LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Chap. Copyright No. .Shelf.XR-^^n5^ ^RC UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. no EDGAR ALLAN P()E The Greatest Geniits Aiiici-ica has produicd. Photograph of bust presented to University of Virginia, and Portrait Poetic Jewels THE ATHENA^MM COLLECTION OF THE WORLD'S CHOICEST POETRY Edited by E. T. ROE ILLUSTRATED CHICAGO Laird & Lee, Publishers G7793 'i.tO>*>. y *>f ' jL*f. OCT 29 1900 €?ci^ A V- ^^ »^ • OCT 31 1900 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year nineteen hundred, by WILLIAM H. LEE, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. PREFACE. The poems contained in this volume have not been gathered at random. They have been care- fully sought after, and selected from amongst the most admired poetry in the English language. In many instances the authors themselves have been consulted as to the selections to be made from their poems, and some of the most eminent poets have themselves selected their favorite poems for this collection. It has been the aim of the editor in making up this volumxe to place in an accessible form, the rarest gems of English poetry. " For this cud I have risen early and sat tip late, have traveled far and near, ransacking the most faniojis libraries, and all to furnish yon this viagazinc of the most excellent ertiditiony E. T. R. Poetic Jewels. LIST OF POEMS. PAGE. A Ballad of Athlone ; or, How They Broke Down the Bridge. Aubrey de Vere. - - - 3 56 A Canadian Boat Song. Thomas Moore. - - 396 A Good, Great Name. Frances E. Willard. - - 269 Airy Visions. E. T, R. - - - - - 45 A Legend of Lake Superior. Edward R. Roe. - 245 A Legend of Transmigration. " " " - 280 A London Idyl. Robert Buchanan. - - - 130 Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene. M. G. Lewis. -------- 375 Annabel Lee. Edgar Allan Poe. - - - - 334 An Ode to the Rain. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. - 154 Antony in Arms. Robert Buchanan. - - - A Psalm of Life. Henry W Longfellow. - - 272 A Song of Praises. Edward R. Roe. - - - 43 Auld Robin Gray. Lady Anne (Lindsay) Barnard. 39 Baby's Shoes. William C. Bennett, - - - 99 Balaklava. Alexander B. Meek. - - - - 352 Castles in Spain. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. - 87 Civil War. Anonymous. - - - - - 152 Cleopatra. W. W. Story. ----- 46 Cleopatra's Soliloquy. Mary Bayard Clarke. - 120 Come Rest in This Bosom. Thomas Moore. - - 171 Commodity. Shelley. - - - - - - 186 Cuddle Doon. Alexander Anderson. - - - ill viii LIST OF POEMS PAGE. Dead. Rev. Canon Bell. - - - - - 77 Dolores. Constance Fenimore Woolson. - - lOO Eros Athanatos. Robert Buchanan. - - - 66 Excelsior. Henry W. Longfellow. -^ _ - 238 Father's Growing Old, John! J. Q. A. Wood. - 366 Genesis. Edward R. Roe. ----- 288 God Knows. Benjamin F. Taylor. - - - 30 Hamlet and His Mother. William Shakespeare. - 258 Help the Poor. Victor Hugo. - - - - 203 Hou^ Baby Came from Heaven. David Barker. - 23 How Good Are the Poor. Victor Hugo. - - 300 How to Become Consequential. Anonymous. - 153 If That High World. Lord Byron. - - - 108 Italy. William Cullen Bryant. - - - - 21 June. William Cullen Bryant. - - - - 267 Katydid. Peter Peppercorn. - - - -51 Kubla Khan; or, A Vision in a Dream. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. ------ 360 Lan|,ley Lane. Robert Buchanan. - - - 387 Marcus Antonius. W.W.Story.- - - - 31 5 Master Johnny's Next-Door Neighbor. Bret Harte. 373 Maud and Madge; or, After the Ball. Nora Perry. 331 Mauna Loa. Edward R. Roe. - - - - ^7~ Measuring the Baby. Emma Alice Browne. - - 128 My Heart Leaps Up. William Wordsworth. - - 119 Not Yet. William Cullen Bryant. - - - 19 Now the Old Wife's Gone. Mary Frances Adams. - JZ LIST OF POEMS ix PAGE. Oft in the Stilly Night. Thomas Moore. - - 394 Only a Woman. Dinah Mariah Mulock. - - 84 Only the Brakesman. Constance Fenimore Woolson. 348 'Ostler Joe. George R. Sims. - - - - 340 Parting Lovers. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. - t^}) Poetry of Ancient Burial. John Lloyd. - - 299 Povertie's Counsel. W. S. Ridpath. - - _ 386 Reuben and Rose. Thomas Moore. - - - 125 Sleep. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. - - - 28 Song of the Brave. Edward R. Roe. - - . 229 Song of the Miser. Anonymous. . - . 378 Steeple Folk. Augusta Earned. - - - - 80 Truth and Falsehood. Matthew Prior. - - 307 The Bachelor's Cane-bottomed Chair. W. M. Thackeray. ------- 233 The Ballad of the Shamrock. Fitz James O'Brien. 167 The Battle of Pelusium. John Fletcher. - - 393 The Children's Hour. Henry W. Longfellow. - 256 The City of the Heart. T. Buchanan Read. - 114 The Coliseum. Lord Byron. - - - - 193 The Conflagration. Schiller. - . . _ 345 The Cotter's Saturday Night. Robert Burns. - 143 The Days That Are No More. Alfred Tennyson. - 359 The Death of the Owd Squire. Anonymous. - 180 The Doncaster St. Leger. Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. -------- 308 The Founding of the Bell. Charles Mackay. - 242 The Frogs. Edward R. Roe. - - - - 140 The Frost Spirit. John Greenleaf Whittier. - - 271 The Green Gnome. Robert Buchanan. - - 383 X LIST OF POEMS PAGE. The Harp of Fionbell. H. E. Hunter. - - 380 The Hollow Oak. E. Bulwer Lytton. - - - 172 The Ideal and the Real. Edward R. Roe. - - 328 The Immortal Pansies. Mrs. Marietta S. Case. - 395 The Knight and the Lady. Richard H. Barham. - 206 The Lady's Dream. Thomas Hood. - - - 35 The Last Banquet. Edward Renaud. - - - 92 The Lost and Found. Hamilton Aide. - - 369 The Maiden's Armor. Milton. _ . _ . 107 The Naked Truth. James Russell Lowell. - - 52 The Old Stager's Story. Edwin Coller. - 157 The Poor and Honest Sodger. Robert Burns. - 364 The Principal Rules of Oratory. Anonymous. - 65 The Problem of Eternity. Edward R. Roe. - - 117 The Raven. Edgar Allan Poe. - - . . 274 The Shipwreck. Anonymous. - - - - 235 The Swallows. Jean Pierre Claris Florian. - - 252 The Two Armies. Oliver Wendell Holmes. - - 199 The Universal Prayer. Victor Hugo. - - - 318 The Victim. Alfred Tennyson. - - - - 196 The Young Avenger. L. E. L. - - - - 322 Those Evening Bells. Thomas Moore. - - 395 Thy Love Shall Lead Me. E. T. R. - - - 337 Two Lovers. George Eliot. _ _ - . 255 Waiting at the Gate. William CuUen Bryant. - 24 Weary. Anonymous. ------ 357 William and Helen. Sir Walter Scott. - - - 55 Ye Needna' be Courtin' at Me. Peter Still. - - 1 13 You Kissed Me. ------- 338 Young Man, Be Wise. John Stuart Blackie. - 362 LIST OF AUTHORS. PAGE. Adams, Mary Frances, ----- 73 Aide, Hamilton, - - - - - - - 369 Anderson, Alexander, - - - - - - iii Anonymous, 65, 152, 153. 180, 235,328,338,357,378 Barham, Richard H., - - 206 Barker, David, - - _ - 23 Barnard, Lady Anne (Lindsay), - 39 Bell, Rev. Canon, - 71 Bennett, W. C, - - 99 Blackie, John Stuart, - 362 Brown, Emma Alice, - - 129 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 29, 33 Bryant, William Cullen, - 19, 21, 24, 267 Buchanan, Robert, 6G, 130, 326, 383, 387 Burns, Robert, - - - - 143, 364 Byron, Lord, . . „ - . - 108, 193 Case, Mrs. Marietta S., - 395 Clark, Mary Bayard, - 120 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, - 154, 360 Coller, Edwin, - _ _ - 157 DeVere, Aubrey, - - - - 355 Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings, - - 308 E.T.R., ------ - 45,337 xii LIST OF A UTHORS PAGE. Fletcher, John, - - - . . . 393 Florian, Jean Pierre Claris, - - - - - 252 Harte, Bret, - - -. - - - - - 373 Hohnes, Oh'ver Wendell, - , - _ . 199 Hood, Thomas, -------35 Hugo, Victor, ----- 203,300,318 Hunter, H. E., - - 380 L. E. L., - - 322 Earned, Augusta,- _---.. 80 Lewis, M. G., - - 375 Lloyd, John, .-..-_- 299 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, - 87, 238, 255, 272 Lowell, James Russell, ------ 52 Lytton, E. Bulwer, ------ 172 Mackay, Charles, ------- 242 Meek, Alexander, - - - - - - 352 Milton John, - - - - - - - 107 Moore Thomas, - - - 125, 171, 394, 395, 39^ Mulock, Dinah Mariah, 84 O'Brien, Fitz James, ------ 167 Peppercorn, Peter, - - - - - -5i Perry, Nora, 33 1 Poe, Edgar Allan, - - - - - 274,334 Prior, Matthew, ------- 307 Read, T. Buchanan, - - - - - -114 Renaud, Edward, - - - -- - -92 Ridpath, W. S., - - - - - - - 386 Roe, Edward R., - 43. ii7, HO, 172, 229, 245, 280, 288 LIST OF A UTHORS xiu Schiller, . . _ _ Scott, Sir Walter, Shakespeare, _ _ _ Shelley, . _ .. . Sims, Geo. R., - Still, Peter, Story, W.W., Taylor, Benjamin F. , - Tennyson, Lord, Thackeray, W. M., Whittier, John G., Willard, Frances E., Wood, J. Q. A., - Woolson, Constance Fenimore, Wordsworth, William, - - 346 - 55 - 258 - 186 - 340 - 113 46, 315 - 30 196, 359 - 233 - 271 - 269 - 366 100, 348 - 119 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ^^-'i^l'/L^ ^Ut- iJc.cL*LouuJ U^UA it>t,e^' Juja^^ O/C*-**^ CvtrZ/fct^ ^-M/ni^", tcr{u£>U^ }tuiM.Lf yiuJ/^-4>^i^ NOT YET. H country, marvel of the earth! Oh realm to sudden greatness grown! The age that gloried in thy birth, Shall it behold thee overthrown? Shall traitors lay that greatness lo'vv? No, land of Hope and Blessing, No! And we, who wear thy glorious name, Shall we, like cravens, stand apart. When those whom thou hast trusted aim The death-blow at thy generous heart? Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo! Hosts rise in harness, shouting. No. And they who founded in our land. The power that rules from sea to sea. Bled they in vain, or vainly planned To leave their country great or free? Their sleeping ashes, from below. Send up the thrilling murmur. No! Knit they the gentle ties which long These sister States were proud to wear. And forged the kindly links so strong For idle hands in sport to tear? For scornful hands aside lo throw? No, by our fathers' memory. No! 20 POETIC JE WELS Our humming marts, our iron ways, Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest, The hoarse Atlantic, with its bays. The calm, broad ocean of the West, And Mississippi's torrent-flow. The loud Niagara, answer. No! Not yet the hour is nigh when they Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit, Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say, " Proud country, welcome to the pit! So soon art thou, like us, brought low! " No, sullen group of shadows. No! For now, behold the arm that gave The victory in our fathers' day. Strong, as of old, to guard and save — That mighty arm which none can stay — • On clouds above and fields below. Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No? William Ciillen Bryant POETIC JEWELS 21 ITALY. OICES from the mountains speak; Apennines to Alps reply; Vale to vale and peak to peak Toss an old remembered cry; Italy Shall be free; Such the mighty shout that fills All the passes of hec hills. All the old Italian lakes Quiver at that quickening word; Como with a thrill awakes; Garda to her depths is stirred; Mid the steeps Where he sleeps, Dreaming of the elder years, Startled Thrasymenus hears. Sweeping Arno, swelling Po, Murmur freedom to their meads. Tiber swift and Liris slow Send strange whispers from their reeds, Italy Shall be free, Sing the glittering brooks that slide. Toward the sea, from Etna's side. POETIC JEWELS Monarchs! ye whose armies stand Harnessed for the battle-field! Pause, and from the Hfted hand Drop the bolts of war ye wield. Stand aloof While the proof Of the people's might is given; Leave their kings to them and Heaven Long ago was Gracchus slain; Brutus perished long ago; Yet the living roots remain Whence the shoots of greatness grow. Yet again, God-like men, Sprung from that heroic stem, Call the land to rise with them. They who haunt the swarming street. They who chase the mountain boar. Or where cliff and billow meet, Prune the vine or pull the oar, With a stroke Break their yoke; Slaves but yestereve were they^ Freemen with the dawning day. Looking in his children's eyes. While his own with gladness flash, " These," the Umbrian father cries, " Ne'er shall crouch beneath the lash! These shall ne'er Brook to wear POETIC JEWELS 23 Chains whose cruel links are twined Round the crushed and withering mind." Stand aloof, and see the oppressed Chase the oppressor, pale with fear, As the fresh winds of the west Blow the misty valleys clear. Stand and see Italy Cast the gyves she wears no more To the gulfs that steep her shore. Wm. Cullen Bryant. HOW BABY CAME FROM HEAVEN. One night, as old Saint Peter slept, He left the door of Heaven ajar When through a little angel crept, And came down with a falling star. One summer, as the blessed beams Of morn approached, my blushing bride Awakened from some pleasing dreams. And found that angel by her side. God grant but this — I ask no more — That when he leaves this world ot sin, He'll wing his way to that blest shore, And find the door of Heaven again. David Barker. 2i POETIC JEWELS WAITING BY THE GATE. I'^ESIDE a massive gateway, built up in years gone by, x^^fUpon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, <^=^ While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; I hear the woodthrusll piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er. Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold now There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow; His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power. I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day. And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws A longing look backward, and sorrowfully goes; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair. Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and fair. Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays! Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze! POETIC JEWELS 27 Oil breath of suiimer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where. I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn; But still the sun shines round me: the evening birds sing on, And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate, In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows! So come from every region, so enter, side by side, The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way. And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear, And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near. As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart, Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart ; And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. William Cull en BrytDit. 28 POETIC JEWELS SLEEP. F all the thoughts of God that are orne inward unto souls afar, mong the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is For gift or grace surpassing this: " He giveth his beloved sleep "? What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart, to be unmoved; The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep; The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse; The monarch's crown, to light the brows? " He giveth his beloved sleep." What do we give to our beloved? A little faith, all undisproved; A little dust, to over weep; And bitter memories, to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. — ' " He giveth his beloved sleep." " Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when " He giveth his beloved sleep." POETIC JEWELS 29 O earth, so full of dreary noise! O men, with wailing in your voice! O delved gold the wallers heap! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! God strikes a silence through you all. And " giveth his beloved sleep." His dews drop mutely on the hill. His cloud above it saileth still. Though on its slope men sow and reap; More softly than the dew is shed. Or cloud is floated overhead, " He giveth his beloved sleep. " For me, my heart, that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show. That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close. Would childlike on His love repose, " Who giveth his beloved sleep." Elizabeth Barrett Brozvnimr. 30 POETIC JEWELS " GOD KNOWS." [Ax emigrant ship recently foundered in a storm, and of the 220 who went down, only one — a little child — drifted ashore. When the waif was laid at rest from her troubled baptism, somebody asked the question, " What name ? " and the reply was, " God knows." A gentleman present, touched by the words, cause 1 a headstone to be erected bearing only this : " God K.vows."] I. ^l^^i^js^N emigrant ship with a workl aboard 1^ No tatter of bunting at half-mast lowered, Went down by the head on the Kentish coast, "vhi^xjl No cannon to toll for the creatures lost. Two hundred and twenty their souls let slip. Two hundred and twenty, with speechless lip, Went staggering down in the foundered ship! II. Nobody can tell it — not you nor I, The frenzy of fright when lightning thought Wove like a shuttle the far and the nigh, Shot quivering gleams through the long forgot. And lighted the years with a ghastly glare, \ second a year, and a second to spare! 'Mid surges of water and gasps of prayer. III. The heavens were doom, and the Lord was dumb, The cloud and the breaker were blent in one. No angel in sight — not any to come! God pardon their sins for the Christ His Son! The tempest died down a3 the tempest will, The sea in a rivulet drowse lay still, POETIC JEWELS ?,\ As tame as the moon on the window-sill, The roses were red on the rugged hill — The roses that blow in the early light, And die into gray in the mists of night. IV. Then drifted ashore, in a night-gown dressed, A waif of a girl with her sanded hair, And hands like a prayer on her cold blue breast, And a smile on her mouth that was not despair. No stitch on the garment ever to tell Who bore her, who lost her, who loved her well. Unnamed as a rose — was it Norah or Nell? V. The coasters and wreckers around her stood And gazed on the treasure-trove upward cast, As round a dead robin the sturdy wood, Its plumage all rent and the whirlwind past. They laid a white cross on her home-made vest. The coffin was rude as a red-breast's nest, And poor was the shroud, but a perfect rest Fell down on the child like dew on the West. VI. A ripple of sod just covered her over. Nobody to bid her " Good-night, my bird! " Spring waited to weave a quilt of red clover, Nobody alive had her pet name heard. " What name? "asked the preacher. "GodKnowsI they said. Nor waited nor wept as they made her bed. But sculptured " GOD Knows!" on the slate at her head. 32 POETIC JEWELS VII. The legend be ours when the night runs wild, The road out of sight and the stars gone home, Lost hope or lost heart, lost Pleiad or child, Remember the words at the nameless tomb! Bewildered and blind the soul finds repose. Whether cypress or laurel blossoms and blows, Whatever betides, for the good " GOD Kxows! " God knows" all the while, our blindness His sight, Our darkness His day, our weakness His might! Benjamin F. Taylor. POETIC JEWELS 33 PARTING LOVERS. LOVE thee, love thee, GiuHo! Some call me cold, and some demure, And if thou hast ever guessed that so I love thee — well ; the proof was poor, And no one could be sure. My mother, listening to my sleep. Heard nothing but a sigh at night — The short sigh rippling on the deep- — When hearts run out of breath and sight Of men, to God's clear light. When others named thee — thought thy brows Were straight, thy smile was tender — " Here He comes between the vineyard-rows.