sit, both my Milly and I To our first year of wedlock look back with a sigh, When that garden of ours, so my Milly declares, Was a Garden of Eden up four pair of stairs. UNDER THE TREES. Barnaby Barnet, a dealer in leather, Who daily is scraping rnore dollars together, Sat in his Ferry Street store one morn, Sick of the smell of the hides and the horn, ^^■hen a barefooted girl in a calico gown, A bit of the country brought into the town In the shape of a nosegay — of roses alone — Some of them budding, and others were blown. As the perfume he drank with a relishing thirst, The bar from the door of his memory burst, And his senses, away to the days that had fled, By the scent of the roses a moment were led. No longer he sits in his counting-room heated, No longer his desk and his ledger he sees ; He has left the close town, and is pleasantly seated. Happily, dreamily. Under the trees., Glitters before him the swift-flowing river ; The heat in the air has a visible quiver ; The sheep dot the hill-side with patches of snow ; The kine in the pasture are grazing below ; He sees where the sunlight, in middle-day blaze, With gold tints the leaves of the emerald maize. Lights the low yellow wheat, and the tall russet rye, ^^'ith a quivering brilliance that dazzles the eye ; Sees, perched on cut underbrush, heaped for a pyre, The hue of the oriole deepen to fire ; While, stretched in the distance, dissolving from view. Are hill-tops that melt into lilac and blue : 339 , 34° T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT 'POEMS. A picture surpassing all art and its touches, Where the hand of the Master with purpose agrees. How his glance, in a rapture, its lovehness clutches. Happily, dreamily, Under the trees! Pleasant the hum of the bees in the clover, The rustle of branches his form bending over, The cat-bird, loud telling her pitiful tine. The neighing of horses, the lowing of kine. The shout of the mowers afield he can lithe, And the clink of the blade as they sharpen the scythe ; The cry of the jacketless boy who pursues, Hat in hand, the gay butterfly, varied in hues ; The bark of the dog who at dragon-flies springs, And, aloft in the air, the hawk's flapping of wings. The grasshopper's chirrup, the katydid's cries — All come to his ear as he listlessly lies. Sweet sounds that, in music all others excelling, Float, struggle, or suddenly pierce through the breeze — His ear takes them in where his body is dwelling Happily, dreamily, Under the trees. That was a day of delight and of wonder, While lying the .shade of the maple-trees under — He felt the soft breeze at its frolicsome play ; He .smelled the sweet odor of newly fnown hay, Of wilding' blossoms in meadow and wood. And flowers in the garden that orderly stood ; He drank of the milk foaming fresh from the cow ; He ate the ripe apple just pulled from the bough ; And lifted his hand to where hung in his reach. All laden with honey, the ruddy-cheej:ed peach ; Beside him the blackberries juicy &nd, fresh ; Before him the melon with odorous flesh. 'BONNIBEL 341 There he had all for his use or his vision, All that the wishes of mortal could seize — There where he lay in a country Elysian, Happily, dreamily, Under the trees. What, ere his thirst for the country he slakens. Too rudely from dreaming the dreamer awakens? The voice of the girl in the calico gown Wlio brought that small bit of the country to town, Is heard asking pay for the roses. The pa\' ! The wretch who had chased all that vision away? Here were no meadows, no trees overhead ; A narrow brick street, with its stenches instead ; And Barnaby Barnet, with gesture grotesque. Goes back to the fetters of ledger and desk. No country for him ; here no green things are grown ; His hides and his leather grow greenbacks alone ; And only when heirs, with forced weeping convey him — Kind Death from all wearisome work giving ease — Will his form find green fields : it will be when they lay him. Helplessly, dreamlessly, Under the trees. BONNIBEL. A BIRD within the parent nest* I caught, and took it to my breast ; I bought for it a cage of gold. Splendid, indeed, but bare and cold ; I fed this dainty bird of mine With wheaten biscuit sopped in wine ; This captive bird, which had been free, I chirped to it, and it to me ; 342 -D/f, ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. But, with its master by its side, It drooped its little wings afifl died. It was not well — it was not well ; She was the bird, my Bonnibel. Her home was in the woodfand wild,, ^Vhere all around in freedom smiled ; There skies were free of clouds ; the breeze Blew chainlessly among the trees ; Without confine the yellow deer Browsed round about, and knew no fear ; The brook ran freely through the glen ; Her life was all unfettered when I brought her, through mad love of mine, Here to the city's close confine, So much unlike her native dell — I wronged.her sorely, Bonnibel. She missed the lowing of the herds. The bleat of flocks and trill of birds ; The sighing of the summer breeze. Voices of night amid the trees ; The cricket's chirp, the plover's call. And moaning of the waterfall ; A wilding bee, she could nof thrive Here in the city's crowded hive ; Even my love could not suiifice. With all its glamour o'er her eyes ; And sad the fate which thus befell Her sweet young life, my Bonnibel. With all her spirit's longing pain. Nor words nor glances made complain ; And, wasting slowly all the .while. Her face was radiant in its Smile ; THE OLD NEGRO MINSTREL. 343 Her cheery voice was low and sweet, As though all gladness were complete ; Yet, as her cheeks grew wan and pale, And lost my tender words avail, . There came a voice my soul within, Reproaching me in accents thin ; My spirit heard its utterance well, And ached to hear it, Bonnibel. It is not meet the pallid form ^\'hich once embraced a heart so warm, Should in a city churchyard lie With greed and pleasure passing by. Hers be the fresh and kindly* earth \\'ithin the valley of her birth, To lowly lie and take her rest, Asleep, the babe upon her breast ; While he, who loved her, shall remain, Bou7id ever by his heavy chain. Till he shall bid the world farewell. And sleep beside you, Bonnibel. THE OLD NEGRO MINSTREL. "\^'HV, yes, I don't care if I do — Xo water! reverend, if you please: Ach ! that's the stuff to bring one to. Stiffen the back and brace the knees. With half-a-dozen slugs as good. Put me again within the show, I'd bring the house down as I could, And did, not many years a*go. 344 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. You stare! you never looked at rne Before I threw myself away ; I tell you, bummer though I be, I have- been famous in my day, Bones, banjo, middle man and end ; Essence of Ole Virginny too ; And Grapevine Twist and Camptown Bend- I've run the minstrel business through. They said no tenor voice like mine Had ever in a troupe been heaVd ; So sweet, so soft, so silvery fine. With trilling like a woodland bird. And when I did the heel and toe. Or walked around, or sung Ole Dad, Or jumped Bob Ridley, O! O! O! You'd think the people would go mad. . Another? Thankee! Come, that's prime! It brings me to my feet again, And minds me of the olden time When I was quite a man of men. And O, what labor then I took With whitened wig to do old Ned, To totter and my back to crook — It all comes natural now instead. Four years I'd been upon the stage — I was the star of stars, they said ; My voice and acting were the rage — Wider my reputation spread. And off the boards, so fair my face, So fine my form, they called me " Sara, The Ladies' Darling " — you'll notr trace Much that I was in what I am. THE OLD NEGRO MINSTREL. 345 We played — no matter where we played — To crowded houses ; all the day An eager mob for places prayed ; At night we hundreds turned away. No spot but what was closely filled, Pit, boxes, gallery, aisles, and all ; I sang — the house so wrapt and thrilled, \'ou might have heard a tear-drop fall. A sea of faces swam in cloud. Calmed by my voice's silver tone ; But, singled from that earnest crowd. My eyes took in one face alone. There wrapt in mist, as though she dreamed, Sat one, so beautiful and young. My only auditor she seemed, For her alone my song I sung. O'er heads of men and forms of men, Mv soul went out to hers that night ; And back came hers to mine a^ain, Until all space was filled with light. And when the curtain on me fell. And her no longer I could see. It seemed the place around was hell, And heaven forever barred to me. Give me another! If you'd raise 'l"he buried from its hidden grave, And summon back forgotten days. And would not have me howl and rave. Steady my nerves with whisky! There — Pour till you fill — this fit will pass. Ah! how that stirs me! Now, I swear, Youth seems to frolic m the glass. 346 T)R. ENGUSHS SELECT TOEMS. I met her soon — why make the tale Too tedious? Let all that go by — Enough, 1 won her, who could fail That bore a love so strong as I? I won her promise to be mine; If I would leave the boards and be A farmer on the Brandywine-^ A farmer's daughter wife to me. We parted. I the task begun To hoard each coin as though it were In value thousands, every one I gained but brought me nearer her. And through the time that we had fixed, I toiled, but all the toil was* gay ; For with those nights of labor ftiixed The promise of a happier day. The year was up. I eager sought The girl I loved, but mine no more ; . Absence and fate their work had wrought- She had been wed the month before. A clown, who knew not what he gained. Who grovelled far below my hate, The jewel of my heart obtained, And I had come too late — too late! What matter by what steps I sank ; How bit by bit the lower deep I fell to ; how I drank and drank — You see me as I crawl and tfreep. Give me one more — just one — 'I've told My story — every word is true — Thank youl that's worth a ton of gold! May no one tell the same of you. THE DRAMA OF THREE. I SAT at the opera ; round me there floated, On great waves of melody, perfect delight ; Where, cloaked and bejewelled, a woman I noted, Whose charms taught the gazer the music of sight. So beautiful she as to startle beholders ; Whose eyes in amazement her beauty drank in — • The clear, creamy tint of her neck and her shoulders ; The sensitive nostrils ; the curved, diitipled chin ; Lips shaped like a bow ; tresses rippling like ocean ; Cheeks where tints of the rose at the will went and came ; Dark eyes that gave token of every emotion, And melted to softness or kindled to flame. Yet her beauty to me lacked a touch of the tender ; She seemed all of marble, cold, cruel, and fair. As her neatly gloved fingers, long, shapely, and slender. Unconsciously moving, beat time to the air AVhich the tenor sang — " La donna e mobile.'' And much the face haunted me ; not from its beauty. Though fair to a wonder : but since, deeply lined, I saw in it selfishness, blindness to duty. That filled me with pain as I brought it to mind. And hence a month after, when sudden they called me To aid a sick child — to be there when it died. For croup mocks at art — 'twas the same face appalled me That shocked me before with its coldness and pride. The mother there suddenly summoned from pleasure. Arrayed in her satins and laces she stood ; Not dazed, as a person who loses a treasure. But stony in a,spect and careless of mood. 347 34^ 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. To woe, if she felt it, too proud to surrender, Well-bred, cold and calm, with a self-possessed air. As when her gloved fingers, long, shapely, and slender. Unconsciously moving, beat time to the air. While the tenor sang, " La donna e mobile." She turned to me coldly, and thanked mt for service Well-meaning though useless, and bent o'er the child ; Twitched its damp, tangled hair with a clutch cold and nervous. Threw quickly around her a glance keen and wild ; Then swept from the chamber, naught further revealing. When said the old nurse in half-whisper to me, " She was always a woman without any feeling. And ne'er loved that baby, you plainly may see. But not so the father — he fairly adored it ; He'll be wild with despair when its dfeath he is told." I sharply rebuked her. " Sir, I can afford it," She answered, '' that you should esteem me too bold ; But it's true what I tell you, let who will defend her ; Her pleasure abroad, not her home, is.her care." Then I thought of the fingers, long, shapely, and slender, Unconsciously making response to thfe air When the tenor sang, '' La donna e mobile." They open the hall-door — is that, then, the father ? Death waits for a visit from vigorous life. No, strangers ! What's that from the whispers I gather? "At the club with a razor" — " Break slow to his wife." On disaster there evermore follows disaster — Wide open the portals! give way in the hall! The mansion receives for the last time its master ; For the second time Death at the house makes a call. A shriek ! on the .stairway a figure descending Glide.s and falls on the litter there, reckless and wild. THE BANKRUPT S I^WTOR. 349 " O Richard! O Clara! and this is the ending! Lost, lost : and forever, my husband and child ! " In the street you may hear, where each gaping one lingers, A dismal hand-organ — strange notes for despair! Lift her up from the corpse. Ah! those long shapely fingers Nevermore in this world will beat time to the air Which the organ plays — " La donna e mobile.'' THE BANKRUPTS VISITOR. So you're the senior of the firm, the head ■Qf the great house of Erbenstone and Son — Great house that has been. That is what is said On street, in counting-rooms, by every one. That house had ships one time on every sea ; But then your father with his brains had sway. His ventures, millions. Come, don't frown at me! Sir, I have business, and I'll have my say. Here are the firm's acceptances — behold! There is a list, and you may scan it well : This paper once was thought as good as gold ; Now worthless if the tales be true they tell. Two hundred thousand and — well, never mind The odd amount — I bought theni as they lay In many hands — investments poor I find. But still I put the question — -can you pay? " The house has fallen now " — that cannot be ; You've made a stumble, that is not a fall ; That brings a story freshly up to me — We queer old fellows will such things recall. ;o T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. I'll tell you all about it, if you will, There's something in it you will much admire ; You're bound to hear the story, so keep still — It's somewhat chilly — let me stir the lire. 