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Listen to the water-mill 
 Through the live.long day. " 
 
 ( See Page 123. ) 
 
r 
 
\ Q ifc^ < • '^ l^ 
 
 71^ oi^ 
 
 OOPYKIGHT BY 
 
 ADAM CRAIG, 
 
 1880. 
 
 /• Blomgrbn Bros. & Co. Electrottpbrs, Chicago. \ 
 
 ~ (5 — ^ ^ — 
 

 A 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE. 
 
 The May Queen .... Alfred T< iinyson, g 
 
 Elegy, Written in a Country Churchyard - Thomas Gray, 
 Love • - - Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 
 
 Oh, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud, Knox, 
 The Last Man ... - Thomas Campbell, 
 
 Summer ..... Christina Rossetti, 
 
 Evelyn Hope - - - - Robert Browning, 
 
 The Cry of the Children - Elizabeth Barrett Broioning, 
 Lines Written While Sailing in a Boat, Wordsicorth, 
 
 The Nameless Dead 
 
 Tired Out 
 
 The Sensitive Plant 
 
 A Child's Evening Prayer 
 
 Horatius 
 
 The Changed Cross 
 
 The Burial of Moses 
 
 Song ... 
 
 Naturelle 
 
 The Mother's Heart - 
 
 Little Billee 
 
 The Vagabonds - . . - 
 
 The Parting Hour . - - . 
 
 The Orient . z . - 
 
 Curfew Must Not Ring To-Night 
 
 The Raven, . . - - 
 
 My Pretty, Budding, Breathing Flower, 
 
 The Water That Has Passed 
 
 Possession - . - - - 
 
 O, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear 
 
 WlXTER ..... 
 
 Kiss Me Softly 
 
 The Worn Wedding Ring 
 
 A Wish .... 
 
 She is Not Fair 
 
 The Little Milliner 
 
 Small Beginnings 
 
 My Mother 
 
 (3) 
 
 Tom Hood, 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 - Percy Bysske Shelley, 
 
 T'ranslated from the German, 
 
 Thomas Babington Macaulay, 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Charles Hobart, 
 
 Mrs. G. F. Alexander, 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 - Anonymous, 
 
 Caroline Norton, 
 
 Wm. Makepeace Thackeray, 
 
 J. T. Trowbridge, 
 
 Edward Pollock, 
 
 - Byron, 
 
 • Anonymous, 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe, 
 
 W. M. Praed, 
 
 Anonymotis, 
 
 Bayard T'aylor, 
 
 Gerald Massey, 
 
 William Coicper, 
 
 John Godfrey Saxe, 
 
 William Cox Bennett, 
 
 Samuel Rogers, 
 
 Hartley Coleridge, 
 
 Robert Buchanan, 
 
 Charles Mackqy, 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 19 
 
 25 
 29 
 
 32 
 35 
 37 
 40 
 46 
 47 
 49 
 50 
 63 
 65 
 87 
 91 
 94 
 96 
 
 97 
 100 
 102 
 106 
 108 
 109 
 
 "3 
 119 
 122 
 124 
 126 
 127 
 130 
 131 
 134 
 136 
 
 137 
 145 
 147 
 
 \ 
 
, 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 a ^ 
 
 
 ^ V 
 
 >-\ 
 
 6| 
 
 \ 
 
 
 / 
 
 P 
 
 ^ 
 
 4 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 > 
 
 
 
 **T.^*' 
 
 
 
 
 TITLE. 
 
 author. page. 
 
 
 
 The Vale of Cashmere - 
 
 Thoiiius Moore, 
 
 148 
 
 
 
 Molly Carew 
 
 Father Prout, 
 
 150 
 
 
 
 The Origin of the Opal 
 
 A/oonymoris, 
 
 154 
 
 
 
 Man Was Made to Mourn 
 
 Robert Burns, 
 
 155 
 
 
 
 The Children 
 
 - ' - Charles Dickens, 
 
 159 
 
 
 
 Hunting Song 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 162 
 
 
 
 The Greenwood Shrift 
 
 - Robert Southey, 
 
 164 
 
 
 
 The American Flag 
 
 Joseph Rodman Brake, 
 
 169 
 
 
 
 Columbia - 
 
 Timothy Dicigld, 
 
 172 
 
 
 
 My Country - 
 
 James Montgomery, 
 
 174 
 
 
 
 A Court Lady 
 
 • Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 
 
 176 
 
 
 
 Napoleon and the British Sailor - Thomas Campbell, 
 
 i8i 
 
 
 
 Thought 
 
 Christopher Pearse Cranch, 
 
 1 84 
 
 
 
 The Sea Fight 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 186 
 
 
 
 Only a Woman -^ - 
 
 Dinah Maria Mulock, 
 
 192 
 
 
 
 The Bells of Shandon - 
 
 - Father Prout, 
 
 196 
 
 
 
 The Origin of the Harp 
 
 Thomas Moore, 
 
 199 
 
 
 
 To Mary in Heaven 
 
 Robert Burns, 
 
 201 
 
 
 
 The Songsters 
 
 James Thomson, 
 
 203 
 
 
 
 The Two April Mornings 
 
 William Wordsworth, 
 
 205 
 
 
 
 Alpine Heights 
 
 Krummacher, 
 
 20S 
 
 
 
 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers - Felicia. Hemans, 
 
 210 
 
 
 
 Seven Times Two 
 
 Jean Ingelow, 
 
 212 
 
 
 
 To a Skeleton 
 
 - Anonymous, 
 
 213 
 
 
 
 It Never Comes Again 
 
 - Richard Henry Stoddard, 
 
 215 
 
 
 
 The Modern" Belle 
 
 Stark, 
 
 216 
 
 
 
 Kissing 's No Sin 
 
 . Anonymous, 
 
 218 
 
 
 
 Lessons For Life 
 
 Robert Burns, 
 
 219 
 
 
 
 Letters 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson, 
 
 221 
 
 
 
 Hymn 
 
 Hawkesioorth, 
 
 222 
 
 
 
 Gold - 
 
 Abraham Coicley, 
 
 223 
 
 
 
 The Village Preacher 
 
 Oliver Ooldsmith 
 
 224 
 
 
 
 Little Breeches 
 
 - John Hay, 
 
 227 
 
 
 
 The Fishermen 
 
 Charles Kingsley, 
 
 230 
 
 
 
 Address to the Ocean 
 
 Barry Cornwall, 
 
 231 
 
 
 
 Dr. Addison Alexander's 
 
 Monosyllable Poem 
 
 233 
 
 
 
 Song of the Decanter 
 
 - . Anonymous, 
 
 235 
 
 
 
 Lines and Couplets 
 
 . ' - Pope, 
 
 236 
 
 L 
 
 i 
 
 Album Verses - 
 
 Miscellaneous, 
 
 240 
 
 . d 
 
 / 
 
 
 \ 
 
 (9 
 
 "^ 
 
 to ■^ 
 
 
 
 -r-^ 
 
 ^ fi 
 
 "V 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
\ 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 J- 
 
 / 
 
 A dew-drop came, with a spark of flame - ■ - 
 
 A mighty pain to love it is 
 
 A sensitive plant in a gai'den grew 
 
 A traveller through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea 
 
 Ah, yes — the fight ! Well, messmates, well 
 
 All thoughts, all jiassions, all delights 
 
 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead - - - . 
 
 Behold this ruin! 'T was a skull 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain .... 
 
 Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise . 
 
 Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers 
 
 England's sun was slowly setting 
 
 Every day brings a ship - ... 
 
 lie does well who does his best ... 
 
 Her hair was tawny with gold .... 
 
 How richly glows the water's breast 
 
 I don't go much on religion .... 
 
 I love contemplating — apart - . . . 
 
 In sleep's serene oblivion laid .... 
 
 It is believed that this harp, which I wake now for thee 
 
 It was a time of sadness, and my heart 
 
 It was our wedding day .... 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
 
 1-ars Porsena of Clusium - - - . - 
 
 Listen to the water-mill .... 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill .... 
 
 My girl hath violet eyes and yelhnv hair 
 
 My goddess romped at school . . . . 
 
 My pretty, budding, breathing flower 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled 
 
 O, lay thy hand in mine, dear . . - . 
 
 Ochhone! Oh! what will I do .... 
 
 V (5) 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 - 154 
 225 
 
 - 50 
 
 - 186 
 
 25 
 
 - 32 
 
 37 
 
 - 213 
 
 91 
 
 - 172 
 
 40 
 
 - 109 
 221 
 
 - 49 
 176 
 
 - 46 
 227 
 
 ■ 181 
 222 
 
 • 199 
 
 87 
 
 124 
 
 130 
 
 108 
 
 65 
 122 
 
 134 
 
 96 
 119 
 224 
 126 
 150 
 
 -N 
 
 \ 
 
, 
 
 
 
 , 
 
 ^ 
 
 s> •. 
 
 .. & 
 
 ^.^ 
 
 6 
 
 \ 
 
 / 
 
 p 
 
 < 
 
 6 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 »- i*<^T*r'5»f 
 
 ^~- 
 
 
 
 ':^ '•& . «)• 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 
 
 Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be prond 
 
 - 29 
 
 
 
 O thou vast Ocean ! ever-sounding Sea - 
 
 231 
 
 
 
 On Alpine heights the love of God is shed 
 
 - 208 
 
 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary .... 
 
 "3 
 
 
 
 Outstretched beneath the leafy shade - - - - 164 | 
 
 
 
 She is not fair to outward view .... 
 
 136 
 
 
 
 She sits in a fashionable parlor ... 
 
 - 216 
 
 
 
 So the truth 's out, I '11 grasp it like a snake 
 
 192 
 
 
 
 Some say that kissing 's a sin 
 
 - 218 
 
 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high .... 
 
 210 
 
 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 
 
 - 19 
 
 
 
 There are gains for all our losses . . - - 
 
 215 
 
 
 
 There is a land, of every land the pride 
 
 - 174 
 
 
 
 There was an old decanter . . - - 
 
 235 
 
 
 
 There were three sailors of Bristol City 
 
 . 100 
 
 
 
 There 's something in the " parting hour " 
 
 106 
 
 
 
 Think not that strength lies in the big, round word - 
 
 - 233 
 
 
 
 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray . - - 
 
 203 
 
 
 
 Thou whom chance may hither lead . - - . 
 
 - 219 
 
 
 
 Thought is deeper than all speech 
 
 184 
 
 
 
 Three fishers went sailing out into the west - 
 
 - 230 
 
 
 
 Tired I am, I '11 go to rest 
 
 63 
 
 
 
 'T is morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb - 
 
 - 130 
 
 
 
 Uprising, the lark ..... 
 
 203 
 
 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay .... 
 
 - 162 
 
 
 
 We are two travellers, Roger and I - - - 
 
 102 
 
 
 
 We walked along, while bright and red 
 
 - 205 
 
 
 
 When chill November's surly blast 
 
 155 
 
 
 
 When first thou earnest, gently, shy, and fond 
 
 - 97 
 
 
 
 When freedom from her mountain height 
 
 169 
 
 
 
 When the lessons and tasks are all ended 
 
 - 159 
 
 
 
 Where shall the lover rest .... 
 
 - 94 
 
 
 
 Who has not heard'of the Vale of Cashmere 
 
 148 
 
 
 
 Whose image never may depart 
 
 - 147 
 
 
 
 Why do you wail, O Wind? Why do you sigh, O Sea 
 
 47 
 
 
 
 Winter is cold hearted .... 
 
 - 32 
 
 
 
 With deep affection ..... 
 
 196 
 
 
 
 You bells in the steeple,, ring, ring out your changes 
 
 - 212 
 
 
 i 
 
 You must wake and call me early 
 
 - . 9 
 
 k 
 
 
 Your wedding ring wears thin, dear wife 
 
 - 131 
 
 
 & 
 
 / 
 
 N 
 
 is 
 
 ' -r 
 
 "■■ 
 
 ^ c 
 
 "^ 
 
 
 
 
 
FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 "The Water-Mill," . _ . - Frontispiece 
 
 "The Rivulet IN THE Flowery Dale," - - - - ii 
 
 "Genevieve," ..-■..-. 26 
 
 "The Lone One," . - - - - - - 33 
 
 "Summer," ....... 35 
 
 " Evelyn Hope," - .-..-- 37 
 
 "The Boat Her Silent Course Pursues," - - 46 
 
 " Why DO YOU Wail, O Wind? Why do you Sigh, O Sea?" 47 
 
 "The Hedgeside," - - - - - . - 49 
 
 " Cool Streams are Laving," .... 94' 
 
 "Where THE Flowers ever Blossom," - - 108 
 
 "There They Wait Their Wonted Fodder," - - 128 
 
 " Its Temples AND Fountains," - - . 148 
 
 "Fleet OF Foot AND Tall OF Size," ... 162 
 
 "Alpine Heights," - - - - - 208 
 
 " The Fisher Boy," - - - - - - - 230 
 
 .'5 o 
 
 17) 
 
 \ 
 
 1^ 
 
\ 
 
 J- 
 
 ^IcTJIE-fM^Y-fl^aEEN.*^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 By Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 OU must wake and call me early, call me 
 early, mothei dear; 
 To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all 
 the glad New-year: 
 :^0i all the glad New-year mother, the 
 maddest merriest day; 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
 I'm to be Queen o' the May. 
 
 There's many a black black eye, they say, 
 
 but none so bright as mine; 
 There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate 
 and Caroline: 
 
 But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say. 
 So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 o' the May. 
 
 I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. 
 If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break: 
 But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands 
 
 gay, 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 o' the May. 
 
 / 
 
 \ 
 
•V 
 
 K ■ 
 
 ,^\ 
 
 lO THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 - •> <-:-^^- ^ - 
 
 As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, 
 But Ro'bin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? 
 He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday — 
 But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 o' the May. 
 
 He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
 And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
 They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say. 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 o' the May. 
 
 They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be: 
 They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? 
 There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day. 
 And I'm to be Qeeen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 o' the May. 
 
 Little Efifie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 
 And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; 
 For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 o' the May. 
 
 The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers. 
 
 And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo- 
 flowers; 
 
 And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and 
 hollows gray, 
 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 o' the Mav. 
 
 ■r 
 

 
 " And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill 
 Merrily glance and play. " 
 
K" 
 
 "71 
 
 > 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 <- 
 
 The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow- 
 grass, 
 
 And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they 
 pass; 
 
 There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong 
 day, 
 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 o' the May. 
 
 All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 
 And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 
 And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and 
 
 play, 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 
 o' the May. 
 
 So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother 
 
 dear. 
 To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year: 
 To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, 
 For I'm to, be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
 
 o' the May. 
 
 
 VL 
 
 \1 
 
^ 
 
 NEW- YEARS EYE. 
 
 If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
 For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 
 It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 
 Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more 
 of me. 
 
 To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind 
 
 The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of 
 
 mind; 
 And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
 The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 
 
 Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; 
 
 Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of 
 May; 
 
 And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse. 
 
 Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney- 
 tops. 
 
 There's not a flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane: 
 I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again: 
 I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: 
 I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 
 
 K :^ 
 
v> 
 
 V* 
 
 r^ 
 
 A 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 13 
 
 -^■ 
 
 ^^v^i 
 
 <>«-i-4- 
 
 -<: 
 
 The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 
 And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
 
 
 And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the 
 
 wave. 
 But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 
 
 ^ N 
 
N ~~A 
 
 14 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -> -Ifvi^- <-- 
 
 Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
 In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
 Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
 When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 
 
 When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning 
 
 light 
 You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night: 
 When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
 On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the 
 
 pool. 
 
 You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade. 
 And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
 I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass. 
 With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 
 
 I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; 
 You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; 
 Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
 You should not frqt for me, mother, you have another child. 
 
 If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; 
 Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; 
 Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say. 
 And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 
 
 Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for- 
 
 evermore. 
 And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; 
 Don't let Efifie come to see me till my grave be growing green; 
 She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been. 
 
 k N, 
 
K 
 
 ■71 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 ^5 
 
 > 
 
 ^ifv4^^ 
 
 -^ 
 
 She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor; 
 Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: 
 But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
 About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 
 
 Good-night, sweet mother; call me before the day is born, ' 
 All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; 
 But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
 So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 
 
>t 
 
 K 
 
 1 6 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am; 
 
 And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 
 
 How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! 
 
 To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 
 
 O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
 And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise. 
 And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow. 
 And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 
 
 It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
 And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done! 
 But still I think it can't be long before I find release; 
 And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of 
 peace. 
 
 O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 
 And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! 
 P blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
 A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 
 
 He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
 Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in; 
 Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be. 
 For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 
 
 \^ 
 
 ■f^ 
 
>> 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 > 
 
 ^'-fvi-^ 
 
 17 
 
 -•4^- 
 
 I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, 
 There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet; 
 But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
 And Efifie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 
 
 All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call: 
 It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; 
 The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
 And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 
 
 For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; 
 I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; 
 With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resigned, 
 And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 
 
 I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed. 
 
 And then did something speak to me— I know not what was 
 
 said; 
 For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
 And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 
 
 But you were sleeping: and I said, " It's not for them: it's 
 
 mine." 
 And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
 And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars. 
 Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the 
 
 stars. 
 
 ~7\ 
 
 So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
 The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
 And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
 But Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 
 
 /_ 
 
 A 
 
 \ 
 
Iv 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 ►^:-f-^ 
 
 <■ 
 
 And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; 
 There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
 If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife; 
 But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 
 
 O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; | 
 He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 
 And there I move no longer now, and there his light may 
 
 shine — 
 Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 
 
 O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
 The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 
 For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 
 And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such 
 ado ? 
 
 For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — 
 And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 
 To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast— 
 And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at 
 rest. 
 
 -^ ' 
 
 \ 
 
"71 
 
 '-4^ 
 
 
 By Thomas Gray. 
 
 HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day; 
 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea; 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: 
 
 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
 
 The moping Owl does to the Moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 kL 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 (19) 
 
 A 
 
 "T"" 
 
 'V 
 
^•v 
 
 K 
 
 > 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 '■^•H^ 
 
 -*e 
 
 >^ 
 
 A 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
 
 The swallow twittering fr9m the straw-built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them, no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care; 
 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
 
 Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. 
 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 
 How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 
 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
 
 / 
 
^•v 
 
 rs 
 
 .^ ^ 
 
 5) 
 
 u 
 
 6 
 
 
 
 y 
 
 to 
 
 \ 
 
 
 ELEGY. 21 
 
 
 r 
 
 
 •=^ '-^ .^* 
 
 
 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 
 
 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, 
 
 Await, alike, th' inevitable hour; — 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Nor you, ye proud ! impute to these the fault. 
 If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise; 
 
 Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault. 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
 Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust? 
 
 Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? 
 
 
 
 
 
 Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid 
 
 Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire; 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd. 
 Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. 
 
 
 
 
 
 But Knowledge, to their eyes, her ample page. 
 
 Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; 
 
 Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage. 
 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the'desert air. 
 
 
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 22 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
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 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 
 
 Some mute, inglorious Milton, — here may rest; 
 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
 
 Th' applause of listening senates to command; 
 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise; 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes, 
 
 Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone 
 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; 
 
 Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide; 
 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame; 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride, 
 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 
 
 Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life, 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect. 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd. 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
 The place of fame and elegy supply; 
 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 
N " -A 
 
 ELEGY. 23 
 
 -^ "^'.-^^ 4- 
 
 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
 
 This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd; 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies; 
 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries; 
 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead. 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 
 
 If, 'chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate; 
 
 Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say: 
 
 " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 
 
 Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, » 
 To meet the Sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
 
 His listless length, at noontide, would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn. 
 
 Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; 
 
 Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, 
 
 Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 
 
 " One morn, I miss'd him on the 'customed hill, 
 Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 
 
 Another came, — nor yet beside the rill, 
 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he; 
 
 \/ ^ 
 
[^= -' 7\ 
 
 24 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -^ -:^v4^^ ^- 
 
 " The next, with dirges due, in sad array. 
 
 Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. 
 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
 Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
 
 A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown; 
 
 Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
 And melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 
 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 
 He gave to Misery all he had — a tear; 
 
 He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 
 
 No further seek his merits to disclose. 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode: 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 i 
 
 V. N 
 
\ 
 
 K 
 
 / 
 
 ^itIieYE.3|c- 
 
 By Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 V 
 
 LL thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame. 
 Are all but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 >Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again, that happy hour, 
 When midway on the mount I lay, 
 Beside the ruined tower. 
 
 The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene 
 Had blended with the light of eve; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 (25) 
 
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 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
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 She leaned against the armed man, 
 The statue of the armed knight; 
 She stood and Hstened to my lay, 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 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 played 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 listened with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace; 
 For v/ell 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 wooed 
 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 listened with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace; 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face ! 
 
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GENEVIEVE. 
 
J/ 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
 And that he crossed 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 looked 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 leaped amid a murderous band, 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land;— 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped 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 dying words— but when I reached 
 The tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
 My faltering voice -and pausing harp 
 Disturbed her soul with pity. 
 
 -M 
 
 -&>v 
 
\ 
 
 / 
 
 28 
 
 > 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
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 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrilled 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 blushed with love, and virgin shame; 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she stepped 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 pressed me with a meek embrace; 
 And bending back her head, looked 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. 
 
 / 
 
 1^- 
 
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 I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
 And told her love with virgin pride; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 A 
 
 V 
 
^ 
 
 / 
 
 
 By William Knox. 
 
 H, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 
 Like a swift fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
 Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade. 
 Be scattered around and together be laid; 
 And the young and the old, and the low and the high, 
 Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. 
 
 The infant a mother attended and loved; 
 The mother that infant's affection who proved; 
 The husband that mother and infant who blessed, 
 Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 
 
 The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye. 
 Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by; 
 And the memory of those who loved her and praised. 
 Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 
 
 (29) 
 
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 30 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne; 
 The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn; 
 The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave, 
 Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. 
 
 The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap; 
 The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; 
 The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread. 
 Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 
 
 The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, 
 The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, 
 The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
 Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 
 
 So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed 
 That withers away to let others succeed; 
 So the multitude comes, even those we behold. 
 To repeat every tale that has often been told. 
 
 For we are the same our fathers have been; 
 We see the same sights our fathers have seen, — 
 We drink the same stream and view the same sun, 
 And run the same course our fathers have run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; 
 From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink; 
 To the life we are clinging they also would cling; 
 But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. 
 
 They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; 
 They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; 
 They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come; 
 They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. 
 
 y vi 
 
/ 
 
 OH, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? 3 1 
 
 -■¥ ►^•:-i> ^- 
 
 They died, ay ! they died: and we things that are now, 
 Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. 
 Who make in their dwelling a transient abode. 
 Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. 
 
 Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain. 
 We mingle together in sunshine and rain; 
 And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, 
 Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 
 
 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath. 
 From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
 From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — 
 Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 
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 V 
 
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 "71 
 
 -*¥pE^ri;qg¥^p^pi.3}£<- 
 
 By Thomas Campbell. 
 
 k 
 
 L worldly shapes shall melt in gloom; 
 
 The Sun himself must die, 
 Before this mortal shall assume 
 
 Its immortality ! 
 I saw a vision in my sleep, 
 That gave my spirit strength to sweep 
 
 Adown the gulf of Time ! 
 I saw the last of human mould 
 That shall Creation's death behold, 
 
 As Adam saw her prime. 
 
 The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 
 
 The Earth with age was wan, 
 The skeletons of nations were 
 
 Around that lonely man ! 
 Some had expired in fight — the brands 
 Still rusted in their bony hands; 
 
 In plague and famine some ! 
 Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, 
 And ships were drifting with the dead 
 
 To shores where all was dumb ! 
 
 (32) 
 
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"Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 
 With dauntless words and his:h." 
 
K 
 
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 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 ^'^'.-^ 
 
 33 
 
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 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood. 
 
 With dauntless words and high, 
 That shook the sere leaves from the wood. 
 
 As if a storm passed by; 
 Saying, " We are twins in death, proud Sun, 
 Thy face is cold, thy race is run — 
 
 'Tis mercy bids thee go, 
 For thou ten thousand, thousand years 
 Hast seen the tide of human tears. 
 
 That shall no longer flow. 
 
 " What though beneath thee man put forth 
 
 His pomp, his pride, his skill; 
 And arts that made fire, flood, and earth. 
 
 The vassals of his will ! 
 Yet mourn I not thy parted sway. 
 Thou dim discrowned* king of day. 
 
 For all these trophied arts 
 And triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, 
 Healed not a passion, or a pang. 
 
 Entailed on human hearts. 
 
 " Go, — let oblivion's curtain fall 
 
 Upon the stage of men, 
 Nor with thy rising beams recall 
 
 Life's tragedy again; 
 Its piteous pageants bring not back. 
 Nor weaken flesh upon the rack 
 
 Of pain anew to writhe; 
 Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, 
 Or mown in battle by the sword. 
 
 Like grass beneath the scythe. 
 
 / 
 
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 "My gray, discrowned head." — Charles I. 
 
 ^ 
 
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 34 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
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 " E'en I am weary in yon skies 
 
 To watch thy fading fire; 
 Test of all sumless agonies, 
 
 Behold not me expire. 
 My lips that speak thy dirge of death — 
 Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 
 
 To see thou shalt not boast; 
 The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall — 
 The majesty of Darkness shall 
 
 Receive my parting ghost ! 
 
 " This spirit shall return to him 
 
 That gave its heavenly spark; 
 Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 
 
 When thou thyself art dark ! 
 No ! it shall live again, and shine 
 In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 
 
 By Him recalled to breath, 
 Who captive led captivity, 
 ^Who robbed the Grave of victory, 
 
 And took the sting from Death ! 
 
 Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 
 
 On Nature's awful waste. 
 To drink this last and bitter cup 
 
 Of grief that man shall taste — 
 Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
 Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race. 
 
 On Earth's sepulchral clod. 
 The dark'ning universe defy 
 To quench his immortality. 
 
 Or shake his trust in God ! " 
 
 \ 
 
 ■^ 
 
SUMMER. 
 
-McgaMJ)IER.3N- 
 
 By Christina Rossetti. 
 
 (^^,-^ ,-><3»S<i^rr..T^7?) 1 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 'XV" 
 
 A-fif? ■ 
 
 <.; <.y- 
 
 INTER is cold-hearted; 
 
 Spring is yea and nay; 
 Autumn is a weather-cock, 
 
 Blown every way; 
 Summer days for me, 
 When every leaf is on its tree, 
 
 When Robin's not a beggar. 
 
 And Jenny Wren's a bride. 
 And larks hang, singing, singing, singing, 
 
 Over the wheat-fields wide. 
 
 And anchored lilies ride. 
 And the pendulum spider 
 
 Swings from side to side, 
 
 kL 
 
 And blue-black beetles transact business, 
 
 And gnats fly in a host, 
 And furry caterpillars hasten 
 
 That no time be lost, 
 And moths grow fat and thrive, 
 And ladybirds arrive. 
 
 (35) 
 
 V 
 
\ 
 
 36 
 
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 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 ►^:-4^^ 
 
 -4- 
 
 Before green apples blush, 
 
 Before green nuts embrown, 
 
 Why, one day in the country 
 Is worth a month in town — 
 Is worth a day and a year 
 
 Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion 
 That days drone everywhere. 
 
 \J 
 
^ 
 
 A 
 
 ->3icEVE]iYN^P(!)PE.$^ 
 
 By Robert Browning. 
 
 EAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
 
 Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
 That is her book-shelf, this her bed; 
 
 She plucked that geranium-flower, 
 Beginning to die, too, in the glass; 
 
 Little has yet been changed, I think: 
 The shutters are shut, no light may pass 
 
 Save two long rays through the hinge and chink. 
 
 V- 
 
 II. 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died ! 
 
 Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; 
 It was not her time to love; beside, 
 
 Her life had many a hope and aim. 
 Duties enough and little cares. 
 
 And now was quiet, now astir, 
 Till God's hand beckoned unawares — 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of her. 
 
