,^ %, s^ %. #'^ ,0"' ''O ^* "^^ ^^ -A^' '^ *■ * "" ' ■> * " A ., V 1 « ♦ -^o-, -0' ^r^ ' y -<. r ^ '>) ^ G A^' ^/>. ^^" ' "^ ^^'• % .* ' " * // ^ Engraved by Geo.E.Perine.U.l'cEnk from Ptoto.tTrSaronji / /c-tZ^a^t^ C^^t^HA-je^t/i-^ t///^:*t/-■ - ICtMBRinGE. MASSQ :3- PREFACE. This book has been prepared with the aim of gathering into a single Yokime the largest practicable compilation of the hest Poems of the English language, making it as nearly as possible the choicest and most complete general collection of Poetry yet published. The name " Library" which is given it indicates the principle upon which the book has been made : namely, that it might serve as a book of reference ; as a comprehensivje exhibit of the history, growth, and condition of poetical literature ; and, more especially, as a companion, at the will of its possessor, for the varying moods of the mind. Necessarily limited in extent, it yet contains one fifth more matter than auy similar publication, presenting over fifteen hundred selections, from more than four hundred authors. It is believed that of the poetical writers acknowledged by the intelligent and cultivated to be great, none, whether English, Scotch, Irish, or American, will be found unrepresented in the volume ; while many verses, of merit though not of fame, found in old books or caught out of the passing current of literature, have been here collated with those more notable. And the chief object of the collection — to present an array of good poetry so widely representative and so varied in its tone as to offer an answering chord to every mood and phase of human feeling — has been carefully kept in view, both in the selection and the arrangement of its contents. So that, in all senses, the realization of the significant title, " Library," has been an objective point. In pursuance of this plan, the highest standard of literary criticism has not been made the only test of worth for selection, since many poems have been included, which, though less perfect than others in form, have, by some power of touching the heart, gained and maintained a sure place in the popular esteem. This policy has been followed with the more confidence, as every poem of the collection has taken its place in the book only after passing the cultured criticism of Mr. William Cullen Bryant. Although Mr. Bryant is not responsible for the classification and arrangement of the poems, yet, as he says in the very interesting " Introduction " which h#^has contributed, he has " used a free hand, as requested, both in excluding and adding matter, according to his judgment of what was needed," In so far, therefore, it has the sanction ^ -a PREFACE. and authority of his widely honored name, and comes before the reading public with an indorsement second to none in the world of letters. The Publishers desire to return their cordial thanks for the courtesy freely extended to them, by which many copyrighted American poems have been allowed to appear in this collection. In regard to a large number of them, permission has been accorded by the authors themselves ; other poems, having been gathered as waifs and strays, have been necessarily used without especial authority, and where due credit is not given, or where the authorship may have been erroneously ascribed, future editions will afford opportunity for the correction, which will be gladly ma,de. Particular acknowledgments are offered to Messrs. D. Appleton & Co. for extracts from Gen. James Grant Wilson's handsome edition of the works of Fitz-Greene Halleck, and from the poems of William CuUen Bryant ; to Messrs. Harper & Brothers for a few poems of Charles G. Halpine ; to Messrs. J. B. Lippincott & Co. for quotations from the writings of T. Buchanan Read ; to Messrs. Charles Scribner & Co. for an extract from Dr. J. G. Holland's "Bitter-Sweet"; and more especially to the house of Messrs. Fields, Osgood, & Co., — whose good taste, liberality, and intelligent enterprise have given them an unequalled list of American poetical writers, comprising many of the most eminent poets of the land, — for their courtesy in the liberal extracts granted from the writings of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James Russell Lowell, Florence Percy, John Godfrey Saxe, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Edmund Clarence Stedman, Bayard Taylor, John Townsend Trowbridge, and John Greenleaf Whittier. With these brief explanations and acknowledgments, the "Library of Poetry and Song" is placed before the public, with the hope that it will be deemed worthy of its title. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE TWENTIETH EDITION, (REVISED.) The Publishers take this opportunity of expressing their gratification at the very flattering reception given to the "Library of Poetry and Song," the best evidence of which is the fact of the 20th edition having been called for in little more than sis months from the publication of the first. It has seemed to supply a real public need. The present edition has been revised and improiwed in various ways, and the observations of the numerous critics of the work have been diligently consulted, with a view to make it perfect in all its details, and the recognized standard work of the kind. Many new poems have also been added. ^ c&- — ^ CONTENTS. Page Index of Authors . . . . vii Introduction •»• . xxiii Poems op Childhood. Infancy 3 Youth '20 Poems of the Affections. Friendship 31 Compliment and Admiration .38 Love 55 Marriage 121 Home 133 Filial and Fraternal Love 138 Parting 143 Absence 153 Disappointment and Estrangement 158 Bereavement and Death 175 Poems of Sorrow and Adversity 221 Poems of Religion 255 Poems of Nature 295 Poems of Peace and War 373 Poems of Temperance and Labor 413 Poems of Patriotism and Freedom 427 Poems of the Sea 467 Poems of Adventure and Rural Sports 491 Descriptive Poems . 523 Poems of Sentiment and Reflection 563 Poems of Fancy 627 Poems of Tragedy 675 Personal Poems 699 PIuMORous Poems . 723 I Index of First Lines ..-..-. 777 t B- : : j^ [& LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. STEEL ENGRAVING: — Portrait of William Citllen Bryant . . Frontispieca WOOD ENGRAVINGS:— Page Nature's Teaching . . 21 Love-Letters in Flowers . . . ' . .67 The Banks of the Lee . 126 Marine .View ...,«,, 153 The Poacher's Game 198 The Blind Milton and his Daughters . . . . • . . . . 265 Sunrise in the Mountains 311 The Nightingale 349 Autumn Days . . . 370 Honest Toil . . . . . 421 The Equinox 473 Coast Scene . . ' ■ . . . 477 Fisher's Rock ..',... 529 A Summer Evening 593 Harvest Time 617 The Convent . 684 FACSIMILE OF TEE AUTOGRAPH MANUSCRIPT OF , Ralph "Waldo Emerson , i . . . xxii Henry Wadsworth Longfellow xsxii William Cullen Bryant 2 John Howard Payne 30 Thomas Hood . 222 Leigh Hunt 256 JosiAH Gilbert Holland 256 Alfred Tennyson . . . . . . . . ... . . . 296 George H. Boker • . . . . . . 374 T. Buchanan Read 412 John Greenleaf Whittiee 414 Oliver Wendell Holmes . : 428 Bayard Taylor . 468 Elizabeth Barrett Browning . . . - . . . . . . . 492 N. P. Willis. . . , . . . . . \ . . . . 624 George P. Morris 524 Fitz-Greene Halleck 564 W. GiLMORE SiMMS . , . . . . . '. . . . . . 564 Edgar Allan Poe . .... . . . . . . . 628 Harriet Beecher Stowe 676 Lydia Huntley Sigouenet 676 John Quincy Adams 700 James Russell Lowell 724 John G. Saxe - . 724 Julia Ward Howe 776 t& fl- a INDEX OF AUTHORS. ADAMS, JOHN QUINCY. Quincy, Mass., 1767- I848. Page The Wants of Man 567 ADAMS, SARAH F. Enghind, d. 1848. " Nearer, my God, to thee " .... 278 ADDISON, JOSEPH. England, 1672-1-19. Gate's Soliloquy . . . . . . 624 Sempronius's Speech for War .... 43s " The Lord my pasture shall prepare " . 283 " When all thy mercies, O my God 1 " . . 279 AKENSIDE, MARK. England, 1721-1770. . Imagination 63O Virtuoso, The 737 AKERS, MRS. ELIZABETH. See Florence Percy. ALDRICH, JAMES. America, iSio-1856. Death-Bed, A 188 ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY. Portsmouth, N. H., b. 1836. When the Sultan goes to Ispahan . , . 107 ALGER, WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE. Freetown, Mass., b. 1823. Parting Lovers, The (Translation) . . 147 To Heaven approached a Sufi Saint (Translation) 263 ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM. Ireland. Dirty Old Man, The 206 Fairies, The 667 Lovely Mary Donnelly 52 ALLISON, RICHARD. Engl.and, i5th century. "There is a garden in her face " ... 39 ALLSTON, WASHINGTON. Georgetown, S. C, i779-i843._ America to Great Britain . . ... 444 Boyhood . 27 Rosalie 227 ALTENBURG, MICHAEL. Gerni:iny, l=;8^-l640. Battle-Song of Gustavus Adolphus, The (Trans- lation) ... « . . . , 396 ANACREON. Greece, d. 476 B. C. Grasshopper, The 3SS Spring ........ 309 ANDROS, R. S. S. America, d. 1859. Perseverance 346 ANGELO, MICHAEL. Italy, 1474- 1563. " If it be true that any beauteous thing " . 43 " The might of one fair face sublimes my love " 43 ANSTER, JOHN, Irel.inil, b. 1793. Fairy Child, Tha 668 ARNOLD, EDWIN. England, 1831. Almond Blossom . ARNOLD, MATTHEW. England, b. 1822. Philomela . ASKEWE, ANNE. England, 1529 -1546. Fight of Faith, The AYTON, SIR ROBERT. Scotland, 1570-1638. Woman's Inconstancy .... AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE. Scotland, 1813-1865. Buried Flower, The Execution of Montrose, The . Heart of the Bruce, The . . . . BAILLIE, JOANNA. Scotland, 1762-1851. Heath-Cock, The " Up I Quit thy bower " . . . . BARBAULD, ANNA L/ETITIA. England, 1743-1825. " Life I I know not what thou art " • " Praise to God, immortal praise " . . Summer Evening's Meditation, A BARHAM, RICHARD HARRIS (' Ingoldsby, Esq."). England, 1788- 1845. City Bells Inebriate, The .... Jackdaw of Rheims, The . Knight and the Lady, The . Legend of a Shirt, A " Look at the clock" . . . Misadventures at Margate . BARNARD, LADY ANNE. Scotland, 1750-1825. Auld Robin Gray .... 361 Page 264 231 677 391 Thomas 345 68 177 278 315 S4I 767 752 755 748 751 749 158 BARNES, WILLIAM. England. " In the stillness o' the night ' BARNFIELD, RICHARD. England, 1574- 1606. Address to the Nightingale . BARTON, BERNARD. England, 1784-1849. Bruce and the Spider . Caractacus . . , . Sea, The .... 439 459 471 BAXTER, RICHARD. England. 1615-1691. Valediction, The . BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES. England, 1797-18^9. Mistletoe Bough, The BEATTIE, JAMES. Scotland, 1735-1803. Hermit, The . ' . Law Minstrel, The Morning .... S7I 600 537 298 ^ -tf [& INDEX OF AUTHORS. BEAUMONT, FRANCIS, «W FLETCHER, JOHN. England. 1586- 1616, and 1576 -1625. Folding the Flocks . . . . . 340 From Philaster .;.... 5S3 " Hence, all ye vain delights "... 224 Invocation to Sleep 575 BEDDOES, THOMAS LOVELL. England, 1809- 1849. Dirge 186 BEERS, MRS. ETHEL LYNN. America. Picket-Guard, The . BENNETT, WILLIAM COX. Ireland. Baby May . . . . . Baby's Shoes Invocation to Rain in Summer Worn Wedding- Ring, The . BLAKE, WILLIAM. England, 1757 - 1828. Garden of Love, The . . BLANCHARD, LAMAN. ■ England, 1S03- 1845. Mother's Hope, The . BLOOMFIELD, ROBERT. England, 1766 -1823. Farmer's Boy, The . Lambs at Play Moonlight in Summer Soldier's Return, The . BOKER, GEORGE HENRY. Philadelphia, Pa., b. 1S24. Black Regiment, The Countess Laura Dirge for a Soldier . Prince Adeb .... BOLTON, SARAH T. Ohio. Left on the Battle-Field. . BONAR, HORATIUS. Scotland, b. 1810. " Beyond the smiling and the weeping ' Is this all? ...... BOURNE, VINCENT. England, 1695-1747. " Busy, curious, thirsty fly " BOWDLER, JOHN, Jr. " Children of God, who, faint and slow' BOWKER, R. R. " Toll, then, no more 1 " . BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE. England, 1762 -1850. " Come to these scenes of peace " Greenwood, The Rhine, On the .... BOWRING, SIR JOHN. England, b. 1792. " From the recesses of a lowly spirit " The Nightingale f Portuguese Translation) V The Nightingale (Dutch Translation) BRAINARD, JOHN G. C. New London, Conn., 1796- 1828. " I saw two clouds at morning " . BRETON, NICHOLAS. England, 1555 -1624. " I would I were an excellent divine " Phillis the Fair BRISTOL, LORD. England, 1612-1676, " See, O see 1 " 381 4 16 607 129 607 422 340 314 374 3S3 S03 3S2 276 612 283 S4I 326 325 332 278 348 348 260 38 ^ BROOKS, CHARLES T. Salem, Mass., b. 1813. Alpine Heights (Translation) Fisher, The Good Night " . Hermann and Thusnelda (Tr. from Klopstock) Men and Boys Nobleman and the Pensioner, The (Translation) Nurse's Watch Sword Song, The (Translation) . Winter Song 326 BROOKS, MARIA. Medford, Mass., 1795-1845. "Day, in melting purpla dying" . BROWN, FRANCES. Ireland, 1818-1864. " O the pleasant days of old ! " BROWNE, WILLIAM. ■ England, 1590-1645. My Choice " Welcome, welcome, do I sing " BROWNELL, HENRY P. HOWARD. America, 1824. Lawyer's Invocation to Spring, The "Let us alone" .... 156 46s 7S8 738 BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. England, 1809-1861. Amy's Cruelty . . . . . . 62 Bertha in the Lane 139 Court Lady, A . ' . . . . . . 453 De Profundis 218 Deserted Garden, The 27 Italy 453 Lady's Yes, The ...... 63 Lord Walter's Wife 131 Mother and Poet . ' 192 Parting Lovers 146 Pet Name, The 17 Portrait, A 24 Romance of the Swan's Nest, The . . 20 Sleep , . 576 Sonnets from the Portuguese . . . no View across the Roman Campagna, A . . 334 BROWNING, ROBERT. England, b. 1812. Evelyn Hope 203 Flower's Name, The 49 How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix 397 In a Year Incident of the French Camp Meeting Pied Piper of Hamelin, The " The Moth's kiss, first ! " . 166 398 640 80 BRYANT, JOHN HOWARD. Cummington, Mass., b. 1S07. Little Cloud, The 450 Valley Brook, The 657 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. Cummington, Mass., b. 1794. America 444 Battle-Field, The ... ■■ • • 373 " Blessed are they that mourn "... 610 Crowded Street, The 572 Death of the Flowers, The .... 370 Evening Wind, The " 299 Fatima and Raduan .97 Forest Hymn, A 358 Fringed Gentian, To the 365 Hurricane, The 530 Hymn of the Sea, A 470 Mother's Hymn, The 274 My Autumn Walk 382 Planting of the Apple-Tree, The . ., . 361 Robert of Lincoln 345 Sella's Fairy Slippers 663 Siesta, The 84 Snow- Shower, The 320 Song of Marion's Men 445 Thanatopsis . . . . . . . 621 " Thou hast put all things under his feet " . 275 To a Waterfowl 353 BUCHANAN, ROBERT. Scotland, b. 1835. Green Gnome, The 688 Little Milliner, The ..... 105 Little Ned _ 247 Metempsychosis 723 BURBIDGE, THOMAS. England, 1816. A Mother's Love 11 BURNS, ROBERT. Scotland, 1759-1796. Ae fond Kiss before we part . . . 143 (&- INDEX OF AUTHORS. Afton Water Auld Lang Syne Auld Rob Morris .... Banks o' Doon, The . Bannockburn . . . • Bard's Epitaph, A . . . Bonnie Wee Thing " Ca' the yowes to the knowes" Cotter's Saturday Night, The " Duncan Gray cam' here to woo" " For a' that and a' that " . " Green grow the rashes, 01". " Had I a cave " . . • . Highland Mary .... " John Anderson, my Jo " • " Let not woman e'er complain " Life Louse, To a . . • • Man was made to mourn Mary in Heaven, To Mary Morison .... Mountain Daisy, To a Mouse, To a " My heart 's in the Highlands " " My wife 's a winsome wee thing " " Of a' the airts the wind can blaw ' " O my luve 's like a red, red rose " " O, saw ye bonnie Lesley ? " . , Posie, The Tarn O' Shanter " The day returns, my bosom bums Toothache, Address to the To the Unco Guid .... " Whistle and I '11 come to you, my lad ' BUTLER, SAMUEL. England. 1600- 1680. Hudibras, The Logic of . . . Hudibras, The Philosophy of . Hudibras, The Religion of . Hudibras' Sword and Dagger BYRD, WILLIAM. England, 1600. " My minde to me a kingdom is " . BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD. England, 17S8-1824, " Adieu, adieu I my native shore " . . 148 Augusta, To 139 Beppo, The Return of 498 Coliseum, The 533 Coliseum by Moonlight . . • . 532 Daniel Boone 7" Death (T/ie Giaour) . . . . . 186 Destruction of Sennacherib, The . . . 380 Dream, The 579 Evening . . 301 " Fare thee well ! and if forever " . . 149 " Farewell I if ever fondest prayer " . . 149 Filial Love 138 Greece {T/ie Giaour) 451 Greece ( Childe Harold) .... 463 Greek Poet, Song of the 464 Invocation to the Angel .... 681 Lambro's Return 555 229 144 590 505 711 303 337 188 710 329 609 159 158 440 708 108 72 291 106 252 58 16S 201 129 65 611 357 234 188 51 36S 340 514 126 153 144 154 53 638 127 602 604 73 737 737 291 405 565 CALLANAN, JAMES JOSEPH. Ireland, 1795 -1829. Gougaune Barra 456 Latest Verses " Maid of Athens, ere we part " Man — Woman Mazeppa's Ride Napoleon Night Orient, The " O, snatched away in beauty's bloom " . Princess Charlotte, The ... Prisoner of Chillon, The 551 Rhine, The 331 Rover, Song of the 478 Sea, The 469 " She walks in beauty " 44 Southey 718 " The kiss, dear maid " 144 Thomas Moore, To 708 " 'T is sweet " 583 Transient Beauty 171 Turkish Camp, The 400 Waterloo . . . . . . . 400 " When we two parted" 150 CAMPBELL, THOMAS. Scotland, 1777 - 1844. Battle of the Baltic ,486 Dying Gertrude to Waldegrave, The . . 151 Evening Star, The 300 Exile of Erin 457 Hallowed Ground 606 Hohenlinden 398 Kiss, The First 78 Lochiel's Warning 440 Maid's Remonstrance, The .... 64 Napoleon and the British Sailor . . . 489 Poland 452 River of Life, The 611 Soldier's Dream, The . . . . .378 " When Jordan hushed his waters still " . 272 " Ye mariners of England " . . . . 485 CANNING, GEORGE. England, 1770 - 1827. Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Gnnder 726 Inscription for Brownrigg's Cell . . . 703 University of Gottingen, The . . . 726 CAREW, THOMAS. England, 1589 -1639. ,.,.,, " Give me more love or more disdain ' . . 64 " He that loves a rosy cheek " ... 61 " I'do not love thee for that fair " . . .4' " Sweetly breathing, vernal air " . . . 30S GARY, ALICE. Cincinnati, O., b. 1820. Pictures of Memory 16 Spinster's Stint, A 98 CAREY, HENRY. England, 1700- 1743. Sally in our Alley ....'. 52 CARMICHAEL, SARAH E. America. Origin of Gold, The .... 654 CASWELL, EDWARD. " My God, I love thee " (Translation from St. Francis Xavler) 257 CHALKHILL, JOHN. (Supposed to be a wwz oS? plume of Izaak IValion.) The A-ngler 521 CHARLES OF ORLEANS. France. 139: -1465. Fairest Thing in Mortal Eyes, The . . .190 Spring 306 CHATTERTON, THOMAS. England, 1752- 1770. Minstrel's Song CHAUCER, GEOFFREY. Engl.md, 1328-1400. Canterbury Pilgrims, The CHERRY, ANDREW. England, 1762-1812. The Bay of Biscay, O I CHORLEY, H. F. England. Brave Old Oak, The . CHURCHILL, CHARLES. England, 1731-1764. Smollett GIBBER, COLLEY. England, 1671 - 1757. Blind Boy, The CLARE, JOHN. England, 1793- 1864. Mary Lee Summer Moods 481 54 313 CLARK, GEORGE H. Nev»liury;jprt, MasS. Rail, The . ^- ■-ff a- INDEX OF AUTHORS. CLEVELAND, JOHN. England, I6I3-^6^9. To the Memory of Ben Jonson . . . 701 CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. England, 1819-1861, "As ships becalmed " 143 COLERIDGE, HARTLEY. England, 1796- iS49._ " She is not fair to outward view " . . 48 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. England, 1772 - 1834. Answer to a Child's Question .... 45 Cologne 736 Fancy in Nubibus 634 Genevieve ....... 81 Good Great Man, The 574 Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni 280 Knight's Tomb, The 385 Kubla Khan 643 Metrical Feet 562 Quarrel of Friends, The . . - . 35 Rime of the Ancient Mariner .... 645 COLES, ABRAHAM. Dies Irae . 262 COLLINS, ANNE. England, 1627. "The wmter being over" 306 COLLINS, WILLIAM. England, 1720-17=56. How sleep the Brave 429 The Passions 587 COLMAN, GEORGE. England, 1762-1S36. How it happened 720 Sir Martnaduke 756 Newcastle Apothecary, The >. . . 740 Toby Tosspot 742 CONDER, JOSIAH. England, 1789 - 1853. "Through life's vapors dimly seeing" . 282 CONGREVE, WILLIAM. England, 1670 - 1729. Music _ .^ 585 Procrastination . . . . . . 616 COOK, ELIZA. England, b. 1817. Englishman, The ...... 443 " Hang up his harp ; he '11 wake no more " 151 Old Arm-Chair, The ^ 28 COOKE, PHILIP P. Berkley Co., Va., 1816- 1S50. Florence Vane . . . ... . 233 COOPER, JAMES FENIMORE. Burlington, N. J., 1789-1851. Brigantine, My ....... 479 COTTON, CHARLES. England, 1630- 1687. Contentation ' . . 569 Retirement . 57^ CORNWALL, BARRY. See Procter, B. W. . . ' . . . 666 COTTON, NATHANIEL. England, 1721- 178S. The Fireside 135 COWLEY, ABRAHAM. England, 1618-1667. The Chronicle 58 The Grasshopper (Translation) . . '355 COWPER, WILLIAM. ' England, 1731-1800. Boadicea ' . 433 Contradiction 594 Cricket, The 356 Duelling 599 Freeman, The . . _ . . . . 461 " God moves in a mysterious way " . .. 2S2 Happy Man, The 570 Humanity 598 My Country 442 My Mother's Picture iS Nightingale and Glow-Worm, The . . 671 Oaths 594 Royal George, On the Loss of the . . 484 Slavery 462 " Sweet stream, that winds " ... 21 Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk 573 Whitefield 718 Winter 318 Winter Walk at Noon 318 CRABBE, GEORGE. England. 1754 -1832. Approach of Age, The 226 Mourner, The 152 Peasant, The 570 Quack Medicines 600 CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE. Alexandria, D. C, b. 1813. Thought ....... 566 CRASHAW, RICHARD. England, 1600 - 1650, Music's Duel . . 350 Supposed Mistress, Wishes for the . . 59 Two Men went up to the Temple to pray . 259 CRAWFORD, MRS. Ireland. We parted in Silence ..... 131 CROLY, GEORGE. Ireland. 1780 -i860. Genius of Death, The 613 Leonidas, The Death of . . . , . 430 Pericles and Aspasia 430 CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. Scotland, 1784 -1842. " Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie " 121 Poet's Bridal-Day Song, The .... 127 Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, A ,. . 478 CURRAN, JOHN PHILPOT. Ireland, 1750-1817. Poor Man's Labor, The ..... 426 CUTTER, GEORGE W. America. Song of the Lightning 654 DANA, RICHARD HENRY. Cambridge, Mass., b. 1787. Husband and Wife's Grave, The . . . 217 Pleasure-Boat, The 519 Soul, The ........ 267 DANIEL, SAMUEL. England, 1562 - 1619. Love is a Sickness $$ DARLEY, GEORGE. Ireland, 1785 - 1849- / Gambols of Children, The . . . .11 Song of the Summer Winds . ... . S'l DAVIS, THOMAS. Ireland, 1814-1845. Banks of the Lee, The .... 126 p^lower of Finae, The 200 Maire Bhan Aslor 1.30 Sack of Baltimore, The 6S7 Welcome, The 72 DECKER, THOMAS. England, d. 1639. Happy Heart, The 4^9 DE VERE, SIR AUBREY. Ireland, d. 1846. Early Friendship 32 Her Shadow 109 DIBDIN, CHARLES. England, 1745- 1814. Heaving of the Lead 479 Sir Sidney Smith 4^9 DIBDIN, THOMAS. England, 1771-1841. All 's Well . . . . . . .479 Snug Little Island, The .... 443 DICKENS, CHARLES. England, 1812 - 1870. Ivy Green, The . . . t • . 37° ^ ■Pr INDEX OF AUTHORS. :^ DICKSON, DAVID. England, 1583- 1663. New Jerusalem, The DIiMOND, WILLIAM. Enj^land, 1800 - 1837. Mariner's Dream, The . 484 DOBELL, SYDNEY. England, b. 1824. Absent Soldier Son, The .... 142 Home, wounded 242 How 's my Boy ? . . N . . . . 490 Milkmaid's Song, The gs Tommy 's dead 226 DODDRIDGE, PHILIP. England, 1702- 1751. "Amazing, beauteous change !" . . . 284 " Eternal Source of every joy " . . . 279 " O happy day that fixed my choice " . • 275 DORSET, CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF. England, 1637 - 1709. Fire of Love, The . • • . • -56 DOWLAND, JOHN. England, about 1600. Sleep 575 DOYLE, SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS. England, b. i3io. Private of the Buffs, The 385 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN. New York City. 1795- ]S20. American Flas;, The ' . 447 Culprit Fay, The DRAYTON, MICHAEL. England, 1563- 1631. Ballad of Agincourt, The " Come, let us kisse and parte " DRUMMOND, WILLIAM. Scotland, 1585 -'1640. Ascension of Christ, The Sonnet Thrush, The .... 658 3S6 150 277 253 344 DRYDEN, JOHN. England, 1631 - 1700. Ah, how sweet ! 56 Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music . 585 Eleonora 196 Portrait of John Milton, Lines written under the . . 701 Song for St. Cecilia's Day, A , . . 5S8 Og 7'9 Zimri 718 DUFFERIN, LADY. Ireland. Lament of the Insh Emigrant .... 203 DUNLOP, . Scotl.md. "Dinnaaskme" 70 DURYEA, REV. WILLIAM RANKIN. A Song for the " Hearth and Home " . DWIGHT, JOHN SULLIVAN. America, b, 1813. " Sweet is the pleasure " . . . DWtGHT, TIMOTHY. Nortlianipton, .Mass., 1732-1817. Columbia 419 445 DYER, JOHN. Wales, 1700- 1758. Aiirelia, To 309 Grongar Hill . . . . . . . 327 EASTMAN, CHARLES GAMAGE. Burlington. \'t., iSi6-r86l. Snow-Storm, A 320 EDWARDS, MISS. " Give me three grains of com, mother " . . 45S ELLIOTT, EBENEZER (rAf Corn-Law Rhymer). Englind, 1781 - 1849. Burns 706 Poet's Epitaph, A 705 Spring 30S EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. Boston, Mass., b. 1803. Borrowing .... Boston Hymn Brahma .... Heri, Cras, Hodie. . Heroism .... Humble-Bee, To the . Justice .... Letters . . . . , Northman .... Poet Quatrains and Fragments Rhodora, The Sea, The .... Snow-Storm, The . FABER, FREDERICK WILLIAM. England, b. 1800. " O, how the thought of God attracts ' FALCONER, WILLIAM. Scotland, 1730-1769. Shipwreck, The .... 62s 460 614 62s 625 354 259 643 625 625 625 366 625 319 2S4 485 FANSHAWE, CATHERINE. England. Enigma ..... FENNER, CORNELIUS GEORGE. America, 1822- 1847. Gulf- Weed .... FERGUSON, SAMUEL. Ireland, b. 1805. Forcing of the Anchor, The . Pretty Girl of Loch Dan, The FIELDING, HENRY. England, 1707 -1754. The Maiden's Choice . FIELDS, JAMES T. Portsmouth, N. H., b. 1820. Dirge for a Young Girl , Tempest, The . FLETCHER, GILES. England, 1588-1623. " Drop, drop, slow tears " FOSDICK, WILLIAM W. Cincinnati, O.. b. 1822. Maize, The FREILIGRATH, FERDINAND. Germany, b. 1810. The Lion's Ride (Translation) FRENEAU, PHILIP. New \'ort: City, 1752-1832. Indian Death-Song GAUTIER. France. Departure of the Swallows (Translation) GAY, JOHN. England, 1688-1732. Black-eyed Susan 258 362 GERHARDT, PAUL. The Dying Saviour .... GILBERT, W. S. England. Yarn of the " Nancy Bell," The GLAZIER, WILLIAM BELCHER. Hallowell, Me., b. 1827. Cape-Cottage at Sunset GOETHE, JOHANN WOLFGANG VON. Germany. 1749-1843. Fisher, The GOLDSMITH, OLIVER. Ireland, 1725- 1774. Deserted Village, The .... Great Britain Holland Home ....... Italy and Switzerland .... GOULD, HANNAH FLAGG. Lancaster, Vt. Frost, The ...... 145 276 735 300 670 545 536 530 137 530 ^- 633 GRAHAM, JAMES, EARL OF MONTROSE. Scotland, 1612- 1650. My dear and only Love .... 60 GRAHAM OF GARTMORE. Scotland. " If doughty deeds my lady please " . . 47 GRAHAME, JAMES. Scotland, 1785-1S38. Sabbath, The 285 GRANT, SIR ROBERT. Scotland, 1785-1838. Litany 263 " When gathering clouds around I view " . 274 GRAY, DAVID. England, 1838-1861. " Die down, O dismal day " . . . .■ 304 Honnesick ' 142 " O winter, wilt thou never, never go ?" . . 321 GRAY, THOMAS. Enp;Iand, 1716-1771. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard . 219 Spring ......•• 308 GREENE, ROBERT. England, 1560-1592. " Ah ! what is love ? " S3 GREGORY THE GREAT, ST. Italy, 540-604. . , , • N o Darkness is thmnmg (Translation) . . . 258 GRIFFIN, GERALD. Ireland, 1803-1840. Gille Machree i33 HABINGTON, WILLIAM. England, 1605-1645. Castara 44 HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE. Guilford, Conn., 1790 -1869. Alnwick Castle 328 Burns 706 Fortune • 59° Joseph Rodman Drake 32 Marco Bozzaris ...... 450 Weehawken 55° HAI.PINE, CHARLES G. (Miles O'ReiUy). Ireland, 1829-1S69. Irish Astronomy 730 Quakerdom — The Formal Call '. . . 77 HARTE, FRANCIS BRET. America, 1837. Chiquita 7^5 Dow's Flat -764 Heathen Chinee, The 728 Pliocene Skull, To the .... . 731 HARTE, WALTER. Wales, 1700- 1774- A Soliloquy 355 HAY, JOHN. Cincinnati, O., b. 1840. Little Breeches • • • • . . . 757 HEBER, REGINALD. England, 1783-1826. " If thou wert by my side, my love " . . 128 " Thou art gone to the grave "... 180 HEDGES, JOHN. England. Will, The ...... HEINE, HETNRICH. Germany, 1799- 1856. Fisher's Cottage, The (Translation) Water-Fay, The (Translation) . HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA. England, 1794- 1835. Bernardo del Carpio .... " Calm on the bosom of thy God " . Casablanca ...... Cceur de Lion at the Bier of his Father Coronation of Inez de Castro, The Homes of England, The . Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, The . Meeting of the Ships, The Roman Girl's Song .... Treasures of the Deep, The 736 529 670 213 177 487 212 214 137 461 34 S3S 477 HERBERT, GEORGE. Wales, 1593-1632. Employment . . . ' . . • • 257 Gifts of God, The 59' Life 610 Praise 261 Said I not so 265 Sweet Day 180 " Sweetest Saviour, if my soul " . . . 273 HERRICK, ROBERT. England, 1591 - 1674. " A sweet disorder in the dress " . . • 593 Daffodils . . _ . . . . . 369 " Fair pledges of a fruitful tree " ■ • . '3&i " Go, happy Rose ! " 73 Holy Spirit, The • ^263 Kiss, The . 78 Lent, A True 260 " Sweet, be not proud " . . . . 58 Tirfte 617 Violets . _ . . . _ . . . . 367 " Whenas in silks my Julia goes " ... 41 HERVEY, THOMAS KIBBLE. England, 1799-1859. " Adieu, adieu ! our dream of love " . . 143 Love 121 HEYWOOD, THOMAS. England, about 1600. " Pack clouds away " 298 HILL, THOMAS. New Brunswick, N. J., b. 1818.^ Bobolink, The , . 343 HILLHOUSE, JAMES A. New Haven, Conn., 1789-1841. " Trembling before thine awful throne " . 277 HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO. New York City, b. 1806. Monterey 406 HOGG, JAMES. Scotland, 177S-183S. Jock Johnstone, the Tinkler . . ' . 500 Kilmeny ........ 663 When the Kye come Hame .... 82' HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT. Belchertown, Mass., b. 1S19. Cradle Song (Bitter-Sweet) . . . , . 3 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. Cambridge, Mass., b. 1809. ' Comet, The 757 Contentment 368 Evening 739 Hymn of Peace 373 Katydid 3S6 Last Leaf, The 225 Ode for a Social Meeting .... 733 One-Hoss Shay, The 743 Ploughman, The ...... 421 Questions and Answers ..... 725 Under the Violets . . • . . . 181 HOME, JOHN. Scotland, 1724-1808. Nerval ... o .... 502 HOLTY, LUDWIG. Germany, 1748-1776. Winter Song (Translation) .' , . . 317 HOOD, THOMAS. England, 1798 -1845. Autumn 316 Bridge of Sighs, The . . . . . 250 Diversity of Fortune 244^ Double "Blessedness 758^ Dream of Eugene Aram, The .... 697 Faithless Nelly Gray 747 Faithless Sally Brown 746 " Farewell, Life ! " 239 Flowers . . . . . . . . 3^4 Gold ! 600 Heir, The Lost 8 Infant Son, To my 8 " I rerriember, I remember " . . . .19 Morning Meditations 74^ eg— «- INDEX OF AUTHORS. No Nocturnal Sketch Ode to Rae Wilson, Esquire Ruth . . Sally Simpkin's Lament Song of the Shirt, The Spring it is cheery Water Lady, The " We watched her breathing " HUNT, LEIGH. England, 1784-1859. Abou Ben Adhem .... Child, during Sickness, To a . Cupid swallowed Fairies' Song . . . . • Glove and the Lions, The Grasshopper and Cricket, The . Jaffar Love-Letters made of Flowers Trumpets of Doolkamein, The . . INGELOW, JEAN. England. High-Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire Maiden with a Milking-Pail, A . Seven Times One .... Seven Times Two .... JOHNSON, SAMUEL. England, 1709- 17S4. Charles XII 317 763 719 74 746 248 22s 670 HOWE, JULIA WARD. New Vcirk City, b. 1S19. Battle Hymn of the Republic . . . . 462 Royal Guest, The 36 HOWITT, MARY. England, b. i3oo. Broom- Flower, The 366 Use of Flowers, The 370 HOWITT, WILLIAM. England, b. 1795. Departure of the Swallow, The . . . 347 June Day, A 312 HOYT, RALPH. America. Old . 22g • Snow. — A Winter Sketch .... '320 HUGHES, £)R. R. A Doubt . . .-■ Sg HUME, ALEXANDER. Scotland, 1711-1776. Story of a Summer Day, The . . . 372 582 IS 66 65s 574 356 58' 67 384 20S 93 JONES, SIR WILLIAM. England, 1746-1794. " What constitutes a state ? ' JONSON, BEN. England, 1574-161)7. " Drink to me only with thine eyes " . Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H. Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke Freedom in Dress .... Noble Nature, The . . . . Pleasures of Heaven, The Those Eyes Vision of Beauty, A . . . . KEATS, JOHN. . England, 1796- 1821. Eve of St. Agnes, The . Fairy Song . . . , Grasshopper and Cricket, The La belle Dame sans Merci Ode on a Grecian Urn . Ode to a Nightingale Realm of Fancy, The . . KEBLE, JOHN. Engi.md, b. 1790. Example 608 709 709 593 56s 180 57 42 117 657 356 669 634 236 629 KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE. England, b. 1811. Absence 157 KEN, THOMAS, BISHOP. England, 1637-1711. Evening Hymn 294 KENNEDY, CRAMMOND. Scotland, b. 1841. Greenwood Cemetery 269 KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT. Frederick Co., Md., 1779 -1843. Star-spangled Banner, The .... 447 KING, HENRY. England, 1591-1669. Dirge, The 253 Life 187 KINGSLEY, CHARLES. England, b. 1819. A Rough Rhyme on a Rough Matter . . igS Fishermen, The 483 Merry Lark, The 210 " O Mary, go and call the cattle home " . 483 KINNEY, COATES. Penn Yan, N. Y., b. 1826. Rain on the Roof 592 KNOWLES, JAMES SHERIDAN. Ireland, b. 1784. Switzerland 437 KNOX, WILLIAM. Scotland. " O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? " 195 KORNER, CHARLES THEODORE. Germany, 1701-1813. Good Night (Translation) .... 426 Men and Boys (Translation} .... 452 Sword Song, The (Translation) . . . 399 KRUMMACHER. Germany, 1774- 1837. Alpine Heights (Translation) .... 332 Moss Rose, The (Translation) . . . 365 LAMB, CHARLES. England, 1775-1S34. Farewell to Tobacco, A 415 Hester , . 194 Housekeeper, The 759 Newton's Principia 759 Old Familiar Faces, The 230 LAMB, MARY. England, 1765- 1S47. Choosing a Name 4 LANDON, L^TITIA ELIZABETH. England, 1802- 1838. Female Convict, The . . ' . . . 213 Little Red Riding Hood .... 9 LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. England, 1775-1864. Iphigeneia and Agamemnon .... 678 Macaulay, To 702 Maid's Lament, The 200 One Gray Hair, The 608 LELAND, CHARLES G. The Fisher's Cottage .... 529 The Water Fay 670 LEONIDAS. Alexandria, 59-129. The Mother's Stratagem (Translation) . . 13 LEVER, CHARLES. Ireland. ^ Widow Malone 105 LEWIS, GEORGE MONK. England. Maniac, The 236 LEYDEN, JOHN. Scotland, 1775 - 1811. Daisy, The 368 Noontide 299 Sabbath Morning, The 298 tQ- cS- INDEX OF AUTHOES. LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON. Scotland, 1792-1854. Broadswords of Scotland, The . , . . 406 Lordof Butrago, The . . . . . 404 Zara's Ear-Riugs 96 LODGE, THOMAS. England, 1556 -1625. Rosalind's Complaint ..... 65 Rosaline 39 LOGAN, JOHN. Scotland, 1748-1788. Cuckoo, To the . . . . . . . 342 " Thy braes were bonny " .... 201 LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. Portland, Me., b. 1807. Carillon 577 Children's Hour, The 24 Daybreak 297 Divina Commedia ...... 527 Evangeline in the Prairie 550 Footsteps of Angels 177 God's- Acre . . . . . . .178 Hymn to the Night . ... . 304 Maidenhood 21 Peace in Acadie ...... 548 Prelude ( Voices of the Night) . . . - . 566 Psalm of Life, A . . . * . . 582 Rain in Summer . . . *. . .311 Rainy Day, The 228 Reaper and the Flowers, The .... 184 Resignation 175 . Retribution , ■ 614 Sea-Weed 473 Snow-Flakes 320 Village Blacksmith, The .... 419 LOVELACE, RICHARD. England, 1618-1658. Althea from Prison, To .... 48 Lucasta,To 153 Lucasta, on going to the Wars, To . . 145 LOVER, SAMUEL. Ireland, 1797- 186S. Angel's Whisper, The ..... 7 Father Land and Mother Tongue . 591 Low-backed Car, The . . . ■ .51 Rory O'More ...... 107 Widow Machree . . . . . .75 LOWE, JOHN. Scotland, 1750 - 1798. Mary's Dream ~. 202 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. 'Cambridge, Mass., b. 1819. Abraham Lincoln 714 Auf Wiedersehen ! . • . . . . 96 Courtin', The 102 First Snow-Fail, The 184 H. W. L., To . . . . . . 702 Rhoecus ........ 642 Sonnets . 126 Summer Storm ....... 313 What Mr. Robinson thinks .... 769 Winter's Evening Hymn to my Fire . .136 Yussouf . . . ' . . . . . 581 LOWELL, MARIA WHITE. Watertown, Mass., 1821-1S53. The Morning-Glory .;.... 210 LUTHER, MARTIN. Germany, 1483 -1546. "A mighty fortress is our God" . . . 271 Martyrs' Hymn, The 264 LYLY, JOHN. England, 1554-1600. Cupid and Campaspe . . . . . 65 LYTTELTON, LORD GEORGE. England, 1708-1773. " Tell me, my heart, if this be love " . . 5s LYTTON, LORD EDWARD BULWER. England, b. 1805. Claude Melnotte's Apology and Defence . 159 LYTTON, ROBERT BULWER {Owen Meredith). England, b. 1831. Aux Italiens , . 170 The Chess-Board 77 MACAULAY, LORD. England, 1800-1859. Horatius at the Bridge . . . . . 431 Naseby 438 Moncontour 438 MAC-CARTHY, DENIS FLORENCE. Ireland. Alice 123 Ireland 457 " Ah, svj'eet Kitty Neil ! " .... 70 Labor Song 425 Love and Time 66 Summer Longings ...... 305 MACKAY, CHARLES. Scotland, b. 1812. Small Beginnings . . . . . . 592 "Tell me, ye winged winds" .... 268 Tubal Cain 376 MACLELLAN, REV. MR. Poor Man and the Fiend, The .... 418 MAGINN, WILLIAM. Ireland,^ 1793-1842. Waiting for the Grapes 42 MAHONY, FRANCIS {Father Prmit). Ireland, 1805-1866. Bells of Shandon, The ..... 540 Malbrouck (Translation) .... 405 MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE. England. Sentimental Gardener, The (Translation) . 727 Sunken City, The (Translation) . . ., 633 MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER. England, i564-i593._ Shepherd to his Love, The . . . -73 MARSDEN. England, 1754 -1836. What is Time? . . . . . . 617 MARTEN, HENRY. England, b. , d. 1681. Verses written in Prison 702 MARVELL, ANDREW. England, 1620 - 1678. Death of the White Fawn . . . . 23S Drop of Dew, A 324 Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda v ". 47S " The spacious firmament on high " . . 2S0 MARY. Queen of Hungary, d. 1558. A Prayer 262 MASSEY, GERALD. England, b. 1828. _ _ . " O, lay thy hand in mine, dear" . . . 124 Our wee White Rose 16 McMASTER, GUY HUMPHREY. England, 1S29. The Old Continentals 446 MEDLEY, SAMUEL. England. "Mortals, awake ! with angels join " . . 272 MEEK, ALEXANDER B. Alabama. Balaklava 406 MESSENGER, ROBERT HINCKLEY. Boston, Mass., b. 1807. Old Fogy, The ...'... 603 MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS. Scotland, 1734- 17S8. Sailor's Wife, The 48S MILLER, JOHANN MARTIN. Germany. The Sentimental Gardener (Translation) . 727 MILLER, WILLIAM. Scotland. Willie Winkie ....... 5 MILMAN, HENRY HART. England, 1791. Hebrew Wedding . . . . . . 124 Jewish Hymn in Jerusalem .... 211 C& [&* INDEX OF AUTHORS. a MILNES, RICHARD MONCKTON. Eniflanci, b. 1809. London Churches . . . MILTON, JOHN. Hui,'lan,l. lOocS - 1674- "Abdiel Ad.»m describing Eve Adam's Morning Hymn in Paradise Adam to Eve BHndness, On his . . " Comus," Scenes from . Cromwell, To the Lord-General . Evening in Paradise .... II Peiiseroso Invocation to Light .... L'. Allegro May Morning Samson Agonistes. Selections from " Paradise Lost " . MITFORD, MARY RUSSELL. Eiiirl.md, 1786 -1855, Rienzi to the Romans MOIR, DAVID MACBETH. Scotl:ind, 1798-1851. Casa Wappy . MONTGOMERY, JAMES. Scotland, 1771-1854. Birds Burns, Robert Coral insect, The ...... Daisy, The Grave, The ....... " Make way for Liberty ! " . . . . My Country ..«.••. Night Ocean, The " O, where shall rest be found ? " Parted Friends Pelican, The Sea Life " Servant of God, well done " . . MOORE, CLEMENT CLARKE. New \'ork City, 1779- 1S52. St. Nicholas, A Visit from • . . • MOORE, THOMAS. Irelainl, 1779 18^2. Acbar and Nourmahal "Alas! how light a cause may move" . " As by the shore, at break of day " "As slow our ship " ..... " Believe me, if all those endearing young charms " Birth of Portraiture, The . • . . Black and Blue Eyes Canadian Boat-Song, A . . . . " Come, rest in this bosom " . . . . Echoes » » • " Farewell to thee, Araby's daughter" . " Fly to the desert, fly with me " . • " Go where glory waits thee " . . . . "1 knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled'' Lake of the Dismal Swamp, The " Let Erin remember the days of old " . Linda to Hafed Love's Young Dream • . . . . " Mary, I believe thee true" . . Minstrel Boy, The Nonsense •....,. " Oft in the stilly night " "O, breathe not his name " . Origin of the Harp, The Potato, The . " Sound the loud timbrel " • . . . Spring Syria ......... " The bird let loose " "The harp that once through Tara's halls" . The Young May Moon " Those evening bells " "Thou art, O God !" " 'T is the last rose of summer " . . . Vale of Cashmere, The .... Verses written in an Album . . . . 246 290 122 261 130 265 637 710 304 604 29S 583 310 23s 232 436 3SI 705 475 36S 187 436 429 303 471 26S 32 352 474 265 632 85 169 456 114 67 46 519 71 55 197 68 396 136 643 455 160 167 168 455 729 227 455 172 363 283 309 337 259 455 70 tQ^- 281 365 337 45 MORRIS, GEORGE P. Pniladelphia, Pa., 1803 - 1864. My Mother's Bible Woodman, spare that Tree . , . MORRIS, WILLIAM. England. Atalanta Victorious Atalanta Conquered .... Pygmalion and the Image . . MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. Scotland, 1797 - 1835. Jeanie Morrison ..... " My held is like to rend, Willie " . " They come ! the merry summer months ' MUELLER, WILLIAM. Germany, 1794 -1827. The Sunken City (Translation) MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM A., D. D. New York City. " I would not live alway " . . MULOCK, DINAH MARIA. England, b. 1826. Alma River, By the . " Buried to-day " . . ^ Dead Czar Nicholas, The' Her Likeness Lancashire Doxology, A . Mercenary Marriage, A Now and .'Afterwards . Only a Woman . . Philip, my King , NAIRN, LADY. Scotland, 1760-1843. Laird o' Cockpen, The . . • . . Land o' the Leal, The NASH, THOMAS. . England, 1558-1600. " Spring, the sweet Spring " ... NEALE, J. M. "Darkness is thinning" (Translation from St. Gregory the Great) .... NEELE, HENRY. England, 179S-1828. " Moan, moan, ye dying gales "... NEWELL, R. H. {Orpheus C. Kerr). Poems received in Response to an Advertised Call for a National Anthem . NEWTON, JOHN. England, 1725 - 1807. " How sweet the name of Jesus sounds I " . " Mary to her Saviour's tomb " NICHOLS, MRS. REBECCA S. Greenwich, N. J. Philosopher Toad, The NOEL, THOMAS. England. Pauper's Drive, The . • • . • NORRIS, JOHN. Englanil. 1657-1711. My Little Saint ....... NORTH, KIT. See John Wilson. NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH S., HON. England, b. 1808. Arab to his favorite Steed, The ■« . . Bingen on the Rhine ..... King of Denmark's Ride, The . Love not . Mother's Heart, The ..... O'BRIEN, FITZ-JAMES. Ireland, d. 1861. Kane ....... O'KEEFE, JOHN. Ireland, 1747 1833. " I am a friar of orders gray " . • OPIE, AMELIA. England, 1769 -1853. Orphan Boy's Tale, The • . 178 28 IS4 174 310 63s 156 175 713 177 3 103 i8i 309' 258 272 277 672 48 S17 383 207 23s 71S -ff \B XVI IISTDEX OF AUTHORS. ^ O'REILLY, MILES. See Charles G. Halpine. OSGOOD, FRANCES SARGENT. Boston, Mass., 1S12-1850. To Labor is to Pray 425 OSGOOD, KATE PUTNAM. Fr3feburg', Me., b. 1S43. Driving Home Ae Cows 37S PALMER, JOHN'wILLIAMSON. Baltimore, Md., b. 1825. "For Charlie's sake" . . . . . 178 Thread and Song . . • . . . 23 PALMER, WILLIAM PITT. Stockbridg-e, Mass., b. 1S05. The Smack in School . . . . • 25 PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM. Boston, Mass., b. 1819. Groomsman to his Mistress, The ... 73 PARNELL, THOMAS. England, 1679- 1717. " When your beauty appears " • • • 77 PATMORE, COVENTRY. England, b. 1823. Mistress, The 114 S"ly Thoughts . 78 Sweet Meeting of Desires .... 96 PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD. New York City, 1792 - 1852. Home, sweet Home . . _ . . . 133 Lucius Junius Briitus's Oration .over the Body of Lucretia 693 PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES. Berlin, Conn., 1795-1856. May 310 Coral Grove, The ^ 476 PERCY, FLORENCE (Mrs. Elizabeth A kersX strong, Me., b. 1832. Left behind iS9 Rock me to sleep. Mother .... 190 PERCY, THOMAS. England, 172S-1S11. Friar of Orders Gray, The .... 87 " O Nancy, wilt thou go with me ? " . .71 PETTEE, G. W. Canada. Sleigh Song 518 PFEFFEL. Germany, 1736-1809.. Nobleman and the Pensioner, The . . . 398 PHILIPS, AMBROSE. England, 1675 -1749. To Charlotte Pulteney ..... 7 PHILOSTRATUS. Greece. " Drink to me only with thine eyes " (Transl.) 608 PIERPONT, JOHN. Litchfield, Conn., 1785 -1866. My Child . l8s Not on the Battle- Field .... 379 Warren's Address 446 PINKNEY, EDWARD COATE. Annapolis, Md.,. 1802 -1828. A Health ....... 39 POE, EDGAR ALLAN. Baltimore. Md., 1811-1849. Annabel Lee 205 Annie, For 189 Bells, The . . . . . . . .538 Raven, The .652 POLLOK, ROBERT. Scotland, 1799- 1827. Byron 706 POPE, ALEXANDER. England, 1688- 1744. Author's Miseries, The .... 602 Belinda . . _. . . . . -43 Dying Christian to his Soul, The . 262 Epistle to Robert, Earl of Oxford, . . . 709 Fame 594 Future, The 615 Greatness . . ■. • . . . 594 Happiness . Lines and Couplets Man of Rossf The Nature's Chain Poet's Friend, The . Quiet Life, The _ . Reason and Instinct . Ruling Passion, The Scandal Sporus, — Lord Hervey Timon . . . Toilet, The . Universal Prayer, The PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH. England, 1802 - 1839. Belle of the Ball, The . ... Charade Vicar, The . . . . ' . . PRIEST, NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY. America, 1S34-1870. Over the River ..... PRINGLE, THOMAS. Scotland, 1789- 1834. " Afar in the desert " .... PRIOR, MATTHEW. England, 1664-1721. Lady's Looking-GIass, The . PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE. England, 1826-11864. Doubting Heart, A Woman's Question, A . PROCTER, BRYAN W. {Barry CornwaU). England, b. 1798. Address to the Ocean .... Blood Horse, The " For love's sweet sake "... Golden Girl, A History of a Life Hunter's Song, The Mother's last Song, The Owl, The " Peace ! Wliat can tears avail?" Poet's Song to his Wife, The . Sea, The " Sit down, sad soul " . . . . " Softly woo away her breath " Song of Wood Nymphs . ■ . . Stormy Petrel, The PUNCH. Bomba, King of Naples, Death-Bed of . Spring Too full of Beer QUARLES, FRANCIS. England, 1592 - 1644. " I love, and have some cause " The Vanity of the World . RALEIGH, SIR WALTER. England,' 1552- I618. Lie, The . . . . _. ... Lines written the Night before his Execution , Nymph's Reply, The Pilgrimage, The RANDOLPH, ANSON D. F. New York City. Hopefully waiting RANDOLPH, THOMAS. England, 1605 -1634. Fairies' Song (Translation) .... RAYMOND, ROSSITER W. Cincinnati, O., b. 1S40. Grecian Temples at P^estum, The Ichthyosaurus, Song of the (Translation) Love Song Song of the Sea ... • . . READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN. Chester, Pa., b. 1822. Angler, The Brave at Home, The Closing Scene, The ..... Drifting , . Reaper's Dream, The Sheridan's Ride 571 625 710 338 31 134 S9S 601 596 719 566 561 269 708 560 231 8S 348 63 472 339 68 49 19s S14 172 354 151 128 469 268 179 717 758 764 258 612 614 613 73 259 65s 532 731 61 653 429 548 631 290 449 t& INDEX OF AUTHORS. -a ROBERTS, SARAH. America, Voice of the Grass, The ROGERS, SAMUEL. Hngland. 1703- >S55- Descent, Ihe . . Ginevra Great St. Bernard, The Italy .... Jorasse . . . • Marriage . Music . . . . Naples , . Nun, The . Rome Sleeping Beauty, A Tear, A . . • Venice . . . . Wish, A . . . RONSARD, PIERRE. France, 1542- 1585. Return of Spring (Translation) ROSCOE, WILLIAM. Hnglaml, 1753-1831. Burns The Mother Nightingale ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA GEORGINA. Eni^Iand. Milking-Maid, The .... Up Hill ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. Eimla... The Blessed Damozel The Nevermore RYAN, RICHARD. Scotland, iStli century. " O, saw ye the lass ? " SAXE, JOHN GODFREY. Hig-hg-ato, Vt., b. 1816. American Aristocracy . Cockney, The . Death and Cupid . Early Rising Echo . . . . Kiss me softly . Railroad Rhyme . Woman's Will . SCOTT, SIR WALTER. Scotland, i77r-iS32. " Breathes there the man " . Christmas in Olden Time Clan-Alpine, Fiery Cross of . Clan-Alpine, Song of ... . Gathering Song of Donald the Black . Helvellyn . Immolation of Constance de Beverley, The James Fitz- James and Ellen . James Fitz-James and Roderick Dhu . Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman . Lochinvar . • Macgregor's Gathering .... " March, march, Ettvick and Teviotdale" . Marmion and Douglas .... Marmion at Flodden Field .... Melrose Abbey Norham Castle PaJmer, The Rose, The Scotland ....... " Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er" Stag Hunt, The " The heath this night must be my bed " . " The sun upon the lake is low " " Waken, lords and ladies gay" . Waterloo, The Charge at . ~ . " Where shall the lover rest ? " SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES. En^jland, 1631-1701. Child and Maiden Phillis is my only Joy . . •' • SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. England, 1564- 1616. Abuse of Authority {Measure for Measure) 369 33S 204 332 53' 503 125 585 536 677 532 47 607 53' '34 306 70s 349 44 261 644 613 728 727 67 742 736 78 744 729 430 527 394 394 393 91 5" S'7 I'S 44' 396 387 3S8 526 525 237 36s 441 374 .=;is 144 '54 S'3 402 172 Airy Nothings (7V«//«i^) .... 674 Anne Hathaway 701 Antony's Oration {jfuliiis Cmsar) . , 693 "Blow, blow, thou winter wind" {As You Like It) 224 Q\toX''^\.X3, {Antony and Cleopatra) . . . 558 " Come unto these yellow sands " ( Tempest) 656 Course of true Love, The {Midsumtner Night's Dreain) 158 Tiav^x « tVj\tfi\> (Henry IV. Part 2) . '"' Parti). Sleep {Henry IV. Sleep {Cymbeline) Sleep (Macbeth) Sleep (7Vw/^j/) Soliloquy on Death (Havtlet) SviSi^^er (Merchant of Venice) " Take, O, take those lips away " {Measure for Measure) "Tlie forward violet " " Under the greenwood tree" (As Yon Like It) "When icicles hang by the wall" {Love's Labor 's Lo^t) ..... " When I do count the clock " . " When in the chronicle " . _ . " When to the sessions of sweet silent thought " " Where the bee sucks " (7>;«/*^5/) . " Why should this desert " (As You Like It) Wolsey's Fall (Henry VIII.) Wolsey's Speech to Cromwell {Henry VIII.) Wo\jindLeiSls.%{As You Like It) SHANLY, CHARLES DAWSON. Ireland. Kitty of Coleraine 130 40 35 656 692 575 604 147 6'S '35 576 576 576 577 577 216 56' 168 41 32s 3'9 617 42 34 656 38 237 238 597 CQ^ ^ t& INDEX OF AUTHORS. --Ei [& SHARPE, R. S. England, 1759-1835. Minute-Gun, The ..... 481 SHEALE, RICHARD. Chevy-Chase ,. , 493 SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. England, 1792 -1822. Autumn 316 Beatrice Cenci . • 695 Cloud, The 633 Dream of the Unknown, A . . . . 630 lanthe, Sleeping 577 " I arise from dreams of thee "... 109 " I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden " . . 25 Invitation, The 309 Lament, A 225 Love's Philosophy 57 Music 585 Nigiit 302 Night, To 302 Ozymandias of Egypt 542 Recollection, The 333 Skylark, To the 343 Sunset 300 " The sun is warm, the sky is clear " . . 228 View from the Euganean Hills ... 335 War 3S0 West- Wind, To the 334 " When the lamp is shattered "... 167 SHIRLEY, JAMES. England, 1594 - 1666. IDeath's Final Conquest .... 187 SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. England, 1554 -1586. Love's Silence 64 My True-Love hath my Heart ... 57 Sleep 575- SIGOURNEY, LYDIA HUNTLEY. America, 1791-1865. Coral Insect, The . . . . . . 475 Lo^t Sister, The 194 Man — Woman 589 SIMMONS, BARTHOLOMEW. Ireland, 1843. To the Memory of Thomas Hood . . . 703 SIMMS, WILLIAM GILMORE. Charleston, S. C, b. 1806. Grape-Vine Swing, The . ... . 360 Mother and Child 590 Shaded Water, The 330 SKELTON, JOHN. England, 1485 -1529. To Mrs. Margaret Hussey .... 38 SMITH, CHARLOTTE. England, 1749 -1806. The Swallow 346 SMITH, HORACE. England, 1779- 1849. Address to the Alabaster Sarcophagus . 544 Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition 542 Flowers, Hymn to the 363 Moral Cosmetics 415 Tale of Drury Lane, A • . . . 770 SMITH, JAMES. England, 1776-1S39. The Theatre 771 SMITH, SYDNEY. England, 1771- 1845. A Receipt for Salad 562 SOUTHEY, MRS. CAROLINE BOWLES. England, 1787-1S54. Pauper's Death-Bed, The . . " . . 252 Greenwood Shrift, The 2S8 SOUTHEY, ROBERT. England, 1774 -1843. Blenheim, The Battlp of .... 375 Cataract of Lodore, The 773 Curse of Kehama, The .... 670 Ebb-Tide . . . . . . . .612 God's Judgment on Hatto . . . . 688 Greenwood Shrift, The ..... 288 Holly-Tree, The 360 Inchcape Rock, The 482 Inscription for Henry Marten's Cell - . 702 March to Moscow, The 402 Roderick in Battle ' . ... 402 Roprecht the Robber ..... 761 Well of St. Keyne, The .... 132 SPENCER, CAROLINE S. Catskill, N. Y., 1S50. Living Waters 593 SPENCER, WILLIAM ROBERT. England, 1770-1834. Beth Gelert 515 " Too late I stayed " . . . . . 617 Wife, Children, and Friends . • . 125 SPENSER, EDMUND. England, 1553-1599. Bower of Bliss, The ...... 635 Bride, The . . . . . . . 121 Cave of Sleep,'The 636 Ministry of Angels, The .... 279 Sir Calepine rescues Serena .... 636 Una and the Lion . . . . . . 637 SPRAGUE, CHARLES. Boston, Mass., b. 1791. The Winged Worshippers .... 347 STARK. America. Modern Belle, The 728 STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE. New York City, b. 1837. Cavalry Song . 386 Doorstep, The ...... 619 Old Admiral, The _ 716 What the Winds bring 334 Betrothed Anew 371 STERLING, JOHN. Scotland, 1806- 1844. Husbandman, The ..... 420 On a Beautiful Day 299 Spice-Tree, The 657 STERNE, LAURENCE. England, 1713-1768. A Simile for Reviewers 734 STEVENS, GEORGE ALEXANDER. England, d. 17S4. The Storm .482 STILL, JOHN. England, 1543-1607. Good Ale 732 STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY. Hingham, Mass., b. 1825. Burial of Lincoln 715 " It never comes again " . . . . .27 STODDART, THOMAS TOD. Scotland, about 1S39. The Anglers' Trysting-Tree . . . 520 STORY, ROBERT. Scotland, 1790- i8";9. 1 Whistle, The . 81 STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE. Salem, Mass., b. 1819. Violet, The 367 STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER. Litchfield, Conn., b. 1812. A Day in the Pamfili Doria .... 534 "Only a Year" . . ._ . . . 185 Lines to the Memory of Annie . . . 176 STRANGFORD, LORD. England, 1789-1855. Blighted Love . . , . . . 228 SUCKLING, SIR JOHN. England, 1609- 1641. Bride, The . 124 " I prithee send me back my heart " . . 47 " Why so pale and wan ? " .... i6g t&- INDEX OF AUTHORS. ft SURREY, LORD. England, 1=16-1547. Give Place, ye Lovers 4' Means to attain Happy Life, The . . .135 SWAIN, CHARLES. England, b. 1803. A Violet in her Hair 46 " I stand on Zion's mount " . . . . 283 Smile and never heed me .... no SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES. England, b. 1S43. "Disappointed Lover, The 205 Kissing her Hair J07 I^ove ...•••••• '55 " When the hounds of spring " . . . 305 SYLVESTER, JOSHUA. England, 1SO3-1618. Cobtentment So? "Were I as base as is the lowly plain" , 115 TANNAHILL, ROBERT. . Scotlaiul, 1774- iSio. Flower o' Dumblane, The .... 50 " The midges dance aboon the burn " . . 299 TAPPAN, W. B. Beverly, Mass., 1794- "There is an hour of peaceful rest' . . 269 TAYLOR, BAYARD. Kennett Square, Pa., b. 1S25. Arnb to the Palm, The 359 Bedouin Love-Song 71 Lute-Player, The 108 Possession 127 Rose, The 3^4 TAYLOR, JANE. England, 1783-1824. Philosopher's Scales, The .... 673 Toad's Journal, The 671 TAYLOR, JEFFERYS. England, 1793- 1853. Milkmaid, The 671 TAYLOR, JEREMY. England, 1613-1667. Heaven 266 TENNENT, WILLIAM H. Ode to Peace 373 TENNYSON, ALFRED. England, b. 1S09. Bugle, The 331 " Come into the garden, Maud " . . . 69 Dead Friend, The 37 Death of Arthur 407 Death of the Old Year, The . . . .610 Fortune. — Enid's Song .... 591 Enocli Arden at the Window .... 166 Godiva 558 Hero to Leander . . . . . • 146 " Home they brought her warrior dead " . igg In Memonain, Selections from .... 182 Locksley Hall 161 Lullaby 7 May Queen, The 239 Miller's Daughter, The 50 New Year's Eve 617 Retrospection 223 Sleeping Beauty, The 116 Song of the Brook 327 Sprirtg 304 TENNYSON, CHARLES. England. Ocean, The ,. 326 TERRY, ROSE. America. Reve du Midi 298 THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE. England, 1811-1863. Age of Wisdom, The 56 Church Gate, At the 45 End of the Play, The 253 Little Billee . 766 Mahogany Tree, The 60S Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball . . 730 Sorrows of Werther 764 White Squall, The 479 THAXTER, MRS. CELIA. Isles of Sho.-Os. Tacking Ship off Shore 477 THOM, WILLIAM. Scotland. The Mitherless Bairn 19 THOMSON, JAMES. Scotland, 1700- 1748. Angling S20 Connubial Life 125 Domestic Birds 341 Hymn on the Seasons 321 Plea for the Animals ..... 599 Rule Britannia 442 Songsters, The 341 Stag Hunt, The 514 Summer Morning 311 Winter Scenes 319 THORNBURY, GEORGE WALTER. England, b. 1828. Jester's Sermon, The 619 THURLOW, LORD. England, 178I-1829. Beauty , • . . 566 Bird, To a . . . . .' . . 353 TICKELL, THOMAS. England, b. 1686. To a Lady before Marriage .... 123 TILTON, THEODORE. New York City, b. 1835. Baby Bye • . 4 Great Bell Roland, The 540 TOPLADY, AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE. England, 1740- 1788. " Rock of ages, cleft for me " . . . 274 TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX. England, b. 1807. Harmosan 581 TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND. Ogden, N. Y., b. 1827. Vagabonds, The 417 TUCKERMAN, HENRY THEODORE. Boston, Mass., b. 1813. Newport Beach ...... 622 TUPPER, MARTIN FARQUHAR. England, b. 1810. Cruelty to Animals, Of .... » 598 TWISS, HORACE England, 1786- 1849. Friends far away 34 TYCHBORN, CHIDIOCK. England. . Lines written by one in the Tower, being Young and Condemned to die • • 613 UHLAND, LUDWIG. (jermany, 1787 -1862. Landlady's Daughter, The .... 201 UPTON, JAMES. England, 1670- 1749. Lass of Richmond Hill, The • . . .51 VAUGHAN, HENRY. 1621 - 1695. " They are all gone " 183 VERY, JONES. Salem. Mass., b. 1813. ' Latter Rain, The 16 Nature 325 Spirit Land, The 266 VICENTE, GIL. Portugal, 1482- 1537. The Nightingale (Translation) ... 348 VILLEGAS, ESTEVAN MANUEL DE. Spain. The Mother Nightingale (Translation) . . 349 ■ff a- INDEX OF AUTHORS. VISSCHER, MARIA TESSELSCHADE. HoUaml, 1594-1649. The Nightingale (Translation) . . . 348 WALLER, EDMUND. England, 1605- 16S7. Girdle, C)n a . . . ... . .50 Go, lovely Rose ! 45 WALLER, JOHN FRANCIS. Ireland, b. iSio. Spinning- Wheel Song, The . . . . gS WALSH, WILLIAM. England, 1663- 1707. Rivalry in Love 59 WALTON, IZAAK. (See John Chalkhill.) England, 1593-16S3. Angler's Wish, The 520 WARTON, THOMAS. England, 172S- 1790. Retirement 325 WASTELL, SIMON. England, d. 1623. Man's Mortality 186 WATSON, JAMES W. America. Beautiful Snow . . ... . 251 WATTS, ISAAC. England, 1674 -I749- " Before Jehovah's awful throne " . . . 284 " From all that dwell " 294 Insignificant Existence 593 " O God 1 our help in ages past " . . 271 Summer Evening, A 314 " The heavens declare thy glory. Lord ! " . 282 " There is a land of pure delight " . . . 266 " Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb " . . 175 WAUGH, EDWIN. England. The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine ... 79 WEIR, HARRISON. England. English Robin, The 344 WELBY, AMELIA B. America, b. 1821. The Old Maid 620 WESLEY, CHARLES. England, 1708- 1788. "And let this feeble body fail" . . 285 " Jesus, lover of my soul " .... 272 " Now to the haven of thy breast " . • 272 " On Jordan's stormy banks " . . . ■ 265 Wrestling Jacob 270 WESTWOOD, THOMAS. England. Little Bell . _ 631 " Under my window " 12 WHITCHER, FRANCES MIRIAM. Whitesboro', N. Y., b. 1802. Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles . . . 768 WHITE, BLANCO. England, 1773- 1840. Night . 302 WHITE, HENRY KIRKE. England, 1785- 1S06. Early Primrose, To the . o . . . 366 Harvest Moon, To the ..... 421 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. Haverhill, Mass., b. 1807. Absent Sailor, To her 153 Angel of Patience, The .... 179 Barbara Frietchie 448 Barclay of Ury ...... 377 Barefoot Boy, The .26 Benedicite {Snow Bound) .... 31 Burns . . . . . . . . 703 Farewell, The 142 Hampton Beach 47^ Ichabod ....... 713 Indian Summer . 316 Laus Deo ! 463 Maud Muller 7S Meeting, The . _ 287 New England in Winter 323 Palm-Tree, The 360 Poet's Reward, The 567 Pumpkin, The . . . . . . 363 Reformer, The 465 WILDE, RICHARD HENRY. Ireland, 1789-1847. Life 610 WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. Portland, Me., 1807- 1867. Belfry Pigeon, The 341 Leper, The 536 Parrhasius 689 Women, Two . . , . . . . 223 WILSON, JOHN {Kit North). Scotland, 1785-1854. Evening Cloud, The 593 To a Sleeping Child 592 WINSLOW, HARRIET. America, b. 1824. " Why thus longing ? " 583 WITHER, GEORGE. England, 1588 -1667. " I loved a lass, a fair one " . . . . t68 " Lord ! when those glorious lights I see " . 280 Shepherd's Resolution, The .... 64 WOLCOTT, DR. {Peter Pindar). England, 173S-1819. King Canute and his Nobles .... 738 Pilgrims and the Peas, The .... 739 Razor-Seller, The . . . . ' . . 740 WOLFE, CHARLES. Ireland, 1719- 1823. Burial of Sir John Moore .... 717 WOODWORTH, SAMUEL. Scituate, Mass., 1785- 1842. Old Oaken Bucket, The .... 27 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. England, 1770 -1850. Cuckoo, To the "342 Daffodils 369 Daisy, To the 367 Education of Nature, The . . . . 21 England 442 Helvellyn . ■ . • . . ■ 211 Highland Giri of Inversnaid, To the . . 23 Inner Vision, The . _ . . . . 567 Intimations of Immortality ' . . . . 622 Lost Love, The 194 March 3°? Music 58s Old Matthew 33 Pet Lamb, The 13 Rainbow, The 323 Reaper, The ....... 570 " She was a phantom of delight " . . -43 Simon Lee, the old Huntsman . . . 245 Skylark, To the 344 Sleeplessness 577 Two April Mornings, The . . . -193 We are Seven 14 Westminster Bridge . . . . . -528 Worldliness 297 Yarrow Unvisited 33° Yarrow Visited • 33° WOTTON, SIR HENRY. England, 1568-1639. 'A Happy Life . S7i " You meaner beauties " .... 41 Verses in Praise of Angling . . . .521 WYATT, SIR THOMAS. England, 1503- 1542. An Earnest Suit . • • • .• • 15° The Deceived Lover sueth only for Liberty . 56 XAVIER, ST. FRANCIS. France, 1506- 1552. .. ,_ , . % "My God, I love thee" (Translation). . 257 YOUL, EDWARD. England. Song of Spring . • 307 f& INDEX OF AUTHORS. "~Q] YOUNG, DR. EDWARD. England, 1684 -i;65. JMan . . . . Narcissa . Procrastination Time .... ANONYMOUS. Advice ..... Annie Laurie Baby Lonise (M. E.) . Bachelor's Hall Biird Helen .... Caliph and Satan, The Cano Carmen Sixpence Child of Kile, The . Children in the Wood, The . Civil War .... Deborah Lee Dreamer, The . Drummer-Boy's Burial, The Eggs and the Horses, The " Fairer than thee " Fair Helen of Kirkconnell Fetching Water from the Well Forge, The Song of the . Gluggity dug "Go, feel what I have felt" Good old Plough, The . Go to thy rest, fair child . Grief for the Dead Heaven .... Homesick for the Country . Hundred Years to come, A " If women could be fair" . Indian Chieftain, The Indian Summer Jovial Beggar, The . . . "Just as I am " . " Jwohnny, git oot ! " King and the Miller of Mansfield Kissing 's no Sin Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament Lament of the Border Widow . Little Puss .... " Love me little, love me long " Loveliness of Love, The The 589 21 615 615 415 54 6 729 112 673 763 509 10 381 768 224 37S 759 46 197 93 423 733 417 421 19s 176 266 136 621 60S 761 317 732 274 106 497 79 '73 207 6 61 60 " Love not me for comely grace " . . .61 Meditation on the Frailty of this Life, A . 611 Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition, Answer of the 543 " My eyes ! how I love you ' " My Love in her attire " My old Kentucky Home . My sweet Sweeting New Year's Eve " Nothing but leaves " . Old-School Punishment " Only waiting "... Origin of the Opal Orphans, The .... Perils of the Pave, The Prayer for Lite, A . . . Remonstrance with the Snails Robin Hood and AUen-a-Dale Sally of the Cid . Sea Fight, The . _ Sebastopol taken-— in and done for {London Diogenes) , Shan Van Vocht . Shule Aroon Signs of Rain Skater Belle, Our . Skeleton, To a Sneezing .... Somebody Stormy Petrel, Lines to the . Summer Days Swell's Soliloquy The Caliph and Satan (J. F. C) The Eggs and the Horses (R. S " The land, boys, we live in " The Petrified Fern . The Seaside Well . " They 're dear fish to me " Tomb of Cyrus, The Under the Cross fW. C R.) . Useful Plough, The Vicar of Bray, The . Waly, waly, but love be bonny " When shall we all meet again? ' White Rose, The . " Why, lovely charmer " . • Wife to her Husband, The . Willy drowned in Yarrow . S.) 74 47 148 49 249 269 26 266 654 246 767 288 357 496 410 487 766 455 200 313 518 622 763 97 354 80 742 673 759 444 620 596 199 210 178 420 754 173 225 39 • 47 157 302 & ■a INTRODUCTION. So large a collection of poems as this demands of its compiler an extensive famil- iarity with the poetic literature of oxir language, both of the early and the later time, and withal so liberal a taste as not to exclude any variety of poetic merit. At the request of the Publishers I undertook to write an Introduction to the present work, and in pursuance of this design I find that I have come into a somewhat closer personal relation with the book. In its progress it has passed entirely under my re- vision, and, although not absolutely responsible for the compilation or its arrange- ment, I have, as requested, exercised a free hand both in excluding and in adding matter according to my judgment of what was best adapted to the pm-poses of the enterprise. Such, however, is the wide range of English verse, and such the abun- dance of the materials, that a compilation of this kind must be like a bouquet gath- ered from the fields in June, when hundreds of flowers will be left in unvisited spots, as beautiful as those which have been taken. It may happen, therefore, that many who have learned to delight in some particular poem will turn these pages, as they might those of other collections, without finding their favorite. Nor should it be matter of surprise, considering the multitude of authors from whom the compila- tion is made, if it be found that some are overlooked, especially the more recent, of equal merit with many whose poems appear in these pages. It may happen, also, that the compiler, in consequence of some particular association, has been sensible of a beauty and a power of awakening emotions and recalling images in certain poems which other readers will fail to perceive. It should be considered, moreover, that in poetry, as in painting, different artists have different modes of presenting their con- ceptions, each of which may possess its peculiar merit, yet those whose taste is formed by contemplating the productions of one class take little pleasure in any other. Crabb Robinson relates that Wordsworth once admitted to him that he did not much admire contemporary poetry, not because of its want of poetic merit, but because he had been accustomed to poetry of a different sort, and added that but for this he might have read it with pleasure. I quote from memory. It is to l)e hoped that every reader of this collection, however he may have been trained, will find in the great variety of its contents something conformable to his taste. J suppose it is not necessary to give a reason for adding another to the collections of this nature, already in print. They abound in every language, for the simple rea- son that there is a demand for them. German literature, prolific as it is in verse, has many of them, and some of them compiled by distinguished authors. The par- -ff tSr ^ ^ xxiv INTKODUCTIOlSr. t lor table and the winter fireside require a book which, when one is in the humor for reading poetry and knows not what author to take up, will supply exactly what he wants. I have known persons who frankly said that they took no pleasure in reading poetry, and perhaps the number of those who make this admission would be greater were it not for the fear of appearing singular. But to the great mass of mankind poetry is really a delight and a refreshment. To many, perhaps to most, it is not requisite that it should be of the highest degree of merit. Nor, although it be true that the poems which are most famous and most highly prized are works of con- siderable length, can it be said that the pleasure they give is in any degree propor- tionate to the extent of their plan. It seems to me that it is only poems of a moderate length, or else portions of the greater works to which I refer, that pro- duce the effect upon the mind and heart which make the charm of this kind of writing. The proper office of poetry, in filling the mind with delightful images and awakening the gentler emotions, is not accomplished on a first and rapid perusal, but requires that the words should be dwelt upon until they become in a certain sense our own, and are adopted as the utterance of our own minds. A collection such as this is intended to be furnishes for this purpose portions of the best Eng- lish verse suited to any of the varying moods of its readers. Such a work also, if sufficiently extensive, gives the reader an opportunity of com- paring the poetic literature of one period with that of another ; ■ of noting the fluctu- ations of taste, and how the poetic forms which are in fashion during one age are laid aside in the next ; of observing the changes which take place in our language, and the sentiments which at different periods challenge the public approbation. Specimens of the poetry of different centuries presented in this way show how the great stream of human thought in its poetic form eddies now to the right and now to the left, wearing away its banks first on one side and then on the other. Some au- thor of more than common faculties and more than common boldness catches the public attention, and immediately he ,has a crowd of followers who form their taste on his and seek to divide with him the praise. Thus Cowley, with his undeniable genius, was the head of a numerous class who made poetry consist in far-fetched con- ceits, ideas oddly brought together, and quaint turns of thought. Pope, following close upon Dryden, and learning much from him, was the founder of a school of longer duration, which found its models in Boileau and other poets of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, — a school in which the wit predominated over the poetry, — a school marked by striking oppositions of thought, frequent happinesses of expression, and a carefully balanced modulation, — numbers pleasing at first, but in the end fatiguing. As this school degenerated the wit almost disappeared, but there was no new infu- sion of poetry in its place. When Scott gave the public the Lai/ of the Last Min- strel, and other poems, which certainly, considered as mere narratives, are the best we have, carrying the reader forward without weariness and wnth an interest which the author never allows to subside, a crowd of imitators pressed after him, the greater part of whom are no longer read. Wordsworth had, and still has, his school ; the stamp of his example is visible on the writings of all the poets of the present day. INTRODUCTION. •a Even Byron showed himself, in the third canto of Childe Harold, to be one of his disciples, though he fiercely resented being called so. The same poet did not disdain to learn of Scott in composing his narrative poems, such as the Bride of Ahy- dos and the Giaour, though he could never tell a story in verse without occasional tediousness. In our day the style of writing adopted by eminent living poets is often seen reflected in the verses of their younger contemporaries, — sometimes with an effect like that of a face beheld in a tarnished mirror. Thus it is that poets are formed by their influence on one another ; the greatest of them are more or less in- debted for what they are to their predecessors and their contemporaries. While speaking of these changes in the public taste, I am tempted to caution the reader against the mistake often made of estimating the merit of one poet by the too easy process of comparing him with another. The varieties of poetic excellence are as great as the varieties of beauty in flowers or in the female face. There is no poet, indeed no author in any department of literature, who can be taken as a standard in judging of others; the true standard is an ideal one, and even this is not the same in all men's minds. One delights in grace, another in strength ; one in a fieiy vehe- mence and enthusiasm on the surface, another in majestic repose and the expression of feeling too deep to be noisy ; one loves simple and obvious images strikingly em- ployed, or familiar thoughts placed in a new light, another is satisfied only with nov- elties of thought and expression, with uncommon illustrations and images far sought. It is certain that each of these modes of treating a subject may have its peculiar merit, and that it is absurd to require of those whose genius inclines them to one that they should adopt its opposite, or to set one down as inferior to another be- cause he is not of the same class. As well, in looking through an astronomer's telescope at that beautiful phenomenon, a double star, in which the twin flames are one of a roseate and the other of a golden tint, might we quarrel with either of them because it is not colored like its fellow. Some of the comparisons made by critics between one poet and another are scarcely less preposterous than would be a comparison between a river and a mountain. The compiler of this collection has gone as far back as to the author who may properly be called the father of English poetry, and who wrote while our language was like the lion in Milton's account of the creation, when rising from the earth at the Divine command and " . . . . pawing to get free His hinder parts," — for it was still clogged by the unassimilated portions of the French tongue, to which in part it owed its origin. These were to be thrown aside in after years. The versi- fication had also one characteristic of French verse which was soon after Chaucer^s time laid aside, — the mute or final e had in his lines the value of a syllable by it- self, especially when the next word began with a consonant. But though these pe- culiarities somewhat embaiTass the reader, he still finds in the writings of the old poet a fund of the good old English of the Saxon fii-eside, which makes them worthy to be studied were it only to strengthen our hold on om- language. He delighted in describing natural objects which still retained their Saxon names, and this he did with 1Q ^ a- xxvi INTRODUCTION. great beauty and sweetness. In the sentiments also the critics ascribe to him a de- gree of delicacy which one could scarcely have looked for in the age in which he wrote, though at other times he avails himself of the license then allowed. There is no majesty, no stately rnarch of numbers, in his poetry, still less is there of fire, rapidity, or conciseness ; the French and Italian narrative poets from whom he learned his art wrote as if the people of their time had nothing to do but to attend to long sto- ries, and Chaucer, who translated from the French the Komaunt of the Rose, though a greater poet than any of those whom he took for his models, made small improve- ment upon them in this respect. His Troylus and Cryseyde, with but little action and incident, is as long as either of the epics of Homer. The Canterbury Tales, Chaucer's best things, have less of this defect ; but even there the narrative is over- minute, and the personages, as Taine, the French critic, remarks, although they talk well, talk too much. The taste for this prolixity in narratives and conversations had a long duration in English poetry, since we find the same tediousness, to call it by its true name, in Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis and his Lucrece, written more than two hundred years later. Yet in the mean time the old popular ballads of Eng- land and Scotland had been composed, in which the incidents follow each other in quick succession, and the briefest possible speeches are uttered by the personages. The scholars and court poets doubtless disdained to learn anything of these poets of the people, and the Davideis of Cowley, who lived three hundred years after Chaucer, is as remarkable for the sluggish progress of the story and the tediousness of the harangues as for any other characteristics. Between the time of Chaucer and that of Sidney and Spenser we find little in the poetic literature of our language to detain our attention. That age produced many obscure versifiers, and metrical romances continued to be written after the fashion of the French and Italian poets, whom Chaucer acknowledged as his masters. During this period appeared Shelton, the poet and jester, whose special talent was facility in rhyming, who rhymed as if he could not help it, — as if he had only to put pen to paper, and the words leaped of their own accord into regular measure with an inev- itable jingle at the endings. Meantime our language was undergoing a process which gradually separated the nobler parts from the dross, rejecting the French ad- ditions for which there was no occasion, or which could not easily be made to take upon themselves the familiar forms of our tongue. The prosody of English became also fixed in that period ; the final e which so perplexes the modern reader in Chau- cer's verse was no longer permitted to figure as a distinct syllable. The poets, how- ever, still allowed themselves the liberty of sometimes making, after the French man- ner, two syllables of the terminations tion and ion, so that nation became a word of three syllables and opinion a word of four. The Sonnets of Sidney, written on the Italian model, have all the gi-ace and ingenuity of those of Petrarch. In the Faerie Queene of Spenser it seems to me that we find the English language, so far as the purposes of poetry require, in a degree of perfection beyond which it has not been since carried, and, I suppose, never will be. A vast assemblage of poetic endowments contributed to the composition of the poem, yet I think it would not be easy to narae one of the same length, and the work of a genius equally great, in any language. t& cP^ ^ INTRODUCTION. xxvii which more fatigues the reader in a steady perusal from beginning to end. In it we have an invention ever awake, active, and apparently inexhaustible ; an affluence of imagery grand, beautiful, or magnificent, as the subject may require ; wise observa- tions on human life steeped in a poetic coloring, and not without touches of pathos ; a wonderful mastery of versification, and the aptest foi'ms of expression. We read at first with admiration, yet to this erelong succeeds a sense of satiety, and we lay down the book, not unwilling, however, after an intex'val, to take it up with renewed admii'ation. I once heard an eminent poet say that he thought the second part of the Faerie Queene inferior to the first ; yet I am inclined to ascribe the remark rather to a falling off in the attention of the reader than in the merit of the work. A poet, however, would be more likely to persevere to the end than any other reader, since in every stanza he would meet with some lesson in his art. In that fortimate age of English literatm-e arose a greater than Spenser. Let me only say of Shakespeare, that in his dramas, amid certain faults imputable to the taste of the English public, there is to be found every conceivable kind of poetic ex- cellence. At the same time and immediately after him flourished a group of dra- matic poets who drew their inspiration from nature and wrote with manly vigor. One would natirrally suppose that their example, along with the more illustrious ones of Spenser and Shakespeare, would influence and form the taste of the succeed- ing age ; but almost before they had ceased to claim the attention of the public, and while the eminent divines, Barrow, Jeremy Taylor, and others, wrote nobly in prose with a genuine eloquence and a fervor scarcely less than poetic, appeared the school of writers in verse whom Johnson, by a phrase the propriety of which has been dis- puted, calls the metaphysical poets, — a class of wits whose whole aim was to extort admiration by ingenious conceits, thoughts of such imexpectedness and singularity that one wondered how they could ever come into the mind of the author. For what they regarded as poetic effect they depended, not upon the sense of beauty or gran- deur, not upon depth or earnestness of feeling, but simply upon surprise at quaint and strange resemblances, contrasts, and combinations of ideas. These were deliv- ered for the most part in rugged diction, and in numbers so harsh as to be almost unmanageable by the reader. Cowley, a man of real genius, and of a more musical versification than his fellows, was the most distinguished example of this school. Milton, born a little before Cowley, and like him an eminent poet in his teens, is al- most the only instance of escape from the infection of this vicious style ; his geniiis was of too robust a mould for such petty employments, and he would have made, if he had condescended to them, as ill a figure as his own Samson on the stage of a mountebank. Dryden himself, in some of his earlier poems, appears as a pupil of this school ; but he soon outgrew — in great part, at least — the false taste of the time, and set an example of a nobler treatment of poetic subjects. Yet though the genius of Dryden reacted against this petversion of the art of verse, it had not the power to raise the poetry of our language to the height which it occu- pied in the Elizabethan age. Within a limited range he was a true poet ; his imagi- nation was far from fertile, nor had he much skill in awakening emotion, but he could treat certain subjects magnificently in verse, and often where his imagination '■ ^ fl- xviii INTEODUCTIOlSr. fails him he is sustained by the vigor of his understanding and the largeness of his knowledge. He gave an example of versification in the heroic couplet, which has commanded the admiration of succeeding poets down to our time, — a versification manly, majestic, and of varied modulation, of which Pope took only a certain part as the model of his own, and, contracting its range and reducing it to more regular pauses, made it at first appear more musical to the reader, but in the end fatigued him by its monotony. Dryden drew scarcely a single image from his own observa- tion of external nature, and Pope, though less insensible than he to natural beauty, was still merely the poet of the drawing-room. Yet he is the author of more happy lines, which have passed into the common speech and are quoted as proverbial say- ings, than any author we have save Shakespeare ; and, whatever may be said in his dispraise, he is likely to be quoted as long as the English is a living language. The footprints of Pope are not those of a giant, but he has left them scattered all over the field of our literature, although the fashion of writing like him has wholly passed away. Certain faculties of the poetic mind seem to have slumbered from the time of Milton to that of Thomson, who showed the literary world of Great Britain, to its astonishment, what a profusion of materials for poetry Nature off'ers to him who directly consults her instead of taking his images at second-hand. Thomson's blank verse, however, is often swollen and bladdery to a painful degree. He seems to have imagined, like many other writers of his time, that blank verse could not support itself without the aid of a stilted phraseology ; for that fine poem of his, in the Spenserian stanza, the Castle of Indolence, shows that when he wrote in rhyme he did not think it necessary to depart from a natural style. Wordsworth is generally spoken of as one who gave to our literature that impulse which brought the poets back from the capricious forms of expression in vogue before his time to a certain fearless simplicity ; for it must be acknowledged that until he arose thei-e was scarce any English poet who did not seem in some degree to labor under the apprehension of becoming too simple and natural,. — to imagine that a certain pomp of words is necessary to elevate the style and make that grand and iloble which in its direct expression \vould be homely and trivial. Yet the poetry of Wordsworth was but the consummation of a tendency already existing and active. Cowper had already felt it in writing his TasJi:, and in his longer rhymed poems had not only at- tempted a freer versification than that of Pope, but had clothed his thoughts in the manly English of the better age of our poetry. Percy's Reliques had accustomed English readers to perceive the extreme beauty of the old ballads in their absolute simplicity, and shown how much superior these were to such productions as Percy's own Hermit of Warkworth and Goldsmith's Ediuin and. Angelina, in their feeble ele- gance. Burns's inimitable Scottish poems — his English verses are tumid and wordy — had taught the same lesson. We may infer that the genius of Wordsworth was in a great degree influenced by these, just as he in his turn contributed to form the taste of those who wrote after him. It was long, however, before he reached the eminence which he now holds in the estimation of the literary world. His Lyrical Ballads, published about the close of the last century, were at first little read, and [g- -^ INTRODUCTION. Tnriy of those who liked them there were few who were not afraid to express their admi- ration. Yet his fame has slowly climbed from stage to stage until now his influence is perceived in all the English poetry of the day. If this were the place to criticise his poetry, I should say, of his more stately poems in blank verse, that they often lack compression, — that the thought suffers by too great expansion. Woi'dsworth was unnecessarily afraid of being epigi-ammatic. He abhorred what is called a point as much as Dennis is said to have abhorred a pun. Yet I must own that even hig most diffuse amplifications have in them a certain gi-andeur that fills the mind. At a somewhat later period arose the poet Keats, who wrote in a manner which carried the reader back to the time when those chai'ming passages of lyrical enthu- siasm were produced which we occasionally find in the plays of Shakespeare, in those of Beaumont and Fletcher, and in Milton's Covucs. The verses of Keats are occa- sionally disfigured, especially in his EndT/mion, by a flatness almost childish, but in the finer passages they clothe the thought in the richest imagery and in woi'ds each of which is a poem. Lowell has justly called Keats " over-languaged," bwt there is scai'ce a word that we should be willing to part with in his Ode to the Nightingale, and that on a Grecian Urn, and the same thing may be said of the greater part of his Hyperion. His poems were ridiculed in the Edinburgh Review, but they sur- vived the ridicule, and now, fifty years after their first publication, the poetry of the present day, by certain resemblances of manner, testifies to the admiration with which he is still read. The genius of Byron was of a more vigorous mould than that of Keats ; but pot- withstanding his great popularity and the number of his imitators at one time, he made a less permanent impression on the character of English poetry. His misan- thropy and gloom, his scoffing vein, and the fierceness of his animosities, after the first glow of admiration was over, had a repellent effect upon readers, and made them turn to more cheerful strains. Moore had in his time many imitators, but all his gayety, his brilliant fancy, his somewhat feminine graces, and the elaborate music of his numbers, have not saved him from the fate of being imitated no more. Cole- ridge and Southey were of the same school with Wordsworth, and only added to the effect of his example upon our literature. Coleridge is the author of the two most- perfect poetical translations which our language in his day could boast, those of Schiller's Piccolomini and Death of Wallenstein, in which the English verse falls in no respect short of the original German. Southey divides with Scott the honor of writing the first long narrative poems in our language which can be read without occasional weariness. Of the later poets, educated in part by the generation of authors which produced Wordsworth and Byron and in part by each other, yet possessing their individual peculiarities, I should perhaps speak with more reserve. The number of those who are attempting to win a name in this walk of literature is great, and several of them have alread}^ gained, and through many years held, the public favor. To some of them will be assigned an enduring station among the eminent of their class. There are two tendencies by which the seekers after poetic fame in our day are apt to be misled, through both the example of others and the aj)plause of critics. - a- XXX INTRODUCTION. One of these is the desire to extort admiration by striking novelties of expression ; and the other, the ambition to distinguish themselves by subtilties of thought, remote from the common apprehension. With regard to the first of these I have only to say what has been often said be- fore, that, however favorable may be the idea which this luxuriance of poetic imagery and of epithet at first gives us of the author's talent, our admiration soon exhausts itself. We feel that the thought moves heavily under its load of garments, some of which perhaps strike us as tawdry and others as ill-fitting, and we lay down the book to take it up no more. The other mistake, if I may so call it, deserves more attention, since we find able critics speaking with high praise of passages in the poetry of the day to which the general reader is puzzled to attach a meaning. This is often the case when the words themselves seem simple enough, and keep within the range of the Saxon or house- hold element of our language. The obscurity lies sometimes in the phrase itself, and sometimes in the recondite or remote allusion. T will not say that certain minds are not affected by this, as others are by verses in plainer English. To the few it may be genuine poetry, although it may be a riddle to the mass of readers. I remember reading somewhere of a mathematician who was affected with a sense of sublimity by the happy solution of an algebraical or geometrical problem, and I have been assured by one who devoted himself to the science of mathematics that the phenomenon is no uncommon one. Let us beware, therefore, of assigning too narrow limits to the causes which produce the poetic exaltation of mind. The genius of those who write in this manner may be freely acknowledged, but they do not write for mankind at large. To me it seems that one of the most important requisites for a great poet is a lu- minous style. The elements of poetry lie in natural objects, in the vicissitudes of human life, in the emotions of the human heart, and the relations of man to man. He who can present them in combinations and lights which at once affect the mind with a deep sense of their truth and beauty is the poet for his own age and the ages that succeed it. It is no disparagement either to his skill or his power that he finds them near at hand ; the nearer they lie to the common track of the human intelligence, the more certain is he of the sympathy of his own generation, and of those which shall come after him. The metaphysician, the subtile thinker, the dealer in abstruse speculations, whatever his skill in versification, misapplies it when he abandons the more convenient form of prose and perplexes himself with the attempt to express his ideas in poetic numbers. Let me say for the poets of the present day, that in one important respect they have profited by the example of their immediate predecessors ; they have learned to go directly to nature for their imagery, instead of taking it from what had once been regarded as the common stock of the guild of poets. I have often had occasion to verify this remark with no less delight than surprise on meeting in recent verse new images in their untarnished lustre, like coins fresh from the mint, unworn and unsoiled by passing from pocket to pocket. It is curious, also, to observe how a certain set of hackneyed phrases, which Leigh Hunt, I believe, was the first to ridicule, and which were once used for the convenience of rounding out a line or supplying a ^ p -a INlliUUL'CTlON. xxxi rhyme, have disappeared from our poetry, and how our blauk verse in the hands of the most popular writers has dropped its stiff Latinisms and all the awkward distor- tions resorted to by those who thought that by putting a sentence out of its proper shape they were writing like Milton. I have now brought this brief survey of the progress of our poetry down to the present time, and refer the reader, for samples of it in the different stages of its exist- ence, to those which are set before him in this volume. WILLIAM OULLEN BRYANT. September, 1870. ^ -EP rr- ■a POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. &-- tf ^ ^ ^: & -a POEMS or CHILDHOOD. INFANCY. PHILIP, MY KING. "Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty." Look at me with thy large browii eyes, Philip, my king ! For round thee the purple shadow lies Of babyhood's royal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; I am thine Esther, to command Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, Pliilip, my king ! 0, the day when thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king ! When those beautiful lips 'gin suing. And, some gentle heart's bars undoing. Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there Sittest love-glorified ! — Eule kindly, Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ; For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, Philip, my king ! I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Philip, my king ! The spii'it that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant, and make men bow As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer, Let me behold thee in future years ! Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king ; — A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king ! Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray ; - Eebels within thee and foes without Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious. Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout, As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, thekuig !" Dinah Maria mulock. CRADLE SONG. FROM " BITTER-SWEET." What is the little one thinking about ? Veiy wonderful things, no doubt ; Unwritten history ! Unfathomed mystery ! Yet he chiickles, and crows, and nods, and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx ! Waqjed by colic, and wet by tears. Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years ; And he '11 never know Where the summers go ; He need not laugh, for he '11 find it so. Who can tell what a baby thinks ? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day ? Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony ; Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls, — Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! Wliat does he think of his mother's eyes ? Wliat does he think of his mother's hair ? Wliat of the cradle-roof, that flies Forward and backward through the air ? What does he think of his mother's breast. Bare and beautiful, smooth and white. Seeking it ever with fresh delight, Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell. With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she munnur the words Of all the birds, — Words she has learned to murmur well ? Now he thinks lie '11 go to sleep ! I can see the shadow creep # fl- POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. ■a Over Ids eyes in soft eclipse, Over his brow and over his Kps, Out to his little finger-tips ! Softly sinking, down he goes ! Down he goes ! down he goes ! See ! he 's hushed in sweet repose. josiAU Gilbert Holland. CHOOSING A NAME, I HAVE got a new-hom sister ; I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing- woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter. How papa's dear eyes did glisten ! — She will shortly be to christen ; And papa has made the oifer, I shall have the naming of her. Now I wonder what would please her, — Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ? Ann and Mary, they 're too common ; Joan 's too formal for a woman ; Jane 's a prettier name beside ; But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if 't was Eebecca, That she was a little Quaker. Edith 's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books ; Ellen 's left off long ago ; Blanche is out of fashion now. None that I have named as yet Are so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine ; What do you think of Caroline ? How I 'm puzzled and perplexed What to choose or think of next ! I am in a little fever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her ; — I will leave papa to name her. MARY Lamb. [& BABY MAY. Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches Poppies paleness ; round large eyes Ever great with new surprise ; Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ; Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; Happy smiles and wailing cries ; Crows, and laughs, and tearful eyes ; Lights and shadows, swifter bom Than on wind-swept autumn corn ; Ever some new tiny notion. Making every limb all motion ; Catchings up of legs and arms ; Thro wings back and small alarms ; Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ; Twining feet whose each toe Avorks ; Kickings up and straining risings ; Mother's ever new surprisings ; Hands all wants and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under ; Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings That have more of love than lovings ; Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness that we prize such sinning ; Breakings dire of plates and glasses ; Graspings small at all that passes ; PuUings oS" of all that 's able To be caught from tray or table ; Silences, r— small meditations Deep as thoughts of cares for nations ; Breaking into wisest speeches In a tongue that nothing teaches ; All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be wooed to light by guessing ; Slumbers, — such sweet angel-seemings That we 'd ever have such dreamings ; Till from sleep we see thee breaking. And we ' d always have thee waking ; Wealth for which we know no measure ; Pleasure high above all pleasure ; Gladness brimming over gladness ; Joy in care ; delight in sadness ; Loveliness beyond completeness ; Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; Beauty all that beauty may be ; — That 's May Bennett ; that 's my baby. William C. Bennett. BABY BYE. Babt Bye, Here 's a fly ; Let us watch him, you and I. How he crawls Up the walls, Yet he never falls ! I believe with six such legs You and I could walk on eggs. There he goes On his toes, Tickling Baby's nose. Spots of red Dot his head ; Kainbows on his back are spread ; That small speck Is his neck ; See him nod and beck. £ ■a INFANCY. I can show j'ou, if you choose, Where to look to find his shoes, — Three small pairs. Made of hairs ; These he always wears. Black and brown Is his gown ; He can wear it upside down ; It is laced Eound his waist ; I admire his taste. Yet though tight his clothes are made, He will lose them, I 'm afraid, If to-night He gets sight Of the candle-light. In the Sim Webs are spun ; ^V^^at if he gets into one ? When it rains He complains On the window-panes. Tongue to talk have you and I ; God has given the little fly No such things. So he sings With his buzzing wings. He can eat Bread and meat ; There 's his mouth between his feet. On his back Is a pack Like a pedler's sack. Does the baby understand ? Then the fly shall kiss her hand ; Put a crumb On her thumb. Maybe he will come. Catch him ? No, Let him go, Never hurt an insect so ; But no doubt He flies out Just to gad about. Now you see his wings of silk Drabbled in the baby's milk ; Fie, fie. Foolish fly ! How will he get diy ? All wet flies Twist their thighs ; Thus they wipe their heads and eyes ; Cats, you know. Wash just so, Then their whiskers grow. Flies have hairs too short to comb, So they fly bareheaded home ; But the gnat Wears a hat. Do you believe that ? Flies can see More than we. So how bright their eyes must be ! Little fly. Ope your eye ; Spiders are near by. For a secret I can tell, — Spiders never use flies well. Then away Do not stay. Little fly, good day. THEODORE TILTON. WILLIE WINKIE. Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed ? — for it 's now ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen. The doug 's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep ; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue : — glow'rin' like the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an aim spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk I Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean 's in a creel ! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Piuggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums : Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, Tliat has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he '11 close an ee ; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. William Millhr. ^-ff a- POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. LITTLE PUSS. Sleek coat, eyes of fire, Four paws that neTer tire, That 's puss. Ways playful, tail on high, Twisting often toward the sky. That 's puss. In the larder, stealing meat, Patter, patter, little feet. That 's puss. After ball, reel, or string, Wild as any living thing. That 's puss. Bound and round, after tail, Fast as any postal mail, That 's puss. Curled up, like a ball. On the door-mat in the hall, That 's puss. Purring loud on missis' lap, Having toast, then a nap, That 's puss. Black as night, with talons long. Scratching, which is very wrong, That 's puss. From a saucer lapping milk, Soft, as soft as washing silk, That 's puss. Rolling on the dewy grass, Getting wet, all in a mass. That 's puss. Climbing tree, and catching bird, Little twitter nevennore heard, That 's puss. Killing fly, rat, or mouse, As it runs about the house, That 's puss. Pet of missis, " Itte mite," Never must be out of sight, That 's puss. ANONYMOUS. NURSE'S WATCH. [From the " Boy's Horn of Wonders," a German Book of Nursery Rhymes.] The moon it shines. My darling whines ; The clock strikes twelve : — God cheer The sick, both far and nea^. God knoweth all ; Mousy nibbles in the wall ; The clock strikes one : — like day. Dreams o'er thy pillow play. The matin-bell Wakes the nun in convent cell ; The clock strikes two : — they go To choir in a row. The wind it blows. The cock he crows ; The clock strikes three : — the wagoner In his straw bed begins to stir. The steed he paws the floor, Creaks the stable-door ; The clock strikes four : — 't is plain, The coachman sifts his gi-ain. The swallow's laugh the still air shakes. The sun awakes ; The clock strikes five : — the traveller must be gone, He puts his stockings on. The hen is clacking. The ducks are quacking ; The clock strikes six : — awake, arise, Thou lazy hag ; come, ope thy eyes. Quick to the baker's mn ; The rolls are done ; The clock strikes seven : — 'T is time the milk were in the oven. Put in some butter, do. And some fine sugar too ; The clock strikes eight : — Now bring my baby's porridge straight. Translation of Charles T. Brooks. BABY LOUISE. I 'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes. And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies. And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the skies, '■ — God's sunshine. Baby Louise. When you fold your hands. Baby Louise, Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air. Are you trying to think of some angel-taught prayer You learned above, Baby Louise 2 ^ INFANCY. a I 'm in love witli you, Baby Louise ! — Why ! you never raise your beautiful head ! Some day, little one, your cheek wdll grow red With a flush of delight, to hear the words said, "I love you," Baby Louise. Do you hear me. Baby Louise ? I have sung your praises for nearly an hour, And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower. And — you 've gone to sleep, like a weary flower, Ungrateful Baby Louise 1 LULLABY. •the princess.' ^ Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the westena sea ! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow. Blow him again to me ; While my Little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon ; Eest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon ; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon : Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is " talking with angels." A BABY was sleeping ; Its mother was weeping ; For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling ; And she cried, ' ' Dermot, darling, come back to me ! " Her beads while she numbered. The baby still slumbered. And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : ' ' 0, blest be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning. For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. "And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 0, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! And say thou wouldst rather They 'd watch o'er thy father ! For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, Andthewifeweptwith joy her babe's father to see ; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, " I knew that the angels were whispering with thee." SAMUEL Lover. TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY. Timely blossom. Infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair. Every mom and every night Their solicitous delight, Sleej^ing, waking, still at ease. Pleasing, without skill to please ; Little gossip, blithe and hale. Tattling many a broken tale. Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue ; Simple maiden, void of art. Babbling out the veiy heart, Yet abandoned to thy mU, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush ; Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat ; Chii-ping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys. Like the linnet gi'een, in May Flitting to each bloomy spray ; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest i — ■ This thy present happy lot. This in time will be forgot : Other pleasures, other cares. Ever busy Time prepares ; And thou shalt in thy daughter see. This picture, once, resembled thee. AMBROSE PHILIPS. TO MY INFANT SON. Thoit happy, happy elf 1 (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself ! (My love, he 's poking peas into his ear,) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits, feather light, -ff [& POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. Untouclied by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin ; (Kj dear, the child is swallowing a pin ! ) Thou little tricksy Puck I With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that rings the air, — (The door ! the door ! he 'U tumble do\vn the stair ! ) Thou darling of thy sire ! (Wliy, Jane, he '11 set his pinafore afire ! ) Thou imp of mirth and joy ! In love's dear chain so bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents ; — (Drat the boy ! There goes my ink.) Thou cherub, but of earth ; Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog wiU bite him, if he pulls his tail ! ) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, — (Another tumble ! That 's his precious nose ! ) Thy father's pride and hope ! (He'll break that mirror with tjhat skipping- rope ! ) "With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint ? ) Thou young domestic dove ! (He '11 have that ring off with another shove,) Dear nursling of the hjoneneal nest ! (Are these torn clothes his best ? ) Little epitome of man ! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He 's got a knife ! ) Thou enviable being ! ISTo storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on. My elfin John ! Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, — (I knew so many cakes would make him sick ! ) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down. Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk. With many a lamb-like frisk ! (He 's got the scissors, snipping at your gown ! ) Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose ! ) Balmy and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth ! ) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove ; (I '11 tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he 's sent above.) Thomas Hood. THE LOST HEIE. *' O where, and O -where Is my bonnie laddie gone ! " — OLD SONG. One day, as I was going by That part of Holborn christened High, I heard a loud and sudden cry That chilled my very blood ; And lo ! from out a dirty alley. Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, I saw a crazy woman sally, Bedaubed with grease and mud. ■ She turned her East, she turned her West, Staring like Pythoness possest. With streaming hair and heaving breast, As one stark mad with grief. " Lord ! dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild ! Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child ? Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way — A Child as is lost about London streets, and es- pecially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay. I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'JSTab ! You promised to have haK an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab. The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes. Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt-pies. I wonder he left the court, where he was better off' than all the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys. When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one. He '11 be rampant, he will, at his child being lost ; and the beef and the inguns not done ! La bless you, good folks, mind your own con- cams, and don't be making a mob in the street ; Sergeant M'Farlane ! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat ? Do, good people, move on ! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; Saints forbid ! but he 's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the priggs ; He 'd a very good jacket, for cei-tain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair; [& INFANCY. a And his trousers considering not very much patched, and red phish, they was once his Father's best pair. His shirt, it 's very hicky I 'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest ; But he 'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast. He 'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sewed in, and not quite so much jagged at the brim. With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you 'U know by that if it 's him. And then he has got such dear winning ways — but 0, I never, never shaU see him no more ! dear ! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door ! Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny ! And the threepence he 'd got by grottoing was sjient in plums, and sixty for a child is too many. And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us all, and, drat him ! made a seize of our hog. — It 's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he 's such a blunderin' drunken old dog ; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child he was guzzling with his bell at the Cro^vn, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town. Billy — where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers ! 1 'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they 'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers. Or maybe he 's stole by some chimbly-sweeping wi'ctch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not. And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketched, and the chimbly 's red hot. 0, I 'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on his face. For he 's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't soon come back, you '11 see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I 'd got him safe in these two Moth- erly arms, and would n't I hug him and kiss him ! Lawk ! I never knew what a precious he was — but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him. Why, there he is ! Punch and Judy himting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin ! But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I 'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin ! THOMAS Hood. LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD, Come back, come back together, All ye fancies of the past, Ye days of April weather, Ye shadows that are cast By the haunted hours before ! Come back, come back, my Childhood ; Thou art summoned by a spell From the green leaves of the wildwood, From beside the charmed well, For Red Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore 1 The fields were covered over With colors as she went ; Daisy, buttercup, and clover Below her footsteps bent ; Summer shed its shining store ; She was happy as she pressed them Beneath her little feet ; She plucked them and caressed them ; They were so very sweet. They had never seemed so sweet before, To Red Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore. How the heart of childhood dances Upon a sunny day ! It has its o\vn romances, And a wide, wide world have they ! A world where Phantasie is king. Made all of eager dreaming ; When once grown up and tall — ■ Now is the time for scheming — Then we shall do them all ! Do such pleasant fancies spring For Red Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore ? She seems like an ideal love, The poetry of childhood shown. And yet loved with a real love. As if she were our own, — A younger sister for the heart ; Like the woodland pheasant. Her hair is brown and bright ; And her smile is pleasant, With its rosy light. Never can the memory part ^ a- 10 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. f With Red Riding Hood, the darhng, The flower of fairy lore. Did the painter, dreaming In a morning hour. Catch the fairy seeming Of this fairy flower ? Winning it with eager eyes From the old enchanted stories, Lingering with a long delight On the unforgotten glories Of the infant sight ? Giving ns a sweet surprise In Red Riding Hood, the darling. The flower of fairy lore ? Too long in the meadow staying, Where the cowslip bends, With the buttercups delaying As with early friends, Did the little maiden stay. Sorrowful the tale for us ; We, too, loiter mid life's flowers, A little while so glorious. So soon lost in darker hours. All love lingering on their way, Like Red Riding Hood, the darling. The flower of fairy lore. L^TITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. Now ponder well, you parents dear, The words which I shall write ; A doleful story you shall hear. In time brought forth to light : A gentleman, of good account, In Norfolk lived of late. Whose wealth and riches did surmount Most men of his estate. Sore sick he was, and like to die, No help then he could have ; His wife by him as sick did lie. And both possessed one gi-ave. No love between these two was lost. Each was to other kind ; In love they lived, in love they died, And left two babes behind : The one a fine and pretty boy. Not passing three years old ; The other a girl, more young than he, And made in beauty's mould. The father left his little son, As plainly doth appear. When he to perfect age should come. Three hundred pounds a year, — m- And to his little daughter Jane Five hundred pounds in gold. To be paid down on marriage-day. Which might not be controlled ; But if the children chanced to die Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth, For so the will did run. "Now, brother," said the dying man, " Look to my children dear ; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else I have here." With that bespake their mother dear, "0 brother kind," quoth she, " You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery. "And if you keep them carefully. Then God will you reward ; If otherwise you seem to deal, God will your deeds regard." With lips as cold as any stone She kissed her children small : " God bless you both, my children dear," With that the. tears did fall. Their parents being dead and gone. The children home he takes. And brings them home unto his house, And much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a day. But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both away. He bargained with two ruflians strong, Wliich were of furious mood, Tliat they should take these children young, And slay them in a wood. He told his wife, and all he had He did the children send To be brought up in fair London, With one that was his friend. Away then went these pretty babes, Rejoicing at that tide. Rejoicing with a merry mind. They should on cock-horse ride ; They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the way. To those that should their butchers be. And work their lives' decay. So that the pretty speech they had Made Murder's heart relent ; And they that undertook the deed Full sore they did repent. -E INFANCY. 11 ■a ^5^- Yet one of them, more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch that hired him Had paid him very large. The other would not agree thereto, So here they fell at strife ; "With one another they did fight, About the children's life ; And he that was of mildest mood Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood ; Wliile babes did quake for fear. He took the children by the hand "VNTien tears stood in their eye. And bade them come and go with him, And look they did not cry ; And two long miles he led them on, "VYliile they for food complain : " Stay here," quoth he, " I 'U bring you bread When I do come again." These pretty babes, ■nath hand in hand, Went wandering up and down, But nevermore they saw the man Approaching from the town. Their pretty lips with blackberries Were all besmeared and dyed. And when they saw the darksome night They sate them dovni and cried. Thus wandered these two pretty babes Till death did end their grief ; In one another's arms they died. As babes wanting relief. No burial this pretty pair Of any man receives, Till robin redbreast, painfully. Did cover them ■with leaves. And now the heavy wrath of God Upon their uncle fell ; Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an hell. His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His lands were bari'en made ; His cattle died ■\^'ithin the field. And nothing with him stayed. And, in the voyage of Portugal, Two of his sons did die ; And, to conclude, himself was brought To extreme misery. He pawned and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about ; And now, at length, this wicked act Did by this means come out : The fellow that did take in hand These children for to kill Was for a robber judged to die, As was God's blessed will ; Who did confess the very truth. The which is here expressed ; Their uncle tiled while he, for debt. In prison long did rest. You that executors be made. And overseers eke, Of children that be fatherless. And infants mild and meek. Take you example by this thing. And yield to each his right, Lest God with such-like miseiy Your wicked minds requite. ANONYMOUS. A MOTHER'S LOVE. A LITTLE in the doorway sitting. The mother plied her busy knitting ; And her cheek so softly smiled, You might be sure, althougli her gaze Was on the meshes of the lace. Yet her thoughts were with her child. But when the boy had heard her voice, As o'er her work she did rejoice. His became silent altogether ; And slyly creeping by the wall, He seized a single plume, let fall By some mid bird of longest feather ; And, all a-tremble with his freak, He touched her lightly on the cheek. 0, what a loveliness her eyes Gather in that one moment's space, Wliile peeping round the post she spies Her darling's laughing face ! 0, mother's love is glorifying, On the cheek like sunset lying ; In the eyes a moistened light, Softer than the moon at night ! Thomas Burbidge^ THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN. Down the dimpled greensward dancing Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy, — Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing. Love's irregular little levy. Rows of liquid eyes in laughter. How they glimmer, how they quiver ! Sparkling one another after, Like bright ripples on a river. J c& 12 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. Tipsy band of rubious faces, Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At Love's self, and do not fear it. GEORGE DARLEY. UNDER MY WINDOW. Under my window, under my window, All in the Midsummer weather, Three little girls with fluttering curls Flit to and fro together : — There 's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen. And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather. Under my window, under my window, Leaning stealthily over. Merry and clear, the voice I hear. Of each glad-hearted rover. Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, As merry as bees in clover. Under my window, under my window. In the blue Midsummer weather, Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe, I catch them all together : ■ — ■ Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-gi-een, And Kate with the scarlet feather. Under my window, under my window. And off through the orchard closes ; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts. They scamper and drop their posies ; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss. And I give her all my roses. THOMAS WESTWOOD. THE MOTHER'S HEART. When first thou earnest, gentle, 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. boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower, No strength in all thj^ 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 glan- cing. 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 re- soundeth ; Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy. And the glad heart from which all grief re- boundeth ; 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 warm- ing ; The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress, The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarm- ing ! Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. At length thotj 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. And 0, 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 dream- ing : ^Q^ a- INFANCY. 13 a 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, Forth-svith 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 ! Caroline E. Norton. ^ THE MOTHER'S HOPE. Is there, when the winds are singing In the happy summer time, — "When the raptured air is ringing With Earth's music heavenward springing, Forest chirp, and village chime, — Is there, of the sounds that float Unsighingly, a single note Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, As the laughter of a child ? Listen ! and be now delighted : Morn hath touched her golden strings ; Earth and Sky their vows have plighted ; Life and Light are reunited Amid countless carollings ; Yet, delicious as they are. There 's a sound that 's sweeter far, — One that makes the heart rejoice More than all, — the human voice ! Organ finer, deeper, clearer, Tliough it be a stranger's tone, — Than the winds or waters dearer, More enchanting to the hearer. For it answereth to his own. But, of all its witching words. Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child. Harmonies from time-touched towers, Haunted strains from rivulets, Hum of bees among the flowers. Rustling leaves, and silver showers, — These, erelong, the ear forgets ; But in mine there is a sound Ringing on the whole year round, — Heart-deep laughter that I heard Ere my child could speak a word. Ah ! 't was heard by ear far purer, Fondlier formed to catch the strain, — Ear of one whose love is surer, — Hers, the mother, the endurer Of the deepest share of pain ; Hers the deepest bliss to treasure Memories of that cry of pleasure ; Hers to hoard, a lifetime after, Echoes of that infant laughter. 'T is a mother's large affection Hears with a mysterious sense, — Breathings that evade detection. Whisper faint, and fine inflection, Thrill in her with power intense. Childhood's honeyed words untaught Hiveth she in loving thought, — Tones that never thence depart ; For she listens — with her heart. LAMAN BLANCHARD. THE MOTHER'S STRATAGEM. AN INFANT PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE. While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall. See, to the last, last verge her infant steals ! 0, fly — yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. — Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare. And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. LEONIDAS of Alexandria (Greek). Translation of SAMUEL ROGERS. THE PET LAMB. The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ; I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty creature, drink ! " And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain-lamb with a maiden at its side. Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb was all alone. And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel. While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal. The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took. Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink ! " she said, in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my o\\ai. 'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare ! I watched them vnth. delight : they were a lovely pair. # a- 14 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. Now with her empty can the maiden turned away ; But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay. Eight towards the lamb she looked ; and from a shady place I unobserved could see the workings of her face. If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing : — "What ails thee, young one? — what? Why pull so at thy cord ? Is it not well with thee ? — well both for bed and board ? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; Best, little young one, rest ; what is .'t that aileth thee ? " Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk, — warm milk it is, and new. " Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now ; Then I '11 yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough. My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is cold. Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. " Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky ; Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain ? Sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again ! " As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet. This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line. That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. Again, and once again, did I repeat the song ; *' Nay," said I, " more than half to the damsel must belong, For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own." William Wordsworth. SEVEN TIMES ONE. Theke 's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There 's no rain left in heaven. I 've said my " seven times " over and over, — Seven times one are seven. I am old, — so old I can write a letter ; My birthday lessons are done. The lambs play always, — they know no better ; They are only one times one. Moon ! in the night 1 have seen you sailing And shining so round and low. You were bright — ah, bright — but your light is failing ; You are nothing now but a bow. You Moon ! have you done something wrong in heaven. That God has hidden your face ? 1 hope, if you have, you wUl soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. . velvet Bee ! you 're a dusty fellow, — You 've powdered your legs with gold. brave marsh Mary -buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold ! Columbine ! open your folded wi-apper. Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! Cuckoo-pint ! toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell ! And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, — I will not steal them away : 1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! I am seven times one to-day. Jean Ingelow. WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What shoiild it know of death ? I met a little cottage girl : She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad ; Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — Her beauty made me glad. I& -^ INFANCY. 15 ■a " Sisters aiid brothers, little maid, How many may you be ? " " How many ? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. •' And where are they ? I pray you tell." She answered, " Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell. And two are gone to sea ; " Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother ; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." " You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be." Then did the little maid reply, " Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of us in the churchyard lie Beneath the churchyard tree." " You run about, my little maid ; Your limbs they are alive ; If two are in the churchyard laid. Then ye are only five." " Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied : " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. And they are side by side. " My stockings there I often knit ; My kerchief there I hem ; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer. And eat my supper there. " The first that died was Sister Jane ; In bed she moaning lay. Till God released her of her pain ; And then she went away. " So in the churchyard she was laid ; And, when the grass was dry. Together round her grave we played. My brother John and I. " And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide. My brother John was forced to go. And he lies by her side. " " How many are you, then," said I, " If they two are in heaven ? " Quick was the little maid's reply : *' Master ! we are seven." " But they are dead ; those two are dead ! Their spirits are in heaven ! " — 'T was throwing words away ; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " William Wordsworth. TO A CHILD, DUrJNG SICKNESS. Sleep breathes at last from out thee, My little patient boy ; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off" the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways ; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise. Thy sidelong pillowed meekness ; Thy thanks to all that aid ; Tliy heart, in pain and weakness, Of fancied faults afraid ; The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears, — These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years. Sorrows I 've had, severe ones, I will not think of now ; And calmly, midst my dear ones. Have wasted with dry brow ; But when thy fingers press And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness, — The tears are in their bed. Ah, first-bom of thy mother. When life and hope were new ; Kind playmate of thy brother. Thy sister, father too ; My light, where'er I go ; My bii'd, when prison -bound ; My hand-in-hand companion — No, My prayers shall hold thee round. To say, " He has departed " — " His voice " — " his face " — is gone, To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on, — Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe. Unless I felt this sleep insure That it will not be so. -i a- 16 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. Yes, still lie 's fixed, and sleeping ! This silence too tlie wMle, — Its very liusli and creeping Seem whispering us. a smile ; Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear, Like parting -wings of cherubim, Who say, " We 've finished here." Leigh hunt. BABY'S SHOES. 0, THOSE little, those little blue shoes ! Those shoes that no little feet use, the price were high That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes ! For they hold the small shape of feet That no more their mother's eyes meet, That, by God's good will, Years since, grew still, And ceased from their totter so sweet. And 0, since that baby slept, So hushed, how the mother has kept, With a tearful pleasure, That little dear treasure. And o'er them thought and wept ! For they mind her forevermore Of a patter along the floor ; And blue eyes she sees Look up from her knees With the look that in life they wore. As they lie before her there, There babbles from chair to chair A little sweet face That 's a gleam in the place. With its little gold curls of hair. Then wonder not that her heart From aU else wou.ld rather part Than those tiny blue shoes That no little feet use. And whose sight makes such fond tears start William C. Bennett. OUR WEE WHITE EOSE. All in our marriage garden Grew, smiling up to God, A boimier flower than ever Suckt the green warmth of the sod beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled ; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world. From out a balmy bosom Our bud of beauty grew ; It fed on smiles for sunshine, On tears for daintier dew : Aye nestling warm and tenderly, Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee White Rose of all the world. With mystical faint fragrance Our house of life she filled ; Revealed each hour some fairy tower Where winged hopes might build ! We saw — though none like us might see — Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee White Rose of all the world. But, evermore the halo Of angel-light increased. Like the mystery of moonlight That folds some fairy feast. Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently Our darling bud up-curled, And dropt i' the grave — God's lap — our wee White Rose of all the world. Our Rose was but in blossom, Our life was but in spring, Wlien down the solemn midnight We heard the spirits sing, " Another bud of infancy With holy dews impearled ! " And in their hands they bore our wee White Rose of all the world. You scarce could think so small a thing Could leave a loss so large ; Her little light such shadow fling From dawn to sunset's marge. In other springs our life may be In bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our wee White Rose of aU the world. Gerald Massey. PICTURES OF MEMORY. Among the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest. That seemeth best of all ; I^ot for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe ; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below ; C& INFANCY. -& 17 Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge ; Not for the vines on the ujiland, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best. J once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep ; In the lap of that old dim forest He Heth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle. Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago ; But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace. As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face ; And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty. Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall. The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all. ALICE Gary. THE PET NAME. ^ " The flame ; Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress." MISS MITFORD'S Dramatic Scenes. J HAVE a name, a little name, Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear. It never did, to pages wove For gay romance, belong. It never dedicate did move As " Sacharissa," unto love, — "Orinda," unto song. Though I write books, it will be read Upon the leaves of none. And afterward, when I am dead, Will ne'er be gi-aved for sight or tread. Across my funeral-stone. 2 This name, whoever chance to call Perhaps your smile may ■\\dn. Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall Over mine eyes, and feel withal The sudden tears witliin. Is there a leaf that gi-eenly gi'ows Where summer meadows bloom. But gathereth the winter snows. And changeth to the hue of those, If lasting till they come ? Is there a word, or jest, or game. But time encrusteth round With sad associate thoughts the same ? And so to me my very name Assumes a mournful sound. My brother gave that name to me When we Avere children twain, — When names acquired baptismally Were hard to utter, as to see That life had any pain. No shade was on us then, save one Of chestnuts from the hill, — And through the word our laugh did run As part thereof. The mirth being done, He calls me by it still. Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it What none of you can hear, — The talk upon the M-illow seat. The bird and wind that did repeat Around, our human cheer. I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, My sisters' woodland glee, — My father's praise I did not miss, "\i\'lien, stooping down, he cared to kiss The poet at his knee, — And voices which, to name me, aye Their tenderest tones were keeping, — To some I nevermore can say An answer, till God -wipes away In heaven these drops of weeping. My name to me a sadness wears ; No murmurs cross my mind. Now God be thanked for these thick tears, "Wliich show, of those departed years. Sweet memories left behind. Now God be thanked for years euAATOUght AVith love which softens yet. Now God be thanked for evei"y thought Which is so tender it has caught Earth's guerdon of regi-et. # I& 18 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. Earth saddens, never shall remove, Affections purely given ; And e'en that mortal grief shall prove The immortality of love, And heighten it with Heaven. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 4 MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. THAT those lips had language ! Life has passed With me but roiighly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine, — thy own sweet smile I see. The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away ! " The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, — The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it! ) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear ! welcome guest, though unexpected here ! Wlio bid'st me honor with an artless song. Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 1 will obey, — not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own ; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, — Shall steep me in Elysian revery, A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother ! when I learnedthatthouwast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, — Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that m'aternal smile ! it answers — Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day ; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; What ardently I Avished I long believed. And, disappointed still, was still deceived, — By expectation every day beguiled. Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learned at last submission to my lot ; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more ; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener Robin, day by day. Drew me to school along the public waj^, — Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap, — 'T is now become a history little kno-wn That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes, less deeply traced : Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. That thou mightstknow me safe and warmly laid ; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, — The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed, — AH this, and, more endearing still than all, , Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, — Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks That humor interposed too often makes ; All this, still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age. Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may, — Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, — JSTot scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow- ers, — The violet, the pink, the jessamine, — I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while — Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,) — Could those few pleasant days again appear. Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? I would not trust my heart, — the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. But no, — what here we call our life is such. So little to be loved, and thou so much. That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou — as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, (The storms all Aveathered and the ocean crossed,) Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile ; There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below. While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, — So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached tha shore "Where tempests never beat nor billows r6ar " ; INFANCY. 19 a And tliy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed, — Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost ; And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a jirosperous course. Yet 0, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! — Tliat thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell ! — Time, unrevoked, has run His wonted course ; yet what I wished is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again, — To have renewed the joys that once were mine. Without the sin of violating thine ; And, while the wings of fancy still are free. And I can view this mimic show of thee. Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. William Cowper. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. [An Inverary correspondent writes : " Thorn gave me the fol- lowing narrative as to the origin of 'The Mitherless Bairn'; I quote his own words. * When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin* a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin' " Ve hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn 1 " I hobled up the stair and wrote the sang afore sleepin'.' "] When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands Ig^t and lanely, an' naebody carin' ? 'T is the pirir doited loonie, — the mitherless bau'n ! The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed ; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn, Aneath Ms cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, 0' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair ; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn ! Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid ; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn. An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth. Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth ; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! 0, speak him na harshly, — he trembles the while. He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile ; In their dark hour o' angmsh the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn ! William Thom. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was bom. The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn. He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day ; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away ! I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, — Those flowers made of light ! The Hlacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday, — The tree is living yet ! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow ! I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I 'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy. Thomas Hooix I 4^ tfi- 20 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. — » j YOUTH. THE EOMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. Little Ellie sits alone Mid the beeches of a meadow, By a stream-side on the grass, And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face. She has thrown her bonnet by, And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow. Now she holds them nakedly In her hands all sleek and dripping. While she rocketh to and fro. Little Ellie sits alone. And the smile she softly uses FUls the silence like a speech, While she thinks what shall be done, • And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach. Little EUie in her smile Chooses ... *' I will have a lover, Eiding on a steed of steeds ! He shall love me without guUe, And to Mm I will discover The swan's nest among the reeds. "And the steed shall be red-roan. And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath. And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death. "And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind ; And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure TUl the shepherds look behind. VII. " But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in. When he gazes in my face. He wiLL say, ' Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in. And I kneel here for thy grace/ "Then, ay then — he shall kneel low. With the red-roan steed anear him, Which shall seem to understand — Till 1 answer, ' Rise and go ! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.* "Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble AVith a yes I must not say ; i Nathless maiden -brave, 'Farewell* I will utter, and dissemble ; — ' Light to-morrow with to-day.' "Then he '11 ride among the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong ; To make straight distorted willa; And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along. " Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet ; — ' Lo, my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting ! What wilt thou exchange for it ?* "And the first time, I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, — And the second time, a glove ; But the third time, I may bend From my pride, and ansAver, ' Pardon, If he comes to take my love.' "Then the yoiing. foot-page will run, — Then my lover mil ride faster. Till he kneeleth at my knee : * I am a duke's eldest son ! Thousand serfs do call me master, — But, O Love, I love but thee ! ' f& ■H NATURE'S TEACHING " Where rivulets dajice their way^uard round. And beauty born of innrvuiring soicnd Shall />ass into her face.'' ^- YOUTH. 21 ft " He will kiss me on the moutli Then, and lead me as a lover Through the crowds that praise his deeds ; And, when soiil-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds." Little Ellie, with her smile Kot yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, And went homeward, round a mUe, Just to see, as she did daily. What more eggs were \vith the two. Pushing through the elm-tree copse, "Winding up the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads, — Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. Lo, the wild swan had deserted. And a rat had gnawed the reeds. XVII. Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds. Sooth I know not ! but I know She could never show him — never, That swan's nest among the reeds ! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. SWEET STREAM, THAT WINDS — BwEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid, — Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay, busy throng ; With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course ; Graceful and useful all she does. Blessing and blest where'er she goes ; Piire-bosomed as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face. \V. COWPER. THE EDUCATION OF NATURE. Three years she grew in sun and shower ; Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown : This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. ' ' ]\Iyself will to my darling be Both law and impulse ; and with me The girl, in rock and plain. In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. " She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm, Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see E'en in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height. Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake. The work was done, — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been, And nevermore will be. W. WORDSWORTH. NARGISSA. "YoTJiSrG, gay, and fortunate ! " Each yields a theme. And, first, thy youth : what says it to gray hairs ? Narcissa, I 'm become thy pupil now ; — Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven. Dr. Edward Young. MAIDENHOOD. Maiden ! with the meek brown eyes, In Avhose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies ! I- -ff a- 22 f POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. Thou whose locks outshine the sun, — Golden tresses wi'eathed in one. As the braided streamlets nin ! Standing, with reluctant feet, "Where the brook and river meet. Womanhood and childhood fleet I Gazing, with a timid glance. On the brooklet's swift advance. On the river's broad expanse ! Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem As the river of a di'eam. Then why pause with indecision. When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Seest thou shadows sailing by. As the dove, with startled eye. Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? Hearest thou voices on the shore. That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar ? thou child of many prayers ! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares ! Care and age come unawares ! Like the swell of some sweet tune. Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — Age, that bough with snows encumbered. Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows. To embalm that tent of snows. Bear a lily in thy hand ; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth. In thy heart the dew of youth. On thy lips the smile of truth. 0, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art. H. w. Longfellow. THE PRETTY GIEL OF LOCH DAN. The shades of eve had crossed the glen That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men. We stopped before a cottage door. " God save all here," my comrade cries. And rattles on the raised latch-pin ; " God save you kindly," quick replies A clear sweet voice, and asks us in. We enter ; from the wheel she starts, A rosy girl with soft black eyes ; Her fluttering court' sy takes our hearts, Her blushing grace and pleased surprise. Poor Mary, she was quite alone. For, all the way to Glenmalure, Her mother had that morning gone, And left the house in charge with her. But neither household cares, nor yet The shame that startled virgins feel. Could make the generous girl forget Her wonted hospitable zeal. She brought us in a beechen bowl Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme. Oat cake, and such a yellow roll Of butter, — it gilds all my rhyme ! And, while we ate the grateful food (With weary limbs on bench reclined). Considerate and discreet, she stood Apart, and listened to the wind. Kind wishes both our souls engaged. From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought, — we stood and pledged The modest eose above Loch Dan. " The milk we drink is not more pure, Sweet Mary, — bless those budding charms ! — ■ Than your own generous heart, I 'm sure, Nor whiter than the breast it warms ! " She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen ; But, Mary, you have naught to fear. Though smiled on by two stranger-men. Not for a crown would I alarm Your virgin pride by word or sign. Nor need a painful blush disarm My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. CB- YOUTH. 23 ft Her simple heart could not but feel The words we spoke were free from guile ; She stooped, she blushed, she iixed her wheel, - 'T is all in vain, — she can't but smile ! Just like sweet April's dawn appears Her modest face, — I see it yet, — And though I lived a hundred years Methinks I never could forget The pleasure that, ^despite her heart, Fills all her downcast eyes with light, The lips reluctantly apart. The white teeth struggling into sight, The dimples eddying o'er her cheek, — The rosy cheek that won't be still ; — 0, who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill ? For such another smile, I vow, Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I 'd take the mountain-side e'en now, And walk to Luggelaw again ! SAMUEL FERGUSON. THREAD AND SONG. ■ Sweeter and sweeter, Soft and low, Neat little npnph. Thy numbers flow. Urging thy thimble, Thrift's tidy symbol, Busy and nimble. To and fro ; Prettily plying Thread and song, Keeping them flying Late and long, Through the stitch linger. Kissing thy finger, Quick, — as it skips along. Many an echo, Soft and low. Follows thy flying Fancy so, — Melodies thrilling. Tenderly filling Thee with their trilling. Come and go ; Memory's finger, Quick as thine. Loving to linger On the line, "Writes of another, Dearer than brother : Wovdd that the name were mine ! J. W. Palmer. TO THE HIGHLAND GIEL OF INVERSNAID. Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head ; And these gray rocks, this household lawn, These trees, — a veil just half withdrawn, — . This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake, This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode ; In truth together ye do seem Like something fa.shioned in a dream ; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep ! But fair Creature ! in the light Of common day so heavenly bright, I bless thee. Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart : God shield thee to thy latest years ! I neither know thee nor thy peers ; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when 1 am far away ; For never saw I mien or face In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Eipening iuiperfect innocence. Here scattered like a random seed, Eemote from men, thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress. And maidenly shamefacedness : Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer ; A face with gladness overspread. Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ; And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech, — A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life ! So have I, not unmoved in mind. Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind. "\^^lat hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful ? happy pleasure ! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell ; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! But 1 could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality : ■ff fl- 24 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea ; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see ! Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father, — anything to thee. Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place ; Joy have I had ; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : Then why should I be loath to stir ? I feel this place was made for her ; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart. Sweet Highland Girl ! froiii thee to part ; For I, methinks, till I grow old As fair before me shall behold As I do noAv, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; And thee, the spirit of them all ! W. WORDSWORTH. A POETRAIT. " One name is Elizabeth." — Ben JonsoN. I WILL paint her as I see her. Ten times have the lilies blown Since she looked upon the sun. And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty To the law of its own beauty. Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air ; And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine. Face and figure of a child, — Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her. Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, — waiting still On the turnings of your Avill. Moving light, as all your things, As young birds, or early wheat, When the wind blows over it. Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure, — Taking love for her chief pleasure. Choosing pleasures, for the rest. Which come softly, — just as she. When she nestles at your knee. Quiet talk she liketh best. In a bower of gentle looks, — Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run. Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are. And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls Used in lovely madrigals. And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware With a halo round the hair. And if reader read the poem, He would whisper, " You have done 'la, Consecrated little Una." And a dreamer (did you show him ' That same picture) would exclaim, " 'T is my angel, with a name 1 " And a stranger, when he sees her 111 the street even, smileth stilly. Just as you would at a lily. And all voices that address her Soften, sleeken every word, As if speaking to a bird. And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth whereon she passes, With the thymy-scented grasses. And all hearts do pray, " God love her ! " — Ay, and always, in good sooth, We may all be sure He doth. Elizabeth Barrett Brownikg. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. Between the dark and the daylight, When night is beginning to lower. Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour. ^ -E YOUTH. --a I hear in the cliambei above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice and laughing AUegi-a, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper and then a silence ; Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall. By three doors left unguarded. They enter my castle wall. They climb wp into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair ; If I try to escape, they surround me : They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses. Their arms about me intwine. Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all ? I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But pirt you into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever. Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. And moulder in dust away. H. W. Longfellow. JEI7NY KISSED ME. Jenny kissed me when we met. Jumping from the chair she sat in. Time, you thief ! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I 'm weary, say I 'm sad ; Say that health and wealth have missed me ; Say I 'm growing old, but add — Jenny kissed me ! LEIGH HUNT. I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEX. I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden ; Thou needest not fear mine ; My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burden thine. I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ; Thou needest not fear mine ; Innocent is the heart's devotion With which I worship thine. p. B. Shelley. THE SMACK IN SCHOOL. A DISTRICT school, not far away. Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls' and boys ; Some few upon their tasks intent. But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master's downiward look Was fastened on a copy-book ; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack ! As 't were a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss ! "What 's that ? " the startled master cries ; "That, thir," a little imp replies, " Wath William Willith, if you pleatlie, — I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe ! " With frown to make a statue thrill. The master thundered, " Hither, Will ! " Like WTetch o'ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame. And to the a\Yi\i\ presence came, — A great, green, basliful simpleton. The butt of all good-natured fun. With smile suppressed, and birch upraised. The threatener faltered, — " I 'm amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude ! Before the whole set school to boot - " What evil genius put you to 't ? " "'Twas she hei'self, sir," sobbed the lad, " I did not mean to be so bad ; But when Susannah shook her curls, And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls. And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, I could n't stand it, sir, at all. But up and kissed her on the spot ! I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not. But, somehow, from her looks — boo-hoo — I thought she kind o' wished me to ! " J. W. PALIIER. S^ 26 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. -e OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. Old Master Brown brought his ferule down, And his face looked angry and red. "Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair, Along with the girls," he said. Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air. With his head down on his breast, Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet That he loved, of all, the best. And Anthony Blair seemed whimpering there. But the rogue only made believe ; For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls. And ogled them over his sleeve. ANONYMOUS. t THE BAREFOOT BOY. Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! With thy turned-up pantaloons. And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face. Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; From my heart I give thee joy, — I was once a barefoot boy ! Prince thou art, — the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-doUared ride ! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, — Outward sunshine, inward joy : Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! /^O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day. Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools. Of the wild bee's morning chase. Of the wild-flower's time and place. Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well ; How the robin feeds her young. How the oriole's nest is'hung ; Wliere the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow. Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; Of the black wasp's cunning way. Mason of his walls of clay. And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! — For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks. Part and parcel of her joy, — Blessings on the barefoot boy ! for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees ; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade ; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone ; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall. Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. Mine the walnut slopes beyond. Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still as my horizon grew. Larger grew my riches too ; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy. Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! for festal dainties spread. Like my bowl of milk and bread, — Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. On the door-stone, gray and rude ! O'er me, like a regal tent. Cloudy -ribbed, the sunset bent. Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; And, to light the noisy choir. Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch ; pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy ! Cheerily, then, my little man. Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard. Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride. Lose the freedom of the sod. Like a colt's for work be shod. Made to tread the mills of toil. --£ ft YOUTH. 27 Up and down in ceaseless moil : Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground ; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. BOYHOOD. Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded days ! The minutes parting one by one like rays, That fade upon a summer's eve. But 0, what charm or magic numbers Can give me back the gentle slumbers Those weary, happy days did leave ? "When by my bed I saw my mother kneel. And with her blessing took her nightly kiss ; Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this ; — E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. WASHINGTON ALLSTON. IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. Theee are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain. 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 everjR'here, On the earth, and in the air, But it never comes again. Richard Henry Stoddard. THE DESERTED GARDEN. I MIND me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted. The beds and walks wei'e vanished quite ; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade. The greenest grasses Nature laid To sanctify her right. Adventurous joy it was for me ! I crept beneath the boughs and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar-tree. Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses white, Well satisfied with dew and light. And careless to be seen. To me upon my mossy seat. Though never a dream the roses sent Of science or love's compliment, I ween they smelt as sweet. And gladdest hours for me did glide In silence at the rose-tree wall, A thrush made gladness musical Upon the other side. Nor he nor I did e'er incline To peck or pluck the blossoms white. How should I know but roses might Lead lives as glad as mine ? My childhood from my life is parted, My footstep from the moss which drew Its fairy circle round : anew The garden is deserted. Another thrush may there rehearse The madrigals which sweetest are ; No more for me ! — myself afar Do sing a sadder verse. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child- hood. When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- wood. And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; — Thewide-spreadingpond, and the miUwhichstood by it, 4^ t& -i 28 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; The cot of my father, the dairy -house nigh it. And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow- ing ! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss- covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the gi'een mossy brim to receive it. As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it. Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation. The tear of regret will intnasively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. THE OLD AEM-CHAIE. I LOVE it, I love it ! and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? I 've treasured it long as a sainted prize, I 've bedewed it with tears, I 've embalmed it with sighs. 'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; Not a tie will break, not a link will start ; "Would you know the spell ? — a mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me that shame would never betide With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat, and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ; And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — ■ My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! I learnt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in her old ai-m-chair. 'Tis past, 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now, With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died. And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak. Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. ELIZA Cook. WOODMAN, SPAEE THAT TREE. Woodman, spare that tree ! Touch not a single bough 1 In youth it sheltered me, And I '11 protect it now. 'T was my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot ; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not ! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea. And wouldst thou hew it down ? Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 0, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies ! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade ; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here ; My father pressed my hand — Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand ! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend ! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree ! the storm still brave ! And, woodman, leave the spot ; While I 've a hand to save, Thy axe shall hurt it not. GEORGE P. Morris t& ft POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. -ff a \ N N v^ 1 1 ^N ? "^ \. ^ -s ^ ^ \ ^ ^1 ^ .H ^ ^ a POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. FRIENDSHIP BENEDICITE. God's love and peace be with thee, where Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! Wliether through city casements comes Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, Or, out among the woodland blooms, It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, Imparting, in its glad embrace. Beauty to beauty, gi'ace to gi'ace ! Fair Nature's book together read. The old wood-paths that knew our tread. The maple shadows overhead, — The hiUs we climbed, the river seen By gleams along its deep ravine, — All keep thy memory fresh and green. "Where'er I look, where'er I stray. Thy thought goes Avith me. on my way, And hence the prayer I breathe to-day : O'er lapse of time and change of scene. The weary waste which lies between Thyself and me, my heart I lean. Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor The lialf-unconscious power to draw All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. "With these good gifts of God is cast Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast To liold the blessed angels fast. If, then, a fervent wish for thee The gi-acious heavens will heed from me. What should, dear heart, its burden be ? The sighing of a shaken reed, — AVliat can I more than meekly plead The greatness of our common need ? God's love, — \inchanging, pure, and true, — The Paraclete white-shining through His peace, — the fall of Hermon's dew ! "With such a prayer, on this sweet day. As thou mayst hear and I may say, I gi'eet thee, dearest, far away ! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. THE POET'S FRIEND. LORD BOLINGBROKE. Come then, my friend ! my genius ! come along ; master of the poet, and the song ! And while the muse now stoops, or now ascends, To man's low passions, or their glorious ends. Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise. To fall with dignity, with temper rise ; Formed by thy converse happily to steer From gi'ave to gay, from lively to severe ; Con-ect with spirit, eloquent with ease. Intent to reason, or polite to please. 0, while along the stream of time thy name Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame ; Say, shall my little bark attendant sail. Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale ? Wlien statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose. Whose sons shall blush their fathers wei'e thy foes. Shall then this verse to future age pretend Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend ! That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart : For wit's false mirror held up Nature's light ; Showed erring pride, whatever is, is right ; That REASON, PASSION, answer one great aim ; That true self-love and social are the same ; That VIRTUE only makes our bliss below ; And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know. Alexander Pope. A GENEROUS friendship no cold medium knows. Burns with one love, with one resentment glows. Pope's Iliad. [& --f 32 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIOlSrS. PAETED FEIENDS. Friend after friend departs : Who liath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end ; Were this frail world our only rest, Livuig or dying, none were blest. Beyond the flight of time, Beyond this vale of death, There surely is some blessed clime Where life is not a breath, Nor life's affections transient fire, Whose sparks fly upward to expire. There is a world above, Where parting is unknown ;, A whole eternity of love, Formed for the good alone ; And faith beholds the dying here Translated to that happier sphere. 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 hide themselves in heaven's own light. JAMES MONTGOMERY. JOSEPH EODMAN DEAKE. [Died in New York, September, 1820.] Geeen be the turf above thee. Friend of my better days ! None kncAV thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise. Tears fell, wlien thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep. And long, where thou art lying. Will tears the cold turf steep. When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth. There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their woi-th ; And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine. Who shared thy joy and sorrow. Whose weal and woe were thine, — It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I 've in vain essayed it. And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. EAELY FEIENDSHIP. The half-seen memories of childish days. When pains and pleasures lightly came a.nd went ; The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent In fearful wand'rings through forbidden ways ; The vague, but manly wish to tread the maze Of life to noble ends, — whereon intent. Asking to know for what man here is sent, The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze, — The firm resolve to seek the chosen end Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature, — ;- Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to friend With strength no selfish purpose can secure : My happy lot is this, that all attend That friendship which first came, and which shall last endure. AUBREY De Verb. FEIENDSHIP. Ham. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man As e'er my conversation coped withal. HoR. my dear lord — Ham. Nay, do not think I flatter : For what advancement may I hope from thee That no revenue hast but thy good spirits. To feed and clothe thee ? Wliy should the poor be flattered ? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee. Where thrift may foUow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice. And could of men distinguish, her election Hath sealed thee for herself ; for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, — A man that Fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta'en with, equal thanks ; and blessed are those Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled. That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger To sound what stop she please : Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Shakespeare. FRIENDSHIP. 33 i OLD MATTHEW A CONVERSATION. "We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and trae, A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two. We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat ; And from the turf a fountain broke And gurgled at our feet. " Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old border-song, or catch That suits a summer's noon. " Or of the church-clock aijd the chimes Sing here beneath the shade That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made ! " In silence Matthew lay, and eyed f -o TD a The spring beneath the tree ; ,. V t-* -t*- ^i And thus the dear old man replied, The gray -haired man of glee : — , ^ c^ "No check, no stay, this Strdapilet fears. How merrily it goes ! ' -■!^^^l^.f{^ nt 'T will murmur on a thousand yeaf*"~^' And flow as now it flows. " And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. " My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. " Thus fares it still in our decay : And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what Age takes away Than what it leaves behind. "The blackbird amid leafy trees. The lark above the hill. Let loose their carols when they please. Are quiet when they will. "With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife ; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free : 3 " But we are pressed by heavy laws ; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore. " If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth. The household hearts that were his own, — It is the man of mirth. "My days, my friend, are almost gone. My life has been approved, And many love me ; but by none Am I enough beloved." " Now both himself and me he wrongs. The man who thus complains ! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains : "And, Matthew, for thy children dead I '11 be a son to thee ! " At this he grasped my hand and said, "Alas ! that cannot be." ^ose up from the fountain-side ; tnd down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; And through the wood we went ; And ere we came to Leonard's Rock He sang those witty rh)Tnes About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewildered chimes. W. WORDSWORTH. MARTIAL FRIENDSHIP. FROM " CORIOLANUS." [Aufidius the Volscian to Caius Marcius Coriolanus.] AuF. Marcius, Marcius ! Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter Should from yond' cloud speak divine things, and say, "'T is true," I 'd not believethem more than thee. All-noble Marcius. — Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where-against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke. And scared the moon with splinters ! Here I clip The anvil of my sword ; and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love. As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valor. Know thou first, I loved the maid I married ; never man Sighed truer breath ; but that I see thee here, -S> a- 34 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Thou noble thing ! more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars ! I tell thee, We have a power on foot ; and I had pui-pose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn, Or lose mine arm for 't. Thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me. We have been down together in my sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat, And waked half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that Thou art thence banished, we would muster all From twelve to seventy ; and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o'erbear. 0, come ! go in, And take our friendly senators by th' hands ; Who now are here, taking their leaves of me. Who am prepared against your territories. Though not for Rome itself. A thousand welcomes ! And more a friend than e'er an enemy ; Yet, Marcius, that was much. SHAKESPEARE. WHEI!^ TO THE SESSIONS OF SWEET SILENT THOUGHT. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste. Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe. And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. Which I new pay, as if not paid before ; But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, AU losses are restored, and sorrows end. SHAKESPEARE. FRIENDS FAR AWAY. Count not the hours while their silent wings Thus waft them in fairy flight ; For feeling, warm from her dearest springs, Shall hallow the scene to-night. And while the music of joy is here, And the colors of life are gay, Let us think on those that have loved us dear. The Friends who are far away. Few are the hearts that have proved the truth Of their early aff"ection's vow ; And let those few, the beloved of youth, Be dear in their absence now. 0, vividly in their faithful breast Shall the gleam of remembrance play. Like the lingering light of the crimson west. When the sunbeam hath passed away ! Soft be the sleep of their pleasant hours. And calm be the seas they roam ! May the way they travel be strewed with flowers, Till it bring them in safety home ! And when we whose hearts are o'erflowing thus Ourselves may be doomed to stray, May some kind orison rise for us. When we shall be far away ! HORACE TWISS. THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS, " We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments ; and then days, months, years intervene, and ws see and know nothing of each other." — WASHINGTON IRVING. Tw^o baiks met on the deep mid-sea. When calms had stilled the tide ; A few bright days of summer glee There found them side by side. And voices of the fair and brave Rose mingling thence in mirth ; And sweetly floated o'er the wave The melodies of earth. Moonlight on that lone Indian main Cloudless and lovely slept ; While dancing step and festive strain Each deck in triumph swept. And hands were linked, and answering eyes With kindly meaning shone ; 0, brief and passing sympathies, Like leaves together blown ! A little while such joy was cast Over the deep's repose. Till the loud singing winds at last Like trumpet music rose. And proudly, freely on their way The parting vessels bore ; In calm or storm, by rock or bay, To meet — 0, nevermore ! Never to blend in victory's cheer, To aid in hours of woe ; And thus bright spirits mingle here. Such ties are formed below. Felicia Hemans. ■B-- FRIENDSHIP. 35 a THE QUARREL OF FRIENDS. FROM "CHRISTABEL." Alas ! they had been friends in youth : But whispering tongues can poison truth ; And constancy lives in realms above ; And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline ! Each spoke words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother ; They parted, — ne'er to meet again ! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining. They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; A dreary sea now flows between. But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been. S. T. COLERIDGE. THE QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. FROM "JULIUS C.«SAR." Cas. That you have wronged me doth appear in this : You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, For taking bribes here of the SarcUans ; Wherein my letters, praying on his side. Because I knew the man, were slighted off. Bru. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. Gas. In such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear his comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm. To sell and mart your offices for gold, To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm ? You know that you are Brutus that speak this. Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corrup- tion. And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Cas. Chastisement ! Bru. Remember March, the ides of March re- member ! Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? What villain touched his body, that did stab. And not for justice ? What ! shall one of us. That struck the foremost man of all this world. But for supporting robbers, — shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon. Than such a Roman. Cas. Brutus, bay not me, I '11 not endure it : you forget yourself, To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to ; you are not, Cassiuc, Cas. I am. Bru. I say you are not. Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself s Have mind upon your health; tempt me no further. Bru. Away, slight man ! Cas. Is 't possible ? Bru. Hear me, for I wiU speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? Cas. ye gods ! ye gods ! Must I endure all this? Bru. All this ? ay, more : Fret, tiU your proud heart break ; Go, show your slaves how choleric you are. And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor ? By the gods. You shall digest the venom of your sjileen. Though it do split you ; for from this day forth I '11 use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, Wlien you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this ? Bru. You say you are a better soldier : Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well : For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me, every way you wi'ong me, Brutus ; I said an elder soldier, not a better ; Did I say, better ? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Csesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not ? y Bru. No. Cas. What ! durst not tempt him ? Bru. For your life you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; For I am armed so strong in honesty. That they pass by me as the idle wind. Which I respect not. I did send to you # cB- 36 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ^ For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; — For I can raise no money by vile means : By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants then- vile trash. By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, "Which you denied me : WasthatdonelikeCassius? Should I have answered Gains Cassius so ? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces ! Gas. I denied you not. Brtj. You did. Gas. I did not : — he was but a fool That brought my answer back. — Brutus hath rived my heart : A friend should bear his friend's infirmities. But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Betj. I do not, till you practise them on me. Cas. You love me not. Bktt. I do not like your faults. Gas. a friendly eye could never see such faults. Brit. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Gas. Gome, Antony, and young Octavius, come. Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is a-weary of the world : Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote. To cast into my teeth. 0, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger. And here my naked breast ; AVithin, a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : If that thou be'st a Eoman, take it forth ; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. Strike as thou didst at Caesar ; for I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. Bru. Sheath your dagger : Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor, Cassius, you are yoked Mdth a lamb That carries anger, as the flint bears fire ; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Gas. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Bnitus, When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him ? Bru. When I spokethat, I wasill-temperedtoo. Gas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart too. Cas. Bnitus ! — Bru. What 's the matter ? Gas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor wliich my mother gave me Makes me forgetful ? Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He '11 think your mother chides, and leave you so. Bru. Cassius ! I am sick of many griefs. Gas. Of your philosophy you make no use, If you give place to accidental evils. Bru. No man bears sorrow better : — Portia is dead. Gas. Ha ! Portia ? Bru. She is dead. Cas. How 'scaped I killing, when I crossed you so? — insupportable and touching loss ! — Upon what sickness ? Bru. Impatient of my absence, And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony Have made themselves so strong ; — for with her death That tidings came ; — with this she fell distract, And, her attendants absent, swallowed fire. Cas. And died so ? Bru. Even so. Gas. ye immortal gods ! Enter Lucius, with wine and tapers. Bru. Speak no more of her. — Give me a bowl of wine : — In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. (Drinks.) Gas. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. — Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the ciTp ; 1 cannot drink toomuch of Brutus' love. (Drinks.) Shakespeare. THE EOYAL GUEST. Thet tell me I am shrewd with other men ; With thee I 'm slow, and difiicult of speech. With others I may guide the car of talk : Thou wing'st it oft to realms beyond my reach. If other guests should come, I 'd deck my hair, And choose my newest garment from the shelf ; When thou art bidden, I would clothe my heart With holiest purpose, as for God himself. For them I while the hours with tale or song, Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme ; But how to find a fitting lay for thee, Who hast the harmonies of every time ? FRIENDSHIP. 37 ■a friend beloved ! I sit apart and dumb, — Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine ; My lip will falter, but my prisoned heart Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with thine. Thou art to me most like a royal guest, Whose travels bring him to some lowly roof. Where simple rustics spread their festal fare And, blushing, own it is not good enough. Bethink thee, then, whene'er thou com'st to me. From high emprise and noble toil to rest, My thoughts are weak and trivial, matched with thine ; But the poor mansion offers thee its best. JULIA WARD HOWE. THE DEAD FRIEND. FROM " IN MEMORIAM." The path by which we twain did go. Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Through four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow. But where the path we walked began To slant the lifth autumnal slope. As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow feared of man ; Who broke our fair companionship. And spread his mantle dark and cold. And wrapped thee formless in the fold, And dulled the murmur on thy lip. When each by timis was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught. And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ; And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And aU the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood ; I know that this was Life, — the track Whereon with equal feet we fared ; And then, as now, the day prepared The daily burden for the back. But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air ; I loved the weight I had to bear Because it needed help of Love ; Nor could I weary, heart or limb, AVhen mighty Love would cleare in twain The lading of a single pain. And part it, giving half to him. But I remained, whose hopes were dim. Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth To wander on a darkened earth, Where all things round me breathed of him. friendship, equal-poised control, heart, with kindliest motion warm, sacred essence, other form, solemn ghost, crowned soul ! Yet none could better know than 1, How much of act at human hands The sense of human will demands By which we dare to live or die. Whatever way my days decline, 1 felt and feel, though left alone, His being working in mine own. The footsteps of his life in mine. My pulses therefore beat again For other friends that once I met ; Nor can it suit me to forget The mighty hopes that make us men. 1 woo your love : I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch ; I, the divided half of such A friendship as had mastered Time ; Which masters Time, indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears : The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this. days and hours, your work is this. To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace, For fuller gain of after bUss : That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; And unto meeting when we meet. Delight a hundred-fold accrue. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands j They melt like mist, the solid lands. Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell. And dream my dream, and hold it true ; For though my lips may breathe adieu, 1 cannot think the thing farewell. Alfred Tennyson. # [& 38 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ^ COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION. TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY. Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower ; "With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, AU good and no badness ; So joyously. So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning, — In everything Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write, Of merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower ; As patient and as still. And as full of good- will, As fair Isiphil, Coliander, Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander ; Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought ; Far may be sought Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower. Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower. JOHN SKELTON. WHY SHOULD THIS DESERT SILENT BE? FROM " AS YOU LIKE IT." Why should this desert silent be ? For it is unpeopled ? No ; Tongues I '11 hang on every tree, That shall civil sayings show : Some, how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage ; That the stretching of a span Buckles in his sum of age : Some, of violated vows 'Twixt the souls of friend and friend •• But upon the fairest boughs. Or at every sentence' end. Will I Rosalinda write ; Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite Heaven would in little show. Therefore Heaven nature charged That one body should be filled With all graces wide enlarged : Nature presently distilled Helen's cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra's majesty, Atalanta's better part. Sad Lucretia's modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts By heavenly synod was devised ; Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, To have the touches dearest prized. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave. SHAKESPEARE. PHILLIS THE FAIR. Ok a hill there grows a flower, Fair befall the dainty sweet ! By that flower there is a bower Where the heavenly muses meet. In that bower there is a chair. Fringed all about with gold. Where doth sit the fairest fair That ever eye did yet behold. It is Phillis, fair and bright. She that is the shepherd's joy. She that Venus did despite. And did blind her little boy. Who would not that face admire ? Who would not this saint adore ? Who would not this sight desire ? Though he thought to see no more. Thou that art the shepherd's queen, Look upon thy love-sick swain ; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life again. Nicholas Bretom m- -E COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION, 39 a A HEALTH. I FILL this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon ; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'T is less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words ; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours ; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers ; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns, — The idol of past years ! Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain. And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain ; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears. When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon. Her health ! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. EDWARD COATE PiNCKNEY. THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. FROM "an HOURE's RECREATION IN MUSICKE." 1606. There is a garden in her face. Where roses and white lilies blow ; A heavenly paradise is that place. Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow •, There cherries grow that none may buy, TUI cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row. Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds filled with snow ; Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till cheny-ripe themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Richard Allison. THE WHITE ROSE. SENT BY A YORKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN MISTRESS. If this fair rose oflfend thy sight, Placed in thy bosom bare, 'T will blush to find itself less white, And turn Lancastrian there. But if thy ruby lip it spy, As kiss it thou mayest deign. With envy pale 't will lose its dye, And Yorkish turn again. ANONYMOUS. OLIVIA. FROM "twelfth NIGHT." Viola. 'T is beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on : Lady, you are the cruel' st she alive. If you will lead these graces to the grave. And leave the world no copy. SHAKESPEARE. ROSALINE. Like to the clear in highest sphere Where all imperial glory shines : Of selfsame color is her hair Whether unfolded, or in twines : Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling heaven by every wink ; The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! Her cheeks are like the^ blushing cloud That beautifies Aurora's face. ■ff fl- fl 40 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Or like the silver crimson shroud That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace : Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity : Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprisoned lies. To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes ; Heigh-ho, for Rosaline ! Her paps are centres of delight, Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light To feed perfection with the same : Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! With orient pearl, with ruby red. With marble white, with sapphire blue, Her body every way is fed, Yet soft in touch and sweet in view : Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! Nature herseK her shape admires ; The gods are wounded in her sight ; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light : Heigh-ho, would she were mine ! Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan The absence of fair Rosaline, Since for a fair there 's fairer none. Nor for her virtues so divine : Heigh-ho, fair Rosaline ! Heigh-ho, my heart ! would God that she were mine ! A VIOLET IN HER HAIR. A VIOLET in her lovely hair, A rose upon her bosom fair ! But 0, her eyes A lovelier violet disclose, And her ripe lips the sweetest rose That 's 'neath the skies. A lute beneath her gi'aceful hand Breathes music forth at her command ; But still her tongue Far richer music calls to birth Than all the minstrel power on earth Can give to song. And thus she moves in tender light, The purest ray, where all is bright, Serene, and sweet ; And sheds a graceful influence round, That hallows e'en the very ground Beneath her feet ! CHARLES SWAIN. WELCOME, WELCOME, DO I SING. Welcome, welcome, do I sing. Far more welcome than tJie spring ; He tliat parteth from you never Sliall enjoy a spring forever. Love that to the voice is near. Breaking from your ivory pale. Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale. Welcome, welcome, tJien I sioig, etc. Love, that still looks on your eyes, Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries. Shall not want the summer's sun. Welcovie, welcome, tlien I sing, etc. Love, that still may see your cheeks. Where all rareness still reposes. Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. Love, to whom your soft lip yields. And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odors of the fields Never, never shall be missing. William Browne. ' PORTIA'S PICTURE. FROM " THE MERCHANT OF VENICE." Fair Portia's counterfeit ? What demi-god Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine. Seem they in motion ? Here are severed lips. Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends : Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider ; and hath woven A golden mesh to, entrap the hearts of men, Faster than gnats in cobwebs : But her eyes, — How could he see to do them ? having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his. And leave itself unfurnished. SHAKESPEARE. B- -^ COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION. -a 41 WHENAS IN SILKS MY JULIA GOES. Whenas in silks my Julia goes Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows , That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free ; 0, how that glittering taketh me ! R. HERRICK. I DO NOT LOVE THEE FOR THAT FAIR. I DO not love thee for that fair Rich fan of thy most curious hair. Though the wires thereof be drawn Finer than the threads of lawn, And are softer than the leaves On which the subtle spider weaves. I do not love thee for those flowers Growing on thy cheeks, — love's bowers, — Though such cunning them hath spread, None can paint them white and red. Love's golden arrows thence are shot, Yet for them I love thee not. I do not love thee for those soft Red coral lips I 've kissed so oft ; Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard To speech whence music still is heard, Though from those lips a kiss being taken Might tyrants melt, and death awaken. I do not love thee, my fairest, For that richest, for that rarest Silver pillar, which stands under Thy sound head, that globe of wonder ; Though tliat neck be whiter far Than towers of polished ivory are. THOMAS carew. THE FORWARD VIOLET THUS DID I CHIDE. The forward violet thus did I chide : — Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells. If not from my love's breath ? the purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells. In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. The lily I condemned for thy hand. And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair : The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, '^ne blushing shame, another white despair ; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both, And to this robbery had annexed thy breath ; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see. But sweet or color it had stolen from thee. Shakespeare. GIVE PLACE, YE LOVEP^. Give place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; My lady's beauty passeth more The best of yours, I dare well sayen, Tlian doth the sun the candle-light, Or brightest day the darkest night. And thereto hath a troth as just As had Penelope the fair ; For what she saith, ye may it trust, As it by writing sealed were : And virtues hath she many mo' Than I with pen have skill to show. I could rehearse, if that I would, The whole eff'ect of Nature's plaint. When she had lost the perfect mould, The like to whom she could not paint : With wiinging hands, how she did cry, And what she said, I know it aye. I know she swore with raging mind. Her kingdom only set apart. There was no loss by law of kind That could have gone so near her heart ; And this was chiefly all her pain ; " She could not make the like again." Sith Nature thus gave her the praise. To be the chiefest work she wrought, In faith, methink, some better ways On your behalf might well be sought. Than to compare, as ye have done, To match the candle with the sun. Lord Surrey. YOU MEANER BEAUTIES. You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, — You common people of the skies, What are you when the moon shall rise ? You curioxas chanters of the wood. That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents, — what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise ? l^ & [& 42 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. a You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own, — "What are you when the rose is blown ? So when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind ; By virtue first, then choice, a queen, — Tell me, if she were not designed Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? Sir Henry Wotton. A VISION OF BEAUTY. It was a beauty that I saw, — So pure, so perfect, as the frame Of all the universe were lame To that one figure, could I draw, Or give least line of it a law : A skein of silk without a knot ! A fair march made without a halt ! A curious form without a fault ! A printed book without a blot ! AU beauty ! — and without a spot. BEN JONSON. WHEN IN THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME. When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights. And beauty making beautiful old rhyme. In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have expressed Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; And, for they looked but with divining eyes. They had not skill enough your worth to sing ; For we, which now behold these present days. Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. SHAKESPEARE. B- CHILD AND MAIDEN. Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit As unconcerned as when Your infant beauty could beget No happiness or pain ! When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the rising fire Would take my rest away. Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in a mine ; Age from no face takes more away Than youth concealed in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection prest. So love as unperceived did fly. And centred in my breast. My passion with your beauty grew, While Cupid at my heart Still as his mother favored you Threw a new flaming dart : Each gloried in their wanton part ; To make a lover, he Employed the utmost of his art ; To make a beauty, she. Sir Charles Sedley. WAITING FOR THE GRAPES. That I love thee, charming maid, I a thousand times have said. And a thousand times more I have sworn it. But 't is easy to be seen in the coldness of your mien That you doubt my aS'ection — or scorn it. Ah me ! Not a single grain of sense is in the whole of these pretences For rejecting your lover's petitions ; Had I windows in my bosom, how gladly I 'd expose 'em ! To undo your fantastic suspicions. Ah me ! You repeat I 've known you long, and you hint I do you wrong, In beginning so late to pursue ye ; But 't is folly to look glum because people did not come Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye. Ah me ! In a grapery one walks without looking at the stalks, While the bunches are green that they 're bear- ing : All the pretty little leaves that are dangling at the eaves Scarce attract e'en a moment of staring. Ah me ! W }-- COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION. a 43 But wlien time has swelled the grapes to a richer style of shapes, And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes, Then to cheer us and to gladden, to enchant us and to madden. Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes. Ah me ! 0, 't is then that mortals pant while they gaze on Bacchus' plant, — 0, 't is then, — will my simile serve ye ? Should a damsel fair rej^ine, though neglected like a vine ? Both erelong shall turn heads topsy-turvy. Ah me ! William Macinn. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely apparition, sent To "be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bi'ight or good For human natiire's daily food. For transient sorrows, simple wiles. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death : The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; A perfect woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light. W. Wordsworth. BELINDA. FROM THE " RAPE OF THE LOCK." On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore. Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore, Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : Favors to none, to all she smiles extends : Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults te hide ; If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you '11 forget them all. ALEXANDER POPE. IF IT BE TRUE THAT ANY BEAUTEOUS THING. If it be true that any beauteous thing Raises the pure and just desire of man From earth to God, the eternal fount of all, Such I believe my love ; for as in her So fair, in whom I all besides forget, I view the gentle work of her Creator, I have no care for any other thing. Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous, Since the effect is not of my own power. If the soul doth, by nature tempted forth, Enamored through the eyes, Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth. And through them riseth to the Primal Love, As to its end, and honors in admiring ; For who adores the Maker needs must love his work. Michael ANGELO (Italian). Translation of J. E. Taylor. THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE. The might of one fair face sublimes my love. For it hath weaned my heart from low desires ; Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fii'cs. Thy beauty, antepast of joys above, Instmcts me in the bliss that saints approve ; For 0, how good, how beautiful, must be The God that made so good a thing as thee, So fair an image of the heavenly Dove ! Forgive me if I cannot turn away From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, For they are guiding stars, benignly given To tempt my footsteps to the upward way ; And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, I Live and love in God's peculiar light. Michael ANGELO (Italian). Translation of J. E. Taylor. 3- ■tf [fi- 44 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ■a ^ THE MILKING-MAID. The year stood at its equinox, And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks. Green hardy things were growing ; I met a maid with shining locks "Where milky kine were lowing. She wore a kerchief on her neck, Her bare arm showed its dimple. Her apron spread without a speck, Her air was frank and simple. She milked into a wooden pail, And sang a country ditty, — An innocent fond lovers' tale. That was not wise nor witty. Pathetically rustical, Too pointless for the city. She kept in time without a beat, As true as church-bell ringers. Unless she tapped time with her feet. Or squeezed it with her fingers ; Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet As many a practised singer's. I stood a minute out of sight. Stood silent for a minute. To eye the pail, and creamy white The frothing milk within it, — To eye the comely milking-maid. Herself so fresh and creamy. " Good day to you ! " at last I said ; She turned her head to see me. ** Good day ! " she said, with lifted head ; Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. And all the while she milked and milked The grave cow heavy-laden : I 've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked, But not a sweeter maiden ; But not a sweeter, fresher maid Than this in homely cotton. Whose pleasant face and silky braid I have not yet forgotten. Seven springs have passed since then, as I Count with a sober sorrow ; Seven springs have come and passed me by, And spring sets in to-morrow. I 've half a mind to shake myself Free, just for once, from London, To set my work upon the shelf. And leave it done or undone ; To run down by the early train. Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And feel the bluff north blow again. And mark the sprouting thistle Set up on waste patch of the lane Its green and tender bristle ; And spy the scarce-blown violet banks. Crisp primrose-lf aves and others. And watch the lambs leap at their pranks, And butt their patient mothers. Alas ! one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to : Seven years have passed for maid and manj Seven years have passed for her too. Perhaps my rose is over-blown. Not rosy or too rosy ; Perhaps in farm-house of her own Some husband keeps her cosey. Where I should show a face unknown, — Good by, my wayside posy ! CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. I She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that 's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes. Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face. Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And^on that cheek and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. The smiles that win, the tints that glow. But tell of days in goodness spent, — A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. LORD BYRON. CASTARA. Like the violet, which alone Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown. To no ruder eye betrayed ; For she 's to herseK untrue Who delights i' the public view. ^ COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION. 45 ■a Such is her heauty as no arts Have enriched with borrowed grace. Her high birth no pride imparts, For she bhishes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood, — She is noblest being good. Cautious, she knew never yet What a wanton courtship meant ; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, In her silence eloquent. Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no diflerence makes. She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands ; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands. ■Women's feet run still astray If to ill they know the way. She sails by that rock, the court, Where oft virtue splits her mast ; And retiredness thinks the port, Where her fame may anchor cast. Virtue safely cannot sit Where vice is enthroned for wit She holds that day's pleasure best Where sin waits not on delight ; Without mask, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. She her throne makes reason climb, AVliile wild passions captive lie ; And each article of time. Her pure thoughts to heaven fly ; All her vows religious be, And she vows her love to me. William Habincton. ^ ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow, the dove. The linnet, and thrush say " I love, and I love !" In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong; What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving — all conae back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love. The green fields below him, the blue sky above. That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, " I love my Love, and my Love loves me." Samuel Coleridge. AT THE CHURCH GATE. Although I enter not. Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover ; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her. The minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout. And noise and humming ; They 've hushed the minster bell ; The organ 'gins to swell ; She 's coming, coming I My lady comes at last. Timid and stepping fast, And hastening hither. With modest eyes downcast ; She comes, — she 's here, she 's past ! May Heaven go with her ! Kneel undisturbed, fair saint ! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly ; I will not enter tliere. To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute. Like outcast spirits, who wait. And see, through heaven's gate, Angels within it. William Makepeace Thackeray. VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. Here is one leaf reserved for me, From all thy sweet memorials 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 comer find. Where no impression yet is seen, Where no memorial yet has been, 0, it should be my sweetest care To write my name forever there ! T. Moore. GO, LOVELY ROSE. Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee. How sweet and fair she seems to be. & t& 46 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ■a Tell her that 's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired ; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee ; How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous, sweet, and fair. Edmund Waller. stanza added by henry kirke white. Yet, though thou fade. From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; And teach the maid. That goodness Time's rude hand defies, That virtue lives when beauty dies. FAIRER THAN THEE. Fairer than thee, beloved, Fairer than thee ! — There is one thing, beloved, Fairer than thee. Not the glad sun, beloved, Bright though it beams ; Not the green earth, beloved, Silver with streams ; Not the gay birds, beloved, Happy and free : Yet there 's one thing, beloved. Fairer than thee. Not the clear day, beloved. Glowing with light ; Not (fairer still, beloved) Star-crowned night. Truth in her might, beloved. Grand in her sway ; Truth with her eyes, beloved. Clearer than day. Holy and pure, beloved. Spotless and free. Is the one thing, beloved. Fairer than thee. Guard well thy soul, beloved ; Truth, dwelling there, Shall shadow forth, beloved, Her image rare. Then shall I deem, beloved. That thou art she ; And there '11 be naught, beloved, Fairer than thee. Anonymous. HER LIKENESS. A GIRL, who has so many wilful ways She would have caused Job's patience to for- sake him ; Yet is so rich in aU that 's girlhood's praise. Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze, A little better she would surely make him. Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon. And very far from angel yet, I trow. Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human ; Yet she 's more lovable as simple woman Than any one diviner that I know. Therefore I wish that she may safely keep This womanhede, and change not, only grow ; From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, And in perennial blessedness, still reap On every hand of that which she doth sow. DINAH Maria Mulock. BLACK AND BLUE EYES. The brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; But the soft eye of blue, Though it scatter wounds too. Is much better pleased when it heals 'em ! Dear Fanny ! The black eye may say, " Come and worship my ray ; By adoring, perhaps you may move me ! " But the blue eye, half hid. Says, from under its lid, " I love, and am yours, if you love me ! " Dear Fanny ! Then tell me, why. In that lovely blue eye. Not a charm ofnts tint I discover ; Or why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said " No " to a lover ? Dear Fanny ! Thomas Moore ^ ■^ COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION. ■a 47 WHY, LOVELY CHARMER? FROM "the hive." Why, lovely charmer, tell me why. So very kind, and yet so shy ? Why does that cold, forbidding air Give damps of sorrow and despair ? Or why that smile my soul subdue, And kindle up my flames anew ? In vain you strive with all your art, By turns to fire and freeze my heart ; When I behold a face so fair, So sweet a look, so soft an air, My ravished soul is charmed all o'er, I cannot love thee less or more. ANO>fYMOUS. 1 PRITHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART. I PRITHEE send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine ; For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine ? Yet, now I think on 't, let it lie ; To find it were in vain ; For thou 'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again. Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together ? Love ! where is thy sympathy If thus our breasts thou sever ? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out ; For when I think I 'm best resolved Then I am most in doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe ; I mil no longer pine ; For I '11 believe I have her heart As much as she has mine. Sir John Suckling. IF DOIJGHTY DEEDS MY LADY PLEASE. If doughty deeds my lady please, Right soon I '11 mount my steed. And strong his arm and fast his seat That bears frae me the meed. I '11 wear thy colors in my cap. Thy picture at my heart. And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart ! Then tell me how to woo thee. Love ; 0, tell me how to woo thee ! For thy dear sake nae care I '11 take, Though ne'er another trow me. If gay attire delight thine eye, I '11 dight me in array ; I '11 tend thy chamber door all night. And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, These sounds I '11 strive to catch ; Thj' voice I '11 steal to woo thysell, That voice that nane can match. But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow ; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me ; I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring. For you 1 wear the blue ; For you alone 1 strive to sing, 0, tell me how to woo ! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ; 0, tell me how to woo thee ! For thy dear sake nae care 1 '11 take, Though ne'er another trow me. Graham of Gartmore. MY LOVE IN HER ATTIRE. My Love in her attire doth show her wit, It doth so well become her : For every season she hath dressings fit, For Winter, Spring, and Summer. No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on : But beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone. ANONVMOUS. A SLEEPING BEAUTY. Sleep on ! and dream of Heaven awhile ! Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile. And move, and breathe delicious sighs. Ah ! now soft blushes tinge her cheeks And mantle o'er her neck of snow ; Ah ! now she murmurs, now she speaks, "VVliat most I wish, and fear, to know. She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! Her fair hands folded on her breast ; — And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! A seraph in the realms of rest ! &■ -W [fl- a 48 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Sleep on secure ! Above control, Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee ; And may the secret of thy soul Kemain within its sanctuary ! SAMUEL ROGERS. SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW. She is not fair to outward view, As many maidens be ; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me : 0, then I saw her eye was bright, — A weU 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 ! HARTLEY Coleridge. PHILLIS IS MY ONLY JOY. Phillis is my only joy Faithless as the wind or seas ; Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, Yet she never fails to please. If with a frown I am cast down, Phillis, smiling And beguiling, Makes me happier than before. Though, alas ! too late I find Nothing can her fancy fix ; Yet the moment she is kind I forgive her all her tricks ; Which though I see, I can't get free ; She deceiving, I believing, What need lovers wish for more ? Sir Charles Sedley. TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON. When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates. And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye. The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty grief in wine we steep. When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When, linnet-like confined, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King ; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be. Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage : If I have freedom in my love. And in my soul am free. Angels alone, that soar above. Enjoy such liberty. COLONEL Richard Lovelace. MY LITTLE SAINT. I CARE not, though it be By the preciser sort thought popery ; We poets can a license show For everything we do. Hear, then, my little saint ! I '11 pray to thee. If now thy happy mind. Amidst its various joys, can leisure find To attend to anything so low As what I say or do, Regard, and be what thou wast ever, — kind. Let not the blest above Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove : Fain would I thy sweet image see, And sit and talk with thee ; Nor is it curiosity, but love. Ah ! what delight 't would be, Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with me ! How should I thy sweet commune prize. And other joys despise ! Come, then ! I ne'er was yet denied by thee. ^ -—Q COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION. ■a 49 I would not long detain Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain : Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know Of thy escape below : Before thou 'rt missed, thou shouldst return again. Sure, heaven must needs thy love, As well as other qualities, improve : Come, then ! and recreate my sight With rays of thy pure light ; 'T wiU cheer my eyes more than the lamps above. But if Fate 's so severe As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere, (And by thy absence I shall know Whether thy state be so,) Live happy, and be mindful of me there. JOHN NORRIS. A GOLDEN GIRL. LtrCY is a golden girl ; But a man, a man, should woo her ! They who seek her shrink aback, "When they should, like storms, pursue her. All her smiles are hid in light ; All her hair is lost in splendor ; But she hath the eyes of Night And a heart that 's over-tender. Yet the foolish suitors fly (Is 't excess of dread or duty ?) From the starlight of her eye. Leaving to neglect her beauty ! Men by fifty seasons taught Leave her to a young beginner, Who, without a second thought. Whispers, woos, and straight must win her. Lucy is a golden girl ! Toast her in a goblet brimming ! May the man that wins her wear On his heart the Rose of Women ! BARRY C0RN^VALL. MY SWEET SWEETING. FROM A MS. TEMP. HENRY VIII. Ah, my sweet sweeting ; My little pretty sweeting. My sweeting wiU I love wherever I go ; She is so proper and pure, Full, steadfast, stable, and demure. There is none such, you may be sure, As mj' sweet sweeting. In all this world, as thinketh me, Is none so pleasant to my e'e, That I am glad so oft to see, As my sweet sweeting. When I behold my sweeting sweet. Her face, her hands, her minion feet, They seem to me there is none so mete. As my sweet sweeting. Above all other praise must I, And love my pretty pygsnye. For none I find so womanly As my sweet sweeting. Anonymous. THE FLOWER'S NAME. Here 's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since : Hark ! now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. She must have reached this shrub ere she turned. As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned. To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gi-avel walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box ; And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves yoii, noble roses, I know ; But yonder see where the rock -plants lie ! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, — Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name ! was it love or praise ? Speech half asleep, or song half awake ? I must learn Spanish one of these days. Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, — Fit you each ■with his Sjianish phrase. But do not detain me now, for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground ; And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud .she found. Flower, you Spaniard ! look that you grow not, -^ Stay as you are, and be loved forever. Bud, if I kiss you, 't is that you blow not, — • Mind ! the shut pink mouth opens never J ■^ [&-■ 60 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle : Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; Whither I follow her, beauties flee. Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June'stwice Junesince she breathed itwith me ? Come, bud ! show me the least of her traces. Treasure my lady's lightest footfall : Ah ! you may flout and turn up your faces, — Eoses, you are not so fair after all ! Robert Bbowning. ON A GIRDLE. That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind ; No monarch but would give his crown. His arms might do what this hath done. It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer : My joy, my gi'ief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair. Give me but what this ribbon bound. Take all the rest the sun goes round 1 Edmund waller. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. It is the miller's daughter. And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear ; For, hid in ringlets day and night, I 'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist. And her heart would beat against me In sorrow and in rest ; And I should knoAV if it beat right, I 'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace. And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom With her laughter or her sighs ; And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night. ALFRED Tennyson. THE FLOWER 0' DUMBLANE. The sun has ganedown o'er thelofty Ben Lomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene. While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- blane. How sweet is the brier, wi'itssaft fauldin' blossom. And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' gi'een ; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom. Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 'sbonnie, — For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha 'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening ! — Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen : Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning. Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- blane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur. Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- blane. ROBERT TANNAHILL. 0, SAW YE THE LASS? 0, SAW ye the lass Avi' the bonny blue een ? Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen ; Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween -, She 's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. The home of my love is below in the valley, Where wild-flowers welcome the wandering bee ; But the SAveetest of flowers in that spot that is seen Is the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een. When night overshadows her cot in the glen, She '11 steal out to meet her loved Donald again ; And when the moon shines on the valley so green, I '11 welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een. As the dove that has wandered away from his nest Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, I '11 fly from the world's false and vanishing scene, To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een, Richard Ryan, ^ ^ COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION. 51 ■a THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL. On Riclimond Hill there lives a lass More bright than May-day morn, ""^Vhose charms all other maids surpass, - A rose without a thorn. This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet, Has won my right good-wiU ; I 'd crowns resign to call her mine, Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air, And wanton through the grove, 0, whisper to my charming fair, I die for her I love. How happy will the shepherd be Who calls this nymph his own ! 0, may her choice be fixed on me ! Mine 's fixed on her alone. UPTON, MARY MORISON. Mary, at thy window be ! It is the wished, the trysted hour ! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun. Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its vnng, — I sat, but neither heard nor saw : Though this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the to^vTi, 1 sighed, and said amang them a', "Ye are na Mary Morison." Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt na gie. At least be pity to me shown ; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. Robert Burns. IN THE STILLNESS 0' THE NIGHT. DORSET DIALECT. Ov all the housen o' the pliace Ther 's oone wher I 4a like to call, By dae ar night, the best ov all. To zee my Fanny's smilen fiace ; An' dere the stiately trees da gi'ow, A-rocken as the win' da blow. While she da sweetly sleep below, In tlie stillness o' the night. An' dere at evemen I da goo, A-hoppen auver ghiates an' bars, By twinklen light o' winter stars, When snow da dumper to my shoe ; An' zometimes we da slyly catch A chat, an hour upon the stratch, An' piart wi' whispers at the hatch, In the stillness o' the night. An' zometimes she da goo to zome Young naighbours' housen dowai the pliace, An' I da get a clue to triace Her out, an' goo to zee her huome. ^ An' I da wish a vield a mile. As she da sweetly chat an' smile Along the drove, or at the stile. In the stiUness o' the night. William Barnes. MISTRESS MINE. MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming ? 0, stay and hear ! your true-love 's coming That can sing both high and low ; Trij) no further, pretty sweeting. Journeys end in lovers' meeting, — Every wise man's son doth know. What is love ? 't is not hereafter ; Present mirth hath present laughter ; What 's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty, — Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, Youth 's a stuff will not endure. SHAKESPEARE. THE LOW-BACKED CAR. When first I saw sweet Peggy, 'T was on a market day : A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay ; But when that hay was blooming grass, And decked with flowers of spring. No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll. But just rubbed his owld poll. And looked after the low-backed car. --ff fl- B 52 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars "With hostile scythes demands his tithes Of death in warlilie cars ; While Peggy, peaceful goddess. Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down in the market town. As right and left they fly ; While she sits in her low-backed car, Than battle more dangerous far, — For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart. That is hit from that low-backed car. Sweet Peggy round her car, sir. Has strings of ducks and geese. But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these ; While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of Love ! While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far. And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin'. As she sits in her low-backed car. 0, I 'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach and four, and gold galore, And a lady for my bride ; For the lady would sit fominst me. On a cushion made with taste. While Peggy would sit beside me. With my arm around her waist. While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Mahar ; 0, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, — Though it beat in a low-backed car ! SAMUEL LOVER. t SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. Of all the girls that are so smart There 's none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em ; But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally ! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When she is by I leave my work, I love her so sincerely ; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely. But let him bang his bellyful, — I '11 bear it all for Sally ; For she 's the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. Of all the days that 's in the week I dearly love but one day, And that 's the day that comes betwixt The Saturday and Monday ; For then I 'm drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church. And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named : I leave the church in sermon-time. And slink away to Sally, — She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. When Christmas comes about again, 0, then I shall have money ! I '11 hoard it up, and, box and all, I 'U give it to my honey ; 0, would it were ten thousand pound ! I 'd give it all to Sally ; For she 's the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master and the neighbors all Make game of me and Sally, And but for her I 'd better be A slave, and row a galley ; But when my seven long years are out, 0, then I '11 marry Sally ! 0, then we '11 wed, and then we 'U bed, — But not in our alley ! HENRY Carey. LOYELY MARY DONNELLY. LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it 's you I love the best ! If fifty girls were around you, I 'd hardly see the rest ; COMPLIMENT AND ADfillRATION. ■^ 53 Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Maiy Donnelly, they bloom before me stni. Her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing on a rock. How clear they are 1 how dark they are ! and they give me many a shock ; Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower. Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up. Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup ; Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine, — It 's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before ; No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor ; But Mary kept the belt of love, and 0, but she was gay ; She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my heart away ! When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete. The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her feet ; The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised. But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I 'm whistling or lilting what you sung ; Your smile is always in my heart, your name be- side my tongue. But you 've as many sweethearts as you 'd count on both your hands. And for myself there 's not a thumb or little finger stands. 0, you 're the flower of womankind, in country or in town ; The higher I exalt you, the lower I 'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I 'd owni it was but right. 0, might we live together in lofty palace hall. Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet cur- tains fall ; 0, might we Uve together in a cottage mean and small. With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall ! lovely Maiy Donnelly, your beauty 's my dis- tress ; It 's far too beauteous to be mine, but I '11 never wish it less ; The proudest place would iit your face, and I am poor and low, But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go ! William Allingham. THE POSIE. 0, LtrvE will venture in where it dauma weel be seen, 0, luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been ! But I will down yon river rove amang the woods sae green : And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year. And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear. For she 's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May, I 'U pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view. For it 's like abalmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou' ; The hyacinth 's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. And in her lovely bosom I '11 place the lily there ; The daisy 's for simplicity and unaffected air : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gi'ay, WTiere, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day ; But the songster's nest within the bush I winna take away : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star is near. And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear ; The violet 's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. tf \B 54 POEMS OF THE AFEECTIOISrS. I '11 tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, And I '11 place it in her hreast, and I '11 swear hy a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remove : And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. Robert Burns. MARY LEE. I HAVE traced the valleys fair In May morning's dewy air, My bonny Mary Lee ! "Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear, Gathered all for thee ? They are not flowers of Pride, For they gi-aced the dingle-side ; Yet they grew in Heaven's smile, My gentle Mary Lee ! Can they fear thy fro^vns the while Though offered by me ? Here 's the lily of the vale, That perfumed the morning gale. My fairy Mary Lee ! All so spotless and so pale. Like thine own purity. And might I make it kno'wn, 'T is an emblem of my own Love, — if I dare so name My esteem for thee. Surely flowers can bear no blame. My bonny Mary Lee. Here 's the violet's modest blue, That 'neath hawthorns hides from view. My gentle Mary Lee, Would show whose heart is true. While it thinks of thee. While they choose each lowly spot, The sun disdains them not ; I 'm as lowly too, indeed. My charming Mary Lee ; So I 've brought the flowers to plead, And win a smile from thee. Here 's a wild rose just in bud ; Spring's beauty in its hood. My bonny Mary Lee ! 'T is the first in all the wood I could find for thee. Though a blush is scarcely seen. Yet it hides its worth within, Like my love ; for I 've no power^ My angel Mary Lee, To speak unless the flower Can make excuse for me. Though they deck no princely halls, In bouquets for glittering balls. My gentle Mary Lee ! Eicher hues than painted walls Will make them dear to thee ; For the blue and laughing sky Spreads a grander canopy Than all wealth's golden skill. My charming Mary Lee ! Love would make them dearer still. That offers them to thee. My wi-eathed flowers are few, Yet no fairer drink the deAv, My bonny Mary Lee ! They may seem as trifles too, — Not, I hope, to thee ; Some may boast a richer prize Under pride and wealth's disguise ; None a fonder ofi'ering bore Than this of mine to thee ; And can true love wish for more ? Surely not, Mary Lee ! John Clare. ANNIE LAURIE. Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew. And it 's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true, — Gie'd me her promise true. Which ne'er forgot will be ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I 'd lay me doune and dee. Her brow is like the snaw drift ; Her throat is like the swan ; Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on, — That e'er the sun shone on ; And dark blue is her ee ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I 'd lay me doune and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; And like the winds in summer sighing. Her voice is low and sweet, — Her voice is low and sweet ; And she 's a' the world to me ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I 'd lay me doune and dee. ANONYMOUS. t- f LOVE. 55 ■a LOVE LOVE IS A SICKNESS. Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing ; A plant that most with cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so ? More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries Heigh-ho ! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting ; And Jove hath made it of a kind, Not well, nor full, nor fasting. Why so ? More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries Heigh-ho ! Samuel Daniel. AH ! WHAT IS LOVE ? Ah ! what is love ? It is a pretty thing. As sweet unto a shepherd as a king, And sweeter too ; For kings have cares that wait upon a crown, And cares can make the sweetest face to frown : Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires gain. What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? His flocks are folded ; he comes home at night As merry as a king in his delight, And merrier too ; For kings bethink them what the state require. Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire : Ah then, ah then, If country love such sweet desires gain. What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat His cream and curd as doth the king his meat. And blither too ; For kings have often fears when they sup, Wliere shepherds dread no poison in their cup : Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? Upon his coiich of straw he sleeps as sound As doth the king upon his beds of down. More sounder too ; For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill. Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill : Ah then, ah then. If country loves such sweet desires gain. What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe As doth the king at every tide or syth. And blither too ; For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land : Ah then, ah then. If country loves such sweet desires gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? Robert Greene. TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE. When Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears, I would approach, but dare not move ; — Tell me, my heart, if this be love. Whene'er she speaks, mj' ravished ear No otlier voice than hers can hear ; No other wit but hers apjirove ; — Tell me, my heart, if this be love. If she some other swain commend, Thougli I was once his fondest friend. His instant enemy 1 prove ; — Tell me, my heart, if this be love. Wlien she is absent, 1 no more Delight in all that pleased before. The clearest spring, the shadiest grove ; — Tell me, my heart, if this^be love. Wlien fond of power, of beauty vain. Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove ; — Tell me, my heart, if this be love. GEORGE Lord Lyttelton. ECHOES. How sweet the answer Echo makes To Music at night Wlien, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away o'er lawns and lakes Goes answering light ! ^- w \B 56 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Yet Love hath, echoes timer far And far more sweet Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, Of horn or lute or soft guitar The songs repeat. 'T is when the sigh • — in youth sincere And only then, The sigh that 's breathed for one to hear — Is by that one, that only Dear Breathed back again. Thomas MooaE. AH, HOW SWEET. Ah, how sweet it is to love ! Ah, how gay is young desire ! And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach love's fire ! Pains of love are sweeter far Than all other pleasures are. Sighs which are from lovers blown Do but gently heave the heart : E'en the tears they shed alone Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. Lovers, when they lose their breath. Bleed away in easy death. Love and Time with reverence use. Treat them like a parting friend ; Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send : For each year their price is more. And they less simple than before. Love, like spring-tides full and high, Swells in every youthful vein ; But each tide does less supply, Till they quite shrink in again. If a flow in age appear, 'T is but rain, and runs not clear. JOHN dryden. THE FIRE OF LOVE. FROM THE "eXAMEN MISCELLANEUM," I708. The fire of love in youthful blood. Like what is kindled in brushwood, But for a moment burns ; Yet in that moment makes a mighty noise ; It crackles, and to vapor turns. And soon itself destroys. But when crept into aged veins It slowly burns, and then long remains. And with a silent heat, Like fire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long ; And though the flame be not so gi'eat, Yet is the heat as strong. EARL OF DORSET. THE AGE OF WISDOM. Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin. That never has known the barber's shear. All your wish is woman to win ; This is the way that boys begin, — Wait till you come to forty year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; Billing and cooing is all your cheer, — Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes, — Wait till you come to forty year. Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ; Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; Then you know a boy is an ass, Then you know the worth of a lass, — • Once you have come to forty year. Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare. All good fellows whose beards are gray, — Did not the fairest of the fair Common gi'ow and wearisome ere Ever a month was past away ? The reddest lips that ever have kissed, The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper and we not list. Or look away and never be missed, — Ere yet ever a month is gone. Gillian 's dead ! God rest her bier, — How I loved her twenty years syne ! Marian 's married ; but 1 sit here. Alone and merry at forty year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. William Makepeace Thackeray. THE DECEIVED LOVER SUETH ONLY FOR LIBERTY. If chance assigned, Were to my mind. By every kind Of destiny ; Yet would I crave Naught else to have. But dearest life and liberty. Then were I sure, I might endure The displeasure Of cruelty ; ^ LOVE. 57 ft Where now I plain Alas ! in vain, Lacking my life for liberty. For without th' one, Th' other is gone, And there can none It remedy ; If th' one be jjast, Th' other doth waste, And all for lack of liberty. And so I drive, As yet alive, Although I strive With misery ; Drawing my breath. Looking for death, And loss of life for liberty. But thou that still, May'st at thy will. Turn all this ill Adversity ; For the repair, Of my welfare, Grant me but life and liberty. And if not so. Then let all go To wretched woe, And let me die ; For th' one or th' other, There is none other ; My death, or life with libeiiy. Sir Thomas Wyatt. MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART. My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other given : I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. There never was a better bargain driven : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one ; My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : He loves my heart, for once it was his own ; I cherish his because in me it bides : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. I SAW TWO CLOUDS AT MORNING. I SAW two clouds at morning. Tinged by the rising sun, And in the dawn they floated on, And mingled into one ; I thought that morning cloud was blessed. It moved so sweetly to the west. I saw two summer currents Flow smoothly to their meeting, And join their course, with silent force. In peace each other gi-eeting ; Calm was their course through banks of green. While dimpling eddies played between. Such be your gentle motion. Till life's last pulse shall beat ; Like summer's beam, and summer's stream. Float on, in joy, to meet A calmer sea, where storms shall cease, A purer sky, where all is peace. JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. The fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean ; The mnds of heaven mix forever. With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single ; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle : — Why not I with thine ? See ! the mountains kiss high heaven. And the waves clasp one another ; No sister flower Avould be forgiven If it disdained its brother ; And the sunlight clasps the earth. And the moonbeams kiss the sea : — What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me ? PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. THOSE EYES. Ah ! do not wanton with those eyes, Lest I be sick with seeing ; Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Lest shame destroy their being. Ah ! be not angry with those fires, For then their threats will kill me ; Nor look too kind on my desires. For then my hopes will spill me. Ah ! do not steep them in thy tears, For so will sorrow slay me ; Nor spread them as distraught with fears, — Mine own enough betray me. BEN JONSON. ^- •-^ a- 58 POEMS OF THE AFFECTION'S. SWEET, BE NOT PEOUD. Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes. Which starlike sparkle in their skies ; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts yoiir captives, yours yet free. Be you not proud of that rich hair. Which wantons with the lovesick air ; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear. Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty 's gone. Robert Herrick. GREEN GROW THE RASHES 0! Geeen grow the rashes 0, Green grow the rashes ; The sweetest hours that, e'er I spend Are spent amang the lasses 0. There 's naught but care on ev'ry ban', In every hour that passes ; What signifies the life o' man, An' 't were na for the lasses ? The warly race may riches chase. An' riches still may fly them ; An' though at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them 0. Gie me a canny hour at e'en. My arms about my dearie 0, An' warly cares an' warly men May all gae tapsalteerie 0. For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, Ye 're naught but senseless asses ! The wisest man the warl' e'er saw He dearly lo'ed the lasses 0. Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes : Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses 0. ROBERT BURNS. THE CHRONICLE. Margarita first possessed. If I remember well, my breast, Margarita first of all ; But when awhile the wanton maid With my restless heart had played, Martha took the flying ball. Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loath and angry she to part With the possession of my heart) To Eliza's conquering face. Eliza till this hour might reign, Had she not evil counsels ta'en ; Fundamental laws she broke, And still new favorites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke. Mary then, and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began ; Alternately they swayed ; And sometimes Mary was the fair. And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, And sometimes both I obeyed. Another Mary then arose, And did rigorous laws impose ; A mighty tjrant she ! Long, alas ! should I have been Under that iron-sceptred queen. Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, 'T was then a golden time with me : But soon those pleasures fled ; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride, And Judith reigned in her stead. One month, three days, and half an hour, Judith held the sovereign power : Wondrous beautiful her face ! But so weak and small her wit. That she to govern was unfit, And so Susanna took her place. But when Isabella came, Armed with a resistless flame, And the artillery of her eye, Whilst she proudly marched about, Greater conquests to find out, She beat out Susan, by the by. But in her place I then obeyed Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy-maid, To whom ensued a vacancy : Thousand worse passions then possessed The interregnum of my breast ; Bless me from such an anarchy ! Gentle Henrietta then. And a third Mary next began ; Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria ; And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catharine, And then a long et coetera. ft LOVE. 59 -^ But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me. An higher and a nobler strain My present emperess does claim, Heleonora, first of the name ; Whom God grant long to reign ! ABRAHAM Cowley. A DOUBT. FROM THE THIRD BOOK OF LAWES'S AYRES. Fain would I love, but that I fear I quickly should the willow wear ; Fain would I marry, but men say When love is tied he will away ; Then tell me, love, what shall I do, To cure these fears, whene'er I woo ? The fair one she 's a mark to all, The brown each one doth lovely call, The black 's a pearl in fair men's eyes. The rest will stoop at any prize ; Then tell me, love, what shall I do, To cui'e these fears whene'er I woo ? Dr. R. Hughes. WISHES FOE THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS. Whoe'er she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me ; Where'er she lie. Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny : Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps to our earth ; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through wliich to shine : — Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses. And be ye called, my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie : Something more than Taffeta or tissue can. Or rampant feather, or rich fan. A face that 's best By its own beauty drest. And can alone command the rest : A face made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. Whate'er delight Can make day's forehead bright Or give down to the wings of night. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers ; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow : Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, "Welcome, friend.* I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes ; and I wish — no more. ■ — Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows ; Her that dares be What these lines wish to see : I seek no further, it is She. 'T is She, and here Lo ! I unclothe and clear My wishes' cloudy character. Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes. And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory. My fancies, fly before ye ; Be ye my fictions : — but her story. R. CRASHAW. RIVALRY IN LOVE. Of all the torments, all the cares, With which our lives are curst ; Of all the plagues a lover bears. Sure rivals are the worst ! By partners in each other kind, Afflictions easier gi-ow ; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe. W f 60 t POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. f Sylvia, for all tlie pangs you see Are lab' ring in my breast ; I beg not you would favor me, Would you but slight the rest ! How gi-eat soe'er your rigors are, With them alone I '11 cope ; I can endure my own despair. But not another's hope. William Walsh. THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. Genteel in personage. Conduct, and equipage ; Noble by heritage ; Generous and free ; Brave, not romantic ; Learned, not pedantic ; Frolic, not frantic, — This must he be. Honor maintaining, Meanness disdaining, Still entertaining. Engaging and new ; Neat, but not finical ; Sage, but not cynical ; Never tyrannical, But ever true. HENRY Fielding. THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE. It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair. Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow p:ide of hair : Tell me not of your starry eyes. Your lips that seem on roses fed. Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed, — A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers ; - These are but gauds : nay, what are lips ? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips Full oft he perisheth on them. And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good ? Eyes can with baleful ardor burn ; • Poison can breath, that erst perfumed ; There 's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. For crystal brows there 's nauglit within ; They are but empty cells for pride ; He who the Siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide. Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind, Which with temptation I would trust. Yet never linked with error find, — One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burdened honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose, — My earthly Comforter ! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit wonned above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy. ANONYMOUS. MY DEAE AND ONLY LOVE. My dear and only love, 1 pray, This noble world of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchic. For if confusion have a part. Which virtuous souls abhore. And hold a synod in thy heart, I '11 never love thee more. Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone. My thoughts shall evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much. Or his deserts are small, That puts it not imto the touch, To win or lose it all. JAMES GRAHAM, Earl of Montrosc. MY CHOICE. Shall I tell you whom I love I Hearken then awhile to me ; And if such a woman move As I now shall versify. Be assured 't is she or none. That I love, and love alone. LOVE. 61 ft Nature did her so much right As she scorns the help of art. In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart. So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deilied. Wit she hath, without desier To make known how much she hath ; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be. Though perhaps not so to me. Eeason masters every sense. And her virtues grace her birth ; Lovely as all excellence. Modest in her most of mirth. Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is ; and if you know Such a one as I have sung ; Be she brown, or fair, or so ' That she be but somewhat young ; Be assured 't is she, or none, That I love, and love alone. William Browne. LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE. Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part, No, nor for my constant heart ; For those may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever ; Keep therefore a true woman's eye, And love me still, but know not why. So hast thou the same reason still To dote upon me ever. ANONYMOUS. HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from starlike eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires ; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires : — Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE MS LONG. ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN 1569. Love me little, love me long ! Is the burden of my song : Love that is too hot and strong Burnetii soon to waste. Still I would not have thee cold, — ■ Not too backward, nor too bold ; Love that lasteth till 't is old Fadeth not in haste. Love me little, love me long ! Is the burden of my song. If thou lovest me too much, 'T will not prove as true a touch ; Love me little more than such, — For I fear the end. I 'm with little well content, And a little from thee sent Is enough, with true intent To be steadfast, friend. Say thou lovest me, while thou live I to thee my love will give. Never dreaming to deceive While that life endures ; Nay, and after death, in sooth, I to thee will keep my truth, As now when in my May of youth : This my love assures. Constant love is moderate ever. And it will through life persever ; Give me that with true endeavor, — I will it restore. A suit of durance let it be. For all weathers, ■ — that for me, — For the land or for the sea : Lasting evermore. Winter's cold or summer's heat, Autumn's tempests on it beat ; It can never know defeat. Never can rebel : Such the love that I would gain, Such the love, I tell thee plain, Thou must give, or woo in vain : So to thee — farewell ! ANONVMOU* SONG. Shall I love you like the wind, love, That is so fierce and strong, That sweeps all bamers from its patt And recks not right or wrong ? The passion of the wind, love. Can never last for long k 4' {Sr~ 62 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Shall I love you like the fire, love, "With furious heat and noise, To waken in you all love's fears And little of love's joys ? The passion of the fire, love, Whate'er it finds, destroys. I will love you like the stars, love, Set in the heavenly blue. That only shine the brighter After weeping tears of dew ; Above the wind and fire, love. They love the ages through ! And when this life is o'er, love, "With all its joys and jars. We '11 leave behind the Avind and fire To wage their boisterous wars, — Then we shall only be, love. The nearer to the stars ! R. W. RAYMOND. A "MERCENARY" MARRIAGE. She moves as light across the grass As moves my shadow large and tall ; And lilce my shadow, close yet free, The thought of her aye follows me. My little maid of Moreton Hall. No matter how or where we loved. Or when we '11 wed, or what befall ; I only feel she 's mine at last, I only know I '11 hold her fast. Though to dust crumbles Moreton Hall. Her pedigree — good sooth, 't is long ! Her grim sires stare from every wall ; And centuries of ancestral grace Revive in her sweet girlish face, As meek she glides through Moreton Hall. Whilst I have — nothing ; save, perhaps. Some worthless heaps of idle gold And a true heart, — the which her eye Through glittering dross spied, womanly ; Therefore they say her heart was sold 1 I laugh ; she laughs ; the hills and vales Laugh as we ride 'neath chestnuts tall. Or start the deer that silent graze. And look up, large-eyed, with soft gaze, At the fair maid of Moreton HaU ; We let the neighbors talk their fill, Fo-^ life is sweet, and love is strong. And two, close knit in marriage ties. The whole world's shams may well despise, - Its foUy, madness, shame, and wrong. We are not proud, with a fool's pride, Nor cowards, — to be held in thrall By pelf or lineage, rank or lands : — One honest heart, two honest hands. Are worth far more than Moreton Hall. Therefore we laugh to scorn — we two — The bars that weaker souls appall : I take her hand, and hold it fast. Knowing she '11 love me to the last. My dearest maid of Moreton Hall. Dinah Maeia Mulogk. AMY'S CRUELTY. Fair Amy of the terraced house, Assist me to discover Why you who would not hurt a mouse Can torture so your lover. II. You give your coifee to the cat. You stroke the dog for coming, And all your face grows kinder at The little brown bee's humming. But when lie haunts your door . . . the town Marks coming and marks going . . . You seem to have stitched your eyelids dowa To that long piece of sewing ! IT. You never give a look, not you, Nor drop him a " Good morning," To keep his long day warm and blue, So fretted by your scorning. She shook her head : " The mouse and bee For crumb or flower will linger ; The dog is happy at my knee. The cat purrs at my finger. VI. " But he ... to him, the least thing given Means great things at a distance ; He wants my world, my sun, my heaven, Soul, body, whole existence. VII. " They say love gives as well as takes ; But I 'm a simple maiden, — My mother's first smile when she wakes I still have smiled and prayed in. VIII. " I only know my mother's love Which gives all and asks nothing. c& LOVE. G3 a And this new loving sets the gi'oove Too much the way of loathing. IX. " Unless he gives me all in change, I forfeit all things by him : The risk is terrible and strange — I tremble, doubt, . . . deny him. X. " He 's sweetest friend, or hardest foe, Best angel, or worst devil ; I either hate or . . . love him so, I can't be merely civil ! XI. " You trust a woman who puts forth Her blossoms thick as summer's ? You think she dreams what love is worth. Who casts it to new-comers ? " Such love 's a cowslip-ball to fling, A moment's pretty pastime ; I give ... all me, if anything, The first time and the last time. " Dear neighbor of the trellised house, A man should murmur never. Though treated worse than dog and mouse. Till doted on forever ! " ELIZABETH Barrett Browning. A WOMAN'S QUESTION. Before I trust my fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy future give Color and form to mine. Before I peril all for thee, Question thy soul to-night for me. I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret : Is there one link within the past That holds thy spirit yet ? Or is thy faith as clear and free As that which I can pledge to thee ? Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine. Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine ? If so, at any pain or cost, 0, tell me before all is lost ! Look deeper still : if thou canst feel, Within thy inmost soul, That thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole, Let no false pity spare the blow, But in true mercy tell me so. Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil ? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still ? Speak now, lest at some future day My whole life wither and decay. Lives there within thy nature hid The demon -spirit, change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange ? It may not be thy fault alone, — But shield my heart against thine own. Couldst thou -withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim. That fate, and that to-day's mistake, — Not thou, — had been to blame ? Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou Wilt surely warn and save me now. Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear, The words would come too late ; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So comfort thee, my fate : Whatever on my heart may fall, Kemember, I would risk it all ! Adelaide anne Procter. THE LADY'S "YES." " Yes," I answered you last night ; " No," this morning, sir, I say. Colors seen by candle-light WiU not look the same by day. Wlien the viols played their best. Lamps above, and laughs below, Love me sounded like a jest. Fit for yes or fit for no. Call me false or call me free. Vow, whatever light may shine, No man on your face shall see Any grief for change on mine. Yet the sin is on us both ; Time to dance is not to woo ; Wooing light makes fickle troth. Scorn of me recoils on you. Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high, Bravely, . us for life and death, With a loyal gravity. & ifl ~t 64 POEMS ' OF THE AFFECTIONS. Lead her from the festive boards, Point her to the starry skies, Guard her, hy your truthful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries. By your truth she shall he true. Ever true, as wives of yore ; And her yes, once said to you, Shall he Yes forevermore. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. LOVE'S SILENCE. Because I breathe not love to everie one. Nor do not use set colors for to weare. Nor nourish special locks of vowed haire, Nor give each speech a full point of a gi'oane, — The courtlie nymphs, acquainted wLth. the moane Of them who on their lips Love's standard beare, " What ! he ? " say they of me. " Now I dare sweare He cannot love : No, no ! let him alone." And think so still, — if Stella know my minde. Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art ; But you, faire maids, at length this true shall finde, — That his right badge is but worne in the hearte. Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers proye : They love indeed who quake to say they love. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a love-lorn heart pursuing. Read you not the wi'ong you 're doing In my cheek's pale hue ? All my life with sorrow strewing, Wed, or cease to woo. Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, Still our days are disunited ; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quenched appears, Damped and wavering and Ijenighted Midst my sighs and tears. Charms you call your dearest blessing. Lips that thrill at your caressing, Eyes a mutual soul confessing, Soon you '11 make them gi-ow Dim, and worthless your possessing. Not with age, but woe ! THOMAS CAMPBELL. GIVE ME MORE LOVE OR MORE DISDAIN. Give me more love or more disdam ; The torrid or the frozen zone Brings equal ease unto my pain ; The temperate affords me none ; Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate. Give me a storm ; if it be love. Like Danae in a golden shower, I swim in pleasure ; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture hopes ; and he 's possessed Of heaven that 's but from hell released ; Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; Give me more love or more disdain. THOMAS CAREW. LOVE DISSEMBLED. FROM "as you LIKE IT." Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; 'T is but a peevish boy : — yet he talks well ;. — But what care I for words ? — yet words do well. When he that speaks them pleases those thathear. But, sure, he 's proud ; and yet his pride becomes him : He '11 make a proper man : The best thing in him Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not very tall ; yet for his years he 's tall ; His leg is but so so ; and yet 't is well : There was a pretty redness in his lip, A little riper and more lusty red Than that mixed in his cheek ; 't was just the difference Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they marked liim In parcels, as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him : but, for my part, I love him not, nor hate him not ; and yet I have more cause to hate him than to love him : For what had he to do to chide at me ? He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black ; And, now I am remembered, scorned at me : I marvel, why I answered not again : But that 's all one ; omittance is no quittance. SHAKESPEARE. THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman 's fair ? Or make pale mj^ cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are ? c& -^ LOVE. a 65 Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be ? Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind ? Or a well-disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature ? Be she meeker, kinder than The turtle-dove or pelican. If she be not so to me, "What care I how kind she be ? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love ? Or, her well deservings known. Make me quite forget mine own ? Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of best, If she be not such to me. What care I how good she be ? 'Cause her fortune seems too high. Shall I play the fool and die ? Those that bear a noble mind Wliere they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo ; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be ? Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair : If she love me, this believe, — I will die ere she shall grieve. If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be ? GEORGE Wither. Why then ask of silly man. To oppose gi-eat Nature's plan ? We '11 be constant while we can, — You can be no more, you know. Robert Burns. LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. Let not woman e'er complain Of inconstancy in love ; Let not woman e'er complain Fickle man is apt to rove ; Look abroad through Nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change ; Ladies, would it not be strange Man should then a monster prove ? Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow ; Sun and moon but set to rise, Bound and round the seasons go. 5 ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT. Love in my bosom like a bee. Doth suck his sweet ; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet ; Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast, My kisses are his daily feast. And yet he robs me of my rest : Ah ! wanton, will you ? And if I sleep, then pierceth he With pretty slight, And makes his pillow of my knee, The livelong night ; • Strike I the lute, he tunes the string, He music plays, if I but sing : He lends me every lovely thing. Yet cruel, he my heart doth sting : Ah ! wanton, will you ? Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence. And bind you when you long to play. For your off'ence ; I '11 shut my eyes to keep you in, I '11 make you fast it for your sin, I '11 count your power not worth a pin, Alas ! what hereby shall I win If he gainsay me ! What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod, He will repay me with annoy Because a god ; Then sit thou softly on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be ; Lurk in my eyes, I like of thee, Cupid ! so thou pity me ; Spare not, but play thee. THOMAS Lodge. CUPID AND CAMPASPE. Cttpid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses, — Cupid paid ; He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows. His mother's doves, and team of sparrows, • Loses them too ; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose ■ff a- 66 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how) ; With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin, — All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes ; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. Love ! has she done this to thee ? What shall, alas ! become of me ? JOHN LYLY. [& CUPID SWALLOWED. T' OTHER day, as I was twining Roses for a crown to dine in. What, of all things, midst the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf. The tiny traitor, — Love himself ! By the wings I pinched him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him ; And what d' ye think I did ? — I di-ank him ! Faith, I thought him dead. Not he ! There he lives with tenfold glee ; And now this moment, with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings. LEIGH HUNT. ♦ LOVE AND TIME. Two pilgrims from the distant plain Come quickly o'er the mossy ground. One is a boy, with locks of gold Thick curling round his face so fair ; The other pilgrim, stern and old, Has snowy beard and silver hair. The youth with many a merry trick Goes singing on his careless way ; His old companion walks as quick, But speaks no word by night or day. Where'er the old man treads, the grass Fast fadeth with a certain doom ; But where the beauteous boy doth pass Unnumbered flowers are seen to laloom. And thus before the sage, the boy Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands. And proudly bears a pretty toy, — A crystal glass with diamond sands. A smile o'er any brow would pass To see him frolic in the sun, — To see him shake the crystal glass, And make the sands more quickly run. And now they leap the streamlet o'er, A silver thread so white and thin, And now they reach the open door, And now they lightly enter in : " God save all here," — that kind wish flies Still sweeter from his lips so sweet ; " God save you kindly," Norah cries, "Sit down, my child, and rest and eat." "Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good. We '11 rest awhile our weary feet ; But though this old man needeth food, There 's nothing here that he can eat. His taste is strange, he eats alone. Beneath some ruined cloister's cope, Or on some tottering turret's stone. While I can only live on — Hope ! "A week ago, ere you were wed, — It was the very night before, — Upon so many sweets I fed While passing by your mother's door, — It was that dear, delicious hour When Owen here the nosegay brought. And found you in the woodbine bower, — Since then, indeed, I 've needed naught." A blush steals over Norah's face, A smile comes over Owen's brow, A tranquil joy illumes the place. As if the moon were shining now ; The boy beholds the pleasing pain. The sweet confusion he has done, And shakes the crystal glass again. And makes the sands more quickly run. "Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound Upon an endless path sublime ; We pace the green earth round and round, And mortals call us Love and Time ; He seeks the many, I the few ; I dwell with peasants, he -with, kings. We seldom meet ; but when we do, I take his glass, and he my wings. "And thus together on we go. Where'er I chance or wish to lead ; And Time, whose lonely steps are slow. Now sweeps along -with lightning speed. Now on our bright predestined way We must to other regions pass ; But take this gift, and night and day Look well upon its truthful glass. " How quick or slow the bright sands fall Is hid from lovers' eyes alone. If you can see them move at all, Be sure your heart has colder grown. 'T is coldness makes the glass grow dry, The icy hand, the freezing brow ; But warm the heart and breathe the sigh. And then they 'U pass you know not hoW.' ) ■a^f. //;-> '% ^ f'/ '/f ,> WH'BIIIH||!ll||H)imi||IUI"MiBinf||||||i- LOVE-LETTERS IN FLOWERS "An exq-idsite invciition this, Worthy of Lovers most honeyed kiss, — This art o/ivriting Ijillet-dojix 1 71 buds, and odors, and bright hues ! ' LOVE. 67 ■a Slie took the glass where Love's warm hands A bright impervious vapor cast, She looks, but cannot see the sands. Although she feels they 're falling fast. But cold hours came, and then, alas ! She saw them falling frozen through. Till Love's warm light suffused the glass. And hid the loos'ning sands from view ! Denis Florence MacCarthy. DEATH AND CUPID. Ah ! who but oft hath marvelled why The gods, who rule above. Should e'er permit the young to die, The old to fall in love ? Ah ! why should hapless human kind Be punished out of season ? — Pray listen, and perhaps you '11 find My rhyme may give the reason. Death, strolling out one summer's day, Met Cupid, with his sparrows ; And, bantering in a merry way, Proposed a change of aiTows. "Agreed ! " quoth Cupid. " I foresee The queerest game of errors ; For you the King of Hearts mil be, And I '11 be King of Terrors ! " And so 't was done ; — alas, the day That multiplied their arts ! — Each from the other bore away A portion of his darts. And that explains the reason why. Despite the gods above. The young are often doomed to die, The old to fall in love ! JOHN GODFREY SAXE. LOVE-LETTEES MADE OF FLOWERS. An exquisite invention this. Worthy of Love's most honeyed kiss, — This art of writing billet-doux Li buds, and odors, and bright hues ! In sajang all one feels and thinks In clever daffodils and pinks ; In puns of tulips ; and in phrases, Charming for their truth, of daisies ; Uttering, as well as silence may, The sweetest words the sweetest way. How fit too for the lady's bosom ! The place where hillet-doux repose 'em. What delight in some sweet spot Combining love -with garden plot, At once to cultivate one's flowers And one's epistolary powers ! Grooving one's own choice words and fancies In orange tubs, and beds of pansies ; One's sighs, and passionate declarations, In odorous rhetoric of carnations ; Seeing how far one's stocks will reach. Taking due care one's flowers of speech To guard from blight as well as bathos, And watering every day one's pathos ! A letter comes, just gathered. We Dote on its tender brilliancy. Inhale its delicate expressions Of balm and pea, and its confessions Made with as sweet a maiden's blush As ever morn bedewed on bush : ('T is in reply to one of ours. Made of the most convincing flowers.) Then, after we have kissed its wit, And heart, in water putting it (To keep its remarks fresh), go round Our little eloquent plot of ground. And with enchanted hands compose Our answer, - — all of lily and rose, Of tuberose and of violet. And little darling (mignonette) ; Of look at me and call me to you (Words, that while they greet, go through you) , Of tJioiights, oi flames, forget-me-not, Brideioort, — in short, the whole blest lot Of vouchers for a lifelong kiss, — And Literally, breathing bliss ! Leigh hunt. THE BIRTH OF PORTRAITURE. As once a Grecian maiden wove Her garland mid the summer bowers. There stood a youth, with eyes of love, To watch her while she wreathed the flowers. The youth was skilled in painting's art, But ne'er had studied woman's brow, Nor knew what magic hues the heart Can shed o'er Nature's charm, till now. CHORUS. Blest be Love, to whom we owe All ihat 's fair and bright below. His hand had pictured many a rose, And sketched the rays that lit the brook ; But what were these, or what were those. To woman's blush, to woman's look ? " Oh ! if such magic power there be. This, this," he cried, " is all my prayer, -tf fl- 68 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIOKS. To paint that living light I see, And &S. the soul that sparkles there." His prayer as soon as breathed was heard ; His pallet touched by Love grew warm, And painting saw her thus transferred From lifeless flowers to woman's form. Still, as from tint to tint he stole. The fair design shone out the more, And there was now a life, a soul, Where only colors glowed before. Then first carnation learned to speak. And lilies into life were brought ; While mantling on the maiden's cheek, Young roses kindled into thought : Then hyacinths their darkest dyes Upon the locks of beauty threw ; And violets transformed to eyes, Inshrined a soul within their blue. CHOEUS. Blest be Love, to whom we owe All that 's bright and fair below ; Song was cold and painting dim, Till song and painting learned from him. THOMAS MOORE. h TIP ! QUIT THY BOWER. Up ! quit thy bower ! late wears the hour. Long have the rooks cawed round the tower ; O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee, And the wild kid sports merrily. The sun is bright, the sky is clear ; Wake, lady, wake ! and hasten here. Up, maiden fair ! and bind thy hair. And rouse thee in the breezy air ! The lulling stream that soothed thy dream Is dancing in the sunny beam. Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay : Leave thy soft couch, and haste away ! Up ! Time will tell the morning bell Its service-sound has chimed well ; The aged crone keeps house alone, The reapers to the fields are gone. Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay : Lo ! while thou sleep' st they haste away ! JOANNA BAILLIE. ♦— FOE LOVE'S SWEET SAKE. Awake ! — the starry midnight hour Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight ; In its own sweetness sleeps the flower, And the doves lie hushed in deep delight. Awake ! awake ! Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake ! Awake ! — soft dews will soon arise From daisied mead and thorny brake : Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, And like the tender morning break ! Awake ! awake ! Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake ! Awake ! — within the musk-rose bower I watch, pale flower of love, for thee. Ah, come ! and show the starry hour What wealth of love thou hid'st from me \ Awake ! awake ! Show all thy love, for Love's sweet sake ! Awake ! — ne'er heed though listening night Steal music from thy silver voice ; Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright, And bid the world and me rejoice ! Awake ! awake ! — She comes at last, for Love's sweet sake. Barry Cornwall. INVOCATION" TO THE ANGEL. from " HEAVEN AND EARTH." Samiasa ! I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee ; Many may worship thee, that will I not ; If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, Descend and share my lot ! Though I be formed of clay, And thou of beams More bright than those of day On Eden's streams, Thine immortality cannot repay With love more warm than mine My love. There is a ray In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. It may be hidden long : death and decay Our mother Eve bequeathed us, birt my heart Defies it ; though this life must pass away. Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? Thou art immortal ; so am I : I feel — I feel my immortality o'ersweep All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal. Like the eternal thunders of the deep, Into my ears this ti-uth, — ' ' Thou liv'st forever ! " FLY TO THE DESEET, FLY WITH ME, SONG OF NOURMAHAL IN "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." " Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt Of tents with love or thrones without ? LOVE. 69 -a *' Our rocks are rough, but smiling there Th' acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness. " Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gayly springs As o'er the marble courts of kings. " Tlien come, — thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia-tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. " Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart, As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it through life had sought ; "As if the very lips and eyes Predestined to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before as then ! " So came thy every glance and tone. When first on me they breathed and shone ; New, as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome as if loved for years ! " Then fly with me, if thou hast known No other flame, nor falsely thrown A gem away, that thou hadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn. " Come, if the love thou hast for me Ls pure and fresh as mine for thee, — Fresh as the fountain underground. When first 't is by the lapwing found. " But if for me thou dost forsake Some other maid, and rudely break Her worshipped image from its base. To give to me the ruined place ; " Then, fare thee well ! — I 'd rather make My bower upon some icy lake When thawing suns begin to shine, Than trust to love so false as thine ! " There was a pathos in this lay. That even without enchantment's art Would instantly have found its way Deep into Selim's burning heart ; But breathing, as it did, a tone To earthly lutes and lips unknown ; With every chord fresh from the touch Of music's spirit, 't was too much ! Starting, he dashed away the cup, — Which, all the time of this sweet air. His hand had held, untasted, up. As if 't were fixed by magic there, — And naming her, so long unnamed, So long unseen, wildly exclaimed, " Nourmahal ! Nourmahal ! Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, I could forget — forgive thee all. And never leave those eyes again." The mask is off, — the charm is wi'ought, - - And Selim to his heart has caught, In blushes, more than ever bright. His Nourmahal, his Harem's Light ! And well do vanished frowns enhance The charm of every brightened glance ; And dearer seems each dawning smile For having lost its light awhile ; And, happier now for all her sighs, As on his arm her head reposes, She whispers him, with laughing eyes, ' ' Remember, love, the Feast of Roses ! " Thomas Moore. COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown ! Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone ; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. And the musk of the roses blown. For a breeze of morning moves, Ana the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daflbdil sky, — To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, To faint in its light, and to die. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon ; All night has the casement jessamine stirred To the dancers dancing in tune, — Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon. I said to the lily, " There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone ? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day ; Low qn the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away. I said to the rose, ' ' The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. young lord-lover, what sighs are those For one that will never be thine ? But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, " For ever and ever mine ! " -4 [fr- 70 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clashed in the hall ; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all ; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs, He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes. To the woody hollows in which we meet. And the valleys of Paradise. The slender acacia would not shake One long milk -bloom on the tree ; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me ; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. Come hither ! the dances are done ; In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one ; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. To the flowers, and be their sun. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear ; She is coming, my life, my fate ! The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near" ; And the white rose weeps, ' ' She is late " ; The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear" ; And the lily whispers, " I wait." . She is coming, my own, my sweet ! "Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat. Were it earth in an earthly bed ; My dust would hear her and beat. Had I lain for a century dead ; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE YOUNG MAY MOON. The young May moon is beaming, love. The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love. How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, While the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! Then awake ! — the heavens look bright, my dear ! 'T is never too late for delight, my dear ! And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear ! Now all the world is sleeping, love. But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love. And I, whose star. More glorious far. Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake ! — till rise of sun, my dear, The sage's glass we '11 shun, my dear, Or, in watching the flight Of bodies of light. He might happen to take thee for one, my dear ! THOMAS MOORE. . AH, SWEET KITTY NEIL! "Ah, sweet Kitty Neil ! rise up from your wheel, Your neat little foot will be weary from spin- ning ; Come, trip down with me to the sycamore-tree ; Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning. ' The sun is gone do'mi ; but the' full harvest moon Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley ; While all the air rings with the soft, loving things Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley." With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while. Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing ; 'T is hard to refuse when a young lover sues, So she could n't but choose to — go off to the dancing. And now on the green the glad groups are seen, — Each gay -hearted lad with the lass of his choos- ing ; And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil, — Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing. Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion ; With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the ground. The maids move around just like swans on the ocean. Cheeks bright as the rose, — feet light as the doe's. Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing ; Search the world all around from the sky to the ground, No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing ! t& LOVE. 71 a Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, Your fair-turned ann, heaving breast, rounded form. Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wdldly ? Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart. Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love ; The sight leaves his eye as he cries with a sigh, ^ "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love ! " Denis Florence MacCarthy. NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME? Nancy, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? Can silent glens have charms for thee. The lonely cot and russet gown ? No longer drest in silken sheen. No longer decked with jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? Nancy ! when thou 'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? Say, canst thou face the parching ray. Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 0, can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor sad regret each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? Nancy ! canst thou love so true. Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe ? Say, should disease or pain befall. Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recall Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay. Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? THOMAS Percy, d.d. BEDOUIN LOVE-SONG. From the Desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with five ; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand. And the midnight hears my cry : I love thee, I love but thee ! With a love that shall not die Till the Sim grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! Look from thy window, and see My passion and my pain ! I lie on the sands below. And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night-winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till tlic sun grows cold. And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold 1 My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart. And ojien thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun groivs cold. And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! Bayard Taylor. COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. FROM " IRISH MELODIES." Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer. Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here ; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast. And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh ! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame ? I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. ■ff [fi- 72 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Tliou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I '11 be, mid the horrors of this, . Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there too! Thomas Moore. THE WELCOME. Come in the evening, or come in the morning ; Come when you 're looked for, or come without warning ; Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before you. And the oftener you come here the more I '11 adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; Kedismy cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, ' * True lovers don't sever ! " II. I '11 pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ! Or, after you 've kissed them, they 'U lie on my bosom ; I 'U fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I '11 fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. Oh ! your step's like the rain to the summer- vexed farmer, Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ; I '11 sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me. Then, wandering, I '11 wish you in silence to love me. III. We '11 look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie ; We '11 tread round the rath on the track of the fairy ; We 'U look on the stars, and we '11 list to the river, TiR you askof your darling what gift you can give her. Oh! she'll whisper you, — "Love, as un- changeably beaming. And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming ; Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river. " IV. So come in the evening, or come in the morning ; Come when you 're looked for, or come without warning ; Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I '11 adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; Eed is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looksfargreenerthan ever, And the linnets are singing, ' ' True lovers don't sever ! " THOMAS DAVIS. CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES. CA tlie yowes to the Tcnowes, Ca' them where tlie heatlier grows, CcC them where tlie hurnie rowes, My honnie dearie. Hark the mavis' evening sang Sounding Cluden's woods amang; Then a-faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie. Ca' tlie, &c. We 'U gae down by Clauden side, Thro' the hazels spreading wide. O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly. Ca' tlie, &c. Yonder Cluden's silent towers. Where at moonshine midnight hours. O'er the dewy bending flowers. Fairies dance sae cheerie. Ca' the, &c. Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear : Thou 'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie. Ca' the, ko,. Fair and lovely as thou art. Thou hast stown my very heart ; I can die — but canna part, My bonnie dearie. Ca' the, &c. While waters wimple to the sea ; While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,. Ye shall be my dearie. Ca' the, &c. ROBERT BURNS. ty-- LOVE. 73 ^ WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. WHISTLE and I '11 come to you, my lad, whistle, and I '11 come to you, my lad ; Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, whistle, and I '11 come to you, my lad. But warily tent, when ye come to court me. And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see. And come as ye were na' comin' to me. And come, &c. whistle, &c. At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e. Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. Yet look, &c. whistle, &c. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be. For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. For fear, &c. whistle, &c. Robert Burns. THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. Come, live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills, and fields. Woods or steepy mountains, yields. There we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses With a thousand fragrant posies ; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ; A gown made of the finest wool. Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold ; A belt of straw, and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs : And if these pleasures may thee move. Come, live with me, and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning, If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love. Christopheb Marlowe. THE NYMPH'S REPLY. If that the world and love were young. And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To liVe with thee and be thy love. But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb, And all complain of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields ; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, — In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds. Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — ■ All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then those delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love. Sir Walter Raleigh. GO, HAPPY ROSE. Go, happy Rose ! and, interwove With other flowers, bind my love ! Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free. That so oft hath fettered me. Say, if she 's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands ; Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods at will, For to tame, though not to kiU. Take then my blessing thus, and go, And tell her this, — but do not so ! Lest a handsome anger fly. Like a lightning from her eye. And bum thee up, as well as I. ROBERT HERRICK. THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS. I. Evert wedding, says the proverb, Makes another, soon or late ; Never yet was any marriage ■ff c& -t 74 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Entered in the book of fate, But the names were also written Of the patient pan- that wait. II. Blessings then upon the morning When my friend, with fondest look, By the solemn rites' permission. To himself his mistress took, And the destinies recorded Other two within their book. III. While the priest fulfilled his office, Still the ground the lovers eyed, And the parents and the kinsmen Aimed their glances at the bride ; But the groomsmen eyed the virgins Who were waiting at her side. IT. Three there were that stood beside her ; One was dark, and one was fair ; But nor fair nor dark the other, Save her Arab eyes and hair ; Neither dark nor fair I call her. Yet she was the fairest there. V. While her groomsman — shall I own it ? Yes to thee, and only thee — Gazed iipon this dark-eyed maiden Who was fairest of the three, Thus he thought : " How blest the bridal Where the bride were such as she ! " VI. Then I mused upon the adage. Till my wisdom was perplexed, And I wondered, as the churchman Dwelt upon his holy text. Which of all who heard his lesson Should require the service next. Whose will be the next occasion For the flowers, the feast, the wine ? Thine, perchance, my dearest lady ; Or, who knows ? — it may be mine, What if 't were — forgive the fancy — What if 't were — both mine and thine ? THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. c& MY EYES ! HOW I LOVE YOU. My eyes ! how I love you. You sweet little dove you ! There 's no one above you. Most beautiful Kitty. So glossy your hair is. Like a sylph's or a fairy's ; And your neck, I declare, is Exquisitely pretty ! Quite Grecian your nose is. And your cheeks are like roses, So delicious — Moses ! Surpassingly sweet ! Not the beauty of tulips, Nor the taste of mint-juleps, Can compare with your two lips, Most beautiful Kate ! Not the black eyes of Juno, Nor Minerva's of blue, no. Nor Venus' s, you know, Can equal your own I 0, how my heart prances. And frolics and dances, When its radiant glances Upon me are thrown ! And now, dearest Kitty, It 's not very pretty, Indeed it 's a pity. To keep me in sorrow ! So, if you '11 but chime in. We '11 have done with our rhymin', Swap Cupid for Hymen, And be married to-morrow. ANONYMOW5 EUTH. Shk stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn. Like the sweetheart of the sun. Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened ; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born. Like red poppies grown with com. Eound her eyes her tresses fell, — • Which were blackest none could tell ; But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright. .And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim ; — ■ Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks. LOVE. --a 75 Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean "Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home. THOMAS Hood. WIDOW MACHREE. Widow machree, it 's no wonder you frown, — Och hone ! widow machree ; Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black go^\^l, — • Och hone ! widow machree. How altered your air, With that close cap you wear, — 'T is destroying your hair, Which should be flowing free : Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl, — Och hone ! widow machree I Widow machree, now the summer is come, — Och hone ! widow machree. When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum? Och hone ! widow machree 1 See the birds go in pairs, And the rabbits and hares ; Why, even the bears Now in couples agree ; And the mute little fish, Though they can't spake, they wish, — Och hone ! widow machree. Widow machree, and when winter comes in, — Och hone ! widow machree, — To be poking the lire all alone is a sin, Och hone ! widow machree. Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs. And the kettle sings songs Full of family glee ; Wliile alone with your cup Like a hermit you sup, Och hone ! widow machree. IV. And how do you know, with the comforts I 've towld, — Och hone ! widow machree, — • But you 're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld, Och hone ! widow machree ! With such sins on your head. Sure your peace would be fled ; Could you sleep in your bed Without thinking to see Some ghost or some sprite, That would wake you each night, Crying " Och hone ! widow machree I " V. Then take my advice, darling widow machree, — Och hone ! widow machree, — And with my advice, faith, I wish you 'd take me, Och hone ! widow machree ! You'd have me to desire Then to stir up the fire ; And sure hope is no liar In whispering to me. That the ghosts would depart When you 'd me near your heart, — Och hone ! widow machree ! Samuel Lover. MAUD MULLER. Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wea,lth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her meiTy glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, — A wish, that she hardly dared to own. For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane. Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the aj^ple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow, across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. And fiUed for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. "Thanks ! " said the Judge, " a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quafi'ed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. Of the singing birds and the hummmg bees ; # [& 76 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And her graceful ankles, bare and brown. And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me 1 That 1 the Judge's bride might be ! "He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. " My father should wear a broadcloth coat, My brother should sail a painted boat. " I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. "And I 'd feed the hungiy and clothe the poor. And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still : " A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. " And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. "Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay, " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, " But low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and q^uiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. When he hummed in court an old love tune ; And the young girl mused beside the well. Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower. Who lived for fashion, as he for power. tfl-* Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow. He watched a picture come and go ; And sweet Maud Muller' s hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead. And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover blooms ; And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, ' ' Ah, that I were free again ! " Free as when 1 rode that day Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor. And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain. Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein-, And, gazing down with a timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls ; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned. The tallow candle an astral burned ; And for him who sat by the chimney lug. Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, " It might have been." Alas for maiden, alas for judge, For rich repiner and household drudge ! God pity them both ! and pity us all. Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; For of all sad words of tongue or pen. The saddest are these : "It might have been ! ' Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes ; And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away ! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. -a LOVE. 77 QUAKERDOM, THE FORMAL CALL. Throitgh her forced, abnormal quiet Flashed the soul of frolic riot, And a most malicious laughter Lighted up her downcast eyes ; All in vain I tried each topic. Ranged from polar climes to tropic, ^ Every commonplace I started met with yes-or- no replies. For her mother — stiff and stately. As if starched and ironed lately — - Sat erect, with rigid elbows bedded thus in curv- ing palms ; There she sat on guard before us, And in words precise, decorous. And most calm, reviewed the weather, and recited several psalms. How without abruptly ending This my visit, and offending Wealthy neighbors, was the problem which em- ployed my mental care ; When the butler, bowing lowly, Uttered clearly, stiffly, slowly, "Madam, please, the gardener wants you," — Heaven, I thought, has heard my prayer. " Pardon me ! " she grandly uttered ; Bowing low, I gladly muttered, "Surely, madam !" and, relieved, I turned to scan the daughter's face : Ha ! what pent-up mirth outflashes From beneath those pencilled lashes ! How the drill of Quaker custom yields to Na- ture's brilliant grace. ^ Brightly springs the prisoned fountain From the side of Delphi's mountain When the stone that weighed upon its buoyant life is thrust aside ; So the long-enforced stagnation Of the maiden's conversation ' Now imparted five -fold brilliance to its ever- varying tide. Widely ranging, quickly changing, Witty, winning, from beginning Unto end I listened, merely flinging in a casual word ; Eloquent, and yet how simple ! Hand and eye, and eddying dimple. Tongue and lip together made a music seen as well as heard. When the noonday woods are ringing. All the birds of summer singing. Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a serpent nigh : So upon the door a rattle Stopped our animated tattle, And the stately mother found us prim enough to suit her eye. Charles G. Halpine. THE CHESS-BOARD. My little love, do you remember, Ere we were gi'own so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes ? Ah ! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight ; Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand ; The double Castles guard the wings ; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling, through the fight. Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, A;nd falter ; falls your golden hair Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow, her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware. Ah me ! the little battle 's done : Disperst is all its chivalry. Full many a move since then have we Mid life's perplexing checkers made, And many a game with fortune played ; What is it we have won ? This, this at least, — if this alone : That never, never, nevermore. As in those old still nights of yore, (Ere we were gro\vn so sadly wise,) Can you and I shut out the skies. Shut out the woi-ld and wintry weather. And eyes exchanging warmtli with eyes, Play chess, as then we played together. ROBERT BULWER LVTTON. WHEN" YOUR BEAUTY APPEARS. "When your beauty appears, In its graces and airs. All bright as an angel new dropt from the skies, At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears. So strangely you dazzle my eyes ! •tf fl- 78 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. But when without art Your kind thoughts you impart, "When your love runs in blushes through every vein, When it darts from your eyes, when it pants at your heart, Then I know that you 're woman again." " There 's a passion and pride In our sex," she replied ; "And thus (might I gratify both) I would do, — Still an angel appear to each lover beside. But still be a woman for you." THOMAS PARNELL. Kiss me softly and speak to me low, — ■ Envy too has a watchful ear : "What if Envy should chance to hear ? Kiss me, dear ! Kiss me softly and speak to me low. Kiss me softly and speak to me low : Trust me, darling, the time is near "When lovers may love with never a fear, - Kiss me, dear ! Kiss me softly and speak to me low. JOHN GODFREY SAXE. THE FIRST KISS. How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at love's beginning. When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there 's no untying. Yet remember, midst your wooing. Love has bliss, but love has ruing ; Other smiles may make you fickle. Tears for other charms may trickle. Love he comes, and Love he tarries, Just as fate or fancy "carries, — Longest stays when sorest chidden, Laughs and flies when pressed and bidden. Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Bind its odor to the lily, Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, — • Then bind Love to last forever 1 Love 's a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; Love's wing moults when caged and captured, — Only free he soars enraptured. Can you keep the bee from ranging. Or the ring-dove's neck from changing ? No ! nor fettered Love from dying In the knot there 's no untying. THOMAS CAMPBELL. ^ KISS ME SOFTLY. Da me basia. — Catullus. I. Kiss 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. SLY THOUGHTS. " I SAW him kiss your cheek ! " — "'Tis true." " Modesty ! " — '"T was strictly kept : He thought me asleep ; at least, I knew He thought I thought he thought I slept." COVENTRY PATMORE. THE KISS. 1. Among thy fancies tell me this ; What is the thing we call a kiss ? — 2. I shall resolve ye what it is : It is a creature born and bred Between the lips all cherry red. By love and warm desires fed ; Ghor. And makes more soft the bridal bed. It is an active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes. And charms them there with lullabies ; Ghor. And stills the bride too when she cries. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies, — now here, now there ; 'T is now far off, and then 't is near ; Ukor. And here, and there, and everywhere. 1. Has it a speaking virtue ? — 2. Yes. 1. How speaks it, say ? — 2. Do you but this : Part your joined lips, — then speaks your kiss ; Chor. And this love's sweetest language is. 1. Has it a body ? — 2. Ay, and wings, With thousand rare encolorings ; And as it flies it gently sings ; Clior. Love honey yields, but never stings. Robert Herrick ^ LOVE. 79 a KISSING 'S NO SIN. Some say that kissing 's a sin ; But I think it 's nane ava, For kissing lias wonn'd in tliis warld Since ever that there was twa. 0, 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. ANONYMOUS. DINNA ASK ME. 0, DINNA ask me gin I lo'e ye : Troth, I dauma tell ! Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye, — Ask it o' yoursel'. 0, dinna look sae sair at me, For weel ye ken me true ; 0, gin ye look sae sair at me, I daurna look at you. When ye gang to yon braw braw town, And bonnier lassies see, 0, dinna, Jamie, look at them. Lest ye should mind na me. For I could never bide the lass That ye 'd lo'e mair than me ; And 0, I 'm sure my heart wad brak. Gin ye 'd prove fause to me ! COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the rye. Gin a body kiss a body. Need a body cry ? Every lassie has her laddie, — Ne'er a ane hae I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Amang tJie train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysel' ; But wJmur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. Gin a body meet a body Comin' frae the town. Gin a body greet a body. Need a body frown ? Every lassie has her laddie, — Ne'er a ane hae I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Anting the train tJiere is a swain I dearly lo'e mysel ' ; But whaur his havic, or what his name, I dinna, care to tell. Adapted by BURNS. KITTY OF COLERAINE. As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Goleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled. And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain. " 0, what shall I do now ? — 't was looking at you now ! Sure, sure, such a pitcher I '11 ne'er meet again ! 'T was the pride of my dairy : Barney M'Cleaiy ! You 're sent as a plague to the girls of Goleraine." I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain . A kiss then I gave her ; and ere I did leave her. She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'T was hay-making season — I can't teU the rea- son — Misfortunes will never come single, 't is plain ; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Goleraine. Charles Dawson Shanlv. THE DULE 'S I' THIS BONNET 0' MINE. YORKSHIRE DIALECT. The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine : My ribbins '11 never be reet ; Here, Mally, aw 'm like to be fine, For Jamie '11 be comin' to-neet ; He met me i' th' lone t' other day (Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well). An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he '11 let me, aw will 1 WTien he took my two bonds into his. Good Lord, heaw they trembled between I An' aw durst n't look up in his face, Becose on him seein' my e'en. -ff a- 80 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. My cheek went as red as a rose ; There 's never a mortal con tell Heaw happy aw felt, — for, thae knows, One could n't ha' axed him theirsel'. But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung : To let it eawt would n't be reet, For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung ; So aw towd him aw 'd tell him to-neet. But, Mally, thae knows very weel. Though it is n't a thing one should own, Iv aw 'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel'. Aw 'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd thae my mind ; What would to do iv it wur thee ? ** Aw 'd tak him just while he 'se inclined, An' a farrantly bargain he '11 be ; For Jamie 's-as greadly a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sim. Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed ; An' mak th' best o' th' job when it 's done 1 ' Eh, dear ! but it 's time to be gwon : Aw should n't like Jamie to wait ; Aw connut for shame be too soon. An' aw wouldn't for th' wuld be too late. Aw 'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel : Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do ? " Be off, lass, — thae looks very weel ; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo ! " EDWIN WAUGH. THE MOTH'S KISS, FIEST ! IN A GONDOLA.' The Moth's kiss, first ! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up ; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide open burst. The Bee's kiss, now ! Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dared not disallow The claim, so all is rendered up. And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow. Robert Browning. SUMMER DAYS. In summer, when the days were long, We walked together in the wood : Our heart was light, our step was strong ; Sweet flutterings were there in our blood, In summer, when the days were long. We strayed from mom till evening came ; We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; We walked mid poppies red as flame, Or sat upon the yellow downs ; And always wished our life the same. In summer, when the days were long. We leaped the hedgerow, crossed the brook ; And still her voice flowed forth in song. Or else she read some graceful book. In summer, when the days were long. And then we sat beneath the trees, With shadows lessening in the noon ; And in the sunlight and the breeze, We feasted, many a gorgeous June, While larks were singing o'er the leas. In summer, when the days were long. On dainty chicken, snow-white bread. We feasted, with no grace but song ; We plucked wild strawb'rries, ripe and red, In summer, when the days were long. We loved, and yet we knew it not, — For loving seemed like breathing then ; We found a heaven in every spot ; Saw angels, too, in all good men ; And dreamed of God in grove and grot. In summer, when the days are long. Alone I wander, muse alone. I see her not ; but that old song Under the fragrant wind is blown. In summer, when the days are long. Alone I wander in the wood : - But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; And half I see, so glad and good, The honest daylight of her eyes. That charmed me under earlier skies. In summer, when the days are long, I love her as we loved of old. My heart is light, my step is strong ; For love brings back those hours of gold, In summer, when the days are long. ANONYMOUS. C& LOVE. ft 81 THE WHISTLE. "You have heard," said a youth to his sweet- heart, who stood, While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline, — "You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood ? I wish that that Danish boy's whistle were mine. " "And what would you do with it ? — teU me," she said. While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. " I would blow it," he answered ; " and then my fair maid Would fly to my side, and would here take her place." " Is that all you wish it for ? — That maybe yours Without any magic," the fair maiden cried : "A favor so slight one's good nature secures" ; And she playfully seated herself by his side. " I would blow it again," said the youth, " and the charm Would work so, that not even Modesty's check Would be able to k eep from my neck your fine arm " : She smiled, — and she laid her fine arm round his neck. " Yet once more would I blow, and the music divine Would bring me the third time an exquisite bliss : You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine, And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss." The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee, — "What a fool of yourself with your whistle you 'd make ! For only consider, how silly 't would be, To sit there and whistle for — what you might ^^^®- Robert Story. GENEVIEVE. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower. 6 The moonshine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! She leaned against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own. My hope ! my joy ! m}' 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 well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he 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 owti. She listened Avith a flitting blush. With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face. But when I told the cniel 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 can|ie 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 ; -ff a- 82 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And how she wept, and clasx^ed his knees ; And how she tended him in vain ; And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his hrain ; 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 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity ! 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 Adrgin 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 enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face. 'T was partly love, and partly fear, And partly 't was a bashful art That I might rather feel than see The sweUing of her heart. 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. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. * WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. Come, all ye jolly shepherds. That whistle through the glen 1 I '11 tell ye o' a secret That courtiers dinna ken : What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name ? 'T is to woo a bonnie lassie When the kye come hame. When the kye came Jiaine, When iJie kye come hame, — ' Tween tlie gloamin' an' the mirk, When the kye come hame. 'T is not beneath the burgonet, Nor yet beneath the crown ; 'T is not on couch o' velvet, Nor yet in bed o' doAvn : 'T is beneath the spreading birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie. When the kye come hame. There the blackbird bigs his nest, For the mate he lo'es to see, And on the tapmost bough 0, a happy bird is he ! There he pours his melting ditty, And love is a' the theme ; And he '11 woo his bonnie lassie, Wlien the kye come hame. When the blewart bears a pearl. And the daisy turns a pea. And the bonnie lucken gowan Has fauldit up his ee, Then the lavrock, frae the blue lift, Draps down and thinks nae shame To woo his bonnie lassie. When the kye come hame. See yonder pawky shepherd. That lingers on the hill : His yowes are in the fauld, And his lambs are lying still ; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonnie lassie When the kye come hame. When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, And the little wee bit starn Rises red in the east, 0, there 's a joy sae dear That the heart can hardly frame ! Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie. When the kye come hame. Then since all Nature joins In this love without alloy, 0, wha wad prove a traitor To Nature's dearest joy ? Or wha wad choose a cvowa, Wi' its perils an' its fame. And miss his bonnie lassie. When the kye come hame ? JAMES HOGG. LOVE. ■a 83 ATALANTA VICTORIOUS. FROM " ATALANTa's RACE," IN "THE EARTHLY PARADISE." And there two runners did the sign abide Foot set to foot, — a young man slim and fair, Crisp-haired, well knit, with firm limbs often tried In places where no man his strength may spare ; Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair A golden circlet of renown he wore. And in his hand an olive garland bore. But on this day with whom shall he contend ? A maid stood by him like Diana clad When in the woods she lists her bow to bend, Too fair for one to look on and be glad, Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had, If he must still behold her from afar ; Too fair to let the world live free from war. She seemed all earthly matters to forget ; Of all tormenting lines her face was clear. Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near ; But her foe trembled as a man in fear. Nor from her loveliness one moment turned His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. Now through the hush there broke the trum- pet's clang Just as the setting sun made eventide. Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang. And swiftly were they running side by side ; But silent did the thronging folk abide Until the turning-post was reached at last. And round about it still abreast they passed. But when the people saw how close they ran, ■\Vhen half-way to the starting-point they were, A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near Unto the very end of all his fear ; And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel, And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal. But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard His flushed and eager face he turned around. And even then he felt her past him bound Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there Tin on the goal she laid her fingers fair. There stood she breathing like a little child Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep. For no victorious joy her red lips smiled, Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep ; No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep, Though some divine thought softened all her face As once more rang the trumpet through the place. But her late foe stopped short amidst his course. One moment gazed upon her piteously. Then with a gi-oan his lingering feet did force To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see ; And, changed like one who knows his time must be But short and bitter, without any word He knelt before the bearer of the sword ; Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade. Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place AVas silence now, and midst of it the maid Went by the poor ■wretch at a gentle pace, And he to hers upturned his sad white face ; Nor did his eyes behold another sight Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. William Morris. ATALANTA CONQUERED. FROM '^ATALANTa's RACE," IN "THE EARTHLY PARADISE." Now has the lingering month at last gone by, Again are all folk round the running place. Nor other seems the dismal pageantry Than heretofore, but that another face Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race. For now, beheld of all, Milanion Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. But yet — what change is this that holds the maid? Does she indeed see in his glittering eye More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, Some happy hope of help and victory ? The others seemed to say, " We come to die, Look do\vn upon us for a little while, That dead, we may bethink us of thy smile." But he — what look of mastery was this He cast on Jier ? why were his lips so red ? Why was his face so flushed with happiness ? So looks not one who deems himself but dead. E'en if to death he bows a willing head ; So rather looks a god well pleased to find Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. Why must she drop her lids before his gaze. And even as she casts ado^^^l her eyes Redden to note his eager glance of praise, And wish that she were, clad in other guise ? Why must the memory to her heart arise Of things unnoticed when they first were heard. Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word? What makes these longings, vague, without a name, And this vain pity never felt before, This sudden languor, this contempt of fame. -& a- 84 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, These doubts that grow each minute more and more ? "Why does she tremhle as the time grows near, And weak defeat and woful victory fear ? But while she seemed to hear her beating heart, Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out, And forth they sprang ; and she must play her part ; Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt. Though slackening once, she turned her head about. But then she cried aloud and faster fled Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. But with no sound he raised aloft his hand. And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew And past the maid rolled on along the sand ; Then trembling she her feet together drew, And in her heart a strong desire there grew To have the toy ; some god she thought had given , That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. Then from the course with eager steps she ran, And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. But when she turned again, the great-limbed man Now well ahead she failed not to behold, And mindful of her glory waxing cold, Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit. Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize, And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair Three arrows fell and lay before her ^yes Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries She sprang to head the strong Milanion, "Who now the turning-post had wellnigh won. But as he set his mighty hand on it, "White fingers underneath his own were laid, And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did fUt, Then he the second fruit cast by the maid. But she ran on awhile, then as afraid "Wavered and stopped, and turned andmade no stay Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, Now far ahead the Argive could she see. And in her garment's hem one hand she wound To keep the double prize, and strenuously Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she To win the day, though now but scanty space "Was left betwixt him and the winning place. Short was the way unto such winged feet, Quickly she gained upon him till at last He turned about her eager eyes to meet, And from his hand the third fair apple cast. She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, That in her hand it lay ere it was still. Nor did she rest, but turned about to win Once more, an unblest woful victory — And yet — and yet — why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily ? "Why fails she now to see if far or nigh The goal is ? why do her gray eyes gTOW dim ? Why do these tremors run through every limb ? She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, A strong man's arms abo\it her body twined. Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, So wrapped she is in new, unbroken bliss : Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. William Morris. THE SIESTA. FROM THE SPANISH. ' Vientecico murmurador. Que lo gozas y andas todo,' Airs, that wander and murmur round. Bearing delight where'er ye blow ! Make in the elms a lulling sound, "While my lady sleeps in the shade below. Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er. Sweet be her slumbers ! though in my breast The pain she has waked may slumber no more. Breathing soft from the blue profound. Bearing delight where'er ye blow, Make in the elms a lulling sound, "While my lady sleeps in the shade below. Airs ! that over the bending boughs, And under the shade of pendent leaves. Murmur soft, like my timid vows Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves, — Gently sweeping the grassy ground. Bearing delight where'er ye blow. Make in the elms a lulling sound, "While my lady sleeps in the shade below. William Cullen Bryant. 4zr LOVE, 8^ -a ACBAR AND NOUEMAHAL. FROM "the light OF THE HAREM." Oil ! best of delights, as it everywhere is, To be near the loved one, — what a rapture is his Who in niooiilight and music thus sweetly may glide O'er the Lake of Cashmere with that one by his side ! If woman can make the worst wilderness dear. Think, think what a heaven she must make of Cashmere ! So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar, When from po\\er and pomp and the tro])hies of war He flew to that valley, forgetting them all With the Light of the Harem, his yoimg Nour- mahal. When free and uncro^^•ned as the conqueror roved By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved, He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match. And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled Do\\Ti her exquisite neck to the throne of the world ! There 's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summer's day's light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender. Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. This teas not the beauty, — 0, nothing like this. That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss. But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days. Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes. Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams. Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in his dreams ! When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace. That charm of all others, was born with her face ; And when angry, — for even in the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes, — The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow, like holy re- veaHngs From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings ! Then her mirth — 0, 't was sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird in spring, — Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, Yet playful as I'eris just loosed from their cages. While her laugh, full of life, without any control But the sweet one of gi-acefulness, rung from her soul ; And where it most sparkled no glance could dis- cover, In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brightened all over, — Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon. When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun. Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her slave ; And though bright was his Harem, — a living parterre Of the flowers of this planet, — though treasures were there. For which Solomon's self might have given all the store That the navy from Ophir e'er winged to his shore, Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all. And the Light of his Harem was young Nourmahal ! THOMAS Moore. MEETING. The gray sea, and the long black land ; And the yellow half-moon large and low ; And the startled little waves, that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep. As I gain the cove with pushing prow. And quench its speed in the slushy sand. Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach ; Three fields to cross, till a farm appears : A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match. And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts, beating each to each. Robert Browning. THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS. Celia and I, the other day, Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea : The setting sun adorned the coast. His beams entire his fierceness lost : And on the surface of the deep The winds lay only not asleep : The njmiphs did, like the scene, appear Serenely pleasant, calmly fair ; Soft felt her words as flew the air. With secret joy I heard her say That she would never miss one day A \yalk so fine, a sight so gay, ff a- 86 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. But, the change ! The winds grow high, Impending tempests charge the sky, The liglitning flies, the thunder roars, Tlie big waves lash the frightened shores. Struck with the horror of the sight, She turns her head and wings her flight ; And, trembling, vows she 'II ne'er again Approach the shore or view the main. " Once more at least look back," said I, " Thyself in that large glass descry : When thou art in good humor drest, When gentle reason rules thy breast. The sun upon the calmest sea Appears not half so bright as thee : 'T is then that with delight I rove Upon the boundless depth of love : I bless my chain, I hand my oar, Nor think on all I left on shore. " But when vain doubt and groundless fear Do that dear foolish bosom tear ; When the big lip and watery eye Tell me the rising storm is nigh ; 'T is then thou art yon angry main Deformed by winds and dashed by rain ; And th'e poor sailor that must try Its fury labors less than I. Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make. While love and fate still drive me back : Forced to dote on thee thy own way, I chide thee first, and then obey : Wretched when from thee, vexed when nigh, I with thee, or without thee, die." Matthew Prior. THE BELLE OF THE BALL. Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty. Ere I had done with writing themes. Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, — Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and fiUy ; In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly. I saw her at the county ball ; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing : She was our qiieen, our rose, our star ; Andthen she danced, — -0 Heaven ! her dancing. Dark was her hair ; her hand was white ; Her voice was exquisitely tender j Her eyes were full of liquid light ; I never saw a waist so slender ; Her every look, her every smile. Shot right and left a score of arrows ; I thought 't was Venus from her isle. And wondered where she 'd left her sparrowSi She talked of politics or prayers. Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets. Of danglers or of dancing bears, Of battles or the last new bonnets ; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, — To me it mattered not a tittle, — • If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June,. I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed ; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling : My father frowned ; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling ? She was the daughter of a dean, — • Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; She had one brother just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic ; Her grandmother for many a year. Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second cousin was a peer. And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three-per-cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, 0, what are they to love's sensations ? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, — Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses ; He cares as little for the stocks As Baron Rothschild for the muses. She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach. Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : She botanized ; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading : She warbled Handel ; it was grand, — She made the Catilina jealous : She touched the organ ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows. She kept an album too, at home. Well filled Avith all an album's glories, — Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories, ^ h- LOVE. fl Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leeboo, And recipes for elder water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; Her poodle-dog was quite adored ; Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed, — and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished ; She frowned, — and every look was sad, As if the opera were demolished. She smiled on many just for fun, — I knew that there was nothing in it ; I was the first, the only one, Her heart had thought of for a minute. I knew it, for she told me so. In phrase which was divinely moulded ; She wrote a charming hand, — and 0, How sweetly all her notes were folded ! Our love was most like other loves, — A little glow, a little shiver, A rosebud and a pair of gloves. And " Fly Not Yet," upon the river ; Some jealousy of some one's heir. Some hopes of dying broken-hearted ; A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows, — and then we parted. We parted : months and years rolled by ; "We met again four summers after. Our parting was all sob and sigh. Our meeting was all mirth and laughter 1 For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room's belle, But only Mrs. — Something — Rogers ! WlNTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. It was a friar of orders gray Walked forth to tell his beads ; And he met with a lady fair Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. " Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar; I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true-love thou didst see." " And how should I know your true-love From many another one ? " "0, by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoon. " But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view ; His flaxen locks that sweetly curled. And eyes of lovely blue." " lady, he 's dead and gone ! Lady, he 's dead and gone ! And at his head a green grass turf. And at his heels a stone. "Within these holy cloisters long He languished, and he died. Lamenting of a lady's love. And 'plaining of her pride. " Here bore him barefaced on his bier Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedewed his gi'ave Within yon kirk-yard wall." "And art thou dead, thou gentle youth? And art thou dead and gone ? And didst thou die for love of me ? Break, cruel heart of stone ! " " weep not, lady, weep not so ; Some ghostly comfort seek ; Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Nor tears bedew thy cheek." "0 do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove ; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love. " And now, alas ! for thy sad loss I '11 evermore weep and sigh : For thee I only wished to live. For thee I wish to die." " Weep no more, lady, weep no more. Thy sorrow is in vain ; For violets plucked, the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again. "Our joys as winged dreams do fly ; Wliy then should sorrow last ? Since grief but aggravates thy loss. Grieve not for what is past." " say not so, thou holy friar ; I pray thee, say not so ; For since my true-love died for me, 'T is meet my tears should flow. "And ^vill he never come again ? Will he ne'er come again ? Ah ! no he is dead and laid in his gi'ave, Forever to remain. & -ff [fi- POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ^ *' His cheek was redder than the rose ; The comeliest youth was he ! But he is dead and laid in his grave : Alas, and woe is me ! " "Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever : One foot on sea and one on land. To one thing constant never. " Hadst thou heen fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy ; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy." "Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so ; My love he had the truest heart, — 0, he was ever true ! "And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth. And didst thou die for me ? Then farewell home ; for evermore A pilgrim I will be. " But first upon my true-love's grave My weary limbs I '11 lay, And thrice I '11 kiss the green-grass turf That wraps his breathless clay." "Yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall ; See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind. And drizzly rain doth fall." " stay me not, thou holy friar, stay me not, I pray ; No drizzly rain that falls on me Can wash my fault away." "Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears ; For see, beneath this gown of gray Thy own true-love appears. "Here forced by grief and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought ; And here, amid these lonely walls, To end my days I thought. " But haply, for my year of grace Is not yet passed away. Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay." ' " Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart ; For since I have found thee, lovely youth. We nevermore will part." Adapted iy THOMAS PERCY. PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE. FROM " THE EARTHLY PARADISE." ARGUMENT. A Man of Cypras, a Sculptor named Pygmalion, made' all Image of a Woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the ead came to love his own handiwork as though it had been alive : wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he obtained his end, for she made the Image alive indeed, and a Woman, and Pygmalion wedded her. At Amathus, that from the southern side Of Cj^prus looks across the Syrian sea. There did in ancient time a man abide Known to the island-dwellers, for that he Had wrought most godlike works in imagery, And day by day still greater honor won, "Which man our old books call Pygmalion. The lessening marble that he worked upon, A woman's form now imaged doubtfully, And in such guise the work had he begTin, Because when he the untouched block did see In wandering veins that ioxvsx there seemed to be, Whereon he cried out in a careless mood, ' ' lady Venus, make this presage good ! ' ' And then this block of stone shall be thy maid. And, not without rich golden ornament. Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade." So spoke he, but the goddess, well content. Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent. That like the first artificer he wrought, Who made the gift that woe to all men brought. And yet, but such as he was wont to do. At first indeed that work divine he deemed, And as the white chips from the chisel flew Of other matters languidly he dreamed, For easy to his hand that labor seemed. And he wasstirred with many a troubling thought. And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought. And yet, again, at last there came a day When smoother and more shapely grew the stone. And he, grown eager, put all thought away But that which touched his craftsmanship alone, And he would gaze at what his hands had done. Until his heart with boundless joy would swell That all was wrought so wonderfully well. Yet long it was ere he was satisfied. And with his pride that by his mastery This thing was done, whose equal far and wide In no town of the world a man could see. Came burning longing that the work should be E'en better still, and to his heart there came A strange and strong desire he could not name. Tlie night seemed long, and long the twilight seemed, A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair ; Though through the night still of his work he dreamed. And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it were, That thence he could behold the marble hair ; Naught was enough, until with steel in hand He came before the wondrous stone to stand. Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught, And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly Upon the marvel of the face he wrought, E'en as he used to pass the long days by ; But his sighs changed to sobbing presently, And on the floor the useless steel he flung. And, weeping loud, about the image clung. "Alas !" he cried, "whyhave Imadethee then. That thus thou mockest me ? I know indeed That many such as thou are loved of men, "Whose passionate eyes poor wretches still will lead Into their net, and smile to see them bleed ; But these the Gods made, and this hand made thee Who wilt not speak one little word to me." Then from the image did he draw aback To gaze on it through tears : and you had said, Regarding it, that little did it lack To be a living and most lovely maid ; Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid Over the lovely shoulders ; with one hand Eeached out, as to a lover, did it stand. The other held a fair rose over-blown ; No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes Seemed as if even now gi-eat love had shown Unto them something of its sweet surprise. Yet saddened them with half-seen mj^steries. And still midst passion maiden-like she seemed. As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed. Reproachfully beholding all her grace, Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed, And then at last he turned away his face As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide ; And thus a weary while did he abide. With nothing in his heart but vain desire, The ever-burning, unconsuming fire. No word indeed the moveless image said, But with the sweet grave e}''es his hands had WTOUght Still gazed down on his bowed imploring head. Yet his own words some solace to him brought, Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught With something like to hope, and all that day Some tender words he ever found to say ; And still he felt as something heard him speak ; Sometimes he praised her beauty, and sometimes Reproached her in a feeble voice and weak, And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes. Wherein were writ the tales of many climes, And read aloud the sweetness hid therein Of lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin. And when the sun went down, the frankincense Again upon the altar-flame he cast That through the open window floating thence O'er the fresh odors of the garden passed ; And so another day was gone at last. And he no more his lovelorn watch could keep. But now for utter weariness must sleep. But the next morn, e'en whilethe incense-smoke At sunrising curled round about her head. Sweet sound of songs the wonted quiet broke Down in the street, and he by something led, He knew not what, must leave his prayer unsaid. And through the freshness of the morn must see The folk who went with that sweet mmstrelsy ; Damsels and youths in wonderful attire. And in their midst upon a car of gold An image of the Mother of Desire, Wrought by his hands in days that seemed gi'own old, Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold. Colored like flame, enwrought with precious things. Most fit to be the prize of striving kings. Then he remembered that the manner was That fair-clad priests the lovely Queen should take Thrice in the year, and through the city pass, And with sweet songs the dreaming folk awake ; And through the clouds a light there seemed to break When he rSmembered all the tales well told About her glorious kindly deeds of old. So his unfinished prayer he finished not. But, kneeling, once more kissed the marble feet. And, while his heart with many thoughts waxed hot. He clad li^mself with fresh attire and meet For that bright service, and Avith blossoms sweet Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head, And followed after as the goddess led. So there he stood, that help from her to gain, Bewildered by that twilight midst of day ; Do^^^^cast with listening to the joyous strain He had no part in, hopeless with delay 1^- •-ff [& 90 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. -& Of all the fair things he had meant to say : Yet, as the incense on the flame he cast, From stammering lips and pale these words there ' "0 thou forgotten help, dost thou yet know "What thing it is I need, when even I, Bent down before thee in this shame and woe. Can frame no set of words to tell thee why I needs must pray, help me or I die ! Or slay me, and in slaying take from me Even a dead man's feeble memory. Yet soon, indeed, before his door he stood, And, as a man awaking from a dream, Seemed waked from his old folly ; naught seemed good In ail the things that he before had deemed At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed Cold light of day, — he found himself alone, Reft of desire, all love and madness gone. Thus to his chamber at the last he came. And, pushing through the still half-opened door, He stood within ; but there, for very shame Of all the things that he had done before. Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor, Thinking of all that he had done and said Since he had wrought that luckless marble maid. Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly air. So gaining courage, did he raise his face Unto the work his hands had made so fair. And cried aloud to see the niche all bare Of that sweet form, while through his heart again There shot a pang of his old yearning pain. Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came, A shaft of new desire now pierced him through. And therewithal a soft voice called his name. And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame. He saw betwixt him and the setting sun The lively image of his loved one. He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes. Her very lips, were such as he had made. And though her tresses fell but in such giiise As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed In that fair garment that the priests had laid Upon the goddess on that very mom, Dyed like the setting sun upon the com. Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear. Simple and sweet as she was wont to be. And once again her silver voice rang clear, Filling his soul with great felicity, And thus she spoke, " Wilt thou not come to me, dear companion of my new-found life. For I am called thy lover and thy wife ? She reached her hand to him, and with kind eyes Gazed into his ; but he the fingers caught And drew her to him, and midst ecstasies Passing all words, yea, wellnigh passing thought. Felt that sweet breath that he so long had sought, Felt the warm life within her heaving breast As in his arms his living love he pressed. But as his cheek touched hers he heard her say, ' ' Wilt thou not speak, love ? why dost thou weep ? Art thou then sorry for this long-wished day, Or dost thou think perchance thou wilt not keep This that thou boldest, but in dreamy sleep ? Nay, let us do the bidding of the Queen, And hand in hand walk through thy garden green ; ' ' Then shalt thou tell me, still beholding me, Full many things whereof I wish to know. And as we walk from whispering tree to tree Still more familiar to thee shall I grow, And such things shalt thou say unto me now As when thou deemedst thou wast quite alone, A madman kneeling to a thing of stone." But at that word a smile lit up his eyes And therewithal he spake some loving word, And she at first looked up in grave surprise When his deep voice and musical she heard, And clung to him as somewhat grown afeard ; Then cried aloud and said, ' ' mighty one ! What joy with thee to look upon the sun ! " Then into that fair garden did they pass, And all the story of his love he told. And as the twain went o'er the dewy grass, Beneath the risen moon could he behold The bright tears trickling down, then, waxen bold. He stopped and said, "Ah, love, what meaneth this? Seest thou how tears still follow earthly bliss ? " Then both her white arms round his neck she threw. And sobbing said, " love, what hurteth me ? When first the sweetness of my life I knew, Not this I felt, but when I first saw thee A little pain and great felicity Eose up within me, and thy talk e'en now Made pain and pleasure ever greater grow." " sweet," he said, " this thing is even love, Whereof I told thee ; that all wise men fear, But yet escape not ; nay, to gods above. Unless the old tales lie, it draweth near. But let my happy ears, I pray thee, hear Thy story too, and how thy blessed birth Has made a heaven of this once lonely earth. " f& -4 " My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise, Or stored with words, aright the tale to tell, But listen : when I opened first mine eyes I stood within the niche thou knowest well. And from mine hand a heavy thing there fell Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear. And but a strange confused noise could hear. "At last mine eyes could see a woman fair, But awful as this round white moon o'erhead. So that I trembled when I saw her there. For with my life was born some touch of dread, And there\vithal I heard her voiee that said, ' Come down, and learn to love and be alive, For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.' " Then on the floor I stepped, rejoicing much, Not knowing why, not knowing aught at all. Till she reached out her hand my breast to touch, And when her fingers thereupon did fall, Thought came unto my life, and therewithal 1 knew her for a goddess, and began To murmur in some tongue unknown to man. " And then indeed not in this guise was I, No sandals had I, and no saffron gown, But naked as thou knowest utterly. E'en as my limbs beneath thine hand had grown. And this fair perfumed robe then fell adown Over the goddess' feet and swept the ground, And round her loins a glittering belt was bound. " But when the stammering of my tongue she heard Upon my trembling lips her hand she laid. And spoke again, ' Nay, say not any word. All that thine heart would say I know unsaid. Who even now thine heart and voice have made ; But listen rather, for thou knowest now What these words mean, and still wilt wiser grow. "'Thy body, lifeless till I gave it life, A certain man, my servant, well hath wi'ought, I give thee to him as his love and wife. With all thy dowry of desire and thought. Since this his yearning heart hath ever sought ; Now from my temple is he on the way, Deeming to find thee e'en as yesterday ; " ' Bide thou his coming by the bed-head there. And when thou seest him set his eyes upon Thine empty niche, and hear'st him cry for care, Then call him by his name, Pygmalion, And certainly thy lover hast thou won ; But when he stands before thee silently. Say all these words that I shall teach to thee.' " With that she said what first I told thee, love, And then went on, ' Moreover thou slialt say That I, the daughter of almighty Jove, Have \vi'ought for him this long-desired day ; In sign whereof, these things that pass away. Wherein mine image men have well arrayed, I give thee for thy wedding gear, maid.' " Therewith her raiment she put off from her, And laid bare all her perfect loveliness, And, smiling on me, came yet more anear, And on my mortal lips her lips did press. And said, ' Now herewith shalt thou love no less Thau Psyche loved my son in days of old ; Farewell, of thee shall many a tale be told.' " And even with that last word was she gone. How, I know not, and I my limbs arrayed In her fair gifts, and waited thee alone — Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said, For now I love thee so, I grow afraid Of what the gods upon our heads may send — I love thee so, I think upon the end." What words he said ? How can I tell again What words they said beneath the glimmering light. Some tongue they used unknown to loveless men As each to each they told their great delight, Until for stillness of the growing night Their soft sweet munnuring words seemed grow- ing loud. And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud. William Morris. JAMES FITZ-JAMES AND ELLEN. FROM "the lady OF THE LAKE." A FOOTSTEP struck her ear. And Snowdoun's gi-aceful Knight was near. She turned the hastier, lest again The prisoner should renew his strain. " welcome, brave Fitz- James ! " she said ; " How may an almost orphan maid Pay the deep debt " — "0, say not so ! To me no gratitude you owe. Not mine, alas ! the boon to give. And bid thy noble father live ; I can but be thy guide, sweet maid. With Scotland's King thy suit to aid. No tjrant he, though ire and pride May lead his better mood aside. Come, Ellen, come ; 't is more than time, He holds his court at morning prime." With beating heart and bosom wrung. As to a brother's arm she clung. Gently he dried the falling tear, And gently whispered hope and cheer ; Her faltering steps half led, half stayed, Through gallery fair and high arcade. Till, at his touch, its wings of pride A portal arch unfolded wide. B^- ■ff a 92 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ft "Within 't was brilliant all and light, A thronging scene of figures bright ; It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight, As when the setting sun has given Ten thousand hues to summer even, And from their tissue fancy frames Aerial knights and fairy dames. Still by Fitz-James her footing stajred ; A few faint steps she forward made, Then slow her drooping head she raised. And fearful round the presence gazed : For him she sought who owned this state. The dreaded prince whose will was fate ! She gazed on many a princely port Might well have ruled a royal court ; On many a splendid garb she gazed, — Then turned bewildered and amazed. For all stood bare ; and in the room Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. To him each lady's look was lent. On him each courtier's eye was bent. Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen He stood, in simple Lincoln gTeen, The centre of the glittering ring, — And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King ! As wreath of snow, on mountain breast. Slides from the rock that gave it rest, Poor Ellen glided from her stay, And at the Monarch's feet she lay ; No word her choking voice commands : She showed the ring, she clasped her hands. 0, not a moment could he brook. The generous prince, that suppliant look ! Gently he raised her, and the while Checked with a glance the circle's smile ; Gracefiil, but gi'ave, her brow he kissed. And bade her terrors be dismissed : — ' ' Yes, fair ; the wandering poor Fitz-James The fealty of Scotland claims. To him thy Avoes, thy wishes bring ; He will redeem his signet-ring. Ask naught for Douglas ; yester even His prince and he have much forgiven : "Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue, 1, from his rebel kinsmen, Avi'ong. "We would not to the vulgar crowd Yield what they craved with clamor loud ; Calmly we heard and judged his canse, Our council aided and our laws. I stanched thy father's death-feud stern, With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn ; And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own The friend and bulw&,rk of our Throne. But, lovely infidel, how now ? "What clouds thy misbelieving brow ? Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid ; Thou must confirm this doubting maid." Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, And on his neck his daughter hung. The Monarch drank, that happy hour, The sweetest, holiest draught of Power, — "When it can say, with godlike voice. Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice ! Yet would not James the general eye On nature's raptures long should pry : He stepped between — ' ' Nay, Douglas, nay Steal not my proselyte aAvay ! The riddle 't is my right, to read. That brought this happy chance to speed. Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray In lifers more low but happier way. 'T is under name which veils my power, Nor falsely veils, — for Stirling's tower Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims, And Normans call me James Fitz-James, Thus watch I o'er insulted laws. Thus learn to right the injured cause." Then, in a tone apart and low, " Ah, little trait' ress ! none must know "What idle dream, what lighter thought, "What vanity full dearly bought. Joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew My spell-bound steps to Benvenue, In dangerous hour, and all but gave Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive ! " Aloud he spoke, — ' ' Thou still dost hold That little talisman of gold, Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring ; "What seeks fair Ellen of the King ? " Full well the conscious maiden guessed. He probed the weakness of her breast ; But with that consciousness there came A lightening of her fears for Greeme, And more she deemed the monarch's ire Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire. Rebellious broadsword boldly drew ; And, to her generous feeling true. She craved the grace of Eoderick Dhu. " Forbear thy suit ; the King of kings Alone can stay life's parting wings. I know his heart, I know his hand. Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand ; My fairest .earldom would I give To bid Clan- Alpine's Chieftain live ! ^ Hast thou no other boon to crave ? No other captive friend to save ? " Blushing, she turned her from the King, And to the Douglas gave the ring. As if she wished her sire to speak The suit that stained her glowing cheek. "Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force. And stubborn justice holds her course. " Malcolm, come forth ! " — • And, at the word Down knelt the Graeme to Scotland's Lord. ^ -S a LOVE. 93 " For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, From thee may Vengeance chiim her dues, Who, nurtured underneath our smile. Hast paid our care by treacherous wile, And sought, amid thy faithful clan, A refuge for an outlawed man, Dishonoring thus thy loyal name, — Fetters and warder for the Graeme ! " His chain of gold the King unstrung, The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung, Then gently drew the glittering band, And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. Sir W.ilter scott. FETCHING WATER FROM THE WELL. Early on a sunny morning, while the lark was singing sweet. Came, beyond the ancient farm-house, sounds of lightly tripping feet. 'T was a lowly cottage maiden going, — • why, let young hearts tell, — With her homely pitcher laden, fetching water from the well. Shadows lay athwart the pathway, all along the quiet lane. And the breezes of the morning moved them to and fro again. O'er the sunshine, o'er the shadow, passed the maiden of the farm. With a charmed heart within her, thinking of no ill nor hami. Pleasant, surely, were her musings, for the nod- ding leaves in vain Sought to press their bright'ning image on her ever-busy brain. Leaves and joyous birds went by her, like a dim, half-waking dream ; And her soul was only conscious of life's gladdest summer gleam. At the old lane's shady turning lay a well of water bright. Singing, soft, its hallelujah to the gracious morn- ing light. Fern-leaves, broad and green, bent o'er it where its silv'ry droplets fell, And the fairies dwelt beside it, in the spotted foxglove bell. Back she bent the shading fern-leaves, dipt the pitcher in the tide, — Drew it, with the diipping waters flowing o'er its glazed side. But before her arm could place it on her shiny, wavy hair, By her side a youth was standing ! — Love re- joiced to see the pair I Tones of tremulous emotion trailed upon the morn- ing breeze. Gentle words of heart-devotion whispered 'neath the ancient trees. But the holy, blessed secrets it becomes me not to tell : Life had met another meaning, fetching water from the well ! Down the rural lane they sauntered. He the bur- den-pitcher bore ; She, with dewy eyes downlooking, grew more beau- teous than before ! Wlien they neared the silent homestead, up he raised the pitcher light ; Like a fitting crown he placed it on her hair of wavelets bright : Emblems of the coming burdens that for love of him she 'd bear. Calling every burden blessed, if his love but light- ed there. Then, still waving benedictions, further, further off he drew, While his shadow seemed a glory that across the pathway grew. Now about her household duties silently the maid- en went. And an ever-radiant halo o'er her daily life was blent. Little knew the aged matron as her feet like music fell. What abundant treasure found she fetching water from the well ! ANONYMOUS. A MAIDEN WITH A MILKING-PAIL. What change has made the pastures sweet, And reached the daisies at my feet. And cloud that wears a golden hem ? This lovely world, the hills, the sward, — • They all look fresh, as if our Lord But yesterday had finished them. And here 's the field with light aglow : How fresh its boundary lime-trees show ! And how its wet leaves trembling shine ! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea, Below the level browzing line. I see the pool, more clear by half Than pools where other waters laugh Up at the breasts of coot and rail. There, as she passed it on her way, • I saw reflected yesterday A maiden ^vith a milking-pail. ^ -ff a 94 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ■& There, neither slowly nor in haste, — One hand upon her slender waist. The other lifted to her pail, — She, rosy in the morning light, Among the water-daisies white. Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod : I leaned upon the gate to see. The sweet thing looked, but did not speak ; A dimple came in either cheek. And all my heart was gone from me. Then, as I lingered on the gate. And she came up like coming fate, I saw my picture in her eyes, — Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes ! Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows Among white-headed majesties 1 I said, ' ' A tale was made of old That I would fain to thee unfold. Ah ! let me, — let me tell the tale." But high she held her comely head : " I cannot heed it now," she said, " For carrying of the milking-pail." She laughed. "What good to make ado ? I held the gate, and she came through. And took her homeward path anon. From the clear pool her face had fled ; It rested on my heart instead, Reflected when the maid was gone. With happy youth, and work content, So sweet and stately, on she went. Right careless of the untold tale. Each step she took I loved her more, And followed to her dairy door The maiden with the milking-pail. For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, How fine, how blest a thing is work ! For work does good when reasons fail, — Good ; yet the axe at every stroke The echo of a name awoke, — Her name is Mary Martindale. I 'm glad that echo was not heard Aright by other men. A bird Knows doubtless what his own notes tell ; And I know not, — but I can say I felt as shamefaced all that day As if folks heard her name right well. And when the west began to glow I went — I could not choose but go — To that same dairy on the hill ; And while sweet Mary moved about "Within, I came to her without. And leaned upon the window-sill. The garden border where I stood Was sweet Avith pinks and southernAvood. I spoke, — her answer seemed to fail. I smelt the pinks, — I could not see. The dusk came do-wn and sheltered me. And in the dusk she heard my tale. And what is left that I should tell ? I begged a kiss, — I pleaded well : The rosebud lips did long decline ; But yet, I think — I think 't is true — • That, leaned at last into the dew. One little instant they were mine ! life ! how dear thou hast become ! She laughed at dawn, aiid I was dumb ! But evening counsels best prevail. Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, Green be the pastures where she treads. The maiden with the milking-pail ! Jean Ingelow THE MILKMAID'S SONG. Turk, turn, for my cheeks they burn. Turn by the dale, my Harry ! Fill pail, fill pail, He has turned by the dale. And there by the stile waits Harry.- Fill, fill. Fill pail, fill. For there by the stile waits Harry ! The world may go round, the world may stand still But I can milk and marry, Fill pail, I can milk and marry. Wheugh, wheugh ! 0, if we two Stood down there now by the water, I know who 'd carry me over the ford As brave as a soldier, as proud as a lord, Though I don't live over the Avater. Wheugh, wheugh ! he 's Avhistling through. He 's Avhistling " The Farmer's Daughter." Give down, give down. My crumpled brown ! He shall not take the road to the tOAvn, For I '11 meet him beyond the water. Give down, give down, My crumpled brown ! And send me to my Harry. The folk o' towns May have silken goAvns, ft -4 LOVE. "•~B] 95 But I can milk and marry, Fill pail, I can milk and marry. "Wheugh, wlieugh ! he has whistled through He has whistled through the water. Fill, fill, with a will, a will, For he 's whistled through the water. And he 's whistling down The way to the town. And it's not " The Farmer's Daughter ! " Churr, churr ! goes the cockchafer. The sun sets over the water, Churr, churr ! goes the cockchafer, I 'm too late for my Harry ! And, 0, if he goes a-soldiering, The cows they may low, the hells they may ring, But I '11 neither milk nor marry, Fill pail, Neither milk nor marry. ]yiy brow beats on thy flank. Fill pail, Give down, good wench, give down ! I know the primrose bank. Fill pail. Between him and the town. Give down, good wench, give down. Fill pail, And he shall not reach the town ! Strain, strain ! he 's whistling again. He 's nearer by half a mile. More, more ! 0, never before Were you such a weary while ! Fill, fill ! he 's crossed the hill, 1 can see him down by the stile, He 's passed the hay, he 's coming this way, He 's coming to me, my Harry ! Give silken gowns to the folk o' towns. He 's coming to me, my Harry ! There 's not so grand a dame in the land, That she walks to-night with Harry ! Come late, come soon, come sun, come moon, 0, I can milk and marry, Fill pail, ■ I can milk and marry. Wlieugh, M'heugh ! he has whistled through, My Harry ! my lad ! my lover ! Set the sun and fall the dew. Heigh-ho, merry world, what 's to do That you 're smiling over and over ? Up on the hill and down in the dale, And along the tree-tops over the vale Shining over and over, Low in the grass and high on the bough. Shining over and over, world, have you ever a lover ? You Avere so dull and cold just noAV, world, have you ever a lover ? I could not see a leaf on the tree. And now I could count them, one, two, three, Count them over and over. Leaf from leaf like lips apart, Like lips apart for a lover. And the hillside beats with my beating heart. And the apple-tree blushes all over. And the May bough touched me and made me start, And the wind breathes warm like a lover. Pull, pull ! and the pail is full, And milking 's done and over. Who would not sit here under the tree ? What a fair fair thing 's a green field to see ! Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me ! I have set my pail on the daisies ! It seems so light, — can the sun be set ? The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet, I could cry to have hurt the daisies ! Hany is near, Harry is near, My heart 's as sick as if he were here. My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet, He has n't uttered a word as yet, But the air 's astir with his praises. My Harry ! The air 's astir with your praises. He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone. He 's among the kingcups, — he picks me one, I love the grass that I tread upon When I go to my Harry ! He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the knowe. There 's never a faster foot I know. But still he seems to tarry. Harry ! Harry ! my love, my pride, My heart is leaping, my arms are wide t Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside, Roll up, and bring my Harry ! They may talk of glory over the sea. But Harry 's alive, and Harry 's for me, My love, my lad, my Harry ! Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow, What cares Dolly, whether or no, While I can milk and marry ? Right or wrong, and wrong or right. Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight. But I '11 bring my pail home every night To love, and home, and Harry ! We '11 drink our can, we '11 eat our cake, There 's beer in the barrel, there 's bread in the bake, The world may sleep, the world may wake, But I shall milk and marry, And marry, 1 shall milk and marrj'. SYDNEY DOBELU -ff 96 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. AUF WIEDERSEHEN ! * SUMMER. The little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast. And said, " Auf wiedersehen 1 " "With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said, ' ' Auf wiedersehen ! " The lamp's clear gleam Hits up the stair ; r linger in delicious pain ; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I &M3arcely dare. Thinks she, " Auf wiederseheii 1 " 'T is thirteen years : once more I press The turf that silences the lane ; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and — ah yes, I hear, " Auf wiedersehen / " Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! The English words had seemed too fain. But these — they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart ; She said, "Auf wiedersehen I " JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ^ SWEET MEETING OF DESIEES. I GEEW assured, before I asked. That she 'd be mine without reserve, And in her unclaimed graces basked At leisure, till the time should serve, — With just enough of dread to thrill The hope, and make it trebly dear : Thus loath to speak the word, to kill Either the hope or happy fear. Till once, through lanes returning late, Her laughing sisters lagged behind ; And ere we reached her father's gate. We paused with one presentient mind ; And, in the dim and perfumed mist Their coming stayed, who, blithe and free. And very women, loved to assist A lover's opportunit}^ Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word ; To faint and frail cathedral chimes Spake time in music, and we heard The chafers rustling in the limes. Her dress, that touched me where I stood ; The warmth of her coniided arm ; * Till we meet again 1 Her bosom's gentle neighborhood ; Her pleasure in her power to charm ; Her look, her love, her form, her touch ! The least seemed most by blissful turn, — Blissful but that it pleased too much. And taught the wayward soul to yearn. It was as if a harp with wires Was traversed by the breath I drew ; And 0, sweet meeting of desires ! She, answering, owned that she loved too. Coventry Patmore. ZARA'S EAR-EINGS. FROM THE SPANISH. ' ' My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they 've dropt into the well. And what to say to Mu9a, I cannot, cannot tell." 'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albu- harez' daughter, — " The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water. To me did Mu9a give them, when he spake his sad farewell. And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I can- not tell. ' ' My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget. That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, 0, what will Mu§a think of me, Icannot,cannottell. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings ! he'll say they should have been. Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glitter- ing sheen, Ofjasperandofonyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere ; That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well, — Thus willhe think, — andwhatto say, alas ! I can- not tell. " He '11 think when I to market went I loitered by the way,; He '11 think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say ; He '11 think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed. From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl unloosed ; LOVE. 97 a He '11 think when I was sporting so beside this marble well, My pearls fell in, — and what to say, alas ! I can- not tell. " He 'Usay I amawoman, and we are all the same ; He '11 say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame — But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken. And thought no more of Muga, and cared not for his token. My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! 0, luckless, luckless well! For what to say to Mu9a, alas ! I cannot tell. " I '11 tell the truth to Mu9a, and I hope he will believe. That I have thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve ; That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone. His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone ; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell. And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie m tne well. john Gibson lockhart. FATIMA AND EADUAN. FROM THE SPANISH. " Diamante falso y fingido, Engastado en pedernal," &c. " False diamond set in flint ! hard heart in haughty breast ! By a softer, warmer bosom the tiger's couch is prest. Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind, And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind. If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would be To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me. Oh ! I could chide thee sharply, — but every maiden knows That she who chides her lover forgives him ere he goes. ' ' Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Grenada's maids. Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades ; And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every one That what thou didst to win my love, for love of me was done. Alas ! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know, They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go ; But thou giv'st little heed, — for I speak to one who knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him efe he goes. ' ' It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care. Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah ! thou know'st I feel That cruel words as surely kill as sliarj)est blades of steel. 'T was the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain ; But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again. I would proclaim thee as thou art — but every maiden knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes." Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's foun- tains ran : TheMoorwasinlymoved, and blameless as he was, He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause : "0 lady, dry those star-like eyes, — their dimness does me wrong ; If my heart be made of flint, at least 't will keep thy image long ; Thou hast uttered cruel words, — but I grieve the less for those. Since she who chides her lover forgives him ere ne goes. William Cullen Bryant. SOMEBODY. Somebody 's courting somebody, Somewhere or other to-night ; Somebody 's whispering to somebody, Somebody 's listening to somebody, . Under this clear moonlight. Near the bright river's flow, Running so still and slow, Talking so soft and low. She sits with somebody. Pacing the ocean's shore, Edged by the foaming roar, Words never used before Sound sweet to somebody. Under the maple-ti'ee Deep though the shadow be, k ~ff / / T 98 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Plain enough they can see, Bright eyes has somebody. No one sits up to wait, Though she is out so late, AH know she 's at the gate. Talking with somebody. Tiptoe to parlor door. Two shadows on the floor. Moonlight, reveal no more, Susy and somebody. Two, sitting side by side. Float with the ebbing tide, "Thus, dearest, may we glide Through life," says somebody. Somewhere, somebody. Makes love to somebody, To-night. Anonymous. THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning ; Close by the window young Eileen is spinning ; Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting. Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knit- ting, — "Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." "'T is the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." " Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." "'T is the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot 's stirring ; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. "What 's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder ? " "T is the little birds chirping the holly -bush under." "What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of ' The Coolun ' ? " There's a form at the casement, — the form of her true-love, — And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love ; Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly. We '11 rove in the grove while the moon 's shin- ing brightly." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot 's stirring ; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers. Steals up from her seat, — longs to go, and yet lingers ; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand- mother. Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound ; Noiseless and light to the lattice above her The maid steps, — then leaps to the arms of her lover. Slower — and slower — and slower the wheel swings ; Lower — and lower — and lower the reel rings ; Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, TJirough the grove the young lovers by moon- light are roving. JOHN FRANCIS Waller. A SPINSTER'S STINT. Six skeins and three, six skeins and three ! Good mother, so you stinted me, And here they be, — ay, six and three ! Stop, busy wheel ! stop, noisy wheel ! Long shadows down my chamber steal. And warn me to make haste and reel. 'T is done, — the spinning work complete, heart of mine, what makes you beat So fast and sweet, so fast and sweet. 1 must have wheat and pinks, to stick My hat from brim to ribbon, thick, — Slow hands of mine, be quick, be quick ! One, two, three stars along the skies Begin to wink their golden eyes, — I '11 leave my thread all knots and ties. moon, so red ! moon, so red ! Sweetheart of night, go straight to bed ; Love's light will answer in your stead. A-tiptoe, beckoning me, he stands, ■ — Stop trembling, little foolish hands, And stop the bands, and stop the bands ! ALICE Gary. ^ ^- LOVE. ■a 99 OTHELLO'S DEFENCE. Othello. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved good masters, — That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true ; true, I have married her : The very liead and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Kude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace ; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith. Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field ; And little of this gi'eat world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ; And therefore little shall I grace my cause, In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnished tale deliver Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, "What conjuration, and what mighty magic, — For such proceeding I am charged withal, — I won his daughter. Brabantio. A maiden never bold ; Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion Blushed at herself ; and she — in spite of nature. Of years, of country, credit, everything, — To fall in love with what she feared to look on ! It is a judgment maimed, and most imperfect. That will confess perfection so could err Against all rules of nature ; and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell. Why this should be. I therefore vouch again, That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood. Or with some dram conjured to this effect, He wrought upon her. 0th. I '11 present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love, And she in mine. Her father loved me ; oft invited me ; Still questioned me the story of my life. From year to year ; — the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have passed. I ran it through, even from my boyish days, To th' very moment that he bade me tell it : Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances. Of moving accidents by flood and field ; Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach ; Of being taken by the insolent foe. And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence. And portance in my travel's history : Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle. Hough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak, — such was the process ; And of the Cannibals that each other eat. The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear. Would Desdemona seriously incline : But still the house affairs would draw her thence ; Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She 'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse. Which I observing. Took once a pliant hour ; and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgiimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively : I did consent ; And often did beguile her of her tears. When I did speak of some distressful stroke, That my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : She swore, — in faith 't was strange, 't was pass- ing strange ; 'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful : She wished she had not heard it, yet she wished That Heaven had made her such a man : she thanked me ; And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should teach him how to tell my story. And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake : She loved me for the dangers I had passed ; And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used : Here comes the lady, let her witness it. Enter Desdemona, Iago, and Attendants. Duke. I think this tale would win my daugh- ter too. — Good Brabantio, Take up this mangled matter at the best : Men do their broken weapons rather use. Than their bare hands. Bra. I pray you hear her speak : If she confess that she was half the wooer. Destruction on my head, if my bad blame Light on the man ! — Come hither, gentle mistress : Do you perceive in all this noble company, Where most you owe obedience ? Des. My noble father, I do perceive here a divided duty : To you I am bound for life and education ; My life and education both do learn me How to respect you ; you are the lord of duty, I am hitherto your daughter : but here 's my husband ; And so much duty as my mother showed To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge that I may profess Due to the Moor my lord. Bra. God be with you ! — I have done. Shakespeare. # i.(\f r c& 100 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIOISrS. THE GARDEN SCENE. FROM " ROMEO AND JULIET." Romeo. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. (Juliet appears above, at a window.) But, soft ! what light through yonder window breaks ? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! — Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief. That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she : Be not her maid, since she is envious ; Her vestal livery is but sick and green. And none but fools do wear it ; cast it off. — It is my lady ; 0, it is my love ! that she knew she were ! — She speaks, yet she says nothing : What of that ? Her eye discourses, I will answer it. — 1 am too bold, 't is not to me she speaks : Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven. Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her bead ? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp ; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright, That birds would sing, and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 0, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek ! Juliet. Ah me ! Rom. She speaks : — 0, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art As is glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white -upturned wondering eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air. Jul. Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore art thou Romeo ? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name ; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love. And I '11 no longer be a Capulet. Rom. \_Aside.'\ Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this ? Jul. 'T is but thy name, that is my enemy ; — Thou art thyself though, not a Montague. Yi^'hat 's Montague ? it is nor hand, nor foot. Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. 0, be some other name ! What 's in a name ? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet ; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, Retain that dear perfection which he owes, Without that title. — Romeo, doff thy name ; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. Rom. I take thee at thy word : Call me biit love, and I '11 be new baptized ; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. Jul. What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in night. So stumblest on my counsel ? Rom. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am : My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself. Because it is an enemy to thee : Had I it written, I would tear the word. Jul. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound : Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ? Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jul. How cam' st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore ? The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb ; And the place death, considering who thou art. If any of my kinsmen find thee here. Rom. With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls ; For stony limits cannot hold love out : And what love can do, that dares love attempt ; Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. Rom. Alack ! there lies more peril in thine eye. Than twenty of their swords ; look thou but sweet. And I am proof against their enmity. Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight ; And, but thou love me, let them find me here : My life were better ended by their hate. Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place ? Rom. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire : He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot ; yet wert thoii as far As that vast shore washed with the farthest" sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. Jul. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face ; Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke ; but farewell compliment ! Dost thou love me ? I know, thou ^^dlt say. Ay ; And I will take thy word ; yet, if thou swear' st, ^- s- LOVE. 101 a Thou mayst prove false : at lover's perjuries, They say, Jove laughs. gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully : Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won, I '11 frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo ; but, else, not for the world. In tiTith, fair Montague, I am too fond ; And therefore thou mayst think my 'havior light : But trust me, gentleman, I '11 prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess. But that thou overheard' st, ere I was ware. My true love 's passion : therefore, pardon me ; And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear. That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops — Jul. 0, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon. That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. Rom. "What shall I swear by ? Jul. Do not swear at all ; Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious seK, AVhich is the god of my idolatry. And I '11 believe thee. Rom. If my heart's dear love — Jul. "Well, do not swear : although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night : It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden ; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be. Ere one can say, It lightens. Sweet, good night ! Tills bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night ! as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast ! Rom. 0, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? Jul. "What satisfaction canst thou have to- night? Rom. Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst re- quest it : And yet I would it were to give again. Roii. "Wouldst thou withdraw it ? for what purjiose, love ? Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have : My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love is deep ; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for botb are infinite. [Nurse calls within.'] I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu ! — Anon, good nurse ! — Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit above. Rom. blessed, blessed night ! I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream. Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. {Rc-cntcr Juliet, above.) Jul. Tliree words, dear Romeo, and good night, indeed. If that thy bent of love be honorable, Thy purpose man'iage, send me word to-morrow By one that I '11 procure to come to thee. Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite ; And all my fortunes at thy foot I '11 lay. And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world. Nurse. [^FtY/rm.] Madam ! Jul. I come anon : — But if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee, — Nurse. [ Withiii.'] Madam ! Jul. By and by ; I come : — To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief : To-mori'ow will I send. Rom. So thrive my soul, — Jul. a thousand times good night ! [Exit above. Rom. a thousand times the worse, to want thy light. — Love goes toward love, as school-boys from their books ; But love from love, toward school mth heavy looks. [Retiring.'] {Re-enter Juliet, above.) Jul. Hist ! Romeo, hist ! — 0, for a falconer's voice, To lure this tercel-gentle back again ! Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ; Else would I tear the cave where echo lies, And make her aiiy tongue more hoarse than mine "With repetition of my Romeo's name. Rom. It is my soul, that calls upon my name : How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears ! Jul. Romeo ! Rom. My dear ! Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee ? Rom. At the hour of nine. Jul. I wUl not fail : 't is twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. Rom. Let me stand h«re till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company. Rom. And I '11 still stay, to have thee still forget. Forgetting any other home but this. Jul. 'T is almost morning ; I would have thee gone : And yet no farther than a wanton's bird ; "Who lets it hop a little from her hand. Like a poor jirisoner in his twisted gyves. And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. Rom. I would I were thy bird. Jul. Sweet, so would I : Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 9 102 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. -ni Good niglit, good night ! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night, till it he morrow. [Uxit above. EoM. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast ! — Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest ! Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. Shakespeare. THE COUETIN'. God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen. Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill. All silence an' all glisten. Zekle crep' up quite unheknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side "With half a cord o' wood in — There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung. An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in. Seemed warm from floor to ceilin'. An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed crp tur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clean grit an' human natur' ; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He 'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em. Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — All is, he could n't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All ciinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir ; My ! when he made Ole Hundred ring. She knowed the Lord was nigher. An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, "When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 0' blue eyes sot upon it. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked soTne ! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper, — All ways to oiice her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt -up paper. He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, Some doubtfie o' the sekle. His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder. An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ? " " "Wal ... no ... 1 come dasignin' " — " To see my Ma ? She 's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t' other. An' on which one he felt the wust He could n't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, " I 'd better call agin " ; Says she, "Think likely, Mister" ; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' . . . "Wal, he up an' kist her. "When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes. All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jes' the quiet kind "Whose naturs never vary. Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. ^ ■ff LOVE. 103 -^ The blood elost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressm , Tell mother see how metters stood, And gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red. come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come uex' Sunday. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. THE LAlRD 0' COCKPEN. The laird o' Cockpen he 's proud and he 's great, His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state ; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep. But favor wi' woom' was fashious to seek. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she'd look well ; M'Lish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was weel poiithered, and as glide as new ; His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat. And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? He took the gray mare, and rade cannily — And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee : "'Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, She 's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen." Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine : "And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ? " She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low, And what was his errand he soon let her know ; Amazed was the Laird when the lady said " Na " ; And wi' a laigh curtsey she turned awa'. Dumbfoundered he was — ■ nae sigh did he gie ; He mounted his mare — he rade cannily ; And aften bethought, as he gaed through the glen, She 's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said ; ' ' Oh ! for ane I '11 get better, it 's waur I 'llget ten, I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen, They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kii'k on the gi'een. Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen — But as yet there 's nae chickens appeared at Cock- pen. Lady Nairm. THE LITTLE MILLINER. Mt 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 aroundher 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 pocket 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 ; 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 moi-e lightly than before, And thought, " She is undressing now ! " and 0, 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 ; 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, B- -^ 104 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ■-^ The soft breath stealing visible and clear, And mixing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam Made round her rest a vax3orons light of dream. How free she wandered in the wicked place, Protected only by her gentle face ! She saw bad thmgs — 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 innocent 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. '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 doAvn. 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 felt 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. 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. Her side to me, her face illumed, she eyed Two chestnuts burning slowly, side by sid», — Her lips apart, her clear eyes strained to see, Her little hands clasped tight around her knee, The firelight gleaming on 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. 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 SAveeter 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 whitelj'', And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brightly, While, raised on elbow, as she turned to flee, "Folly / " 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 despite of what bad people said. She left her labors, stopped beside my bed. 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 aAvay, 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 fluttering doubt, tg- --ff LOVE. 105 ■a Last, sprang upon my heart, sighing and sob- bing, — 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 1 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 ! 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 mumiurs 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 lateatnight. 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, — 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 iU, The lucky sixpence in her pocket still ; And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather. To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together ! Robert Buchanan. WIDOW MALONE. Did you hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone ! Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone ! 0, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts : So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone ! So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score. Or more. And fortunes they all had galore, In store ; From the minister down To the clerk of the Crown All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone ! All were courting the Widow Malone. But so modest was Mistress Malone, 'T was known That no one could see her alone, Ohone ! Let them ogle and sigh. They could ne'er catch her eye. So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone ! So bashful the Widow Malone. Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare, (How quare ! It 's little for blushing they care Down there.) Put his arm round her waist, — Gave ten kisses at laste, — "0," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, My own ! 0," says he, " you 're my Molly Malone 1 ' And the widow they all thought so shy. My eye ! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, — For why ? & t& 106 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. -d But, "Lucius," SB.JS she, " Since you 've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone ! You may marry your Mary Malone." There 's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong ; And one comfort, it 's not very long. But strong, — If for widows you die. Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; For they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone ! 0, they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone ! Charles Levkr. JWOHNNY, GIT OOT ! CUMBERLAND DIALECT. "Git cot wid the', Jwohnny, — thou's no' but a fash ; Thou '11 come till thou raises a desperate clash. Thou 's here every day, just to put yan aboot ; An' thou moiders yan terribly, — Jwohnny, git cot ! "What says t'e ? I 's bonnie ? Whey! that's nowte 'at 's new. Thou 's wantin' a sweetheart ? Thou 's had a gay few ! An' thou 's cheatit them, yan efter t'udder, nea doobt ; But I 's nut to be cheatit ska, — Jwohnny, git oot ! "There's planty o' lads, i' beath Lamplugh an' Dean, As yabble as thee, an' as weel to be seen ; An' I med tak my pick amang o' there aboot : Does t'e think I 'd have thee, than ? Hut ! Jwohnny, git oot ! " Wliat ? Nut yan amang them 'at likes me sae weel ? Whey, min, — there 's Dick Walker an' Jona- than Peel 'At ola 's foorsett me i' t' lonnings aboot ; An' beath want to sweetheart me, — Jwohnny, git oot ! "What? Thou will hev a, kiss? — Ah! but tak 't if thou dar ! I tell the' I '11 squeel, if thou tries to cu' nar. Tak care o' my collar ! — thou byspel, I '11 shoot ! Nay, thou sha' n't hev anudder ! — Noo, Jwohn- ny, git oot ! " Git oot wid the', Jwohnny ! — thou 's tewt me reet sair ; Thou 's brocken my comb, an' thou 's toozelt my hair. I will n't be kisst, thou unmannerly loot ! Was t'ere iver sec impidence ? Jwohnny, git oot ! "Git oot wid the', Jwohnny! — I tell the' be deun : Does t'e think I '11 tak' up wid Ann Dixon's oald sheun ? Thou ma' ga' till Ann Dixon, an' pu' her aboot ; But thou s'all n't pu' me, ska, — Jwohnny, git oot ! " Well ! that 's sent him off, — an' I 'm sorry it hes ; He med ken 'at yan niver means hoaf 'at yan says. He 's a reet canny fellow, however I floot. An' it's growin' o' wark to say "Jwohnny, git oot ! " Anonymous. DUNCAN GEAY CAM' HEBE TO WOO. Duncan Gray cam' here to woo — Ha, ha I the wooing o't ! On blythe Yule night when we were fu' — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't I Maggie coost her head fu' high, Looked asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Duncan fleeched and Duncan prayed — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't I Duncan sighed baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Time and chance are but a tide — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't I Slighted love is sair to bide — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't I Shall T, like a fool, quoth he. For a haughty hizzie dee ? She may gae to • — France for me ! Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! How it comes let doctors tell — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Meg grew sick as he grew heal — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Something in her bosom wrings, — For relief a sigh she brings ; And 0, her een they speak sic things ! Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! [& £ LOVE. 107 ft Duncan was a lad o' grace — Ha, ha ! the wooing q't ! Maggie's was a piteous case — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Duncan could na be her death : Swelling pity snioored his wrath. Now they 're crouse and canty baith. Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! ROBERT BURNS. RORY O'MORE OR, GOOD OMENS. Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn ; He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as the dawn ; He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. " Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye ; " With your tricks, I don't know, in throth, what I 'm about ; Faith you 've teazed till I 've put on my cloak inside out." " Och ! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way You 've thrated my heart for this many a day ; And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? For 't is all for good luck, " says bold Rory O'More. II. "Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike ; The ground that I walk on he loves, I '11 be bound" — ■ " Faith ! " says Rory, " I 'd rather love you than the ground." " Now, Rory, I '11 cry if you don't let me go : Sure I dream ev'ry night that I 'm hating you so! " " Och !" says Rory, "that same I 'm delighted to hear. For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. Och ! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you die. And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie ! And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? Since 't is all for good luck, " says bold Rory O'More. III. " Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, j'ou 've teazed me enough ; Sure, I 've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Dufl"; And I 've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck. So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips — Don't you think he was right ? "Now Rory, leave off, sir — you '11 hug me no more, — That 's eight times to-day you have kissed me before." ' ' Then here goes another, " says he, ' ' to make sure. For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. SAMUEL LOVER. KISSING HER HAIR. Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet : Wove and unwove it, — wound, and found it sweet ; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes. Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim skies ; With her own tresses bound, and found her fair, — Kissing her hair. Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, — Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea : What pain could get between my face and hers ? What new sweet thing would Love not relish worse ? Unless, perhaps, white Death had kissed me there, — Kissing her hair. ALGERNON Charles Swinburne. WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN. When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan, Even before he gets so far As the place where the clustered palm-trees are. At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The Pet of the Harem, Rose in Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room, — Glittering squares of colored ice. Sweetened with syrups, tinctured with spice ; Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates ; Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces. Limes, and citrons, and apricots ; And wines that are known to Eastern princes. And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots Of spiced meats, and costliest fish. And all that the curious palate could wish, Pass in and out of the cedarn doors. ■ff f=l- 108 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Scattered over mosaic floors Are anemones, myrtles, and violets ; And a musical fountain throws its jets Of a hundred colors into the air. The dark sultana loosens her hair, And stains with the henna plant the tips Of her pearly nails, and bites her lips Till they bloom again ; but alas, that rose Not for the Sultan buds and blows ! Not for tlie Sultan Shah-Zaman When he goes to the city Ispahan. Then at a wave of her sunny hand, The dancing girls of Samarcand Float in like mists from Fairy-land ! And to the low voluptuous swoons Of music, rise and fall the moons Of their full brown bosoms. Orient blood Euns in their veins, shines in their eyes ; And there in this Eastern paradise. Filled with the fumes of sandal-wood, And Khoten musk, and aloes, and myrrh, Sits Rose in Bloom on a silk divan. Sipping the wines of Astrackhan ; And her Arab lover sits with her. That 's when tlie Sultan Sliah-Zaman Goes to tJie city Ispalmn. Now, when I see an extra light Flaming, flickering on the night, From my neighbor's casement opposite, I know as well as 1 know to pray, I know as well as a tongue can say. That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman Has gone to tJie city Ispahan. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. t& BONNIE WEE THING. Bonnie wee thing .' cannie wee thing ! Lovely wee thing ! wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom. Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look, and languish, In that bonnie face o' thine ; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine. Wit and grace, and love and beauty, In ae constellation shine ; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom. Lest my jewel I should tine. ROBERT BURNS. THE LUTE-PLAYER. FROM " HASSAN BEN KHALED." " ' Mxisic ! ' they shouted, echoing my demand, And answered with a beckon of his hand The gracious host, whereat a maiden, fair As the last star that leaves the morning air. Came down the leafy paths. Her veil revealed The beauty of her face, which, half concealed Behind its thin blue folds, showed like the moon Behind a cloud that will forsake it soon. Her hair was braided darkness, but the glance Of lightning eyes shot from her countenance. And showed her neck, that like an ivory tower Rose o'er the twin domes of her marble breast. Were all the beauty of this age compressed Into one form, she would transcend its power. Her step was lighter than the young gazelle's. And as she walked, her anklet's golden bells Tinkled with pleasure, but were quickly mute With jealousy, as from a case she drew With snowy hands the pieces of her lute. And took her seat before me. As it grew To perfect shape, her lovely arms she bent Around the neck of the sweet instrument, Till from her soft caresses it awoke To consciousness, and thus its rapture spoke : ' I was a tree within an Indian vale, When first 1 heard the love-sick nightingale Declare his passion ; every leaf was stirred With the melodious sorrow of the bird. And when he ceased, the song remained Avith me. Men came anon, and felled the harmless tree. But from the memory of the songs I heard. The spoiler saved me from the destiny Whereby my brethren perished. O'er the sea I came, and from its loud, tumultuous moan I caught a soft and solemn undertone ; And when I grew beneath the maker's hand To what thou seest, he sang (the while he planned) The miithful measures of a careless heart, And of my soul his songs became a part. Now they have laid my head upon a breast Whiter than marble, I am wholly blest. The fair hands smite me, and my strings com- plain With such melodious cries, they smite again. Until, with passion and with sorrow swayed. My tonnent moves the bosom of the maid. Who hears it speak her own. I am the voice Whereby the lovers languish or rejoice ; And they caress me, knowing that my strain Alone can speak the language of their pain.' " Here ceased the fingers of the maid to stray Over the strings ; the sweet song died away In mellow, drowsy murmurs, and the lute Leaned on her fairest bosom, and was mute. s- LOVE. 109 -a Better than wine that music was to me ; Not the lute only felt her hands, but she Played on my heart-strings, till the sounds be- came Incarnate in the pulses of my frame. Speech left my tongue, and in my tears alone Found utterance. With stretched arms I im- plored Continuance, whereat her fingers poured A tenderer music, answering the tone Her parted lips released, the while her throat Throbbed, as a heavenly bird were fluttering there. And gave her voice the wonder of his note. 'His brow,' she sang, 'is white beneath his hair ; The fertile beard is soft upon his chin, Shading the mouth that nestles warm within, As a rose nestles in its leaves ; I see His eyes, but cannot tell what hue they be. For the sharp eyelash, like a sabre, speaks The martial law of Passion ; in his cheeks The quick blood mounts, and then as quickly goes, Leaving a tint like marble when a rose Is held beside it ; — bid him veil his eyes. Lest all my soul should unto mine arise. And he behold it ! ' As she sang, her glance Dwelt on my face ; her beauty, like a lance, Transfixed my heart. I melted into sighs. Slain by the arrows of her beauteous eyes. ' Why is her bosom made ' (I cried) ' a snare ? Why does a single ringlet of her hair Hold my heart captive ? ' ' Would you know ? ' she said ; ' It is that you are mad with love, and chains Were made for madmen.' Then she raised her head With answering love, that led to other strains. Until the lute, which shared with her the smart, Rocked as in storm upon her beating heart. Thus to its wires she made impassioned cries : ' I swear it by the brightness of his eyes ; I swear it by the darkness of his hair ; By the wami bloom his limbs and bosom wear ; By the fresh pearls his rosy lips enclose ; By the calm majesty of his repose ; By smiles I coveted, and frowns I feared. And by the shooting myrtles of his beard, — I swear it, that from him the morning drew Its freshness, and the moon her silvery hue. The sun his brightness, and the stars their fire, And musk and camphor all their odorous breath : And if he answer not my love's desire. Day will be night to me, and Life be Death ! ' " Bayard Taylor. I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE. SERENADE. I aei.se from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night. When the winds are breathing low. And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee. And a spiiit in my feet Has led me ■ — who knows how ? — To thy chamber-window, sweet ! The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream, — The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, 0, beloved as thou art ! 0, lift me from the grass ! I die, I faint, I fail ! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast : Oh ! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last ! PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. HER SHADOW. Bending between me and the taper, Wliile o'er the harp her white hands strayed. The shadows of her waving tresses Above my hand were gently swayed. With every graceful movement waving, I marked their undulating swell ; I watched them while they met and parted, Curled close or widened, rose or fell. I laughed in triumph and in pleasure — So strange the sport, so undesigned ! Her mother turned and asked me, gravely, ' ' What thought was passing through my mind ? " 'T is Love that blinds the eyes of mothers ; 'T is Love that makes the young maids fair ! She touched my hand ; my rings she counted ; Yet never felt the shadows there. Keep, gamesome Love, beloved Infant, Keep ever thus all mothers blind ; And make thy dedicated virgins. In substance as in shadow, kind ! AUBREY De Verb. &-- ■ff a- no POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ■a SMILE AND NEVER HEED ME. Though, when other maids stand by, I may deign thee no reply. Turn not then away, and sigh, — Smile, and never heed me ! If our love, indeed, be such As must thrill at every touch. Why should others learn as much ? — Smile, and never heed me ! Even if, with maiden pride, I should bid thee quit my side, Take this lesson for thy guide, — Smile, and never heed me ! But when stars and twilight meet, And the dew is falling sweet. And thou hear'st my coming feet, — Then — thou then — mayst heed me ! Charles Swain SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that which I forbore, . . . Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of tliine. And sees within my eyes the tears of two. The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink. Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness. Sweet, with thee anear. The names of country, heaven, are changed away For where thou art or shall be, there or here ; And this. . .this lute and song. . . loved yesterday, (The singing angels know) are only dear. Because thy name moves right in what they say. Indeed this very love which is my boast. And which, when rising up from breast to brow. Doth crown me with a ruby large enow To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost, . . . This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost, I should not love withal, unless that thou Hadst set me an example, shown me how, When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed, And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak Of love even, as a good thing of my own. Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak, And placed it by thee on a golden throne, — And that I love (0 soul, we must be meek !) Is by thee only, whom I love alone. If thou must love me, let it be for naught Except for love's sake only. Do not say " I love her for her smile . . . her look . . . her way Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day." For these things in themselves, beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, — and love so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, — A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. I NEVER gave a lock of hair away To a man. Dearest, except this to thee, Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully I ring out to the full brown length and say " Take it." My day of youth went yesterday ; My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee. Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle tree, As girls do, any more. It only may Now shade on two pale cheeks, the mark of tears. Taught drooping from the head that hangs asid° Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral- shears Would take this first, but Love is justified, — Take it thou, . . . finding pure, from all those years. The kiss my mother left here when she died. The soul's Eialto hath its merchandise ; I barter curl for curl upon that inart, And from my poet's forehead to my heart. Receive this lock which outweighs argosies, — As purely black, as erst, to Pindar's eyes. The dim purjjureal tresses gloomed athwart The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterjiart. Thy bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise, Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black ! Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath, I tie the shadow safe from gliding back. And lay the gift where nothing hindereth. Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack No natural heat till mine grows cold in death. l& ■ff LOVE. Ill -^ Sat over again, and yet once over again, That thou dost love me. Though the word re- peated Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it. Remember, never to the hill or plain, Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain, Comes the fresh spring in all her green completed. Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain Cry: " Speak once more — thou lovest ! " Who can fear Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll, — Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year ? Say thou dost love me, love me, love me, — toll The silver iterance ! — ouly minding, dear, To love me also in silence, with thy soul. Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead, Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine ? And would the sun for thee more coldly shine. Because of grave-damps falling round my head ? I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine — But . . . so much to thee ? Can I pour thy wine While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range. Then, love me. Love ! look on me . . . breathe on me ! As brighter ladies do not count it strange, For love, to give up acres and degree, I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee ! My letters ! all dead paper, . . . mute and white ! — And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said, ... he wished to have me in his sight Once, as a friend : this fixed a day in spring To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing. Yet I wept for it ! this, . . . the paper 's light . . . Said, Dear, I love thee ,- and I sank and quailed As if God's future thundered on my past. This said, / am thine, — and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast. And this ... Love, thy words have ill availed, If what this said, I dared repeat at last ! I THINK of thee ! my thoughts do twine and bud About thee, as wild vines, about a tree. Put out broad leaves, andsoon there's naught to see Except the straggling green which hides the wood. Yet, my palm-tree, be it understood I will not have my thoughts instead of thee Who art dearer, better ! rather instantly Renew thy presence. As a strong tree should, Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare, And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee Drop heavily down, . . . burst, shattered, every- where ! Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee And breathe within thy shadow a new air, I do not think of thee, — I am too near thee. The first time that the sun rose on thine oatli To love me, I looked forward to the moon To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon And quickly tied to make a lasting troth. Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe ; And, looking on myself, I seemed not one For such man's love ! — more like an out of tune Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note. I did not wrong myself so, but I placed A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced, — And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat. First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white. Slow to world-greetings, quick with its " list ! " When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight Than that first kiss. The second passed in height The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, Half falling on the hair. 0, beyond meed ! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown. With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state ; since when, indeed, I have been proud, and said, " My love, my own ! " How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith, I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. w !&^ 112 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ■e BURD HELEN". [" This beautiful tale of woman's love," wrote Dr. Robert Cham- bers in 1S29, — *' beautiful in the pathos of its simple and touching narrative, and equally beautiful in the pathos of its simple and touching language, was first published by Percy, as an English ballad, under the tide of " Childe Waters."] Lord John stood in his stable door, Said he was boun' to ride : Burd Helen stood in her bouir door, Said she 'd run by his side. "The corn is turning ripe, Lord John ; The nuts are growing fu' : An' ye are boun' for your ain countrie ; Fain wad I go with you." " Wi' me, Helen ! wi' me, Helen ! What wad ye do wi' me ? I 've mair need o' a little foot-page, Than of the like o' thee." " 0, I wiU be your little foot-boy, To wait upon your steed ; And I will be your little foot-page. Your leish of hounds to lead." " But my hounds will eat the breid 0' wheat, And ye the dust and bran ; Then will ye sit and sigh, Helen, That e'er ye lo'ed a man." " 0, your dogs may eat the gude wheat-breid, And I the dust and bran ; Yet will I sing and say, weel 's me, That e'er I lo'ed a man ! " "0, better ye'd stay at hame, Helen, And sew your silver seam ; For my house is in the far Hielands, And ye '11 ha'e puir welcome hame." " I winna stay. Lord John," she said, " To sew my silver seam ; Though your house is in the far Hielands, And I '11 ha'e puir welcome hame." " Then if you '11 be my foot-page, Helen, As you tell unto me. Then you must cut your gown of green An inch abune your knee. " So you must cut your yellow locks An inch abune your e'e ; You must tell no man what is my name : My foot-page then you'll be." Then he has luppen* on his white steed, And straight awa' did ride ; Burd Helen, dressed in men's array. She ran fast by his side. ^- Leapt. And he was ne'er sae lack * a knicht. As ance wad bid her ride ; And she was ne'er sae mean a May, As ance wad bid him bide. Lord John he rade, Burd Helen ran, A livelong summer-day ; Until they cam to Clyde-water, Was filled frae bank to brae. "Seest thou yon water, Helen," said he, " That flows from bank to brim ? " "I trust to God, Lord John," she said, "You ne'er will see me swim ! " But he was ne'er sae lack a knicht. As ance wad bid her ride ; Nor did he sae much as reach his hand, To help her ower the tide. The firsten step that she wade in, She wadit to the knee ; "Ochone, alas," quo' that ladye fair, " This water's no for me ! " The second step that she wade in, She steppit to the middle : Then, sighing, said that fair ladye, " I 've wet my gowden girdle." The thirden step that she wade in. She steppit to the neck ; When that the bairn that she was wi'. For cauld began to quake. * ' Lie stiU, my babe ; lie still, my babe ; Lie still as lang 's ye may : Your father, that rides on horseback high, Cares little for us twae." And when she cam to the other side. She sat down on a stane ; Says, " Them that made me, help me now 5 For I am far frae hame ! " 0, tell me this, now, good Lord John ; In pity tell to me ; How far is it to your lodging, AVhere we this nicht maun be ? " " 0, dinna ye see yon castle, Helen, Stands on yon sunny lea ? There ye'se get ane o' my mother's men : Ye'se get nae mair 0' me." " 0, weel see I your bonnie castell Stands on yon sunny lea ; But I 'se hae nane 0' your mother's men, Though I never get mair 0' thee." * Little. £ LOVE. 113 ■a " But there is in yon castle, Helen, That stands on yonder lea, Tliere is a lady in yon castle, Will sinder* you and me." " I wish nae ill to that ladye, She comes na in my thocht : But I wish the maid maist o' your love, That dearest has you bocht." When he cam to the porter's yett,t He tirled at the pin ; J And wha sae ready as the bauld porter, To open and let him in ? Many a lord and lady bright Met Lord John in the closs ; But the bonniest lady among them a' Was handing Lord John's horse. Four and twenty gay ladyes Led him through bouir and Ija' ; But the fairest lady that was there Led his horse to the sta'. Then up bespak Lord John's sister ; These were the words spak she : "You have the prettiest foot-page, brother. My eyes did ever see — " But that his middle is sae thick, His girdle sae wond'rous hie : Let him, I pray thee, good Lord John, To chamber go with me." "It is not fit for a little foot-page. That has run through moss and mire. To go into chamber with any ladye That wears so rich attire. " It were more meet for a little foot-page. That has run through moss and mire. To take his supper upon his knee. And sit doun by the kitchen fire." When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' men boun' to meat, Burd Helen was, at the bye-table, § Amang the pages set. " 0, eat and drink, my bonnie boy. The white breid and the beer." •' The never a bit can I eat or drink ; My heart 's sae fu' o' fear." " 0, eat and drink, my bonnie boy. The white breid and the wine." " the never a bit can I eat or drink ; My heart 's sae fu' o' pyne." || * Part. t Gate. J Opened the gate by turning the latch. § Side-table. II Sorrow. But out and spak Lord John his mother. And a skeely * woman was she : ' ' Where met ye, my son, wi' that bonnie boy, That looks sae sad on thee ? " Sometimes his cheek is ro.sy red. And sometimes deidly wan : He 's liker a woman grit wi' child. Than a young lord's serving man." "0, it maks me laugh, my mother dear, Sic words to hear frae thee ; He is a squire's ae dearest son, That for love has followed me. " Rise up, rise up, my bonnie boy ; Gi'e my horse corn and hay." "0 that I will, my master deir, As quickly as I may." She took the hay aneath her arm. The corn infill her hand ; But atween the stable door and the sta' Burd Helen made a stand. " room ye round, my bonnie broun steids ; room ye near the wa' ; For the pain that strikes through my twa sides, 1 fear, will gar me fa'." She leaned her back again' the wa' ; Strong travail came her on ; And, e'en among the great horse' feet, She has brought forth her son. When bells were rung, and mass was sung. And a' men boun' for bed. Lord John's mother and sister gay In ae bouir they were laid. Lord John hadna weel got aff his claes. Nor was he weel laid doun. Till his mother heard a bairn greet, And a woman's heavy moan. " Win up, win up. Lord John," she said ; "Seek neither stockings nor shoen ; For I ha'e heard a bairn loud greet, And a woman's heavy moan ! " " Riclit hastilie he rase him up, Socht neither hose nor shoen ; And he 's doen him to the stable door, By the lee licht o' the mune. " 0, open the door, Burd Helen, ' ' 0, open and let me in ; I want to see if my steed be fed. Or my greyhounds fit to rin." he said, * Skilful. & fl- n 114 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. " lullaby, my own deir child ! Lullaby, deir child, deir ! I wold thy father were a king, Thy mother laid on a bier ! " " 0, open the door, Burd Helen," he says, " 0, open the door to me ; Or, as my sword hangs by my gair, * 1 '11 gar it gang in three ! " " That never was my mother's custome, And 1 hope it 's ne'er be mine ; A knicht into her conipanie. When she dries a' her pyne." He hit the door then wi' his foot, Sae did he wi' his knee ; Till door o' deal, and locks o' steel, In splinders he gart * flee. "An askin', an askin', Lord John," she says, " An askin' ye '11 grant me ; The meanest maid about your house. To bring a drink to me. " An askin', an askin', my dear Lord John, An askin' ye '11 grant me ; The warsten bouir in a' your touirs, For thy young son and me ! " " I grant, I grant your askins, Helen, An' that and mair frae me ; The very best boiiir in a' my touirs, For my young son and thee. " 0, have thou comfort, fair Helen, Be of good cheer, I pray ; And your bridal and your kirking baith Shall stand upon ae day." And he has ta'en her Burd Helen, And rowed her in the silk ; And he has ta'en his ain young son. And washed him in the milk. And there was ne'er a gayer bridegroom. Nor yet a blyther bride, As they. Lord John and Lady Helen, Neist day to kirk did ride. ANONYMOUS. THE MISTEESS. If he 's capricious, she '11 be so ; But, if his duties constant are. She lets her loving favor glow As steady as a tropic star. Appears there naught for which to weep, t& * Side. f Made or forced to. She '11 weep for naught for his dear sake ; She clasps her sister in her sleep ; Her love in dreams is most awake. Her soul, that once with pleasure shook Did any eyes her beauty own, Now wonders how they dare to look On what belongs to him alone. The indignity of taking gifts Exhilarates her loving breast ; ' A rapture of submission lifts Her life into celestial rest. There 's nothing left of what she was, — Back to the babe the woman dies ; And all the wisdom that she has Is to love him for being wise. She 's confident because she fears ; And, though discreet when he 's awaj'-, If none but her dear despot hears, She '11 prattle like a child at play. Perchance, when all her praise is said. He tells the news, — a battle won — On either side ten thousand dead — Describing how the whole was done : She thinks, " He 's looking on my face ! I am his joy ; whate'er I do. He sees such time-contenting grace In that, he 'd have me always so ! " And, evermore, for cither's sake. To the sweet folly of the dove She joins the cunning of the snake, To rivet and exalt his love. Her mode of candor is deceit ; And what she thinks from what she '11 say, (Although I '11 never call her cheat,) Lies far as Scotland from Cathay. Without his knowledge he was won, — Against his nature kept devout ; She '11 never tell him how 't was done, And he will never find it out. If, sudden, he suspects her wiles. And hears her forging chain and trap, • And looks, — she sits in simple smiles, Her tAvo hands lying in her lap ! Her secret (privilege of the Bard, Whose fancy is of either sex) Is mine ; but let the darkness guard Mysteries that light would more perplex. Coventry patmore. BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEAEING YOUNG CHAEMS. Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day. Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms. Like fairy-gifts fading away ! fi ^- LOVE. 115 ft Thou wouldst still be adored, as tliis moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear. That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known, To which time will but make thee more dear ! the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close. As the sunflower turns to her god when he sets The same look which she turned when he rose ! Thomas Moore ("Irish Melodies"). WERE I AS BASE AS IS THE LOWLY PLAIN. Were I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above. Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain Ascend to heaven, in honor of my Love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Whereso'er you were, with you my Love should go- Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, My love should shine on you like to the sun. And loolc upon you with ten thousand eyes Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were done. Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you, Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. Joshua Sylvester. LOCHINVAR. 0, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west. Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none. He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochin- var. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone. He swam the Eske Eiver where ford there was none ; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), " 0, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochin- var ? " " I long wooed your daughter, my suit you de- nied ; — • Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, — And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine, There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Loch- invar." The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up. He quaffed off the wine, and threw do^vn the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — "Now tread we a measure, " said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume ; And the bridemaidens whispered, "'T were bet- ter by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. So light to the saddle before her he sprung ; " She is won ! we are gone ! over bank, bush, and scaur ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Grsemes of the Neth- erby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgi'aves, they rode and they ran ; 0- -ff fi- ne POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. fi There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochin- ^^^ • Sir Walter Scott. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. FROM " THE DAY DREAM." Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the pui-ple coverlet, The maiden's jet-black hair has grown ; On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; The slumb'rous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. The silk star-broidered coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould. Languidly ever ; and amid Her full black ringlets, downward rolled. Glows forth each softly shadowed arm, "With bracelets of the diamond bright. Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirred That lie upon her charined heart. She sleeps ; on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest ; She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE REVIVAL OF THE BEAUTY." ■' SLEEPING THE DAY DREAM. A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. There rose a noise of striking clocks ; And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; A fuller light illumined all ; A breeze through all the garden swept ; A sudden hubbub shook the hall ; And sixty feet the fountain leapt. . The hedge broke in, the banner blew. The butler drank, the steward scrawled. The fire shot up, the martin flew. The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled ; The maid and page renewed their strife ; The palace banged, and buzzed and clackt ; And all the long-pent stream of life Dashed downward in a cataract. And last of all the king awoke, And in his chair himself upreared, And yawned, and rubbed his face, and spoke : " By holy rood, a royal beard ! How say you 1 we have slept, my lords ; My beard has grown into my lap." The barons swore, with many Avords, 'T was but an after-dinner's nap. " Pardy ! " returned the king, " but still My joints are something stiff or so. My lord, and shall Ave pass the bill I mentioned half an hour ago ? " The chancellor, sedate aiid vain, In courteous words returned reply ; But dallied Avith his golden chain. And, smiling, put the question by. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE "SLEEPING BEAUTY" DEPARTS WITH HER LOVER. THE DAY DREAM.' And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her Avaist she felt it fold ; And far across the hills they went In that ncAV world which is the old. Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost pui-ple rim, And deep into the d3'ing day. The happy princess followed him. *' I 'd sleep another hundred years, love, for such another kiss ! " " wake forever, love," she hears, " love, 't was such as this and this." And o'er them many a sliding star. And many a merry wind was borne. And, streamed through many a golden bar, The tAvilight melted into morn. " eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " ' ' happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " " happy kiss, that Avoke thy sleep ! " " love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! " And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark ; And, rapt through many a rosy change, The tAvilight died into the dark. " A hundred summers ! can it be ? And Avhither goest thou, tell me where ! " 0, seek my father's court with me. For there are greater wonders there." [& S LOVE. 117 a And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Through all the world she followed him. Alfred Tennyson. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. I. St. Agnes' Eve, — ah, bitter chill it was Tlie owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold : Numb were the headman's fingers while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. II. His praj^er he saith, this patient, holy man ; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. And back returneth, meagre, bai'efoot, wan. Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees ; The sculptured dead, on each side seem to freeze, Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails ; Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passed by ; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. III. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; But no, — already had his death-bell rung ; The joys of all his life were said and sung ; His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve ; Another way he went, and soon among Eough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. IV. That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft : And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide ; The level chambers, ready with their pride. Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts. V. At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array. Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new-stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away ; And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care. As she had heard old dames full many times de- clare. VI. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honeyed middle of the night. If ceremonies due they did aright ; As, supperless to bed they must retire. And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. VII. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; The music, yearning like a god in pain. She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine. Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by, — she heeded not at all ; in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. And back retired ; not cooled by high disdain, But she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. VIII. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes. Anxious her lips, her breathing ([uick and short ; The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn. Hoodwinked with fairy fancy ; all amort Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. So, purposing each moment to retire. She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and im- plores All saints to give him sight of Madeline ; But for one moment in the tedious hours. That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss, — in sooth such things have been. He ventures in ; let no buzzed whisper tell ; All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel ; W tfl 118 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage ; not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. XI. Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came. Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland. He startled her ; but soon she knew his face, And grasped his lingers in her palsied hand. Saying, ' ' Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ; They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race ! XII. " Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarfish Hilde- brand ; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land ; Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! Flit like a ghost away ! " — " Ah, gossip dear. We 're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit, And tell me how " — " Good saints, not here, not here ; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." XIII. He followed through a lowly arched way. Brushing the cobwebs mth his lofty plume ; And as she muttered " Well-a — well-a-day ! " He found him in a little moonlight room. Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. " Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, "0, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Wliich none but secret sisterhood may see. When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." XIV. " St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve, — Yet men will murder upon holy days ; Thou must hold water in a mtch's sieve, And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays. To venture so. It fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays This very night ; good angels her deceive ! But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time to grieve." XV. Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. While Porphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot ; then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : "A cruel man and impious thou art ! Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." XVII. " I will not harm her, by all saints I swear ! " Quoth Porphyro ; "0, may I ne'er find gi-ace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer^ If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Or look with rufiian passion in her face ; Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; Or I will, even in a moment's space, AAvake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fanged than wolves and bears." " Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing, Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied. And win perhaps that night a peerless bride ; While legioned fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ej'-ed. Never on such a night have lovers met. Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous debt. XX. " It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame ; "All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night ; by the tambour frame ^U- & LOVE. 119 ■a Her own lute thou wilt see ; no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer The while. Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." XXI. So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. Tlie lover's endless minutes slowly passed : The dame returned, and whispered in his ear To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed and chaste ; Where Porphj'ro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. XXII. Her faltering hand upon tlie balustrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair. When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, Eose, like a missioned spirit, unaware ; With silver taper's liglit, and pious care. She turned, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare. Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ! She comes, she comes again, like a ring-dove frayed and fled. XXIII. Out went the taper as she liurried in ; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, 'lied ; She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of tlie air, and visions wide ; No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! But to her heart, her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; As though a tongneless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. XXIV. A casement high and triple-arched there was. All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. XXV. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint ; She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest. Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro gvew faint : She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. XXVI. Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done. Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ; Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. XXVII. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay. Until the popjiied warmth of sleep oppressed Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day ; Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; Clasi^ed like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. And listened to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; AVhich when he heard, that minute did he bless. And breathed himself ; then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept. And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo ! — how fast she slej)t. XXIX. Then by the bedside, where the faded moon Llade a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — The hall-doorshuts again, andallthe noise is gone. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered ; While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, &^ ^^ [fi 120 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; Manna and dates, in argosy transferred From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. These delicates he heaped with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — ' ' And now, my love, my seraph fair awake ! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." XXXII. Thus whispering, his wann, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains ; — 't was a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, He played an ancient ditty, long since mute. In Provence called "La belle dame sans mercy " ; Close to her ear touching the melody ; — Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan ; He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone ; Uponhis knees he sank, pale assmooth-sculptured stone. XXXIV. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. There was a painful change, that nigh expelled The blisses of her dream so pure and deep ; At which fair Madeline began to weep. And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; "While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep. "Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. Fearing to move or speak, she lookedso dreamingly . XXXV. "Ah, Porphyro !" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear ; How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 0, leave me not in this eternal woe. For if thou diest, my love, I know not where togo." XXXVI. Beyond a mortal man impassioned far At these voluptuous accents, he arose. Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet, — Solution SAveet ; meantime the frost-wind blows Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath set. XXXA^II. 'T is dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet ; "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline !" 'T is dark ; the iced gusts still rave and beat : " No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 1 curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, unpirunedwing." XXXVIII. " My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famished pilgiim, — saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest. Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side ; The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide. But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide ; The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges gi-oans. And they are gone ! ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the baron dreamt of many a woe. And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm. Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ; Tlie beadsman, after thousand aves told. For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. John Keats. [& &-- MARRIAGE. 121 a MARRIAG E. THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE. Thou hast sAvorn by thy God, my Jeanie, By that pi'etty white hand o' thine, And by a' the lowing stars in heaven. That thou wad aye be mine ! And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, And by that kind heart o' thine, By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven, That thou shalt aye be mine ? Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands. And the heart that wad part sic luve ! But there 's nae hand can loose my band. But the finger o' Him abuve. Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, And my claithing ne'er sae mean, I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve, — Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. Her white arm wad be a pillow for me, Fu' safter than the down ; And Luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings. And sweetly I 'd sleep, and soun'. Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve ! Come here and kneel wi' me ! The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God, And I canna pray without thee. The morn wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new . flowers. The wee birds sing kindlie and hie ; Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dike, And a blythe auld bodie is he. The Beuk maun be ta'en whan the carle comes hame, Wi' the holy psalmodie ; And thou maun speak o' me to thy God, And I will speak o' thee. ALLAN Cunningham. THE BRIDE. Lo ! where she comes along Avith portly pace. Like Phoebe from her chamber of the east, Arising forth to run her mighty race. Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. So well it her beseems, that ye would ween Some angel she had been. Her long, loose yellow locks, like golden wire. Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atwccn, Do like a golden mantle her attire ; And being crowned with a garland green, Seem like some maiden queen. Her modest eyes, abashed to behold So many gazers as on her do stare, Upon the lowly gi'ound afiixed are ; Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold. But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, So far from being proud. Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see So fair a creature in your town before ? So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she. Adorned with Beauty's grace and Virtue's store ? Her goodly eyes like sapphires, shining bright. Her forehead ivory white. Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded. Her lips like cherries charming men to bite. Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded. Her paps like lilies budded. Her snowy neck like to a marble tower ; And all her body like a palace fair. Ascending up with many a stately stair To Honor's seat and Chastity's SAveet boAver. Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze. Upon her so to gaze. Whilst ye forget your former lay to sing, To Avhich the woods did ansAver, and your echo ring. EDMUND SPENSER. LOVE. There are AA^ho say the lover's heart Is in the loved one's merged ; 0, never by love's OAvn Avarm art So cold a plea Avas urged ! No ! — hearts that love hath croAvned or crossed, Love fondly knits together ; But not a thought or hue is lost That made a part of either. It is an ill-told tale that tells Of "hearts by love made one " ; He gi'ows who near another's dAvells More conscious of his oAvn ; In each spring up new thoughts and powers That, mid love's Avami, clear weather, Together tend like climbing flowers. And, turnuig, grow together. l-- -ff t& 122 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Such fictions Wink love's better part, Yield up its half of bliss ; The wells are in the neighbor heart "When there is thirst in this : There findeth love the passion-flowers On which it learns to thrive, Makes honey in another's bowers, But brings it home to hive. Love's life is in its own replies, — To each low beat it beats. Smiles back the smiles, sighs back the sighs. And. every throb repeats. Then, since one loving heart still throws Two shadows in love's sun. How should two loving hearts compose And mingle into one ? THOMAS Kibble hervey. ADAM DESCRIBmG EVE. Mine eyes he closed, but open left the cell Of fancy, my internal sight, by which Abstract, as in a trance, methought I saw, Though sleeping, where I lay, and saw the shape Still glorious before whom awake I stood ; "Who, stooping, opened my left side, and took From thence a rib, with cordial spirits warm. And life-blood streaming fresh ; wide was the wound. But suddenly with flesh filled up and healed : The rib he formed and fashioned with his hands ; Under his fonning hands a creature greAV, Manlike, but difl"erent sex, so lovely fair. That what seemed fair in all the world seemed now Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained And in her looks, which from that time infused Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before, And into all things from her air inspired The spirit of love and amorous delight. She disappeared, and left me dark ; I waked To find her, or forever to deplore Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure : "When out of hope, behold her, not far off", Such as I saw her in my dream, adorned With what all earth or Heaven could bestow To make her amiable. On she came, Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen. And guided by his voice, nor uninformed Of nuptial sanctity and marriage rites : Grace was in all her steps. Heaven in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love. I, overjoyed, could not forbear aloud : ' ' This turn hath made amends ; thou hast fulfilled Thy words, Creator bounteous and benign, Giver of all things fair, but fairest this Of all thy gifts, nor enviest. I now see Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself Before me ; "Woman is her name, of man Extracted : for this cause he shall forego Father and mother, and to his wife adhere ; And they shall be one flesh, one heart, one soul.' She heard me thus, and though divinely brought. Yet innocence and virgin modesty, Her virtue and the conscience of her worth. That would be wooed, and not unsought be won, ISTot obvious, not obtrusive, but retired. The more desirable ; or, to say all. Nature herself, though pure of sinful thought, "Wrought in her so, that, seeing me, she turned : I followed her ; she what was honor knew, And with obsequious majesty approved My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower I led her blushing like the morn : all Heaven, And happy constellations on that hour Shed their selectest influence ; the earth Gave sign of gi'atulation, and each hill ; Joyous the birds ; fresh gales and gentle airs "Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odors from the spicy shrub. Disporting, till the amorous bird of night Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening star On his hill-top, to light the bridal lamp.. When I approach Her loveliness, so absolute she seems. And in herself complete, so well to know Her own, that what she wills to do or say Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best ; All higher knowledge in her presence falls ' Degraded, wisdom in discourse with her Loses discountenanced, and like folly shows ; Authority and reason on her wait. As one intended first, not after made Occasionally ; and, to consummate all, Greatness of mind and nobleness their seat Build in her loveliest, and create an awe About her, as a guard angelic placed." Neither her outside formed so fair, nor aught In procreation common to all kinds. So much delights me, as those graceful acts, Those thousand decencies that daily flow From all her words and actions, mixed with love And sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned Union of mind, or in us both one soul ; Harmony to behold in wedded pair More grateful than harmonious sound to the ear; Milton. cQ- ^ MAERIAGE. 123 ■a ALICE. FROM " ALICE AND UNA," I. Alice was a chieftain's daughter, And though many suitors sought her, She so loved Glengariif s water That she let her lovers pine. Her eye was beauty's palace, And her cheek an ivory chalice. Through which the blood of Alice Gleamed soft as rosiest wine, And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine, — And her heart a golden mine. II. She was gentler and shyer Than the light fawn which stood by her. And her eyes emit a fire Soft and tender as her soul ; Love's dewy light doth drown her. And the braided locks that crown her Than autumn's trees are browner, "When the golden shadows roll Through the forests in the evening, when cathe- dral turrets toll, And the purple sun advanceth to its goal. III. Her cottage was a dwelling All regal homes excelling, But, ah ! beyond the telling Was the beauty round it spread, — The wave and sunshine playing. Like sisters each arraying. Far down the sea-plants swaying Upon their coral bed. And languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head. When the summer breeze is dead. IV. "Need we say that Maurice loved her, And that no blush reproved her. When her throbbing bosom moved her To give the heart she gave ? That by dawn-light and by twilisjht, And, blessed moon, by thy light, — When the twinkling stars on high light The wanderer o'er the wave, — His steps unconscious led him where Glengariffs waters lave Each mossy bank and cave. The sun his gold is flinging. The happy birds are singing, And bells are gayly ringing Along Glengariffs sea ; And crowds in many a galley To the happy marriage rally Of the maiden of the valley And the youth of Ceim-an-eich ; Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on bended knee, A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee. Denis Florence MacCarthv. TO A LADY BEFORE MARRIAGE. 0, FORMED by Nature, and refined by Art, With charms to win, and sense to fix the heart 1 By thousands sought, Clotilda, canst thou free Thy crowd of captives and descend to me ? Content in shades obscure to waste thy life, A hidden beauty and a country wife ? 0, listen while thy summers are my theme ! Ah ! soothe thy partner in his waking dream ! In some small hamlet on the lonely plain. Where Thames through meadows rolls his mazy train. Or where high Windsor, thick with greens arrayed. Waves his old oaks, and spreads his ample shade, Fancy has figured out our calm retreat ; Already round the A^sionary seat Our limes begin to shoot, our flowers to spring, The brooks to murmur, and the birds to sing. Where dost thou lie, thou thinly peopled green. Thou nameless lawn, and village yet unseen, Where sons, contented with their native ground, Ne'er travelled further than ten furlongs round. And the tanned peasant and his ruddy bride Were born together, and together died. Where early larks best tell the morning light, And only Philomel disturbs the night ? Midst gardens here my humble pile shall rise. With sweets surrounded of ten thousand dyes ; All savage where th' embroidered gardens end. The haunt of echoes, shall my woods ascend ; And oh ! if Heaven th' ambitious thought ajjprove, A rill shall warble 'cross the gloomy grove, — A little rill, o'er pebbly beds conveyed. Gush down the steep, and glitter through theglade. What cheeringscents these bordering banks exhale! How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale ! That thrush how shrill ! his note .so clear, so high, He drowns each feathered minstrel of the sky. Here let me trace beneath the purpled morn The deep-mouthed beagle and the sprightly horn, Or lure the trout with well-dissembled flies. Or fetch the fluttering partridge from the skies. Nor shall thy hand disdain to crop the vine, The downy peach, or flavored nectarine ; Or rob the beehive of its golden hoard, And bear th' unbought luxuriance to thy board. ^- tf [fr-- 124 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIOlSrS, -a Sometimes my books by day shall kill the hours, While from thy needle rise the silken flowers, And thou, by turns, to ease my feeble sight, Eesume the volume, and deceive the night. 0, when I mark thy twinkling eyes opprest, Soft whispering, let me warn my love to rest ; Then watch thee, charmed, while sleep locks every sense. And to sweet Heaven commend thy innocence. Thus reigned our fathers o'er the rural fold, Wise, hale, and honest, in the days of old ; Till courts arose, where substance pays for show, And specious joys are bought with real woe. THOMAS TICKELL. 0, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR ! 0, LAY thy hand in mine, dear ! We 're growing old ; But Time hath brought no sign, dear, That hearts grow cold. 'T is 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. 0, lean thy life on mine, dear ! 'T will shelter thee. Thou wert a winsome vine, dear. On my young tree : And so, till boughs are leafless, And songbirds flown, We '11 twine, then lay us, griefless, Together down. Gerald Massey. THE BRIDE. FROM A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. The maid, and thereby hangs a tale. For such a maid no Wliitsun-ale Could ever yet produce : No grape that 's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice. Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring, — It was too wide a peck ; And, to say truth, — for out it must, — ■ It looked like the great collar ^ — just — ■ About our young colt's neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat. Like little mice, stole in and out. As if they feared the light ; But 0, she dances such a way ! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. Her cheeks so rare a white was on. No daisy makes comparison ; Who sees them is undone ; For streaks of red were mingled there. Such as are on a Cath'rine pear. The side that 's next the sun. Her lips were red ; and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin. Some bee had stung it newly ; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get ; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. Sir John Suckling. HEBREW WEDDING. To the sound of timbrels sweet Moving slow our solemn feet. We have borne fhee on the road To the virgin's blest abode ; With thy yellow torches gleaming. And thy scarlet mantle streaming. And the canopy above Swaying as we slowly move. Thou hast left the joyous feast. And the mirth and Avine have ceased ; And now we set thee down before The jealously unclosing door. That the favored youth admits Where the veiled virgin sits In the bliss of maiden fear. Waiting our soft tread to hear. ■£ I «- MARRIAGE. 125 ft And the musiu's brisker din At the bridegroom's entering in, Entering in, a welcome guest, To the chamber of his rest. CHORUS OP MAIDENS. Now the jocund song is thine, Bride of David's kingly line ; How thy dove-like bosom trembleth, And thy shrouded eye resembleth Violets, when the dews of eve A moist and tremulous glitter leave On the bashful sealed lid ! Close within the bride-veil hid, Motionless thou sitt'st and mute ; Save that at the soft salute Of each entering maiden friend. Thou dost rise and softly bend. Hark ! a brisker, merrier glee ! The door unfolds, — ■ 't is he ! 't is he ! Thus we lift our lamps to meet him, Thus we touch our lutes to greet him. Thou shalt give a fonder meeting. Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting. Henry Hart Mioian. WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. When the black-lettered list to the gods was pre- sented (The list of what fate for each mortal intends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipped in three blessings, — wife, children, and friends. In vain surely Pluto maintained he was cheated, For justice divine could not compass its ends. The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children, and friends. If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested. The fund ill secured, oft ifi bankruptcy ends ; But the heart issues bills which are never protested, When drawn on the firm of — wife, children, and friends. Tlie day-spring of youth still uncloiided by sorrow. Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow No warmth from the smile of — wife, children, and friends. William Robert Spencer. MARRIAGE. FROM "human HI^." Then before All they stand, — the holy vow And ring of gold, no fond illusions now. Bind her as his. Across the threshold led. And every tear kissed off as soon as shed. His house she enters, — there to be a light. Shining within, when all without is night ; A guardian angel o'er his life presiding. Doubling his pleasures and his cares dividing, Winning him back when mingling in the throng, Back from a world we love, alas ! too long. To fireside happiness, to hours of ease. Blest with that charm, the certainty to please. How oft her eyes read his ; her gentle mind To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined ; Still subject, — ever on the watch to borrow Mirth of his mirth and sorrow of his sorrow ! The soul of music slumbers in the shell. Till waked and kindled by the master's spell. And feeling hearts — touch them but rightly — pour A thousand melodies unheard before ! Samuel Rogers. CONNUBIAL LIFE. FROM " THE SEASONS." But happy they ! the happiest of their kind ! Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 'T is not the coarser tie of human laws. Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind. That binds their peace, but harmony itself, Attuning all their passions into love ; Where friendship full-exerts her softest power, Perfect esteem enlivened by desire Ineffable, and sympathy of soul ; Thought meeting thought, and wiU preventing will. With boundless confidence : for nairght but love Can answer love, and render bliss secure. Meantime a smiling offspring rises round. And mingles both their graces. By degrees, The human blossom blows ; and every day, Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm. The father's lustre and the mother's bloom. Then infant reason gi'ows apace, and calls For the kind hand of an assiduous care. Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought. To teach the young idea how to shoot. To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, To breathe the enlivening spirit, and fo fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast. 0, speak the joy ! ye whom the sudden tear ^ [& 126 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Surprises often, while you look around, And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss, All various Nature pressing on the heart ; An elegant sufficiency, content, Eetirement, rural ^uiet, friendship, books, Ease and alternate labor, useful life, Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven. These are the matchless joys of virtuous love ; And thus their moments fly. The Seasons thus. As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, Still find them happy ; and consenting Spring Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads : Till evening comes at last, serene and mild ; When after the long vernal day of life. Enamored more, as more remembrance swells "With many a proof of recollected love, Together down they sink in social sleep ; Together freed, their gentle spirits fly To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign. James Thomson. THE BANKS OF THE LEE. Air, "a trip to the cottage." THE banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! There 's not in the land a lovelier tide. And I 'msure that there's no one so fair asmy bride. She 's modest and meek. There 's a down on her cheek, And her skin is as sleek As a butterfly's wing ; Then her step would scarce show On the fresh-fallen snow. And her whisper is low. But as clear as the spring. the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! 1 know not how love is happy elsewhere, I know not how any but lovers are there. 0, so green is the grass, so clear is the stream, So mild is the mist and so rich is the beam. That beauty should never to other lands roam. But make on the banks of our river its home ! When, dripping with dew, The roses peep through, 'T is to look in at you They are gi-owing so fast ; Wliile the scent of the flowers Must be hoarded for hours, 'T is poured in such showers When my Mary goes past. the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! 0, Mary for me, Mary for me. And 't is little I 'd sigh for the banks of the Lee ! Thomas Davis. MY WIFE 'S A WINSOME WEE THING. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing. She is a bonnie wee thing, Tliis sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer. And neist my heart I '11 wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't : Wi' her I '11 blythely bear it. And think my lot divine. ROBERT BURNS. SONNETS. Mt Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die ; Albeit I ask no fairer life than this. Whose numbering-clock is still thy gentle kiss. While Time and Peace with hands unlocked fly, — Yet care I not where in Eternity We live and love, well knowing that there is No backward step for those who feel the bliss Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings high : Love hath so purified my being's core, Meseems I scarcely should be startled, even. To find, some morn, that thou hadst gone before ; Siace, with thy love, this knowledge too was given. Which each calm day doth strengthen more and more, That they who love are but one step from Heaven. I CANNOT think that thou shouldst pass away, Whose life to mine is an eternal law, A piece of nature tiiat can have no flaw, A new and certain sunrise every day ; But, if thou art to be another ray About the Sun of Life, and art to live Free from all of thee that was fugitive. The debt of Love I will more fully pay, Not downcast with the thought of thee so high, But rather raised to be a nobler man. And more divine in my humanity. As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan My life are lighted by a purer being. And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it agree- ing. [& -fcr THE BANKS OF I'HE LEE ' So ^rfen is the grais, so clear is the stream. So mild is the mi t and so rick is the b am. That hean'y should never to other lands roam. But tit ike on the hanks of rttr river its hom: ! ' MARRIAGE. 127 I There never yet was flower fair in vain, Let classic poets rhyme it as they will ; The seasons toil that it may blow again, And summer's heart doth feel its every ill ; Nor is a true soul ever born for naught : Wherever any such hath lived, and died, There hath been something for true freedom wrought, Some bulwark levelled on the evil side : Toil on, then, Greatness ! thou art in the right. However narrow souls may call thee wrong : Be as thou woiildst be in thine own clear sight, And so thou wilt in all the world's erelong : For worldlings cannot, struggle as they may. From man's great soul one great thought hide away. I THOUGHT our love at full, but I did err ; Joy's wreath di'ooped o'er mine eyes ; I could not see That sorrow in our happy world must be Love's deepest spokesman and interpreter ? But, as a mother feels her child first stir Under her heart, so felt I instantly Deep in my soul another bond to thee Thrill with that life we saw depart from her ; mother of our angel child ! twice dear ! Death knits as well as parts, and still, I wis. Her tender radince shall infold us here. Even as the light, borne up by inward bliss. Threads the void glooms of space without a fear. To print on farthest stars her pitying kiss. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. POSSESSION. " It 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. 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 these 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 de- part, — Thy nest is builded in my heart ! 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. 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, 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. Bayard Taylor. THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. The day returns, my bosom burns. The blissful day we twa did meet ; Though winter wild in tempest toiled, Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line, — Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more ; it made thee mine. While day and night can bring delight. Or nature aught of pleasure give, — While joys above my mind can move. For thee and thee alone I live ; Wlien that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part. The iron hand that breaks our band. It breaks my bliss, — it breaks my heart. ROBERT BURNS. THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 0, MY love 's like the steadfast sun. Or streams that deepen as they run ; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between sighs and tears. Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain. -^ a-- 128 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. -f Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows To sober joys and soften woes, Can make my heart or fancy flee. One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse, I see thee sit In maiden bloom and matron wit ; Fair, gentle as when first I sued, Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Arbigland tree. We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon ; Or lingered mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few. Though I see smiling at thy feet Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet. And time, and care, and birthtime woes Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose. To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong Whate'er charms me in tale or song. When words descend like dews, unsought, With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought, And fancy in her heaven fUes free, They come, my love, they come from thee. 0, when more thought we gave, of old, To silver, than some give to gold, 'T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er How we should deck our humble bower ; 'T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, The golden fruit of fortune's tree ; And sweeter still to choose and twine A garland for that brow of thine, — A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow, and woods grow green. At times there come, as come there ought. Grave moments of sedater thought. When fortune frowns, nor lends our night One gleam of her inconstant light ; And hope, that decks the peasant's bower. Shines like a rainbow through the shower ; then I see, while seated nigh, A mother's heart shine in thine eye. And proud resolve and purpose meek. Speak of thee more than words can speak. 1 think this wedded wife of mine. The best of all that 's not divine. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. How many summers, love, Have I been thine ? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine ? Time, like the winged wind When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours ! Some weight of thought, though loath, On thee he leaves ; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves ; Some fears, — a soft regret For joys scarce known ; Sweet looks we half forget ; — All else is flown ! Ah ! — With what thankless heart I mourn and sing ! Look, where our children start, Like sudden spring ! With tongues all sweet and low Like a pleasant rhyme. They tell how much I owe To thee and time ! Barry CoRmvALL. IF THOU WEET BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE If thou wert by my side, my love, How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale ! If thou, my love, wert by my side, My babies at my knee. How gayly would our pinnace glide O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! I miss thee at the dawning gray, When, on our deck reclined. In careless ease my limbs I lay And woo the cooler wind. I miss thee when by Gunga's stream My twilight steps I guide. But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee from my side. I spread my books, my pencil try. The lingering noon to cheer. But miss thy kind, approving eye, Thy meek, attentive ear. But when at morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far. Thy prayers ascend for me. Then on ! then on ! where duty leads. My course be onward still. O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads. O'er bleak Almorah's hill. ca- -»— b J- MARRIAGE. 129 ■a That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor mild Malwah detain ; For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say. Across the dark blue sea ; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee ! Reginald Heber. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven. Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is held, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And niony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we '11 go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. Robert Burns. THE WORN WEDDING-RING. Your 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 ; And, love, what changes we have seen, — what cares and pleasures, too, — Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new ! 0, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life, Wheff, 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 w^ife, when this old ring was new. 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 ; Nor how I doated on you ; 0, 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 nie ; 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 ? partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is there For me you Avould not bravely face, with me you would not share ? 0, 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 wSrst we've struggled through ; Blessed be his name for all his love since this old ring was new ! The past is dear, its sweetness still our memo- ries 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 '11 share as we have shared all else since this old ring was new. And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daugh- ters to grow old. We know his goodness will not let your heart or mine giow cold. ■ff [& 130 POEMS OF THE AFFECTION'S. 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 0, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast ; 0, 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 ! WILLIAM Cox Bennett. MARIE BHAN ASTOR. " FAIR MARY, MY TREASURE." I. In a valley far away With my Maire bhan astor, Short would be the summer-day, Ever loving more and more ; Winter days wovild all grow long, With the light her heart would pour, With her kisses and her song. And her loving mait go leor. Fond is Maire bhan astor, Fair is Maire bhan astor. Sweet as ripple on the shore, Sings my Maire bhan astor. 0, her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone ; But her brother bravely vowed She should be my bride alojie ; For he knew I loved her well. And he knew she loved me too, So he sought their pride to quell, But 'twas all in vain to sue. True is Maire bhan astor. Tried is Maire bhan astor, Had I wings I 'd never soar From my Maire bhan ast6r. There are lands where manly toil Surely reaps the crop it sows. Glorious woods and teeming soil. Where the broad Missouri flows ; Through the trees the smoke shall rise, From our hearth with mait go leor, There shall shine the happy eyes Of my Maire bhan ast6r. Mild is Maire bhan astor. Mine is Maire bhan astor. Saints will watch about the door Of my Maire bhan astor. THOMAS Davis, ADAM TO EVE. FAIREST of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed. Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet ! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost. Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote ! Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress The strict forbiddance, how to violate The sacred fruit forbidden ! Some cursed fraud Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown. And me with thee hath ruined, for with thee Certain my resolution is to die. How can I live without thee, how forego Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined, To live again in these wild woods forlorn ? Should God create another Eve, and I Another rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart ; no, no, I feel The link of nature draw me : flesh of flesh, Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe. However, I with thee have fixed my lot. Certain to undergo like doom ; if death Consort with thee, death is to me as life ; So forcible within my heart I feel The bond of nature draw me to my own. My own in thee, for what thou art is mine ; Our state cannot be severed, we are one. One flesh ; to lose thee were to lose myself. PORTIA AND BRUTUS. FKOM " JULIUS C^SAR." Portia. Bnitus, my lord ! Brutus. Portia, what mean you ? Wherefore rise you now ? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning. PoR. Nor for yours neither. You have un- gently, Brutus, Stole from my bed : And yesternight, at supper. You suddenly arose, and walked about. Musing, and sighing, with your arms across ; And when I asked you what the matter was. You stared upon me with ungentle looks : I urged you further ; then you scratched your head. t& -^ &-- MARRIAGE. 131 ft And too impatiently stamped with yonr foot : Yet I insisted, yet you answered not ; But, with an angry wafture of your hand, Gave sign for me to leave you : So 1 did ; Fearing to strengthen that impatience. Which seemed too much enkindled ; and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humor. Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, And, could it work so much upon your shape, As it hath much prevailed on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord. Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. Buxj. I am not well in health, and that is all. For. Brutus is wise, and were he not in health. He Avould embrace the means to come by it. Bru. Why, so I do : — good Portia, go to bed. For. Is Brutus sick, — and is it physical To walk unbraced, and suck up the hunaors Of the dank morning ? What, is Brutus sick, — And will he steal out of his wholesome bed. To dare the vile contagion of the night. And tempt the rheumy and impurged air To add unto his sickness ? No, my Brutus ; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, 1 ought to know of : And upon my knees I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half. Why you are heavy ; and what men to-night Have had resort to you, — for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness. Bru. Kneel not, gentle Portia. For. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it expected, I should know no secrets That appertain to you ? Am 1 yourself But, as it were, in sort or limitation, — To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed. And talk to you sometimes ? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure ? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. Bru. You are my true and honorable wife ; As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. For. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman ; but, withal, A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife : I grant I am a woman ; but, withal, A woman well-reputed, Cato's daughter. Think you, I am no stronger than my sex. Being so fathered, and so husbanded ? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose them. Shakespeare. LORD WALTER'S WIFE. " But why do you go ? " said the lady, while both sate under the yew. And her eyes were alive in their depth, as the kraken beneath the sea-blue. " Because I fear you," he answered ; — " because you are far too fair. And able to strangle my soul in a mesh of your gold-colored hair." "0 that," she said, "is no reason ! Such knots are quickly undone, And too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun." IV. "Yet farewell so," he answered; — "the sun- stroke 's fatal at times. I value your husband, Lord Walter, whose gallop rings still from the limes." V. "0 that," she said, "is no reason. You smell a rose through a fence : If two should smell it, what matter ? who grum- bles, and where 's the pretence ? " VI. "But I," he replied, "have promised another, when love was free. To love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves "Why, that," she said, "is no reason. Love's alwaj's free, I am told. Will you vow to be safe from the headache on Tuesday, and think it will hold ? " "But you," he replied, "have a daughter, a young little child, who was laid In your lap to be pure ; so I leave you : the an- gels would make me afraid." IX. "0 that," she said, "is no reason. The angels keep out of the way ; And Dora, the child, observes nothing, although you should please me and stay." -ff \S- 132 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. At whicli he rose up in his anger, — "Why, now, you no longer are fair ! Why, now, yoii no longer are fatal, but ugly and hateful, I swear." At which she laughed out in her scorn, — " These men ! 0, these men overnice. Who are shocked if a color not virtuous is frankly put on by a vice." XII. Her eyes blazed upon him — "And yoii! You bring us your vices so near That we smell them ! You think in our presence a thought 't would defame us to hear ! "What reason had you, and what right, — I ap- peal to your soul from my life, — To find me too fair as a woman ? Why, sir, I am pure, and a wife. " Is the day-star too fair up above you ? It burns jovL not. Dare you imply I brushed you more close than the star does, when Walter had set me as high ? " If a man finds a woman too fair, he means sim- ply adapted too much To uses unlawful and fatal. The praise ! — shall I thank you for such ? XA''I. " Too fair? — not unless you misuse us ! and surely if, once in a while, - You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer too fair, but too vile. XVII. " A moment, — I pray your attention ! — I have a poor word in my head I must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better unsaid. " You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring. You kissed my fan when I dropped it. No mat- ter ! I 've broken the thing. "You did me the honor, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then In the senses, — a vice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men. " Love 's a virtue for heroes ! — as white as the snow on high hills, And immortal as every great soul is that strug- gles, endures, and fulfils. " I love my Walter profoundly, — you, Maude, though you faltered a week. For the sake of . . . what was it ? an eyebrow ? or, less still, a mole on a cheek ? " And since, when all 's said, you 're too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray, and supplant, XXIII. " I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now. XXIV. "There ! Look me full in the face ! — in the face. Understand, if j'ou can, That the eyes of such women as I am are clean as the palm of a man. XXV. " Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scar, — You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are. XXVI. "You wronged me ; but then I considered . . . there 's AValter ! And so at the end, I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of a friend. XXVII. " Have I hurt you indeed ? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine ! Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine." ELIZABETH Barrett Browning. THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. [" In the Parish of St. Nents, Cornwall, is a well, arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees, — withy, oal<, elm, and ash, — and dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby." — FULLER.] A WELL there is in the West country, And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the West country But has heard of the Avell of St. Keyne, fy- -^ HOME. 13^ -a An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind does an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the well of St. Kejoie ; Pleasant it was to his eye, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank. Under the willow-tree. There came a man from the nighboring town At the well to fill his pail. On the well-side he rested it. And bade the stranger hail, " Now art thou a bachelor, stranger ? " quoth he, ' ' For an if thou hast a wife. The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. " Or has your good woman, if one you have. In Cornwall ever been ? For an if she have, I '11 venture my life She has drank of the well of St. Keyne." " I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply ; " But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why." ' ' St. Keyne, "quoth the countryman, "many atime Drank of this crystal well. And before the angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell. " If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life. " But if the wife should drink of it first, Heaven help the husband then ! " The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again. " You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ? " He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. ' ' I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done. And left my wife in the porch. But i' faith, she had been wiser than me. For she took a bottle to church." ROBERT SOUTHEY. HOME. HOME, SWEET HOME. FROM THE OPERA OF " CLARI, THE MAID OF MILAN." Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there 's no place like home ! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home ! home ! sweet, .sweet home ! There 's no place like home ! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ! 0, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! The birds singing gayly that came at my call ; — Give me them ! and the peace of mind dearer than all ! Home ! home, &c. John Howard Payne. GILLE MACHREE. ENGLISH, — "bRIGHTENER OF MY HEART." Gille machrec. Sit down by me. We now are joined and ne'er shall sever ; This hearth *s ouf own, Our hearts are one. And peace is ours forever ! When I was poor. Your father's door Was closed against your constant lover. With care and pain, I tried in vain My fortunes to recover. I said, " To other lands I '11 roam, Where Fate may smile on me, love " ; I said, " Farewell, my own old home ! " And I said, "Farewell to thee, love ! " Sing Gille machree, &c. I might have said. My mountain maid. Come live with me, your own true lover ; I know a spot, A silent cot. Your friends can ne'er discover. Where gently flows the waveless tide By one small garden only ; # a 134 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. f Where the heron waves his wings so wide, And the linnet sings so lonely ! Sing Gille machree, &c. I might have said, My mountain maid, * A father's right was never given True hearts to curse "With tyrant force That have been blest in heaven. But then, I said, " In after years, "When thoughts of home shall find her ! My love may mourn with secret tears Her friends thus left behind her." Sing Gilh machree, &c. no, I said. My own dear maid. For me, though all forlorn, forever. That heart of thine Shall ne'er repine O'er slighted duty, — never. From home and thee though wandering far, A dreary fate be mine, love ; I 'd rather live in endless war, Than buy my peace with thine, love. Sing Gille machree, &c. Far, far away, By night and day, I toiled to win a golden treasure ; And golden gains Kepaid my pains In fair and shining measure. I sought again my native land. Thy father welcomed me, love ; I poured my gold into his hand. And my guerdon found in thee, love ; Sing Gille machree Sit down by me, "We now are joined, and ne'er shall sever ; This hearth 's our own. Our hearts are one. And peace is ours forever. Gerald Griffin. A WISH. Mine 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. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village -church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to heaven. Samuel Rogers. THE QUIET LIFE. Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. "Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread. Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter, fire. Blest, who can nnconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night ; study and ease Together mixed ; sweet recreation. And innocence, which most does please With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; Thus iinlamented let me die ; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. ALEXANDER POPE. A SONG FOR THE HOME. ^HEARTH AND Daek is the night, and fitful and drearily Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea : Little care I, as here I sit cheerily. Wife at my side and my baby on knee. King, king, crown me the king : Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces. Dearer and dearer and onward we go. Forces the shadow behind us, and places Brightness around us with warmth in the glow. King, king, crown me the king : Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! c& £ HOME. -& 135 Flashes the lovelight, increasing the gloiy, Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the soul, Telling of trust and content the sweet story, Lifting the shadows that over us roll. King, king, crown me the king : Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! Richer than miser with perishing treasure. Served with a service no concjuest could bring ; ILippy with fortune that words cannot measure. Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. King, king, crown me the king : Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king. Rev. William Rankin Duryea. A SHEPHERD'S LIFE. FROM "third part OF HENRY VI." King Henry. God! methinks, it were a happy life. To be no better than a homely swain ; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run ; How many make the hour full complete ; How many hours bring about the day ; How many days will hnish up the year ; How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times, — So many hours must I tend my flock ; So many hours must I take my rest ; So many hours must I contemjjlate ; So many hours must I sport myself ; So many days my ewes have been with young ; So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece : So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years. Passed over to the end they were created. Would bring white hairs unto a cpiiet grave. Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep. Than doth a rich embroidered canopy To kings that fear their subjects' treachery ? Shakespeare. THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE. Martial, the things that do attain The happy life be these, I find, — The riches left, not got with pain ; The fruitful ground, the qui^t mind, The equal friend ; no grudge, no strife ; No charge of rule, nor governance ; Without disease, the healthful life ; The household of continuance ; The mean diet, no delicate fare ; True wisdom joined with simpleness ; The night discharged of all care. Where wine the wit may not oppress ; The faithful wife, without debate ; Such sleeps as may beguile the night ; Contented with thine own estate, Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. LORD SURREY. THE FIRESIDE. Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd, The vain, the. wealthy, and the proud. In folly's maze advance ; Though singularity and pride Be called our choice, we '11 step aside, Nor join the giddy dance. From the gay world we 'II oft retire To our own family and fire, Where love our hours employs ; No noisy neighbor enters here. No intermeddling stranger near, To spoil our heartfelt joys. If solid happiness we prize. Within our breast this jewel lies. And they are fools who roam ; The world hath nothing to bestow, — From our own selves our bliss must flow. And that dear hut, our home. Our portion is not large, indeed ; But then how little do we need. For nature's calls are few ; In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may sufiice, And make that little do. We '11 therefore relish with content Whate'er kind Providence has sent, Nor aim beyond our power ; For, if our stock be very small, 'T is prudence to enjoy it all, Nor lose tlie present hour. To be resigned when ills betide. Patient when favors are denied. And pleased with favors given, — Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, This is that incense of the heart, Whose fragrance smells to heaven. Nathaniel Cotton. w 6" 136 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. fl ^ A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY FIKE. THOU of home the guardian Lar, And when our earth hath wandered far Into the cold, and deep snow covers The walks of our New England lovers, Their sweet secluded evening-star ! 'T was with thy rays the English Muse Ripened her mild domestic hues : 'T was by thy flicker that she conned The fireside wisdom that enrings With light from heaven familiar things ; By thee she found the homely faith In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th, When Death, extinguishing his torch, Gropes for the latcli-string in the porch ; The love that wanders not beyond His earliest nest, but sits and sings While children smooth his patient wings : Therefore with thee I love to read Our brave old poets : at thy touch how stirs Life in the withered words ! how swift recede Time's shadows ! and how glows again Through its dead mass the incandescent verse, As when upon the anvils of the brain It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought By the fast -throbbing hammers of the poet's thought ! Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, The aspirations unattained, The rhythms so rathe and delicate. They bent and strained And broke, beneath the sombre weight Of any airiest mortal word. As who would say, '"Tis those, I ween, Whom lifelong armor-chafe makes lean That win the laurel " ; While the gray snow-stonn, held aloof, To softest outline rounds the roof. Or the rude North with baffled strain Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane ! Now the kind nymph to Bacchus borne By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems Gifted upon her natal morn By him with fire, by her with dreams, Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grapes' bewildering juice. We worship, unforbid of thee ; And, as her incense floats and curls In airy spires and wayward whirls, Or poises on its tremulous stalk A flower of frailest revery. So winds and loiters, idly free. The current of unguided talk, Now laughter-rippled, and now caught In smooth dark pools of deeper thought. Meanwhile thou mellowest every word, A sweetly unobtrusive third : For thou hast magic beyond wine, To unlock natures each to each ; The unspoken thought thou canst divine ; Thou fillest the pauses of the speech With whispers that to dream-land reach. And frozen fancy-springs unchain In Arctic outskirts of the brain ; Sun of all inmost confidences ! To thy rays doth the heart unclose Its formal calyx of pretences. That close against i-ude day's offences, And open its shy midnight rose: JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. HOMESICK FOR THE COUNTRY. I 'd kind o' like to have a cot Fixed on some sunny slope ; a spot Five acres more or less. With maples, cedars, cherry-trees. And poplars whitening in the breeze. 'T would suit my taste, I guess, To have the porch with vines o'erhung. With bells of pendant woodbine swung. In every bell a bee ; And round my latticed window spread A clump of roses, white and red. To solace mine and me, I kind o' think I should desire To hear around the lawn a choir Of wood-birds singing sweet ; And in a dell I 'd have a brook, Where I might sit and read my book. Such should be my retreat. Far from the city's crowd and noise : There would I rear the girls and boys, (I have some two or three.) And if kind Heaven should bless my store With five or six or seven more, How happy I would be ! ANONVIIOUS. I KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO GRACEFULLY CURLED. I KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, "If there 's peace to be found in the world, A heart that is humble mighthope for it here ! " -^ =r- HOME. 137 ■a It was noon, and on flowers that langiiislied around In silence reposed the vohiptuous bee ; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech- tree. And " Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed, " With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, How blest could I live, and how calm could 1 die! " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, Which had never been sighed on by any but mine ! " Thomas Moore. HOME. FROM "the traveller." But where to find that happiest spot below. Who can direct, when all jiretend to know ? The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease : The naked negro, panting at the line. Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An e([ual portion dealt to all mankind ; As different good, by art or nature given. To different nations makes their blessing even. Oliver Goldsmith. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. The stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand ! Amidst their tall ancestral trees. O'er all the pleasant land ; The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam. And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England ! Around their hearths by night. What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light. There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childish tale is told ; Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed Homes of England ! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at mom ; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage Homes of England ! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks. And round the hamlet-fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves ; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath theii* eaves. The free, fair Homes of England ! Long, long in hut and hall. May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall ! And green forever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod. Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God. Mrs. hemans. 9 t& 138 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. -fl FILIAL AND FRATERNAL LOVE, FILIAL LOVE. CHILDE HAROLD. There is a dungeon in whose dim drear light What do I gaze on ? Nothing : look again ! Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight, ■ — Two insulated phantoms of the brain : It is not so ; I see them full and plain, — An old man and a female young and fair. Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar : but what doth she there, With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare ? Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, Where on the heart and from the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture, w'hen the wife, Blest into mother, in the innocent look. Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — What may the fruit be yet ? I know not — Cain was Eve's. But here youth offers to old age the food, The milk of his own gift : it is her sire To whom she renders back the debt of blood Born with her birth. No ! he shall not expire While in those warm and lovely veins the fire Of health and holy feeling can provide Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Than Egypt's river ; — from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds no such tide. The starry fable of the milky-way Has not thy story's purity ; it is A constellation of a sweeter ray, And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Eeverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds : — 0, holiest nurse ! No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. TO AUGUSTA. HIS SISTER, AUGUSTA LEIGH. My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : Go where 1 will, to me thou art the same, — A loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destinj'-, — A world to roam through, "and a home with thee. The first were nothing, • — had I still the last. It were the haven of my happiness ; But other claims and other ties thou hast. And mine is not the wish to make them less. A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore, — He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. If my inheritance of storms hath been In other elements, and on the rocks Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen, I have sustained my share of worldly shocks. The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen My errors with defensive paradox ; I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper Avoe. Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward, My whole life was a contest, since the day ' That gave me being gave me that which marred The gift, — a fate, or will, that walked astray : And I at times have found the struggle hard. And thought of shaking ofi" my bonds of clay : But now I fain would for a time survive, If but to see what next can well arrive. Kingdoms and empires in my little day I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; And when I look on this, the petty spray Of my OAvn years of trouble, v/hich have rolled Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : Something — I know not what — does still uphold A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. Perhaps the workings of defiance stir Within me, — or perhaps of cold despair, Brought on when ills habitually recur, — Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, (For even to this may change of soul refer, And with light armor Ave may learn to bear,) Have taught me a strange quiet, Avhich was not The chief companion of a calmer lot. t& ^ ^- FILIAL AND FRATERNAL LOVE. -Qi 139 I feel almost at times as I have felt In liappy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brooks, "Which do remember me of where I dwelt, Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, Come as of yore upon me, and can melt My heart with recognition of their looks ; And even at moments I could think I see Some living thing to love, — but none like thee. Here are the Alpine landscapes which create A fund for contemplation ; — to admire Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; But something worthier do such scenes inspire. Here to be lonely is not desolate, For much I view which I could most desire. And, above all, a lake I can behold Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. that thou wert biit with me ! — but I grow The fool of my own wishes, and forget The solitude which I have vaunted so Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; There may be others which I less may show ; I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 1 feel an ebb in my philosophy. And the tide rising in my altered eye. I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, By the old Hall which may be mine no more. Leman's is fair ? but think not I forsake The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore ; Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, Ere that or thotc can fade these eyes before ; Though, like all things which I have loved, they are Resigned forever, or divided far. The world is all before me ; I but ask Of Nature that with which she will comply, — It is but in her summer's sun to bask. To mingle with the cpiiet of her sky, To see her gentle face without a mask. And never gaze on it with apathy. She was ray early friend, and now shall be My sister, — till I look again on thee. I can reduce all feelings but this one ; And that I would not ; for at length I see Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. The earliest, — even the only paths for me, — Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, I had been better than I now can be ; The passions which have torn me would have slept : / had not suffered, and thou hadst not wept. "With false Ambition what had I to do ? Little with Love, and least of all with Fame ! And yet they came unsought, and with me gi'ew. And made me all which they can make, — a name. Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. But all is over ; I am one the more To baffled millions which have gone before. And for the future, this world's future may From me demand but little of my care ; I have outlived myself by many a day : Having survived so many things that were ; My years have been no slumber, but the prey Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share Of life which might have filled a century. Before its fourth in time had passed me by. And for the remnant which may be to come, I am content ; and for the past I feel Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, And for the present, I would not benumb My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal That with all this I still can look around. And worship Nature with a thought profound. For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart I know myself secure, as thou in mine : We were and are — I am, even as thou art — . Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; It is the same, together or apart, From life's commencement to its slow decline "We are intwined, — let death come slow or fast. The tie which bound the first endures the last ! Byron. BERTHA IN THE LANE. Put the broidery-frame away. For my sewing is all done ! The last thread is used to-day, And I need not join it on. Though the clock stands at the noon, I am weary ! I have sewn, Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. Sister, help me to the bed. And stand near me, dearest-sweet ! Do not shrink nor be afraid. Blushing with a sudden heat ! No one standeth in the street ! — By God's love I go to meet. Love I thee with love complete. Lean thy face down ! drop it in These two hands, that I may hold 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin. Stroking back the curls of gold. 'T is a fair, fair face, in sooth, — Larger eyes and redder mouth Than mine were in my first youth ! ■ff a 140 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Thou art younger by seven years — All ! so bashful at my gaze That the lashes, hung with tears, Grow too heavy to upraise ? I would wound thee by no touch "Which thy shyness feels as such, — Dost thou mind me, dear, so much ? Have I not been nigh a mother To thy sweetness, — tell me, dear ? Have we not loved one another Tenderly, from year to year ? Since our dying mother mild Said, with accents undefiled, " Child, be mother to this child ! " Mother, mother, up in heaven. Stand up on the jasper sea. And be witness I have given All the gifts required of me ; — Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned, Love that left me with a wound. Life itself, that turned around ! Mother, mother, thou art kind. Thou art standing in the room, In a molten glory shrined. That rays off into the gloom ! But thy smile is bright and bleak. Like cold waves, — I cannot speak ; I sob in it, and grow weak. Ghostly mother, keep aloof One hour longer from my soul. For I still am thinking of Earth's warm-beating joy and dole ! On my finger is a ring Which I still see glittering. When the night hides everything. Little sister, thou art pale ! Ah, I have a wandering brain ; But I lose that fever-bale. And my thoughts gi'ow calm again. Lean down closer, closer still ! I have words thine ear to fill. And would kiss thee at my will. Dear, I heard thee in the spring. Thee and Robert, through the trees, When we all went gathering Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. Do not start so ! think instead How the sunshine overhead Seemed to trickle through the shade. What a day it was, that day ! Hills and vales did openly Seem to heave and throb away, At the sight of the great sky ; And the silence, as it stood In the glory's golden flood. Audibly did bud, — and bud ! Through the winding hedge-rows green, How we wandered, I and you, — With the bowery tops shut in. And the gates that showed the view ; How we talked there ! thrushes soft Sang our pauses out, or oft . Bleatings took them from the croft. Till the pleasure, grown too strong. Left me muter evennore ; And, the winding road being long, I walked out of sight, before ; And so, wrapt in musings fond, Issued (past the wayside pond) On the meadow-lands beyond. I sat down beneath the beech Which leans over to the lane. And the far sound of your speech Did not promise any pain ; And I blessed you, full and free. With a smile stooped tenderly O'er the May-flowers on my knee. But the sound grew into word As the speakers drew more near — Sweet, forgive me that I heard What you wished me not to hear. Do not weep so, do not shake — 0, I heard thee. Bertha, make Good true answers for my sake. Yes, and he too ! let him stand In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. Could he help it, if my hand He had claimed with hasty claim ! That was ^vrong perhaps, but then Such things be — and will, again ! Women cannot judge for men. Had he seen thee, when he swore He would love but me alone ? Thou wert absent, — sent before To our kin in Sidmouth town. When he saw thee, who art best Past compare, and loveliest. He but judged thee as the rest. Could we blame him with grave words. Thou and I, dear, if we might ? Thy brown eyes have looks like birds Flying straightway to the light ; Mine are older. — Hush ! — look out — Up the street ! Is none without ? How the poplar swings about ! ^ FILIAL AND FRATERNAL LOVE. 141 •a And that hour — beneath the beach — When I listened in a dream, And he said, in his deep speech. That he owed me all esteem — Each word swam in on mj' brain With a dim, dilating pain, Till it burst with that last strain. I fell flooded with a dark. In the silence of a swoon ; When I rose, still, cold, and stark, There was night, — I saw the moon ; And the stars, each in its place. And the May-blooms on the grass, Seemed to wonder what I Avas. And I walked as if apart From myself when I could stand. And I pitied my own heart. As if I held it in my hand Somewhat coldly, with a sense Of fulfilled benevolence. And a " Poor thing" negligence. And I answered coldly too, When you met me at the door ; And I only heard the dew Dripping from me to the floor ; And the flowers I bade you see Were too withered for the bee, — As my life, henceforth, for me. Do not weep so — dear — heart-warm ! It was best as it befell ! If I say he did me harm, I speak wild, — I am not well. All his words were kind and good, — He esteemed me ! Only blood Runs so faint in womanhood. Then I always was too grave, Liked the saddest ballads sung, With that look, besides, we have In our faces who die young. I had died, dear, all the same, — Life's long, joyous, jostling game Is too loud for my meek shame. We are so unlike each other. Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother. But for mutual tenderness. Thou art rose-lined from the cold, And meant, verily, to hold Life's pure pleasures manifold. I am pale as crocus grows Close beside a rose-tree's .root ! Whosoe'er would reach the rose. Treads the crocus underfoot ; I like May-bloom on thorn-tree, Thou like merry .summer-bee ! Fit, that I be plucked for thee. Yet who plucks me ? — no one mourns ; I have lived my season out. And now die of my own thorns. Which I could not live without. Sweet, be merry ! How the light Comes and goes ! If it be night, Keep the candles in my sight. Are there footsteps at the door ? Look out (Quickly. Yea, or nay ? Some one might be waiting for Some last word that I might say. Nay ? So best ! — So angels would Stand off clear from deathly road, Not to cross the sight of God. Colder grow my hands and feet, — When I wear the shroud I made, Let tlie folds lie straight and neat, And the rosemary be spread, That if any friend should come, (To see thee, sweet !) all the room May be lifted out of gloom. And, dear Bertha, let me keep On my hand this little ring, Which at nights, when others sleep, I can still see glittering. Let me wear it out of sight. In the grave, — where it will light All the dark up, day and night. On that grave drop not a tear ! Else, though fathom-deep the place, Through the woollen shroud I wear I shall feel it on my face. Rather smile there, blessed one. Thinking of me in the sun, — Or forget me, smiling on ! Art thou near me ? nearer ? so ! Kiss me close upon the eyes. That the earthly light may go Sweetly as it used to rise, Wlien I watched the morning gray Strike, betwixt the hills, the way He was sure to come that day. So — no more vain words be said ! The hosannas nearer I'oll — Mother, smile now on thy dead, — I am death-strong in my soul ! Mystic Dove alit on cross. Guide the poor bird of the snows Through the snow-wind above loss I # a 142 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Jesus, victim, comprehending Love's divine self-abnegation. Cleanse my love in its self-spending, And absorb the poor libation ! Wind my thread of life up higher, Up thi'ough angels' hands of fire ! — I aspire while I expire ! — Elizabeth Barrett Browning. HOMESICK. Come to me, my Mother ! come to me, Thine own son slowly dying far away ! Through the moist ways of the wide ocean, blown By great invisible winds, come stately ships To this calm bay for quiet anchorage ; They come, they rest awhile, they go away, But, my Mother, never comest thou ! The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow, That cold soft revelation pure as light. And the pine-spire is mystically fringed. Laced with incrusted silver. Here — ah me ! — The winter is decrepit, underborn, A leper with no power but his disease. Why am I from thee. Mother, far from thee ? Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods Jewelled from bough to bough ? home, my home ! river in the valley of my home, With mazy-winding motion intricate, Twisting thy deathless music underneath The polished ice-woi'k, — must I nevermore Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch Thy beauty changing with the changeful day. Thy beauty constant to the constant change ? David Gray. 4 THE ABSENT SOLDIER SON. FROM " THE ROMAN." Lord, I am weeping. As Thou wilt, Lord, Do with him as Thou wilt ; but my God, Let him come back to die ! Let not the fowls 0' the air defile the body of my child. My own fair child, that when he was a babe, I lift up in my arms and gave to Thee ! Let not his garment. Lord, be vilely parted, Nor the fine linen which these hands have spun Fall to the stranger's lot ! Shall the wild bird, That would have pilfered of the ox, this year Disdain the pens and stalls ? Shall her blind young. That on the fleck and moult of brutish beasts Had been too happy, sleep in cloth of gold Whereof each thread is to this beating heart As a peculiar darling ? Lo, the flies Hum o'er him ! Lo, a feather from the crow Falls in his parted lips ! Lo, his dead eyes See not the raven ! Lo, the worm, the worm Creeps from his festering corse ! My God ! my God! Lord, Thou doest well. I am content. If Thou have need of him he shall not stay. But as one calleth to a servant, saying "At such a time be with me," so, Lord, Call him to Thee ! 0, bid him not in haste Straight whence he standeth. Let him lay aside The soiled tools of labor. Let him wash His hands of blood. Let him array himself Meet for his Lord, pure from the sweat and fume Of corporal travail ! Lord, if he must die, Let him die here. 0, take him where Thou gavest ! And even as once I held him in my womb Till all things were fulfilled, and he came forth, So, Lord, let me hold him in my grave Till the time come, and Thou, who settest when The hinds shall calve, ordain a better birth ; And as I looked and saw my son, and wept For joy, I look again and see my son. And weep again for joy of him and Thee ! Sidney Dobell. THE FAEEWELL OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE. Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, Where the noisome insect stings, Where the fever demon strews Poison with the falling dews, Where the sickly sunbeams glare Through the hot and misty air, — Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone. From Virginia's hill and waters, — Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone. There no mother's eye is near them. There no mother's ear can hear them ; Never, when the torturing lash Seams their back with many a gash. Shall a mother's kindness bless them. Or a mother's arms caress them. Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone. From Virginia's hills and waters, — Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! -4 PARTING. 143 ft Gone, gone, — sold and gone, To the lice-swamp dank and lone. 0, when weary, sad, and slow. From the fields at night they go. Faint with toil, and racked with pain, To their cheerless homes again, There no brother's voice shall greet them,- There no father's welcome meet them. Gone, gone, — sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. From Virginia's hills and waters, — Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone. From the tree whose shadow lay On their childhood's place of play, — From the cool spring where they drank, — Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank, — From the solemn house of prayer. And the holy counsels there, — Gone, gone, — sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. From Virginia's hills and waters, — "Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! Gone, gone, — sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone, — Toiling through the weary day, And at night the spoiler's prey. that they had earlier died, Sleeping calmly, side by side, Where the tyrant's power is o'er, And the fetter galls no more ! Gone, gone, — • sold and gone. To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters, — Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! Gone, gone, — sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. By the holy love He beareth, — By the bruised reed He spareth, — 0, may He, to whom alone All their cruel wrongs are known, Still their hope and refuge prove. With a more than mother's love. Gone, gone, — sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. From Virginia's hills and waters, — Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. PARTING. AS SHIPS BECALMED. As ships becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail, at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried. When fell the night, \ip sprang the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied ; Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas By each was cleaving, side by side : E'en so — but why the tale reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew, to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? At dead of night their sails were filled, And onward each rejoicing steered ; Ah ! neither blame, for neither willed Or wist what first with dawn appeared. To veer, ho-^ vain ! On, onward strain, Brave barks ! — in light, in darkness too ! Through winds and tides one compass guides To that and your own selves be true. But blithe breeze ! and great seas ! Though ne'er that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again. Together lead them home at last. One port, methought, alike they sought, — One purpose hold where'er they fare ; bounding breeze, rashing seas. At last, at last, unite them there. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART. Ae fond kiss and then we sever ! Ae fareweel, alas ! forever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I '11 pledge thee ; Warring sighs and groans I '11 wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him ? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; Dark despair around benights me. I '11 ne'er blame my partial fancy — Naething could resist my Nancy : But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever. ■ff a- 144 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. f Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met — or never pai'ted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure. Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! Ae fareweel, alas ! forever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I '11 pledge thee ; Warring sighs and groans I '11 wage thee. Robert burns. MY LUVE 'S LIKE A EED, KED EOSE. MY Luve 's like a red, red rose That 's newly sprung in June : my Luve 's like the melodie That 's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. So deep in luve am I : And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry : Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 1 will luve thee still, my dear. While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve ! And fare thee weel awhile ! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho'.it were ten thousand mile. ROBERT BURNS. THE KISS, DEAR MAID. The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift Untainted back to thine. Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see : The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me. I ask no pledge to make me blest In gazing when alone ; Nor one memorial for a breast Whose thoughts are all thine own. Nor need I write — to tell the tale My pen were doubly weak : 0, what can idle words avail, Unless the heart could speak ? By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart, no longer free. Must bear the love it cannot show. And silent, ache for thee. MAID OF ATHENS, EEE WE PAPtT. Zwt; /j.od ads d'yairu).* Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, give me back my heart ! Or, since that has left my breast. Keep it noAv, and take the rest ! Hear my vow before I go, Zc6t7 /UoO (rds a/yairC}. By those tresses unconfined, Wooed by each iEgean wind ; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; By those wild eyes like the roe, ZttiTj fiov ads dyaTTU). By that lip I long to taste ; By that zone-encircled waist ; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well ; By love's alternate joy and woe, Zihr] /xov ads dyajru!. Maid of Athens ! I am gone. Think of me, sweet ! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul : Can I cease to love thee ? No ! Zwi? /xov ads dyairu). THE HEATH THIS NIGHT MUST BE MY BED. SONG OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM THE SIDE OF HIS BRIDE BY THE " FIERY cross" of RODERICK DHU. The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head. My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid My couch may be my bloody plaid. My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! It will not waken me, Mary ! I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, * My life, I love thee. ^ PARTING. 145 ft I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regi'et must Norman know ; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe. His lieart must be like bended bow. His foot like arrow free, Mary. A time will come with feeling fraught ! For, if I fall in battle fought. Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if returned from conquered foes, How blithely will the evening close. How sweet the linnet sing repose. To my young bride and me, Mary ! Sir Walter Scott. -4 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS. Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, That from the nunnerie Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, To warre and armes I flee. True, a new mistresse now I chase, — The iirst foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith imbrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet thi.s inconstancy is such As you, too, should adore ; I could not love thee, deare, so much. Loved I not honor more. RICHARD LOVELACE. ADIEU, ADIEU ! OUR DREAM OF LOVE- Adietj, adieu ! our dream of love AVas far too sweet to linger long ; Such hopes may bloom in bowers above, But here they mock the fond and young. We met in hope, we part in tears ! Yet 0, 't is sadly sweet to know That life, in all its future years. Can reach us with no heavier blow ! The hour is come, the spell is past ; Far, far from thee, my only love. Youth's earliest hope, and manhood's last, My darkened .spirit turns to rove. Adieu, adieu ! 0, dull and dread Sinks on the ear that parting knell ! Hope and the dreams of love lie dead, — To them and thee, farewell, farewell ! THOMAS K. hervey. BLACK-EYED SUSAN. All in the Downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wind, When black eyed Susan came aboard ; "0, where shall I my true-love find ? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew." William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard He sighed, and cast his eyes below.: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air. Shuts close his pinions to his breast If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest : — The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy WiUiam's lip those kisses sweet. "0 Susan, Susan, lovely dear. My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss olT that falling tear ; . We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. "Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : They '11 tell thee sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find : Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go. "If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. ' ' Though battle call me from thy arms. Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." The boatswain gave the dreadful word. The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard ; They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lf!ssening boat unwilling rows to land ; "Adieu ! " she cries ; and waved her lily hand. JOHN Gay. ff [& 146 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. PARTING LOYEES. I LOVE thee, love thee, Giulio ! Some call me cold, and some demure. And if thou hast ever guessed that so I love thee . . . well ; — the proof was poor, And no one could be sure. Before thy song (with shifted rhymes To suit my name) did I undo The Persian ? If it moved sometimes, Thou hast not seen a hand push through A flower or two. III. My mother listening to my sleep Heard nothing but a sigh at night, — The short sigh rippling on the deep, — When hearts run out of breath and sight Of men, to God's clear light. When others named thee, . . . thought thy brows Were straight, thy smile was tender, . , . '* Here He comes between the vineyard-rows ! " — I said not "Ay," — nor waited. Dear, To feel thee. step too near. I left such things to bolder girls, Olivia or Clotilda. Nay, When that Clotilda through her curls Held both thine eyes in hers one day, I marvelled, let me say. I could not try the woman's trick : Between us straightway fell the blush Which kept me separate, blind, and sick. A wind came with thee in a flush. As blown through Horeb's bush. But now that Italy invokes Her young men to go forth and chase The foe or perish, — nothing chokes My voice, or drives me from the place : I look thee in the face. VIII. I love thee ! it is understood, Confest : I do not shrink or start : Ko blushes ; all my body's blood Has gone to greaten this poor heart, That, loving, we may part. Our Italy invokes the youth To die if need be. Still there 's room, Though earth is strained with dead, in truth. Since twice the lilies were in bloom They have not grudged a tomb. And many a plighted maid and wife And mother, who can say since then "My country," cannot say through life "My son," "my spouse," "my flower of men,"* And not weep dumb again. Heroic males the country bears, But daughters give up more than sons. Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares You flash your souls out with the guns, And take your heaven at once ! But we,, — we empty heart and home Of life's life, love ! we bear to think You 're gone, ... to feel you may not come, To hear the door-latch stir and clink Yet no more you, . . . nor sink. "Dear God ! when Italy is one And perfected from bound to bound, . . . Suppose (for my share) earth 's undone By one gi'ave in 't ! as one small wound May kill a man, 't is found ! What then ? If love's delight must end. At least we '11 clear its truth from flaws, I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend ! Now take my sweetest without pause. To help the nation's cause. XV. And thus of noble Italy We '11 both be worthy. Let her show The future how we made her free, Not sparing life, nor Giulio, Nor this . . . this heart-break. Go ! Elizabeth Barrett Browning. HERO TO LEANDER. 0, GO not yet, my love. The night is dark and vast ; The white moon is hid in her heaven above, And the waves climb high and fast. 0, kiss me, kiss me, once again. Lest thy kiss should be the last. Ly_- PARTING. 147 -& kiss me ere we part ; Grow closer to my heart. My heart is warmer surely than the bosom of the main. joy ! bliss of blisses ! My heart of hearts art thou. Come, bathe me with thy kisses, My eyelids and my brow. Hark how the wild rain hisses, And the loud sea roars below. Thy herfi't beats through thy rosy limbs, So gladly doth it stir ; Thine eye in drops of gladness swims. I have bathed thee with the pleasant mjnrrh ; Thy locks are dripping balm ; Thou shalt not wanider hence to-night, I '11 stay thee with my kisses. , To-night the roaring brine Will rend thy golden tresses ; The ocean with the morrow light Will be both blue and calm ; And the billow will embrace thee mth a kiss as soft as mine. "No Western odors wander On the black and moaning sea, And when thou art dead, Leander, My soul must follow thee I 0, go not yet, my love. Thy voice is sweet and low ; The deep salt wave breaks in above Those marble steps below. The turret-stairs are wet That lead into the sea. Leander ! go not yet. The pleasant stars have set : O, go not, go not yet. Or I will follow thee. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE PARTING LOVERS. She says, " The cock crows, — hark 1 ' He says, " No ! still 't is dark." She says, " The dawn grows bright," He says "0 no, my Light." She says, " Stand up and say^ Gets not the heaven gray ? " He says, *' The morning star Climbs the horizon's bar." She says, ' ' Then quick depart : Alas ! you now must start ; But give the cock a blow Who did begin our woe ! " ANONYMOUS (Chinese). Translation of WILLIAM R. ALGER. THE PARTING OF ROMEO AND JULIET. Juliet. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day : ^ It was the nightingale, and not the lark. That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree : Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Romeo. It was the lark, the herald of the morn. No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east : Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Juliet. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I: It is some meteor, that the sun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua : Therefore stay yet, — thou need'st not be gone. Romeo. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death ; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I '11 say, yon gray is not the morning's eye, 'T is but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow ; Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat The vanity heaven so high above our heads : I have more care to stay than will to go ; — Come, death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so. — How is 't, my soul ? let 's talk, it is not day. Juliet. It is, it is, hie hence, be gone, away ! It is the lark that sings so out of tune. Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps. Some say, the lark makes sweet division ; This doth not so, for she divideth us : Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes : 0, now I would they had changed voices too ! Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray. Hunting thee hence, with hunts-up to the day. 0, now be gone ; more light and light it gi'ows. Romeo. More light and light, — more dark and dark our woes. Juliet. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. Romeo. Farewell, farewell ! one kiss, and I '11 descend. (Descends. ) Juliet. Art thou gone so ? my love ! my lord ! my friend ! I must hear from thee every day i' the hour, For in a minute there are many days : ^- 4= & 148 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Oh ! by this count I shall be much in years, Ere I again behold my Romeo. Romeo. Farewell ! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Juliet. 0, think'st thou we shall ever meet again ? EoMEO. I doubt it not ; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come. Shakespeare. AS SLOW OUR SHIP. As slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving, Her trembling pennant still looked back To that dear isle 't was leaving. So loath we part from all we love, From all the links that bind us ; So turn our hearts, as on we rove. To those we 've left behind us ! AVhen, round the bowl, of vanished years We talk with joyous seeming, — With smiles that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming ; While memory brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, 0, sweet 's the cup that circles then To those we 've left behind us ! And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, mid, and sweet, And naught but love is wanting ; We think hoAV great had been our bliss If Heaven had but assigned us To live and die in scenes like this. With some we 've left behind us I As travellers oft look back at eve When eastward darkly going. To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing, — So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consigned us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that 's left behind us. ' Thomas Moore. ADIEU, ADIEU ! MY NATIVE SHORE. Adieit, adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue ; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight ; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land — Good Night ! A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth ; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall. Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; My dog howls at the gate. LOCHABER NO MORE. Farewell to Lochaber ! and farewell, my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been ! For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We '11 maybe return to Lochaber no more ! These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on war. Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, They '11 ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind ; Though loudest of thunder on louder Avaves roar, That 's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; By ease that 's inglorious no fame can be gained ; And beauty and love 's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave. Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse ; Since honor commands me, how can I refuse ? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee. And without thy favor I 'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame. And if 1 should luck to come gloriously hame, I '11 bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I '11 leave thee and Lochaber no more. Allan Ramsay. MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. NEGRO SONG. The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home \ 'T is summer, the darkeys are gay ; The com top's ripe and the meadow's inthebloom^ While the birds make music all the day ; The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy, all bright ; By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door, — Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! ^ PARTING. 14y ■^ CHOllUS. Weep no more, my lady ; 0, weep no more to-day ! We '11 sing one song for my old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. They hunt no more for the possum and the coon, On the meadow, the hill, and the shore ; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door ; The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, With sorrow where all was delight ; The time has come, when the darkeys have to part, Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! Weep no more, my lady, &c. The head must bow, and the back will have to bend. Wherever the darkey may go ; A few more days, and the troubles all will end, In the field where the sugar-cane grow ; A few more days to tote the weary load, No matter it will never be light ; A few more days till we totter on the road. Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! Weep no more, my lady, &c. ANONYMOUS. FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high. Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, When wi'ung from guilt's expiring eye. Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry : But in my breast and in my brain Awake the pangs that pass not bj', The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. M}' soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel : I only know we loved in vain — 1 only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! BYRON. [-- FARE THEE WELL! AND IF FOREVER. Fare thee well ! and if forever, Still forever, fare tlicc xmll ; Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my lieart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, Wliile that placid sleep came o'er thee AVhicli thou ne'er canst know again : Would that breast, by thee glanced over. Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'T was not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee, — Though it smile upon the blow. Even its praises must offend thee. Founded on another's woe : Though my many faults defaced me. Could no other arm be found, Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound ? Yet, yet, thyself deceive not : Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away ; Still thine OAvn its life retaineth, — Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; And the undying thought which paineth Is — that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper soitow Than the wail above the dead ; Both shall live, but everjr morrow Wake us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather. When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say " Father !" Though his care she must forego ? When her little hands shall press thee, Wlien her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed ! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore maj'st see. Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest. All my madness none can know ; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Wither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken ; Pride which not a world could bow, Bows to thee, — by thee forsaken. Even my soul forsakes me now ; But 't is done ; all words are idle, — Words from me are vainer still ; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will. w f 150 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS, — - — ! ■ r I Fare thee well ! — thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die. BYRON. WHEN" WE TWO PARTED. When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss : Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this ! The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow ; It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken. And light is thy fame : I hear thy name spoken And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear ; A shudder comes o'er me — Why wert thou so dear ? They know not I knew thee Who knew thee too well : Long, long shall 1 rue thee Too deeply to tell. In secret we met : In silence I grieve That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years. How should I greet thee ? — With silence and tears. COME, LET US KISSE AND PAETE. Since there's no helpe, — come, let us kisse and parte, Nay, I have done, — you get no more of me ; And I am glad, — yea, glad with all my hearte, That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free. Shake hands forever ! — cancel all our vows ; And when we meet at any time againe, Be it not seene in either of our brows, That we one jot of former love retaine. Now — at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath — When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies ; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes. Now ! if thou wouldst — when all have given him over — From death to life thou might' st him yet re- cover. Michael Drayton. FAEEWELL, THOU AET TOO DEAE. Faeewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing. And like enough thou know'st thy estimate : The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ? And for that riches where is my deserving ? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting. And so my patent back again is swerving. Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgment making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter ', In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter. SHAKESPEARE. AN EAENEST SUIT TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORSAKE HIM. And wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay ! say nay ! for shame ! To save thee from the blame Of all my grief and grame. And wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay ! say nay ! And wilt thou leave me thus. That hath loved thee so long. In wealth and woe among ? And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus ? Say nay ! say nay ! And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath given thee my heart. Never for to depart. Neither for pain nor smart ? And wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay ! say nav ! And wilt thou leave me thus, And have no more pity Of him that loveth thee ? Alas ! thy cruelty ! And wilt thou leave me thus ? Say nay ! say nay ! Sir Thomas Wyat, B- d PARTING. a 151 WE PARTED IN SILENCE. We parted iu silence, we parted by niglit, On the banks of that lonely river ; Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite, We met — and we parted forever ! The night-bird sung, and the stars above Told many a touching story, Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. We parted in silence, — our cheeks were wet With the tears that were past controlling ; We vowed we would never, no, never forget. And those vows at the time were consoling ; But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine Are as cold as that lonely river ; And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, Has shrouded its fires forever. And now on the midnight sky I look, And my heart grows full of weeping ; Each star is to me a sealed book, Some tale of that loved one keeping. We parted in silence, — we parted in tears, On the banks of that lonely river : But the odor and bloom of those bygone years Shall hang o'er its waters forever. Mrs. Crawfokd. PEACE! WHAT CAN TEARS AVAIL? Peace ! wha.t can tears avail ? She lies all dumb and pale. And from her eye The spirit of lovely life is fading, — And she must die ! Why looks the lover wroth, — the friend upbraid- ing ? Reply, reply ! Hath she not dwelt too long Midst pain, and grief, and wrong ? Then why not die ? Why suffer again her doom of sorrow. And hopeless lie ? Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow ? Reply, reply ! Death ! Take her to thine arms, In all her stainless charms ! And with her fly To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness. The angels lie ! Wilt bear her there, death ! in all her whiteness ? Reply, reply ! Barry Cornwalu HANG UP HIS HARP ; HE 'LL WAKE NO MORE! His young bride stood beside his bed, Her weeping watch to keep ; Hush I hush ! he stirred not, — was he dead, Or did he only sleep ? His brow was calm, no change was there. No sigh had filled his breath ; 0, did he wear that smile so fair In slumber or in death ? " Reach down his harp," she wildly cried, " And if one spark remain. Let him but hear ' Loch Erroch's Side " ; He 'U kindle at the strain. ' ' That tune e'er held his soul in thrall ; It never breathed in vain ; He '11 waken as its echoes fall. Or never wake again." The strings were swept. 'T was sad to hear Sweet music floating there ; For every note called forth a tear Of anguish and despair. " See ! see ! " she cried, " the tune is o'er No opening eye, no breath ; Hang up his harp ; he '11 wake no more ; He sleeps the sleep of death." Eliza Cook. THE DYING GERTRUDE TO WALDE- GRAVE. FROM " GERTRUDE OF WVOMING." Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate I while I can feel thy dear caress ; And when this heart hath ceased to beat, — 0, think. And let it mitigate thy woe's excess. That thou hast been to me all tenderness. And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness. And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust ! Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart. The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, W^here my dear father took thee to his heart. And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace, imagining her lot was cast In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. •ff a 152 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And must this parting Tae our very last ? No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, — And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge ; — but shall there then be none, In future time, — no gentle little one. To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be. Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee ! Thomas Campbell. THE MOUENER. Yes ! there are real mourners, — I have seen A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene ; Attention (through the day) her duties claimed. And to be useful as resigned she aimed ; Neatly she drest, nor vainly seemed t' expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ; But Avhen her wearied parents sunk to sleep. She sought her place to meditate and weep ; Then to her mind was all the past displayed. That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid : For then she thought on one regretted youth. Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth ; In every place she wandered, where they 'd been. And sadly-sacred held the parting scene, Where last for sea he took his leave ; that place With double interest would she nightly trace ! Happy he sailed, and great the care she took, That he should softly sleep and smartly look ; White was his better linen, and his check Was made more trim than any on the deck ; And every comfort men at sea can know, Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow : For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told. How he should guard against^the climate's cold ; Yet saw not danger ; dangers he 'd withstood, Nor could she trace the fever in his blood. His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak ; For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain. He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message, — "Thomas, I must die ; Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast. And gazing go ! — if not, this trifle take, And say, till death I wore it for her sake : Yes ! I must die — blow on, sweet breeze, blow on. Give me one look before my life be gone, Oh ! give me that, and let me not despair, One last fond look ! — and now repeat the prayer." He had his wish, had more : I will not paint The lovers' meeting ; she beheld him faint, — With tender fears, she took a nearer view. Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew ; He tried to smile ; and, half succeeding, said, " Yes ! I must die " — and hope forever fled. Still long she nursed him ; tender thoughts meantime Were interchanged, and hopes and views sul^lime. To her he came to die, and every day She took some portion of the dread away ; With him she prayed, to him his Bible read. Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head : She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer. Apart she sighed ; alone, she shed the tear ; Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; Thej'' spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think, Yet said not so — " Perhaps he will not sink." A sudden brightness in his look appeared, A sudden vigor in his voice was heard ; — She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair ; Lively he seemed, and spake of all he knew, The friendly many, and the favorite few ; Nor one that day did he to mind recall. But she has treasured, and she loves them all ; When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people, • — death has made them dear. He named his friend, but then his hand she prest, And fondly whispered, " Thou must go to rest." " I go," he said ; but as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound ; Then gazed affrighted ; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, and all was past ! She placed a decent stone his grave above. Neatly engraved, — an off"ering of her love : For that she wrought, for that forsook her Ded, Awake alike to duty and the dead ; She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spare The least assistance, — 't was her proper care. Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit : But if observer pass, will take her round. And careless seem, for she would not be found ; Then go again, and thus her hours employ, Wbile visions please her, and while woes destroy. George Crabbe. ^ MARINE VIEW. " BIoiV7i out and iji by simniier .jales^ The stately ships, with crowded sails.'' 5- ABSEjS^CE. 153 ft ABSENCE TO HEE ABSENT SAILOR. FROM "the tent ON THE BEACH." Her window opeus to the bay, On glistening light or misty gray, And there at dawn and set of day In prayer she kneels : " Dear Lord ! " she saith, " to many a home From wind and wave the wanderers come ; I only see the tossing foam Of stranger keels. " Blown out and in by summer gales, The stately ships, with crowded sails, And sailors leaning o'er their rails, Before me glide ; They come, they go, but nevermore, Spice-laden from the Indian shore, I see his swift-winged Isidore The waves divide. " thou ! with whom the night is day And one the near and far away. Look out on yon gray waste, and say Where lingers he. Alive, perchance, on some lone beach Or thirsty isle beyond the reach Of man, he hears the mocking speech Of wind and sea. " dread and cruel deep, reveal The secret which thy waves conceal, And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel And tell your tale. Let winds that tossed his raven hair A message from my lost one bear, — Some thought of me, a last fond prayer Or dying wail ! '* Come, with your dreariest truth shut out The fears that haunt me round about ; God ! I cannot bear this doubt That stifles breath. The worst is better than the dread ; Give me but leave to mourn my dead Asleep in trust and hope, instead Of life in death ! " It might have been the evening breeze That whispered in the garden trees. It might have been the sound of seas That rose and fell ; But, with her heart, if not her ear. The old loved voice she seemed to hear : " I wait to meet thee : be of cheer For all is well ! " JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. TO LUCASTA. If to be absent were to be Away from thee ; Or that, when I am gone. You or I were alone ; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. But I '11 not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail. Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage ; For, whether he will let me pass Or no, I 'm still as happy as I was. Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both, Our faith and troth. Like separated souls. All time and space controls : Above the highest sphere we meet. Unseen, unknown ; and gi'eet as angels greet. So, then, we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' th' skies. If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In heaven, — their earthly bodies left behind. Colonel Richard Lovelace. OF A' THE AIETS THE WIND CAN BLAW. Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west ; For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best. There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill 's between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. 1 see her in the dewj^ flowers, I see her sweet and fair ; -ff [& 154 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. t I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I liear her cliarm the air ; There 's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, — There 's not a bonnie bird tliat sings, But minds me of my Jean. Robert burns. LOVE'S MEMOEY. FROM " ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL." I AM undone : there is no living, none. If Bertram be away. It were all one, That I should love a bright particular star, And think to wed it, he is so above me : In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. The ambition in my love thus plagues itself : The hind that would be mated by the lion Must die for love . ' T was pretty, though a plague, To see him ev'ry hour ; to sit and draw His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls. In our heart's table, — heart too capable Of every line and trick of his sweet favor : Bat now he 's gone, and my idolatrous fancy Must sanctify his relics. SHAKESPEARE. THE SUN UPON THE LAKE IS LOW. The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side. The noble dame on turret high, "Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armor bright. The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade, Upon the footpath watches now For Colin' s darkening plaid. Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart, And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The woodlark at his partner's side Twitters his closing song, — All meet whom day and care divide, But Leonard tarries long ! SIR WALTER SCOTT. 0, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY? 0, SAW ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border ? She 's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her. And love but her forever ; For nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither ! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee ; Thou ax't divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee ; He 'd look into thy bonnie face. And say ' I cauna wrang thee ! * The Powers aboon will tent thee ; Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely That ill they '11 ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, i Eeturn to Caledonie ! That we may brag we hae a lass There 's nane again sae bonnie. Robert Burns JEANIE MORRISON. I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west, Through mony a weary way ; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day ! The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'T was then we twa did part ; Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! cy- ABSENCE. 155 T 'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk itlier lear ; And tones'and looks and smiles were slied, Eemembered evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, "When sitting on that bink. Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, Wliat our wee heads could think. Wlien baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae bulk on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. 0, mind ye how we hung our heads. How cheeks brent red wY shame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said We cleeked thegither hame ? And mmd ye o' the Saturdays, (The scule then skail't at noon,) Wlien we ran off to speel the braes, — The broomy braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about, — My heart flows like a sea. As ane by ane the thochts rush back 0' scule-time, and o' thee. mornin' life ! mornin' luve ! lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang ! O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the gi-een burnside. And hear its waters croon ? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads. The flowers burst round our feet. And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet ; The throssil Avhusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, — And we, with nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies ; And on the knowe abune the bum For hoirrs thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Ay, ay, dear Jeanie ^lorrison. Tears trickled doun your cheek Like djw-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time. When hearts were fresh and young, Wlien freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled — unsung ! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me ? 0, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine ! 0, say gin e'er your heart gi'ows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west. I 've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near. Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luve o' life's yoimg day. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young 1 've never seen your face nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness. And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 0' bygone days and me ! William Motherwell. LOVE. FROM "the triumph of time." There lived a singer in France of old By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea. In a land of sand and ruin and gold There shone one woman, and none but she. And finding life for her love's sake fail. Being fain tcr see her, he bade set sail, Touched laud, and saw her as life grew cold. And praised God, seeing ; and so died he. Died, praising God for his gift and grace : For she bowed down to him weeping, and said, " Live " ; and her tears were shed on his face Or ever the life in his face was shed. The shai-p tears fell through her hair, and stung Once, and her close lips touched him and clung Once, and grew one with his lips for a space ; And so drew back, and the man was dead. brother, the gods were good to you. Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. Be well content as the years wear through ; Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures ; Give thanks for life, brother, and death, For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, For gifts she gave you, grac-ious and few, Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. -w t& 156 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIOIfS. -^ Rest, and te glad of the gods ; but I, How shall I praise them, or how take rest ? There is not room under all the sky For me that know not of Avorst or best, Dieani or desire of the days before. Sweet things or bitterness, any more. Love will not come to me now though I die, As love came close to you, breast to breast. I shall never be friends again with roses ; I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes, As a wave of the sea turned back by song. There are sounds where the soul's delighttakes fire. Face to face with its own desire ; A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes ; I shall hate sweet music my whole life long. The pulse of war and passion of wonder. The heavens that murmur, the sounds that shine. The stars that sing and the loves that thunder. The muiiic burning at heart like wine. An armed archangel whose hands raise up All senses mixed in the spirit's cup, Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder, — These things are over, and no more mine. Tliese were a part of the playing I heard Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife ; Love that sings and hath wings as a bird, Balm of the wound and heft of the knife. Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep Than overwatching of eyes that weep. Now time has done with his one sweet word, The wme and leaven of lovely life. I shall go my wa.js, tread out my measure. Fill the days of my daily breath With fugitive things not good to treasure, Do as the Avorld doth, say as it saith ; But if Ave had loved each other — sweet. Had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet. The heart of my heart, beatingharder with pleasure To feel you tread it to dust and death — Ah, had 1 not taken my life up and giA'en All that life gives and the years let go. The wine and money, the balm and leaven, The dreams reared high and the hopes brought low. Come life, come death, not a word be said ; Should I lose you living, and vex you dead ? I shall never tell you on earth ; and in heaven. If I cry to you then, will you hear or know ? Algernon Charles Swinburne. DAY, m MELTING PURPLE DYING Day, in melting purple dying ; Blossoms, all around me sighing ; Fragrance, from the lilies straying ; Zephvr, with my ringlets playing ; Ye but waken my distress ; I am sick of loneliness ! Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Come, ere night around me darken ; Though thy softness but deceive me. Say thou 'rt true, and I '11 believe thee ; Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent, Let me think it innocent ! Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; All 1 ask is friendship's pleasure ; Let the shining ore lie darkling, — Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ; Gifts and gold are naught to me, I wordd only look on thee ! Tell to thee the high -wrought feeling. Ecstasy but in revealing ; Paint to thee the deep sensation, Rapture in participation ; Yet but torture, if comprest In a lone, unfriended breast. Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me 1 Let these eyes again caress thee. Once in caution, I could fly thee ; Now, I nothing could deny thee. In a look if death there be, Come, and I will gaze on thee ! Maria Brooks BY THE ALMA RIYER. Willie, fold your little hands ; Let it drop, — that " soldier " toy ; Look where father's picture stands, — Father, that here kissed his boy Not a month since, — father kind, Who this night may (never mind Mother's sob, my Willie dear) Cry out loud that He may hear Who is God of battles, — cry, "God keep father safe this day By the Alma River ! " Ask no more, child. Never heed Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk ; Right of nations, trampled creed, Chance-poised victory's bloody work ; Any flag i' the mnd may roll On thy heights, Sevastopol ! C&- 6 ABSENCE. 157 ■a Willie, all to you and me Is that spot, whate'er it be, Where he stands — no other word — Stands — God sure the child' s prayers heard — Near the Alma River. Willie, listen to the bells Ringing in the town to-day ; That 's for victory. No knell swells For the many swept awayj — Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep, We, who need not, — just to keep Reason clear in thought and brain Till the morniiig comes again ; Till the third dread morning tell Who they were that fought and — fell By the Alma River. Come, — we '11 lay us down, my child ; Poor the bed is, — poor and hard ; But thy father, far exiled, Sleeps upon the open sward. Dreaming of us two at home ; Or, beneath the starry dome. Digs out trenches in the dark. Where he buries — Willie, mai'k ! — Where he buries those who died Fighting — fighting at his side — • By the Alma River. Willie, Willie, go to sleep ; God will help us, my boy ! He will make the dull hours creep Faster, and send news of joy ; When I need not shrink to meet Those great placards in the street. That for weeks will ghastly stare In some eyes — child, say that prayer Once again, — a diffei-ent one, — Say, " God ! Tliy will be done By the Alma River." Dinah Maria Mulock. THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. LiNGERnot long. Homeis not home without thee : Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. 0, let its memory, like a chain about thee, • Gently compel and hasten thy return ! Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying. Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear. Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here ? Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming. As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell ; When thewildbee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell 1 How shall I watch for thee, when fears gi'ow stronger. As night grows dark and darker on the hill ! How shall 1 weep, when I can watch no longer ! Ah ! art thou absent, art thou absent still { Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth me Gazeth through tears that make its splendor dull ; For oh ! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, My cup of happiness is all too full. Haste, haste thee home to thy mountain dwelling. Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling. Flies to its haven of securest rest ! Anonymous. ABSENCE. What shall I do A\'ith all the days and hours That must be counted ere 1 see thy face ? How shall I charm the interval that lowers Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, — Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pretence Cheat myself to forget the present day ? Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? Shall I, these mists of memory locked Avithin, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? 0, how or by what means may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? I '11 tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, In worthy deeds, each moment that is told While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor caU their min- utes pains. I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task-time ; and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomed time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine. Frances Anne Kemble B^ cB" 158 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ■^ DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. FROM " MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM." Fob. aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth : But, either it was different in blood. Or else misgralied in respect of years ; Or else it stood upon the choice of friends ; Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. Making it momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ; Brief as the lightning in the coUied night, That, in a spleen, imfolds both heaven and earth. And ere a man hath power to say, — Behold ! The jaws of darkness do devour it up : So quick bright things come to confusion. SHAKESPEARE. THE BANKS 0' DOON. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? How can ye chant, ye little birds. And I sae weary, fu' o' care ? Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons through the flowering thorn ; Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed — never to return. Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine ; A.nd ilka bird sang o' its luve. And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fause luver stole my rose. But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. ROBERT Burns. AULD ROBIN GRAY. When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; The waes o' my heart fa' in shoAvers frae my ee, When my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie loo' d me weel, and socht me for his bride ; But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside. To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea ; And the croun and the pund were baith for me I He hadna been awa a week but only twa. When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa ; My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea, — And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. My father cou'dna work, and my mother cou'dna spin ; I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I cou'dna win ; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee. Said, "Jenny, for their sakes, marry me ! " My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back ; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ; The ship it was a wrack 1 Why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? My father argued sair, — my mother didna speak, But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break ; Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea ; And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. I hadna been a -wife, a week but only four. When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he, Till he said, "I'm come back for to marry thee ! " sair, sair did we greet, and muclde did we say ; We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away ; 1 wish I were dead, but I 'm no like to dee ; And why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I '11 do my best a gude wife to be. For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. LADY ANNE Barnard- t& DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. 159 a AULD EOB MORRIS. There 's auld Rob Moms that wons in yon glen, He 's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men : He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine. And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She 's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; She 's sweet as the ev'ning aniang the new hay ; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea. And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. But 0, she 's an heiress, auld Robin 's a laird, And my daddie has naught but a cot-house and yard ; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed. The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane : The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 0, had she but been of a lower degi-ee, I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me ! 0, how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express ! Robert Burns. CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND DEFENCE. Pauline, by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride, — That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould — The evil spirit of a bitter love And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was filled with thee ; I saw thee midst the flowers the lowly boy Tended, unmarked by thee, — a spirit of bloom, And joy and freshness, as spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape ! I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy ; And from that hour I grew — what to the last I shall be — thine adorer ! Well, this love, Vain, frantic, — gi^ilty, if thou wilt, became A fountain of ambition and bright hope ; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell, — how maidens sprung from kings Have stooped from their high sphere ; how Love, like Death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! My father died ; and I, the peasant-bom. Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate ; And, with such jewels as the exploring mind Brings fi'om the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin jailers of the daring heart, — Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, And lured me on to those inspiring toils By which man masters men ! For thee, I grew A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages ! For thee, I sought to borrow from each Grace And every Muse such attributes as lend Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee. And passion taught me poesy, — of thee, And on the painter's canvas grew the life Of beauty ! — Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes ! Men called me vain, — some, mad, — I heeded not ; But still toiled on, hoped on, — for it was sweet, If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee ! At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And sent them to thee, — such a tribute, lady. As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name — appended by the burning heart That longed to show its idol what bright things It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name. That should have been thy triumph, was thy scom ! That very hour — when passion, turned to wrath, Resembled hatred most ; when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour The tempters found me a revengeful tool For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the worm, — It turned, and stung thee ! Lord Edward Bulwer Lvtton. LEFT BEHIND. It was the autumn of the year ; The strawbeny-leaves were red and sear ; October's airs were fresh and chill, "When, pausing on the windy hill, The hill that overlooks the sea, You talked confidingly to me, — Me whom your keen, artistic sight Has not yet learned to read aright. Since I have veiled my heart from you. And loved you better than you knew. -ff 160 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. -a You told me of your toilsome past ; Tlie tardy honors won at last, The trials borne, the conquests gained, The longed-for boon of Fame attained ; I knew that every victory But lifted you away from me, That every step of high emprise But left me lowlier in your eyes ; I watched the distance as it grew, And loved you better than you knew. You did not see the bitter trace Of anguish sweep across my face ; You did not hear my proud heart beat, Heavy and slow, beneath your feet ; You thought of triumphs still unwon. Of glorious deeds as yet undone ; And I, the while you talked to me, I watched the gulls float lonesomely, Till lost amid the hungry blue. And loved you better than you knew. You walk the sunny side of fate ; The wise world smiles, and calls you great ; The golden fruitage of success Drops at your feet in plenteousness ; And you have blessings manifold : Eenown and power and friends and gold. They build a wall between us twain. Which may not be thrown down again, Alas ! for I, the long years through, Have loved you better than you knew. Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth. Have kept the promise of your youth ; And while you won the crown, which now Breaks into bloom upon your brow, My soul cried strongly out to you Across the ocean's yearning blue. While, unremembered and afar, I watched you, as I watch a star Through darkness struggling into view, And loved you better than you knew. I used to dream in all these years Of patient faith and silent tears. That Love's strong hand would put aside The bamers of place and pride. Would reach the pathless darkness through, And draw me softly up to you ; But that is past. If you should stray Beside my grave, some future day. Perchance the violets o'er my dust Will haK betray their buried trust. And say, their blue eyes full of dew, "She loved you better than you knew." Florence Percy. LINDA TO HAFED. FROM " THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS." "How sweetly," said the trembling maid. Of her own gentle voice afraid. So long had they in silence stood. Looking upon that moonlight flood, — " How sweetly does the moonbeam smile To-night upon yon leafy isle ! Oft in my fancy's wanderings, I 've wished that little isle had wings, And we, within its fairy bowers, Were wafted off" to seas unknown. Where not a pulse should beat but ours. And we might live, love, die alone ! Far from the cruel and the cold, — Where the bright eyes of angels only Should come around us, to behold A paradise so pure and lonely ! Would this be world enough for thee ? " — Playful she turned, that he might see The passing smile her cheek put on ; But when she marked how mournfully His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ; And, bursting into heartfelt tears, " Yes, yes," she cried, "my hoirrly fears, My dreams, have boded all too right, — We part — forever part — to-night ! I knew, I knew it could not last, — 'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 'tis past ! 0, ever thus," from childhood's hour, I 've seen my fondest hopes decay ; I never loved a tree or flower But 't was the first to fade away. I never nursed a dear gazelle. To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die ! Now, too, the joy most like divine Of all I ever dreamt or knew, To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine, — misery ! must I lose that too ? THOMAS MOORB. UNREQUITED LOVE. TROM " TWELFTH NIGHT." Viola. Ay, but I know, — Duke. What dost thou know ? Viola. Too well what love women to men may owe : In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man. As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I shoirld your lordship. Duke. And what 's her history ? B-- # DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. 161 •a Viola. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek ; she pined in thought ; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument. Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ? We men may say more, swear more : but, indeed. Our shows are more tlian will ; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. SHAKESPEARE. LOCKSLEY HALL. Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn, — Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. 'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the cuiiews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over Locksley Hall : Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest. Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the west. ]\Iany a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade. Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of time ; AVlien the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed ; When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see, — Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; 11 In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove ; In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young. And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me ; Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light. As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. And she turned, — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs ; All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes, — Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong " ; Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, " I have loved thee long." Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in his glowing hands ; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might ; Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring. And her whisper thronged my pulses with the fulness of the spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips. my cousin, shallow-hearted ! my Amy, mine no more ! the dreary, dreary moorland I the barren, barren shore ! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, — Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! ■ff a 162 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Is it well to wlsli thee happy ? — having known me ; to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine ! Yet it shall he : thou shalt lower to his level day hy day, What is fine within thee gi'owing coarse to sym- pathize with clay. As the hushand is, the wife is ; thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force. Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this ? his eyes are heavy, — think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him ; it is thy duty, — kiss him ; take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought, — Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. He wiU answer to the purpose, easy things to un- derstand, — Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew thee with my hands. Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgi'ace, Eolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule ! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened fore- head of the fool 1 Well — 't is well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou less unworthy proved. Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit ? I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the root. Never ! though my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-wintered crow that leads the clang' ing rookery home. Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as 1 knew her, kind ? I remember one that perished ; sweetly did she speak and move ; Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ? No, — she never loved me truly ; love is love for- evermore. Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils ! this is truth the poet sings. That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof. In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams ; and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep. To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whispered by the phantom years. And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kind- ness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry ; 'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down ; my latest rival brings thee rest, — Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. ^ DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMEifT. 163 -a 0, the child too clothes the father with a dear- uess not his due. Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 0, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. " They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not •exempt — Truly, she herself had suffered " — Perish in thy self-contempt ! Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care ? I myself must mLx with action, lest I wither by despair. Wliat is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? I had been content to perish, falling on the foe- man's ground, When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound . But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that honor feels. And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, thou won- drous mother-age 1 Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt be- fore the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tu- mult of my life ; Yearning for the large excitement that the com- ing years would yield. Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of Loudon flaring like a dreary dawn ; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone be- fore him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men ; Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reap- ing something new : That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do : For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails. Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- wind rushing warm. With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunder-stonn ; Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags were furled In the parliament of man, the federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe. And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in uni- versal law. So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping through me left me dry, Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint. Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creep- ing nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying fire. Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs. And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. ■tf ff- 164 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. What is that to hhn that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Though the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's ? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers ; and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Knowledge comes, but msdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience moving toward the still- ness of his rest. Hark ! my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle horn, — • They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn ; Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string ? I am shamed through all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasiire, woman's pain — Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain ; Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, matched with mine. Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ! Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father, evil-starred ; I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit, — there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day, — Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies. Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, — Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crajr, — Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy -fruited tree, — Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There, methinks, would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind — In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing-space ; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and they shall run. Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun, Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rain- bows of the brooks. Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains. Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! Mated with a squalid savage, — what to me were sun or clime ? I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time, — I, that rather held it better men should perish one by one. Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range ; Let the great world spin forever down the ring- ing grooves of change. Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help me as when life begun, — Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the light- nings, weigh the sun, — t& DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. 165 ■a 0, I see the crescent promise of my sjiirit hath not set ; Ancient founts of inspu-ation well through all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt. Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and •'■ S*^' ALFRED Tennyson. ONLY A WOMAN. " She loves with love that cannot tire : And if, ah, woe ! she loves alone, Through passionate duty love flames higher. As grass grows taller round a stone." * CO\'ENTRY PATMORE. So, the trutli 's out. I '11 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. I never sought him in coquettish sport. Or courted him as silly maidens court. And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. I only loved him, — any woman would : But shut my love up till he came and sued, Then poured it o'er liis 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 stiU, 1, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfil, Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will, All, — anything but him. It was to be The full draught others drink up carelessly Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. I say again, — he gives me all I claimed, I and my children never shall be shamed : He is a just man, — he will live unblamed. Only — God, 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 Ms 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. 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 regi-etful sigh, The other woman was less true than I. Dinah Maria Mulock. ■ff c& 166 ^ POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. IN A YEAR. Never any more While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive, — Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still. "Was it something said, Something done. Vexed him ? was it touch of hand, Turn of head ? Strange ! that very way Love begun. I as little understand Love's decay. When I sewed or drew, I recall How he looked as if I sang — Sweetly too. If I spoke a word. First of all Up his cheek the color sprang. Then he heard. Sitting by my side. At my feet. So he breathed the air I breathed, Satisfied ! I, too, a,t love's brim Touched the sweet. I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him. " Speak, — I love thee best ! " He exclaimed, — "Let thy love my own foretell." I confessed : " Clasp my heart on thine Now unblamed, Since upon thy soul as well Hangeth mine ! " Was it wrong to own. Being truth ? Why should all the giving prove His alone ? I had wealth and ease. Beauty, youth, — Since my lover gave me love, I gave these. That was all I meant, — To be just, And the passion I had raised To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust, If I gave him what he praised, Was it strange ? Would he loved me yet, On and on. While I found some way undreamed, — Paid my debt ! Gave more life and more. Till, all gone, He should smile, "She never seemed Mine before. "What — she felt the while, Must I think ? Love 's so different with us men," He should smile. " D3'ing for my sake — White and pink ! Can't we touch these bubbles then But they break ? " Dear, the pang is brief. Do thy part. Have thy pleasure. How perplext Grows belief ! Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart. Crumble it, — and what comes next ? Is it God ? Robert Browning. ENOCH AEDEN AT THE WINDOW. Btjt Enoch yearned to see her face again ; " If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy." So the thought Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. There he sat down gazing on all below : There did a thousand memories roll upon him. Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light. Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house. Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strikes Against it, and beats out his weary life. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street. The latest house to landward ; but behind, With one small gate that opened on the waste, Flourished a little garden square and walled : And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it : But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stole i& DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. 167 ■a Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence That which he better might have shunned, if griefs Like his have, worse or better, Enoch saw. For cups and silver on the burnished board Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth ; And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times. Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms. Caught at and ever missed it, and they, laughed : And on the left hand of the hearth he saw The mother glancing often toward her babe. But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong. And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beaiitiful. And him, that other, reigning in his place. Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — Then he, thougli Miriam Lane had told him all. Because things seen are mightier than things heard, Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and feared To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, And feeling all along the garden-wall. Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found. Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste. And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed. ALFRED TENNYSON. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. THE days are gone when beauty bright My heart's chain wove ! When my dream of life, from mom till night, Was love, still love ! New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam. But there 's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream ! 0, there 's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream ! Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth 's past ; Though he win the wise, who frowned before, To smile at last ; He '11 never meet A joy so sweet In all his noon of fame As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And at every close she blushed to hear The one loved name ! 0, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot. Which first love traced ; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste ! 'T was odor fled As soon as shed ; 'T was morning's winged dream ; 'T was a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream ! 0, 't was a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream ! Thomas Moore (" Irish Melodies"). WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED. When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead ; When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken. Sweet tones are remembered not ; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute, — No song but sad dirges. Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell. "Wlien hearts have once mingled. Love first leaves the well-built nest ; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possesst. ■ff 168 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Love ! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, "Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your hier ? Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high | Bright reason will mock thee Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter. When leaves fall and cold winds come. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. MARY, I BELIEVED THEE TRUE. Mary, I believed thee true, And I was blest in thus believing ; But now I mourn that e'er I knew A girl so fair and so deceiving. Few have ever loved like me ; 0, I have loved thee too sincerely ! And few have e'er deceived like thee, Alas ! deceived me too severely. Fare thee well ! Fare thee well ! yet think awhile On one whose bosom seems to doubt thee ; Who now Avould rather trust that smile, And die with thee than live without thee. Fare thee well ! I '11 think on thee. Thou leav'st me many a bitter token ; For see, distracting woman, see My peace is gone, my heart is broken. Fare thee well ! THOMAS MOORE. HAD I A CAYE. Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore. Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar. There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close. Ne'er to wake more ! Falsest of womankind ! canst thou declare All thy fond-plighted vows, — fleeting as air ? To thy new lover hie. Laugh o'er thy perjury, Then in thy bosom try What peace is there ! ROBERT Burns. TAKE, 0, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. FROM "measure FOR MEASURE." Take, 0, take those lips away. That so sweetly were forsworn ; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn ; But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, but sealed in vain. Hide, 0, hide those hills of snow Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that gi'ow Are of those that April wears ! But first set my poor heart free. Bound in those icy chains by thee. SHAKESPEARE and JOHN FLETCHER. I LOYED A LASS, A FAIR ONE. I LOVED a lass, a fair one. As fair as e'er was seen ; She Avas indeed a rare one, Another Sheba Queen ; But fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too, But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo. Her hair like gold did glister, Each eye was like a star, She did surpass her sister Which past all others far ; She would me honey call, She 'd, — she 'd kiss me too, But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo. In summer time to Medley, My love and I would go, — The boatmen tl^re stood ready My love and I to row ; ■ For cream there would we call. For cakes, and for prunes too, But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo. Many a merry meeting My love and I have had ; She was my only sweeting, She made my heart full glad : The tears stood in her eyes. Like to the morning dew. But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero,- loo. ^- ■e DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. 169 -a And as abroad we walked, As lovers' fashion is, Oft as we sweetly talked, The sun would steal a kiss ; The wind upon her lips Likewise most sweetly blew, But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo. Her cheeks were like the cherry. Her skin as white as snow. When she was blithe and merry, She angel-like did show ; Her waist exceeding small. The fives did fit her shoe. But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo. In summer time or winter, She had her heart's desire ; I still did scorn to stint her. From sugar, sack, or fire ; The world went round about, No cares we ever knew. But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo. As we walked home together At midnight through the town, To keep away the weather, — O'er her I 'd cast my gown ; No cold my love should feel, Whate'er the heavens could do, But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo. Like doves we would be billing, And clip and kiss so fast. Yet she would be unwilling That I should kiss the last ; They 're Judas kisses now, Since that they proved untrue ; For now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo. To maiden's vows and swearing. Henceforth no credit give. You may give them the hearing, — But never them believe ; They are as false as fair, Unconstant, frail, untnie ; For mine, alas ! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo. 'T was I that paid for all things, 'T was other drank the wine ; I cannot now recall things. Live but a fool to jiine : 'T was I that beat the bush. The birds to others flew, For she, alas ! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo. If ever that Dame Nature, For this false lover's sake, Another pleasing creature Like unto her would make ; Let her remember this. To make the other true. For this, alas ! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo. No riches now can raise me, No want makes me despair, No misery amaze me, Nor yet for want I care ; I have lost a world itself, My earthly heaven, adieu ! Since she, alas ! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo. GEORGE Wither. WHY SO PALE AND WAN — Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? Jr'y thee, why so pale ? — Will, when looking well cau't move her, Looking ill prevail ? Pr'y thee, why so pale ? Why. so dull and mute, young sinner ? Pr'y thee, why so mute ? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do 't ? Pr'y thee, why so mute ? Quit, quit, for shame ! this \vill not move. This cannot take her : If of herself she will not love. Nothing can make her : The devil take her ! Sir John Suckling. ALAS ! HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE — FROM " THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." Alas ! how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love ! — Hearts that the world in vain has tried. And sorrow but more closely tied ; That stood the storm when waves were rough. Yet in a sunny hour fall off. Like ships that have gone down at sea. When heaven was all tranquillity ! ■ff f 170 POEMS OF THE AFFECTION'S. A something light as air, — a look, A Avord unkind or wrongly taken, — 0, love that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this has shaken ! And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin ; And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day ; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said ; Till fast declining, one by one. The sweetnesses of love are gone. And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds, — or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain's brow, As though its waters ne'er could sever. Yet, ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part forever. you, that have the charge of Love, . Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the Fields of Bliss above He sits, with flowerets fettered round ; — Loose not a tie that round him clings. Nor ever let him use his wings ; For even an hour, a minute's flight Will rob the plumes of half their light. Like that celestial bird, — whose nest Is found beneath far Eastern skies, — Whose wings, though radiant when at rest. Lose all their glory when he flies ! THOMAS MOORE. AUX ITALIENS. At Paris it was, at the opera there ; And she looked like a queen in a book that night. With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote. The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way. As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, " Non ti scordar di me 1 " The emperor there, in his box of state. Looked grave ; as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate. Where his eagles in bronze had been. The empress, too, had a tear in her eye : You 'd have said that her fancy had gone back again. For one moment, under the old blue sky. To the old glad life in Spain. Well ! there in our front-row box we sat Together, my bride betrothed and I ; My gaze was fixed on my opera hat. And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad ; — Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm. With that regal, indolent air she had ; So confident of her charm ! I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was, Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven. Through a needle's eye he had not to pass ; I wish him well for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas. Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love As I had not been thinking of aught for years ; Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather ; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) ; And her warm white neck in its golden chain ; And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot. And falling loose again ; And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast ; (0 the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower !) And the one bird singing alone to his nest ; And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife. And the letter that brought me back my ring ; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing ! For I thought of her grave below the hill. Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over : And I thought, "Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her ! " And I swear, as I thought of her tlras, in that hour. And of how, after all, old things are best. That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet. It made me creep, and it made me cold ! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled. DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. a 171 And I turned and looked : slie was sitting there, In a dim box over the stage ; and drest In that muslin dress, witli that full soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast ! I was here, and she was there ; Andtheglitteriughorse-shoe curved between : — From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien, To my early love with her eyes downcast. And over her primrose face the shade, (In short, from the future back to the past,) There was but a step to be made. To mj^ early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage ; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest. Had brought her back from the grave again. With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed ! But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! And the very first word that her sweet lips said. My heart grew youthful again. The marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still ; And but for her .... well, we '11 let that pass ; She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love. With her primrose face, for old things are best ; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin. And love must cling where it can, I say : For beauty is easy enough to win ; But one is n't loved every day. And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There 's a moment when all would go smooth and even. If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven. But the smell of that jasmine flower ! And that music ! and the way That voice rang out fi'om the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me. Noil ti scordar di me I ROBERT BULWER LVTTON. TRANSIENT BEAUTY. THE GIAOUR. As, rising on its purple wing, The insect-queen of Eastern spring. O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer, Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower, A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye ; So Beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wind as wild ; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betrayed, Woe waits the insect and the maid : A life of pain, the loss of peace. From infant's play and man's caprice ; The lovely toy, so fiercely sought. Hath lost its charm by being caught ; For eveiy touch that wooed its stay Hath brushed its brightest hues away. Till, charm and hue and beauty gone, 'T is left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing or bleeding breast, Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before ? Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower ? No ; gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own. And every woe a tear can claim, Except an erring sister's shame. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. I LOVED thee once, I '11 love no more. Thine be the grief as is the blame ; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same ? He that can love unloved again. Hath better store of love than brain : God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine ; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom did recall, That if thou might elsewhere inthrall ; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain ? -ff c& 172 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. "When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; I '11 neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost ; The height of my disdain shall be. To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; To love thee still, but go no more A begging to a beggar's door. Sir Robert ayton. THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. '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 roved To meet on the green shore ayouth 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. 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 — "\^''hile her sea-beauties gracefully curled round the frame ; And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings. Fell overherwhite 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 C/iozi didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love when I 'm near thee and grief when away ! THOMAS Moore ("Irish Melodies"). WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST? Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast Parted forever ? •&- Where, through groves deep and high Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die Under the willow. Eleu loro Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day Cool streams are laving : There, while the tempests sway. Scarce are boughs waving ; There thy rest shalt thou take, Parted forever. Never again to wake Never, never ! Eleu loro Never, never ! Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver. Who could win maiden's breast. Ruin, and leave her ? In the lost battle. Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying ; Eleu loi'o There shall he be lying. 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, never ! Eleu loro Never, never ! Sir Walter Scott. THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG. Sleep ! — The ghostly winds are blowing ! No moon abroad, no star is glowing ; The river is deep, and the tide is flowing To the land where you and I are going ! AVe are going afar. Beyond moon or star. To the land where the sinless angels are ! I lost my heart to your heartless sire ('T was melted away by his looks of fire), Forgot my God, and my father's ire, All for the sake of a man's desire ; But now we '11 go Where the waters flow, And make us a bed where none shall know. •a DISAPPOINTMENT AND ESTRANGEMENT. 173 The world is cruel, the world is iintnie ; Our foes are many, our friends are few ; No work, no bread, however we sue ! What is there left for me to do, But fly, — fly From the cruel gky, And hide in the deepest deeps, — and die ? Barry Cornwall. t WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. 0, WALY, waly up the bank, And waly, wal3f down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn side. Where I and my love wont to gae. I leaned my back unto an aik, I thouglit it was a trusty tree ; But first it bowed, and syne, it Ijrak — Sae my true love did lightly me ! 0, waly, waly, but love be bonny, A little time while it is new ; But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld. And fades away like the morning dew. 0, wherefore should I busk my head ? Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? For my true love has me forsook. And says he '11 never love me mair. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ; The sheets shall ne'er be fjded by me ; Saint Anton's well shall be my drink. Since my true love has forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou Idaw, And shake the green leaves off' the tree ? gentle death, when wilt thou come ? For of my life I 'm weary. 'T is not the frost that freezes fell. Nor blawing snaw's. inclemency ; 'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry. But my love 's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see ; My love was clad in the black velvet. And I my sell in cramasie. But had I wist, before I kissed. That love had been sae ill to win, 1 'd locked my heart in a case of gold, And pinned it with a silver pin. 0, 0, if my young babe were born. And set upon the nurse's knee. And I my sell were dead and gane. And the green gi-ass gi'owiu' over me ! ANONYMOUS. LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. A SCOTTISH SONG. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ; If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad, Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy ! Thy father breides me great annoy. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe I It grieves me sair to sec tliee weipe. When he began to court my luve. And with his sugred words to muve. His fai^mings fals, and flattering cheire. To me that time did not appeire : But now I see, most cruell hee. Cares neither for my babe nor mee. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe I It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile. And when thou wakest sweitly smile : But smile not, as thy father did, To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ' It grieves me sair to sec tJice iceipc, I cannae chuse, but ever will Be hiving to thy father stil : Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, My luve with him maun stil abyde : In well or wae, whair-eir he gae, ]Mine hart can neir depart him frae. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! It grieves mc sair to sec thee weipe. But doe not, doe not, prettie mine. To faynings fals thine hart incline ; Be loyal to thy luvor trew. And nevir change hir for a new ; If gude or faire, of hir have care. For women's banning's wonderous sair. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe I It grieves mc sair to sec thee weipe. Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane. Thy winsome smiles maun else my paine ; My babe and I '11 together live, He '11 comfort me when cares doe grieve ; My babe and I right saft will ly. And quite forget man's cruelty. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! It grieves me sair to see thee iveipe. Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth ! -ff [& 174 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. I wish all maids be warned by mee, Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; For if we doe but chance to bow, They '11 use us than they care not how. Balow, my babe, ly stil and slcipc ! It grieves me sair to see thee lueipe. ANONYMOUS. MY HEID IS LIKE TO EEND, WILLIE. My held is like to rend, "Willie, My heart is like to break ; I 'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, I 'm dyin' for your sake ! 0, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, Your hand on my briest-bane, — 0, say ye '11 think on me, AVillie, When I am deid and gane ! It 's vain to comfort me, Willie, Sair grief maun ha'e its will ; But let me rest upon your briest To sab and greet my fill. Let me sit on your knee, Willie, Let me shed by your hair. And look into the face, Willie, I never sail see mair ! I 'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, For the last time in my life, — A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, A niither, yet nae wife. Ay, press your hand upon my heart, And press it mair and mair. Or it ^nll burst the silken twine, Sae Strang is its despair. 0, waa 's me for the hour, Willie, When we thegither met, — 0, wae 's me for the time, Willie, That our first tryst was set ! 0, wae 's me for the loanin' gi'een Where we were wont to gae, — And wae 's me for the destinie That gart me luve thee sae ! 0, dinua mind my words, Willie, I downa seek to blame ; But 0, it 's hard to live, Willie, And dree a warld's shame ! Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek. And hailin' ow^r your chin : Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, For sorrow, and for sin ? I 'm weary o' this warld, Willie, And sick wi' a' I see, I canna live as I ha'e lived. Or be as I should be. But fauld unto your heart, Willie, The heart that still is thine, And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek Ye said was red langsyne. A stoun' gaes through my held, Willie, A sair stoun' through ray heart ; 0, hand me up and let me kiss Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet ! — How fast my life-strings break ! — Fareweel ! fareweel ! through yon kirk -yard Step lichtly for my sake ! The lav' rock in the lift, Willie, That lilts far ower our heid. Will sing the morn as merrilie Abune the clay-cauld deid ; And this green turf we 're sittin' on, Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen. Will hap the heart that luvit thee As warld has seldom seen. But 0, remember me, Willie, On land where'er ye be ; And 0, think on the leal, leal heart. That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! And 0, think on the cauld, cauld mools That file my yellow hair, That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin Ye never sail kiss mair ! WILLIAM Motherwell. f& BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. ■^ 175 BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. RESIGNATION. There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, "Will not be comforted ! Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death ! What seems so is transition : This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, — the child of our aff"ection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection. And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, ' By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution. She lives whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air ; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though un- spoken, May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her ; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child : But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. And though, at times, impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed. The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest, — We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing. The grief that must have way. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. BURIED TO-DAY. February 23, 1858. BtTRiED to-day. When the soft green buds are bursting out. And up on the south-wind comes a shout Of village boys and girls at play In the mild spring evening gray. Taken away Sturdy of heart and stout of limb. From eyes thatdrewhalftheir lightfromhim, And put low, low underneath the clay, In his spring, — on this spring day. Passes away, All the pride of boy-life begun, All the hope of life yet to run ; Who dares to question when One saith ' ' Nay. " Murmur not, — only pray. Enters to-day Another body in churchyard sod, Another soul on the life in God. His Christ was buried — and lives alway : Trust Him, aud go your way. Dinah Maria Mulock. UNVEIL THY BOSOM, FAITHFUL TOMB Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb ; Take this new treasure to thy tnist, And give these sacred relics room To slumber in the silent dust. ■ff [fl- 176 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 'Nov pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear, Invade thy bounds ; no inortal woes Can reach the peaceful sleeper here, "While angels watch the soft repose. So Jesirs slept ; God's dj'ing Son Passed through the grave, and blest the bed Eest here, blest saint, till from his throne The morning break, and pierce the shade. Break from his throne, illustrious morn ; Attend, earth, his sovereign word ; Eestore thy trust ; a glorious form Shall then arise to meet the Lord. Dr. Isaac Watts. GRIEF FOR THE DEAD. HEARTS tliat never cease to yearn ! brimming tears that ne'er are dried ! The dead, thougli they depart, return As though tliey had not died ! The living are the only dead ; The dead live, — nevermore to die ; And often, when we mourn them fled, They never were so nigh ! And though they lie beneath the waves, Or sleep within the churchyard dim, (Ah ! through how many different graves God's children go to him !) — Yet every grave gives up its dead Ere it is overgrown with grass ; Then why should hopeless tears be shed, Or need we cry, " Alas " ? Or why should ]\Iemory, veiled with gloom, And like a sorrowing mourner craped, Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb. Whose captives have escaped ? 'T is but a mound, — and will be mossed Whene'er the summer grass appears ; The loved, though wept, are never lost ; We only lose — our tears ! Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead By bending forward where they are ; But Memory, with a backward tread, Communes with them afar. The joys we lose are but forecast, And we shall find them all once more ; We look behind us for the Past, But lo ! 't is all before ! ANONYMOUS. LINES TO THE MEMORY OF " ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, iS6o. "Jesus saith unto her. Woman, why weepest thou ? whom seek- est thou ? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him."— John xx. 15. In the fair gardens of celestial peace Walketh a gardener in meekness clad ; Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad. Fair are the silent foldings of his robes. Falling with saintly calmness to his feet ; And when he walks, each floweret to his will With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat. Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart. In the mild summer radiance of his eye ; No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost. Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh. And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love Are nurseries to those gardens of the air ; And his far-darting eye, with starry beam, AVatching the growing of his treasures there. We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears, O'erwatched with restless longings night and day; _ Forgetful of the high, mj^sterious right He holds to bear our cherished plants away. But when some sunny spot in those bright fields Needs tlie fair presence of an added flower, Down sweeps a starry angel in the night : At morn the rose has vanished from our bower. Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave ! Blank, silent, vacant ; but in worlds above, Like a new star outblossomed in the skies, The angels hail an added flower of love. Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound, Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf, Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief. Thy garden rosebud bore within its breast Those mystei'ies of color, warm and bright, That the bleak climate of this lower sphere Could never waken into form and light. Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence, Nor must thou ask to take her thence away ; Thou shalt behold her, in some coming houi'. Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day. Harriet Beecher Stowe. C& BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 177 a CALM ON THE BOSOM OF THY GOD. Calm on the bosom of thy God, Young spirit ! rest thee now. Even while with us thy footstep trod, His seal was on thy brow. Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! Soul, to its place on high ! — They that have seen thy look in death No more may fear to die. Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, "Whence thy meek smile is gone ; But 0, a brighter home than ours In heaven is now thine own ! FELICIA HEMANS. LIFE ! I KNOW NOT WHAT THOU ART. Life ! I know not what thou art. But know that thou and I must part ; And when, or how, or where we met I own to me 's a secret yet. Life ! we 've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather, 'T is hard to part when friends are dear, — Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ; — Then steal away, give little warning. Choose thine o^vn time ; Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. A. L. Barbauld. NOW AND AFTERWARDS. " Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past." RUSSIAN PROVERB. " Two hands upon the breast, And labor 's done ; Two pale feet crossed in rest, — The race is won ; Two eyes with coin-weights shut, And all tears cease ; Two lips where grief is mute, ^ Anger at peace " : So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot ; God in his kindness answereth not. "Two hands to work addrest Aye for his praise ; Two feet that never rest Walking his ways ; Two eyes that look above Through all their tears ; 12 Two lips stiU breathing love. Not wrath, nor fears" : So pray we afterwards, low on our knees ; Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear these ! Dinah Maria Mulock. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. When the hours of day ai'e numbered. And the voices of the night Wake the better soul that slumbered To a holy, calm delight, — Ere the evening lamps are lighted. And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful firelight Dance upon the parlor waU ; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door, — The beloved ones, the tnie-hearted. Come to visit me once more : He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perished, Weary with the march of life ! They, the holy ones and weakly. Who the cross of suffering bore. Folded their pale hands so meekly. Spake with us on earth no more ! And with them the being beauteous Who unto my youth was given. More than all things else to love me. And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine. Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine ; And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes. Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended. Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. Breathing from her lips of air. 0, though oft depressed and lonelj'. All my fears are laid aside If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 4 a- 178 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. This book is all that 's left me now, — Tears will ixnbidden start, — Witli faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart. For many generations past Here is our family tree ; My mother's hands this Bible clasped, She, dying, gave it me. Ah ! well do I remember those "Whose names these records bear ; "Who round the hearthstone used to close, After the evening prayer. And speak of what these pages said In tones my heart would thrill ! Though they are Avith the silent dead, Here are they living still ! My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters, dear ; HoAV calm was my poor mother's look, Who loved God's word to hear ! Her angel face, — I see it yet ! What thronging memories come ! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home ! Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I 've tried ; When all were false, I found thee true, My counsellor and guide. The mines of earth no treasures give That could this volume buy ; In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die ! George p. Morris. GOD'S-ACEE. I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It is just ; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those Avho in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts. Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast. In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom. In the fair gardens of that second birth ; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare. Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed yfe sow ; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow J HENRY WADSWORTH LONGBELLOW. FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. The night is late, the house is still ; The angels of the hour fulfil Their tender ministries, and move From couch to couch in cares of love. They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, The happiest smile of Charlie's life, And lay on baby's lips a kiss, Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ; And, as they pass, they seem to make A strange, dim hymn, " For Charlie's sake." My listening heart takes up the strain. And gives it to the night again. Fitted with words of lowly praise, And patience learned of mournful days, And memories of the dead child's ways. His will be done. His will be done ! Who gave and took away my son. In " the far land" to shine and sing Before the Beautiful, the King, Who every day doth Christmas make. All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. For Charlie's sake I will arise ; I will anoint me where he lies. And change my raiment, and go in To the Lord's house, and leave my sin Without, and seat me at his board. Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. For wherefore should I fast and weep. And sullen moods of mourning keep ? I cannot bring him back, nor he. For any calling, come to me. The bond the angel Death did sign, God sealed — for Charlie's sake, and mine. JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER. UNDER THE CROSS. I CANNOT, cannot say. Out of my bruised and breaking heart, Storm-driven along a thorn-set way, While blood-drops start From every pore, as I drag on, " Thy will, God, be done ! " fl& BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 179 a I tliought, but yesterday, My will was one with God's dear will ; And that it would be sweet to say, Whatever ill My happy state should smite upon, " Thy will, my God, be done ! " But I was weak and wrong, Both weak of soul and ^vl'ong of heart ; And Pride alone in me was strong. With cunning art To cheat me in the golden sun. To say, " God's will be done ! " shadow drear and cold. That frights me out of foolish pride ; flood, that through my bosom rolled Its billowy tide ; 1 said, till ye your power made known, " God's will, not mine, be done ! ' Now, faint and sore afraid. Under my cross, heavy and rude, My idols in the ashes laid. Like ashes strewed. The holy words my pale lips shun, "OGod, thy will be done ! " Pity my woes, God, And touch my will with thy warm breath ; Put in my trembling hand thy rod, That quickens death ; That my dead faith may feel thy sun. And say, " Thy will be done ! " w. c. R SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. Softly woo away her breath, Gentle death ! Let her leave thee with no strife, Tender, mournful, murmuring life ! She hath seen her happy day, — She hath had her bud and blossom ; Now she pales and shrinks away, Earth, into thy gentle bosom ! She hath done her bidding here, Angels dear ! Bear her perfect soul above. Seraph of the skies, — sweet love ! Good she was, and fair in youth ; And her mind was seen to soar, And her heart was wed to truth : Take her, then, forevermore, — Forever — evermore ! Barry Cornwall. THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN. To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest Angel gently comes : No power has he to banish j^ain, Or give us back our lost again ; And yet in tenderest love our dear And heavenly Father sends him here. There 's quiet in that Angel's glance, There 's rest in his still countenance ! He mocks no grief with idle cheer. Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear \ But ills and woes he may not cure He kindly trains us to endure. Angel of Patience ! sent to calm Our feverish brows with cooling palm ; To lay the storms of hope and fear. And reconcile life's smile and tear ; The throbs of wounded pride to still. And make our own our Father's will ! thou who mournest on thy way. With longings for the close of day ; He walks with thee, that Angel kind, And gently whispers, " Be resigned : Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell The dear Lord ordereth all things well ! " JOHN Greenleaf whittier. OVER THE RIVER. 