'Twas fifty years ago, one day, a lad Orphaned and friendless — one of those you see Hanging about the street ; some good, some bad — Walked in a counting-room as bold' and free As if he owned it — 'twas your father's ; there He stood and waited. When your sire that day Saw him, he asked with a repellant air — " What do you want?" The answer — " Work and pay." The merchant stared. " Boy, I've no place for you " — Your father's manner, not his heart; was cold — "And if I took you here what could you do?" And the boy answered — " Do as I am told." Your father liked prompt speech, and so inquired More of the boy — he rather liked hvs, face — And on the following day the lad was hired To run on errands, and to sweep the place. You were a baby then, sir ; but you came As you grew up to boyhood, rambling through The great storehouses. You recall the name Of Byng, the letter-clerk. I see yOu do. He was the errand boy, that bit by bit Had risen in the house till he had won The confidence of one who had more wit In choosing servants than has shown his son. One day a letter from Calcutta came From a great firm there — Belden and Carstairs, Begging your father that .some clerk he'd name Acquainted with American affairs. THE BANKRUPT S VISITOR. 351 Trusty and shrewd, and send him out to them — The kind of man they sought they- thought he knew. You know your father's way. He said — "Ahem! ' Trusty and shrewd ' — Byng, thereJs a chance for you. " Balden is dead — Carstairs has kept'the name Of the old firm — he was its life's blood too — Immensely rich, and if you play the game You've played from boyhood, and be just and true And diligent, and make his interest yours As you have mine so long, you'll surely rise ; I hate to part with you ; but this secures A certain fortune. Take it, if you're wise." Byng took the advice ; and then your father said — " You'll need some money, Byng, and here's a draft ; Take it ; a man can always hold his head Higher with cash in hand." And then he laughed. " No thanks! 'Tis bread upon the waters thrown. And may come back. If ever you be rich Pay it to me or mine, or give some one Who needs it sorely — 'tis no matter which." I'll cut the story short. Byng made his way There at Calcutta ; all seemed cut and dried ; First, general manager ; in a little day The junior partner ; when his senior died, Became both his successor and his heir ; And recently, the lord of lac on lac Of good rupees, selling his business there For a round sum, came to his country back. Here when he landed, judge of his surprise To find his benefactor dead, the name Of the old firm made loathly in men's eyes ; Its olden reputation brought to shame. 352 7?/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Well, sir, he bought its notes, and there they are — I am John Byng — to save your house's fame 1 bought them cent per cent — paid them at par — There, sir, your fire's improved — they're in the flame. What ! crying like a child ! Let go my hand ; I'm rich beyond compute. I only do "What I can well afford. Keep self-comrnand ; Ruin has passed — a friend shall stand by you. The house of Erbenstone and Son is savfed ; The bread your father on the water cast Comes after many years ; the hour I've craved When I could pay my debt, is here at last. VINOGENESIS. In this choice old Tokai— 'tis the richest and rarest — I drink to the dead who have vanished from sight ; The men who were bravest, the women the fairest. Who died and have left me so lonely to-night. There is frost on my beard ; in my heart there is chillness ; My frame has the weakness of three score and ten ; But here in the sohtude, calmness and stillness The love of my youth comes before me again. The eyes of deep azure, the broad, rippling tresses With bright, liquid sunshine enhalo her head ; The curved, mobile mouth her emotion expresses ; The zephyr no softer than sound of her tread. Who says she is dead, that the weeds and the briers Have hidden her grave in the churchyard afar? ON THE- STREAM. 353 Such as she are immortal. Be silent, ye liars! Can death slay the light or the air or a star? Dead? No! She is living and loving and tender ; New-born from the mists of the earher years ; Grace, beauty and virtue surround and defend her, And the rapture I feel finds expression in tears. We ramble again 'mid the oaks and the beeches ; We pluck from the branches the bright pinxter flowers ; We again interchange the same sweet, silly speeches. And wonder why time has been steaHng the hours. Now we sit side by side in the fast growing twilight, Not caring the sun from the world may depart ; No darkness appalls, for we see by the eyelight. And bright to true lovers are eyes of the heart. Our love is our riches, our splendor, our glory ; A\'e dwell in a palace with joy for a guest ; ^Vhat care we for those who are famous in story? What care we who serves, or who reigns o'er the rest? Ah, darling! one kiss as of old ere we parted! She smiles on me kindly, and fades from my eye, A dream and delusion: I sit here sad-hearted, With nothing to cheer but this choice old Tokai. ON THE STREAM. Night, but no cloud in the sky; And yonder the lights of the stream gleam and quiver In a flame-spotted pyramid up from the river. As I float in my boat so despairingly by On the stream.* 354 -T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Quiet the ships at the piers ; Like a forest in winter, their masts and their spars Stand in relief from the sky and the stars ; I can see them in spite of my fast-falling tears, On the stream. Creeping from wooden-walled slips, I watch the filled ferry-boats ply to and fro, Impatiently pawing the wave as they go, Threading their way through the fast-anchored ships On the stream. In the far distance, I see No light of a lamp from a window on shore ; That was her signal last summer — no more Will that lamp through the pane cast a glimmer for me On the stream. Though as my life she was dear, I could have borne it to think of her dead ; But deeper than that was the pang when she fled Away with another — fled, leaving me here, On the stream. Sometimes they tell me I'm crazed ; God knows if I am ; but I think not, although I feel somewhat stunned with this dull, crushing blow ; I still keep my senses, though floating, amazed, On the stream. Floating half way from the shore — Thus in my boat, in and out of the light, I drift and I drift with my woe and the night. Till the storm comes — and then, they will see me no more On the stream. THE OLD CHURCH-BELL. Born of the metal and the fire, They bore me from my raging sire, And made me of the city's choir Which sings in free air only ; And here since then I've patient hung, Silent, untouched ; but, being swung, Giving my voice with iron tongue — Alone, but never lonely. The hermit of the belfry here, Celled in the upper atmosphere, I speak in accents stern and clear To all the listening people ; With none my speech to check or mar, Sending my utterance near and far. With sonorous clang and sudden jar, I shake the slender steeple. I ring the chimes for the bridal day ; I toll when the dead are borne away ; I clang when the red flames rise and play On crackling roof and rafter ; I tell the hours for the steady clock ; I call to prayers the pastor's flock ; And back and forth in my work I rock, And sink to silence after. Here by myself in belfry high. Peeping through bars at earth and ^y, And mocking the breezes sweeping by, And back their kisses flinging, 355 m 356 DR, ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. I chime for smiles, I toll for tears, I herald news and hopes and fears, As I have done for many years. And never tire of ringing. From place of vantage, looking down On yellow Hghts and shadows brown Which glint and tint the busy town With hues that gleam and quiver, I see within the streets below The human currents crosswise flow, Edying, surging to and fro. An ever-living river. And when the twilight slowly crawls O'er slated roofs and bricken walls. And darkness on the city falls, And dews the flags besprinkle, I watch the gloom around me creep, So dense the silence, dense arid deep. The very highways seem to sleep, But for the gaslights' twinkle. Or day or night there meet my gaze The sloping roofs, the crowded ways. The meshes of a dreary mazei Where men are ever wendin'g ; One day a rest for them may' see — One day in seven ; but as for me. No time from call of duty free, My toil is never-ending. I chime for birth or bridal train ; I toll when souls have burst their chain ; 1 clang when fire its ruddy rain From clouds of smoke is flinging ; OPTIMUS BROIVN. 357 I chime for smiles ; I toll for tears ; I herald news and hopes and fears ; And so shall do for many years, And never tire of ringing. OPTIMUS BROWN. It strikes me this morning, friend Pessimus Green, By your railing at mankind you're suffering with spleen ; The men, by your saying, are nothing" but knaves, The women, to fashion and folly are slaves ; One set are the biters, the others the bit. And both are the mark of your cynical wit ; But banish a moment that sneer and that frown, While I tell you the story of Optimus Brown. This Optimus Brown, on a hot summer day, I met in the street in his clothing of grey. And while mopping his forehead, he s'aid this to me — " Quite genial weather! I like it, d'ye see? It gives one such pleasure without and within ; It quickens the pulses, relaxes the skin. Drives away from the mind every feeling of woe, And makes both the plants and the animals grow." When next I encountered this Brown in the street, He was merrily trudging with pattering feet. But, stopping at sight of me, gleefully said — " A day like to-day might awaken the dead. This weather of autumn with dim, mifety haze Throws a veil of delight o'er the thorniest ways, There isn't a season compares with the Fall ; And the month of November surpasses them all." 358 T)fi_ ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Three months after that, in the coldest of weather, Brown said, as we shivered in walking together, With " ten below zero " keen piercing us through — " I admire such fine weather as th'is is, don't you? It better than tonics or stimulants serves To brace up the body and strengthen the nerves ; It gives as much vigor as victuals and drink ; And we'll have a fine ice-crop this winter, I think.'' The last time I ran against Optimus Brown The rain through his tattered umbrella came down. And poured down his neck like the stream from a pump ; But he said — " How this weather'U make the plants jump ! The country around was in need of such showers To forward the crops and to blossbm the flowers ; And this moisture refreshes the body and brain — There's nothing compares with a soft April rain ! " And Optimus treated his troubles the same. And took at its best all misfortunes that came ; His friends were all true, and his foes — if he had 'em — Were wayward connections, his kinsfolk through Adam, Who would not wrong him, their relation, and hence No cause to resent where he took no offense ; And, if clouds ever darkened his pathway at night. He patiently waited for morning and hght. You may smile at old Optimus — laugh, if you please — Who took each mishap when it came at its ease. Regarded whatever occurred as the best. And with whatever happened, believed he was blest ; Yet you'd better think much as Optimus thought. And bring from each sorrow such joy as he brought. Look at fortune as friend if she smile, or she frown. And take the world easy like Optimus Brown. IBKSB THE BREAD SNATCHER. For two whole days we had no food ; And dark, gigantic Want Beside our cold hearth-stone sat down, With Hunger grim and gaunt. My wife and children made no moan. Nor spoke a single word ; Yet in the chamber of my heart Their hearts' complaint I heard. Awearied by their sorrowing eyes, I left the house of woe, And on the dusty village street I paced me to and fro. I stopped me at the baker's shop, Wherein my eyes could see The great round loaves of wheaten bread Look temptingly on me. " My children shall not starve! " I cried — The famine in me burned — I slily snatched a loaf of bread, When the baker's back was turned. I hurried home with eager feet, And there displayed my prize ; While joy, so long afar from us, Came back and lit our eyes. 359 36o T^R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. To fragments in our hunger fierce That sweet, sweet loaf we tore ; And gathered afterwards the crumbs From oflE the dusty floor. While yet our mouths were full, there came A knock which made us start ; I spoke not, yet I felt the blood Grow thicker at my heart. The latch was raised, and in there came The neighbors with a din ; They said I stole the baker's bread. Which was a grievous sin. They took me to the Judge, who said 'Twas larceny — no less ; And doomed me to the gloomy jail / For wanton wickedness. He asked me why the penalty Of guilt should not be paid ; And when I strove to state the case, He laughed at what I said. Then growing grave he rated me, And told me it was time To check the vices of the poor, And stop the spread of crime. In jail for three long months I lay, — Three months of bitter woe — And then they opened wide the door, And told me I might go. THE BREAD SNATCf^ER. 361 From out the prison I did not walk, But ran with quivering feet, Down through the hall and past the door, And up the busy street. My feet had scarce devoured ten rods Of ground, before a hearse Came slowly on with coffins three, Each cofBn with a corse. I asked the driver as he sung, Therein who might he bear ; He answered not, but stopped his voice, And on me fixed a stare. The one beside him turned h'is head, And when the hearse had past, I heard him to the other say. — " His brain is turned at last." I heeded not — I hastened home. And entered in my door, Where Silence like a snake crept out And slimed along the floor. Our old cat from the corner came And crooked her back and cried ; I stooped me down and patted her. And then I stood and sighed. I left the house and sought the street — My mind was growing wild ; And playing with a pile of dust I saw a chubby child. 3(>2 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " Come hither, my Httle dear," said I ; " Where did the people go. Who hved within yon empty house, Two years or nearly so?" Straight answered then the little boy, While I turned deadly pale-^ " The man, sir, was a wicked thief. They took him off to jail. " The woman and children hid themselves ; They found them all to-day, And in the gloomy poorhouse hearse They carried them away. " They say they never will com,e back, Because the three are dead ; But wasn't that a wicked thing For the man to steal the bread ? " THE SURGEON'S STORY. Never again While the clouds scatter rain, And the green grass grows, and the great rivers run, And the earth travels round the immovable sun. And heaves with the tide the untamable sea, Will she be but an object of hatred, to me ; And never again will my pulses thrill At the light of her smile, at her frown stand still. As they thrilled or stilled in the by-gone days When we thridded together the wildfwood ways. THE SURGEON'S STbRY. 