^" I said not " Ay," — nor waited, dear. To feel thee step too near. I left such things to bolder girls, Olivia or Clotilda. Nay, When that Clotilda, through her curls. Held both thine eyes in hers one day, I marveled, let me say. I could not try the woman's trick: Between us straightway fell the blush Which kept me separate, blind and sick. A wind came with thee in a flush. As blown through Horeb's bush. 34 POETIC JEWELS But now that Italy invokes Her young men to go forth and chase The foe or perish — nothing chokes My voice, or drives me from the place: I look thee in the face. Hove thee! it is understood, Confest: I do not shrink or start; No blushes: all my body's blood Has gone to greaten this poor heart, That, loving, we may part. Our Italy invokes the youth To die if need be. Still there's room, Though earth is strained with dead, in truth. Since twice the lilies were in bloom They have not grudged a tomb. And many a plighted maid and wife And mother, who can say since then " My country," cannot say through life " My son," " my spouse," " my flower of men. And not weep dumb again. Heroic males the country bears, But daughters give up more than sons. Flags wav^, drums beat, and unawares You flash your souls out with the guns, And take your heaven at once! But %ve — we empty heart and home Of life's life, love! we bear to think You're gone — to feel you may not come-- To hear the door-latch stir and clink Yet no more you nor sink. POETIC JEWELS Dear God! when Italy is one, And perfected from bound to bound — Scppose (for my share) earth's undone By one grave in't! as one small wound May kill a man, 'tis found. What then? If love's delight must end, At least we'll clear its truth from flaws. I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend! Now take my sweetest without pause, To help the nation's cause. And thus of noble Italy We'll both be worthy. Let her show The future how we made her free, Not sparing life, nor Giulio, Nor this — this heart-break. Go! Elizabeth Barrett BrowiiuJ^ THE LADY'S DREAM. ^^^^^i^HE lady lay in her bed, •^^-ili^ Her couch so warm and soft, U^^ Bi^it her sleep was restless and broken still ; *$ For, turning often and oft From side to side, she muttered and moanea, And tossed her arms aloft. At last she started up, And gazed on the vacant air, With a look of awe, as if she saw Some dreadful phantom there — And then in the pillow she buried her 'ih.ci:. From visions ill to bear. 30 POETIC JEWELS The very curtain shook, Her terror was so extreme; And the light that fell on the broidered quilt Kept a tremulous gleam; And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried " O, me! that awful dream! " That weary, weary walk, In the church-yard's dismal ground! And those horrible things, with shady wings; That came and flitted round — Death, death, and nothing but death, In every sight and sound! " And, O! those maidens young Who wrought in that dreary room, With figures drooping and specters thin, And cheeks without a bloom — And the voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride, We haste to an early tomb! ' For the pomp and pleasure of pride. We toil like Afric slaves, And only to earn a home at last Where yonder cypress waves;' And then they pointed — I never saw A ground so full of graves! " And still the coffins came. With their sorrowful trains and slow; Coffin after coffin still, A sad and sickening show; From grief exempt, I never had dreamt Of such a world of woe! POETIC JEWELS 37 " or the hearts that daily break, or the tears that hourly fall, Of the many, many troubles of life, That grieve this earthly ball — Disease, and Hunger, and Pain, and Want — But now I dreamt of them all! " For the blind and the cripple were there, And the babe that pined for bread. And the houseless man, and the widow poor Who begged — to bury the dead; The naked, alas! that I might have clad, The famished I might have fed! " The sorrow I might have soothed. And the unregarded tears; For many a thronging shape was there, From long-forgotten years — Ay, even the poor rejected Moor, Who raised my childish fears ! " Each pleading look, that long ago, I scanned with a heedless eye, i Each face was gazing as plainly there As when I passed it by; Woe, woe for me, if the past should be Thus present when I die! No need of sulphureous lake, No need of fiery coal. But only that crowd of human kind Who wanted pity and dole — In everlasting retrospect — Will wring my sinful soul! 38 POETTC JEWELS " Alas! I have walked through life Too heedless where I trod; Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm, And fill the burial sod — Forgetting that even the sparrow falls Not unmarked of God! " I drank the richest draughts, And ate whatever is good — Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit, Supplied my hungry mood; But I never remembered the wretched ones That starve for want of food! " I dressed as the noble dress, In cloth of silver and gold, With silk, and satin, and costly furs. In many an ample fold; But I never remembered the naked limbs That froze with winter's cold. " The wounds I might have healed! The human sorrow and smart! And yet it was never in my soul To play so ill a part; But evil is wrought by want of thought. As well as want of heart! " She clasped her fervent hands, And the tears began to stream; Large, and bitter, and fast they fell. Remorse was so extreme; And yet, O yet, that many a dame Would dream the Lady's Dream! Thomas Hood. POETIC JEWELS 39 AULD ROBIN GRAY. [This touching little ballad has received many tributes of commendation from eminent l)ards and critics. Sir Walter Scott wrote: " Auld Robin Gray is the real pastoral which is worth all the dialogues which Coridon and Phillis have had together, from the days of Theocritus downwards;" and Leigh Hunt said of it, " It has suffused more eyes with tears of the first water than any other ballad that ever was written. " For a long time the poem was of unknown authorship, and so general was the interest exhibited regarding it that its author was advertised for in the public press, a reward being offered for the discovery. The first part of the ballad has appeared in several works on elocution, but it is believed that the piece is now printed entire for the first time in this country.] I. Ij^^^HEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's come hame, iAnd a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, Unkent by my gudeman, who sleeps sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride, But saving a crown-piece, he had naething beside; To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea, And the crown and the pound they were baith for me. He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, When my father broke his arm, and the cow was stown away ; My mither she fell sick — my Jamie at the sea; And auld Robin Gray came a-courting me. My father couldna work, and my mither couldna spin; I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; — Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e. Said, " Jeanie, oh, for their sakes, will ye no marry mc? '' 40 POETIC JEWELS My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back; But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack; The ship was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee? Or wliy am I spared to cry, Wae is me? My father urged me sair — my mither didna speak; But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break; They gied him my hand — my heart was in the sea — And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When, mournfo' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he, Till he said, " I'm came hame, love, to marry thee." Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a'; I gied liim a kiss, and bade him gang awa'; — I wish that I were dead, but I'm wae like to dee; For though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me. I gang like a ghaist, and carena much to spin; I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For oh, Robin Gray, he is kind to me. II. The spring had passed over, 'twas summer nae mair. And, trembling, were scattered the leaves in the air. " Oh, winter," cried Jeanie, " we kindly agree, For wae looks the sun when he shines upon me. " Nae longer she wept, her tears were a' spent ; Despair it was come, and she thought it content; She thought it content, but her cheek was grown pale, And she drooped like a snow-drop broke down by the hail. POETIC JEWELS 41 Her father was sad, and her mother was wae, But silent and thoughtfu' was auld Robin Gray; He wandered his lane, and his face was as lean As the side of a brae where the torrents have been. He gaed to his bed, but nae physic would take, And often he said, " It is best, for her sake ! " While Jeanie supported his head as he lay, The tears trickled down upon auld Robin Gray. " Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie ! " said he, wi' a groan; " I'm nae worth your sorrow — the truth maun be known; Send round fur your neebors — my hour it draws near, And I've that to tell that it's fit a' should hear: " I've wranged her," he said, " but I kent it o'er late; I've wranged her, and sorrow is speeding my date; But a's for the best, since my death will soon free A faithfu' young heart, that was ill-matched wi' me. I lo'ed and I courted her mony a day, The auld folks were for me, but still she said nay; I kentna o' Jeanie, nor yet o' her vow ; — In mercy forgi'e me, 'twas I stole the cow! I cared not for crummie, I thought but o' thee; I thought it was crummie stood 'twixt you and me; While she fed }^our parents, oh! did you not say, You never would marry wi' auld Robin Gray? But sickness at hame, and want at the door — You gi'ed me your hand, while your heart it was sore; I saw it was sore, why took I her hand? Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land! i2 POETIC JEWELS " Now truth, soon or late, comes to open daylight! For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew white; White, white grew your cheek, but aye true unto me- Oh, Jeanie, I'm thankfu' — I'm thankfu' to dee! " Is Jamie came here yet?" and Jamie he saw; " I've injured you sair, lad, so I leave you my a'; Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be ! Waste no time, my dauties, in mournin' for me." They kissed his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face Seemed hopefu' of being accepted by grace ; " Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, " forgi'en he will be, Wha wauldna be tempted, by love, to win thee ? " The first days were dowie, while time slipt awa'; But saddest and sairiest to Jeanie of a' Was thinking she couldna be honest and right, Wi' tears in her e'e, while her heart was sae light. But nac guil^ had she, and her sorrow away, The wife of her Jamie, the tear couldna stay; A bonnie wee bairn — the auld folks by the fire — Oh. now she has a' that her heart can desire! Lady Anne {Lindsay) Barnard, Scotland, 1750-1825. POETIC JEWELS 43 A SONG OF PRAISES. r^ SPIRIT haunted me long years ago, And played his fairy pranks with thought and feeling; Through the rosy light's bewitching glow, I saw all things were beautiful, and kneeling At the shrine of Beauty, I adored The world so full of loveliness and gladness. A few short years of youth sometimes afford Sad change! I had my change of sadness. Then all things took the same sad hue. While yet the spirit haunted me a season, Still discoloring the Beautiful and True, Till I awoke from poetry to reason. Then years went by in prose, so true, so real, That the spirit moved my song no more. And I had wandered from the false Ideal; And my dreamy days of life were o'er. When yet once more my spirit claimed my measure, Waking me to other songs than those I sung in early years of youth and pleasure; Unto God my new-waked song arose! Praise to the God of Beauty! For the lily, and the race of flowers. For the forest and its monarch trees, For the tangled brake and shady bowers. For all their warbling birds and humming bees, For the dew-drop and the radiant cloud, For the rainbow and the gentle rain. For summer's mantle and for winter's shroud — 44 POETIC JEWELS For all that's beautiful on hill or plain, We praise thee, God of Beauty. For the surges of the rolling ocean, For the rivers and their tumbling tide. For the thunder's roar and lightning's motion; For the mountain's and the glacier's slide. For the boreal and the austral ices, For the lava from the crater's fire, For Day, when all his gorgeousness entices, For starry Night, with all her bright attire, We praise thee, God of Grandeur. For all the joys of Home's endearing altar. For parents, children, brothers, sisters, all! For the tried and true fast friends who never falter. For all who minister at mourning's call, For succor, and for sympathizing sorrow. For love, hope, memory, hours of joy and gladness. We praise thee, God of Love. Thou who didst make earth, air, and everything that is, Sun, moon and stars — the universe is His, Praise to the God, Jehovah. Thou who didst limit the illimitable void, And plant the boundaries of time and space, Thou who didst make all things to be enjoyed, O may we feel the glory of thy grace. O God of light and love. For the earth, the air, the ocean, We offer thee devotion. Thou God above. POETIC JEWELS 45 For our bodies, for our spirit, For the life that we inherit, For existence and salvation, We offer adoration, Now and forever. To the glorious giver, God. Edward R. Rce. AIRY VISIONS. I WATCHED a summer cloud dissolve — It brought no rain; But like my simple heart's resolve, 'Twas formed in vain. Floating in its azure sea With gold it gleamed, And rather than a cloud to me A boat it seemed — A far off phantom fairy sail. But growing near — Oh, in that azure calm how frail! To disappear. Across my soul's calm sea there floats A golden dream, All bright and fair as cloudlet boats In azure gleam. 'Tis far away and hard to solve — But why my fear? Do all things bright and fair dis..ol/e In growing near? E. T. R m POETIC JE WELS CLEOPATRA. ERE, Charmion, take my bracelets-^ Tliey bar with a purple stain My arms; turn over my pillows — They are hot where I have lain; Open the lattice wider, A gauze on my bosom throw, And let me inhale the odors That over the garden blow. I dreamed I was with my Antony, And in his arms I lay; Ah, me! the vision has vanished — Its music has died away; The flame and the perfume have perished, As this spiced aromatic pastille. That wound the blue smoke of its odor, Is now but an ashy hill. Scatter upon me rose leaves, They cool me after my sleep. And with sandal odors fan me Till into my veins they creep; Reach down the lute, and play me A melancholy tune, To rhyme with the dream that has vanish'd, And the slumbering afternoon. There, drowsing in golden sunlight, Loiters the slow, smooth Nile, Through slender papyri, that cover The sleeping crocodile. The lotus rolls on the water, And opens its heart of gold. POETIC JK WELS 47 And over its broad leaf pavement Never a ripple is rolled. The twilight breeze is too lazy Those feathery palms to wave, And yon little cloud is as motionless As stone above a grave. Ah me! this lifeless nature Oppresses my heart and brain! Oh! for a storm and thunder — For lightning and wild, fierce rain! Fling down that lute — I hate it! Take rather this buckler and sword, And crash and clash them together Till this sleeping world is stirred! Hark! to my Indian beauty — My cockatoo, creamy white. With roses under his feathers, That flash across the light. Look! listen! as backward and forward To his hoop of gold he clings, How he climbs with crest uplifted, And shrieks as he madly swings! O cockatoo, shriek for Antony! Cry, " Come, my love, come home!" Shriek, " Antony! Antony! Antony! " Till he hears you even in Rome. There — leav^e me, and take from my ciiamber That wretched little gazelle, With its bright black eyes so meaningless, And its silly tinkling bell! Take him — my nerves he vexes — The thing without blood or brain — i8 POETIC JEWELS Or, by the body of Isis, I'll snap his thin neck in twain! Leave me to gaze at the landscape Mistily stretching away, When the afternoon's opaline tremors O'er the mountains quivering play, Till the fiercer splendor of sunset Pours from the West its fire And melted, as in a crucible, Their earthly forms expire; And the bald, blear skull of the desert With glowing mountains is crowned, That, turning like molten jewels, Circle its temples round. I will lie and dream of the past time, /Eons of thought away. And through the jungle of memory Loosen my fancy to play; When, a smooth and velvety tiger. Ribbed with yellow and black. Supple and cushioned-footed, I wandered, where never the track Of a human creature had rustled The silence of mighty woods. And fierce in a tyrannous freedom, I knew but the law of my moods; The elephant, trumpeting, started When he heard my footsteps near. And the spotted girafTe fled wildly In a yellow cloud of fear. I sucked in the noontide splendor, Quivering along the glade. POETIC JEWELS 49 Or yawning, panting, and dreaming, Basked in the tamarisk shade, Till I heard my wild mate roaring. As the shadows of night came on. To brood in the trees' thick branches, And the shadow of sleep was gone; Then I roused and roared in answer, And unsheathed from my cushioned iQer My curving claws, and stretched me, And wandered my mate to greet. We toyed in the amber moonlight. Upon the warm, flat sand. And struck at each other our massive arms — How powerful he was and grand! His yellow eyes flashed fiercely As he crouched and gazed at me. And his quivering tail, like a serpent, ' Twitched, curving nervously; Then like a storm he seized me. With a wild, triumphant cry. And we met, as two clouds in heaven When the thunders before them fly. We grappled and struggled together. For his love, like his rage, was rude; And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck At times, in our play, drew blood. Often another suitor — For I was flexile and fair — Fought for me in the moonlight. While I lay crouching there, Till his blood was drain'd by the desert; And, ruffled with triumph and power, tjo poetic jewels He licked me, and lay beside me To breathe him a vast half-hour. Then down to the fountain we loitered, Where the antelopes came to drink ; Like a bolt we sprang upon them, Ere they had time to shrink. We drank their blood and crushed them, And tore them hmb from limb, And the hungriest lion doubted Ere he disputed with him. That was a life to live for! Not this weak human life, With its frivolous, bloodless passions, Its poor and petty strife! Come to my arms, my hero; The shadows of twilight grow, And the tiger's ancient fierceness In my veins begins to flow. Come not cringing to sue me! ' Take me with triumph and power, As a warrior that storms a fortress! I will not shrink nor cower. Come as you came in the desert, Ere we were women and men, Wh^n the tiger passions were in us, And love as you loved me then! Bf W. IV. Story, ^;^^^ POETIC JE WELS 51 KATYDID. I^-^^^^'^^^ULTRY was the summer evening, And the weather hot and dr)'; 'Here and there a small cloud lingered \-^7 In the crimson western sky. Rut when night had spread her mantle Over woodland, vale, and hill. Not a zephyr was then wafting, E'en the aspen leaf was still. Languidly I sat reposing, Half asleep, within the glade, Whsn methought I heard a murmuring Voice amidst the maple shade. Silently I sat and listened, Wondering if there could be Dryad, sylvan elf, or fairy. Hiding in the maple tree; Not a leaf to me seemed moving. But amidst the branches hid, Something in a voice mysterious. Softly whispered " Katydid. " What? But not another sentence Fell upon my anxious ear; Could some disembodied spirit From another world be near? Half ashamed, I asked the question, Is it friend or foe that's hid? Or is there a spirit present? Still the answer " Katydid." 52 POETIC JEWELS Who was Kate? and where her dwelling? Was there any one could tell? Was she some lone Indian maiden, And the fairest of the dell? Seriously I put the query, To what seemed so strangely hid, " Can a zvouian keep a secret ? " Still the answer " Katydid." What could be the solemn mystery, So religiously concealed? Katydid, but what? who knew it? Would it ever be revealed? Stranger still, a woman's secret, From the babbling world is hid; For the wisest village gossip Cannot tell what " Katydid." Peter Peppercorn. THE NAKED TRUTH. I DO not fear to follow out the truth. Albeit along the precipice's edge; Let us speak plain: there is more force in names Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk Behind the shield of some fair seeming name. Let us call tyrants tyrants, and maintain That only freedom comes by grace of God, And all that comes not by his grace must fall ; For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig leaves for the naked truth. James Russell Loivell. THINKING OF THE BELOVED. POETIC JEWELS 55 WILLIAM AND HELEN. [In the preface to the edition published anonymously in 1 796, Sir Wal- ter Scott says: " The first two lines of the forty-seventh stanza, descriptive of the speed of the lovers, may perhaps bring to the recollection of many a passage extremely similar in a translation of 'Leonora,' which first appeared in the Monthly Magazine. In justice to himself, the translator thinks it his duty to acknowledge that his curiosity was first attracted to this truly romantic story by a gentleman, who, having heard ' Leonora ' once read in manuscript, could only recollect the general outlines, and part of a couplet, which, from the singularity of its structure and frequent recurrence, had remained impressed upon his memory. For the information of those to whom such obsolete expressions may be less familiar, it may be noticed that the word serf means a vassal ; and that to busk and bonne is to dress and prepare one's self for a journey. "] ROM heavy dreams fair Helen rose And eyed the dawning red: Alas, my love, thou tarriest long! Oh, art thou false, or dead?" With gallant Frederick's princely power He sought the bold crusade; But not a word from Judah's wars Told Helen how he sped. With Paynim and with Saracen, At length a truce was made, And every knight returned to dry The tears his love had shed. Our gallant host was homeward bound, With many a song of joy: Green waved the laurel in each plume, The badge of victory. ' And old and young, and sire and son, To meet them crowd the way, With shouts, and mirth, and melody. The debt of love to pay. 56 POETIC JEWELS Full many a maid her true love met, And sobbed in his embrace, And fluttering joy in tears and smiles Arrayed full many a face. Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad: She sought the host in vain; For none could tell her William's fate, If faithless, or if slain. The martial band is passed and gone: She rends her raven hair, And in distraction's bitter mood She weeps with wild despair. " Oh, rise, my child," her mother said, " Nor sorrow thus in vain; A perjured lover's fleeting heart No tears recall again." " O mother, what is gone, is gone, What's lost, forever lorn: Death, death alone can comfort me; Oh had I ne'er been born! " Oh, break, my heart, oh, break at once! Drink my life-blood, Despair! No joy remains on earth for me. For me in Heaven no share." " Oh, enter not in judgment, Lord! " The pious mother prays; " Impute not guilt to thy frail child! She knows not what she says. POETIC JEWELS 57 " Oh, say thy Pater Noster, child! Oh, turn to God and grace! His will that turned thy bliss to bale, Can change thy bale to bliss." " O mother, mother! what is bliss? O mother, what is bale? My William's love was heaven on earth, Without it, earth is hell. " Why should I pray to ruthless Heaven, Since my loved William's slain? I only prayed for William's sake, And all my prayers were vain." " Oh, take the sacrament, my child. And check these tears that flow; By resignation's humble prayer, Oh, hallowed be thy woe! " " No sacrament can quench this fire, Or slake this scorching pain: No sacrament can bid the dead Arise and live again. " Oh, break, my heart, oh, break at once! Be thou my god. Despair! Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on me. And vain each fruitless prayer." " Oh, enter not in judgment, Lord, With thy frail child of clay! She knows not what her tongue has spoke; Impute it not, I pray! 58 POETIC JEWELS " Forbear, my child, this desperate woe, And turn to God and grace; Well can devotion's heavenly glow Convert thy bale to bliss." " O mother, mother, what is bliss? O mother, what is bale? Without my William, what were heaven, Or, with him, what were hell? " Wild she arraigns the eternal doom. Upbraids each sacred power, Till, spent, she sought her silent room All in the lonely tower. She beat her breast, she wrung her hands, Till sun and day were o'er, And through the glimmering lattice shone The twinkling of the star. Then, crash! the heavy drawbridge fell. That o'er the moat was hung; And clatter! clatter! on its boards The hoof of courser rung. The clank of echoing steel was heard As off the rider bounded; And slowly on the winding stair A heavy footstep sounded. And hark! and hark! a knock — Tap! tap! A rustling, stifled noise: — Door-latch and tinkling staples ring; — At length a whispering voice. FOETIC JEWELS 59 " Awake, awake, arise, my love! How, Helen, dost thou fare? Wakest thou, or sleep'st? laugh'st thou, or weep'st? Hast thought on me, my fair? " My love! my love! — so late by night! — I waked, I wept for thee: Much have I borne since dawn of morn; Where, William, couldst thou be? " " We saddle late — from Hungary I rode since darkness fell; And to its bourne we both return Before the matin-bell." " Oh, rest this night within my arms, And warm thee in their fold! Chill howls through hawthorn-bush the wind: — My love is deadly cold." " Let the wind howl! through hawthorn-bush! This night we must away ; The steed is wight, the spur is bright; I cannot stay till day. " Busk, busk, and boune ! Thou mount'st behind Upon my black Barb steed : O'er stocks and stiles, a hundred miles, We haste to bridal bed." " To-night — to-night a hundred miles! O dearest William, stay! The bell strikes twelve — dark, dismal hour ! Oh, wait, my love, till day! " 60 POETIC JE WELS " Look here, look here — the moon shines clear' Full fast I ween we ride; Mount and away ! for ere the day We reach our bridal bed. " The black Barb snorts, the bridle rings; Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee! The feast is made, the chamber spread, The bridal guests await thee." Strong love prevailed : she busks, she bounes, She mounts the Barb behind, And round her darling William's waist Her lily arms she twined. And, hurry! hurry! off they rode. As fast as fast might be; Spurned from the courser's thundering heels The flashing pebbles flee. And on the right, and on the left, Ere they could snatch a view, Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and plain. And cot, and castle flew. " Sit fast — dost fear? — The moon shines clear - Fleet rides my Barb — keep hold! Fear'st thou?" — " Oh no! " she faintly said; " But why so stern and cold? " What yonder rings? what yonder sings? Why shrieks the owlet gray? " — " 'Tis death-bells' clang, 'tis funeral song, The body to the clay. POETIC JEWELS 61 " With song and clang, at morrow's dawn, Ye may inter the dead: To-night I ride, with my young bride, To deck our bridal bed. " Come with tiiy choir, thou coffined guest, To swell our nuptial song! Come, priest, to bless our marriage feast! Come all, come all along! " Ceased clang and song; down sunk the bier; The shrouded corpse arose: And, hurry, hurry! all the train The thundering steed pursues. And, forward! forward! on they go; High snorts the straining steed; Thick pants the rider's laboring breath, As headlong on they speed. " O William, why this savage haste? And where thy bridal bed? " — " 'Tis distant far." — " Still short and stern? " " 'Tis narrow, trustless maid." " No room for me? " — " Enough for both; — Speed, speed, my Barb, thy course! " O'er thundering bridge, through boiling surge, He drove the furious horse. Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode Splash! splash! along the sea; The steed is wight, the spur is bright, The flashing pebbles flee. 62 POETIC JEWELS Fled past on right, and left how fast, Each forest, grove, and bower; On right and left fled past how fast Each city, town, and tower. " Dost tear? dost fear? — The moon shines cleai;; Dost fear to ride with me? — Hurrah! hurrah! the dead can ride! " " O Wilham, let them be! " See there, see there! What yonder swings And creaks 'mid whistling rain? " — " Gibbet and steel, the accursed wheel; A murderer in his chain, " Hollo! thou felon, follow here: To bridal bed we ride; And thou shalt prance a fetter dance Before me and my bride. " And hurry, hurry! clash, clash, clash! The wasted form descends; And fleet as wind through hazel-bush The wild career attends. Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode, Splash! splash! along the sea; The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, The flashing pebbles flee. How fled what moonshine faintly showed! How fled what darkness hid! How fled the earth beneath their feet, The heaven above their head! POETIC JEWELS 63 " Dost fear? dost fear? — the moon shines clear, And well the dead can ride; Does faithful Helen fear for them? " " Oh, leave in peace the dead!" " Barb! Barb! methinks I hear the cock; The sand will soon be run: Barb! Barb! I smell the morning air; The race is well nigh done." Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode. Splash! splash! along the sea; The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, The flashing pebbles flee. " Hurrah! hurrah! well ride the dead. The bride, the bride is come! And soon we reach the bridal bed, For, Helen, here's my home." Reluctant on its rusty hinge Revolved an iron door. And by the pale moon's setting beam Were seen a church and tower. With many a shriek and cry whiz round The birds of midnight, scared; And, rustling like autumnal leaves, Unhallowed ghosts were heard. O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale He spurred the fiery horse, Till sudden at an open grave He checked the wondrous course. 64 POETIC JEWELS The falling gauntlet quits the rein, Down drops the casque of steel, The cuirass leaves his shrinking side, The spur his gory heel. The eyes desert the naked skull, The moldering flesh the bone, Till Helen's lily arms entwine A ghastly skeleton. The furious Barb snorts fire and foam. And, with a fearful bound, Dissolves at once in empty air, And leaves her on the ground. Half seen by fits, by fits half heard. Pale specters fleet along; Wheel round the maid in dismal dance, And howl the funeral song. " E'en when the heart's with anguish cleft. Revere the doom of Heaven. Her soul is from her body reft; Her spirit be forgiven! " Walter Scott. POETIC JEWELS 65 THE PRINCIPAL RULES OF ORATORY. (in a nutshell.) ^^-^^E brief, be pointed ; let your matter stand Lucid in order, solid, and at hand ; Spend not your words on trifles, but condense; Strike with the mass of thought, not drops of sense ; Press to the close with vigor once begun, And leave (how hard the task!) leave oft" when done; Who draws a labor'd length of reasoning out, Puts straws in lines for winds to whirl about ; Who draws a tedious tale of learning o'er, Counts but the sands on ocean's boundless shore; Victory in law is gained as battles fought, Not by the numbers, but the forces bro't. What boots success in skirmishes or in fray, If rout and ruin following close the day ? What worth a hundred posts maintained with skill. If, these all held, the foe is victor still ? He who would win his cause, with power must frame Points of support, and look with steady aim; Attack the weak, defend the strong with art. Strike but few blows, but strike them to the heart; All scattered fires but end in smoke and noise. The scorn of men, the idle play of boys. Keep, then, this first great precept ever near. Short be your speech, your matter strong and clear; Earnest your manner, warm and rich your style, Severe in taste, yet full of grace the while ; So may you reach the loftiest heights of fame, And leave, when life is past, a deathless name. Anonymous. 66 POETIC JEWELS EROS ATHANATOS. [a garden, the nuptial night of HYACINTHUS and IRENE.] Two shapes that walk together, and caress, Amid a garden sweet with silentness, And, watching every flower and pulsing star. Share their souls' rapture with all things that are. Through the wide casement, open to the sky, White-footed gleams the bed where they shall lie; And from the chamber, luminously dim, Red marble steps slope downward to the brim Of a white-fountain in the garden, where A marble Dryad glimmers through the air. Scented the garden lies and blossom-strewn. And still as sleep beneath the rising Moon, Save from a blooming rose-grove, warm and still, Soft steals the nightingale's thick, amorous trill. HYACINTHUS. b^;!!^EEST thou two waifs of cloud in the dim blue Meandering moonward in the vap'rous light? Methinks they are two spirits bright and true, )^{ Blending their silvern breaths, and born anew, In the still rapture of this heavenly night! See! how like flowers the stars their paths bestrew. Till the moon turns, and smiles, and looks them through, Breathing upon them, when with bosoms white They melt on one another, and unite. Now they are gone! they vanish from our view. Lost in that rapture exquisitely bright ! O love! my love! methinks that thou and I Resemble those thin waifs in heaven astray: We meet, we blend, grow bright! IRENE. And we must die! POETIC JEWELS 67 HYACINTHUS. Nay, sweet, for love can never pass away! IRENE. Are they not gone? and, dear, shall we not go? Oh, love is life, but after life comes death! IIVACLN'THUS. No flower, no drop of rain, no flake of snow, No beauteous thing that blossometh below. May perish, though it vanish, ev'n as breath! The bright Moon drinks those wanderers of the west. They melt in her warm beauty, and are blest; [('^see them not, yet, in that light divine Upgathered, they are happy, and they shine; Not lost, but vanished, grown ev'n unawares, A part of a diviner life than theirs! NIGHTINGALES SING. Through our throats the raptures rise. In the scented air they swim; From the skies, With their own love-luster dim, Gaze innumerable eyes! — Sweet, oh, sweet. Grows the music from each throat, Thick and fleet. Note on note. Till in ecstasy we float! IRENE. How vast looks Heaven! how solitary and deep! Dost thou believe that Spirits walk the air. 08 POETIC JEWELS Treading those azure fields, and downward peep With sad, great eyes when Earth is fast asleep? HYACINTHUS. One spirit, at least, immortal LoVE, walks there! A SHOOTING STAR. Swift from my bliss, in the silence above, I slip to thy kiss, O my star! O my love! SPIRITS IN THE LEAVES. Who are these twain in the garden bowers? They glide with rapture rich as ours. Touch them, feel them, and drink their sighs. Brush their lips and their cheeks and eyes! How their hearts beat! how they glow! Brightly, lightly, they come and go; Upward gazing they look in bliss, Save when softly they pause, to kiss. Kiss them also and share the light That fills their breathing this golden night. Touch them! clasp them! round them twine, Their lips are burning with dews divine. HYACINTHUS. Love, tread this , way with rosy feet, And, resting on the shadowy seat, 'Neath the laburnum's golden rain. Watch how with murmurous refrain The fountain leaps, its basin dark Flashing in many a starry spark. POETIC JEWELS 09 With such a bhss, with such a light, With such an iteration bright, Our souls, upbubbling from the clay. Leap, sparkle, blend in silvern spray, Gleam in the Moon, and falling still. Sink duskily with a thick thrill, Together blent w'ith kiss and press. In the dark silence of caress, Yet there they pause not, but cast free After surcease of ecstacy, Heavenward they leap together clinging. And like the fountain flash, upspringing! THE FOUNTAIN LEAPING. Higher, still higher! With a trembling and gleaming Still upward streaming. In the silvern fire Of a dim desire; Still higher, higher! With a bright pulsation Of aspiration — Higher! Higher, still higher! To the lights above me; They gleam, they love me; They beckon me nigher, And my waves aspire. Still higher, higher; — But I fall down failing, Still wildly wailing — Hieher! 70 POEJIC JEWELS NIGHTINCiALES SING. Deeper let the glory glow; Sweeter let our voices croon! Yet more slow% Let our happy music flow, Sweet and slow, hushed and low. Now the gray cloud veils the Moon. Sweet, oh, sweet ! Watch her as our wild hearts beat. See! she quits the clasping cloud, Forth she moves on silvern feet, Smiling with her bright head bowed ? Pour the living rapture loud ! Thick and fleet, Sweet, oh, sweet. Let the notes of rapture crowd ! IRENE {to herself). And this is love! — Until this hour I never lived ; but, like a flower Close prest i' the bud, with sleeping senses, I drank the dark, dim influences Of sunlight, moonlight, shade, and dew. At last I open thrilling through With Love's strange sense, which seemeth part Of the warm life within my heart. Part of the air around. Oh bliss! Was ever night so sweet as this ? It is enough to breathe, to be, As if one were a flower, a tree, A leaf o' the bough, just stirring light With the warm breathing of the night! POETIC JEWELS 71 SPIRITS IN THE LEAVES. Whisper, what are they doing now? He is kissing his lady's brow, Holding her face up to the light Like a beautiful tablet, marble-white. The Moon is smiling upon it — lo! Whiter it is than driven snow. He kisses again and speaketh gay; Whisper, whisper, what doth he say? IIYACINTHUS. Forever and ever! forever and ever! As the fount that upleaps, as the breezes that blow, Love thou me! Forever and ever, forever and ever, While the nightingales sing and the rose garlands glow. Love I thee! Forever and ever, with all things to prove us. In this world, in that world that bendeth above us, Asleeping, awaking, in earth, as in Heaven, By this kiss, this other, by thousands ungiven, By the hands which now touch thee, the arms that enfold thee, By the soul in my eyes that now swoons to behold thee, By starlight, by moonlight, by scented rose-blossoms, By all things partaking the joy in our bosoms. By the rapture within us, the rapture around us, By God who hath made us, and Love who hath crowned us. By one sense and one soul we are blent, ne'er to sever — Forever and ever ! forever and ever ! More kisses to seal it. Forever and ever. 5 72 POETIC JEWELS THE WOOD ECHOES. Forever and ev^er. THE WIND SINGS. Hush, no more — for they have fled; Foot by foot and tread by tread I pursue them; all is said, Till Apollo rises red. Here they sat, and there, and there! Here stood clinging thou may'st swear, For the spirit of the air Still their scented breath doth bear. All is done, and all grows chill. Here upon the window-sill I will lean and feel a thrill From the sleeping chamber still. Blow the curtain back and peep: Silvern bright the moonbeams creep. Hush ! Still pale with passion deep. See them lying fast asleep. Robert Bitchanaji. POETIC JEWELS 73 NOW THE OLD WIFE'S GONE. ^LONE, ay, masters, I live alone in this old small room that you see, For, now my old woman is laid to rest, I have no one to think of me; We were wedded along, long while ago, full fifty years and more, And folks find changes hard to bear when nigh upon fourscore. Ah, she was a handsome and winsome lass in the days of the far-back past, And a beauty lingered on her old face for me to the very last; True, she sometimes had a bit of tongue, but maybe I had one too. And I find out, now she is dead and gone, what worries a wife goes through. Ay, the petty troubles of a woman's life a man can only learn When he has to Hght his fire himself, and finds green wood won't burn; When he has to wash out his bits of things, and cook his food himself, And keep his crockware free from dust, and ranged on a nice clean shelf. And then the needle that seemed to fly with magic speed through her work. Sticks tightly in mine, as if rusted in, and I pull it out with a jerk; 74 POETIC JEWELS And my cotton ties in a thousand knots, auJ as for worsted yarn, I know I could dig up an acre of ground while I'm doing a little darn. The old gray cat that my dead wife loved, comes rubbing against my hand, And I often find myself talking to her as if she could understand; But 'tis comfort to speak when my heart is full, for it softens my grief away; And I don't want to hear other people preach, for there's nothing new they can sa}'. Of course I know she's better off, but a man at the close of life Seems beginning his working days over again when he loses his long-time wife; I shall go to her, ay, I'm thinking of that, and I'll patiently here abide Till under the shade of the church we both loved, I am laid by my old wife's side. j\Iary Frances Adams. POETIC JEWELS 77 DEAD. " My son Absalom ! My son, my son ! " EAD : turned at once into clay; Dead he that drew Hfe from my breast ; Whom I clasp'd to my heart yesterday, And close to its pulses had press'd ! Dead : and his face ashen gray ! Dead : the wild spirit at rest ! My son, my son ! Dead : but not shot through the heart In battle 'gainst wrong for the right — 'Tvvere noble from life thus to part, And fall slain in a chivalrous fight; But to think /loiu he died is the smart, A darkness unbroken by light! My son, my son! Hadst thou died in a cause that was good, Standing up for the right and the true, Thy mother had said ^ ay, she zvould — Let death make a gap 'twixt us two: I swear, by the cross and the rood, Without tears I had bade thee adieu! My son, my son! Dead : stricken down by a blow Dealt out by a passionate hand; In the wink of an eyelid laid low, His blood welling out on the sand, And crawling all red in its flow, Till it crept to my feet where I stand! My son, my son! 78 POETIC JEWELS Dead: killed in a wild drunken brawl — Ah, here is the sting and the shame; Ah, here is the wormwood and gall; This burns in my bosom like flame! Would that tears had dropped on my pall Ere this blot had blackened his name. My son, my son ! Thus to die with a wine-maddened brain, Besotted, befooled, and beguiled ! I curse, from the heart of my pain. In words that sound frantic and wild ; I curse — but my curses are vain; They cannot restore me my child. My son, my son! Yet my grief is but common, they say, Others feel the same anguish and woe; Sad mothers and wives face the day, And their eyes with hot tears overflow. As weeping, they pass on their way, And cursing the wine as