 (37) 
 
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 38 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
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 ^Ifv4^^ 
 
 -•^ 
 
 III. 
 
 It is too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 
 
 What ! your soul was pure and true, 
 The good stars met in your horoscope. 
 
 Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 
 And just because I was thrice as old. 
 
 And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
 Each was nought to each, must I be told ? 
 
 We were fellow-mortals, nought beside ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 No, indeed ! for God above 
 
 Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
 And creates the love to reward the love; 
 
 I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
 Delayed it may be fox more lives yet, 
 
 Through worlds I shall traverse not a few: 
 Much is to learn and much to forget 
 
 Ere the time be come for taking you. 
 
 kl 
 
 But the time will come — at last it will. 
 
 When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
 In the lower Earth, in the years long still, 
 
 That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
 Why, your hair was amber, I shall divine, 
 
 And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
 And what you would do with me, in fine, 
 
 In the new life come in the old one's stead. 
 
 A^ 
 
 I^^ 
 
I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, 
 
 Given up myself so many times, 
 Gained me the gains of various men, 
 
 Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 
 Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope. 
 
 Either I missed, or itself missed me: 
 And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope: 
 
 What is the issue ? let us see. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 
 
 My heart seemed full as it could hold — 
 
 There was place and to spare for the frank young smile 
 And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold, 
 
 So, hush— I will give you this leaf to keep- 
 See, I shut inside the sweet cold hand. 
 
 There, that is our secret: go to sleep; 
 
 You will wake, and remember, and understand. 
 
 / 
 
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 -H{cfpEvCl^Yv0FvTpE:CpmDREN.3l^ 
 
 By Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 O ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, 
 Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
 They are leaning their young heads against their 
 mothers', 
 
 And that cannot stop their tears. 
 The young lambs are bleating in the meadows. 
 The young birds are chirping in the nest. 
 The young fawns are playing with the shadows. 
 
 The young flowers are blowing towards the west — 
 But the young, young children, O my brothers, 
 
 They are weeping bitterly ! 
 They are weeping in the playtime of the others, 
 In the country of the free. 
 
 Do you question the young children in their sorrow 
 
 Why their tears are falling so ? 
 The old man may weep for his to-morrow. 
 
 Which is lost in Long Ago; 
 The tree is leafless in the forest, 
 
 The old year is ending with the frost. 
 The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, 
 
 The old hope is hardest to be lost: 
 But the young, young children, O my brothers, 
 
 Do you ask them why they stand 
 Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers. 
 
 In our happy Fatherland ? 
 
 (40) 
 
 \ 
 
 V^" 
 
 V 
 

 They look up with their pale and sunken faces, 
 
 And their looks are sad to see, 
 For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses 
 
 Down the cheeks of infancy; 
 " Your old Earth," they say, " is very dreary; 
 Our young feet," they say, "are very weak; 
 
 Few paces have we taken, yet are weary, 
 
 Our grave-rest is very far to seek: 
 Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children; 
 
 For the outsidfe Earth is cold. 
 And we young ones stand without in our bewildering, 
 
 And the graves are for the old." 
 
 " True," say the children, " it may happen. 
 
 That we die before our time: 
 Little Alice died last year; her grave is shapen 
 
 Like a snowball, in the rime. 
 We looked into the pit prepared to take her; 
 
 Was no room for any work in the close c/ay ! 
 From the sleep wherein she lieth none can wake her. 
 
 Crying ' Get up, little Alice, it is day ! ' 
 If you listen by that grave in sun and shower, 
 With your ear down, litde Alice never cries; 
 Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, 
 
 For the smile has time for growing in her eyes. 
 And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in 
 
 The shroud by the kirk-chime. 
 It is good when it happens," say the children, 
 "That we die before our time." 
 
 Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking 
 
 Death in life as best to have: 
 They are binding up their hearts, away from breaking 
 
 With a cerement from the grave. 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
(S .i^ 
 
 Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, 
 
 Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; 
 Pluck your handfuls of the meadow cowslips pretty, 
 Laugh loud to feel your fingers let them through ! 
 But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows 
 
 Like our weeds anear the mine ? 
 Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, 
 From your pleasures fair and fine ! 
 
 " For oh," say the children, " we are weary. 
 
 And we cannot run or leap ! 
 If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 
 
 To drop down in them and sleep. 
 Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping. 
 
 We fall upon our faces trying to go; 
 And underneath our heavy eyelids drooping 
 
 The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. 
 For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, 
 
 Through the coal-dark underground; 
 Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 
 
 In the factories, round and round. 
 
 " For all day the wheels are droning, turning; 
 
 Their wind comes in our faces. 
 Till our hearts turn, our head with pulses burning, 
 
 And the walls turn in their places; 
 •Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, 
 
 Turns the long light that drops adown the wall. 
 Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling — 
 
 All are turning, all the day, and we with all. 
 And all the day the iron wheels are droning. 
 
 And sometimes we could pray, 
 * O ye wheels ' (breaking out in a mad moaning), 
 
 ' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' " 
 
 -t 
 
 V- 
 
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K- 
 
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 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 43 
 
 -> ►^:-f^^ <~ 
 
 Ay, be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing ' 
 
 For a moment, mouth to mouth ! 
 Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing 
 
 Of their tender human youth ! 
 Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 
 
 Is not all the life God fashions and reveals: 
 Let them prove their living souls against the notion 
 
 That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! 
 Still all day the iron wheels go onward. 
 
 Grinding life down from its mark; 
 And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, 
 
 Spin on blindly in the dark. 
 
 Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, 
 
 To look up to him and pray; 
 So the Blessed One, who blesseth all the others, 
 
 Will bless them another day. 
 They answer, "Who is God that he should hear us, 
 
 While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ? 
 When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us 
 
 Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word; 
 And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) 
 
 Strangers speaking at the door: 
 Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, 
 
 Hears our weeping any more ? 
 
 " Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, 
 
 And at midnight's hour of harm, 
 ' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, 
 
 We say softly for a charm. 
 We know no other words except ' Our Father/ 
 
 And we think that, in some pause of angel's song, 
 God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, 
 And hold both within his right hand which is strong. 
 
 / 
 
 
THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 44 
 
 -^- 
 
 " pur Father ! ' If he heard us, he would surely 
 
 (For they^call him good and mild) 
 Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 
 ' Come and rest with me, my child.' 
 
 " But no ! " say the children, weeping faster, 
 
 " He is speechless as a stone: 
 And they tell us, of his image is the master 
 
 Who commands us to work on. 
 Go to ! " say the children, " up in heaven 
 
 Dark wheel-like turning clouds are all we find. 
 Do not mock us, grief has made us unbeheving: ^^ 
 
 We look up for God, but tears have made us blmd. 
 Do you hear the children weeping and disprovmg, 
 
 O my brothers, what ye preach ? 
 For God's possible is taught by this world's lovmg. 
 
 And the children doubt of each. 
 And well may the children weep before you ! 
 
 They are weary ere they run; 
 They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory 
 
 Which is brighter than the sun. 
 They know the grief of man, without its wisdom; 
 
 They sink in man's despair, without its calm; 
 Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom; 
 
 Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm: 
 Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly 
 
 The harvest of its memories cannot reap. 
 Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. 
 
 Let them weep ! let them weep ! 
 They look up with their pale and sunken faces. 
 
 And their look is dread to see; 
 For they,mind you of their angels in high places, 
 With their eyes turned on Deity. 
 
" How long," they say, " how fong, O cruel nation, 
 
 Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,— 
 Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, 
 
 And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? 
 Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper. 
 
 And your purple shows your path ! 
 But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper 
 Than the strong man in his wrath." 
 
 1 
 
 -^l 
 
 -^h- 
 
<5 •- 
 
 ^ 
 
 K 
 
 ~7\ 
 
 ^Wiw^'^ 
 
 WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. 
 
 BY WORDSWORTH. 
 
 OW richly glows the water's breast 
 
 Before us, tinged with evening hues, 
 While facing thus the crimson west, 
 
 The boat her silent course pursues ! 
 And see how dark the backward stream ! 
 
 A little moment past so smiling ! 
 And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 
 
 Some other loiterers beguiling. 
 
 Such views the youthful bard allure, 
 
 But heedless of the following gloom, 
 He deems their colors shall endure 
 
 Till peace go with him to the tomb. 
 And let him nurse his fond deceit. 
 
 And what if he must die in sorrow ! 
 Who would not cherish dreams so sweet. 
 
 Though grief and pain may come to-morrow ! 
 
 VL 
 
 ^" 
 
 (46) 
 
 \ 
 
>?■ 
 
 ~7\ 
 
 -H' 
 
 |}cTKE^]\[^J)IEl£E33^DE^D.3{s^ 
 
 / 
 
 By Tom Hood. 
 
 HY do you wail, O Wind? why do you sigh, 
 
 O Sea? 
 Is it remorse for the ships gone down, with this 
 
 pitiless shore on the lea? 
 Moan, moan, moan 
 In the desolate night and lone! 
 Ah, what is the tale 
 You would fain unveil 
 In your wild weird cries to me? 
 
 A gleam of white on the shore!-'tis not the white sea-foam, 
 Nor wandering sea-bird's glimmering wing, for at night no 
 sea-birds roam. 
 
 'Tis one of the drowned — drowned 
 Of the hapless homeward-bound. 
 Last night, in the dark, 
 There perish'd a bark 
 On the bar; and 'twas bound for home! 
 
 A woman's cold white corpse-a woman so young and fair' 
 See, the cruel storm has entwined with weeds the wealth of 
 her weltering hair; 
 
 And the little, the little hand 
 Lies listless and limp on the sand. 
 They have bound her fast 
 To the wreck of a mast; 
 But the wild waves would not spare! 
 
 (47) 
 
 ■i" 
 
. 
 
 
 
 
 i'^ 
 
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 9> 
 
 J- 
 
 
 
 
 G 
 
 \ 
 
 / 
 
 
 
 } 
 
 48 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 
 } 
 
 
 ^ '*6 '^^^ 
 
 
 
 Look, how they bound and leap — cast themselves far o'er 
 
 
 
 
 the shore, 
 
 
 
 
 Striving to seize on their stranded prey, and carry it off once 
 
 
 
 
 more! 
 
 
 
 
 Or is it remorse or dread, 
 
 
 
 
 Or a longing to bury its dead, 
 
 
 
 
 That makes the surge 
 
 
 
 
 On the ocean-verge 
 
 
 
 
 So incessantly howl and roar? 
 
 
 
 
 Where do they list for her step? where do they look for her face? 
 
 
 
 
 Where are they waiting to see her once more in the old 
 
 
 
 
 familiar place? 
 
 
 
 
 Dead, dead, dead! 
 
 
 
 
 In vain will their tears be shed; 
 
 
 
 
 For not one of them all, 
 
 
 
 
 Alas will fall 
 
 
 
 
 On that bosom's marble grace! 
 
 
 
 
 Why do you sigh^ Sea? why do you wail, Wind? 
 
 
 
 
 Why do you murmur, in mournful tone, like things with a 
 
 
 
 
 human mind? 
 
 
 
 
 Wail, wail, wail. 
 
 
 
 
 Articulate ocean and gale! 
 
 
 
 
 For the loveliness rare. 
 
 
 
 
 So pallid and fair. 
 
 
 
 
 You slew in your fury blind! 
 
 
 
 
 Let us bear her away to a grave in the churchyard's calm 
 
 
 
 
 green breast. 
 
 
 
 
 Where the sound of the wind and waves in strife may never 
 
 
 
 
 her peace molest. 
 
 
 
 
 Though we cannot carve her name, 
 
 
 
 
 She will slumber all the same; 
 
 
 
 
 And the wild-rose bloom 
 
 
 
 
 Shall cover her tomb, 
 
 
 k 
 
 i 
 
 And she shall have perfect rest. 
 
 
 Q 
 
 / 
 
 ^ 
 
 Is 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ ^ ^ — 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
-K^^Ss^:^ 
 
*' Where the hedgeside roses blow, 
 Where the little daisies grow." 
 
•V 
 
 K- 
 
 / 
 
 ^wm^\s^%m:M<- 
 
 E does well who does his best; 
 Is he weary ? let him rest. 
 Brothers ! I have done my best, 
 I am weary — let me rest. 
 After toiling oft in vain, 
 Baffled, yet to struggle fain; 
 After toiling long, to gain 
 Little good with mickle pain, 
 Let me rest. But lay me low, 
 Where the hedgeside roses blow; 
 Where the little daisies grow, 
 Where the winds a-rnaying go; 
 Where the footpath rustics plod; 
 Where the breeze-bowed poplars nod; 
 Where the old woods worship God, 
 Where His pencil paints the sod; 
 Where the wedded throstle sings, 
 Where the young bird tries his wings; 
 Where the wailing plover sings. 
 Near the runlet's rushing springs ! 
 Where, at times, the tempest's roar. 
 Shaking distant sea and shore, 
 Still will rave old Barnesdale o'er. 
 To be heard by me no more! 
 There, beneath the breezy west. 
 Tired and thankful, let me rest. 
 Like a child that sleepeth best 
 On its mother's gentle breast. 
 
 (49) 
 
 Al 
 
 -a V 
 
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 ¥PE V gE]^3ITI YE V ¥hnW' 
 
 By Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 SENSITIVE Plant in a garden grew, 
 And the young winds fed it with silver dew; 
 And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, 
 And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 
 
 And the spring arose on the garden fair. 
 Like the spirit of love, felt everywhere ! 
 And each flower and herb on earth's dark 
 
 breast 
 Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 
 
 The Snowdrop, and then the Violet, 
 
 Arose from the ground with warm rain wet; 
 
 And their breath was mixed with fresh odor, 
 sent 
 
 From the turf, like the voice to the instru- 
 ment. 
 
 Then the pied Wind-flowers, and the Tulip tall, 
 And Narcissi, the fairest among them all— 
 Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, 
 Till they die of their own dear loveliness. 
 
 (50) 
 
 V 
 
And the naiad-like Lily of the Vale, 
 Whom youth makes so fair, and passions so pale, 
 That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
 Through their pavilions of tender green. 
 
 And the Hyacinth, purple, and white, and blue. 
 Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
 Of music so delicate, soft, and intense. 
 It was felt like an odor within the sense. 
 
 And the Rose, like a nymph to the bath addrest, 
 Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast. 
 Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
 The soul of her beauty and love lay bare. 
 
 And the wand-like Lily, which lifted up, 
 As a Maenad, its moonlight-colored cup, 
 Till the fiery star, which is its eye. 
 Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky. 
 
 And the Jessamine faint, and the sweet Tuberose, 
 The sweetest flower for scent that blows ! 
 And all rare blossoms, from every clime, 
 Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 
 
 And on the stream, whose inconstant bosom 
 Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom, 
 With golden and green light, and, starting through 
 Their heaven of many a tangled hue. 
 
 Broad Water-lilies lay tremulously, 
 
 And starry River-buds glimmered by. 
 
 And around them the soft stream did glide and dance 
 
 With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. 
 
^•V " ■ > "^ >^ 
 
 And the sinuous paths of lawn and moss, 
 Which led through the garden along and across- 
 Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, 
 Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees — 
 
 Were all paved with Daisies and delicate bells, 
 As fair as the fabulous Asphodels, 
 And flow'rets, drooping as day drooped too, 
 Fell int6 pavilions white, purple, and blue, 
 To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. 
 
 And from this undefiled paradise 
 The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes 
 Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
 Can first lull, and at last must awaken it). 
 
 When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, 
 As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
 Shone smiling to heaven, and every one 
 Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun; 
 
 For each one was interpenetrated 
 
 With the light^and the odor its neighbor shed. 
 
 Like young lovers, whom youth and love make dear, 
 
 Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. 
 
 But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit 
 Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root. 
 Received more than all, it loved more than ever. 
 Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver. 
 
 For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; 
 Radiance and odor are not its dower; 
 It loves, even like Love; its deep heart is full; 
 It desires what it has not — the beautiful ! 
 
 
>> 
 
 / 
 
 > 
 
 THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 
 
 53 
 
 ^Ifv^^ 
 
 -<r 
 
 The light winds which, from unsustaining 
 
 wings, 
 Shed the music of many murmurings; 
 The beams which dart from many a star 
 Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar; — 
 
 The plumed insects, swift and free, 
 Like golden boats on a sunny sea. 
 Laden with light and odor, which pass ■ 
 Over the gleam of the living grass; — 
 
 The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie 
 Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides 
 
 high, 
 Then wander like spirits among the spheres, 
 Each cloud faint with the fragrance it 
 
 bears; — 
 
 The quivering vapors of dim noon-tide, 
 Which, like a sea, o'er the warm earth glide, 
 In which every sound, and odor, and beam. 
 Move as reeds in a single stream; — 
 
 Each and all like ministering angels were. 
 For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear; 
 Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by, 
 Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. 
 
 And when evening descended from heaven above. 
 And the earth was all rest, and the air was all love'. 
 And delight, though less bright, was far more deep, 
 And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep; 
 
 And the beasts and the birds and the insects were drowned 
 In an ocean of dreams without a sound; 
 Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress, 
 The light sand which paves it — consciousness. 
 
 \ 
 
K" 
 
 54 
 
 > 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■Tf 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 ►jf:«l^^ 
 
 ■-€ 
 
 Only overhead the sweet nightingale 
 
 Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, 
 
 And snatches of its Elysian chant 
 
 Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant; 
 
 The Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
 Upgathered into the bosom of rest — 
 A sweet child, weary of its delight, 
 The feeblest, and yet the favorite, 
 Cradled within the embrace of night. 
 
 
 
 / 
 
 -M 
 
 ■i" 
 
K ■ / 
 
 THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 55 
 
 -^ ►jf-r-^^ 
 
 PART II. 
 
 There was a power in that sweet place — 
 An Eve in this Eden — a ruling grace, 
 Which to the flowers, did they waken or dream, 
 Was as God is to the starry scheme. 
 
 A lady — the wonder of her kind. 
 
 Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind, 
 
 Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and motion, 
 
 Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean — 
 
 Tended the garden from morn to even; 
 And the meteors of that sublunar heaven, 
 Like the lamps of the air when night walks forth, 
 Laughed round her footsteps up from the earth ! 
 
 She had no companion of mortal race. 
 But her tremulous breath and her flushing face 
 Told, whilst the morn kissed the sleep from her eyes, 
 That her dreams were less slumber than paradise. 
 
 As if some bright spirit for her sweet sake 
 
 Had deserted heaven while the stars were awake; 
 
 As if yet around her he lingering were. 
 
 Though the veil of daylight concealed him from her. 
 
 / 
 
J- 
 
 Her step seemed to pity the grass it prest; 
 You might hear by the heaving of her breast, 
 That the coming and the going of the wind 
 Brought pleasure there, and left passion behind. 
 
 And wherever her airy footstep trod, 
 Her trailing hair from the grassy sod 
 Erased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep, 
 Like a sunny storm o'er the dark green deep. 
 
 I doubt not the flower^ of that garden sweet 
 Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet; 
 I doubt not they felt the spirit that came 
 From her glowing fingers through all their frame. 
 
 She sprinkled bright water from the stream 
 On those that were faint with the sunny beam; 
 And out of the cups of the heavy flowers 
 She emptied the rain of the thunder-showers. 
 
 She lifted their heads with her tender hands. 
 And sustained them with rods and osier bands; 
 If the flowers had been her own infants, she 
 Could never have nursed them more tenderly. 
 
 And all killing insects and gnawing worms, 
 And things of obscene and unlovely forms 
 She bore in a basket of Indian woof 
 Into the rough woods far aloof — 
 
 In a basket of grasses and wild flowers full, 
 The freshest her gentle hands could pull. 
 For the poor banished insects, whose intent, 
 Although they did ill, was innocent. 
 
 k 
 
 :^ 
 
THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 57 
 
 -^ -:|-:4^- ^- 
 
 But the bee and the beam-like ephemeris, 
 Whose path is the Hghtning's, and the soft moths that kiss 
 The sweet hps of the flowers, and harm not, did she 
 Make her attendant angels be. 
 
 And many an antenatal tomb, 
 Where butterflies dream of the life to come, 
 She left clinging round the smooth and dark 
 Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 
 
 This fairest creature, from earliest spring, 
 Thus moved through the garden, ministering. 
 All the sweet season of the summer-tide. 
 And ere the first leaf looked brown — she died. 
 
 / 
 
 V 
 
-'y 
 
 58 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 ^I-fv^-*^ 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Three days the flowers of the garden fair, 
 Like stars when the moon is awakened, were; 
 Or the waves of the Baiffi, ere, luminous, 
 She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius. 
 
 And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
 Felt the sound of the funeral chant. 
 And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow, 
 And the sobs of the mourners, deep and low; 
 
 The weary sound and the heavy breath. 
 And the silent motions of passing death. 
 And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank, 
 Sent through the pores of the coffin plank. 
 
 The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass, 
 Were bright with tears as the crowds did pass; 
 From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone, 
 And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan. 
 
 The garden, once fair, became cold and foul. 
 Like the corpse of her who had been its soul; 
 Which at first was lovely, as if in sleep. 
 Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
 To make men tremble who never weep. 
 
 / 
 
 •r 
 
Swift summer into the autumn flowed, 
 And frost in the mist of the morning rode, 
 Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright, 
 Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 
 
 The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson snow. 
 Paved the turf and the moss below; 
 The Lilies were drooping, and white and wan, 
 Like the head and skin of a dying man. 
 
 And the Indian plants, of scent and hue. 
 The sweetest that ever were fed on dew. 
 Leaf after leaf, day by day, 
 Were massed into the common clay. 
 
 And the leaves, brown, yellow, and grey, and red. 
 And white with the whiteness of what is dead. 
 Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind passed; 
 Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. 
 
 And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds 
 Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds, 
 Till they clung round many a sweet flower's stem, 
 Which rotted into earth with them. 
 
 The water-blooms under the rivulet 
 Fell from the stalks on which they were set; 
 And the eddies drove them Tiere and there, 
 As the winds did those of the upper air. 
 
 Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks 
 Were bent and tangled across the walks: 
 And the leafless network of parasite bowers 
 Massed into ruin, and all sweet flowers. 
 
 y 
 
 \ 
 
 V 
 
Between the time of the wind and the snow, 
 
 All loathliest weeds began to grow, 
 
 Whose coarse leaves were splashed with many a speck, 
 
 Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's back. 
 
 The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid, 
 Wept, and the tears within each lid 
 Of its folded leaves which together grew. 
 Were changed to a bhght of frozen glue. 
 
 For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon 
 By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn; 
 The sap shrank to the root through every pore. 
 As blood to a heart that will beat no more. 
 
 For winter came: the wind was his whip. 
 One choppy finger was on his lip; 
 He had torn the cataracts from the hills. 
 And they clanked at his girdle like manacles. 
 
 His breath was a chain, which, without a sound. 
 The earth, and the air, and the water bound; 
 He came, fiercely driven in his chariot throne 
 By the tenfold blasts of the Arctic zone. 
 
 Then the weeds, which were forms of living death. 
 Fled from the frosts to the earth beneath; 
 Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
 Was but like the vanishing of a ghost ! 
 
 And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant 
 The moles and the dormice died for want; 
 And the birds dropped stiff from the frozen air, 
 And were caught in the branches naked and bare. 
 
 ■^ 
 
THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 
 
 / 
 
 6i 
 
 > 
 
 -jf-I-iJ^ 
 
 ■<r 
 
 First there came down a thawing rain, 
 And its dull drops froze on the boughs again; 
 Then there steamed up a freezing dew, 
 Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew; 
 
 And a northern whirlwind, wandering about 
 Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out, 
 Shook the boughs thus laden and heavy and stiff, 
 And snapped them off with his rigid griff. 
 
 When winter had gone and spring came back, 
 
 The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck; 
 
 But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and darnels, 
 
 Rose, like the dead, from their buried charnels. 
 
 /■ 
 
Q k^ 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
 Which within its boughs like a spirit sat, 
 Ere its outward form had known decay, 
 Now felt this change, I cannot say. 
 
 Whether that lady's gentle mind, 
 No longer with the form combined, 
 Which scattered love, as stars do light, 
 Found sadness where it left delight, 
 
 I dare not guess; but in this life 
 Of error, ignorance, and strife. 
 Where nothing is, but all things seen, 
 And we the shadows of the dream. 
 
 It is a modest creed, and yet 
 Pleasant, if one considers it, 
 To own that death itself must be, 
 Like all the rest, a mockery. 
 
 That garden sweet, that lady fair, 
 And all sweet shapes and odors there, 
 In truth, have never passed away; 
 'Tis we, 'tis ours are changed — not they. 
 
 For love, and beauty, and delight. 
 There is no death, nor change; their might 
 Exceeds our organs, which endure 
 No light, being themselves obscure. 
 
 A 
 
K" 
 
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 ■^^ 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 m 
 
 VL 
 
 'IRED I am, I'll go to rest, 
 Safe folded in my little nest, 
 Heavenly Father, may Thine eye 
 Above my bed watch very nigh. 
 
 Forgive the wrong this day I've done 
 For Jesus' sake. Thine only Son; 
 And may His blood, once shed for me, 
 From all that's sinful make me free. ' 
 
 (63) 
 
 -M 
 
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 Iv 
 
 64 
 
 > 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 ^^v4-> 
 
 Bless father, mother, brother, dear- 
 Each whom I love both far and near; 
 Bless all Thy children, great and small, 
 I pray Thee, Father of us all. 
 
 To wounded hearts, and eyes that weep, 
 Give rest and peace and gentle sleep — 
 And o'er the gloom of heathen skies 
 May soon " The Star of Bethlehem rise." 
 
 vrmws'tximi'ma 
 
 / 
 
 "7" 
 
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 -Mcp0i^^Tmg.*<- 
 
 By Thomas Babington Macaulay. 
 
 ^ARS PORSENA of Clusium 
 
 By the Nine Gods he swore 
 That the great house of Tarquin 
 
 Should suffer wrong no more. 
 By the Nine Gods he swore it, 
 
 And named a trysting day, 
 And bade his messengers ride forth, 
 
 East and west and south and north. 
 To summon his array. 
 
 East and west and south and north 
 
 The messengers ride fast, 
 And tower and town and cottage 
 
 Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
 Shame on the false Etruscan 
 
 Who lingers in his home 
 When Porsena of Clusium 
 
 Is on the march for Rome. 
 
 The horsemen and the footmen 
 
 Are pouring in amain. 
 From many a stately market-place; 
 
 From many a fruitful plain; 
 
 (65) 
 
 \ 
 
J^ 
 
 -A 
 
 66 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 _^ ►ifH : - '^ 
 
 From many a lonely hamlet, 
 
 Which, hid by beech and pine, 
 
 Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest 
 Of purple Apennine; 
 
 From lordly Volaterrse, 
 
 Where scowls the far-famed hold 
 Piled by the hands of giants 
 
 For godlike kings of old; 
 From seagirt Populonia, 
 
 Whose sentinels descry 
 Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops 
 
 Fringing the southern sky; 
 
 From the proud mart of Pisa, 
 
 Queen of the western waves, 
 Where ride Massilia's triremes 
 
 Heavy with fair-haired slaves; 
 From where sweet Clanis wanders 
 
 Through corn and vines and flowers; 
 From where Cortona lifts to heaven 
 
 Her diadem of towers. 
 
 Tall are the oaks whose acorns 
 
 Drop in dark Auser's rill; 
 Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 
 
 Of the Ciminian hill; 
 Beyond all streams Clitumnus 
 
 Is to the herdsman dear; 
 Best of all pools for fowler loves 
 
 The great Volsinian mere. 
 
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 61 
 
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 HORATIUS. 
 
 67 
 
 » 
 
 
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 ^Ni 
 
 
 
 
 But now no stroke of woodman 
 
 
 
 
 
 Is heard by Auser's rill; 
 
 
 
 
 
 No hunter tracks the stag's green path 
 
 
 
 
 
 Up the Ciminian hill; 
 
 
 
 
 
 Unwatched along Clitumnus 
 
 
 
 
 
 Gazes the milk-white steer; 
 
 
 
 
 
 Unharmed the water-fowl may dip 
 
 
 
 
 
 In the Volsinian mere. 
 
