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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
iKftttll's ensltBl) CTepts 
 
 THE 
 
 GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES 
 BY 
 
 FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE 
 I) 
 
 LATE PROFESSOR OF POETRY IX THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF OXFORD 
 
 BOOK FOURTH 
 
 EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND FURTHER NOTES 
 BY ALLAN ABBOTT, A.M., ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF 
 ENGLISH IN TEACHERS COLLEGE, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 
 
 CHARLES E. MERRILL COMPANY 
 NEW YORK AND CHICAGO 
 
,'3 
 ;fHerrtIl'ci enslisl) Ccpte 
 
 This series of books includes in complete editions those master- 
 pieces of English Literature that are best adapted for the use 
 of schools and colleges. The editors of the several volumes 
 are chosen for their special quahfications in connection with the 
 texts issued under their individual supervision, but familiarity 
 with the pi:actical needs of the classroom, no less than sound 
 scholarship, characterizes the editing of every book in the series. 
 
 In connection with each text, a critical and historical introduc- 
 tion, including a sketch of the hfe of the author and his relation 
 to the thought of his time, critical opinions of the work in ques- 
 tion chosen from the great body of EngUsh criticism, and, where 
 possible, a portrait of the author, are given. Ample explanatory 
 notes of such passages in the text as call for special attention are 
 supplied, but irrelevant annotation and explanations of the 
 obvious are rigidly excluded. 
 
 CHARLES E. MERRILL COMPANY. 
 
 Copyright, 1911, 1914 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES E. MERRILL CO. 
 
 AUG IS 1914 
 
 ©aA379151 
 
r 
 
 i: CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction page 
 
 Lyric Poetry 5 
 
 Francis Turner Palgrave 19 
 
 Critical Opinions of the Golden Treasury. . . 21 
 
 How to Teach the Golden Treasury 23 
 
 Books for Further Study 25 
 
 Dedication to Alfred Tennyson 27 
 
 Preface by Francis Turner Palgrave 29 
 
 The Golden Treasury: Book Fourth 33 
 
 Notes 235 
 
 Topics for Study 242 
 
 Index of Writers 244 
 
 Index of First Lines 248 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 LYRIC POETRY 
 
 The Golden Treasury has for half a century been the accepted 
 collection of the best English verse, for the period it covers, 
 from the age of Elizabeth to about 1830. The selections were 
 made by a poet, Francis Turner Palgrave, with the advice of 
 one of the greatest modern poets, Alfred Tennyson.^ 
 
 What lyric poetry is, and what it means to a man of poetic 
 appreciation, can best be seen by reading Palgrave's own 
 Preface (p. 29). As we turn over the leaves of the book, we 
 see that the subjects of poetry are as varied as life itself; we 
 find poems on war and patriotism, on birth and death, on flowers, 
 trees, and streams, on the sea and the sky; poems on friendship 
 and on love in all degrees, — youthful romance, lovers parted 
 or forsaken, love in marriage and in old age; poems of compU- 
 ment, of humor, of regret, of aspiration. It is not the subject 
 that makes the poem, but what the poet sees in it, beyond the 
 vision of the rest of us. Shakespeare's banished duke found 
 
 "Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything;'' 
 
 and Wordsworth said 
 
 "To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." 
 
 This power of seeing beyond the superficial fact to some more 
 important and significant truth is what we mean by the poetic 
 imagination. By this power of imagination the poet summons 
 up whatever comparisons w^ill throw the essential quality of 
 
 1 See introduction by Edward Hutton to the Booklovers' Library 
 edition of The Golden Treasury. 
 
 5 
 
6 INTRODUCTION 
 
 the fact out into the light. Tlie song of an unseen skylark, 
 for instance, reminds Shelley (p. 135) of all manner of pure and 
 bright loveliness from a hidden source, — moonhght from behind 
 a cloud, hymns of an unknown poet, love songs of a maiden in a 
 palace tower, a glow-worm hidden in the grass, or a rose bud in 
 its own leaves, — 
 
 "all that ever was 
 Joyous and clear and fresh," — 
 
 and those of us who have never even heard a skylark, gain an 
 appreciation of the beauty of its song far above any matter-of- 
 fact description. Still greater is the poet's power of seeing, 
 imaginatively, into the hearts of commonplace people, and find- 
 ing their hidden motives and ideals. We may think of sailors 
 as a rather ordinary set of men; but Campbell's ringing verses 
 (p. 83) 
 
 "Ye mariners of England 
 That guard our native seas!" 
 
 rouse us to a different idea of them, — an idea justified by naval 
 history. 
 
 Nothing is more fatal to poetry than to have these imaginings 
 false; once the poet has proclaimed them, they must ring true, — 
 true at least to some aspects of the subject, at some time, under 
 the right circumstances; if not the whole truth, yet true as far 
 as they go. And this truth must, for poetry, be of a kind that 
 stirs our feelings; that moves us to dehght, laughter, sympathy, 
 horror, anger, patriotism, reverence. Here, again, the emotion 
 must be genuine; a pretended emotion trumped up for its own 
 sake is sentimentaUty. The reader who thinks poetry is senti- 
 mental or "slushy" should turn to Scott's "Gathering Song of 
 Donald the Black" (p. 80) or Cunningham's "A wet sheet and 
 a flowing sea" (p. 82) or Mickle's "The Sailor's Wife." The 
 sailor's wife is far from sentimental when she exclaims 
 
 "There's twa fat hens upo' the coop 
 Been fed this month and mair; 
 Mak' haste and thraw their necks about 
 That Colin weel may fare," — 
 
LYRIC POETRY 7 
 
 she's undoubtedly glad to get Colin home again, and is showing 
 it in a very natural way. 
 
 There are various ways in which the power of seeing beyond 
 the fact is expressed in the poet's style. Figures of speech, for 
 instance, must not be thought of as ornaments, added to the 
 poem, but as ways of making more clear or more intense, by 
 suggested comparisons, the poet's real meaning. For instance, 
 when Marvel, in his "Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda" 
 tells us that God 
 
 " — hangs in shades the orange bright 
 Like golden lamps in a green night," 
 
 or when Wordsworth says of Milton (p. 92) 
 
 "Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart," 
 
 we feel more vividly the beauty of the orange-grove and the 
 loftiness of Milton's spirit. Shakespeare's sonnets are full of 
 such comparisons, or similes. His imagination often seized on 
 a Ukeness which could be carried out in detail, as in these Hues: 
 
 "Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore, 
 So do our minutes hasten to their end; 
 Each changing place with that which goes before, 
 In sequent toil all forwards do contend." 
 
 Here we get not merely the apt comparison of the passage of 
 time wdth waves following one after another and disappearing, 
 but also the quick pen-picture of the hurry of waves crowding 
 each other up the beach, — a picture that intensifies the idea of 
 the rapid passing of the minutes. 
 
 When one thing is not merely compared to another, but spoken 
 of as if it were that other, we have the figure known as metaphor. 
 This, if the meaning is not obscure, is a more forcible figure than 
 simile, as it enables the poet to put his idea in a condensed, 
 almost telegraphic, form. When Keats says (p. 75) 
 
 "When I behold upon the night's starr'd face. 
 Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance 
 And think that I may never live to trace 
 Their shadows," 
 
8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 we pass over almost without notice the suggestion of the night 
 being a real creature with a "face," and seize upon the wonderful 
 thought of the clouds on a starry night being for Keats so full 
 of romantic visions, of which his poems were merely shadows, 
 that he would never be able to WTite them all. 
 
 A comparison, whether metaphor or simile, may run on to 
 some length, as in Wordsworth's "England and Switzerland, 
 1802" (p. 90) and Scott's "Coronach" (p. 122). In such 
 cases, the poet may greatly strengthen his effect, by the apt- 
 ness with which the two ideas continue to parallel each other; 
 there is danger, however, that we may think more of his clever- 
 ness and ingenuity than the importance of his thought. 
 
 Another frequently used figiu-e is -personification, by which 
 objects of nature, or mere abstractions of quahties, are spoken of 
 as if they had Ufe and personality. Wordsworth calls the daisy 
 "a nun demure ... or sprightly maiden" (p. 160). Shake- 
 speare speaks of "that chm-1, Death," and "Captive Good 
 attending Captain 111"; Milton, of "Laughter, holding both 
 his sides." It is fatally easy to sUp into the habit of merely 
 spelhng abstract nouns with capitals, without imagining them 
 transformed into persons at all; " printer's-devil personifica- 
 tion," as it has been called. Gray is sometimes guilty of this, 
 as in the hues 
 
 "Where grateful Science still adores 
 Her Henry's holy shade." 
 
 In true personification, the thing personified really appears to 
 live. Shelley's "Night" (p. 62) is besought to 
 
 "Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 
 Star-inwrought : 
 Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day," 
 
 and later we hear of his "brother Death," and his "sweet child 
 Sleep, the filmy-eyed." 
 
 Another poetic device, not exactly a figure of speech, but aUied 
 to them, is the pretty pretense known as the -pastoral. In poems 
 of this kind, everyone is thought of as a shepherd, in a sort of 
 golden age of simphcity; with nothing to do but sit in the shade 
 
LYRIC POETRY 9 
 
 watching the sheep, playing on rustic instruments of music, 
 singing songs, or making love. This convention goes back to 
 ancient Greek times, when people who had become tii'ed of artifi- 
 cial city Ufe turned with delight to the fresh shepherd poems of 
 Theocritus, from the mountains of Sicily. The modern pastoral 
 is usually sheer artifice: we don't need to be told that Marlowe's 
 Passionate Shepherd is no Enghsh sheep-tender, when he offers 
 his love 
 
 "Fair lin^d slippers for the cold 
 With buckles of the purest gold," 
 
 as well as silver dishes on an ivory table. Milton speaks of his 
 dead friend as Lycidas, a shepherd, when we very well know his 
 real name was Edward King, and he was a college student pre- 
 paring for the ministry. Artificial as the pastoral seems at 
 first," we come to recognize it as a graceful and often a beautiful 
 device, specially fit for somewhat formal poems of comphment, 
 of regret, or of bereavement. 
 
 The pastoral is sometimes hard to distinguish from the poem 
 really descriptive of country hfe; the two shade into each other. 
 
 A further characteristic of poetic thought is the ability of 
 poets to put some universal human observation or ideal into such 
 a striking phrase as to satisfy the race that it is the one best 
 and permanent expression for that thought. So we get our 
 so-called "quotations," the hues everybody knows, without 
 perhaps knowing where they come from; such as 
 
 "The Child is Father of the Man." {Wordsworth, p. 226) 
 
 "I could not love Thee, dear, so much 
 Loved I not honour more." {Lovelace) 
 
 "We carved not a line and we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him alone with his glory." {Wolfe, p. 99 ) 
 
 "Beauty is truth, truth beauty." {Keats, p. 215) 
 
 — "old, unhappy far-off things 
 
 And battles long ago." {Wordsworth, p. 154) 
 
 What has been said so far applies, in the main, to all poetry. 
 A lyric poem is distinguished from all other kinds by being short, 
 
10 INTRODUCTION 
 
 and by expressing not a story (as does an epic or a ballad) nor 
 a conflict of different persons' wills (as does a drama), but a 
 single idea, mood, or feeling of the poet himself. It is also dis- 
 tinguished (as the title of the book suggests) by being singable. 
 Many lyrics, indeed, in this collection were wTitten originally for 
 tunes; and a great age of lyric verse will always be a music- 
 loving age. Such was the age of Ehzabeth and the half-century 
 following; an age when everybody sang or played some instru- 
 ment. Shakespeare's characters are always singing; some of his 
 plays, like Twelfth Night, are almost musical comedy. The 
 original music of many of these songs from plays, and others 
 included in this volume, has been traced, and can be found in 
 Elson's Shakespeare in Music; and some of them have been 
 set to music by later composers as many as a score of times. 
 Many of the poems have become popular songs that are known 
 the world over; songs like "Rule Britannia," "Sally in our 
 Alley," "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon," "I arise from 
 dreams of Thee" (p. 44). Many others were clearly \\Titten 
 with a tune in mind. Burns' s favorite method of composing 
 was to select a popular Scotch air, and then write words to fit. 
 Even lyrics which do not seem to have a tune in them are ^Titten 
 for the ear, not for the eye; Scott used to compose while riding 
 horseback; Tennyson and Wordsworth would half recite, half 
 chant their poems while walking. So to get the real spirit of 
 these poems, we must either sing them or read them aloud 
 rhythmically. 
 
 The pleasure to be gained from poetry is more than doubled 
 if one understands the technique of versification: just as the 
 pleasure of watching a game of ball depends on knowing the rules 
 of the game. The student is therefore urged to master the 
 following simple rules of poetic technique. 
 
 The fundamental feature of verse, as of music, is rhythm. 
 Rhythm is an arrangement of a series of sounds, or objects, or 
 figures, at regular intervals, in a repeating pattern. In studying 
 design, pupils early learn the use of rhythm in oriental rug- 
 borders or in wall-paper or embroidery. In music, rhythm 
 appears in the "time," or the way the notes are marked off into 
 
LYRIC POETRY 11 
 
 measures, each with its proper number of full or half or quarter 
 notes. So in architectm-e, a cathedral is marked off by a regular 
 series of pillars and arches, each section being equivalent to each 
 other; the caT\4ngs, also, are arranged in series, rhythmically. 
 This is why Ruskin could call architecture "frozen music." 
 
 In poetry, the rhythm depends on the way the voice is thrown 
 on certain syllables,^ marking out the ones that, as it were, 
 "carry the tune," and shghting the others. The various rhythms 
 are classified (1) by the number of strong accents or stresses in 
 the line, (2) by the way each strong syllable is hnked with one or 
 more hght ones or pauses (like rests, in music) to make up a 
 "foot," as we call the repeating gi'oup of syllables. 
 
 To take some of the famihar poems of The Golden Treasury, 
 we find: 
 
 Two-stress (dimeter) 
 
 He is gone on the mountain, 
 
 He is lost to the forest, 
 
 Like a summer-dried fountain, 
 
 When our need was the sorest. — (Scott, p. 122) 
 Three-stress (trimeter) 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John 
 
 When we were first acquent 
 
 Your locks were like the raven. 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent. — (Burns) 
 Four-stress (tetrameter) 
 
 I I I I ' 
 
 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
 
 / / 4 1 
 
 By all their country's wishes blest! — (Collins) 
 
 1 Pupils who have studied Latin poetry should not confuse this 
 stress, or natural emphasis, with the vowel-quantity which de- 
 termines the rules of Latin verse. There is "quantity" in English 
 verse, which occasionally is important; but it is rather obscure and 
 will be passed over as not essential in elementary study. 
 
12 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Five-stress (pentameter) 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, — (Gray) 
 Six-stress (hexameter) 
 
 And bid the weltering waves their oozy channels keep. 
 
 (Milton) 
 Seven-stress (heptameter) 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 
 
 When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 
 
 {Byron, p. 106) 
 
 Turning to the arrangement of strong (or stressed) and light 
 syllables within the line, we find in most of the foregoing exam- 
 ples that the syllable that carries the tune is preceded by a light 
 one, this arrangement being repeated enough times to make up 
 the line. If we indicate this by marking the light syllables with 
 a cross, x, and cutting the pairs of syllables apart by upright 
 bars, so as to show how the pattern repeats, we shall have 
 
 X / X / X ^ X / X / 
 
 The cur [ few tolls | the knell | of part | ing day, 
 
 This movement (x ') is called iambic; it is the commonest rhythm 
 in English verse. " When the accent is reversed, so that the 
 light syllable follows the strong one (' x) it is called trochaic; as, 
 
 / X / X / X / x ^ X 
 
 Art thou I poor, yet | hast thou | golden ] slumbers? 
 
 (Dekker) 
 
 Sometimes two light syllables, instead of one, are associated 
 with a strong one. When the light ones come first (xx '), we have 
 anapaestic movement: 
 
 XX/X X/ XX/ XX / 
 
 When repos j ing that night | on my pal | let of straw 
 
 XX/ XX/ XX / XX/ 
 
 By the wolf- | scaring fag | got that guard | ed the slain, 
 
 (Campbell, p. 179) 
 
 When two light syllables follow the strong one (' xx), the verse 
 is dactylic: 
 
LYRIC POETRY 13 
 
 / XX / XX 
 
 Fast they come, | fast they come; 
 
 / X X / X 
 
 See how they | gather! {Scott, p. 81) 
 
 These are the chief rhythms of English verse; but the poets 
 seldom or never carry them out in a purely mechanical fashion, 
 any more than a musician tries to play exactly Uke a pianola. 
 For the sake of throwing emphasis on an important word, or of 
 changing the time, for the moment, to suit the thought, or of 
 making a significant pause at the end or the middle of a Hne, 
 or merely of hghtness and variety of touch, the poet may do one 
 of three things: 
 
 (1) Add or insert an extra Hght syllable: 
 
 X Xy XX/ XX/ X X/ X 
 
 In the down | hill of life | when I find | I'm declin | ing, 
 
 (Collins) 
 
 X / X / X / X X , 
 
 The nect | arine | and cur | ions peach — (Marvel) 
 
 (2) Omit a light syllable or more, leaving pauses or "rests" to 
 fill out the meter: 
 
 / X / X / X / X 
 
 Souls of I Poets I dead and | gone, o 
 
 / X / X / X y X 
 
 What E I lysium | have ye | known, o 
 
 / X / X / X / X 
 
 Happy, I field or | mossy | cavern 
 
 / X y X / X / X 
 
 Choicer | than the | Mermaid | Tavern? 
 
 (Keats, p. 113) 
 
 Xy X, X/XyX/X y 
 
 The fields | o breathe | o sweet, the dais | ies kiss | our feet, 
 
 Xy XyX /X y Xy Xy 
 
 o Young I o lov I ers meet, | old wives | a-sun | ning sit. — (Nash) 
 ^ J y. , X y X y 
 
 O what I can ail | thee, knight- | at-arms, 
 
 X y X y X J X i 
 
 Alone I and pale | ly loit | ering? 
 
 X y XyX y X y 
 
 The sedge | has with | er'd from | the lake 
 
 X t X , X y 
 
 And no | o birds 1 o sing. (Keats, p. 68) 
 
14 INTRODUCTION 
 
 (3) Throw the accent in an unexpected place, as by introduc- 
 ing a trochaic foot into an iambic Une. This is most commonly 
 done after a pause, as at the beginning of a new hne, or a new 
 thought: 
 
 / X X / X / X / 
 
 Park, clouds, | away, | and wel | come day. — {Heywood) 
 
 X , X/X/ X/ /XXy 
 
 Then blooms | o each | o thing, | then maids | dance in [ a ring. 
 
 (Nash) 
 
 Aside from these easily recognized variations of rhythm, EngUsh 
 words vary so much in their accent that we have not a sharp 
 division into Ught and strong syllables, but a series of many 
 gradations, from almost no sound at all, to a heavy stress. Some 
 times the stress will be sharp and clear cut, as in 
 
 "Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 On the mountain dawns the day; 
 All the jolly chase is here 
 With hawk and horse and hunting spear." 
 
 (Scott, p. 133) 
 
 Sometimes the stress is so evenly placed as to leave in doubt 
 whether one syllable is heavier than another. This gives an 
 even, slow movement, full of dignity; as in Sidney's line: 
 
 "With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbst the skies!" 
 
 Sometimes one accent seems to be demanded by the verse, an- 
 other by the sense, with the claims so evenly divided that the 
 accent is said to "hover" between the two. Of the following 
 lines, the first begins with an accent clearly reversed : the second, 
 with hovering accent. 
 
 "Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill." 
 
 (Wordsworth, p. 146) 
 
 These, and other variations, form to the trained ear one of the 
 chief dehghts of versification. The poet, however, must not 
 introduce so many pf them as to leave any doubt as to what is 
 
LYRIC POETRY 15 
 
 the fundajnental rhythm from which he is varying. And the 
 variations must not be due to carelessness or lack of skill, but 
 must be such as to strengthen the beauty and effectiveness of 
 the verse. 
 
 The largest unit of verse-form is the stanza, a group of lines 
 bound together by some systematic scheme, and usually by the 
 rime. The simplest group, two equal lines riming, is called a 
 couplet. The "Ode on the Poets" by Keats (p. 34) is written 
 in couplets. Lines grouped in threes are called triplets or tercets. 
 They may be unrimed, or rimed; of equal or unequal length; 
 as in the following: 
 
 "I have had playmates, I have had companions, 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces." 
 
 {Lamb, p. 103) 
 " Whenas in silks my Julia goes 
 Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows 
 That liquefaction of her clothes." 
 
 {Her rick) 
 "Whoe'er she be. 
 That not impossible She 
 That shall command my heart and me — " 
 
 {Crashaw) 
 
 A group of four lines makes a quatrain; the most frequent 
 arrangement being the "ballad meter," or "common meter" of 
 the hymn-books, with four feet in the first and third lines (which 
 may rime) and three feet in the second and fourth (which must 
 rime). Examples are Herrick's "Gather ye Rosebuds," and 
 Campbell's "Lord Ulhn's Daughter" (p. 52). There are many 
 other arrangements, both as to length of Hne and rime. When 
 we get more than four lines in the stanza, there are various 
 combinations in frequent use, and an almost countless number 
 that have been tried by individual poets; many of them are 
 analyzed in standard books on versification. The student will 
 find much interest in the ingenuity of poets in inventng new 
 stanza forms, and the unexpected beauties resulting. The more 
 
16 INTRODUCTION 
 
 complex the stanza is, the more it depends on rime to bind the 
 parts together, and to make clear the structure. 
 
 Rime is Hkeness of sound in words, a likeness which must 
 include the last accented vowel and all of the word that follows 
 it. It is the sound, not the spelhng, that counts; so we find 
 Wordsworth (p. 158) riming cloud — crowd, hills — daffodils, 
 trees — breeze. If the final syllable is not accented, the rime 
 must go back to the last one that is accented. Byron (p. 43) 
 rimes daughters — waters, causing — pausing, gleaming — 
 dreaming; and Hood (p. 115) rimes unfortunate — importunate, 
 tenderly — slenderly. But the likeness in sound must not go 
 further back than the last accented vowel, or we have not rime, 
 but identity — even if the spelling differs. Thus see is not a 
 good rime for sea. In studying verse, it is convenient to indicate 
 lines that rime by the same letter, as a, 6, or c, and lines that 
 do not rime, by x. Thus the rime scheme of Wordsworth's 
 "Daffodils" (p. 158) would be described as ababcc; the rime 
 scheme of Campbell's "Hohenhnden" (p. 93) as aaax. 
 
 Two of the more complex forms of verse are so important in 
 Enghsh poetry, and so well represented in this collection, as to 
 need special note. These are the sonnet and the ode. 
 
 The sonnet always has just fourteen lines, of the same length 
 and rhythm, five iambic feet. The rime scheme varies, accord- 
 ing to whether the poet is following strictly the model of the 
 Itahan sonnet (from which ours was originally taken) or the 
 freer form used by Shakespeare and the writers of his time. 
 The Italian sonnet divides the fourteen lines into two groups, the 
 octave (eight lines) and the sestet (six Unes). The octave has 
 only two rimes, arranged abbaabba, the sestet may have two or 
 three, arranged in any of a variety of ways, the preferred schemes 
 being cdecde, cdcdcd, cdedce, and cddcee. The thought should be 
 such that while there is but one central idea, it is presented in 
 one Ught in the octave, in another in the sestet. This is a diffi- 
 cult, rather formal verse; but fine and dignified, when well 
 handled. Very noble examples are Milton's sonnet "On his 
 Bhndness," and Wordsworth's on Milton (p. 92). 
 
 The Shakespearian sonnet is divided into tliree quatrains and 
 
LYRIC POETRY 17 
 
 a couplet. The quatrains take up an idea or a question and 
 present it in several different lights, — perhaps by a succession 
 of different comparisons; the couplet binds the whole poem into 
 a unit by phrasing aptly the poet's conclusion, explanation, or 
 fundamental thought. One of the best of this type is Shake- 
 speare's 
 
 "When in disgrace with fortune and men's eye." 
 
 The ode is a long form of poem, taken over from the Greek 
 poets, especially Pindar. Originally, the Greek odes, which 
 were chanted or sung by a chorus, to the accompaniment of 
 music and stately dancing, were divided into three sections. 
 The first two (called strophe and antistrophe) had to be alike in 
 meter, as the singers moved to one side during the strophe, and 
 back during the antistrophe. They stood still during the third 
 section, or epode, which accordingly did not have to match the 
 others in meter. In EngUsh odes, the three divisions are some- 
 times called turn, counter-turn, and stand. They may be seen 
 in Gray's ''The Progress of Poetry," where the first strophe or 
 turn begins 
 
 "Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake," 
 
 the first antistrophe or counter-turn, 
 
 "Oh Sovereign of the \\'illing soul!" 
 
 and the first epode or stand, 
 
 "Thee the voice, the dance obey," 
 
 after which comes the second strophe, 
 
 "Man's feeble race what ills await!" 
 
 Most EngHsh odes, however, do not follow this pattern, tlie name 
 being loosely applied to any long poem, with no fixed length of 
 hne or stanza and no regularity to the rime except that every 
 hne finds an answering rime somewhere. It is a form especially 
 suited to recitation on pubHc occasions, and to the expression of 
 important and dignified thought. 
 
 So much for the mechanics of verse. The real art of poetry 
 
IS INTRODUCTION 
 
 consists in filling these forms with words which are beautiful in 
 themselves and which by their sound suggest the poet's thought 
 This art of selecting words for their sound is known as tone- 
 color. Sometimes tone-color Ues in the repetition of a single 
 letter at the beginning of the stressed syllables, as the h in the 
 hnes 
 
 "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 
 How can ye bloom sae fair!" 
 
 This is known as alliteration. It used to be the chief element 
 of EngHsh verse, before rime became popular; but now poets 
 use it only sparingly; when it is too prominent, it seems tricky 
 and artificial. A more subtle beauty comes from hiding the 
 repeated letter in the middle of the word, Uke the / and the d in 
 the following lines: 
 
 "By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals." 
 
 {Marlowe) 
 
 These lines are particularly musical because the vowels and con- 
 sonants are all such as flow into each other without jarring. 
 A careful WTiter will avoid harsh letters, like s; as Tennyson 
 said, he will "kick the geese out of the boat;" but a great master 
 of verse can make even a line full of s's beautiful, Hke Shake- 
 speare's 
 
 ' ' When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 I summon up remembrance of things past." 
 
 The fitting of sound to meaning can be seen very plainly in 
 Dryden's "Alexander's Feast," where the bard's songs, now 
 of victory and feasting, now of love, now of vengeance, are 
 imitated in the verse. In Cowper's "Loss of the Royal George" 
 we feel the solemn, bell-like echo of the o and the a in 
 
 "Toll for the Brave, 
 The brave that are no more!" 
 