they go. My son, my son! T tell you, in God's holy name. That this is the scourge of the land, Its burden, its sorrow, its shame, Barnt deep on its brow like a brand; Striking hard at its honor and fame, And crumbling its strength into sand. My son, my son! We mothers and wives lift the cry. And pray ye, O men, for your grace; POETIC JEWELS 79 Come, help from your stations on high. As ye hope to look God in the face, Who sees us, as weeping we lie, And ask you for ruth from your place! My son, my son! O poets, youy aid we implore: Chant no longer the praises of wine; Dash the wine-cup down on the floor, You dishonor a craft so divine! Ah, indeed, you would praise it no more, If your son lay dead there like mine! My son, my son! O singers, well skilled in the song, Who stir the sweet air with your breath As your voices move thrilling along, Dare you laud the cup that is death? Dare ye lend your great gifts to such wrong: If so, from your brows tear the wreath! My son, my son! Hear the cry from the mad-house and jail. Hear the moan of the starving and poor. Hear the widows' and orphans' sharp wail. Who, like martyrs that groan and endure, Lift to God their white faces so pale, And, though speechless, His pity adjure. My son, my son! Help all ! Free the slaves from their bands; Help, and take part in this fight; Strike the fetters from paralyzed hands! Like Samson, rise up in your might, 80 POETIC JEWELS Break the chains like green willow-wands: Do this in God's name, and the right! My son, my son! Oh, scorn not, I pray you the cry Of a mother, a widow undone; But even Xhongh you pass it by, It will move the great God on His throne; He hears from the dust where I lie. Where in ashes I weep for my son. My son, my son! Re7>. Canon Bell. STEEPLE FOLK. ^^^^HE wonderful people That live in the steeple, There chanting and singing '$^ With the great bells swinging. Swaying with a pond'rous motion to and fro. With a mighty cling! clang! A sullen clash and bang! A booming of noises, Myriads of voices. Smitten out from dull metal with a blow. And then the wild, wild glee Of elf folk frolic free! As they skip on the rope, It will verily smoke. And they hang head down in a spider's web. POETIC JEWELS 81 Or gambol on the beams Like weird pigmies in dreams, These gobhn rope-dancers And marvelous prancers That leap to and fro on a shining thread. Oh, the sound of far bells, Borne in on windy swells. The faint, silver chiming. The sweet broken rhyming, Like some poet's lines that run in the head ; We walk in grassy fields, And the brain almost reels With the mem'ry of bliss- A fond word or a kiss, And the rose she wore — the rose was ripe red. And now there comes a hum When all the air is dumb. Like innumerable bees In freshly blossomed trees; What is it those elves are whisp'ring to each other In a secret low sound, That seems to heave the ground, A soft buzz and tingle — No jangle or jingle — Like a baby crooned to sleep by its mother? Weird music not of earth, Thin and fine as elf mirth, Comes winding round and round. In a spiral of sound. And moves us to tears with its haunting strain, 82 POETIC JEWELS By its intimations, And faint reverberations, Of tenderest heart thrills, That the grave alone stills — That quicken the cells of the coldest brain. Strange waitings and sighings, Loud sobbings and cryings. And then a plaintive knell From the great tolling bell. Heard over the green, daisy-sprinkled mead; Yes, there is some one dead And she was newly wed; A fortnight but just gone. Bells rang clearly ding! dong! To this woful day did the elves give heed! They knew it was coming, And woke a strange humming. That prophesies of ill When the wind blasts are still; And, if hearts do break, what is it to them? It is, I ween, the same. For their loss or their gain. Whether bells merry go, Or bells toll sad and slow; They care not what happens to ants of men. Fantasies of motion, High in that great ocean Of blue, pellucid air With a calm everywhere; Above this earth is the vast serenity, POETIC JEWELS 83 Above the want and woe, And running to and fro, Above the pain and loss, And dragging heavy cross, Above the dull cares of poor humanity. Good, church-going people Gaze up at yon steeple, As it seems to reel and rock They hear voices that mock; And " hush! was that a whisper in the breast? Or was it wicked fays That heed not prayer or praise That never bow the knee, But live Godless and free, In the holy house of worship and rest? " The ills we cannot know. Like the gathering of snow, These elves see advancing. When sunbeams are dancinsf, A wisp of vapor, a wreath of smoke; And they laugh to see us play And sport the time away Till thunder gusts and showers Have spoiled our pretty bowers, Or out of a clear heaven falls the stroke. But from the over-soul. The great enduring whole, There falls a sweeter chime, A more entrancing rhyme. Far, far above the clanging of the bell, m POETIC JE WELS Above the bletided strain Of human joy and pain, From that eternal calm The universal psalm, Sounds, all is well! all is well! all is well! Augusta Lamed. ONLY A WOMAN. " She loves with love that cannot tire ; And if, ah, woe ! she loves alone Through passionate duty love flames higher, As grass grows taller around a stone." CoTCutrv Patniore. Tf'^^^^^J^O, the truth's out. I'll grasp it like a snake — It will not slay me. My heart shall not break Awhile, if only for the children's sake. For his, too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed; None say, he gave me less than honor claimed. Except — one trifle scarcely worth being named — 'Y\iQ heart. That's gone. The corrupt dead might be As easily raised up, breathing — fair to see, As he could bring his whole heart back to me. I never sought him in coquettish sport, Or courted him as silly maidens court, And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. I only loved him — any woman would; But shut my love up till he came and sued, Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood. POETIC JEWELS 85 I was so happy I could make him blest! So happy that I was his first and best, As he mine — when he took me to his breast. Ah me! if only then he had been true! If for one little year, a month or two, He had given me love for love, as was my due! Or had he told me, 'ere the deed was done, He only raised me to his heart's dear throne — Poor substitute — because the queen was gone! 0, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss, He had kissed another woman even as this — It were less bitter! Sometimes I could weep, To be thus cheated, like a child asleep; Were not my anguish far too dry and deep. So I built my house upon another's ground; Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound — A cankered thing, that looked so firm and sound. And when that heart grew colder, colder still, 1, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfill, Blaming my foolish, pain-exacting will. All — anything but him. It was to be The full draught others drink up carelessly Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. I say again — -he gives me all I claimed, I and my children never shall be shamed; He is a just man — he will live unblamed. 8G POETIC JEWELS Only — O God, O God, to cry for bread, And get a stone! Daily to lay my head Upon a bosom where the old love's dead! Dead? Fool! It never lived. It only stirred, Galvanic, like an hour-cold corpse. None heard; So let me bury it without a word. He'll keep that other woman from my sight. I know not if her face be foul or bright; I only know that it was his delight — As his was mine; I only know he stands Pale, at the touch of their long-severed hands. Then to a flickering smile his lip commands, Lest I should grieve, or jealous anger show. He need not. When the ship's gone down, I trow, We little reck whatever wind may blow. And so my silent moan begins and ends, No world's laugh or world's taunt, no pity of friends, Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends. None knows — none heeds. I have a little pride; Enough to stand up, wifelike, by his side, With the same smile as when I was his bride. And I shall take his children to my arms; They will not miss these fading, worthless charms; Their kiss — ah! unlike his — all pain disarms. And haply as the solemn years go by, He will think sometimes, with regretful sigh. The other woman was less true than I. Dinah MariaJi Miilock. POETIC JEWELS 87 CASTLES IN SPAIN. OW much of my young heart, O Spain, Went out to thee in days of yore! What dreams romantic filled my brain, And summoned back to life again The Paladins of Charlemagne, The Cid Campeador! And shapes more shadowy than these, In the dim twilight half revealed ; Phoenician galleys on the seas. The Roman camps like hives of bees, The Goth uplifting from his knees Pelayo on his shield. It was these memories, perchance, From annals of remotest eld, That lent the colors of romance To every trivial circumstance. And changed the form and countenance Of all that I beheld. Old towns, whose history lies hid In monkish chronicle or rhyme — • Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid, Zamora and Valladolid, Toledo, built and walled amid The wars of Wamba's time; The long, straight line of the highway, The distant town that seems so near, The peasants in the fields, that stay Their toil to cross themselves and pray. When from the belfry at midday The Angelus they hear; POETIC JEWELS White crosses in the mountain pass, Mules gay with tassels, the loud din Of muleteers, the tethered ass That crops the dusky wayside grass, And cavaliers with spurs of brass Alighting at the inn; White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat. White cities slumbering by the sea, White sunshine flooding square and street. Dark mountain-ranges, at whose feet The river-beds are dry with heat — All was a dream to me. Yet something somber and severe O'er the enchanted landscape reigned; A terror in the atmosphere, As if King Philip listened near, Or Torquemada, the austere. His ghostly sway maintained. The softer Andalusian skies Dispelled the sadness and the gloom; There Cadiz by the seaside lies, And Seville's orange-orchards rise. Making the land a paradise Of beauty and of bloom. There Cordova is hidden among The palm, the olive, and the vine; Gem of the South, by poets sung, And in whose Mosque Almanzor hung. As lamps, the bells that once had rung At Compostella's shrine. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. POETIC JEWELS 91 But over all the rest supreme, The star of stars, the cynosure. The artist's and the poet's theme. The young man's vision, the old man's dream — Granada by its winding stream, The city of the Moor ! And there the Alhambra still recalls Aladdin's palace of delight: Allah il Allah ! through its halls Whispers the fountain as it falls, The Darro darts beneath its walls, The hills with snow are white. Ah yes, the hills are white with snow, And cold with blasts that bite and freeze; But in the happy vale below The orange and pomegranate grow. And wafts of air toss to and fro The blossoming almond-trees. The Vega cleft by the Xenil, The fascination and allure Of the sweet landscape chains the will; The traveler lingers on the hill, His parted lips are breathing still The last sigh of the Moor. How like a ruin overgrown With flowers that hide the rents of time, Stands now the Past that I have known; Castles in Spain, not built of stone. But of white summer cloud, and blown Into this little mist of rhyme! Henry WadstvcrtJi Lofigfellow. POETIC JEWELS THE LAST BANQUET. 1793. [The incident narrated in tlae poem is based on fact, a tragedy of the kind being reported to have occurred, during the French Revolution, in the north of France.] ITAUT, the Norman marquis, Sat in his banquet-hall, When the shafts of the autumn sunshine Gilded the castle-wall; While in through the open windows Floated the sweet perfume, Borne in from the stately garden And filling the lofty room; And still, like a strain of music Breathed in an undertone, The ripple of running water Rose, with its sob and moan. From the river, swift and narrow, Far down in the vale below, That shone like a silver arrow Shot from a bended bow. Yonder, over the poplars. Lapped in the mellow haze. Lay the roofs of the teeming city. Red in the noonday blaze ; While ever, in muffled music, The tall cathedral-towers Told to the panting people The story of the hours. POETIC JE WELS 93 His was a cruel temper: Under his baneful sway- Peasant and maid and matron Fled from his headlong way, When down from his rocky eyrie, Spurring his foaming steed, Galloped the haughty noble, Ripe for some evil deed. But when the surging thousands, Bleeding at every pore. Roused by the wrongs of ages. Rose with a mighty roar — Ever the streets of cities Rang with a voice long mute; Gibbet and tree and lanterne Bearing their bleeding fruit. Only one touch of feeling — Hid from the world apart. Locked with the key of silence — Lived in that cruel heart; For one he had loved and worshiped, Dead in the days of yore, Who slept in the lonely chapel. Hard by the river-shore. High on a painted panel. Set in a gilded shrine, Shone her benignant features Lit with a smile divine; 94 POETIC JEWELS Under the high, straight forehead, Eyes of the brightest blue, Framed in her hair's bright masses, Rivaled the sapphire's hue. " Why do you come, Breconi?" " Marquis, you did not call; But Mignonne is waiting yonder, Down by the castle-wall." " Bid her begone! " — " But, master — Poor child! she loves jou so! And broken with bitter weeping, She told me a tale of woe. " She says there is wild work yonder. There in the hated town, Where the crowds of frenzied people Are shooting the nobles down. And to-night, ere the moon has risen. They come with burning brand, With the flame of the blazing castle To light the lurid land. " But first you must spread the banquet Host for the crew abhorred — Ere out from the topmost turret They fling my murdered lord. Flee for thy life, Lord Marquis, Flee from a frightful doom, When the night has hid the postern Safe in its friendly gloom! " POETIC JEWELS " Tush! are you mad, Brecon!? Spread them the banquet here, With flowers and fruit and viands, Silver and crystal clear; Let not a touch be wanting — Hasten those hands of thine! Haste to the task, Breconi; And I will draw the wine!" S.owly the sun went westward, Till all the city's spires Flamed in the flood of splendor — A hundred flickering fires. Over the peaceful landscape. Clasped by the girdling stream, Quivered, in mournful glory The last expiring beam. Then up from the rippling river Sounded the tramp of feet That rose o'er the solemn stillness Laden with perfume sweet; While high o'er the sleeping city. And over the garden gloom. Towered the grim, black castle, Still as the silent tomb. Leaning over the casement, Heark'ning the busy hum, Smiling, the haughty marquis Knew that his time was come: 96 POETIC JEWELS And he turned to the paneled picture - That answered his look again, And beamed with a smile of welcome Humming a low refrain. Under the echoing archway, And up o'er the stairs of stone, Ever the human torrent Shouted, in strident tone — Curses and gibes and threat'nings, With snatches of ribald jest, Stirring the blood to fury In many a brutal breast. There, under the lighted tapers Set in the banquet-hall. Smiling and calm and steadfast. Towered the marquis tall. Dressed in his richest costume, Facing the gibing host, He wore on its broad blue ribbon The star of " The Holy Ghost." " Welcome, fair guests — be seated! " He cried to the motley crowd That drew to the loaded table With curses long and loud; Waving a graceful welcome, The gleaming lights reveal The rings on his soft, white fingers, Strung with their nerves of steel. POETIC JEWELS U7 Turned to the paneled picture, Calm in his icy hate, He stood, in his pride of lineage, Cold as a marble Fate; Smiling in hidden meaning — In his rich garments dressed — As cold and hard and polished As the brilliants on his breast. Pouring a brimming beaker. He cried: " Drink, friends, I pray! Drink to the toast I give you! Pledge me my proudest day! Here, under the hall of banquet — Drink, drink to the festal news! — Stand twenty casks of powder Set with a lighted fuse! " Frozen with sudden horror. They saw, like a fleecy mist, As he quaffed the purple vintage. The ruffles at his wrist. Turned to the smiling picture. Clear as a silver bell Echoed his last fond greeting — " I drink to thee, ma belief Down crashed the crystal goblet, Flung on the marble floor; Back rushed the stricken revelers, Back to the close-barred door! 98 POETIC JEWELS Up through its yawning crater The mighty earthquake broke, Dashing its spume of fire Up through its waves of smoke! Out through the deep'ning darkness, A wild, despairing cry Rang as the riven castle Lighted the midnight sky; Then down o'er the lurid landscape, Lit by those fires of hell — Buttress and roof and rafter — The smoking ruin fell! ******* Over the Norman landscape The summer sun looks down, Gilding the gray cathedral, Gilding the teeming town. Still shines the rippling river Lapped in its bands of green; Still hangs the scent of roses Over the peaceful scene: But high o'er the trembling poplars, Blackened and burned and riven. Those blasted battlements and towers Frown in the face of heaven; And still in the sultry August I seem at times to feel The smile of that cruel marquis. Keen as his rapier's steel! Edivard Renaiid. POETIC JEWELS 99 BABY'S SHOES. ■^ THOSE little, those little, blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use, O, the price were high That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes! For they hold the small shape of feet That no more their mother's eyes meet, That, by God's good will. Years since, grew still, And ceased from their totter so sweet. And O, since that baby slept, So hushed, how the mother has kept. With a tearful pleasure That little dear treasure, And o'er them thought and wept! For they mind her forevermore Of a patter along the floor; And blue eyes she sees Look up from her knees With a look that in life they wore. As they lie before her there, There babbles from chair to chair A little sweet face That's a gleam in the place. With its little gold curls of hair. 100 POETIC JEWELS Then O woirder not that her heart From all else would rather part Than those tiny blue shoes That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start. William C. Bennett. DOLORES. "ER old boat loaded with oranges, Her baby tied on her breast, Minorcan Dolores bends to her oars, Noting each reed on the slow-moving shores ; But the way is long, and the inlet wide — Can two small hands overcome the tide Sweeping up into the west? Four little walls of coquina-stone, Rude thatch of palmetto-leaves; There have they nestled, like birds in a tree, From winter, and labor, and hunger free; Taking from earth their small need, but no more, No thought of the morrow, no laying in store, No gathering patient sheaves. Alone in their southern island-home, Through the year of summer days, The two love on; and the bountiful beach Clusters its sea-food within his reach; The two love on, and the tropical land Drops its wild fruit in her indolent hand. And life is a sunshiny haze: THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY. POETIC JEWELS 103 Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown, With dreamy, passionate eyes — Far in the past, lured by Saxon wiles, A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles. Now, tinged with the blood of the Creole quadroon, Their children live idly along the lagoon, Under the Florida skies, Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown, Ah, their blossoming life of love! — But fever falls with its withering blight; Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night, In vain her poor herbs, in vain her poor prayers — Her Luiz is mounting the spirit-winged stairs That lead to her heaven above. So, her old boat loaded with oranges. Her baby tied on her breast, Dolores rows off to the ancient town, "Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching down From the far cold north; they are men who know — Thus Dolores thinks — how to cure all woe; Nay, their very touch is blest. " Oranges! oranges! " hear her cry. Through the shaded plaza path; But the northern soldiers come marching in Through the old Spanish city with stir and din; And the silent people stand sullen by, To see the old flag mount again to the sky — The flag they had trampled in wrath. 