 
 
 
 
 The harvests of Arretium, 
 
 
 
 
 
 This year, old men shall reap; 
 
 
 
 
 
 This year, young boys in Umbro 
 
 
 
 
 
 Shall plunge the struggling sheep; 
 
 
 
 
 
 And in the vats of Luna, 
 
 
 
 
 
 This year, the must shall foam 
 
 
 
 
 
 Round the white feet of laughing girls, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Whose sires have marched to Rome. 
 
 
 
 
 
 There be thirty chosen prophets, 
 
 
 
 
 
 The wisest of the land. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Who alway by Lars Porsena 
 
 
 
 
 
 Both morn and evening stand: 
 
 
 
 
 
 Evening and morn the Thirty 
 
 
 
 
 
 Have turned the verses o'er. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Traced from the right on linen white 
 
 
 
 
 
 By mighty seers of yore. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And with one voice the Thirty 
 
 
 
 
 
 Have their glad answer given; 
 
 
 
 
 
 " Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 Go forth, beloved of Heaven; 
 
 
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 68 
 
 > 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS, 
 
 ►^f-:«f^< 
 
 Go, and return in glory 
 
 To Clusium's royal dome; 
 
 And hang round Nurscia's altars 
 The golden shields of Rome." 
 
 And now hath every city 
 
 Sent up her tale of men; 
 The foot are fourscore thousand, 
 
 The horse are thousands ten. 
 Before the gates of Sutrium 
 
 Is met the great array, 
 A proud man was Lars Porsena 
 
 Upon the trysting day. 
 
 For all the Etruscan armies 
 
 Were ranged beneath his eye, 
 And many a banished Roman 
 
 And many a stout ally, 
 And with a mighty following 
 
 To join the muster came 
 T)ie Tusculan Mamilius, 
 
 Prince of the Latin name. 
 
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 VL 
 
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 But by the yellow Tiber 
 
 Was tumult and affright: 
 From all the spacious champaign 
 
 To Rome men took their flight. 
 A mile around the city, 
 
 The throng stopped up the ways; 
 A fearful sight it was to see 
 
 Through two long nights and days. 
 
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 HORATIUS. 
 
 69 
 
 » 
 
 
 '>r '*6'-. "^*' 
 
 Si 
 
 
 
 
 For aged folk on crutches, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And women great with child, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And mothers sobbing over babes 
 
 
 
 
 
 That clung to them and smiled. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And sick men borne in litters 
 
 
 
 
 
 * High on the necks of slaves, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And troops of sun-burned husbandmen 
 
 
 
 
 
 With reaping-hooks and staves. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And droves of m.ules and asses 
 
 
 
 
 
 leaden with skins of wine, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And endless herds of kine, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And endless trains of wagons 
 
 
 
 
 
 That cracked beneath the weight 
 
 
 
 
 
 Of corn-sacks and of household goods. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Choked every roaring gate. 
 
 Now from the rock Tarpeian, 
 
 Could the wan burghers spy 
 .The line of blazing villages 
 
 Red in the midnight sky. 
 The Fathers of the City, 
 
 They sat all night and day, 
 For every hour some horseman came 
 
 With tidings of dismay. 
 
 To eastward and to westward 
 
 Have spread the Tuscan bands; 
 Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 In Crustumerium stands. 
 
 
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 ^ 
 
 V 
 
 to 
 
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 -• (3 
 
 V^ 
 
J- 
 
 Verbenna down to Ostia 
 
 Hath wasted all the plain; 
 
 Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 
 And the stout guards are slain. 
 
 I wis, in all the Senate, 
 
 There was no heart so bold. 
 But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 
 
 When that ill news was told. 
 Forthwith up rose the Consul, 
 
 Up rose the Fathers all; 
 In haste they girded up their gowns, 
 
 And hied them to the wall. 
 
 They held a council standing 
 
 Before the River-gate; 
 Short time was there, ye well may guess, 
 
 For musing or debate. 
 Out spake the Consul roundly: 
 
 " The bridge must straight go down; 
 For, since Janiculum is lost, 
 
 Naught else can save the town. 
 
 Just then a scout came flying, 
 
 All wild with haste and fear: 
 " To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul; 
 
 Lars Porsena is here." 
 On the low hills to westward 
 
 The Consul fixed his eye, 
 And saw the swarthy storm of dust 
 
 Rise fast along the sky. 
 
 -V 
 
HORATIUS. 71 
 
 'ih'.-i^^ 
 
 And nearer fast and nearer 
 
 Doth the red whirlwind come; 
 And louder still, and still more loud 
 From underneath that rolling cloud, 
 Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud. 
 
 The trampling, and the hum. 
 And plainly and more plainly 
 
 Now through the gloom appears, 
 Far to the left and far to the right, 
 In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
 The long array of helmets bright, 
 
 The long .array of spears. 
 
 And plainly and more plainly. 
 
 Above that glimmering line. 
 Now might ye see the banners 
 
 Of twelve fair cities shine; 
 But the banner of proud Clusium 
 
 Was highest of them all, 
 The terror of the Umbrian, 
 
 The terror of the Gaul. 
 
 And plainly and more plainly 
 
 Now might the burghers know, 
 By port and vest, by horse and crest. 
 
 Each warlike Lucomo. 
 There Cilnius of Arretium 
 
 On his fleet roan was seen; 
 And Astur of the four-fold shield. 
 Girt with the brand none else may wield, 
 Tolumnius with the belt of gold, 
 And dark Verbenna from the hold 
 
 By reedy Thrasymene. 
 
 / 
 
Fast by the royal standard, 
 
 O'erlooking all the war, 
 Lars Porsena of Clusium 
 
 Sat in his ivory car. 
 By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 
 
 Prince of the Latin name; 
 And by the left false Sextus, 
 
 That wrought the deed of shame. 
 
 But when the face of Sextus 
 
 Was seen among the foes 
 A yell that rent the firmament 
 
 From all the town arose. 
 On the house-tops was no woman 
 
 But spat towards him and hissed; 
 No child but screamed out curses, 
 
 And shook its little fist. 
 
 But the Consul's brow was sad, 
 
 And the Consul's speech was low, 
 And darkly looked he at the wall, 
 
 And darkly at the foe. ' 
 " Their van will be upon us 
 
 Before the bridge goes down; 
 And if they once may win the bridge, 
 
 What hope to save the town ? " 
 
 Then out spake brave Horatius, 
 The Captain of the gate: 
 
 " To every man upon this earth 
 Death cometh soon or late. 
 
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 " And for the tender mother 
 
 
 
 
 
 . Who dandled him to rest, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And for the wife who nurses 
 
 
 
 
 
 His baby at her breast, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And for the holy maidens 
 
 
 
 
 
 Who feed the eternal flame. 
 
 
 
 
 
 To save them from false Sextus 
 
 
 
 
 
 That wrought the deed of shame ? 
 
 
 
 
 
 " Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 
 
 
 
 
 
 With all the speed ye may; 
 
 
 
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 I, with two more to help me, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Will hold the foe in play. 
 
 
 
 
 
 In yon strait path a thousand 
 
 
 
 
 
 May well be stopped by three. 
 
 
 
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 Now who will stand on either hand, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And keep the bridge with me ? " 
 
 
 
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 Then out spake Spurius Lartius 
 
 
 
 
 
 A Ramnian proud was he: 
 
 
 
 
 
 " Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And keep the bridge with thee." 
 
 
 
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 And out spake strong Herminius; 
 
 Of Titian blood was he: 
 "I will abide on thy left side. 
 
 
 
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 And keep the bridge with thee." 
 
 
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 " Horatius," quoth the Consul, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 "As thou sayest, so let it be." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 And straight against that great array- 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Forth went the dauntless Three. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 For Romans in Rome's quarrel 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Spared neither land nor gold, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Then none was for a party; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Then all were for the state: 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Then the great man helped the poor, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 And the poor man loved the great: 
 
 
 
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 Then lands were fairly portioned: 
 
 
 
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 Then spoils were fairly sold: 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The Romans were like brothers 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 Now Roman is to Roman 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 More hateful than a foe, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 And the Tribunes beard the high, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 And the Fathers grind the low. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 As we wax hot in faction, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 In battle we wax cold: 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Wherefore men fight not as they fought 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Now while the Three were tightening 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Their harness on their backs, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The Consul was the foremost man 
 
 
 
 
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 To take in hand an axe: 
 
 
 
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 And Fathers mixed with Commons 
 
 
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 Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And smote upon the planks above, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And loosed the props below. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Right glorious to behold, 
 
 
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 Came flashing back the noonday light, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Rank behind rank, like surges bright 
 
 
 
 
 
 Of a broad sea of gold. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Four hundred trumpets sounded 
 
 
 
 
 
 A peal of warlike glee. 
 
 
 
 
 
 As that great host, with measured tread, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, 
 
 
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 Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, 
 
 
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 Where stood the dauntless Three. 
 
 
 
 
 
 The Three stood calm and silent 
 
 
 
 
 
 And looked upon the foes. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And a great shout of laughter 
 
 
 
 
 
 From all the vanguard rose: 
 
 
 
 
 
 And forth three chiefs came spurring 
 
 
 
 
 
 Before that deep array; 
 
 
 
 
 
 To earth they sprang, their swords they drew 
 
 
 
 
 
 And lifted high their shields, and flew 
 
 
 
 
 
 To win the narrow way; 
 
 
 
 
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 Lord of the Hill of Vines; 
 
 
 
 
 
 And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 
 
 
 
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 And Plcus, long to Clusium 
 
 Vassal in peace and war, 
 Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 
 From that gray crag where, girt with towers, 
 The fortress of Nequinum lowers 
 
 O'er the pale waves of Nar. 
 
 Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus 
 
 Into the stream beneath: 
 Herminius struck at Seius, 
 
 And clove him to the teeth: 
 At Picus brave Horatius 
 
 Darted one fiery thrust; 
 And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 
 
 Clashed in the bloody dust. 
 
 Then Ocnus of Falerii 
 
 Rushed on the Roman Three; 
 And Lausulus of Urgo, 
 
 The rover of the sea; 
 And Aruns of Volsinium, 
 
 Who slew the great wild boar, 
 The great wild boar that had his den 
 Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen. 
 And wasted fields, and slaughtered men. 
 
 Along Albinia's shore. 
 
 Herminius smote down Aruns: 
 
 Lartius laid Ocnus low: 
 Right to the heart of Lausulus 
 
 
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 " Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate ! 
 
 
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 No more, aghast and pale, 
 
 
 
 
 
 From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 
 
 
 
 
 
 The track of thy destroying bark. 
 
 
 ! 
 
 
 
 No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
 
 
 
 
 
 To woods and caverns when they spy 
 
 
 
 
 
 Thy thrice accursed sail." 
 
 
 
 
 
 But now no sound of laughter 
 
 
 
 
 
 Was heard among the foes. 
 
 
 
 
 
 A wild and wrathful clamour 
 
 
 
 
 
 From all the vanguard rose. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Six spears' lengths from the entrance 
 
 
 
 
 
 Halted that deep array. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And for a space no man came forth 
 
 
 
 
 
 To win the narrow way. 
 
 
 
 
 
 But hark ! the cry is Astur: 
 
 
 
 
 
 And lo ! the ranks divide; 
 
 
 
 
 
 And the great Lord of Luna 
 
 
 
 
 
 Comes with his stately stride. 
 
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 Upon his ample shoulders 
 
 
 
 
 
 Clangs loud the four-fold shield. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And in his hand he shakes the brand 
 
 
 
 
 
 Which none but he can wield. 
 
 
 
 
 
 He smiled on those bold Romans 
 
 
 
 
 
 A smile serene and high; 
 
 
 
 
 
 He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 
 
 
 
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 And scorn was in his eye. 
 
 
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 Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter 
 Stand savagely at bay: 
 
 But will ye dare to follow, 
 
 If Astur clears the way ? " 
 
 
 
 
 
 Then, whirling up his broadsword 
 
 With both hands to the height, 
 He rushed against Horatius, 
 
 And smote with all his might. 
 With shield and blade Horatius 
 
 Right deftly turned the blow. 
 The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; 
 It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: 
 The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 
 
 To see the red blood flow. 
 
 
 
 
 
 He reeled, and on Herminius 
 
 He leaned one breathing-space; 
 Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, 
 
 Sprang right at Astur's face. 
 Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, 
 
 So fierce a thrust he sped, 
 The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 
 
 Behind the Tuscan's head. 
 
 
 
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 And the great Lord of Luna 
 Fell at that deadly stroke, 
 
 As falls on Mount Alvernus 
 A thunder-smitten oak. 
 
 
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 Far o'er the crashing forest 
 
 The giant arms lie spread; 
 And the pale augurs, muttering low, 
 
 79 
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 Gaze on the blasted head. 
 
 
 
 
 
 On Astur's throat Horatius 
 
 
 
 
 
 Right firmly pressed his heel, 
 And thrice and four times tugged amain 
 
 Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
 "And see," he cried, "the welcome 
 
 Fair guests, that waits you here ! 
 What noble Lucomo comes next, 
 
 To taste our Roman cheer ? " 
 
 But at this haughty challenge 
 
 A sullen murmur ran. 
 Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, 
 
 Along that glittering van. 
 There lacked not men of prowess. 
 
 Nor men of lordly race; 
 For all Etruria's noblest 
 
 Were round the fatal place. 
 
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 But all Etruria's noblest 
 
 Felt their hearts sink to see 
 On the earth the bloody corpses. 
 
 In the path the dauntless Three; 
 And, from the ghastly entrance 
 
 Where those bold Romans stood, 
 
 
 
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 All shrank, like boys who unaware, 
 
 
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 Ranging the woods to start a hare, 
 Come to the mouth of the dark lair 
 Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 
 Lies amidst bones and blood. 
 
 Was none who would be foremost 
 
 To lead such dire attack; 
 But those behind cried " Forward ! " 
 
 And those before cried " Back ! " 
 And backward now and forward 
 
 Wavers the deep array; 
 And on the tossing sea of steel, 
 To and fro the standards reel; 
 And the victorious trumpet's peal 
 
 Dies fitfully away. 
 
 Yet one man for one moment 
 
 Strode out before the crowd; 
 Well known was he to all the Three, 
 
 As they gave him greeting loud. 
 " Now welcome, welcome Sextus ! 
 
 Now welcome to thy home ! 
 Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? 
 
 Here lies the road to Rome." 
 
 Thrice looked he at the city; 
 
 Thrice looked he at the dead; 
 And thrice came on in fury. 
 
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 And, white with fear and hatred, 
 Scowled at the narrow way 
 
 Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 
 The bravest Tuscans lay. 
 
 But meanwhile axe and lever 
 Have manfully been pHed, 
 
 And now the bridge hangs tottering 
 Above the boiling tide. 
 
 " Come back, come back, Horatius ! " 
 Loud cried the Fathers all. 
 
 " Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! 
 Back, ere the ruin fall ! " 
 
 Back darted Spurius Lartius; 
 
 Herminius darted back: 
 And, as they passed, beneath their feet 
 
 They felt the timbers crack. 
 But when they turned their faces. 
 
 And on the farther shore 
 Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 
 
 They would have crossed once more; 
 
 But with a crash like thunder 
 
 Fell every loosened beam, 
 And; like a dam, the mighty wreck 
 
 Lay right athwart the stream; 
 And a long shout of triumph 
 
 Rose from the walls of Rome, 
 As to the highest turret-tops 
 
 Was splashed the yellow foam. 
 
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 And, like a horse unbroken 
 
 When first he feels the rein, 
 The furious river struggled hard, 
 
 And tossed his tawny mane. 
 And burst the curb, and bounded, 
 
 Rejoicing to be free. 
 And whirling down, in fierce career 
 Battlement, and plank, and pier. 
 
 Rushed headlong to the sea. 
 
 Alone stood brave Horatius, 
 
 But constant still in mind; 
 Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 
 
 And the broad flood behind. 
 " Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, 
 
 With a smile on his pale face. 
 *'Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 
 
 " Now yield thee to our grace." 
 
 Round turned he, as not deigning 
 
 Those craven ranks to see; 
 Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 
 
 To Sextus naught •spake he: 
 But he saw on Palatinus 
 
 The white porch of his home; 
 And he spake to the noble river 
 
 That rolls by the towers of Rome. 
 
 " Oh, Tiber ! Father Tiber ! 
 
 To whom the Romans pray, 
 A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. 
 
 Take thou in charge this day ! " 
 
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 So he spake, and speaking sheathed 
 
 
 
 
 
 The good sword by his side, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And with his harness on his back, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Plunged headlong in the tide. ^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 No sound of joy or sorrow 
 
 
 
 
 
 Was heard from either bank; 
 
 
 
 
 
 But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
 
 
 
 
 
 With parted lips and straining eyes. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Stood gazing where he sank; 
 
 
 
 
 
 And when above the surges 
 
 
 
 
 
 They saw his crest appear, 
 
 
 
 
 
 All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And even the ranks of Tuscany 
 
 
 
 
 
 Could scarce forbear to cheer. 
 
 
 
 
 
 But fiercely ran the current. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Swollen high by months of rain: 
 
 
 
 
 
 And fast his blood was flowing; 
 
 
 
 
 
 And he was sore in pain, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And heavy with his armour, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And spent with changing blows: 
 
 
 
 
 
 And oft they thought him sinking, 
 
 
 
 
 
 But still again he rose. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Never, I ween, did swimmer. 
 
 
 
 
 
 In such an evil case, 
 
 
 
 
 
 , Struggle through such a raging flood 
 
 
 
 
 
 Safe to the landing-place: 
 
 
 
 
 
 But his limbs were borne up bravely 
 
 
 
 
 
 By the brave heart within. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And our good Father Tiber 
 
 
 
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 Bare bravely up his chin. 
 
 
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 "Curse on hin>! " quoth false Sextus: 
 
 
 
 
 
 " Will not the villain drown ? 
 
 
 
 
 
 But for this stay, ere close of day 
 
 
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 We should have sacked the town ! " 
 
 
 
 
 
 " Heaven help him ! " quoth Lars Porsena, 
 
 
 
 
 
 "And bring him safe to shore; 
 
 
 
 
 
 For such a gallant feat of arms 
 
 
 
 
 
 Was never seen before." 
 
 
 
 
 
 And now he feels the bottom; 
 
 
 
 
 
 Now on dry earth he stands; 
 
 
 
 
 
 Now round him throng the Fathers 
 
 
 
 
 
 , To press his gory hands; 
 
 
 
 
 
 And now, with shouts and clapping, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And noise of weeping loud, 
 
 
 
 
 
 He enters through the River-Gate 
 
 
 
 
 
 Borne by the joyous crowd. 
 
 
 
 
 
 They gave him of the corn-land 
 
 
 
 
 
 That was of public right 
 As much as two strong oxen 
 
 Could plough from morn till night; 
 And they made a molten image, 
 
 And set it up on high, 
 And there it stands unto this day 
 
 To witness if I lie. 
 
 It stands in the Comitium, 
 
 Plain for all folk to see; 
 Horatius in his harness. 
 
 
 
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 Halting upon one knee: 
 
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 And underneath is written, 
 
 In letters all of gold, 
 How valiantly he kept the bridge 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 And still his name sounds stirring 
 Unto the men of Rome, 
 
 
 
 
 As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 
 To charge the Volscian home; 
 
 And wives still pray to Juno 
 
 For boys with hearts as bold 
 
 As his who kept the bridge so well 
 in the brave days of old. 
 
 And in the nights of winter. 
 
 When the cold north winds blow, 
 And the long howling of the wolves 
 
 Is heard amidst the snow; 
 
 
 
 
 When round the lonely cottage 
 
 
 
 
 Roars loud the tempest's din; 
 And the good logs of Algidus 
 Roar louder yet within; 
 
 When the oldest cask is opened, 
 And the largest lamp is lit; 
 
 When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 
 And the kid turns on the spit; 
 
 When young and old in circle 
 
 Around the firebrands close; . 
 
 When the girls are weaving baskets. 
 
 
 
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 And the lads are shaping bows; 
 
 
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 When the goodman mends his armour, 
 
 And trims his hehiiet's plume; 
 When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 
 
 Goes flashing through the loom; 
 With weeping and with laughter . 
 
 Still is the story told, 
 How well Horatius kept the bridge 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
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 By Hon. Mrs. Charlj:s Hobart. 
 
 T was a time of sadness, and my heart, 
 Although it knew and loved the better part, 
 Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, 
 ^ And all the needful discipline of life. 
 
 And while I thought on these, as given to me- 
 My trial tests of faith and love to be — 
 It seemed as if I never could be sure 
 That faithful to the end I should endure. 
 
 And thus, no longer trusting to His might 
 Who says, " We walk by faith, and not by sight," 
 Doubting, and almost yielding to despair, 
 The thought arose — My cross I cannot bear: 
 
 / 
 
 Far heavier its weight must surely be 
 Than those of others which I daily see. 
 Oh ! if I might another burden choose, 
 Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose. 
 
 (87) 
 
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 A solemn silence reigned on all around — 
 E'en Nature's voices uttered not a sound; 
 The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell, 
 And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. 
 
 A moment's pause — and then a heavenly light 
 Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight; 
 Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere, 
 And angels' music thrilled the balmy air. 
 
 Then One, more fair than all the rest to see — 
 One to whom all the others bowed the knee — 
 Came gently to me as I trembling lay, 
 And " Follow me ! " He said; " I am the Way." 
 
 Then, speaking thus, He led me far above, 
 And there, beneath a canopy of love. 
 Crosses of divers shape and size were seen, 
 Larger and smaller than my own had been. 
 
 And one there was, most beauteous to behold, 
 A little one, with jewels set in gold. 
 Ah ! this, methought, I can with comfort wear, 
 For it will be an easy one to bear: 
 
 And so the little cross I quickly took; 
 But, all at once, my frame beneath it shook. 
 The sparkling jewels fair were they to see, 
 But far too heavy was their 7veight for me. 
 
 " This may not be," I cried, and looked again, 
 To see if there was any here could ease my pain; 
 But, one by one, I passed them slowly by. 
 Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. 
 
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 89 
 
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 Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined, 
 And grace and beauty seemed in it combined, 
 Wondering, I gazed; and still I wondered more 
 To think so many should have passed it o'er. 
 
 But oh ! that form so beautiful to see 
 Soon made its hidden sorj-ows known to me; 
 Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair ! 
 Sorrowing, I said: "This cross I may not bear." 
 
 And so it was with each and all around — 
 
 Not one to suit my need could there be found; 
 
 A¥eeping, I laid each heavy burden down, 
 
 As my Guide gently said: " No cross, no crown." 
 
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 At length, to Him I raised my saddened heart: 
 He knew its sorrows, bid its doubts depart. 
 " Be not afraid," He said, " but trust in me — 
 My perfect love shall now be shown to thee." 
 
 
 
 
 
 And then, with lightened eyes and willing feet, 
 Again I turned, my earthly cross to meet. 
 With forward footsteps, turning not aside. 
 For fear some hidden evil might betide; 
 
 
 
 
 
 And there — in the prepared, appointed way, 
 Listening to hear, and ready to obey — 
 A cross I quickly found of plainest form. 
 With only words of love inscribed thereon. 
 
 
 
 
 
 With thankfulness I raised it from the rest, 
 And joyfully acknowledged it the best — 
 The only one of all the many there 
 That I could feel was good for'me to bear. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And, while I thus my chosen one confess 
 I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest; 
 And, as I bent, my burden to sustain, 
 I recognized my own old cross again. 
 
 
 
 
 
 But oh ! how different did it seem to be 
 Now I had learned its preciousness to see ! 
 No longer could I unbelieving say. 
 Perhaps another is a better way. 
 
 
 
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 Ah no ! henceforth my own desire shall be, 
 That He who knows me best should choose forme, 
 And so, whate'er His love sees good to send, 
 I'll trust it's best, because He knows the end. 
 
 
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 By Mrs. C. F. Alexander, 
 
 Y Nebo's lonely mountain. 
 
 On this side Jordan's wave, 
 In a vale in the land of Moab, 
 
 There lies a lonely grave; 
 And no man dug that sepulchre, 
 
 And no man saw it e'er, 
 For the " Sons of God " upturned the sod, 
 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the gra,ndest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on earth; 
 But no man heard the trampling, 
 
 Or saw the train go forth. 
 Noiselessly as the day-light 
 
 Comes when the night is done. 
 And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
 
 Grows into the great sun — 
 
 Noiselessly as the spring-time 
 
 Her crown of verdure weaves 
 And all the trees on all the hills 
 
 Open their thousand leaves; 
 So, without sound of music. 
 
 Or voice of them that wept, 
 Silently down from the mountain's crown 
 
 The great procession swept. 
 
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 Perchance the bald old eagle, 
 
 
 
 
 
 On gray Beth-peor's height, 
 Out of his rocky eyry 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight; 
 
 
 
 
 
 Perchance the lion stalking 
 
 
 
 
 
 Still shuns that hallowed spot: 
 
 
 
 
 
 For beast and bird have seen and heard 
 
 
 
 
 
 That which man knoweth not. 
 
 
 
 
 
 But when the warrior dieth, 
 
 
 
 
 
 His comrades in the war, 
 
 
 
 
 
 With arms reversed, and mufifled drum, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Follow the funeral car. 
 
 
 
 
 
 They show the banners taken, 
 
 
 
 
 
 They tell his battles won, 
 And after him lead his masterless steed, 
 
 
 
 
 
 While peals the minute-gun. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land 
 
 Men lay the sage to rest. 
 And give the bard an honored place, 
 
 With costly marble drest — 
 In the great minster transept, 
 
 Where lights like glories fall. 
 And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings 
 
 Along the emblazoned wall. 
 
 This was the bravest warrior 
 That ever buckled sword; 
 
 
 
 < 
 
 
 This, the most gifted poet 
 
 That ever breathed a word; 
 
 
 ► 
 
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 THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 93 
 
 » — ►Jfv4^- ^' - 
 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Traced with his golden pen, 
 On the deathless page, truths half so sage 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 
 And had he not high honor ? 
 
 The hill-side for his pall, 
 To lie in state while angels wait, 
 
 With stars for tapers tall. 
 And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes 
 
 Over his bier to wave, 
 And God's own hand, in that lonely land, 
 
 To lay him in the grave ! 
 
 In that deep grave without a name. 
 
 Whence his uncoffined clay 
 Shall break again — most wondrous thought — 
 
 Before the Judgment day, 
 And stand, with glory wrapped around. 
 
 On the hills he never trod, 
 And speak of the strife that won our life 
 
 With the Incarnate Son of God. 
 
 O lonely tomb in Moab's land ! 
 
 O dark Beth-peor hill ! 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours. 
 
 And teach them to be still. 
 God hath His mysteries of grace, 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell; 
 And hides them deep, like the secret sleep 
 
 Of him He loved so well. 
 
 Jk ^1 
 
K" 
 
 •Hlcg@N6.3l£^ 
 
 BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 HERE 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 willow. 
 
 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. 
 
 Where shall the traitor rest. 
 
 He, the deceiver. 
 Who could win maiden's breast, 
 
 Ruin, and leave her ? 
 
 U 
 
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 (94) 
 
 A^ 
 
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" There through tlie summer day, 
 Cool streams are laviii". " 
 
^ 
 
 > 
 
 SONG. 
 
 ^Jfv4^^ 
 
 95 
 
 < 
 
 In the lost battle, 
 
 Borne down by the flying, 
 Where mingles war's rattles 
 
 With groans of the dying. 
 
 Her wing shall the eagle flap 
 
 O'er the false-hearted; 
 His warm blood the wolf, shall lap, 
 
 Ere life be parted. 
 Shame and dishonor sit 
 
 By his grave ever; 
 Blessing shall hallow it, — 
 
 Never, O never. 
 