363 False to her trust, She is prone in the dust ; Her feehng and honor and troth-plight are sold For velvets and laces and jewels and gold, For a mansion of splendor, a withered old lord, And a life where her soul by itself is abhorred ; But should ever, as may, in the day to come To a terrible trouble her heart succumb. In that moment of misery let her beware Of the wretch she has doomed to a life of despair. Such was the thought From my agony wrought ; Such the resolve that my spirit controlled, As I saw her one night with her husband old, So haughtily poising her beautiful neck. While worshippers waited her nod and beck ; But casting no thought to the lure's and deceit That had brought me abased on the earth at her feet ; And hiding from view, by her treacherous smile, Her bosom of ice and her spirit of guile. None in his wrath May determine his path ; As years after I knew when on duty I passed Through the hospital wards by the sufferers ghast — (An engine had leapt from its traek on the rail. And these were the wounded ones, mangled and pale,) Who waited and watched for my coming to know Were they destined to stay with the living or go ; For one face of those faces alone I could see. And the rest were but shadows of shadows to me. 364 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT "POEMS. There, in the bed, Half-li\ing, half-dead, No remnant remaining of wealth that had been, But, drawn around a form that was wasted and thin, A calico gown, faded, tattered and old — No velvets, no laces, no jewels, no gol'd ; Of the charms once so potent no token, nor trace. But some grey hairs instead, sunken cheeks, paUid face ; And thus I beheld her when long years had flown, Poor Claribel! dying, forsaken, and lone. Faded away As before me she lay, The bitter resolve and the purpose of years, And hatred was drowned in my pitying tears. Was this, then, the end of her beauty- and pride. At whose feet I had knelt, for whose. favor had sighed ? Was this dying woman, abandoned, forlorn, The belle who had held all her rivals in scorn? Wealth vanished, hope parted, her flatterers fled. Eye glazing, pulse failing — a shiver — dead — dead. Shrouded and cold. As the solemn bell tolled^ We laid the poor wanderer down to her rest. With a stone at her head, and the earth on her breast ; And never again while the clouds scatter rain. While the winds sough through forest, or sweep over plain, And the green grass grows, and the great rivers run. And the earth travels round the immovable sun. And -heaves with the tide the untamable sea, Will more than a memory of Claribel be. RISEN FROM THE LAPSTONE. " Risen from the lapstone '' — this I heard them say Of one a little richer than the rest ; They spoke the words in an admiring way, As though among all good men he were best. I sought the history of this honored man, To profit by it ; to my great surprise I learned he had succeeded in a plan To gather wealth by meanness, fraud and lies. There was no trick of gain that he would shun ; There was no mean device he left untried, If haply thus some profits might be won : All which they told me with apparent pride. They merely saw the gold the man had gained. The stocks he owned, the lands he held in fee : Nor were their coarser natures shocked or pained By what the shirt of Nessus seemed to be. " Risen from the lapstone ' — others said the same. And curled their lips, and gave a sComful leer. As though the lapstone were a thing of shame, The fitting subject for a bitter sneer. Their scorn was for the honest trade at which The man had ceaseless wrought in manhood's prime. Not for the practices that made him rich : Their sneer was for his calling, not his crime. Gaining his wealth so vilely, did he rise? What fool asserts it? When his hammer's clank Spoke frequent from the lapstone, in our eyes He could not well attain a higher rank ; 365 366 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT T'OEMS. But when through avarice he threw away Good men's respect, became the slave of greed, Pinched here, grasped yonder, crawJing day by day- We knew he found the lowest depth indeed. Labor is honor. He who toils, creates. And who creates above mere idlers stands ; He is a soft-brained fool who arrogates Himself great credit for his stainless hands; Yet he who riches wins by patient toil, And honest thrift, and noble enterprise, Keeping his spirit free from taint and soil, Be he but modest, may be said to rise. Labor has dignity. Kings held the plow And deemed it honor. The incarnate God Till middle manhood bathed his sacred brow With labor's dew. And publish it abroad That those who win immunity from: toil By petty tricks that hold the soul' in thrall, By meannesses that name and honor soil, From their condition do not rise, but fall. THE DYING CLERK, I've had charge of the books, Maria, for forty-nine years and more ; I remember I made the first entries when we moved from the Pearl-street store. In fact I grew up in the business : I swept out the place when a boy. And chmbed from one post to another, and never yet left their employ. THE DYING CLERK. 3^7 And how will they get on without me? They've no one to follow my plan : That Morton'll muddle the journal; and Harris, he isn't the man. Harris, indeed! why, V\& known him since he was a slip of a lad! And now he's a wild boy of thirty — he'll soon bring our books to the bad. I'\-e never been found in an error — I know that my books will compare A\'ith any in South street this minute — in fact, with their books anywhere ; But the doctor says, errors excepted — and I have no doubt but he's right — That my time's come to make trial baldnce, and close my account up to-night. Now don't go to crying, Maria, for teais are a poor stock in hand, And you're not left a beggar entirely you might just as well understand ; For here is the house that we live in, some bonds and some ready cash too. Had he lived, 'twould have gone to youf father ; and now it'll all come to you. Not talk at this moment of money! And why won't I talk of it, pray? 'Tis a very good thing, I can tell you, laid by for a cold, rainy day. If you and that Robert must marry, you won't be a beg- garly bride ; Young love is a good thing for young folk, but then you want money beside. 368 -D/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. I'd rather you took up with Peter, for Peter's a much better man ; But when we can't get what we want to, we do the next best that we can. And Robert is earnest and honest, and steady enough in his ways ; But Peter's the man to make money, and fhat is the thing now-a-days. And Robert is not a neat penman — he somehow don't look far ahead ; He thinks of to-day when he ought to give thought to to- morrow instead. He'll always have blots in his ledger — But grandfather's talk is in vain ; To Profit and Loss we must charge it — as they say — ■ " Debit Loss, credit Gain." I'm not such an old man, Maria — but a little way past seventy-five ; There's Timothy Morris's brother, he's niriety, and he is alive ; And there is old Anthony Norton — he's somewhere about eighty-two, And lively, they say, as a cricket ; but then he's as rich as a Jew. And so you will marry that Robert ? Well, well, if you mt/sf have your way, I hope that you'll never repent it — I know^ you'll be sure to, one day. What! Robert! His pen always splutters; his books that I've seen are a show — If Harris gets hold of the ledger, he'll tangle accounts there, I know. THE CROIVNLESS HAT. 3^9 Come, lift me up higher, Maxia — it seems I slide down in the bed ; Then shake up the pillow a little — there's a lump there just under my head. You'd better leave Robert for Peter — my eyes seem to flutter and swim — That ugly mistake in the column — What makes the light — burn — there — so — dim ? THE CROWNLESS HAT. It doubtless had been a respectable hat That I saw on the edge of the sidewalk to-day, Though crownless and battered and torn and all that ; And it certainly wasn't the least in my way. But I reached where it lay with the end of my stick. And carefully drew the old thing to my feet ; Then I stopped for a moment and gave it a kick. And landed it out where they crossed o'er the street. An elderly gentleman crossing just then. Well-gloved, neatly booted, and clad in the best — Apparent no courtlier man among men — Couldn't let the old head-gear quiescently rest. He peered through his gold-mounted spectacles down At the fabric of plush I had tossed in his path ; He twisted his eye-brows of grey to a frown, And he kicked it, with every appearance of wrath. A delicate girl tripping early to school, ■\A'ith lunch-box and satchel, came past where it lay ; She was thinking, no doubt, of some difficult rule, Or conning the lesson set down for the day. 37° T)/?. ENGLISH S SELECT TOEMS. She paused for a moment — the hat met her eye — She bent her head downward, her lip formed a curl ; She cast a quick glance to see no one was nigh, Then with tip of her toe gave the old hat a whirl. Some boys on their errand of mischief were bent, All eager for what gave a promise of fun, And as past with their whooping and Shouting they went, The hat crushed and torn met the vision of one. " Ho! here's a football! " and upward it rose. Propelled by the force of the little men's feet ; Till, trampled by shoe soles and dented by toes, It soon found its way to the end oi' the street. Meanwhile on the curb-stone there lay an old shoe ; It was rusty and weather-worn, twisted and ripped ; With a rent in the front where a toe had come through, And a place where the sole from the welt had been stripped. But no one disturbed it ; it lay where 'twas thrown, Though directly before every passenger's sight : In kicking the hat was our energy shown, And solely in that we expended our spite. I puzzled my noddle a reason to find Why the hat should be spurned aiid the shoe should escape ; But rejected the first one that came to my mind, That the cause lay in relative softness and shape. We pity the boor who is worn out by toil ; But we jeer at Napoleon now he is down : The shoe was created to press on the soil ; The hat is degraded in losing its crown. THE MERCHANT'S DREAM. There, in his cobwebbed counting-room. The iron safe before, Where russet volumes tell the tale Of millions made, or more, The merchant, seated in his chair. O'er which the sunlight streams, In happy slumber wrapped, goes back To childhood in his dreams. Before his eyes the well-known farm, The home of early years. With fertile fields and meadows green, As in the past, appears ; The low-roofed farm-house, painted white, With drooping elms before. The woodland and the running brook, The shelving river-shore. His coming through the old farm-gate Provokes the watch-dog's bay, But down the elmen avenue He briskly takes his way. Old Chloe to the kitchen door Comes when the bark she hears. Puts up her hands to shade her eyes, And curious at him peers. He stays a minute at the well, He lets the bucket drop ; He hears the plash, he sees it fall. He draws it to the top. 371 372 "D/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. How clear and cool the crystal draught! How pleasant to the lips! Not sweeter is the honey-dew In Paradise that drips! The bars let down at yonder lane, He strides the grassy way Until he gains the old red barn, With mossy roof and grey.- A boy again, he enters in The huge, wide-open door^ He sees the piles of yellow sheaves, He treads the threshing-floor. There, loaded with its wheaten wealth. Is driven the creaking wain ; There eager fowls came scurrying up To pick the scattered grain. He watches as the sheaves they store. And from the stalls below He hears the tramping of the steed, The heifer's mournful low. Then, wandering to the pasti^re-field. The green, lush grass to tread, He switches off the daisy-tips. Or plucks the clover red. The sky above is tinged with gold, The sun untempered shines, The air comes fragrant from the wood. Balmy with breath of pines. Hark! in the air a clang of bells! It strikes the hour of four. The merchant wakes to later days ; He is a boy no more. THE ROSE AND SPARRQIV. 373 To ships at sea and trade on shore, To restless, grasping men, To red brick rows and stony streets His soul has come again. THE ROSE AND SPARROW. In yonder window a scented rose In all its stately beauty grows ; Open its buds in a leatherny fold, With a flush of cream on a base of gold ; The yellow-green of its mossy leaves A tinge of blue from the sky receives ; And never, it seems, it so befell For a rose to be tended half so well ; Yet a murmur ever from it goes. And this is the plaint of the luckless rose : " Here in thrall where my lady sits. While yonder sparrow freely flits — Here where the rushing crowd moves past, A cruel fate has bound me fast, Never the garden fair to know Where my happy sisters bud and blow, And painted butterflies come and go. But doomed to waste my beailty rare On the dusky city's smoky air. What to me that my lady here Holds me petted and sweet and dear — Culls my buds for her hair of gold As each were a gem of worth untold? Better a wilder life would be, To bloom in the garden fresh and free ; 374 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECf TOEMS. Better to pass one summer there, And then to die in the wintry air, Than hve forever in cold coniine In this hateful dungeon-cell of mine. I am sick of my lady's well-plgased gaze, I am tired of my lady's winning ways, I shrink from my lady's gentle touch — Gaze, ways, and touch — they irk me much." In yonder street, with his pinions free, A sparrow is flitting from curb to tree ; He twitters and chatters and hops and flies. But casts above his envious ey£s ; Pattering over the well-paved ground, Careless is he of the crowd around ; Hither he comes, and thither he goes, Yet still complains of the lucky rose : " Pleasantly housed in his palace fair. The pampered rose is devoid of care ; Evermore there in his gilded vase. Part of the glories of the place ; Ever attended, night and morn, While I in the street must flit forlorn Through a crowd that pity and smile and scorn. I am condemned my food to find In the pelting rain and piercing wind, Through sunlight blazing or chilling snow. Wandering, homeless to and fro ; While he is watered and trimmed and nurst As of all plants he were counted the first. Ah ! why in his palace of ease should he By my gentle lady so tended be, While I must wander and toil to gain Some crumbs of bread, some Scattering grain? AT THE Rlly-ER. 375 Oh that a gilded cage were mine, With morsels of cake and sops of wine, By loving looks and words carest, In lieu of this life of wild unrest! For the sparrow arise a thousand woes : Happy the lot of the pamp*ered rose." And thus in the world it ever goes, Rose would be spaiTow, and sparrow be rose ; Those who are captives would fain be free. And those in freedom would captive be ; But, spite of longing and woe and pain, Sparrow and rose they ever remain. AT THE RIVER. All gloom intense ; no struggling star is here To pierce the darkness of the midnight sky ; The pitchy river, moving sluggish by. Beats sullenly against the rotting pier — All else is silent. Like ghosts the tall masts of the mighty ships Show their dim outline through the dark profound ; From yonder spars, with sails securely bound, The heavy mist, in drops condensing, drips Constant and noiseless. The damp my frame infiltrates, flakes my hair. Presses my garments to my shivering form — This is some roofless dungeon, walled with storm. With horror barred ; the jailer is Despair ; I the sole captive. 