1U4 POETIC JEWELS Ah, brown Dolores! will no one hear, And buy thy poor little store? Now north, now south, on the old sea wall — But her pitiful tones unheeded fall; Now east, now west, through the angry town, Patient she journeys up and down. Nor misses one surly door. Then desperate, up to the dreaded ranks She carries her passionate suit; " I have no money, for none would buy; But come, for God's sake, or he will die! Save him, my Luiz, he is so young! " She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue. And proffers her store of fruit. But the northern soldiers move steadily on. They hear not nor understand; The last blue ra.ik has passed down the street. She sees but the dust of their marching feet; They have crossed a whole country by night and by day, And marked, with their blood, every step of the way. To conquer this southern land. They are gone — O despair! she turns to the church, Half-fainting, her fruit wet with tears; " Perhaps the old saint, who is always there, May wake up and take them to pay for a prayer; They are very sweet, as the saint will see, If he would but wake up, and listen to me; But he sleeps so, he never hears." POETIC JEWELS 105 She enters, the church is filled with men, The pallid men of the north; Each dincry old pew is a sick man's bed, Each battered old bench holds a weary head, The altar-candles are swept away For vials and knives in shinincr array, And a new saint is stepping forth. He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine, A saint of a northern creed — Clad in a uniform — army blue, But surely the saints may wear any hue Dolores thinks, as he takes her hands And hears all her story, and understands The cry of her desperate need. An orange he gives to each weary man. To freshen the fevered mouth, Then forth they go down the old sea-wall, And they hear in the dusk the picket's call; The row-boat is moored on the shadowy shore, The northern saint can manage an oar, And the boat eHdcs fast to the south. A healing touch and a holy drink, A bright little heavenly knife. And this strange northern saint, who prays no prayers. Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs. And once more Minorcan Luiz's dark eyes. In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies, Rest calm on the awe-stricken wife. 100 POETIC JEWELS " Oh, dear northern saint! a shrine will I build, Wild roses I'll bring from afar, The jessamine, orange-flower, wood-tulips bright, And those will I worship each morning and night. " Nay, nay, poor Dolores, I am but a man, A surgeon, who binds up with what skill he can The wounds of this heart-breaking war. " See, build me no shrines, but take this small book, And teach the brown baby to read." He is gone; and Dolores is left on the shore. She watches the boat till she sees it no more. She hears the quick musketry all through the night, She holds fast the book in her pine-knot's red light. The book of the northerner's creed. # # * * * * The sad war is over, the dear peace has come, The blue-coated soldiers depart; The brown baby reads the small book, and the three Live on in their isle in the Florida sea; The brown baby learns many things wise and strange. But all his new English words never can change The faith of Dolores' fond heart. A boat with a load of oranges In a flower-decked shrine doth stand Carved in coquina, and thither she goes, To pray to the only real saint she knows, The northern surgeon in army blue; And there she was found in the morning's dew, Dead, with the book in her hand. Constance Fenimorc Woolson. POETIC JEWELS 107 THE MAIDEN'S ARMOR. IS chastity, my brother, chastity: She that has that, is clad in complete steel; .nd, like a quiver'd nymph, with arrows keen, ^ May trace huge forests, and unharbor'd heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds. Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, No savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer, Will dare to soil her virgin purity: Yea, there, where very desolation dwells. By grots and caverns shagged with horrid shades, She may pass on with unblench'd majesty, Be it not done in pride, or in presumption. Some say, no evil thing that walks by night In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue, meager hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chain at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine. Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call Antiquity from the old schools of Greece To testify the arms of chastity? Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow, Fair silver-shafted queen, forever chaste. Wherewith she tamed the brinded lioness And spotted mountain-pard, but set at naught The frivolous bolt of Cupid; gods and men Feared her stern frown, and she was queen of the woods. What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield That wise Minerva wore, unconquer'd virgin. Wherewith she freezed her foes to congeal'd stone, But rigid looks of chaste austerity, 108 POETIC JEWELS And noble grace, that dash'd brute violence With sudden adoration and blank awe? So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity, That, when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt; And, in clear dream and solemn vision. Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till apt converse with heavenly habitants Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape. The unpolluted temple of the mind, And turns it, by degrees, to the soul's essence. Till all be made immortal. Milton. IF THAT HIGH WORLD. If that high world which lies beyond Our own, surviving love endears; If there the cherished heart be fond. The eye the same, except in tears — How welcome those untrodden spheres! How sweet this very hour to die! To soar from earth, and find all fears Lost in thy light — eternity. It must be so: 'tis not for self That we so tremble on the brink; And, striving to o'erleap the gulph, Yet cling to Being's severing link. Oh! in that future let us think To hold each heart the heart that shares, With them the immortal waters drink. And soul in soul grow deathless theirs. Lord Byron. POETIC JEWELS 111 CUDDLE DOON. HE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' mickle faucht an' din; " O, try and sleep, ye waukrife^ rougues, Your faither's comin* in." They never heed a word I speak; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap^ them up, an' cry, " O bairnies, cuddle doon." Wee Jamie wi' the curly head — He aye sleeps next the wa', Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece — " The rascal starts them a' . I rin' an' fetch them pieces, drinks; They stop avvee the soun', Then draw the blankets up an' cry, " Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries out frae' 'neath the claes, " Mither, ma'k' Tam gie ower at ance, He's kittlin^ wi' his taes." The mischiefs in that Tam for tricks, He'd bother half the toon; But aye, I hap them up, an' cry, " O bairnies, cuddle doon." I Wakeful. 2 Cover. 3 Tickling. 112 POETIC JEWELS At length they hear their father's fit, An' as he steeks^ the door, They turn their faces to the.wa', While Tarn pretends to snore. " Hae a' the weans been glide?" he asks, As he pits off his shoon; " The bairnies, John, are in their beds. An' lang since cuddled doon. " An' just afore we bed oursel's, We look at oor wee lambs; Tarn has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab, his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An' as I straik each croon, I whisper, till my heart fills up, " O bairnies, cuddle doon." The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' mirth that's dear to me; But sune the big warld's cark an' care. Will quaten^ doon their glee. Yet coom what will to ilka ane, May he who sits aboon. Aye whisper, though their pows^ be bauld, " O bairnies, cuddle doon." Alexander Anderson. 4 Shuts. 5 Quiet. 6 Heads. POETIC JEWELS lU YE NEEDNA' BE COURTIN' AT ME. "■-' E needna' be courtin' at me, auld man, Ye needna' be courtin' at me; Ye're threescore an' three, an' ye're bhn' o' an' cc, Sac ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man, Ye needna' be courtin' at me. " Stan' aff, noo, an'just lat me be, auhl man, Stan' aff, noo, an'just lat me be; Ye're auld an' ye're cauld, an' ye're blin' an' ye're bald, An' ye're nae for a lassie like me, auld man, Ye're nae for a lassie like me." Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass, Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee; I've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumy weel stowed, An' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass, A heart that lo'es nane but thee. " I'll busk you as braw as a queen, sw^eet lass, I'll busk you as braw as a queen; I've guineas to spare, an', hark ye, what's mair, I'm only two-score an' fifteen, sweet lass, Only two-score an' fifteen." " Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear, auld man, Gae hame to your gowd an your gear; There's a laddie I ken has a heart like mine ain, And to me he shall ever be dear, auld man. To me he shall ever be dear. 114 POETIC JEWELS " Get afif, noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man, Get afif, noo, an' fash me nae mair; There's a something in love that your gowd canna move I'll be Johnie's although I gang bare, auld man, I'll be Johnie's although I gang bare." Peter Still. THE CITY OF THE HEART. HE heart is a city teeming with life — Through all its gay avenues, rife With gladness ^ And innocent madness, Bright beings are passing along. Too fleeting and fair for the eye to behold. While something of Paradise sweetens their song. They are gliding away with their wild gushing ditty, Out of the city. Out of the beautiful gates of gold ! Through gates that are ringing While to and fro swinging. Swinging and ringing ceaselessly. Like delicate hands that are clapped in glee, Beautiful hands of infancy! The heart is a city — and gay are the feet That dance along To the joyous beat Of the timbrel that giveth a pulse to song. POETIC JEWELS 115 Bright creatures enwreathed With flowers and mirth, Fair maidens bequeathed With the glory of earth, Sweep through the long street, and singing await, A moment await at the wondering gate; Every second of time there comes to depart Some form that no more shall revisit the heart! They are gliding away and breathing farewell — How swiftly they pass Through the gates of brass, Through gates that are ringing While to and fro swinging, And making deep sounds, like that half-stifled swell Of the far-away ring of a gay marriage bell! The heart is a city with splendor bedight. Where tread martial armies arrayed for the fight, Under banner-hung arches. To war-kindling marches. To the fife and the rattle Of drums, with gay colors unfurled, On, eager for battle. To smite their bright spears on the spears of the world! Through noontime, through midnight, list and thou'lt hear The gates swing in front, then clang in the rear. Like a bright river flowing. The war host is going, And like to that river, Returning, ah, never! Through daylight and darkness low thunder is heard From the city that flings Her iron-wrought wings. IIG POETIC JEWELS Flapping the air like the wings of a bird! The heart is a city — how sadly and slow, To and fro, Covered with rust, the solemn gates go! With meek folded arms, With heads bending lowly, Strange beings pass slowly Through the dull avenues, chanting their psalms; Sighing and mourning, they follow the dead Out of the gates that fall heavy as lead — Passing, how sadly, with echoless tread, The last one is fled! No more to be opened, the gates softly close, And shut in a stranger who loves the repose; With no sigh for the past, with no countenance of pity. He spreads his black flag o'er the desolate city! T. Buchanan Read. ^M^'^ POETIC JEWELS 117 THE PROBLEM OF ETERNITY. 'NOTHER annual circle is complete! Another year is added to the past ! 'The unit of all time has reached its mete, And we may measure all years by the last. And I have questioned it: " Canst thou not cast The ratio of eternity for me ? 'Tis infinitely long ; but thou art vast, And tijne reveals its mysteries to thee: O Year! what is thy ratio to eternity ? " The Old Year fell into the tomb of Time Without reply — it would not answer me. And then I sought, in fair and sunny clime, Where shores are washed by broad Pacific's sea, And giant forests grow, and found a tree — A brave old pine — which soared into the blue An hundred fathoms high; for I would see If that old giant could not give the clue By which the finite might the infinite pursue. The giant waved his hoary head on high, But answered not from all his life, so long! And then I sought the sea, that murmured by And seemed to struggle in its muttering song To utter things unutterable, along The hoary rocks upon the echoing coast - And questioned that: " O deep, and strong. And boundless Ocean! surely thou art, most Of all things known and finite, in the infinite lost! 118 POETIC JEWELS Thou didst behold the natal day of Earth, And hear the annual chimes of time strike One. — Thou didst behold the primal man go forth, The first to look upon the kindling sun; And when the seas were gathered into one, And mountains rose, and infant rivers ran, Ere nature's countless ages had begun — Thy life was running through its lengthy span! O Ocean, tell the wondrous mystery to man! " But still the rolling ocean answered naught; Its life was all too short, and finite still — It could not solve the infinite, nor aught Unravel of the All-Eternal will. O vast Eternity! with what a thrill The longing mind conceives the infinite, And faints, and fails, while yet it strives to fill Eternity in all its depth and height — Smitten to blindness by its own alluring light. Thou deathless Mind! wilt thou not answer me? Undying as thou art, and measuring all— What is thy ratio to Eternity? Thou dost compute the ages as they fall; Earth yields her hidden mysteries to thy call. And suns, and stars, and systems, have been weighed In thy far-reaching balance, and the pall Which lies upon the age, long decayed. Has vanished, even at the light thyself hast made. But still the eternal problem is unsolved! Back o'er departed years, the longing thought Retraces ages ere the earth revolved; Beholds the infant world before it causfht POETIC JEWELS 119 The earliest blush of primal da\', or aught or life had moved upon the rolling sphere — Beholds the long succeeding ages, fraught With myriad changes, as they each appear; Yet fi ids no clue to make the eternal problem clear. Eternity! submissive let me bow Before the awful problem of thy round. O vast Eternity — eternal now ! — No ratio in the universe is found To estimate the infinite profound. The finite cannot solve the infinite; And One alone, who knows nor mete nor bound To wisdom, love, or majesty, or might, Can solve the problem of Eternity aright. Edward R. Roe. MY HEART LEAPS UP. My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall be old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. William 1 Vordsworth . 120 POETIC JEWELS CLEOPATRA'S SOLILOQUY. HAT care I for the tempest? What care I for the rain? If it beat upon my bosom, would it cool its burning -v>^1|v pain — This pain that ne'er has left me since on his heart I lay, And sobbed my grief at parting as I'd sob my soul away? O Antony! Antony! Antony! when in thy circling arms Shall I sacrifice to Eros my glorious woman's charms, And burn life's sweetest incense before his sacred shrine With the living fire that flashes from thine eyes into mine? when shall I feel thy kisses rain down upon my face. As, a queen of love and beauty, I lie in thy embrace. Melting melting — melting, as a woman only can When she's a willing captive in the conquering arms of man, As he towers a god above her, and to yield is not defeat, For love can own no victor, if love with love shall meet? 1 still have regal splendor, I still have queenly power. And more than all — unfaded is woman's glorious dower; But what care I for pleasure? what's beauty to me now. Since Love no longer places his crown upon my brow? I have tasted its elixir, its fire has through me flashed, But when the wine glowed brightest from my eager lip 'twas dashed. And I would give all Egypt but once to feel the bliss Which thrills through all my being whene'er I meet his kiss; The tempest wildly rages, my hair is wet with rain, But it does not still my longing, nor cool my burning pain, For Nature's storms are nothing to the raging of my soul When it burns with jealous frenzy beyond a queen's control. POETIC JEWELS 121 I fear not pale Octavia — that haughty Roman dame — My lion of the desert — my Antony can tame. I fear no Persian beauty, I fear no Grecian maid: The world holds not the woman of whom I am afraid. But I'm jealous of the rapture I tasted in his kiss, And I would not that another should share with me that bliss; No joy would I deny him, let him cull it where he will, So, mistress of his bosom is Cleopatra still; So that he feels forever, when he Love's nectar sips, 'Tvvas sweeter — sweeter — sweeter when tasted on my lips; So that all other kisses, since he has drawn in mine, Shall be unto my loved as " water after wine." Awhile let Caesar fancy Octavia's pallid charms Can hold Rome's proudest consul a captive in her arms, Her cold embrace but brightens the memory of mine. And for my warm caresses he in her arms shall pine. 'Twas not for love he sought her, but for her princely dower; She brought him Caesar's friendship, she brought him kingly power, I should have bid him take her had he my counsel sought, I've but to smile upon him, and all her charms are naught; For I would scorn to hold him by but a single hair, Save his own longing for me when I'm no longer there; And I will show you, Roman, that for one kiss from me, Wife — fame — and even honor to him shall nothing be! Tlirow wide the window, Eros — fling perfumes o'er me now, AnJ bind the lotus blossoms again upon my brow, The rain has ceased its weeping, the driving storm is past. And calm are Nature's pulses, that lately beat so fast. 122 POETIC JEWELS Gone is my jealous frenzy, and Eros reigns serene, The only god e'er worshiped by Egypt's haughty Queen. With Antony — ■ my loved — I'll kneel before his shrine 'Till the loves of Mars and Venus are naught to his and mine; And down through coming ages, in every land and tongue, With them shall Cleopatra and Antony be sung. Burn sandal-wood and cassia, let the vapor round me wreathe And mingle with the incense the lotus blossoms breathe. Let India's spicy odors, and Persia's perfumes rare, Be wafted on the pinions of Egypt's fragrant air. With the sighing of the night breeze, the river's rippling flow, Let me hear the notes of music in cadence soft and low, Draw round my couch its curtains; I'd bathe my soul in sleep: I feel its gentle languor upon me slowly creep. let me cheat my senses with dreams of future bliss In fancy feel his presence, in fancy taste his kiss, In fancy nestle closely against his throbbing heart, And throw my arms around him, no more — no more to part. Hush ! hush ! his spirit's pinions aie rustling in my ears; He comes upon the tempest to calm my jealous fears; He comes upon the tempest in answer to my call. Wife — fame — and even honor — for me he leaves them all; And royally I'll welcome my lover to my side. 1 have won him — I have won him from Caesar and his bride. Mary Bayard Clarke. "TWO DAYS SHE WANDERED." POETIC JEWELS 125 REUBEN AND ROSE. A TALE OF ROMANCE. HE darkness which hung upon Willumberg's walls Had long been remember'd with awe and dismay! For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls, i~ And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of day! Though the valleys were brighten'd by many a beam, Yet none could the woods of the castle illume; And the lightning which flash'd on the neighboring stream Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom! " Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse?" Said Willumberg's lord to the seer of the cave; — " It ne'er can dispel," said the wizard of verse, " Till the bright star of chivalry's sunk in the wave! " And who was the bright star of chivalry then? Who could be but Reuben, the flower of the age? For Reuben was first in the combat of men. Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page. For Willumberg's daughter his bosom had beat; For Rose who was bright as the spirit of dawn, When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet, It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn! Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever? Sad, sad were the words of the man in the cave, That darkness should cover the castle forever, Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave! 12G POETIC JEWELS She flew to the wizard — " And tell me, oh tell ! Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes?" " Yes, yes — when a spirit shall toll the great bell Of the moldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise! " Twice, thrice he repeated, " Your Reuben shall rise! " And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain; She wiped, while she listen'd, the tears from her eyes, And she hoped she might yet see her hero again! Her hero could smile at the terrors of death, When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose; To the Oder he flew, and there plunging beneath. In the lapse of the billows soon found his repose. How strangely the order of destiny falls! — Not long in the waters the warrior lay, When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls! And the castle of Willumberg bask'd in the ray! All, all but the soul of the maid was in light — There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank; Two days did she wander, and all the long night, In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank. Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, And she heard but the breathings of night in the air; Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, And she saw but the foam of the white billow there. And often as midnight its veil would undraw, As she look'd at the light of the moon in the stream. She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw. As the curl of the surge glitter'd high in the beam. POETIC JEWELS 127 And now the third night was begemming the sky, Poor Rose on the cold, dewy margent recHned, There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye, When — hark! — 'twas the bell that came deep in the wind. She startled, she saw, through the glimmering shade, A form o'er the waters in majesty glide; She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was decay'd, And his helmet of silver was wash'd by the tide. Was this what the seer of the cave had foretold! — Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam; 'Twas Reuben, but ah! he was deathly and cold. And fleeted away like the spell of a dream! Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought From the bank to embrace him, but never, ah! nev^er; Then springing beneath, at a billow she caught. And sunk to repose on its bosom forever! Tom Moore. 128 POETIC JEWELS MEASURING THE BABY. E measured the riotous baby Against the cottage wall- — A lily grew at the threshold, ^ And the boy was just as tall. A royal tiger lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dew to hold. Without the bluebirds whistled High up in the old roof-trees, And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; And the wee pink* fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow That danced on the lattice sill. His eyes were wide as bluebells — His mouth like a flower unblown — Two little bare feet, like funny white mice Peeped out from his snowy gown; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture. That yet had a touch of pain, When June rolls around with her roses. We'll measure the boy again. Ah me! In a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away. Through tears that fell like a bitter rain We measured the boy to-day; POETIC JEWELS 129 And the little bare feet that were dimpled And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In the hush of a long repose. Up from the dainty pillow, White as the risen dawn, The fair little face lay smiling, With the light of Heaven thereon — And the dear little hands, like rose leaves Dropped from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine That crept to the shrouded sill. We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow. For the shining rosewood casket That waited him below; And out of the darkened chamber We went with a childless moan — To the height of the sinless angels Our little one had grown. Emma Alice Broiviie. i 30 P OETIG JE WEL S A LONDON IDYL. ^EY, rain, rain, rain! It patters down the glass and on the sill, And splashes underneath, along the lane — Then gives a kind of scream, and lies quite still; One likes to hear it, tho', when one is ill; Rain, rain, rain, rain! Hey, how it pours and pours! Rain, rain, rain, rain! A weary day for poor girls out-o' doors. Ah, don't! that kind of comfort makes me cry, And, Parson, since I'm bad, I want to die. The roaring of the street, The tramp, tramp, tramp of feet. The sobbing, sobbing of the weary Rain, Have gone into the aching of my brain. I'm lost and weak, and can no longer bear To wander like a shadow here and there - As useless as a stone — tired out — and sick! So that they put me down to slumber quick, It does not matter where. No one will miss me; all will hurry by, And never cast a thought on one so low; Fine gentles miss fine ladies when they go, But folk care nought for such a thing as I. 'Tis bad, I know, to talk like that -too bad! Joe, tho' he's often hard, is strong and true — (Ah, Joe meant well!) and there's the baby too! But I'm so tired and sad. POETIC JEWELS , 131 I'm glad it was a boy, sir, very glad, A man can fight along, can say his say, Is not looked down upon, holds up his head, And at a push can always earn his bread; Men have the best of it, in many a way. But ah! 'tis hard indeed for girls to keep Decent and honest, tramping in a town, Their best but bad — made light of — beaten down, Forever wearying, wearying for sleep. If they grow hard, go wrong, from bad to badder, Why, Parson dear, they're happier being blind: They get no thanks for being good and kind — The better that they are, they feel the sadder! Nineteen! Nineteen! Only nineteen, and yet so old, so old; — I feel like fifty, Parson — I have been So wicked, I suppose, and life's so cold! Ah, cruel are the wind and rain and snow. And I've been out for years among them all: I scarce remember being w^eak and small Like Baby there — it was so long ago. It does not seem that I was born, but woke One day in a dark room High up among the smoke, And trembling at the roaring of the gloom That hung around me (for you could not see The people from our window — only stone — Deep walls, black pits, and lanes — tho' drearily You heard the deep streets groan); And I was all alone, and looking out. And listening in a dream; 132 POETIC JEWELS And far between the housetops was a gleam Of water winding silver-like about. That was the River. It looked cool and deep, And as I watch 'd, I felt it slipping past, As if it smoothly swept along in sleep, Gleaming and gliding fast; And so I lean'd upon the sill and hearken'd To the strange hum, while all the roofs became Cover'd with thin, sick flame, . And with a dusky thrill the River darken'd ; Till coldly, coldly, on the roofs there lighten'd A pale, sad silver light from heaven shed, And with a sweep that made me sick and frighten'd The Yellow Moon roU'd up above my head ; And down below me groan'd the noise and trade And O! I felt alive, and was afraid. And cold, and hungry, shrieking out for bread. All that is like a dream! It don't seem true/ — Father was dead and mother left, you see, To work for little brother Ned and me, And up among the roofs we grew and grew; Lock'd in whole days high up, while mother char'd In people's houses; only now and then We slipt away into the streets, and stared At the big crowds of women and of men. And I was six, but Ned was only three, And thin and weak and weary; and one day, While mother was away. He put his little head upon my knee. And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb, But look'd quite strange and old, For when I touch'd him, shook him, spoke to him. POETIC JEWELS 133 He smiled and grew so cold ; Then I was frighten'd and cried out, and none Could hear me, and I sat and nursed his head, Watching the smoky window while the sun Peep'd in upon his face and made it red; And I began to cry; — till mother came. Knelt down and scream'd, and named the great GOD's name, And told me he was dead. Well, when she put his night-gown on, and weeping Put him among the rags upon his bed, I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping. And took his little hand and felt no fear; But, when the place grew gray and cold and drear, And the round moon came creeping, creeping, creeping, Over the roofs and put a silver shade All round the cold, cold bed where he was laid, I sobb'd and was afraid. Ah, yes, it's like a dream! for time pass'd by, And I went out into the smoky air. Fruit-selling, Parson trudging wet or dry — Winter and summer —weary, cold, and bare; And when old mother laid her down to die, And parish buried her, I did not cry. And hardly seem'd to care; I was too hungry and too dull; beside, The roar o' streets had made me dry as dust; It took me all my time, howe'er I tried. To keep my limbs alive and earn a crust; I had no time for weeping. And when I was not out amid the roar, Or standing frozen at the play-house door. Why, I was coil'd upon my straw, and sleeping. 134 POETIC JEWELS Ah, pence were hard to gain! Some girls were pretty, too, but I was plain! Fine ladies never stopp'd and looked and smil'd, And gave me money for my face's sake; That made me hard and angry when a child, But now it thrills my heart and makes it ache! The pretty ones, poor things, what could they do. Fighting and starving in the wicked town, But go from bad to badder — down, down, down Being so poor and yet so pretty too? Never could bear the like of that — ah, no! Better have starved outright than gone so low! For often late at night A face that I had known when mild and meek Pass'd by with fearful smile and painted cheek, Gleam'd in the gas, and faded out of sight. But I've no call to boast. I might have been As wicked, Parson, dear, in my distress, But for your friend — you know the one I mean? The tall, pale lady in the mourning dress. Though we were cold at first, that wore away — She was so mild and young. And had so soft a tongue. And eyes to sweeten what she loved to say. She never seem'd to scorn one, no, not she, And (what was best) she seem'd as sad as me! Not one of those that make a girl feel base. And call her names, and talk of her disgrace. And frighten one with thoughts of flaming Hell And fierce LORD GOD with black and angry brow But soft and mild, and sensible as well, And O I loved her, and I love her now. FOE TIC JEWELS 135 She did me good for many and many a day — More good than pence could ever do, I swear, For she was poor, with little pence to spare — Learn'd me to read and quit low words — and pray. And, Parson, tho' I never understood How such a life as mine was meant for good, And could not understand How one she said was wicked ever could Go to your better land Among a troop so grand, I liked to hear her talk of such a place, And thought of all the angels she was best, Because her soft voice soothed me, and her face Made my words gentle, put my heart at rest. Ah! sir, 'twas very lonesome night and day, Save when the sweet Miss came, I was alone: Moved on and hunted thro' the streets of stone. And even in dreams afraid to rest or stay. Then the girls had lads to work and strive for, I envied them, and did not know 'twas wrong, And often, very often, used to long For some one I could like and keep alive for. Marry? Not they! They can't afford to be so good, you know; But many of them, tho' they step astray. Indeed don't mean to sin so much, or go Against what's decent. Only 'tis their way. And many might do worse than that, may be. If they had ne'er a one to fill a thought — It sounds half wicked, but poor girls like me Must sin a little, to be good in aught. 13G POETIC JEWELS So I was glad when I began to see That costermongering Joe liad fancied me; And when, one night, he took me to the play, Over on Surrey side, and ofifer'd fair, That we should take a little room and share Our earnings, why, I could not answer " nay "! And that's a year ago; and tho' I'm bad, I've been as true to Joe as girl could be ; I don't complain a bit of Joe, dear lad, Joe never, never meant but well; and we Have had as fresh and fair a time, I think, As one could hope, since we are both so low: Joe likes me, never gave me push or blow, When sober — only he was wild in drink. But then, we don't mind beating when a man Is angry, if he likes us and keeps straight, Works for his bread and does the best he can;— 'Tis being left and slighted that we hate. And so the baby's come, and I shall die! And tho' 'tis hard to leave poor Baby here. Where folk will think him bad, and all's so drear, The great Lord God knows better far than I. Ah, don't! — 'tis kindly, but it pains me so! You say I'm wicked, and I want to go! " God's kingdom," Parson, dear? Ah nay, ah nay! That must be like the country — which I fear; I saw the country once, one summer day. And I would rather die in London here. For I was sick of hunger, cold and strife, And took a sudden fancy in my head To try the country, and to earn my bread POETIC JE WELS 137 Out among fields, where, I had heard, one's life Was easier and brighter. So, that day, I took my basket up and stole away, Early at morning. As I went along. Trembling and loath to leave the busy place, I felt that I was doing something wrong, And fear'd to look policemen in the face. And all was dim: the streets were gray and wet After a rainy night: and all was still; I held my shawl around me with a chill. And dropt my eyes from every face I met; Until the streets began to fade, the road Grew fresh and clean and wide, Fine houses where the gentlefolk abode, And gardens full of flowers, on every side: That made me walk the quicker — on, on, on — As if I were asleep with half-shut eyes. And all at once I saw to my surprise The houses of the gentlefolk were gone, And I was standing still, Shading my face upon a high green hill. And the bright sun was blazing. And all the blue above me seem'd to melt To burning, flashing gold, wliile I was gazing On the great smoky cloud where I had dwelt. I'll ne'er forget that day. All was so bright And strange. Upon the grass around my feet The rain had hung a million drops of light ; The air, too, was so clear and warm and sweet It seem'd a sin to breathe it. All around Were hills and fields, and trees that trembled thro' A burning, blazing fire of gold and blue; 138 POETIC JEWELS And there was not a sound, Save a bird singing, singing, and a kind Of sighing from the grass upon the ground, I turn'd away, like one grown deaf and blind. Then, with my heavy hand upon my chest, Because the bright air pain'd me trembling, sighing, I stole into a dewy field to rest, And O the green, green grass where I was lying Was fresh and living — and the birds sang loud. Out of a golden cloud — And I was looking up at him and crying ! The hours they slipt away; and by and by The sun grew red, big shadows fill'd the sky, The air grew damp with dew. And th2 dark night wa? coming down, I knew. Well, I was more afraid than ever then, And I felt that I should die in such a place; — So back to London town 1 turned my face. And crept into the great, black streets again; And when I breathed the smoke and heard the roar. Why, I was better, for in London here My heart was busy, and I felt no fear. I never saw the country any more. And I have staid in London well or ill, I dared not stay out yonder if I could, For one feels dead, and all looks pure and good — I could not bear a life so bright and still. All that I want is sleep, Under the flags and stones, so deep, so deep! God won't be hard on one so mean, but He Perhaps will let a tired girl slumber sound There in the deep, cool darkness underground ; POETIC JEWELS 139 And I shall waken up in time, may be, Better and stronger, not afraid to see The great Still Light that folds Him round and round See! there's a bit of sunshine thro' the pane — How cool and moist it looks amid the rain! I like to hear the splashing of the drops On the house tops, And the loud humming of the folks that go Along the streets below! I like the smoke and roar — I am so bad — • They make a low one hard and still her cares — There's Joe! I hear his foot upon the stairs! — He must be wet, poor lad ! He will be angry, like enough, to find Another little life to clothe and keep, But show him baby. Parson- — speak him kind — And tell him Doctor thinks I'm going to sleep. A hard, hard life is his — he need be strong And rough, to earn his bread and get along; — I think he will be sorry when I go, And leave the little one and him behind. I hope he'll see another to his mind To keep him straight and tidy. Poor old Joe! Robert Buchanan. ^^^^ 140 POETIC JEWELS THE FROGS. For Recitation — zait/i Imitations. HY should the birds have all the words Of song and praise in poets' lays, While all unstrung the lyre has hung, '^And all incog, the tuneful frog Is croaking all his days? — Croaking with a croak, cro-ack, croak — Trilling with a trill, ter-ril, trill — Joking with d,joke, jo-ack, joke — Waking every echoing hill With his merry music still ! Chirping in the tree-tops all the night Chirping, chirruping, chirping I Never in the sunshine's gairish light Chirping. Hiding from each curious eye, Dappled green and gray they lie. Seeming, as we pass them by, Only moss-tufts gray and dry. Still, when night-fall's shades appear, Wakes the tree-frog's piping clear — Chirp — chirp — chirruping. When the spring rains fill the pond; When the wild ducks vagabond, Fly to regions far beyond — Hear the merry serenaders! Nestling groups along the shore, Forth their trilling concert pour — Trilling, trilling, trilling more — Spring-time's evening merry-makers. POETIC JEWELS 341 Then, when summer on the bog Decks with verdure every log, See the sunshine-loving frog, Sitting — sitting, like a ghoul ! 'Till some stealthy step comes nigh; Then, with single gurgling cry. Leaping with a quick good-bye, CJuig! he sinks into the pool. Sitting in the green lagoon Musing on the evening moon, Body half immersed they lie, Glinting with each glimmering eye. Tuning for the concert's din — Never ready to begin! Each one anxious to prepare ; Twanging never two together! Tzvajtginghere, and tzvangifig ihcrfi.. Like wet strings in rainy weather. All of those are known and heard. Common as a household word. Others rarely trill or mutter, Sounds no other throat can utter — Soldiers camped by Bayou Pierre,'' Listening for the foeman there. Heard discordant cow-bells near — Heard them tinkling sharp and clear Forth, at risk of death or wounding, Crept they where the bells were sounding — Searched they all the brake surrounding; Listening still, and still confounding * On White River, Arkansas. 142 POETIC JEWELS Every tingle in the bog; Tinkled by the " cow-bell frog"! Tingling, tingling in the bog — Only by the cow-bell frog. Giant of the Rana race, Lo, the bull-frog, grave and grim! See his v/onted lurking place By the pool's o'er-shaded rim — By the stagnant bayou bank — By the river or lagoon — By the margins, drear and dank, Where he nightly bays the moon. Eyes like diamonds set in gold; Neckless head on body cold; Throat like pouch of pelican; Arms and legs which mimic man; Dappled skin, black, gray, and green — Uglier elf was never seen! Yet, when evening shades appear, How he startles every ear! How he times the loud response — Thrills a hundred throats at once — Echoing deep in concert true — Bool-yer-o-boo! bool-yer-o-boo! bool-yer-o-boo! Edzvard R. Roe. -#{*}^ POETIC JEWELS 143 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. " Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short but simple annals of the poor. " Gray. I. ,Y loved, my honor'd, much respected friend, No mercenary bard his homage pays: 'With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise. To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. n. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end — Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes — Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward bend. 144 POETIC JE WELS Til. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher through To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, !: Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. IV. Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town; Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny fee. To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be, V. Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet. An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears. Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT. POETIC JEWELS 147 VI. Their masters' an' their mistress' command, The younkers a' are warned to obey; And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play; " An' oh, be sure to fear the Lord alvvay! An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright! ' VII. But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door. Jenny, wha kens the meanin' o' the same, Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor. To do some errands and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck anxious care inquires his name. While Jenny hafilins is afraid to speak; Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. VIII. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brmgs him ben; A strappin' youth; he taks the mother's e'e; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflovvs wi' joy. But blate and laithtu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 9 148 POETIC JEWELS IX. Oh happy love! where love like this is found! Oh heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've paced this weary mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare: — If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-whitethorn that scents the ev'ning gale. X. Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth, That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child, Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? XI. But now the supper crowns their simple board. The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; The soupe their only hawkie does afford. That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; The dame brings forth, in complimental mood. To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell. An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. POETIC JEWELS 149 XII. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. They round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare: Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. He wales a portion with judicious care; And " Let us worship God! " he says, with solemn air. XIII. They chant their artless notes in simple guise: They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps " Dundee's " wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name: Or noble " Elgin " beats the heav'n ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. XIV. The priest-like father reads the sacred page — How Abram was the friend of GOD on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny, Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heav'ns avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 150 POETIC JEWELS XV. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme — How guiltless blood for guilty men was shed ; How He who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : How his first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. XVI. Then, kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal Kinc;, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days; There ever bask in uncreated rays. No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise. In such society, yet still more dear; While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. XVII. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride. In all the pomp of method and of art. When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert. The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage tar apart. May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. POETIC JEWELS 151 XVIII. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. XIX. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of God! And certes, in fair Virtue's heav'nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind: What is a lordling's pomp? — a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! XX. Oh, Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent. Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, oh, may Heav'n their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 152 POETIC JEWELS XXI. Oh, Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide, That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart: Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian and reward!) Oh, never, never Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot and the patriot bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! Robert Burns. CIVIL WAR. IFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball in the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet! " " Ah, captain! here goes for a fine drawn bead, There's music around when my barrel's in tune! " Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped. And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. " Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood ; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud." " Oh captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette. For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back. That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet POETIC JEWELS 153 " But I snatched off the trinket — this locket of gold; An inch from the center my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." " Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket! — 'tis she, My brother's young bride — and the fallen dragoon Was her husband — Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree, We must bury him there, by the light of the moon! " But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; War is a virtue — weakness a sin; There's a lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in! " Anonymo?is. HOW TO BECOME CONSEQUENTIAL A BROW austere, a circumspective eye, A frequent shrug of the os Jiunieri, A nod significant, a stately gait, A blust'ring manner, and a tone of weight, A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare; Adapt all these as time and place will bear. Then rest assur'd that those of little sense Will set you down — a man of consequence. Anonymous, 154 POETIC JEWELS AN ODE TO THE RAIN. [Composed before daylight, on the morning appointed for the departure of a very worthy, l)ut not very pleasant, visitor; whom it was feared the rain might detain.] I. KNOW it is dark; and, though I have lain Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain. I have not once opened the Hds of my eyes, But I he in the dark, as a bhnd man Hes. Rain! that I he hstening to, You've but a doleful sound at best; 1 owe you little thanks, 'tis true. For breaking thus my needful rest! Yet if, as soon as it is light, O Rain, you will but take your flight, I'll neither rail, nor malice keep, Though sick and sore for want of sleep; But only now, for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away! II. O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound. The clash hard by, and the murmur all round! You know, if you know aught, that we, Both night and day, but ill agree: For days, and months, and almost years, Have limped on through this vale of tears, Since body of mine, and rainy weather. Have lived on easy terms together. Yet if, as soon as it is light, O Rain! you, will but take your flight. eOETlC JE WELS 135 Though you should come again to-morrow, And bring with you both pain and sorrow; Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell — I'll nothing speak of you but well. But only now for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away. III. Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say You're a good creature in your way, Nay, I could write a book myself Would fit a parson's lower shelf, Showing, how very good you are — What then? Sometimes it must be fair! And if sometimes, why not to-day? Do go, dear Rain! do go away! IV. Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy. Take no offense! I'll tell you why. — A dear old Friend e'en now is here. And with him came my sister dear; After long absence now first met, Long months by pain and grief beset — We three dear friends! in truth, we groan Impatiently to be alone. We three, you mark! and not one more! The strong wish makes my spirit sore. We have so much to talk about, So many sad things to let out; 156 POETIC JEWELS So many tears in our eye-corners, Sitting like little Jacky Horners — In short, as soon as it is day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away! V. And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain! Whenever you shall come again. Be you as dull as e'er you could (And by the by 'tis understood, You're not so pleasant as you're good), Yet knowing well your worth and place, I'll welcome you with cheerful face; And though you staid a week or more, We're ten times duller than before. Yet with kind heart, and right good will, I'll sit and listen to you still; Nor should you go away, dear Rain, Uninvited to remain, But only now, for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away! Samuel Taylor Coleridge. POETIC JE WELS 157 THE OLD STAGER'S STORY. 'H, good evening to you again! So you've brought the proof then, eh? Macbeth, Mr. Hubert Villers." Yes, that's better, I must say. Now, what'll you take! Hot whisky? Right! What, ho there, Polly, my dear! Two fours of Irish warm for me and this other gentleman here. Not half bad tipple, is it, my boy? 'Tain't often I drink from choice, But I fancy a drop of Irish warm softens and mellers the voice: So you liked my Claud last night, you say? Well, 'tis fairish they all allow; But I'm getting a bit too old and fat for the lover business now. Ah, well, I mustn't complain, I suppose! I can stick to the heavy line, And I've got a few browns put by, you know, in that old stocking o' mine; Though, mind you, with a company near a dozen strong, or quite, If business is slack, 'tis a tightish fit when it comes to Saturday night. See some queer things, we traveling folks? Well, yes, that's perfectly true: Why, 'twas only now while sitting here, smoking and waiting for you, 158 POETIC JEWELS I was thinking over a curious scene you may have heard about, That shows how the real thing after all beats acting out- and-out! I know it's true, for it all took place under my eyes, you know: Let's see, 'twas at — yes, at Doncaster — about two years ago, Me and the missus was sitting down at our lodgin's one day at tea, When the slavey told me a lady had called, and wanted to speak to me, " Show ner up here," I says, for I thought, 'tis one of our folks look'd round To ask me something about to-night but I was wrong, I found; For there entered, blushing up to her eyes, shrinking, tremulous, coy, A lady Td never seen before, with a charming little boy. A beautiful blonde she was, not more than two and twenty or so. With 'witching eyes of a lustrous brown, but ah, how full of woe! And she and her boy were dressed in black, and she wore in mournful mood On her flaxen hair, that was tinged with gold, the weeds of widowhood. POETIC JEWELS 159 She took the chair I gave her, and spoke in a low, sweet voice — I could see that she was a lady born, she seemed so gentle and nice; She'd had some knowledge of the stage as an amateur, she said, And could I give her something to do to find her boy in bread ? " O that's how the wind lays, is it? " I thought. " Well, p'r'aps I might do worse: If she only acts as well as she looks, she'd nicely line my purse;" And I took good stock of her as she sat with her boy beside her chair, And stroked with dainty, tremulous hand his bonny golden hair. Bit by bit her story came out. Long back her mother had died, And left her, an only child, to be her father's darling and pride; He was in the law, and thought to be rich, and was held in high repute; But, ah! he died a ruined man, and left her destitute. Then the only relative she had — an aunt, who was well- to-do — Had taken her in, and had found for her a wealthly suitor, too. 160 POETIC JEWELS But she loved another — a sailor lad — who, like herself, was poor; And when they married, her haughty aunt had spurned her from her door They were very happy at first, she said, and her voice was tearful and low, But, O, she had lost her husband too — he was drown'd four months ago; His ship was wrecked, and all were lost; and now, in her need and care, She'd no one left in all the world, but her little Charlie there! And here she drooped her head, poor girl, and her voice was choked with sighs — Hem, hem! confound the smoke; how it gets in a fellow's throat and eyes! Then she finished her tale: She felt at first all stunned and dazed, she said; And even to think aught but of him seemed treachery to the dead. But by-and-by , for the sake of her boy, now doubly pre- cious and dear, She nerved herself to look beyond to the future that seemed so drear: She thought of a governess' place at last, but then they would have to part. And to give up her only darling now would almost break her heart! POETIC JEWELS IGl Little by little her things had gone to meet their daily need, Till her home too had to be given up, and all seemed lost indeed; Then she thought of how she loved the stage in the happy Long Ago, And how well she played as an amateur — at least they told her so. She'd called at all the theaters she knew, but 'twas still the same old tale ■ — A novice had no chance at all where even vet'rans fail; Then some one had told her to come to me, and she'd traveled here to-day To see if I could take her on, in however humble a way. I should find her quick and willing, she said, in all I wanted done; And all she wanted was lodging and food for her and her little one: She'd nothing left but her wedding-ring and one poor half-a-crown, And, O, there was only the work-house, if — and here '^he quite broke down. Well, there, the parsons give it sometimes to we " poor players " hot. But whatever our faults may be, my boy, we ain't a hard- hearted lot! There was the missis a-crying too, with the little kid on her knee, And I — well this weeping business, somehow, always gits over me! 1 02 POETIC JE WELS And the cad of it was that I took her on, as a super, so to speak, And found her board and lodging with us, and a shilling or two a week. She helped the missis in different ways, and did it capi- tally, too. And we sent her on in little parts where she hadn't much to do. But a quicker " study " I never knew, and she'd something better and higher — I could see that she was an actress born — the woman had passion, fire! She took with the public from the first, and with her sweet young face, And passion, and power, and we gave her soon the leading lady's place. Some of our ladies was jealous-like when they see her taking the lead. And used to sneer at her ring and weeds, and mutter, " Mrs. indeed!" But she was so gentle, obliging, meek, this soon wore off", it did, And they all of 'em got to love her at last, and to almost worship the kid. She seemed transformed with passion and power when once she got on the stage, A.nd Mrs. Mowbray, as she was called, came to be quite the rage; POETIC JEWELS l(i,} :3hc'd only to show herself for the cheers to thunder out, and lor' ! She always was good for three recalls of a night, and often more! 'Twas the best day's work I ever did when I lent her a help ing hand: By Jove, sir, as Constance in King JoJiii that woman was something grand! And as for Ophelia, where she sings that song before she dies, Hardened old stager as I am, it brought the tears to iry eyes. One night I happened to be in the front when she was extra fine; 'Twas in East Lynnc, and she'd justcomeon, with her boy, as Madame Vine: She's supposed, as the Lady Isabel, to have wronged her husband and fled. But takes the governess' place disguised, after he thinks she's dead. She'd got to the crowning scene of all, where the mother longs to stretch Her arms to her boy, but has to check and school herself, poor wretch! And the house was hushed in pity and awe, when I saw her stare and start, Then stagger, and turn as white as death, and put her hand to her heart. 164 POETIC JEWELS I followed her eyes, and there close by in the pit, looking pale and thin. Was a tall young fellow in naval dress, who had only just come in: He sprang to the stage, and bounded on, and you can guess the rest. — " O Alice, Alice! " " O Harry, dear! " — and she swooned away on his breast! I think for the moment the people thought 'twas part of the play, forsooth, But her story, you see, had been whispered about, and they easily guessed the truth. And then — ah! talk of a scene, my boy! such cheers you never heard — I thought the roof would have fallen in — I did, upon my word' Of course the curtain had to be dropped, and I whispered to the band To strike up something, and hurried behind at once, you understand. To find her just " coming-to," dear heart, with the women all weeping there. And her husband, with her hand in his, kneeling beside her chair. And her little one clinging to her — ah! what a tarblow that would have been! 'Twould have made the fortune of a piece to have brought in such a scene! POETIC JEWELS 165 I've come to look at it now, you see, in a sort of profes- sional light; But then I was very nearly as weak as the women were, or quite. His story was short: his ship was wrecked, and 'twas thought that all were drown'd. But he and another clung to a spar, and were picked up safe and sound; 'Twas more like the Tichborne story again than anything else I know: Do I believe in the Claimant? Yes — I believe he's Arthur O! They landed him close to the Diamond Fields, and he wrote to his wife, but she Believed he was dead, and had changed her name, and taken service with me; Then he took a turn at the diggin's, and there good luck came thick and fast, And he'd come back rich to find her gone, but they'd met at last — at last! Then her story was told, and how good I'd been, and all the rest, dear heart. And she would insist on going on again to finish her part: So I went to the front myself, you know, and told the people all, And, upon my soul, I thought this time the roof must surely fall. lG(i POETIC JEWELS And when she came on again at last, what deafening thiin der o' cheers! Men a-waving their hats like mad — women and kids in tears ! I thought of the night when Kean first set all England's heart astir: " Sir, the pit ROSE AT me! " he said; and so it did at her! And she seemed inspired, so grand she was, so passionate, true and warm; From the time she opened her mouth again, she took the house by storm; Three times they had her back at the end, and I shall never forget How he had to lead her on at the last — I can see and hear 'em yet. A bonnie couple they were, my boy, and to see em to- gether then — Hem! bother the smoke; it's been and got into my eyes again! He dropped me a " fiver " for a feed for the company next day, And she brought me this here diamond ring — up to the knocker, eh? He took a nice little place in Kent, where thy're living in style, you know; And there's always a knife and fork for me, whenever I like to go. POETIC .IE WELS 1G7 It ain't so very long ago — perhaps two or three months, or more — Since me and the missus was there for a week, and was treated " up to the door." I had their story put in a play, and it answered pretty well, But, bless your heart, it wasn t a patch on the genuine article! Well, good-bye for the present, old friend, if you won't have any more: You won't forget about the bills? Good on yer! O rcvivar! Edwin Coller. THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. Y BOY left me just twelve years ago, I 'Twas the black year of famine, of sickness and woe. When the crops died out, and the people died too, And the land into one great graveyard grew; And our neighbors' faces were as white and thin, As the face of the moon, when she first comes in; And honest men's hearts were rotten with blight, And they thieved, and prowled, like wolves at night; When the whole land was as dark as dark could be, 'Twas then that Donald my boy left me. We were turned from the farm, where we'd lived so long. For we couldn't pay the rent, and the law was strong; From the low meadow land, and flax fields blue, And the handsome green hill, where the yellow furze grew; 108 POETIC JEWELS And the honest old cow, that each evening would stand At the little gate, lowing, to be milked by my hand; And the small patch of garden at the end of the lawn, Where Donald grew sweet flowers for his Colleen Bawn. But Donald and I had to leave all these, I to live with father, and he to cross the seas, For Donald was as proud as any king's son. And swore he'd not stand by, and see such wrongs done, But would seek a fortune out in the wide west, Where the honest can find labor and the weary rest; And as soon as he was able, why then he'd send for me, To come and rest my poor old head in his home across the sea; And then his young face flushed like a June sky at dawn, As he said, he was thinking how his Colleen Bawn Could come along to help him to keep the house straight. For he