 ^ 
 
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 JM 
 
\ 
 
 -Mc]\[7ITa^EIiLE.3|£<- 
 
 ^ 
 
 / 
 
 ^^3' Y goddess romped at school, 
 Ji.iHr Fetched April's boldest 
 
 f Fetched April's boldest violet; 
 
 l^i^^y^'i^ Her crown was her brown hair 
 
 With diamonds of its own gloss set. 
 
 I envied not the Greek; 
 
 Callisto, lo, Proserpine, 
 From all their ills were saved 
 
 Had Reus and Dis her beauty seen. 
 
 Fine dames forgot their airs. 
 
 And when her step led through the mart 
 Traffic forebore its greed; 
 
 Yet simpleness was all her art. 
 
 For beauty use her rule. 
 
 Her language, tone, and gentle ways; 
 Her grace showed best in tasks 
 
 She loved; and peace filled all the days. 
 
 A maid, when last we met, 
 
 A woman's form is now her earthly dress; 
 O Time and World, I pray, 
 
 Ye have not changed her simpleness ! 
 
 / 
 
 (96) 
 
 \ 
 
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 ~7\ 
 
 -^^W^WWW^^WhWM^ 
 
 BY CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 HEN first thou earnest, gently, shy, and fond. 
 My eldest born, first hope, and dearest 
 treasure, 
 My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
 
 All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; 
 Nor thought that any love again might be 
 So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 
 
 Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, 
 And natural piety that leaned, to heaven; 
 
 Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears. 
 Yet patient to rebuke when justly given; 
 
 Obedient, easy to be reconciled. 
 
 And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my child ! 
 
 Not willing to be left— still by my side. 
 
 Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; 
 Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide 
 
 Through the dark room where I was sadly lying; 
 Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
 Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek. 
 
 (97) 
 
 ^ 
 
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 98 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 <-- 
 
 O boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
 
 Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, 
 
 No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade, 
 And bending weakly to the thunder-shower; 
 
 Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, 
 
 And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 
 
 Then thou, my merry love, — bold in thy glee, 
 
 Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 
 
 With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, — 
 
 Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, 
 
 Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth. 
 
 Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! 
 
 Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy. 
 
 Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; 
 
 Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, 
 
 And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; 
 
 And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
 
 Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. 
 
 And thine was many an art to win and bless, 
 
 The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; 
 
 The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress. 
 
 The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! 
 
 Again my heart a new affection found. 
 
 But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. 
 
 At length thou camest, — thou, the last and least. 
 
 Nicknamed "the Emperor" by thy laughing brothers, 
 
 Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast. 
 
 And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others, 
 
 Mingling with every playful infant wile 
 
 A mimic majesty that made us smile. 
 
 ^" 
 
J- 
 
 K 
 
 THE MOTHER S HEART. 
 
 > 
 
 '■^•'A^-' 
 
 99 
 
 And O, most like a regal child wert thou ! 
 
 An eye of resolute and successful scheming ! 
 Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow, 
 
 Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming; 
 And proud the lifting of thy stately head, 
 And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread, 
 
 Different from both ! yet each succeeding claim 
 I, that all other love had been forswearing, • 
 
 Forthwith admitted, equal and the same; 
 
 Nor injured either by this love's comparing, 
 
 Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, — 
 
 But in the mother's heart found room for all ! 
 
 \ 
 
<a ^ 
 
 -HlcMTTljEvBmiiEE;}^^ 
 
 'A 
 
 BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 
 
 ^HERE were three sailors of Bristol City 
 Who took a boat and went to sea, 
 But first with beef and captain's biscuits 
 And pickled pork they loaded she. 
 
 There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, 
 And the youngest he was little Billee; 
 
 Now when they 'd got as far as the Equator 
 They 'd nothing left but one split pea. 
 
 Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
 
 " I am extremely hungaree." 
 To gorging Jack says guzzUng Jimmy, 
 
 "We 've nothing left, us must eat we." 
 
 Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
 
 " With one another we should n't agree ! 
 
 There 's little Bill, he 's young and tender. 
 We 're old and tough, so let 's eat he." 
 
 *7 
 
 "O Billy ! we 're going to kill and eat you, 
 So undo the button of your chemie." 
 
 When Bill received this information, 
 He used his pocket-handkerchie. 
 
 (lOO) 
 
 :^ 
 
 V 
 
=1^ 
 -A 
 
 LITTLE BILLEE. 
 
 -'^ -^i-fv4^^ ^ 
 
 " First let me say my catechism 
 
 Which my poor mother taught to me." 
 
 " Make haste ! ,make haste ! " says guzzling Jimmy, 
 While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. 
 
 Billy went up the main-top-gallant mast, 
 And down he fell on his bended knee. 
 
 He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment 
 When he jumps up — "There's land I see ! " 
 
 " Jerusalem and Madagascar 
 
 And North and South Amerikee, 
 There 's the British flag a-riding at anchor, 
 
 With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." 
 
 So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, 
 He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, 
 
 But as for little Bill he made him 
 The Captain of a Seventy-three. 
 
 
A 
 
 -HlcfpE^Y^6^B0]^DgJlK- 
 
 By J. T. Trowbridge. 
 
 E are two travelers, Roger and I. 
 
 Roger's roy dog: — come here, you scamp ! 
 Jump for the gentlemen, — mind your eye ! 
 
 Over the table, — look out for the lamp ! — 
 The rogue is growing a little old; 
 
 Five years we've tramped through wind and 
 weather, 
 And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 
 And ate and drank — and starved together. 
 
 We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! 
 
 A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
 A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow ! 
 
 The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) 
 Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 
 
 (This out-door business is bad for strings,) 
 Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, 
 
 And Roger and I set up for kings ! 
 
 No, thank ye, sir, — I never drink; 
 
 Roger and I are exceedingly moral, — 
 Aren't we, Roger ? — see him wink ! — 
 
 Well, something hot, then, — we won't quarrel. 
 He's thirsty, too, — see him nod his head ? 
 
 What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk ! 
 He understands every word that's said, — 
 
 And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. 
 
 (102) 
 
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 THE VAGABONDS. 
 
 103 
 
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 ►jfH^ 
 
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 The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 
 
 I've been so sadly given to grog, 
 I wonder I've not lost the respect 
 
 (Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. 
 But he sticks by, through thick and thin; 
 
 And this old coat, with its empty pockets. 
 And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 
 
 He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 
 
 There isn't another creature living 
 
 Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, 
 So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving. 
 
 To such a miserable, thankless master ! 
 No, sir! — see him wag his tail and grin ! 
 
 By George ! it makes my old eyes water ! 
 That is, there's something in this gin 
 
 That chokes a fellow. But no matter ! 
 
 We'll have some music, if you're willing. 
 
 And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) 
 Shall march a little. — Start, you villain ! 
 
 Stand straight ! 'Bout face ! Salute your officer ! 
 Put up that paw ! Dress ! Take your rifle ! 
 
 (Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your 
 Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, 
 
 To aid a poor old patriot soldier ! 
 
 March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakes, 
 
 When he stands up to hear his sentence. 
 Now tell us how many drams it takes 
 
 To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
 Five yelps, — that's five; he's mighty knowing! 
 
 The night's before us, fill the glasses I — 
 Quick, sir ! I'm ill,— my brain is going ! — 
 
 Some brandy ! — thank you I — there ! — it passes ! 
 
\ 
 
 ^ 
 
 104 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -■> ►Jfv-f^- <r- 
 
 Why not reform ? That's easily said; 
 
 But I've gone through such wretched treatment, 
 Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 
 
 And scarce remembering what meat meant, 
 That my poor stomach's past reform; 
 
 And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
 I'd sell out heaven for something warm 
 
 To prop a horrible inward sinking. 
 
 Is there a way to forget to think ? 
 
 At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
 A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink; — 
 
 The same old story; you know how it ends. 
 If you could have seen these classic features, — 
 
 You needn't laugh, sir; they were not then 
 Such a burning libel on God's creatures: 
 
 I was one of your handsome men ! 
 
 If you had seen her, so fair and young. 
 
 Whose head was happy on this breast ! 
 
 If you could have heard the songs I sung 
 
 When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed 
 
 That ever I, sir, should be straying 
 
 From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
 
 Ragged and penniless, and playing 
 
 To you to-night for a glass of grog ! 
 
 She's married since, — a parson's wife : 
 
 *Twas better for her that we should part, — 
 Better the soberest, prosiest life 
 
 Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
 I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and spent 
 
 On the dusty road, a carriage stopped : 
 But little she dreamed, as on she went, 
 
 Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ! 
 
 5) \ 
 
r* 7\ 
 
 THE VAGABONDS. I05 
 
 _^ ,j|„;^, ^_ 
 
 You've set me talking, sir ; I'm sorry ; 
 
 It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
 What do you care for a, beggar's story ? 
 
 Is it amusing? you find it strange. 
 I had a mother so proud of me ! 
 
 'Twas well she died before Do yOu knovr 
 
 If the happy spirits in heaven can see 
 
 The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 
 
 Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
 
 This pain; then Roger and I will start 
 I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 
 
 Aching thing, in place of a heart ? 
 He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, 
 
 No doubt, remembering things that were, — 
 A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 
 
 And himself a sober, respectable cur. 
 
 I'm better now; that glass was warming, — 
 
 You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
 We must be fiddling and performing 
 
 For supper and bed, or starve in the street. — 
 Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? 
 
 But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, 
 And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; — 
 
 The sooner, the better for Roger and me ! 
 
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 ■Hc¥pE^P^^fip6^P6a^.3le<- 
 
 BY EDWARD POLLOCK. 
 
 [The following exquisite poem \\as written by the late Edward Pollock, 
 the gifted Californian poet, on the 6th January, 1857, and has never been 
 published. It was given by the poet to a friend who was about to depart 
 on a steamer for Oregon, Pollock saying, "Take this; you may perhaps 
 read and appreciate the sentiment long after I have ceased to be among 
 the living."] 
 
 HERE'S something in the "parting hour" 
 
 Will chill the warmest heart — 
 Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends, 
 
 Are fated all to part; 
 But this I've seen — and many a page 
 
 Has pressed it on my mind — 
 The one who goes is happier 
 
 Than those he leaves behind. 
 
 ♦7 
 
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 No matter what the journey be, 
 
 Adventurous, dangerous, far. 
 To the wild deep or black frontier, 
 
 To solitude or war — 
 Still something cheers the heart that dares 
 
 In all of human kind, 
 And they who go are happier 
 
 Than those they leave behind. 
 
 (106) 
 
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 THE PARTING HOUR. 
 
 107 
 
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 '«^ "-^(^-V'^*' 
 
 
 
 
 The bride goes to the bridegroom's home 
 
 
 
 
 
 With doubtings and with tears. 
 
 
 
 
 
 But does not hope her rainbow spread 
 
 
 
 
 
 Across her cloudy fears ? 
 
 
 
 
 
 Alas ! the mother who remains, 
 
 
 
 
 
 What comfort can she find, 
 
 
 
 
 
 But this — the gone is happier 
 
 
 
 
 
 Than one she leaves behind. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Have you a friend — a comrade dear — 
 
 
 
 
 
 An old and valued friend ? 
 
 
 
 
 
 Be sure your term of sweet concourse 
 
 
 
 
 
 At length will have an end. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And when you part — as part you will — 
 
 
 
 
 
 take it not unkind 
 
 
 
 
 
 If he who goes is happier 
 
 
 
 
 
 Than you he leaves behind ! 
 
 
 
 
 
 God wills it so — and so it is; 
 
 
 
 
 
 The pilgrims on their way, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Though weak and worn, more cheerful are 
 
 
 
 
 
 Than all the rest who stay; 
 
 
 
 
 
 And when, at last, poor man, subdued, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Lies down to death resigned. 
 
 
 
 
 
 May he not still be happier far 
 
 
 
 
 
 Than those he leaves behind ? 
 
 
 
 
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 FROM THE "BRIDE OF ABYDOS." 
 
 
 
 BY BYRON. 
 
 
 .; 
 
 
 i^ NOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
 
 
 
 
 
 l^*c Are emblems of deeds that are done in their 
 
 
 
 
 
 "'^^^^^^ clime, 
 
 
 
 
 
 /SB^^^T Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^^p3^HHb> turtle, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? 
 
 
 
 
 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine: 
 
 
 
 
 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ! 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit. 
 
 
 
 
 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is mute, 
 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
 In color though varied, in beauty may vie. 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; 
 Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine. 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 'T is the clime of the East; 't is the land of the Sun, — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 
 O, wild as the accents of lover's farewell 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 Are the hearts which they bear and the tales which they tell ! 
 
 
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" Where the flowers ever blossom, the lieams ever shi 
 
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 ■HicCa^FEW^J)ia3¥^N6¥^^IN6^¥6-NI6pT3l£<- 
 
 
 ► 
 
 
 
 ^fflJB^^Bj^ NGLAND'S sun was slowly setting 
 ^mSHBBP* O'er the hills so far away, 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^^^^1^ Filling all the land with beauty 
 
 
 
 
 
 §^^mm^ At the close of one sad day; 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^^fi^^^ And the last rays kiss'd the forehead 
 
 
 
 
 
 Of a man and maiden fair, 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 He with step so slow and weakened, 
 
 
 
 
 
 She with sunny, floating hair; 
 He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 She with lips so cold and white. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Struggling to keep back the murmur, 
 " Curfew must not ring to-night." 
 
 
 • 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 " Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered. 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 Pointing to the prison old. 
 With its walls so dark and gloomy, — 
 
 
 
 
 
 Walls so dark, and damp, and cold, — 
 " I've a lover in that prison, 
 
 Doomed this very night to die. 
 At the ringing of the Curfew, 
 
 And no earthly Kelp is nigh. 
 Cromwell will not come till sunset," 
 
 And her face grew strangely white, 
 
 
 • 
 
 i 
 
 
 As she spoke in husky whispers, 
 
 "Curfew must not ring to-night." 
 
 
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 (109) 
 
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 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 •^ 
 
 'ih'Ai' 
 
 " Bessie," calmly spoke the Sexton — 
 
 Every word pierced her young heart 
 Like a thousand gleaming arrows — 
 
 Like a deadly poisoned dart; 
 " Long, long years I've rung the Curfew 
 
 From that gloomy shadowed tower; 
 Every evening, just at sunset. 
 
 It has told the twilight hour; 
 I have done my duty ever, 
 
 Tried to do it just and right, 
 Now I'm old, I will not miss it; 
 
 Girl, the Curfew rings to-night ! " 
 
 Wild her eyes and pale her features, 
 
 Stern and white her thoughtful brow, 
 And within her heart's deep centre, 
 
 Bessie made a solemn vow; 
 She had listened while the judges 
 
 Read, without a tear or sigh, 
 " At the ringing of the Curfew — 
 
 Basil Underwood musi die." 
 And her breath came fast and faster, 
 
 And her eyes grew large and bright — 
 One low murmur, scarcely spoken — 
 
 " Curfew musi not ring to-night !" 
 
 ■^ 
 
 VL 
 
 She with light step bounded forward. 
 Sprang within the old church door. 
 
 Left the old man coming slowly. 
 Paths he'd often trod before, 
 
 Not one moment paused the maiden. 
 But with cheek and brow aglow, 
 
 V^ 
 
 V 
 
Staggered up the gloomy tower, 
 
 Where the bell swung to and fro: 
 
 Then she climbed the slimy ladder, 
 Dark, without one ray of light, 
 
 Upward still, her pale lips saying: 
 " Curfew shall not ring to-night.'' 
 
 She has reached the topmost ladder, 
 
 O'er her hangs the great dark bell. 
 And the awful gloom beneath her, 
 
 Like the pathway down to hell; 
 See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 
 
 'Tis the hour of Curfew now — 
 And the sight has chilled her bosom, 
 
 Stopped her breath and paled her brow. 
 Shall she let it ring ? No, never ! 
 
 Her eyes flash with sudden light, 
 As she springs and grasps it firmly — 
 
 " Curfew shall not ring to-night ! " 
 
 Out she swung, far out, the city 
 
 Seemed a tiny speck below; 
 There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, 
 
 As the bell swung to and fro, 
 And the half-deaf Sexton ringing 
 
 (Years he had not heard the bell,) 
 And he thought the twilight Curfew 
 
 Rang young Basil's funeral knell; 
 Still the maiden clinging firmly. 
 
 Cheek and brow so pale and white. 
 Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating — 
 
 "Curfew shall not ring to-night." 
 
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 112 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 
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 It was o'er — the bell ceased swaying, 
 
 
 
 
 
 And the maiden stepped once more 
 
 
 
 
 
 Firmly on the damp old ladder, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Where for hundred years before 
 
 
 
 
 
 Human foot had not been planted; 
 
 
 
 
 
 And what she this night had done. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Should be told in long years after — ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 As the rays of setting sun 
 
 
 
 
 
 Light the sky with mellow beauty. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Aged sires with heads of white, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Tell the children why the Curfew 
 
 
 
 
 
 Did not ring that one sad night. 
 
 
 
 
 
 O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; 
 
 
 
 
 
 Bessie saw him, and her brow, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Lately white with sickening terror. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Glows with sudden beauty now; 
 
 
 
 
 
 At his feet she told her story. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Showed her hands all bruised and torn; 
 
 
 
 
 
 And her sweet young face so haggard, 
 
 
 
 
 
 With a look so sad and worn. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Touched his heart with sudden pity — 
 
 
 
 
 
 Lit his eyes with misty light; 
 
 
 
 
 
 " Go, your lover lives ! " cried Cromwell; 
 
 
 
 
 
 " Curfew shall not ring to-night." 
 
 
 
 
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 -McWKE^^^YE]M;{^ 
 
 By Edgar Allan Poe. 
 
 NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 
 
 weak and weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of 
 
 forgotten lore, — 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there 
 came a tapping, 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door, 
 " 'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, " tapping at my chamber- 
 door — 
 
 Only this, and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the 
 
 floor. 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow 
 From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 
 
 Lenore, — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore, — 
 
 Nameless here forevermore. 
 
 kL 
 
 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain. 
 Thrilled me, — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt 
 before; 
 
 (113) 
 
•V 
 
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 
 " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door, — 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door; 
 That it is, and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer* 
 " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
 But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping. 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber- 
 door, 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the 
 door: 
 
 Darkness there, and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wonder- 
 ing, fearing. 
 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream 
 before; 
 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no 
 token. 
 
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 
 " Lenore ! " 
 
 This / whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 
 " Lenore ! " 
 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 
 
 burning. 
 Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before, 
 " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window- 
 lattice; 
 Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery explore, — 
 Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; — 
 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 
 
 ^ 
 
 K: 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and 
 flutter, 
 
 In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. 
 
 Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or 
 stayed he; 
 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber- 
 door, — 
 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber- door- 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling. 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art 
 
 sure no raven; 
 Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly 
 
 shore. 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian 
 
 shore ?" 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 
 
 Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 
 plainly. 
 
 Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; 
 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber- 
 door. 
 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber- 
 door * 
 
 With such name as " Nevermore ! " 
 
 But the raven, sitting lonely.on the placid bust, spoke only 
 That one! word, as if his soul in that one word he did out- 
 pour, 
 
 Al 
 
 ^ 
 
 \ 
 
y- 
 
 it6 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 > 
 
 'ihyi^-' 
 
 a< 
 
 Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he 
 
 fluttered — 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have 
 
 flown before, 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown 
 
 before." 
 
 Then the bird said, " Nevermore ! " 
 
 Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
 " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and 
 
 store. 
 Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster 
 FoUow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden 
 
 bore. 
 Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, 
 Of — ' Never — nevermore ! ' " 
 
 But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust 
 
 and door, 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird 
 
 of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore ! " 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's 
 
 core; 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated 
 
 o'er, 
 But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating 
 
 o'er 
 
 She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! 
 
 -^ 
 
 \ 
 
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an 
 
 unseen censer 
 Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted 
 
 floor. 
 " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee— by these angels 
 
 he hath sent thee 
 Respite— respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! 
 Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost 
 
 Lenore ! " 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 
 
 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!— prophet still, if bird 
 
 or devil ! 
 Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 
 
 ashore, 
 Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— 
 On this home by horror haunted— tell me truly, I implore,— 
 Is there— /^ there balm in Gilead? — tell me— tell me, I im- 
 plore ! " 
 Quoth the raven, '■ Nevermore ! " 
 
 "Prophet! " said I, "thing of evil!— prophet still, if bird 
 
 or devil ! 
 By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both 
 
 adore, 
 Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant 
 
 Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore; 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore ! " 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 
 
 
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I 
 
 shrieked, upstarting, — 
 "^Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian 
 
 shore! 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 
 
 spoken! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my 
 
 door! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from 
 
 off my door ! " 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 
 
 And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 
 
 dreaming. 
 And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow 
 
 on the floor; 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the 
 
 floor 
 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 
 
 K 
 
 V 
 
K" 
 
 PY P]^EWY,BaDDIN6, B]^E^TPIN6 Fl£@WER 
 
 By Winthrop Mackworth Praed. 
 
 "7R= 
 
 Y pretty, budding, breathing flower, 
 
 Methinks, if I to-morrow- 
 Could manage, just for half an hour, 
 
 Sir Joshua's brush to borrow, 
 I might immortalize a few 
 
 Of all the myriad graces 
 Which Time, while yet they all are new, 
 
 With newer still replaces. 
 
 I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes, 
 
 The quick and earnest flashes; 
 I'd paint the fringe that round them lies, 
 The fringe of long dark lashes. 
 I'd draw with most fastidious care. 
 One eyebrow, then the other; 
 And that fair forehead, broad and fair,— 
 The forehead of your mother. 
 
 (119) 
 
 J^ 
 
IV- " 7 
 
 I20 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 ►Jf-l-'f'-' 
 
 <-- 
 
 I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek 
 
 Where health in sunshine dances; 
 And oft the pouting lips, where speak 
 
 A thousand voiceless fancies; 
 And the soft neck would keep me long, 
 
 The neck, more smooth and snowy 
 Than ever yet in schoolboy's song 
 
 Had Caroline and Chloe. 
 
 Nor less on those twin rounded arms 
 
 My new-found skill would linger ; 
 Nor less upon the rosy charms 
 
 Of every tiny finger ; 
 Nor slight the small feet, little one, 
 
 So prematurely clever 
 That, though they neither walk nor run, 
 
 I think they'd jump for ever. 
 
 But then your odd, endearing ways, — 
 
 What study e'er could catch them ? 
 Your aimless gestures, aimless plays — 
 
 What canvas e'er could match them ? 
 Your lively leap of merriment. 
 
 Your murmur of petition, 
 Your serious silence of content. 
 
 Your laugh of recognition. 
 
 Here were a puzzling toil, indeed, 
 
 For Art's most fine creations ! — 
 Grow on, sweet baby; we will need, 
 
 To notice your transformations, 
 
 / \ 
 
 -T <5 -^ -^ o\ 
 
No picture of your form or face, 
 Your waking or your sleeping, 
 
 But that which Love shall daily trace, 
 And trust to Memory's keeping. 
 
 Hereafter, when revolving years 
 
 Have made you tall and twenty. 
 And brought you blended hopes and fears, 
 
 And sighs and slaves in plenty, 
 May those who watch our little saint 
 
 Among her tasks and duties. 
 Feel all her virtues hard to paint. 
 
 As we now deem her beauties. 
 
\ 
 
 K 
 
 -WpE^W^TER^n^P^T^P^g^P^ggED.^i 
 
 £<• 
 
 Listen to the water-mill, 
 
 Through the live-long day, 
 How the clanking of the wheels 
 
 Wears the hours away ! 
 Languidly the autumn wind 
 
 Stirs the greenwood leaves; 
 From the fields the reapers sing, 
 
 Binding up the sheaves, 
 And a proverb haunts my mind, 
 
 As a spell is cast: 
 "The mill will never grind 
 
 With the water that has passed." 
 
 Take the lesson to thyself. 
 
 Living heart and true; 
 Golden years are fleeting by, 
 
 Youth is passing too; 
 Learn to make the most of life, 
 
 Lose no happy day, 
 Time will never bring thee back 
 
 Chances swept away. 
 Leave no tender word unsaid; 
 
 Love while life shall last — 
 " The mill will never grind 
 
 With the water that has passed." 
 
 (122) 
 
 " 
 
K — 7 
 
 THE WATER THAT HAS PASSED. 1 23 
 
 -^ -^^fv*!-:^* ^- 
 
 Work while yet the daylight shines, 
 
 Man of strength and will; 
 Never does the streamlet glide 
 
 Useless by the mill. 
 Wait not until to-morrow's sun 
 
 Beams upon the way; 
 All that thou canst call thy own 
 
 Lies in thy to-day. 
 Power, intellect, and health, 
 
 May not, cannot last; 
 " The mill will never grind 
 
 With the water that has passed." 
 
 Oh, the wasted hours of life 
 
 That have drifted by ; 
 Oh, the good we might have done, 
 
 Lost without a sigh ; 
 Love that we might once have saved 
 
 By a single word ; 
 Thoughts conceived, but never penned, 
 
 Perishing unheard. 
 Take the proverb to thine heart, 
 
 Take ! oh, hold it fast ! — 
 "The mill will never grind 
 
 With the water that has passed." 
 
 ^ 
 
 y - . - x j 
 
A 
 
 ^ 
 
 / 
 
 •M^pegg-Eggiei^.^i^ 
 
 BY BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 T was our wedding day 
 A month ago, dear heart, I hear you say. 
 If months, or years, or ages since have passed, 
 I know not: I have ceased to question Time. 
 I only know that once there pealed a chime 
 Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast, 
 
 And all stood back, and none my right denied, 
 
 And forth we walked: the world was free and wide 
 
 Before us. Since that day 
 
 I count my life: the Past is washed away. 
 
 7p 
 
 II. 
 
 It was no dream, that vow: 
 
 It was the voice that woke me from a dream, — 
 
 A happy dream, I think; but I am waking now, 
 
 And drink the splendor of a sun supreme 
 
 That turns the mist of former tears to gold. 
 
 Within tliese arms I hold 
 
 The fleeting promise, chased so long in vain: ' 
 
 Ah, weary bird ! thou wilt not fly again: 
 
 Thy wings are clipped, thou canst no more depart, — 
 
 Thy nest is builded in my heart. 
 
 (124) 
 
 A^ 
 
 V 
 
K 7( 
 
 POSSESSION. 125 
 
 ^ ►Ifv-fj- ^- 
 
 III. 
 
 I was the crescent; thou 
 
 The silver phantom of the perfect sphere, 
 
 Held in its bosom: in one glory now 
 
 Our lives united shine, and many a year — 
 
 Not the sweet moon of bridal only — we 
 
 One lustre, ever at the full, shall be: 
 
 One pure and rounded light, one planet whole, 
 
 One life developed, one completed soul ! 
 
 For I in thee, and thou in me, 
 
 Unite our cloven halves of destiny. 
 
 IV. 
 
 God knew his chosen time. 
 
 He bade me slowly ripen to my prime. 
 
 And from my boughs withheld the promised fruit, 
 
 Till storm and sun gave vigor to the root. 
 
 Secure, O Love ! secure 
 
 Thy blessing is: I have thee day and night: 
 
 Thou art become my blood, my life, my light: 
 
 God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt endure. 
 
 TV 
 
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 -Hite,+D^Y+'FpY-fJI^]V[D+I]\I-f]aiNE,+DE^R.3N- 
 
 BY GERALD MASSEY. 
 
 LAY thy hand in mine, dear ! 
 
 We're growing old; 
 But Time hath brought no sign, dear, 
 
 That hearts grow cold. 
 'Tis long, long since our new love 
 
 Made life divine; 
 But age enricheth true love, 
 
 Like noble wine. 
 
 And lay thy cheek to mine,-dear, 
 
 And take thy rest; 
 Mine arms around thee twine, dear, 
 
 And make thy nest. 
 A many cares are pressing 
 
 On this dear head; 
 But Sorrow's hands in blessing 
 
 Are surely laid. 
 
 O lean thy life on mine, dear ! 
 
 'Twill shelter thee. 
 Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, 
 
 On my young tree: 
 And so, till boughs are leafless, 
 
 And songbirds flown, 
 We'll twine, then lay us, griefless. 
 