 And we feel the whirling of the autumn wind, and the rattle of 
 dry leaves, in Keat's Hnes (p. 205): 
 
FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE 19 
 
 *'Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
 Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
 Yellow and black and pale and hectic red, 
 Pestilence stricken multitudes." 
 
 The same art is heard in Milton's 
 
 "I hear the far-ofT curfew sound 
 Over some wide watered shore, 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar." 
 
 And more subtly, in Shakespeare's 
 
 "Beauty making beautiful old rhyme, 
 In praise of ladies dead." 
 
 But the appreciation of the tone-color is not a thing that can 
 be learned in a moment; it grows with our knowledge of good 
 poetry, and is one of the rewards of continued study. 
 
 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE 
 
 1824-1897 
 
 Palgrave's boyhood was such as to develop and refine in him a 
 natural taste for the finer things of literature, which was to lead 
 to The Golden Treasury. His father, for whom he was named, 
 was a historical scholar of repute, who had been a friend of 
 Southey, Scott, and Macaulay. His mother, when he came home 
 from school, used to read to him from Dante, or the Faerie Queen, 
 when he was not acting out w^ith his nearest brother scenes from 
 Homer. We hear of the two boys beginning Caesar at seven, 
 and "to their great delight " Homer and Horace at eleven, besides 
 being interested in models and inventions. The family were 
 also deeply religious. His brother, Gifford, later became a 
 Jesuit missionary and a great traveler in unknown and danger- 
 ous parts of the East. 
 
 As a student at Oxford, Palgrave devoted his spare time to 
 literature and art, filling his rooms with prints of famous works 
 by Turner, Michael Angelo, and Correggio. He was known also 
 
20 INTRODUCTION 
 
 for his gift of attracting about him many friends of similar tastes. 
 He took his degree in 1847, with a "first" in Classics, having 
 dropped out of college for a year (1846) to serve as private secre- 
 tary to Gladstone. 
 
 After a year as Fellow of Exeter College, he entered on what 
 was to be his profession for thirty-five j^ears, as an official in the 
 Education Oflice of the Privy Council, first as Examiner, later as 
 Assistant Secretary; acting for a few years as Vice Principal of 
 a training school for teachers. Several times his friends urged 
 him to become a candidate for the Professorship of Poetry at 
 Oxford. Once he had come forward for the post, but withdrew 
 his name in favor of his friend the well known scholar, J. C. 
 Shairp. It is pleasant to know that when the chair again became 
 vacant in 1885, another friend, Matthew Arnold, refused to 
 present himself so that the Professorship might go to Palgrave. 
 He held it for twelve years, until his death in 1897. 
 
 Besides Gladstone, Shairp, and Arnold, Palgrave knew many 
 of the notable men of his age, being drawn to them by a common 
 appreciation of the finest things in art and literature. He was 
 a friend of Thackeray, Carlyle, Browning, the painter Holman 
 Hunt, the sculptor Woolner. His friendship with Tenn\'son, 
 lasting for forty-three years, he spoke of as "one of the chief est 
 influences in his life." In 1859, when he was thirty-five and 
 Tennyson fifty-one, Palgrave went on a walking-trip with Tenny- 
 son, Woolner, and others through Cornwall, the "King Arthur 
 Country," which Tennyson had just been writing about in the 
 Idylls of the King. On this romantic trip, plans were made for 
 The Golden Treasury, which Palgrave completed within the 
 next year and a half. He received much help and encouragement 
 from Tennyson, who read over with him the entire collection, 
 making valuable suggestions. 
 
 Palgrave brought out various other collections of verse: a 
 Children's Treasury, a Treasury of Sacred Song, editions of 
 Herrick, Keats, Wordsworth, and Tennyson, of Shakespeare's 
 Songs and Sonnets; and finally, in the last year of his life, a 
 continuation of The Golden Treasury comprising poems wTitten 
 after 1830. He also wrote several books of original verse, includ- 
 
CRITICAL OPINIONS 21 
 
 ing a volume of hymns and one of historical poems, called 
 Visions of England. His poems are thoughtful, and careful ir> 
 style and versification, but are not widely read. He tried his 
 hand at a love-story, Preciosa, and a book of children's tales, 
 The Five Days Entertainments at Wentworth Grange. For some 
 years, he was art critic on the Saturday Review, and published 
 some essays in this field. Some of his Oxford lectures were 
 expanded into a book under the title, Landscape in Poetry from 
 Homer to Tennyson. But Palgrave's chief talent lay not so 
 much in original writing as in a fine and highly trained appreci- 
 ation of the best that others had done; the gift that made him the 
 welcome companion of the great writers of his times, and that 
 enabled him to compile, in his early manhood, that collection of 
 the best English lyrics which has indeed proved a ''golden 
 treasury." 
 
 The story of his charming family life, his friendships, and his 
 hterary career is told by his daughter, Miss Gwenllian F. Pal- 
 grave, in her book Francis Turner Palgrave: his Journals and 
 Memories of his Life London, 1899. 
 
 CRITICAL OPINIONS OF THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 "The judgment of two generations has not only confiriaied 
 the long series of judgments upon English poets and poetry 
 which Professor Palgrave's work involved, but has accepted that 
 work as a kind of original creation. The book is one of the 
 English classics; and its quahty and place are so marked and 
 distinct that we have come to think of it as a contribution to 
 English literature. Its individuahty lies, however, entirely in 
 the insight, the critical discernment and the taste which it illus- 
 trates. These are so nearly infallible that the mass of other 
 men's work collected in The Golden Treasury to which Pro- 
 fessor Palgrave added not a line of his own, seems somehow to 
 belong to the editor." 
 
 Hamilton W. Mabie 
 
 {The Bookman, 6: 470: Jan., 1908) 
 
22 INTRODUCTION 
 
 "Using the poems of others, Palgrave has made a mosaic of 
 his own, — a work of design and creative art. Many other collec- 
 tions exist which contain the same poems and masses of equal 
 work. But in all these the pieces are ill arranged; they are 
 chaotically heaped; they swear at each other; they have no 
 general effect. But in Palgrave's work, so true is the tone from 
 beginning to end, so absolute the harmony, that the poems help 
 each other with reflected lustre; they deepen each other's notes 
 with choral echo. This effect has been produced by ruthless 
 suppression of much of the mightiest lyric poetry of the language. 
 - . . The fierce expressions of love, of revolt, of despair, — 
 ecstatic visions or opium dreams, — nothing of these is here. 
 And what is the result? The book brings up before us a perfect 
 image of that England which we all keep in our thoughts, — the 
 image of a land of rich woods and long-tamed fields of flowery 
 hedges and rose-fronted cottages, of war-cradled castles and 
 pensive homes of fame. No stain is on the picture, which is one 
 of ordered splendor and secluded peace." 
 
 Charles Leonard Moore 
 
 {The Dial, 31: 175. Sept., 1901) 
 
 "It is not possible here to escape from the noblest, the most 
 distinguished, the loveliest English poetry; and there is nothing, 
 or scarcely anything, which does not reach perfection in its own 
 line. This little green book . . . has been the companion 
 the teacher, the guide, philosopher, and friend of every English 
 verse-writer born, let us say, since 1840. Who shall dare to esti- 
 mate how valuable have been the splendour and purity of its 
 contents in holding up the tradition of a great style in English 
 
 poetry?" 
 
 ^ ^ {Saturday Renew, Sept. 19, 1896, p. 312) 
 
 " It may be questioned whether, after Arnold, any other critic 
 of our time contributed so much to educate public taste where in 
 this country it most needs such education. . . . He had no 
 taint of vulgarity, of charlatanism, of insincerity. He never 
 
HOW TO TEACH THE GOLDEN TREASURY 23 
 
 talked or wrote the cant of the chques or of the multitude. He 
 understood and loved what was excellent, he had no toleration 
 for what was common or second rate; he was not of the crowd. 
 ... In the best and most comprehensive sense of the term, he 
 was a man of classical temper, taste, and culture, and had all the 
 insight and discernment, all the instincts and sympathies which 
 are the result of such qualifications." 
 
 Professor Charlton Collins (Quoted in Miss 
 Palgrave's Journals and Memories, p. 25.) 
 
 HOW TO TEACH THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 A collection of poems like this is by no means to be taught 
 through from cover to cover, like an arithmetic. It is no matter 
 if the pupils read no more than half or quarter, or even fewer, of 
 the poems, provided they gain an intelligent appreciation of those 
 they do read. Neither should poetry be made an occasion for 
 the teaching of all sorts of extraneous things, — literary history, 
 biography, or gossip, rhetorical principles, "notes," or even too 
 much of the technique of verse, except as these definitely help 
 in the apJpreciation of the verses under consideration. There 
 should be much reading aloud and reciting, by both pupils and 
 teacher; good oral rendering is the final test of one's real grasp of 
 a poem. The spirit of the recitation should always be not that 
 of fulfilling a task, or of acquiring useful information, but of 
 appreciative enjoyment, and the desire to communicate that 
 enjoyment to others. 
 
 It may be assumed that every member of the class has already 
 a fund of verse-memories, — Mother Goose rimes; hymns and 
 songs; bits from Stevenson's CkiWs Garden, from Longfellow 
 and Whittier and Tennyson; perhaps much more. A good first 
 lesson, to open up the general subject, would be to ask every 
 pupil to run rapidly through the book, marking any poems that 
 are old favorites, and be ready to read one or more of them aloud 
 well enough to interest the class. This will bring a much greater 
 response than one recitation provides time for. The natural 
 
24 INTRODUCTION 
 
 step then will be to run through the book for different kinds of 
 subjects that have interested poets; to see how different poets 
 have felt about nature, about patriotism, about love, about 
 death. By the fourth or fifth lesson, it will be possible to take 
 up technical questions of versification, pretty much as treated in 
 the foregoing pages, which may be divided into parts suited to the 
 maturity of the class. The illustrative quotations in these pages 
 have been chosen partly with a view of interesting pupils in 
 some of the finest poem?', and those most likely to appeal to them. 
 In preparing a lesson, pupils should look up the complete poem, 
 trace through it the technical element described, and try to find 
 the same thing elsewhere. The test must always be the sound: 
 can the pupil convince the class by his rendering of the poem, that 
 his understanding of its thought and rhythm is correct? After 
 perhaps a couple of weeks of technical study, the class should 
 spend the rest of the available time on some special subject. 
 This may be (1) a more thorough study of selected types of 
 poetrj^ as the song for music, the sonnet, the pastoral, the ode; 
 
 (2) a review of the chief historical periods of English lyric verse; or 
 
 (3) special study of a few leading poets (such as those named in 
 the list of the College Entrance Requirements for eastern colleges) 
 with the aim of learning to distinguish their individualities, their 
 views of life, their artistic method. 
 
 Of special teaching devices, the best is reading aloud, provided 
 it is done not in a mechanical or indifferent way, but with an 
 earnest effort to get the poet's thought and express it to the 
 hearers. It is assumed that the pupil has access to a dictionary 
 and a handbook of mythology, if he needs them; and that he will 
 refer to the notes, not for all that might be said for complete 
 understanding of the poem, but for what may help towards an 
 imaginative grasp of the main thought. There should be much 
 memorizing — some of the formal kind, more of the unconscious 
 kind that will grow out of constant cross-references in class- 
 room discussion. Illustration or quotation from other collections 
 of poetry should be encouraged; a profitable scheme is for each 
 pupil to start a scrap book of newspaper and magazine verse, 
 noting opposite each clipping what it was selected for, — the 
 
BOOKS FOR FURTHER STUDY 25 
 
 idea, the rhythm, the stanza form, the imagery, or what. If 
 possible, have the class learn the tunes and sing some of the 
 Ijnrics, such as the Shakespeare songs. Those who care to, should 
 be encouraged to try their hands at original verse; indeed Prof. 
 Brander Mathews recommends this as an excellent way to learn 
 to write prose. But the best devices will be those invented by 
 a teacher who loves the subject; and the best results will be the 
 often unexpressed desire to know more of our great poetry. 
 
 BOOKS FOR FURTHER STUDY 
 
 First of all, the school hbrary should have some of the standard 
 collections, like The Oxford Book of English Verse, Miss Wiggin's 
 Golden Numbers, and Stedman's Victorian Anthology and Ameri- 
 can Anthology, and Ward's English Poets, as well as The Golden 
 Treasury, Part Second. There are also many good special col- 
 lections of poems grouped by centuries, or by verse forms, — 
 sonnets, odes, and others. For verse form, the most readable 
 book is Brander Mathews' A Study of Versification; the most 
 compact and inclusive. Bright and Miller's Elements of English 
 Versification; the most concise treatment of the whole field is 
 Francis B. Gummere's Handbook of Poetics. Raymond M. Alden's 
 English Verse gives a scholarly discussion of the subject with 
 numerous well-chosen examples. Max Kaluza's Sliort History of 
 English Versification translated by A. C. Dunstan, traces the 
 historical changes in our verse-forms. E. C. Stedman's Nature 
 and Elements of Poetry discusses certain general questions of 
 poetic art. G. L. Raymond's Poetry as a Representative Art is 
 controversial, but very suggestive, especially as regards oral 
 interpretation. Percival Chubb's The Teaching of English, 
 especially Chapter 8, will be found of much value. The music 
 for many poems in this book will be found in L. C. Elson's Shake- 
 speare in Music, J. C. Dick's The Songs of Robert Burns and in 
 The Laurel Song Book. 
 
El's Tov \€i/i(vva KadlcraSf edpeTev ^repov f*0' er^pip 
 alpofxevos dypev/j.'' dvdiojp ado/xivq. '/'t'X? — 
 
TO ALFRED TENNYSON 
 POET LAUREATE 
 
 This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a 
 man with whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no 
 region of English Literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst 
 rich in all the noble gifts of Nature was most eminently distin- 
 guished by the noblest and the rarest, — just judgment and 
 high-hearted patriotism. It would have been hence a peculiar 
 pleasure and pride to dedicate what I have endeavoured to make 
 a true national Anthology of three centuries to Henry Hallam. 
 But he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love and 
 reverence; and I desire therefore to place before it a name 
 united with his by associations which whilst Poetry retains her 
 hold on the minds of Englishmen are not hkely to be forgotten. 
 
 Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery 
 of Treryn Dinas, led me to begin the work: and it has been 
 completed under your advice and assistance. For the favour 
 now asked I have thus a second reason: and to this I may add, 
 the homage which is your right as Poet, and the gratitude due 
 to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no common value. 
 
 Permit me, then, to inscribe to j^ourself a book which I hope 
 may be found by many a hfelong fountain of innocent and exalted 
 pleasure; a source of animation to friends when they meet; and 
 able to sweeten solitude itself with best society, — with the 
 companionship of the wise and the good, with the beauty which 
 the eye can not see, and the music only heard in silence. If 
 this collection proves a storehouse of delight to Labour and to 
 Poverty — if it teaches those indifferent to the Poets to love 
 them, and those who love them to love them more, the aim and 
 the desire entertained in framing it will be fully accomplished. 
 May, 1861. F. T. P. 
 
 27 
 
PREFACE 
 
 BY FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE 
 
 This little Collection dififers, it is believed, from others in the 
 attempt made to include in it all the best Original Lyrical pieces 
 and Songs in our language, by writers not living, — and none 
 beside the best. Many familiar verses will hence be met with; 
 many also which should be famihar: — the Editor will regard 
 as his fittest readers those who love Poetry so well, that he can 
 offer them nothing not already known and valued. 
 
 The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive defini- 
 tion of Lyrical Poetry; but he has found the task of practical 
 decision increase in clearness and in facility as he advanced with 
 his work, whilst keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical 
 has been here held essentially to imply that each Poem shall 
 turn on some single thought, feeling, or situation. In accordance 
 with this, narrative, descriptive, and didactic poems — unless 
 accompanied by rapidity of movement, brevity, and the colour- 
 ing of human passion — have been excluded. Humourous 
 poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances where a truly 
 poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly personal, 
 occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to the idea 
 of the book. Blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet with all 
 pieces markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from 
 what is commonly understood by Song, and rarely conforming 
 to Lyrical conditions in treatment. But it is not anticipated, 
 nor is it possible, that all readers shall think the line accurately 
 drawn. Some poems, as Gray's Elegy, the Allegro and Penseroso, 
 Wordsworth's Ruth or Campbell's Lord Ullin, might be claimed 
 with perhaps equal justice for a narrative or descriptive selec- 
 tion: whilst with reference especially to Ballads and Sonnets, 
 
 29 
 
30 PREFACE 
 
 the Editor can only state that he has taken his utmost pains to 
 decide without caprice or partiality. 
 
 This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more 
 liable to question: what degree of merit should give rank among 
 the Best. That a Poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius 
 
 — that it shall reach a perfection commensurate with its aim — 
 that we should require finish in proportion to brevity — that 
 passion, colour, and originahty cannot atone for serious imper- 
 fections in clearness, unity, cr truth — that a few good lines do 
 not make a good poem — that popular estimate is serviceable 
 as a guidepost more than as a compass — above all, that excel- 
 lence should be looked for rather in the Whole than in the Parts 
 
 — such and other such canons have been always steadily 
 regarded. He may, however, add that the pieces chosen, and a 
 far larger number rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly 
 considered; and that he has been aided throughout by two 
 friends of independent and exercised judgment, besides the 
 distinguished person addressed in the Dedication. It is hoped 
 that by this procedure the volume has been freed from that 
 one-sidedness which must beset individual decisions : — but for 
 the final choice the Editor is alone responsible. 
 
 It would obviously have been invidious to apply the standard 
 aimed at in this Collection to the Living. Not even in the cases 
 where this might be done without offense, does it appear wise 
 to attempt to anticipate the verdict of the future or our contem- 
 poraries. Should the book last, poems by Tennyson, Bryant, 
 Clare, Lowell, and others, will no doubt claim and obtain their 
 place among the best. But the Editor trusts that this will be 
 effected by other bards, and in days far distant. Chalmers' 
 vast Collection, with the whole works of all accessible poets not 
 contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different periods, 
 have been twice systematically read through: and it is hence 
 improbable that any omissions which may be regretted are due 
 to oversight. The poems are printed entire, except in a very 
 few instances (specified in the notes) where a stanza has been 
 omitted. The omissions have been risked only when the piece 
 could be thus brought to a closer lyrical unity: and, as essen- 
 
PREFACE 31 
 
 tially opposed to this unity, extracts, obviously such, are excluded. 
 In regard to the text, the purpose of the book has appeared to 
 justify the choice of the most poetical version, wherever more 
 than one exists: and much labour has been given to present 
 each poem, in disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to the great- 
 est advantage. 
 
 For the permission under which the copyright pieces are 
 inserted, thanks are due to the respective proprietors, without 
 whose liberal concurrence the scheme of the collection would 
 have been defeated. 
 
 In the arrangement, the most poetically effective order has 
 been attempted. The English mind has passed through phases 
 of thought and cultivation so various and so opposed during 
 these three centuries of Poetry, that as rapid passage between 
 Old and New, like rapid alteration of the eye's focus in looking 
 at the landscape, will always be wearisome and hurtful to the 
 sense of beauty. The poems have been therefore distributed 
 into Books Corresponding, I to the Ninety years closing about 
 1616, II thence to 1700, III to 1800, IV to the half Century just 
 ended. Or, looking at the Poets who more or less give each 
 portion its distinctive character, they might be called the Books 
 of Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Wordsworth. The volume, 
 in this respect, so far as the limitations of its range allow, accu- 
 rately reflects the natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. 
 A rigidly Chronological sequence, however, rather fits a collec- 
 tion aiming at instruction rather than at pleasure, and the Wis- 
 dom which comes through Pleasure: — within each book the 
 pieces have therefore been arranged in gradations of feeling or 
 subject. The development of the symphonies of Mozart and 
 Beethoven has been here thought of as a model, and nothing 
 placed without careful consideration. And it is hoped that the 
 contents of this Anthology will thus be found to present a certain 
 unity, as episodes, in the noble language of Shelley, " to that great 
 Poem which all poets, like the co-operating thoughts of one great 
 mind, have built up since the beginning of the world." 
 
 As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add 
 without egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict 
 
32 PREFACE 
 
 of popular Fame more just than those have thought, who, with 
 too severe a criticism, would confine judgments on Poetry to 
 "the selected few of many generations." Not many appear to 
 have gained reputation without some gift or performance that, 
 in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses by certain writers 
 who show less strength than sweetness or more thought than 
 mastery in expression, are printed in this volume, it should not be 
 imagined that they have been excluded without much hesitation 
 and regret, far less that they have been slighted. Throughout 
 this vast and pathetic array of singers now silent, few have been 
 honoured with the name of Poet, and have not possessed a skill 
 in words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or 
 seriousness in reflection, which render their works — although 
 never perhaps attaining that loftier and finer excellence here 
 required — better worth reading than much of what fills the 
 scanty hours that most men spare for self-improvement or for 
 pleasure in any ofits more elevated and permanent forms. And 
 if this be true of even mediocre poetry, for how much more are 
 we indebted to the best! Like the famous fountain of the Azores, 
 but with a more various power, the magic of this Art can confer 
 on each period of life its appropriate blessing: on early years 
 Experience, on maturity Calm, on age Youthfulness. Poetry 
 gives "treasures more golden than gold," leading us in higher and 
 healthier ways than those of the world, and interpreting to us 
 the works of Nature. But she speaks best for herself. Her 
 true accents, if the plan has been executed with success, may be 
 heard throughout the following pages: — wherever the Poets 
 of England are honoured, wherever the dominant language of 
 the world is spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 
 
 CCVIII 
 
 TO THE MUSES 
 
 Whether on Ida's shady brow, 
 Or in the chambers of the East, 
 
 The chambers of the sun, that now 
 From ancient melody have ceased; 
 
 Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, 
 Or the green corners of the earth, 
 
 Or the blue regions of the air, 
 
 Where the melodious winds have birth; 
 
 Whether on crystal rocks ye rove 
 Beneath the bosom of the sea, 
 
 Wandering in many a coral grove, — 
 Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry; 
 
 How have you left the ancient love 
 That bards of old enjoy 'd in you! 
 The languid strings do scarcely move. 
 The sound is forced, the notes are few. 
 
 W. Blake 
 33 
 
34 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCIX 
 
 ODE ON THE POETS 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth 
 Ye have left your souls on earth! 
 Have ye souls in heaven too, 
 Double-lived in regions new? 
 
 — Yes, and those of heaven commune 
 With the spheres of sun and moon; 
 With the noise of fountains wond'rous 
 And the parle of voices thund'rous; 
 With the whisper of heaven's trees 
 And one another, in soft ease 
 Seated on Elysian lawns 
 Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 
 Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
 Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
 And the rose herself has got 
 Perfume which on earth is not; 
 Where the nightingale doth sing 
 Not a senseless, tranced thing. 
 But divine melodious truth; 
 Philosophic numbers smooth; 
 Tales and golden histories 
 Of heaven and its mysteries. 
 
 Thus ye live on high, and then 
 On the earth ye live again; 
 And the souls ye left behind you 
 
BOOK FOURTH 35 
 
 Teach us, here, the way to find you, 
 
 Where your other souls are joying. 
 
 Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
 
 Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
 
 To mortals, of their little week; 
 
 Of their sorrows and delights; 
 
 Of their passions and their spites; 
 
 Of their glory and their shame; 
 
 What doth strengthen and what maim : — 
 
 Thus ye teach us, every day, 
 
 Wisdom, though fled far away. 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth 
 Ye have left your souls on earth! 
 Ye have souls in heaven too. 
 Double-lived in regions new ! 
 
 J. Keats 
 
 CCX 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S 
 HOMER 
 
 Much have I travelled in the realms of gold 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
 Round many western islands have I been 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 
 That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: 
 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 
 
36 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 — Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 When a new planet swims into his ken; 
 Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 
 
 He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — ° 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 J. Keats 
 
 CCXI 
 
 LOVE 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour. 
 When mid-way on the mount I lay, 
 Beside the ruin'd tower. 
 
 The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
 Had blended with the lights of eve; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 My own dear Genevieve! 
 
 She lean'd against the armed man, 
 The statue of the armed knight; 
 She stood and listen'd to my lay. 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 37 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
 My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I play'd a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace; 
 For well she knew, I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the Knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand; 
 And that for ten long years he woo'd 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pined: and ah! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace; 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face! 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
 
38 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, — 
 
 There came and look'd him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright; 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight! 
 
 And that unknowing what he did, 
 He leap'd amid a murderous band. 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land ; — 
 
 And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees: 
 And how she tended him in vain — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain; — 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave, 
 And how his madness went away, 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay; — 
 
 His djdng words — but when I reached 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturb'd her soul with pity! 
 
BOOK FOURTH 39 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thriird my guileless Genevieve; 
 The music and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistinguishable throng, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 
 Subdued and cherished long! 
 
 She wept with pity and delight, 
 She blush'd with love, and virgin shame; 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she stepp'd aside, 
 As conscious of my look she stept — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half inclosed me with her arms, 
 She press'd me with a meek embrace; 
 And bending back her head, look'd up, 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art 
 That I might rather feel, than see, 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calm'd her fears, and she was calm 
 And told her love v/ith virgin pride; 
 
40 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 S. T. Coleridge 
 
 CCXII 
 ALL FOR LOVE 
 
 TALK not to me of a name great in story; 
 
 The days of our youth are the days of our glory; 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
 Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 
 
 What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 
 
 wrinkled? 
 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : 
 Then away with all such from the head that is hoary — 
 What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 
 
 Oh fame! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 
 
 There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; 
 Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; 
 When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
 
 1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 
 
 Lord Byron 
 
BOOK FOURTH 41 
 
 CCXIII 
 THE OUTLAW 
 
 O Brignall banks are wild and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green, 
 And you may gather garlands there 
 
 Would grace a summer-queen. 
 And as I rode by Dalton-Hall 
 
 Beneath the turrets high, 
 A Maiden on the castle-wall 
 
 Was singing merrily: 
 
 * Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green; 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there 
 Than reign our English queen.' 
 
 * If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, 
 
 To leave both toAver and town. 
 Thou first must guess what life lead we 
 
 That dwell by dale and down. 
 And if thou canst that riddle read. 
 
 As read full w^ell you may. 
 Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed 
 
 As blithe as Queen of May.' 
 Yet sung she, ' Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green; 
 I'd rather rove with Edmund there 
 
 Than reign our English queen. 
 
 *I read you, by j^our bugle-horn 
 And by your palfrey good, 
 
42 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 I read you for a ranger sworn 
 
 To keep the king's greenwood.' 
 'A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 
 
 An 'tis at peep of Hght; 
 His blast is heard at merry morn, 
 
 And mine at dead of night.' 
 Yet sung she, ' Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are gay; 
 I would I were with Edmund there 
 
 To reign his Queen of May! 
 