37^ T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Naught moves around me ; I alone have hfe ; But that is merely passive like the rest. 'Tis well it should be thus for one unblest, Sinning and sinned against ; mother, not wife ; Homeless and friendless^ Twelve little months have passed ; in* those how much Of frenzied joy and bitter woe have been — Of abject misery which was born of sin, Ah! the sad truth — who, Sodom-apples touch In their dust stifles. Before me wjiere methought I stood alone A shadow darker than the darkness stands, Above me lifting high its fleshless hands, And ever echoes back my piteous moan. Mocking my anguish. Mock on, and take thy vengeance while thou canst; I shall escape thee and thy wrath ere long ; But thou shalt not escape me and my wrong : By my rash deed thy guilt is much enhanced Rather than lessened. For 'twas thy cold desertion nerved my hand To right myself in sacrificing thee"; And through thy crime less guilt will cling to me What time we twain unfleshed together stand Waiting for judgment. Left me for her! What was she more than I, Who gave up all a maid may proudly claim, Home, friends and honor, kinsfolk and good name, At thy behest? 'Twas meet that thou shouldst die, Being thus perjured. AT THE RiyER. 377 Had she then beauty? Didst thou not declare The rose and Uly were combined in me — My eyes twin stars? How fairer could she be, When I had been the fairest of all fair, In thy rapt vision? Had she then wealth? That was the bait that took Thee to thy ruin. Basely thou for gold The heart that loved thee to this misery sold ; 'Twas not the man I loved my dagger strook. But one far baser. Ah, me ! And yet I loved thee as I slew ; I gazed on thee in love when thou wert dead ; I stooped and kissed thy cold lips ere I fled ; I had no power the cruel deed to do, Save for my frenzy. They've found thy corpse ere now, bathed in thy gore ; Let that be hers — the soul within is gone. Gone! Whither? Where my own will go ere dawn, Long ere my body floating seeks the ghore Of the black water. Ha! voices! lights! What form the bloodhounds leads? They'd hunt me down, urged by the raging wife. She shall not triumph. What is left in life? Forgive me, Father, for this worst of deeds- Welcome me, river! THE OLD MANS CHRISTMAS. Why, let the wind whistle — who cares? Let it blow, Driving hither and thither the flakes of the snow. Let the wretches without, as they shivering pass,_ Gaze with envy and hatred at me through the glass ; I am safe from the storm, with all men could desire, A dinner of dainties, a hickory fire. This luxury round me ; all cheerful and bright ; And my sixtieth Christmas is with me to-night. Wheel the chair around, William ; the cloth take away ; Drop the curtains, and then light the taper — but stay — Place the sherry in reach ; put segars there at hand — A dozen or so of my favorite brand. You may go. Should I need you, the bell-rope will bring Obedient to summons the slave of the ring : I'm alone ; but not lonely ; unseen by this light. There are guests from the past who are with me to-night. First is Albert, my brother, the golden-haired one, The pet of his mother, the youngest-born son. He died on the ocean — the blue, swelling wave. The home of his choice, at the last was his grave. He comes as he went, with a frank, earnest gaze. And he warms his wet frame in the bright, cheerful blaze. Dead now twenty years, but his eyes are as bright — No matter — you're welcome, dear brother, to-night. There is Milton on whom I could ever depend, Just less than a brother, and more thart a friend — 378 THE OLD MAN'S CHRIS f MAS. 379 Stout Milton, who died not a twelvemonth ago, From his home in the churchyard wades here through the snow. He comes to spend Christmas, as often before : But less briskly than wont seems to enter the door. What makes him so pulseless and pallid and white? Cheer up ; we'll be jolly together to-night. Ah! Amy, my darling! ten years since we laid Your body to rest in the cypress's shade. And now you return to the husband who pressed That sad night in anguish your form to his breast. Come back on a visit? no! come to remain, For I swear nothing ever shall part us again. Thirty years since your eyes first cheered life with their light ; And yet you look younger than ever to-night. What! Sybil, my daughter, have you too returned To the father whose heart for you evermore yearned? Has he whom you chose at the risk of my curse Sent you back here to open the strings 6i my purse? Why, you died through neglect of the husband who vowed To cherish and love — died, despairing and proud. Does the grave give you holiday? Would that it might. And you were but living to sit here to-night. All well-desired guests for the revel are near — Wife, daughter, friend, brother — all riseii and here. Yet it seems to my judgment the sheiTy lacks taste. The segar has no flavor — it all burns to waste ; The taper expires, and the gas-light sinks low ; The fire falls to embers — what troubles me so? All here, no one missing — the list is not right ; One guest, and the greatest, is lacking to-night. 380 T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. He enters at last. 'Tis a stranger to me, So draped with dim shadows, so gatint — who is he? Sunk deep are his eyes, there is ice in his breath — A guest most unwelcome! I know' him — 'tis Death. Unwelcome? Not so! Most desired of them all. His skeleton foot has a musical fall ; His shadows have changed to a halo of light — Best friend and deliverer, welcome to-night. SMITING THE ROCK. The stern old judge, in relentless mood, Glanced at the two who before him stood — She was bowed and haggard and old. He was young and defiant and bold — Mother and son ; and to gaze at the pair. Their different attitudes, look and air, One would believe, ere the truth were won. The mother convicted, and not the son. There was the mother ; the boy stood nigh With a shameless look, and his head held high. Age had come over her, sorrow and care ; These mattered but little so he was there, A prop to her years and a light to her eyes, And prized as only a mother can prize ; But what for him could a mother say. Waiting his doom on the sentence-day? Her husband had died in his shame and sin ; And she, a widow, her living to win. Had toiled and struggled from morn to night. Making with want a wearisome fight, BBBaBSSTaSBSra SMITING THE 1{0CK. 381 Bent over her work with a resolute zeal, Till she felt her old frame totter and reel, Her weak limbs tremble, her eyes grow dim ; But she had her boy, and she toiled for him. And he — he stood in the criminal dock, With a heart as hard as the flinty rock, An impudent glance and reckless air. Braving the scorn of the gazers there ; Dipped in crime and encompassed round With proofs of his guilt by his captors found. Ready to stand, as he phrased it, "game," Holding not crime, but penitence, shame. Poured in a flood o'er the mother's cheek The moistening prayers where the tongue was weak. And she saw through the mist of those bitter tears Only the child in his innocent years ; She remembered him pure as a child might be. The guilt of the present she could not see ; And for mercy her wistful looks made prayer To the stern old judge in his cushioned chair. " Woman," the old judge crabbily said — " Your boy is the neighborhood's plague and dread ; Of a gang of reprobates chosen chief ; An idler and rioter, rufifian and thief. The jury did right, for the fact^ were plain ; Denial is idle, excuses are vain. The sentence the court imposes is one — " "Your honor," she cried, "he's my only son." The tipstaves grinned at the words she spoke. And a ripple of fun through the court-room broke ; 382 "DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. But over the face of the culprit came An angry look and a shadow of shame. " Don't laugh at my mother ! " loud cried he ; " You've got me fast, and can deal with me ; But she's too good for your coward jeers, And I'll — " then his utterance choked with tears. The judge for a moment bent his head, And looked at him keenly, and then he said — " We suspend the sentence — the boy can go;" And the words were tremulous, forced and low. " But stay! " and he raised his finger then — " Don't let them bring you hither again. There is something good in you yet, I know ; Til give you a chance — make the most of it — Go! " The twain went forth, and the old judge said — " I meant to have given him a year instead ; And perhaps 'tis a difficult thing to tell If clemency here be ill or well. But a rock was struck in that callous heart From which a fountain of good may start ; For one on the ocean of crime long tossed Who loves his mother, is not quite lost.'' THE NIGHT BEFORE. I SNEERED when I heard the old priest complain, That the doomed seemed voiceless and dull of brain ; For why should the felon be other than dumb As he stands at the gate of the world to come? Let them lock up his Reverence here in the cell, THE CKICHT 'BEFORE. 383 \ A\'aiting the sound of the morning bell That heralds his dying and tolls his knell, And the tick-tock Of the great jail clock Will attract him more than the holiest prayer That ever was mingled with dungeon air. A\'ill it never be morning — never arise The great red sun in the cold grey skies, Thrusting its rays in my iron-barred cell, And lighting the city I know so- well? Is this horrible night forever to be — The phantom I feel, though I cannot see — Is that to be ever alone with me? Will the tick-tock Of the ceaseless clock Beat forever through brain and heart Till the tortured soul from the body part? And now in the darkness surrounding me A hundred figures I plainly see ; And there are my mother's pitying eyes — Why does s/ie from her grave arise? And there, on the crowd's extremest rim — Gashed of throat, and supple of limb — Why, what do I want to-day with /ii'm / To the tick-tock Of the pitiless clock His body is swaying, slowly and free, While his shadowy finger points at me. Will it never be here — the dawn of the day, A\^hen the law is to carry my life away ; And the gaping crowd, with their pitiless eyes, Stand eager to see how the doomed one dies? 384 T>R. ENGLISH S SELECT TOEMS. Nothing to scatter the terrible gloom That fills up the arched and the grated room ; Nothing to herald the hour of doom But the tick-tock Of the weariless clock, And the tread of the tired policeman's feet As he steadily paces the echoing street? At last the deep darkness is melting away At the corpse-like light on the face of the day ; I hear the prisoners move in their cells, I hear the chiming of morning bells. The rattle of carts in the streets once more, The careful tread on the stony floor Of the sheriff, who comes to the grated door, And the tick-tock Of the great iail clock; ■ And the whispered words of the keepers around, And every whisper a thunder-sound. What mocking is this in the formal demand, In the mighty name of the law of the land, For the body of him who is doomed to die In the face of men, and beneath the sky? I am safe in your thrall, but pinion me well ; I might be desperate — who can tell? — As I march to the sound of the clanging bell. The tick-tock Of the great jail clock. And the voice of the priest as he mumbles a prayer. And the voices that murmur around me there. THE WIDOW'S CHRISTMAS. This is the day of Christmas ; but how can we merry be — Harry who lies on the bed there, and the baby on my knee? How can we three be merry, whatever our hearts desire, ■While Harry, my boy, is dying, and we have no food nor fire? This is the day of Christmas, the blessedest day of the year. And when it last fell my husband he was alive and here ; And Harry was stout and hearty, and the baby was yet un- born — One is dead, another is dying, and life is a state forlorn. This is the day of Christmas ; this morning at break of day I heard the chimes in the steeples, with the bells in silvery play. Cheery they were to some folk ; to me their sound was a knell, And I heard the moaning of anguish in the voice of each chiming bell. This is the day of Christmas ; but a year ago, my boy. You awoke when the dawn was breaking, and gave such a shout of joy. And you blessed the good St. Nicholas who brought a drum and gun. And a fairy-book with pictures for your father's only son. This is the day of Christmas ; to think in less than a year Your father should be in the graveyard, and you a poor cripple here ; 385 386 T)/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. No food the body to cherish, nor fire the body to warm, And rags, and those but scanty, to cover each shivering form. This is the day of Christmas, when our L,ord a babe was born And laid to rest in a manger with brutes of the hoof and horn ; And the angels at His birth hour sang sweetly, telling then Of peace on the earth around us to all good-willing men. This is the day of Christmas ; and what mtist I have done That peace is no longer my portion, nor strength for my little son? Is it wonderful that I murmur while here, with my want and woe, I can hear the joyous voices arise from the street below? This is the day of Christmas ; when yesterday at four I went for my scanty wages, I found me a barred-up door ; They had gone to prepare for feasting, and so the better they may, We three must suffer with hunger, and shiver with cold to-day. This is the day of Christmas ; but keep a-.good heart, my son ; To-morrow the shop will open ; your trouble will soon be done. They'll pay the wages they owe me, and we'll have some meat and bread. And coal and — speak to me, darling! God help me! — my boy is dead! THE OLD MAN'S DAY-DREAM. Here, in this brick-waste where the dingy houses Hold their grim guard along the stoiiy ways, Where brazen-fronted wrong weak wratli arouses, And honor mainly triumphs when it pays, I sit and listen at my curtained casement To jarring noises in the busy street, Until their discord to my dumb amazement, Changes to something musically sweet. The lowing of the kine, the bell that tinkles Amid the flock that grazes on the hill. The roaring of the dam whose spray besprinkles The mossy stones beside the grey old mill, The cry which shows the hawk's vexation bitter As, poised in air, his shielded prey he sees, The cat-bird's cry, the swallow's ceaseless twitter. The blue jay's chatter, and the drone of bees. High overhead the elm's long, tremulous branches Move to the metre of the rustling leaves ; There the old house-dog, resting on his haunches, Watches the reapers as they bind the sheaves. There the sleek horses on their brown bits champing. Impatient wait the loading of the wain, And there the children, wearied with their tramping. Ask for a homeward ride upon the grain. Here is the house, low nestled in the valley, With gambrel-roof, low porch and sanded floor, Where moonhght nights at parting I would dally, And speak low words to Ahce at the door. 387 388 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. How her dear voice with fond emorion filled me. Till tingled with the rapture nerve and brain, And so wi'^h its excess of pleasure thrilled me That ecstasy intensified to pain. There is the old church with its wooden steeple, Near it the horses hitched to pendent limbs ; And from it float the voices of the people Praising their Maker with their simple hymns. Ah! in the churchyard lying there behind it A stone is found with moss half covered o'er ; You part aside the rankling weeds to find it — " Alice " is carven there, and nothing more. KING THREAD. Through the great pile of bricks that, uptowering. Looks over the river in pride, And, sombre in aspect, stands glowering Half sullenly over the tide, I climb floor by floor, where each rafter Leans over the hum of the hive. And the spindles, whose murmurous laughter Greets the bees as they toil there and thrive. Then down through each chamber of labor Where steady each factory girl, Unheeding the work of her neighbor, Keeps her own watch and ward o'er the whirl. Where the toilers of Adam begotten. Through the doom of their race earn their bread, I see how from tortured King Cott9n Arises the monarch, King Thread. KING THREAD. 