 Together down. 
 
 (126) 
 
 -M 
 
 \ 
 
>!- 
 
 / 
 
 -HlcWIN¥E^.3i£^ 
 
 FROM "the winter MORNING WALK. 
 
 BY WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 v_ 
 
 J' IS morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb 
 
 Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds, 
 That crowd away before the driving wind. 
 More ardent as the disk emerges more. 
 Resemble most some city in a blaze, 
 Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray 
 
 Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, 
 
 And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue, 
 
 From every herb and every spiry blade 
 
 Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 
 
 Mine, spindling into longitude immense. 
 
 In spite of gravity, and sage remark « 
 
 That I myself am but a fleeting shade. 
 
 Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
 
 I view the muscular proportioned limb 
 
 Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, 
 
 As they designed to mock me, at my side 
 
 Take step for step; and, as I near approach 
 
 The cottage, walk along the plastered wall. 
 
 Preposterous sight ! the legs without the man. 
 
 (127) 
 
 ^ 
 
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
 Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents, 
 And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest, 
 Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
 Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad. 
 And, fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. 
 The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence 
 Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep 
 In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait 
 Their wonted fodder; not, like hungry man, 
 Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek. 
 And, patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. 
 He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, 
 Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft, 
 His broad keen knife into the solid mass: 
 Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, 
 With such undeviating and even force 
 He severs it away: no needless care 
 Lest storms should overset the leaning pile 
 Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. 
 Forth goes t]ie woodman, leaving unconcerned 
 The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe 
 And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear. 
 From morn to eve his solitary task. 
 Shaggy and leap and shrewd with pointed ears. 
 And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, 
 His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
 Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk 
 Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow 
 With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; 
 Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy. 
 
 Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pile. 
 
 
 A 
 
There they wait their wonted fodder." 
 
>^ 
 
 Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam 
 
 Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, 
 
 Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call 
 
 The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing, 
 
 And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, 
 
 Conscious and fearful of too deep a plunge. 
 
 The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves 
 
 To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye 
 
 The scattered grain, and thievishly resolved 
 
 To escape the impending famine, often scared 
 
 As oft to return, a pert voracious kind. 
 
 Clean riddance quickly made, one only care 
 
 Remains to each, the search of sunny nook. 
 
 Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned 
 
 To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
 
 His wonted strut, and, wading at their head 
 
 With well-considered steps, seems to resent 
 
 His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. 
 
 How find the myriads, that in summer cheer 
 
 The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, 
 
 Due sustenance, or where subsist they now ? 
 
 Earth yields them naught; the imprisoned worm is safe 
 
 Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs 
 
 Lie covered close; and berry-bearing thorns, 
 
 That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), 
 
 Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. 
 
 The long protracted rigor of the year 
 
 Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes 
 
 Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, 
 
 An instinct prompts; self-buried ere they die. 
 
 
rr 
 
 / 
 
 -^KIgg^ME^^0FTIiY.*<- 
 
 Da me basia. — Catullus. 
 
 BY JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 
 
 I. 
 
 ISS me softly and speak to me low, — 
 Malice has ever a vigilant ear, 
 What if Malice were lurking near ? 
 Kiss me, dear ! 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
 II. 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low, — 
 Envy too has a watchful ear: 
 What if Envy should chance to hear? 
 Kiss me, dear ! 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to mc low. 
 
 / 
 
 III. 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low; 
 Trust me, darling, the time is near 
 When lovers may love with never a fear, — 
 Kiss me, dear ! 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
 (130) 
 
 -^J 
 
^ 
 
 -HicTpE :• W0RfsIv WEDDI]^6v]^IN6.3{s<" 
 
 BY WILLIAM COX BENNETT. 
 
 </ 
 
 OUR wedding ring wears thin, dear wife; ah, 
 summers not a few, 
 Since I put it on your finger first, have 
 passed o'er me and you: 
 W " " ^. y^'C ^:^! And, love, what changes we have seen, — 
 
 e>iw; 
 
 what cares and pleasures, too, — 
 Lp Since you became my own dear wife, when 
 this old ring was new ! 
 
 O blessings on that happy day, the happiest 
 
 of my life. 
 When, thanks to God, your low, sweet 
 -^^ "Yes " made you my loving wife ! 
 
 Your heart will say the same, I know, that day's as dear to 
 
 you,- 
 That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring 
 was new. 
 
 X 
 
 How well do I remember now your young sweet face that 
 
 day ! 
 How fair you were, how dear you were, my tongue could 
 
 hardly say; 
 
 (131) 
 
 _N 
 
 •V 
 
Nor how I doated on you; O how proud I was of you ! 
 But did I love you. more than now, when this old ring was 
 new ? 
 
 No — no ! no fairer were you then than at this hour to me; 
 And, dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be ? 
 As sweet your face might be that -day as now it is, 't is true; 
 But did I know your heart as well when this old ring was 
 new ? 
 
 O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is there 
 For me you would not bravely face, with me you would not 
 
 share ? 
 O what a weary want had every day, if wanting you. 
 Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring 
 
 was new ? 
 
 Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife, — young voices that 
 
 are here; 
 Young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet 
 
 more dear; 
 Young loving hearts your care each day makes yet more like 
 
 to you. 
 More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
 And blessed be God ! all He has given are with us yet; 
 
 around 
 Our table every precious life lent to us still is found. 
 Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst 
 
 we've struggled throHgh; 
 Blessed be His name for all His love since this old ring was 
 
 new 
 
 /■ 
 
THE WORN WEDDING-RING. 1 33 
 
 -> — Jfv-fj- -e- 
 
 The past is dear, its sweetness still our memories treasure 
 
 yet; 
 The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now 
 
 forget. 
 Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true. 
 We'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring was 
 
 new. 
 
 And if God spares us 'mongst our sons and daughters to 
 
 grow old, 
 We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow 
 
 cold. 
 Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to 
 
 you. 
 And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was 
 
 new. 
 
 And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, 
 May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast; 
 O may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you, 
 Of those fond eyes, — fond as they were when this old ring 
 was new ! 
 
 A 
 
 IK \| 
 
^c 
 
 K" 
 
 A 
 
 ~7\ 
 
 -*;«4*wigp.3N- 
 
 BY SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 (^Kxi 
 
 y/.afA^' 
 
 /a-tt; 
 
 M 
 
 
 ^MSJ 
 
 k-iX-UiX-^i+s^a^A-'Ai;! 
 
 INE be a cot beside the hill; 
 A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; 
 A willowy brook that turns a mill, 
 With many a fall shall linger near. 
 
 The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
 Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; 
 Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
 And share my meal, a welcome guest. 
 
 (134) 
 
 "s V 
 
A WISH. 
 
 -^ 
 
 "Jfl-^^-^ 
 
 135 
 
 Around my ivied porch shall spring 
 Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; 
 And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
 In russet gown and apron blue. 
 
 / The village-church among the trees, 
 
 Where first our marriage-vows were given, 
 With merry peals shall swell the breeze 
 And point with taper spire to heaven. 
 
K" 
 
 -^lcgpE-Mg^]\[0¥^F^I^.3ie<' 
 
 >> 
 
 / 
 
 BY HARTLEY COLERIDGE, 
 
 HE 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 better far 
 Than smiles of other maidens are ! 
 
 / 
 
 (136) 
 
 A^ 
 
^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 /[ 
 
 ->3icfJIE^liIWliE^PIlimNEl^.^l^^ 
 
 BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 ^ Y girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair, 
 A soft hand, like a lady's, small and fair, 
 A sweet face pouting in a white straw 
 
 bonnet, 
 A tiny foot, and little boot upon it; 
 And all her finery to charm beholders 
 Is the gray shawl drawn tight around her 
 
 shoulders. 
 The plain stuff-gown and collar white as 
 snow. 
 
 And sweet red petticoat that peeps below. 
 But gladly in the busy town goes she, 
 Summer and winter, fearing nobodie; 
 She pats the pavement with her fairy feet. 
 With fearless eyes she charms the crowded street; 
 And in her pockets lie, in lieu of gold, 
 A lucky sixpence and a thimble old. 
 
 We lodged in the same house a year ago: 
 She on the topmost floor, I just below,— 
 She, a poor milliner, content and wise, 
 I, a poor city clerk, with hopes to rise; 
 
 (137) , 
 
 -X 
 
 V 
 
And, long ere we were friends, I learnt to love 
 
 The little angel on the floor above. 
 
 For, every morn, ere from my bed I stirred, 
 
 Her chamber door would open, and I heard, — 
 
 And listened, blushing to, her coming down, 
 
 And palpitated with her rustling gown, 
 
 And tingled while her foot went downward slow, 
 
 Creaked like a cricket, passed, and died below; 
 
 Then peeping from the window, pleased and sly, 
 
 I saw the pretty shining face go by. 
 
 Healthy and rosy, fresh from slumber sweet, — 
 
 A sunbeam in the quiet morning street. 
 
 And every night, when in from work she tript. 
 Red to the ears I from my chamber slipt, 
 That I might hear upon the narrow stair 
 Her low " Good evening," as she passed me there. 
 And when her door was closed, below sat I, 
 And hearkened stilly as she stirred on high, — 
 Watched the red firelight shadows in the room. 
 Fashioned her face before me in the gloom, 
 And heard her close the window, lock the door, 
 Moving about more lightly than before. 
 And thought, " She is undressing now ! " and O, 
 My cheeks were hot, my heart was in a glow ! 
 And I made pictures of her, — standing bright 
 Before the looking-glass in bed-gown white, 
 Unbinding in a knot her yellow hair, 
 Then kneeling timidly to say a prayer; 
 Till, last, the floor creaked softly overhead, 
 'Neath bare feet tripping to the little bed, — 
 And all was hushed. Yet still I hearkened on, 
 Till the faint sounds about the streets were gone; 
 
 /• 
 
 :M 
 
And saw her slumbering with lips apart, 
 
 One little hand upon her little heart, 
 
 The other pillowing a face that smiled 
 
 In slumber like the slumber of a child, 
 
 The bright hair shining round the small white ear, 
 
 The soft breath stealing visible and clear. 
 
 And mixing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam 
 
 Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream. 
 
 How free she wandered in the wicked place. 
 
 Protected only by her gentle face ! 
 
 She saw bad things — how could she choose but see ? 
 
 She heard of wantonness and misery; 
 
 The city closed around her night and day, 
 
 But lightly, happily, she went her way. 
 
 Nothing of evil that she saw or heard 
 
 Could touch a heart so innocently stirred, — 
 
 By simple hopes that cheered it through the storm, 
 
 And little flutterings that kept it warm. 
 
 No power had she to reason out her needs. 
 
 To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds; 
 But she was good and pure amid the strife. 
 By virtue of the joy that was her life. 
 Here, where a thousand spirits daily fall. 
 Where heart and soul and senses turn to gall, 
 She floated, pure as innocence could be. 
 Like a small sea-bird on a stormy sea, 
 Which breasts the billows, wafted to and fro, 
 Fearless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow, 
 While the clouds gather, and the waters roar, 
 And mighty ships are broken on the shore. 
 
 K- 
 
 ^ 
 
^ 
 
 K 
 
 140 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 > 
 
 ^^■H^-' 
 
 <- 
 
 'T was when the spring was coming, when the snow 
 Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow, 
 And girls were selling violets in the town, 
 That suddenly a fever struck me down. 
 The world was changed, the sense of life was pained, 
 And nothing but a shadow -land remained; 
 Death came in a dark mist and looked at me, 
 I fe!t his breathing, though I could not see, 
 But heavily I lay and did not stir. 
 And had strange images and dreams of her. 
 Then came a vacancy: with feeble breath 
 I shivered under the cold touch of Death, 
 And swooned among strange visions of the dead. 
 When a voice called from heaven, and he fled; 
 And suddenly I wakened, as it seemed 
 From a deep sleep wherein I had not dreamed. 
 
 And it was night, and I could see and hear, 
 And I was in the room I held so dear. 
 And unaware, stretched out upon my bed, 
 I hearkened for a footstep overhead. 
 
 K. 
 
 But all was hushed. I looked around the room. 
 And slowly made out shapes amid the gloom. 
 The wall was reddened by a rosy light, 
 A faint fire flickered, and I knew 't was night, 
 Because below there was a sound of feet 
 Dying away along the quiet street, — 
 When, turning my pale face and sighing low, 
 I saw a vision in the quiet glow: 
 A little figure, in a cotton gown. 
 Looking upon the fire and stooping down. 
 
 ■f" 
 
Her side to me, her face illumined, she eyed 
 Two chestnuts burning slowly, side by side, — 
 Her lips apart, her clear eyes strained to see, 
 Her little hands clasped tight around her knee, 
 The firelight gleaming o;i her golden head, 
 And tinting her white neck to rosy red, 
 Her features bright, and beautiful, and pure. 
 With childish fear and yearning half demure. 
 
 O sweet, sweet dream ! I thought, and strained mine eyes, 
 Fearing to break the spell with words and sighs. 
 Softly she stooped, her dear face sweetly fair. 
 And sweeter since a light like love was there, 
 Brightening, watching, more and more elate. 
 As the nuts glowed together in the grate. 
 Crackling with little jets of fiery light. 
 Till side by side they turned to ashes white,— 
 Then up she leapt, her face cast off its fear 
 For rapture that itself was radiance clear, 
 And would have clapped her little hands in glee. 
 But, pausing, bit her lips and peeped at me. 
 And met the face that yearned on her so whitely. 
 And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brightly, 
 While, raised on elbow, as she turned to flee, 
 " Polly!'' I cried,— and grew as red as she ! 
 
 It was no dream ! for soon my thoughts were clear, 
 And she could tell me all, and I could hear: 
 How in my sickness friendless I, had lain. 
 How the hard people pitied not my pain; 
 How, in spite of what bad people said, 
 She left her labors, stopped beside my bed, 
 
 -fU 
 
^ 
 
 And nursed me, thinking sadly I would die; 
 
 How, in the end, the danger passed me by; 
 
 How she had sought to steal away before 
 
 The sickness passed, and I was strong once more. 
 
 By fits she told the story in mine ear. 
 
 And troubled all the telling with a fear 
 
 Lest by my cold man's heart she should be chid, 
 
 Lest I should think her bold in what she did; 
 
 But, lying on my bed, I dared to say. 
 
 How I had watched and loved her many a day, 
 
 How dear she was to me, and dearer still 
 
 For that strange kindness done while I was ill. 
 
 And how I could but think that Heaven above 
 
 Had done it all to bind our lives in love. 
 
 And Polly cried, turning her face away, 
 
 And seemed afraid, and answered "yea" nor "nay" 
 
 Then stealing close, with little pants and sighs, 
 
 Looked on my pale thin face and earnest eyes. 
 
 And seemed in act to fling her arms about 
 
 My neck, then, blushing, paused, in flattering doubt. 
 
 Last, sprang upon my heart, sighing and sobbing, — 
 
 That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing ! 
 
 Ah ! ne'er shall I forget until I die 
 How happily the dreamy days went by. 
 While I grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats, 
 Heark'ning the pleasant murmur from the streets. 
 And Polly by me like a sunny beam, 
 And life all changed, and love a drowsy dream ! 
 'T was happiness enough to lie and see 
 The little golden head bent droopingly 
 Over its sewing, while the still time flew. 
 And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew ! 
 
 K- 
 
 \ 
 
LITTLE MILLINER. 143 
 
 — > ^li'vi^^' ^- 
 
 And then, when I was nearly well and strong, 
 
 And she went back to labor all day long, 
 
 How sweet to lie alone with half-shut eyes, 
 
 And hear the distant murmurs and the cries, 
 
 And think how pure she was from pain and sin, — 
 
 And how the summer days were coming in ! 
 
 Then, as the sunset faded from the room, 
 
 To listen for her footstep in the gloom, 
 
 To pant as it came stealing up the stair, 
 
 To feel my whole life brighten unaware 
 
 When the soft tap came to the door, and when 
 
 The door was opened for her smile again ! 
 
 Best, the long evenings! — when, till late at night, 
 
 She sat beside me in the quiet light, 
 
 And happy things were said and kisses won, 
 
 And serious gladness found its vent in fun. 
 
 Sometimes I would draw close her shining head, 
 
 And pour her bright hair out upon the bed. 
 
 And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold, 
 
 While " Here," I cried, " I count my wealth in gold ! " 
 
 Once, like a little sinner for transgression, 
 She blushed upon my breast, and made confession: 
 How, when that night I woke and looked around, 
 I found her busy with a charm profound, — 
 One chestnut was herself, my girl confessed, 
 The other was the person she loved best. 
 And if they burned together side by side. 
 He loved her, and she would become his bride; 
 And burn indeed they did, to her delight, — 
 And had the pretty charm not proven right ? 
 Thus much, and more, with timorous joy, she said, 
 While her confessor, too, grew rosy red, — 
 
 / 
 
 ^ 
 
 U^ 
 
 > 
 
 \ 
 
K 7f 
 
 I 144 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -■^ ►jf-v-!^- <- 
 
 And close together pressed two blissful faces, 
 As I absolved the sinner, with embraces. 
 
 And here is winter come again, winds blow, 
 The houses and the streets are white with snow; 
 And in the long and pleasant eventide, 
 Why, what is Polly making at my side ? 
 What but a silk gown, beautiful and grand, 
 We bought together lately in the Strand ! 
 What but a dress to go to church in soon, 
 And wear right queenly 'neath a honey-moon ! 
 And who shall match her with her new straw bonnet, 
 Her tiny, foot and little boot upon it, 
 Embroidered petticoat and silk gown new, 
 And shawl she wears as few fine ladies do? 
 And she will keep, to charm away all ill, 
 The lucky sixpence in her pocket still; 
 And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather, 
 To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together ! 
 
 K- 
 
 >>- 
 
fC 
 
 •>5lcg]ai^l£D V BE6I]^NI]S[6?.*^ 
 
 -7\ 
 
 BY CHARLES MACKAY. 
 
 TRAVELER through a dusty road strewed 
 
 acorns on the lea; 
 And one took root and sprouted up, and 
 
 grew into a tree. 
 Love sought its shade, at evening time, to 
 
 breathe its early vows; 
 And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to 
 
 bask beneath its boughs; 
 The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the 
 
 birds sweet music bore; 
 It stood a glory in its place, a blessing 
 
 evermore. 
 
 / 
 
 A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern, 
 A passing stranger scooped a well, where weary men might 
 
 turn; 
 He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink; 
 He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil 
 
 might drink. 
 He passed again, and lo ! the well, by summers never dried, 
 Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a 
 
 life beside. 
 
 (145) 
 
 \^ 
 
 -^ \ 
 
^ 
 
 K 
 
 146 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^v^^ 
 
 <- 
 
 A dreamer dropped a random thought; 't was old, and yet 
 
 't was new; 
 A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. 
 It shone upon a genial mind, and lo ! its light became , 
 A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame. 
 The thought was small; its issue great; a watch-fire on 
 
 the hill; 
 It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley 
 
 still ! 
 
 A nameless man amid a crowd that thronged the daily 
 
 mart, 
 Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the 
 
 heart; 
 A whisper on the tumult thrown, — a transitory breath, — 
 Jt raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from 
 
 death. 
 O germ ! O fount ! O word of love ! O thought at random 
 
 • cast ! 
 Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last. 
 
 ■7 
 
 K- 
 
 -M 
 
\ 
 
 / 
 
 '^m^■^W^W'^%'^^ 
 
 That was a thrilling scene in the old chivalric time — the wine circling 
 round the board, and the banquet-hall ringing with sentiment and song — 
 when the lady of each knightly heart having been pledged by name, St. 
 Leon arose in his turn, and, lifting the sparkling cup on high, said: "I 
 drink to one 
 
 I' HOSE image never may depart, 
 Deep graven on this grateful heart, 
 Till memory is dead; 
 
 To one whose love for me shall last 
 When lighter passions long have passed, 
 So holy 'tis, and true; 
 
 To one whose love hath longer dwelt, 
 More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, 
 Than any pledge to you." 
 
 Each guest upstarted at the word, 
 And laid his hand upon his sword, 
 Witii fury-flashing eyes; 
 
 And Stanley said, "We crave the name. 
 Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, 
 Whose love you count so high." 
 
 St. Leon paused, as if he would 
 Not breathe her name in careless mood 
 Thus lightly to another — 
 
 Then bent his noble head, as though 
 To give that wo.rd the reverence due. 
 And gently said, " My mother." 
 
 / 
 
 -t 
 
 [147) 
 
 -s V 
 
'^ 
 
 / 
 
 -^iefpE4^Y^LE^0F-fC^gPPERE.3lH- 
 
 FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 HO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 
 With its roses the brightest that earth ever 
 gave, 
 Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear 
 As the love-lighted eyes that hang over 
 their wave ? 
 
 O, to see it at sunset,— when warm o'er the lake 
 
 Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws, 
 Like a bride, full of blushes, when Ungering to take 
 
 A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes ! — 
 When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown. 
 And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. 
 Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells. 
 
 Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging. 
 And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 
 
 Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing. 
 Or to see it by moonlight,— when mellowly shines 
 The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines; 
 When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars. 
 And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars 
 Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet 
 From the cool shining walks where the young people meet. 
 
 (14S) 
 
 *7 
 
" Its temples, and yrottos, and fountains as clear 
 As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave." 
 
I\ 
 
 > 
 
 THE VALE OF CASHMERE. 
 
 <-rvi^-* 
 
 M9 
 
 Or at morn, when the magic of dayhght awakes 
 A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks, 
 Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one 
 Out of darkness, as they were just born of the sun. 
 When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day. 
 From his harem of night-flowers stealing away; 
 And the wind, full of wantonness, woos, like a lover 
 The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over. 
 When the east is as warm as the light of first hopes, 
 
 And day, with its banner of radiance unfurled, 
 Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes, 
 
 Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world ! 
 
^ 
 
 (5 «. 
 
 K" 
 
 ~7\ 
 
 ->3|sP0Ill£Y^C^^EW.3{H- 
 
 TO THE HARD-HEARTED MOLLY CAREW— THE LAMENT 
 OF HER IRISH LOVER. 
 
 BY FATHER PROUT. 
 
 CH hone! 
 
 Oh ! what will I do ? 
 Sure my love is all crost, 
 Like a bud in the frost . . . 
 And there's no use at all 
 
 In my going to bed; 
 
 For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep, 
 
 That comes into my head . . . 
 And 'tis all about you, 
 
 My sweet Molly Carew, 
 
 And indeed 'tis a sin 
 
 And a shame. 
 
 You're complater than nature 
 
 In every feature; 
 
 The snow can't compare 
 
 To your forehead so fair; 
 
 And I rather would spy 
 
 Just one blink of your eye 
 
 Than the purtiest star 
 
 That shines out of the sky; 
 
 (150) 
 
 -^l 
 

 MOLLY CAREW. 151 
 
 ^ '■^'.'^^ 4- 
 
 Tho'— by this and by that ! 
 For the matter o' that — 
 You're more distant by far 
 Than that same. 
 
 Och hone, wierasthrew ! 
 I am alone 
 In this world without you ! 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 But why should I speak 
 Of your forehead and eyes, 
 When your nose it defies 
 Paddy Blake the schoolmaster 
 
 To put it in rhyme ? — 
 Though there's one Burke, 
 He says, 
 Who would call it SnubWmQ . . . 
 
 And then for your cheek, 
 Throth, 'twould take him a week 
 Its beauties to tell 
 As he'd rather: — 
 
 Then your lips, O machree ! 
 In their beautiful glow 
 They a pattern might be 
 For the cherries to grow. 
 'Twas an apple that tempted 
 Our mother, we know; 
 For apples were scarce 
 I suppose long ago: 
 But at this time o' day 
 'Pon my conscience I'll say, 
 Such cherries might tempt 
 A man's father ! 
 
 R 
 
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J- 
 
 152 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -^ -^•."^^ ^ 
 
 Och hone, wierasthrew ! 
 I'm alone 
 In this world without you ! 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 By the man in the moon ! 
 You tease me all ways 
 That a woman can plaze; 
 For you dance twice as high 
 With that thief Pat Macghee 
 As when you take share 
 Of a jig, dear, with me; 
 
 Though the piper I bate, 
 For fear the ould chate 
 Wouldn't play you your 
 Favorite tune. 
 
 And when you're at Mass 
 My devotion you crass, 
 For 'tis thinking of you 
 I am, Molly Carew; 
 While you wear on purpose ' 
 
 A bonnet so deep. 
 That I can't at your sweet 
 Pretty face get a peep. 
 Oh ! lave off that bonnet, 
 Or else I'll lave on it 
 The loss of my wandering 
 Sowl ! 
 
 Och hone ! like an owl. 
 Day is night, 
 Dear, to me without you ! 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 Don't provoke me to do it; 
 
 -^U- 
 
K — — • y] 
 
 MOLLY CAREW. 1 53. 
 
 _^ — '►I-fvT^^*- -<r- 
 
 For there's girls by the score 
 That loves me, and more. ' 
 
 And you'd look very queer, 
 If some morning you'd meet 
 My wedding all marching 
 In pride down the street. 
 
 Troth you'd open your eyes, 
 And you'd die of surprise 
 To think 'twasn't you 
 Was come to it. 
 
 And faith ! Kitty Naile 
 And her cow, I go bail. 
 Would jump if I'd say, 
 " Kitty Naile, name the day." 
 And though you're fair and fresh 
 As the blossoms of May, 
 And she's short and dark 
 Like a cowld winter's day, 
 Yet, if you don't repent 
 Before Easter — when Lent 
 Is over — I'll marry 
 For spite. 
 
 Och hone ! and when I 
 Die for you, 
 'Tis my ghost that you'll see every night. 
 
 V* to - » " ~ ^ 5j V 
 
K" 
 
 ~A 
 
 -Mc¥PEv0RI6INv0FvTKEv6P;aii.$<- 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 DEW-DROP came, with a spark of flame 
 He had caught from the sun's last ray, 
 To a violet's breast, where he lay at rest 
 Till the hours brought back the day. 
 
 The rose looked down, with a blush and 
 frown; 
 
 But she smiled all at once, to view 
 Her own bright form, with its coloring warm, 
 
 Reflected back by the dew. 
 
 Then the stranger took a stolen look 
 At the sky, so soft and blue; 
 
 And a leaflet green, with its silver sheen, 
 Was seen by the idler too. 
 
 A cold north-wind, as he thus reclined, 
 
 Of a sudden raged around; 
 And a maiden fair, who was walking there, 
 
 Next morning, an opal found. 
 
 (154) 
 
 \ 
 
 V 
 
V 
 
 -NcM^]\[^W;ig^P^DE4-¥64^P0a]^iS[.3lH. 
 
 ^ 
 
 A 
 
 BY ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 HEN chill November's surly blast, 
 Made fields and forests bare, 
 One evening, as I wander'd forth 
 
 Along the banks of Ayr, 
 I spied a man, whose aged step 
 
 Seem'd weary, worn with care; 
 His face was furrow'd o'er with years. 
 And hoary was his hair. 
 
 Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? 
 
 (Began the reveren.d sage;) 
 Dost thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 
 
 Or youthful pleasures rage ? 
 Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 
 
 Too soon thou hast began. 
 To wander forth, with me, to mourn 
 
 The miseries of man ! 
 
 / 
 
 ^ 
 
 The sun that overhangs yon moors, 
 Out-spreading far and wide. 
 
 Where hundreds labor to support 
 A haughty lordling's pride; 
 
 (155) 
 
 -s \ 
 
, 
 
 
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 \ 
 
 .-^ 
 
 (5 
 
 — i^_ 
 
 ^ 
 
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 J- 
 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
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 •V. 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 
 f 
 
 
 •«> 
 
 '*6-. "^*' s^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 I've seen yon weary winter-sun 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Twice forty times return; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 And every time has added proofs 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 man ! while in thy early years, 
 
 How prodigal of time ! 
 Mis-spending all thy precious hours 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
 Alternate follies take the sway; 
 
 Licentious passions burn; 
 Which tenfold force give Nature's law, 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 Look not alone on youthful prime, 
 
 Or manhood's active might: 
 Man then is useful to his kind, 
 
 Supported is his right. 
 But see him on the edge of life, 
 
 With cai'es and sorrows worn, 
 Then age and want, oh ! ill-matched pair, 
 
 Show man was made to mourn. 
 
