:*>*'' ;■>■■■■ -. - <*■■■■' m*£mmss& LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. ^ RU* lg ©|ap + ©ojnjw^t !f xu Sh.elf.-X43 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. I 138b in- -*— " in m >-■ £ ra Q - ra □ ^ ^ c — a ' ' -,— ; ld CJ ca QJ □ jr; P -C ■ — r - rci CO £ c . _ a c % ra qj U =- u c\_. QJ ^ m rd P DJJ -1 1 ra m £~ OJ ^ -v 2 J< THE OYAL GALLERY OF POETET AND AET. _<3"o-_>- AN ILLUSTRATED BOOK -^f V^ Favorite Poetic Gems of the English Language, CHOICEST PRODUCTIONS OF AUTHORS, LIVING AND DEAD, The Uncrowned Kings and Queens of American Homes. WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY REV. W. H. MILBITRK, B. B., i Chaplain National House of Representatives, Washington, D. C, Author of "The Pioneer Preachers and People of the Mississippi "Valley ; " "The Rifle, Axe and Saddlebags;" "Ten Years of Preacher Life," Etc., Etc.' THE HEART OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN ONE VOLUME, ENRICHED WITH 4OO BEAUTIFUL ENGRAVINGS. X^cOP^RIGi^f^N ( JUN 3 1886/ NEW TORIC AND ST. LOUIS: ^*—J, ,, " — ^ N. D. THOMPSON PUBLISHING CO. 1886. tN ?t? XAr Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1886, by N. D. THOMPSON PUBLISHING CO., In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. CONTENTS Introduction HOME AND FIRESIDE. PAGE. The Cotter's Saturday Night . . Robert Burns 17 Make Home-Life Beautiful . . B. G. Northrup 23 Sougs of Seven Jean Ingelow 24 The Old Oaken Bucket . . Samuel Woodworth 28 Graves of a Household . . Felicia D. Hemans 29 Childhood Home B. P. Shillaber (Mrs. Partington) 30 Bain on the Boof Coates Kinney 30 Bairnies, Cuddle Doon . . Alexander Anderson 31 Old Folks at Home . . Stephen Collins Foster 31 Home, Sweet Home . . . John Howard Payne 31 My Old Kentucky Home . Stephen Collins Foster 32 Be Kind Anonymous 32 Mothers, Spare Yourselves .... Anonymous 32 In a Strange Land . . . James Thomas Fields 33 The Patter of Little Feet .... Anonymous 33 Catching Shadows E. Hannaford 34 A Cradle Hymn Isaac Watts 34 Joys of Home Sir John Bowring 35 John Anderson, My Jo ... . Robert Burns 36 Christmas Stockings . . . Benjamin F. Taylor 36 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. On the Doorstep . . Edmund Clarence Stedman 37 The Departure Alfred Tennyson 38 First Love Lord Byron 38 No Time like the Old Time . . . Anonymous 39 Mary Morison Robert Burns 39 Early Love Samuel Daniel 40 Cherry-Ripe Richard Alison 40 How Do I Love Thee Elizabeth Barrett Browning 40 Winnifreda Anonymous 41 Her Likeness . . . Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 41 Ae Fond Kiss before We Part . . Robert Burns 41 My True Love Hath my Heart . Philip Sidney 42 Love's Philosophy . . . Percy Bysshe Shelley 42 Good Bye Thomas Moore 42 How Many Times . . Thomas Lovell Beddoes 43 Absence ■ . . . . Robert Burns 43 Coming through the Rye . . . Robert Burns 43 Comin' through the Bye . Adapted from Bums 43 Hark! Hark! the Lark . . Wm. Shakespeare 43 O Fairest of the Rural Maids Wm. Cullen Bryant 44 Rock Me to Sleep Elzi. A. Allen (Florence Percy) 44 Pack Clouds Away .... Thomas Heywood 45 Linger not Long Anonymous 45 Song Gerald Griffin 46 PAGE. Love's Young Dream .... Thomas Moore 46 Love is Enough Ella Wheeler 46 If Thou Wert by My Side . . Reginald Seber 47 Pain of Love Henry Constable 47 Bonnie Mary Robert Bums 48 Sweet Hand Anonymous 48 Three Kisses . . . Elizabeth Barrett Browning 49 To an Absent Wife .... George D. Prentice 49 The Flower o' Dumblane . . Robert Tannahill 49 Come into the Garden, Maud . Alfred Tennyson 50 To Althea, from Prison . . . Richard Lovelace 50 A Woman's Question . Adelaide Anne Proctor 52 Doris Arthur J. Munby 52 Sad are They Who Know not Love T. B. Aldrich 53 Swallow, Flying South . . Alfred Tennyson 53 She was a Phantom of Delight Wm. Wordsworth 53 Margaret Walter Savage Landor 53 The Milking Maid . Christina Georgina Rosetti 54 Under the Blue Francis F. Browne 55 Kiss Me Softly John Godfrey Saxe 55 Pearls Richard Henry Stoddard 56 A Bird at Sunset . . . Robert Bulwer Lytton 56 Serenade Oscar Wilde 56 Bird of Passage Edgar Fawcett 57 1 Fear Thy Kisses . . . Percy Bysshe Shelley 57 When the Kye Comes Hame . . James Hogg 57 The Patriot's Bride . Sir Charles Gavan Duffy 5S Janette's Hair . . . Charles Graham Halpine 5S Wooing John B. L. Soule 59 Sweet and Low Alfred Tennyson 59 The Brookside R. Monckton Milnes(LordHoughton) 60 The Old Story Elizabeth A. Allen (Florence Percy) 60 Evening Song Sidney Lanier 60 A Parting Michael Drayton 61 A Mother's Love Samuel Rogers 61 I do Confess Thou'rt Sweet . Sir Robert Ayton 61 The Passionate Shepherd . Christopher Marlowe 62 The Nymph's Reply . . . Sir Walter Raleigh 62 Love is a Sickness Samuel Daniel 62 Freedom in Dress Ben Jonson 62 Phillis the Fair Nicholas Breton 63 You and I W. H. Burleigh 63 O, Saw Ye the Lass Richard Ryan 64 We Parted in Silence .... Julia Crawford 64 Come to Me, Dearest .... Joseph Brennan 64 Absence William Shakespeare 65 Why so Pale and Wan . . . Sir John Suckling 65 Don't be Sorrowful, Darling . Rembrandt Peale 65 Julia . .- Robert Herrick 65 (iii) IV CONTENTS. PAGE. The Bloom was on the Alder . . . Don Piatt 66 The Gowan Glitters on the Sward Joanna Baillie 67 She Walks in Beauty Lord Byron 68 Aux Italiens Bobert Bulwer Lytton 68 The Welcome Thomas Davis 69 A Pastoral John Byrom 70 Love at First Sight Jean Ingelow 71 A Spinning-Wheel Song . John Francis Waller 72 Philip My King . . Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 73 Af ton Water Bobert Burns 74 The Lily- Pond . . . George Parsons Lathrop 75 Cupid and Campaspe John Lyly 76 The Day Returns, My Bosom Burns . B. Bums 76 GLIMPSES OF NATURE. A Forest Hymn . . . William Gullen Bryant 77 Nature '. Jones Very 79 The Nightingale . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 79 Hymn on the Seasons . . . James Thompson 80 Night Lord Byron S3 The Sea Lord Byron 84 The Rainbow William Wordsworth 85 The Shepherd John Dyer 86 The World is Too Much with Us W. Wordsworth 87 Breathings of Spring . Felicia Dorothea Hemans S7 Varying Impressions from Nature W. Wordsworth 88 Evening William Wordsworth 89 Hymn Before Sunrise . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 90 To the Daisy William Wordsworth 91 Dawn Bichard Watson Gilder 92 The Barn Owl Samuel Butler 92 Before the Rain . . Thomas Bailey Aldrich 94 After the Rain . . . Thomas Bailey Aldrich 94 Night Edward Young 94 Summer .... John Townsend Trowbridge 95 Day Breaking John Marston 96 To the Nightingale .... Bichard Bamfield 9S The Mount of the Holy Cross . . Anonymous 98 The Heath-Cock ■ Joanna Baillie 99 A June Day Howitt 100 The Sky-Lark James Hogg 101 To the Turtle-Dove D. Conway 101 The Rainbow James Thomson 102 To a Water-Fowl . . William Cullen Byrant 103 Violets Bobert Herrick 103 The AVind -Flower Jones Very 104 Christmas in the Woods . . . Harrison Weir 104 The Eagle Anna Letitia Barbauld 105 A Ram Reflected in the Water . W. Wordsworth 106 The Squirrel-Hunt .... William Browne 107 Summer Woods John Clare 108 On a Goldfinch William Cowper 109 Changes in Nature Anonymous 109 Morning Song Joanna Baillie 110 The Squirrel William Cowper 110 The Ivy Green Charles Dickens 111 The Thrush's Nest John Clare 111 PAGE. The Dying Stag Giles Fletcher 112 Night Edward Everett 112 To Seneca Lake .... James Gates Percival 113 A Woodnote Howitt 114 Lambs at Play Bobert Bloomfield 115 The Hare William Somerville 116 To a Sky-Lark .... Percy Bysshe Shelley 116 To a Wild Deer John Wilson {Christopher North) 118 The Heath Charlotte Smith 119 The Swallow Charlotte Smith 120 The Sierras Joaquin Miller 121 Snow-Flakes . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 121 The Dog and the Water-Lily . William Cowper 122 Planting the Apple-Tree William Cullen Bryant 123 The Daisy James Montgomery 124 The Robin Harrison Weir 126 Spring and Winter . . William Shakespeare 128 March William Cullen Bryant 128 To a Young Ass . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 129 The First Day of Spring . William G. Simms 130 Day is Dying . Mrs. Lewes Cross {George Eliot) 131 Song of the Brook .... Alfred Tennyson 131 Hail, Holy Light John Milton 132 Spring Thomas Gray 133 A Winter Morning .... William Cowper 134 Wintry Weather David Gray 135 May-Day . . . John Wolcott (Peter Pindar) 136 The Early Primrose . . Henry Kirke White 136 Loves of the Plants . . . Erasmus Darwin 137 The Angler Anonymous 137 To a Nightingale . . . William Drummond 137 The Tiger William Blake 138 The Eagle Alfred Tennyson 139 A Summer Morn James Beattie 140 Sunset at Norham Castle . Sir Walter Scott 141 To the Dandelion . . . James Bussell Lowell 142 Hymn to the Flowers . . . Horace Smith 142 Solace in Nature . . . William Wordsworth 143 June James Bussell Lowell 144 To a Mountain Daisy .... Bobert Burns 145 The Angler's Wish Izaak Walton 146 The Broom Mary Howitt 147 Ode to Leven Water . Tobias George Smollet 147 A Spring Day Bobert Bloomfield 14S The Little Beach-Bird . Bichard Henry Dana 148 The Aged Oak at Oakley . . . Henry Alford 149 The Pheasant Anonymous 150 The Thrush Anonymous 150 Snow Ralph Hoyt 150 The O'Lincoln Family . . . Wilson Flagg iol Solitude of the Sea Lord Byron 151 Summer Drought J. P. Irvine 152 The Rhine Lprd Byron 153 To a Mountain Oak . . George Henry Boker 154 Forest Pictures . . . Paul Hamilton Hayne 155 Flowers John Milton 156 Under the Leaves .... Albert Laighton 158 Winter William Cowper loS CONTENTS. PAGE. The Flower's Name . . . Robert Browning 159 Spring in Carolina Henry Timrod 159 The Lark William Shakespeare 160 Grizzly Bret Sarte 160 The Violet William Wetmore Story 161 Calm and Storm on Lake Leman . Lord Byron 161 Freedom of Nature .... James Thomson 161 Three Summer Studies . . James Barron Hope 162 Imaginative Sympathy with Nature Lord Byron 164 September George Arnold 165 Flowers Thomas Hood 166 Stars Lord Byron 166 Signs of Rain Dr. Edward Jenner 167 Daffodils William Wordsworth 168 Sonnet on the River Rhine . Win. Lisle Bowles 169 To the Cuckoo John Logan 170 March William Morris 170 The Shaded Water . . William Gilmore Simms 171 November Hartley Coleridge 172 The Sea in Calm and Storm . George Crabbe 173 Midges Dance Aboon the Burn . B. Tannahill 175 Nature's Delights John Keats 175 Harvest Time .... Paul Hamilton Hayne 175 The Evening Wind . . William Cullen Bryant 176 Nature's Magnificence . . James Montgomery 177 Spring Alfred Tennyson 178 It Snows Mrs. S- J. Hale 179 Sunrise at Sea Epes Sargent 180 Invocation to Nature . Percy Bysshe Shelley 1S1 Table Mountain, Good Hope James Montgomery 181 The Poet's Solitude Lord Byron 1S2 COUNTRY LIFE. A Country Life Robert Herrick 183 A Wish Samuel Rogers 1S5 Town and Country .... William Cowper 186 The Homestead Phozbe Gary 1S6 Sunday in the Fields . . . Ebenezer Elliot 188 Blossom-Time Mary E. Dodge 189 The Praise of a Solitary Life . Wm. Drummond 190 The Old Mill . . . Richard Henry Stoddard 190 Farming Edward Everett 191 Two Pictures Marion Douglass 192 The Ploughman . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes 192 The Useful Plough ....... Anonymous 193 Country Life . .' Anonymous 195 The City and the Country . . . Anonymous 195 The Haymakers George Lunt 195 The Song of the Mowers . . W. H. Burleigh 196 The Cornfield James Thomson 197 The Mowers William Allingham 198 When the Cows Come Home . MaryE.Nealey 199 Come to the Sunset Tree . Felicia D. Hemans 200 My Little Brook .... Mary Bolles Branch 201 A Harvest Hymn W. D. Gallagher 202 The Old House . . Louise Chandler Moulton 202 Rural Nature William Barnes 203 The Farmer's Boy .... Robert Bloomfield 201 Farmyard Song . . John Townsend Trowbridge 205 Harvest Song Eliza Cook 206 The Farmer's Wife . . Paul Hamilton Hayne 206 The Pumpkin . . . John Greenleaf Whittier 207 Robert of Lincoln . . William Cullen Bryant 20S On the Banks of the Tennessee W. D. Gallagher 209 Summer Longings . Denis Florence MacCarthy 210 Farm Life Anonymous 210 Summer Woods . . William Henry Burleigh 211 The Village Boy Clarke 212 The Barefoot Boy . . John Greenleaf Whittier 212 The Country Life . . Richard Henry Stoddard 214 Happy the Man Whose Wish and Care Alex. Pope 215 Contentment with Nature . . . James Beattie 215 Nightfall : a Picture .... Alfred B. Street 217 The House on the Hill . . . Eugene J. Hall 218 FREEDOM AND PATRIOTISM. Our Own Countiy . . . James Montgomery 221 The Star-Spangled Banner . Francis Scott Key 221 Hail Columbia Joseph Hopkinson 222 The American Flag . . Joseph Rodman Drake 222 English National Anthem . . . Henry Carey 223 Rule, Britannia James Thomson 223 French National Anthem French of Roget De Lisle 223 Prussian National Anthem . From the German 224 The German's Fatherland . From the German 224 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . Mrs. Hemans 225 Hallowed Ground .... Thomas Campbell 226 Harp of the North .... Sir Walter Scott 227 Marco Bozzaris .... Fitz-Greene Halleck 227 Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights A. Tennyson 22S Freedom John Barbour 22S Love of Liberty William Cowper 229 The Source of Party Wisdom James A. Garfield 229 A Curse on the Traitor . . . Thomas Moore 230 Downfall of Poland . . . Thomas Campbell 230 Green Fields of England . Arthur Hugh Clough 230 Eternal Spirit of the Chainless Mind Lord Byron 230 Bannoekburn Robert Burns 231 Our Country's Call . . William Cullen Bryant 231 What Constitutes a State . Sir William Jones 232 The Love of Country . . . Sir Walter Scott 232 It's Hame, and It's Hame . Allan Cunningham 232 CAMP AND BATTLE. The Battle of Alexandria . James Montgomery 233 The Ballad of Agincourt . . Michael Drayton 234 Ye Mariuers of England . . Thomas Campbell 235 Waterloo Lord Byron 236 The Unreturning Brave .... Lord Byron 236 The Charge of the Light Brigade . A. Tennyson 237 Song of the Camp Bayard Taylor 237 Hohenlinden Thomas Campbell 23S Carmen Bellicosum . Guy Humphrey McMaster 238 VI CONTENTS. Monterey Charles Fenno Hoffman 239 Battle-Hymn of the Republic Julia Ward Howe 239 My Maryland James R. Randall 239 The Countersign Anonymous 240 The Picket Guard Ethel Linn Beers 241 Bethel Augustine J. H. Duganne 241 Civil War Charles Dawson Shanly 242 " How are You, Sanitary" . . . Bret Harte 242 Kearney at Seven Pines . Edmund C. Stedman 243 The Old Sergeant .... Forceythe Willson 244 Sheridan's Ride . . . Thomas Buchanan Read 246 Stonewall Jackson's Way . . . J. W. Palmer 247 Barbara Frietchie . . John Greenleaf Whittier 248 John Burns of Gettysburg .... Bret Harte 249 The Charge by the Ford . Thomas Dunn English 250 The Cavalry Charge . . . Francis A. Durivage 250 Cavalry Song . . . Edmund Clarence. Stedman 251 The C. S. Army's Commissary Ed. P. Thompson 252 SoDg of the Soldiers C. 51 Nor iron bars a cage " ( The Milking Maid 54 ' Silver sails all out of the west, j 5 q Under the silver moon " ! ' ' ' ' Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove" . . 61 ' We sat in the hush of summer eves " 63 ' I saw her pace, with quiet grace, ) 6 g The shaded path along" ( ' For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn" ... 70 ' Close by the window young Eileen is spinning" . . 72 1 Lay on my neck thy tiny hand " 73 ' How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills" ... 71 The Lily-Pond 75 ' The groves were God's first temples" 77 PAGE. " A grove of large extent, hard by a castle huge " . . 79 Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter SO " Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm" . . 80 " By brooks and groves, in hollow r whispering gales " . 81 " Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined" .... 81 " With clouds and storms } ^ Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled ",5 ' " Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound " . . . . 82 " Since God is ever present, ever felt" S3 " Dark-heaving, boundless, endless and sublime " . . S4 Fawn among Roses . 85 The Shepherd S6 " Sweet voices in the woods, ) ^ 7 And reed- like echoes, that have long been mute" ( " "' " Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall { ~^ Makes melody" j ■ • sb " It is a beauteous evening, calm and free " S9 " On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc!" 90 The Barn Owl . . . 92 Before the Rain 93 After the Rain 94 " I seek the coolest sheltered seat " 9"» " Quickly before me runs the quail " 96 Mount of the Holy Cross " 97 The Heath-Cock 99 " Upon that heath, in birchen bower " 103 The Turtle-Dove 101 The Rainbow 102 The Waterfowl 103 11 From under the boughs in the snow-clad wood ) -,,,, The merle and the mavis are peeping " i ' ' " The tawny eagle seats his callow brood " ..... 105 Ram Reflected in the Water 106 The Squirrel-Hunt 107 Summer Woods 10S The Goldfinch 109 The Squirrel 110 The Thrush's Nest HI The Dying Stag 112 ILLUSTKATIONS XI PAGE. The Swan 113 The Pheasant 114 The Blackbird 114 Lambs at Play 115 The Hare 116 The Wild Deer 118 The Heath-Chats 119 The Swallow 120 Snow-Flakes 121 The Dog and the Water-Lily 122 ' Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast ) ™ shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest " j ' ' ' Shall think of childhood's careless day " 124 ' In every season fresh and fair " 125 ( Though the snow is falling fast, ) -.ofi Specking o'er his coat with white "5 ' And birds sit brooding in the snow " 127 March 128 ' Poor little foal of an oppressed race " 129 The First Day of Spring 130 ' I move the sweet forget-me nots j ,q. That grow for happy lovers " j ' I chatter over stony ways " 132 ' Still is the toiling hand of care; I .„„ The panting herds repose" j A Winter Morning 134 ' The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves " . 135 Initial — Wintry Weather 135 May-Day 136 The Nightingale 137 The Tiger 138 The Eagle 139 A Summer Morn 140 •' Cheviot's mountains lone " 141 ' As in solitude and shade I wander ) -..„ Through the green aisles " j ' Now is the high-tide of the year" 144 1 1 in these flowery medes would be " 146 ' Loiter long days near Shawford Brook " 146 Leven Water 147 The Sheep Pasture 148 The Aged Oak 149 Woods in Winter 150 Solitude of the Sea 151 ' A pillage for the birds " 152 ' The castled crag of Drachenfels ) 15 o Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine " ) ■ " The Mountain Oak ' 154 ' blissful valley, nestling cool and fair " 155 ' The squirrel — that quaint, sylvan harlequin " ... 156 ' Oft have I walked these woodland paths" 157 Winter 158 ' Grizzly " 160 ' The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves " ... 162 ' The panting cattle in the river stand" 163 ' On the bosom of the still lagoon" 16i September 165 Flowers 166 PAGE. ' The hollow winds begin to blow " 167 ' Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow " 168 The River Rhine 169 March 170 The Shaded Water 171 1 The gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array " 172 ' Ships in the calm seem anchored " 173 ' The petrel, in the troubled way, j ,„„ Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray " j ■ • la ' Their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge" 174 ' Roughening their crests " 176 Giraffes 177 The Nile 178 'It Snows" 179 Sunrise at Sea 180 Table Mountain, Cape of Good Hope 181 4 To climb the trackless mountains all unseen. ) -.^ With the wild flock that never needs a fold " \ ' " b " ' When now the cock, the ploughman's horn, j -,„„ Calls for the lily-wristed morn " j ... rod Sheep at Pasture 184 ' Around my ivied porch shall spring 1 .„_ Each fragrant flower that drinks th« dew " $ •' ' * The Homestead 186 1 His head in manhood's prime, j .„_ Is growing white as the winter's rime " ] ' Sunday in the Fields 188 Blossom-Time . 1S9 ' By some shady grove, far from the clamorous world" 190 The Ploughman 192 ' To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair " 193 Country Life 194 ' Down on the Merrimac River " 196 The Cornfield 197 The Mowers 198 When the Cows come Home 199 ' Come to the sunset-tree " 200 ' I sit here by the stream in lull content" 201 The Old House 202 Rural Nature 203 ' For pigs, and ducks, and turkeys throng the door " . 204 * Homeward, his daily labors done, ) „ nR The stalwart farmer slowly plods" i Robert of Lincoln 208 1 An old log cabin I think of, j „„ On the banks of the Tennessee " \ Summer Woods 211 The Village Boy 212 The Barefoot Boy 213 ' The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields " . . . . 215 ' White Dobbin through the stable doors I 21fi Shows his round shape " J The House on the Hill 218 ' The cold, cheerless woods we delighted to tramp " . 219 Tail-Piece 220 Death of Abercrombie 233 Kearney at Seven Pines 243 Stonewall Jackson's Way 247 The bayonet shall be our spit" 252 ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE. ' We'll take, content, the roasting ear" 253 " Brothers of the heart are we " 254 Loss of the "Atlantic " 255 The Wind in a Frolic , 257 In the Blaine Woods 258 A Mountain Lake 259 Denizens of the Forest 259 The Rustic Bridge 262 Noon in Midsummer 263 The Sea in Calm 264 " The bald old eagle j „„_ On gray Beth-peor's height" j The Old Village Choir 267 The Old Home • 26S The New England School 270 The Lake at Sunset 271 " The fence was lost, and the wall of stone j „„ The windows blocked, and the well-curb gone" J ' ' " The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, I „ 7 „ And his beautiful Morgan brown " i " They ran through the streets of the seaport town " . 275 " O blithely shines the bonny sun ) „„■ Upon the Isle of May " j m The Burning of Chicago 280 A Northern Winter 281 The Shipwrecked Sailors '. 284 Robbing the Nest 287 The Old Mill 290 " Up mounts the glorious sun" 293 " Her sails are draggled in the brine \ Q q, That gladdened late the skies " j The Heron 295 " Glad if the full-orbed moon salute his eyes" . . . 300 The River Wye 301 The swan, on still Saint Mary's lake j . „„,. Float double, swan and shadow" \ " Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth " 308 The Inchcape Rock ■ 309 " That lone hulk stands i „, n Embedded in thy yellow sands " ( iw " Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes " .... 312 Columbus 313 The Country Churchyard 321 " The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea" .... 322 " Drowsy tinklings lull the distant fold " 322 ' Children run to lisp their sire's return " 323 " Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield" 323 "How jocund did they drive their team afield" ... 324 ■■ Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast" 324 " Wade through slaughter to a throne " 325 " Muttering his wayward fancies would he rove "... 326 "Approach and read— for thou canst read — the lay" . 326 " I remember, I remember ) The house where I was born " ( * z ° " Too late I stayed — forgive the crime" 329 " Night is the time for toil, j To plough the classic field" j S6U " Night is the time to watch ( „„ O'er ocean's dark expanse " j 66L PAGE. " Break, break, break, I „„ On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea!" ) ° " The splendor falls on castle walls " 333 " Gnarled oaks olden, dark with the mistletoe "... 334 " Free as the winds that blow " 335 " From the fields the reapers sing " 336 The Water-Mill 337 The Two Weavers 338 " Betrothed lovers walk in sight J 3 « n Of my lone ..monument " \ ' ' Evening Prayer at a Girl's School 341 " Yonder a man at the heavens is staring" 342 " Over the flowery lawn, maids are at play " 343 " With treasured tales and legendary lore" 344 " The mouldering gateway strews the grass grown court" 345 " Play, happy child" 347 " Ton fadeless forests in their Titan grace " 348' The Nightingale 349 " Full knee -deep lies the winter snow" 350 The Library 352 " That old familiar tree " ' 353 *' It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore " . . 354 The River 355 " The dog had watched about the spot " 356 " The little bird on tireless wing " 358 " Ye distant spires, ye antique towers I „rq That crown the watery glade " j " Go where the water glideth gently ever'- 361 " I saw two clouds at morning " 363 " So here upon the grass I lie at ease " 365 " The trees under which we had strayed" 366 " The river all quiet and bright " 367 " So men must lie down too" 36S " The lighthouse with its wakeful eye " 370 " The face of the ocean is dim and pale" 371 " When stars are in the quiet skies "........ 372 " Do you ask what the birds say " 373 Alone by the Hearth 374 " A dreary sea now flows between " 377 " O stream, descending to the sea " . 378 " Over the river, on the hill, j „„„ Lietha village white and still" ( c " y " Over the river, under the hill, j ■ „n n Another village lieth still " j oou " We read the names unknown " 381 The Churchyard 382 " The naked woods, and meadows brown and sear " . . 383 " Call the cattle home, across the Sands of Dee "... 381 " They rowed her in across the rolling foam" . . . . 3S4 " Her grave beside the sea " 3S4 " The cottage was a thatched one " 387 " Where we sat side by side " 38S " 'Tis but a step down yonder lane " 389 " Pity the sorrows of a poor old man " 392 " A woman sat in unwomanly rags, j one Plying her needle and thread " j ■ ■ ■ " Somebody's darling slumbers here " 397 " Ly stil, nry darlinge, sleipe awhile" 401 ILLUSTRATIONS. xin PAGE. " And fed them froni my baby's dimpled hand "... 405 " The wife who girds her husband's sword, ) aqc 'Mid little ones who weep or wonder " ( " By the wayside on a mossy stone, j ^q Sat a. hoary pilgrim, sadly musing " \ ' ' " There's the mill that ground our yellow grain" . . . 411 " Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable " . . 412 " In grief she walks alone, by every garden bed" . . . 414 " Bring flowers of early spring, ) , , fi To deek each soldier's grave " \ " A basket h SEVEN TIMES ONE.— EXULTATION. |Y|YHERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, jiA^ There's no rain left in heaven. ■XT *' ve sa ^ m y " seven times" over and over — TfT Seven times one are seven. I am old — so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done. The lambs play always — they know no better ; They are only one times one. I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. O velvet Bee ! you're a dusty fellow— You've powdered your legs with gold. O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold 1 O Columbine ! open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 'I am seven times one to-day." O Moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low. You were bright— ah, bright— but your light is failing ; You are nothing now but a bow. O Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell ! And show me your nest, with the young ones in it — ■ I will not steal them away ; You Moon ! have you done something wrong in heaven, I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet I That God has hidden your face? I am seven times one to-day. HOME AND FIRESIDE. 25 SEVEN TIMES TWO.— ROMANCE. " ISBgOU bells iu the steeple, riug, ring out your changes How many soever they be, 1 And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling- No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover. While dear hands are laid on my head ; " The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said." I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree ; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it I Such as I wish it to be. 1 1 leaned out of window, t smelt the white clover Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate." "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone ; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be ; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me. The fox-glove shoots out of the green matted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather : O children take long to grow. I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late ; And I could grow on like the fox-glove and aster, For some things arc ill to wait. £3> V SEVEN TIMES THREE. — LOVE. LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; " Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover — Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late ! "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters glow, Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me. 26 THE EOTAL GALLERY. "You night-moths that hover where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ahj my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep — " Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover ; Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight ; But I'll love him more, more Thau e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright. For children wake, though fathers sleep, With a stone at foot and at head; sleepless God! forever keep, Keep both living and dead ! 1 lift mine eyes, and what to see, But a world happy and fair ; I have not wished it to mourn with me, Comfort is not there. O what anear but golden brooms ! And a waste of reedy rills ; O what afar but the tine glooms On the rare blue hills ! SEVEN TIMES FOUR. — MATERNITY. e iiS £ ' (ivV'EIGH-HO! daisies and buttercups, i**, Fair Yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! Tfy&i When the wind wakes how they rock in the j| grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small ! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all. Heigh-ho ! daises and buttercups ! Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain ; Sing, "Heart, thou art wide, though the house be but narrow," — Sing once and sing it again. Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks on you now ! Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall — A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall Send down on their pleasure-smiles passing its meas- ure, God that is over us all ! SEVEN TIMES FIVE. — WIDOWHOOD. ' Let me bleed ! Oh, let me alone." I shall not die, but live forlore — How bitter it is to part ! to meet thee, my love, once more! — O my heart, my heart ! No more to hear, no more to see ! that an echo might awake And waft one note of thy psalm to me, Ere my heart-strings break! 1 should know it how faint so e'er, And with angel voices blent; O once to feel thy spirit anear, 1 could be content ! SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan, Before I am well awake ; "Let me bleed! Oh, let me alone, Since I must not break! " O once between the gates of gold, While an angel entering trod ; But once — thee sitting to behold On the hills of God. HOME AND FIRESIDE. 27 SEVEN TIMES SIX.— GIVING IN MARRIAGE. jYTY^O bear, to nurse, to rear, Jft To watch, and then to lose : ■p^g* To see my bright ones disappear, J f f L Drawn up like morning dews ; — 1 1 To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose : This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose. To hear, to heed, to wed, And with thy lord depart In tears that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart.- To hear, to heed, to wed, This whilst thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, "Mother, give me thy child." O fond, O fool, and blind, To God I gave with tears ; But, when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears. O fond, O fool, and blind, God guards in happier spheres; That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years. To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views ; Thy mother's lot, my dear, She doth in naught accuse ; Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love — and then to lose. SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. — LONGINGS FOR HOME. A Sonsr of a Boat. |HERE was once a boat on a billow : Lightly she rocked to her port remote, '", ? And the foam was white in her wake like ?5SC snow, J4, And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, And bent like a wand of willow. I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtseying over the billow, I marked her course till a dancing mote, She faded out on the moonlit fpam, And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ; And my thoughts all day were about the boat, And nry dreams upon the pillow. I pray you hear my song of a boat, For it is but short : — My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port. Long I looked out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea ; And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, For he came not back to me — Ah, me ! eJlfes A Sons; of a Nest. |HERE was once a nest in a hollow, Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, ago ° * ' |Ssi Soft and warm and full to the brim ; Vetches leaned over it purple and dim; With buttercup buds to follow. I pray you hear my song of a nest, For it is not long : — You shall never light in a summer quest The bushes among — Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestf ul, nor ever know A softer sound than their tender twitter, That wind-like did come and go. I had a nestful once of my own — Ah, happy, happy I ! Right dearly I loved them; but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly. Oh, one after one they flew away, Far up to the heavenlj' blue, To the better country, the upper day; And — I wish I was going, too. I pray you, what is the nest to me, My empty nest? And what is the shore where I stood to see My boat sail down to the west? Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Though my good man has sailed? Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope hath failed? Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be : There is the home where my thoughts are sent, The only home for me — Ah, me ! Jean Ingelow. 28 THE EOTAL GALLEEY. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. v^t |OW dear to my heart are the scenes of rny child- hood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! — r The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- s' wood, I And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it; The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell! Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! ' The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it; And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well— The cot of m3' father, the dairy-house nigh it; And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure— The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well ! Samuel Woodworth. HOME AND FIRESIDE. 29 GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. JHEY grew in beauty side by side, They tilled one home with glee ; Their graves are severed far and wide By mount, aud stream, and sea. ) The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sight — Where are those dreamers now? One sleeps where southern vines are dressed Above the noble slain ; He wrapped his colors round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded 'mid Italian flowers, The last of that bright band. " One 'mid the forest of the West, By a dark stream is laid ; The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade." One 'mid the forests of the West, By a dark stream is laid ; The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- He lies where pearls lie deep ; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. And, parted thus, they rest who played Beneath the same green tree, Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent-knee ! They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth ■ Alas for love, if thou wert all, Aud naught beyond, O Earth ! Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 30 THE F.OYAL GALLEKY. MY CHILDHOOD HOME. f HERE'S a little low hut by the river's side, Within the sound of its rippling tide ; Its walls are grey with the mosses of years, And its roof all crumbled and old appears; But fairer to me than castle's pride Is the little low hut by the river's side ! The little low hut was my natal rest, When my childhood passed — Life's springtime blest; Where the hopes of ardent youth were formed, And the sun of promise my young heart warmed, Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide, And left the dear hut by the river's side. That little low hut, in lowly guise. Was soft and grand to my j'outhful eyes, And fairer trees were ne'er known before, Than the apple-trees by the humble door — That my father loved for their thrifty pride — That shadowed the hut by the river's side. That little low hut had a glad hearthstone, That echoed of old with a pleasant tone, And brothers and sisters, a merry crew, Filled the hours with pleasure as on they flew; But one by one the loved ones died, That dwelt in the hut by the river's side. The father revered and the children gay The graves of the world have called away; But quietly, all alone, here sits By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits, An aged woman, long years allied With the little low hut by the river's side. That little low hut to the lonely wife Is the cherished stage of her active life ; Each scene is recalled in memory's beam, As she sits by the window in pensive dream And joys and woes roll back like a tide In that little low hut by the river's side. My mother — alone by the river's side She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide, And the voice that shall thrill her heart with its call To meet once more with the dear ones all, And forms in a region beautified, The band that once met by the river's side. The dear old hut by the river's side With the warmest pulse of my heart is allied — And a glory is over its dark walls thrown, That statelier fabrics have never known — And I shall love with a fonder pride That little low hut by the river's side. B. P. Shillaber (Mrs. Partington). RAIN ON THE ROOF. jjgHEN the humid shadows hover ft Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow Of a cottage-chamber bed And to listen to the patter Of the soft rain overhead! Every tinkle on the shingles Has an echo in the heart; And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start, And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. Now in memory comes my mother As she used long yeai*s agone, To regard the darling dreamers Ere she left then till the dawn; Oh, I see her leaning o'er me, As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair And her star-eyed cherub brother A serene angelic pair! — Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproo As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes to thrill me With her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her, That her heart was all untrue : I remember but to love her With a passion kin to pain, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate To the patter of the rain. Art hath naught of tone or cadence That can work with such a spell In the soul's mysterious fountains, Whence the tears of rapture well As that melody of nature, That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. Coates Kinney. SOME AND FIRESIDE. 31 BAIKNIES, CUDDLE DOCK pFE bairnies cuddle doon at nieht, Wi' muckle faucht an' din' ; ' Oh tiy and sleep, ye waukrif rogues, Your fej^ther's comin' in!" They dinna hear a word I speak; I try an' gie a frown, But aye I hap them up and cry, " O bairnies, cuddle doon!" Wee Jaimie, wi' the curly heid, He aye sleeps next the wa', Bangs up and cries, "I want a piece'" The rascal starts them a' ! I rin an' fetch them pieces — drinks — They stop a wee the soun', Then draw the blankets up and cry "O weanies, cuddle doon!" But scarce Ave minutes gang, wee Bab Cries out frae ueath the claes : "Mither, mak Tarn gie ower at ance ! He's kittlin wi' his taes!" The mischief's in that Tarn for tricks, He 'd baither half the toun; But still I hap them up and cry, " O bairnies, cuddle doon!" At length they hear their feyther's step, And as he nears the door They draw their blankets o'er their heids, And Tam pretinds to snore. "Hae a' the weans been guid?" he asks, As he pits off his shoon; " The bairnies, John, are in their beds, And lang since cuddled doon." And just afore we bed oursels We look at our wee lambs ; Tam has his airm round wee Bab's neck, And Bab his airm round Tarn's. I lift wee Jaimie up the bed, And as I straik each crown, I whisper, till my hairt Alls up, "O bairnies, cuddle doon!" The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' mirth that's dear to me, For sure the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. But coom what will to ilka ane, May he who sits abune Aye whisper, tho' their pows be bald, " O bairnies,cuddle doon!" Alexander Anderson. _2-^5^2_ OLD FOLKS AT HOME. AY down upon de Swanee Bibber, Far, far away — are's wha my heart is turning ebber — Dare's wha de old folks stay. All up and down de whole creation, Sadly I roam ; Still longing for de old plantation, And for de old folks at home. All de world am sad and dreary, Eb'rywhere I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home. All round de little farm I wandered, When I was young ; Den many happy days I squandered, Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder, Happy was I ; Oh! take me to my kind old mudder! Dare let me live and die ! One little hut among de bushes — One dat I love — Still sadly to my memory rushes, • No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-humming, All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo tumming Down in my good old home? Stephen Collins Foster. HOME, SWEET HOME. ^"Yjr^rD pleasures and palaces though we may roam, ^AT-Vi Be it ever so humble there's no place like home ! ymS? A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, ^r Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! There's no place like home' An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain : Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! The birds singing gaily that came at my call — Give me them — and the peace of mind dearer than all ! Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! There's no place like home ! John Howard Payne. 32 THE KOYAL GALLERY. BE KIND. jGKe kind to thy father, for when thou wast young, <^* ; AVho loved thee as fondly as he? Ml He caught the first accents that fell from thy foils o ^ r tongue, * And joined in thine innocent glee. Be kind to thy father, for now he is old, His locks intermingled with gray, His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and hold ; Thy father is passing away. Be kind to thy mother, for, lo ! on her hrow May traces of sorrow be seen : Oh, well may'st you cherish and comfort her now, For loving and kind hath she been. Remember thy mother, for thee will she pray As long as God giveth her breath ; AVith accents of kindness then cheer her lone way, E'en to the dark valley of death. Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth, If the smile of thy love be withdrawn ; The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth, If the dew of affection be gone. Be kjnd to thy brother, wherever you are, The love of a brother shall be An ornament, purer and richer by far, Than pearls from the depths of the sea. Be kind to thy sister, not many may know . The depth of true sisterly love ; The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below The surface that sparkles above. Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet hours, And blessings thy pathwa}' to crown, Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers, More precious than wealth or renown. MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. f ,pHE sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home; ■ - 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; The corn-top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom, "While the birds make music all the day; The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy, all bright; By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door — Then my old Kentucky home, good night! Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon, On the meadow, the hill and the shore ; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door ; The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, AVith sorrow, where all was delight; The time has come when the darkeys have to part,. Then my old Kentucky home, good night! The head must bow, and the back will have. to bend, AVherever the darkey may go ; A few more days, and the troubles all will end, In the fields where the sugar-cane grow; A few more days to tote the weary load, No matter, it will never be light ; A few more daj r s till we totter on the road, Then my old Kentucky home, good night! Stephen Collins Fostee. MOTHERS, SPAEE YOURSELVES. ANY a mother gixnvs old, faded, and feeble long before her time, because her boys and girls are not thoughtfully considerate and helpful. When they become old enough to be of service in a household , mother has become so used to doing all herself, to taking upon her shoulders all the care, that she forgets to lay off the burden little by little, on those who are so Avell able to bear it. It is partly her own fault, to be sure, but a fault committed out of love and mistaken kindness for her children. HOME AND FIRESIDE. 33 IN A STRANGE LAND. |H, to be home again, home again, home again ! Under the apple-boughs, down by the mill ; ?(ff- Mother is calling me, father is calling me, J4 Calling me, calling me, calling me still. Oh, how I long to be wandering, wandering Through the green meadows and over the hill; Sisters are calling me, brothers are calling me, . Calling me, calling me, calling me still. Oh, once more to be home again, home again, Dark grows my sight, and the evening is chill — Do you not hear how the voices are calling me, Calling me, calling me, calling me still? James Thomas Fields. THE PATTER OF LITTLE FEET. |yP with the sun in the morning, Away to the garden he hies, £•; .a To see if the sleeping blossoms Have begun to open their eyes. Running a race with the wind, With a step as light and fleet, Under my window I hear The patter of little feet. Now to the brook he wanders, In swift and noiseless flight, Splashing the sparkling ripples Like a fairy water-sprite. No sand under fabled river Has gleams like his golden hair, No pearly sea-shell is fairer Than his slender ankles bare. Nor the rosiest stem of coral, That blushes in ocean's bed, Is sweet as the flash that follows Our darling's airy tread. From a broad window my neighbor, Looks down on our little cot, And watches the "poor man's blessing" — I cannot envy his lot. He has pictures, books, and music, Bright fountains, and noble trees, Rare store of blossoming roses, Birds from beyond the seas. 3 But never does childish laughter His homeward footsteps greet; His stately halls ne'er echo To the tread of innocent feet. This child is our "sparkling picture," A birdling that chatters and sings, Sometimes a sleeping cherub, (Our other one has wings.) His heart is a charmed casket, Full of all that's cunning and sweet, And no harpstring holds such music As follows his twinkling feet. When the glory of sunset opens The highway by angels trod, And seems to unbar the city Whose builder and maker is God — Close to the crystal portal, I see by the gates of pearl, The eyes of our other angel — A twin-born little girl. And I ask to be taught and directed To guide his footsteps aright; So to live that I may be ready To walk in sandals of light — And hear, amid songs of welcome, From messengers trusty and fleet, On the starry floor of heaven, The patter of little feet. 34 THE ROYAL GALLERY. CATCHING SHADOWS. pHEN the day and dark are blended, if? And the weary tasks are ended, iiJlitfi Sits the little mother humming, Waiting sound of his dear coming, Who, the lord of love's domain, Yet to her yields all again. Then the winsome, wee one, nestling In her bosom, spies the wrestling, Dancing shadows rise and fall, Phantom-like upon the wall, As the flickering firelight flashes From among the flames and ashes. Loud he laughs, in baby glee. At their elfin revelry ; At the lilting, lithe, elastic, Airy, fairy forms fantastic, Now receding., now advancing, Coy as love from young eyes glancing. Not eclipse and umbrage dim, These are sentient things to him ; Wherefore, wistful welcome lending, Tiny hands are soon extending. Snatching, catching, quick and eager, At the shapes that him beleaguer. Oft he clasps them, grasps them, yet They but fool him, they coquet; Vain his striving and endeavor, They elude and mock him ever, They delude and still deceive him, They perplex and vex and grieve him. Much he wonders, ponders why When they beckon yet they fly, And the tear in his blue eye Shines as rain from sunny sky. Soon he turns — the cruel seeming Fades away, and he lies dreaming. E. Hanuafoed. -n-*&2sir A CRADLE HYMN. SlEipvUSH! my dear, lie still, and slumber, i**6 Holy angels guard thy bed!- •^h Heavenly blessings without number ; Gently falling on thy head. Sleep, my babe ; thy food and raiment, House and home thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment, All thy wants are well supplied. How much better thou 'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven he descended, And became a child like thee. Soft and easy is thy cradle : Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay: When his birthplace was a stable, And his softest bed was hay. See the kinder shepherds round him, Telling wonders from the sky ! There they sought him, there they found him, With his virgin mother by. See the lovely Babe a-dressing; Lovely Infant, how he smiled ! When he wept, the mother's blessing Soothed and hushed the holy Child. Lo ! he slumbers in his manger, Where the horned oxen fed ; Peace, my darling, here 's no danger, Here 's no ox anear thy bed. Mayst thou live to know and fear him, Trust and love him all thy days; Then go dwell forever near him, See his face, and sing his praise ! I could give thee thousand kisses, Hoping what I most desire ; Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire. Isaac Watts. HOME AND FIRESIDE. 35 'And yet a happy family Is but an earlier heaven. 1 JOYS OF HOME. ■0S? tiO^WEET are the joys of borne, '■! And pure as sweet; for they ¥Like dews of morn and evening come, To make and close the day. The world hath its delights, And its delusions, too ; But home to calmer bliss invites, More tranquil and more true. 36 THE ROYAL GALLERY. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. |OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, | When we were first acquent, fYour locks were like the raven, i Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. Robert Burns. CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS. gERE the stockings were swung in their red, When we braved the hare floor with our little hare white, and blue, feet — ,V W V ' All fashioned to feet that were light as the No shrine to a pilgrim was ever so sweet. J4, dew. When each heart and each stocking was burdened Ah, the fragrant old faith when we watched the with bliss — cold gray On the verge of two worlds there is nothing like this Reluctantly line the dim border of day, But a mother's last smile and a lover's first kiss ! Benjamin F. Taylor. LOVE A1STO FRIENDSHIP. -,*,< ^r<5^ °$°- ' The little hand outside her muff — To keep it warm I had to hold it." ^§j8f|HE conference meeting through al last, ■fiSb We boys around the vestry waited 7tk$\ To see the girls come tripping past Like snowbirds willing to be mated. ON THE DOORSTEP. Not braver he that leaps the wall By level musket-flashes litten, Than I, who stepped before them all, Who longed to see me get the mitten. 37 38 THE ROYAL GALLERY. But no ; she blushed, and took my arm ! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lover's by-way. I can't remember what we said, 'T was nothing worth a song or story ; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory. The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming, By hood and tippet sheltered sweet Her face with youth and health was beaming. The little hand outside her muff — O sculptor, if you could but mold it! So lightlj r touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it. To have her with me there alone — 'T was love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended. The old folks, too, were almost home ; Her dimpled hand the latches lingered, We heard the voices nearer come, Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled, But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud passed kindly overheard, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, "Come, now or never! doit! doit!" My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow, full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth — I kissed her! Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still, O listless woman, weary lover! To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill I'd give — But who can live youth over? Edmund Clarence Stedman. THE DEPARTURE. JTVXD on her lover's arm she leant. And round her waist she felt it fold ; And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old. Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the d3 r ing day, The happy princess followed him. "I'd sleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss; " "O wake forever, love," she hears, " O love, 't was such as this and this ; " And o'er them many a sliding star, And many a merry wind was borne, And streamed through many a golden bar, The twilight melted into morn. " O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " " O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " " O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " "O love, thy kiss would wake the dead! " And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark ; And, rapt through many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark. A hundred summers ! can it be? And whither goest thou, tell me where? " O seek my father's court with me, For there are greater wonders there." And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Through all the world she followed him. Alfred Tennyson. o'^^S^* FIRST «^ If IS sweet to hear, At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, ^ The song and oar of Adria's gondolier ; '} By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep . 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear, i 'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. LOVE. 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come. 'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, Or lulled by falling waters ; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 39 Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth ; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps; Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth; Sweet is revenge, especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. ***** 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend ; Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall; The tree of knowledge has been plucked — all's known — ■ And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven. Lord Byron. NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME. VlYHERE is no. time like the old time, when you WSSs and I were young, IL 'ff^When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds U. of springtime sung! *" The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, But, oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first! There is no place like the old place where you and I were born ! Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn, From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore, Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more ! There is no friend like the old friend who has shared our morning days, No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise ; Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold, But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold. There is no love like the old love that we courted in our pride ; Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side, There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn, And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of day is gone. There are no times like the old times — they shall never be forgot! There is no place like the old place — keep green the dear old spot! There are no friends like our old friends — may Heaven prolong their lives ! There are no loves like our old loves — God bless our loving wives ! MARY MORISON. MARY, at thy window be I It is the wished, the trysted hour! .Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor; How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, | Could I the rich reward secure — ■ The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing — I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; Though this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them 'a, "Ye are na Mary Morison." O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown ; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. Robert Burns. 40 THE ROYAL GALLERY. EARLY LOVE. §H, I remember well (and how can I But evermore remember well?) when first , Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was s flame we felt; when as we sat and sighed, 1 looked upon each other, and conceived ; what we ailed, yet something we did ail, 1 yet were well, and yet we were not well, 1 what was our disease we could not tell, Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thus, In that first garden of our simpleness, We spent our childhood. But when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge — ah, how then Would she with sterner looks, with graver brow, Check my presumption, and my forwardness ! Yet still would give me flowers, still would show What she would have me, yet not have me know. Samuel Daniel. CHERRY-RIPE. KHERE is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies blow ; ■ A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do inclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow, Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still ; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Richard Alison. HOW DO I LOVE THEE. OW do I love thee? Let me count the ways : I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of each day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seem to lose With my lost saints,— I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. LOVE AND FKIENDSHIP. 41 WINIFRED A. ^P&WAT ! let naught to love displeasing, gHHH My Winifreda, move your care ; C ;vr i Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 11 Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. What though no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood, We '11 shine in more substantial honors, And, to be noble, we '11 be good. Our name, while virtue thus we tender Will sweetly sound where 'er 'tis spoke ; And all the great ones, they shall wonder .How they respect such little folk. What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, No mighty treasures we possess ; We '11 find, within our pittance, plenty, And be content without excess.- Still shall each kind returning season Sufficient for our wishes give ; For we will live a life of reason, And that 's the only life to live. Through youth and age, in love excelling, We 'II hand in hand together tread; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. How should I love - the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly clung ! To see them look their mother's features, To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! And when with envy time transported Shall think to rob us of our joys, You '11 in your girls again be courted, And I '11 go wooing in nvy boys. HER LIKENESS. ; GERL, who has so many wilful ways She would have caused Job's patience to for- ■^^ sake him; Yet is so rich in all that 's girlhood's praise, Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze, A little better she would surely make him. Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon, And very far from angel yet, I trow. Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human ; Yet she 's more lovable as simple woman Than any one diviner that I know. Therefore I wish that she may safely keep This womanhede, and change not, only grow; From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, And in perennial blessedness, still reap On every hand of that which she doth sow. Dinah Maria Mulock Ceaik. ^ee^r AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART. E fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, forever! Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee; Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy — Naething could resist my Nancy ; But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever, Let still the woman take An elder than herself : so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, 3-vSG^r Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met — or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas forever! Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee* Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee! Kobekt Burns. More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, Than women's are. ****** Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent. 42 THE KOYAL GALLEKY. MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART. Y true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other given; I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven; My true-love bath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one ; My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides ; He loves my heart, for once it was his own ; I cherish his because in me it bides ; My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. Sib Philip Sidney. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. |HE fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean ; The winds of heaven mix forever With a sweet emotion.; Nothing in the world is single ; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle; Why not I with thine. See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven H it disdained its brother. And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea ; What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me? Percy Bysshe Shelley. wa'^w^^ ---. ; : 1 1, a GOOD BYE. iWEETHEART, good bye ! That flut'ring sail Is spread to waft me far from thee ; And soon, before the farth'ring gale, My ship shall bound upon the sea. Perchance, all des'late and forlorn, These eyes shall miss thee many a year; But unf orgotten every charm — Though lost to sight, to memory dear. Sweetheart, good bye ! one last embrace ! Oh, cruel fate, two souls to sever ! Yet in this heart's most sacred place Thou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever; And still shall recollection trace, In fancy's mirror, ever near, Each smile, each tear, that form, that face — Though lost to sight, to memory dear. Thomas Moore. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 43 HOW MANY TIMES. OW many times do I love thee, dear? Tell me how many thoughts there he In the atmosphere Of a new-fallen year, Whose white and sahle hours appear The latest flake of Eternity : So many times do I love thee, dear. How many times do I love, again? Tell me how many beads there are In a silver chain Of the evening rain, Unraveled from the tumbling main, And threading the eye of a yellow star : So many times do I love, again. Thomas Lovell Beddoes. ABSENCE. pHEN I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie ; And now what lands between us lie, How can I he but eerie ! How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and weary ! It was na sae ye glinted by When I was wi' my dearie. Robert Burns. COMING THROUGH THE RYE. ||OMING through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye, She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. Jenny 's a' wat, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. Gin a body meet a body Coming through the rye ; Gin a body kiss a body — Need a body cry? Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body- Need the world ken? Jenny 's a' wat, poor body; Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. Robert Burns. COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. fflN a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry? Every lassie has her laddie — Ne'er a ane hae I; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysel'; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinua care to tell. Gin a body meet a body Comin' frae the town, Gin a body greet a body, Need a body frown? Every lassie has her laddie — Ne'er a ane hae I ; Tet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Adapted from Burns. HARK! HARK! THE LARK AT HEAVEN'S GATE SINGS. iARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies ; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes ; With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise. AVilliam Shakespeare. 44 THE ROYAL GALLERY. O FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS. FAIREST of the rural maids ! Thy birth was in the forest shades ; W Green houghs, and glimpses of the sky, 1 Were all that met thine infant eye. Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were ever in the sylvan wild, And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face. The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks ; Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves. Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen ; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook. The forest depths, by foot impressed, Are not more sinless than thy breast; The holy peace, that Alls the air Of those calm solitudes, is there. William Cullen Bryant. -•-a— se^E -1 - 'Take me again to your heart as of yore." ROOK ME TO SLEEP. |ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night; Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore ; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair, Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! I am so weary of toil and of tears, — Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — Take them and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay, — Weary of flinging my soul- wealth away ; Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! LOVE AND FBIENDSHIP. 45 Tired of the hollow, the hase, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you ! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed, and faded our faces between, Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — Bock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! Over my heart, in the days that are flown, ISTo love like mother-love ever has shone; No other worship abides and endures, — Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours : None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ;- Bock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Lefit drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song : Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping your face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! Elizabeth Akebs Allen (Florence Percy) . sSQ^g- PACK CLOUDS AWAY. "^IjACK clouds away, and welcome day, j||| With night we banish sorrow : Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft, To give my love good-morrow. Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing! To give my love good-morrow. To give my love good-morrow, Notes from them all I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast! Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves, among yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow. To give my love good-morrow, Sing, birds, in every furrow. Thomas Heywood. -'^-i'S-E 1 - L1NGER NOT LONG. ftpINGEB not long! Home is not home without M thee; > Its dearest tokens only make me mourn; [Ob! let its memory, like a chain about thee, i* Gently compel and hasten thy return. '+ Linger not long! Linger not long! though crowds should woo thy staying, Bethink thee, can the mirth of friends, though dear, Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the sad heart that sighs to have thee here? Linger not long ! Linger not long ! How shall I watch thy coming, As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell — When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell? Linger not long! How shall I watch for thee when fears grow stronger, As night draws dark and darker on the hill? How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer? Oh! thou art absent — art thou absent still? Linger not long ! Yet though I dream not, though the eye that seeth thee Gazeth through tears that make its splendor dull, For oh ! I sometimes fear, when thou art with me, My cup of happiness is all too full ! Linger not long! Haste — haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling ; Haste as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! Haste as a skiff, when tempests wild are swelling, Flies to its haven of securest rest! — Linger not long. 46 THE ROYAL GALLEKY. SONG. PLACE in thy memory, dearest, Is all that I claim, To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name. Another may woo thee nearer, Another may win and wear ; I care not, though he be dearer, If I am remembered there. Could I be thy true lover, dearest, Couldst thou smile on me, I would be the fondest and nearest That ever loved thee. But a cloud o'er my pathway is glooming, Which never must break upon thine, And Heaven, which made thee all blooming, Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. Remember me not as a lover Whose fond hopes are crossed, Whose bosom can never recover The light it has lost : — As the young bride remembers the mother She loves, yet never may see, As a sister remembers a brother, Oh, dearest, remember me. Gerald Geiffin. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. THE days are gone when beauty bright My heart's chain wove ! 1 When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love ! New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there 's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream! O, there 's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream! Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth 's past; Though he win the wise, who frowned before, To smile at last; He '11 never meet A joy so sweet In all his noon of fame. As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And at every close she blushed to hear The one loved name ! O, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot, Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste ! 'T was odor fled As soon as shed; 'T was morning's winged dream; 'T was a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream! O, 'twas a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream! Thomas Mooee. LOVE IS ENOUGH. fOVE is enough. Let us not seek for gold. Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness ; ill In those serene, Arcadian days of old, Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress. The gods who dwelt in fair Olympia's height, Lived only for dear love and love's delight; Love is enough. Love is enough. Why should we care for fame? Ambition is a most unpleasant guest: It lures us with the glory of a name Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest. Let us stay here in this secluded place, Made beautiful by love's endearing grace ; Love is enousrh. Love is enough. Why should we strive for power? It brings men only envy and distrust ; The poor world's homage pleases but an hour, And earthly honors vanish in the dust. The grandest lives are of ttimes desolate ; Let me be loved, and let who will be great; Love is enough. Love is enough. Why should we ask for more? What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men? What better boon of all their precious store Than our fond hearts that love and love again? Old love may die; new love is just as sweet; And life is fair, and all the world complete; Love is enough. Ella Wheeler. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 47 IF THOU WERT BY MT SIDE. j§F thou wert by my side, my love! How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale ! If thou, my love ! wert by my side, My babies at my knee, How gayly would our pinnace glide O'er Gunga's mimic sea! But miss thy kind approving eye, Thy meek, attentive ear. But when of morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far, Thy prayers ascend for me. Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, My course be onward still, oy?£*s'j~2)r^- ' ! " Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea." I miss thee at the dawning gray "When, on our deck reclined, In careless ease my limbs I lay, And woo the cooler wind. I miss thee when by Gunga's stream My twilight steps I guide, But most beneath the lamp's pale beam, I miss thee from my side. I spread my books, my pencil try, The lingering noon to cheer, O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, O'er black Almorah's hill. That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,- Nor wild Malwah detain, For sweet the bliss us both awaits, By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay, As then shall meet in thee ! Reginald Heber. -N33-{5=j- PAIN OF LOVE. O live in hell, and heaven to behold, VTo welcome life, and die a living death, To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold, J4, To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath, To tread a maze that never shall have end, To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears, To climb a hill, and never to descend, Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears, To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tree, To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw, To live accurs'd, whom men hold blest to be, And weep those wrongs which never creature saw ; If this be love, if love in these be founded, My heart is love, for these in it are grounded. Henry Constable. 48 THE ROYAL GALLERY. BONNIE MART. flUO fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie ; That I may drink before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie ; The hoat rocks at the pier o' Leith; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody ; It's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar— It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. Robert Burns. -^T- 2 - SWEET HAND. jfWEET hand that, held in mine, Seems the one thing I cannot live without, The soul's one anchorage in this storm and doubt, I take thee as a sign Of sweeter days in store For life, and more than life, when life is done, And thy soft pressure leads me gently on To Heaven's own evermore. I have not much to say, Nor that much in words, at such fond request, Let my blood speak to thine, and hear the rest Some silent heartfelt way. Thrice blest the faithful hand Which saves e'en while it blesses; hold me fast; Let me not go beneath the floods at last, So near the better land. Sweet hand that, thus in mine, Seems the one thing I cannot live without, My heart's one anchor in the storm and doubt, Take this, and make me thine. -J^-SS^ Of all the agonies in life, that which is most poignant and harrowing — that which, for the time, annihilates reason, and leaves our whole organization one lacerated, mangled heart — is the conviction that we have been deceived where we placed all the trust of love. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 49 THREE KISSES. iJVTrlRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed pp| The Augers of this hand wherewith I write ; ■SJp^k And ever since it grew more clean and white — c^" Slow to world-greetings — quick with its "O, f list," When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight Than that first kiss. The second passed in height The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed ! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, With sanctifying sweetness did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state ; since when, indeed, I have been proud and said, "My love, my own." Elizabeth Barrett Browning. TO AN ABSENT WIFE. MORN" ; the sea-breeze seems to bring Joy, health, and freshness on its wing; Bright flowers, to me all strange and new, Are glittering in the early dew ; And perfumes rise from many a grove As incense to the clouds that move Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear; But I am sad — thou art not here. 'Tis noon ; a calm unbroken sleep Is on the hlue waves of the deep ; A soft haze, like a fairy dream, Is floating over hill and stream; And many a broad magnolia flower Within its shadowy woodland bower Is gleaming like a lovely star; But I am sad — 'thou art afar. 'Tis eve; on earth the sunset skies Are painting their own Eden dyes ; The stars come down, and trembling glow Like blossoms in the waves below; And, like some unseen sprite, the breeze Seems lingering 'mid the orange-trees, Breathing in music round the spot; But I am sad — I see thee not. 'Tis midnight; with a, soothing spell The far tones of the ocean swell, Soft as a mother's cadence mild, Low bending o'er her sleeping child; And on each wandering breeze are heard The rich notes of the mocking-bird In many a wild and wondrous lay; But I am sad — thou art away. I sink in dreams, low, sweet, and clear; Thy own dear voice is in my ear; Around my cheek thy tresses twine, Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine, Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed, Thy head is pillowed on my breast. Oh ! I have all my heart holds dear; And I am happy — thou art here. George D. Prentice. THE FLOWER O' DITMBLANB. ^CTrllE sunhasgane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, irA^s And left the red clouds to preside o'er the XT; scene, gig While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', J To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- blane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, Wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie — For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha 'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to thee'ening! — Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen ; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- blane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain, And recken as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. Robert Tannahill. 50 THE EOYAL GALLERY. COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. IfpOME into the garden, Maud, *^*j For the "black bat, night, has flown! Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone ; And the woodbine spiees are waited abroad, And the musk of the roses blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky, — To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, To faint in its light, and to die. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon ; All night has the casement jessamine stirred To the dancers dancing in tune,— Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon. I said to the lily, " There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day ; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away. I said to the rose, " The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine, O young lord-lover, what sighs are those For one that will never be thine ! . But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose " For ever and ever mine! " And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clashed in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow, and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs, He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise. The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me ; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls, Come hither ! the dances are done ; In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one ; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear ; She is coming, my life, my fate! The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near; " And the white rose weeps, " She is late; " The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear; " And the lily whispers, " I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet! Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and heat, Were it earth in an earthly bed ; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead ; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. Alfred Tennyson. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. jfHEN love with unconfindd wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fettered with her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round, With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 51 When, linnet-like confined, I, "With shriller note shall sing The mercy, sweetness, majesty, And glories of my ting ; Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage ; ( Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage." When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great shoidd be, The enlarged winds, that curl the flood. Know no such liberty. If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty. Richard Lovelace. oI-^^Oo^o There has nearly always been a good wife behind every great man, and there is a good deal of truth in the saying that a man can be no greater than his wife will let him. 52 THE ROYAL GALLERY. A WOMAN'S QUESTION. IpS^EFORE I trust my fate to thee, |fc^ Or place my hand in thine, "<^P Before I let thy future give Color and form to mine, Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me. I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret : Is there one link within the Past That holds thy spirit yet? Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee? Does there within my dimmest dreams A possible future shine, Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine? If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost. Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfill? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? Speak now — lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay. Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange? It may not he thy fault alone — but shield my heart against thy own. Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim, That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — Not thou — had been to blame? Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now. Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, Within thy inmost soul, That thou has kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole, Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so. Nay, answer not — I dare not hear, The words would come too late ; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So, comfort thee, my Fate, — Whatever on my heart may fall — remember, I would risk it all ! Adelaide Anne Procter. DORIS. SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden : Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers ; I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling, And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses Wild summer roses of rare perfume, The while I sued her, kept hushed and hearkened Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. She touched my shoulder with fearful finger : She said, "We linger; we must not stay; My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander: Behold them yonder — how far they stray ! " I answered bolder, "Nay, let me hear you, And still be near you, and still adore; No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling ; Ah! stay, my darling, a moment more." She whispered, sighing : " There will be sorrow Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day; My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, I shall be scolded, and sent away." Said I, replying: "If they do miss you, They ought to kiss you, when you get home ; And well rewarded by friend and neighbor Should be the labor from which you come." "They might remember," she answered meekly, "That lambs are weakly, and sheep are wild; But if they love me 'tis none so fervent; I am a servant, and not a child." Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, And love did win me to swift reply : "Ah! do but prove me, and none shall bind yoir Nor fray nor find you, until I die." She blushed and started, and stood awaiting, As if debating in dreams divine ; But I did brave them — I told her plainly She doubted vainly ; she must be mine. So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes, And homeward drove them, we two together, Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. That simple duty fresh grace did lend her — My Doris tender, my Doris true : That I, her warder, did always bless her, And often press her, to take her due. And now in beauty she fills my dwelling With love excelling and undefiled ; And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, No more a servant, nor yet a child. Arthur J. Munbt. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 53 SAD ARE THEY WHO KNOW NOT LOVE. SAD are they who know not love, But, far from passion's tears and smiles, Drift down a moonless sea, and pass The silver coasts of fairy isles. And sadder they whose longing lips Kiss empty air, and never touch The dear warm mouth of those they love Waiting, wasting, suffering much ! But clear as amber, sweet as musk, Is life to those whose lives unite ; They walk in Allah's smile by day, And nestle in his heart by night. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. -i^S- §S3£- Spy SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South, (V^- Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, *ffl- And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. O were I thou, that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. O SWALLOW, FLYING SOUTH. Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown ; Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made. O tell her," brief is life, but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South. O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. Alfred Tennyson. ■-*-wfZ%=£i/iw~ SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. HE was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a- moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer'view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eyes serene The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A trav'ler between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light. William Wordsworth. -N=a-e=«- MARGARET. IJOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel ; My fingers ache, my lips are dry; JpltgiOh,, if you felt the pain I feel I — But oh, who ever felt as I? No longer could I doubt him true ; All other men may use deceit; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet. Walter Savage Landor. 54 THE ROYAL GALLERY. THE MILKING MAID. gHE year stood at its equinox, And bluff the north was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, Green hardy things were growing ; I met a maid with shining locks Where milky kine were lowing. She wore a kerchief on her neck, Her bare arm showed its dimple , Pathetically rustical, Too pointless for the city. She kept in time without a beat, As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet, Or squeezed it with her fingers ; Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet As many a practiced singer's. ' She wore a kerchief on her neck, Her bare arm showed its dimple.' Her apron spread without a speck, Her air was frank and simple. She milked into a wooden pail, And sang a country ditty — An innocent fond lover's tale, That was not wise nor witty, I stood a minute out of sight, Stood silent for a minute, To eye the pail, and creamy white The frothing milk within it — To eye the comely milking maid, Herself so fresh and creamy. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 55 "Good day to you! " at last I said; She turned her head to see me. "Good day! " she said, with lifted head; Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. And all the while she milked and milked The grave cow heavy-laden : I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked, But not a sweeter maiden. But not a sweeter, fresher maid Than this in homely cotton, Whose pleasant face and silky "braid I have not yet forgotten. Seven springs have passed since then, as I Count with a sober sorrow ; Seven springs have come and passed nie by, And spring sets in to-morrow. I've half a mind to shake myself Free, just for once, from London, To set my work upon the shelf, And leave it done or undone : To run down by the early train, Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And feel the bluff north hlow again, And mark the sprouting thistle Set up on waste patch of the lane Its green and tender bristle ; And spy the scarce-blown violet hanks, Crisp primrose-leaves and others, And watch the lambs leap at their pranks, And butt their patient mothers. Alas ! one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to : Seven years have passed for maid and man, Seven years have passed for her too. Perhaps my rose is over-blown, Not rosy, or too rosy ; Perhaps in farm-house of her own Some husband keeps her cosy, Where I should show a face unknown- Good-bye, my wayside posy ! Christina Georgina Kossetti. -J-3-SXZ— E" 1 - UKDER THE BLUE. *TJpiE skies are low, the winds are slow ; ig*s§ The woods are bathed in summer glory; -^^The mists are still, o'er field and hill; The brooklet sings its dreainy story. I careless rove through glen and grove ; I dream by hill and copse and river ; Or in the shade by aspen made I watch the restless shadows quiver. I lift my eyes to azure skies That shed their tinted glory o'er me; While memories sweet arourfd me fleet, As radiant as the scene before me. And while I muse upon the hues Of summer skies in splendor given, Sweet thoughts arise of rare deep eyes, Whose blue is like the blue of heaven. Bend low, fair skies! Smile sweet, fair eyes! From radiant skies rich hues are streaming; But in the blue of pure eyes true The radiance of my life is beaming. O skies of blue ! ye fade from view ; Faint grow the hues that o'er me quiver; — But the sure light of dear eyes bright Shines on forever and forever ! Francis F. Browne. 2-3G--S- KISS ME SOFTLY. jISS me softly and speak to me low, — Malice has ever a vigilant ear; What if Malice were lurking near? Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low. Kiss me softly and speak to me low, - Envy, too, has a watchful ear; What if Envy should chance to hear? Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low. Kiss me softly and speak to me low ; Trust me, darling, the time is near When lovers may love with never a fear; — Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low. John Godfrey Saxe. 56 THE ROYAL GALLERY. PEAELS. gOT what the chemists say they be, Are pearls — they never grew ; ^Sf^They come not from the hollow sea, They come from heaven in dew ! Down in the Indian sea it slips, Through green and briny whirls, Where great shells catch it in their lips, And kiss it into pearls ! If dew can be so beauteous made, Oh, why not tears, my girl? Why not your tears? Be not afraid — I do but kiss a pearl! Richard Henry Stoddard. A BIRD AT SUNSET. fiYTLD bird, that wingest wide the glimmering H J*sj moors, 'a) Whither, by belts of yellowing woods, away? What pausing sunset thy wild heart allures Deep into dying day? Would that my heart, on wings like thine, could pass Where stars their light in rosy regions lose — A happy shadow o'er the warm brown grass, Falling with falling dews ! Hast thou, like me, some true-love of thine own, In fairy lands beyond the utmost seas ; Who there, unsolaced, yearns for thee alone, And sings to silent trees? Oh, tell that woodbird that the summer grieves And the suns darken and the days grow cold ; And, tell her, love will fade with fading leaves, And cease in common mould. Fly from the winter of the world to her ! Fly, happy bird ! I follow in thy flight, Till thou art lost o'er yonder fringe of fir In baths of crimson light. My love is dying far away from me. She sits and saddens in the fading west. For her I mourn all day, and pine to be At night upon her breast. Egbert Bulwer Lytton. ■^atr^- SERENADE. EHE western wind is blowing fair Across the dark ^Egean sea, And at the secret marble stair My Tyrian galley waits for thee. Come down ! the purple sail is spread, The watchman sleeps within the town ; O leave thy lily-flowered bed, O Lady mine, come down, come down! She will not come, I know her well, Of lover's vows she hath no care, And little good a man can tell Of one so cruel and so fan-. True love is but a woman's toy, They never know the lover's pain, And I who loved as loves a boy Must love in vain, must love in vain. O noble pilot, tell me true, Is that the sheen of golden hair? Or is it but the tangled dew That binds the passion-flowers there? Good sailor, come and tell me now Is that my lady's lily hand? Or is it but the gleaming prow, Or is it but the silver sand? No ! no ! 'tis not the tangled dew, 'Tis not the silver-fretted sand, It is my own dear lady true With golden hair and lily hand ! O noble pilot, steer for Troy! Good sailor, ply the laboring oar! This is the Queen of life and joy Whom we must bear from Grecian shore! The waning sky grows faint and blue It wants an hour still of day; Aboard ! aboard ! my gallant crew O Lady mine, away! away! O noble pilot, steer for Troy! Good sailor, ply the laboring oarl loved as only loves a boy ! O loved forever, evermore ! Oscar Wilde. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 57 BIKD OF PASSAGE. |>1CVS the day's last light is dying, fHHH As the night's first breeze is sighing, ■^t)) ' ' I send you, love, like a messenger-dove, my thought through the distance flying ; Let it perch on your sill; or, better, Let it feel your soft hand's fetter, While you search and bring, from under its wing, love, hidden away like a letter. Edgar Fawcett. I FEAE THY KISSES. !i| FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden ; «| Thou needest not fear mine ; Jy My spirit is too deeply laden 'ir Ever to burthen thine. I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; Thou needest not fear mine ; Innocent is the heart's devotion With which I worship thine. Percy Bysshe Shelley. WHEN THE KTE COMES HAME. j|OME, all ye jolly shepherds That whistle through the glen, I "11 tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken : What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonny lassie When the kye comes hame ! When the kye comes hame, When the kye conies hame, 'Tween the gloaming and the mirk, When the kye conies hame ! 'Tis not beneath the coronet, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, Nor arbor of the great, — 'Tis beneath the spreading birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame! There the blackbird bigs his nest For the mate he loes to see, And on the topmost bough, O, a happy bird is he; Where he pours his melting ditty, And love is a' the theme, And he "11 woo his bonny lassie When the kye conies hame ! When the blewart bears a pearl, And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonny lucken gowan Has fauldit up her ee, Then the laverock frae the blue lift Doops down, an' thinks nae shame To woo his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame ! See yonder pawkie shepherd, That lingers on the hill, His ewes are in the fauld, An' his lambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame ! When the little wee bit heart Eises high in the breast, An' the little wee bit starn Eises red in the east, O there's a joy sae dear, That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie. When the kye comes hame ! Then since all nature joins In this love without alloy, O, wha wad prove a traitor To nature's dearest joy? O, wha wad choose a crown, Wi' its perils and its fame, And miss his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame? James Hogg. —s— -^&s^- May all go well with you ! May life's short day glide on peaceful and bright, with no more clouds than may glisten in the sunshine, no more rain than may form a rainbow ; and may the veiled one of heaven bring us to meet again. 58 THE BOYAL GALLERY. THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. ! give me back that royal dream My fancy wrought, When I have seen your sunny eyes yiyf*. Grow moist with thought ; Lj And fondly hoped, dear Love, your heart from * mine f Its spell had caught ; *• And laid me down to dream that dream divine, But true, methought, Of how my life's long task would be, to make yours blessed as it ought. To learn to love sweet Nature more For your sweet sake, To watch with you — dear friend, with you! — Its wonders break ; The sparkling spring in that bright face to see Its mirror make — On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing By linn and lake ; And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a grander music wake! To wake the old weird world that sleeps In Irish lore ; The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung By Mulla's shore ; Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds That shine and soar ; Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows That Grattan swore ; The songs that once our own dear Davis sung — ah, me ! to sing no more. And all those proud old victor-fields We thrill to name, Whose memories are the stars that light Long nights of shame ; The Cairn, the Dan, the Bath, the Power, the Keep, That still proclaim In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep Was Eire's fame; Oh! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear friend we two have lov'd the same. Yet ah ! how truer, tenderer still Methought did seem That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home By Dodder's stream, The morning smile, that grew a fixgd star With love-lit beam, The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far And shining stream Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a dream. For still to me, dear Friend, dear Love, Or both — dear wife, Your image comes with serious thoughts, But tender, rife ; No idle plaything to caress or chide In sport or strife, But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, To walk through life, Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true husband and true wife. Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. JANETTE'S HAIR. JjH, loosen the snood that you wear Jauette, ^~J§ Let me tangle a hand in your hair — my pet; SpfFor the world to me had no daintier sight jj Than your brown hair veiling your shoulder white ; Your beautiful dark brown hair — my pet. It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, It was finer than silk of the floss — my pet; 'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 'Twas a thing to be braided, and jeweled, and kissed — 'Twas the loveliest hair in the world — my pet. My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, It was sinewy, bristled and brown — my pet; But warmly and softly it loved to caress Your round white neck and your wealth of tress, Your beautiful plenty of hair — my pet. Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette, Bevealing the old, dear story — my pet; They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly, And they matched with your golden hair — my pet. Your lips— but I have no words, Janette — They were fresh as the twitter of bird's — my pet, When the spring is young, and roses are wet, With the dew-drops in each red bosom set, And they suited your gold-brown hair — my pet. Oh, you tangled my life in your hah, Janette, 'Twas a silken and golden snare — my pet; But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore The right to continue your slave evermore, With my fingers enmeshed in your hair — my pet. Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, With your lips and your eyes and your hair — niy pet; In the darkness of desolate years I moan, And my tears fall bitterly over the stone That covers your golden hair — my pet. Charles Graham Halpine. LOVE AND FEIENDSHD?. 59 WOOING. _=£fi2- §f||f| LITTLE bird once met another bird. M|*§ And whistled to her, "Will you be my mate?" $||||8With fluttering wings she twittered, "How T" absurd ! Oh, what a silly pate ! " And off into a distant tree she flew, To find concealment in the shady cover ; And passed the hours in slyly peeping through At her rejected lover. The jilted bard, with drooping heart and wing, Poured forth his grief all day in plaintive songs ; Telling in sadness to the ear of Spring The story of his wrongs. But little thought he, while each nook and dell With the wild music of his plaint was thrilling, That scornful breast with sighs began to swell — Half -pitying and half -willing. Next month I walked the same sequestered way, When close together on a twig I spied them ; And in a nest half -hid with leaves there lay Four little birds beside them. Coy maid, this moral in your ear I drop : When lover's hopes within their hearts you prison, Fly out of sight and hearing ; do not stop To look behind and listen. John B. L. Soule. " Silver sails all out of the west, Under the silver moon." SWEET AND LOW. [HiWEET and low, sweet and low, WzM Wind of the western sea, e ^ 9 Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! ' Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon and blow, Blow him again to me ; While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon : Best, rest on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon ; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west, Under the silver moon ; Sleep, my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep. Alfred Tennyson. 60 THE KOYAL GALLERY. THE BROOKBIDE. lp WANDERED by the brookside, g#| I wandered by the mill ; 1 I could not hear the brook flow — •I The noisy wheel was still ; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree ; I watched the long, long shade, And as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid ; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not — no, he came not — The night came on alone — The little stars sat one by one Each on his golden throne; The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred — ■ But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. East, silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind ; A hand was on my shoulder — I knew its touch was kind ; It drew me nearer — nearer — We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound I heard. RICHARD MONCKTON MlLNES. (Lord Houghton). H^SKt^- THE OLD STORY. Y heart is chilled, and my pulse is slow, L pp But often and often will memory go, >B'^ Like a blind child lost in a waste of snow, K Back to the days when I loved you so — > The beautiful long ago. I sit here dreaming them through and through, The blissful moments I shared with you — The sweet, sweet days when our love was new, When I was trustful and you were true — Beautiful days, but few ! Blest or wretched, fettered or free, Why should I care how your life may be, Or whether you wander by land or sea? I only know you are dead to me, Ever and hopelessly. Oh, how often at day's decline I pushed from my window the curtaining vine, To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine — Type of a message that, half divine, Flashed from your heart to mine. Once more the starlight is silvering all ; The roses sleep by the garden wall ; The night bird warbles his madrigal, And I hear again through the sweet air fall The evening bugle call. But summers will vanish and years will wane, And bring no light to your window-pane; No gracious sunshine or patient rain Can bring dead love back to life again : I call up the past in vain. My heart is heavy, my heart is old, And that proves dross which I counted gold; I watch no longer your curtain's fold; The window is dark and the night is cold, And the story forever told. Elizabeth Akeks Allen. (Florence Percy). -rsSMS=sJ- EVENING SONG. |OOK off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea : > How long they kiss in sight of all the lands — Ah ! longer, longer we. Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done. Love, lay thine hand in mine. Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. O Night! divorce our sun and sky apart — Never our lips, our hands. Sidney Lanier. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 61 A PARTING. JIlNCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part: ^S Nay, I have done ; you get no more of me ; ? And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so clearly I myself can free. Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, And, when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse. failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, — Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. Michael Drayton. ' Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove." A MOTHER'S LOVE. ^pEE, by her smile, how soon the stranger knows ; '■*■ How soon by his the glad discovery shows, As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy! He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word, His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard ; And ever, ever to her lap he flies, When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise. Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung, (That name most dear forever on his tongue) , As with soft accents round her neck he clings, And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings : How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, Breathe his sweet breath, and bliss for bliss impart : Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! Samuel Rogers. I DO CONFESS THOU 'RT SWEET. DO confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets. Thy favors are but like the wind, That kisses everything it meets. And since thou can with more than one, Thou 'rt worthy to be kissed by none. The morning rose, that untouched stands, Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells ! But plucked and strained through ruder hands, Her sweet no longer with her dwells ; But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one b} r one. Sir Robert Ayton. 62 THE ROYAL GALLERY. m THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOYE. fjOME live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hill and valley, grove and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ; A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold ; A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning ; And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me and be my love. Christopher Marlowe. THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD. f]T F all the world and love were young «Asj And truth in every shepherd's tongue, jf These pretty pleasures might me move |l To live with thee, and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb, The rest complain of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields ; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs; All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love. Sir Walter Ealeigh. LOYE IS A SICKNESS. ?OVE is a sickness full of woes .fc A plant that most with cutting grows, Most barren with best usinar. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries Heisrh-ho ! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting ; And Jove hath made it of a kind, Not well, nor full, nor fasting. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies ; H not enjoyed, it sighing cries Heigh-ho ! Samuel Daniel. -e—*^Wl£zgz/Vv~, FREEDOM IN DRESS. ^QgTILL to be neat, still to be drest, <&~&! As you were going to a feast; J|L Still to he powdered, still perfumed - 4 Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace ; Bobes loosely flowing, hair as free — Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art : They strike mine eyes, but not niy heart. Ben Jonson. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 63 PHILLI8 THE FAIR. ' a hill there grows a flower, Fair hef all the dainty sweet! *7<$\ By the flower there is a hower ]|, Where the heavenly muses meet. In that bower there is a chair, Fringed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fail- That ever eye did yet behold. It is Phillis, fair and bright, She that is the shepherd's joy, She that Venus did despite, And did blind her little boy. Who would not that face admire? Who would not this saint adore? Who would not this sight desire? Though he thought to see no more. Thou that art the shepherd's queen, Look upon thy love-sick swain ; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life again. Nicholas Breton. *-™irz£^zn>vv~ *- m pllit''--- ^ ■ - ,-<■; '?■ ' , v«|gf ■'-■''''.•'; -■■•-."■.■,-■.'.: :.■■•■•• :'.'."■ :,:' O -Y/,,f - ■ ■■■■., "■ ■ ;■.' . / : ■■ . ■ ■ . ■<:■. ,. .. -.' /..'■...., ■ , '■...;..■. 1-"' ttiP SUP WMdMM ,■■„■■: ' ,■■:«■.,.! " We sat in the hush of Summer eves, Saying but little, yet loving much." YOU AND I. pHAT if either of us should die? Could the hearts that have loved us so tenderly %t§l|$ Be severed by death? Not so! not so! •I' My soul leans out from its house of clay, When the breeze that has fanned your cheek goes by, And says : " She's near! " I feel the touch Of her lip to mine ! of her hand, at play With my hair as it did, when, long ago, We sat in the hush of summer eves, Saying but little, yet loving much, And believing all that Love believes. And so I know, whate'er I list, Our souls shall keep thy holy tryst Through all the years of the life to be. W. H. Burleigh. 64 THE ROYAL GALLERY. O, SAW TE THE LASS. ^, SAW ye the lass wi' the honnie blue een? M Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen, Her cheek like the rose is, hut fresher, I ween; She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. The home of my love is helow in the valley, Where wild flowers welcome the wandering bee ; But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen Is the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een. When night overshadows her cot in the glen, She '11 steal out to meet her loved Donald again; And when the moon shines on the valley so green, I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een. As the dove that has wandered away from his nest Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene, To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een. Richaed Ryan. ^-ss WE PARTED IN SILENCE. E parted in silence, we parted by night, On the banks of that lonely river; Where the fragrant limes their houghs unite, •?-" We met— and we parted forever ! The night-bird sung and the stars above Told many a touching story, Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet With the tears that were past controlling; We vowed we would never, no never, forget, And those vows at the time were consoling. But those lips that echoed the sounds of mint Are as cold as that lonely river ; And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, Has shrouded its fires forever. And now on the midnight sky I look, And my heart grows full of weeping; Each star is to me a sealed hook, Some tale of that loved one keeping. We parted in silence — -we parted in tears, On the banks of that lonely river; But the odor and bloom of those by-gone years Shall hang o'er its waters forever. Julia Crawford. S^SyS^- COME TO ME, DEAREST. |0ME to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee, Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about thee; Night-time and daytime, in dreams I behold thee; Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten, Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten; Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, Telling of spring and its joyous renewing; And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. O Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom, Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom; The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. Figure that moves like a song through the even; Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple; — O, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. You have been glad when you knew I was glad- dened ; Dear, are you sad now, to hear I am saddened? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love : I cannot weep hut your tears will be flowing, You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; I would not die without you at my side, love, You will not linger when I shall have died, love. Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow, Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love, With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. Come, for my heart in your absence is weary, — Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary, — Come to the arms which alone should caress thee, Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee I Joseph Brennan. LOVE AH) FRIENDSHIP. 65 ABSENCE. hQCROM you have I been absent in the spring, ^B When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, X Hatn P ut a s P u ' it; of youth in everything »!' Thatheavy Saturn lauglrd, and leaped with him : Yet nor the lay of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odor and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew : Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you ; you pattern of all those. Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play. William Shakespeare. WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER. pHY so pale and wan, fond lover ! Prythee why so pale? ^ Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prythee why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner! Prythee why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do 't? Prythee why so mute? Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move, This cannot take her ; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her : — The devil take her! Sik John Suckling. -2-^)S~^ *m DON'T BE SORROWFUL, DARLING. , tr DON'T be sorrowful, darling! And don't be sorrowful, pray; 1 Taking the year together, my dear, There isn't more night than day. 'Tis rainy weather, my darling; Time's waves they heavily run ; But taking the year together, my dear, There isn't more cloud than sun. We are old folks now, my darling, Our heads are growing gray; But taking the year all round, my dear, You will always find the May. We have had our May, my darling, And our roses long ago ; And the time of the year is coming, m}' dear, For the silent night and the snow. But God is God, my darling, Of the night as well as the day ; And we feel and know that we can go Wherever He leads the way. A God of the night, my darling Of the night of death so grim ; The gate that leads out of life, good wife, Is the gate that leads to Him. Rembrandt Peale. JULIA. (iSfjOME ask'd me where the rubies grew, jjC5) And nothing I did say, "*^.*But with my finger pointed to ]l The lips of Julia. if Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where ; Then spoke I to my girle, To part her lips, and shewed them there The quarelets of pearl. One ask'd me where the roses grew; I bade him not go seek ; But forthwith bade my Julia show A bud in either cheek. Robert Herrick. 66 THE ROYAL GALLERY. Si ^|=l| ' I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path along, 5 THE BLOOM WAS ON THE ALDER AND THE TASSEL ON THE CORN. |p HEARD the bob-white whistle in the dewy breath I stood with beating heart beside the babbling fPf of morn; Mac-o-chee, H The bloom was on the alder and the tassel on the To see my love come down the gien to keep her tryst "*■ corn. with me. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 67 I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path 'Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dim- along, lit dream — And pause to pluck a flower, or hear the thrush's 'Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the song. rippling stream; 'Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south winds sigh. More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, low reply. Denied by her proud father as a suitor to he seen, She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little queen. Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden shone, _ , , ,, -i • -i , i i it « To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a youth J x The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life, unknown. The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on bended knee strife. 'Tis said that angels watch o'er men, commissioned from above ; me .., ,, , My angel walked with me on earth, and gave to For love this gracious princess gave, with all her ? , , . . ° ° her love, heart, to me. So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she stood. With all the freshness of a girl in flush of woman- hood. I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine, Ah! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dim with tears — I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone years, For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy morn, And stammered, as in awkward speech, I begged her With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on to be mine. the corn. Don Piatt. THE GOWAN GLITTERS GN THE SWARD. §KJ^HE gowan glitters on the sward, S»K Thp laverock's in the skv. The laverock's in the sky, -'And Collie on my plaid keeps ward, And time is passing by. O, no! sad and slow, And lengthened on the ground ; The shadow of our trysting bush It wears so slowly round. My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, My lambs are bleating near : But still the sound that I love best, Alack ! I canna hear. O, no ! sad and slow, The shadow lingers still ; And like a lanely gaist I stand, And croon upon the hill. I hear below the water roar, The mill wi' clacking din, And Lucky scolding frae the door, To ca' the bairnies in. O, no ! sad and slow, These are nae sounds for me ; The shadow of our trysting bush It creeps sae drearily. I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam, A snood o' bonnie blue, And promised, when our trysting cam', To tie it round her brow. O, no ! sad and slow, The mark it winna' pass: The shadow o' that dreary bush Is tethered on the grass. O, now I see her on the way! She's past the witch's knowe ; She's climbing up the brownie's brae ; My heart is in a lowe. O, no! 'tis not so, 'Tis glamrie I hae seen; The shadow o' that hawthorn bush Will move nae mair till e'en. My book o' grace I'll try to read, Though conned wi' little skill; When Collie barks I'll raise my head, And find her on the hill. O, no! sad and slow, The time will ne'er be gane ; The shadow o' our trysting bush Is fixed like ony stane. Joanna Baillie. (>8 THE EOYAL GALLERY. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. gHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, y And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent — A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. Lord Byrox. ATJX ITALIENS. jC|jT Paris it was, at the opera there ; And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearls in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatorg ; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "Non ti scordar dimeV The Emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave ; as if he had just seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye : You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky To the old glad life in Spain. Well, there in our front-row box we sat Together, my bride betrothed and I ; My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad — Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had — So confident of her charm! I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was, "Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; I wish him well for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas. Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love As I had not been thinking of aught for years; Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the C3'press-trees together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the pleasant evening weather ; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And her warm white neck in its golden chain ; And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again ; Of the jasmine flower that she wore in her breast, (0 the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) And the one bird singing alone in his nest, And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring ; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing ! For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over : And I thought, "Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!" And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled. And I turned and looked : she was sitting there, In a dim box over the stage ; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast! LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. G9 I was here, and she was there; And the glittering horseshoe curved between! — From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien, To my early love with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade, (In short, from the future back to the past,) There was but a step to be made; To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage ; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed ! But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her — well, we '11 let that pass ; She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say : For beauty is easy enough to win; But one is n't loved every day. And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could And out when To come back and be forgiven. But O, the smell of that jasmine flower! And O, the music! and O, the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower — ■ Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me ! ROBEKT BULWER Li'TTON. THE WELCOME. |OME in the evening or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come without warning, Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Bed js my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, " True lovers, don't sever! " I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if j'ou choose them ; Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. I'll fetch from the mountain its br - eeze to inspire you ; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer, Or saber and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me. We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie, We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy, We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. Oh! she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret most tunefullj r streaming, Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." So come in the evening or come in the morning, .Come when you're looked for, or come without warn- ing, Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; Bed is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers, don't sever." Thomas Davis. -3-32^T Never burn kindly written letters : it is so pleasant to read them over when the ink is brown, the paper yellow with age, and the hands that traced the friendly words are folded over the hearts that prompted them. Keep all loving letters. Burn only the harsh ones, and in burning, forgive and forget them. 70 THE KOYAL GALLERY. A PASTORAL. gY time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my hreast : Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! But now she is gone and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possibly be, I thought 't was the Spring; but alas! it was she. But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, So strangely uneasy, as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, And my heart— I am sure it weighs more than a pound. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among ; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'T was pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear: A Wm m m " For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn." With such a companion to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep : I was so good-humored, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day; But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 71 My lambkins around me -would oftentimes play, And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime : But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass; Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, To see you so merry while I am so sad. My -dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me ; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow; " and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry "Sirrah!" and give him a blow with my crook : And 1*11 give him another ; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe 's away? When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green ! What a lovely appearanee the trees and the shade, The cornfields and hedges and everything made ! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear : 'T was naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise. Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale, too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp ! went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound. Eose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossoms beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? Ah ! rivals, I see why it was that you drest, And made yourselves fine for — a place in her breast; You put on your colors to pleasure her eye, To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. How slowly Time creeps till my Phcebe return ! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn : Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 't would melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. Ah, Colin ! old Time is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; But what swain is so silly to live without love! No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair, Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair. John Bykom. -JssS-Ss LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. |HE racing river leaped and sang Full blithely in the perfect weather, "All round the mountain echoes rang, For blue and green were glad together. This rains out light from every part, And that with songs of joy was thrilling; But in the hollow of my heart, There ached a place that wanted filling. Before the road and river meet, And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, I heard a sound of laughter sweet, And paused to like it, and to listen. I heard the chanting waters flow, The cushat's note, the bee's low humming. Then turned the hedge, and did not know — How could I? that my time was coming. A girl upon the highest stone, Half doubtful of the deed, was standing. So far the shallow flood had flown, Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. She knew not any need of me, Yet me she wanted all unweeting; She thought not I had crossed the sea, And half the sphere, to give her meeting. I waded out, her eyes I met, I wished the moments had been hours; I took her in my arms and set Her dainty feet among the flowers. Her fellow-maids in copse and lane, Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling; The wind's soft whisper in the plain, That cushat's coo, the water's falling. But now it is a year ago, And now possession crowns endeavor; I took her in my heart to grow And fill the hollow place forever. Jean Ingelow. 72 THE ROYAL GALLERY. A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG ;'ELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning; Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother sit- ting, | Is ci'oning, and moaning, and drowsily knit- ting. " Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." " 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass Hap- ping." "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love. Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly; We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. " Close bv the window young Eileen is spinning; Bent o'er the fire, her blina grandmother, sitting." "Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring ; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. "What's that noise that I hear at the window, 1 wonder? " " ' Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." " What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of ' The Coolun? ' " There's a form at the casement — the form of her true- love; The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, Steals up from her seat, longs to go — and yet lingers ; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound. Noiseless and light to the lattice above her The maid steps — then leaps to the arms of her lover. Slower — and slower — -and slower the wheel swings ; Lower — and lower — and lower the reel rings. Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving. John Francis Waller. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 73 PHILIP MY KING. A Hi OOK at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip my king, i«|?Bound whom the enshadowing purple lies JJ, Of babyhood's royal dignities : Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, With love's invisible scepter laden ; I am thine Esther to command Till shou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip) my king. Up from thy sweet mouth — up to thy brow, Philip my king ! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant and make men bow As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers : My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer Let me behold thee in future years ; — Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip my king. " Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, With love's invisible "sceptre laden." O the day when thou goest a wooing, Philip mj' king ! When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, And some gentle heart's bars undoing Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there Sittest love-glorified. Eule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, For we that love, ah? we love so blindly, Philip my king. A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip my king, Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny and cruel and cold and gray : Rebels within thee and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glo- rious, Martyr, yet monarch : till angels shout, As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, " Philip the king ! " Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. - a -™/Z£=-?ZJZn*-* — Frank explanations with friends in case of affronts, sometimes save a perishing friend- ship, and even place it on a firmer basis than at first ; but secret discontentment always ends badly. 74 THE ROYAL GALLERY. <^2 ripFLOW gently, sweet Af ton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, 1'llsing thee a song in thy praise ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Aiton, disturb not her dream. AFTON WATER. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodland the primroses blow; There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. " How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring; hills.' Thou stockdove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills ; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Aiton, disturb not her dream. Robert Burns. Love would put a new face on this dreary old world in which we dwell as pagans and enemies too long; and it would warm the heart to see how fast the vain diplomacy of statesmen, the impotence of armies and navies and lines of defense, would be superseded by this unarmed child. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 75 THE LILY-POND. JQ^O.ME fairy spirit with his wand, 8*13: I think, has hovered o'er the dell, fAnd spread this film upon the pond. And touched it with this drowsy spell, For here the musing soul is merged In woods no other scene can bring, And sweeter seems the air when scourged With wandering wild-bee's rnnrmurinr;. One ripple streaks the little lake, Sharp purple-blue ; the birches, thin And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break To let a straying sunbeam in. 7(3 THE ROYAL GALLERY. How came we through the yielding wood, That day, to this sweet-rustling shore? Oh! there together while we stood, A butterfly was wafted o'er. In sleepy light; and even now His glimmering beauty doth return Upon me when the soft winds blow, And lilies toward the sunlight yearn. The yielding wood? And yet 'twas loth To yield unto our happy march ; Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both Could pass its green, elastic arch. Yet there, at last, upon the marge "We found ourselves, and there, behold, In hosts the lilies, white and large, Lay close with hearts of downy gold ! Deep in the weedy waters spread The rootlets of the placid bloom : So sprung my love's flower, that was bred In deep still waters of heart's-gloom. . So sprung ; and so that morn was nursed To live in light, and on the pool Wherein its roots were deep immersed Burst into beauty broad and cool. Few words were said, as moments passed; I know not how it came — that awe And ardor of a glance that cast Our love in universal law. But all at once a bird sang loud, From dead twigs of the gleamy beech; His notes dropped dewy, as from a cloud, A blessing on our married speech. Ah, Love! how fresh and rare, even now, That moment and that mood return Upon me, when the soft winds blow. And lilies toward the sunlight yearn ! Geokge Parsons Lathrop. -paSMSs^- 4n CUPID AND CAMPASPE. 'ID and my Campaspe play'd At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, y. His mother's doves and team of sparrows ; I Loses them too, and down he throws The coral of his lip — the rose Growing on 's cheek, but none knows how; With these the crystal on his brow, And then the dimple of his ohm; All these did my Campaspe win ; At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love, hath she done this to thee? What shall, alas, become of me ! John Lylt. THE DAT RETURNS, MT BOSOM BURNS. SH H® ^ a y returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet; )jjK Though winter wild in tempest toiled, Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line, — Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more; it made thee mine. While day and night can bring delight. Or nature aught of pleasure give,— While joys above my mind can move. For thee and thee alone I live ; When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part, The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. Robert Burns. Cultivate a spirit of love. Love is the diamond amongst the jewels of the believer's breastplate. The other graces shine like the precious stones of nature, with their own peculiar lustre, and various hues; now in white all the colors are united, so in love is centred every other grace and virtue; love is the fulfilling of the law. GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. * The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave." A FOREST HYMN. nflTIIE groves were God's first temples. Ere man Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, msm learned And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks *W< To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And supplication. For his simple heart J-l And spread the roof above them — ere he framed Might not resist the sacred influences The lofty vault, to gather and roll back Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, And from the gray old trunks that high m heaven 77 78 THE ROYAL GALLERY. Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn — thrice happy if it find Acceptance in his ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose All these fair ranks of trees. They in tlry sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood, As now they stand, massy and tall and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees In music ; thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship; — nature, here, In the tranquility that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou has not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades,' Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength and grace Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, — By whose immovable stem I stand and seem Almost annihilated, — not a prince, In all that proud old world beyond the deep, E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower With scented breath, and look so like a smile. Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me, — the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo ! all grow old and die ; but see again, How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses, — -ever gay and beautiful youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost One of Earth's charms ! upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy Death, — yea, seats himself Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them; — and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill With all the waters of the firmament, The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, Uprises the great deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities, — who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? O, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath Of the mad unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. William Cullen Bryant. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 79 NATURE. ifelE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, Ik ° ..... Because my feet And measure with its call; The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, For I am known to them, both great and small. The flower that on the lonely hillside grows Expects me there when spring its bloom has given; And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows, And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven; For he who with his Maker walks aright, Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, Each object wear the dress that then it wore ; And he, as when erect in soul he stood, Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. Jones Very. "A grove .Of large extent, hard by a castle huge." THE NIGHTINGALE. i'TN^.ND hark! the Nightingale begins its song, — £*v*4 "Most musical, most melancholy" bird! {..-'- .} A melancholy bird? oh. idle thought! V In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 'Tis the merry Nightingale, That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburden his full soul Of all its music ! 80 THE ROYAL GALLERY. And I know .1 grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, Which the great lord inhabits not; and so This grove is wild with tangling underwood, And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, Thin grass and kingcups, grow within the paths But never elsewhere in one place I knew So many nightingales ; and far and near, In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, They answer and provoke each other's song, With skirmishes and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical and swift — jug, jug — And one low piping sound more sweet than all, Stirring the air with such a harmony, That, should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes. Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, You may perchance behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch. And oft a moment's space. What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky With one sensation, and these wakeful birds Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, As if some sudden gale had swept at once A hundred airy harps ! Samuel Taylor Coleridge. ' Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm." HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 0TJT HESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these i-A^s Are but the varied God. The rolling year JL ■ Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring * Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love, Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then tlry sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year, And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales, Thy bounty shines in autumn unconflned, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In winter awful thou! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled. Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, And humblest nature with thy northern blast. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 81 Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming an harmonious whole ; In adoration join; and, ardent, raise One general song! To him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes; O, talk of him in solitary glooms! Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. " By brooks and groves, in hollow whispering gales." That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring ; And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake the astonished world, lift high to Heaven The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let rne catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; ' Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined." Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life, Nature, attend! join, every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, G Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise ; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 82 THE ROYAL GALLERY. In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave, to him ; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home* he goes beneath the joyous moon. While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. "With clouds and storms, Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled." Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day ! best image here below Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night his praise. " Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound." Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, From world to world, the vital ocean round, At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, On nature write with every beam his praise. Crown the great hymn ; in swarming cities vast, The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world. Assembled men, to the deep organ join GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 83 The long resounding voice, oft-breaking, clear, At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardor rise to Heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade, And find a fane in every sacred grove, There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, Eivers unknown to song, where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis naught to me, Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where he vital spreads there must be joy. When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, "Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full." Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll! For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray Eussets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams, Or winter rises in the blackening east, Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go Where universal love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their sons; From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and, better still, In infinite progression. But I lose Myself in him, in light ineffable ! Come then, expressive Silence, muse his praise. James Thomson. NIGHT. |LL heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep. All heaven and earth are still ; from the high host Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, All is concentred in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defense. And this is in the night — most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee ! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! And now again 'tis black — and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. Lord Bykon. 84 THE ROYAL GALLERY. THE SEA. 3ERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, f There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes By the deep sea, and music in its roar : I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal Prom all I may he, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. " Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless and sublime. 1 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncofiined and unknown. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee and arbiter of war — These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 85 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee ; Assyria, Greece, Kome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free And many a tyrant since ; then- shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou ; Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play, Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless and sublime, The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ! even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goes forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear; For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. Lord Byron. oj-o^e^o ' Upon the roses it would feed." THE RAINBOW. T heart leaps up -when I behold So be it when I shall grow old. A rainbow in the sky : So was it when niy life began ; So is it now I am a man; Or let me die ! The child is father of the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. William Wordsworth. 86 THE ROYAL GALLERY. THE SHEPHERD. |H, gentle Shepherd ! thine the lot to tend, Of all that feels distress, the most assail'd, Sf Feeble, defenceless ; lenient he thy care ; tl But spread around thy tenderest diligence In flowery spring-time, when the new-dropp'd lamb, Tottering with weakness by his mother's side, Feels the fresh world about him ; and each thorn, Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet : Eurus oft flings his hail; the tardy fields, Pay not their promised food ; and oft the dam O'er her weak twins with empty udder mourns, Or fails to guard, when tbe bold bird of prey Alights, and hops in many turns around, And tires her also turning : to her aid Be nimble, and the weakest in thine arms Gently convey to the warm cote, and oft, " The weakest in thine arms, Gently convey to the warm cote." Oh! guard his meek, sweet innocence from all Th' numerous ills that rush around his life ; Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone, Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain ; Observe the lurking crows; beware the brake — There the sly fox the careless minute waits; Nor trust thy neighbor's dog, nor earth, nor sky : Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide; Between the lark's note and the nightingale's, His hungry bleating still with tepid milk ; — In this soft office may thy children join, And charitable actions learn in sport. Nor yield him to himself ere vernal airs Sprinkle the little croft with daisy flowers ; Nor yet forget him; life has rising ills. John Dyek. GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. 87 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. |HE -world is too much with us ; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid "boon ! This sea that hares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be A pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton hlow his wreathed horn. William Wordsworth. -*=g~es*- " Sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute.' BREATHINGS OF SPRING-. lT#ifHAT wak'st thou, Spring? — Sweet voices in the |||§ woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long heen mute ; Thou hringest hack, to All the solitudes, The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, Even as our hearts may be. And the leaves greet, Spring!— the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass. 88 THE ROYAL GALLERY. And the bright waters — they, too, hear thy call, Spring, the awakener! thou has burst their sleep ! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day. And flowers — the fairy -peopled world of flowers! Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours, And penciling the wood-anemone : Silent they seem ; yet each to thoughtful eye Glows with mute poesy. But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring — The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing, Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art : What wak'st thou in the heart? Too much, 0, there too much! — we know not well Wherefore it should be thus; yet, roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell, Gush for the faces we no more may see. How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, By voices that are gone ! Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door, And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet — Spring, 'midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why reviv'st thou these? Vain longings for the dead ! —why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? *' Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody." O, is it not that from thine earthly track Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? Yes, gentle Spring ; no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones there. Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 3§™ Ss VARYING IMPRESSIONS FROM NATURE. Wm CANNOT paint llf What then I was. The sounding cataract ^P Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, I The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colors and their forms, were then to me An appetite, a feeling and a love, That had no heed of a remoter charm By thoughts supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, • And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Eaint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts Have followed : for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods And mountains, and of all that we behold From this green earth ; of all the might}' world Of eye and ear — both what they half create, And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize In Nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. William Wordsworth. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 69 90 THE EOYAL GALLERY. HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE YALE OP CHAMOTTNI. [3AST thou a charm to stay the morning star !*A> f In his steep course? So long he seems to pause "*§f^ On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc! J4, The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Eave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form I Kisest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge ! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity ! Into the mighty vision passing — there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears Mute thanks and secret ecstacy. Awake, Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : Companion of the morning star at dawn, " On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc! dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 1 worshiped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, O wake and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, GLIMPSES OP NATURE. 91 Forever shattered and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came) , Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge, — Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet — God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God ! Sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome voice ! Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointiugpeaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, — Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou That as I raise my head, a while bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me. — Rise, oh, ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. Samuel Taylok Coleridge. — z-wflz^Jlns-v-^- TO THE DAISY. |ITH little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Daisy! again I talk to thee, For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee! Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising : And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame, As is the humor of the game, While I am gazing. A nun demure, of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden, of love's court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations ; A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest ; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, Thy appellations. A little cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy, That thought comes next, — and instantly The freak is over, The shape will vanish, — and behold A silver shield with boss of gold, That spreads itself, some faery bold In fight to cover ! I see thee glittering from afar, — And then thou art a pretty star ; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee ! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — May peace come never to his nest, Who shall reprove thee ! Bright Flower ! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet, silent creature ! That breath'st with me in sun and air Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature ! William Wordsworth. What shall we say of flowers — those flaming banners of the vegetable world, which march in such various and splendid triumph before the coming of its fruits ? 92 THE KOTAL GALLERY. DAWN. pP|HE night was dark, though sometimes a faint star siSss A little while a little space made bright, f f*~ Dark was the night, and like an iron bar J4. Lay heavy on the land : till o'er the sea Slowly, within the East, there grew a light Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be The herald of a greater. The pale white Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew Rose-colored like the sky. A white gull flew Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East Where slowly the rose gathered and increased. It was as on the opening of a door By one who in his hand a lamp doth hold, (Its flame yet hidden by the garment's fold) — The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. More bright the East became, the ocean turned Dark and more dark against the brightening sky — Sharper against the sky the long sea line; The hollows of the breakers on the shore Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth shine; Though white the outer branches of the tree. From rose to red the level heaven burned ; Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, A blade of gold flashed on the ocean's rim. Richard Watson Gilder. Hlllili sJSfe "The Owl that, watching in the barn, Sees the mouse creeping in the corn." THE BARN OWL. 3HILE moonlight, silvering all the walls, Through every mouldering crevice falls, Tipping with white his powdery plume, As shades or shifts the changing gloom; The Owl that, watching in the barn, Sees the mouse creeping in the corn, Sits still, and shuts his round blue eyes As if he slept, — until he spies The little beast within his stretch, — Then starts, and seizes on the wretch ! Samuel Butler. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 1)3 94 THE ROYAL GALLERY. BEFORE THE RAIN. E knew it would rain, for all the morn A spirit on slender ropes of mist g ?ST ' ^ as l° wel "i n g i ts golden buckets down i ? Into the vapory amethyst Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens — Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, Dipping the jewels out of the sea, To sprinkle them over the land in showers. We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of then- leaves ; the amber grain Shrunk in the wind , and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain. Thomas Bailey Aldrioh. ^^st- AFTER THE RAIN. |HE rain has ceased, and in my room The sunshine pours an airy flood ; And on the church's dizzy vane The ancient Cross is bathed in blood. Prom out the dripping ivy-leaves, Antiquely carven, gray and high, A dormer, facing westward, looks Upon the village like an eye : And now it glimmers in the sun, A square of gold, a disk, a speck : And in the belfry sits a dove With purple ripples on her neck. Thomas Bailey Aldeich. JB-SS-S 1 - NIGHT. (MAJESTIC Night! Nature's great ancestor! day's elder-born, And fated to survive the transient sun ! By mortals and immortals seen with awe ! A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, An azure zone thy waist; clouds, in heaven's loom Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, In ample folds of drapery divine, Thy flowing mantle form ; and heaven throughout Voluminously pour thy pompous train. Thy gloomy grandeurs (Nature's most august, Inspiring aspect!) claim a grateful verse; And, like a sable curtain starred with gold, Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close the scene. Edward Young. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 95 SUMMER. IkOUND this lovely valley rise The purple hills of Paradise. Oh, softly on yon hanks of haze Her rosy face the summer lays ; Becalmed along the azure sky The argosies of cloudland lie, "Whose shores with many a shining rift Far-off their pearl-white peaks uplift. I watch the mowers as they go Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row; With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring. Behind, the nimble youngsters run, And toss the thick swaths in the sun. The cattle graze ; while warm and still Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, " I seek the coolest sheltered seat, Just where the field and forest meet." Through all the long midsummer day The meadow sides are sweet with hay. I seek the coolest sheltered seat, Just where the field and forest meet, — "Where grow the pine-trees, tall and bland, The ancient oaks, austere and grand, And fringy roots and pebbles fret The ripples of the rivulet. And bright, when summer breezes break, The green wheat crinkles like a lake. The butterfly and bumble-bee Come to the pleasant woods with me; Quickly before me runs the quail, Her chickens skulk behind the rail ; High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 96 THE EOYAL GALLERY. " Quickly before me runs the quail. Her chickens skulk behind the rail.' And the woodpecker pecks and flits. Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, The brooklet rings its tinkling hells. The swarming insects drone and hum, The partridge beats his throbbing drum, The squirrel leaps among the boughs, And chatters in his leafy house ; The oriole flashes by; and look — Into the mirror of the brook, Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, Two tiny feathers fall and float. As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me. Oh, this is peace ! I have no need Of friend to talk, or book to read; A dear companion here abides, Close to my thrilling heart he hides; The holy silence is his voice : I lie, and listen, and rejoice. John Townsend TEOWBXiiDGE. -=S3®~SSS DAY BREAKING. |EE, the dapple-grey coursers of the morn Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs, And chase it through the sky. John Marston. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 97 THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS. THE ROYAL GALLERY. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. jS it fell upon a day ! In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Leaned her breast up-till a thorn; And there sung the doleful'st ditty That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry; Teru, teru, by-and-by; That, to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made me think upon mine own. Ah ! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain ; None takes pity on thy pain ; Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee ; King Pandion, he is dead ; All thy friends are lapped in lead ; All thy fellow-birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing! Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled, Thou and I were both beguiled, Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind ; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; But, if stores of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call ; And, with such-like flattering, "Pity but he were a king." If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice ; But if Fortune once do frown, Then farewell his great renown : They that fawned on him before, Use his company no more. He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need ; If thou sorrow, he will weep, If thou wake, he cannot sleep. Thus, of every grief in heart, He with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe. Richard Barnfield. THE MOUNT OF THE HOLT OEOSS. $HIS wondei'ful peak of the Rocky Mountain Range is one of the most noted and remarkable mountains in the world. It is among the highest in Colorado, „ being 14,176 feet high — one of the thirty-three peaks whose summits are i? 14,000 feet and upward above the sea. A tremendous chasm cleaves it on the eastern side nearly to the top, and right across this, perhaps three-fourths of the way up, is another, and these, filled with snow old as creation, form a perfect and most beautiful cross. It is one of the marked objects visible from Gray's and Pike's Peaks, and from a wide extent of country west of the dividing range of the continent. -S'-sxr-s- There is a river in the ocean. In the severest droughts it never fails, and in the mightiest floods it never overflows. Its banks and its bottoms are of cold water, while its current is of warm. The Gulf of Mexico is its fountain, and its mouth is the Arctic Seas. It is the Gulf Stream. There is in the world no other such majestic flow of waters. Its current is more rapid than the Mississippi or the Amazon, and its volume more than a. thousand times greater. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 99 THE HEATH-COOK. gOOD-MORROW to thy sable beak ''"'!» And glossy plumage dark and sleek, Thy crimson moon and azure eye, Cock of the heath, so wildly shy: The rarest things, with wayward will, Beneath the covert hide them still; The rarest things to break of day Look shortly forth, and shrink away. " Cock of the heath, so wildly shy,' I see thee slyly cowering through That wiry web of silvery dew, That twinkles in the morning air, Like casements of my lady fair. A maid there is in yonder tower, Who, peeping from her early bower, Half shows, like thee, her simple wile, Her braided hair and morning smile. A fleeting moment of delight I sunn'd me in her cheering sight; As short, I ween, the time will be That I shall parley hold with thee. Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day. The chirping herd-boy chants his lay ; The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring, — Thou art already on the wing. Joanna Baillie. ■jr^e^r There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: — and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. 100 THE ROYAL GALLERY. A JUNE DAY. yip f^)f HO has not dream'd a world of bliss, On a bright sunny noon like this, Couch'd by his native brook's green maze, "With comrade of his boyish days, While all around them seem'd to be Just as in joyous infancy? Through the tall fox-glove's crimson bloom, And gleaming of the scatter'd broom, Love you not, then, to list and hear The crackling of the gorse-nowers near, Pouring an orange-scented tide Of fragrance o'er the desert wide? " Who has not loved, at such an hour, Upon that heath, in birchen bower." "Who has not loved, at such an hour, Upon that heath, in birchen bower, Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood, Its wild and sunny solitude? While o'er the waste of purple ling You mark a sultry glimmering; Silence herself there seems to sleep, Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep, "Where slowly stray those lonely sheep, To hear the buzzard whimpering shrill, Hovering above you high and still? The twittering of the bird that dwells Amongst the heath's delicious bells? While round your bed, o'er fern and blade, Insects in green and gold array'd. The sun's gay tribes, have lightly stray'd ; And sweeter sound their humming wings Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings. William Howitt. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 101 THE SKY-LARK. gf> IKX> of the wilderness, !§!$$ Blithesome and cumherless, i fp Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! J4. Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-xilace — Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and lond. Far in the downy cloud Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! Emblem of happiness. Blest is thy dwelling-place — Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! James Hogg. -j-a-^ss " That low plaint oft and oft repeating 1 To the coy mate that needs so much entreating." TO THE TURTLE-DOVE. fl||EEP in the wood, thy voice I list, and love £j£r Thy soft complaining song, thy tender cooing ; JL O what a winning way thou hast of wooing ! *|f Gentlest of all thy race — sweet Turtle-dove ! Thine is a note that doth not pass away, Like the light music of a summer's day : The merle may trill his richest song in vain — Scarce do we say, "List! for he pipes again;" But thou ! that low plaint oft and oft repeating To the coy mate that needs so much entreating, Fillest the woods with a discursive song Of love, that sinketh deep, and resteth long; Hushing the voice of mirth, and staying folly And waking in the heart a gentle melancholy. D. Conway. 102 THE ROYAL GALLEKY. THE RAINBOW. alKHUS all day long the full distended clouds aiA±i Indulge their genial stores, and well-showered ^f?