389 Yellow-robed and impassive they found him, This Cotton, just burst from his boll ; They caught him, and caged him, and bound him, And took o'er his being control. To the picker in triumph they bore him, Where he made neither murmur nor plaint, But there, while to fragments they tore him, Endured like a martyr and saint. From all baser matter they freed him ; They carried hirn down to the room Where he'd learn what his fortune decreed him, If doomed to the needle or loom — To the lady who sways o'er the many, To whom kings and emperors, bow. The dame whom we called Spinning Jenny — They style her the Twisting Frame now. Ah! she is a wonderful creature,. As weird and attractive as sin ; Noted less for her beauty of feature Than dexterity fibre to spin ; And with her untiring steel fingers, Beginning at dawn of the day,- She never through lassitude lingers, But toils in the cheeriest way. Coquettish, she waits for his coming. Elbows crooked^ — "flies," she calls them — she twirls, Pirouettes with a low, cheerful humming, And drags him along in her whirls. He abandons all useless endeavor. To the mouth of the whirlpool he goes, And in straw-colored torrent forever He flows and he flows and he flows. 39° •»/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. Then tortured and bound, and unable To resistance oppose to their will, He is borne to the place where they stable The docilest mule in the mill ; And there, in a cop on the spindle, They twist him through all of his length. Till he feels his circumference dwindle, But gains by compression new strength. They double him spite of resisting, They grip him with fingers of steel ; They give him a fierce triple twisting, And stretch him around on the reel. Then they bleach him to rare snowy whiteness Blow light azure clouds on his head, And enthrone him in splendor and brightness, To live and to rule as King Thread. Now whether in chamber or palace Their needles they busily ply, Low houses in dark narrow alleys. Or mansions pretentious and -high, The belle who is sewing for pleasure, The girl who is stitching for bread, As their time they monotonous measure. Mourn not for King Cotton as dead. For shattered and carded and tightened, And twis-ted by jenny and mule. And doubled and trebled and whitened. And bound there and tied to a spool, He is freed from his first imperfection. All his baseness is purged 'by his pain ; He appears, in a grand resurrection, King Thread, o'er the millions to reign. THE DEFECTIVE NAIL. I LOOKED at a carpenter nailing one day Some weatherboards on in a workmanlike way, And saw that the claw of the hammer he clapped To a nail which the momemt before he had tapped, And, drawing it out, threw it by with a jerk, Took another instead and went on with his work. " What's that for ? " I asked him. " Have nails grown so cheap That you toss them away as too worthless to keep ? " ■■ No," he answered, "it bent in the driving, and so. Lest it make a bad job, to the ground it must go. We draw while we're able," he said, with a grin, " For we can't pull it out, once we hammer it in.'' When the nail had been followed by one that was good, I noticed beside it a dent in the wood — The mark had been made by the base of the claw Through the strong force exerted the bent nail to draw ; And there the depression, to eyesight quite plain, Though twice painted over will doubtless remain. No marvellous incident certainly ; stiK It set me to thinking, as little things will, How habits, like nails, be they wrong ones or right. Can't be drawn from their places when hammered in tight ; And, though drawn ere they sink to the head, leave behind By their drawing, some traces on body and mind. When a young man seeks money and nothing beside, And, quoting Ben. Franklin, his meanness to hide, 391 392 TtR. ENGLISH'S SELECT "POEMS. Does small things for pelf, and with muck-rake in hand, Shuns the crown overhead, petty gains to command, Though it end in that wealth he is anxious to win, He has struck a bent nail, and has haminered it in. When a dashing young man at the outset of life, Who has won some pure maiden and made her his wife. Leaves his home and his wife for some low, murky den, Where he drinks and carouses with dissolute men, The nail he is driving may crooken to sin ; Better pull it out quickly, not hammer it in. When some neighbor of those sees their faults through a glass That makes them too large for the censor to pass, And, with sense of their wickedness, righteously hot. Calls one a mere miser, the other a sot — He is handhng a nail that is not worth a pin ; Like a corkscrew 'twill twist if he hammer it in. When a girl shows the world that she surely thinks less Of her culture and conduct than gadding and dress ; When she eagerly seeks for a confab with those ^^'hose talk solely runs upon dresses and beaux, Neglecting home duties some street-yarn to spin — That nail will give trouble if once hammered in. When a wife finds her temper grow peevish and sour, And the tones that once charmed her have lost all their power ; When she scolds till her husband, in fury and pain. Like a fool seeks in whiskey oblivion to gain — 'Twere better by far did she never begin To tap on that nail, much less hammer it in. HERE AND THERE. 393 When some woman — wife, widow, or spinster the same — - Too eager to blow the dull coals to a flame. The faults of her sisters brings closer to view. Calling this one street-gadder, and that one a shrew. Her nail has a flaw, is ill-shapen and thin, As she'll find to her cost when she hammers it in. Enough for the lesson. The nails that we drive. Not through boards that are pulseless, but frames that are live. Examine them well, closely scan ere too late ; Should they prove of firm metal, well-cuf, and quite straight, Regardless of sneering, or clamor, or din, . Place each where it should be, and hammer it in. HERE AND THERE. From its snood fell one of her tresses To the side of her snowy neck. Where jewels of price and laces Her delicate throat bedeck. As she swept with garments trailing The carpeted floor that night, Through the wide and lofty parlors, In the bright and glaring light. And she was a beautiful lady As ever the eye might see. With a dainty step and modest, And a manner both frank and free ; And the lovers who gathered around her, And strove for her favor there. For a smile, or a glance of kindness, Were ready to do or dare. 394 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT 'POEMS. But, when the guests departed, The lady, so courted and blest, Ascended the stairs to her chamber That wooed her to pleasant rest. Disrobed, at the bedside kneelingj She prayed that tlte Christ who died Might her from all ill deliver And the snares of earthly pride. Another, alone in her garret, So chilly and dreary and damp, Slow plying her bu.sy needle. By the light of a glimmering lamp, Haggard of look and weary, And scantily clad and fed, With the past a hopeless struggle And hope for the future dead. There stood on the rickety table Remains of the poor repast-^ The meal that labor had brought her^ And each was the same as the last. Breakfast and dinner and supper Alike on the board were spread, And her bread and tea were followed By a diet of tea and bread. Far down in the midnight sombre She nodded and stitched away. Then snatched some hours of slumber, To be up at the morning grey. But ere she sank on her pallet She thanked the Giver of Good, Who had blest her weary labor With shelter and rest and food. A year had passed, and the mourners Bore slow to her place of rest our IN THE STREETS. 395 The lady whom kindly fortune With beauty and wealth had blest ; And there at the churchyard portals A funeral entered in Of the seamstress poor who struggled Her needs of life to win. One borne in a rosewood casket, With many a nodding plume, With a lengthened train of coaches And the pomp of grief and gloom ; And one, by a few attended, In a coffin of pine was brought ; And both lay down in the chambers By the spade and mattock w'rought. But ere those bodies were buried, And the clay to clay was given, Two fleshless forms soared upward And met at the gate of Heaven. Freed of the flesh those spirits And purged of all earthly sin. What mattered their once condition, As to glory they entered in? OUT IN THE STREETS. The Ught is shining through the window-pane ; It is a laughing group that side tlie glass. Within, all light ; without, pitch-dark and rain : I see, but feel no pleasure as I pass, Ou^ in tlie streets. Another casement, with the curtain drawn ; There the light throws the shadow of a form- 396 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. A woman's, with a child — a man's: all gone! They with each other. I am with the storm, 0«/ z« f/ie streets. There at the open window sits a man, His day's toil over, with his pipe alight ; His wife leans o'er him, with her tale began Of the day's doings, f am with the night, Otit in the streets. All these have homes and hope, and hght and cheer, And those around who love them. Ah for me! Who have no home, but wander sadly hsre. Alone with night and storm and misery. Out in the streets. The rain soaks through my clothing to the skin ; So let it. Curses on that cheery Hght! There is no light with me and shame and sin ; I wander in the night and of the night. Out in the streets. You who betrayed me with a loving kiss, Whose very touch could thrill me through and through, When you first sought me, did you think of this? My curse. . . . But why waste time in cursing you Out in the streets? You are beyond my hatred now. You. stand Above reproach ; you know no wrong nor guile ; Foremost among the worthies of the land. You are all good, and I a wretch all vile. Out 171 the streets. You have a daughter, young and innocent ; You love her, doubtless. I was pure as she THE SHOEMAKER S DAUGHTER. 397 Before my heart to be your lackey went. God guard her! Never let her roam, like me, Oul in the streets, I was a father's darling long ago ; 'Twas well he died before my babe was bom ; And that's dead too — some comfort in my woe ! Wet, cold, and hungered, homeless, sick, forlorn, Out in the streets. How the cold rain benumbs my weary limbs! What makes the pavement healve? Ah! wet and chill, I hear the little children singing hymns In the village church : how peaceful now and still Out in the streets. But why this vision of my early days? Why comes the church-door in the public way? Hence with this mocking sound of prayer and praise ! I have no cause to praise, I dare not pray, Out in the streets. What change is here? The night again grows warm ; The air is fragrant as an infant's breath. Why, where's my hunger? Left me in the storm? Now, God forgive my sins ! this, this is death, Out in the streets. THE SHOEMAKER'S DAUGHTER. Yesternight, as I sat with an old friend of mine. In his library, cosily over our wine. Looking out on the guests in the parlor, I said, Of a lady whose shoe showed some ripping of thread, "Frank, she looks like a shoemaker's daughter." 39^ T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. " Yes," said Frank, " yes ; her shoe ha& a rip at the side, The mishap of the moment — the lady's a bride. That reminds me of something ; and h°ere as we sit, If you'll listen with patience, I'll spin you a bit Of a yarn of a shoemaker's daughter. " When I was a boy, half a century since — How one's frame, as one numbers the years, seems to wince! — A dear httle girl went to school with me then ; As I sit in my arm-chair I see her again — Kitty Mallet, the shoemaker's daughter. " Whence the wonderful ease in her manner she had, Not from termagant mother nor hard-working dad. Yet no doubt that, besides a most beautiful face, The child had decorum, refinement, and grace. Not at all hke a shoemaker's daughter. " Her dress was of sixpenny print, but 'twas clean ; Her shoes, like all shoemakers' children's, were mean ; Her bonnet a wreck ; but, whatever she wore, The air of a damsel of breeding she bore — JSIot that of a shoemaker's daughter. " The girls of the school, when she entered the place, Pinched each other, then tittered and stared in her face. She heeded no insult, no notice she todk, But quietly settled herself to her book ; She meant business, that shoemaker's daughter. " Still jeered at by idler and dullhead and fool, A hermitess she in the crowd of the school: There was wonder, indeed, when it soon came to pass That ' Calico Kitty ' was head of the class. ' What, Kitty, that shoemaker's daughter! ' LITTLE MADGE S IVINDOIV-CARDEN. 