 'With burnish'd brand and musketoon 
 
 So gallantly 3^ou come, 
 I read you for a bold Dragoon 
 
 That lists the tuck of drum.' 
 * I list no more the tuck of drum, 
 
 No more the trumpet hear; 
 But when the beetle sounds his hum 
 
 My comrades take the spear. 
 And O! though Brignall banks be fair 
 
 And Greta woods be gay. 
 Yet mickle must the maiden dare 
 
 Would reign my Queen of May! 
 
 'Maiden! a nameless life I lead, 
 
 A nameless death I'll die; 
 The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 
 
 Were better mate than I ! 
 And when I'm with my comrades met 
 
 Beneath the greenwood bough, — 
 What once we were we all forgot. 
 
 Nor think what we are now,' 
 
BOOK FOURTH 43 
 
 Chorus 
 *Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green, 
 And you may gather garlands there 
 Would grace a summer-queen.' 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 CCXIV 
 
 There be none of Beauty's daughters 
 
 With a magic like Thee; 
 And like music on the waters 
 
 Is thy sweet voice to me: 
 When, as if its sound were causing 
 The charmed ocean's pausing. 
 The waves lie still and gleaming, 
 And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: 
 
 And the midnight moon is weaving 
 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep; 
 Whose breast is gently heaving 
 
 As an infant's asleep: 
 So the spirit bows before thee 
 To listen and adore thee; 
 With a full but soft emotion, 
 Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 
 
 Lord Byron 
 
44 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCXV 
 
 THE INDIAN SERENADE 
 
 I ARISE from dreams of Thee 
 In the first sweet sleep of night, 
 When the winds are breathing low 
 And the stars are shining bright: 
 I arise from dreams of thee, 
 And a spirit in my feet 
 Hath led me — who knows how? 
 To thy chamber-window, Sweet! 
 
 The wandering airs they faint 
 On the dark, the silent stream — 
 The champak odours fail 
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 
 The nightingale's complaint 
 It dies upon her heart. 
 As I must die on thine 
 
 beloved as thou art! 
 
 Oh lift me from the grass! 
 
 1 die, I faint, I fail! 
 
 Let thy love in kisses rain 
 On my lips and eyelids pale. 
 My cheek is cold and white, alas? 
 My heart beats loud and fast; 
 Oh! press it close to thine again 
 Where it will break at last. 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
BOOK FOURTH 45 
 
 CCXVI 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less, 
 Had half impair' d the nameless grace 
 Which waves in every raven tress 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face, 
 ^Vhere thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
 
 And on that cheek and o'er that brow 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, — 
 
 A mind at peace with all below , 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent. 
 
 Lord Byron 
 
 ccxvn 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 
 
 When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 
 
 A lovely Apparition, sent 
 
 To be a moment's ornament; 
 
 Her eyes as stars of twihght fair; 
 
46 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 
 A dancing shape, an image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, . 
 
 And steps of virgin-liberty; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food, 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller between life and death: 
 The reason firm, the temperate will. 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
 A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd 
 To warn, to comfort, and command; 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 With something of an angel-light. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
BOOK FOURTH 47 
 
 CCXVIII 
 
 She is not fair to outward view 
 
 As many maidens be; 
 Her loveliness I never knew 
 
 Until she smiled on me. 
 O then I saw her eye was bright, 
 A well of love, a spring of light. 
 
 But now her looks are coy and cold, 
 
 To mine they ne'er reply, 
 And yet I cease not to behold 
 
 The love-light in her eye: 
 Her very frowns are fairer far 
 Than smiles of other maidens are. 
 
 H. Coleridge 
 
 CCXIX 
 
 I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden; 
 Thou needest not fear mine; 
 My spirit is too deeply laden 
 Ever to burthen thine. 
 
 I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; 
 Thou needest not fear mine; 
 Innocent is the heart's devotion 
 With which I worship thine. 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
48 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCXX 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove; 
 A maid whom there were none to praise, 
 
 And very few to love. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half-hidden from the eye! 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be; 
 But she is in her grave, and, oh. 
 
 The difference to me! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXXI 
 
 I travell'd among unknown men 
 
 In lands beyond the sea; 
 Nor, England! did I know till then 
 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! 
 
 Nor will I quit thy shore 
 A second time; for still I seem 
 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 Among thy mountains did I feel 
 The joy of my desire; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 49 
 
 And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 
 Beside an EngUsh fire. 
 
 Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceaPd 
 
 The bowers where Lucy play'd; 
 And thine too is the last green field 
 
 That Lucy's eyes survey'd. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXXII 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF NATURE 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower; 
 
 Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower 
 
 On earth was never sown : 
 
 This Child I to myself will take; 
 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 
 A lady of my own. 
 
 'Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse: and with me 
 
 The girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 'She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs; 
 And her's shall be the breathing balm, 
 And her's the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
50 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 'The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 
 To her; for her the willow bend; 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 
 Ev'n in the motions of the storm 
 
 Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 'The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 
 To her; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 'And vital feelings of delight 
 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 
 Her virgin bosom swell; 
 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 
 While she and I together live 
 
 Here in this happy dell.' 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 
 
 The memory of what has been. 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
BOOK FOURTH 51 
 
 CCXXIII 
 
 A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; 
 
 I had no human fears: 
 She seem'd a thing that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. 
 
 No motion has she now, no force; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees; 
 RoU'd round in earth's diurnal course 
 
 With rocks, and stones, and trees. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXXIV 
 A LOST LOVE 
 
 I MEET thy pensive, moonlight face; 
 
 Thy thrilling voice I hear; 
 And former hours and scenes retrace, 
 
 Too fleeting, and too dear! 
 
 Then sighs and tears flow fast and free, 
 
 Though none is nigh to share; 
 And life has nought beside for me 
 
 So sweet as this despair. 
 
 There are crush'd hearts that will not break; 
 
 And mine, methinks, is one; 
 Or thus I should not weep and wake, 
 
 And thou to slumber gone. ,.. 
 
52 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 I little thought it thus could be 
 In days more sad and fair — 
 
 That earth could have a place for me, 
 And thou no longer there. 
 
 Yet death cannot our hearts divide, 
 Or make thee less my own : 
 
 'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side 
 Than watching here alone. 
 
 Yet never, never can we part, 
 While Memory holds her reign: 
 
 Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart, 
 Till we shall meet again. 
 
 H. F, Lyte 
 
 ^ CCXXV 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER 
 
 A Chieftain to the Highlands bound 
 Cries 'Boatman, do not tarry! 
 And I'll give thee a silver pound 
 To row us o'er the ferry!' 
 
 'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
 This dark and stormy water? ' 
 'O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
 And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. 
 
 'And fast before her father's men 
 Three days we've fled together, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 53 
 
 For should he find us in the glen, 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 ' His horsemen hard behind us ride — • 
 Should they our steps discover, 
 Then who will cheer my bonny bride, 
 When they have slain her lover?' 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
 'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: 
 It is not for your silver bright, 
 But for your w^insome lady : — 
 
 ' And by my word ! the bonny bird 
 In danger shall not tarry; 
 So though the waves are raging white 
 I'll row you o'er the ferry.' 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace, 
 The water-wraith was shrieking; 
 And in the scowl of Heaven each face 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But still as wilder blew the wind, 
 And as the night grew drearer, 
 Adown the glen rode armed men, 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 
 'Though tempests round us gather; 
 I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
 But not an angry father.' 
 
54 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her, — 
 
 When, oh! too strong for human hand 
 
 The tempest gather'd o'er her. 
 
 And still they row'd amidst the roar 
 Of waters fast prevailing: 
 Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, — 
 His wrath was changed to waiHng. 
 
 For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade 
 His child he did discover; — 
 One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief 
 * Across this stormy water : 
 And I'll forgive your Highland chief. 
 My daughter! — Oh, my daughter!' 
 
 'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, 
 
 Return or aid preventing: 
 
 The waters wild went o'er his child. 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 T. Campbell 
 
 CCXXVI 
 
 LUCY GRAY 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 
 And when I cross'd the wild, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 55 
 
 I chanced to see at break of day 
 The solitary child. 
 
 No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
 She dwelt on a wide moor, 
 The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a human door! 
 
 You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
 The hare upon the green; 
 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
 Will never more be seen. 
 
 * To-night will be a stormy night — 
 You to the town must go; 
 And take a lantern, Child, to light 
 Your mother through the snow/ 
 
 'That, Father! will I gladly do: 
 'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
 The minster-clock has just struck two, 
 And yonder is the moon ! ' 
 
 At this the father raised his hook, 
 And snapp'd a faggot-band; 
 He pHed his work; — and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe: 
 With many a wanton stroke 
 Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
56 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 The storm came on before its time: 
 She wander'd up and down; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb: 
 But never reach'd the town. 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 Went shouting far and wide; 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At day-break on a hill they stood 
 That overlook'd the moor; 
 And thence they saw the bridge of wood 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 They wept — and, turning homeward, cried 
 * In heaven we all shall meet ! ' 
 — When in the snow the mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
 They track'd the footmarks small; 
 And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
 And by the long stone-wall: 
 
 And then an open field they cross'd: 
 The marks were still the same; 
 They track'd them on, nor ever lost; 
 And to the bridge they came: 
 
 They follow'd from the snowy bank 
 Those footmarks, one by one, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 57 
 
 Into the middle of the plank; 
 And further there were none! 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to this day- 
 She is a Hving child; 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome wild. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That w^histles in the wind. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXXVII 
 JOCK OF HAZELDEAN 
 
 * Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide? 
 I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye sail be his bride: 
 And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 
 
 Sae comely to be seen ' — 
 But aye she loot the tears doAvn faV 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 'Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 
 And dry that cheek so pale; >• 
 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington 
 And lord of Langley-dale; 
 
 His step is first in peaceful ha^, 
 
58 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 His sword in battle keen ' — 
 But aye she loot the tears do^vn fa* 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 *A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 
 
 Nor braid to bind your hair, 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 
 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 
 And you the foremost o' them a' 
 
 Shall ride our forest-queen ' — 
 But aye she loot the tears do^vn fa' 
 
 For Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 
 
 The tapers glimmer'd fair; 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 
 
 And dame and knight are there: 
 They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 
 
 The ladie was not seen! 
 She's o'er the Border, and awa' 
 
 Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 ccxxvni 
 
 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river 
 And the rivers with the ocean. 
 The winds of heaven mix for ever 
 With a sweet emotion; 
 Nothing in the world is single, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 59 
 
 All things by a law divine 
 
 In one another's being mingle — 
 
 Why not I with thine? 
 
 See the mountains kiss high heaven, 
 And the waves clasp one another; 
 No sister-flower would be forgiven 
 If it disdain'd its brother: 
 And the sunlight clasps the earth, 
 And the moonbeams kiss the sea — 
 What are all these kissings worth, 
 If thou kiss not me? 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
 CCXXIX 
 
 ECHOES 
 
 How sweet the answer Echo makes 
 To Music at night 
 
 When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, 
 And far away o'er lawTis and lakes 
 Goes answering light! 
 
 Yet Love hath echoes truer far 
 
 And far more sweet 
 
 Then e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, 
 
 Of horn or lute or soft guitar 
 
 The songs repeat. 
 
 'Tis when the sigh, — in youth sincere 
 And only then, 
 
60 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 The sigh that's breathed for one to hear — 
 Is by that one, that only Dear 
 Breathed back again. 
 
 T. Mo&re 
 
 CCXXX 
 
 A SERENADE 
 
 Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 
 
 The sun has left the lea. 
 The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 
 
 The breeze is on the sea. 
 The lark, his lay who trill'd all day, 
 
 Sits hush'd his partner nigh; 
 Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 
 
 But where is County Guy? 
 
 The village maid steals through the shade 
 
 Her shepherd's suit to hear; 
 To Beauty shy, by lattice high, 
 
 Sings high-born Cavalier. 
 The star of Love, all stars above, 
 
 Now reigns o'er earth and sky. 
 And high and low the influence know — 
 
 But where is County Guy? 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 CCXXXI 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR 
 
 Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even, 
 Companion of retiring day, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 61 
 
 Why at the closing gates of heaven, 
 Beloved Star, dost thou delay? 
 
 So fair thy pensile beauty burns 
 When soft the tear of twilight flows; 
 So due thy plighted love returns 
 To chambers brighter than the rose; 
 
 To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love 
 So kind a star thou seem'st to be, 
 Sure some enamour'd orb above 
 Descends and burns to meet with thee. 
 
 Thine is the breathing, blushing hour 
 When all unheavenly passions fly, 
 Chased by the soul-subduing power 
 Of Love's dehcious witchery. 
 
 O! sacred to the fall of day 
 Queen of propitious stars, appear, 
 And early rise, and long delay, 
 When Caroline herself is here! 
 
 Shine on her chosen green resort 
 Whose trees the sunward summit crown, 
 And wanton flowers, that well may court 
 An angel's feet to tread them down: — 
 
 Shine on her sweetly scented road 
 Thou star of evening's purple dome, 
 That lead'st the nightingale abroad, 
 And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. 
 
62 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath 
 Embalms the soft exhaUng dew, 
 Where dying winds a sigh bequeath 
 To kiss the cheek of rosy hue : — 
 
 Where, winnow'd by the gentle air, 
 Her silken tresses darkly flow 
 And fall upon her brow so fair, 
 Like shadows on the mountain snow. 
 
 Thus, ever thus, at day's decline 
 In converse sweet to wander far — 
 O bring with thee my Caroline, 
 And thou shalt be my Ruling Star! 
 
 T. Campbell 
 
 CCXXXII 
 
 TO THE NIGHT 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave, 
 
 Spirit of Night! 
 Out of the misty eastern cave 
 Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 
 Which make thee terrible and dear, — • 
 Swift be thy flight! 
 
 Wrap thy form in a mantle gray 
 
 Star-inwrought ; 
 Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
 Kiss her until she be wearied out ; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 63 
 
 Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 
 Touching all with thine opiate wand — 
 Come, long-sought! 
 
 When I arose and saw the dawn, 
 
 I sigh'd for thee; 
 When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
 And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
 And the weary Day turn'd to his rest 
 Lingering Hke an unloved guest, 
 
 I sigh'd for thee. 
 
 Thy brother Death came, and cried 
 
 Wouldst thou me? 
 Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
 Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee 
 Shall I nestle near thy side? 
 Wouldst thou me? — And I replied 
 
 No, not thee! 
 
 Death will come when thou art dead, 
 
 Soon, too soon — 
 Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
 Of neither would I ask the boon 
 I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
 Swift be thine approaching flight. 
 
 Come soon, soon! 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
64- THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCXXXIII 
 
 TO A DISTANT FRIEND 
 
 Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant 
 Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
 Of absence withers what was once so fair? 
 Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? 
 
 Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, 
 Bound to thy service with unceasing care — 
 The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
 For nought but what thy happiness could spare. 
 
 Speak ! — though this soft warm heart, once free to 
 
 hold 
 A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine. 
 Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 
 
 Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow 
 ■*Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — 
 Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXXXIV 
 
 When we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears, 
 
 Half broken-hearted, 
 
 To sever for years, 
 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 
 
 Colder thy kiss; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 65 
 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 Sorrow to this! 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 Sunk chill on my brow; 
 It felt like the warning 
 Of what I feel now. 
 Thy vows are all broken, 
 And light is thy fame: 
 I hear thy name spoken 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 A knell to mine ear; 
 A shudder comes o'er me — 
 Why wert thou so dear? 
 They know not I knew thee 
 Who knew thee too well: 
 Long, long shall I rue thee. 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 
 In secret we met: 
 
 In silence I grieve 
 
 That thy heart could forget, 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 
 How should I greet thee? — 
 
 With silence and tears. 
 
 Lord Byron 
 
66 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 ccxxxv 
 
 HAPPY INSENSIBILITY 
 
 In a drear-nighted December, 
 
 Too happy, happy tree. 
 
 Thy branches ne'er remember 
 
 Their green felicity: 
 
 The north cannot undo them 
 
 With a sleety whistle through them, 
 
 Nor frozen thawings glue them 
 
 From budding at the prime. 
 
 In a drear-nighted December, 
 Too happy, happy brook, 
 Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
 Apollo's summer look; 
 But with a sweet forgetting 
 They stay their crystal fretting, 
 Never, never petting 
 About the frozen time. 
 
 Ah! would 'twere so with many 
 A gentle girl and boy! 
 But were there ever any 
 Writhed not at passed joy? 
 To know the change and feel it. 
 When there is none to heal it 
 Nor numbed sense to steal it — 
 Was never said in rhyme. 
 
 J. Keats 
 
BOOK FOURTH 67 
 
 CCXXXVI 
 
 Where shall the lover rest 
 
 Whom the fates sever 
 From his true maiden's breast 
 
 Parted for ever? 
 Where, through groves deep and high 
 
 Sounds the far billow, 
 Where early violets die 
 
 Under the ^villow. 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Soft shall be his pillow. 
 
 There through the summer day 
 
 Cool streams are laving: 
 There, while the tempests sway, 
 
 Scarce are boughs waving; 
 There thy rest shalt thou take, 
 
 Parted for ever, 
 Never again to wake 
 
 Never, O never! 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Never, 7iever! 
 
 Where shall the traitor rest. 
 
 He, the deceiver. 
 Who could win maiden's breast, 
 
 Ruin, and leave her? 
 In the lost battle, 
 
 Borne down by the flying, 
 Where mingles war's rattle 
 
68 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 With groans of the dymg; 
 
 Eleu low 
 There shall he be lying. 
 
 Her wing shall the eagle flap 
 
 O'er the falsehearted; 
 His warm blood the wolf shall lap 
 
 Ere life be parted: 
 Shame and dishonour sit 
 
 By his grave ever; 
 Blessing shall hallow it 
 
 Never, O never! 
 Eleu loro 
 
 Never, never! 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 CCXXXVII 
 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 
 
 *0 WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
 Alone and palely loitering? 
 
 The sedge has wither' d from the lake, 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 
 
 So haggard and so woe-begone? 
 The squirrel's granary is full, 
 
 And the harvest's done. 
 
 * I see a lily on thy brow 
 
 With anguish moist and fever-dew, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 69 
 
 And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
 Fast withereth too.' 
 
 ' I met a lady in the meads, 
 
 Full beautiful — a faery's child, 
 Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
 
 And her eyes were wild. 
 
 * I made a garland for her head. 
 
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
 She look'd at me as she did love, 
 And made sweet moan. 
 
 * I set her on my pacing steed 
 
 And nothing else saw all day long. 
 For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
 A faery's song. 
 
 'She found me roots of relish sweet. 
 
 And honey wild and manna-dew. 
 And sure in language strange she said 
 
 '^I love thee true." 
 
 *She took me to her elfin grot, 
 
 And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; 
 
 And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
 With kisses four. 
 
 *And there she lulled me asleep. 
 
 And there I dream'd — Ah! woe betide! 
 
 The latest dream I ever dream'd 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
70 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 * I saw pale kings and princes too, 
 
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: 
 They cried — "La belle Dame sans Merci 
 Hath thee in thrall!" 
 
 * I saw their starved lips in the gloam 
 
 With horrid warning gaped wide, 
 And I awoke and found me here 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 'And this is why I sojourn here 
 
 Alone and palely loitering, 
 Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, 
 
 And no birds sing.' 
 
 J. Keats 
 
 CCXXXVIII 
 THE ROVER 
 
 A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, 
 
 A weary lot is thine ! 
 To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 
 
 And press the rue for wine. 
 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 
 
 A feather of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green — 
 
 No more of me you knew 
 My Love! 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 'This morn is merry June, I trow, 
 The rose is budding fain; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 71 
 
 But she shall bloom in winter snow 
 
 Ere we two meet again.' 
 He turn'd his charger as he spake 
 
 Upon the river shore, 
 He gave the briclle-reins a shake, 
 Said 'Adieu for evermore 
 My Love! 
 And adieu for evermore.' 
 
 Sir W, Scott 
 
 CCXXXIX 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF LOVE 
 
 When the lamp is shatter'd 
 The light in the dust lies dead — 
 When the cloud is scatter'd, 
 The rainbow's glory is shed. 
 When the lute is broken, 
 Sweet tones are remember 'd not; 
 When the lips have spoken, 
 Loved accents are soon forgot. 
 
 As music and splendour 
 
 Survive not the lamp and the lute, 
 
 The heart's echoes render 
 
 No song when the spirit is mute — 
 
 No song but sad dirges, 
 
 Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, 
 
 Or the mournful surges 
 
 That ring the dead seaman's knell. 
 
72 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 When hearts have once mingled, 
 
 Love first leaves the well-built nest; 
 
 The weak one is singled 
 
 To endure what it once possesst. 
 
 O Love! who bewailest 
 
 The frailty of all things here, 
 
 Why choose you the frailest 
 
 For your cradle, your home, and your bier? 
 
 Its passions will rock thee 
 
 As the storms rock the ravens on high; 
 
 Bright reason will mock thee 
 
 Like the sun from a wintry sky. 
 
 From thy nest every rafter 
 
 Will rot, and thine eagle home 
 
 Leave thee naked to laughter. 
 
 When leaves fall and cold winds come. 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
 CCXL 
 THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 
 
 O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 
 
 And lovers' ears in hearing; 
 And love, in life's extremity. 
 
 Can lend an hour of cheering. 
 Disease had been in Mary's bower 
 
 And slow decay from mourning. 
 Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower 
 
 To watch her Love's returning. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 73 
 
 All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, 
 
 Her form decay'd by pining, 
 Till through her wasted hand, at night, 
 
 You saw the taj^er shining. 
 By fits a sultry hectic hue 
 
 Across her cheek was flying; 
 By fits so ashy pale she grew 
 
 Her maidens thought her dying. 
 
 Yet keenest powers to see and hear 
 
 Seem'd in her frame residing; 
 Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear 
 
 She heard her lover's riding; 
 Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd 
 
 She knew and waved to greet him, 
 And o'er the battlement did bend 
 
 As on the wing to meet him. 
 
 He came — he pass'd — an heedless gaze 
 
 As o'er some stranger glancing; 
 Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase. 
 
 Lost in his courser's prancing — 
 The castle-arch, whose hollow tone 
 
 Returns each whisper spoken, 
 Could scarcely catch the feeble moan 
 
 Which told her heart was broken. 
 
 Sir W. Scoti 
 
 CCXLI 
 
 Earl March look'd on his dying child, 
 And, smit with grief to view her — 
 
74 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 The youth, he cried, whom I exiled 
 Shall be restored to woo her. 
 
 She's at the window many an hour 
 
 His coming to discover: 
 And he look'd up to Ellen's bower 
 
 And she look'd on her lover — 
 
 But ah ! so pale, he knew her not, 
 
 Though her smile on him was dwelling — 
 
 And am I then forgot — forgot? 
 It broke the heart of Ellen. 
 
 In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, 
 
 Her cheek is cold as ashes; 
 Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes 
 
 To lift their silken lashes. 
 
 T. Campbell 
 
 CCXLII 
 
 Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art 
 Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, 
 And watching, with eternal lids apart, 
 Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
 
 The moving waters at their priestlike task 
 Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 
 Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
 Of snow upon the mountains and the moors : — 
 
 No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
 Pillow 'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast 
 
BOOK FOURTH 75 
 
 To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 
 Awake for ever in a sweet unrest; 
 
 Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
 And so live ever, — or else swoon to death. 
 
 J. Keats 
 
 CCXLIII 
 
 THE TERROR OF DEATH 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be 
 Before my pen has glean' d my teeming brain. 
 Before high-piled books, in charact'ry 
 Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; 
 
 When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 
 Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
 And think that I may never live to trace 
 Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; 
 
 And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour! 
 That I shall never look upon thee more. 
 Never have relish in the faery power 
 Of unreflecting love — then on the shore 
 
 Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
 Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 
 
 J. Keats 
 
76 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCXLIV 
 
 DESIDERIA 
 
 Surprized by joy — impatient as the wind — 
 I turn'd to share the transport — Oh ! with whom 
 But Thee — deep buried in the silent tomb, 
 That spot which no vicissitude can find? 
 
 Love, faithful love recalled thee to my mind — 
 But how could I forget thee? Through what power 
 Even for the least division of an hour 
 Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
 
 To my most grievous loss! — That thought's return 
 Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore 
 Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn. 
 
 Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; 
 That neither present time, nor years unborn 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXLV 
 
 At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly 
 To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in 
 
 thine eye; 
 And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions 
 
 of air 
 To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to 
 
 me there 
 And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky ! 
 
BOOK FOURTH 77 
 
 Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear 
 When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on 
 
 the ear; 
 And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, 
 I think, oh my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the King- 
 dom of Souls 
 Faintly answering still the notes that once were so 
 dear. 
 
 T. Moore 
 CCXLVI 
 
 ELEGY ON THYRZA 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 
 As aught of mortal birth; 
 And forms so soft and charms so rare 
 
 Too soon return'd to Earth! 
 Though Earth received them in her bed, 
 And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth. 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look. 
 
 I will not ask where thou liest low 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot; 
 There flowers or w^eds at will may grow 
 
 So I behold them not: 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I loved, and long must love, 
 
 Like common earth can rot; 
 To me there needs no stone to tell 
 Tis Nothing that I loved so well, ' y'^'^ 
 
78 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Yet did I love thee to the last, 
 
 As fervently as thou 
 Who didst not change through all the past 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 The love where Death has set his seal 
 Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow: 
 And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
 Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 
 
 The better days of life were ours; 
 
 The worst can be but mine: 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lours, 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep; 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have pass'd away 
 I might have watch'd through long decay. 
 
 The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 
 
 The leaves must drop away. 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 
 
 Than see it pluck'd today; 
 Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 To see thy beauties fade; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 79 
 
 The night that foUow'd such a mom 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade: 
 Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
 And thou wert lovely to the last, 
 
 Extinguish'd, not decay'd; 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 As once I wept, if I could weep. 
 
 My tears might well be shed 
 To think I was not near, to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thy bed: 
 To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace. 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head; 
 And show that love, however vain. 
 Nor thou nor I can^feel again. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain. 
 
 Though thou hast left me free. 
 The loveliest things that still remain 
 
 Than thus remember thee! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread Eternity 
 
 Returns again to me, 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught except its living years. 
 
 Lord Byron / 
 
80 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCXLVII 
 
 One word is too often profaned 
 
 For me to profane it, 
 One feeling too falsely disdain'd 
 
 For thee to disdain it. 
 One hope is too like despair 
 
 For prudence to smother, 
 And pity from thee more dear 
 
 Than that from another. 
 