> x earth J4, Is deep enriched with vegetable life ; Till, in the western sky, the downward sun Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam. The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes The illumined mountain through the forest streams, Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow Shoots up immense ; and every hue unfolds, In fair proportion running from the red To where the violet fades into the sky. Here, awful Newton, the dissolving clouds Form, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism; And to the sage-instructed eye unfold The various twine of light, by thee disclosed, From the white mingling maze. Not so the boy; ■ ■ -The grand ethereal bow Shoots up immense.' Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist, Far smoking o'er the interminable plain, In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems. Moist, bright and green, the landscape laughs around. Full swell the woods ; their every music wakes, Mixed in wild concert with the warbling brooks Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills, The hollow lows responsive from the vales, Whence blending all the sweetened zephyr springs. Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud, He wondering views the bright enchantment bend, Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs To catch the falling glory ; but amazed Beholds the amusive arch before him fly, Then vanish quite away. Still night succeeds, A softened shade, and saturated earth Awaits the morning beam, to give to light, Raised through ten thousand different plastic tubes, The balmy treasures of the former day. James Thomson. -VT^S aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow ; But, crushed or trodden to the ground, Diffuse their balmy sweets around. m% KNOW a bank where the wild thyme blows, iH Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows; Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 103 TO A WATER-FOWL. HITHER, midst falling dew, Wffit While glow the heavens with the last steps of ■£• V s day, j, i Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue i Thy solitary way? - Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. "All day thv wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere.' Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — The desert and illimitable air — Lone wandering, but not lost. - a 'SS Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given And shall not soon depart : He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that 1 must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant. — $— VIOLETS. fELCOME, maids of honor! You doe bring In the spring, And wait upon her. She has virgins many Fresh and faire; Yet you are More sweet than any. Y'are the maiden posies, And so grac't, To be plac't 'Fore damask roses. Yet though thus respected By and by Ye doe lie, Pooregirles! neglected. ROBEKT HERRICK. 104 THE ROYAL GALLERY. THE WIND-FLOWER. itlTHOU lookest up with meek, confiding eye, ir^-, Upon the clouded smile of April's face, !|k Unharmed though winter stands uncertain hy, * Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace. Thou trustest wisely ! in thy faith arrayed, More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king; Such fate was his whom men to death betrayed. As thine who hear'st the timid voice of spring, While other flowers still hide them from her call, Along the river's brink and meadows bare, Thee will I seek beside the stony wall, And in thy trust with childlike heart would share, O'erjoyed that in thy early leaves I find, A lesson taught by him who loved all human kind. Jones Very. . otfeo. " From under the boughs in the snow-clad wood, The merle and the mavis are peeping." CHRISTMAS IN THE WOODS. PHROM under the houghs in the snow-clad wood The merle and the mavis are peeping. Alike secure from the wind and the flood, Yet a silent Christmas keeping. Still happy are they, And their looks are gay, And they frisk it from bough to bough; Since berries bright red Hang over their head, A right goodly feast, I trow. There, under the boughs, in their wintry dress, Haps many a tender greeting; Blithe hearts have met, and the soft caress Hath told the delight of meeting'. Though winter hath come To his woodland home, There is mirth with old Christmas cheer, For 'neath the light snow Is the fruit-fraught bough, And each to his love is near. Yes ! under the boughs, scarce seen, nestle they, Those children of song together, — As blissful by night, as joyous by day, 'Mid the snows and the wintry weather. For they dream of spring, And the songs they'll sing, When the flowers bloom again in the mead ; And mindful are they Of those blossoms gay, Which have brought them to-day Such help in their time of need ! Harrison Weir. GLIMPSES OF NATUHE. 105 " The tawny Eagle seats his callow brood High on the cliff, and feasts his young with blood.' THE EAGLE. ||HE tawny Eagle seats his callow "brood m High on the cliff, and feasts his young with •"*F blood : ¥ On Snowdon's rocks, or Orkney's wide domain, 1 Whose beetling cliffs o'erhang the western main, The royal bird his lonely kingdom forms, Amidst the gathering clouds and sullen storms ; Through the wide waste of air he darts his sight, And holds his sounding pinions poised for flight; With cruel eye premeditates the war, And marks his destined victim from afar: Descending in a whirlwind to the ground, His pinions like the rush of waters sound : The fairest of the fold he bears away, And to his nest compels the struggling prey ; He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore, And dips his talons in no vulgar gore. Anna Letitia Bakbatild. 106 THE ROYAL GALLERY. A RAM REFLECTED IN THE WATER. PpOBTH we went, SI And down the vale, along the streamlet's edge, "efs Pursued our way, a broken company, ? Mute or conversing, singly or in pairs. ' Thus having reach'd a bridge that overarch'd The hasty rivulet, where it lay becalm'd On the green turf, with his imperial front Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful, Beneath him, show'd his shadowy counterpart. Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky, And each seem'd centre of his own fair world; " A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same !" In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw A twofold image : on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same ! Most beautiful, Antipodes unconscious of each other, Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! William Wokdsworth. there is not lost One of earth's charms ; upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. IpjjIWEET is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, lUli With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistering with dew. GLIMPSES OP NATURE. 107 THE SQUIEEEL-HTTNT. §jrp?ErEN, as a nimble squirrel from the wood, ifjjlll Banging the hedges for his filbert-food, ~Q$s Sits partly on a bough his browne nuts cracking, And from the shell the sweet white kernell taking, Till (with their crookes and bags) a sort of boyes The boyes runne dabling through thicke and thin : One tears his hose, another breakes his shin ; This, torn and tatter'd, hath with much adoe Got by the bryers ; and that hath lost his shoe ; This drops his hat — that headlong falls for haste; Another cryes behinde for being last : " He is forced to leave a nut nisrh broke, And for his life leape to a neighbour oake ' (To share with him) come with so great a noyse, That he is forced to leave a nut nigh broke, And for his life leape to a neighbour oake ; Thence to a beeche, thence to a row of ashes ; Whilst through the quagmires, and red water plashes, With stickes and stones, and many a sounding halloo, The little foole, with no small sport, they follow; Whilst he from tree to tree, from spray to spray, Gets to the wood, and hides him in his dray. William Browne. It is computed that the swallow flies upward of sixty, the crow twenty-five, and the hawk forty-two miles an hour. The flight of the English eagle is six thousand feet in a minute. 108 THE ROYAL GALLERY. SUMMER WOODS. fir. LOVE at eventide to walk alone, HH Down narrow lanes, o'erhung with dewy thorn, W Where, from the long grass underneath, the snail, i Jet "black, creeps out, and sprouts his timid horn. While in the juicy corn the hidden quail Cries, "Wet my foot;" and, hid as thoughts un- born, The fairy-like and seldom-seen landrail ' I love at eventide to walk alone.' Hove to muse o'er meadows newly mown, Utters, "Craik! — craik!" like voices underground, Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air; Right glad to meet the evening dewy veil, Where bees search round, with sad and weary drone, And see the light fade into gloom around. In vain, for flowers that bloom'd but newly there ; John Clare. |OTHING is better able to gratify the inherent passion of novelty than a garden ; for Nature is always renewing her variegated appearance. She is vw-v infinite in her productions, and the life of man may come to its close before he has seen half the pictures which she is able to display. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 109 ON A GOLDFINCH. fLME was when I was free as air, The thistle's downy seed my fare, My drink the morning dew; I perch'd at will on every spray, My form genteel, my plumage gay, My strains forever new. For caught and caged, and starved to death, In dying sighs my little breath Soon pass'd the wiry grate. Thanks, gentle swaiu, for all my woes, And thanks for this effectual close And cure of every ill ! " The thistle's downy seed ray fare." But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, And form genteel, were all in vain, And of a transient date ; More cruelty could none express ; And I, if you had shown me less, Had been your prisoner still. William Cowper. 2^SJ^2- CHANGES IN NATTJKE. IjnY^HREE astonishing changes present themselves to our view in the kingdom of *Sk Nature. The first is — when a small seed dies in the lap of earth, and •&P* rises again in the verdant and flowery splendor of a youthful tree. The | next is — when, under a warm and feathery covering, life develops itself in I an egg, and a winged bird breaks singing through the shell. The third is — when a creeping caterpillar is transformed into a butterfly, which, with glitter- ing and delicate wing, rocks itself upon the lovely flowers. 110 THE KOYAL GALLERY. MORNING SONG. llPPP! quit thy bower! late wears the hour, 'IK^ 1 Lomr have the rooks cawed round the tower; i 'a " \ O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee, * And the wild kid sports merrily. The sun is bright, the sky is clear , Wake, lady, wake ! and hasten here. Up, maiden fair! and bind thy hair, And rouse thee in the breezy air! The lulling stream that soothed thy dream Is dancing in the sunny beam. Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay : Leave thy soft couch and haste away ! Up ! Time will tell the morning bell Its service-sound has chimed well ; The aged crone keeps house alone, The reapers to the fields are gone. Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay : Lo! while thou sleep 'st they haste away! Joanna Baillie. Ascends the neighboring beech, there whisks his brush.' A THE SQUIRREL. TVRAWIS' from his refuge in some lonely elm, ,^ That age or injury has hollow'd deep, e 3§T > Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves, J4 He has outslept the winter, ventures forth, To frisk a while and bask in the warm sun. The Squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play; He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, Ascends the neighboring beech, there whisks his brush, And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud, With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm, And anger insignificantly fierce. William Cowper. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. THE IVY GREEN. Ill |H, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green, That ereepeth o'er ruins old ! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he ; How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend the huge Oak-tree ! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been ; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant, in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. Charles Dickens. " How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest, And model'dit within with wool and clay." THE THRUSH'S NEST. eilt^> ^fTTTHLTSr a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a mole-hill large and round, cjS^ I heard, from morn to morn, a merry Thrush Sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the sound With joy: — and often, an intruding guest, I watch'd her secret toils, from day to day, — How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest, And model'd it within with wool and clay. And by-and-by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted-over shells of green and blue ; And there I witness'd, in the summer hours, A brood of Nature's minstrels chirp and fly. Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. John Clare, 112 THE KOYAL GALLERY. ' And here he came, pierced by a fatal blow.' THE DYING STAG. lOW in a grassy dingle he was laid, With wild wood primroses hefreckled low. ffi° x Over his head the wanton shadows play'd Of a young olive, that her houghs so spread, As with her leaves she seem'd to crown his head. And here he came, pierced by a fatal blow, As in a wood he walk'd, securely feeding; And feeling death swim in his endless bleeding, His heavy head his fainting strength exceeding, Bade farewell to the woods that round him wave, While tears from drooping flowers bedew his turfy grave. Giles Fletcher. - r a-^e--e5-i- KIGHT, IGHT is the astronomer's accepted time; he goes to his delightful labors when the busy world goes to its rest. A dark pall spreads over the resorts of active life; terrestrial objects, hill and valley, and rock and stream, and the abodes of men disappear; but the curtain is drawn up which concealed the heavenly hosts. There they shine and there they move as they moved and shone to the eyes of Newton and Galileo, of Kepler and Copernicus, of Ptolemy and Hipparchus; yes, as they moved and shone when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy. All has changed on earth; but the glorious heavens remain unchanged. The plow passes over the site of mighty cities; the homes of powerful nations are desolate; the languages they spoke are forgotten: but the stars that shone for them are shining for us ; the same eclipses run their steady cycle ; the same equinoxes call out the flowers of spring, and send the husbandman to the GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 113 harvest; the sun pauses at either tropic as he did when his course began; and sun and moon, and planet and satellite, and star and constellation and galaxy, still bear witness to the power, the wisdom and the love which placed them in the heavens ;and upholds them there. Edwaed Everett. TO SENECA LAKE. thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break. As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below, And swift she cuts, at highest noon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. ' And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale." The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. On thy fair bosom, silver lake ! Oh, I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er. James Gates Peecival. Nature always springs to the surface, and manages to show what she is. It is vain to stop or try to drive her back. She breaks through every obstacle, pushes forward, and at last makes for herself a way. 114 THE ROYAL GALLERY. " And the call of the pheasant Is frequent and pleasant." A WOODNOTE. JfOME ye, come ye, to the green, green wood; i Loudly the blackbird is singing. The squirrel is feasting on blossom and bud, And the curling fern is springing : Here ye may sleep In the moss so deep, While the noon is so warm and so weary, And sweetly awake, As the sun through the brake Bids the fauvette and white-throat sing cheery. The quicken is tufted with blossom of snow, And is throwing its perfume around it; The wryneck replies to the cuckoo's halloo For joy that again she has found it; The jay's red breast Peeps over her nest, In the midst of the crab-blossoms blushing; And the call of the pheasant Is frequent and pleasant, When all other calls are hushing. William Howttt. "Come ye, come ye, to the green, green wood; Loudly the blackbird is singing." «>*&§&>*><, Nature imitates herself. A grain thrown into good ground brings forth fruit: a principle thrown into a good mind brings forth fruit. Everything is created and conducted by the same Master; the root, the branch, the fruits;— the principles, the consequences. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. LAMBS AT PLAY. 115 MAY, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen y©; Spring's morning smiles and soul-enlivening W 1 green, | | Say, did you give the thrilling transport way? Did your eye brighten when young lambs at play Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride, Or grazed in merry clusters by your side? Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace, At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A startling crowd, impatient of delay. Like the fond dove, from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, "Come, let us try our speed!" Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, The green turf trembling as they bound along ; Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, Where every molehill is a bank of thyme ; There panting stop : yet scarcely can refrain, fe. "Did your eye brighten when young Iambs at play Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride?" If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, Excite to praise, or give reflection birth, In shades like these pursue your favorite joy, 'Mid Nature's revels, sports that never cloy. A few begin a short but vigorous race, And indolence abash'd soon flies the place; Then challenged forth, see thither, one by one, From every side assembling playmates run; A bird, a leaf, will set them off again: Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scattering the wild-briar roses into snow, Their little limbs increasing efforts try, Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly. Ah, fallen rose! sad emblem of their doom; Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom ! Robert Bloomfield. -psS— 5>M- H||HE various productions of Nature were not made for us to tread upon, nor jr-^s only to feed our eyes with their grateful variety, or to bring a sweet ' Tf x odor to us ; but there is a more internal beauty in them for our minds •"» to prey upon, did we but penetrate beyond the surface of these things into their hidden properties. 116 THE ROYAL GALLERY. THE HARE. pS instinct that directs the jealous Hare To choose her soft abode. With steps reversed She forms the doubling maze ; then, ere the - morn Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her close recess. Plot their destruction ; or, perchance in hopes Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead Or matted grass, wary and close they sit. When spring shines forth, season of love and joy, In the moist marsh, 'mong bed of rushes hid, They cool their boiling blood. When summer suns ■ Ere the morn Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her close recess. 1 As wandering shepherds on th' Arabian plains No settled residence observe, but shift Their moving camp ; now, on some cooler hill, With cedars crowned, court the refreshing breeze ; And then below, where trickling streams distil From some precarious source, their thirst allay, And feed their thirsting flocks : so the wise hares Oft quit their seats, lest some more curious eye Should mark their haunts, and by dark treacherous wiles Bake the cleft earth, to thick, wide-spreading fields Of corn full-grown, they lead their helpless young : But when autumnal torrents and fierce rains Deluge the vale, in the dry crumbling bank Their forms they delve, and cautiously avoid The dripping covert. Yet, when winter's cold Their limbs benumbs, thither with speed return'd, In the long grass they skulk, or shrinking creep Among the wither'd leaves; thus changing still, As fancy prompts them, or as food invites. William Somektille -s^M— — TO A SKYLARK. pAEL to thee, blithe spirit! ''^■s Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher. From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring, ever singest. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 117 In the golden lightning Sound of vernal showers Of the sunken sun, - On the twinkling grass, O'er which clouds are brightening, Rain-awakened flowers, — Thou dost float and run, All that ever was Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. „,, n , Teach us, sprite or bird, The pale, purple even ' *\ ' -»r u ,i, j,- , j. What sweet thoughts are thine; Melts around thy flight b ' T ., . . t I have never heard Like a star of heaven, . In the broad daylight m Pmse of love or wine Thon art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. That P anted forth a flood of ra P ture s0 dlvme " Chorus hymeneal, Keen as are the arrows Or triumphal chant, Of that silver sphere, Matched with thine would be all Whose intense lamp narrows B ut an empty vaunt, — In the white dawn clear, j^ thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. What objects are the fountains All the earth and air Of thy happy strain? With thy voice is loud, What fields of waves or mountains? As, when night is bare, What shapes of sky or plain? From one lonely cloud What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over- -..r^i. ^ i ^ With thy clear, keen loyanee flowed. T J *v Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance What thou art we know not : , T ., Never came near thee : What is most like thee . ^^ lo but ne , ej . knew love , g gad gatiety _ From rainbow-clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, . Waking or asleep, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Like a poet hidden Than we mortals dream, In the light of thought, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : And P ine f or what is not : Our smcerest laughter We look before and after, With some pain is fraught; sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest Like a high-born maiden q In a palace tower, thought. Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour Yet if we could scorn With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : Hate and pride and fear; If we were things born Like a glow-worm golden, Not to shed a tear, In a dell of dew, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Scattering unbeholden „ . T , . . , Better than all measures Its aerial hue ro-htf 1 Amongst the flowers and grass which screen it from _ . ., ° „ ■ ' ... Better than all treasures the view. _ . . . , That in books are found, T .. . , Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Like a rose embowered b In its own green leaves, Teach me half the gladness By warm winds deflowered, That thy brain must know, Till the scent it gives Such harmonious madness Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged From thy lips would flow thieves. The world should listen then, as I am listening now. Pekcy Bysshe Shelley. 118 THE ROYAL GALLERY. TO A WILD DEER. |IT couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee ! Magnificent prison inclosing the free! "Y" With rock- wall encircled — with precipice I crown'd — • Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound. Mid the fern and the heather, kind Nature doth keep One bright spot of green for her favorite's sleep ; Elate on the fern-branch the grasshopper sings, And away in the midst of his roundelay springs ; 'Mid the flowers of the heath, not more bright than himself, The wild-bee is busy, a musical elf — Then starts from his labor, unwearied and gay, And, circling his antlers, booms far, far away. While high up the mountains, in silence remote, " With wide-spreading antlers, a guard to his breast, There lies the wild creature, e'en stately in rest !" And close to that covert, as clear as the skies When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies, ■Where the creature at rest can his image behold, Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as bold! How lonesome ! how wild ! yet the wildness is rife With the stir of enjoyment — the spirit of life. The glad fish leaps up in the heart of the lake, Whose depths, at the sullen plunge, sullenly quake! The cuckoo unseen is repeating his note; The mellowing echo, on watch in the skies, Like a voice from the loftier climate replies. With wide-spreading antlers, a guard to his breast, There lies the wild creature, e'en stately in rest! 'Mid the grandeur of Nature, composed and serene, And proud in his heart of the mountainous scene, He lifts his calm eye to the eagle and raven, At noon sinking down on smooth wings to their haven, GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 119 As if in his soul the bold animal smiled To his friends of the sky, the joint-heirs of the wild. Tes! fierce looks thy nature, e'en hush'd in repose — In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes, Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar, "With a haughty defiance to come to the war! No outrage is war to a creature like thee ! The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, As thou barest thy neck on the wings of the wind, And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. In the beams of thy forehead that glitter with death— In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath— In the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its roar — In the cliff that, once trod, must be trodden no more- Thy trust, 'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign ! But what if the stag on the mountain be slain? On the brink of the rock — lo ! he standeth at bay, Like a victor that falls at the close of the day : While hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spurn'd from his furious feet; And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, As Nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. John Wilson (Christopher North). " Th' assembled chats Wave high the tremulous wing, and with shrill notes, But clear and pleasant, cheer th' extensive heath." THE HEATH. |JERE the furze, Enrich'd among its spines with golden flowers, Scents the keen air ; while all its thorny groups, J4 Wide scatter'd o'er the waste, are full of life ; For, midst its yellow bloom, th' assembled chats Wave high the tremulous wing, and with shrill notes, But clear and pleasant, cheer th' extensive heath. Linnets in numerous flocks frequent it too; And bashful, hiding in the scenes remote From his congeners (they who make the woods And the thick copses echo to their song) , The stonechat makes his domicile; and while His patient mate with downy bosom warms Their future nestlings, he his love-lay sings, Loud to the shaggy wild. The Erica here, That o'er the Caledonian hills sublime Spreads its dark mantle (where the bees delight To seek their purest honey) , flourishes, Sometimes with bells like amethysts, and then Paler, and shaded like the maiden's cheek With gradual blushes ; other while as white As rime that hangs upon the frozen spray. Charlotte Smith. HE very soul seems to be refreshed on the bare recollection of the pleasure which the senses receive in contemplating, on a fine vernal morning, the charms of the pink, the violet, the rose, the honey-suckle, the hyacinth, the tulip, and a thousand other flowers, in every variety of figure,' scent, and hue; for Nature is no less remarkable for the accuracy and beauty of her "works than for variety and profusion. 120 THE KOYAL GALLEEY. THE SWALLOW. SgHE gorse is yellow on the heath, The hanks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding; and beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath of May. The welcome guest of settled spring, The Swallow too is come at last; Just at sun-set, when thrushes sing, I saw her dash with rapid wing, And hail'd her as she pass'd. Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed-roof your nest of clay; And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch, At the grey dawn of day. As fables tell, an Indian sage The Hindostani woods among, Could, in his distant hermitage, As if 'twere marked in written page, Translate the wild bird's song. I wish I did his power possess, That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, What our vain systems only guess, And know from what wild wilderness You came across the sea. I would a little while restrain Your rapid wing, that I might hear Whether on clouds that bring the rain You sail'd above the western main, The wind your charioteer. In Afric, does the sultry gale Through spicy bower and palmy grove Bear the repeated cuckoo's tale? Dwells there a time the wandering rail, Or the itinerant dove? Were you in Asia? O relate If there your fabled sister's woes She seemed in sorrow to narrate ; Or sings she but to celebrate Her nuptials with the rose? I would inquire how, journeying long- The vast and pathless ocean o'er, You ply again those pinions strong, And come to build anew among The scenes you left before? But if, as colder breezes blow. Prophetic of the waning year, You hide, though none know when or how, In the cliff's excavated brow, And linger torpid here ; Thus lost to life, what favoring dream Bids you to happier hours awake, And tells that, dancing on the beam, The light gnat hovers o'er the stream, The May-fly on the lake? " The welcome guest of settled spring, The Swallow too is come at last." Or if, by instinct taught to know Approaching dearth of insect food, To isles and willowy aits you go, And, crowding on the pliant bough Sink in the dimpling flood; How learn ye, while the cold waves boom Your deep and oozy couch above, The time when flowers of promise bloom,. And call you from your transient tomb, To light, and life, and love? Alas! how little can be known, Her sacred veil where Nature draws ; Let baffled Science humbly own Her mysteries, understood alone By Him who gives her laws. Charlotte Smith. -^-SK- fyjf^V heart is awed within me when I think JATAj Of the great miracle that still goes on In silence round me — the perpetual woi\u Of Thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on Thy works I read The lesson of Thy own eternity. fY^CM all grow old and die — but, see again! §«* How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth. In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly than their ancestors Moulder beneath them. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 12L THE SIERRAS. tfxMlKE fragments of an uncompleted world, if|il| From bleak Alaska, bound in ice and spray, S*°? To where the peaks of Darien lie curled J In clouds, the broken lands loom bold and gray ; The seamen nearing S r i Francisco Bay Forget the compass here ; with sturdy hand They seize the wheel, look up, then bravely lay The ship to shore by rugged peaks that stand The stern and proud patrician fathers of the land. They stand white stairs of heaven — stand a line Of lifting, endless, and eternal white; They look upon the far and flashing brine, Upon the boundless plains, the broken height Of Kamiakin's battlements. The flight Of time is underneath their untopped towers ; They seem to push aside the moon at night, To jostle and to loose the stars. The flowers Of heaven fall about their brows in shining showers. They stand a line of lifted snowy isles, High held above a tossed and tumbled sea, — A sea of wood in wild unmeasured miles ; White pyramids of Faith where man is free ; White monuments of Hope that yet shall be The mounts of matchless and immortal song. I look far down the hollow days ; I see The bearded prophets, simple-soul'd and strong, That strike the sounding harp and thrill the heeding throng. Serene and satisfied ! supreme ! as lone As God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd: They look as cold as kings upon a throne ; The mantling wings of night are crush'd and cmi'di As feathers curl. The elements are huii'd From off their bosoms, and are bidden go, Like evil spirits, to an under- world ; They stretch from Cariboo to Mexico, A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow. Joaquin Miller. -^*t» IMP SNOW-FLAKES. T of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare. Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent and soft and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 122 THE KOYAL GALLEEY. THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILT. XIfHE noon was shady, and soft airs yi±i Swept Ouse's silent tide, "^^ When, 'scaped from literary cares, ¥ I wander'd by its side. J My spaniel, prettiest of the race, And high in pedigree, (Two nymphs adorn'd with every grace That spaniel found for me). And puzzling set his puppy brains To comprehend the case. But, with a chirrup clear and strong Dispersing all his dream, I thence withdrew, and follow'd long The windings of the stream. My ramble ended, I return'd ; Beau, trotting far before, I saw him, with that lily cropp'd." Now wanton'd, lost in flags and reeds, Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads, With scarce a slower flight. It was the time when Ouse display'd Her lilies newly blown; Their beauties I intent survey'd And one I wish'd my own. With cane extended far, I sought To steer it close to land : But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand. Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains With flx'd considerate face, The floating wreath again discern'd, And plunging left the shore. I saw him, with that lily cropp'd, Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd The treasure at my feet. Charm'd with the sight, " The world," I cried, " Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed : "But chief myself I will enjoin, Awake at duty's call, To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all." William Cowpek. It is with flowers as with moral qualities - ©us, but, I believe, never the sweet. ■the bright are sometimes poison- GLIMPSES OP NATURE. 123 PLANTING THE APPLE-TREE. e%L §OME, let us plant the apple-tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade ; Wide let its hollow bed he made ; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As round the sleeping infant's feet "We softly fold the cradle sheet; So plant we the apple-tree. A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, " Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest." What plant we in this apple-tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest ; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May- wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors ; That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple-tree. And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth. Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine And golden orange of the Line, The fruit of the apple-tree. 124 THE ROYAL GALLERY. The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall hear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew, And sojourners heyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree. And time shall waste this apple-tree. O, when its aged "branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still? What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple-tree? amSBSSSS ,[|" 'ilk .■fair IIMfllf 1 -lvl " Shall think of childhood's careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree." Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree. "Who planted this old apple-tree?" The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them : " A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times ; 'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple-tree." William Cullen Bktant. -"-WZgzgZ/ln^v- THE DAISY. ^pHERE is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, J"l And weathers every sky. The prouder beauties of the field In gay but quick succession shine ; Race after race their honors yield, They flourish and decline. But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Liwreathes the circle of the year, Companion of the sun. It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charm, Lights pale October on his way, And twines December's arm. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 125 The purple heath and golden broom On moory mountains catch the gale; O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale. But this hold floweret climbs the hill, Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill, Peeps round the fox's den. The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; The wild bee murmurs on its breast; The blue-fly bends its pensile stem Light o'er the skylark's nest. 'Tis Flora's page, — in every place, In every season, fresh and fair; It opens with perennial grace, And blossoms everywhere. ' 'T is Flora's page — in every place, In every season, fresh and fair." Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed ; And blooms on consecrated ground In honor of the dead. On waste and woodland, rock and plain, Its humble buds unheeded rise ; The rose has but a summer reign ; The daisy never dies! James Montgomery. The sense of beauty in Nature, even among cultured people, is less often met with than other mental endowments. 126 THE KOYAL GALLERY. THE ROBIN. SEE j v on Eobin on the spray; 1 Look ye! how his tiny form Swells, as when his merry lay Gushes forth amid the storm. Yet from out the darkness dreary Cometh still that cheerful note; Praiseful aye, and never weary, Is that little warbling throat. " Though the snow is falling fast, Specking o'er his coat with white.' Though the snow is falling fast, Specking o'er his coat with white — Though loud roars the chilly blast, And the evening's lost in night, — Thank him for his lesson's sake, Thank God's gentle minstrel there, Who, when storms make others quake Sings of days that brighter were. Harrison Weik. lH|UTHEIl always kept a flower in a glass on his writing-table; and when he was waging his great public controversy with Eckins he kept a flower in his hand. Lord Bacon has a beautiful passage about flowers. As to Shakespeare, he is a perfect Alpine valley — he is full of flowers; they spring, and blossom, and wave in every cleft of his mind. Even Milton, cold, serene, and stately as he is, breaks forth into exquisite gushes of tenderness and fancy when he marshals the flowers. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 127 'And birds sit brooding in the snow." 128 THE ROYAL GALLERY. SPRING AND WINTER. JgHESr daisies pied, and violets blue, JifPP And lady-smocks all silver-white, \mi An^L cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, vi Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men, for thus sings he, Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! "When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men, for thus sings he, Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who ; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all around the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, "When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring-owl, To-who; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. William Shakespeake. 2 ^S>S^ MARCH. jjfjfHE stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies: ^ I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies. Ah, passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month ! in pi-aise of thee ; Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. Eor thou, to Northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. And in thy reign of blast and storm, Smiles many a long, bright sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May. Then sing aloud the gushing rills In joy that they again are free, And, brightly leaping down the hills, Renew their journey to the sea. The year's departing beauty hides, Of wintry storms the sullen threat; But in thy sternest frown abides A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours. William Cullen Bryant. -^3SS— gEEi- Stately Spring ! whose robe-folds are valleys, whose breast-bouquet is gardens, and whose blush is a vernal evening. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 129 TO A YOUNG ASS. lOOE little foal of an oppressed race ! §3 I love the languid patience of thy face : And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head. 1 But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay 'd, That never thou dost sport along the glade? And (most unlike the nature of things young) That earthward still thy moveless head is hung? Do thy prophetic fears anticipate, Meek child of misery I thy future fate, — Poor ass! thy master should have learnt to show Pity — best taught by fellowship of woe; For much I fear me that he lives like thee, Half famish'd in a land of luxury ! How askingly its footsteps hither bend ! It seems to say, " And have I then one friend ? " Innocent foal! thou poor despised, forlorn! I hail thee brother, spite of the fool's scorn ; And fain would take thee with me, in the dell Of peace and mild equality to dwell, " Is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain, To see thy wretched mother's shortened chain? The starving meal, and all the thousand aches " Which patient merit of th' unworthy takes?" Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain, To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain? And truly very piteous is her lot, Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot, Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen, While sweet around her waves the tempting green ! 9 Where toil shall call the charmer health his bride, And laughter tickle plenty's ribless side ! How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play, And frisk about as lamb or kitten gay! Tea, and more musically sweet to me Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be, Than warbled melodies,,that soothe to rest The aching of pale fashion's vacant breast! Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 130 THE EOTAL GALLERY. THE FIRST DAT OF SPRING. | ! THOU bright and beautiful day, First bright day of the virgin spring, Bringing the slumbering life into play, Giving the leaping bird his wing ! I hear thy voice in the lark's clear note, In the cricket's chirp at the evening hour, In the zephyr's sighs that around me float, In the breathing bud and the opening flower. " In the thousand plants that spring to birth, On the valley's side in the home of shade." Thou art round me now in all thy hues', Thy robe of green, and thy scented sweets, In thy bursting buds, in thy blessing dews, In every form that my footstep meets. I see thy forms o'er the parting earth, In the tender shoots of the grassy blade, In the thousand plants that spring to birth, On the valley's side in the home of shade. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 131 I feel thy promise in all my veins, They bound with a feeling long suppressed, And, like a captive who breaks his chains, Leap the glad hopes in my heaving breast. There are life and joy in thy coming, Spring! Thou hast no tidings of gloom and death : But buds thou shakest from every wing, And sweets thou breatbest with every breath. William Gilmore Simms. ^3S DAT IS DYING. jgAY is dying ! Float, O song, Down the westward river, Requiem chanting to the Day — Day, the mighty Giver. Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds, Melted rubies sending Through the river and the sky, Earth and heaven blending. All the long-drawn earthly banks Up to cloud-land lifting ; Slow between them drifts the swan, 'Twixt two heavens drifting. Wings half open like a flower Inly deeply flushing, Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — Virgin proudly blushing. Day is dying! Float, O swan, Down the ruby river; Follow, song, in requiem To the mighty Giver. Marian Evans Lewes Cross (George Eliot). " I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers." SONG OF THE BROOK. COME from haunts of coot and hern : I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. 132 THE KOYAL GALLERY. Til] last by Philip's farm I flow- To' join the brimming river, Eor men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. "With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow , To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel "With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river; Eor men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots : I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. .' I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, . Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows; I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses ; " I chatter over stony ways." And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. Alfred Tennyson. o>»<=#=>~<» H^IL, HOLT LIGHT. I| AIL, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born! '^ Or of the Eternal eoeternal beam, May I express thee unblamed? since God is Ji light, And never but in unapproache'd light Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate ! Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream. Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the Sun, Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless Infinite ! For wonderful indeed are all his works. Pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all Had in remembrance always with delight! But what created mind can comprehend Their number, or the wisdom infinite That brought them forth, but hid their causes deep? I saw when, at his word, the formless mass, This world's material mould, came to a heap : Confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar Stood ruled, stood vast Infinitude confined; Till, at his second bidding, darkness fled, Light shone, and order from disorder sprung. John Milton. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 133 SPRING. |0 ! where the rosy-bosomed Hours, Fair Venus' tram, appear, "jfex 3 Disclose the long-expecting flowers And wake the purple year ! The Attic warbler pours her throat Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring : While whispering pleasure as tbey fly, Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gathered fragrance fling. And float amid the liquid noon : Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gayly gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of man ; And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter through life's little day, ' Still is the toiling hand of care; The panting herds repose." "Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'ercanopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great! Still is the toiling hand of care; The panting herds repose : Yet hark, how through the peopled air The busy murmur glows ! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honeyed spring In Fortune's varying colors drest: Brushed by the hand of rough mischance Or chilled by age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply : Poor moralist ! and what art thou? A solitary fly ! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display ; On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone. — We frolic while 't is May. Thomas Gray. 134 THE KOYAL GALLEKY. A WINTER MORNING. JlS morning; and the sun, -with ruddy orb |p Ascending, fires the horizon ; while the clouds That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disk emerges more, Eesemble most some city in a blaze. Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue, From every herb and every spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. Mine, spindling into longitude immense. In spite of gravity, and sage remark That I myself am but a fleeting shade, Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance I view the muscular proportioned limb Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, As they designed to mock me. at my side Take step for step ; and, as I near approach The cottage, walk along the plastered wall, Preposterous sight! the legs without the man. The verdure of the plain lies buried deep Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents, And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest, Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, And, fledged with icy feathers, not superb. The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unreeumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder; not, like hungering man, Fretful if unsupplied ; but silent, meek. And patient 'of the slow-paced swain's delay. He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft, His broad keen knife into the solid mass; Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 135 With such undeviating and even force He severs it away : no needless care Lest storms should overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned The cheerful haunts of men — to wield the axe And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, From morn to eve his solitary task. Shaggy and lean and shrewd with pointed ears, And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow ; and now, with many a frisk Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy. ***** Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale, Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, Conscious and fearful of too deep u plunge. The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved To escape the impending famine, often scared As oft return, a pert voracious kind. Clean riddance quickly made, one only care Eemains to each, the search of sunny nook, Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned To sad necessity, the cock foregoes His wonted strut, and, wading at their head With well-considered steps, seems to resent His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. How find the myriads, that in summer cheer The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? Earth yields them naught : the imprisoned worm is safe Beneath the frozen clod ; all seeds of herbs "The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves." Lie covered close ; and berry-bearing thorns, That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. The long protracted rigor of the year Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, An instinct prompts ; self -buried ere they die. William Cowper. >-3S-£ -H - "■■ . "v.. OJ.' ; WINTRY WEATHER. INTER, wilt thou never, never go? O Summer, but I weary for thy coming, Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow, And frugal bees, laboriously humming. Now the east wind diseases the infirm. And I must crouch in corners from rough weather; Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm — Wtien the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together, And the large sun dips red behind the hills. I. from my window, can behold this pleasure ; And the eternal moon, what time she fills Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, With queenly motions of a bridal mood, Through the white spaces of infinitude. David Gray. The key of Nature is laid at man's feet, because he is its divinely-constituted sovereign. 136 THE KOYAL GALLERY. " Then lads and lassies all, be gay, For this is nature's holiday." MAT-DAY. |HE daisies peep from every field, And violets sweet their odor yield ; The purple blossom paints the thorn, And streams reflect the blush of morn. Then lads and lassies all, be gay, For this is nature's holiday. Let lusty Labor drop his flail, Nor woodman's hook a tree assail , The ox shall cease his neck to bow, And Clodden yield to rest the plough, Behold the lark in ether float, While rapture swells the liquid note ! What warbles he, with merry cheer? " Let love and pleasure ride the year! " Lo ! Sol looks down with radiant eye, And throws a smile around his sky; Embracing hill and vale and stream, And warming nature with his beam. John Wolcott, -s— "-wrz^z^ztMs-v- THE EARLY PRIMROSE. llgILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire? Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms And cradled in the winds. Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter': sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw, To mark his victory. In this low vale tbe promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved ; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. Henry Kirke White. , IT came o'er my ear like the sweet South, ■That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odors. GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. 137 LOVES OF THE PLANTS. pOW snow-drops cold and blue-eyed harebells ! blend Their tender tears, as o'er the streams they bend, The love-sick violet and the primrose pale Bow their sweet heads and whisper to the gale ; With secret sighs the virgin lily droops, And jealous cowslips hang their tawny cups. How the young rose, iu beauty's damask pride, Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride ; With honeyed lips enamored woodbines meet, Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet! Stay thy soft murmuring waters, gentle rill ; Hush, whispering winds ; ye rustling leaves, be still; Best, silver butterflies, your quivering wings ; Alight, ye beetles, from your airy rings; Ye painted moths, your gold-eyed plumage furl, Bow your wide horns, your spiral trunks uncurl; Glitter, ye glow-worms, on your mossy beds ; Descend, ye spiders, on your lengthened threads; Slide here, ye horned snails, with varnished shells; Ye bee-nymphs, listen in your waxen cells ! Ekasmus Darwin. TO A NIGHTINGALE. iBiWEET bird ! that sing'st away the early hours P^i Of winters past, or coming, void of care ; fWell pleased with delights which present are. Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling' flowers: To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can he so sick which by thy songs (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, — yes, and to angels' lays. William Dkummond. THE ANGLER pX genial spring, beneath the quivering shade, H Where cooling vapors breathe along the mead, The patient fisher takes his silent stand,, Intent, his angle trembling in his hand ; With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed. And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed. 138 THE KOYAL GALLERY. THE TIGEB. jf IGEK, tiger, burning bright v In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? What the hammer, what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? " Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night." In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize thy fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand formed thy dread feet? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright. In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? William Blake. ->-f3— 92^-S" 1 - 1|HE thrush derives its name from mistletoe berries, of which it is exceedingly fond. m It is famed for its clear, ringing, musical note, and sings loudest, and sweetest, and longest in storms; hence it is no mean teacher to man, whose song of gladness and grati- tude should rise to heaven — not only when his sky is clear, but when it is darkened with clouds, and the storm portends fearful disasters. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 139 " He clasps the crag with hooked hands." THE EAGLE. [|E clasps the crag with hooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, t 9p? i ' Hinged with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. Alfred Tennyson. ^-g-^ gHAT a desolate place would be this world without a flower ! It would be a face without a smile, — a feast without a welcome! Are not flowers the stars of the earth? and are not our stars the flowers of heaven? 140 THE EOYAL GALLERY. A SUMMER MORN. ^K>,L T T who the melodies of morn can tell? 2§M The wild brook babbling down the mountain- fflJL side ; » The lowing herd; the sheepf old's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour ; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. O Nature, how in every charm supreme ! Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! " O Nature, how in every charm supreme. The hollow murmur of the ocean tide ; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield, and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings ; O, for the voice and fire of seraphim, To sing thy glories with devotion due. Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling erew Prom Pyrrho's maze and Epicurus' sty, And held high converse with the god-like few Who to the enraptured heart and ear and eye Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love and melody. James Beattie. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 141 SUNSET AT NORHAM CASTLE. |AY set on Norham's castled steep, ; And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone ; The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loop-hole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone. The warriors on the turrets high, Moving athwart the evening sky, Seemed forms of giant height; Their armor, as it caught the rays, Above the gloomy portal arch, Timing his footsteps to a march, The warder kept his guard, Low humming, as he paced along, Some ancient border-gathering song. A distant tramping sound he hears ; He looks abroad, and soon appeal's, O'er Horncliff hill, a plump of spears Beneath a pennon gay : A horseman, darting from the crowd, Like lightning from a summer cloud, ' Cheviot's mountains lone.' Plashed back again the western blaze In lines of dazzling light. St. George's banner, broad and gay, Now faded, as the fading ray Less bright, and less, was flung; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower, So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search, The castle gates were barred ; -S^^j^S- Spurs on his mettled courser proud, Before the dark array. Beneath the sable palisade, That closed the castle barricade, His bugle-horn he blew ; The warder hasted from the wall, And warned the captain in the hall, For well the blast he knew; And joyfully that knight did call To sewer, squire, and seneschal. Sir Walter Scott. "Nature is like an Mohan harp, a musical instrument whose tones are the re-echo of higher strings within us. 142 THE ROYAL GALLERY. TO THE DANDELION. , ,A» gEAR common flower, that growest beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth — thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, — Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, — Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind, — of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish pietj-, Listened as if 1 heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he did bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, • Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book. J. R. Lowell. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. IjilAY-STARS ! that ope your eyes with morn to J|f ' twinkle, JfL From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 4 And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle As a libation ! Ye matin worshipers ! who bending lowly Before the uprisen sun — God's lidless eye — Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high! Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty The floor of Nature's temple tessellate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create ! 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth And tolls its perfume on the passing air. Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal "hand, But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath planned ; To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply- Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky. There- — as in solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God — Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendor '• Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, Your lore sublime! GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 143 ''• Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, Arrayed," the lilies cry, " iu robes like ours; How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory Are human flowers ! " In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist! With which thoupaintestNature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all. Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection, And second birth. ' There — as in solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, ..." Not useless are ye, Flowers! though made for pleasure : Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, Far from all voice of teachers or divines, My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, Priests, sermons, shrines! Horace Smith. s^se,^- ■ife- hMfvATURE never did betray SOLACE IN NATURE. The heart that loved her. 'Tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy; for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With Tofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee; and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure ; when the mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms; Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies : oh ! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations ! William Wordsworth. 144 THE ROYAL GALLERY. JUNE. fTXARTH gets its price for what Earth gives us; *!* The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in; The priest has his fee who comes and shrives us ; We bargain for the graves we lie in; At the Devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with the whole soul's tasking; 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer, June may be had by the poorest comer. Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, " Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back, with a rippiy cheer." And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays. Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisteu; And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives ; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings, He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — In the nice ear of Nature, which song is the best? GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 145 Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green ; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing ; The breeze comes whispering in our ear That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing ! Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving ; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, 'Tis the natural way of living : Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake, And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. James Russell Lowell. -fbS— gsM- TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH A PLOUGH. «EE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem : To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem. Alas ! it's no thy neehor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast, When tip-ward springing, blithe to greet The purpling east ! Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm; Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form! The flaunting flowers our gardens yield High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ; But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stane Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; 10 But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink! E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom ! Robert Burns. 146 THE ROYAL GALLEKY. w^*"-"-diw&' '^ * "*" ^ — _ i -jJSSk-' BiBBi P l|B||K8iM a^-. ■ ^ jSjijl -j-— rf^-^jjg^s * Ll^A. . ^ ~-F JT ^^^^ amam fe5-=SEagj^ =^^^== — ^ ---^-^;:?^j^ :i^fe=SI B-aic; =■ -=— SMBBiawB^S vSBjSg (( I in these flowery meads would be, These crystal streams should solace me." THE ANGLER'S WISH. IN" these flowery meads would be, These crystal streams should solace me ; To whose harmonious bubbling noise, I with my Angle would rejoice, Sit here, and see the turtle-dove, Court his chaste mate to acts of love : And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love : Thus free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice: Or with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford Brook; " Or with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford Brook. 1 Or on that bank, feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty, please my mind To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, And then wash off by April showers : Here hear my Kenna sing a song, There see a blackbird feed her young , Or a laverock build her nest; Here give my weary spirits rest, There sit by him, and eat my meat, There see the sun both rise and set; There bid good-morning to next day; There meditate my time away ; And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave. Izaak Walton. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 147 THE BROOM. jfjH! the broom, the bonny, bonny broom, On my native hills it grows; I had rather see the bonny broom, Than the rarest flower that blows. Oh ! the yellow broom is blossoming, In my own dear country ; I never thought so small a thing As a flower my nerveless heart could wring, Or draw a tear from me. It minds me of my native hills, Clad in the heath and fen ; Of the green strath and the flowery brae, Of the glade and the rockless glen ; It minds me of dearer things than these — Of love with life entwined, Of humble faith on bended knees, Of home joys gone, and memories, Like sere leaves, left behind! It minds me of that blessed time, Of the friends so true to me, Of my warm-hearted Highland love, When the broom was the trysting-tree. I loathe this fair but foreign strand, With its fadeless summer bloom ; And I swear, by my own dear native land, Again on the heathy hills to stand, Where waves the yellow broom. Mary Howitt. '■ Still on thy banks so gayly green May numerous flocks and herds be seen." ODE TO LEYEN WATER. ' Leven's banks, while free to rove And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the "happiest swain That ever trod th' Arcadian plain. Pure stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave, No torrents stain thy limpid source, No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polished pebbles spread; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout, in speckled pride ; The salmon, monarch of the tide ; The ruthless pike, intent on war; The silver eel, and mottled par; Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch and groves of pine, And edges flowered with eglantine. Still on thy banks sogayly green May numerous flocks and herds be seen; And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale; And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry imbrowned by toil, And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to guard. Tobias George Sjiollet. 148 THE ROYAL GALLERY. A SPRING DAY. IfDVANCrNG spring profusely spreads abroad *■'■»■» ! j^*V*s Flowers of all hues, with sweetest" fragrance /Sjifv stored ; it Where'er she treads Love gladdens over plain, Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train; Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies, Anticipating wealth from Summer skies ; All Nature feels her renovating sway; The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadows gay; And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen, Display the new-grown branch of lighter green ; On airy downs the idling shepherd lies, And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. K 3811 1 The sheep -fed pasture, and the meadows gay." «h a^eXT" 2 -4» THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD. ^KHOTJ little bird, thou dweller by the sea, sl¥fe Why takest thou its melancholy voice? Why with that boding cry $1 O'er the waves dost thou fly? j O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice! Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea ; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wail — What does it bring to me? Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Hestless and sad ; as if, in strange accord With motion and with roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge — ■ The Mystery— the Word. Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall, Old ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead, From out thy gloomy cells, A tale of mourning tells, — Tells of man's woe and fall, His sinless glory fled. Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit nevermore. Come, quit with me the. shore, For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing. Richard Henry Dana. fO daintie flowre or herbe thatgrowes on grownd, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al iirowTifl. GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. 149 "Hundreds have come to view My grandeur in decay." THE AGED OAK AT OAKLET. WAS a young fair tree ; Each spring with quivering green My boughs were clad, and far Down the deep vale a light Shone from me on the eyes Of those who pass'd, — a light That told of sunny days, And blossoms, and blue sky; For I was ever first Of all the grove to hear The soft voice underground Of the warm-working spring, And ere my brethren stirr'd Their sheatMd bud, the kine, And the kine's keeper, came Slow up the valley path, And laid them underneath My cool and rustling leaves, And I could feel them there As in the quiet shade They stood with tender thoughts, That passed along their life Like wings on a still lake, Blessing me ; and to God, 150 THE EOYAL GALLERY. The blessed God, who cares Eor all my little leaves, Went up the silent praise ; And I was glad with joy "Which life of laboring things El knows — the joy that sinks Into a life of rest. Ages have fled since then, But deem not my fierce trunk And scanty leafage serve No high behest ; my name Is sounded far and wide ; And in the Providence That guides the steps of men, Hundreds have come to view My grandeur in decay ; And there hath pass'd from me A quiet influence Into the minds of men : The silver head of age, The majesty of laws, The very name of God, And holiest things that are, Have won upon the heart Of human kind the more, Eor that I stand to meet With vast and bleaching trunk, The rudeness of the sky. Henry Alfoed. THE PHEASANT. iSNOW. iwLOSE by the borders of the fringed lake, »@*x And on the oak's expanded bough, is seen, What time the leaves thepassing zephyrs shake, And gently murmur through the sylvan scene, The gaudy Pheasant, rich in varying dyes, That fade alternate, and alternate glow: Receiving now his color from the skies, And now reflecting back the watery bow. He flaps his wings, erects his spotless crest, His flaming eyes dart forth a piercing ray; He swells the lovely plumage of his breast, And glares a wonder of the Orient day. THE THRUSH. ciQTON'GSTER of the russet coat, &M Full and liquid is thy note ; • Plain thy dress, but great thy skill, Captivating at thy will. Small musician of the field, Near my bower thy tribute yield, Little servant of the ear, Ply thy task, and never fear. I will learn from thee to praise God, the Author of my days; I will learn from thee to sing, Christ, my Saviour and my King; Learn to labor with my voice, Make the sinking heart rejoice. ^T last the golden oriental gate H Of greatest heaven 'gan to open fair, And Phoebus, fresh as bridegroom to his mate, Came dancing forth, shaking his dewy hair; And hurls his glistening beams through gloomy air. |HE blessed morn has come again ; The early gray Taps at the slumberer's window-pane, And seems to say, Break, break from the enchanter's chain Away, away I 'Tis winter, yet there is no sound Along the air Of winds along their battle-ground ; But gently there The snow is falling, — all around How fair, how fair ! Ralph Hoyt. GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. THE O'LINCOLN FAMILY. 151 FLOCK of merry singing-birds were sporting But wait a week, till flowers are cheery, — wait a in the grove : week, and, ere yon many, Some were warbling cheerily, and some were Be sure of a house wherein to tarry ! Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait!" Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little mellow ; Follow, follow, follow, follow, o er the hill and in the hollow ! Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and now they fly; They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the middle, and wheel about, — With a "Phew, shew, Wadolincon ! listen to me, Bob- olincon ! — Happy's the wooing that's speedily doing, that's speedily doing, That's merry and over with the bloom of the clover! " 'Tis you that would a-wooing go, down among the Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow rushes 0! me!" Wilson Flagg. making love : There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winter- seeble, Conquedle, — A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle, — Crying, ' : Phew, shew, Wadolincon, see, see, Bob- olincon, Down among the tickletops, hiding in the buttercups ! I know the saucy chap, I see his shining cap Bobbing in the clover there, — see, see, see ! " Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree, Startled by his rival's song, quickened by his raillery; Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curvetting in the air, And merrify he turns about, and warns him to beware ! -i=sg— Ss=- SOLITUDE OF THE SEA. |nn|HEBE is a rapture on the lonely shore, "^feo There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar : •H" I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I maybe, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Lord Byron. 152 THE ROYAL GALLERY. SUMMER DROUGHT. •sfc SpSjpHEN winter came the land was lean and sere, Jnig.i There fell no snow, and oft from wild and field jj In famished tameness came the drooping deer, And licked the waste about the troughs congealed. And though at spring we plowed and proffered seed, It lay ungermed, a pillage for the birds; And unto one low dam, in urgent need, "We daily drove the suppliant lowing herds. But now the fields to barren wastes have run, The dam a pool of oozing greenery lies, "Where knots of gnats hang reeling in the sun Till early dusk, when tilt the dragon-flies. Yet ere the noon, as brass the heaven turns, The cruel sun smites with unerring aim, The sight and touch of all things blinds and burns, And bare, hot hills seem shimmering into flame ! On either side the shoe-deep dusted lane The meagre wisps of fennel scorch to wire : Slow lags the team that drags an empty wain, And, creaking dry, a wheel runs off its tire. No flock upon the naked pasture feeds, No blithesome " Bob-White " whistles from the fence ; A gust runs crackling through the brittle weeds, And heat and silence seem the more intense! * A pillage for the birds.' All night the craw-fish deeper digs her wells, As shows the clay that freshly curbs them round; And many a random upheaved tunnel tells "Where ran the mole across the fallow ground. But ah, the stone-dumb dullness of the dawn, "When e'en the cocks too listless are to crow, And lies the world as from all life withdrawn, Unheeding and outworn and swooning low ! There is no dew on any greenness shed, The hard-baked earth is split along the walks, The very burs in stunted clumps are dead, And mullein-leaves drop withered from the stalks. On outspread wings a hawk, far poised on high, Quick swooping screams, and then is heard no more: The strident shrilling of a locust nigh Breaks forth, and dies in silence as before. No transient cloud o'erskims with flakes of shade The landscape hazed in dizzy gleams of heat; A dove's wing glances like a parried blade, And western walls the beams in torrents beat. So burning, low and lower still the sun, In fierce white fervor, sinks anon from sight, And so the dread, despairing day is done, And dumbly broods again the haggard night! J. P. Irvine. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 153 " ■" T^^-fe^- "The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding- Rhine.' THE RHINE. SEE castled crag of Drachenfels ^Mi Erowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hill all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, "Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy wert thou with me. And peasant girls with deep-blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers : But one thing want these tanks of Rhine, — Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine 154 THE ROYAL GALLERY. I send the lilies given to me : Though long before thy hand they touch I know that they must withered be, But yet reject them not as such; For I have cherished them as dear, Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, And know'st them gathered by the Bhine, And offered from my heart to thine ! The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round : The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here ; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Bhine. Lord Byron. - r a--s(^-E^- TO A MOUNTAIN OAK. \ eSSf yT^jBOUD mountain giant, whose majestic face, From thy high watch-tower on the steadfast rock, Looks calmly o'er the trees that throng thy base, How long hast thou withstood the tempest's shock? How long hast thou looked down on yonder vale, Sleeping in sun before thee; Or bent thy ruffled brow to let the gale Steer its white, drifting sails just o'er thee? George Henry Boker. PpHERE is a serene and settled majesty in forest scenery that enters into the soul, and Kg dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations. The ancient and hered- fp itary groves, too, which everywhere abound, are most of them full of story. They «H» are haunted by the recollections of the great spirits of past ages who have sought relaxation among them from the tumult of arms or the toils of state, or have wooed the muse beneath their shade. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 155 FOREST PICTURES. .*fe a GRACIOUS breath of sunrise! divine air! That hrood'st serenely o'er the purpling hills ; O hlissful valley! nestling, cool and fair, In the fond arms of yonder murmurous rills, The fitful breezes, fraught with forest balm, Paint, in rare wafts of perfume, on my brow; The woven lights and shadows, rife with calm, Creep slantwise 'twixt the foliage, bough on bough " O blissful valley ! nestling, cool and fair, In the fond arms of yonder murmurous rills." Breathing their grateful measures to the sun; dew-besprinkled paths, that circling run Through sylvan shades and solemn silences, Once more ye bring my fevered spirit peace ! Uplifted heavenward, like a verdant cloud Whose rain is music, soft as love, or loud With jubilant hope, — for there, entranced, apart, The mock-bird sings, close, close to Nature's heart. 156 THE KOYAL GALLERY. Shy forms about the greenery, out and in, Flit 'neath the broadening glories of the morn; The squirrel — that quaint sylvan harlequin — Mounts the tall trunks; while swift as lightning, born The deer-hound's voice, sweet as the golden bell's, Prolonged by flying echoes round the dells, And up the loftiest summits wildly borne, Blent with the blast of some keen huntsman's horn. The squirrel — that quaint sylvan harlequin." Of summer mists, from tangled vine and tree Dart the dove's pinions, pulsing vividly Down the dense glades, till glimmering far and gray The dusky vision softly melts away ! In transient, pleased bewilderment, I mark The last dim shimmer of those lessening wings, When from lone copse and shadowy covert, hark ! What mellow tongue through all the woodland rings! And now the checkered vale is left behind; I climb the slope, and reach the hill-top bright; Here, in bold freedom, swells a sovereign wind, Whose gusty prowess sweeps the pine-clad height; While the pines, — dreamy Titans roused from sleep,— Answer with mighty voices, deep on deep Of wakened foliage surging like a sea ; And o'er them smiles Heaven's calm infinity! Paul Hamilton Hayne. FLOWERS. |E valleys low, where the mild whispers rise Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks : Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears. John Milton. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 157 Oft have I walked these woodland paths." 158 THE KOYAL GALLEEY. UNDER THE LEAVES. ?T have I walked these woodland paths, Without the blest foreknowing That underneath the withered leaves The fairest buds were growing. To-day the south wind sweeps away The types of autumn's splendor, And shows the sweet arbutus flowers, Spring's children, pure and tender. O prophet-flowers ! — with lips of bloom, Out-vying in your beauty The pearly tints of ocean shells, — Ye teach me faith and duty ! "Walk life's dark ways," ye seem to say, " With love's divine foreknowing, That where man sees but withered leaves, God sees sweet flowers growing." ALBERT LAIGHTON. Nsg— Bs WINTER. WESTER, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along its slippery way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering, at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know. William Cowpek. GLIMPSES OF MATUBE. 159 THE FLOWER'S NAME. iplERE'S the garden she walked across, ■111 Arm in my arm, such a short while since : ■^3?" Hark! now I push its wicket, the moss I § Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. I I She must have reached the shrub ere she turned, As hack with that murmur the wicket swung ; Eor she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Boses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder see where the rock-plants lie ! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, — ■ Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! was it love or praise? Speech half asleep, or song half awake? I must learn Spanish one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Boses, if I live and do well, I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, — Pit you each with his Spanish phrase. But do not detain me now, for she lingers There, like a sunshine over the ground ; And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow not, — ■ Stay as you are, and be loved forever! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not, — Mind! the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle : Is not the dear mark still to he seen? Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; Whither I follow her, beauties flee. Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud! show me the least of her traces; Treasure my lady's lightest footfall : Ah ! you may flout and turn up your faces, — Boses, you are not so fair, after all ! BOBEltT Bkowhing. SPRING IN CAROLINA. jj|PBrN'G, with that nameless pathos in the air ■111 Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons. In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee, And there's a look about the leafless bowers, As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of winter in the land, Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, i Flushed by the season's dawn; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of autumn corn. As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. In gardens you may note amid the dearth The crocus breaking earth; And near the snow-drop's tender white and green, The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows needs must pass Along the budding grass, • And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose's mouth. Still there's sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn ; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, " Behold me! I am May! " * * * Henry Timeod. 160 THE ROYAL GALLERY. THE LARK. i"Y^O'. here the gentle lark, weary of rest, The sun ariseth in his majesty; ^§■§1 From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, Who doth the world so gloriously behold, ft 7©\ 3 And wakes the morning, from whose silver That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold. breast William Shakespeare. •"" + ^2^ 4» GRIZZLY. ||§|0WARD, of here Hh4' In whose lazy m roic size, lazy muscles lies •|" Strength we fear, and yet despise; i Savage, — whose relentless tusks Are content with acorn husks ; Robber, — whose exploits ne'er soared O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard; Whiskered chin, and feeble nose, Claws of steel, on baby toes. — Here, in solitude and shade, Shambling, shuffling, plantigrade^ Be thy courses undismayed! GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 1G1 Here, where Nature makes thy bed, Let thy rude, half-human tread Point to hiddeu Indian springs, Lost in fern and fragrant grasses Hovered o'er by timid wings. Where the wood-duck lightly passes, Where the wild bee holds her sweets- Epicurean retreats, Fit for thee, and better than Fearful spoils of dangerous man. -£=39-BE3i- In thy fat-jowled deviltry, Friar Tuck shall live in thee ; Thou may'st levy tithe and dole; Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer, From the pilgrim taking toll j Match thy cunning with his fear, Eat and drink and have thy till ; Yet remain an outlaw still! Bket Haete. THE VIOLET. FAINT, delicious spring-time violet! Thine odor, like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free. The breath of distant fields upon my brow Blows through that open door Tne sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low And sadder than of yore. It comes afar, from that beloved place, And that beloved hour, When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, Like grapes above a bower. A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; The lark sings o'er my head, Drowned in the sky — O, pass, ye visions, pass! I would that I were dead ! — Why hast thou opened that forbidden door, From which I ever flee? O vanished joy! O love, that art no more, Let my vexed spirit be ! O violet! thy odor through my brain Hath searched and stung to grief This sunny day, as if a curse did stain Thy velvet leaf. William Wetmoee Story. CALM AND STORM ON LAKE LEMAN. M»LEAE, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, SISI With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing <^P Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction ; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers j f et fresh with childhood ; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more: ***** The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! Lord Byron. FREEDOM OF NATURE. Ip CARE not, Fortune, what you me deny : 1*5 You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; X You cannot shut the windows of the sky, » Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; 11 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve; Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave; Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. James Thomson. 162 THE EOYAL GALLERY. THEEE SUMMER STUDIES. e©fe> MORNING. HE cock hath crowed. I hear the doors un- barred ; Down to the grass-grown porch my way I take, And hear, beside the well within the yard, Full many an ancient quacking, splashing drake, The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load, Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road. A humid polish is on all the leaves, — The birds flit in and out with varied notes, The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves, A partridge whistle through the garden floats, While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries, As red and gold flush all the eastern skies. " The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves." And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen,— all Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call. The dew is thick upon the velvet grass, The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops, And as the cattle from the enclosure pass, Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops Up comes the sun! Through the dense leaves a spot Of splendid light drinks up the dew; the breeze Which late made leafy music, dies ; the day grows hot, And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees : The burnished river like a sword-blade shines, Save where 't is shadowed by the solemn pines. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 163 °2 I? p p 164 THE KOYAL GALLERY. NOON. Over the farm is brooding silence now, — No reaper's song, no raven's clangor harsh, No bleat of sheep, no distant low of cow, No croak of frogs within the spreading marsh, No bragging cock from littered farmyard crows, — The scene is steeped in silence and repose. A trembling haze hangs over all the fields, — The panting cattle in the river stand, Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields, It seems a Sabbath through the drowsy land ; So hushed is all beneath the Summer's spell, I pause and listen for some faint church-bell. The leaves are motionless, the song-birds mute; The very air seems somnolent and sick : The spreading branches with o'er-ripened fruit Show in the sunshine all their clusters thick, While now and then a mellow apple falls With a dull thud within the orchard's walls. The sky has but one solitary cloud Like a dark island in a sea of ligh„, The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows ploughed Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight, While over yonder road a dusty haze Grows luminous beneath the sun's fierce blaze. EVENING. That solitary cloud grows dark and wide, While distant thunder rumbles in the air, — A fitful ripple breaks the river's tide, — The lazy cattle are no longer there, But homeward come, in long procession slow, With many a bleat and many a plaintive low. Darker and wider spreading o'er the west Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form, And mirrored turrets on the river's breast, Tell in advance the coming of a storm, — Closer and brighter glares the lightning's flash, And louder, nearer sounds the thunder's crash. The air of evening is intensely hot, The breeze feels heated as it fans my brows, — Now sullen rain-drops patter down like shot, Strike in the grass, or rattle mid the boughs. A sultry lull, and then a gust again, — And now I see the thick advancing rain ! It fairly hisses as it drives along, And where it strikes breaks up in silvery spray As if 't were dancing to the fitful song Made by the trees, which twist themselves and sway In contest with the wind, that rises fast Until the breeze becomes a furious blast. And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled, The clouds lie piled up in the splendid west, In massive shadow tipped with purplish red, Crimson, or gold. The scene is one of rest; And on the bosom of yon still lagoon I see the crescent of the pallid moon. James Barron Hope. " And on the bosom of yon still lagoon I see the crescent of the pallid moon." -3*S<$^Z- IMAGINATIVE SYMPATHY WITH NATURE. S|ICY, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye, Isp With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless — if I rest. But where of ye, O tempests ! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest? Lord Byron. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 165 SEPTEMBER. HWEET is the voice that calls From babbling waterfalls In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; And soft the breezes blow, And eddying come and go In faded gardens where the rose is dying. Among the stuhbled corn The blithe quail pipes at morn, The merry partridge drums in hidden places, And glittering insects gleam Above the reedy stream, Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. At eve, cool shadows fall Across the garden wall, And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; And pearly vapors lie Along the eastern sky, Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. Ah, soon on field and hill The wind shall whistle chill. And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, To fly from frost and snow, And seek for lands where blow The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. The cricket chirps all day, "O fairest summer, stay! " The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wild fowl fly afar Above the foamy bar, And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. 166 THE KOYAL GALLERY. Now comes a fragrant breeze Through the dark cedar-trees, And round about my temples fondly lingers, In gentle playfulness, Like to the soft caress Bestowed in happier days by loving Angers. Yet, though a sense of grief Comes with the falling leaf, And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, In all my autumn dreams A future summer gleams, Passing the fairest glories of the present! George Arnold. FLOWERS. p WILL not have the mad Clytie, ft* Whose head is turned by the sun ; If" The tulip is a courtly queen, I Whom, therefore, I will shun: I The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun ; — But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one. The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand ; The wolfsbane I should dread ; -l3— sg— Ej- Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead ; But I will woo the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red. The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me ; And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, She is of such low degree ; __ Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves; And the broom's betrothed to the bee ; But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she, Thomas Hood. STARS. sSE stars ! which are the poetry of heaven, If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven That in our aspirations to be great Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them- selves a star. Lord Byron. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 167 The hollow winds begin to blow.' : SIGNS OF RAIN. •jfFRHE hollow winds begin to blow ; sai^s The clouds look black, the glass is low, The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, And spiders from their cobwebs peep. Last night the sun went pale to bed, The moon in halos hid her head; The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, For see, a rainbow spans the sky! The walls are damp, the ditches smell, Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. Hark how the chairs and tables crack ! Old Betty's nerves are on the rack; Loud quacks the duck, the peacocks cry, The distant hills are seeming nigh. How restless are the snorting swine ! The busy flies disturb the kiue, Low o'er the grass the swallow wings, The cricket, too, how sharp he sings! Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws; Through the clear streams the fishes rise, And nimbly catch the incautious flies. The glow-worms, numerous and light, Illumed the dewy dell last night; 168 THE ROYAL GALLERY. At dusk the squalid toad was seen, Hopping and crawling o'er the green; The whirling dust the wind obeys, And in the rapid eddy plays ; The frog has changed his yellow vest, And in a russet coat is dressed. Though June, the air is cold and still, The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill ; My dog, so altered in his taste, Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast; And see yon rooks, how odd their flightl They imitate the gliding kite, And seem precipitate to fall, As if they felt the piercing ball. 'T will surely rain ; I see with sorrow, Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow. Edward Jenner. "Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow." DAFFODILS. WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering, dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; I gazed, and gazed, but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought : Eor oft, when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 16 l J SONNET ON THE jfWAS morn, brow (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) Streamed the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted. Varying as we go, Lo, the woods open, and the rocks retire, RIVER RHINE. Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire 'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despair, Frowns the bleak cliff ; there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide ; While Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. William Lisle Bowles, "Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despair, Frowns the bleak cliff." pliN itself the ocean panorama is very grand. It would be hard to exaggerate the beauty HI of both sea and sky, especially in and near the tropics. The sky near the horizon was of pale blue, and often the clouds all round the sea line of a light pink tint, and the sea near the ship like an amethyst or the wing of some tropical bird. In those rare times when the sea was calm, the motion of the ship made it flow in large sheets as of some oily liquid; or, again, like the blue steel of some polished cuirass. 170 THE KOYAL GALLERY. TO THE CUCKOO. . JJEAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! 11*1 Thou messenger of spring ! ■^p™ Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, ? And woods thy welcome sing. Soon as the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear. Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year? Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another spring to hail. Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year ! O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Attendants on the spring. John Logan. -^&P- MARCH. |LAYER of winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh ! The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. Welcome, O March ! whose kindly days and dry Make April ready for the throstle's song, Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong! Yea, welcome, March ! and though I die ere June, Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, Striving to swell the burden of the tune That even now I hear thy brown birds raise, Unmindful of the past or coming days; Who sing, " O joy! a new year is begun! What happiness to look upon the sun! " O, what begetteth all this storm of bliss, But Death himself, who, crying solemnly, Even from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness, Bids us, "Rejoice! lest pleasureless ye die. Within a little time must ye go by. Stretch forth your open hands, and, while ye live, Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give." William Morris. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 171 THE SHADED WATER. aHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke, I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys And sit me down beside this little brook ; The waters have a music to mine ear It glads me much to hear. It is a quiet glen, as you may see, Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, That spread their giant branches, broad and free, The silent growth of many centuries ; And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, A sabbath of the woods. A gracious couch — the root of an old oak Whose branches yield it moss and canopy — Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke Secure, shall never be resigned by me; It hangs above the stream that idly flies, Heedless of any eyes. There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour While every sense on earnest mission sent, Eeturns, thought-laden, back with bloom and flower; Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, A profitable toil. " It is a quiet fflen, as you mav see, Shut in from all intrusion by the trees." Few know its quiet shelter, — none, like me, Do seek it out with such a fond desire, Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree, And listening as the voiceless leaves respire, — When the far-traveling breeze, done wandering, Eests here his weary wing. And all the day, with fancies ever new, And sweet companions from their boundless store, Of merry elves bespangled all with dew, Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, I fling the hours away. And still the waters, trickling at my feet, Wind on their way with gentlest melody, Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by,— Yet not so rudely as to send one sound Through the thick copse around. Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees, Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries, — And with awakened vision upward bent, I watch the firmament. 172 THE EOYAL GALLBEY. How like its sure and undisturbed retreat — Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm — To the pure waters trickling at my feet The bending trees that overshade my form ! So far as sweetest things of earth may seem Like those of which we dream. Such, to my mind, is the philosophy The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight, Sails far into the blue that spreads on high, Until I lose him from my straining sight, — With a most lofty discontent to fly Upward, from earth to sky. William Gilmqke Simms. " And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine." |rn^HE mellow year is hasting to its close; s-Ars The little birds have almost sung their last, *W- Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — ' J4 That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;— The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the Morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, And makes a little summer where it grows : NOVEMBER. In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define, And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine. Hartley Coleeidge. fflfr seems as if it were Nature's ain Sabbath, and the verra waters were at rest. Look dSW down upon the vale profound, and the stream is without motion ! No doubt, if you were walking along the bank, it would be murmuring with your feet. But here — here up amang the hills, we can imagine it asleep, even like the well within reach of my staff. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 173 THE SEA IN CALM AND STORM. fARIOUS and vast, sublime in all its forms, When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by < ^~ > storms ; Its colors changing, when from clouds and sun Shades after shades upon the surf ace run ; Embrowned and horrid now, and now serene In limpid blue and evanescent green; And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie, Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced eye ! Be it the summer noon ; a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; Then just the hot and stony beach above, Light, twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; 3 (For, heated thus, the warmer air ascends, And with the cooler in its fall contends) . Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps, Then slowly sinking ; curling to the strand, Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand, Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow, And back return in silence, smooth and slow, " Ships in the calm seem anchored ; for they glide On the still sea, urged solely by the tide." " The petrel, in the troubled way, Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray.' 174 THE ROYAL GALLERY. Ships in the calm seem anchored ; for they glide On the still sea, urged solely by the tide. ******* View now the winter storm ! Ahove, one cloud, Black and unhroken, all the skies o'ershroud; The unwieldy porpoise, through the day before, Had rolled in view of boding men on shore; And sometimes hid and sometimes showed his form, Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. Raking the rounded flints, which ages past Rolled by their rage, and shall to ages last. Far off, the petrel, in the troubled way, Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray; She rises often, often drops again, And sports at ease on the tempestuous main. High o'er the restless deep, above the reach Of gunner's hope, vast flights of wild-ducks stretch ; -Their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge." All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam The breaking billows cast the flying foam Upon the billows rising — all the deep Is restless change — the waves, so swelled and steep, Breaking and sinking and the sunken swells, Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : But nearer land you may the billows trace, As if contending in their watery chase ; May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach, Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; Curled as they come, they strike with furious force, And then, reflowing, take their grating course, Far as the eye can glance on either side, In a broad space and level line they glide; All in their wedge-like figures from the north, Day after day, flight after flight, go forth. Inshore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge, And drop for prey within the sweeping surge ; Oft in the rough, opposing blast they fly Far back, then turn, and all their force apply, While to the storm they give their weak, complain- ing cry; Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast, And in the restless ocean dip for rest. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 175 THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN. . A- . |HE midges dance aboon the burn; The dews begin to fa' ; The pairtricks down the rushy holm Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbirds sang Kings through the briery shaw, While, flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa\ Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay ; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains To charm the lingering day ; While weary yeldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves, The fox-glove shuts its bell; The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell. Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me. Robert Tannahill. NATURE'S DELIGHTS. MAKER of sweet poets ! dear delight Of this fair world and all its gentle livers ; Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, Mingler with leaves, and dew, and tumbling 1 streams ; Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams ; Lover of loneliness and wandering, Of upcast eye and tender pondering ! — Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile on us to tell delightful stories; For what has made the sage or poet write, But the fair paradise of Nature's light? In the calm grandeur of a sober line We see the waving of the mountain pine ; And when a tale is beautifully staid, We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade ; When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings ; Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet-brier, And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; While at our feet the voice of crystal bubbles Charms us at once away from all our troubles; So that we feel uplifted from the world, Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curled. John Keats. HARVEST TIME. |'ER all the land, a vision rare and splendid — (What time the summer her last glory yields!) I saw the reapers, by tall wains attended, Wave their keen scythes across the ripened fields ; At each broad sweep the glittering grain-stalks parted, With all their sunniest lustres earthward bowed, But still those tireless blade-curves flashed and darted Like silvery lightnings from a golden cloud. Then burst from countless throats in choral thunder A strain that rose toward the sapphire dome ; — Hushed in his lay, the mock -bird heard with wonder The resonant gladness of their "Harvest Home," And Echo to far fells and forest fountains Bore the brave burden that was half divine, While the proud crested eagle of the mountains Sent back an answer from his eyried pine. And still, the tireless steel gleamed in and over The bearded cohorts of the rye and wheat, Till in long swathes, o'ertopped by perfumed clover, They slept supinely at the laborer's feet; And still that harvest song rolled en, till even Looked wanly forth from night's encircling bars, — When, like a pearl of music, lost in Heaven Its sweetness melted in a sea of stars. O favored land ! thy bursting barns are laden With such fair offspring of thine opulent sod, At length thou art a rich Arcadian Adenne, Lapped in the bounteous benison of God. Pomona vies with Ceres ; but less sober, Trips down her orchard ways at gleeful ease, And in the luminous sunsets of October, Shakes the flushed fruitage from her rustling trees. 176 THE ROYAL GALLERY. And far as fancy's kindling eyes can follow The harvest-landscapes in their hale increase, O'er radiant hill-top, and through shadowy hollow, Gleams the white splendor of the Plant of Peace. Its bolls, wind-wafted on their airy stations, Hold spells of subtlest service, deftly furled — Soon to unfold through marvellous transformations, And weave their warmth and comfort 'round the world ! Ah ! Christ be praised ; where once o'er wold and water Flashed back the fury of war's blood-red glare — Where once the shrieks of fratricidal slaughter Died shuddering on the hot, volcanian air — Only the breeze, in frolic charge, advances, To stir the tides, or win the foliaged pass; The sunbeams only smite with wavering lances The frail battalions of the leaves and grass ! Then let our hearts — 'ere grateful fervor falters — To Him, whose love fulfills all pure desire, Upwaft, as borne from bright, ethereal altars, The glow and grace of sacrificial Are. For Plenty smiles alike on cot and palace. And Peace, so long to us an unknown guest, Pours from the depths of her enchanted chalice That heavenly wine which brings the nations rest I Paul Hamilton Hayne. -^a-^ THE EVENING WIND. ||||PIBIT that breathest through my lattice : thou That coolest the twilight of the sultry day! Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Biding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest; Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast. Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. " Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening- their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail." Nor I alone, — a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fullness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; And languishing to hear thy welcome sound, Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, — God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone, That they who near the churchyard willows stray, And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, May think of gentle souls that passed away, Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, And gone into the boundless heaven again. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 177 The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee : thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go, — but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more. Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. William Cullen Bryant. mfmtmm '* Where the giraffes browse With stately head, among the forest boughs." NATURE'S MAGNIFICENCE. fHERE the stupendous mountains of the moon Cast their broad shadows o'er the realms of £gi|!S noon; <^- From rude Caffraria, where the giraffes browse With stately heads among the forest boughs, To Atlas, where Numidian lions glow With torrid fire beneath eternal snow; 12 From Nubian hills that hail the dawn of day, To Guinea's coast, where evening fades away; Eegions immense, unsearchable, unknown, Bask in the splendor of the solar zone, — A world of wonders, where creation seems No more the works of Nature, but her dreams. 178 THE ROYAL GALLERY. Great, wild and beautiful, beyond control, She reigns in all the freedom of her soul; Where none can check her bount}' when she showers O'er the gay wilderness her fruits and flowers ; None brave her fury when, with whirlwind breath And earthquake step, she walks abroad with death. O'er boundless plains she holds her fiery flight, In terrible magnificence of light; At blazing noon pursues the evening breeze, Through the dim gloom of realm-o'ershadowing trees ; Her thirst at Nile's mysterious fountain quells, Or bathes in secresy where Niger swells, An inland ocean, on whose jasper rocks AVith shells and sea-flower wreaths she binds her locks. She sleeps on isles of velvet verdure, placed Midst sandy gulphs and shoals for ever waste; She guides her countless flocks to cherished rills, And feeds her cattle on a thousand hills. James Montgomery. ' Her thirst at Nile's mysterious fountain quells. 1 SPRING. ITViP down upon the northern shore, Hll; O sweet new year, delaying long . 'ZfF' Thou doest expectant Nature wrong; J4> Delaying long, delay no more. What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons? Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire, The little speedwell's darling blue, Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, Laburnums, dropping wells of fire. O thou, new year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud, And flood a fresher throat with song. Alfred Tennyson. SXTjRHE SKY — sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, never the same i^Ars for two moments together; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity — its appeal to what is immortal in us is as distinct as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal, is essential. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. 179 IT SNOWS. 1 snows ! " cries the School-boy, " Hurrah ! " and his shout Is ringing through parlor and hall, While swift as the wing of a swallow, he's out, And his playmates have answered his call ; It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy; Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow. Like the rapture that throbs iu the pulse of the boy, As he gathers his treasures of snow; Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, While health, and the riches of nature, are theirs. And nearer and nearer his soft cushioned chair Is wheeled toward the life-giving flame ; He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air, Lest it wither his delicate frame ; Oh ! small is the pleasure existence can give, When the fear we shall die only proves that we live! "It snows! " cries the Traveler, " Ho! " and the word Has quickened his steed's lagging pace ; The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard, Unf elt the sharp drif t in his face ; " Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow, Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy, As he gathers his treasures of snow." ■" It snows !" sighs the Imbecile, "Ah!" and his breath Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight : While, from the pale aspect of nature in death He tarns to the blaze of his grate ; For bright through the tempest his own home appeared, Ay, through leagues intervened he can see ; ■ There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared, And his wife with her babes at her knee; 180 THE ROYAL GALLEKY. Blest thought! how it lightens the grief -laden hour, That those we love clearest are safe from its power ! " It snows! " cries the Belle, "Dear, how lucky! " and turns Erom her mirror to watch the flakes fall ; Like the first'rose of summer, her dimpled cheek hums, While musing on sleigh-ride and ball : There are visions of conquests, of splendor, and mirth, Floating over each drear winter's day; But the tintiugs of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth, Will melt like the snow-flakes away : Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss ; That world has a pure fount ne'er opened in this. "It snows! " cries the Widow, "Oh God! " and her sighs Have stifled the voice of her prayer ; Its burden you'll read, in her tear-swollen eyes, On her cheek sunk with fasting and care. 'Tis night, and her fatherless ask her for bread, But " He gives the young ravens their food," And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread, And she lays on her last chip of wood. Poor sufferer ! that sorrow thy God only knows ; 'Tis a most bitter lot to be poor, when it snows I Mrs. S. J. Hale. ■S-'SS "Till the victorious Orb rose unattended, And every billow was his mirror splendid! *ii=3>9 SUNRISE -AT SEA. ^TJIEX die mild weather came, And set the sea on flame, How often would I rise before the sun, And from the mast behold The gradual splendors of the sky unfold Ere the first line of disk had yet begun, Above the horizon's arc, To show its flaming gold, Across the purple dark ! One perfect dawn how well I recollect, When the whole east was flecked With flashing streaks and shafts of amethyst, While a light crimson mist Went up before the mounting luminary, And all the strips of cloud began to vary Their hues, and all the zenith seemed to ope As if to show a cope beyond the cope ! How reverently calm the ocean lay At the bright birth of that celestial day ! How every little vapor, robed in state, Would melt and dissipate Before the augmenting ray, Till the victorious Orb rose unattended, And every billow was his mirror splendid ! Epes Sargent, GLIMPSES OF NATUKE. 181 INVOCATION TO NATUEE. lARTH, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood ! If our great mother have imbued my soul With aught of natural piety to feel Your love, and recompense the boon with mine; If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even, With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, And solemn midnight's tingling silentness; If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood, And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs ; If Spring's voluptuous pantings, when she breathes Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me ; If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast I consciously have injured, but still loved And cherished these my kindred ; — then forgive ' This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw No portion of your wonted favor now ! Pekcy Bysshe Shelley. ^sxr- 2 - TABLE MOUNTAIN, CAPE OF GOOD HOPE. APE of storms, thy spectre fled, P See, the angel Hope, instead, Lights from heaven upon thine head; — And where Table-mountain stands; Barbarous hordes from desert sands, Bless the sight with lifted hands. St. Helena's dungeon-keep Scowls defiance o'er the deep ; There a warrior's relics sleep. Who he was, and how he fell, Europe, Asia, Afric, tell ; On that theme all time shall dwell. James Montgomery. fHAT is there more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-surrounding, unfathomable sea? What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm, gently-heaving, silent sea? What is there more terribly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power — resistless, overwhelming power — is its attribute and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. 182 THE KOYAL GALLEKY. "To climb the trackless mountain all unseen With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean." THE POET'S SOLITUDE. 3lY;0 sit on rook?, to muse o'er flood and fell, &A^ To slowly trace flic forest's shady scene. that own not man's dominion -4^ Where things "^ dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean, — This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms and view her stores unrolled. But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendor, shrinking from distress ! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flattered, followed, sought and sued; This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! Lord Byron. •0^8 &SJO.- COUNTRY LIFE. -isg~©s=!- " When now the cock, the ploughman's horn, Calls for the lily-wristed morn." A COUNTRY LIFE. :WEET country life, to such unknown, Whose lives are others', not their own! But serving courts and cities, be Less happy, less enjoying thee. Thou never plough'd the ocean's foam, To seek and bring rough pepper home ; Nor to the eastern Ind dost rove, To bring from thence the scorched clove ; Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest, Bring'st home the ingot from the west. No ; thy ambition's masterpiece Flies no thought higher than a fleece ; Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear All scores, and so to end the year; But walk'st about thy own dear grounds. Not craving others' larger bounds ; 1S3 184 THE ROYAL GALLERY. For well thou know'st 'tis not th' extent Of land makes life, but sweet content. When now the cock, the ploughman's horn, Calls for the lily-wristed morn, Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go, Which, though well soil'd, yet thou dost know That the best compost for the lands Is the wise master's feet and hands. There, at the plough, thou flnd'st thy team, With a hind whistling there to them; And cheer'st them up by singing how The kingdom's portion is the plough. This done, then to th' enamell'd meads Thou go'st; and, as thy foot there treads, Thou seest a present god-like power Imprinted in each herb and flower ; For sports, for pageantry, and plays, Thou hast thy eves and holy-days, On which the young men and maids meet To exercise their dancing feet; Tripping the comely country round, With daffodils and daisies crown'd. Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast, Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced; Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun ale, Thy shearing feast, which never fail; Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl, That's tost up after fox i' th' hole; Thy mummeries, thy twelfth-night kings And queens, and Christmas revellings; Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit, And no man pays too dear for it. " And find'st their bellies there as full Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool.' And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine, Sweet as the blossoms of the vine. Here thou behold'st thy large, sleek neat, Unto the dewlaps up in meat; And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer, The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near, To make a pleasing pastime there. These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox ; And flnd'st their bellies there as full Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool ; And leav'st them, as they feed and fill, A shepherd piping on the hill. To these thou hast thy time to go, And trace the hare in the treacherous snow : Thy witty wiles to draw, and get The lark into the trammel net; Thou hast thy cock rood, and thy glade, To take the precious pheasant made ! Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, then, To catch the pilfering birds, not men. O happy life, if that their good The husbandmen but understood ! Who all the day themselves do please, And younglings, with such sports as these; And, lying down, have nought t' affright Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night. Robert Hekbick. COUNTRY LITE. 185 " Around rny ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew." A WISH. rTJrfrJSTE be a cot beside the hill; elf&pS A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; ^fflv -^ willowy brook that turns a mill T With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow oft beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy at her wheel shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village church, among the trees, Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven. Samuel Rogers. |AJST anything be so elegant as«to have few wants and serve them one's self? Parched corn, and a house with one apartment, that I may be free of all perturbations, that I may be serene and docile to what the mind shall speak, and girt and road-ready for the lowest mission of knowledge or goodness, is frugality for gods and heroes. 18(5 THE ROYAL GALLERY. TOWN AND COUNTRY. iPS§OD ma( j e the country and man made the town. Ifti! What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts X That can alone make sweet the bitter draught » That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threatened in the fields and groves? Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, possess ye still Your element; there only can ye shine; There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve The moonbeam, sliding softly in between The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, Birds warbling all the music. We can spare The splendor of your lamps ; they but eclipse Our softer satellite. Your songs confound Our more harmonious notes : the thrush departs Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. There is a public mischief in your mirth ; It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, A mutilated structure, soon to fall. William Cowpee. THE HOMESTEAD. NryROMthe old squire's dwelling, gloomy and grand, ]JC% Stretching away on either hand, /^\ Lie fields of broad and fertile land. U" W Acres on acres everywhere, f The look of smiling plenty wear, t That tells of the master's thoughtful care. Sleek cows down the pasture take their ways, Or lie in the shade through the sultry days, Idle, and too full-fed to graze. Ah ! you might wander far and wide, Nor find a spot in the country's side So fair to see as our valley's pride! " And here you will find on everv hand Walks and fountains and statues grand, And trees from many a foreign land." Here blossoms the clover, white and red, Here the heavy oats in a tangle spread, And the millet lifts her golden head ; And, ripening, closely neighbored by Eields of barley and pale white rye, The yellow wheat grows strong and high. And near, untried through the summer days, Lifting their spears in the sun's fierce blaze, Stand the bearded ranks of the maize. Straying over the side of the hill, The sheep run to and fro at will, Nibbling of short green grass their fill. How, just beyond, if it will not tire Your feet to climb this green knoll higher, We can see the pretty village spire ; And, mystic haunt of the whippoorwills, The wood, that all the background fills, Crowning the tops to the mill-creek hills. There, miles away, like a faint blue line, Whenever the day is clear and fine, You cat? see the track of a river shine. Near it a city hides unseen. Shut close the verdant hills between, As an acorn set in its cup of green. COUNTRY LIFE. 187 And right beneath, at the foot of the hill, The little creek flows swift and still, . That turns the wheel of Dovecote mill. Nearer the grand old house one sees Fair rows of thrifty apple-trees, And tall straight pears o'ertopping these. And down at the foot of the garden, low, On a rustic bench, a pretty show, "White bee-hives, standing in a row. And here you will And on every hand Walks and fountains and statues grand, And trees from many a foreign land. And flowers, that only the learned can name, Here glow and burn like a gorgeous flame, Putting the poor man's blooms to shame. Far away from their native air The Norway pines their green dress wear; And larches swing their long, loose hair. " Though grave and quiet at any time, Put that now, his head in manhood's prime Is growing white as the winter's rime." Here trimmed in sprigs, with blossoms, each Of the little bees in easy reach, Hang the boughs of the plum and peach. At the garden's head are poplars tall, And peacocks, making their harsh, loud call, Sun themselves all day on the wall. Near the porch grows the broad catalpa tree, And o'er it the grand wistaria Born to the purple of royalty. There looking the same for a weary while — 'Twas built in this heavy, gloomy style — Stands the mansion, a grand old pile. 188 THE KOYAL GALLERY. Always closed, as it is to-daj', And the proud squire, so the neighbors say, Frowns each unwelcome guest away. Though some, who knew him long ago, If you ask, will shake their heads of snow, And tell you he was not always so, Thougn grave and quiet at any time, But that now, his head in manhood's prime Is growing white as the winter's rime. Phcebe Cary. " His little hoys are with him, seeking flowers, Or chasing the too venturous gilded fly." SUNDAY IN THE FIELDS. $AIL Sabbath! day of mercy, peace, and rest! Thou o'er loud cities throw'st a noiseless spell ; The hammer there, the wheel, the saw, molest Pale thought no more. O'er trade's conten- tious hell Meek Quiet spreads her wings invisible. But when thou com'st less silent are the fields, Through whose sweet paths the toil-freed towns- man steals ; To him the very air a banquet yields. Envious he watches the poised hawk that wheels His flight on chainless winds. Each cloud reveals A paradise of beauty to his eye. His little boys are with him, seeking flowers, Or chasing the too venturous gilded fly ; So by the daisy's side he spends the hours, Renewing friendship with the budding bowers; And— while might, beauty, good without alloy, Are mirror'd in his children's happy eyes, In His great temple offering thankful joy To Him the infinitely Great and Wise, With soul attuned to Nature's harmonies, Serene and cheerful as a sporting child. Ebenezer Elliot. -73«M- The glory of the country is in its homes, which contain the true elements of national vitality, and are the embodied type of heaven. COUNTRY LIFE. 189 BLOSSOM-TIME. * j|HERE'S a wedding in the orchard, dear, I know it by the flowers : They're wreathed on every bough and branch, Or falling down in showers. The air is in a mist, I think, And scarce knows which to be — Whether all fragrance, clinging close, Or bird-song, wild and free. While whispers ran among the boughs Of promises and praise ; And playful, loving messages Sped through the leaf-lit ways. And just beyond the wreathed aisles That end against the blue, The raiment of the wedding-choir And priest came shining through. ' There's a wedding in the orchard, dear, I know it by the flowers." And countless wedding-jewels shine, And golden gifts of grace : I never saw such wealth of sun In any shady place. It seemed I heard the fluttering robes Of maidens clad in white, The clasping of a thousand hands In tenderest delight; And though I saw no wedding-guest, Nor groom, nor gentle bride, I know that holy things were asked, And holy love replied. And something through the sunlight said : "Let all who love be blest! The earth is wedded to the spring — And God, He knoweth best." Mary E. Dodge. 190 THE ROYAL GALLERY. THE PRAISE OF A SOLITAET LIFE. |HRICE happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own. Thou solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love, O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobhings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve! O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalm'd which new-born flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath ! How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold ! The world is full of horror, troubles, slights : Woods' harmless shades have only true delights. William Deummond. "Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own. 3 THE OLD MILL. 'JOKEPIDE the stream the grist-mill stands, 'f^'\ With bending roof and leaning wall ; *ff^ So old, that when the winds are wild, j-l The miller trembles lest it fall : And yet it baffles wind and rain, Our brave old Mill, and will again. From morn to night in Autumn time, When harvests fill the neighboring plains, Up to the mill the farmers drive, And back anon with loaded wains : And when the children come from school They stop and watch its foamy pool. Its dam is steep, and hung with weeds : The gates are up, the waters pour, And tread the old wheels slippery round, The lowest step forever o'er. Methinks they fume, and chafe with ire, Because they cannot climb it higher. The mill inside is small and dark; But peeping in the open door You see the miller flitting round, The dusty hags along the floor, The whirling shaft, the clattering spout, And the yellow meal a-pouring out! COUNTRY LIFE. 191 All da}' the meal is floating there, Rising and falling in the breeze; And when the sunlight strikes its mist It glitters like a swarm of bees : Or like the cloud of smoke and light Above a blacksmith's forge at night. I love our pleasant, quaint old Mill, It still recalls my boyish prime ; 1 Tis changed since then, and so am I, "We both have known the touch of time : The mill is crumbling in decay, And I — my hair is early gray. I stand beside the stream of life, And watch the current sweep along : And when the flood-gates of my heart Are raised, it turns the wheel of song : But scant, as yet, the harvest brought From out the golden fields of Thought. Richard Henry Stoddard. ^"3S^- FAEMI1TO. HILE the city is refreshed and renovated by the pure tides poured from the country into its steamy and turbid channels, the cultivation of the soil affords at home that moderate excitement, healthful occupation, and reasonable return, which most conduce to the prosperity and enjoyment of life. It is, in fact, the primitive employment of man, — first in time, first in importance. The newly-created father of mankind was placed by the Supreme Author of his being in the garden which the- hand of Omnipotence itself had planted, "to dress and to keep it." Before the heaving bellows had urged the furnace, before a hammer had struck upon an anvil, before the gleaming waters had flashed from an oar, before trade had hung up its scales or gauged its measures, the culture of the soil began. "To dress the garden and to keep it!" — This was the key-note struck by the hand of God himself in that long, joyous, wailing, triumphant, troubled, pensive strain of life-music which sounds through the generations and ages of our race. Banished from the garden of Eden, man's merciful sentence — at once doom, reprieve and livelihood — was "to till the ground from which he was taken,' - ' and this, in its primitive simplicity, was the occupation of the gathering societies of men. To this wholesome discipline the mighty East, in the days of her ascendency, was trained ; and so rapid was her progress that in periods anterior to the dawn of history she had tamed the domestic animals, had saddled the horse, and yoked the ox, and milked the cow, and sheared the patient sheep, and possessed herself of most of the cereal grains which feed mankind at the present day. I obtained from the gardens of Chatsworth, and sent to this country, where they germinated, two specimens of wheat raised from grains supposed to have been wrapped uj) in Egyptian mummy-cloths 3,000 years ago, and not materially differing from our modern varieties; one of them, indeed, being precisely identical — thus affording us the pleasing assurance that the corn which Joseph placed in Benjamin's sack before the great pyramid was built was not inferior to the best of the present day. Edward Everett. I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than to be crowded on a velvet cushion. 192 THE KOYAL GALLERY. TWO PICTURES. old farm-house with meadows wide And sweet with clover on each side ; A bright-eyed hoy, who looks from out The door with woodbine wreathed about, And wishes his one thought all day : " Oh, if I could but fly away Erom this dull spot, the world to see, How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should be ! " Amid the city's constant din, A man who round the world has been, Who, mid the tumult and the throng, Is thinking, thinking, all day long : " Oh, could I only tread once more The field-path to the farm-house door, The old green meadow could I see, How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should be!" Marion Douglass. " Still where he treads the stubborn clods divide. The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide." THE PLOUGHMAN. i|LEAR the brown path to meet his coulter's gleam ! Lo ! on he comes, behind his smoking team, With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow, The lord of earth, the hero of the plough ! First in the field before the reddening sun, Last in the shadows when the day is'done, Line after line, along the bursting sod, Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod. Still where he treads the stubborn clods divide, The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide ; Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves, Mellow and dark the ridgy corn-field cleaves; Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train Slants the long track, that scores the level plain, Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay, The patient convoy breaks its destined way; At every turn the loosening chains resound, The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round,. Till the wide field one billowy waste appears, And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings; This is the page whose letters shall be seen, Changed by the sun to words of living green; COUNTRY LIFE. 193 This is the scholar whose immortal pen Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men; These are the lines that heaven-commanded Toil Shows on his deed, — the charter of the soil! O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest, How thy sweet features, kind to every clime, Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of Time ! We stain thy flowers,- — they blossom o'er the dead; We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread ; O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn, Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn; Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain, Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms, Let not our virtues in thy love decay, And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away. No, by these hills whose banners now displayed In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed ; By yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests ; By these fair plains the mountain circle screens, And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravines, — True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil To crown with peace their own untainted soil; And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind, If her chained ban-dogs Faction shall unbind, These stately forms, that, bending even now, Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough, Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, The same stern iron in the same right hand, Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run, — The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won! Oliver Wendell Holmes. "To walk in the air how pleasant and fair.' THE USEFUL PLOUGH. COUNTRY life is sweet! In moderate cold and heat, To walk in the air how pleasant and fair! In every field of wheat, The fairest flowers adorning the bowers, And every meadow's brow ; So that I say, no courtier may Compare with them who clothe in gray, And follow the useful plough. They rise with the morning lark, And labor till almost dark, Then, foldiug their sheep, they hasten to sleep While every pleasant park Next morniug is ringing with birds that are singing On each green, tender bough. With what content and merriment Their days are spent, whose minds are bent To follow the useful plough. Weariness can snore upon the flint, when restive sloth finds the down pillow hard. 13 194 THE ROYAL GALLERY. *3 2E COUNTRY LIFE. 195 COUNTRY LIFE. MlpHE merchant tempts me with his gold, What is to me the city s pride? gSg* The gold he worships night and day; The haunt of luxury and pleasure; *fp He bids me leave this dreary wold, Those fields and hills, this wild brookside, J>1 And come into the city gay. To me are better beyond measure. I will not go ; I won't be sold ; Mid country scenes I'll still abide ; I scorn his pleasures and array; With country life and country leisure, I'll rather bear the country's cold, Content, whatever may betide, Than from its freedom walk away. With common good instead of treasure. ..<..- 3~£-.<».. THE CITY A.~KD THE COUNTRY. |fIYUE Reverend Robert Collj'er made the remark on one occasion that during his twenty &^~3 years' residence in Chicago he had not known of a single man who had come ■&|p prominently to the front in any pursuit who was born and bred in a large city. The leading men in every calling — judges, lawyers, clergymen, editors, merchants, and so on — had been reared in the country, away from the follies, the vices and the enervating influences that are known to exist in all large towns. Fashion reduces all young men and women to the same dull and uninteresting level. New York is now an old city. It has produced generations of men. How few of them have ever made their mark, there or elsewhere ! It cannot be said that they go into other parts of the country and there develop the higher forms of manhood. They are never heard of except in the aggregated, concrete form of "our fellow-citizens." How much of a man is due to qualities born in him, and how much to his early environment, no philosopher has been able to tell us; but it is impossible to conceive of a sagacious intellect like that of Lincoln, of a glorious mind like Webster's, emerging from the false glitter and noisy commotion of the city. We think of Washington, the patrician sage, pacing among the stately oaks of old Virginia; of Jefferson in his country-seat, and of John Adams tilling his farm in Massachusetts. These men, it is true, flourished at a time when there were no large cities in the United States. But later on we see Lincoln and Garfield reaching the topmost round of fame's ladder from the obscurity of country homes. Not one American President, from first to last, was born in a city. THE HAYMAKERS. 10W]Sr on the Merrimac River, The good wife, up the river, HP? While the autumn grass is green, Has made the oven hot, Oh, there the jolly hay-men And with plenty of pandowdy In their gundalows are seen ; Has filled her earthen pot. Floating down, as ebbs the current, Their long oars sweep them onward, And the dawn leads on the day, As the ripples round them play, With their scythes and rakes all ready, And the jolly hay-men drift along To gather in the hay. To make the meadow hay. 196 THE ROYAL GALLERY. At the bank-side then they moor her, Where the sluggish waters run, By the shallow creek's low edges, Beneath the fervid sun — And all day long the toilers Mow their swaths, and day hy day, You can see their scythe-blades flashing At the cutting of the hay. When the meadow-birds are flying, Then down go scythe and rake, And right and left their scattering shots The sleeping echoes wake — For silent spreads the broad expanse, To the sand-hills far away, And thus they change their work for sport, At making of the hay. When the gundalows are loaded — Gunwales to the water's brim — With their little square-sails set atop, Up the river how they swim ! At home, beside the fire, by night, While the children round them play, What tales the jolly hay-men tell Of getting in the hay ! George Ltjnt. : 'EN " Down on the Merrimac River, While the autumn grass is green." -s^as-^. THE SONG OF THE MOWERS. E are up and away, ere the sunrise hath kissed In the valley below us, that ocean of mist, Ere the tops of the hills have grown bright in its ray, With our scythes on our shoulders, we're up and away. The freshness and beauty of morning are ours, The music of birds and the fragrance of flowers ; And our trail is the first that is seen in the dew. As our pathway through orchards and lanes we pursue. Hurrah ! here we are ! now together, as one, Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily on; All together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass, With a swing and a ring of the steel through the grass. Before us the clover stands thickly and tall, At our left it is piled in a verdurous wall ; And never breathed monarch more fragrant perfumes Than the sunshine distills from its leaves and its blooms. COUNTRY LIFE. 197 Invisible censers around us are swung, And anthems exultant from tree-tops are flung; And 'mid fragrance and music and beauty we share The jubilant life of the earth and the air. Letthe priest and the lawyer grow pale in their shades, And the slender young clerk keep his skin like a maid's; We care not, though dear Mother Nature may bronze Our cheeks with the kiss that she gives to her sons. Then cheerly, boys, cheerly! together, as one, Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily on; All together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass, With a swing and a ring of the steel through the grass. William Henky Burleigh. 2-^)5 THE CORNFIELD. lOOlST as the morning trembles o'er the sky, m And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day, Before the ripened field the reapers stand. At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves, While through their cheerful band the rural talk, The rural scandal, and the rural jest, Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time, And steal unfelt the sultry hours away. James Thomson. IStHE bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down, Mm And rest your gentle head upon her lap, And she will sing the song that pleaseth you, And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness; Making such difference betwixt wake and sleep As is the difference betwixt day and night, The hour before the heavenly-harnessed team Begins his golden progress in the east. 198 THE ROYAL GALLERY. THE MOWERS. HERE mountains round a lonely dale §1 Our cottage-roof enclose, K Come night or morn, the hissing pail With yellow cream o'erflows; And roused at hreak of day from sleep, And cheerly trudging hither — A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, We mow the grass together. Gay sunlights o'er the hillocks creep, And join for golden weather — A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, We mow the dale together. The good-wife stirs at five, we know, The master soon comes round, And many swaths must lie a-row Ere breakfast-horn shall sound; " A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, We mow the grass together." The fog drawn up the mountain -side And scattered flake by flake, The chasm of blue above grows wide, And richer blue the lake ; The clover and the florin deep, The grass of silvery feather — A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep, We mow the dale together. COUNTRY LITE. 199 The noon-tide brings its welcome rest Our toil- wet brows to dry ; Anew with merry stave and jest The shrieking bone we ply. White falls the brook from steep to steep Among the purple heather — A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, We mow the dale together. For dial, see, our shadows turn ; Low lies tbe stately mead ; A scythe, an hour-glass, and an um — All flesh is grass, we read. To-morrow's sky may laugh or weep, To Heaven we leave it, whether — A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, We've done our task together. William Allingham. •a-SS-e- WHEN THE COWS COME HOME. LOVE the beautiful evening When the sunset clouds are gold ; When the barn-fowls seek a shelter And the young lambs seek their fold : When the four-o'-clocks are open. And the swallows homeward come ; When the horses cease their labors, And the cows come home. When the supper's almost ready, And Johnny is asleep, And I beside the cradle My pleasant vigil keep : Sitting beside tbe window Watching for "Pa" to come. While the soft bells gently tinkle As the cows come home. When the sunset and the twilight In mingling hues are blent, I can sit and watch the shadows With my full heart all content : And I wish for nothing brighter, And I long no more to roam When the twilight's peace comes o'er me, And the cows come home. I see their shadows lengthen As they slowly cross the field, And I know the food is wholesome Which their generous udders yield. More than the tropic's fruitage, Than marble hall or dome, Are the blessings that surround me When the cows come home. Mary E. Nealet. 200 THE ROYAL GALLERY. _G§3 COME TO THE SUNSET TREE. OME to the sunset tree! _. J The day is past and gone ; |" The woodman's ax lies free, And the reaper's work is done. The twilight star to heaven, And the summer dew to flowers, And rest to us is given By the cool, soft evening hours. Come to the sunset tree ! The day is past and gone; The woodman's ax lies free, And the reaper's work is done. Yes; tuneful is the sound That dwells in whispering houghs; Welcome the freshness round, And the gale that fans our brows. "Come to the sunset tree, The day is past. and gone." Sweet is the hour of rest! Pleasant the wind's low sigh, And the gleaming of the west, And the turf whereon we lie. When the burden and the heat Of labor's task are o'er, And kindly voices greet The tired one at his door. But rest more sweet and still Than ever nightfall gave, Our longing hearts shall fill In the world beyond the grave. There shall no tempest blow, No scorching noontide heat; There shall be no more snow, No weary wandering feet. COUNTRY LIFE. 201 And we lift our trusting eyes, From the hills our fathers trod, To the quiet of the skies, To the Sahbath of our God. Come to the sunset tree ! The day is past and gone ; The woodman's ax lies free, And the reaper's work is done ! Felicia Dorothea Hejians. H»s3-e=<- MY LITTLE BROOK. LITTLE brook half hidden under trees- It gives me peace and rest the whole day through, Having this little brook to wander to, So cool, so clear, with grassy banks and these Sweet miracles of violets 'neath the trees. And yet the waves they come I know not whence, And they now on from me I know not whither, Sometimes my fancy pines to follow thither; But I can only see the forest dense, — Still the brook flows I know not where nor whence. "I sit here by the stream in full content." There is a rock where I can sit and see The crystal ripples dancing down and racing, Like children round the stones each other chasing, Then for a moment pausing seriously, In a dark mimic pond that I can see. The rock is rough and broken on its edge With jutting corners, but there come alway The merry ripples with their tiny spray, To press it ere they flow on by the sedge, They never fail the old rock's broken edge. I sit here by the stream in full content, It is so constant, and I lay my hand Down through its waters on the golden sand, And watch the sunshine with its shallows blent, Watch it with ever-arrowing, sweet content. Who knows from what far hills it threads its way, What mysteries of cliffs and pines and skies O'erhang the spot where its first fountains rise, What shy wild deer may stoop to taste its spray, Through what rare regions my brook threads its way. I only see the trees above, below, Who knows through what fair lands the stream may run, What children play, what homes are built thereon, Through what great cities broadening it may go? — I only see the trees above, below. What do I care? I pause with full content, My little brook beside the rock to see, What it has been or what it yet may be. Naught matters, I but know that it is sent Flowing my way, and I am well content. Mart Bolles Branch. 202 THE KOYAL GALLERY. A -HARVEST HYMN". IE AT GOD ! — our heart-felt thanks to Thee ! We feel thy presence everywhere; And pray, that we may ever be Thus objects of thy guardian care. "We sowed! — by Thee our work was seen, And blessed; and instantly went forth Thy mandate ; and in living green Soon smiled the fair and fruitful earth. We toiled I — and Thou didst note our toil; And gav'st the sunshine and the rain, Till ripened on the teeming soil The fragrant grass, and golden grain. And now, we reap ! — and oh, our God ! From this, the earth's unbounded floor, We send our Song of Thanks abroad, And pray Thee, bless our hoarded store! W. D. Gallagher. THE OLD HOUSE. fll'M standing by the window-sill, Where we have stood of yore ; The sycamore is waving still Its branches near the door; And near me creeps the wild-rose vine On which our wreaths were hung, — Still round the porch its tendrils twine, As when we both were young. The little path that used to lead Down by the river shore Is overgrown with brier and weed — Not level as before. But there's no change upon the hill, From whence our voices rung — The violets deck the summit still, As when we both were young. And yonder is the old oak-tree, Beneath whose spreading shade, When our young hearts were light and free, In innocence we played ; And over there the meadow gate On which our playmates swung, Still standing in its rustic state, As when we both were young. Louisa Chandler Modlton. COUNTKY LITE. 203 RURAL NATURE. SpTlIEKE art thou loveliest, O Mature, tell! &A)jp Oh, where may be thy Paradise? Where grow P ''-- ?' Thy happiest groves? And down what woody W dell Do thy most fancy-winning waters flow? Eternal summer, while the air may quell His fury. Is it 'neath his morning car, Where jeweled palaces, and golden thrones, Have awed the Eastern nations through all time? Or o'er the Western seas, or where afar " And down what woody dell Do thy most fancy-winning waters flow? ' Tell where thy softest breezes longest blow? And where thy ever blissful mountains swell Upon whose sides the cloudless sun may throw Our winter sun warms up the southern zones With summer? Where can be the happy climes? William Barnes. i''j|||0 walk with the breeze upon one's brow, to trample the level grass exuberant with freshness, to climb upon the mountain, to follow through the meadows •^P*- some thread of water gliding under rushes and water-plants, — I give you my word for it, there is happiness in this. At this contact with healthy and natural things, the follies of the world drop off as drop the dead leaves when the spring sap rises and the young leaves put forth. 204 THE KOYAL GALLEKY. THE FARMER'S BOY. |LED now the sullen murmurs of the north, The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth ; Her universal green and the clear sky Delight still more and more the gazing eye. "Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong, Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along The mellowed soil, imbibing fairer hues Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews That summon from their sheds the slumbering ploughs, While health impregnates every breeze that blows. No wheels support the diving, pointed share ; No groaning ox is doomed to labor there ; Welcome, green headland! firm beneath his feet: Welcome, the friendly bank's refreshing seat; There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse Their sheltering canopy of pendant boughs ; Till rest delicious chase each transient pain, And new-born vigor swell in every vein. Hour after hom-, and day to day succeeds, Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads To crumbling mould, — a level surface clear, And strewed with corn to crown the rising year; And o'er the whole, Giles, once transverse again, In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain. "For pigs and ducks and turkeys throng the door." No helpmates teach the docile steed his road (Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad) : But unassisted, through each toilsome day. With smiling brow the ploug iman cleaves his way, Draws his fresh parallels, and, widening still, Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill. Strong on the wing his busy followers play, Where writhing earthworms meet the unwelcome day, Till all is changed, and hill and level down Assume a livery of sober brown ; Again disturbed, when Giles with wearying strides From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides. His heels deep sinking, every step he goes, Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes. The work is done; no more to man is given; The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven. His simple errand done, he homeward hies; Another instantly its place supplies. The clattering dairy-maid, immersed in steam, Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream, Bawls out, "Go fetch the cows!" — he hears more ; For pigs and ducks and turkeys throng the door, And sitting hens for constant war prepared, — ■ A concert strange to that which late he heard. Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes ; With well-known halloo calls his lazy cows; COUNTRY LIFE. 205 Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze, Or hear the summons with an idle gaze. For well they know the cow-yard yields no more Its tempting fragrance, nor its wintry store. Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow, The right of conquest all the law they know; The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed, And one superior always takes the lead, Is ever foremost whereso'er they stray, Allowed precedence, undisputed sway : With jealous pride her station is maintained, For many a broil that post of honor gained. At home, the yard affords a grateful scene, For spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean. Thence from its chalky bed behold conveyed The rich manure that drenching winter made, Which, piled near home, grows green with many a weed, A promised nutriment for autumn's seed. Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles; The mistress, too, and followed close by Giles. A friendly tripod forms their humble seat, With pails bright scoured and delicately sweet. Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray Begins the work, begins the simple lay ; The full-charged udder yields its willing stream While Mary sings some lover's amorous dream; And crouching Giles, beneath a neighboring tree, Tugs o'er his pail and chants with equal glee; Whose hat with battered brim, and nap so bare, From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, — A mottled ensign of his harmless trade, An unambitious, peaceable cockade. As unambitious, too, that cheerful aid The mistress yields beside her rosy maid ; With joy she views her plenteous reeking store, And bears a brimmer to the dairy door ; Her cows dismissed, the luscious mead to roam, Till eve again recall them loaded home. Robert Bloomfield. «>«#9«;» FARM- YARD SONG. fij|VFR the hills the farm-boy goes, HIP His shadow lengthened along the land, -*r A giant staff in a giant hand ; | In the poplar tree, above the spring, 1 The katydid begins to sing ; The early dews are falling ; — Into the stone-heap darts the mink; The swallows skim the river's brink ; And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheerily calling, — "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still, — "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" N"ow to her task the milkmaid goes, The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling; The new-milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye ; And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling, — "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!" Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart, at the close of day ; Harness and chain are hung away; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough ; The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow, The cooling dews are falling ; — The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet, The whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling, — "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" While still the cow-boj r , far away, Goes seeking those that have gone astray, — "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" To supper at last the farmer goes, The apples are pared, the paper read, The stories are told, then all to bed. Without, the cricket's ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long; The heavy dews are falling. The housewife's hand has turned the lock; Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; The household sinks to deep repose ; But still in sleep the farm-boy goes Singing, calling, — "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'! " And oft the milkmaid in her dreams Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, "So, boss! so! " John Townsend Trowbridge. 20G THE ROYAL GALLERY. HARVEST SONG. |p LOVE, I love to see P§ Bright steel gleam through the land ; X 'Tis a goodly sight, but it must be I In the reaper's tawny hand. The helmet and the spear Are twined with the laurel wreath ; But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear; And blood-spots rust beneath. I love to see the field That is moist with purple stain, But not where bullet, sword and shield Lie strewn with the gory slain. No, no ; 'tis where the sun Shoots down his cloudless beams, Till rich and bursting juice-drops run On the vineyard earth in streams. My glowing heart beats high At the sight of shining gold ; But it is not that which the miser's eye Delighteth to behold; A brighter wealth by far Than the deep mine's yellow vein, Is seen around in the fair hills crowned With sheaves of burnished grain. Look forth thou thoughtless one, Whose proud knee never bends ; Take thou the bread that's daily spread, But think on Him who sends. . Look forth, ye toiling men, Though little ye possess, — Be glad that dearth is not on earth To make that little less. Let the song of praise be poured In gratitude and joy, By the rich man with his garners stored And the ragged gleaner-boy. The feast that N ature gives Is not for one alone; 'Tis shared by the meanest slave that lives And the tenant of a throne. Then glory to the steel That shines in the reaper's hand, And thanks to Him who has blest the seed And crowned the harvest land. Eliza Cook. THE FARMER'S WIFE. 'I>;IRD-LIKE she's up at day-dawn's blush, In summer heats or winter snows — Her veins with healthful blood aflush, Her breath of balm, her cheek a rose, " Homeward (his daily labors done) The stalwart farmer slowly plods." In eyes — the kindest eyes on earth - Are sparkles of a homely mirth ; Demure, arch humor's ambush in The clear curves of her dimpled chin. Ah ! guileless creature, hale and good, Ah ! fount of wholesome womanhood, Far from the world's unhallowed strife! God's blessing on the farmer's wife. I love to mark her matron charms, Her fearless steps through household ways, Her sun-burnt hands and buxom arms, Her waist unbound by torturing stays ; Blithe as a bee, with busy care, She's here, she's there, she's everywhere ; Long ere the clock has struck for noon Home chords of toil are all in tune ; And from each richly bounteous hour She drains its use, as bees a flower. Apart from Passion's pain and strife, Peace gently girds the Farmer's Wife ! Homeward (his daily labors done) The stalwart farmer slowly plods, From battling, between shade and sun, With sullen glebe and stubborn sods. Her welcome on his spirit bowed Is sunshine fiashlna; on a cloud! COUNTRY LIFE. 207 All vanished is the brief eclipse! Hark ! to the sound of wedded lips, And words of tender warmth that start Prom out the husband's grateful heart! O ! well he knows how vain is life, Unsweetened by the Farmer's Wife. But lo ! the height of pure delight Comes with the evening's stainless joys, When by the hearthstone spaces bright Blend the glad tones of girls and boys ; Their voices rise in gleeful swells, Their laughter rings like elfin bells, Till with a look 'twixt smile and frown The mother lays her infant down, And at her firm, uplifted hand, There's silence 'mid the jovial band; Her signal stills their harmless strife — Love crowns with law the Farmer's Wife ! Ye dames in proud, palatial halls — Of lavish wiles and jeweled dress, On whom, perchance, no infant calls (For barren oft.YOUE loveliness) — Turn hitherward those languid eyes And for a moment's space be wise; Your sister 'mid the country dew Is three times nearer Heaven than you, And where the palms of Eden stir, Dream not that ye shall stand by her, Though in your false, bewildering life, Your folly scorned the Farmer's Wife ! Paul Hamilton Hayne. THE PUMPKIN. , GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, While he waited to know that his warning was true, And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. On the banks ,of the Xenil, the dark Spanish maiden Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden ; And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold; Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, And the sun of September melts down on his vines. Ah ! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the grey -haired New-Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin-pie? O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling; When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling ! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a candle within ! When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! Then thanks for thy present! — none sweeter or better E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, Brighter eyes neverwatched o'er its baking than thine! And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin- vine grow, And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie! John Greenleaf Whittiee. HEAR the wood-thrush piping one mellow des- cant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er. |ATH not old custom made this life more sweet 1 'Is Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from perils than the envious court? 208 THE ROYAL GALLERY. EOBERT OF LINCOLN. ERRILY swinging on briar and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. m *& P- !%. *%<«W<9 ; | BUS r§ " Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.' Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed. Wearing a bright black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his ores', Hear him call in his merry note : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man ; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. COUNTRY LIFE. 209 Six white eggs uu a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food ; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link. bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spiuk; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. «>»