knew how much she loved him, and she'd promised him to wait. > I think I see him now, as he stood one blessed day. With his pale, smiling face upon the Limerick quay, And I lying on his breast, with his long curly hair Blowing all about my shoulders, as if to keep me there, And the quivering of his lips that he tried to keep so proud, Not because of his old mother, but the idle, curious crowd. Then the hoisting of the anchor, and the flapping of the sail, And the stopping of my heart, when the wild Irish wail From the mothers and the kinsfolk on the quay. Told me plainer than all words, that my darling was away. Ten years went dragging by, and I heard but now and then, For my Donald, though a brave boy, was no scholar with the pen; But he sent me kindly words, and bade me not despair, POETIC JEWELS 169 And sometimes sent me money, perhaps more than he could spare. So I waited and I prayed, until it came to pass That Father Pat he wanted me one Sunday after mass; When I went a little fearsome, to the back vestry room. Where his reverence sat a smiling, like a sun-flower in the gloom; And then he up and told me, God bless him, that my boy Had sent to bring me over, and I nearly died for joy. All day I was half crazed, as I wandered through the house, The dropping of the sycamore seeds, or the scrambling of a mouse. Thrilled through me like a gun shot, and I durst not look behind. For the pale face of my darling was always in my mind; The pale face so sorrowful, the eyes so large and dark. And softly shining as the deers' are, in young Lord Marsy's park. And the long chestnut hair blowing loosely by the wind, All this seemed at my shoulder, and I did not look behind; But I said in my own heart, it is but the second-sight. Of the day when I shall see him, all beautiful and bright. Then I made my box ready to go across the sea; My boy had sent a ticket, so my passage it was free. But all the time I longed that some little gift I had, To take across the ocean to my own dear lad; A pin, or a c'.iaia, or something of the kind. Just to mind the poor boy of the home he'd left behind. But I was too poor to buy them, so I'd nothing left to do, But to go to the old farm, the homestead that he knew, To the handsome green hill where my Donald used to play, 170 POETIC JEWELS And cut a sod of shamrock for the exile far away. All through the voyage I nursed it, and watered it each day, And kept its green leaves sheltered from the salt sea spray, And I'd bring it up on deck, when the sun was shining fair. And watch its triple leaflets open slowly in the air. At first the sailors laughed at my little sod of grass, But when they knew my object, they gently let me pass; And the ladies in the cabin were very kind to me, And made me tell my story of my boy across the sea; So I told them of my Donald and his fair manly face, Till bare speaking of my darling made a sunshine in the place. We landed at the Battery, in New York's big bay, The sun was shining grandly, and the wharves looked gay, But I could see no sunshine nor beauty in the place. What I only cared to look on, was Donald's sweet face. And in all that great crowd, and I turned everywhere, I could not see a sign of him, my darling was not there I asked the men around me to go and find my son. But they only stared and laughed, and left me one by one, Till at last an old-country man came to me and said, (How could I live to hear it?) that Donald was dead. The shamrock sod is growing on Greenwood's hillside, It grows upon the heart of my darling and my pride, And on summer days I sit by the headstone all day, With my heart growing old and my head growing gray, And I watch the dead leaves whirl from the sycamore trees, POETW JEWELS 171 And wonder why it is that I can't die Hkc these. But I think that this same winter, and in my heart I hope, I'll be lying nice and quiet upon Greenwood's slope, With my darling close beside me, underneath the trick- ling dew, And the shamrock creeping pleasantly above us two. Fita James CBricn. COME REST IN THIS BOSOM. Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here. — Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast called me thy angel in moments of bliss, And thy angel I'll be 'mid the horrors of this — Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too. Thomas Moore. 172 POETIC JEWELS THE HOLLOW OAK. >OLLOW is the oak beside the sunny waters drooping; Thither came, when I was young, happy children trooping; Dream I now, or hear I now — far, their mellow whoop- ing? Gay below the cowslip bank, see, the billow dances, There I lay beguiling time — when I lived romances — Dropping pebbles in the wave, fancies into fancies; — Farther, where the river glides by the wooded cover, Where the merlin singeth love, with the hawk above her, Came a foot and shone a smile — woe is me, the Lover! Leaflets on the hollow oak still as greenly quiver, Musical amid the reeds murmurs on the river; But the footsteps and the smile? — woe is me forever! E. Btclzucr Lytton. MAUNA LOA. VER the girdling sea We sail for Mauna Loa; To windward lies Maui, To leeward Mauna Loa; And swift we glide with wind and tide, Pilgrims to Mauna Loa; We Avatch no moon or star for guide, But only Mauna Loa. The mountain fumes five watery leagues away, Around his head the hovering halos play: POETIC JE WEL S 175 Our island boatmen court the fitful breeze, And trim our buoyant bark to skim the seas. League after league we speed our wondering way; We leave the night behind ; before us play The lurid sparkles tipped with mountain light, Reflected o'er the sea from Loa's height. 'Tis morning on the sea: Hawaii Looms up from out the waters and the sky. And Mauna Loa lifts his head on high, Mauna Loa wakens from his sleep — Mauna Loa clothes his head with cloud — Mauna Loa lightens o'er the dcep — - Mauna Loa's crater thunders loud ! The clouds about his head are clouds of smoke: They came not from the ocean's summer mist ; The thunders which his lofty dome awoke Are Vulcan's peals, not Jupiter's; — The glowing beams are Lucifer's; And not the rays of Sol illume the lurid smoke. So swift we sail till morning struggles nigh, Contending with the fire -illumed sky; And so, while showers of ashy cinders pour. We moor our vessel near the island shore. For days we trod the isle of Hawaii ; For days we climbed the wondrous mountain high; And night and day we felt, and saw, and heard. Beyond all speech or utterable word ! Passing the snowy girdle of the mount, We stood to windward of the fiery fount — The vast, abysmal crater, deep and broad — Which uttered thunders like the voice of God. 176 POETIC JEWELS The outer elements beneath our feet Were storming in the clouds of summer heat ; But in the deaf 'ning, deep volcano's roar, The atmospheric thunders seemed no more Than mimic storms upon th' illusive stage Where mimic elements in strife engage. Over the burning pit for miles abroad, A canopy above the fiery god In smoky curtains hung, or rolled away To Mauna Kea in their fitful play, Disclosing changeful hues of fiery blue. Scarlet and purple in commingling hue; And in their scenic counterfeit displayed Inverted image, in the heavens portrayed, Of burning mountains, rent and all aglow With bright volcanic fire like that below. ■Anon, the glowing pillar of fire and cloud, With lightnings vivid and with thunders loud, Shot upward straight an hundred fathoms high, And outward curved like comets in the sky. Over the ocean smoky clouds were blown. Bearing volcanic ashes, raining down Dust and blown cinders on the darkened sea And o'er the decks of distant ships a-lee; Within the crater's vast and fiery verge, The white-hot molten lava, surge on surge, Heaved, raged, and dashed with thundering roar. Like surging ocean on a rock-bound shore. Then suddenly a calm came on; and all The lava waves were still; the lurid pall In mid-air hovered o'er the dread abyss; The thunders ceased; the roar, the howl, the hiss, POETIC JEWELS 177 And all the sounds of simulated dole Fell down into a smothered rumbling roll. Illusive calm! An earthquake broke the spell. A new-formed crater in the mountain hell Burst forth, and midway down the mountain side Poured out a molten river, deep and wide, Of white-hot lava, struggling to be free, And rolling downward to the distant sea. Around its fiery rim the crater built A cone of scoria, ashes, pumice, silt. Cinders, slag, and lava cooled; and out Of this dread throat threw fitfully about. Or shot sheer upward tow'rd th' astonished sky Its fiery columns thundering on high, A deep, infernal subterranean sound — A smothered rumbling, awful and profound, Alternate with explosion's mingled roar. Convulsed th' abysmal fire from shore to shore, Filling the air with lava spouting high. Like fiery surf into a fiery sky. Again the gleaming lava rose in towers. Cones, columns, spires, or minarets and showers Of glowing slag and cooling ashes fell Back in the mouth of that volcanic hell. Up with the molten columns as they rose. Myriads of shining fragments interpose, And back, down-falling in fantastic lines — Recurving — shooting intersecting sines, And streaking all the hot, volcanic air — Make gleaming phantasms in th' infernal glare. With senses surfeited with wonder there, We turned our 'wildered wanderings to where 178 POETIC JEWELS The stream of molten lava, rolling free, Poured through the distant forest to the sea. And what a flood was there! A lava flood, Slow-rolling, like a stream of smoking blood. Clotted, and sluggish as the surface cooled, Bursting in crimson spouts where pooled In d^^p depressions, broke the thickening crust. Or rushing madly down where'er it must, A river of fire, quick-moving, broad and deep. In thundering cascade down the mountain steep. Into the forest plunged th' impetuous stream. Upheaving rocks, and burning trees which gleam, And scintillate, and light the murky air With showery stars out-bursting through the glare. Vast trees enveloped in the burning flood, Surrounded at the base, brief moment stood, Then bursting with a cannon's sudden roar, O'er-toppled in the flood they fell before. And so the lava river, surging free. Plunged through the blazing forest to the sea. Reluctant sea! unwonted to receive The fiery flood, its wildered waters heave In waves tumultuous, shivering like glass White-hot in water, all the molten mass; Throwing a vitreous hailstorm upon high, With thunders echoing from sea to sky. From all the fiery firmament night fled away From gory light reflected from the spray. And glowing clouds of steam and sulphury smoke Careered before the wind, and red waves broke In deafning thunders on the shining shore, While sky, and earth, and ocean, mingled in the roar, Was 't not enough! No — while th' volcano raged POETIC JE WELS 179 Contending men in direful war engaged; And Mauna Loa's slope saw deeds of death Within the sliadow of his sulphury breath. Ka-meha-meha, king of Hawaii, Compelled a bold, rebellious chief to fly With all his followers up the mountain slope — Too few and feeble with his king to cope. Keoua divided up his band Of flying braves — one company to stand In feint of battle with the irate king; Another in advance to fly, and bring Their wives and children to a safe retreat. And now the ground beneath their hurrying feet Rocked wildly with a sudden earthquake's throes. The thundering crater joined their human foes; Belched forth black clouds of blinding smoke, which rose Before the treacherous winds, which blew their breath Of deadly sulphur, dooming all to death. And so they perished! And around them all The rolling blackness spread its inky pall And banished day; while through the deadly gloom Fierce lightnings played around their stifling tomb. Anon, the comrades of the stricken band — The deadly sulphur clouds blown over, — stand Appalled in presence of their kindred dead! At first so life-like looked the scene of dread. They seemed but resting from the hasty flight. Some lay in silent groups; some sat upright. But stiff in death; some held their harmless spears Gripped tightly, resting on their rocky biers. Dead mothers clasped dead children in their grasp, And not a soul survived that sulphury gasp! 180 POETIC JEWELS While over all the faces of the dead, The mingled ashes, dust, and sulphur spread Appalling pallor death could never show! So perished there Ka-meha-meha's foe. Over the girdling sea We sail from Mauna Loa; To windward lies Maui, To leeward Mauna I.oa; And slow we glide 'gainst wind and tide, Pilgrims from Mauna Loa; Watching, as over the waves we ride. Receding Mauna Loa. Edward R. Roe. THE DEATH OF THE OWD SQUIRE. 'WAS a wild, mad kind of night, as black as the bottomless pit. The wind was howling away like a Bedlamite in a T fit, Tearing the ash boughs off, and mowing the poplars down In the meadows beyond the old flour-mill, where you turn off to the town. And the rain (well it did rain) dashing against the window glass, And the deluging on the roof, as the Devil were come to pass; The gutters were running in floods outside the stable-door, And the spouts splashed from the tiles, as they would never eive o'er. POETIC JEWELS 181 Lor' how the winders rattled! you'd almost ha' thought that thieves Were wrenching at the shutters; while a ceaseless pelt of leaves Flew to the doors in gusts; and I could hear the beck Falling so loud I knew at once it was up to a tall man's neck. We was huddling in the harness-room, by a little scrap of fire, And Tom, the coachman, he was there, a practicing for the choir; But it sounded dismal, anthem did, for Squire was dying fast, And the Doctor said, " Do what he would. Squire's break- ing up at last. " The death watch, sure enough, ticked loud just over th' owd mare's head, Though he had never once been heard up there since master's boy lay dead; And the only sound, beside Tom's toon, was the stirring in the stalls, And the gnawing and the scratching of the rats in the old walls. We couldn't hear Death's foot pass by, but we knew that he was near; And the chill rain, and the wind and cold made us all shake with fear; We listened to the clock up-stairs, 'twas breathing soft and low. For the nurse said " At the turn of night the old Squire's soul would go." 11 182 POETIC JE WELS Master had been a wildish man, and led a roughish life; Didn't he shoot the Bowton Squire, who dared write to his wife? He beat the Rads at Hindon town, I heard in twenty-nine, When every pail in market-place was brimmed with red port wine. And as for hunting, bless your soul, why for forty years or more He'd kept the Marley hounds, man, as his fayther did afore ; And now to die, and in his bed — the season just begun — " It made him fret," the doctor said, " as it might do any one." And when the young sharp lawyer came to see him sign his will, Squire made me blow my horn outside as wc were going to kill; And we turned the hounds out in the court — that seemed to do him good; For he swore, and sent us off to seek a fox in Thornhill wood. But then the fever it rose high, and he would go see the room Where mistress died ten years ago when Lammastide shall come; I mind the year, because our mare at Saulsbury broke down; Moreover the town hall was burnt at Steeple Dinton town. POETIC JE WELS 183 It might be two, or half-past two, the wind seemed quite asleep; Tom, he was off, but I awake, sat watch and ward to keep; The moon was up, quite glorious like, the rain no longer fell,. When, all at once, out clashed and clanged the rusty turret bell. That hadn't been heard for twenty years, not since the Luddite days; Tomhe leaped up, and I leaped up, for all the house ablaze Had sure not scared us half so much, and out we ran like mad, I, Tom, and ]oq the whipper in, and t' little stable lad. " He's killed himself," that's the idea that came into my head; I felt as sure as though I saw Squire Barrovvly was dead; When all at once a door flew back, and he met us face to face; His scarlet coat was on his back, and he looked like the old race. The nurse was clinging to his knees, and crying like a child; The maids were sobbing on the stairs, for he looked fierce and wild; " Saddle me Lightning Bess, my men," that's what he said to me: " The moon is up, we're sure to find at Stop or Etterly. 184 POETIC JEWELS "Get out the dogs; I'm well to-night, and young again and sound, I'll have a run once more before they put me under ground; They brought my father home feet first, and it never shall be said That his son Joe, who rode so straight, died quietly in his bed. " Brandy ! " he cried; " a tumbler full, you women howling there; " Then clapped the old black velvet cap upon his long gray hair. Thrust on his boots, snatched down his whip, though he was old and weak. There was a devil in his eye, that would not let me speak. We loosed the dogs to humor him, and sounded on the horn: The moon was up above the woods, just east of Haggard Bourne; I buckled Lightning's throat-lash fast; the Squire was watching me; He let the stirrups down himself so quick, yet carefully. Then up he got and spurred the mare, and, ere I well could mount, He drove the yard gate open, man; and called to old Dick Blount, Our huntsman, dead five years ago — for the fever rose again, And was spreading like a flood of flame, fast up into his brain. POETIC JE WELS ] 85 Then ofif he flew before, the dogs yelling to call us on, While we stood there, all pale and dumb, scarce knowing he was gone; We mounted, and below the hill we saw the fox break out. And down the covert ride we heard the old Squire's part- ing shout. And in the moon-lit meadow mist we saw him fly the rail Beyond the hurdles by the beck, just half-way down the vale; , I saw him breast fence after fence — nothing could turn him back; And in the moonlight after him streamed out the brave old pack. 'Twas like a dream, Tom cried to me, as we rode free and fast. Hoping to turn him at the brook, that could not well be past. For it was swollen with the rain; but ah, 'twas not to be; Nothing could stop old Lightning Bess but the broad breast of the sea. The hounds swept on, and well in front the mare had got her stride; She broke across the fallow land that runs by the down side; We pulled up on Chalk Linton Hill, and as we stood us there. Two fields beyond we saw the Squire fall stone dead from the mare. 180 POETIC JEWELS Then she swept on, and in full cry, the hounds went out of sight; A cloud came over the broad moon, and something dimmed our sight, As Tom and I bore master home, both speaking under breath; And that's the way I saw th' owd Squire ride boldly to his death. Aiionynions. COMMODITY. From Shclhys " Qttccn Mah:' OMMERCE has set the mark of selfishness, The signet of its all-enslaving power. Upon a shining ore, and called it gold; Before whose image bow the vulgar great, The vainly rich, the miserable proud. The mob of peasants, nobles, priests and kings. And with blind feelings reverence the power That grinds them to the dust of misery. But in the temple of their hireling hearts Gold is a living god, and rules in scorn All earthly things but virtue Since tyrants, by the sale of human life. Heap luxuries to their sensualism, and fame To their wide-wasting and insatiate pride, Success has sanctioned to a credulous world The ruin, the disgrace, the woe, of war. His hosts of blind and unresisting dupes The despot numbers; from his cabinet These puppets of his schemes he moves at will (Even as the slaves by force of famine driven POETIC JE WELS 187 Beneath a vulgar master) to perform A task of cold and brutal drudgery; — Hardened to hope, insensible to fear, Scarce living pulleys of a dead machine, Mere wheels of work, and articles of trade, That grace the proud and noisy pomp of wealth! The harmony and happiness of man Yield to the wealth of nations; that which lifts His nature to the heaven of its pride Is bartered for the poison of his soul, The weight that drags to earth his towering hopes; Blighting all prospect but of selfish gain, Withering all .passion but of slavish fear, Extinguishing all free and generous love Of enterprise and daring. Even the pulse That fancy kindles in the beating heart To mingle with sensation, it destroys; — Leaves nothing but the sordid lust of self, The groveling hope of interest and gold, Unqualified, unmingled, unredeemed Even by hypocrisy. And statesmen boast Of wealth! The wordy eloquence that lives After the ruin of their hearts, can gild The bitter poison of a nation's woe; Can turn the worship of the servile mob To their corrupt and glaring idol. Fame, From Virtue, trampled by its iron tread — Although its dazzling pedestal be raised Amid the horrors of a limb-strewn field, With desolated dwcllin