 A few seem favorites of fate, 
 
 In pleasure's lap carest; 
 Yet, think not all the rich and great 
 
 Are likewise truly blest. 
 But, oh ! what crowds, in every land, 
 
 Are wretched and forlorn; 
 Through weary life this lesson learn, 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 
 \ 
 
 & 
 
 /" 
 
 
 
 A 
 
 Is 
 
 ^ 
 
 la 
 
 — •- 
 
 -'■ — 
 
 <a 
 
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 . 
 
 ■\ 
 
 ' 
 
■VQ- 
 
 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 157 
 
 ►^v4^^ 
 
 <■ 
 
 Many and sharp the numerous ills 
 
 Inwoven with our frame ! 
 More pointed still we make ourselves, 
 
 Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
 And man, whose heaven-erected face 
 
 The smiles of love adorn, 
 Man's inhumanity to man 
 
 Makes countless thousands mourn ! 
 
 See yonder poor, o'erlabor'd wight, 
 
 So abject, mean, and vile. 
 Who begs a brother of the earth, 
 
 To give him leave to toil: 
 And see his lordly fellow-worm 
 
 The poor petition spurn, 
 Unmindful, though a weeping wife 
 
 And helpless offspring mourn. 
 
 If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- 
 By Nature's law design'tl, 
 
 Why was an independent wish 
 E'er planted in my mind ? 
 
 If not, why am I subject to 
 His cruelty or scorn? 
 
 Or why has man the will and power 
 To make his fellow mourn ? 
 
 Yet, let not this too much, my son. 
 
 Disturb thy youthful breast: 
 This partial view of human-kind 
 
 Is surely not the last ! 
 
 K \| 
 
K" 
 
 
 158 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -^ — :^fv4-:^— <- 
 
 The poor, oppressed, honest man, 
 
 Had never, sure, been born. 
 Had there not been some recompense 
 
 To comfort those that mourn ! 
 
 O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 
 
 The kindest and the best ! 
 Welcome the hour my aged Hmbs 
 
 Are laid with thee at rest ! 
 The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 
 
 From pomp and pleasure torn; 
 But, oh ! a blest relief to those 
 
 That weary-laden mourn ! 
 
 
\ 
 
 K 
 
 / 
 
 -H 
 
 i}cfpE^CpmDRE]\[.3le^ 
 
 BY CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 |HEN the lessons and tasks are all ended, 
 
 And the school for the day is dismissed, 
 And the little ones gather around me, 
 
 To bid the good-night and be kissed; 
 E ^>Av^s^^<>x.>.;i Oh, the little white arms that encircle 
 My neck in a tender embrace ! 
 Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 
 
 Shedding sunshine of love on my face !. 
 
 And when they are gone I sit dreaming 
 
 Of my childhood too lovely to last: 
 Of love that my heart will remember, 
 
 When it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
 Ere the world and its wickedness made me 
 
 A partner of sorrow and sin, 
 When the glory of God was about me, 
 
 And the glory of gladness within. 
 
 K- 
 
 ■t 
 
 Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's. 
 And the fountains of feeling will flow, 
 
 When I think of the paths, steep and stony. 
 Where the feet of the dear ones must go; 
 
 (159) 
 
 -M 
 
 >y 
 
^ 
 
 >> 
 
 ^ 
 
 Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, 
 Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; 
 
 Oh ! there is nothing on earth half so holy, 
 As the innocent heart of a child ! 
 
 They are idols of hearts and of households. 
 
 They are angels of God in disguise; 
 His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, 
 
 His glory still gleams in their eyes; 
 Oh ! those truants from home and from heaven, 
 
 They have made me more manly and mild ! 
 And I knoAv how Jesus could liken 
 
 The Kingdom of God to a child. 
 
 Seek not a life for the dear ones, 
 
 All radiant as others have done. 
 But that life may have just enough shadow 
 
 To temper the glare of the sun; 
 I would pray God to guard them from evil, 
 
 But my prayer would bound back to myself. 
 Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, 
 
 But a sinner must pray for himself. 
 
 The twig is so easily bended, 
 
 I have banished the rule and the rod; 
 I have taught them the goodness of knowledge. 
 
 They have taught me the goodness of God; 
 My heart is a dungeon of darkness, 
 
 Where I shut them from breaking a rule: 
 My frown is sufficient correction; 
 
 My love is the law of the school. 
 
\ 
 
 "7^ 
 
 THE CHILDREN. l6l 
 
 ^ ►Jfv-f:- «" 
 
 I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 
 
 To traverse its threshold no more; 
 Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones, 
 
 That meet me each morn at the door ! 
 I shall miss the "good-nights " and the kisses, 
 
 And the gush of their innocent glee, 
 The group on the green and the flowers 
 
 That are brought every morning to me. 
 
 I shall miss them at morn and at eve, 
 
 Their song in the school and the street: 
 I shall miss the low hum of their voices 
 
 And the tramp of their delicate feet. 
 When the lessons and tasks are all ended. 
 
 And death says, " The school is dismissed ! " 
 May the little ones gather around me, 
 
 To bid me good-night and be kissed. 
 
 k - M 
 
Aj 
 
 \ 
 
 ~7\ 
 
 ->2}cpaN¥i]\[6vg0N6.5i^ 
 
 BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 PS^^^^S^ 
 
 AKEN, 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 their 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, 
 
 Springlets in the dawn are streaming, 
 
 Diamonds on the brake are gleaming, 
 
 And foresters have busy been 
 
 To tfack 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; 
 (162) 
 
 \ 
 
v*v- i 
 
 . V C ^-~*:*^ i ^ ^ . ^?~ ^"^^ 
 
 We can show you where he lies, 
 Fleet of foot, and tall of size." 
 
HUNTING SONG. 
 
 ^ ^:-^.;..^^_ 
 
 We can show the marks he made 
 When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed; 
 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 ! 
 
 163 
 
 JM 
 
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 -McfpE^6PEfiW0@D4*gPRIF5^.3le^ 
 
 A SCENE IN WINDSOR FOREST, ENGLAND. 
 
 BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 UTSTRETCHED beneath the leafy shade 
 Of Windsor forest's deepest glade, 
 
 A dying woman lay; 
 Three little children round her stood, 
 And there went up from the greenwood 
 
 A woful wail that day. 
 
 " O mother ! " was the mingled cry, 
 " O mother, mother ! do not die. 
 
 And leave us all alone." 
 " My blessed babes ! " she tried to say. 
 But the faint accents died away 
 
 In a low sobbing moan. 
 
 / 
 
 And then, life struggling hard with death. 
 And fast and strong she drew her breath, 
 
 And up she raised her head; 
 And, peering through the deep wood maze 
 With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze, 
 
 " Will she not come ? " she said. 
 
 (164) 
 
71 
 
 THK GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 165 
 
 > ^I-fv^l^* ^- 
 
 Just then the parting boughs between, 
 A little maid's light form was seen, 
 
 All breathless with her speed; 
 And following close a man came on 
 (A portly man to look upon,) 
 
 Who led a panting steed. 
 
 " Mother ! " the little maiden cried, 
 Or e'er she reached the woman's side, 
 
 And kissed her clay-cold cheek, — 
 " I have not idled in the town. 
 But long went wandering up and down. 
 
 The minister to seek. 
 
 " They told me here, they told me there, — 
 I think they mocked me everywhere; 
 
 And when I found his home. 
 And begged him on my bended knee 
 To bring his book and come with me. 
 
 Mother ! he would not come. 
 
 " I told him how you dying lay, 
 And could not go in peace away 
 
 Without the minister: 
 I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, 
 But O, my heart was fit to break,- 
 
 Mother ! he would not stir. 
 
 " So, though my tears were blinding me, 
 I ran back, fas-t as fast could be. 
 
 To come again to you; 
 And here — close by — this squire I met. 
 Who asked, so mild, what made me fret; 
 
 And when I told him true,- 
 
 \ 
 

 \ 
 
 1 66 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 — > ^*-fv4"*^' ^ 
 
 " ' I will go with you, child,' he said, 
 ' God sends me to this dying bed,'— 
 
 Mother, he's here, hard by." 
 While thus the little maiden spoke, 
 The man, his back against an oak, 
 
 Looked on with glistening eye. 
 
 The bridle on his neck hung free, 
 
 With quivering flank and trembling knee, 
 
 Pressed close his bonny bay; 
 A statelier man, a statelier steed, 
 Never on greensward paced, I rede, 
 
 Than those stood there that day. 
 
 So, while the little maiden spoke, 
 The man, his back against an oak, 
 
 Looked on with glistening eye 
 And folded arms, and in his look 
 Something that, like a sermon-book, 
 
 Preached, — "All is vanity." 
 
 But when the dying woman's face 
 Turned toward him with a wishful gaze, 
 
 He stepped to where she lay; 
 And, kneeling down, bent over her, 
 Saying, " I am a minister, 
 
 My sister ! let us pray." 
 
 And well, withouten book or stole, 
 (God's words were printed on his soul!) 
 
 Into the dying ear 
 He breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain. 
 The things that unto life pertain, 
 
 And death's dark shadows clear. 
 
r^ " — 7\ 
 
 THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 167 
 
 --> "^•.•^'^ <^ 
 
 He spoke of sinners' lost estate, 
 In Christ renewed, regenerate, — 
 
 Of God's most blest decree, 
 That not a single soul should die 
 Who turns repentant, with the crv 
 
 " Be merciful to me." 
 
 He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, 
 Endured but for a little while 
 
 In patience, faith, and love, — 
 Sure, in God's own good time, to be 
 Exchanged for an eternity 
 
 Of happiness above. 
 
 Then as the spirit ebbed away. 
 
 He raised his hands and eyes to pray 
 
 That peaceful it might pass; 
 And then — the orphan's sobs alone 
 Were heard, and they knelt, every one 
 
 Close round on the green grass. 
 
 Such was the sight their wandering eyes 
 Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise, 
 
 Who reined their coursers back. 
 Just as they found the long astray, 
 Who, in the heat of chase that day. 
 
 Had wandered from their track. 
 
 But each man reined his pawing steed, 
 And lighted down, as if agreed. 
 
 In silence at ^is side, 
 And there, uncovered all, they stood, — 
 It was a wholesoriie sight and good 
 
 That day for mortal pride. 
 
 ^. 
 
K" 
 
 i68 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 •> 
 
 ►^•:4:^ 
 
 ■«■ 
 
 For of the noblest of the land 
 
 Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band; 
 
 And central in the ring, 
 By that dead pauper on the ground. 
 Her ragged orphans clinging round, 
 
 Knelt their anointed king.* 
 
 *George III. 
 
 R 
 
-v 
 
 K 
 
 y^ 
 
 / 
 
 -H- 
 
 WKE^^ME]^IC;?]\[4FIi^6.$<- 
 
 BY JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 HEN Freedom, from her mountain height, 
 Unfurled her standard to the air, 
 She tore the azure robe of night. 
 
 And set the stars of glory there ! 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 The milky baldric of the skies, 
 And striped its pure, celestial white 
 With streakings of the morning light, 
 Then, from his mansion in the sun. 
 She called her eagle-bearer down, 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 The symbol Of her chosen land ! 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 
 
 Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
 To hear the tempest-trumpings loud. 
 And see the lightning lances driven. 
 
 When strive the warriors of the storm, 
 
 (169) 
 
 -M 
 
 "Si V 
 
:i 
 
 ^ 
 
 170 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 <t-'.-i> 
 
 < 
 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
 Child of the Sun ! to thee 't is given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free, 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To ward away the battle-stroke. 
 And bid its blendings shine afar, 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 
 The harbingers of victory ! 
 
 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
 The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
 When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
 And the long line comes gleaming on, 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 
 Each soldier's eye shall brighty turn 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
 And, as his springing steps advance, 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud. 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 Like shoots of flame .on midnight's pall, 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow. 
 
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 R. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
 When death, careering on the gale. 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
 
 -M 
 
 ^i I 
 
\ 
 
 \ 
 
 >> 
 
 ~7\ 
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 171 
 
 '^- 
 
 ^^vi-^ 
 
 <: 
 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 
 
 By angel hands to valor given. 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ! 
 
 / 
 
 -t 
 
 ^ 
 
•V 
 
 K 
 
 
 A 
 
 ^{:C0]iaj)iBi;^.3}H- 
 
 BY TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 
 
 / 
 
 'OLUMBIA, Columbia, to glory arise, 
 The queen of the world, and child of the skies ! 
 Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold. 
 While ages on ages thy splendors unfold. 
 Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time, 
 Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime; 
 Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name, 
 Be freedom and science and virtue thy fame. 
 
 To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire; 
 Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire; 
 Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, 
 And triumph pursue them, and glory attend. 
 A world is thy realm; for a world be thy laws. 
 Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy causey 
 On Freedom's broad basis that empire shall rise, 
 Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies. 
 
 Fair Science her gates to thy sons shall unbar. 
 And the east see thy morn hide the beams of her star, 
 New bards and hew sages unrivalled shall soar 
 To fame unextinguished when time is no more. 
 To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed. 
 Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind; 
 Here grateful to heaven, with transport shall bring 
 Their incense, more fragrant than odors ®f spring. 
 
 (172) . 
 
 -r^ 
 
 r" 
 
K — ■ 
 
 COLUMBIA. 
 
 173 
 
 -^ ►ifv-f:- <r 
 
 Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend, 
 And genius and beauty in harmony blend; 
 The graces of form shall awake pure desire, 
 And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire; 
 Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined. 
 And virtue's bright image, enstamped on the mind, 
 With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to* glow, 
 And light up a smile on the aspect of woe. 
 
 Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display. 
 The nations admire, and the ocean obey; 
 Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold. 
 And the east and the south yield their spices and gold. 
 As the dayspring unbounded thy splendor shall flow, 
 And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow, 
 While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled. 
 Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world. 
 
 Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'erspread, 
 From war's dread confusion, I pensively strayed, — 
 The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired; 
 The winds ceased to murmur, the thunders expired; 
 Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along. 
 And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung: 
 "Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise. 
 The queen of the world, and the child of the skies." 
 
 / 
 
 Ai. 
 
/ 
 
 ^W^^^%W^W'^^ 
 
 BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 HERE is a land, of every land the pride, 
 Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside. 
 Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
 And milder moons imparadise the night] 
 A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
 Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: 
 The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
 The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, 
 Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
 Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air. 
 In every clime, the magnet of his soul. 
 Touched by remembrance, "trembles to that pole; 
 For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race, 
 The heritage of nature's noblest grace, 
 There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 
 Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
 His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
 While in his softened looks benignly blend 
 The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. 
 Here wom.an reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, 
 Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life: 
 
 (174) 
 
 -M 
 
 -f 
 
 -c> V 
 
\ 
 
 / 
 
 MY COUNTRY. 
 
 •>- 
 
 ►^v-f^ 
 
 175 
 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
 
 An angel-guard of love and graces lie; 
 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
 
 And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 
 " Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? " 
 
 Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around; 
 
 O, thou shalt find^ howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
 
 That land thy country, and that spot thy home ! 
 
 Man, through all ages of revolving time, 
 Unchanging man, in every varying clime. 
 Deems his own land of every land the pride, 
 Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; 
 His home the spot of earth supremely blest, 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 
 
 VL 
 
 ^ 
 
 'v 
 
\ 
 
 K 
 
 •Mc^4C0[fl^T^L;^DY.3lH- 
 
 BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 ^ 
 
 A 
 
 ER hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with 
 purple were dark, 
 Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red 
 and restless spark, 
 
 II. 
 
 Never was lady of Milan nobler in name 
 
 and in race; 
 Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in 
 
 the face. 
 
 III. 
 
 Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, 
 Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life. 
 
 IV 
 
 She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, 
 
 " Bring 
 That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king. 
 
 V. 
 
 K 
 
 " Bring me the clasps of diamonds, lucid, clear of the mote, 
 Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the 
 throat. 
 
 (176) 
 
 M 
 
VI. 
 
 " Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the 
 
 sleeves, 
 Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from 
 
 the eaves." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathered her up in 
 
 a flame, 
 While, straight in her open carriage, she to the hospital 
 
 came. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In she went at the door, and gazing, from end to end, 
 " Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a 
 friend." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young 
 
 man's bed: 
 Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his 
 
 head. 
 
 X. 
 
 " Art thou a Lombard, my brother ? Happy are thou ! " she 
 
 cried, 
 And smiled like Italy on him: he dreamed in her face and 
 
 died. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second: 
 He was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeons were 
 reckoned. 
 
 ^^ — ^L 
 
 — — k ^ 
 
J^ 
 
 K^ -^ 
 
 I 178 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -> — Jf-v-fj- ^ 
 
 XII. 
 
 Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer. 
 "Art thou a Romagnole?" Her eyes drove lightnings 
 before her. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the 
 
 cord 
 Able to bind thee, O strong one, — free by the -stroke of a 
 
 sword. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast 
 To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the 
 past." 
 
 XV. 
 
 Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's, 
 Young, and pathetic with dying, — a deep black hole in the 
 curls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Art thou from Tuscany, brother ? and seest thou, dreaming 
 
 in pain, 
 Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the 
 
 slain ? " 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her 
 
 hands: 
 " Blessed is she who has born thee, although she should 
 
 weep as she stands." 
 
 \ y — ^ 
 
"71 
 
 A COURT LADY. 
 
 179 
 
 -■> ►Jfl-i^^ ^-' 
 
 XVIII. 
 On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: 
 Kneeling, . . "O more than my brother ! how shall I thank 
 thee for all ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and 
 line, 
 
 But f/iou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not 
 thine. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed. 
 But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong 
 for the rest ! " 
 
 XXI. 
 Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where 
 pined 
 
 One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of 
 mind. 
 
 XXII. 
 Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name, 
 But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Only a tear for Venice ? — she turned as in passion and loss, 
 And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were 
 kissing the cross. 
 
 XXIV. 
 Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on then to another, 
 Stern and strong in his death. "And dost thou suffer, my 
 brother? " 
 
 kl 
 
 A 
 
A 
 
 r^ - — 71 
 
 1 80 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -^ ►Jfv'fj- <■- 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Holding his hands in hers : — "Out of the Piedmont lion 
 Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweetest to live or to 
 die on." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Holding his cold rough hands, — "Well, O, well have ye done 
 In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a 
 
 spring — 
 " That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the Court of the 
 
 King." 
 
 Z . ^ 
 
A 
 
 N^PeijE0N^;^ND^¥KE^BRlJFl3H'fg;5mG^. 
 
 k- 
 
 BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 LOVl'] contemplating — apart 
 
 From all his homicidal glory 
 
 The traits that soften to our heart 
 Napoleon's glory ! • 
 
 'T was when his banners at Boulogne 
 
 Armed in our island every freeman 
 His navy chanced to capture one 
 Poor British seaman. 
 
 They suffered him— I know not how— 
 Unprisoned on the shore to roam; 
 And aye was b'ent his longing brow 
 On England's home. 
 
 His eye, methinks! pursued the flight 
 Of birds to Britain half-way over; 
 With envy they could reach the white 
 Dear cliffs of Dover. 
 
 A stormy midnight watch, he thought. 
 
 Than this sojourn would have been dearer, 
 If but the storm his vessel brought 
 To England nearer. 
 (i8i) 
 
 -i" 
 

 9 
 
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 <s 
 
 \ 
 
 
 y 
 
 P"*" 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 182 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 
 ► ' 
 
 
 ^ **^V"e)*' S.' 
 
 
 
 
 At last, when care had banished sleep, 
 
 He saw one morning, dreaming, doting, 
 An empty hogshead from the deep 
 Come shoreward floating. 
 
 
 
 
 
 He hid it in a cave, and wrought 
 
 The live-long day laborious; lurking 
 Until he launched a tiny boat 
 By mighty working. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Heaven help us ! 't was a thing beyond 
 
 Description wretched; such a wherry 
 Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, 
 Or crossed a ferry. 
 
 
 
 
 
 For ploughing in the salt-sea field, 
 
 It would have made the boldest shudder; 
 Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, — 
 No sail, no rudder. 
 
 
 
 
 
 From neighboring woods he interlaced 
 
 His sorry skiff with wattled willows; 
 And thus equipped he would have passed . 
 The foaming billows, — 
 
 
 
 
 
 But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 
 
 His little Argus sorely jeering; 
 The tidings of him chanced to reach 
 Napoleon's hearing. 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 With folded arms Napoleon stood, 
 
 Serene alike in peace and danger; 
 And, in his wonted attitude. 
 
 Addressed the stranger: — 
 
 
 L 
 
 _£. 
 
 V- 
 
 , 
 
 -^ 
 
 is 
 
 "TF 
 
 <3 
 
 ^" 
 
 a 
 
 v^ 
 
NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 183 
 
 -^ — ^j|,.;.c|j.,- ^_ 
 
 " Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass 
 
 On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned, 
 Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
 Must be impassioned." 
 
 " I have no sweetheart," said the lad; 
 
 " But — absent long from one another — 
 Great was the longing that I had 
 To see my mother." 
 
 "And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, 
 
 " Ye've both my favor fairly won; 
 A noble mother must have bred 
 So brave a son." 
 
 He gave the tar a piece of gold. 
 
 And, with a flag of truce, commanded 
 He should be shipped to England Old, 
 And safely landed. 
 
 Our sailor oft could scantly shift 
 
 To find a dinner, plain and hearty, 
 But never changed the coin and gift 
 Of Bonaparte. 
 
 kl 
 
 ^^r 
 

 ^{c¥K©06p5^.3}H- 
 
 BY CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. 
 
 HOUGHT is deeper than all speech, 
 Feeling deeper than all thought; 
 Souls to souls can never teach 
 
 What unto themselves was taught. 
 
 We are spirits clad in veils; 
 
 Man by man was never seen; 
 All our deep communing fails 
 
 To remove the shadowy screen. 
 
 Heart to heart was never known; 
 
 Mind with mind did never meet; 
 We are columns left alone 
 
 Of a temple once complete. 
 
 Like the stars that gem the sky, 
 
 Far apart though seeming near, 
 
 In our light we scattered lie; 
 
 All is thus but starlight here. 
 
 What is social company 
 
 But a babbling summer stream ? 
 What our wise philosophy 
 
 But the glancing of a dream ? 
 
 (184) 
 
 / 
 
 ■7 
 
 
THOUGHT. 185 
 
 -•> ►if-:-^^— «- 
 
 Only when the sun of love 
 
 Melts the scattered stars of thought, 
 
 Only when we live above 
 
 What the dim-eyed world has taught. 
 
 Only when our souls are fed 
 
 By the fount which gave them birth, 
 
 And by inspiration led, 
 
 Which they never drew from earth, 
 
 We, like parted drops of rain, 
 
 Swelling till they meet and run, 
 
 Shall be all absorbed 'again, 
 Melting, flowing into one. 
 
 

 1\ 
 
 -A 
 
 •Mc5fpE^gE^^FI6P¥.3l£<- 
 
 AS TOLD BY AN ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 **t 
 
 K- 
 
 H, yes, — the fight ! Well, messmates, well, 
 I served on board that Ninety-eight; 
 
 Yet what I saw I loathe to tell. 
 
 To-night be sure a crushing weight 
 
 Upon my sleeping breast, a hell 
 
 Of dread, will sit. At any rate, 
 
 Though land-locked here,a watch I'll keep, — 
 
 Grog cheers us still. Who cares for sleep ? 
 
 That Ninety-eight I sailed on board; 
 
 Along the Frenchman's coast we flew; 
 Right aft the rising tempest roared; 
 A noble first rate hove in view; 
 And soon high in the gale there soared 
 
 Her streamed-out bunting, — red, white, blue ! 
 We cleared for fight, and landward bore. 
 To get between the chase and shore. 
 
 (i86) 
 
 -M 
 
 ^ 
 
\ 
 
 1^ 
 
 THE SEA FIGHT. 187 
 
 -^ -Jfv^^ : <r- 
 
 Masters, I cannot spin a yarn 
 
 Twice laid with words of silken stuff. 
 
 A fact 's a fact; and ye may larn 
 
 The rights o' this, though wild and rough 
 
 My words may loom. 'T is your consarn, 
 Not mine, to understand. Enough; — 
 
 We neared the Frenchman where he lay, 
 
 And as we neared, he blazed away. 
 
 We tacked, hove to; we filled, we wore; 
 
 Did all that seamanship could do 
 To rake him aft, or by the fore, — 
 
 Now rounded off, and now broached to; 
 And now our starboard broadside bore, 
 
 And showers of iron through and through 
 His vast hull hissed; our larboard then 
 Swept from his threefold decks his men. 
 
 As we, lik? a huge serpent, toiled, 
 
 And wound about, through that wild sea, 
 The Frenchman each manoeuvre foiled, — 
 
 'Vantage to neither there could be. 
 Whilst thus the waves between us boiled, 
 
 We both resolved right manfully 
 To fight it side by side; — began 
 Then the fierce strife of man to man. 
 
 Gun bellows forth to gun, and pain 
 
 Rings out her wild, delirious scream ! 
 
 Redoubling thunders shake the main; 
 
 Loud crashing, falls the shot-rent beam. 
 
 / 
 
 J^ 
 
^ 
 
 Q 
 
 ^~ .-4 
 
 G, 
 
 ^ 
 
 6 
 
 \ 
 
 
 / 
 
 |0 * 
 
 \ 
 
 
 1 88 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 
 » 
 
 
 •;^ '*& . e)- M 
 
 
 
 
 The timbers with the broadsides strain; 
 
 
 
 
 
 The slippery deck sends up a steam 
 From hot and living blood, and high 
 And shrill is heard the death-pang cry. 
 
 The shredded limb, the splintered bone. 
 
 The unstiffened corpse, now block the way ! 
 
 Who can hear the dying groan ? 
 
 The trumpet of the judgment-day, 
 
 Had it pealed forth its mighty tone, 
 
 We should not then have heard, — to say 
 
 Would be rank sin; but this I tell. 
 
 That could alone our madness quell. 
 
 Upon the forcastle I fought 
 
 As captain of the for'ad gun. 
 A scattering shot the carriage caught ! 
 
 What mother then had known her son 
 Of those who stood around ? — distraught. 
 
 And smeared with gore, about they run, 
 Then fall, and writhe, and howling die ! 
 But one escaped, — that one was I ! 
 
 Night darkened round, and the storm pealed; 
 
 To windward of us lay the foe. 
 As he to leeward over keeled, 
 
 He could not fight his guns below; 
 So just was going to strike, — when reeled 
 
 Our vessel, as if some vast blow 
 
 
 
 
 
 From an Almighty hand had rent 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 The huge ship from her element. 
 
 
 \ 
 
 e 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 \ 
 
 li) 
 
 "^ 
 
 (5 — 
 r 
 
 — ^ 
 
 O 
 
 ^T^ 
 
Then howled the thunder. Tumult then 
 
 Had stunned herself to silence. Round 
 
 Were scattered lightning-blasted men ! 
 
 Our mainmast went. All stifled, drowned, 
 
 Arose the Frenchman's shout. Again 
 The bolt burst on us, and we found 
 
 Our masts all gone, — our decks all riven: 
 
 Man's war mocks faintly that of heaven ! 
 
 Just then, — nay, messmates, laugh not now, — 
 As I, amazed, one minute stood 
 
 Amidst that rout, — I know not how, — 
 
 'T was silence all, — the raving flood, ■ 
 
 The guns that pealed from stem to bow, 
 
 And God's own thunder, — nothing could 
 
 I then of all that tumult hear, 
 
 Or see aught of all that scene of fear, — 
 
 My aged mother at her door 
 
 Sat mildly o'er her humming wheel; 
 The cottage, orchard, and the moor, — 
 
 I saw them plainly all. I '11 kneel. 
 And swear I saw them ! O, they wore 
 
 A look all peace? Could I but feel 
 Again that bliss that then I felt. 
 That made my heart, like childhood's melt ! 
 