 I can give not what men call love; 
 
 But wilt thou accept not 
 The worship the heart lifts above 
 
 And the Heavens reject not: 
 The desire of the moth for the star, 
 
 Of the night for the morrow, 
 The devotion to something afar 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow? 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
 CCXLVIII 
 
 GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE 
 BLACK 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil 
 Wake thy wild voice anew, 
 
 Summon Clan Conuil. 
 Come away, come away, 
 
 Hark to the summons! 
 
BOOK FOURTH 81 
 
 Come in your war-array, 
 Gentles and commons. 
 
 Come from deep glen, and 
 
 From mountain so rocky; 
 The war-pipe and pennon 
 
 Are at Inverlocky. 
 Come every hill-plaid, and 
 
 True heart that wears one. 
 Come every steel blade, and 
 
 Strong hand that bears one. 
 
 Leave untended the herd, 
 
 The flock without shelter; 
 Leave the corpse uninterr'd. 
 
 The bride at the altar; 
 Leave the deer, leave the steer. 
 
 Leave nets and barges: 
 Come with your fighting gear, 
 
 Broadswords and targes. 
 
 Come as the winds come, when 
 
 Forests are rended. 
 Come as the waves come, when 
 
 Navies are stranded: 
 Faster come, faster come. 
 
 Faster and faster, 
 Chief, vassal, page and groom, 
 
 Tenant and master. 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come; 
 See how they gather! 
 
82 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Wide waves the eagle plume 
 
 Blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 
 
 Forward each man set! 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 
 
 Knell for the onset! 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 CCXLIX 
 
 A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 
 
 I A wind that follows fast 
 
 And fills the white and rustling sail 
 
 And bends the gallant mast; 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 
 
 While like the eagle free 
 Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
 
 Old England on the lee. 
 
 O for a soft and gentle wind! 
 
 I heard a fair one cry; 
 But give to me the snoring breeze 
 
 And white waves heaving high ; 
 And white waves heaving high, my lads, 
 
 The good ship tight and free — 
 The world of waters is our home, 
 
 And merry men are we. 
 
 There's tempest in yon horned moon, 
 
 And lightning in yon cloud; 
 But hark the music, mariners! 
 
BOOK FOURTH 83 
 
 The wind is piping loud; 
 The wind is piping loud, my boys, 
 
 The lightning flashes free — 
 While the hollow oak our palace is, 
 
 Our heritage the sea. 
 
 A. Cunningham 
 
 CCL 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 
 
 That guard our native seas! 
 
 Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 
 
 The battle and the breeze! 
 
 Your glorious standard launch again 
 
 To match another foe: 
 
 And sweep through the deep, 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave — 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 And Ocean was their grave : 
 
 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 
 
 Your manly hearts shall glow. 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep. 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
84 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
 
 No towers along the steep; 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 
 With thunders from her native oak 
 
 She quells the floods below — 
 
 As they roar on the shore, 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow; 
 
 When the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn; 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of your name, 
 
 When the storm has ceased to blow; 
 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
 
 And the storm has ceased to blow. 
 
 T. Campbell 
 
 CCLI 
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 
 
 Sing the glorious day's renown. 
 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 
 All the might of Denmark's crown, 
 
 And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 85 
 
 By each gun the lighted brand 
 In a bold determined hand, 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 Led them on. 
 
 Like leviathans afloat 
 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 
 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 
 On the lofty British line : 
 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime: 
 
 As they drifted on their path 
 
 There was silence deep as death; 
 
 And the boldest held his breath 
 
 For a time. 
 
 But the might of England flush'd 
 
 To anticipate the scene; 
 
 And her van the fleeter rush'd 
 
 O'er the deadly space between. 
 
 'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun 
 
 From its adamantine lips 
 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 
 Of the sun. 
 
 Again! again! again! 
 
 And the havoc did not slack, 
 
 Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back ; — 
 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom: — 
 
 Then ceased — and all is wail, 
 
86 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 As they strike the shatter'd sail; 
 Or in conflagration pale 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Out spoke the victor then 
 
 As he hail'd them o'er the wave, 
 
 *Ye are brothers! ye are men! 
 
 And we conquer but to save: — 
 
 So peace instead of death let us bring: 
 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet 
 
 With the crews, at England's feet, 
 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our King.' 
 
 Then Denmark bless'd our chief 
 
 That he gave her wounds repose; 
 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 
 From her people wildly rose, 
 
 As death withdrew his shades from the day; 
 
 While the sun look'd smiling bright 
 
 O'er a wide and woeful sight. 
 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 
 Died away. 
 
 Now joy, old England, raise! 
 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 
 By the festal cities' blaze, 
 
 Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; 
 
 And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
 
 Let us think of them that sleep 
 
 Full many a fathom deep 
 
BOOK FOURTH 87 
 
 By thy wild and stormy steep, 
 Elsinore! 
 
 Brave hearts! to Britain's pride 
 
 Once so faithful and so true, 
 
 On the deck of fame that died, 
 
 With the gallant good Riou: 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave! 
 
 While the billow mournful rolls 
 
 And the mermaid's song condoles 
 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 
 Of the brave! 
 
 T. Campbell 
 
 CCLII 
 
 ODE TO DUTY 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 
 O Duty! if that name thou love 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove; 
 Thou who art victory and law 
 When empty terrors overawe; 
 From vain temptations dost set free. 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth: 
 Glad hearts! without reproach or blot, 
 
88 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Who do thy work, and know it not: 
 Oh! if through confidence misplaced 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them 
 cast. 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright 
 And happy will our nature be 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 And joy its own security. 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold, 
 Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
 Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried, 
 No sport of every random gust. 
 Yet being to myself a guide. 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust: 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 I supplicate for thy controul. 
 But in the quietness of thought: 
 Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires: 
 My hopes no more must change their name;' 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 89 
 
 Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face: 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
 Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong; 
 And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh 
 and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power! 
 I call thee: I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
 Oh let my weakness have an end! 
 Give unto me, made low4y wise, 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice; 
 The confidence of reason give; 
 And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCLIII 
 
 ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON 
 
 Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art. 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 The heart which love of Thee alone can bind; 
 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd- 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 
90 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Chillon! thy prison is a holy place 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod, 
 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 
 Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
 By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 Lord Byron 
 
 CCLIV 
 
 ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802 
 
 Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea, 
 One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice: 
 In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
 They were thy chosen music, Liberty! 
 
 There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 
 Thou fought'st against him, — but hast vainly striven: 
 Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
 
 — Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ; 
 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — 
 For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be 
 
 That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
 And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee! 
 
 W' Wordsworth 
 
BOOK FOURTH 91 
 
 CCLV 
 
 ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
 REPUBLIC 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 
 And was the safeguard of the West; the worth 
 Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
 Venice, the eldest child of Liberty. 
 
 She was a maiden city, bright and free; 
 No guile seduced, no force could violate; 
 And when she took unto herself a mate, 
 She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
 
 And what if she had seen those glories fade. 
 Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, — 
 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
 
 When her long life hath reach'd its final day: 
 Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade 
 Of that which once was great is pass'd away. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCLVI 
 
 LONDON, 1802 
 
 O Friend! I know not which way I must look 
 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest 
 
 To think that now our life is only drest 
 
 For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 
 
92 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Or groom! — We must run glittering like a brook 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest; 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best: 
 No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
 This is idolatry; and these we adore: 
 Plain living and high thinking are no more: 
 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
 And pure religion breathing household laws. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCLVII 
 
 THE SAME 
 
 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: 
 England hath need of thee: she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men: 
 Oh! raise us up, return to us again; 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, 
 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 93 
 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way 
 In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCLVIII 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart 
 When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
 The student's bower for gold, — some fears unnamed 
 
 I had, my Country! — am I to be blamed? 
 Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 
 For dearly must we prize thee; we who find 
 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; 
 And I by my affection was beguiled: 
 
 What wonder if a Poet now and then, 
 Among the many movements of his mind, 
 Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCLIX 
 
 HOHENLINDEN 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low, 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
94 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 But Linden saw another sight, 
 When the drum beat at dead of night 
 Commanding fires of death to Ught 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast array'd 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
 And furious every charger neigh'd 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven; 
 Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven; 
 And louder than the bolts of Heaven 
 Far flash'd the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of stained snow; 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye Brave 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave! 
 Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 
 And charge with all thy chivalry! 
 
 Few, few shall part, where many meet! 
 The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 95 
 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 T. Campbell 
 
 CCLX 
 AFTER BLENHEIM 
 
 It was a summer evening, 
 
 Old Kaspar's work was done, 
 And he before his cottage door 
 
 Was sitting in the sun; 
 And by him sported on the green 
 His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 
 
 She saw her brother Peterkin 
 
 Roll something large and round 
 Which he beside the rivulet 
 
 In playing there had found ; 
 He came to ask what he had found 
 That was so large and smooth and round. 
 
 Old Kaspar took it from the boy 
 
 Who stood expectant by; 
 And then the old man shook his head, 
 
 And with a natural sigh 
 *'Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 
 ^Who fell in the great victory. 
 
 ^I find them in the garden, 
 
 For there's many here about; 
 And often when I go to plough 
 
98 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 The ploughshare turns them out. 
 For many thousand men/ said he, 
 ' Were slain in that great victory/ 
 
 'Now tell us what 'twas all about/ 
 
 Young Peterkin he cries; 
 And little Wilhelmine looks up 
 
 With wonder-waiting eyes; 
 'Now tell us all about the war, 
 And what they fought each other for/ 
 
 'It was the Enghsh/ Kaspar cried, 
 'Who put the French to rout; 
 
 But what they fought each other for 
 I could not well make out. 
 
 But everybody said/ quoth he, 
 
 'That 'twas a famous victory/ 
 
 *My father lived at Blenheim then, 
 Yon little stream hard by; 
 
 They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 
 And he was forced to fly: 
 
 So with his wife and child he fled, 
 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 *With fire and sword the country round 
 
 Was wasted far and wide 
 And many a childing mother then 
 
 And newborn baby died: 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 At every famous victory. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 97 
 
 'They say it was a shocking sight 
 
 After the field was won; 
 For many thousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun : 
 But things hke that, you know, must be 
 After a famous victory. 
 
 'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won 
 
 And our good Prince Eugene;' 
 'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!' 
 
 Said httle Wilhelmine; 
 'Nay . . nay . . my httle girl,' quoth he, 
 'It was a famous victory. 
 
 'And everybody praised the Duke 
 
 Who this great fight did win.' 
 'But what good came of it at last? ' 
 
 Quoth little Peterkin: — 
 'Why that I cannot tell,' said he, 
 'But 'twas a famous victory.' 
 
 R. Southey 
 
 CCLXI 
 PRO PATRIA MORI 
 
 When he who adores thee has left but the name 
 
 Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
 Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 
 
 Of a life that for thee was resign'd! 
 Yes, weep, and however my foes may condenm, 
 
 Thy tears shall efface their decree: 
 
5 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 
 I have been but too faithful to thee. 
 
 With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; 
 
 Every thought of my reason was thine : 
 In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above 
 
 Thy name shall be mingled with mine ! 
 Oh ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 
 
 The days of thy glory to see; 
 But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 
 
 Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 
 
 T. Moore 
 
 CCLXII 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 
 AT CORUNNA 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 The sods wdth our bayonets turning; 
 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 
 
 Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 
 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 99 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 
 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hoUow'd his narrow bed 
 
 And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
 head. 
 
 And we far away on the billow! 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 
 
 But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done 
 
 When the clock struck the hour for retiring: 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 C. Wolfe 
 
100 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCLXIII 
 
 SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from jDleasant Ivor Hail, 
 An old man dwells, a little man, — 
 'Tis said he once was tall. 
 Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
 A rmming hmitsman merry; 
 And still the centre of his cheek 
 Is red as a ripe cherry. 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound, 
 
 And hill and valle}^ rang with glee, 
 
 When Echo bandied, round and round, 
 
 The halloo of Simon Lee. 
 
 In those proud days he little cared 
 
 For husbandry or tillage; 
 
 To blither tasks did Simon rouse 
 
 The sleepers of the village. 
 
 He all the country could outrun. 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind; 
 
 And often, ere the chase was done 
 
 He reel'd and was stone-blind. 
 
 And still there's something in the world 
 
 At which his heart rejoices; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 
 He dearly loves their voices. 
 
 But oh the heavy change ! — bereft 
 
 Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see! 
 
BOOK FOURTH 101 
 
 Old Simon to the world is left 
 
 In liveried poverty : — 
 
 His master's dead, and no one now 
 
 Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 
 
 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 
 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick. 
 
 His body, dwindled and awry, 
 
 Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 
 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 
 One prop he has, and only one, — 
 
 His wife, an aged woman. 
 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
 
 Upon the village common. 
 
 Beside their moss-grow^n hut of clay, 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 This scrap of land he from the heath 
 Enclosed when he was stronger; 
 But what to them avails the land 
 Which he can till no longer? 
 
 Oft, working by her husband's side, 
 Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 
 For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 And, though you with your utmost skill 
 From labour could not wean them, 
 
102 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 'Tis little, very little, all 
 
 That they can do between them. 
 
 Few months of life has he in store 
 As he to you will tell. 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 Do his weak ankles swell. 
 My gentle Reader, I perceive 
 How patiently you've waited, 
 And now I fear that you expect 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O Reader! had you in your mind 
 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 O gentle Reader! you would find 
 
 A tale in every thing. 
 
 What more I have to say is short, 
 
 And you must kindly take it : 
 
 It is no tale; but, should you think, 
 
 Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 
 
 One summer-day I chanced to see 
 This old Man doing all he could 
 To unearth the root of an old tree, 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 The mattock totter'd in his hand; 
 So vain was his endeavour 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have work'd for ever. 
 
 * You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, 
 Give me your tgol/ to him I said; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 103 
 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 
 Received my proffer'd aid. 
 
 I struck, and with a single blow 
 
 The tangled root I sever'd, 
 
 At which the poor old man so long 
 
 And vainly had endeavour'd. 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought, 
 And thanks and praises seem'd to run 
 So fast out of his heart, I thought 
 They never would have done. 
 — I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deed 
 With coldness still returning; 
 Alas! the gratitude of men 
 Hath oftener left me mourning. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCLXIV 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 
 
 I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, 
 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days: 
 
 All, all are gone, the old famihar faces. 
 
 I have been laughing, I have been carousing. 
 Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; 
 All, all are gone, the old famihar faces. 
 
 I loved a Love once, fairest among women: 
 Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
104 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: 
 Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 
 Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 
 
 Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, 
 Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, 
 Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
 
 Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
 Why wert not thou born in my father's dweUing? 
 So might we talk of the old familiar faces, 
 
 How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
 And some are taken from me; all are departed; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 CCLXV 
 THE JOURNEY ONWARDS 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 
 
 Against the wind was cleaving, 
 Her trembling pennant still look'd back 
 
 To that dear isle 'twas leaving. 
 So loth we part from all we love. 
 
 From all the links that bind us; 
 So turn our hearts, as on we rove, 
 
 To those we've left behind us! 
 
 When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years 
 We talk with joyous seeming — 
 
BOOK FOURTH 105 
 
 With smiles that might as well be tears, 
 
 So faint, so sad their beaming; 
 While memory brings us back again 
 
 Each early tie that twined us, 
 Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then 
 
 To those we've left behind us! 
 
 And when, in other climes, we meet 
 
 Some isle or vale enchanting, 
 Where all looks flowery, wild, and swTet, 
 
 And nought but love is wanting; 
 We think how great had been our bliss 
 
 If Heaven had but assign'd us 
 To live and die in scenes like this, 
 
 With some we've left behind us! 
 
 As travellers oft look back at eve 
 
 When eastward darkl}^ going. 
 To gaze upon that light they leave 
 
 Still faint behind them glowing, — 
 So, when the close of pleasure's day 
 
 To gloom hath near consign'd us, 
 We turn to catch one fading ray 
 
 Of joy that's left behind us. 
 
 T. Moore 
 
106 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCLXVI 
 YOUTH AND AGE 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like that it 
 
 takes away 
 When the glow of early thought declines in feeUng's 
 
 dull decay; 
 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, 
 
 which fades so fast, 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth 
 
 itself be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 
 
 happiness 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess: 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 
 
 vain 
 The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never 
 
 stretch again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 
 
 comes down; 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its 
 
 own; 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 
 
 tears. 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis whefe the 
 
 ice appears. 
 
 Though wit niay flash from fluent lips, and mirth 
 distract the breast. 
 
BOOK^ FOURTH 107 
 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more their 
 
 former hope of rest; 
 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and 
 
 gray beneath. 
 
 Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, 
 Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanished 
 
 scene, — 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 
 
 though they be, 
 So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would 
 flow to me! 
 
 Lord Byron 
 CCLXVII 
 
 A LESSON 
 
 There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
 That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, 
 And the first moment that the sun may shine, 
 Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again! 
 
 When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, 
 Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm 
 In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. 
 
 But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past, 
 And recognized it, though an alter'd form. 
 Now standing forth an offering to the blast, 
 And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 
 
103 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice, 
 'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold; 
 This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
 But its necessity in being old. 
 
 'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; 
 It cannot help itself in its decay; 
 Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,' — 
 And, in mj^ spleen, I smiled that it was gray. 
 
 To be a prodigal's favourite — then, worse truth, 
 A miser's pensioner — behold our lot! 
 O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth 
 Age might but take the things Youth needed not! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCLXVIII 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT 
 
 I REMEMBER, I remember 
 The house where I was born. 
 The little window where the sun 
 Came peeping in at morn; 
 He never came a wink too soon 
 Nor brought too long a day; 
 But now, I often w^ish the night 
 Had borne my breath away. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 The roses, red and white. 
 The violets, and the lily-cups — = 
 
BOOK FOURTH 109 
 
 Those flowers made of light! 
 The Hlacs where the robin built, 
 And where my brother set 
 The laburnum on his birth-day, — 
 The tree is living yet! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing, 
 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing; 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then 
 
 That is so heavy now. 
 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir trees dark and high; 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky: 
 
 Itj0^as_.8L.childish ig^norance. 
 
 But now 'tis httle joy 
 
 To know I'm farther off from Heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 T. Hood 
 
 CCLXIX 
 
 THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS 
 
 Oft in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Fond Memory brings the li^ht 
 
110 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Of other days around me : 
 
 The smiles, the tears 
 
 Of boyhood's years, 
 The words of love then spoken; 
 
 The eyes that shone, 
 
 Now dimm'd and gone. 
 The cheerful hearts now broken! 
 Thus in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends so link'd together 
 I've seen around me fall 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 I feel like one 
 Who treads alone 
 Some banquet-hall deserted. 
 Whose lights are fled 
 Whose garlands dead, 
 And all but he departed! 
 Thus in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 T. Moore 
 
BOOK FOURTH 111 
 
 CCLXX 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR 
 NAPLES 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
 The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
 Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
 The purple noon's transparent might: 
 The breath of the moist earth is light 
 Around its unexpanded buds; 
 Like many a voice of one delight — 
 The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods^ — 
 The city's voice itself is soft like Sohtude's. 
 
 I see the deep's untrampled floor 
 With green and purple sea-weeds strown; 
 I see the waves upon the shore 
 Like hght dissolved in star-showers thrown: 
 I sit upon the sands alone; 
 The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 
 Is flashing round me, and a tone 
 Arises from its measured motion — 
 How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 
 
 Alas! I have nor hope nor health, 
 
 Nor peace within nor calm around, 
 
 Nor that content, surpassing wealth, 
 
 The sage in meditation found. 
 
 And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — 
 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; 
 
112 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Others I see whom these surround — 
 SmiHng they hve, and call life pleasure; 
 To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 
 
 Yet now despair itself is mild 
 Even as the winds and waters are; 
 I could lie down like a tired child, 
 And weep away the life of care 
 Which I have borne, and 3^et must bear, — 
 Till death like sleep might steal on me. 
 And I might feel in the warm air 
 My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
 CCLXXI 
 
 THE SCHOLAR 
 
 My days among the Dead are past; 
 
 Around me I behold, 
 
 Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 
 
 The mighty minds of old : 
 
 My never-failing friends are they. 
 
 With whom I converse day by day. 
 
 With them I take delight in weal 
 
 And seek relief in woe; 
 
 And while I understand and feel 
 
 How much to them I owe. 
 
 My cheeks have often been bedew'd 
 
 With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 113 
 
 My thoughts are with the Dead; with them 
 
 I Uve in long-past years, 
 
 Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 
 
 Partake their hopes and fears. 
 
 And from their lessons seek and find 
 
 Instruction with an humble mind. 
 
 My hopes are with the Dead; anon 
 My place with them will be, 
 And I with them shall travel on 
 Through all Futurity; 
 Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 
 That will not perish in the dust. 
 
 R. Southey 
 
 CCLXXII 
 
 THE MERMAID TAVERN 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern. 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
 Have ye tippled drink more fine 
 Than mine host's Canary wine? 
 Or are fruits of Paradise 
 Sweeter than those dainty pies 
 Of venison? O generous food! 
 Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
 Would, with his Maid Marian, 
 Sup and bowse from horn and can. 
 
114 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 I have heard that on a day 
 Mine host's sign-board flew away 
 Nobody knew whither, till 
 An astrologer's old quill 
 To a sheepskin gave the story, 
 Said he saw you in your glory, 
 Underneath a new-old sign 
 Sipping beverage divine, 
 And pledging with contented smack 
 The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern, 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
 
 J. Keats 
 
 CCLXXIII 
 THE PRIDE OF YOUTH 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood, 
 
 Walking so early; 
 Sweet Robin sits on the bush, 
 
 Singing so rarely. 
 
 'Tell me, thou bonny bird. 
 When shall I marry me? ' 
 
 — ' When six braw gentlemen 
 Kirkward shall carry ye.' 
 
 *Who makes the bridal bed, 
 Birdie say truly? ' 
 
BOOK FOURTH 115 
 
 — ' The gray-headed sexton 
 That delves the grave duly. 
 
 'The glowworm o'er grave and stone 
 
 Shall light thee steady; 
 The owl from the steeple sing 
 
 Welcome, proud lady.' 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 CCLXXIV 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 
 
 One more Unfortunate 
 Weary of breath 
 Rashly importunate, 
 Gone to her death! 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care; 
 Fashion'd so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair! 
 
 Look at her garments 
 Clinging like cerements; 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clothing; 
 Take her up instantly, 
 Loving, not loathing. 
 
 Touch her not scornfully, 
 Think of her mournfully, 
 Gently and humanly; 
 Not of the stains of her — 
 
116 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 All that remains of her 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 Into her mutiny 
 Rash and undutiful: 
 Past all dishonour, 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers, 
 One of Eve's family — 
 Wipe those poor lips of hers 
 Oozing so clammily. 
 
 Loop up her tresses 
 Escaped from the comb, 
 Her fair auburn tresses; 
 Whilst wonderment guesses 
 Where was her home? 
 
 Who was her father? 
 Who was her mother? 
 Had she a sister? 
 Had she a brother? 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 Yet, than all other? 
 
 Alas! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun! 
 
BOOK FOURTH ^^^ 
 
 Oh! it was pitiful! 
 Near a whole city full, 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly, 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 Feehngs had changed: 
 Love, by harsh evidence, 
 Thrown from its eminence; 
 Even God's providence 
 Seeming estranged. . 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 
 So far in the river, 
 
 With many a light 
 
 From window and casement, 
 
 From garret to basement, 
 
 She stood with amazement. 
 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 Made her tremble and shiver 
 But not the dark arch, 
 . Or the black flowing river: 
 Mad from life's history. 
 
 Glad to death's mystery 
 
 Swift to be hurl'd — 
 
 Any where, any where 
 
 Out of the world! 
 
 In she plunged boldly, 
 No matter how coldly 
 
118 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 The rough river ran, — 
 Over the brink of it, 
 Picture it — think of it, 
 Dissolute Man! 
 Lave in it, drink of it, 
 Then, if you can! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care; 
 Fashion'd so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair! 
 
 Ere her limbs frigidly 
 Stiffen too rigidly, 
 Decently, kindly. 
 Smooth and compose them, 
 And her eyes, close them. 
 Staring so blindly! 
 
 Dreadfully staring 
 Thro' muddy impurity, 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing 
 Fix'd on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily, 
 
 Spurr'd by contumely. 
 
 Cold inhumanity, 
 
 Burning insanity, 
 
 Into her rest. 
 
 — Cross her hands humbly 
 
BOOK FOURTH 119 
 
 As if praying dumbly, 
 Over her breast! 
 
 Owning her weakness, 
 Her evil behaviour, 
 And leaving, with meekness. 
 Her sins to her Saviour. 
 
 T. Hood 
 
 CCLXXV 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom! 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year, 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
 And lingering pause and Hghtly tread ; 
 Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead! 
 
 Away! we know that tears are vain, 
 That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: 
 Will this unteach us to complain? 
 Or make one mourner weep the less? 
 And thou, who tell'st me to forget. 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 Lord Byron 
 
120 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCLXXVI 
 
 HESTER 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die 
 Their place ye may not well supply, 
 Though ye among a thousand try 
 
 With vain endeavour. 
 A month or more hath she been dead; 
 Yet cannot I by force be led 
 To think upon the wormy bed 
 
 And her together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 
 Of pride and joy no common rate 
 
 That flush'd her spirit: 
 I know not by what name beside 
 I shall it call : if 'twas not pride. 
 It was a joy to that alUed 
 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
 Which doth the human feeling cool; 
 But she was train'd in Nature's school, 
 
 Nature had blest her. 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 
 
 Ye could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neighbour! gone before 
 To that unknown and silent shore. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 121 
 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore 
 
 Some summer morning — 
 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 
 Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
 
 A bliss that would not go away, 
 A sweet fore-warning? 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
 CCLXXVII 
 TO ^lARY 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 I might not weep for thee; 
 But I forgot, when by thy side, 
 
 That thou couldst mortal be: 
 It never through my mind had past 
 
 The time would e'er be o'er, 
 And I on thee should look my last. 
 
 And thou shouldst smile no more! 
 
 And still upon that face I look, 
 
 And think 'twill smile again; 
 And still the thought I will not brook 
 
 That I must look in vain! 
 But when I speak — thou dost not say 
 
 What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; 
 And now I feel, as well I may. 
 
 Sweet Mary! thou art dead! 
 
 If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, 
 All cold and all serene — 
 
122 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 I still might press thy silent heart, 
 And where thy smiles have been. 
 
 While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 
 Thou seemest still mine own; 
 
 But there I lay thee in thy grave — 
 And I am now alone! 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art, 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me; 
 And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart. 
 
 In thinking too of thee : 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before, 
 As fancy never could have drawn, 
 
 And never can restore! 
 '^'^': , C. Wolfe 
 
 CCLXXVIII 
 CORONACH 
 
 He is gone on the mountain. 
 