399 "Still wearing the same faded calico dress, And calm, as before, in the pride of success ; Her manner the same, easy, soft, and refined, 'Twas she seemed an heiress, while each left behind In the race was a shoemaker's daughter. " Bit by bit all her schoolmates she won to her side. To rejoice in her triumph, be proud in her pride. And I with the rest. I felt elderly then, For I was sixteen, while the lass was but ten ; So I petted the shoemaker's daughter. " Do you see that old lady with calm, placid face? Time touches her beauty, but leaves all her grace. Do you notice the murmurs that hush when she stirs, And the honor and homage so pointedly hers? That's my wife, sir, the shoemaker's daughter ! " LITTLE MADGE'S WINDOW-GARDEN. When lying at night on a couch of pain, 'Tis strange how each trivial thing Will often, with clasp like the ivy's grasp, To an old man's memory cling! And here as I lie with the nurse asleep. And the chamber quiet and still, My mind brings back from a score of years Little Madge and her window-sill. Right back of my room was a tenement-house ; On a level my eyes could see, As after my dinner I took my smoke, A sight that was pleasant to me. 40O T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. A weakling child with a pallid face — A little bit lame she seemed — Who bent o'er a treasure of treasures to her, Like one who in asking dreamgd. A garden it was on a window-sill, The queerest that ever was seen- — Three plants in some battered tornato-cans, And never a one was green. Yet she looked at them all so lovingly there, And watered and tended them so, I knew she was filled with an earnest hope That the withered old sticks would grow. My interest heightened as every day The child to the window-sill came, The twigs still shriveled and void of life, Though she tended them all the same ; Till I well remember one beautiful morn How a look sympathetic I cast, When I heard her exclaim to her mother within That a bud made a showing at last. " 'Tis the easiest thing for a well-to-do man When 'twill pleasure a poor sickly child. To give her a beautiful plant to tend " — I said to myself, and I smiled. So straightway I ordered a florist to send A double geranium fine To the little lame girl in the tenement-house. But not as a present of mine. And after my dinner was over neit day, To my window I went to see, And there my double geranium stood To the right of her withered three. LITTLE MADGE'S IVINDOIV-GARDEN. 401 There, gazing in pride on its blossoms of red, The pale little girl bending o'er, Looked as though she had come to good fortune at last, With nothing to look for more. Sometimes on a Sunday a bearded man. With a pipe in his mouth alight. Would stand at her shoulder and something say To show he was pleased at the sight. But I felt quite sure in my innermost heart, And the thought set my pulses astir, That less did he care for the fine, showy flower. Than the pleasure it gave unto her. How she showered the dust from its emerald leaves! And oh ! with what perfect dehght, She watched as the tiny and wonderful buds Their petals unfolded to sight! And when she coquettishly turned round her head. And looked at her treasure and smiled, I thought of how little 'twould cost to the rich To pleasure some innocent child^ On a tour for the summer I started away, And my business cares left behind ; The pleasure of travel soon drove every trace Of the tenement child from my mind ; But when I returned to the city at *last, In my heart was an ominous thrill. When I looked from my window when dinner was done At the opposite window-sill. ' The geranium stood in its place of pride ; The other three plants had leaved ; A wan little woman in black was there, With the face of a woman that grieved. 402 -D^. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. The bearded man I had seen before, When something the woman had said, Looked down on the plants with a vacant air. And mournfully nodded his head. I soon learned the name of the child they had lost, I found where her body it lay, With a low wooden cross at the bead of the grave, And the green turf over the clay. And somehow, it soothes me a little to-night, Although such a trivial thing. That I planted each year a geranium At her head in the days of the spring. THE DARK LANE. In a dark lane of yonder crowded city, Lampless and silent all the gloomy night. What deeds devoid of godliness and pity Are done in absence of the tell-tale light. Here, too worn-out to push his journey further, Lies down the beggar in his garments mean ; Here, in a dark recess, lurks brutal Murther, Watching its purposed prey with vision keen. Yon house you see is now a tottering shelter For wretched people packed its rooms within — Folk who in winter freeze, in sutnmer swelter. Frequent in want and evermore in sin. The house was once a mansion, where the stately And silk-robed damsels of an early day THE DARK LANE. 403 Swept through its lofty drawing-room sedately, ^\'ith cavaliers as elegant as they. Then 'twas a famil)-'s country mansion splendid : Shaded by elms the serpentine approach Wherein, by liveried lackeys still attended, By prancing horses drawn, came coach on coach. Soon spread the suburbs of the town, and swallowed The grand approach and all the garden round ; A narrow lane, close built with houses followed, As rose in costliness surrounding ground. There dwelt alone, save with his hoards, a raiser — A -ivretch who lived to hoard wher« others spend ; He had more gold than some who thought them wiser ; He had a son ; but then he had no friend. The boy was spendthrift — worst of all offences ! Not to be cured, though theft or lying might ; And lest his habits might entail expenses, He drove him from the house one winter night.. No more returned the boy — if dead, or living, Was never to his old companions known ; And there as sordid, cold, and unforgiving As at the first, the father dwelt alone. Years past away. One night in cold December The miser bent him o'er the chilly grate ; There was no heat there— cold was every ember — When from the darkness came the old man's fate. Days after that they found him, dead and ghastly, But not from cold. His skull wa^ cleft in twain ; 404 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. But, strange to say, and all men wondered vastly, His gold was gone — none saw those hoards again. And now the inmates, never heaven fearing, Shake at the noises sounding in its walls On one night in the year, as on their hearing. Clear and distinct, a piteous moaning, falls. Brutes though they be, at that they shake and quiver, And feel the heart within them waxing chill. As, with a shriek that makes each hearer shiver, That piteous moaning ends, and all is still. Who was the assassin? In that city crowded His trace was never found in street or lane ; And the son's fate in mystery is enshrouded, The murderer and the son — where are the twain? In a dark lane of yonder crowded city, Lampless and silent all the gloomy night, Such deeds, devoid of godhness and pity. Are done in absence of the tell-tale light. TAKE A FRESH HOLD.^ Out in the orchard two boys were trying If they could rise to a limb breast-high ; Up went the younger, but dropped the other. Shame at his failure dimming his eye. Looked at him quickly the smaller in wonder, Scorning a little the quivering lip, Asking : " What's up, and why couldn't you do it? " Answered his comrade: "I lost my grip." TAKE A FRESH HOLD. 4^5 Rudely and knowingly spake the. younger — He was a sage with years just ten — " Lost your grip, have you? What if you've lost it? Take a fresh hold, and try it a*gain." Young philosopher, pert and fearless, Facing the moment and filled with force. Old-time Greek in your style and manner. Made for doing, strong, rugged and coarse, Scorn of the weakness whose grip relaxes, If it once fail the top to attain,. Yet may bring you to any station Young ambition may seek to gain. Words you have spoken, though rude and qommon, Furnish a lesson to bearded men. Telling them, after every failure : " Take a fresh hold, and try it again," There is the spirit which makes Cplumbus Travel through many a land to Spain ; Spurned by one monarch, he sues to another. Keeping his purpose through want and pain. Proud success in the far-off future. Realms unknown in the west he sees : Monk and noble cannot dissuade him ; Courage is stronger than words of these. Driven away with jeers and laughter ; Branded with heresy, scorned of men ; Losing his grip, nor fears nor falters, Takes a fresh hold and tries it again. Such was the lesson that Bruce, the kingly. Sovereign of whom the Scotsmen boast, Caught from a sight in the grim old castle, Out in Rathlin, on the Irish coast. 4o6 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Overburdened, the toiling spider Six times striving the wall to ascend, Losing her grip, but nowise undaunted, Found her triumph achieved in the end. Sick with his failure, the sight aroused him ; Forth he went to the battle then; Firm of heart through the spider's teaching, Took a fresh hold and tried it again. Man of the present, example homely Surely it is better than none at all ; If you would stand on the height above you, Climb once more when you chance to fall. Feel no fear if you fail for the moment, Time and patience will carry the day ; Weighted with poverty, met by rivals, Trying and trying will win their way. Clouded the heavens your pathway over, Rising around you the jeers of men, Stop not for bruises ; at every tumble Take a fresh hold and try it again. DIALECT STUDIES. -■'fi7.?»!KJ!HlaB MOMMA PHOEBE. Ef my hah is de colo' o' silbaK, I ain't mo' d'n fifty yea' ole ; It tuck all dat whiteness f'om mo'nin', An' weepin' an' tawtah o' soul. Faw I los' bofe my dahlin' men-child'en — De two hev done gone to deh res' — My Jim, an' my mist'ess' Maljs' William, De pah dat hev nussed at my breas'. Miss' Lucy she mawied in Ap'il, An' I done got mawied in May ; An' bofe o' our beautiful child'en Wah bo'n de same time to a day. But while I got bettah an' strongah, Miss' Lucy got weakah an' wuss ; Den she died, an' dey guv me de baby, De leetle Mahs' William, to nuss. De two boys weh fotch up togeddah. Miss' Lucy's alongside o' mine ; Ef one got hisse'f into mischief, De uddah weh not fuh behine. When Mahs' William he went to de college, Why, nufRn' on ahf den won' do, But Jeemes, his milk-bruddah, faw sahbent, Mus' git an' mus' go wid him too. Dey come back in fo' yea' faw to stay yeh — I allow 'twas the makin' o' Jim ; Setch a gemplum, de young cplo'd weemen Got pullin' deh caps dah faw him. 40q 41 o T>R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. But he wasn't a patch to Mahs' William, Who'd grown up so gran' an' so tall ; An' he hadn't fo'got his ole momma, Faw he hugged me, he did, fo' dem all. Den Mahs' Dudley was tuck wid de fevah. An' I nussed him, po' man, to de las' ; An' my husban', Ben Prossah, he cotch it, An' bofe f om dis life dey done pas', Mahs' William, he run de plantation, But de niggahs could easy fool him ; An' de place would have all come to nuffin', Ef 'twant faw old momma an' Jim. Well at las' — I dunno how dey done it. An' jes' what de fightin' was faiw — But de No'f an' de Souf got a quarlin', An' Mahs' William 'd go to de waw. De folks roun' 'bout raised a squad'on. An' faw capen de men 'lected him. I prayed he'd stay home wid his people ; But he went, an' o' co'se he tuck Jim. It was gran' faw to see all dem hossmen Dat numbah'd a hund'ed an' fo'. As dey sot up dah straight in deh saddles, An' rid in fo' rows by de do'. An' Mahs' William he sed as he passed me. An' me a'most ready to cry, " Take good cah o' you'se'f, Momma Phcebe ; Jim an' I'll be along yeh bimeby." We hea' 'bout dem two sets a-fightin', I reckon faw mo' d'n fo' yea' ; An' bimeby we lahnt dat de Yankees Wid deh ahmy was comin' quite neah. a^OMMA THCEBE. 411 An' den deh was fit a great battle, Jes' ovah dat hill dat you sees ; We could hea' all de cannon a-roa'in', An' see de smoke obah dem trees. I sot in my cabin a-prayin' — I t'ought o' my two boys dat day — An' de noise it went fuddah an' fuddah, Till all o' it melted away. An' de sun it sot awful an' bloody, An' a great pile o' fi' in de sky ; An' beyon' was de dead men a-lyin', An' de wounded a-gwine for to die. Den I riz an' I called faw ole Lem'el, An' a couple o' mo' o' de boys ; An' s'l : " Now you saddle de hosses, An' be kehful an' don't make no noise ; An' we'll go to de fiel' o' de battle Afo' de las' bit o' de beams O' daylight is gone, an' we'll look dah Faw our young Mahs' William an' Jeemes." An' ifey say : " Dey ain' dah, fah sahtin ; , Deh's nuffin' de mattah, faw sho' ; But seein' it's jw/, Momma Phoebe, O' co'se all de boys yeh dey'll go." An' dey saddled an' bridled de hosses — De bes' had been all tuck away — An' we retched to de place o' de fightin' Jes' close on de heels o' de day. , An', oh ! what a sight deh wah, honey ; A sight you could nevvah fo'git ; De piles o' de dead an' de dyin' — I see um afo' my eyes yit. 412 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. An' de blood an' de gashes was ghas'ly, An' shibbe'd de soul to see, Like the fiel' o' de big AhmagedSon, Which yit is a-gwine for to be. Den I hea'd a woice cryin' fah "wahtah!" An' I toted de gode to de place, An' den, as I guv him de drink dah. My teahs dey fell ober his face. Faw he was shot right froo de middle, An' his mahstah lay dead dah by him ; An' he sed, s'e, "Is R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Nevvadeless, dey wuhkt well in de hahness ; Raised a gran' sight o' tobacco an' co'n : John was a leetle mo' pushin' an' ahnes' — Driv us like Jehu, an' huhjed us on, Seed-time an' hahves'. How dey fell out was account of a woman — Women an' mischief ah easy to jine : She was a daughtah o' Absalom Trueman; — Lived with heh folks nigh de Buckin'm.line, Off in Prince Edwa'd. Dunne whahuvvah Mahs' Lennud fus' met heh — Sahtin she nevvah had bin to de Oaks : Dessay dat Betty hehse'f mought bin bettah, But all de fam'Iy wah mighty low folks, Meanes' o' white trash. Long 'fo' we knowed it, repotes wah a-flo'atin' 'Bout whah Mahs' Lennud was ahtah a wife ; But when Mahs' John was infawmed o' de co'tin', Nevvah I see setch a sight in my life — Tell yeh, 'twah awful! "Saddle Glencoe! tote him roun' to de do'-step! Tell you' Mahs' Lennud to stay tell I come! Back yeh on Monday. Remembah! don't o'step Jes' what I awdah! On all dis be dumb, Else — " Den he galloped, Lennud stayed home, an' on Monday, at dinnah, John he come back. S'e, " I stopt at d*e mill : Sampson, de millah — de white-headed sinnah — 'S done gone got mahwied." S'e, Lennud, " What! Bill? Who is de woman? " LEONARD GRIMLEIGH'S SHADOIV. 415 " No-account gal, whom you used to admiah — Dat Betty Trueman." Up, Lennud, he sprung: "John, you' a fool ! " — an' his blue eyes flashed fiah ; " God rain his cuss on de false, bittah tongue, Black wid setch slandah ! " Lennud run out, made 'em saddle Brown Chicken, Mounted an' rid 's ef de devil wah roun' : Tell you, dat hoss got a pow'ful shahp lickin' — Wasn't allowed to move slow on de groun' Ondah Mahs' Lennud. Soon he come back, lookin' white as de ashes — Lookin' as ef he'd jes' riz from de dead : Nevvah a-raisin' his eyes from de lashes, Mutt'in', an' moanin', an' shakin' his head, Like one dist'acted. Mo' dan a yeah nuvvah spoke to his bruddah, Moped 'bout de place all de while — den he lef : John tuck it hahd, on account o' his muddah. Long dead an' gone : no use wastin' his bref — ■ Lennud was bittah. As faw po' Betty, she suffe'd, depend on't, Knowed she'd been fooled by heh people an' John: Den she done died ; an' dat wasn't de end on't — Satan has pow', sah, as sho as you' bo'n. Dis was de upshot. Mos' uvry pusson de fun'al attended-^ Sampson was very much 'spected aroun' — John wid de res' ; an' afo' it was ended Lennud hisse'f come an' stood on de groun' Cloast by de coffin. 