 VL 
 
 The blessed tear was on my cheek, 
 
 She smiled with that old smile I know. 
 
 " Turn to me, mother, turn and speak," 
 Was on my quivering lips, — when lo ! 
 
\ — 7^ 
 
 190 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -^ -^H^*— ^ 
 
 All vanished, and a dark, red streak 
 
 Glared wild and vivid from the foe, 
 That flashed upon the blood-stained water, — 
 For fore and aft the flames had caught her. 
 
 She struck and hailed us. On us fast 
 All burning, helplessly, she came, — 
 
 Near, and more near; and not a masf 
 Had we to help us from that flame. 
 
 'T was then the bravest stood aghast, — 
 'T was then the wicked, on the name 
 
 (With danger and with guilt appalled) 
 
 Of God, too long neglected, called. 
 
 The eddying flames with ravening tongue 
 
 Now on our ship's dark bulwarks dash, — 
 
 We almost touched, — when ocean rung 
 
 Down to its depths with one loud crash ! 
 
 In heaven's top vault one instant hung 
 The vast, intense, and blinding flash ! 
 
 Then all was darkness, stillness, dread, — 
 
 The wave moaned over the valiant dead. 
 
 She's gone ! blown up ! that gallant foe ! 
 
 And though she left us in a plight, 
 We floated still; long were, I know, 
 
 And hard, the labors of that night 
 To clear the wreck. At length in tow 
 
 .A frigate took us, when 't was light; 
 And soon an English port we gained, — 
 A hulk all battered and blood-stained. 
 
 i^ ^^ 
 
So many slain, — so many drowned ! 
 
 I like not of that fight to tell. 
 Come, let the cheerful grog go round ! 
 
 Messmates, I've done. A spell, ho ! spell, — 
 Though a pressed man, I '11 still be found 
 
 To do a seaman's duty well. 
 I wish our brother landsmen knew 
 One half we jolly tars go through. 
 
 K 
 
 -M 
 
 -V 
 
K 
 
 -H}c6J^l£Yv^vW6fi;^]^;{H. 
 
 BY DINAH MARIA MULOCK, 
 
 "She loves with love that cannot tire; 
 
 And if, ah, woe! she loves alone, 
 Through passionate duty love flames higher. 
 
 As gi-ass grows taller round a stone." 
 
 COVENTRY PATMORE. 
 
 O, the truth 's out. I'll grasp it like a snake, — 
 It will not slay me. My heart shall not break 
 Awhile, if only for the children's sake. 
 
 For his, too, somewhat. Let him stand 
 
 unblamed; 
 None say, he gave me less than honor claimed. 
 Except — one trifle scarcely worth being 
 
 named — 
 
 The heart. That 's gone. The corrupt dead might be 
 As easily raised up, breathing,^fair to see, 
 As he could bring his whole heart back to me. 
 
 ■7" 
 
 I never sought him in coquettish sport, 
 Or courted him as silly maidens court. 
 And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. 
 
 (192) 
 
 -^ 
 
^ 
 
 K ~ . . ^ 
 
 ONLY A WOMAN. I93 
 
 --> — ^v^- «-- 
 
 I only loved him, — any woman would: 
 But shut my love up till he came and sued, 
 Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood. 
 
 I was so happy I could make him blest ! — 
 
 So happy that I was his first and best, 
 
 As he mine, — when he took me to his breast. 
 
 Ah me ! if only then he had been true ! 
 
 If for one little year, a month or two, 
 
 He had given me love for love, as was my due ! 
 
 Or had he told me, ere the deed was done, 
 He only raised me to his heart's dear throne — 
 Poor substitute — because the queen was gone ! 
 
 0, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss 
 Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss, 
 He had kissed another woman even as this, — 
 
 It were less bitter ! Sometimes I could weep 
 To be thus cheated, like a child asleep; — 
 Were not my anguish far too dry and deep. 
 
 So I built my house upon another's ground; 
 Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound, — 
 A cankered thing that looked so firm and sound. 
 
 And when that heart grew colder, — colder still, 
 
 1, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfil, 
 Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will, 
 
 k -^ ^— N 
 
 V 
 
■v<? «> 
 
 /[ 
 
 194 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 All, — anything but him. It was to be 
 The full draught others drink up carelessly 
 Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. 
 
 I say again, — he gives me all I claimed, 
 I and my children never shall be shamed: 
 He is a just man, — he will live unblamed. 
 
 Only — O God, O God, to cry for bread, 
 And get a stone ! Daily to lay my head 
 Upon a bosom where the old love's dead ! 
 
 Dead? — Fool! It never lived. It only stirred 
 Galvanic, like an hour-cold corpse. None heard: 
 So let me bury it without a word. 
 
 He '11 keep that other woman from my sight. 
 I know not if her face be foul or bright; 
 I only know that it was his delight — 
 
 As his was mine; I only know he stands 
 Pale, at the touch of their long-severed hands. 
 Then to a flickering smile his lips commands. 
 
 Lest I should grieve, or jealous anger show. 
 
 He need not. When the ship 's gone down, I trow, 
 
 We little reck whatever wind may blow. 
 
 And so my silent moan begins and ends. 
 
 No world's laugh or world's taunt, no pity of friends 
 
 Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends. 
 
 ^ 
 "^s- 
 

 / 
 
 ONLY A WOMAN. 
 
 195 
 
 > 
 
 ^".•1? 
 
 None knows, — none heeds. I have a little pride; 
 Enough to stand up, wifelike, by his side, 
 With the same smile as when I was his bride; 
 
 And I shall take his children to my arms; 
 
 They will not miss these fading, worthless charms; 
 
 Their kiss — ah ! unlike his— all pain disarms. 
 
 And haply as the solemn years go by. 
 
 He will think sometimes, with regretful sigh, 
 
 The other woman was less true than I. 
 
 ^^.Q^^^ 
 
 V- 
 
 _M 
 
K 
 
 ~A 
 
 ll. 
 
 ■Hlc3FpE^BEliIig4^6FvgP^P@]\[.3}£<- 
 
 BY FATHER PROUT. 
 
 Sabbat a pango; 
 Funera plango; 
 Solemnia clango. 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD BELL. 
 
 ITH deep affection 
 And recollection 
 I often think of 
 
 Those Shandon bells, 
 Whose sounds so wild would, 
 In the days of childhood, 
 Fling round my cradle 
 Their magic spells. 
 
 ki 
 
 On this I ponder 
 Where'er I wander, 
 And thus grow fonder, 
 
 Sweet Cork of thee, — 
 With thy bells of Shandon, 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 {196) 
 
 A^ 
 
 ■i" 
 
THE BELLS OF SHANDON. I97 
 
 -^ ►:|-:-!^< 4-- 
 
 I 've heard bells chiming 
 Full many a clime in, 
 Tolling sublime in 
 
 Cathedral shrine, . 
 While at a glibe rate 
 Brass tongues would vibrate; 
 But all their music 
 
 Spoke naught like thine^ 
 
 For memory, dwelling 
 On each proud swelling 
 Of thy belfry, knelling 
 
 Its bold notes free. 
 Made the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I 've heard bells tolling 
 Old Adrian's Mole in, 
 Their thunder rolling 
 
 From the Vatican, — 
 And symbols glorious 
 Swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets 
 
 Of Notre Dame; 
 
 V 
 
 ^ 
 
 But thy sounds were sweeter 
 Than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, 
 Pealing solemnly. 
 
Oh ! the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 There 's a bell in Moscow; 
 While on tower and kiosk O 
 In St. Sophia 
 
 The Turkman gets, 
 And loud in air 
 Calls men to prayer, 
 From the tapering summit 
 
 Of tall minarets. 
 
 Such empty phantom 
 I freely grant them; 
 But there 's an anthem 
 
 More dear to me, — 
 'T is the bells of Shandon, 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 ^k ^^ ^ 
 
\ 
 
 K 
 
 4>^ 
 
 -7i 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 T is believed that this harp which I wake now for 
 thee 
 Was a siren of old who sung under the sea; 
 
 ^ And who often at eve through the bright billow 
 til 
 
 roved 
 
 To meet on the green shore a youth whom she 
 loved. 
 
 But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, 
 And in tears all the night her gold ringlets to steep, 
 
 (199) 
 
 '^\ 
 
J^ 
 
 Q »^ 
 
 IV 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS, 
 
 ■•>■ 
 
 ^^•:-^^ 
 
 -<r- 
 
 Till Heaven looked with pity on true love so warm, 
 And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form ! 
 
 Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheek smiled the same — 
 While her sea-beauties gracefully curled round the frame; 
 And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings. 
 Fell, over her white arm, to make the gold strings! 
 
 Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath been known 
 To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; 
 Till ^/lou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay 
 To be love when I 'm near thee and grief when away ! 
 
 \ 
 
I\ 
 
 i±. 
 
 / 
 
 ^lc¥0 vfl^l^YvIN •flE^YEN.3}^ 
 
 BY ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 [Composed by Burns, in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the 
 day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.] 
 
 
 HOU lingering star, with lessening ray, 
 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usher'st in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget, — 
 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove. 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met 
 
 To live one day of parting love ! 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past; 
 Thy image at our last embrace; 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 't was our last ! 
 
 Ayr,' gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; 
 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 
 Twined amorous round the raptured scene: 
 
 \ 
 
"1^ 
 
 202 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -^ -jf-:-!^- <- 
 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
 
 The birds sang love on every spray, — 
 
 Till soon, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ! 
 Time but the impression stronger makes, 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear 
 My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 J K H 
 
 "7 <5 — ^ ^=^ — 
 
\ 
 
 Kr 
 
 -7\ 
 
 A 
 
 BY JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 [prising the lark 
 Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of 
 
 morn: 
 Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings 
 Amid the dawning clouds, and from their 
 
 haunts 
 Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse 
 r^$r~^ r Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush 
 (£\^ ^ Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads 
 Of the coy quiristers that lodge within, 
 Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush 
 And woodlark, o'er the kind-contending throng 
 (203) 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 N- 
 
71 
 
 204 
 
 ■> 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 4-:-4j^ 
 
 -<r 
 
 Superior heard, run through the sweetest length 
 Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns 
 To let them joy, and purposes, in thought 
 Elate, to make her night excel their day. 
 The blackbird whistles from the thorny brake; 
 The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove; 
 Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze 
 Poured out profusely, silent: joined to these 
 Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade 
 Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix 
 Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw. 
 And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, 
 Aid the full concert; while the stockdove breathes 
 A melancholy murmur through the whole. 
 
 'T is love creates their melody, and all 
 This waste of music is the voice of love; 
 That even to birds and beasts the tender arts 
 Of pleasing teaches. 
 
 K- 
 
 "7" 
 
 ^ 
 
J- 
 
 -A 
 
 -^ic¥pE^TW0^^p^m^P0i^NiN<^3-^i' 
 
 ^ 
 
 BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 E walked along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun; 
 And Matthew stopped, he looked 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 traveled merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 QJ 
 
 "7P 
 
 / 
 
 " Our work," said I, " was well begun; 
 
 Then from thy breast what thought. 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
 
 So sad a sigh has brought? " 
 
 (205) 
 
r^ " — — Tfi 
 
 206 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 ^ ►Jfvi:- ^ 
 
 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 colors, and no other. 
 Were in the sky that April morn, 
 
 Of this the very brother. 
 
 "With rod and line I sued the sport 
 
 Which that sweet season gave, 
 And, coming to the church, stopped 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 seemed — 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. 
 
 y - ^ 
 
K ' 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. - 207 
 
 -.^ ►iM-i^- 4- 
 
 " A basket on her head she bare; 
 
 Her brow was smooth and white: 
 To see a child so very fair, 
 
 It was a pure dehght ! 
 
 " No fountain from its rocky cave 
 
 E'er tripped with foot so free; 
 She seemed as happy as a wave 
 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
 " There came from me a sigh of pain 
 
 Which I could ill confine; 
 I looked at her, and looked 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. 
 
 K H ^ 
 
 & ^ ^« s ^ 
 
■V 
 
 >> 
 
 ~7\ 
 
 -^Ic^LPINE^-pEIgpWg.^fH- 
 
 BY KRUMMACHER (GERMAN). 
 
 TRANSLATION OF CHARLES T. BROOKS. 
 
 V- 
 
 N Alpine heights the love of God is shed; 
 He paints the morning red, 
 The flowerets white and blue, 
 And feeds them with his dew. 
 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 On Alpine heights, o'er many a fragrant heath, 
 The loveliest breezes breathe; 
 So free and pure the air, 
 His breath seems floating there. 
 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 On Alpine heights, beneath his rnild blue eye, 
 Still vales and meadows lie; 
 The soaring glacier's ice 
 Gleams like a paradise. 
 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 (208) 
 
 •f 
 
ALPINE HEIGHTS. 
 
A 
 
 \ 
 
 --> 
 
 ALPINE HEIGHTS. 
 
 209 
 
 Down Alpine heights the silvery streamlets flowj 
 There the bold chamois go; 
 On giddy crags they stand, 
 And drink from his own hand. 
 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 On Alpine heights the herdsman tends his herd; 
 
 Nis Shepherd is the Lord; 
 
 For he who feeds the sheep 
 
 Will sure his offspring keep. 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
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 -^1 
 
V 
 
 ~7\ 
 
 ¥PE^L/INDIN6veF--^PEvPIM^ip^F^TpEEtg. 
 
 BY FELICIA HEMANS, 
 
 HE breaking waves dashed high 
 
 On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
 And the woods against a stormy sky 
 Their giant branches tossed; 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark 
 
 The hills and waters o'er, 
 When a band of exiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes. 
 
 They, the true-hearted, came; 
 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame: 
 
 Not as the flying come, 
 
 In silence and in fear; — 
 They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 (210) 
 
K" 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 -•>■ 
 
 -^•:-> 
 
 ■■&- 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea; 
 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 To the anthem of the free. 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 
 From his nest by the white waves foam, 
 And the rocking pines of the forest roared, — 
 
 This was their welcome home. 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 
 Amidst that pilgrim-band: 
 Why had they come to wither there. 
 
 Away from their childhood's land? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye. 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth; 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine ? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? — 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground. 
 
 The soil where first they trod; 
 They have left unstained what there they found,- 
 
 Freedom to worship God. 
 
 / 
 
 A| 
 
 V 
 
JV 
 
 N" 
 
 -HlcgEYEN-: TIMEg^TW0.3{£^ 
 
 ROMANCE. 
 
 "71 
 
 -^m 
 
 BY JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 k- 
 
 
 OU bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your 
 changes, 
 
 PTow many soever they be, 
 And let the brown meadow-lark's note as 
 he ranges 
 /'^ Come over, come over to me. 
 
 Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by 
 swelling 
 
 No magical sense conveys, 
 And bells have forgotten their old art of 
 telling 
 
 The fortune of future days. 
 
 "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily 
 
 While a boy listened alone: 
 Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily 
 
 All by himself on a stone. 
 
 Poor bells ! I forgive you; your good days are over, 
 
 And mine, they are yet to be; 
 No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught discover: 
 
 You leave the story to me. 
 
 (212) 
 
 -N 
 
 ■^ 
 
A 
 
 •H}c3F0^)q'fgKEIiE5^0N.3N- 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 [The MSS. of this poem, which appeared during the first quarter of 
 the present century, was said to have been found in the Museum of the 
 Royal College of Surgeons, in London, near a perfect human skeleton, 
 and to have been sent by the curator to the Morning Chronicle for publi- 
 cation. It excited so much attention that every effort was made to 
 discover the author, and a responsible party went so far as to offer a 
 reward of fifty guineas for information that would discover its origin. 
 The author preserved his incognito, and, we believe, has never been dis- 
 covered.] 
 
 EHOLD this ruin ! 'T was a skull 
 Once of ethereal spirit full. 
 This narrow cell was Life's retreat, 
 This space was Thought's mysterious seat. 
 What beauteous visions filled this spot, 
 What dreams of pleasure long forgot ? 
 Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear, 
 Have left one trace of record here. 
 
 Beneath this mouldering canopy 
 Once shone the bright and busy eye, 
 But start not at the dismal void,- — 
 If social love that eye employed, 
 If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 
 But through the dews of kindness beamed, 
 That eye shall be forever bright 
 When stars and sun are sunk in night. 
 
 V- 
 
 (213) 
 
 ^ 
 
Within this hollow cavern hung 
 The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; 
 If Falsehood's honey is disdained, 
 And when it could not praise was chained; 
 If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke. 
 Yet gentle concord never broke, — 
 This silent tongue shall plead for thee 
 When Time unveils Eternity ! 
 
 Say, did these fingers delve the mine ? 
 Or with the envied rubies shine ? 
 To hew the rock or wear a gem 
 Can little now avail to them. 
 But if the page of Truth they sought. 
 Or comfort to a mourner brought, 
 These hands a richer meed shall claim 
 Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame. 
 
 Avails it whether bare or shod 
 These feet the paths of duty trod ? 
 If from the bowers of Ease they fled, 
 To seek Affliction's humble shed; 
 If Grandeur's guilty bride they spurned, 
 And home to Virtue's cot returned, — 
 These feet with angel wings shall vie, 
 And tread the palace of the sky ! 
 
 k. \ 
 
\ 
 
 \ 
 
 71 
 
 -HlcIf^]V[EYE^^C0MEg^^6^I]\[.3l£<- 
 
 BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 HERE are gains for all our losses, 
 
 There are balms for all our pains, 
 But when youth, the dream, departs, 
 It takes something from our hearts. 
 And it never comes again. 
 
 We are stronger, and are better 
 
 Under manhood's sterner reign; 
 Still we feel that something sweet 
 Followed youth, with flying feet, 
 And will never come again. 
 
 Something beautiful is vanished. 
 
 And we sigh for it in vain; 
 We behold it everywhere, 
 On the earth, and in the air, 
 But it never comes again. 
 
 
 k 
 
 (215) 
 
r\ 
 
 / 
 
 -H{cfpE^P0DEI^^BEIiIiE.3}H- 
 
 BY STARK. 
 
 HE sits in a fashionable parlor, 
 
 And rocks in her easy chair; 
 She is clad in silks and satins, 
 
 And jewels are in her hair; 
 She winks and giggles and simpers. 
 
 And simpers and giggles and winks; 
 And though she talks but little, 
 
 'T is a good deal more than she thinks. 
 
 She lies abed in the morning 
 
 Till nearly the hour of noon, 
 Then comes down snapping and snarling . 
 
 Because she was called so soon; 
 Her hair is still in papers, 
 
 Her cheeks still fresh with paint, — 
 Remains of her last night's blushes, 
 
 Before she intended to faint. 
 
 V 
 
 She dotes upon men unshaven. 
 
 And men with " flowing hair"; 
 
 She 's eloquent over mustaches. 
 They give such a foreign air. 
 
 (216) 
 
 \. 
 
She talks of Italian music, 
 
 And falls in love with the moon; 
 And, if a mouse were to meet her, 
 
 She would sink away in a swoon. 
 
 Her feet are so very little. 
 
 Her hands are so very white, 
 Her jewels so very heavy, 
 
 And her head so very light; 
 Her color is made of cosmetics 
 
 (Though this she will never own), 
 Her body is made mostly of cotton, 
 
 Her heart is made wholly of stone. 
 
 She falls in love with a fellow 
 
 Who swells with a foreign air; 
 He marries her for her money. 
 
 She marries him for his hair ! 
 One of the very best matches, — 
 
 Both are well mated in life; 
 She 's got a fool for a husband. 
 
 He 's got a fool for a wife ! 
 
 
 V- 
 
 Al 
 
•V 
 
 ^4^ 
 
 ->3}cKIggI]\[6 '3^N®^?IN.-i^ 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 OME say that kissing 's a sin; 
 But I think it 's nane ava, 
 For kissing has wonn'd in this world 
 Since ever that there was twa. 
 
 O, if it wasna lawfu', 
 
 Lawyers wadna allow it; 
 
 If it wasna holy, 
 
 Ministers wadna do it. 
 
 If it wasna modest, 
 
 Maidens wadna tak' it; 
 
 If it wasna plenty, 
 
 Puir folk wadna get it. 
 
 ki 
 
 (218) 
 
 :X. 
 
 ^. 
 

 -H{cl£Egg0N5^ff0^^MFE.3l£<- 
 
 BY ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 ^HOU whom chance may hither lead, 
 
 Be thou clad in rustic weed, 
 
 Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
 
 'Grave these counsels on thy soul. 
 Life is but a day at most. 
 
 Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
 Hope not sunshine every hour, 
 Fear not clouds will always lower. 
 
 As Youth and Love, with sprightly dance, 
 Beneath thy morning-star advance. 
 Pleasure, with her siren air, 
 May delude the thoughtless pair: 
 Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup. 
 Then raptured sip, and sip it up. 
 
 As thy day grows warm and high, 
 Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
 Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
 Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale ? 
 Check thy climbing step, elate. 
 Evils lurk in felon wait: 
 Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 
 Soar around each cliffy hold, 
 While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, 
 Chants the lowly dells among. 
 
 As the shades of evening close. 
 Beckoning thee to long repose; 
 
 1^: (!!9) v^ 
 
As Life itself becomes disease, 
 Seek the chimney-nook of ease. 
 There ruminate with sober thought, 
 On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; 
 And teach the sportive younkers round, 
 Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
 Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
 The grand criterion of his fate, 
 Is not — Art thou high or low ? 
 Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 
 Wast thou cottager or king? 
 Peer or peasant? — No such thing ! 
 ^ Did many talents gild thy span ? 
 Or frugal nature grudge thee one? 
 Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
 As thou thyself must shortly find, 
 The smile or frown of awful Heaven, 
 To Virtue or to Vice is given. 
 Say, " To be just, and kind, and wise, 
 There solid self-enjoyment lies; 
 That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
 Lead to the wretched, vile and base." 
 
 Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
 To the bed of lasting sleep; 
 Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
 Night, where dawn shall never break. 
 Till future life, future no more. 
 To light and joy the good restore, 
 To light and joy unknown before. 
 
 Stranger go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
 Quoth the beadsman of Nithside.* 
 
 *These beautiful lines were written in " Friars-Carse " Hermitage, on 
 the banks of the Nith. 
 
 \^ ^ :^ 
 
1\ 
 
 / 
 
 •^z 
 
 ^cLEWERg.3le<- 
 
 BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 VERY day brings a ship, 
 Every ship brings a word; 
 Well for those who' have no fear, 
 Looking seaward well assured 
 That the word the vessel brings 
 Is the word they wish to hear. 
 
 V 
 
 -r 
 
 (221) 
 
 \ 
 
^ 
 
 ~7\ 
 
 ^IcpYMN-Sle^- 
 
 BY HAWKESWORTH. 
 
 N Sleep's serene oblivion laid, 
 
 I safely passed the silent night; 
 ^ At once I see the breaking shade, 
 
 And drink again the morning light. 
 
 New-born I bless the waking hour, 
 
 Once more, with awe, rejoice to be; 
 
 My conscious soul resumes her power, 
 
 And springs, my gracious God, to Thee. 
 
 O, guide me through the various maze 
 My doubtful feet are doom'd to tread; 
 
 And spend Thy shield's protecting blaze, 
 When dangers press around my head. 
 
 A deeper shade will soon impend, 
 
 A deeper sleep my eyes oppress; 
 
 Yet still Thy strength shall me defend, 
 Thy goodness still shall deign to bless. 
 
 k 
 
 That deeper shade shall fade away, 
 
 That deeper sleep shall leave my eyes; 
 
 Thy light shall give eternal day ! 
 
 Thy love the rapture of the skies ! 
 
 (222) 
 
 A 
 
K 
 
 ->3}c6@IiD.3lH. 
 
 BY ABRAHAM COWLEY, 
 
 J- 
 
 -/] 
 
 
 ^Pft/J^-ygTS>Tf>? 
 
 MIGHTY pain to love it is, 
 And 't is a pain that love to miss, 
 But, of all pains, the greatest pain 
 It is to love, but Love in vain. 
 Virtue now nor noble blood. 
 Nor wit, by love is understood. 
 Gold alone does passion move ! 
 Gold monopolizes love ! 
 A curse on her and on the man 
 Who this traffic first began ! 
 A curse on him who found the ore ! 
 A curse on him who digg'd the store ! 
 A curse on him who did refine it ! 
 A curse on him who first did coin it ! 
 A curse, all curses else above. 
 On him who used it first in love ! 
 Gold begets in brethren hate; 
 Gold, in families, debate; 
 Gold does friendship separate; 
 Gold does civil wars create. 
 These the smallest harms of it; 
 Gold, alas ! does love beget. 
 
 (223) 
 
 V 
 

 K 
 
 y-^ 
 
 •H{c3FpE^YmL^6E^P^E;^CPE]^.3}E<- 
 
 FROM THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 / 
 
 EAR yonder copse, where once the garden 
 smiled, 
 
 And still where many a garden flower grows 
 wild; 
 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place 
 disclose, 
 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 
 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
 Nor ne'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place; 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 
 Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train. 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; 
 The long-remember'd beggar was his guest. 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 
 (224) 
 
 ^ 
 
 - 
 
K ' 71 
 
 THE VILLAGE PREACHER. 225 
 
 -^ ^:^-:-4^-- <r- 
 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to grow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all. 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies; 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd. 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control. 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place; 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man. 
 With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; 
 E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
 And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest. 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest; 
 
 K ' - \ 
 
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 226 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
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 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven: 
 As some tall cKff that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
K 
 
 A 
 
 -HlcmWTLE*fBl^EECfIEg.3iK- 
 
 A PIKE COUNTY V1P:W OF srECIM- PROVIDENCE. 
 
 BY JOHN HAY. 
 
 DON'T go much on religion, 
 
 I never ain't had no show; 
 But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, 
 
 On the handful o' things I know. 
 I don't pan out on the prophets 
 
 And free-will, and that sort of thing,- 
 But I b'lieve in God and the angels. 
 
 Ever sence one night last spring. 
 
 I come into town with some turnips. 
 
 And my little Gabe came along, — 
 No four-year-old in the county 
 
 Could beat hirn for pretty and strong. 
 Peart and chipper and sassy, 
 
 Always ready to swear and fight, — 
 And I 'd larnt him ter chaw terbacker, 
 
 Just to keep his milk-teeth white. 
 
 / 
 
 The snow come down like a blanket 
 As I passed by Taggart's store; 
 
 I went in for a jug of molasses 
 And left the team at the door. 
 
 (227) 
 
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 228 
 
 ^- 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 ^^v4^< 
 
 They scared at something and started, — 
 
 I heard one little squall, 
 And hell-to-split over the prairie 
 
 Went team, Little Breeches and all. 
 
 Hell-to-split over the prairie ! 
 
 I was almost froze with skeer; 
 But we rousted up some torches, 
 
 And searched for 'em far and near. 
 At last we struck hosses and wagon. 
 
 Snowed under a soft white mound, 
 Upsot, dead beat, — but of little Gabe 
 
 No hide nor hair was found. 
 
 And here all hope soured on me 
 Of my fellow-critter's aid, — 
 
 I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, 
 Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. 
 
 By. this, the torches was played out, 
 
 And me and Isrul Parr 
 Went off for some wood to a sheepfold 
 
 That he said was somewhar thar. 
 
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 We found it at last, and a little shed 
 
 Where they shut up the lambs at night. 
 We looked in, and seen them huddled thar, 
 
 So warm and sleepy and white; 
 And THAR sot Little Breeches and chirped, 
 
 As peart as ever yo« see, 
 " I want a chaw of terbacker. 
 
 And that 's what 's the matter of me." 
 
 M 
 
 ~s V 
 
How did he git thar ? Angels. 
 
 He could never have walked in that storm. 
 They jest scooped down and toted him 
 
 To whar it was safe and warm. 
 And 1 think that saving a little child. 
 