0\'^R the river they beckon to me. Loved ones who 've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see. But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There 's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there. The gates of the city we could not see : Over the river, over the river. My brother stands waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet ; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We felt it glide from the silver sands. And all our sunshine gi-ew strangely dark ; We know she is safe on the farther side. Where all the ransomed and angels be : & a- 180 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Over tlie river, the mj'stic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, "Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; And lo ! they havepassedfrom ouryearninghearts, They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day ; We only know that their barks no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold Is flushing river and hill and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold. And list for the sound of the boatman's oar ; I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale. To the better shore of the spirit land. I shall know the loved who have gone before. And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river. The angel of death shall carry me. Nancy Amelia Woodbury Priest. THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. Thou art gone to the gi-ave, — we no longer de- plore thee. Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb ; The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee. And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom. Thou art gone to the grave, — we no longer behold thee. Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side ; But the wide arms of mercy are sj)read to enfold thee. And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died. Thou art gone to the grave, — and, its mansion forsaking, Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long. But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking. And the song which thou heard' st was the seraphim's song. Thou art gone to the grave, — but 't were wi'ong to dejilore thee. When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide ; He gave thee, and took thee, and soon wiU re- store thee. Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. REGINAIJ^ HEBER. THE PLEASURES OF HEAVEN. There all the happy souls that ever were. Shall meet with gladness in one theatre ; And each shall know there one another's face. By beatific virtue of the place. There shall the brother with the sister walk. And sons and daughters with their parents talk } But all of God : they still shall have to say. But make him all in all their theme that day : That happy day that never shall see night .' Where he will be all beauty to the sight ; Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste ; A music in the ears will ever last ; Unto the scent, a spicery or balm ; And to the touch, a flower, like soft as palm. He will all glory, all perfection, be, God in the Union and the Trinity ! That holy, great, and glorious mystery Will there revealed be in majesty, By light and comfort of spiiitual grace ; The vision of our Saviour face to face. In his humanity ! to hear him preach The price of our redemption, and to teach. Through his inherent righteousness in death. The safety of our souls and forfeit breath ! What fulness of beatitude is here ! What love with mercy mixed doth appear ! To style us friends, who were by nature foes ! Adopt us heirs by grace, who were of those Had lost ourselves ; and prodigally spent Our native portions and possessed rent ! Yet have all debts forgiven us ; an advance By imputed right to an inheritance In his eternal kingdom, where we sit Equal with angels, and co-heirs of it. Ben Jonson. C& I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. I WOULD not live alway ; I ask not to stay Where storm after stomi rises dark o'er the way ; The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here Are enough for life's joys, full enough for its cheer. I would not live alway ; no, — welcome the tomb ! Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom : Tliere sweet be my rest till he bid me arise. To hail him in triumph descending the skies. BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. ■-& 181 Who, who would live alwaj"-, away from his God, — Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode. Where rivers of j^leasure flow bright o'er the plains. And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ? There saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet ; While anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul. WM. A. MUHLENBERG. BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. Beyond the smiling and the weeping I shall be soon ; Beyond the waking and the sleeping, Beyond the sowing and the reaping, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and Jwme I Sweet hope ! Lord, tarry not, but come. Beyond the blooming and the fading I shall be soon ; Beyond the shining and the shading. Beyond the hoping and the dreading, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and liome I Beyond the rising and the setting I shall be soon ; Beyond the calming and the fretting. Beyond remembering and forgetting, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and hoone ! Beyond the gathering and the strowing I shall be soon ; Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, Beyond the coming and the going, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and hovie / Beyond the parting and the meeting I shall be soon ; Beyond the farewell and the greeting, Beyond this pulse's fever beating, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home I Beyond the frost chain and the fever I shall be soon ; Beyond the rock waste and the river, Beyond the ever and the never, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home 1 Sioeet hope ! Lord, tarry not, hut come. HORATIUS BONAR. THE LAND 0' THE LEAL. I 'm wearing awa', Jean, Like snaw when its thaw, Jean, I 'm wearing awa' To the land o' the leal. There 's nae sorrow there, Jean, There 's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal. Ye were aye leal and true, Jean ; ■ Your task 's ended noo, Jean, And I '11 welcome you To the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, She was baith guid and fair, Jean, 0, we grudged her right sair To the land o' the leal ! Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, My soul langs to be free, Jean, And angels wait on me To the land o' the leal ! Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, This warld's care is vain, Jean ; We '11 meet and aye be fain In the land o' the leal. LADY NAIRN. UNDER THE VIOLETS. Her hands are cold ; her face is wMte ; No more her pulses come and go ; Her eyes are shut to life and light ; — Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, And lay her where the violets blow. But not beneath a graven stone. To plead for tears with alien eyes ; A slender cross of wood alone Shall say, that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies. And gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round. To make the scorching sunlight dim Tliatdrinksthegreenness from thegi'ound. And drop their dead leaves on her mound. When o'er their boughs the squirrels run. And through their leaves the robins call, And, ripening in the autumn sun, The acorns and the chestnuts fall. Doubt not that she will heed them all. For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high. And every minstrel-voice of spring. tf fl- 182 POEMS OF THE AFFECTION'S. -^ That trills beneath the April sky, Shall greet her with its earliest cry. "When, turning round their dial-track, Eastward the lengthening shadows pass, Her little mourners, clad in black. The crickets, sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass. At last the rootlets of the trees ShaU find the prison where she lies. And bear the buried dust they seize In leaves and blossoms to the skies. So may the soul that warmed it rise ! If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask. What maiden lies below ? Say only this : A tender bud. That tried to blossom in the snow. Lies withered where the violets blow. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMOEIAM. GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE. I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel : For words, like Nature, half reveal And haK conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies ; The sad mechanic exercise. Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I '11 wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND. Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur's loved remains. Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. So draw him home to those that mourn In vain ; a favorable speed Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead Through prosperous floods his holy urn. All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, through early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. Sphere all your lights around, above ; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow ; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now. My friend, the brother of my love ; My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widowed race be run • Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me. THE PEACE OF SORROW. Calm is the morn without a sound. Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only through the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground : Calm and deep peace on this high wold And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold : Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers. To mingle with the bounding main : Calm and deep peace in this wide air. These leaves that redden to the fall ; And in my heart, if calm at all. If any calm, a calm despair : Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. And waves that sway themselves in rest. And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep. time and eternity. If Sleep and Death be truly one. And every spirit's folded bloom Through all its intervital gloom In some long trance should slumber on ; Unconscious of the sliding hour, Bare of the body, might it last. And silent traces of the past Be all the color of the flower : So then were nothing lost to man ; So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began ; And love will last as pure and whole As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Rewaken with the dawning soul. personal resurrection. That each, who seems a separate whole. Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul, t& ^ BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. —a 183 i Is faith as vague as all unsweet : Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside ; And I shall know him when we meet : And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other's good : What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least Upon the last and sharpest height, Before the spirits fade away. Some landing-place to clasp and say, " Farewell ! "We lose ourselves in light." SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP. Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? Shall he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame. See with clear eye some hidden shame, And I be lessened in his love ? I wrong the grave with fears untrue : Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? There must be wisdom with great Death : The dead shall look me through and through. Be near us when we climb or fall : Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours. To make allowance for us all. MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest. By that broad water of the west. There comes a glory on the walls ; Thy marble bright in dark appears. As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name, And o'er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away ; From off my bed the moonlight dies : And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast. And in the dark church, like a ghost. Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. DEATH IN life's PPJME. So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be. How know I what had need of thee. For thou wert strong as thou wert true ? The fame is quenched that I foresaw. The head hath missed an earthly wreath : I curse not nature, no, nor death ; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass ; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, Avith weeds : What fame is left for human deeds In endless age ? It rests with God. hollow wraith of dying fame. Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-enfolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name. THE poet's TUIBUTE. What hope is here for modern rhyme To him who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshortened in the tract of time ? These mortal lullabies of pain May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden's locks : Or when a thousand moons shall wane A man upon a stall may find. And, passing, turn the page that tells A grief, then changed to something else, Sung by a long-forgotten mind. But what of that ? My darkened ways Shall ring with music all the same ; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise. ALFRED TENNYSON. THEY ARE ALL GONE. They are all gone into the world of light, And I alone sit lingering here ! Their very memory is fair and bright. And my sad thoughts doth clear ; It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stai's upon some gloomy grove, — Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days, — My days which ai'e at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays. holy hope ! and high humility, — High as the heavens above ! These are your walks, and you have showed them me To kindle my cold love. -ff t& 184 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. f Dear, beauteous death, — the jewel of the just, — Shining nowhere but in the dark ! What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark ! He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know. At first sight, if the bird be flown ; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams \ Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there, But when the hand that locked her up gives room, She '11 shine through all the sphere. Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under thee ! Eesume thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass ; Or else remove me hence unto that hill Where I shall need no glass. Henry Vaughan. t&- THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. The snow had begun in the gloaming. And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Eveiy pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muflled crow. The stiff' rails were softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered do^vn the snow. I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds. Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood ; How the flakes were folding it gently. As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, " Father, who makes it snow ?" And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snoAv-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow. When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow. Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe. And again to the child I whispered, " The snow that husheth all. Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall ! " Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; And she, kissing back, could not know That ony kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. There is a Reaper whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen. He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. And the flowers that grow between. " Shall I have naught that is fair ? " saith he ; * ' Have naught but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves ; It was for the Lord of Paradise He boi;nd them in his sheaves. " My Lord has need of these flowerets gay, The Reaper said, and smiled ; '* Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care. And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear." And the mother gave, in tears and pain. The floAvers she most did love ; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. ■E BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 185 ft 0, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day ; 'T was an angel visited the green earth. And took the flowers away. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, "ONLY A YEAR." One year ago, — a ringing voice, A clear blue eye, And clustering curls of sunny hair. Too fair to die. Only a year, — no voice, no smile. No glance of eye, No clustering curls of golden hair, Fair but to die ! One year ago, — what loves, what schemes Far into life ! "What joyous hopes, what high resolves, What generous strife ! The silent picture on the wall, The burial-stone. Of all that beauty, life, and joy Remain alone ! One year, — one year, — one little year, And so much gone ! And yet the even How of life Moves calmly on. The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, Above that head ; No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray Says he is dead. No pause or hush of merry birds, That sing above, Tells us how coldly sleeps below Tlie form we love. Where hast thou been this year, beloved ? What hast thou seen, — What visions fair, what glorious life ? Where thou hast been ? The veil ! the veil ! so thin, so strong ! 'Twixt us and thee ; The mystic veil ! when shall it fall. That we may see ? Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone. But present still, And waiting for the coming hour Of God's sweet will. Lord of the living and the dead. Our Saviour dear ! We lay in silence at thy feet This sad, sad year. Harriet Beecher Stowe. MY CHILD. I CANNOT make him dead ! " His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair ; Yet when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes, — he is not there ! I walk my parlor floor. And, through the ojjen door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; I 'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call ; And then bethink me that — he is not there ! I thread the crowded street ; A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair ; And, as he 's running by. Follow him with my eye. Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! I know his face is hid Under the cofiin lid ; Closed are his eyes ; cold is liis forehead fair ; My hand that marble felt ; O'er it in prayer I knelt ; Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! I cannot make him dead ! When passing by the bed. So long watched over with parental care. My spirit and my eye Seek him incjuiringly, Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake. With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy. To Him wlio gave my boy ; Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there 1 AVhen at the day's calm close. Before we seek repose, I 'm with his mother, offering up our prayer ; Wliate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there I *"ff cB" 186 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. e Not there ! — Where, then, is he ? The form I used to see Was but the rahnent that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress. Is but his wardrobe locked ; — he is not there ! He lives ! — In all the past He lives ; nor, to the last. Of seeing him again will I despair ; In dreams I see him now ; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, " Thou shalt see me tliere I Yes, we all live to God ! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'T will be our heaven to find that — he is there ! JOHN PlERPONT. SWEET DAY. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridall of the earth and skie : The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet rose, Avhose hue angrie and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. Thy root is ever in its grave. And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie. My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. GEORGE HERBERT. MAN'S MORTALITY. Like as the damask rose j^ou see, Or like the blossom on the tree. Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had, — E'en such is man ; — whose thread is spun. Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. — The rose withers, the blossom blasteth. The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies, The gourd consumes, — and man he dies ! Like to the grass that 's newly sprung, Or like a tale that 's new begun. Or like the bird that 's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan, — E'en such is man ; — who lives by breath. Is here, now there, in life and death. — The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended. The hour is short, the span is long. The s'wan 's near death, — man's life is done ! SIMON WASTELL. IF THOU WILT EASE THINE HEART. If thou wilt ease thine heart Of love, and all its smart, — Then sleep, dear, sleep ! And not a sorrow Hang any tear on your eyelashes ; Lie still and deep. Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The rim o' the sun to-morrow, In eastern sky. But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love, and all its smart, — Then die, dear, die ! 'T is deeper, sweeter. Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming With folded eye ; And then alone, amid the beaming Of love's stars, thou 'It meet her In eastern sky. THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. DEATH. THE GIAOUR. He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness. The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingei-s, And marked the mild angelic air. The rapture of repose, that 's there, The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek. And — but for that sad shrouded eye, ^ ■s £& BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 187 ■a That fires uot, wins not, weeps not now, And but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appalls the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed. The first, last look by death revealed ! Such is the aspect of this shore ; 'T is Greece, but living Greece no more ! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, "We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, ■ That parts not quite with parting breath ; But beauty with that fearful bloom. That hue which haunts it to the tomb. Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay. The farewell beam of Feeling past away ; Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished eartli ! nvonM DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. (These verses are said to have "chilled the heart" of Oliver Cromwell.] The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armor against fate, — - Death lays his icy hands on kings ; Scepti'e and cro\vn Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field. And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield, — They tame but one another still ; Early or late They stoop to fate. And must give up their murmuring breath. When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, — ■ Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon death's purple altar, now. See where the victor victim bleeds ! All heads must come To the cold tomb, — Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. James Shirley. LIFE. Like to the falling of a star. Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood. Or bubbles which on water stood, — E'en such is man, whose borrowed liglit Is straight called in, and paid to-night. The \vind blows out, the bubble dies. The spring entombed in autumn lies. The dew dries up, the star is shot. The flight is past, — and man forgot ! Henry King. THE GEAVE. Theke is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found. They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground. The storm that wrecks the winter sky No more disturbs their deep rejiose. Than summer-evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose. I long to lay this painful head And aching heart beneath the soil. To slumber in that dreamless bed From all my toil. For Misery stole me at my birth. And cast me helpless on the wild : I perish ; — my Mother Earth, Take home thy Child ! On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, Shall gently moulder into thee ; Nor leave one wretched trace behind Resembling me. Hark ! a strange sound affrights mine ear. My pulse, — my brain runs wild, — I rave ; — Ah ! who art thou whose voice I hear ? — "I am the Grave ! "The Grave, that never spake before. Hath found at length a tongue to chide : listen ! " "I will speak no more : — Be silent. Pride ! " " Art thou a Wretch of hope forlorn. The victim of consuming care ? Is thy distracted conscience torn By fell despair ? B-- ■-tf fS- POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ■a "A bruised reed lie will not break ; Afflictions all his children feel ; He wounds them for his mercy's sake, He wounds to heal. "There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary Pilgrims found ; And while the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground, "The Soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image, freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, A star of day. " The Sun is but a spark of fire, ' A transient meteor in the sky ; The Soul, immortal as its Sire, Shall never die." James Montgomery. WE WATCHED HER BEEATHING. We watched her breathing through the night. Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak. So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied, — • We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad. And chill with early showers. Her quiet eyelids closed, — • she had Another morn than ours. THOMAS HOOD. A DEATH-BED. Heb, suffering ended with the day ; Yet lived she at its close. And breathed the long, long night away In statue-like repose. But when the sun, in all his state. Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through glory's morning-gate, And walked in Paradise ! JAMES ALDRICH. 0, SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM ! 0, SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom ! On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year, • And the wild cjqDress wave in tender gloom : And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread ; Fond wi-etch ! as if her step disturbed the dead I Away ! we know that tears are vain. That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : Will this imteach us to complain ? Or make one mourner weep the less ? And thou, who tell'st me to forget. Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. TO MARY IN HEAYEN. [Composed by Bums, in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.] Thou 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, 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 Avith wild woods, thickening green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; 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. £ BEKEAVEMENT AND DEATH. 189 ■^ My Mary ! dear departed shade ! "Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groaus that rend his breast ? ROBERT BURNS. FOR ANNIE. Thank Heaven ! the crisis, — The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last, — And the fever called " Living" Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know, I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length — But no matter ! — I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composedly Now, in my bed. That any beholder Might fancy me dead, — Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now. With that horrible throbbing At heart, — ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing ! The sickness, the nausea, The pitiless pain. Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain, — With the fever called " Living'' That burned in my brain. And 0, of all tortures That tortirre the worst Has abated, — the terrible Torture of thirst For the napthaUne river Of Passion accurst ! I have drunk of a water That quenches all tliirst, — iDf a water that flows With a lullaby sound, t'rom a spring but a very few Feet under ground, — From a cavern not very far Down under ground. And ah ! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And naiTow my bed ; For man never slept In a different bed, — And, to slccj), you must slumber In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regi'etting, its roses, — Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses : For now, while so quietly ■ Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies, — A rosemary odor. Commingled with pansies, With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie, — Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me. She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast, — Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished. She covered me warm. And she prayed to the angek To keep me from harm, — To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly Now in my bed, (Knowing her love,) That you fancy me dead ; And I rest so contentedly Now in my bed, (^Vith her love at my breast,) That you fancy me dead, — That yon shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead : But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky ; For it sparkles with Annie, — ^ 190 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIOlSrS. It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie, "With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie. EDGAR Allan Poe. THE FAIEEST THING IN" MOETAL EYES. [Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age of twenty -two.] To make my lady's obsequies My love a minster wrought, And, in the chantry, service there Was sung by doleful thought ; The tapers were of burning sighs, That light and odor gave ; And sorrows, painted o'er with tears, Enlumined her grave ; And round about, in quaintest guise, "Was carved : " Within this tomb there lies The fairest thing in mortal eyes." Above her lieth spread a tomb Of gold and sapphires blue : The gold doth show her blessedness, The sapphires mark her true ; For blessedness and truth in her Were livelily portrayed. When gracious God Avith both his hands Her goodly substance made. He framed her in such wondrous wise, She was, to speak mthout disguise. The fairest thing in mortal eyes. No more, no more ! my heart doth faint When I the life recall Of her who lived so free from taint, So virtuous deemed by all, — That in herself was so complete I think that she was ta'en By God to deck his paradise. And with his saints to reign ; Whom while on earth each one did prize. The fairest thing in mortal eyes. But naught our tears avail, or cries ; All soon or late in death shall sleep ; Nor living wight long time may keep The fairest thing in mortal eyes. CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS (French). Trans- lation of Henrv Francis Gary. Yes, they 're ever bending o'er her Eyes that weep ; Forms, that to the cold grave bore her, Vigils keep. When the summer moon is shining Soft and fair. Friends she loved in tears are twining Chaplets there. Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, Throned above, — Souls like thine with God inherit Life and love ! James T. Fields. DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL. Undekneath the sod low-lying. Dark and drear, Sleepeth one who left, in dying, Sorrow here. FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT 0' THE SUN. FROM " CYMBELINE." Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages ; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages ; Golden lads and girls all must. As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great. Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; Care no more to clothe, and eat ; To thee the reed is as the oak : The sceptre, learning, physic, must All foUoAv this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; Fear not slander, censure rash ; Thou hast fiiaished joy and moan : All lovers young, all lovers must. Consign to thee, and come to dust. SHAKESPEARE. ROCK ME TO SLEEP. Backward, turn backward, Time, in your flight. Make me a child again just for to-night ! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore ; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Backward, flow backward, tide of the years ! I am so weary of toil and of tears, — Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — Take them, and give me my childhood again ! cfr -B BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 191 --a I have grown weary of dust and decay, — Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Tired of the hollow, the base, the untinie, ]\Iother, mother, my heart calls for you ! ]\Iany a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed, and faded our faces between, Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleejD I Over my heart, in the days that are flo^vn, No love like mother-love ever has shone ; No other worship abides and endures, — Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours : None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold. Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song : Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! FLORENCE PERCY. CASA WAPPY. THE child's pet NAME, CHOSEN BY HIMSELF. And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy, — The realms where sorrow dare not come, AVhere life is joy ? Pure at thy death as at thy birth, Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, Casa Wappy 1 Despair was in our last farewell. As closed thine eye ; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die ; Words may not paint our grief for thee ; Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathomed agony ; Casa Wappy ! Thou wert a vision of delight, To bless us given ; Beauty embodied to our sight, A type of heaven ! So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self, than a part Of mine, and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy ! Thy bright, brief day knew no decline, 'T was cloudless joy ; Sunrise and night alone were thine. Beloved boy ! This moon beheld thee blithe and gay ; That found thee pi'ostrate in decay ; And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy ! Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled. Could love have saved, thou hadst not died. Our dear, sweet child ! Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; Yet had we hoped that Time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy ! We mourn for thee when blind, blank night The chamber fills ; We pine for thee when morn's first light Reddens the hills : The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea. All — to the wallflower and wild pea — Are changed ; we saw the world through thee, Casa Wappy I And though, perchance, a smile may gleam Of casual mirth, It doth not own, whate'er may seem. An inward birth ; We miss thy small step on the stair ; We miss thee at thine evening prayer ; All day we miss thee, — everywhere, — Casa Wappy 1 Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below, — The silent tomb. & a- 192 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo, and ".the busy bee," Return, — but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy ! 'T is so ; but can it be — while flowers Eevive again — Man's doom, in death that we and ours For aye remain ? 0, can it be, that o'er the grave The gi'ass renewed should yearly wav 3, Yet God forget our child to save ? — Casa Wappy ! It cannot be ; for were it so Thus man could die, Life were a mockeiy, thought were woe. And tnith a lie ; Heaven were a coinage of the brain ; Religion frenzy, virtue vain. And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy ! Then be to us, dear, lost child ! With beam of love, A star, death's uncongenial wild Smiling above ! Soon, soon thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's road. That led thee back from man to God, Casa Wappy ! Yet 't is sweet balm to our despair, Fond, fairest boy. That heaven is God's, and thou art there, With him in joy ; There past are death and all its woes ; There beauty's stream forever flows ; And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy ! Farewell, then, — for a while, farewell, — Pride of my heart ! It cannot be that long we dwell. Thus torn apart. Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; And dark howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave I '11 meet with thee, Casa Wappy ! DAVID Macbeth Moir. MOTHER AND POET. TURIN, — AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA. 1861. [This was Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.] Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me ! II. Yet I was a poetess only last year. And good at my art, for a woman, men said. But this woman, this, who is agonized here. The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead. What art can a woman be good at ? 0, vain ! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain ? Ah, boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you pressed. And I proud by that test. What art 's for a woman ! To hold on her knees Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat CKng, struggle a little ! to sew by degrees And 'broider the long- clothes and neat little coat ! To dream and to dote. To teach them It stings there. I made them indeed Speak plain the word "country," I taught them, no doubt, Thata country's athingmenshoulddiefor at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyi'ant turned out. VI. And when their eyes flashed .... my beautiful eyes ! . . . . I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. — But then the sur- prise. When one sits quite alone ! — Then one weeps, then one kneels ! — God ! how the house feels 1 TII. At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, of camp-life, andglory, andliow They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan ofl" every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. VIII. Then was triumph at Turin. ' ' Ancona was free ! " And some one came out of the cheers in the street With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. — My Guido was dead ! — I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. c& BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 193 ft I bore it ; — friends soothed me : my giief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. X. And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand. " I was not to faint. One loved me for two . . . would be with me erelong : And ' Viva Italia ' he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint." XI. My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls . . . was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear. And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest." XII. On which withoiit pause up the telegraph line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : — " Shot. Tell his mother." Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother ; not "mine." Novoicesays "my mother "again to me. AVhat ! You think Guido forgot ? XIII. Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe ? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so The above and below. XIV. Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of thy mother ! consider, I pray. How we common mothers stand desolate, mark. Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away. And no last word to say ! XV. Both boys dead ! but that 's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. T were imbecile hewing out roads to a wall. And when Italy 's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son ? XVI. ih, ah, ah ! when Gaeta 's taken, what then ? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashingsouls out of men ? When your guns at Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short, — XVII. When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its wliite, green, and red, Wlren you have your country from mountain to sea. When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my dead,) XVIII. What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low. And burn your lights faintly ! — My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow, My Italy 's there, — with my brave civic pair, To disfranchise despair. XIX. Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength. And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into such wail as this ! — and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. XX. Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the west, And one of them shot in the east by the sea ! Both ! both my boys ! — If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me ! Elizabeth Barrett Browning. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. We walked along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun ; And Jlatthew stopped, he looked, and said, " The will of God be done ! " A village schoolmaster was he, Witli hair of glittering gi'ay ; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass And by tlie steaming rills We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. " Our work," said I, "was well begun ; Then from thy breast what thought. Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought ? " -4? a- 194 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIOJSrS. 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. " A basket on her head she bare ; Her brow was smooth and white : To see a child so very fair, It was a pure delight ! "No fountain from its rocky cave E'er 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 1 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. William Wordsworth. HESTER. When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply. Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flushed her spirit ; I know not by what name beside I shall it call ; — if 't was not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool ; But she was trained in nature's school, Nature had blessed her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, . — Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbor, gone before To that unknown and silent shore ! Shall we not meet as heretofore Some summer morning. When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, — A bliss that would not go away, — A sweet forewarning ? Charles Lame^ THE LOST LOVE. She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove ; A maid whom there were none to praise. And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! .— Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few coiild know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and The difference to me ! William Wordsworth. % THE LOST SISTEE. They waked me from my sleep, I knew not why, And bade me hasten where a midnight lamj) Gleamed from an innjer chamber. There she lay, BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 195 ■a With brow so pale, who yester-morn breathed forth Tlirough joyous smiles her snperflux of bliss Into the hearts of others. By her side Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed Upon the stricken idol, — all dismayed Beneath his God's rebake. And she who nursed That fair young creature at her gentle breast, And oft those sunny locks had decked with buds Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wiped the dews Which death distils. The sufferer just had given Her long farewell, and for the last, last time Touched with cold lips his cheek who led so late Her footsteps to the altar, and received In the deep transport of an ardent heart Her vow of love. And she had striven to press That golden circlet with her bloodless hand Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave At the bright bridal morn. So there she lay In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb "Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast The dreaded bitterness of death had passed. — But a faint wail disturbed the silent scene. And in its nurse's arms a new-born babe Was borne in utter helplessness along. Before that dying eye. Its gathered film Kindled one moment with a sudden glow Of tearless agony, — and fearful pangs. Racking the rigid features, told how strong A mother's love doth root itself. One cry Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer. Went up to Heaven, — and, as its cadence sank, Her spirit entered there. Morn after mom Rose and retired ; yet still as in a dream I seemed to move. The certainty of loss Fell not at oiice upon me. Then I wept As weep the sisterless. — For thou wert fled, My only, my beloved, my sainted one, — Twin of my spirit ! and my numbered days Must wear the sable of that midnight hour Which rent thee from me. Lydia H. Sigourney. GO TO THY REST. Go to thy rest, fair child ! Go to thy dreamless bed. While yet so gentle, undefiled. With blessings on thy head. Fresh roses in thy hand, Buds on thy pillow laid, Haste from this dark and fearful land, Where flowers so quickly fade. Ere sin had seared the breast. Or sorrow woke the tear. Rise to thy throne of changeless rest, In yon celestial sphere ! Because thy smile was fair. Thy lip and eye so bright. Because thy loving cradle-care Was such a dear delight. Shall love, with weak embrace. Thy upward wing detain ? No ! gentle angel, seek thy place Amid the cherub train. ANONYMOUS. HISTORY OF A LIFE. Day dawned ; within a curtained room, Filled to faintness with perfume, A lady lay at point of doom. Day closed ; a child had seen the light : But, for the lady fair and bright. She rested in undreaming night. Spring rose ; the lady's grave was green ; And near it, oftentimes, was seen A gentle boy with thoughtful mien. Years fled ; he wore a manly face. And struggled in the world's rough race, And won at last a lofty place. And then he died ! behold before ye Humanity's poor sum and story ; Life — Death — and all that is of Glory. Barry Cornwall. 0, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? [The following poem was a particular favorite with Mr. Lincoln. Mr. F. B. Carpenter, the artist, writes that while engfaged in paint- ing his picture at the White House, he was alone one evening- with the President in his room, when he said ; " There is a poem whlcli has been a great favorite with me for years, which was first shown to me when a young man by a friend, and which I afterwards saw and cut from a newspaper and learned by heart. I would," he continued, " give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain."] 0, 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 passes from life to his rest in the grave. 9 Fh 196 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 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. The hand of the king that the sceptre hathhorne ; 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 goatsup the steep ; The beggar, who wandered in search of his hread. Have faded aw^y 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 gviilty and just. Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes, like the flowers 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 beeir 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, butthe heartof the haughty is cold ; They grieved, but no wail ffiom their slumbers will come ; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. 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. 'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath. From the blossom of health to the paleness of death. From the gilded saloon to the bierand the shroud, — 0, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? William Knox. ELEONOEA. ELEGY ON THE COUNTESS OF ABINGDON. No single virtue we could most commend. Whether the wife, the mother, or the friend ; For she was all, in that sujireme degree, > That as no one prevailed, so all was she. The several parts lay hidden in the piece ; The occasion but exerted that, or this. A Avife as tender, and as true withal. As the first woman was before her fall : Made for the man, of whom she was a part ; Made to attract his eyes, and keep his heart. A second Eve, but by no crime accursed ; As beauteous, not as brittle, as the first. Had she been first, still Paradise had been. And death had found }io entrance by her sin. So she not only had preserved from ill Her sex and ours, hut lived their pattern still. Love and obedience to her lord she bore ; She much obeyed him, but she loved him more : Not awed to duty by superior sway, But taught by his indulgence to obey. Thus we love God, as author of our good. Yet unemployed no minute slipped away ; Moments were precious in so short a stay. The haste of Heaven to have her was so great That some were single acts, though each complete ; But every act stood ready to repeat. Her fellow-saints with busy care will look For her blest name in fate's eternal book ; And, pleased to be outdone, with joy will see Numberless virtues, endless charity ; But more will wonder at so short an age. To find a blank beyond the thirtieth page : And with a pious fear begin to doubt The piece imperfect, and the rest torn out. But 'twas her Saviour's time ; and could there be A copy near tlie original, 't was she. tB- BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 197 •a As precious gums are not for lasting fire, They but peri'uine the tenaple, and expire ; So was she soon exlialed, and vauislied hence, — A sliort sweet odor, of a vast expense. She vanished, we can scarcely say she died ; For but a now did heaven and earth divide : She passed serenely with a single breath ; This moment perfect health, the next was death : One sigh did her eternal bliss assure ; So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure. As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue ; Or, one dream passed, we slide into*a new ; So close they follow, such wild order keep, We think ourselves awake, and are asleep : So softly death succeeded life in her : She did but dream of heaven, and she was there. No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise ; Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice ; As an old friend is beckoned to a feast, And treated like a long-familiar guest. He took her as he found, but found her so, As one in hourly readiness to go : E'en on that day, in all her trim prepared ; As early notice she from heaven had heard. And some descending courier from above Had given her timely warning to remove ; Or counselled her to dress the nuptial room. For on that night the bridegroom was to come. He kept his hour, and found her where .she lay Clothed all in white, the livery of the day. John Dryden. FAREWELL TO THEE, DAUGHTER. ARABY'S THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. Farewell, — farewell to thee, Araby's daughter ! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea ;) No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. 0, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, » Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing, And hushed all its music and withered its frame ! But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb. And still, when the merry date-season is burning. And calls to the palm -groves the young and the old, Tlie happiest there, from their pastime returning At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. The young village maid, when with flowers slie dresses Her dark-flowing haii- for some festival day. Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero ! forget thee, — Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start. Close, close by the side of that hero she '11 set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell ! — be it ours to embellish thy pillow With everything beauteous that grows in the deep ; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; With many a shell, in whose hoUow-wreathed chamber. We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept. We 'II dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; We 'U seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparivling. And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell ! — farewell ! — until pity's sweet foun- tain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They 'U weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain. They 'II weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the wave. THOMAS MOORE. FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL. T" A lady of the name of Helen Irvin.Ej or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell, in Dumfries- shire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentle- men in the neighborhood. The name of the favored suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick ; that of the other has escaped tra- dition, although it has been alleged that he was a Bell of Blacket House. The addresses of the latter were, however, favored by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly ap- peared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. Other accounts say that Fleming pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in tha streets of Madrid." — SIR WALTER SCOTT.] I WISH I were where Helen lies I Night and day on me she cries ; that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnell lee 1 -ff a 198 POEMS OF THE AFEECTIOlSrS. Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succor me ! 0, think ye na my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spake nae mair ! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirkconnell lee. A-s I went down the water-side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirkconnell lee, — I lighted down, my sword did draw, I hacked him in pieces sma, I hacked him in pieces sma. For her sake that died for me. Helen fair, beyond compare ! 1 '11 make a garland of thy hair. Shall bind my heart forevermair Until the day I dee ! that I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries ; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, " Haste, and come to me ! " Helen fair ! Helen chaste ! If I were with thee I were blest, Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest. On fair Kirkconnell lee. 1 wish my grave were growing green ; A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, And I in Helen's arms lying • On fair Kirkconnell lee. I wish I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries. And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me ! Anonymous. I& A KOUGH EHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER. THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS. The merry brown hares came leaping Over the crest of the hiU, Where the clover and com lay sleeping. Under the moonlight still. Leaping late and early, Till under their bite and their tread, The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead. A poacher's widow sat sighing On the side of the white chalk bank, Where, under the gloomy fir-woods, One spot in the lea throve rank. She watched a long tuft of clover. Where rabbit or hare never ran. For its black sour haulm covered over The blood of a murdered man. She thought of the dark plantation. And the hares, and her husband's blood, And the voice of her indignation Rose up to the throne of God. "I am long past wailing and whining, — I have wept too much in my life : I 've had twenty years of pining As an English laborer's wife. "A laborer in Christian England, Where they cant of a Saviour's name, And yet waste men's lives, like the vermin's. For a few more brace of game. " There'sbloodonyournewforeign shrubs, squire, There 's blood onyour pointer's feet ; There 's blood on the game you sell, squire, And there 's blood on the game you eat. " You have sold the laboring man, squire. Both body and soul to shame. To pay for your seat in the House, squire. And to pay for the feed of your game. "You made him a poacher yourself, squire. When you 'd give neither work nor meat. And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden At our starving children's feet. " When, packed in one reeking chamber, Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay ; While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed, And the walls let in the day. " When we lay in the burning fever, On the mud of the cold clay floor. Till you parted us all for three months, squire. At the cursed workhouse door. " We quarrelled like biiites, and who wonders ? What self-respect could we keep, Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers, Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep ? " Our daughters, with base-born babies. Have wandered away in their shame ; If yoiTr misses had slept, squire, where they did, Your misses might do the same. ^ THE POACHER'S GAME. " There 's blood oti your foreign shrubs, squire. There 'j blood ou your pointer^ s feet ; There 's blood on the gnme yon sell, squire, A nd there 's blood on the game you eat." J- BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 199 -a " Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking, AVith handfuls of coals and rice, Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting A little below cost price ? " You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, And take to allotments and schools. But you 've run iip a debt that will never Be repaid us by penny-club rules. ' ' In the season of shame and sadness, In the dark and dreary day, When scrofula, gout, and madness Are eating your race away ; " When to kennels and liveried varlets You have cast your daughters' bread. And, worn out with lir^uor and harlots, Your heir at your feet lies dead ; "When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector. r. Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave, ,] in ■irf>,i,. QqjI ti^e protector _ — J — — — ^^^, .„ „..„ j,^..,„, You will find in your God the protector Of the freeman you fancied your slave. She looked at the tuft of clover. And wept till her heart grew light ; And at last, when her passion was over. Went wandering into the night. But the merrj'- brown hares came leaping Over the uplands still, Where the clover and corn lay sleeping On the side of the white chalk hill. Charles Kingsley. "THEY'RE DEAR FISH TO ME." The farmer's wife sat at the door, A pleasant sight to see ; And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns Tliat played around her knee. When, bending 'neath her heavy creel, A poor fish-wife came by. And, turning from the toilsome road. Unto the door drew nigh. She laid her burden on the green, And spread its scaly store. With trembling hands and pleading words She told them o'er and o'er. But lightly laughed the yoiing guidwife, " We 're no sae scarce o' cheer ; Tak' up your creel, and gang your ways, — I '11 buy nae fish sae dear." Bending beneath her load again, A weary sight to see ; Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife, ' ' They 're dear fish to me ! " Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night, And when the storm blew o'er. My husband, and my three brave sons. Lay corpses on the shore. " I *ve been a wife for thirty years, A childless widow three ; I maun buy them now to sell again, — They 're dear fish to me ! " The farmer's wife turned to the door, — What was 't upon her cheek ? What was there rising in her breast. That then she scarce could speak ? She thought upon her ain guidman. Her lightsome laddies three ; The woman's words had pierced her heart, — " They 're dear fish to me ! " " Come back," she cried, with quivering voice, And pity's gathering tear ; "Come in, come in, my poor woman, Ye 're kindly welcome here. ' ' I kentna o' your aching heart. Your weary lot to dree ; I '11 ne'er forget your sad, sad words : ' They 're dear fish to me ! ' " Ay, let the happy-hearted learn To pause ere they deny The meed of honest toil, and think How much their gold may buy, — How much of manhood's wasted strength, What woman's misery, — What breaking hearts might swell the cry : " They 're dear fish to me ! " ANONYMOUS. HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD. FROM "the princess." Home they brought her warrior dead : She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ; All her maidens, watching, said, " She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him, soft and low. Called him wortliy to be loved, Tniest friend and noblest foe ; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 9 [& 200 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face , Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee, — Like summer tempest came her tears, — "Sweet my child, I live for thee." ALFRED TENNYSON. THE FLOWER OF FINAE. A BRIGADE BALLAD. f Early in the eighteenth century the flower of the Catholic youth of Ireland were drawn away to recruit the ranks of the Irish Bri- gade in the service of the King of France. These recruits were popularly known as " Wild Geese." Few returned.] Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin, A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing, "While fair round its islets the small ripples play. But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae. Her hair is like night, and her eyes like gray morning. She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning, Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day. Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae. But who down the hillside than red deer runs fleeter ? And who on the lake side is hastening to greet her ? Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay. The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae. One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of glad- ' ness ; Ah ! why do they change on a sudden to sadness, — He has toldhis hard fortune, normore he can stay. He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land. And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland ; He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away, But he vows he '11 come back to the Flower of Finae. He fought at Cremona, — she hears of hi§ story ; He fought at Cassano, — she 's proud of his glory, Yet sadly she sings " Shule Aroon" all the day, "0, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae." Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh broken-hearted. Her reel, and her rock, and her flax she has parted ; She sails with the " Wild Geese " to Flan ders away. And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae. Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging, Before him the Sasanach squadrons enlarging, — Behind him the Cravats their sections display, — Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae. On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying, Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying, Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array ; And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae. In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying ; That flag 's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray, This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae. THOMAS DAVIS. SHULE AROON. [The following old Irish ballad has reference to the same event.] I WOULD I were on yonder hill, 'T is there I 'd sit and cry my fill. And every tear would turn a miU, Is go do tic mo murnin slan. ShuU, shule, shule aroon, Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin, Shule go den durrus augus eligh glum. Is go da tit mo viurnin slan. I '11 sell my rock, I '11 sell my reel, I '11 sell my only spinning-wheel. To buy for my love a sword of steel, Is go de tu mo onurnin slan. I '11 dye my petticoats, — dye them red. And round the world I '11 beg my bread, Until my parents shall wish me dead, Is go de tu mo murnin slan. I wish, I wish, I wish in vain, I wish I had my heart again, And vainly think I 'd not complain, Is go de tu mo murnin sldn. But now my lov? has gone to France, To try his fortune to advance, If he e'er come back 't is but a chance, Is go de tu mo murnin slan. ANONYMOUS. THE MAID'S LAMENT. I LOVED him not ; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I checked him whilehe .spoke ; yet couldhe speak, Alas ! I would not check. t& r^" BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 201 ft For reasons not to love liim once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him : I now would give My love, could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'T was vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death ! I waste for him my breath "Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns, And this lone bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart : for years Wept he as bitter tears ! "Merciful God ! " such was his latest prayer, " These may she never share ! " Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell athwai-t the churchyard gate His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be, And 0, pray, too, for me ! Walter Savage Landor. THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. Three students were travelling over the Rhine ; They stopped when they came to the landlady's sign ; "Good landlady, have you good beer and wine ? And where is that dear little daughter of thine ? " " My beer and wine are fresh and clear ; My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier ! " And when to the chamber they made their way. There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay. The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised. And on her pale face he mournfully gazed : " Ah ! wert thou but living yet," he said, " I 'd love thee from this time forth, fair maid ! " The second he slowly put back the shroud, And turned him away and wept aloud : "Ah ! that thou liest in the cold death -bier ! Alas ! I have loved thee for many a year ! " The third he once more uplifted the veil, And kissed her upon her mouth so pale : " Thee loved I always ; I love still but thee ; And thee will I love through eternity ! " UHLAND. Translation of J. S. DWIGHT. HIGHLAND MARY. Ye banks and braes and streams, around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie ! There simmer first unfauld her robes. And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last fareweel 0' my sweet Highland Mary. - How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender ; And pledging aft to meet again. We tore oursels asunder ; But, 0, fell death's untimely frost. That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay, That wi-aps my Highland Mary ! pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly ; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. ROBERT Burns. THY BRAES WERE BONNY. Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream ! When first on them I met my lover ; Thy braes how dreary. Yarrow stream ! When now thy waves his body cover. Forever now, Yarrow stream ! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. He promised me a milk-white steed. To bear me to his father's bowers ; He promised me a little page. To 'squire me to his father's towers ; He promised me a wedding-ring, — The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; Now he is wedded to his gi-ave, Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow 1 Sweet were his words when last we met ; Jly passion I as freely told him ! Clasped in his arms, I little thought That I should nevermore behold him ! ■ff t& 202 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. ■a c& Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. His mother from the window looked With all the longing of a mother ; His little sister weeping walked The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough ; They only saw the cloud of night. They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! No longer from thy window look, Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! No longer seek him east or west, And search no more the forest thorough ; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow ; I '11 seek thy body in the stream. And then with thee I 'U sleep in Yarrow. John Logan. « WILLY DROWNED IN YAEROW. Down in yon garden sweet and gaj Where bonnie grows the lily, I heard a fair maid sighing say, " My wish be wi' sweet Willie ! "Willie's rare, and Willie 's fair. And Willie 's wondrous bonny ; And Willie hecht to marry me Gin e'er he married ony. " gentle wind, that bloweth south, From where my Love repaireth. Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth And tell me how he fareth ! " 0, tell sweet Willie to come doun And hear the mavis singing. And see the birds on ilka bush And leaves around them hinging. " The lav' rock there, wi' her white breast And gentle throat sae narrow ; There 's sport eneuch for gentlemen On Leader haughs and Yarrow. " 0, Leader haughs are wide and braid. And Yarrow haughs are bonny ; There Willie hecht to marry me If e'er he married ony. " But Willie 's gone, whom I thought on, And does not hear me weeping ; Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e When other maids are sleeping. ' ' Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid. The night I '11 mak' it narrow, For a' the livelang winter night I lie twined o' my marrow. " 0, came ye by yon water-side ? Pou'd you the rose or lily ? Or came you by yon meadow green. Or saw you my sweet Willie ? " She sought him up, she sought him down, She sought him braid and narrow ; Syne, in the cleaving of a craig. She found him drowned in Yarrow ! Anonymous. MARY'S DREAM. The moon had climbed the highest hiU Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep. Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea. When, soft and slow, a voice was heard. Saying, ' ' Mary, weep no more for me ! " She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand. With visage pale, and hollow e'e. " Mary dear, cold is my clay ; It lies beneath a stormy sea. Far, far from thee I sleep in death ; So, Mary, weep no more for me ! " Three stormy nights and stormy days We tossed upon the raging main ; And long we strove our bark to save. But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chilled ]ny blood. My heart was filled with love for thee : The storm is past, and I at rest ; So, Mary, weep no more for me ! "0 maiden dear, thyself prepare ; We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care. And thou and I shall part no more ! " Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see ; But soft the passing spirit said, "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me ! " John Lowe. 4 3-- BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. a 203 EVELYN HOPE. Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; She plucked that piece of 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's chink. 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. Is it 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 naught to each, must I be told ? We were fellow-mortals, — naught beside ? 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, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; Sluch is to learn and much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. 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 stiU, — That body and soul so gay ? Why your hair was amber I shall divine, And your mouth of yourown geranium's red, — And what you would do with me, in fine. In the new life come in the old one's stead. 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 ! Wliat is the issue ? let us see ! I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; My heart seemed fuU as it could hold, — There was place and to spare for the frank young smile. And the red young mouth, and the hair's youiig ' gold. So, hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; You will wake, and remember, and understand. Robert Browning. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, When first you were my bride ; The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high ; And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary ; The day is bright as then ; Tlie lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. And your breath, warm on my cheek ; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You nevermore will speak. 'T is but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, — The church where we were wed, Mary ; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies betAveen, Mary, And my step might break your rest, — For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I 'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends ; But, 0, they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, — My blessin' and my pride ; There 's nothing left to care for now. Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on. When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow, — I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, — ■ -tf tfl- 204 POEMS OF THE AFFECTION'S. fa- When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake ; I hless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore, — 0, I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more ! I 'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary — kind and true ! But I '11 not forget you, darling, In the land I 'm goin' to ; They say there 's bread and work for all. And the sun shines always there, — But I '11 not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I '11 sit, and shut my eyes. And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ; And I '11 think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side. And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. Lady Dufferin. GmEVRA. If ever you should come to Modena, Where among other trophies may be seen Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs (72) Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you ; but, before you go, Enter the house — forget it not, I jiray — And look awhile upon a picture there. 'T is of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family ; Done by Zampieri (73) — but by whom I care not. He who observes it, ere he passes on. Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up when far away. She sits inclining forward as to speak. Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said " Beware ! " her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot. An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face. So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. The overflowings of an innocent heart, — It haunts me still, though many a year has fled. Like some wild melody ! Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm. But richly carved by Antony of Trent With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ, — A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old Ancestor, That by the way — it may be true or false — But don't forget the picture ; and you will not When you have heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child, — her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Father ; And in her fifteenth year became a bride. Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time. The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy ; but at the Nuptial Feast, When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting, Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, " 'T is but to make a trial of our love ! " And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook. And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still. Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found ; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed. But that she was not ! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking. Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived, — and long might you have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something. Something he could not find, he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless, — then went to strangers. Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten. When on an idle day, a day of search Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 't was said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, " Why not remove it from its lurking-place ? " 'T was done as soon as said ; but on the way It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton. With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. a BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 205 All else had perished, — save a wedding-ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy. Engraven with a name, the name of both, " Ginevra." There then had she found a grave ! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; "When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down forever ! Samuel Rogers. THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. The mistletoe hung in the castle hall, The holly branch shone on the old oak wall ; And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, And keeping their Christmas holiday. The baron beheld with a father's pride His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride ; "While she with her bright eyes seemed to be The star of the goodly company. " I 'm weary of dancing now," she cried ; "Here tarry a moment, — I '11 hide, I '11 hide ! And, Lovell, be sure thou 'rt first to trace The clew to my secret lurking-place." Away she ran, — and her friends began Each tower to search, and each nook to scan ; And young Lovell cried, ' ' 0, where dost thou hide ? I 'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride." They sought her that night ! and they sought her next day ! And they sought her in vain when a week passed away ! In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot. Young Lovell sought wildly, — but found her not. And years flew by, and their grief at last "Was told as a sorrowful tale long past ; And when Lovell appeared, the children cried, "See ! the old man weeps for his fairy bride." At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid, "Was found in the castle, — they raised the lid. And a skeleton form lay mouldering there In the bridal wreath of that lady fair ! 0, sad was her fate ! — in sportive jest She hid from her lord in the old oak chest. It closed with a spring ! — and, dreadful doom, The bride lay clasped in her living tomb ! Thomas Haynes Bayly. THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. I AViLL go back to the great sweet mother, ilother and lover of men, the sea. I will go down to her, I and none other. Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me ; Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. fair white mother, in days long past BorA without sister, born without brother, Set free my soul as thy soul is free. fair green-girdled mother of mine. Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, Thy large embraces are keen like pain ! Save me and hide me with all thy waves. Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, Those pure cold populous graves of thine, Wrought without hand in a world without stain. 1 shall sleep, and move with the moving ships. Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside. Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, Filled full with life to the eyes and hair. As a rose is fulfilled to the rose-leaf tips With splendid summer and perfume and pride. This woven raiment of nights and days, Were it once cast off and unwound from me. Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways. Alive and aware of thy waves and thee ; Clear of the whole world, hidden at home. Clothed wi th the green, and crowned with the foam, A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. Algernon Charles Swinburne. ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago. In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden lived, whom 5'ou may know By the name of Annabel Lee ; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child. In this kingdom by the sea ; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee, ; — With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that long ago. In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee ; tf fl- 206 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. So that her high-born kinsmen came, And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre. In this Tcingdom by the sea. The angels, not so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) In this kingdom by the sea. That the wind came out of the cloud by night. Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we. Of many far wiser than we ; And neither the angels in heaven above, ' Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride. In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. EnGAR Allan Poe. MINSTREL'S SONG. 0, SING unto my roundelay ! 0, drop the briny tear with me ! Dance no more at holiday ; Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-hcd, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Euddy his face as the morning light ; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, &c. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ; Quick in dance as thought can be ; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 0, he lies by the willow-tree ! My love is dead, &c. Hark ! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below ; Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, &c. See ! the white moon shines on high ; Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky. Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, &c. Here, upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid. My love is dead, &c. With my hands I '11 bind the briers Round his holy corse to gre ; Ouphant fairy, light your fires ; Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, &c. Come, with acorn-cup and thorn. Drain my heart's blood away ; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, &c. Water- witches, crowned with reytes. Bear me to your lethal tide. I die ! I come ! my true-love Waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died. THOMAS CHATTERTON. THE DIRTY OLD MAN. A LAY OF LEADENHALL. [A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a larj^e hardware shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best known as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.] In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man ; Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan. For forty long years, as the neighbors declared. His house never once had been cleaned or repaired. 'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street. One terrible blot in a ledger so neat : The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse, And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse. Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain ; The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass. And the panes from being broken were known to be glass. On the rickety signboard -no learning could spell The merchant who sold, or the goods he 'd to seU ; t& ■^ BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 207 ■a But for house and for man a new title took growth, Like a fungus, — the Dirt gave its name to them both. Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust, The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust. Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof ; 'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof. There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man Lives busy and dirty as ever he can ; With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face, For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgi'ace. From his wigto his shoes, from his coat to his shirt. His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt ; The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding, — Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding. Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair. Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare ; And liave afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful. The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful. Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom. To peep at the door of the wonderful room Such stories are told about, none of them true ! — The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through. That room, — forty years since, folk settled and decked it. The luncheon 's prepared, and the guests are ex- pected. The handsome young host he is gallant and gay. For his love and her friends will be with him to-day. With solid and dainty the table is drest. The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best ; Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear. For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. Full forty years since turned the key in that door. 'T is a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar. The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread. May now enter as ghosts, for they 're every one dead. Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go ; The seats are in order, the dishes a-row : But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the moiise Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House. Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust ; The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust; A nosegay was laid before one special chair, And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there. The old man has played out his parts in the scene. Wherever he now is, I hope he 's more clean. Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man. William Allingham. LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. [This ballad relates to the execution of Cockburne of Hender- land, a border freebooter, hanged over the gate of his own tower by James V. in his famous expedition, in 1529, against the marauders of the border. In a deserted burial-place near the ruins of the cas- tie, the monument of Cockburne and his lady is still shown. The following inscription is still legible, though defaced : — "HERE LYES PERYS OF COKBURNE AND HIS WYFE MARJORY." Sir Walter Scott.] My love he built me a bonnie bower, And clad it a' wi' lily flower ; A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, Than my true-love he built for me. Tliere came a man, by middle day, He spied his sport, and went away ; And brought the king that very night. Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear : My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie. I sewed his sheet, making my mane ; I watched the corpse mysell alane ; I watched his body night and day ; No living creature came that way. I took his body on my back. And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; I digged a grave, and laid him in, And happed him mth the sod sae green. But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair ? 0, think na ye my heart was wae. When I turned about, away to gae ? Nae living man I '11 love again. Since that my lively knight is slain ; Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair I '11 chain my heart forevermair. ANONYMOUS, THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. Word was brought to the Danish king (Hurry !) That the love of his heart lay suffering. And pined for the comfort his voice would bring ; (0, ride as though you were flying !) ■ff a- 208 rOEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. f Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl : And his rose of the isles is dying ! Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; (Hurry !) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need ; (0, ride as though you were flying !) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; Worn-out chargers staggered and sank ; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst ; But ride as they would, the king rode first, For his rose of the isles lay dying ! His nobles are beaten, one by one ; (Hurry !) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone ; His little' fair page now follows alone, ■ For strength and for courage trying ! The king looked back at that faithful child ; Wan was the face that answering smiled ; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din. Then he dropped ; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying ! The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; (Silence !) No answer came ; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide ; None welcomed the king from that weary ride ; For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay. Who had yearned for his voice while dying ! The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast ; And, that dumb companion eying. The tears gushed forth which he strove to check ; He bowed his head on his charger's neck : " steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying ! " Caroline Norton. C& HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LIN- COLNSHIRE. ■ The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three ; " Pull ! if ye never pulled before ; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth hee. " Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells ! Ply all your changes, all your swells ! Play uppe The Brides of Endcrhy 1 " Men say it was a " stolen tyde," — The Lord that sent it, he Icnows all, But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall ; And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits jned. By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. I sat and spun within the doore ; My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes : The level sun, like ruddy ore. Lay sinking in the barren skies ; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth ! — My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. " Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along ; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth, Faintly came her milking-song. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadoAV grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ! Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ! Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow ! Come uppe. Jetty I rise and follow ; From the clovers lift your head ! . Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ! Come uppe. Jetty ! rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed." If it be long — ay, long ago — When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; And all the aire, it seemeth mee. Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee). That ring the tune of Endcrhy. Alle fresh the level pasture lay. And not a shadowe mote be secne, Save where, full fyve good miles away. The steeple towered from out the greene. And lo ! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. ■s BEREAVEMEXT AND DEATH. 209 a The swaimeids, where tlieir sedges are, Moved on in sunset's goUlen breath ; The shepherde hids I heard afarre, And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; Till, iioating o'er the grassy sea, Came downe that kyndly message free, llie Briclcs of Mavis EndeTby. Then some looked uppe into tlie sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, " And why should this thing be, What danger lowers by land or sea ? They ring the tune of Eiiderhj. " For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys, warping down, — For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne ; But while the west bin red to see. And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring The Brides of Eiulerbij ? I looked without, and lo ! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main ; He raised a shout as he drew on. Till all the welkin rang again : "Elizabeth ! Elizabeth !" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) "The olde sea-wall" (he cryed) " is downe ! The rising tide comes on apace ; And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-jilace ! " He shook as one that looks on death : " God save you, mother ! " straight he sayth ; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth ? " "Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away With her two bairns I marked her long ; And ere yon bells beganne to play, Afar I heard her milking-song." He looked across the grassy sea, To right, to left. Ho, Enderby I They rang The Brides of Enderby. With that he cried and beat his breast ; For lo ! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest. And uppe the Lindis raging gped. It swe})t with thunderous noises loud, — Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud. Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis, backward pressed. Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 14 Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout, — Then beaten foam flew round about, — Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast, the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the gi-asses at oure feet : The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, — And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sate that night ; The noise of bells went sweeping by ; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red andhigh, — A lurid mark, and dread to see ; And awsome bells they were to mee. That in the dark rang Enderby. They rang the sailor lads to guide, From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; And I, — my sonne was at my side. And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "0, come in life, or come in death.! lost ! my love, Elizabeth ! " And didst thou visit him no more ? Thou didst, thou diclst, my daughter deare. The waters laid thee at his doore Ere yet the early dawn was clear : Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ehbe swept out the flocks to sea, — A fatal cbbe OuwAfiow, alas ! To manye more than myne and mee ; But each will mourne his own (she sayth) And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 1 shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, Ere the early dews be falling ; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along, Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth. From the meads where melick groweth. Where the water, winding down, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more. Where the reeds and rushes quiver. Shiver, quiver. Stand beside the sobbing river, — # t& 210 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. a Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, To the sandy, lonesome shore ; I shall never hear her calling, " Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ! Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, LigMfoot ! Quit your pipes of parsley hollow. Hollow, hollow ! Come nppe, Lightfoot ! rise and follow ; Lightfoot ! Whitefoot ! ' From your clovers lift the head ; Come uppe. Jetty ! follow, follow, Jetty, to the milkiug-shed ! " JEAN INGELOW. THE MERRY LARK. The merry, merry lark was up and singing, And the hare was out and feeding on the lea. And the merry, merry bells below were ringing, When my child's laugh rang through me. Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snowyard. And the lark beside the dreary winter sea, And my baby in his cradle in the churchyard Waiteth there until the bells bring me. CHARLES KlNGSLEV. THE MORNING-GLORY. We wreathed about our darling's head The morning-glory bright ; Her little face looked out beneatli So full of life and light. So lit as with a sunrise. That we could only say, " She is the morning-glory true. And her poor types are they." So always from that happy time We called her by their name, And very iitting did it seem, — For sure as morning came. Behind her cradle bars she smiled To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day. But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue. As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew ; And not so close their tendrils fine Round their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own. We used to think how she had come, Even as comes the flower, The last and perfect added gift To crown Love's morning hour ; And how in her was imaged forth The love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops round Shines back the heart of day. The morning-glory's blossoming WiU soon be coming round, — We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground ; The tender things the winter kiUed Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth. Earth ! in vain our aching eyes Stretch over thy green plain ! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air. Her spirit to sustain ; But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee, Maria White Lowell. THE TOMB OF CYRUS. A VOICE from stately Babylon, a mourner's rising cry, And Lydia's marble palaces give back their deep reply ; And like the sounds of distant winds o'er ocean's billows sent, Ecbatana, thy storied walls send forth the wild lament. For he, the dreaded arbiter, a dawning empires trust. The eagle child of victory, the great, the wise, the just, Assyria'sfamedandconqueringsword, andMedia's regal strength. Hath bowed his head to earth beneath a mightier hand at length. And darkly through a sorrowing land Euphrates winds along, And Cydnus with its silver wave hath heard the funeral song ; And through the wide and sultry East, and through the frozen North, The tabret and the harp are hushed, — the wail of grief goes forth. ^ -ff BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. -a 211 Tliere is a solitary tomb, with rankling weeds o'er- gi'own, A single palm bends mournfully beside the mould- ering stone Amidst whose leaves the passing breeze with fit- ful gust and slow Seems sighing forth a feeble dirge for him who sleeps below. Beside, its sparkling drops of foam a desert foun- tain showers ; And, floating calm, the lotus wreathes its red and scented flowers. Here lurks the mountain fox unseen beside the vulture's nest ; Andsteals the wild hyena forth, in lone and silent quest. Is this deserted resting-place the couch of fallen might ? And ends the path of glory thus, and fame's in- .spiring light ? Chief of a progeny of kings renowned and feared afar. How is thy boasted name forgot, and dimmed thine honor's star ! Approach, — what saith the graven verse ? "Alas for human pride ! Dominion's envied gifts were mine, nor earth her praise denied. Thou traveller, if a suppliant's voice find echo in thy breast, 0, envy not the little dust that hides my mortal ^^^^ • ANONYMOUS. HELVELLYN. A BARKING soiind the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox ; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks ; And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern ; And instantly a dog is seen. Glancing through that covert green. The dog is not of mountain breed ; Its motions, too, are wild and shy, — With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry ; Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height ; Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear. What is the creature doing here ? It was a cove, a huge recess. That keeps, till June, December's snow ; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below ! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling. Pathway, or cultivated land, — ■ From trace of human foot or hand. There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; The crags repeat the raven's croak In symphony austere ; Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud, And mists that spread the flying shroud ; And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past. But that enormous barrier holds it fast. Not free from boding thoughts, awhile The shepherd stood ; then malces his way O'er rocks and stones, following the dog As quickly as he may ; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground. The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round to learn the history. From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fallen, that place of fear ! At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear. He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came ; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveller passed this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell ! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry. This dog had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain, that, since the day When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side. How nourished here through such long time He knows who gave that love sublime, And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate ! William Wordsworth. HELVELLYN. [In the spring of 1805 a youn^ gfentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing' his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months af- terwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds ot Cumberland and Westmoreland.) I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide ; w a- 212 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. fl t All was still, save, by fits, wlien the eagle was yelling, And starting around me tlie echoes replied. On the right, Striden Edge round the Eed Tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending. When I marked the sad spot where the wan- derer had died. Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountain heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay. Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather. Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended. For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended. The much-loved remains of her master defended. And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ? How many long days and long nights didst thou number Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? And, 0, was it meet that — no requiem read o'er him. No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him — Unhonoredthe Pilgrim from life should depart ? When a prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall, With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded. And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming ; In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming ; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is stream- Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying. With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. Sir Walter Scott. CGEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. [The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-Cnurch of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Goeur de Lion, who on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellions conduct which had been the means of bringing his fatlier to an untimely grave.] Torches were blazing clear. Hymns pealing deep and slow, Where a king lay stately on his bier In the church of Fontevraud. Banners of battle o'er Mm hung. And warriors slept beneath, And light, as noon's broad light was flung On the settled face of death. On the settled face of death A strong and ruddy glare. Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, Yet it fell still brightest there ; As if each deeply furrowed trace Of earthly years to show, — Alas ! that sceptred mortal's race Had surely closed in woe I The marble floor was swept By many a long dark stole. As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, Sang mass for the parted soul ; And solemn were the strains they poured Through the stillness of the night. With the cross above, and the crown and sword, And the silent king in sight. There was heard a heavy clang. As of steel-girt men the tread, And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang With a sounding thrill of dread ; And the holy chant was hushed awhile, As, by the torch's flame, A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle With a mail-clad leader came. He came with haughty look. An eagle glance and clear ; But his proud heart through its breastplate shook When he stood beside the bier ! He stood there still with a drooping brow. And clasped hands o'er it raised ; — For his father lay before him low. It was Cceur de Lion gazed ! d Pr BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 21 fl= And silently he strove "With the workings of his breast ; But there 's more in late repentant love Than steel may keep suppressed ! And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain, — Men held their breath in awe. For his face was seen by his warrior-train, And he recked not that they saw. He looked upon the dead, And sorrow seemed to lie, A weight of sorrow, even like lead. Pale on the fast-shut eye. He stooped, — and kissed the frozen cheek, And the heavy hand of clay, Till bursting words — yet all too weak — Gave his soul's passion way. "0 father ! is it vain. This late remorse and deep ? Speak to me, father ! once again, I weep, — behold, I weep ! Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! Were but this work undone, I would give England's crown, my sire ! To hear thee bless thy son. " Speak to me ! mighty grief Ere now the dust hath stirred ! Hear me, but hear me ! — father, chief. My king ! I must be heard ! Hushed, hushed, — how is it that I call, And that thou answerest not ? When was it thus, woe, woe for all The love my soul forgot ! " Thy silver hairs I see. So still, so sadly bright ! And father, father ! but for me. They had not been so white ! / bore thee down, high heart ! at last, No longer couldst thou strive ; — 0, for one moment of the past To kneel and say, — ' Forgive ! ' " Thou wert the noblest king On royal throne ere seen ; And thou didst wear in knightly ring, Of all, the stateliest mien ; And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, In war, the bravest heart, — 0, ever the renowned and loved Thou wert, — and tJicre thou art ! "Thou that my boyhood's guide Didst take fond joy to be ! — The times I 've sported at thy side, And climbed thy parent knee ! And there before the blessed shrine, My sire ! I see thee lie, — How will that sad still face of thine Look on me till I die ! " FELICIA HEMANS. BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. [Bernardo del Carpio, a Spanish warrior and grandee, having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, declared war against King Alphonso of Astu- rias. Being successful, the king agreed to terms by wliich he ren- dered up his prisoner to Bernardo, in exchange for the castle of Carpio and the captives confined therein. When the warrior pressed forward to greet his father, whom he had not seen for many years, he found a corpse on horseback.) The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire. And sued the haughty king to free his long-im- prisoned sire : "I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! 