4i6 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Den, when de las' o' de ahf had bin shoveled, Lennud looked up to his bruddah, an' s'e, " Cold in you' puppose, to gain it you groveled : You've done de wuhk, bofe faw huh an' faw me. Let it rest on yeh! " John, s'e, "So let it! You' angah I braved it — 'Twas faw you' honah, which you would have stained, Taintin' de blood o' de Grimleighs ; I saved it. \'ou would 'have crawled whah you' si' had disdained Even to tromple." Lennud, s'e, "You' talk o' blood, woman-slayah ! Winnah by falsehood! You made huh believe I was a scound'el who wooed to betray huh — Pledged to anuddah. You stooped to deceive — Dah \\css you' honah! " My cawpse de nex' one, an' when you've succeeded, God jedge my cause as he pities my woe. Note me! De hou' dat I die, be it heeded, Dahf'om my shadow afo' you shall go, P'intin' to jedgment!" Sho as you live, when he said dat he growed dah Fawty foot high, an' look' down= on de crowd : John didn't answah. De hoss dat he rode dah Mountin', he sed to me shahply an' loud, "Home agin, Pompey!" S'l, as we rid dah, " Mahs' John, you please show me 'Bout what de hou' is.'' S'e den, "It's jes' one!" Den he wheel sudden ; S'e, " Git on afo' me! Dah whah you ride, you' 'twix' me an' de sun, Keepin' me shadowed!" LEONARD GRIMLEIGH'S SHADOIV. 417 "Law bless you' soul," s'l, " Mahs' John, you amuse me! Sho you know, honey, I keeps in my place ; Dat is onpossible what you accuse me! Look at de sun ; why, it shines in you' face." Den how he trembled. " Pompey," he sed den, s'e — " turn roun' de cretahs ; Lennud is dead! " S'l—" Whahfo' dat so? Whahfo' you skah me so? " " See ef dem featahs, Outlined in shade on de groun' dah you know." God ! dey was Lennud's ! Den as he spoke, heahd a hoss a come poundin', Clatt'in' an' clinkin' his feet down de road : John sot dah white-faced — I t'ought he. was swoundin' ; Law bless you, boss, in his ownse'f he knowed What was de message. ^ Man on de hoss saw at once dat we knowed it ; All tuhnd our hosses an' galloped like mad : Jes' as we retched to de road-fawks we slowed it : Dah, on a settle, dey toted de lad. Dead, broken-hahted. "Set him down dah in de road," s'e, Jolin, trim'ly; Lit from his hoss in de face o' de sky — Kissed de po' cawpse, an' s'e, "You ah a Grimleigh! You kep' you' honah, an' you didn't liq, Shamin' you' people ! " We didn't tech him — we waited his risin' : He didn't move — his hands ovah his head : Blood f'om his mouf, in a mannah su'prisin'. Gushed in a stream on de face o' de dead — Bofe dead togeddah. 4i8 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. People all said dat de house dah Was haunted ; No one would live dah — dey held it in awe ; Boldes' o' men faw to stay dah wah daunted ; Den de Yanks bu'n'd it las' yeah o' de waw : So went de Grimleighs. Cy^SAR ROWAN. Yes, I heern about de proclamation — Ole Mas' Linkum's — dessay, boss, it's right ; But fo' seventy yeah on dis plantation Young Mas' Jeemes an' I have fit de fight, An' to-day Whah I've bin I mean to stay. Don't p'ecisely know how ole I be, sah ; But I 'memb' dat ole Mas' Rowan sed, " No use tellin' me about ow Cesah ; He was ten when Cousin John went dead — Ten fo' sho "— Dat was sixty yeah ago. Heah I've bin upon de ole plantation Evvah sence — knowed all de folks aroun'. What's de use o' makin' a noration? Deh all dead, done gone, an' ondergroun'. So it seems ; No one lef but young Mas' Jeemes. Him an' me were raised by ole Mas' Rowan. High ole times, boss, mawnin', night, an' noon. C/ESAR T{01VAN. 4^9 In de fields we wuhked whah hands were hoein' ; In de woods we went to hunt de toon. Wuhk an' play, We were pardners ev'ry day. An' when he growed up an' went to* college Down at Williamsbu'g, I tell yuh den, Cesah, he picked up a heap o' knowledge, Tendin' on him 'mong de gentlemen — Cesah dah, Cesah heah, an' everywhah. Den he mawied — mawied Nancy M'erritt, Ginnul Petah's daughtah from Soufside. Tell yuh, boss, she had a mighty sperrit. Beauty — mps! an' full o' grace an' pride; Eyes so bright, Fahly lit de house at night. Young Mas' Randolph he come nex' Decembah, Christmas-day, sah — ki! de time was good; Eggnog plenty — dah I mus' remembah. Cesah he got tight — o' co'se he would ; Drunk wid joy, Kase Miss Nancy had a boy. Setch a boy as dat when he growed oldah! Stout an' strong, de maken' of a man. Dis yeh chin jes' retched up to his shouldah ; I was nowhah 'longside young Mas' Ran' — Nowhah — no ! An' I ain't a dwarf fo' sho. Well, one day, I 'membah dat for sahtain, We sot out wid grist fo' Sinkah's mill. 420 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Young Mas' Jeemes sez, jes' as we were startin', " Keep ole Cesah safe! " Sez he, " I will! Yes, dat's so ! Bring back Cesah, wheddah no." Den he smile, Mas' Ran' he smile dat mawnin' Like an angel — yes, he did, po' boy ! No one seemed to have a mite o' wawnin' What was comin' on to spile our joy. Down de hill, On we rode to Sinkah's mill. Gwine dah. Rocky Branch was high an' roa'in' ; Jes' above de mill de bridge we cros' ; Puffick taw'ent off de dam was pou'in' ; Fall in dah, boss, den you sho done los'. I rid on ; Down de bridge went — I was gone. Me an' hoss an' grist an' timbers fallin' ; In we went, an' off we all were swep'. Den I heah Mas' Randolph's voice a-callin', " Hole fas', Cesah! " an' wid dat he leap' — Nothin' mo' — Den I loss all else fo' sho. Seems to me I felt his fingahs tetch me, Den I knowed no mo' ontwell I heah Some one say, " De bottle yander retch me I Gib'm a dram! He'll do now, nevah feah! " Sez I den, " Whah's Mas' Randolph, gentlemen ? " Ev'ry one dah seemed to be dumfounded, So I raise an' ax agin fo' him ; mAHS' LEIV/S'S T{IDE. 421 Den dey tole me young Mas' Ran' was drownded — Hit his head agin a swingin' Hmb. Drownded ! dead ! " Po' ole Missus! " den I sed. Home de kawpse o' po' Mas' Ran' we kerried ; Dah was Missus — not a wuhd she spoke. But she died de day dat he was buried ; Doctah Gahnett sed heh haht was broke — She went dead Wid a broken haht, he sed. Sense de day we buried po' Miss Nancy, Monsus bad times come to young Mas' Jeemes ; Dah he sits all day wropt up in fancy, Eyes wide open, dreamin' daylight dreams. But fo' me, Dunno whah Mas' Jeemes would be. Heah's de place whah him an' I were bawn in ; Heah we stay, an' heah we pottah roun', Twell dey tote de pah of us some mawnin'. Way out yander to de buryin'-groun'. Dah we'll lay Waitin' fo' de Jedgmen' Day. MAHS' LEWIS'S RIDE. EvvAH sence I kin remembah, Dis place belong to de Elan's ; Held about six hund'ed akahs ; Wuhkt about twenty-one fian's ; 42 2 "D/?. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. One o' de best o' plantations — Dat's jest as sho as you' bo'n ; Raised a great heap o' tobacco ; Wasn't no eend to de co!n. 'Longed to Mahs' Dan'el, who raised me- Den when he died, ow Miss Grace Mawied huh cousin, Mahs' Lewis — Dat's how he come by de place. He had bin raised in Prince Edwa'd, Close on de Buckin'm Hne — Mighty fine man was Mahs' Lewis! Yes, sah! he was mighty fine. See dat bay hoss in de pastah, Dah wid his neck on det fence? Mo' dan a good many people Dat hoss has lahnin' an' sense. Favo'ite hoss wid Mahs' Lewis ; Offen to me he has sed^— " I'll ride dat hoss. Uncle Petah, Seems to me, ahter I'm dead." " Mighty quah hoss in de pastah? "^ Whah fo' he quah? — You dunno? Kase o' de bah places on him? — Dem's whah de woun's wah, fo' sho. Dat hoss has bin in de battle. Bin whah de blood's runnin' red ; Dat hoss come back from ide battle, Totin' de fo'm o' de dead. Dis way it happen : De Yankees Come yeh dat yeah in great fo'ce ; Grant was dah ginnul corrtmandah — Guv 'em a pow'ful discq'se. (MAHS' LEIVIS'S T{IDE. 4^5 All o' de monsus grand skrimmage, We f'om de po'ch yeh could see — ■ Yandah-was Grant an' de Yankees; Yandah de rebels an' Lee. Yeh on de po'ch sot de mahstah ; Yandah smoke rose in de breeze ; Blue an' grey lines in de distance Went in an' out o' de trees. Dah we saw light in de distance Flashin' — an' 'twasn't de sun's ; Hud de bim boom o' de cannons, i Hud de ping pang o' de gjins. Suddintly sung out Mahs' Lewis : " Dah- ah de cust Yankee cuhz! Retch f'om de hooks dah my sabah! Retch me my swo'd-belt an' spuhz! Saddle an' bridle Suh Ahchy! Bring him aroun' to de do' ! He'll tote me safe f'om de battle, Aw I'll come back nevvah mo'! " Den I felt bad. S'l, " Mahs' Lewis! Knows you ain't fit fo' de waw ; You ah too ole fo' sitch fightin' ; Bettah stay yeh whah you ah." S'e — an' his eyes flashed hke fox-fire — " Bring me Suh Ahchy, I say! One man, dough aged an' feeble. Might tu'n de tide o' the day." Well, sah, he'd heah to no reason, Dahfo' Suh Ahchy I fotched ; An' when he rid down de high-road, Yeh, I sot patient an' watcjied — 424 TtR. ENGLISH'S SELECT t6eMS. Watched yeh, an' lissent, an' lissent, Hea'in' de ratde an' ro' ; Seein' 'em, backwa'd an' fo'wa'cJ, Blue an' grey lines come an' go. So dey fit dah all de daylight, Fit twell de sun had gone down ; Den come de dahkness an' silence Shadin' de whole place aroun'. Yeh, on de po'ch I sot waitin', Waitin', an' dreckly I heah Clank o' dat swo'd on de saddle, Ring o' dat hoss comin' neah. Fastah an' fastah I heah 'em, Poundin' an' poundin' de groun' — " Lo'd be praised, dat is Mahs' Lewis! " — • Dat I knowed well by de soun'. Up in a gallop, Suh Ahchy Come to de po'ch, den he stan' ; . Dah, in de saddle, Mahs' Lewis Sot hke a captain so gran'. "Welcome back! Welcome, Mahs' Lewis! Bet you made somumum die! S'pose you 'light dah at de hoss-block ; Dat's a heap easier," s'l. Seein' he made me no answer, Tetched him^Lo'd! how I did staht! Dah he sot, stiff in de saddle, Dead, sah! shot right froo de heahtl "FOUND DEAD IN HIS BED." Dead in his bed thar, Miss Moser, That's whar they found him to-day ; Kerried away without warnin' — Took in a snap, you mought say. Smilin' as ef he war sleepin', Both his arms onder his head ; That was the kurriner's vardick — " Stranger — found dead in his bed." Yisterday he, at Squire Toney'si Axt heaps of questions of John ; Lookt like a right friendly pusson — Now the lone creatur' is gone. So, I allow, my pore Benny Died in some place fur away — Some place I'll never diskiver Now twell my own dyin' day. Some beggin' furriner? Skeercely! Must hev bin powerful rich! Had a goold watch in his poke thar, Great heaps of greenbacks, an' sich. What brought him yer to the mountings Nobody found out or knows. Come yer from off the Ohio, Lookin' for timber, I s'pose. Ain't sich an old man, he, nuther — Risin', I jedge, forty year ; Had an ole mother, too, likely — Some one as held him as deay. 425 426 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. So, p'r'aps, my own darlin' Benny, Him that I never'Il see, Died fur away among strangers — Died somewhere else fur from me. Well, then, I'll tell you, Miss Moser, Jes' how the thing come to be (No, I don't mind it a mossel; 'Tis ruther a comfort to me) — Jes' how the suckumst'nce happint, How, on a bright summer day, Thirty-one year come nex' August, Benny, my boy, run away. Benny was alius projectin' Works that he'd kerry right through. Peert! well, he was, and detarmined — Jes' what he sed he would do. 1 let the honey. Miss Moser, Do pooty much as he choos'e ; How could her son a lone widow. How could a mother, refuse? Hiram M'Comas — Dan's Hiram — Lived up agin the P'int Ridge, Down in the Cany Branch Hojlow (Thar's whar the Yanks built the bridge Time they an' our folks war fightin') ; Hiram a sailor had bin, But had come back to the mountings, Sayin' he'd die with his kin. Benny he took so to Hiram — Hiram who lived by himself* Full half a mile on the mounting, Back on the uppermost shelf ; "FOUND DEAD IN HIS "BED." 427 Liked to hear Hiram tell stories All about big ships that swim Out on the salt, stormy ocean — Hiram, he took some to him. Well, I remember one mornin' Forgyson's Nancy come down Over the gap in the mounting, Ridin' for store goods to town. Benny come ridin' behind her — He'd bin to Hiram's all night— And ef that Hiram he hadn't Marked him twell he was a sight. I never see sich a figger When the pore boy was ondrest — Speckled tattooin', he called it, Over his arms an' his breast. On his right arm was an anchor ; Jes' over that was a B ; Over the top was a criss-cross ; Onder it all was an E. You may allow that I washed him, Tryin' to take it away ; Rubbed him an' scrubbed him all mornin', Worked with him nigh half a day. So I kept tryin' an' tryin' Ontwell I thought I'd hev died; Then I gin out in a passion, An' I sot down thar an' cried. Benny looked up, an' sed, " Mother, That's. the way all sailors do." " Do they? " sez I ; " then I'll larn you Hiram sha'n't play tricks on you." 428 TiR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Out came the switch from the corner, An' — for my temper was riz — Didn't I work on the creatur'j Tannin' that body of his ! Benny he didn't an' wouldn't Let out a tear or a cry ; " Mother," he sed, " a true sailor Wouldn't sing out ef he'd die. Never you mind! now you're Kckin', Make it a good one, for shore You kin jes' bet all your silvej- Benny you'll never lick mofe. " 'Tisn't no use of your huggih' — No, I won't give you a kisil See, ef I don't make you sorry — Sorry you've licked me like this. I'll run away for a sailor ; I'll be a pride to my kin ; Never twell he's a rich captain You shell see Benny agin ! '', Then he run off up the Hollo\^ ; That didn't give me a fright, Reck'nin' he'd gone off to Hiram's, Meanin' to stay thar all night. But when I sent up nex' mornin', Through me it went with a jar, When the word came back fr6m Hiram's, Benny, he hadn't bin thar. When we had raised all the country, By-an'-by up come a man, Sayin' he'd seen sich a youngster Down at the mouth of Guyan. JOHN KEMP STONE. 429 Thar was the last we could trace him ; That was the last place he'd bin ; Thirty-one years come nex' August — I never saw him agin. No! I've no hope that I'll see him ; P'r'aps when I'm dead we may meet ; Wonder ef he has a mother — He that lies onder yan sheet? Wonder ef his arm is speckled? Let's turn the sleeve up, an' see : God! O my Benny! my captain! Have you, then, come back to me? JOHN KEMPSTONE. Come in, an' take a cheer. Lavisy Ann, You give the boy a seat. Jes' make as free As ef at home. How old's the httle man? Not fourteen yit? Sho! Broke your axle-tree? — Well — Jeemes'll fix it. I jedge you air a furriner by your- clo'es — Bad roads! — we mostly use the saddle here. Crape on your hat — you've lost your wife, I s'pose? So I allowed. Now mine is dead ten year — She was a Dingess. Lookin' for timber? No! Don't mean to say You're buyin' cattle? Thought that wasn't so ; You don't look like a drover nary Way. Ef I mought be so bold I'd Hke to know What is your beezness?. 