 And bringing him to his own, 
 Is a darned sight better business 
 
 Than loafing around The Throne. 
 
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 -H}cfpE^FIgpERpIE]\[.3lH- 
 
 BY CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 'HREE fishers went sailing out into the west — 
 Out into the west as the sun went down; 
 Each thought of the woman who loved him the 
 best, 
 And the children stood watching them out of- 
 the town. 
 For men must work, and women must weep; 
 And there 's little to earn, and many to keep, 
 Though the harbor bar be moaning. 
 
 Three wives s^t up in the lighthouse tower, 
 
 And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; 
 
 And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, 
 And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown; 
 
 But men must work, and women must weep. 
 
 Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
 And the harbor bar be moaning. 
 
 Three corpses lay out in the shining sands 
 
 In the morning gleam as the tide went down; 
 
 And the women are watching and wringing their hands, 
 For those who will never come back to the town; 
 
 For men must work, and women must weep, — 
 
 And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep, — 
 And good by to the bar and its moaning. 
 
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 }E)qDDREggvTevTKEveCE^]S[.3N 
 
 BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
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 O THOU vast Ocean ! ever-sounding Sea ! 
 
 Thou symbol of a drear immensity ! 
 Thou thing that windest round the solid world 
 Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled 
 From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone, 
 Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone ! 
 
 (231) 
 
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 232 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
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 Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep 
 
 Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep. 
 
 Thou speakest in the east and in the west 
 
 At once, and on thy heavily laden breast 
 
 Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life 
 
 Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife. 
 
 The earth has naught of this: no chance or change 
 
 Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare 
 
 Give answer to the tempest-wakened air; 
 
 But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range 
 
 At will, and wound its bosom as they go: 
 
 Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow: 
 
 But in their stated rounds the seasons come. 
 
 And pass like visions to their wonted home; 
 
 And come again, and vanish; the young Spring 
 
 Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming; 
 
 And Winter always winds his sullen horn. 
 
 When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn, 
 
 Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies 
 
 Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies. 
 
 O, wonderful thou art, great element. 
 
 And fearful in thy spleeny humors bent, 
 
 And lovely in repose ! -thy summer form 
 
 Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves 
 
 Make music in earth's dark and winding caves, 
 
 I love to wander on thy pebbled beach. 
 
 Marking the sunlight at the evening hour. 
 
 And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach, — 
 
 Eternity — Eternity — and Power. 
 
 NJ 
 
 
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 D]^.^DDIg0N TIIiE^^NDER'? IiI6N©PYl£li^BLE 
 
 [The following curious illustration of the power of words in the English 
 language has long been out of print] : — 
 
 HINK not that strength lies in the big, round word, 
 Or that the brief and plain must needs be weak. 
 To whom can this be true who once has heard 
 
 The cry for help, the tongue that all men speak 
 When want, or woe, or fear is in the throat, 
 ^^^ So that each word gasped out is like a shriek 
 
 Press'd from the sore heart, or a strange, wild note, 
 
 Sung by some fay or fiend ! There is a strength 
 Which dies if stretched too far or spun too fine, 
 
 Which has more height than breadth, more depth than 
 length. 
 Let but this force of thought and speech be mine. 
 
 And he that will may take the sleek, fat phrase, 
 Which glows and burns not, though it gleam and shine; 
 Light, but not heat — a flash without a blaze. 
 
 Nor is it m^re strength that the short word boasts: 
 It serves of more than fight or storm to tell — 
 
 The roar of waves that clash on rock-bound coasts, 
 The crash of tall trees when the wild winds swell, 
 
 (233) 
 
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 234 
 
 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
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 The roar of guns, the groans of men that die 
 
 On blood-stained fields. It has a voice as well 
 For them that far off on their sick beds lie, 
 
 For them that weep, for them that mourn the dead, 
 For them that laugh, and dance, and clap tlieir hand; 
 
 To joy's quick step, as well as grief's low tread. 
 The sweet, plain words we learnt at first keep time, 
 
 And though the theme be sad, or gay, or grand, 
 With each, with all, these may be made to chime, 
 
 In thought, or speech, or song, or prose, or rhyme. 
 
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 -Hlcg0]\[646F4TKE^DEC^N5^E^..3lH- 
 
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 There was an old decanter, 
 
 
 
 and its mouth was gaping 
 
 
 
 wide; the rosy wine 
 
 
 
 had ebbed away 
 
 
 
 and left 
 
 
 
 its crys- 
 
 '1 
 
 
 tal side; 
 
 
 
 and the wind 
 
 
 
 went humming, 
 
 
 
 humming; 
 
 
 
 up and 
 
 
 
 down the 
 
 
 
 sides it flew, 
 
 
 • 
 
 and through the 
 
 
 
 reed-like. 
 
 
 
 hollow neck 
 
 
 
 the wildest notes it 
 
 
 
 blew. I placed it in the 
 
 
 
 window, where the blast was 
 
 
 
 blowing free, and fancied that its 
 
 
 
 pale mouth sang the queerest strains 
 
 
 
 to me. "They tell me — puny con- 
 
 
 
 querors ! — the Plague has slain his ten, 
 
 
 
 and War his hundred thousands of the 
 
 
 
 very best of men; but I" — 'twas thus 
 
 
 
 the bottle .spoke — "but I have con- 
 
 
 
 quered more than all your famous con- 
 
 
 
 querors, so feared and famed of yore. 
 
 
 
 Then come, ye youths and maidens, * 
 
 
 
 come drink from out my cup, the bev- 
 
 
 
 erage that dulls the brain and burns 
 
 
 
 the spirit up; that puts to .shame 
 
 
 
 the conquerors that slay their 
 
 
 
 scores below, for this has del- 
 
 
 
 uged millions with the lava 
 
 
 
 tide of woe. Though in the 
 
 
 
 path of battle, darkest 
 
 
 
 waves of blood may roll, 
 
 
 
 yet while I killed the body 
 
 
 
 I have damned the very 
 
 
 
 soul. The cholera,, the 
 
 
 
 sword, such ruin never 
 
 
 
 » wrought, as I, in mirth or 
 
 
 
 malice, on the innocent have 
 
 
 
 brought. And still I breathe 
 
 
 
 upon them, and they shrink 
 
 
 
 Kefore my breath; and year 
 
 
 
 by year my thousands tread 
 
 
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 THETERRIBLEROAD TO DEATH. 
 
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 tcMNEg+;«]^D+C0aPIiET3.3te^ 
 
 FROM POPE. 
 
 What, and how great the virtue of the art, 
 To live on little with a cheerful heart. 
 
 Between excess and famine lies a mean, 
 
 Plain, but not sordid, though not splendid, clean. 
 
 Its proper power to hurt each creature feels: 
 • Bulls aim their horns, and asses kick their heels. 
 
 Here Wisdom calls, " Seek virtue first, be bold; 
 As gold to silver, virtue is to gold." 
 
 Let lands and houses have what lords they will. 
 Let us be fixed and our own masters still. 
 
 'T is the first virtue vices to abhor. 
 And the first wisdom to be fool no more. 
 
 Long as to him who works for debt, the day. 
 
 (236) 
 
 \ 
 
LINES AND COUPLETS. 237 
 
 --> "^'.-i''^ «-- 
 
 Not to go back is somewhat to advance, 
 
 And men must walk, at least, before they dance. 
 
 VL 
 
 True, conscious honor is to feel no sin; 
 He 's armed without that 's innocent within. 
 
 For virtue's self may too much zeal be had, 
 The worst of madmen is a saint run mad. 
 
 If wealth alone can make and keep us blest, 
 Still, still be getting; never, never rest. 
 
 That God of nature who within us still 
 Inclines our actions, not constrains our will. 
 
 It is not poetry, but prose run mad. 
 
 Pretty in amber to observe the forms 
 Of hair, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms; 
 The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, 
 But wonder how the mischief they got there ! 
 
 Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. 
 
 Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow. 
 That tends to make one honest man my foe. 
 
 J- 
 
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•V 
 
 238 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -•> --jf-:-^- <- 
 
 Who shames a scribbler ? Break one cobweb through, 
 He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew; 
 Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, 
 The creature 's at his dirty work again. 
 Throned in the centre of his thin designs, 
 Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines. 
 
 He who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, 
 Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left. . 
 
 What future bliss He gives thee not to know, 
 But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. . 
 
 All nature is but art, unknown to thee. 
 
 All chance, direction which thou canst not see. 
 
 'T is education forms the common mind", 
 Just as the twig is bent the tree 's inclined. 
 
 Manners with fortunes, humors turn with climes, 
 Tenets with books, and principles with times. 
 
 Who shall decide when doctors disagree ? 
 
 And then mistook reverse of wrong for right. 
 
 That secret rare between the extremes to move. 
 Of mad good-nature and of mean self-love. 
 
 -t 
 
\ : ~ — 71 
 
 LINES AND COUPLETS. 239 
 
 Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays. 
 
 Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, 
 Will never mark the marble with his name. 
 
 'T is strange the music should his cares employ 
 To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy. 
 
 Something there is more needful than expense, 
 And something previous e'en to taste, — 't is sense. 
 
 In all let Nature never be forgot, 
 But treat the goddess like a modest fair, 
 Not over-dress nor leave her wholly bare; 
 Let not each beauty everywhere be spied. 
 Where half the skill is decently to hide. 
 
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 ^tc^LBaM*^VE]^3E^.3|E^ 
 
 There are ten thousand tones and signs 
 
 We hear and see, but none defines — 
 
 Involuntary sparks of thought 
 
 Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought, 
 
 And form a strange intelligence 
 
 Alike mysterious and intense; 
 
 Which link the burning chain that binds, 
 
 Without their will, young hearts and minds, 
 
 Conveying, as an electric wire, 
 
 We know not how, the absorbing fire. 
 
 Love is not love 
 Which alters when its alteration finds, 
 Or bends with the remover to remove: 
 O no ! it is an ever fixed mark, 
 That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; 
 It is the star to every wandering bark, 
 Whose worth 's unknown, although its height be taken. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 R 
 
 There is a comfort in the strength of Love; 
 'T will make a thing endurable, which else 
 Would overset the brain, or break the heart. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 (240) 
 
 A 
 
Farewell, oh farewell, but whenever you give 
 
 A thought to the days that are gone, 
 Of the bright sunny things that in memory live 
 
 Let a thought of the writer be one. 
 The hope is but humble — he asks but a share, 
 
 But a part of thy memories to be, 
 While no future to him can in rapture compare 
 
 To the past, made enchanting by thee. 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 The joys of life are heightened by a friend; 
 The woes of life are lessened by a friend; 
 In all the cares of life, we by a friend 
 Assistance find — who'd be without a friend? 
 
 WANDESFORD. 
 
 Why should I blushto own I love? 
 'T is Love that rules the realms above. 
 Why should I blush to say to all 
 That virtue holds my heart in thrall? 
 
 Why should I seek the thickest shade, 
 Lest Love's dear secret be betrayed? 
 Why the stern brow deceitful move, 
 When I am languishing with love? 
 
 Is it a weakness thus to dwell 
 On passions that I dare not tell ? 
 Such weakness I would ever prove. 
 'T is painful, but 't is sweet to love ! 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. } 
 
•v<^ 
 
 ^_ — ^ 
 
 242 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -^ ■ ►if/i:- <- 
 
 " I WILL not say I'd give the world 
 
 To win those charms divine; 
 I will not say I'd give the world — 
 
 The world it is not mine. 
 The vow that's made thy love to win 
 
 In simple truth shall be; 
 My heart is all I have to give, 
 
 And give that all to thee." 
 
 But while I knelt at beauty's shrine, 
 
 And love's devotion paid, 
 I felt 't was but an empty vow 
 
 That passion's pilgrim made; 
 For while, in raptur'd gazing lost, 
 
 To give my heart I swore, 
 One glance from her soon made me feel 
 
 My heart was mine no more. 
 
 SAMITEL LOVER. 
 
 K- 
 
 Friendship is power and riches all to me; 
 Friendship 's another element of life; 
 Water and fire not of more general use 
 To the support and comfort of the world 
 Than Friendship to the being of my joy: 
 I would do everything to secure a friend. 
 
 Silence in love betrays more woe 
 
 Than words, though ne'er so witty; 
 
 A beggar that is dumb, you know, 
 Deserves a double pity. 
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 243 
 
 -^ ►Jfvi^- <r- 
 
 The dart of Love was feather'd first 
 
 From Folly's wing, they say, 
 Until he tried his shaft to shoot 
 
 In Beauty's heart one day; 
 He miss'd the maid so oft, 't is said, 
 
 His aim became untrue, 
 And Beauty laugh'd, as his last shaft 
 
 He from his quiver drew; 
 "In vain," said she, "you shoot at me, 
 
 You little spiteful thing — 
 • The feather on your shaft I scorn, 
 
 When pluck'd from Folly's wing." 
 
 But Cupid soon fresh arrows found 
 
 And fitted to his string, 
 And each new shaft he feather'd from 
 
 His own bright glossy wing; 
 He shot until no plume was left 
 
 To waft him to the sky, 
 And Beauty smiled upon the child. 
 
 When he no more could fly; 
 " Now, Cupid, I am thine," she said, 
 
 " Leave off thy archer play. 
 For Beauty yields — when she is sure 
 
 Love will not fly away." 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 Our grandsire, ere of Eve possess'd. 
 
 Alone, and e'en in Paradise unblest, 
 
 With mournful looks the blissful scene surveyed, 
 
 And wandered in the solitary shade; 
 
 The Maker saw, took pity, and bestowed 
 
 Woman, the last, the best reserved of God. 
 
 k 
 
 
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 244 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
 -•^ ►if:4J^ ■ — ^r- 
 
 I HOLD it true, whate'er befall — 
 I feel it when I sorrow most — 
 'T is better to have loved and lost, 
 
 Than never to have loved at alf 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 To Woman, whose best books are human hearts, 
 Wise Heaven a genius less profound imparts; 
 His awful — hers is lovely^ his should tell 
 How thunderbolts, and hers how roses fell. 
 Her rapid mind decides while his debates; 
 She feels a truth that he but calculates. * 
 He, provident, averts approaching ill; 
 She snatches present good with ready skill. 
 That active perseverance his, which gains; 
 And hers, that passive patience which sustains. 
 
 BARRETT. 
 
 Yes ! Love indeed is light from heaven, 
 A spark of that immortal fire 
 
 With angels shared — to mortals given, 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 
 Devotion wafts the mind above. 
 
 But heaven itself descends in love; 
 
 A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
 
 To wean from self each sordid thought; 
 
 A ray of Him who formed the whole; 
 
 A glory circling round the soul. 
 
 Love is a subject to himself alone. 
 
 And knows no other empire than his own 
 
 LANSDOWNE. * 
 
 4' — ^r . 
 
 ^ (S 1^ ^ 3 > 
 
'^- 
 
 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 
 Lives there the man too cold to prove 
 The joys of Friendship and of Love ? 
 Then let him die; when these are fled, 
 Scarce do we differ from the dead. 
 
 >> 
 
 / 
 
 245 
 
 <: 
 
 Albums are records, kept by gentle dames, 
 To show us that their friends can write their names; 
 That Miss can draw, or brother John can write 
 "Sweet lines," or that they know a Mr. White. 
 The lady comes, with lowly grace upon her, 
 "'Twill be so kind," and "do her book such honor;" 
 We bovv, smile, deprecate, protest, read o'er 
 The names to see what has been done before. 
 Wish to say something wonderful, but can't. 
 And write, with modest glory, " William Grant." 
 Johnson succeeds, and Thompson, Jones, and Clarke, 
 And Cox with an original remark 
 
 Out of the speaker; — then come John's "sweet lines," 
 Fanny's "sweet airs," and Jenny's "sweet designs:" 
 Then Hobbs, Cobbs, Dodds, Lord Strut, and Lady Brisk, 
 And, with a flourish underneath him, Fisk. 
 
 Alas ! why sit I here, committing jokes 
 On social pleasures and good-humor'd folks. 
 That see far better with their trusting eyes. 
 Than all the blinkings of the would-be wise ? 
 Albums are, after all, pleasant inventions, 
 Make friends more friendly, grace one's good intentions. 
 Brighten dull names, give great ones kindred looks, 
 Nay, now and then produce right curious books. 
 And make the scoffer (now the case with me) 
 Blush to look round on deathless company. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 z' 
 
 \ 
 
Beware of sudden friendship; 't is a flower 
 That thrives but in the sun; its bud is fair, 
 And it may blossom in the summer hour, 
 But winter's withering tempests will not bear. 
 True Friendship is a tree, whose lasting strength 
 Is slow of growth, but proves, whate'er befall, 
 Through life our hope and haven, and at length 
 Yields but to death — the power that conquers all. 
 
 As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
 
 Some name arrests the passer-by. 
 Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 
 
 May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 
 And when by thee that name is read, 
 
 Perchance in some succeeding year, 
 Reflect on me as on the dead, 
 
 And think my heart is buried here. 
 
 / 
 
 ■i'lT 
 
 Here is one leaf reserved for me, 
 From all thy sweet memories free; 
 And here my simple song might tell 
 The feelings thou must guess so well. 
 But could I thus within thy mind 
 One little vacant corner find. 
 Where no impression yet is seen, 
 Where no memorial yet has been; 
 O, it should be my sweetest care 
 To write my name forever there ! 
 
 T. MOORE. 
 
 J^ 
 
 ~5) \ 
 

 ALBUM VERSES. 247 
 
 -^ .jf.;.^-.. <^ 
 
 A PEPPER-CORN is very small, but seasons every dinner 
 More than all other condiments, although 't is sprinkled 
 
 thinner; 
 Just so a little Woman is, if Love will let you win her — 
 There 's not a joy in all the world you will not find within 
 
 her. 
 
 And as within the little rose you find the richest dyes, 
 And in the little grain of gold much price and value lies, 
 As from a little balsam much odor doth arise. 
 So in a little Woman there 's a taste of paradise. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF DE HITA. 
 
 Ye are stars of the night, ye are gems of the morn, 
 
 Ye are dewdrops whose lustre illumines the thorn; 
 
 And rayless that night is, that morning unblest. 
 
 When no beams in your eye light up peace in the breast. 
 
 And the sharp thorn of sorrow sinks deep in the heart, 
 
 Till the sweet lip of Woman assuages the smart; 
 
 'T is hers o'er the couch of misfortune to bend, 
 
 In fondness a lover, in firmness a friend; 
 
 And prosperity's hour, be it ever confessed, 
 
 From Woman receives both refinement and zest; 
 
 And adorn'd by the bays or enwreath'd with the willow, 
 
 Her smile is our need, and her bosom our pillow. 
 
 Love ! What a volume in a word ! an ocean in a tear ! 
 A seventh heaven in a glance ! a whirlwind in a sigh ! 
 The lightning in a touch — a millennium in a moment ! 
 What concentrated joy, or woe, in blest or blighted love ! 
 
 TUPPER. 
 
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 248 THE CASKET OF POETICAL GEMS. 
 
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 Die when you will, you need not wear 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 At heaven's court a form more fair 
 
 » 
 
 
 
 
 
 Than beauty here on earth has given. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Keep but the lovely looks we see — 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The voice we hear — and you will be 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 An angel ready made for heaven. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 I HAVE seen the wild flowers springing, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 In wood, and field, and glen, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Where a thousand birds were singing, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 And my thoughts were of thee then; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 For there 's nothing gladsome round me, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Or beautiful to see. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Since thy beauty's spell has bound me, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 But is eloquent of thee. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 RICHARD HOWITT. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Friend after friend departs; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Who hath not lost a friend ? 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 There is no union here of hearts 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 That finds not here an end. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Were this frail world our only rest, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Living or dying, none were blest. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Thus star by star declines. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Till all are passed away, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 As morning high and higher shines 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 To pure and perfect day; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Nor sink those stars in empty night, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 They lose themselves in heaven's own light. 
 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 MONTGOMERY. 
 
 
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 ALBUM VERSES. 249 
 
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 Doubt thou the stars are fire; 
 
 Doubt that the sun doth move; 
 Doubt Truth to be a liar; 
 
 But never doubt I love ! 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 For me I'm woman's slave confessed — 
 Without her, hopeless and unblest; 
 And so are all, gainsay who can, 
 For what would be the life of man, 
 If left in desert or in isle, 
 Unlightened up by beauty's smile ? 
 Even tho' he boasted monarch's name, 
 And o'er his own sex reign'd supreme, 
 With thousands bending to his sway, 
 If lovely Woman were away, 
 What were his life ? What could it be ? 
 A vapor on a shoreless sea; 
 A troubled cloud in darkness toss'd, 
 Amongst the waste of waters lost; 
 A ship deserted in the gale. 
 Without a steersman or a sail, 
 A star, or beacon-light before. 
 Or hope of haven evermore; 
 A thing without a human tie. 
 Unloved to live, — unwept to die. 
 
 HOGG. 
 
 Oh, fairest of creation ! last and best 
 Of all God's works ! creature in whom excelled 
 Whatever can to sight or thought be form'd 
 Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet ! 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 
/ 
 
 I HAVE heard of reasons manifold 
 Why Love must needs be blind; 
 
 But this the best of all I hold — 
 His eyes are in his mind. 
 
 What outward form and feature are 
 
 He guesseth but in part; 
 But what within is good and fair 
 
 He seeth with the heart. 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Woman's truth and woman's love 
 
 Trusting ever, 
 
 Faithless never, 
 Blest on earth, is blest above. 
 
 Ministering oft in sorrow's hour, 
 
 Loving truly, 
 
 Fondly, duly 
 Proving e'er affection's power. 
 
 Ne'er forgetting, ne'er forgot; 
 
 Richest treasures, 
 
 Joyful pleasures 
 Ever be her happy lot. 
 
 The light that beams from Woman's eye, 
 
 And sparkles through her tear, 
 Responds to that impassion'd sigh 
 
 Which love delights to hear. 
 'T is the sweet language of the soul, 
 
 On which a voice is hung. 
 More eloquent than ever stole 
 
 From saint's or poet's tongue. 
 
 "7 
 
 v 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 25 I 
 
 ^'-f-/4-*" 
 
 -<-- 
 
 The sunshine of the heart be mine, 
 
 That beams a charm around; 
 Where'er it sheds its ray divine, 
 
 Is all enchanted ground ! 
 No fiend of care may enter there, 
 
 Tho' Fate employ her art: — 
 Her power, tho' mighty, bows to thine, 
 
 Bright sunshine of the heart ! 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 Faith is the star that gleams above, 
 
 Hope is the flower that buds below; 
 
 Twin tokens of celestial love 
 
 That out from Nature's bosom grow; 
 
 And still alike, in sky, on sod, 
 
 That star and blossom ever point to God. 
 
 KENT. 
 
 As half in shade, and half in sun, 
 
 This world along its path advances. 
 Oh ! may that side the sun shines on 
 
 Be all that ever meets thy glances; 
 May Time, who casts his blight on all, 
 
 And daily dooms some joy to death, 
 On thee let years so gently fall 
 
 They shall not crush one flower beneath. 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Longest joys won't last forever — 
 
 Make the most of every day; 
 Youth and beauty Time will sever. 
 
 But Content hath no decay. 
 
 y — ^ 
 
^ 
 
 \ 
 
 Q ifc^ 
 
 Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring; 
 Ye birds that, forsaken by the summer, cease to sing; 
 Ye trees that fade when autumn heats remove, 
 Say, is not Absence death to those who love? 
 
 POPE. 
 
 Not purple violets in the early spring 
 Such graceful sweets, such tender beauties bring; 
 The orient blush which does thy cheeks adorn, 
 Makes coral pale — vies with the rosy morn. 
 
 LEE. 
 
 This is the charm, by sages often told. 
 Converting all it touches into gold; 
 Content can soothe, where'er by fortune placed, 
 Can rear a garden in a desert waste. 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 Duty has pleasures with no satiety. 
 
 Duties fulfilled are always pleasures to the memory. 
 
 Duty makes pleasure doubly sweet by contrast. 
 
 HALIBURTON. 
 
 There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy. 
 No chemic art can counterfeit; 
 It makes men rich in greatest poverty. 
 Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold. 
 The homely whistle to sweet music's strain; 
 Seldom it comes — to few from Heaven sent— • 
 That much in little — all in thought — Content. 
 
 WILBVE. 
 
V 
 
 Hope is the lover's staff: 
 
 Walk thou with that, 
 
 And manage it against despairing thought. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 O GRANT me, Heav'n, a middle state, 
 Neither too humble nor too great; 
 More than enough for nature's ends, 
 With something left to treat my friends. 
 
 MALLET. 
 
 What will it matter 
 
 By and by. 
 Whether our path below was bright; 
 Whether it shone through dark or light — 
 Under a gray or golden sky — 
 What will it matter, 
 
 By and by ? 
 
 Thou'rt fairer than the poets can express. 
 Or happy painters fancy when they love. 
 
 OTWAY. 
 
 Love is to my impassion'd soul 
 Not, as with others, a mere part 
 Of its existence; but the whole — 
 The very life-breath of my heart. 
 
 So like the chances are of Love and War, 
 That they alone in this distinguished are: 
 In Love, the victors from the vanquished fly — 
 They fly that wound, and they pursue that die. 
 
 WALLER. 
 
 \ 
 
In Christian world Mary the garland wears ! 
 
 Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew ear; 
 
 Quakers for pure Priscilla are more clear; 
 
 And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon swears. 
 
 Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines ! 
 
 What air of fragrance Rosamond throws round ! 
 
 How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia sound ! 
 
 Of Marthas and of Abigails few lines 
 
 Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff 
 
 Should homely Joan be fashion'd. But can 
 
 You Barbara resist, or Marian ? 
 
 And is not Clare for love excuse enough ? 
 
 Yet, by my faith in num.bers, I profess 
 
 These all than Saxon Edith please me less. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Small service is true service where it lasts: 
 Of friends, however, scorn not one: 
 
 The daisy, by the shadow that it casts. 
 
 Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun. 
 
 Well chosen friendship, the most noble 
 Of virtues, all our joys makes double, 
 And into halves divides our trouble. 
 
 Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; 
 And every little absence is an age. 
 
 A THING of beauty is a joy forever; 
 Its loveliness increases; it will never 
 Pass into nothingness. 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 ^^- - -A 
 
 ^ (5 «^ ^o g, 
 

 ■>■ 
 
 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 ^2-fvi^" 
 
 They say that Love had once a book 
 (The urchin likes to copy you) 
 
 Where all who came the pencil took, 
 And wrote, like us, a line or two. 
 
 -9" 
 
 / 
 
 255 
 
 -^ 
 
 'Twas innocence, the maid divine. 
 
 Who kept this volume bright and fair, 
 
 And saw that no unhallowed line 
 
 Or thought profane should enter there. 
 
 Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft. 
 How light the magic pencil ran ! 
 
 Till Fear would come, alas ! as oft, 
 
 And, trembling, close what Hope began. 
 
 A tear or two had dropped from Grief; 
 
 And Jealousy would, now and then. 
 Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf, 
 
 Which Love had still to smooth again. 
 
 But oh ! there was a blooming boy 
 Who often turned the pages o'er. 
 
 And wrote therein such words of joy 
 
 As all who read still sighed for more. 
 
 And Pleasure was this spirit's name; 
 
 And though so soft his voice and look. 
 Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, 
 
 Would tremble for her spotless book ! 
 
 For oh ! 't would make you weep to see 
 How Pleasure's honeyed hand had torn 
 
 And stained the page where Modesty 
 A rose's bud had freshly drawn. 
 
 V- 
 
 Al 
 
And Fancy's emblems lost their glow; 
 
 And Hope's sweet lines were all defaced: 
 And Love himself could hardly know 
 
 What Love himself had lately traced. 
 
 Beware of Pleasure and his lures; 
 
 In virtue's ranks he finds no place. 
 Those pleasures only should be yours 
 
 That spring from thoughts and deeds of grace. 
 
 ADAPTED FROM MOORE. 
 
 /_ 
 
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