 He is lost to the forest, 
 Like a summer-dried fountain. 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The font reappearing 
 
 From the raindrops shall borrow. 
 But to us comes no cheering, 
 
 To Duncan no morrow! 
 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 123 
 
 But the voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glory. 
 The autumn winds rushing 
 
 Waft the leaves that are searest, 
 But our flower was in flushing 
 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the correi, 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Red hand in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber! 
 Like the dew on the mountain, 
 
 Like the foam on the river, 
 Like the bubble on the fountain. 
 
 Thou art gone; and for ever! 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 CCLXXIX 
 THE DEATH BED 
 
 We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low, 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seem'd to speak, 
 
 So slowly moved about. 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears, 
 Our fears our hopes behed — 
 
124 THE aOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 We thought her dying when she slept, 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came dim and sad 
 And chill with early showers, 
 
 Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
 T. Hood 
 
 CCLXXX 
 AGNES 
 
 I SAW her in childhood — 
 
 A bright, gentle thing. 
 Like the dawn of the morn, 
 
 Or the dews of the spring: 
 The daisies and hare-bells 
 
 Her playmates all day; 
 Herself as light-hearted 
 
 And artless as they. 
 
 I saw her again — 
 
 A fair girl of eighteen, 
 Fresh glittering with graces 
 
 Of mind and of mien. 
 Her speech- was all music ; 
 
 Like moonlight she shone; 
 The envy of many, 
 
 The glory of one. 
 
 Years, years fleeted over — 
 I stood at her foot: 
 
BOOK FOURTH 125 
 
 The bud had grown blossom, 
 
 The blossom was fruit. 
 A dignified mother, 
 
 Her infant she bore; 
 And look'd, I thought, fairer 
 
 Than ever before. 
 
 I saw her once more — 
 
 ^Twas the day that she died; 
 Heaven's light was around her, 
 
 And God at her side; 
 No wants to distress her. 
 
 No fears to appal — 
 O then, I felt, then 
 
 She was fairest of all ! 
 
 H, F. Lyte 
 
 CCLXXXI 
 ROSABELLE 
 
 O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay! 
 
 No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
 Soft is the note, and sad the lay 
 
 That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! 
 
 And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! 
 Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 
 
 Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 
 
 'The blackening wave is edged with white; 
 To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; 
 
126 ^THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
 Whose screams forebode that wreck is nighc 
 
 * Last night the gifted Seer did view 
 
 A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; 
 Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; 
 Why cross the gloomy firth to-day? ' 
 
 ''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
 To-night at Roshn leads the ball, 
 
 But that my ladye-mother there 
 Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 
 
 * 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
 
 And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 
 But that my sire the wine will chide 
 If 'tis not fiU'd by Rosabelle.' 
 
 — O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
 
 A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 
 *Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
 And redder than the bright moonbeam. 
 
 It glared on Roslin' s castled rock, 
 It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 
 
 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 
 And seen from cavern 'd Hawthornden. 
 
 Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud 
 Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, 
 
 Each Baron, for a sable shroud. 
 Sheathed in his iron panoply. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 127 
 
 Seem'd all on fire within, around, 
 
 Deep sacristy and altar's pale; 
 Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 
 
 And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 
 
 Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 
 
 Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 
 
 So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
 The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 
 
 There are twenty of Roslui's barons bold — 
 Lie buried within that proud chapelle; 
 
 Each one the holy vault doth hold — 
 But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 And each Saint Clair was buried there. 
 With candle, with book, and with knell; 
 
 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung 
 The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 CCLXXXII 
 
 ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN 
 
 I SAW wherein the shroud did lurk 
 
 A curious frame of Nature's work; 
 
 A flow'ret crushed in the bud, 
 
 A nameless piece of Babyhood, 
 
 Was in her cradle-coffin lying; 
 
 Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: 
 
 So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 
 
128 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 For darker closets of the tomb! 
 
 She did but ope an eye, and put 
 
 A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 
 
 For the long dark: ne'er more to see 
 
 Through glasses of mortality. 
 
 Riddle of destiny, who can show 
 
 What thy short visit meant, or know 
 
 What thy errand here below? 
 
 Shall we say, that Nature blind 
 
 Check'd her hand, and changed her mind 
 
 Just when she had exactly wrought 
 
 A finish'd pattern without fault? 
 
 Could she flag, or could she tire. 
 
 Or lack'd she the Promethean fire 
 
 (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) 
 
 That should thy little limbs have quicken'd? 
 
 Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure 
 
 Life of health, and days mature: 
 
 Woman's self in miniature! 
 
 Limbs so fair, they might supply 
 
 (Themselves now but cold imagery) 
 
 The sculptor to make Beauty by. 
 
 Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry 
 
 That babe or mother, one must die; 
 
 So in mercy left the stock 
 
 And cut the branch; to save the shock 
 
 Of young years widow'd, and the pain 
 
 When Single State comes back again 
 
 To the lone man who, reft of wife. 
 
 Thenceforward drags a maimed life? 
 
 The economy of Heaven is dark, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 129 
 
 And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark 
 
 Why human buds, Uke this, should fall, 
 
 More brief than fly ephemeral 
 
 That has his day; while shrivell'd crones 
 
 Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; 
 
 And crabbed use the conscience sears 
 
 In sinners of an hundred years. 
 
 — Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, 
 
 Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss: 
 
 Rites, which custom does impose, . 
 
 Silver bells, and baby clothes; 
 
 Coral redder than those lips 
 
 Which pale death did late eclipse; 
 
 Music framed for infants' glee. 
 
 Whistle never tuned for thee; 
 
 Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, 
 
 Loving hearts were they which gave them. 
 
 Let not one be missing; nurse, 
 
 See them laid upon the hearse 
 
 Of infant slain by doom perverse. 
 
 Why should kings and nobles have 
 
 Pictured trophies to their grave. 
 
 And we, churls, to thee deny 
 
 Thy pretty toys with thee to he — 
 
 A more harmless vanity? 
 
 C. Lamb 
 
130 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCLXXXIII 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 A child's a plaything for an hour; 
 
 Its pretty tricks we try 
 For that or for a longer space, — 
 
 Then tire, and lay it by. 
 
 But I knew one that to itself 
 
 All seasons could control; 
 That would have mock'd the sense of pain 
 
 Out of a grieved soul. 
 
 Thou straggler into loving arms, 
 
 Young climber up of knees, 
 When I forget thy thousand ways 
 
 Then life and all shall cease! 
 
 M. Lamb 
 
 CCLXXXIV 
 
 THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
 Where art thou, worse to me than dead? 
 Oh find me, prosperous or undone! 
 Or if the grave be now thy bed. 
 Why am I ignorant of the same 
 That I may rest; and neither blame 
 Nor sorrow may attend thy name? 
 
BOOK FOURTH 131 
 
 Seven years, alas! to have received 
 No tidings of an only child — 
 To have despair'd, have hoped, beheved, 
 And been for ever more beguiled, — 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bhss! 
 I catch at them, and then I miss; 
 Was ever darkness like to this? 
 
 He was among the prime in worth, 
 An object beauteous to behold; 
 Well born, well bred; I sent him forth 
 Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: 
 If things ensued that wanted grace 
 As hath been said, they were not base; 
 And never blush was on my face. 
 
 Ah! little doth the young-one dream 
 When full of play and childish cares, 
 What power is in his wildest scream 
 Heard by his mother unawares! 
 He loiows it not, he cannot guess; 
 Years to a mother bring distress; 
 But do not make her love the less. 
 
 Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long 
 From that ill thought; and being blind 
 Said 'Pride shall help me in my wrong: 
 Kind mother have I been, as kind 
 As ever breathed:' and that is true; 
 I've wet my path with tears like dew, 
 Weeping for him when no one knew. 
 
132 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
 Hopeless of honour and of gain. 
 Oh! do not dread thy mother's door; 
 Think not of me with grief and pain: 
 I now can see with better eyes; 
 And worldly grandeur I despise 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
 Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
 And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; 
 They mount — how short a voyage brings 
 The wanderers back to their delight! 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea; 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan 
 Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men; 
 Or thou upon a desert thrown 
 Inheritest the lion's den; 
 Or hast been summon'd to the deep 
 Thou, thou, and all thy mates to keep 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 I look for ghosts: but none will force 
 Their way to me; 'tis falsely said 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 Between the living and the dead; 
 For surely then I should have sight 
 Of him I wait for day and night 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 133 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds; 
 I dread the rustling of the grass; 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 Have power to shake me as they pass: 
 I question things, and do not find 
 One that will answer to my mind; 
 And all the world appears unkind. 
 
 Beyond participation lie 
 My troubles, and beyond relief: 
 If any chance to heave a sigh 
 They pity me, and not my grief. 
 Then come to me, my Son, or send 
 Some tidings that my woes may end! 
 I have no other earthly friend. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCLXXXV 
 
 HUNTING SONG 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 
 On the mountain dawns the day; 
 
 All the jolly chase is here 
 
 With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; 
 
 Hounds are in tlieir couples yelling, 
 
 Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 
 
 Merrily merrily mingle they, 
 
 * Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 
 The mist has left the mountain gray, 
 
134 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 
 Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; 
 And foresters have busy been 
 To track the buck in thicket green; 
 Now we come to chant our lay 
 
 * Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 To the greenwood haste away; 
 We can show you where he lies. 
 Fleet of foot and tall of size; 
 We can show the marks he made 
 When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; 
 You shall see him brought to bay; 
 
 * Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 
 
 Louder, louder chant the lay 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay! 
 
 Tell them youth and mirth and glee 
 
 Run a course as well as we; 
 
 Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, 
 
 Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk; 
 
 Think of this, and rise with day. 
 
 Gentle lords and ladies gay! 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 CCLXXXVI 
 
 TO THE SKYLARK 
 
 Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! 
 
 Post thou despise the earth where cares abound? 
 
BOOK FOURTH 135 
 
 Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music still! 
 
 To the last point of vision, and beyond 
 
 Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain 
 
 — ^Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — 
 
 Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: 
 
 Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing 
 
 All independent of the leafy Spring. 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 
 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine, 
 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
 
 Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 
 
 Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 
 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCLXXXVn 
 
 TO A SKYLARK 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! 
 
 Bird thou never wert. 
 That from heaven, or near it 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art 
 
 Higher still and higher 
 
 From the earth thou springest, 
 
136 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Like a cloud of fire, 
 The blue deep thou wingest, 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of the sunken sun 
 O'er which clouds are brightening, 
 
 Thou dost float and run, 
 Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts aroimd thy flight; 
 Like a star of heaven 
 In the broad dayhght 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 
 Of that silver sphere. 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 
 In the white davra clear 
 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud, 
 As, when night is bare. 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over- 
 flow'd. 
 
 What thou art we know not; 
 What is most like thee? 
 
BOOK FOURTH 137 
 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 Drops so bright to see 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody; — 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden, 
 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace tower. 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew, 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the 
 view : 
 
 Like a rose embower 'd 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds deflower'd, 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged 
 thieves. 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 
138 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Rain-awaken'd flowers, 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird. 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine: 
 I have never heard 
 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 
 
 Chorus hymeneal 
 
 Or triumphal chaunt 
 Match 'd with thine, would be all 
 
 But an empty vaunt — 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
 
 What shapes of sky or plain? 
 What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be: 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 
 Never came near thee: 
 Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 
 
 Waking or asleep 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 
BOOK FOURTH 139 
 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 
 
 We look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
 thought. 
 
 Yet if we could scorn 
 
 Hate, and pride, and fear; 
 If we were things born 
 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound. 
 Better than all treasures 
 
 That in books are found, 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know, 
 Such harmonious madness 
 From my lips would flow. 
 The world should listen then, as I am listening now! 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
140 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCLXXXVIII 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
 Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
 With brightest sunshine round me spread 
 Of Spring's unclouded weather, 
 In this sequester'd nook how sweet 
 To sit upon my orchard-seat! 
 And flowers and birds once more to greet, 
 My last year's friends together. 
 
 One have I mark'd, the happiest guest 
 In all this covert of the blest : 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 In joy of voice and pinion! 
 Thou, Linnet! in thy green array 
 Presiding Spirit here to-day 
 Dost lead the revels of the May; 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, 
 Make all one band of paramours. 
 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 
 Art sole in thy employment; 
 A Life, a Presence like the air. 
 Scattering thy gladness without care. 
 Too blest with any one to pair; 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
 Amid yon tuft of hazel trees 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 141 
 
 Behold him perch'd in ecstasies 
 Yet seeming still to hover; 
 There ! where the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 My dazzled sight he oft deceives — 
 A brother of the dancing leaves; 
 Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 
 Pours forth his song in gushes; 
 As if by that exulting strain 
 He mock'd and treated with disdain 
 The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 
 While fluttering in the bushes. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCLXXXIX 
 TO THE CUCKOO 
 
 BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice: 
 
 O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice? 
 
 While I am lying on the grass 
 Thy twofold shout I hear; 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the valQ 
 Of sunshine and of flowers. 
 
142 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery; 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy days 
 I listen'd to; that Cry 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
 Still long'd for, never seen! 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, faery place. 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
 W» Wordsworth 
 
BOOK FOURTH 143 
 
 ccxc 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 
 But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
 That thou, light-winged Drj^ad of the trees, 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
 Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
 
 O, for a draught of vintage! that bath been 
 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
 Tasting of Flora and the country green, 
 
 Dance, and Proven9aI song, and sunburnt mirth f 
 O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
 And purple-stained mouth; 
 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
 
 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 
 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 
 
144 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
 And leaden-eyed despairs; 
 Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 
 
 Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
 Already with thee! tender is the night. 
 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
 Clustered around by all her starry Fays; 
 But here there is no light, 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
 ways. 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
 Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 
 And mid-May's eldest child. 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 
 
 Darkling I listen; and for many a time 
 
 I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
 Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 145 
 
 To take into the air my quiet breath; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
 To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 
 
 No hungry generations tread thee down; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
 Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
 She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charm'cl magic casements, opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 
 
 Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 
 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole self I 
 Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 
 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
 Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades: 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
 
 Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep? 
 
 J. Keats 
 
146 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCXCI 
 
 UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE 
 SEPT. 3, 1802 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair: 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty: 
 This City now doth like a garment wear 
 
 The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky, — 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 
 
 The river glideth at its o^vn sweet will: 
 Dear God ! . the very houses seem asleep ; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXCII 
 
 To one who has been long in city pent, 
 
 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
 
 And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 
 
 Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
 
 Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, 
 Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
 
BOOK FOURTH 147 
 
 Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
 And gentle tale of love and languishment? 
 
 Returning home at evening, with an ear 
 Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 
 Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 
 
 He mourns that day so soon has glided by: 
 E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
 That falls through the clear ether silently. 
 
 J. Keats 
 
 CCXCIII 
 
 OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT 
 
 I MET a traveller from an antique land 
 Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
 Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, 
 Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown 
 And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 
 Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
 Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, 
 The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed; 
 And on the pedestal these words appear : 
 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 
 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! ' 
 Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
 Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
 The lone and level sj'.nds stretch far away. 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
148 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCXCIV 
 
 COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE 
 
 PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY 
 
 1803 
 
 Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord! 
 Whom mere despite of heart could so far please 
 And love of havoc, (for with such disease 
 Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word 
 
 To level with the dust a noble horde, 
 
 A brotherhood of venerable trees, 
 
 Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these, 
 
 Beggar'd and outraged! — Many hearts deplored 
 
 The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain 
 
 The traveller at this day will stop and gaze 
 
 On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed : 
 
 For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, 
 And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, 
 And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXCV 
 
 THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION 
 
 O LEAVE this barren spot to me! 
 
 Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! 
 
 Though bush or floweret never grow 
 
BOOK FOURTH 149 
 
 My dark unwarming shade below; 
 Nor summer bud perfume the dew 
 Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; 
 Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, 
 My green and glossy leaves adorn; 
 Nor murmuring tribes from me derive 
 Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; 
 Yet leave this barren spot to me: 
 Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! 
 
 Thrice twenty summers I have seen 
 The sky grow bright, the forest green; 
 And many a wintry wind have stood 
 In bloomless, fruitless solitude, 
 Since childhood in my pleasant bower 
 First spent its sweet and sportive hour; 
 Since youthful lovers in my shade 
 Their vows of truth and rapture made, 
 And on my trunk's surviving frame 
 Carved many a long-forgotten name. 
 Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound. 
 First breathed upon this sacred ground; 
 By all that Love has whisper'd here, 
 Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; 
 As Love's own altar honour me: 
 Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! 
 
 T, Campbell 
 
150 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCXCVI 
 ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! 
 
 — The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
 Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook, 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! 
 
 But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh 
 As many do, repining while they look; 
 Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book 
 This precious leaf with harsh impiety. 
 
 — Think what the home must be if it were thine, 
 Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, window, 
 
 door, 
 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
 
 The roses to the porch which they entwine: 
 Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 
 On which it should be touch'd, would melt away! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXCVII 
 
 TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF 
 INVERSNEYDE 
 
 . Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower! 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 
BOOK FOURTH 151 
 
 And these gray rocks, that household lawn, 
 
 Those trees — a veil just half withdrawn, 
 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 
 A murmur near the silent lake, 
 
 This little bay, a quiet road 
 
 That holds in shelter thy abode; 
 
 In truth together ye do seem 
 
 Like something fashion'd in a dream; 
 
 Such forms as from their covert peep 
 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep! 
 
 But O fair Creature! in the light 
 
 Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
 
 I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
 
 I bless thee with a human heart: 
 
 God shield thee to thy latest years! 
 
 Thee neither know I nor thy peers: 
 
 And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far away; 
 For never saw I mien or face 
 In which more plainly I could trace 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 Here scatter'd, hke a random seed. 
 Remote from men, Thou dost not need 
 The embarrass'd look of shy distress. 
 And maidenly shamef acedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer: 
 A face with gladness overspread; 
 
152 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; 
 And seemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays; 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech: 
 A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life! 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
 What hand but would a garland cull 
 For thee who art so beautiful? 
 happy pleasure! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell; 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 Of the wild sea: and I would have 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
 Though but of common neighbourhood. 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see! 
 Thy elder brother I would be, 
 Thy father — anything to thee. 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to 'this lonely place; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 153 
 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 
 I bear away my recompence. 
 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: 
 
 Then why should I be loth to stir? 
 
 I feel this place was made for her; 
 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 
 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; 
 
 For I, methinks, till I grow old 
 
 As fair before me shall behold 
 
 As I do now, the cabin small, 
 
 The lake, the bay, the waterfall; 
 
 And Thee, the Spirit of them all! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXCVIII 
 
 THE REAPER 
 
 Behold her, single in the field, 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 Stop here, or gently pass! 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
 And sings a melancholy strain; 
 O listen! for the vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No nightingale did ever chaunt 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 
154 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
 Among Arabian sands: 
 A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
 In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings? 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 And battles long ago: 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 Familiar matter of to-day? 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 That has been, and may be again! 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending; 
 I saw her singing at her work. 
 And o'er the sickle bending; — 
 I listened, motionless and still; 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 
 The music in my heart I bore 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCXCIX 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 
 Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three 
 years : 
 
BOOK FOURTH 155 
 
 Pocr Susan haspass'd bj^ the spot, and has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 
 
 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury ghde, 
 And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale 
 Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail; 
 And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
 The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 
 
 She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
 And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCC 
 
 TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR 
 
 Ariel to Miranda : — Take 
 
 This slave of music, for the sake 
 
 Of him, who is the slave of thee; 
 
 And teach it all the harmony 
 
 In which thou canst, and only thou, 
 
 Make the delighted spirit glow, 
 
 TiU joy denies itself again 
 
 And, too intense, is turn'd to pain. 
 
 For by permission and command 
 
156 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 
 
 Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
 
 Of more than ever can be spoken; 
 
 Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 
 
 From life to hfe must still pursue 
 
 Your happiness, for thus alone 
 
 Can Ariel ever find his own. 
 
 From Prosperous enchanted cell, 
 
 As the mighty verses tell. 
 
 To the throne of Naples he 
 
 Lit you o'er the trackless sea, 
 
 Flitting on, your prow before, 
 
 Like a living meteor. 
 
 When you die, the silent Moon 
 
 In her interlunar swoon 
 
 Is not sadder in her cell 
 
 Than deserted Ariel : — 
 
 When you live again on earth, 
 
 Like an unseen Star of birth 
 
 Ariel guides you o'er the sea 
 
 Of life from your nativity : — 
 
 Many changes have been run 
 
 Since Ferdinand and you begun 
 
 Your course of love, and Ariel still 
 
 Has track'd your steps and served your will. 
 
 Now in humbler, happier lot, 
 
 This is all remember'd not; 
 
 And now, alas! the poor Sprite is 
 
 Imprison'd for some fault of his 
 
 In a body like a grave — 
 
 From you he only dares to crave. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 157 
 
 For his service and his sorrow 
 A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 
 
 The artist who this idol wrought 
 
 To echo all harmonious thought, 
 
 Fell'd a tree, while on the steep 
 
 The woods were in their winter sleep, 
 
 Rock'd in that repose divine 
 
 On the wind-swept Apennine; 
 
 And dreaming, some of Autumn past, 
 
 And some of Spring approaching fast, 
 
 And some of April buds and showers, 
 
 And some of songs in July bowers. 
 
 And all of love : And so this tree, — 
 
 Oh that such our death may be ! — 
 
 Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 
 
 To live in happier form again: 
 
 From which, beneath heaven's fairest star, 
 
 The artist wrought this loved Guitar; 
 
 And taught it justly to reply 
 
 To all who question skilfully 
 
 In language gentle as thine own; 
 
 Whispering in enamour'd tone 
 
 Sweet oracles of woods and dells. 
 
 And summer winds in sylvan cells : 
 
 — For it had learnt all harmonies 
 
 Of the plains and of the skies. 
 
 Of the forests and the mountains. 
 
 And the many- voiced fountains; 
 
 The clearest echoes of the hills. 
 
 The softest notes of falling rills, 
 
158 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 The melodies of birds and bees, 
 The murmuring of summer seas, 
 And pattering rain, and breathing dew, 
 And airs of evening; and it knew 
 That seldom-heard mysterious sound 
 Which, driven on its diurnal round. 
 As it floats through boundless day, 
 Our world enkindles on its way: 
 — All this it knows, but will not tell 
 To those who cannot question well 
 The Spirit that inhabits it; 
 It talks according to the wit 
 Of its companions; and no more 
 Is heard than has been felt before 
 By those who tempt it to betray 
 These secrets of an elder day. 
 But, sweetly as it answers will 
 Flatter hands of perfect skill. 
 It keeps its highest holiest tone 
 For our beloved Friend alone. 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
 CCCI 
 
 THE DAFFODILS 
 
 I wander'd lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host of golden daffodils, 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 159 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 They stretch'd in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay: 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced, but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : — 
 
 A Poet could not but be gay 
 
 In such a jocund company! 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought; 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I he 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCII 
 
 TO THE DAISY 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that in the great world be, 
 
 Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee 
 
 For thou art worthy. 
 Thou unassuming Common-place 
 Of Nature, with that homely face, 
 
160 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 And yet with something of a grace 
 Which Love makes for thee! 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 
 I sit and play with similes, 
 
 Loose types of things through all degrees, 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising; 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame 
 As is the humour of the game, 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A nun demure, of lowly port; 
 
 Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, ' 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations; 
 A queen in crown of rubies drest; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest; 
 Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little Cyclops, with one eye 
 
 Staring to threaten and defy, 
 
 That thought comes next — and instantly 
 
 The freak is over. 
 The shape will vanish, and behold! 
 A silver shield with boss of gold 
 That spreads itself, some faery bold 
 
 In fight to cover. 
 
 I see thee glittering from afar — 
 And then thou art a pretty star, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 161 
 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee! 
 Yet Hke a star, with gUttering crest, 
 Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
 May peace come never to his nest 
 
 Who shall reprove thee! 
 
 Sweet Flower! for by that name at last 
 
 When all my reveries are past 
 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 
 
 Sweet silent Creature! 
 That breath 'st with me in sun and air, 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCIII 
 
 ODE TO AUTUMN 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. 
 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 
 With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; 
 
 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees. 
 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
 
 With a sweet kernel; to set budding more. 
 
 And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
 
 Until they think warm days will never cease; 
 
 For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 
 
162 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
 
 Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
 
 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
 
 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
 
 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
 
 Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
 
 Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 
 
 And sometimes hke a gleaner thou dost keep 
 
 Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
 
 Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 
 
 Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 
 
 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 
 
 Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
 
 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day 
 
 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
 
 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
 
 Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 
 
 Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
 
 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
 
 The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 
 
 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 
 
 J. Keats 
 
 CCCIV 
 ODE TO WINTER 
 
 Germany, December, 1800 
 
 When first the fiery-mantled Sun 
 His heavenly race began to run, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 163 
 
 Round the earth and ocean blue 
 His children four the Seasons flew. 
 
 First, in green apparel dancing, 
 The young Spring smiled with angel-grace; 
 
 Rosy Summer next advancing, 
 Rush'd into her sire's embrace — 
 Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep 
 
 For ever nearest to his smiles, 
 On Calpe's olive-shaded steep 
 
 Or India's citron-cover'd isles: 
 More remote, and buxom-brown. 
 
 The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; 
 A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, 
 
 A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 
 
 But howling Winter fled afar 
 To hills that prop the polar star; 
 And loves on deer-borne car to ride 
 With barren darkness by his side, 
 Round the shore where loud Lofoden 
 
 Whirls to death the roaring whale, 
 Round the hall where Runic Odin 
 
 Howls his war-song to the gale; 
 Save when adown the ravaged globe 
 
 He travels on his native storm. 
 Deflowering Nature's grassy robe 
 
 And trampling on her faded form : — 
 Till light's returning Lord assume 
 
 The shaft that drives him to his polar field, 
 Of power to pierce his raven plume 
 
 And crystal-cover'd shield. 
 
164 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear 
 The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
 When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye 
 Implores thy dreadful deity — 
 Archangel! Power of desolation! 
 
 Fast descending as thou art, 
 Say, hath mortal invocation 
 
 Spells to touch thy stony heart? 
 Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer, 
 
 And gently rule the ruin'd year; 
 Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare 
 
 Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear: 
 To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 
 
 Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, 
 And gently on the orphan head 
 
 Of Innocence descend. 
 
 But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! 
 The sailor on his airy shrouds, 
 When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, 
 And spectres walk along the deep. 
 Milder yet thy snowy breezes 
 
 Pour on yonder tented shores, 
 Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes. 
 
 Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 
 Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there 
 
 To many a deep and dying groan? 
 Or start, ye demons of the midnight air. 
 
 At shrieks and thunders louder' than your own? 
 Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath 
 
 May spare the victim fallen low; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 165 
 
 But Man will ask no truce to death, — 
 No bounds to human woe. 
 
 T. Campbell 
 
 CCCV 
 YARROW UNVISITED 
 1803 
 From StirHng Castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravell'd, 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay 
 And with the Tweed had travell'd; 
 And when we came to Clovenford, 
 Then said my Svinsome Marrow/ 
 ' Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow.' 
 
 'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
 
 Who have been buying, selling, 
 
 Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their owm, 
 
 Each maiden to her dwelling! 
 
 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
 
 Hares couch, and rabbits burrow; 
 
 But we will downward with the Tweed, 
 
 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, 
 
 Both lying right before us; 
 
 And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed 
 
 The lintwhites sing in chorus; 
 
 There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
 
166 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Made blithe with plough and harrow: 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 To go in search of Yarrow? 
 
 'What's Yarrow but a river bare 
 
 That glides the dark hills under? 
 
 There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 
 As worthy of your wonder.' 
 
 — Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn; 
 
 My True-love sigh'd for sorrow, 
 
 And look'd me in the face, to think 
 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow! 
 
 *0 green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms, 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing! 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
 But we will leave it growing. 
 O'er hilly path and open strath 
 We'll wander Scotland thorough; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 
 
 'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 
 The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow! 
 We will not see them; will not go 
 To-day, nor yet to-morrow; 
 Enough if in our hearts we know 
 There's such a place as Yarrow. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 167 
 
 ^Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 
 We have a vision of our o^vn. 
 Ah! why should we undo it? 
 The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! 
 For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
 'Twill be another Yarrow! 
 
 'If Care with freezing years should come 
 
 And wandering seem but folly, — 
 
 Should we be loth to stir from home, 
 
 And yet be melancholy; 
 
 Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 
 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow 
 
 That earth has something yet to show, 
 
 The bonny holms of Yarrow ! ' 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCVI 
 YARROW VISITED 
 
 September, I8I4 
 And is this — Yarrow? — This the stream 
 Of which my fancy cherish 'd 
 So faithfully, a waking dream, 
 Ae image that hath perish 'd? 
 O that some minstrel's harp were near 
 To utter notes of gladness 
 And chase this silence from the air. 
 That fills my heart with sadness! 
 
168 1HE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Yet why? — a silvery current flows 
 
 With imcontroU'd meanderings ; 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 
 And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 
 
 Is visibly delighted; 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Where w^as it that the famous Flower 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On which the herd is feeding: 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool, 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning, 
 
 The Water-wraith ascended thrice, 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the lay that sings 
 
 The haunts of happy lovers, 
 
 The path that leads them to the grove, 
 
 The leafy grove that covers: 
 
BOOK FOURTH 169 
 
 And pity sanctifies the verse 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
 The unconquerable strength of love; 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow! 
 
 But thou that didst appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination, 
 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 
 Her deUcate creation: 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy: 
 
 The grace of forest charms decay'd, 
 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 That region left, the vale unfolds 
 
 Rich groves of lofty stature. 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
 
 Of cultivated nature; 
 
 And rising from those lofty groves 
 
 Behold a ruin hoary, 
 
 The shatter'd front of Newark's towers, 
 
 Renown'd in Border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 
 
 For sportive youth to stray in. 
 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength, 
 
 And age to wear away in! 
 
 Yon cottage seems a bower of bHss, 
 
 A covert for protection 
 
 Of tender thoughts that nestle there — 
 
 The brood of chaste affection. 
 
170 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 How sweet on this autumnal day 
 
 The wild-wood fruits to gather, 
 
 And on my True-love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of blooming heather! 
 
 And what if I enwreathed my o^\^l? 
 
 'Twere no offence to reason; 
 
 The sober hills thus deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see — but not by sight alone, 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 
 
 A ray of Fancy still survives — 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee! 
 
 Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure; 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 
 
 The vapours linger round the heights, 
 They melt, and soon must vanish; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
 Sad thought! which I would banish, 
 But that I know, where'er I go. 
 Thy genuine image, Yarrow! 
 Will dwell with me, to heighten joy, 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
BOOK FOURTH 171 
 
 CCCVII 
 
 THE INVITATION 
 
 Best and brightest, come away, — 
 
 Fairer far than this fair Day, 
 
 Which, Hke thee, to those in sorrow 
 
 Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
 
 To the rough year just awake 
 
 In its cradle on the brake. 
 
 The brightest hour of unborn Spring 
 
 Through the winter wandering. 
 
 Found, it seems, the halcyon morn 
 
 To hoar February born; 
 
 Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, 
 
 It kiss'd the forehead of the earth, 
 
 And smiled upon the silent sea, 
 
 And bade the frozen streams be free, 
 
 And waked to music all their fountains, 
 
 And breathed upon the frozen mountainsj 
 
 And like a prophetess of May 
 
 Strew'd flowers upon the barren way^ 
 
 Making the wintry world appear 
 
 Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 
 
 Away, away, from men and towns, 
 To the wild wood and the downs — 
 To the silent wilderness 
 Where the soul need not repress 
 Its music, lest it should not find 
 An echo in another's mind, 
 
172 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 While the touch of Nature's art 
 Harmonizes heart to heart. 
 
 Radiant Sister of the Day 
 Awake! arise! and come away! 
 To the wild woods and the plains, 
 To the pools where ^\inter rains 
 Image all their roof of leaves, 
 Where the pine its garland weaves 
 Of sapless green, and ivy dun. 
 Round stems that never kiss the sun; 
 Where the lawns and pastures be 
 And the sandhills of the sea; 
 Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
 The daisy-star that never sets, 
 And wind-flowers and violets 
 Which yet join not scent to hue 
 Crown the pale year weak and new; 
 When the night is left behind 
 In the deep east, dim and blind, 
 And the blue noon is over us. 
 And the multitudinous 
 Billows murmur at our feet, 
 Where the earth and ocean meet, 
 And all things seem only one 
 In the universal Sun. 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
BOOK FOURTH 17: 
 
 CCCVIII 
 
 THE RECOLLECTION 
 
 Now the last day of many days 
 All beautiful and bright as thou, 
 The loveliest and the last, is dead. 
 Rise, IVIemory, and write its praise' 
 Up — to thy wonted work ! come, trace 
 The epitaph of glory fled. 
 For now the earth has changed its face, 
 A frown is on the heaven's brow. 
 
 We wander'd to the Pine Forest 
 
 That skirts the Ocean's foam; 
 The lightest wind was in its nest, 
 
 The tempest in its home. 
 The whispering waves were half asleep, 
 
 The clouds were gone to play, 
 And on the bosom of the deep 
 
 The smile of heaven lay; 
 It seem'd as if the hour were one 
 
 Sent from beyond the skies 
 Which scatter'd from above the sun 
 
 A hght of Paradise! 
 
 We paused amid the pines that stood 
 
 The giants of the waste. 
 Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 
 
 As serpents interlaced, — 
 And soothed by every azure breath 
 
 That under heaven is blown, 
 
174 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 To harmonies and hues beneath, 
 
 As tender as its own : 
 Now all the tree-tops lay asleep 
 
 Like green waves on the sea, 
 As still as in the silent deep 
 
 The ocean-woods may be. 
 
 How calm it was ! — The silence there 
 
 By such a chain was bound, 
 That even the busy woodpecker 
 
 Made stiller with her sound 
 The inviolable quietness; 
 
 The breath of peace we drew 
 With its soft motion made not less 
 
 The calm that round us grew. 
 There seem'd, from the remotest seat 
 
 Of the white mountain waste 
 To the soft flower beneath our feet, 
 
 A magic circle traced, — 
 A spirit interfused around, 
 
 A thrilling silent life; 
 To momentary peace it bound 
 
 Our mortal nature's strife; — 
 And still I felt the centre of 
 
 The magic circle there 
 Was one fair form that fill'd with love 
 
 The lifeless atmosphere. 
 
 We paused beside the pools that He 
 
 Under the forest bough ; 
 Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky 
 
BOOK FOURTH 175 
 
 Gulf'd in a world below; 
 A firmament of purple light 
 
 Which in the dark earth lay, 
 More bomidless than the depth of night 
 
 And purer than the day — 
 In which the lovely forests grew 
 
 As in the upper air, 
 More perfect both in shape and hue 
 
 Than any spreading there. 
 There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, 
 
 And through the dark-green wood 
 The white sun twinkling like the dawn 
 
 Out of a speckled cloud. 
 Sweet views which in our world above 
 
 Can never well be seen 
 Were imaged in the water's love 
 
 Of that fair forest green: 
 And all was interfused beneath 
 
 With an Elysian glow, 
 An atmosphere without a breath, 
 
 A softer day below. 
 Like one beloved, the scene had lent 
 
 To the dark water's breast 
 Its every leaf and lineament 
 
 With more than truth exprest; 
 Until an envious wind crept by. 
 
 Like an unwelcome thought 
 Which from the mind's too faithful eye 
 
 Blots one dear image out. 
 • — Though thou art ever fair and kind, 
 
 The forests ever green, 
 
176 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind 
 Than calm in waters seen! 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
 CCCIX 
 
 BY THE SEA* 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
 Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea: 
 Listen! the mighty Being is awake, 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 A sound hke thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here. 
 If thou appear untouched by solemn thought 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, 
 And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCX 
 
 SONG TO THE EVENING STAR 
 
 Star that bringest home the bee, 
 And sett'st the weary labourer free! 
 
BOOK FOURTH 177 
 
 If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou 
 
 That send'st it from above, 
 Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 
 
 Are sweet as hers we love. 
 
 Come to the luxuriant skies. 
 Whilst the landscape's odours rise, 
 Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard 
 
 And songs when toil is done, 
 From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 
 
 Curls yellow in the sun. 
 
 Star of love's soft interviews, 
 Parted lovers on thee ivjvjc; 
 Their remembrancer in Heaven 
 
 Of thriUing vows thou art. 
 Too dehcious to be riven 
 
 By absence from the heart. 
 
 T. Campbell 
 
 CCCXI 
 DATUR HORA QUIETI 
 
 The sun upon the lake is low. 
 
 The wild birds hush their song, 
 The hills have evening's deepest glow, 
 
 Yet Leonard tarries long. 
 Now all whom varied toil and care 
 
 From home and love divide. 
 In the calm sunset may repair 
 
 Each to the loved one's side. 
 
178 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 The noble dame, on turret high, 
 
 Who waits her gallant knight. 
 Looks to the western beam to spy 
 
 The flash of armour bright. 
 The village maid, with hand on brow 
 
 The level ray to shade, 
 Upon the footpath watches now 
 
 For Colin's darkening plaid. 
 
 Now to their mates the wild swans row, 
 
 By day they swam apart. 
 And to the thicket wanders slow 
 
 The hind beside the hart. 
 The woodlark at his partner's side 
 
 Twitters his closing song — 
 All meet whom day and care divide, 
 
 But Leonard tarries long! 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 CCCXII 
 
 TO THE MOON 
 
 Art thou pale for weariness 
 Of cHmbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, 
 
 Wandering companionless 
 Among the stars that have a different birth, — 
 And ever-changing, like a joyless eye 
 That finds no object worth its constancy? 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
BOOK FOURTH ]79 
 
 CCCXIII 
 
 TO SLEEP 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by 
 One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
 Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sk}^ , 
 
 I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
 Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies 
 Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 
 Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, 
 And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : 
 So do not let me wear to-night away: 
 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCXIV 
 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM 
 
 Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower 'd. 
 
 And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; 
 And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 
 
 The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 
 
 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw 
 By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, 
 
180 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw; 
 And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 
 
 Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
 Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track: 
 
 'Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
 To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back, 
 
 I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
 
 In fife's morning march, when my bosom was young; 
 
 I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
 
 And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 
 sung. 
 
 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
 From my home and my weeping friends never to 
 part; 
 
 My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 
 And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 
 
 ' Stay — stay with us ! — rest ! — thou art weary and 
 worn ! ' — 
 And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; — 
 But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn. 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 
 
 T. Carnpbell 
 
 CCCXV 
 
 A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN 
 
 I dream' D that as I wander 'd by the way 
 Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 181 
 
 And gentle odours led my steps astray, 
 Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring 
 
 Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 
 Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
 
 Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, 
 
 But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream. 
 
 There grew pied wind-flowers and violets. 
 
 Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, 
 The constellated flower that never sets; 
 
 Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 
 The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets 
 Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears. 
 When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 
 
 And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, 
 
 Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May, 
 
 And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine 
 Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; 
 
 And wild roses, and ivy serpentine 
 
 With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; 
 
 And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold. 
 
 Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold. 
 
 And nearer to the river's trembling edge 
 
 There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with 
 white. 
 And starry river-buds among the sedge, 
 
 And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 
 Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 
 
 With moonlight beams of their own watery light; 
 
182 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 
 As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 
 
 Methought that of these visionary flowers 
 I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 
 
 That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 
 Were mingled or opposed, the like array 
 
 Kept these imprison' d children of the Hours 
 Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, 
 
 I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come 
 
 That I might there present it — O ! to Whom? 
 
 P. B. Shelleij 
 
 CCCXVI 
 
 KUBLA KHAN 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 
 Down to a sunless sea. 
 So twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled round : 
 And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
 Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree; 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
 Enfolding suimy spots of greenery. 
 
 But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
 A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
 
BOOK FOURTH 183 
 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
 
 By woman wailing for her demon -lover! 
 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. 
 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced : 
 
 Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 
 
 And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
 
 Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man. 
 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
 
 And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war! 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 
 Floated midway on the waves; 
 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 It was a miracle of rare device, 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw: 
 
 It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 
 And on her dulcimer she play'd, 
 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 
 Could I revive within me 
 
 Her symphony and song. 
 To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
 
184 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 That with music loud and long, 
 I would build that dome in air, 
 That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 And all should cry, Beware! Beware! 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 
 Weave a circle round him thrice, 
 And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 For he on hone^'^-dew hath fed, 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise. 
 
 *S'. T. Coleridge 
 
 CCCXVII 
 
 THE INNER VISION 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 
 While a fair region round the traveller lies 
 Which he forbears again to look upon: 
 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene. 
 The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
 
 — If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 
 Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: 
 With Thought and Love companions of our way — 
 
 Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, — 
 The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 
 Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 
 
 W Wordsworth 
 
BOOK FOURTH 185 
 
 CCCXVIII 
 
 THE REALIM OF FANCY 
 
 Ever let the Fancy roam; 
 
 Pleasure never is at home: 
 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 
 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 
 
 Then let winged Fancy wander 
 
 Through the thought still spread beyond her: 
 
 Open wide the mind's cage-door, 
 
 She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
 
 O sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
 
 Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 
 
 And the enjoying of the Spring 
 
 Fades as does its blossoming; 
 
 Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 
 
 Blushing through the mist and dew, 
 
 Cloys with tasting: What do then? 
 
 Sit thee by the ingle, when 
 
 The sear faggot blazes bright, 
 
 Spirit of a winter's night; 
 
 When the soundless earth is muffled, 
 
 And the caked snow is shuffled 
 
 From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; 
 
 When the Night doth meet the Noon 
 
 In a dark conspiracy 
 
 To vanish Even from her sky. 
 
 Sit thee there, and send abroad, 
 
 With a mind self-overaw'd. 
 
 Fancy, high-commission'd: — send her! 
 
186 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 She has vassals to attend her: 
 
 She will bring, in spite of frost, 
 
 Beauties that the earth hath lost; 
 
 She will bring thee, all together, 
 
 All delights of summer weather; 
 
 All the buds and bells of May, 
 
 From dewy sward or thorny spray; 
 
 All the heaped Autumn's wealth, 
 
 With a still, mysterious stealth: 
 
 She will mix these pleasures up 
 
 Like three fit wines in a cup. 
 
 And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt hear 
 
 Distant harvest-carols clear; 
 
 Rustle of the reaped corn; 
 
 Sweet birds antheming the morn: 
 
 And, in the same moment — hark! 
 
 'Tis the early April lark, 
 
 Or the rooks, with busy caw, 
 
 Foraging for sticks and straw. 
 
 Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
 
 The daisy and the marigold; 
 
 White-plumed lilies, and the first 
 
 Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 
 
 Shaded hyacinth, alway 
 
 Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 
 
 And every leaf, and every flower 
 
 Pearled with the self-same shower. 
 
 Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
 
 Meagre from its celled sleep; 
 
 And the snake all winter-thin 
 
 Cast on sunny bank its skin; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 187 
 
 Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
 Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 
 When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
 Quiet on her mossy nest; 
 Then the hurry and alarm 
 When the bee-hive casts its swarm; 
 Acorns ripe down-pattering, 
 While the autumn breezes sing. 
 
 Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
 Everything is spoilt by use: 
 Where's the cheek that doth not fade, 
 Too much gazed at? Where's the maid 
 Whose lip mature is ever new? 
 Where's the eye, however blue. 
 Doth not weary? Where's the face 
 One would meet in every place? 
 Where's the voice, however soft. 
 One would hear so very oft? 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
 Let then winged Fancy find 
 Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
 Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter. 
 Ere the God of Torment taught her 
 How to frown and how to chide; 
 With a waist and with a side 
 White as Hebe's, when her zone 
 Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
 Fell her kirtle to her feet. 
 While she held the goblet sweet, 
 
188 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
 Of the Fancy's silken leash; 
 Quickly break her prison-string, 
 And such joys as these she'll bring. 
 — Let the winged Fancy roam, 
 Pleasure never is at home. 
 
 J. Keats 
 
 CCCXIX 
 
 WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 
 
 I HEARD a thousand blended notes 
 While in a grove I sate reclined, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What Man has made of Man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 
 The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths; 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure, — 
 But the least motion which they made 
 It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 189 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan 
 To catch the breezy air; 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 If this belief from heaven be sent, 
 If such be Nature's holy plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What Man has made of Man? 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCXX 
 
 RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF 
 NATURE 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate 
 Her father took another mate; 
 And Ruth, not seven years old, 
 A slighted child, at her ov/n will 
 Went wandering over dale and hill. 
 In thoughtless freedom, bold. 
 
 And she had made a pipe of straw, 
 And music from that pipe could draw 
 Like sounds of winds and floods; 
 Had built a bower upon the green. 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
 Beneath her father's roof, alone 
 
 She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own; 
 
190 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Herself her own delight: 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay; 
 And passing thus the live-long day, 
 She grew to woman's height. 
 
 There came a youth from Georgia's shore 
 
 A military casque he wore 
 
 With splendid feathers drest; 
 
 He brought them from the Cherokees; 
 
 The feathers nodded in the breeze 
 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 
 But no! he spake the English tongue 
 And bore a soldier's name; 
 And, when America was free 
 r>om battle and from jeopardy, 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 
 
 With hues of genius on his cheek, 
 
 In finest tones the youth could speak: 
 
 — While he was yet a boy 
 
 The moon, the glory of the sun. 
 
 And streams that murmur as they run 
 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely youth ! I guess 
 
 The panther in the wilderness 
 
 Was not so fair as he; 
 
 And when he chose to sport and play, 
 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 
 Upon the tropic sea. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 191 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought; 
 
 And with him many tales he brought 
 
 Of pleasure and of fear; 
 
 Such tales as, told to any maid 
 
 By such a youth, in the green shade, 
 
 Were perilous to hear. 
 
 He told of girls, a happy rout! 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 
 
 Their pleasant Indian town, 
 
 To gather strawberries all day long; 
 
 Returning with a choral song 
 
 When daylight is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants that hourly change 
 Their blossoms, through a boundless range 
 Of intermingling hues; 
 With budding, fading, faded flowers, 
 They stand the w^onder of the bowers 
 From morn to evening dews. 
 
 He told of the magnolia, spread 
 
 High as a cloud, high over head 
 
 The cypress and her spire; 
 
 — Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 
 To set the hills on fire. 
 
 The youth of green savannahs spake, 
 And many an endless, endless lake 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 
192 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 *How pleasant/ then he said, 'it were 
 
 A fisher or a hunter there, 
 
 In sunshine or in shade 
 
 To wander with an easy mind, 
 
 And build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade! 
 
 'What days and what bright years! Ah me! 
 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 
 So pass'd in quiet bliss; 
 
 And all the while,' said he, 'to know 
 
 That we were in a world of woe, 
 
 On such an earth as this!' 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 
 Fond thoughts about a father's love, 
 Tor there,' said he, 'are spun 
 Around the heart such tender ties. 
 That our ovm childnm to our eyes 
 Are dearer than the sun. 
 
 'Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me 
 
 My helpmate in the woods to be, 
 
 Our shed at night to rear; 
 
 Or run, my own adopted bride, 
 
 A sylvan huntress at my side, 
 
 And drive the flying deer' 
 
BOOK FOURTH 193 
 
 'Beloved Ruth!' — No more he said. 
 The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
 A solitary tear: 
 
 She thought again — and did agree 
 With him to sail across the sea, 
 And drive the flying deer. 
 
 *And now, as fitting is and right, 
 
 We in the church our faith will plight, 
 
 A husband and a wife.' 
 
 Even so they did; and I may say 
 
 That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
 
 Was more than human life. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink, 
 Delighted all the while to think 
 That, on those lonesome floods 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 His name in the wild woods. 
 
 But, as you have before been told, 
 This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
 And with his dancing crest 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
 The wind, the tempest roaring high, 
 The tumult of a tropic sky 
 Might well be dangerous food 
 
194 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 For him, a youth to whom was given 
 So much of earth — so much of heaven, 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Whatever in those cUmes he found 
 
 Irregular in sight or sound 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 A kindred impulse, seem'd allied 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
 The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, 
 Fair trees and gorgeous flowers; 
 The breezes their own languor lent; 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those favour'd bowers. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 Pure hopes of high intent: 
 For passions link'd to forms so fair 
 And stately, needs must have their share 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
 But ill he lived, much evil saw, 
 With men to whom no better law 
 Nor better life was known; 
 Deliberately and undeceived 
 Those wild men's vices he received, 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 195 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impair'd, and he became 
 The slave of low desires: 
 A man who without self-control 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 And yet he with no feign'd delight 
 Had woo'd the maiden, day and night 
 Had loved her, night and morn: 
 What could he less than love a maid 
 Whose heart with so much nature play'd — 
 So kind and so forlorn? 
 
 Sometimes most earnestly he said, 
 *0 Ruth! I have been worse than dead; 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain 
 Encompass'd me on every side 
 When I, in confidence and pride, 
 Had cross'd the Atlantic main. 
 
 'Before me shone a glorious world 
 Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd 
 To music suddenly: 
 I look'd upon those hills and plains. 
 And seem'd as if let loose from chains 
 To live at liberty! 
 
 'No more of this — for now, by thee, 
 Dear Ruth ! more happily set free, 
 With nobler zeal I burn; 
 
196 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 My soul from darkness is released 
 Like the whole sky when to the east 
 The morning doth return.' 
 
 Full soon that better mind was gone; 
 No hope, no wish remain'd, not one, — 
 They stirr'd him now no more; 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 And once again he wish'd to live 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
 They for the voyage were prepared, 
 And went to the sea-shore: 
 But, when they thither came, the youth 
 Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 God help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she had 
 
 That she in half a year was mad 
 
 And in a prison housed; 
 
 And there, with many a doleful song 
 
 Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 
 
 She fearfully caroused. 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew. 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
 Nor pastimes of the May, 
 — They all were with her in her cell; 
 And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 19] 
 
 When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 
 There came a respite to her pain; 
 She from her prison fled; 
 But of the Vagrant none took thought; 
 And where it liked her best she sought 
 Her shelter and her bread. 
 
 Among the fields she breathed again: 
 The master-current of her brain 
 Ran permanent and free; 
 And, coming to the banks of Tone, 
 There did she rest; and dwell alone 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 The engines of her pain, the tools 
 
 That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 
 
 And airs that gently stir 
 
 The vernal leaves — she loved them still, 
 
 Nor ever tax'd them with the ill 
 
 Which had been done to her. 
 
 A barn her Winter bed supplies; 
 
 But, till the warmth of Summer skies 
 
 And Summer days is gone, 
 
 (And all do in this tale agree) 
 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 
 
 And other home hath none. 
 
 An innocent Kfe, yet far astray! 
 And Ruth will, long before her day. 
 Be broken down and old. 
 
198 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Sore aches she needs must have! but less 
 Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 
 From damp, and rain, and cold. 
 
 If she is prest by want of food 
 
 She from her dweUing in the wood 
 
 Repairs to a road-side; 
 
 And there she begs at one steep place, 
 
 Where up and down with easy pace 
 
 The horsemen-travellers ride. 
 
 That oaten pipe of hers is mute 
 Or thrown away: but with a flute 
 Her loneliness she cheers; 
 This flute, made of a hemlock stalk. 
 At evening in his homeward walk 
 The Quantock woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have pass'd her on the hills 
 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 
 By spouts and fountains wild — 
 
 Such small machinery as she turn'd 
 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd, - 
 
 A young and happy child! 
 
 Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 
 
 Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould 
 
 Thy corpse shall buried be; 
 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
 
 And all the congregation sing 
 
 A Christian psalm for thee. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
BOOK FOURTH 199 
 
 CCCXXI 
 
 WRITTEN AMONG THE 
 EUGANEAN HILLS 
 
 Many a green isle needs must be 
 In the deep wide sea of Misery, 
 Or the mariner, worn and wan, 
 Never thus could voyage on 
 Day and night, and night and day, 
 Drifting on his dreary way. 
 With the solid darkness black 
 Closing round his vessel's track; 
 Whilst above, the sunless sky 
 Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 
 And behind the tempest fleet 
 Hurries on with lightning feet, 
 Riving sail, and cord, and plank, 
 Till the ship has almost drank 
 Death from the o'er-brimming deep; 
 And sinks down, down, like that sleep 
 When the dreamer seems to be 
 Weltering through eternity; 
 And the dim low line before 
 Of a dark and distant shore 
 Still recedes, as ever still 
 Longing with divided will. 
 But no power to seek or shun, 
 He is ever drifted on 
 O'er the unreposing wave, 
 To the haven of the grave. 
 
200 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Ah, many flowering islands lie 
 In the waters of wide Agony: 
 To such a one this morn was led 
 My bark, by soft winds piloted. 
 — 'Mid the mountains Euganean 
 I stood listening to the paean 
 With which the legion'd rooks did hail 
 The Sun's uprise majestical: 
 Gathering round with wings all hoar, 
 Through the dewy mist they soar 
 Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 
 Bursts; and then, — as clouds of even 
 Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie 
 In the unfathomable sky, — 
 So their plumes of purple grain 
 Starr'd with drops of golden rain 
 Gleam above the sunlight woods, 
 As in silent multitudes 
 On the morning's fitful gale 
 Through the broken mist they sail ; 
 And the vapours cloven and gleaming 
 Follow down the dark steep streaming, 
 Till all is bright, and clear, and still 
 Round the solitary hill. 
 