43° T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. The Kemps'n' place! — why, no one's livin' thar — Shet up, an' gone to ruin, I allow ; The house all rottin' down for want o' car', The fences levelled — things left anyhow — The fields in briers. The Colonel! — He's been dead this seven year — Stood well, consid'r'n what he onderwent. In trouble? Likely. Did you never hear? His sin was followed by his punishment : Seemed Hke a jedgmeht. A man of honor! Yaas! he never lied, Nor cheated — ne'ther was the Kemps'n' way; 'Twarn't in the breed. They war too full of pride To lie or cheat. Thar's whar the tro.uble lay That wrought the mischief. I was a boy when first the thing begun — The Colonel he was fifty, or about, An' had a quarrel with his oldes' son, John Kemps'n', an' the way the twoi fell out ' Was from a woman, Of co'se. Thar air no quarrels hunted roun', But weemen or whiskey alius starts the game : It's been so, since old Adam trouble foun', In the snake beezness, an' 't'll be the same Forever 'n' ever. John fell in love with Hiram Doss's Ann, That lived on Pigeon whar it heads agin A branch of Twelve Pole. Hiram was a man Not much respected. So that he could win. He'd take all chances. JOHN KEMP STONE. 43 1 Hiram was rich in cattle, lands, and cash ; Traded around in everything that paid ; Quick as a steel-trap ; peert, but never rash ; Went in whai-ever money could be made, An' had no scruples. His darter Nancy was his kin, not kind ; She ne'ther had his failin's nor his face : He was a homely creatur' to my mind, While gals like her war alius powerful sca'ce. An' growin' sca'cer. Ev'ry one liked her. No one wondered when The Colonel's John fell dead in love with her. A likely pa'r. John was the man of men — You laugh, but that is so — all man — yes, sir! Was that John Kemps'n'. Some slenderer th'n you, but otherwise Built on your pattern ; but his skin was white. An' yours is brown ; some over middle size — Except you stoop I jedge you'd reach his height — Active an' soople. John told his father he would marry Ann. The Colonel laughed. " To spark the gal might do, Though triflin' doesn't much become a man ; But such a mate was never meant for you As Doss's darter. "I've nothin' to say agin the gal herself; She's well enough perhaps ; but Hiram Doss, A man who'd sell his very soul for pelf-^- A strain like ours with his should never cross- Should not, and shall not. 432 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT tOEMS. " Please your own fancy, but the day that sees You Nancy's husband, sees you not my heir ; Ef you hke better than a hfe of ease To fight your way with her, go win and wear Your wild-wood blossom. " I've other sons, an' one can take your place. Thar's Guy — he wouldn't cross me in my will. Nor on the name of Kemps'n' bring disgrace ; Give up this folly, boy, an' you are still Pride of your father." " Nevertheless I'll marry her,'' said John : "I pledged my word." " Then keep your word, young sir! That bein' lost, a Kemps'n's honor's gone ; But havin' kep' it, leave the place with her, No more a Kemps'n'." How did I know all this? Well, I was young; I'd sot out on an arrand to the crick, An', comin' back, I crossed the corn among Whar they wer' standin' — 'twas & boy-like trick To Stan' an' lissen. John married Nancy ; but he didn't stay With Nancy's father — 'twix' the two thar wer' No common feelin' — so he went a^yay Somewhar off norrud — must have been quite fur — Never was heerd from. He writ no letters home — he did? — She! how should you Know ef he did or no? They never come; JOHN KEMPSTONE. 433 That much I'm shore of ; an' the old iftan grew Grummer an' grummer every day, ail' dumb About his feeHn's. You'd ruther think he had no elder son^— He spoke to no one of him evermore ; He kep' his thoughts apart from every one ; But half the time sot at the open door, Alius out-lookin'. Folks said that he was keepin' open eye. To watch John's comin' back ; but whether 'r no, At any time, as you were passin' by, You'd see the Colonel, sun, or rain, or snow, Set thar a watchin'. An' years passed by. He never heerd from John, But still kept waitin' — never saw the sight He seemed to long for, but he waited on, Until his body bent, his ha'r grew white. His wrinkles deeper. He grew quite blind at last, but sot thar still, No day too hot nor cold. He couldn't see, But kep' his sightless eyeballs toward the hill The road winds over — 'twas the way, you see, John took in goin'. One evenin' as they come to lead him in. He lay thar stretched, as though his race was run. An' muttered when they raised him — "Pride's a sin That punishes itself. Came back, my son! " An' so died sudden. 434 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. Guy! — yaas, that was the second |on — he's dead. He fell at Gainesville, killed thar by some Yank. He never married. Edward? Well, young Ned Drank hard, an' tumbled oflf the river bank One night, an' drownded. Alishy! — why, you know 'em like a book! That was the darter — powerful full of pride. She married with Jeemes Tolliver, who took Her off to old Virginny, whar she died, Last of the fam'ly. But Mrs. Kemps'n' ! — that's the Colonel's wife — She took her bed when John he left the place, An' died within a year. Why, bless my life ! How pale you are ! — I mought have known the face ! — Why, you're John Kemps'n'! MOSES PARSLEY. Natur' ! why, yes ; I know what natur' is Ef onredeemed by grace, an' I allow The human kind of it, ef fa'rly riz, Is desput wicked. I remember now The case of Mosis Passley, showin' you What, ef a man's ontetched by grace, he'll do. Mosis was well-to-do. Of this world's goods He had his sheer. He raised .a house as fine. All chinked an' daubed, as lies thar in the woods ; A punshing fence aroun' his garding, swine, mOSES TARSLEY. 435 Hosses and cow beasts ; forty acres cleared, An' lots of dollars hid away, I've heerd. I rid the cirkit thar two year, an' used To stop at Mosis's to lodge bekase He'd heaps of chickens, nuvver help refused Onto the church ; an', spite of foolin' ways, I liked the man ; then Sister Passley, she Was a good woman, so it seemed to me. Old Peter Markham was her father ; he Lived upon Caney waters ; ef I'd been At home when she was growed, it seems to me Peter an' I had been of nigher kin ; For somehow woman's weakness alius lay , To lovin' when a preacher's in the way. I used to stop at Mosis's of nights, Gwine to app'intments on the cirkit roun'. It seemed I had that couple dead to rights, Alius warm welcome an' fried chickens foun', Hot biscuit an' good coffee, an' the place Kinder lit up with Sister Passley's face. An' only wunst I went thar in the day ; I'd preached a funeral the night afore At Peter StoUin's ; bein' on my way, I thought I'd stop in Passley's house wunst more ; So hitched my hoss on to a swingjn' limb, An' then went in a hummin' of a jiyran. "Sister, good mornin'." " Mornin', Brother Brooks." " Whar's Brother Passley? " "Gone away a spell." An' then she laughed. A somethin' in her looks Seemed morn'n frien'ly ; but I couldn't tell 436 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT "FOEMS. Edzacly how the words come onto me, But I spoke out — " How beautiful you be! " " Law, sakes," she said, an' then she kinder smiled, " I thought you nuvver noticed women's looks; Eve by the sarpint one time was beguiled ; I hope you ain't a sarpint, Brother Brooks.'' I said, says I — " No, ne'er a sarpint, sister;" An', takin' of her hand, I bent an' kissed her. Jerusalem ! she fetched me setch a lick ; It sot my face a stingin' then like mad ; I saw more stars than shined upon that crick — Who would hev thought what strength the critter had? An' then quite suddint, without warnin' thar, I felt myself a risin' in the a'r. It wasn't with joy — 'twas Mosis Passley's toe ; An' he kep' usin' it with wicked fo'ce, Ontell he kicked me through the lane below, Then back agin to whar I'd hitched me hoss ; An' then he said — " Now jest you mount and scoot." An' she said — " Mose, you hev'n't spiled your boot? " I've nuvver been to Mosis Passley's sence — I'm on a different cirkit ; but I'm shore. To one who nuvver meant to give offence, 'Twas hard setch parsecution mus' be bore ; Pra'r is the only thing to meet the case, That Passley's heart may yit be tetched by grace. OCCASIONAL LINES. Read at the oiie hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary of the birth of Bums, held at the Academy of Music, Newark, N. J., Jan. 25, 1884. We tak' na fash wi' freeze or thaw, Gin breezes sough, or tempest's blaw, For this ae night we celebrate Rab Burns's birth ; an' bauld we say't, We dinna min' the weather Or haet — Na flash o' pouther ; But Stan' — we hae na tint that gate — Shouther to shouthgr. We'se sicker come on ilka year For sic a purpose — dinna fear ; But noo, while tides o' frien'ship swell, An' speeches, each as lang's an ell ; Wi' muckle strunt frae Hielan' stall, Mak' spirits mingle, Let's doucely celebrate oursel'. In crambo-jingle. An' first, our Chairman, there ^its he — Guid-willie feelin' in his ee : A ship ye'd build o' boortree limb, light gather frae the gloamin' dim. Or satisfy a woman's whim By showin' sconner. Ere ye wad get ae thing frae him Save truth an' honor. There's Woodruff wi' his streakit pow, Gowd specs on's nose — an' talkin'! Wow! 437 43^ 'DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT TOEMS. An' when he mak's harangue on Burns, ' An' Rhetoric sae deftly turns, An' a' his hearers feelin's kirns At his ain pleasure, O' just applause he fairly earns Na scrimpit measure. Noo, Soutar, dinna jouk ayont, But tak' yer parritch, butter on't. I fear yer blate ; but bide a wee ; When threescore years hae bleared yer ee, Ye'se tak' all roose yer frien's '11 gie, Though noo ye'd fen it ; In monie a place ye bore the gree. An' weel ye ken it. An' there's the Surrogat' — he's here, But na aboot yer wills to spier^ He ay has haen a wull o' 's ain, An' aften gangs his gate alane ; But, spite o' that, ere he be gane, We'se sae contrive it, We'se mak' him cozey, croose an' fain, Wi' guid Glenlivet. An' here to-night, the Eoord o' Trade Comes kiuttlin' underneath our plaid ; A birkie wha's their President ; To spak' their notion here is sent, An' in his parle ye'se fin' na sklent — A' bright as siller ; Fact, fancy, truth a' sentiment Ye'se get frae Miller. An' he, schulemeister noo na mair, But Mayor himsel', weel skill't jn lear — OCCASIONAL LINES. 439 He kens ilk city caddies quirk ; He'll hae na jinkin' in the wark : He'll drag out wrang whare'er it lurk Frae roof to groun'-sill ; An', gin it need, he'll use his birk On the Common Council. We've na the Bench, but just the Bar — Aiblins for that we're nane the war ; We've ane at han', the law to ken,- To cannille the right defen'. An' mak' the rogues wha' will na men', Sup stoups o' sorrow ; To-night on him ye can depen'. An' sae to — Morrow. Niest 'tis ma duty tae record The Solon o' the Saxteenth Ward, Wha to auld Bungstarter is leal, An' mak's the faes o' Skinner squeal : Ye'se fin' him still a dainty chiel, For a' his scofiSn' ; He shoots his grunzie off right weel, This Barnes Magoffin. Then comes yer honored Chief, George Fyfe, A mon just plain, o' upright life ; He ne'er did oniebody wrang, An' loes in peace through life to gang. But, gin a king wad come alang, A' claithed in purple. An' bid him fleech, he'd stan' up strong. An' scorn tae hirple. The Sherra niest — he's unco [W]right! Wi' him we'se hae a roarin' night ;. 440 DR. ENGLISH'S SELECT VOEMS. A jinker he wha' will na jink. Afore a stoup o' guid Scotch drink ; But haud him till't, an' in a wink Wi' his droll daffin', Yer hearts '11 loup, yer e'en "11 blink— Maist dead wi' laughih'. The last — his points I maunna tell ; I loe him weal too — that's mysel' ! Kenspeckle 'tis I hae na gear, An' hence, na monie frien's, I fear — Na matter! when nae mair I'm here, To Heaven a climber, Or aiblins doon, drink ance a year To Tam the Rhymer. THE MILLER'S OE. I GANG wi' aits to Sandy's Mill, Upon my auld grey mare ; As lang's the sack's upon her back, 1 dinna ride her bare. As on I jog my heart it loups For ane wha's in the ben ; But gin the lassie loes me weel^ I dinna rightly ken. The water hirsles as it rins, Aroun' gaes the wheel ; (Ye can hear th' auld mare as she clattejs o'er the stanes) Ari hanie gaes the meal. As lang's I sit on th' auld mare's back, I'm bauld as a bumbee sma', THE MILLER'S OE. 441 But when I meet my dearie sweet, My bauldness rins awa'. When doon my sack on the flure I drap, I steal within the ben ; Gin the miller's oe thinks me her jo, I dinna rightly ken. The water hirsles as it rins, AroMi' gaes the wheel j (The buckets clatter loud as they a' rise an' fa') ArC hame gaes the meal. To-day I'll gang to mill alan^,. An' be na mair afeard ; I've been sae blate, I'll change my gate, An' bauldly spier my weird. I've mailin' an' kye, an' gowd forbye, Na waur than ither men ; An' gin the lassie loes or na, This day I'll rightly ken. The water hirsles as it rins, Aroun' gaes the wheel; (A chicken-heartit chiel winna win a bonny lass) An' hame gaes the meal. Hess Dui^ning M'Athol. THE GREAT RHODE ISLAND SEAM: A NARRATIVE, IN RHYME. I. Harmanus Van Brunck was an old Knickerbocker, Who long sailed a ship in the Rotterdam trade ; Then retired from the sea, with " some shot in the locker," To build him a fig-tree, and sit in its shade. So on Murray Hill he erected a mansion. With a sort of indefinite sky-ward expansion ; A brown-stone front of the Folderol order, With curlicues spread over every casement ; The ceilings dove-colored, with blue and gold border; Gas introduced from the attic to basement ; Encaustic tiles for the pavement of halls, Rosewood furniture, paintings on walls — The first, in the style of Louis Quatorze ; The second bought cheap, through " the terrible wars," The dealer averred, with a wink so sly, " In Europe,'' but really " all in my eye " ; Curtains of silk to each window and bed, And the cosdiest carpets to deaden the tread. Never before was a fig-tree grown, Of such beautiful mortar, and bricks and- stone; And sitting beneath its comforting shade, Like Selkirk, the "monarch of all he surveyed," Van Brunck exclaimed — " I've left the seas, Nothing to do, but to do as I please ; • 445 446 T)R. ENGLISH'S SELECT "POEMS. Henceforward I live me a life of ease ; Let the howling winds blow high, blow low — Come heat, come cold, come rain, com? snow, Care or trouble no more I'll know." But Captain Harraanus found out to his cost, He had footed his bill without leave from his host ; That slippers of silk, and a downy bed, Might still to a thousand woes be wed ; I'hat in brown-stone fronts brown studigs might be. And rosewood furniture furnish ennui. Familiar long with the tempest's strife, Harmanus he missed his former life : He missed the ship, that never missed stays, He missed his sailors, with nautical ways ; He missed the heave of the foaming sea ; He missed the white-caps, driving free ;. He missed the noise of the angry gale ; He missed the stretched and bellying sail ; He missed his cabin and worn-out traps ; He missed — no, he didn't! his dram of