 Beneath is spread like a green sea 
 The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
 Bounded by the vaporous air. 
 Islanded by cities fair; 
 Underneath Day's azure eyes. 
 Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, — 
 
BOOK FOURTH 201 
 
 A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
 Amphitrite's destined halls, 
 Which her hoary sire now paves 
 With his blue and beaming waves. 
 Lo! the sun upsprings behind, 
 Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined 
 On the level quivering lino 
 Of the waters crystalline; 
 And before that chasm of light, 
 As within a furnace bright. 
 Column, tower, and dome, and spire, 
 Shine like obelisks of fire. 
 Pointing with inconstant motion 
 From the altar of dark ocean 
 To the sapphire-tinted skies; 
 As the flames of sacrifice 
 From the marble shrines did rise 
 As to pierce the dome of gold 
 Where Apollo spoke of old. 
 
 Sun-girt City! thou hast been 
 Ocean's child, and then his queen; 
 Now is come a darker day. 
 And thou soon must be his prey, 
 If the power that raised thee here 
 Hallow so thy watery bier. 
 A less drear ruin then than now. 
 With thy conquest-branded brow 
 Stooping to the slave of slaves 
 From thy throne among the waves 
 Wilt thou be, — when the sea-mew 
 
202 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Flies, as once before it flew, 
 O'er thine isles depopulate. 
 And all is in its ancient state. 
 Save where many a palace-gate 
 With green sea-flowers overgrown 
 Like a rock of ocean's own, 
 Topples o'er the abandon'd sea 
 As the tides change sullenly. 
 The fisher on his watery way 
 Wandering at the close of day, 
 Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
 Till he pass the gloomy shore, 
 Lest thy dead should, from their sleep, 
 Bursting o'er the starlight deep. 
 Lead a rapid masque of death 
 O'er the waters of his path. 
 
 Noon descends around me now: 
 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, 
 When a soft and purple mist 
 Like a vaporous amethyst. 
 Or an air-dissolved star 
 Mingling light and fragrance, far 
 From the curved horizon's bound 
 To the point of heaven's profound, 
 Fills the overflowing sky; 
 And the plains that silent lie 
 Underneath; the leaves unsodden 
 Where the infant Frost has trodden 
 With his morning-winged feet 
 Whose bright print is gleaming yet; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 203 
 
 And the red and golden vines 
 
 Piercing with their treUised lines 
 
 The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; 
 
 The dun and bladed grass no less, 
 
 Pointing from this hoary tower 
 
 In the windless air; the flower 
 
 Glimmering at my feet; the line 
 
 Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine 
 
 In the south dimly islanded; 
 
 And the Alps, whose snows are spread 
 
 High between the clouds and sun; 
 
 And of living things each one; 
 
 And my spirit, which so long 
 
 Darken'd this swift stream of song, — 
 
 Interpenetrated lie 
 
 By the glory of the sky; 
 
 Be it love, light, harmony, 
 
 Odour, or the soul of all 
 
 Which from heaven like dew doth fall, 
 
 Or the mind which feeds this verse. 
 
 Peopling the lone universe. 
 
 Noon descends, and after noon 
 Autumn's evening meets me soon, 
 Leading the infantine moon 
 And that one star, which to her 
 Almost seems to minister 
 Half the crimson light she brings 
 From the sunset's radiant springs: 
 And the soft dreams of the morn 
 (Which Uke winged winds had borne 
 
204 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 To that silent isle, which lies 
 'Mid remember'd agonies, 
 The frail bark of this lone being), 
 Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, 
 And its ancient pilot, Pain, 
 Sits beside the helm again. 
 
 Other flowering isles must be 
 In the sea of Life and Agony: 
 Other spirits float and flee 
 O'er that gulf: Ev'n now, perhaps, 
 On some rock the wild wave wraps. 
 With folded wings they waiting sit 
 For my bark, to pilot it 
 To some calm and blooming cove; 
 Where for me, and those I love. 
 May a windless bower be built, 
 Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 
 In a dell 'mid lawny hills 
 Which the wild sea-murmur fills, 
 And soft sunshine, and the sound 
 Of old forests echoing round. 
 And the light and smell divine 
 Of all flowers that breathe and shine, 
 — We may live so happy there. 
 That the Spirits of the Air 
 Envying us, may ev'n entice 
 To our healing paradise 
 The polluting multitude : 
 But their rage would be subdued 
 By that chme divine and calm, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 205 
 
 And the winds whose wings rain balm 
 
 On the upHfted soul, and leaves 
 
 Under which the bright sea heaves; 
 
 While each breathless interval 
 
 In their w^hisperings musical 
 
 The inspired soul supplies 
 
 With its o\^TL deep melodies; 
 
 And the Love which heals all strife 
 
 Circling, like the breath of life, 
 
 All things in that sweet abode 
 
 With its own mild brotherhood : — 
 
 They, not it, would change; and soon 
 
 Every sprite beneath the moon 
 
 Would repent its envy vain. 
 
 And the Earth grow young again. 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
 CCCXXII 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND 
 
 O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
 
 Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
 
 Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
 
 Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
 
 Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! O thou 
 
 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
 
 The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
 
 Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
 
 Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 
 
 Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
 
 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
 
206 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 With living hues and odours plain and hill: 
 Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
 Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear! 
 
 Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's com- 
 motion, 
 Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, 
 Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, 
 Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread 
 On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
 Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 
 Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge 
 Of the horizon to the zenith's height — 
 The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 
 Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
 Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
 Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
 Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 
 Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear! 
 
 Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams 
 The blue Mediterranean, where he la}^ 
 LuU'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, 
 Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay. 
 And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
 Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 
 All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 
 So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 
 For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
 Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
 The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
 
BOOK FOURTH 207 
 
 The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 
 
 Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear 
 
 And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear! 
 
 If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
 If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
 A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 
 The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
 Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even 
 I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
 The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
 As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 
 Scarce seem'd a vision, — I would ne'er have striven 
 As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
 Oh ! Hft me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
 I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 
 A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 
 One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. 
 
 Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: 
 What if my leaves are falling like its own! 
 The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
 Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 
 Sweet though in sadness. Be thou. Spirit fierce, 
 My spirit ! be thou me, impetuous one ! 
 Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 
 Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
 And, by the incantation of this verse. 
 Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
 Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
 Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth 
 
208 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, 
 
 If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
 CCCXXIII 
 NATURE AND THE POET 
 
 Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storrriy 
 
 painted by Sir George Beaumont 
 
 I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! 
 Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: 
 I saw thee every day; and all the while 
 Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 
 
 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! 
 So like, so very like, was day to day! 
 Whene'er I look'd thy image still was there; 
 It trembled, but it never pass'd away. 
 
 How perfect was the calm ! It seem'd no sleep, 
 No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 
 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 
 
 Ah! then — if mine had been the painter's hand 
 To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, 
 The light that never was on sea or land. 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream, — 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, 
 Amid a world how different from this! 
 
BOOK FOURTH 209 
 
 Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bhss. 
 
 Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divine 
 Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven; — 
 Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
 The very sweetest had to thee been given. 
 
 A picture had it been of lasting ease, 
 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; 
 No motion but the moving tide; a breeze; 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 
 
 Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 
 
 Such picture would I at that time have made; 
 
 And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
 
 A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more; 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 A power is gone, which nothing can restore; 
 A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 A smiling sea, and be what I have been: 
 The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; 
 This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the 
 
 friend 
 If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 
 
210 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 This work of thine I blame not, but commend; 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 'tis a passionate work ! — yet wise and well, 
 Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 
 
 That hulk which labours in the deadly swell, 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! 
 
 And this huge Castle, standing here subhme, 
 
 1 love to see the look with which it braves, 
 
 — Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time — 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves 
 
 — Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
 Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, 
 And frequent sights of what is to be borne! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here : — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCXXIV 
 
 THE POET'S DREAM 
 
 On a Poet's lips I slept 
 Dreaming like a love-adept 
 In the sound his breathing kept; 
 Nor seeks nor finds he mortal bUsses, 
 But feeds on the aerial kisses 
 
BOOK FOURTH 211 
 
 Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. 
 He will watch from dawn to gloom 
 The lake-reflected sun illume 
 The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, 
 
 Nor heed nor see what things they be — 
 But from these create he can 
 Forms more real than hving Man, 
 
 Nurslings of Immortality! 
 
 P. B, Shelley 
 
 cccxxv 
 
 GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN 
 
 In this still place, remote from men, 
 
 Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen; 
 
 In this still place, where murmurs on 
 
 But one meek streamlet, only one: 
 
 He sang of battles, and the breath 
 
 Of stormy war, and violent death ; 
 
 And should, methinks, when all was past, 
 
 Have rightfully been laid at last 
 
 Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent 
 
 As by a spirit turbulent; 
 
 Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 
 
 And everything unreconciled; 
 
 In some complaining, dim retreat, 
 
 For fear and melancholy meet; 
 
 But this is calm; there cannot be 
 
 A more entire tranquillity. 
 
212 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? 
 Or is it but a groundless creed? 
 What matters it? — I blame them not 
 Whose fancy in this lonely spot 
 Was moved; and in such way expressed 
 Their notion of its perfect rest. 
 A convent, even a hermit's cell, 
 Would break the silence of this Dell; 
 It is not quiet, is not ease; 
 But something deeper far than these: 
 The separation that is here 
 Is of the grave; and of austere 
 Yet happy feelings of the dead : 
 And, therefore, was it rightly said 
 That Ossian, last of all his race! 
 Lies buried in this lonely place. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCXXVI 
 
 The World is too much with us; late and soon, 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! 
 
 This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours 
 And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, 
 For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 213 
 
 It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, — 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 cccxxvn 
 
 WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL 
 CAMBRIDGE 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
 With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd 
 (Albeit labouring for a scanty band 
 Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense 
 
 And glorious work of fine intelligence! 
 
 — Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore 
 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more : — 
 
 So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense 
 
 These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
 Self-poised, and scoop 'd into ten thousand cells 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
 
 Lingering — and wandering on as loth to die ; 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
 That they were born for immortahty. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
214 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCCXXVIII 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 
 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 
 
 Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
 What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 
 
 What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
 What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 
 Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd. 
 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
 Though wimiing near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 
 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bhss, 
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 
 
 Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
 
 And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
 For ever piping songs for ever new; 
 
 More happy love! more happy, happy love! 
 For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 215 
 
 For ever panting, and for ever young; 
 All breathing human passion far above, 
 
 That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 
 
 Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 
 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 
 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
 What little town by river or sea shore. 
 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
 Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 
 And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
 
 Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 
 
 O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 
 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 
 With forest branches and the trodden weed; 
 
 Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
 As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 
 
 When old age shall this generation waste, 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
 Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' — that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 
 
 J. Keats 
 
216 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCCXXIX 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE 
 
 Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
 Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — • 
 Both were mine! Life went a-maying 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 When I was young! 
 When I was young? — Ah, woful when! 
 Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! 
 This breathing house not built with hands, 
 This body that does me grievous wrong, 
 O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands 
 How Hghtly then it flash'd along: 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
 Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
 When Youth and I lived in't together. 
 
 Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree; 
 O! the joys, that came down shower-like, 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 
 Ere I was old! 
 Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, 
 Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! 
 O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 
 'Tis known that Thou and I were one, 
 I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
 
BOOK FOURTH 217 
 
 It cannot be, that Thou art gone! 
 Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : — 
 And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
 What strange disguise hast now put on 
 To make believe that Thou art gone? 
 I see these locks in silvery slips, 
 This drooping gait, this alter'd size : 
 But Springtide blossoms on thy Hps, 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! 
 Life is but Thought: so think I will 
 That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
 
 Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
 But the tears of mournful eve! 
 Where no hope is, life's a warning 
 That only serves to make us grieve 
 
 When we are old : 
 ■ — That only serves to make us grieve 
 With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest 
 That may not rudely be dismist, 
 Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while, 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 S. T. Coleridge 
 
 cccxxx 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 
 
 We walk'd along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun; 
 
218 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said 
 'The will of God be done!' 
 
 A village schoolmaster was he, 
 With hair of glittering gray; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass 
 And by the steaming rills 
 We traveird merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 'Our work,' said I, ' was well begun; 
 Then, from thy breast what thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun. 
 So sad a sigh has brought? ' 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
 To me he made reply: 
 
 ' Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this, which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 'And just above yon slope of corn 
 Such colours, and no other, 
 Were in the sky that April morn, 
 Of this the very brother. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 219 
 
 'With rod and line I sued the sport 
 Which that sweet season gave, 
 And to the church-yard come, stopp'd short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 'Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 The pride of all the vale; 
 And then she sang, — she would have been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 * Six feet in earth my Emma lay; 
 And yet I loved her more — 
 For so it seem'd, — than till that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 
 
 'And turning from her grave, I met, 
 Beside the churchyard yew, 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 'A basket on her head she bare; 
 Her brow was smooth and white: 
 To see a child so very fair, 
 It was a pure delight! 
 
 ' No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripp'd with foot so free; 
 She seem'd as happy as a wave 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
 'There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confine; 
 
220 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 I look'd at her, and look'd again: 
 And did not wish her mine ! ' 
 
 — Matthew is in his grave, yet now 
 Methinks I see him stand 
 As at that moment, with a bough 
 Of wilding in his hand. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCXXXI 
 THE FOUNTAIN 
 
 A Conversation 
 We talk'd with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true, 
 A pair of friends, though I was yomig, 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak, 
 Beside a mossy seat; 
 And from the turf a fountain broke 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 'Now, Matthew!' said I, Met us match 
 This water's pleasant tune 
 With some old border-song, or catch 
 That suits a summer's noon; 
 
 'Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
 Sing here beneath the shade 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made!' 
 
BOOK FOURTH 221 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree; 
 And thus the dear old man replied, 
 The gray-hair'd man of glee : 
 
 ' No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears. 
 How merrily it goes! 
 'Twill murmur on a thousand years 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 *And here, on this delightful day, 
 I cannot choose but think 
 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
 Beside this fountain's brink. 
 
 'My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
 ]\Iy heart is idly stirr'd, 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 Which in those days I heard. 
 
 ' Thus fares it still in our decay : 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what Age takes away. 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 'The blackbird amid leafy trees, 
 The lark above the hill. 
 Let loose their carols when they please, 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
 'With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife; they see 
 
222 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 A happy 3'outh, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free: 
 
 *But we are press' d by heavy laws; 
 And often, glad no more, 
 We wear a face of joy because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 'If there be one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth, 
 The household hearts that were his own, 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
 *My days, my friend, are almost gone, 
 My life has been approved, 
 And many love me; but by none 
 Am I enough beloved.' 
 
 'Now both himself and me he wrongs. 
 The man who thus complains! 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains: 
 
 'And Matthew, for thy children dead 
 I'll be a son to thee!' 
 At this he grasp'd my hand and said, 
 'Alas! that cannot be.' 
 
 — We rose up from the fountain-side; 
 And down the smooth descent 
 Of the green sheep-track did we glide; 
 And through the wood we went; 
 
BOOK FOURTH 223 
 
 And ere we came to Leonard's rock 
 He sang those witty rhymes 
 About the crazy old church-clock, 
 And the bewilder'd chimes. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCXXXII 
 THE RIVER OF LIFE 
 
 The more we live, more brief appear 
 
 Our life's succeeding stages: 
 A day to childhood seems a year, 
 
 And years like passing ages. 
 
 The gladsome current of our youth, 
 
 Ere passion yet disorders, 
 Steals lingering like a river smooth 
 
 Along its grassy borders. 
 
 But as the care-worn cheek grows wan, 
 
 And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, 
 Ye Stars, that measure life to man, 
 
 Why seem your courses quicker? 
 
 When joys have lost their bloom and breath 
 
 And life itself is vapid. 
 Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, 
 
 Feel we its tide more rapid? 
 
 It may be strange — yet who would change 
 Time's course to slower speeding, 
 
224 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 When one by one our friends have gone 
 And left our bosoms bleeding? 
 
 Heaven gives our years of fading strength 
 
 Indemnifying fleetness; 
 And those of youth, a seeming length, 
 
 Proportion'd to their sweetness. 
 
 T. Campbell 
 
 CCCXXXIII 
 
 THE HUMAN SEASONS 
 
 Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; 
 There are four seasons in the mind of man: 
 He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 
 Takes in all beauty with an easy span: 
 
 He has his Summer, when luxuriously 
 
 Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves 
 
 To rmninate, and by such dreaming high 
 
 Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 
 
 His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 
 He furleth close; contented so to look 
 On mists in idleness — to let fair things 
 Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
 
 He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
 Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 
 
 J. Keats 
 
BOOK FOURTH 225 
 
 CCCXXXIV 
 A DIRGE 
 
 Rough wind, that moanest loud 
 
 Grief too sad for song; 
 Wild wind, when sullen cloud 
 
 Knells all the night long; 
 Sad storm whose tears are vain, 
 Bare woods whose branches stain, 
 Deep caves and dreary main, — 
 
 Wail for the world's wrong! 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
 cccxxxv 
 
 THRENOS 
 
 World! Life! O Time! 
 On whose last steps I climb. 
 
 Trembling at that where I had stood before; 
 When will return the glory of your prime? 
 No more — Oh, never more! 
 
 Out of the day and night 
 A joy has taken flight: 
 
 Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
 Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 
 No more — Oh, never more ! 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
226 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 CCCXXXVI 
 
 THE TROSACHS 
 
 There's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 
 But were an apt confessional for One 
 Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, 
 That Life is but a tale of morning grass 
 
 Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase 
 That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 
 Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities. 
 Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 
 
 Untouch'd, unbreathed upon: — Thrice happy quest, 
 If from a golden perch of aspen spray 
 (October's workmanship to rival May), 
 
 The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
 That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, 
 Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest ! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCXXXVII 
 
 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 grow old 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The Child is father of the Man: 
 
BOOK FOURTH 227 
 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCXXXVIII 
 
 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 
 
 FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY 
 
 CHILDHOOD 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight 
 To me did seem 
 Appareird in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day. 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes, 
 
 And lovely is the rose; 
 
 The moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare; 
 
 Waters on a starry night 
 
 Are beautiful and fair; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 
 
 .Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
 .4nd while the young lambs bound 
 
228 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong. 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; — 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: 
 I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay; 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity, 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
 Thou child of joy 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 Shepherd-boy ! 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
 My heart is at ycur festival. 
 My head hath its coronal. 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 Oh evil day! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is adorning 
 This sweet May-morning; 
 And the children are culling 
 
 On every side 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
 Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm 
 And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — 
 
BOOK FOURTH 229 
 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
 — But there's a tree, of many, one, 
 A single field which I have look'd upon. 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone: 
 The pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat: 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting 
 
 And cometh from afar; 
 Not in entire forge tfulness, 
 And not in utter nakedness. 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home: 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy; 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
 Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
 And by the vision splenoid 
 Is on his way attended; 
 At length the Man perceives it di3 away. 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 
230 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 And, even with something of a mother's mind 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 The homely nurse doth all she can 
 To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
 A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral; 
 
 And this hath now his heart. 
 
 And unto this he frames his song: 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside. 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little actor cons another part; 
 Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage* 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That life brings with her in her equipage; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 231 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy soul's immensity; 
 Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
 Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
 Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by; 
 Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
 Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight. 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as Hfe! 
 
 O joy! that in our embers 
 
 Is something that doth live, 
 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 
 What was so fugitive ! ' 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction: not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest, 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 
232 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: 
 — Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Falhngs from us, vanishings; 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized, 
 High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized: 
 But for those first affections. 
 Those shadowy recollections. 
 
 Which, be they what they may. 
 Are yet the fountain-light of all our day. 
 Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 
 
 To perish never; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 
 
 Nor man nor boy 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy! 
 
 Hence, in a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither; 
 Can in a moment travel thither — 
 And see the children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
BOOK FOURTH 233 
 
 Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound! 
 We, in thought, will join your throng 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May! 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 Be now for ever taken from my sight. 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind; 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 
 Which having been must ever be; 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suffering; 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
 
 Forbode not any severing of our loves! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway: 
 
 I love the brooks which down their channels fret 
 
 Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
 
 Is lovely yet; 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Po take a sober colouring from an eye 
 
234 THE GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortaHty; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we Uve, 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCCXXXIX 
 
 Music, when soft voices die, 
 Vibrates in the memory — 
 Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
 Live within the sense they quicken. 
 
 Rose leaves, when the rose is dead. 
 
 Are heap'd for the beloved's bed; 
 
 And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone, 
 
 Love itself shall slumber on. 
 
 P. B. Shelley 
 
NOTES 
 
 26. Eis TOP XeLfiQva Kadlaas, etc. "Sitting down in the mea- 
 dow, he plucked spoils of flowers, one after another, winning them 
 with dehghted soul." Quoted by Plutarch in his Moralia from 
 a lost play of Euripides, Hypsipyle. 
 
 Summary of Book Fourth 
 
 It proves sufficiently the la\'ish wealth of our own age in 
 Poetry, that the pieces which, without conscious departure from 
 the Standard of Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, 
 were with very few exceptions composed during the first thirty 
 years of the nineteenth century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly 
 be given for the strangely sudden appearance of individual 
 genius: that, however, which assigns the splendid national 
 achievements of our recent poetry to an impulse from the France 
 of the first Repubhc and Empire is inadequate. The first 
 French Revolution was rather one result, — the most conspicu- 
 ous, indeed, yet itself in great measure essentially retrogressive, 
 
 — of that wider and more potent spirit which through inquiry 
 and attempt, through strength and weakness, sweeps mankind 
 roimd the circles (not, as some too confidently argue, of Advance, 
 but) of gradual Transformation: and it is to this that we must 
 trace the Hterature of Modern Europe. But, without attempt- 
 ing discussion on the motive causes of Scott, Wordsworth, 
 Shelley, and others, we may observe that these poets carried 
 to further perfection the later tendencies of the century pre- 
 ceding, in simphcity of narrative, reverence for human passion 
 and character in every sphere, and love of Nature for herself: 
 
 — that, whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art 
 made since the Restoration, they renewed the half -forgotten 
 melody and depth of tone which marked the best Elizabethan 
 writers: — that, lastly, to what was thus inherited they added 
 a richness in language and a variety in meter, a force and fire 
 in narrative, a tenderness and bloom in feeling, an insight into 
 the finer passages of the Soul and the inner meanings of the 
 landscape, a larger sense of Humanity, — hitherto scarcely at- 
 tained, and perhaps unattainable even by predecessors of not 
 inferior individual genius. In a word, the Nation which, after 
 
236 NOTEB 
 
 the Greeks in their glory, may fairly claim that during six cen- 
 turies it has proved itself the most richly gifted of all nations 
 for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength and 
 prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to itself — 
 hence the many phases of thought and style they present : — to 
 sympathize with each, fervently and impartially, without fear 
 and without fancifulness, is no doubtful step in the higher educa- 
 tion of the soul. For purity in taste is absolutely proportionate 
 to strength — and when once the mind has raised itself to grasp 
 and to dehght in excellence, those who love most will be found 
 to love most wisely. 
 
 But the gallery which this Book offers to the reader will aid 
 him more than any preface. It is a royal Palace of Poetry 
 which he is invited to enter: 
 
 Adparet domus intus, et atria longa patescunt — 
 
 though it is, indeed, to the sympathetic eye only that its treas- 
 ures will be visible. [P.] 
 
 33, ccviii. This beautiful lyric, printed in 1783, seems to 
 anticipate in its imaginative music that return to our great 
 early age of song, which in Blake's own lifetime was to prove, 
 — how gloriously ! that the Enghsh muses had resumed their 
 "ancient melody": — Keats, Shelley, BjTon, — he overHved 
 them all. [P.] 
 
 34, ccix, 1. 8. Parle. Speech. 
 
 35, ccx. Chapman's Homer. Chapman was a poet and 
 dramatist of the time of Shakespeare. His translation of Homer, 
 while very splendid in poetic form and imagery, is less in the 
 spirit of the original than of Ehzabethan verse. 
 
 36, Stout Cortez. History would here suggest Balboa: 
 (A.T.). It may be noticed, that to find in Chapman's Homer 
 the "pure serene" of the original, the reader must bring with 
 him the imagination of the youthful poet; — he must be "a 
 Greek himself," as Shelley finely said of Keats. [P.] 
 
 40, ccxii. The most tender and true of Byron's smaller 
 poems. [P.] 
 
 41, ccxiii. This poem exemplifies the pecuhar skill with 
 which Scott employs proper names: — a rarely misleading sign 
 of true poetical genius. [P.] 
 
 44, ccxv. In some editions called "Lines to an Indian Air." 
 54, ccxxvi. Simple as "Lucy Gray" seems, a mere narra-' 
 tive of what "has been, and may be again," yet every touch 
 in the child's picture is marked by the deepest and purest ideal 
 character. Hence, pathetic as the situation is, this is not strictly 
 a pathetic poem, such as Wordsworth gives us in ccxxi, Lamb 
 in ccLXiv, and Scott in his '^laid of Neidpath," — "almost 
 
NOTES 237 
 
 more pathetic," as Tennyson once remarked, "than a man has 
 the right to be." And Lyte's lovely stanzas (ccxxiv) suggest, 
 perhaps, the same remark. [P.] 
 
 55. Moor. A tract of uninclosed, waste ground, overgrown 
 with heather. — Minster-clock. Church clock. — Faggot-band. 
 String or strip of bark used for tying up twigs into bundles. 
 
 56, Furlong. Eighth of a mile. 
 
 61, ccxxxi, 1. 3. Pensile. Hanging in space. 
 
 66, ccxxxv. In this and in other instances the addition (or 
 the change) of a title has been risked, in hope that the aim of 
 the piece following may be grasped more clearly and imme- 
 diately. [P.] 
 
 68, ccxxxvii. La Belle Dame Sans Merci. The lovely lady 
 wrthout mercy. Keats has taken an ancient tradition of en- 
 chantment and made it live again for modern ears. 
 
 69. Zone. Belt. 
 
 74, ccxLii. This beautiful sonnet was the last word of a 
 youth, in whom, if the fulfilment may ever safely be prophesied 
 from the promise, England lost one of the most rarely gifted in 
 the long roll of her poets. Shakespeare and Milton, had their 
 lives been closed at twenty-five, would (so far as we know) 
 have left poems of less excellence and hope than the youth who, 
 from the petty school and the London surgery, passed at once 
 to a place with them of "high collateral glory." [P-l 
 
 Eremite. Hermit. 
 
 75, ccxLiii. Charact'ry. Letters. 
 
 76, ccxLiv. Desideria. Lost and longed for. 
 
 ccxLv. It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written 
 so Uttle in this sweet and genuinely national style. [P.] 
 
 77, ccxLvi. A masterly example of Byron's command of 
 strong thought and close reasoning in verse : — as the next is 
 equally characteristic of Shelley's wayward intensity. [P.] 
 
 80, ccxLVii. Written to Jane WiUiams, for whom the poet 
 had in his later years a romantic attachment. 
 
 ccxLViii. From The Lady of the Lake. — Pibroch. A kind 
 of bagpipe music, variations on a particular kind of theme, 
 generally martial. — Donuil Dhu. Donald the Black. 
 
 89, ccLiii. Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the 
 Duke of Savoy in Chillon on the lake of Geneva for his coura- 
 geous defense of his country against the tyranny with which 
 Piedmont threatened it during the first half of the seventeenth 
 century. — This noble sonnet is worthy to stand near Milton's 
 on the Vaudois massacre. [P.] 
 
 90, ccLiv. Switzerland was usurped by the French under 
 Napoleon in 1800: Venice in 1797 (cclv). [P.] 
 
 91, CCLV. Espouse the everlasting Sea, Referring to the 
 
238 NOTES 
 
 annual ceremony, in ancient times, when the Doge flung a ring 
 into the sea, to symbohze the wedding of the city to the ocean. 
 ccLVi. 1802. The year of the Peace of Amiens, by which 
 England, made peace with Napoleon, surrendering all her recent 
 conquests. Wordsworth felt that England was disgraced by a 
 humihating peace, endured only because of a fear of high taxes. 
 
 93, ccLix. This battle was fought, December 2, 1800, be- 
 tween the Austrians under Archduke John and the French 
 under Moreau, in a forest near Munich. Hohen Linden means 
 High Limetrees. [P.] 
 
 94, Furious Frank and fiery Hun. The French and the 
 Austro-Hungarians. 
 
 95, CCLX. Blenheim. Victory of the Alhes, 1704, under 
 Prince Eugene of Savoy and the English Duke of Marlborough, 
 in the war of the Spanish Succession, the object of which was 
 to prevent either France or Austria from gaining so much power 
 as to threaten other countries of Europe. 
 
 97, ccLXi. 
 
 Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Horace, Odes, III, 2. 
 Sweet and fitting it is, to die for one's country. 
 
 98, ccLXii. After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir 
 J. Moore retreated before Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was 
 killed whilst covering the embarkation of his troops. [P.] 
 
 113, ccLXXii. The Mermaid was the clubhouse of Shake- 
 speare, Ben Jonson, and other choice spirits of that age. [P.l 
 
 114, ccLXxiii. Maisie. Mary. — Scott has given us nothing 
 more complete and lovely than this little song, which unites 
 simplicity and dramatic power to a wildwood music of the 
 rarest quality. No moral is drawn, far less any conscious anal- 
 ysis of feehng attempted : — the pathetic meaning is left to be 
 suggested by the mere presentment of the situation. A narrow 
 criticism has often named this, which may be called the Homeric 
 manner, superficial, from its apparent simple facility; but first- 
 rate excellence in it is in truth one of the least common tiiumphs 
 of poetry. This style should be compared with what is not 
 less perfect in its way, the searching out of inner feehng, the 
 expression of hidden meanings, the revelation of the heart of 
 natm-e and of the soul within the soul, — the analytical method, 
 in short, — most completely represented by Wordsworth and 
 by Shelley. [P.] 
 
 121, ccLXxvii. Wolfe resembled Keats, not only in his early 
 death by consumption, and the fluent freshness of his poetical 
 style, but in beauty of character: — brave, tender, energetic, 
 unselfish, modest. Is it fanciful to find some reflex of these 
 quahties in the "Burial" and "Mary"? Out of the abundance 
 of the heart . . . [P.J 
 
NOTES 239 
 
 122, ccLXXViii. From The Lady of the Lake. 
 
 123, Corrie. Covert on a hillside. — Cumber. Trouble. [P.] 
 
 124, CCLXXX. This book has not a few poems of greater 
 power and more perfect execution than "Agnes," and the extract 
 which we have ventured to make from the deep-hearted author's 
 "Sad Thoughts" (ccxxiv). But none are more emphatically- 
 marked by the note of exquisiteness. [P.] 
 
 125, ccLXXXi. From The Lay of the Last Minstrel, V. Roslin, 
 with its chapel and castle, he about seven miles south of Edin- 
 burgh. The curiously ornate chapel, built in 1446, by Wilham 
 St. Clair, Lord of RosUn, contains the familj^ vault of the Roshn 
 family, where the barons were formerly buried in full armor, 
 without coffins. According to the old tradition, the chapel 
 appeared on fire before the death of any St. Clair. — Firth. An 
 arm of the sea. 
 
 Inch. Island. [P.] 
 
 128, ccLxxxii, 1. 14. Promethean fire. A reminiscence of 
 Shakespeare's 
 
 I know not where is that Promethean heat 
 That can thy light relume. Othello, V, ii, 12. 
 
 where the reference is to a divine spark that could bring Hfe 
 back to Desdemona. The whole poem is full of EHzabethan 
 turns of phrase. 
 
 129, 1. 1. Clerks. Scholars. 
 
 130, ccLXXxiii. From Poetry for Children (1809), by Charles 
 and Mary Lamb. This tender and original little piece seems 
 clearly to reveal the work of that noble-minded and afflicted 
 sister, who was at once the happiness, the misery, and the Ufe- 
 long blessing of her equally noble-minded brother. [P.j 
 
 136, ccLxxxvii, 1. 16. Narrows. The waning moon appears 
 in the sky at sunrise as a crescent, narrower each day. 
 
 141, ccLXXXix. This poem has an exultation and a glory, 
 joined with an exquisiteness of expression, which place it in 
 the highest rank among the many masterpieces of its illustrious 
 author. [P.] 
 
 The cuckoo is not the bird known by that name in Amepca, 
 to which this description would hardly applj\ 
 
 143, ccxc, 1. 4. Lethe-wards. Towards Lethe, the river of 
 obhvion. 
 
 144, 1. 6. Pards. Leopards, which draw the chariot of Bac- 
 chus. — 1. 7. Viewless. Invisible. 
 
 145, 1. 13. Ruth. See the Bible, the book of Ruth, II. 
 
 146, ccxci. Westminster Bridge. Over the Thames, in the 
 heart of London, connecting the cit}' proper with Westminster, 
 where the Houses of Parhament and the Abbey are situated. 
 
240 NOTES 
 
 148, ccxciv. Taxes. Accuses. 
 
 154, ccxcix. Wood Street, Lothbury, Cheapside. In the 
 
 busiest part of London. 
 
 155, ccc. Ariel. The sprite in Shakespeare's The Tempest. 
 
 — Miranda. Daughter of Prospero, whom Ariel served. 
 
 156, 1. 15. Interlunar swoon. Interval of the moon's invis- 
 ibihty. [P.] 
 
 157, 1. 3. This idol. The guitar. 
 
 160, cccii, 1. 15. Crown of rubies. The petals of the English 
 daisy are tipped with pink. 
 
 163, ccciv, 1. 9. Calpe. Gibraltar. — 1. 19. Lofoden. The 
 Maelstrom whirlpool off the N.W. coast of Norway. [P.] 
 
 164, 1. 22. Tented shores. It was the year of the Austrian 
 attempt to drive the French from Germany; Hohenhnden was 
 fought this same month. 
 
 165, cccv. This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad 
 by Hamilton on the subject better treated in clxiii and clxiv. 
 [P.] See The Golden Treasury, Book Third. 
 
 For an account of Wordsworth's walking trip with his sister 
 Dorothy and Coleridge, see J. C. Shairp's Aspects of Poetry, 
 the chapter entitled "The Three Yarrows." Note Words- 
 worth's playful imitations of the Scotch dialect of the earlier 
 Yarrow poems. 
 
 177, cccxi. Datur Hora Quieti. An hour of quiet is given. 
 Virgil, ^neid, V, 844. 
 
 181, cccxv, 1. 8. Arcturi. Seemingly used for northern stars. 
 
 — 1. IS. And wild roses, etc. Our language has perhaps no 
 line modulated with more subtle sweetness. [P.] 
 
 182, cccxvi. Coleridge describes this poem as the fragment 
 of a dream-vision, — perhaps, an opium dream? — which com- 
 posed itself in his mind when fallen asleep after reading a few 
 lines about "the Khan Kubla" in Purchas' Pilgrimage. [P.] 
 
 185, cccxviii, 1. 16. Ingle. Heath-fire. 
 
 187, 1. 23. Ceres' daughter. Proserpine. — 1. 24. God of 
 Torment. Pluto. [P.] 
 
 1. 27. Hebe. The cupbearer to the gods. 
 
 cccxxi. The leading idea of this beautiful description of a 
 day's landscape in Italy appears to be: — on the voyage of life 
 are many moments of pleasure, given by the sight of nature, who 
 has power to heal even the worldliness and the un charity of 
 man. [P.] 
 
 199, 1. 2. Amphitrite. Daughter to Ocean. [P.] 
 
 204, cccxxii, 1. 11. Maenad. A frenzied nymph, attendant 
 on Dionysos in the Greek mythology. May we not call this 
 the most vivid, sustained, and impassioned amongst all Shel- 
 ley's magical personifications of nature? [P.] 
 
NOTES 241 
 
 205, 1. 1. Plants under water sympathize with the seasons 
 of the land, and hence with the winds which affect them. [P.] 
 
 206, cccxxiii. Written soon after the death, by ship^vreck, 
 of Wordsworth's brother John. This poem may be profitably 
 compared with Shelley's following it. Each is the most com- 
 plete expression of the innermost spirit of his art given by these 
 great poets: — of that idea which, as in the case of the true 
 painter (to quote the words of Reynolds), "subsists only in the 
 mind: the sight never beheld it, nor has the hand expressed it: 
 it is an idea residing in the breast of the artist, which he is always 
 laboring to impart, and which he dies at last without impart- 
 ing." [P.] 
 
 208, 1. 12. The Kind. The human race. [P.] 
 
 209, cccxxv. Ossian. Supposed to be an ancient Celtic 
 bard; poems purporting to be by him were greatly admired in 
 the early nineteenth century. 
 
 211, cccxxvii. The royal Saint. Henry VI. [P.] 
 
 The chapel is one of the most splendid examples of the highly 
 ornate cone-vaulted style that succeeded pure Gothic archi- 
 tecture in England. 
 
 213, cccxxviii, 1. 11. This folk. Its has been here plausibly, 
 but perhaps unnecessarily, conjectured. [P.] 
 
 Every one knows the general story of the Italian Renaissance, 
 of the Revival of Letters. — From Petrarch's day to our own, 
 that ancient world has renewed its youth: poets and artists, 
 students and thinkers, have yielded themselves wholly to its 
 fascination, and deeply penetrated its spirit. Yet perhaps no 
 one more truly has vivified, whilst idealizing, the picture of 
 Greek country life in the fancied Golden Age, than Keats in 
 these lovely (if somewhat unequally executed) stanzas: — his 
 quick imagination, by a kind of "natural magic," more than 
 supplying the scholarship which his youth had no opportunity 
 of gaining. [P.] 
 
 223, cccxxxv. Threnos. A lament or dirge. 
 
 224, cccxxxvi. The Trosachs. A rocky, steep pass in the 
 lake region of Scotland. 
 
 226, cccxxxviii, 1. 1. Tabor. A small drum, used as accom- 
 paniment to the pipe or trumpet. 
 
TOPICS FOR STUDY 
 
 1. Turn over the pages of the book and pick out poems you 
 ah-eady know and like. Be prepared to read one (of not over 
 twenty lines) to the class well enough to win their interest. 
 
 2. The Subject Mattel' of Poetry. (Assignment to individuals 
 or groups.) Find out the attitude of three different poets 
 toward the following subjects, each group of pupils taking one 
 subject: The sea, flowers, death, friends estranged, love, music, 
 war, books and scholarship, rehgion, children, animals, the past, 
 the supernatural, other poets. 
 
 3. Be prepared to read to the class two short poems, or parts 
 of a longer poem, in which you can bring out strong contrasts 
 of feeUng. For instance, contrasting stanzas of two poems on 
 the sea, like "The World is too much with us" (p. 210) and "A 
 wet sheet and a flowing sea" (p. 82); or on love, as "One word 
 is too often profaned" (p. 80) and "The Flight of Love" (p. 71). 
 Make the class feel the difference. 
 
 4. Memorize a poem of about fifteen lines to recite effectively. 
 From now on, always learn at least four Unes, in addition to the 
 regular lesson. 
 
 5. Composition. Comparing pages 5-7 of the Introduction 
 with your own reading of the i)oems, discuss why certain subjects 
 are more appropriate than others for poetry. 
 
 6. Study the Introduction, pages 7-8. Pick out from poems 
 anywhere in the book examples of simile, metaphor, and per- 
 sonification that seem vivid and picturesque to you, and explain 
 how they strengthen the thought of the poem. (The study of 
 the Introduction, here and in following lessons, should l)e done 
 with the teacher, when the work is assigned.) 
 
 7. Read the Introduction, page 10 (beginning on page 9), 
 Find the tunes of some of the songs in this book, and learn to 
 sing them, singly or as a class. The songs of ]\Ioore and others 
 are simple, and easily within the range of high-school voices. 
 Or, find in the school song-book verses that you think worthy 
 of notice as poetry set to appropriate tunes. 
 
 8. Study the Introduction, pages 11-16 (in three lessons or 
 more, depending on the previous training of the class). Look 
 up the poems from which illustrative lines are cjuoted, and see if 
 
 242 
 
TOPICS FOR STUDY 243 
 
 the same measure holds throughout the poem. See if you can 
 find it in other poems. 
 
 9. Select a poem the meter of which is simple and regular; 
 read or recite it in well-marked rhythm, yet without singsong. 
 
 10. Select a poem in which the meter is complicated by extra 
 or misvsing syllables, by reversed accents, by hovering accents, 
 or by irregular stanza form. Read or recite the poem in such 
 a way as to bring out the interesting variations, without losing 
 sight of the regular metrical swing. 
 
 11. Study the sonnet (p. 16). Find two sonnets of the Shake- 
 spearian and two of the Italian form; be prepared to explain 
 their rime-scheme, and to discuss whether the subject chosen 
 fits into the natural divisions of this verse form. Or try to 
 compose a sonnet of your own (optional). 
 
 12. Study the ode (p. 17). Find all the odes in the book, and 
 determine which, if any, follow the strict Pindaric form. One 
 of them may well be chosen in class for reading or memorizing, 
 each member of the class taking a strophe. 
 
 13. Library Reference Work. (To be assigned to each pupil 
 at the beginning of the study, and reported on at the end.) 
 Select some one poet, represented in this book, and study his 
 life and works, reporting to the class, in writing, on the following 
 points : 
 
 Bibliography: A list of all books about that poet, and of all 
 important passages dealing with him, in the reference books 
 and hterary histories in your school or town library. 
 
 A description (title, editor, pubUsher, date, number of pages) 
 of the best edition of his works you find. 
 
 Biography: A summary of the facts of his life, especially 
 those that influenced his writing. 
 
 Criticism: A short list of the poems for which this writer is 
 most famous; and a discussion of his favorite subjects, his 
 attitude toward them, his choice of poetic forms, and your 
 impressions of his style. 
 • Quotation: A brief passage which you have memorized, as 
 being worth knowing both for its own sake and because 
 it is specially characteristic of this poet. 
 
 14. Supplementary Work. (Voluntary; to be credited for 
 honor standing.) Start a scrapbook or notebook of newspaper 
 and magazine verse, or poems from other books than The Golden 
 Treasury. Write opposite each poem the particular thing for 
 which you chose it, — sentiment, observation, imagination, 
 music, cleverness, or what. When the class has finished The 
 Golden Treasury, you may hand this notebook in, to be passed 
 around the class, or may read your best selection. 
 
INDEX OF WRITERS 
 
 With Dates of Birth and Death 
 
 Page 
 
 Blake, WUliam (1757-1827). 
 
 To the Muses 33 
 
 Byron, George Gordon Noel (1788-1824). 
 
 All for Love 40 
 
 There be none of Beauty's daughters 43 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 45 
 
 When we two parted 64 
 
 Elegy on Thyrza 77 
 
 On the Castle of Chillon 89 
 
 Youth and Age 106 
 
 Elegy 119 
 
 Campbell, Thomas (1777-1844). 
 
 Lord UlHn's Daughter 52 
 
 To the Evening Star 60 
 
 Earl March look'd on his dying child 73 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 83 
 
 Battle of the Baltic 84 
 
 Hohenlinden 93 
 
 The Beech Tree's Petition 148 
 
 Ode to Winter 162 
 
 Song to the Evening Star 176 
 
 The Soldier's Dream 179 
 
 The River of Life 223 
 
 Coleridge, Hartley (1796-1849). 
 
 She is not fair to outward view 47 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834). 
 
 Love (Genevieve) 36 
 
 Kubla Khan 182 
 
 Youth and Age 216 
 
 Cunningham, Allen (1784-1842). 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea 82 
 
 Hood, Thomas (1798-1845). 
 
 Past and Present 108 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs 115 
 
 The Death Bed 123 
 
 244 
 
INDEX OF WRITERS 245 
 
 Page 
 
 Keats, John (1795-1821). 
 
 Ode on the Poets 34 
 
 On first looking into Chapman's Homer 35 
 
 Happy Insensibility 66 
 
 La Belle Dame sans Merci 68 
 
 Bright Star! 74 
 
 The Terror of Death 75 
 
 The Mermaid Tavern 113 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale 143 
 
 To one who has been long in city pent 146 
 
 Ode to Autumn 161 
 
 The Realm of Fancy 185 
 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn 214 
 
 The Human Seasons 224 
 
 Lamb, Mary (1764-1847). 
 
 In Memoriam 130 
 
 Lamb, Charles (1775-1835). 
 
 The Old Familiar Faces 103 
 
 Hester 120 
 
 On an Infant dying as soon as born 127 
 
 Lyte, Henry Francis (1793-1847). 
 
 A Lost Love 51 
 
 Agnes 124 
 
 Moore, Thomas (1780-1852). 
 
 Echoes 59 
 
 At the mid hour of night 76 
 
 Pro Patria Mori 97 
 
 The Journey Onwards 104 
 
 The Light of other Days 109 
 
 Scott, Walter (1771-1832). 
 
 The Outlaw 41 
 
 Jock o' Hazeldean 57 
 
 A Serenade 60 
 
 Where shall the lover rest 67 
 
 The Rover 70 
 
 The Maid of Neidpath 72 
 
 Gathering Song of Donald the Black 80 
 
 The Pride of Youth 114 
 
 Coronach 122 
 
 Rosabelle 125 
 
 Hunting Song 133 
 
 Datur Hora Quieti 177 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822). 
 
 The Indian Serenade 44 
 
 I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden 47 
 
246 INDEX OF WRITERS 
 
 Page 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe (continued) 
 
 Love's Philosophy 58 
 
 To the Night 62 
 
 The FUght of Love 71 
 
 One word is too often profaned 80 
 
 Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples Ill 
 
 To a Skylark 135 
 
 Ozymandias of Egypt 147 
 
 To a Lady, with a Guitar 155 
 
 The Invitation 171 
 
 The Recollection 173 
 
 To the Moon 178 
 
 A Dream of the Unknown 180 
 
 Written among the Euganean Hills 199 
 
 Ode to the West Wind 205 
 
 The Poet's Dream 210 
 
 A Dirge 225 
 
 Threnos 225 
 
 Music, when soft voices die 234 
 
 SouTHEY, Robert (1774-1843). 
 
 After Blenheim 95 
 
 The Scholar 112 
 
 Wolfe, Charles (1791-1823). 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore 98 
 
 To Mary 121 
 
 Wordsworth, William (1770-1850). 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 45 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 48 
 
 I travell'd among unknown men 48 
 
 The Education of Nature 49 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal 51 
 
 Lucy Gray 54 
 
 To a distant Friend 64 
 
 Desideria 76 
 
 Ode to Duty 87 
 
 England and Switzerland, 1802 90 
 
 On the extinction of the Venetian Republic 91 
 
 London, 1802 91 
 
 " 92 
 
 When I have borne in memory 93 
 
 Simon Lee 100 
 
 A Lesson 107 
 
 The Affliction of Margaret 130 
 
 To the Skylark 134 
 
 The Green Linnet 140 
 
INDEX OF WRITERS 247 
 
 Page 
 Wordsworth, William (continued). 
 
 To the Cuckoo 141 
 
 Upon Westminster Bridge 146 
 
 Composed at Neidpath Castle 148 
 
 Admonition to a Traveller 150 
 
 To the Highland Girl of Inversneyde 150 
 
 The Reaper 153 
 
 The Reverie of poor Susan 154 
 
 The Daffodils 158 
 
 To the Daisy ....'. 159 
 
 Yarrow Unvisited, 1803 165 
 
 Yarrow Visited, 1814 167 
 
 By the Sea 176 
 
 To Sleep 179 
 
 The Inner Vision 184 
 
 Written in Early Spring 188 
 
 Ruth, or the Influences of Nature 189 
 
 Nature and the Poet 208 
 
 Glen-Almain, the Narrow Glen 211 
 
 The World is too much with us 212 
 
 Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge 213 
 
 The Two April Mornings 217 
 
 The Fountain 220 
 
 The Trossachs 226 
 
 My heart leaps up 226 
 
 Ode on Intimations of Immortality 227 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Page 
 
 A Chieftain to the Highlands bound 52 
 
 A child's a plaything for an hour 130 
 
 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 179 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal 51 
 
 A weary lot is thine, fair maid 70 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea 82 
 
 Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh 60 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights 36 
 
 And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream 167 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 77 
 
 Ariel to Miranda: — Take 155 
 
 Art thou pale for weariness 178 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 104 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears .... 154 
 
 At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly ... 76 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth 34 
 
 Behold her, single in the field 153 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 140 
 
 Best and brightest, come away 171 
 
 Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art 74 
 
 Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord 148 
 
 Earl March look'd on his dying child 73 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair 146 
 
 Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind 89 
 
 Ethereal ministrel! pilgrim of the sky 134 
 
 Ever let the Fancy roam 185 
 
 Four Seasons fill the measure of the year 224 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen 165 
 
 Gem of the crimson-colour' d Even 60 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit 135 
 
 He is gone on the mountain 122 
 
 How sweet the answer Echo makes 59 
 
 248 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 249 
 
 Page 
 
 I arise from dreams of Thee 44 
 
 I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way 180 
 
 I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden . 47 
 
 I have had playmates, I have had companions 103 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes 188 
 
 I meet thy pensive, moonlight face 51 
 
 I met a traveller from an antique land 147 
 
 I remember, I remember 108 
 
 I saw her in childhood ^. 124 
 
 I saw wherein the shroud did lurk 127 
 
 I travell'd among unknown men 48 
 
 I wander'd lonely as a cloud 158 
 
 I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile 208 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died 121 
 
 In a drear-nighted December 66 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan 100 
 
 In this stUl place, remote from men 211 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 182 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free 176 
 
 It was a summer evening 95 
 
 Many a green isle needs must be 199 
 
 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour 92 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 184 
 
 Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 35 
 
 Music, when soft voices die 234 
 
 My days among the Dead are past 112 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 143 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 226 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 98 
 
 Now the last day of many days 173 
 
 O blithe new-comer! I have heard 141 
 
 O Brignall banks are wild and fair 41 
 
 O Friend! I know not which way I must look 91 
 
 O leave this barren spot to me 148 
 
 O listen, listen, ladies gay 125 
 
 O lovers' eyes are sharp to see 72 
 
 O talk not to me of a name great in story 40 
 
 O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 68 
 
 O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being 205 
 
 O W^orld! O Life! O Time 225 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 84 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray 54 
 
250 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Page 
 
 Oft in the stilly night 109 
 
 Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom 119 
 
 On a Poet's lips I slept 210 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 91 
 
 One more Unfortunate 115 
 
 One word is too often profaned 80 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low 93 
 
 Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd .... 179 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 80 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood 114 
 
 Rough wind, that moanest loud 225 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ■ 161 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 48 
 
 She is not fair to outward view 47 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 45 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 45 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone 113 
 
 Star that bringest home the bee 176 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God 187 
 
 Surprized by joy — impatient as the wdnd 76 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 150 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave 62 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense 213 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river 58 
 
 The more we live, more brief appear . 223 
 
 There be none of Beauty's daughters 43 
 
 There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine 107 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away . 106 
 
 There's not a nook within this solemn Pass 226 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream 227 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear Ill 
 
 The sun upon the lake is low 177 
 
 The World is too much with us; late and soon 212 
 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness 214 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower 49 
 
 To one who has been long in city pent 146 
 
 Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea 90 
 
 Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying 216 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay 133 
 
 We talk'd with open heart, and tongue 220 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 251 
 
 Page 
 
 We walk'd along, while bright and red 217 
 
 We watch'd her breathing thro' the night 123 
 
 When first the fiery-mantled Sun 162 
 
 When he who adores thee has left but the name 97 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 93 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be 75 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die 120 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate 189 
 
 When the lamp is shatter'd 71 
 
 When we two parted 64 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son 130 
 
 Where shall the lover rest 67 
 
 Whether on Ida's shady brow 33 
 
 With little here to do or see 159 
 
 Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant 64 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide, ladie 57 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 83 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye 150 
 
ABERNETHY'S 
 AMERICAN LITERATURE 
 
 By JULIAN W. ABERNETHY, Ph.D. 
 
 PORMBRLY PrINCIPALOF BERKELEY INSTITUTE, BrOOKLVN, N. Y. 
 
 514 pages, 12mo, cloth. Price ;^1.10 
 
 The author's long and conspicuously successful experience 
 as a teacher and the time and thought he has devoted to the 
 work encourage us to believe that this book will be particularly 
 adapted to the varying needs of his fellow teachers. 
 
 The plan of the book includes a brief account of the growth 
 of our literature considered as part of our national history, with 
 such biographical and critical material as will best make the 
 first-hand study of American authors interesting and profitable. 
 
 One of the most interesting features of the book is the supple- 
 menting of the author's critical estimates of the value of the 
 work of the more important American writers with opinion'' 
 quoted from contemporary sources. Other strong points ar 
 the attention given to more recent contributions to American 
 literature and the fact that Southern literature is accorded a 
 consideration commensurate with its interest and value. 
 
 The pedagogical merit of the book is indicated by the care 
 which has been given to the production of a teaching apparatus 
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 each chapter, two lists ot selections are provided for each im- 
 portant author, one for critical study, the other for outside 
 reading. Lists of reading material for the historical back- 
 ground also are given. Study along the lines indicated will lead 
 to a closer correlation of history' and literature than is usuallv 
 secured, and to a more just appreciation of the literature. 
 
 The books included in the list at the end of the work con- 
 stitute an ample and fairly complete library of biography and 
 criticism for students of American literature. 
 
 CHARLES W. KENT, M. A., Ph. D., Linden Kent 
 Memorial School of English Literature, University of 
 Virginia, writes: 
 
 I am sufficiently pleased with Abemethy's American Litera- 
 ture to adopt it for use in my class next session. This I have 
 done after a careful examination of nearly all of the collecre 
 text-books on American literature now on the market. 
 
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