0, break my father's chain ! " II. "Rise / rise I even now thy father comes, a ran- somed man this day ! Mount thy good horse ; and thou and I will meet him on his way. Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. III. And, lo, from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band. With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land : " Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very truth, is he. The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see. IV. His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went ; He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent ; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took, — What was therein its touch that all his fiery spirit shook ? V. That hand was cold, — a frozen thing, — it dropped from his like lead ! He looked up to the face above, — the face was of the dead ! c& --& a- ■a 214 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. A plume waved o'er the noble brow, — the brow was fixed and white ; He met, at last, his father's eyes, — but in them was no sight ! VI. Up from the ground he sprang and gazed ; but who could paint that gaze ? They hushed their very hearts that saw its hor- ror and amaze : They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood ; For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. "Father !" at length, he murmured low, and . wept like childhood then : Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men ! He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown ; He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow, — **]Sro more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now ; My king is false, — my hope betrayed ! My fa- ther, — the worth, The glory, and the loveliness are passed away from earth ! IX. " I thoiiglit to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet ; I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met ! Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then ; for thee my fields were won ; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son ! " Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train ; And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rear- ing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face, — the king be- fore the dead : "Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss ? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me what is this ? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought, — give answer, where are they ? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay ; ' ' Into these glassy eyes put light ; — be still ! keep down thine ire ! Bid these white lips a blessing speak, — this earth is not my sire : Give me back him for whom I strove, — for whom my blood was shed. Thou canst not ? — and a king ! — his dust be mountains on thy head ! " He loosed the steed, — his slack hand fell ; upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place. His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain : His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. felicia hemans. THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. There was music on the midnight : From a royal fane it rolled, And a mighty bell, each pause between, Sternly and slowly tolled. Strange was their mingling in the sky, It hushed the listener's breath ; For the music spoke of triumph high, The lonely bell, of death. There Avas hurrying through the midnight, A sound of many feet ; But they fell with a mufiled fearfulness Along the shadowy street : And softer, fainter, grew their tread As it neared the minster gate, Whence a broad and solemn light was shed From a scene of royal state. Full glowed the strong red radiance In the centre of the nave, "Where the folds of a purple canopy Swept down in many a wave ; Loading the marble pavement old With a weight of gorgeous gloom, For something lay midst their fretted gold Like a shadow of the tomb. And within that rich pavilion, High on a glittering throne, C& ,«|,«_| 1 (J ^ — a- BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH, 215 . B^- A woman's form sat silently, Midst the glare of light alone. Her jewelled robes fell strangely still, — The drapery on her breast Seemed with no pulse beneath to thrill, So stonelike was its rest ! But a peal of lordly music Shook e'en the dust below, When the burnnig gold of the diadem Was set on her pallid brow ! Then died away that haughty sound, And from the encircling band Stepped prince and chief, midst the hush profound, With homage to her hand. Why passed a faint, cold shuddering Over each martial frame. As one by one, to touch that hand, Noble and leader came ? AVas not the settled aspect fair ? Did not a queenly grace, Under the parted ebon hair. Sit on the pale still face ? Death ! death ! canst thoio be lovely Unto the eye of life ? Is not each pulse of the quick high breast With thy cold mien at strife ? — It was a strange and fearful sight. The crown upon that head, The glorious robes, and the blaze of light. All gathered round the Dead ! And beside her stood in silence One with a brow as pale, And white lips rigidly compressed, Lest the strong heart should fail : King Pedro, with a jealous eye, Watching the homage done, By the land's flower and chivalry, To her, his martyred one. But on the face he looked not, Which once his star had been ; To every fonn his glance was turned. Save of the breathless queen ; Though something, won from the grave's embrace. Of her beauty still was there, Its hues were all of that shadowy place, It was not for hiyn to bear. Alas ! the crown, the sceptre. The treasures of the earth. And the priceless love that poured those gifts. Alike of wasted worth ! The rites are closed ; — bear back the dead Unto the chamber deep ! Lay down again the royal head, Dust with the dust to sleep ! There is music on the midnight, — A requiem sad and slow. As the mourners through the sounding aisle In dark procession go ; And the ring of state, and the starry crown, And all the rich array. Are borne to the house of silence down, With her, that queen of clay. And tearlessly and firmly King Pedro led the train ; But his face M'as wrapt in his folding robe, When they lowered the dust again. 'T is hushed at last the tomb above. Hymns die, and steps depart : Who called thee strong as Death, Love ? MigMicr thou wast and art. FELICIA hemans. INDIAN DEATH-SONG. The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day ; But glory remains when their lights fade away. Begin, you tormentors ! your threats are in vain, For the sons of Alknomook will never complain. Remember the an-ows he shot from his bow ; Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low ! Why so slow ? do you wait till I shrink from the pain ? No ! the son of Alknomook shall never complain. Remember the wood where in ambush we lay. And the scalps which we bore from your nation away. Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain ; But the son of Alknomook can never complain. I go to the land where my father is gone ; His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain; And thy son, Alknomook ! has scorned to com- plain. PHILIP FRENEAU. THE FEMALE CONVICT. She shrank from all, and her silent mood Made her wish only for solitude ; Her eye sought the ga-ound, as it could not brook. For innermost shame, on another's to look ; And the chcerings of comfort fell on her ear Like deadliest words, that were curses to hear ! — W t& 216 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. She still was young, and she had been fair ; But weather-stains, hunger, toil, and care, That frost and fever that wear the heart, Had made the colors of j^outh depart From the sallow cheek, save over it came The burning flush of the spirit's shame. They were sailing o'er the salt sea-foam, Far from her country, far from her home ; And all she had left for her friends to keep Was a name to hide and a memory to weep ! And her future held forth but the felon's lot, — To live forsaken, to die forgot ! She could not weep, and she could not pray. But she wasted and withered from day to day, Till you might have counted each sunken vein, When her wrist was pi'est by the iron chain ; And sometimes I thought her large dark eye Had the glisten of red insanity. She called me once to her sleeping-place, A strange, wild look was upon her face, Her eye ilashed over her cheelc so white, Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight, And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone, — The sound from mine ear hath never gone ! — " I had last night the loveliest dream : My own land shone in the summer beam, I saw the fields of the golden grain, I heard the reaper's harvest strain ; There stood on the hills the green pine-tree, And the thrush and the lark sang merrily. A long and a weary way I had come ; But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet home. I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there. With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair ! The Bible lay open npon his knee. But he closed the book to welcome me. He led me next where my mother lay, And together we knelt by her grave to pray, And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear, For it echoed one to my young days dear. This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled, And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead ! — We have not spoken, but still I have hung On the Northern accents that dwell on thy tongue. To me they are music, to me they recall The things long hidden by Memory's pall ! Take this long curl of yellow hair. And give it my father, and tell him my prayer, My dying prayer, was for him." .... Next day Upon the deck a coffin lay ; They raised it up, and like a dirge The heavy gale swept o'er the surge ; The corpse was cast to the wind and wave, — The convict has found in the gi-een sea a grave. LvCTITIA E. LANDON. GEIEF. FROM " HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK." Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy uighted color off. And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not, forever, with thy veiled lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust : Thou know'st 't is common, — all that live must die, Passing through nature to eternity. Hamlet. Ay, madam, it is common. Queen. If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee ? Ham. Seems, madam ! nay, it is ; I know not seems. 'T is not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black. Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye. Nor the dejected havior of the visage. Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, That can denote me truly : these, indeed, seem, For they are actions that a man might play : But I have that within, which passeth show ; These, but the trappings and the suits of woe. Shakespeare. SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. FROM "hamlet, prince OF DENMARK." Hamlet. To be, or not to be, — that is the question : — Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outi'ageous fortune. Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them ? — To die, — to sleep ; — No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shoclis That flesh is heir to, — 't is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to sleeji ; — To sleep ! perchance to dream : — ay, there 's the rub ; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. Must give us pause : there 's the respect That makes calamity of so long life ; For who Avould bear the whips and scorns of time. The oppressor's wrong, the proud man'scontumely. The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes. When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life. But that the dread of something after death, — '[& -"S BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 217 a That undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, — puzzles the will. And makes us rather bear those ills we have. Than fly to others that we know not of ? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; And enterprises of great pith and moment, AVith this regard, their currents turn awry. And lose the name of action. SHAKESPEARE. THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S GRAVE. Husband and wife ! no converse now ye hold, As once ye did in your young days of love. On its alarms, its anxious hoars, delays, Its silent meditations and glad hopes. Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies ; Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares Call you not now together. Earnest talk On what your children may be moves you not. Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence ; Not like to that in which ye rested once Most happy, — silence eloquent, when heart With heart held speech, and your mysterious frames, Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat Touched the soft notes of love. A stillness deep. Insensible, unheeding, folds you round. And darkness, as a stone, has sealed you in ; Away from all the living, here ye rest. In all the nearness of the narrow tomb. Yet feel ye not each other's presence now ; — Dread fellowship ! — togetlier, yet alone. Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love? And doth death cancel the great bond that holds Commingling spirits ? Are thoughts that know no bounds, But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought, — Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? — Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? — Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh Lifting that hung 'twi.xt man and it, revealed In glory ? — throne before which even now Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? — Souls that thee know by a mj^sterious sense, Thou awful unseen Presence, — are they quenched? Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes By that bright day which ends not, as the sun His robe of light flings round the glittering stars ? And do our loves all perish with our frames ? Do those that took their root and put forth buds, And then soft leaves unfolded in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty. Then fade and fall, like fair, imconscious flowers ? Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech. And make it set forth winning harmonies, That to the cheek do give its living glow. And vision in the eye the soul intense With that for which there is no utterance, — Are these the body's accidents, no more ? To live in it, and when that dies go out Like the burnt taper's flame ? listen, man ! A voice within us speaks the startling word, " Man, thou shalt never die ! " celestial voices Hymn it around our souls ; according harps. By angel fingers touched when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality ; Thick-clu.stering orbs, and this our fair domain, Tlie tall, dark mountains and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn, universal song. listen, ye, our spirits ! drink it in From all the air ! 'T is in the gentle moonlight ; Is floating in day's setting glories ; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears ; — Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve. As one great mystic instrument, are touched By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony. Why is it that I linger round this tomb ? What holds it ? Dust that cumbered those I mourn. They shook it off", and laid aside earth's robes. And put on those of light. They 're gone to dwell In love, — their God's and angels' ? Mutual love. That bound them here, no longer needs a si^eech For full communion ; nor sensations strong. Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each By natures new impart themselves, though silent. Each quickening sense, each throb of holy love. Affections sanctified, and the full glow Of being, which expand and gladden one, By union all mysterious, thrill and live In both immortal frames ; — sensation all, And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought ! Ye paired, yet one ! wrapt in a consciousness Twofold, yet single, — this is love, this life 1 W a- 218 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. a Why call we, tlien, the square-built monument, The upright column, and the low-laid slab Tokens of death, memorials of decay ? Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man, And learn thy proper nature ; for thou seest In these shaped stones and lettered tables figures Of life. Then be they to thy soul as those Which he who talked on Sinai's mount with God Brought to the old Judeans ; — types are these Of thine eternity. I thank thee. Father, That at this simple grave on which the dawn Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath No close, thou kindly unto my dark mind Hast sent a sacred light, and that away From this green hillock, whither I had come In sorrow, thou art leading me in joy. Richard Henry Dana. DE PROFUNDIS. The face which, duly as the sun, Eose up for me with life begun, To mark all bright hours of the day With hourly love, is dimmed away, — And yet my days go on, go on. II. The tongue which, like a stream, could run Smooth music from the roughest stone, And every morning with " Good day" Make each day good, is hushed away, — And yet my days go on, go on. III. The heart which, like a staff, was one For mine to lean and rest upon. The strongest on the longest day With steadfast love, is caught away, — And yet my days go on, go on. IV. And cold before my summer 's done, And deaf in Nature's general tune, And fallen too low for special fear. And here, with hope no longer here, — While the tears drop, my days go on. V. The world goes whispering to its own, "This anguish pierces to the bone" ; And tender friends go sighing round, " What love can ever cure this wound ? " My days go on, my days go on. VI. The past rolls forward on the sun And makes all night. dreams begun, Not to be ended ! Ended bliss. And life that will not end in this ! My days go on, my days go on. Breath freezes on my lips to moan : As one alone, once not alone, I sit and knock at Nature's door. Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, Whose desolated days go on. I knock and cry, — Undone, undone ! Is there no help, no comfort, — none ? No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains Where others drive their loaded wains ? My vacant days go on, go on. This Nature, though the snows be down, Thinks kindly of the bird of June : The little red hip on the tree Is ripe for such. What is for me, Whose days so winterly go on ? No bird am I, to sing in June, And dare not ask an equal boon. Good nests and berries red are Nature'^s To give away to better creatures, — And yet my days go on, go on. XI. / ask less kindness to be done, — Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon, (Too early worn and grimed) with sweet Cool deathly touch to these tired feet. Till days go out which now go on. From gracious Nature have I won Such liberal bounty ? may I run So, lizard-like, within her side, And there be safe, who now am tried By days that painfully go on ? — A Voice reproves me thereupon. More sweet than Nature's when the drote Of bees is sweetest, and more deep Than when the rivers overleap The shuddering pines, and thunder on. XVI. God's Voice, not Nature's. Night and noon He sits upon the great white throne And listens for the creatures' praise. What babble we of days and days ? The Day-spring he, whose days ga on. f& -B BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. 219 a He reigns above, he reigns alone ; Systems burn out and leave his throne ; Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall Around him, changeless amid all, — Ancient of Days, whose days go on. He reigns below, he reigns alone, And, having life in love foregone Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns Or rules with him, while days go on ? By anguish which made pale the sun, I hear hinr charge his saints that none Among his creatures an3r\vhere Blaspheme against him with despair. However darkly days go on. XX. Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown ! No mortal grief deserves that crown. supreme Love, chief Misery, The sharp regalia are for Thee Whose days eternally go on ! For us, — whatever 's undergone, Thou knowest, mllest what is done. Grief may be joy misunderstood ; Only the Good discerns the good, I trust thee while my days go on. Whatever 's lost, it first was won : We will not stniggle nor impugn. Perhaps the cup was broken here, That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. I praise thee while my days go on. I praise thee while my days go on ; I love thee while my days go on ; Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost. With emptied arms and treasure lost, I thank thee while my days go on. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The 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. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from 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 afield ! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor gi'andeur 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 the inevitable hour ; The paths of gloiy lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. Where, tlirough 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 swayed, Or waked 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 repressed their noble rage. And froze the genial current of the .soul. 3^- W t& 220 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 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. The 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 forbade ; nor circiimscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes con- fined ; Forbade 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 learned to stray ; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect. Some frail memorial still erected nigh. With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked. Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse. The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned. 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 the unhonored dead. Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If chance, bj^ 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 wayAvard fancies, he would rove ; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love, " One morn I missed 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 ; " The next, with dirges due, in sad array. Slow through the church-way path we saw him borno ; — Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked 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 gained from heaven ('t was all he wished) 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. THOMAS Gray. f& ft- a POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. B-- -ff POEMS OF SORROW AND ADYERSITY. ft RETROSPECTION. FROM "THE PRINCESS. Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. That brings our friends up from the under world ; Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge, — So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remembered kisses after death. And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others ; deep as love. Deep as first love, and wild with all regi'et, — Death in Life, the days that are no more. ALFRED TENNYSON. TWO WOMEN. The shadows lay along Broadway, 'T was near the twilight-tide, And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side. Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And Honor charmed the air ; And all astir looked kind on her. And called her good as fair, — For aU God ever gave to her She kept with chary care. She kept vdih care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo, — But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do. Now walking there was one more fair, — A slight girl, lilj'^-pale ; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quaU, — 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray ; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way ! — But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway ! NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. THE DREAMER. FROM " POEMS BY A SEAMSTRESS." Not in the laughing bowers. Where by green swinging elms a pleasant shade At summer's noon is made, And where swift-footed hours Steal the rich breath of enamored flower.?, Dream I. Nor where the golden glories be. At sunset, laving o'er the flowing sea ; And to pure eyes the faculty is given To trace a smooth ascent from Earth to Heaven ! Not on a couch of ease, AVith all the appliances of joy at hand, — Soft light, sweet fragi-ance, beauty at command 5 Viands that might a godlike palate please, And music's soul-creative ecstasies. Dream I. Nor gloating o'er a wide estate. Till the full, self-complacent heart elate, Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth, Sighs for an immortality on Earth ! ^- -ff fl- 224 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. But wliere the incessant din Of iron hands, and roars of brazen throats, Join their unmingled notes, While the long summer day is pouring in, Till day is gone, and darkness doth begin, Dream I, — as in the corner where I lie. On wintry nights, just covered from the sky ! — Such is my fate, — and, barren though it seem. Yet, thou blind, soulless scorner, yet I dream ! And yet I dream, — Dream what,were men more just, I might have been, How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene. Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien ; The conscious crown to Nature's blissful scene, In just and equal brotherhood to glean, With all mankind, exha\istless pleasure keen, — Such is my dream ! And yet I dream, — I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eyes. Bright with the lustre of integrity. In unappealing wretchedness, on high, And the last rage of Destiny defy ; Resolved alone to live, — alone to die, Nor swell the tide of human misery ! And yet I dream, — Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come, My last, my first, my only welcome home ! Rest, unbeheld since Life's beginning stage, Sole remnant of my glorious heritage, Unalienable, I shall find thee yet. And in thy soft embrace the past forget. Thus do I dream ! ANONYMOUS. MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES. Moan, moan, ye dying gales ! The saddest of your tales Is not so sad as life ; Nor have you e'er began A theme so wild as man, Or with such sorrow rife. Fall, fall, thou withered leaf ! Autumn sears not like grief. Nor kills such lovely flowers ; More terrible the storm. More mournful the deform. When dark misfortune lowers. Hush ! hush ! thou trembling lyre, Silence, ye vocal choir. And thou, mellifluous lute. For man soon breathes his last. And all his hope is past, And all his music mute. Then, when the gale is sighing. And when the leaves are dying. And when the song is o'er, 0, let us think of those AVhose lives are lost in woes, Whose cup of grief runs o'er. HENRY NEELE. HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS. Hence, all ye vain delights,. As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly ! There 's naught in this life sweet. If man were wise to see 't, But only melancholy, 0, sweetest melancholy ! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that 's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound ! Fountain-heads and pathless groves. Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan ! These are the sounds we feed upon. Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Nothing'sso dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. BEAUMONT and Fletcheh. BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. FROM " AS YOU LIKE IT." Blow, bloAv, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen. Because thou art not seen. Although th}'- breath be rude. Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly : Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh-ho ! the holly ! This life is most jolly ! Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though thou the waters warp. Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green h.olly : Most fri endship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh-ho ! the holly ! This life is most jolly ! SHAKESPEARE. ^ -A POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 225 -a A LAMENT. WORLD ! Life ! Time ! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before ; When will return the glory of your prime ? No more, — nevermore ! Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight : Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Movemy faint heart with grief, but with delight No more, — nevermore ! PERCY BVSSHE SHELLEY. SPRING IT IS CHEERY. Spuing it is cheery. Winter is dreary. Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly ; When he 's forsaken. Withered and shaken, Wliat can an old man do but die ? Love will not clip him. Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by ; Youth it is sunny, Age has no honey, — " What can an old man do but die ? June it was jolly, for its folly ! A dancing leg and a laughing eye ! Youth may be silly. Wisdom is chilly, — What can an old man do but die ? Friends they are scanty. Beggars are plenty, If he has followers, I know why ; Gold 's in his clutches, (Buying him crutches ! ) — What can an old man do but die ? THOMAS HOOD. WHEN SHALL WE ALL MEET AGAIN? Whex shall we all meet again ? When shall we all meet again ? Oft shall glowing hope expire, Oft shall wearied love retire. Oft shall death and sorrow reign. Ere we all shall meet again. Though in distant lands we sigh, Parched beneath a hostile sky ; ]5 Though the deep between us rolls, Friendship shall unite our souls. Still in Fancy's rich domain Oft shall we all meet again. When the dreams of life are fled, When its wasted lamps are dead ; When in cold oblivion's shade. Beauty, power, and fame are laid ; Where immortal spirits reign, There shall we all meet again. ANONYIIOUS. THE LAST LEAF. I SAW him once before, As he passed by the door ; And again The pavement-stones resound As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. They say that in his prime. Ere the pruning-knife of time Cut him down. Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets So forlorn ; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, " They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has pressed In their bloom ; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said — Poor old lady ! she is dead Long ago — That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was Uke a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff" ; And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and gnn At liim here, , -ff e- 226 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, — and all that. Are so queer ! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE APPROACH OF AGE. FKOM "tales of THE HALL." Six years had passed, and forty ere the six. When Time began to play his usual tricks : The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white ; The blood, once fervid, now to cool began. And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. I rode or walked as I was wont before. But now the bounding spirit was no more ; A moderate pace would now my body heat, A walk of moderate length distress my feet. I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime, But said, " The view is poor, we need not climb." At a friend's mansion I began to dread The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed ; At home I felt a more decided taste. And must have all things in my order placed. I ceased to hunt ; my horses pleased me less, — My dinner rrlore ; I learned to play at chess. I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute Was disappointed that I did not shoot. My morning walks I now could bear to lose, And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose. In fact, I felt a languor stealing on ; The active arm, the agile hand, were gone ; Small daily actions into habits grew. And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose ; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ; Toldthesame story oft, — inshort, began to prose. George Crabbe. TOMMY'S DEAD. YoTT may give over plough, boys. You may take the gear to the stead, All the sweat o' your brow, boys, Will never get beer and bread. The seed 's waste, I know, boys. There 's not a blade will grow, boys, 'T is cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy 's dead. Send the colt to fair, boys, He 's going blind, as I said, My old eyes can't bear, boys, To see him in the shed ; The cow 's dry and spare, boys. She 's neither here nor there, boys, I doubt she 's badly bred ; Stop the mill to-morn, boys. There '11 be no more corn, boys, Neither white nor red ; There 's no sign of grass, boys. You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, The land 's not what it was, boys. And the beasts must be fed : You may turn Peg away, boys. You may pay off old Ned, We 've had a dull day, boys. And Tommy 's dead. Move my chair on the floor, boys, Let me turn my head : She 's standing there in the door, boys, Yoiir sister Winifred ! Take her away from me, boys. Your sistej Winifred ! Move me round in my place, boys, Let me turn my head. Take her away from me, hoys, As she lay on her death-bed. The bones of her thin face, boys, As she lay on her death-bed ! I don't know how it be, boys. When all 's done and said, But I see her looking at me, boys, Wherever I turn my head ; Out of the big oak tree, boys. Out of the garden-bed, And the lily as pale as she, boys, And the rose thatused to he red. , Tliere 's something not right, boys, But I think it 's not in my head, I 've kept my precious sight, boys, — The Lord be hallowed ! Outside and in The gi'ound is cold to my tread. The hills are wizen and thin. The sky is shrivelled and shred, The hedges down by the loan I can count them bone by bone, The leaves are open and spread. But I see the teeth of the land, And hands like a dead man's hand, And the eyes of a dead man's head. ^ POEMS OF SORBOW AND ADVERSITY. 227 a There 's nothing but cinders and sand, The rat and the mouse have fed, And the summer 's empty and cold ; Over vaUey and ■\vold "Wherever I turn my head There 's a mildew and a mould, The sun 's going out overhead. And I 'm very old. And Tommy 's dead. What am I stajing for, boys, You 're all born and bred, 'T is fifty years and more, boys, Since wife and 1 were wed. And she 's gone before, boys, And Tommy s dead. She was always sweet, boys. Upon his curly head, She knew she 'd never see 't, boys. And she stole off to bed ; I 've been sitting up alone, boys, For he 'd come home, he said, But it 's time I was gone, boys. For Tommy 's dead. Put the shutters up, boys. Bring out the beer and bread. Make haste and sup, boys, For my eyes are lieavy as lead ; There 's something wrong i' the cup, boys. There 's something ill wf the bread, I don't care to suji, boys, And Tommy 's dead. I 'm not right, I doubt, boys, I 've such a sleepy head, I shall nevermore be stout, boys, You may carry me to bed. What are you about, boys ? The prayers are all said. The fire 's raked out, boys, And Tommy 's dead. The stairs are too steep, boys. You may carry me to the head. The night 's dark and deep, boys. Your mother 's long in bed, 'T is time to go to sleep, boys, And Tommy 's dead. I 'm not used to kiss, boys. You may shake my hand instead. All things go amiss, boys, You may lay me where she is, boys. And I '11 rest my old head : 'T is a poor world, this, boys. And Tommy 's dead. Sidney Dobell. OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me. Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me : The smiles, the tears. Of boyhood's years. The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me. Sad Memory brings the liglit Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so linked together I 've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled. Whose garlands dead. And all but he departed ! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. THOMAS Moore. ROSALIE. 0, POUR upon my soul again That sad, unearthly strain That seems from other worlds to plain ! Thus falling, falling from afar. As if some melancholy star Had mingled with her light her sighs. And dropped them from the skies. No, never came from aught below This melody of woe. That makes my heart to overflow. As from a thousand gushing springs Unknown before ; that with it brings This nameless light — if light it be — That veils the M'orld I see. For all I see around me wears The hue of other spheres ; And something blent of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. 0, nothing, sure, the stars beneath. Can mould a sadness like to this, — So like angelic bliss ! ■ff cS- 228 POEMS OF SOIIROW AND ADVERSITY. So, at that dreamy hour of day, When the last lingering ray Stops on the highest cloud to play, — So thought the gentle Rosalie As on her maiden re very First fell the strain of him who stole In music to her soul. WASHINGTON ALLSTON. THE RAINY DAY. The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the hlast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. Henry wadsworth Longfellow. BLIGHTED LOVE. Floweks are fresh, and bushes green, Cheerily the linnets sing ; Winds are soft, and skies serene ; Time, however, soon shall throw Winter's snow O'er the buxom breast of Spring ! Hope, that buds in lover's heart. Lives not through the scorn of years ; Time makes love itself depart ; Time and scorn congeal the mind, — Looks unkind Freeze affection's warmest tears. Time shall make the bushes green ; Time dissolve the winter snow ; Winds be soft, and skies serene ; Linnets sing their wonted strain. But again Blighted love shall never blow ! LUIS DE CAMOENS (Portuguese). Translation of LORD STRANGFORD. THOSE EVENING BELLS. Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! How many a tale their music tells Of youth, and home, and that sweet time AVhen last I heard their soothing chime ! Those joyous hours are passed away ; And many a heart that then was gay Within the tomb now darkly dwells. And hears no more those evening bells. And so 't will be when I am gone, — That tuneful peal will still ring on ; While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your j)raise, sweet evening bells. THOMAS MOORE. ^5- THE SUN IS WARM, THE SKY IS CLEAR. STANZAS WRITTEN IN EEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light : The breath of the moist air is light Around its unexpanded buds ; Like many a voice of one delight, — The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods', — The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purjile sea- weeds strown ; I see the waves upon the shore Like light dissolved in star-showers thro^vIl : I sit upon the sands alone ; The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, — Howsweet, did any heart now share inmyemotion ! Alas ! I have nor hope nor liealth. Nor peace within nor calm aroixnd. Nor that Content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found, And walked with inward glory croAvned, — Nor fame, ilor power, nor love, nor leisure ; Others I see Avhom these surround ; Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters are ; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 229 a Till death like sleep might steal on me, And 1 might feel in the wanii air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. [Missolonghi, January 23, 1824. On this day I completed my thiny-sixth year.J 'T IS time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move ; Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love. My days are in the yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of love are gone, The worm, the canker, and the grief. Are mine alone. The fire that in my bosom preys Is like to some volcanic isle, No torch is kindled at its blaze, A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care. The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 't is not here, — it is not here. Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now Where glory seals the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field. Glory and Greece about us see ; The Spartan borne upon his shield Was not more free. Awake ! not Greece, — she is awake ! Awake, my spirit ! think through whom My life-blood tastes its parent lake. And then strike home ! Tread those reviving passions down. Unworthy manhood ! unto thee. Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regrett'st thy youth, — why live ? The land of honorable death Is here, — up to the field, and give Away thy breath ! Seek out — less often sought than found — A soldier's gi-ave, for tliee the best ; Then look around, and choose thy ground. And take thy rest ! OLD. By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; Oft I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; Poor, unknown. By the wayside, on a mossy stone. Backled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat ; Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding ; Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat ; Oaken staff his feeble hand ux)holding ; There he sat ! Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin gray hair. And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and care : Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. It was summer, and Ave went to school. Dapper country lads and little maidens ; Taught the motto of the " Dunce's Stool," — Its gi-ave import still my fancy ladens, — "Here 's a fool ! " It was summer, and we went to school. When the stranger seemed to mark our play. Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted, I remember well, too well, that day ! Oftentimes the tears unbidden started Would not stay When the stranger seemed to mark our play. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, 0, to me her name was always Heaven ! She besought him all his grief to tell, (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Isabel ! One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. "Angel," said, he sadly, "I am old ; Earthly hope no longer hath a moiTow ; Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled ! "Angel," said he sadlj^, "I am old. "I have tottered here to look once more On the pleasant scene where I delighted In the careless, happy days of yore. Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core : I have tottered here to look once more. "All the picture now to me how dear ! E'en this gray old rock where I am seated. ^ a 230 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. [& Is a jewel worth my journey here ; Ah that such a scene must be completed With a tear ! All the picture now to me how dear ! " Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same ; There 's the very step I so oft mounted ; There 's the window creaking in its frame, And the notches that I cut and counted For the game. Old stone school-house, it is still the same. "In the cottage yonder I was born ; Long my happy home, that humble dwelling ; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn ; There the spring with limpid nectar swelling ; Ah, forlorn ! In the cottage yonder I was born. "Those two gateway sycamores you see Then were planted just so far asunder That long well-pole from the path to free. And the wagon to pass safely under ; Ninety-three ! Those two gateway sycamores you see. "There 's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time. Fearing naught but work and rainy weather ; Past its prime ! There's the orchard where we used to climb. "There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing. Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails In the crops of buckwheat we were raising ; Traps and trails ! There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. "There 's the mill that ground our yellow grain : Pond and river still serenely flowing ; Cot there nestling in the shaded lane. Where the lily of my heart was blowing. Mary Jane ! There 's the mill that ground our yellow grain. "There 's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable ; But alas ! no more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's table ; Taken wing ! There 's the gate on Avhich I used to swing. " I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled. Yon green meadow was our place for playing ; That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying ; She is dead ! I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled. "Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. Tracing silently life's changeful story, So familiar to my dim old eye. Points me to seven that are now in glory There on high ! Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. ' ' Oft the aisle of that old chiirch we trod, Guided thither by an angel mother ; Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; Sire and sisters, and my little brother, Gone to God ! Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. " There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways ; Bless the holy lesson ! — but, ah, never Shall I hear again those songs of praise, Those sweet voices silent now forever ! Peaceful days ! There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. " There my Mary blest me with her hand When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ere she hastened to the spirit-land. Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ; Broken band ! There my Mary blest me with her hand. " I have come to see that grave once more. And the sacred place where we delighted, Where we worshipped, in the days of yore. Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core ! I have come to see that gi'ave once more. "Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." In his eye another pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled ! "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; Still I marked him sitting there alone. All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; Poor, unknown ! By the wayside, on a mossy stone. Ralph hovt. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. I HAVE had plajTiiates, I have had companions, Inmy days of childhood, in myjoyful school-days ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing. Drinking late, sitting late, withmy bosom cronies ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. ■a :^31 I loved a Love once, fairest among women : Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her, — All, all are gone, the old i'amiliar faces. I have a friend, a kinder fiiend has no man : Like an ingrate, 1 left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my child- hood. Earth seemed a desert I was boimd to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwell- . ing? So might we talk of the old familiar faces. How some they have died, and some they have left me. And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. CHARLES LAIIB. THE BURIED FLOWER. In the silence of my chamber. When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean Mutters in its charmed sleep, Oft I hear the angel voices That have thrilled me long ago, — Voices of my lost companions. Lying deep beneath the snow. Where are now the flowers we tended ? Withered, broken, branch and stem ; Where are nov/ the hopes we cherished ? Scattered to the winds with them. For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones ! Nursed in hope and reared in love, Looking fondly ever upward To the clear blue heaven above ; Smiling on the sun that cheered us, Rising lightly from the rain, Never folding up your freshness Save to give it forth again. 0, 't is sad to lie and reckon All the days of faded youth. All the vows that we believed in. All the words we spoke in truth. Severed, — were it severed only By an idle thought of strife, Such as time may knit together ; Not the broken chord of life ! 0, I fling my spirit backward, And I pass o'er years of pain ; All 1 loved is rising round me, All the lost returns again. Brighter, fairer far than living. With no trace of woe or pain. Robed in everlasting beauty, Shall I see thee once again. By the light that never fadeth. Underneath eternal skies. When the dawn of resurrection Breaks o'er deathless Paradise. William Edmonstowne aytoune. AFAR IN THE DESERT. Afar in the desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast. And, sick of the present, I cling to the past ; When the eye is suff'used with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years ; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead, — Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon ; Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon ; Attachments by fate or falsehood i-eft ; Companions of eai'ly days lost or left. And my native land, whose magical name Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time When the feelings were young, and the world was new. Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone ! And I, a lone exile remembered of none. My high aims abandoned, my good acts un- done. Aweary of all that is under the sun. With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, — I fly to the desert afar from man. Afar in the desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side., When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life. With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife, -ff t& 232 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. t& The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear. And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly. Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; "When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high. And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh, — 0, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, Afar in the desert alone to ride ! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to bound away with the eagle's speed, With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, — The only law of the Desert Land ! Afar in the desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. Away, away from the dwellings of men. By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; By valleys remote where the oribi plays, Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze. And the kudu and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild vine ; Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood. And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively ; And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste. Hieing away to the home of her rest. Where she and her mate have scooped their nest. Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. Afar in the desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, Away, away, in the wilderness vast Where the white man's foot hath never passed, And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan, — A region of emptiness, howling and drear. Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear ; Wliich the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; And the bitter-melon, for food and drink. Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink ; A region of drought, where no river glides. Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor naisty mount, Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; But the barren earth and the burning sky. And the blank horizon, round and round, Spread, — void of living sight or sound. And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky. As I sit apart by the desert stone. Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, "A still small voice " comes through the wild ' (Like a father consoling his fretful child). Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear. Saying, — Man is distant, but God is near ! THOMAS PRINGLE. SELECTIONS FROM "PARADISE LOST." EVE'S LAMENT. UNEXPECTED stroke, worse than of death ! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ? thus leave Thee, native soil ! these happy walks and shades. Fit haunt of gods ? where I had hope to spend, Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both. flowers. That never will in other climate grow. My early visitation, and my last At even, which I bred up with tender hand From the first opening bud, and gave ye names ! Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount ? Thee, lastly, nuptial bower ! by me adorned With what to sight or smell was sweet, from thee How shall I part, and whither wander down Into a lower world, to this obscure And wild ? how shall we breathe in other air Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits ? THE DEPARTURE FROM PARADISE. ADAM TO MICHAEL. .... Gently hast thou told Thy message, which might else in telling wound, And in performing end us. What besides Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings bring ; Departure from this happy place, our sweet Recess, and only consolation left, Familiar to our eyes, all places else POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 233 -a Inhospitable appear and desolate, Nor knowing us nor known ; and if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary him with my assiduous cries. But prayer against his absolute decree No more avails than breat^i against the wind, Blown stifling back on him that breathes it forth ; Therefore to his great bidding I submit. This most afflicts me, that, departing hence, As from his face I shall be hid, deprived His blessed countenance, here I could frequent With worship xjlace by place where he vouch- safed Presence divine, and to my sons relate. On this mount he ajipeared ; under this tree Stood visible ; among these pines his voice I heard ; here with him at this fountain talked : So many grateful altars I would rear Of grassy turf, and pile up everj^ stone Of lustre from the brook, in memory Or monument to ages, and thereon' Offer sweet-smelling gums, and fruits, and flowers. In yonder nether world where shall I seek His bright appearances, or footstep trace ? For though I fled him angiy, yet, recalled To life prolonged and promised race, I now Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts Of glory, and far off his steps adore. Henceforth I learn that to obey is best. And love with fear the only God, to walk As in his presence, ever to observe His providence, and on him sole depend, Merciful over all his works, with good Still overcoming evil, and by small Accomplishing gi-eat things, by things deemed weak Subverting worldly strong and worldly wise By simply meek ; that suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And to the faithful death the gate of life : Taught this by his exam]ile, whom I now Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest. EVE TO ADAM. .... With sorrow and heai t's distress Wearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on ; In me is no delay ; with thee to go. Is to stay here ; without thee here to stay. Is to go hence unwilling ; thou to me Art all things under heaven, all places thou. Who for my wilful crime art banished hence. This further consolation, yet secure, I carry hence ; though all by me is lost. Such favor I unworthy am vouchsafed, By me the promised Seed shall all restore. THE DEPARTURE. In either hand the hastening angel caught Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast To the subjected plain ; then disappeared. They, looking back, aU the eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late their happy seat. Waved over by that flaming brand ; the gate With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them soon ; The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow. Through Eden took their solitary way. PATIENCE AND SORROW. FROM " KING LEAR." Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief ? Gentleman. A}^, sir ; she took them, read them in my presence ; And now and then an ample tear trilled down Her delicate cheek , it seemed she was a queen Over her passion ; who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o'er her. Kent. 0, then it moved her. Gent. Nottoarage: patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once ; her smiles and tears Were like a better way : those happy smilets. That played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know What guests were in her eyes ; which parted thence, As pearls from diamonds dropped. — In brief. sorrow Would be a rarity most beloved, if all Could so become it. Shakespeare. FLORENCE VANE. I LOVED thee long and dearly, Florence Vane ; My life's bright dream and early Hath come again; I renew in my fond vision My heart's dear pain, My hopes and thy derision, Florence Vane ! The ruin, lone and hoary. The ruin old. Where thou didst hark my storj^ At even told, ■ff a- 234 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY, That spot, the hues elysian Of sky and plain I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane ! Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime ; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhjrme ; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane. . But fairest, coldest wonder ! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under ; Alas the day ! And it boots not to remember Thy disdain. To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane ! The lilies of the valley By yoiing graves weep, The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep, May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane WTiere thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. Philip P. Cooke. B- MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One evening, as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man whose aged step Seemed weary, worn with care ; His face was furrowed o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. " Young stranger, whither wanderestthou ? ' Began the reverend sage ; "Does 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 moui»n The miseries of ma/n ! The sun that overhangs yon moors, Outspreading far and wide. Where hundreds labor to support A haughty lordling's pride, — 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 ! Mispending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway : Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force gives 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 in his right ; But see him on the edge of life. With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, 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, 0, what crowds in every land Are wretched and forlorn ! Through weary life this lesson learn. That man was made to mourn. 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'erlabored 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. 3- POEMS OF SOEROW AND ADVERSITY. -a 235 If I 'm designed yon lordling's slave, — By Nature's law designed, — 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 Ms fellow mouru ? Yet let not this too much, my son. Disturb thy youthful breast : This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last ! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born. Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! Death ! the poor man's dearest friend. The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest. The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, From pomp and jdeasure torn ; But 0, a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn ! ROBERT BURNS. LOVE NOT. Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow- ers, — Things that are made to fade and fall away Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. Love not ! Love not ! the thing ye love may change ; The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, The heart stiU warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not ! Love not ! the thing you love may die, — May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky. Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. Love not ! Love not ! warning vainly said In present hours as in years gone by ! Love flings a halo round the dear ones' head, Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. Love not ! Caroline Norton. SAMSON AGONISTES. SAMSON. A LITTLE onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little farther on ; For 3'onder bank hath choice of sun or shade : There I am wont to sit, when any chance Relieves me from my task of servile toil. Daily in the common prison else enjoined me. Where I a prisoner, chained, scarce freely draw The air imprisoned also, close and damp. Unwholesome draught ; but here I feel amends. The breath of heaven fresh blowing, pure and sweet. With day-spring born : here leave me to respire. This day a solemn feast the people hold To Dagon, their sea-idol, and forbid Laborious works : unwillingly this rest Their superstition yields me ; hence with leave Retiring from the popular noise, I seek This unfrequented place to find some ease, — Ease to the body some, none to the mind From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets armed, no sooner found alone. But rush upon me thronging, and present Times past, what once I was, and what am now. 0, wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretold Twice by an angel, who at last in sight Of both my parents all in flames ascended From off" the altar, where an ofl"ering burned. As in a fiery column, charioting His godlike presence, and from some great act Or benefit revealed to Abraham's race ? Why was my breeding ordered and prescribed As of a person separate to God, Designed for great exjiloits, if I must die Betrayed, captived, and both my eyes put out. Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze ; To grind in brazen fetters under task AVith this Heaven-gifted strength ? glorious strength. Put to the labor of a beast, debased Lower than bondslave ! Promise was that I Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver ; Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves. Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke ! loss of sight, of thee T most complain ! Blind among enemies, 0, worse than chains, Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, And all her various objects of delight Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased. Inferior to the vilest now become Of man or worm ; the vilest here excel me ; They creep, yet see ; I dark in light exposed To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong. 3- -ff fl- 236 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. Within doors or without, still as a fool, In power of others, never in my own ; Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse, Without all hope of day ! ^5— THE MANIAC. Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! She is not mad who kneels to thee ; For what I 'm now too well I know, And what I was, and what should be. I '11 rave no more in proud despair ; My language shall be mild, though sad ; But yet I firmly, truly swear, / am not mad, I am not mad J My tyrant husband forged the tale Which chains me in this dismal cell ; My fate unknown my friends bewail, — jailer, haste that fate to tell ! 0, haste my father's heart to cheer ! His heart at once 't will grieve and glad To know, though kept a captive here, / am not triad, I am not mad I He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; His glimmering lamp still, still I see, — 'T is gone ! and all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light ! Life, all thy comforts once I had ; Yet here I 'm chained, this freezing night. Although not mad; no, no, — not Triad! 'T is sure some dream, some vision vain ; What ! /, the child of rank and wealth, — Am / the wretch who clanks this chain, Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled. Which nevermore my heart must glad. How aches my heart, how burns my head ; But 't is not mad ; no,, 't is not tnadl Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, A mother's face, a mother's tongue ? She '11 ne'er forget your parting kiss. Nor round her neck how fast you clung ; Nor how with her you sued to stay ; Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; Nor how— I '11 drive such thoughts away ; They 'Uma^eme mad, they'll ma^eme mad ! His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! None ever bore a lovelier child , And art thou now forever gone ? And must I never see thee more. My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? I will be free ! unbar the door ! / am not Triad ; I am not mad ! 0, hark ! what mean those yells and cries ? His chain some furious madman breaks ; He comes, — I see his glaring eyes ; Now, now, my dungeon -grate he shakes. Help I Help I — He 's gone ! — 0, fearful woe. Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! My brain, my brain, — I know, I know I am not mad, but soon shall be. Yes, soon ; — for, lo yon ! — while I speak, — Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare ! He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek, He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror ! — the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; — I feel the truth ; Your task is done, — I 'm mad ! I 'm mad ! George Monk Lewis. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. [Written in the spring of 1819, when suiTerinor from physical de- pression, the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.] My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk ; Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk. 'T is not through envy of thy happy lot. But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou, light- winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of Summer in full-throated ease. for a draught of vintage Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth. Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Proven9al song, and sunburned mirth ! for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth, — That I might drink, and leave the world un- seen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim. Fade far away, dissolve, and qirite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known. The weariness, the fever, and the fret ; Here, where men sit and hear each other groan, tf ■a POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 237 Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, aud spectre-thin, and dies, Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee ! Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy. Though the dull brain perplexes and retards ;. Already with thee tender is the night, And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays ; But here there is no light. Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs ; But, in embalmed darkness guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild, — White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast-fading violets, covered up in leaves ; And mid-May's oldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. The murmurous haunt of bees on summer eves. Darkling I listen ; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme. To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die. To cease upon the midnight, with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, In such an ecstasy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain, — To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not bom for death, immortal bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien com ; The same that ofttimes hath Charmed magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell. To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! Adieu ! the Fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hillside ; and now 't is buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision or a waking dream ? Fled is that music, — do I wake or sleep ? JOHN Keats. THE PALMER. FROM "mARMION.' Whenas the Palmer came in hall, No lord, nor knight, was there more tall, Or had a statelier step withal, Or looked more high and keen ; For no saluting did he wait. But strode across the hall of state, And fronted Marmion where he sate, As he his peer had been. But his gaunt frame was worn with toil ; His cheek was sunk, alas the while ! And when he struggled at a smile, His eye looked haggard wild : Poor wretch ! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there. In his wan face and sunburned hair She had not known her child. Danger, long travel, want, or woe, Soon change the form that best we know, — For deadly fear can time outgo. And blanch at once the hair ; Hard toil can loughen form and face, And want can quench the eye's bright grace, Nor does old age a wrinkle trace, More deeply than despair. Happy whom none of these befall. But this poor Palmer knew them all. Sir Walter Scott. WOOLSEY'S FALL. FROM "henry VIII.' Fareavell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms. And bears his blushing honors thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders. This many summers in a sea of glory ; But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me. Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. tf B- 238 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. •a Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : I feel my hearA new opened. 0, how wretched Is tliat poor man that hangs on princes' favors 1 There is, betwixt that smile we Avould aspire to. That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin. More pangs and fears than wars or women have : And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. ^ Shakespeare. CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL. FROM " HENRY VIII." Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me. Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let 's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Crom- well ; And — when I am forgotten, as I -shall be. And sleep in dull cold marble, Avhere no mention Of me more must be heard of — say, I taught thee, Say, Wolsey — that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor — Found thee a Avay, out of his wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then. The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't ? Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee : Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace. To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's. Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, Cromwell ! Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ; and — pr'ythee, lead me in : There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny ; 't is the king's : my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. Cromwell, Cromwell ! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies ! SHAKESPEARE. DEATH OF THE WHITE FAWN. The wanton troopers, riding by, Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, Them any harm ; alas ! nor could Thy death yet do them any good. I 'ra sure I never wished them ill, ^ Nor do I for all this, nor will ; But if my simple prayers may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears. Rather than fail. But, my fears ! It cannot die so. Heaven's king Keeps register of everything ; And nothing may we use in vain ; Even beasts must be with justice slain, — Else men are made their deodands. Thouglr they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, — their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain ; There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin. Inconstant Sylvio ! when yet I had not found him counterfeit, One morning (I remember well), Tied in this silver chain and bell. Gave it to me ; nay, and I know What he said then, — I'm sure I do : Said he, " Look how your huntsman hero Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear ! " But Sylvio soon had me beguiled, — • This waxed tame, while he grew wild ; And, quite regardless of my smart. Left me his fawn, but took his heart. Thenceforth I set myseK to play My solitary time away With this ; and, very well content, Could so mine idle life have spent. For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game. It seemed |;o bless Itself in me ; how could I less Than love it ? 0, I cannot be Unkind t' a beast that loveth me ! Had it lived long, I do not know Whether it, too, might have done so As Sylvio did, — his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he. For I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy. Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man. With sweetest milk, and sugar, first I it at mine own fingers nursed ; And as it grew, so every day It waxed more white and sweet than they, It had so sweet a breath ! and oft I blushed to see its foot more soft And white — shall I say than my hand ? Nay, any lady's of the land. It is a wondrous thing how fleet 'T was on those little silver feet ! With what a pretty, skipping grace -ff POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 239 i It oft would challenge me the race ! And when 't had left me far away, 'T would stay, and run again, and stay ; For it was nimbler much than hinds. And trod as if on the four winds. I hava, a garden of my own, — But so with roses overgrown. And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness ; And all the springtime of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; Yet could not, till itself would rise. Find it, although before mine eyes ; For in the flaxen lilies' shade It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed. Until its lips even seemed to bleed ; And then to me 't would boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill ; And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses Avithin. 0, help ! 0, help ! I see it faint. And die as calmly as a saint ! See how it weeps ! the tears do come, Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam ; so The holy frankincense doth flow ; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these, I in a golden phial will Keep these two crystal tears, and fill It, till it do o'erflow with mine ; Then place it in Diana's shrine. Now ray sweet fawn is vanished to Whither the swans and turtles go, In fair Elysium to endure. With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure. 0, do not run too fast ! for I Will but bespeak thy gi-ave — and die. First, my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble ; and withal. Let it be weeping too. But there The engi-aver sure his art may spare ; For I so triily thee bemoan That I shall weep, though I be stone. Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engi-aving there. There at my feet shalt thou be laid. Of purest alabaster made ; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee. Andrew Marvell. FAREWELL, LIFE. WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS, APRIL, 1845. Farewell, life ! my senses swim, And the world is growing dim ; Thronging shadows cloud the light, Like the advent of the night, — Colder, colder, colder still, Upward steals a vapor chill ; Strong the earthy odor grows, — I smell the mould above the rose ! Welcome, life ! the spirit strives ! Strength returns and hope revives ; Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn Fly like shadows at the morn, — O'er the earth there comes a bloom ; Sunny light for sullen gloom. Warm perfume for vapor cold, — ■ I smell the rose above the mould ! THOMAS HOOD. THE MAY QUEEN. I. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad new-year, — Of 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. II. 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. III. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. If you do not call me loud when the day begins to bresk ; 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. IV. As I came up the valley, whom thinlc ye should I see But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? -ff a- 240 POEMS OF SOEROW AND ADVERSITY. f 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. V. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white ; And I ran by him without speaking, like a iiash 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. VI. 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 '11 woo me any sum- mer day ; And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. VII. Little Effie shall go -with me to-morrow to the green. And you '11 be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; For the shepherd lads on every side '11 come from far away ; And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. VIII. The honeysuckle round the porch has woven 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 May. IX. 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. X, All the valley, mother, '11 be fresh and green and still. And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. c& And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'U 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 '11 be the happiest time of all the glad new-year ; To-morrow '11 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. NEW yeae's eve. I. 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. II. To-night I saw the sun set, — he set and left be- hind 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. III. Last May we made a cro-wn 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. IV. 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. V. The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm-tree. And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. And the swallow '11 come back again with sum- mer o'er the wave. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mould- ering grave. -E POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. ft 241 Upon the cliancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun '11 shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, — When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. ^V^len the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You '11 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 bukush in the pool. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I a,m 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 '11 forgive me now ; You '11 kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild ; You should not fret for me, mother, — you have another child. If I can, I '11 come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Though you '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I 'm far away. XI. Good night ! good night ! when I have said good night forevermore. And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let EfRe come to see me till my grave be growing green, — She 'II be a better child to you than ever I have been. 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 mignon- ette. Good night, sweet mother ! Call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at mom ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new- year, — So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear CONCLUSIOIT. 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. 0, 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. III. It seemed 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 re- lease ; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. IV. 0, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his sHver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! 0, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. ]-- 16 ^ ,t& 242 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. m- He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin ; Now, though 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. VI. ' 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 Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. VII. 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 Efhe dear ; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I prayed 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 listened 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 seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars. 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. XII. 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 air these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. XIII. 0, 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. XIV. 0, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun, — Forever and forever with those just souls and true, — And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? Forever and forever, 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. ALFRED TENNYSON. HOME, WOUNDED. Wheel me into the sunshine. Wheel me into the shadow. There must be leaves on the woodbine. Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow ? Wheel me down to the meadow, Down to the little river. In sun or in shadow d POEMS OF SOKROW AND ADVERSITY. 243 ■^ I shall not dazzle or shiver, I shall be happy anywhere, Every breath of the morning air Makes me throb and quiver. Stay wherever you will. By the mount or under the hill, Or down by the little river : Stay as long as you please, Give me only a bud from the trees, Or a blade of grass in morning dew, Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, I could look on it forever. Wheel, wheel through the sunshine, "Wheel, wheel through the shadow ; There must be odors round the pine. There must be balm of breathing kine. Somewhere down in the meadow. Must I choose ? Then anchor me there Beyond the beckoning poplars, where The larch is snooding her flowery hair With wreaths of morning shadow. Among the thickest hazels of the brake Perchance some nightingale doth shake His feathers, and the air is full of song ; In those old days when I was young and strong, He used to sing on yonder garden tree. Beside the nurseiy. Ah, I remember how I loved to wake. And find him singing on the self-same bough (I know it even now) Where, since the flit of bat. In ceaseless voice he sat. Trying the spring night* over, like a tune. Beneath the vernal moon ; And while I listed long. Day rose, and still he sang, And all his stanchless song, As something falling unaware. Fell out of the tall trees he sang among. Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang, — Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair. My soul lies out like a basking hound, — A hound that dreams and dozes ; Along my life my length I lay, I fill to-morrow and yesterday, I am warm with the sunsthathavelongsinceset, I am warm with the summers that are not yet, And like one who dreams and dozes Softly afloat on a sunny sea. Two worlds are whispering over me. And there blows a wind of roses From the backward shore to the shore before, From the shore before to the backward shore, And like two clouds that meet and pour Each through each, till core in core A single self reposes. The nevermore with the evermore Above me mingles and closes ; As my soul lies out like the basking hound, And wherever it lies seems happy ground, And when, awakened by some sweet sound, A dreamy eye uncloses, I see a blooming world around, And I lie amid primroses, — Years of sweet primroses, Springs of fresh primroses. Springs to be, and springs for me Of distant dim primroses. to lie a-dream, a-dream. To feel I may dream and to know you deem My work is done forever. And the palpitating fever. That gains and loses, loses and gains. And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand pains. Cooled at once by that blood-let Upon the parapet ; And all the tedious tasked toil of the difficult long endeavor Solved and quit by no more fine Than these limbs of mine. Spanned and measured once for all By that right hand I lost. Bought up at so light a cost As one bloody fall On the soldier's bed, And three days on the ruined wall Among the thirstless dead. to think my name is crost From duty's muster-roll ; That I may slumber though the clarion call, And live the joy of an embodied soul Free as a liberated ghost. to feel a life of deed Was emptied out to feed That fire of pain that burned so brief awhile, — That fire from which I come, as the dead come Forth from the irreparable tomb. Or as a martyr on his funeral pile Heaps up the burdens other men do bear Through years of segregated care, And takes the total load Upon his shoulders broad. And steps from earth to God. to think, through good or ill. Whatever I am you '11 love me still ; to think, though dull I be. You that are so grand and free. You that are so bright and gay. Will pause to hear me when I will, As though my head were gi-ay ; ^ f&- And though there 's little I can say, Each will look kind with honor while he hears. And to your loving ears My thoughts will halt with honorable scars, And when my dark voice stumbles with the weight Of what it doth relate (Like that blind comrade, — blinded in the wars, — Who bore the one-eyed brother that was lame), You '11 remember 't is the same That cried " Follow me," Upon a summer's day ; And I shall understand with unshed tears This great reverence that I see, And bless the day, — ■ and thee. Lord God of victory ! And she, Perhaps, even she May look as she looked when I knew her In those old days of childish sooth, Ere my boyhood dared to woo her. I will not seek nor sue her. For I 'm neither fonder nor truer Than when she slighted my lovelorn youth. My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth, And I only lived to rue her. But I '11 never love another, And, in spite of her lovers and lands, She shall love me yet, my brother ! As a child that holds by his mother, While his mother speaks his praises, Holds with eager hands, And ruddy and silent stands In the ruddy and silent daisies. And hears her bless her boy. And lifts a wondering joy, So I '11 not seek nor sue her, But I '11 leave my glory to woo her. And I '11 stand like a child beside. And from behind the purple pride I '11 lift my eyes unto her. And I shall not be denied. And you will love her, brother dear. And perhaps next year you '11 bring me here All through the balmy April tide, And she Avill trip like spring by my side, And be all the birds to my ear. And here all three we '11 sit in the sun, And see the Aprils one by one, Primrosed Aprils on and on, Till the floating prospect closes In golden glimmers that rise and rise, And perhaps are gleams of Paradise, And perhaps too far for mortal eyes. New springs of fresh primroses. Springs of earth's primroses, Spiings to be and springs for me Of distant dim primroses Sidney Dobell, THE BLIND BOY. 0, SAY what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy ? What are the- blessings of the sight, 0, tell your poor blind boy ! You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright ; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night ? My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play ; And could I ever keep awake With me 't were always day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe ; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know. Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy : Whilst thus I sing, I am a king. Although a poor blind boy. COLLEY ClBBER. DIVERSITY OF FORTUNE. FROM "miss KILMANSEGG." What different dooms our birthdays bring ! For instance, one little manikin thing Survives to wear many a wrinkle ; While death forbids another to wake. And a son that it took nine moons to make Expires without even a twinkle : Into this world we come like ships, Launched from the docks, and stocks, and slips, For fortune fair or fatal ; And one little craft is cast away In its very first trip in Babbicome Bay, While another rides safe at Port Natal. What different lots our stars accord ! This babe to be hailed and wooed as a lord ! And that to be shunned like a leper ! One, to the world's wine, honey, and corn. Another, like Colchester native, born To its vinegar only, and pepper. ■ff POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 245 a One is littered under a roof Neither wind nor water proof, — That 's the prose of Love in a cottage, — A puny, naked, shivering wretcli. The whole of whose birthright would not fetch. Though Robins himself drew up the sketch, The bid of "a mess of pottage." Born of Fortunatus's kin. Another comes tenderly ushered in To a prospect all bright and burnished : No tenant he for life's back slums, — He comes to the world as a gentleman comes To a lodging ready furnished. And the other sex — the tender — the fair — What wide reverses of fate are there ! Whilst Margaret, charmed by the Bulbul rare. In a garden of Gul reposes. Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street Till — think of that, who find life so sweet ! — She hates the smell of roses ! THOMAS HOOD. SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN". In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, An old man dwells, — a little man, I 've heard he once was tall. Full five-and-thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry ; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry. No man like him the horn could sound, And hill and valley rang with glee, *When Echo bandied round and round The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days he little cared For husbandr}^ or tillage ; !ro blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind ; And often, ere the chase was done. He reeled and was stone blind. And still there 's something in the world At which his heart rejoices ; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices. But the heavy change ! — bereft Ofhealth, strength, friends andkindred, see Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty : His master 's dead, and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ; He is the sole survivor. And he is lean and he is sick, His body dwindled and awry Rests upon ankles swollen and thick ; His legs are thin and dry. He has no son, he has no child ; His wife, an aged woman. Lives with him, near the waterfall, Ujion the village common. Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger ; But what avails the land to them Which he can till no longer ? Oft, working by her husband's side, Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; For she, with scanty cause for pride. Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill From labor could not wean them, 'T is little, very little, all That they can do between them. Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell. For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell. My gentle reader, I perceive How patiently you 've waited. And now I fear that you ex^^ect Some tale will be related. reader ! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, gentle reader ! you would find A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, And you must kindly take it : It is no tale ; but should you think, Perhaps a tale you '11 make it. One summer day I chanced to see This old man doing all he could To unearth the root of an old tree, A stumj) of rotten wood. The mattock tottered in his hand ; So vain was his endeavor That at the rooty of the old tree He might have worked forever. -tJ. a 246 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. ^ "You 're overtasked, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool," to him I said ; And at the Avord right gladly he Received my proffered aid. I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I severed, At which the poor old man so long And vainly had endeavored. The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. — I 've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds iJfith coldness still returning ; Alas ! the gratitude of men Has oftene'r left me mourning. William Wordsworth. LONDON CHURCHES. I STOOD, one Sunday morning, Before a large church door, The congregation gathered And carriages a score, — From one out stepped a lady I oft had seen before. Her hand was on a prayer-book. And held a vinaigrette ; The sign of man's redemption Clear on the book was set, — But above the Cross there glistened A golden Coronet. For her the obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide, Lightly, as iip a ball-room, Her footsteps seemed to glide, — There might be good thoughts in her For all her evil pride. But after her a woman Peeped wistfully within, On whose wan face was graven Life 's hardest discipline, — The trace of the sad trinity Of weakness, pain, and sin. The few free-seats were crowded A\niere she could rest and pray ; "With her worn garb contrasted Each side in fair array, — " God's house holds no poor sinners," She sighed, and crejit away. Richard mokckton Milnes. THE ORPHANS. My chaise the village inn did gain. Just as the setting sun's last ray Tipped with refulgent gold the vane Of the old church across the way. Across the way I silent sped. The time till siipper to beguile. In moralizing o'er the dead That mouldered round the ancient pile. There many a humble green grave showed Where want and pain and toil did rest ; And many a flattering stone I viewed O'er those who once had wealth possest. A faded beech its shadow brown Threw o'er a grave where sorrow slept. On which, though scarce with gi-ass o'ergrown. Two ragged children sat and wept. A piece of bread between them lay, Which neither seemed inclined to take. And yet they looked so much a prey To want, it made my heart to ache. " My little children, let me know Why you in such distress appear. And why you wasteful from you throw That bread which many a one might cheer ? " The little boy, in accents sweet, Replied, while tears each other chased, — " Lady ! we 've not enough to eat. Ah ! if we had, we should not waste. " But Sister Mary 's naughty grown. And will not eat, whate'er I say. Though sure I am the bread 's her own, ^ For she has tasted none to-day." " Indeed," the wan, starved Mary said, " Till Henry eats, I '11 eat no more. For yesterday I got some bread, He 's had none since the day before." My heart did swell, my bosom heave, I felt as though deprived of speech ; Silent I sat upon the grave, And clasped the clay-cold hand of each. With looks of woe too sadly true. With looks that spoke a grateful heart. The shivering boy then nearer drew. And did his simple tale impart : " Before my father went away. Enticed by bad men o'er the sea. Sister and I did naught but play, — We lived beside yon great ash-tree. ^- --B a POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 247 " But then poor mother did so ciy, And looked so changed, I cannot tell ; She told us that she soon should die, And bade us love each other well. " She said that when the war was o'er, Perliaps we might our father see ; But if we never saw him more, That God our father then would be ! " She kissed us both, and then she died. And we no more a mother have ; Here many a day we 've sat and cried Together at poor mother's gi'ave. " But when my father came not here, I thought if we could find the sea. We should be sure to meet him there, And once again might hajipy be. " We hand in hand went many a mile. And asked our way of all we met ; And some did sigh, and some did smile. And we of some did victuals get. " But when we reached the sea and found 'T was one great water round us spread. We thought that father must be drowned. And cried, and wished we both were dead. " So we returned to mother's grave, And only longed with her to be ; For Goody, when this bread she gave, Said father died beyond the sea. "Then since no parent we have here, We '11 go and search for God around ; Lady, pray, can you tell us where That God, our Father, may be found ? " He lives in heaven, our mother said. And Goody says that mother 's there ; So, if she knows we want his aid, I think perhaps she '11 send him here," I clasped the prattlers to my breast. And cried, ' ' Come, both, and live with me ; T '11 clothe you, feed j^ou, give you rest, And will a second mother be. " And God shall be your Father still, 'T was he in mercy sent me here, To teach you to obey his will, Your steps to guide, your hearts to cheer." Anonymous. THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake. And hear a helpless orphan's tale ; Ah, sure my looks must pity wake, — 'T is want that makes my cheek so pale ; Yet I was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy ; But in the Nile's proud tight he died, And I am now an orphan boy ! Poor, foolish child ! how pleased was I, When news of Nelson's victory came, Along the crowded streets to fly, To see the lighted windows flame ! To force me home my mother sought, — She could not bear to hear my joy ; For with my father's life 't was bought, — And made me a poor orphan boy ! The people's shouts were long and loud ; My mother, shuddering, closed her ears ; " Rejoice ! rejoice ! " still cried the crowd, - My mother answered with her tears ! "0, why do tears steal down your cheek," Cried I, "while others shout for joy ? " She kissed me ; and in accents weak, She called me her poor orphan boy ! " What is an orphan boy ? " I said ; When suddenly she gasped for breath, And her eyes closed ! I shrieked for aid. But ah ! her eyes were closed in death. My hardships since I will not tell ; But now, no more a jiarent's joy. Ah ! lady, I have learned too well What 't is to be an orphan boy ! 0, Avere I by your bounty fed ! Nay, gentle lady, do not chide ; Trust me, I mean to earn my bread, — The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep ; what is 't you say ? You '11 give me clothing, food, employ ? Look down, dear parents ! look and see Your happy, happy orphan boy ! LITTLE NED. All that is like a dream. It don't seem true, ! Father was gone, and mother left, you see, To work for little brother Ned and me ; And up among the gloomy roofs we grew, — Locked in full oft, lest we should wander out. With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat. While mother chared for ^loor folk round about. Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street. Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair, To make the time pass happily uj) there, — A steamboat going past upon the tide, A pigeon lighting on the roof close by, W c& 248 POEMS OF SOKEOW AND ADVERSITY. f] The sparrows teaching little ones to fly, ,The small white moving clouds, that we espied, And thought were living, in the bit of sky, — ■ "With sights like these right glad were Ned and I; And then we loved to hear the soft rain calling. Pattering, pattering, upon the tiles. And it was fine to see the still snow falling, Making the house-tops white for mUes on miles, And catch it in our little hands in play. And laugh to feel it melt and slip away ! But I was six, and Ned was only three, And thinner, weaker, wearier than me ; And one cold day, in winter-time, when mother Had gone away into the snow, and we Sat close for warmth and cuddled one another, He put his little head upon my knee. And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb, But looked quite strange and old ; And when I shook him, kissed him, spoke to him, He smiled, and grew so cold. Then I was frightened, and cried out, and none Could hear me ; while I sat and nursed his head. Watching the whitened window, while the sun Peeped in upon his face, and made it red. And I began to sob, — till mother came. Knelt down, and screamed, and named the good God's name. And told me he was dead. And when she put his nightgown on, and, weep- ing, _ Placed him among the rags upon his bed, I thought that Brother Ned was only sleeping. And took his little hand, and felt no fear. But when the place grew gray and cold and drear. And the round moon over the roofs came creeping, And put a silver shade All round the chilly bed where he was laid, I cried, and was afraid. Robert Buchanan. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. "With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread, — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the " Song of the Shirt ! " "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof ! And work — work — work Till the stars shine through the roof ! tg- It 's, 0, to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work ! * ' Work — work — work ! Till the brain begins to swim ! AVork — work — work Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band. Band, and gusset, and seam, — Till over the buttons I fall asleep. And sew them on in a dream ! "0 men with sisters dear ! men with mothers and wives ! It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives ! Stitch — stitch — stitch. In poverty, hunger, and dirt, — Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt ! " But why do I talk of death, — That phantom of grisly bone ? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own, — It seems so like my own Because of the fasts I keep ; God I that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap ! " Work — work — work ! My labor never flags ; And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. That shattered roof — and this naked floor — r A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank my shadoAv I thank For sometimes falling there ! ' ' Work — work — work I From weary chime to chime ! Work — work — work As prisoners work for crime ! Band, and gusset, and seam. Seam, and gusset, and band, — Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed. As well as the weary hand. •' Work — work — work ! In the dull December light ! And Avork — work — work When the weather is warm and bright ! While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the Spring. E h- POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. ft 249 *' but to breatlie the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, — With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet ! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal ! " but for one short hour, — A respite, however brief ! No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief ! A little weeping would ease my heart ; But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread ! " With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread, — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and ilirt ; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " THOMAS Hood. NEW YEAR'S EVE. Little Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the street ; The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is on her feet. The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp, By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp. The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north, But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth. Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright. And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night. With the little box of matches she could not sell all day. And the thin, tattered mantle the wind blows every way, She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom, — There are parents sitting snugly by the firelight in the room ; And children with grave faces are whispering one another Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother. But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak. No breath of little whisperers comes warmly to her cheek. Her home is cold and desolate ; no smile, no food, no fire, But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire. So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet. And she curleth up beneath her for warmth her little feet ; And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky. And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high. She hears the clock strike slowly, up in a church- tower, With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight hour. And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell, And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's twilight fell ; Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child, Who was cradled in a manger when winter was most wild ; Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and deso- late and lone ; And she thought the song had told he was ever with his own ; And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his, — ' ' How good of him to look on me in such a place as this ! " Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel it now, For the pressure on her heart, and the weight iipon her brow ; But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare, That she might look around her, and see if he were there. There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spear- wound in his side, And crael nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands spread vnde. And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had knowm Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow, — ay, equal to her own. ^- ■ff a- ■e 250 POEMS OF SOREOW AND ADVERSITY. And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree, Then up to the cold sky, and said, ' ' Will Gretchen come with me ? " The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim, And a ringing sound was in her' ears, like her dead mother's hymn : And she folded both her thin white hands and turned from that bright board, And from the golden gifts, and said, " "With thee, with thee, Lord ! " The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies. In her scant and tattered garments, with her back against the wall. She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, " It was a bitter, bitter night ! the child is frozen dead." The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin ; Men said, "It was a bitter night ; would no one let her in ? " And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could not see How much of happiness there was after that misery. ANONYMOUS. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. "Drowned 1 drowned I" — HAMLET. One more unfortunate, Weary of breath. Rashly importunate, Gone to her death ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ! Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! Look at her garments Clinging like cerements. Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing ; Take her up instantly. Loving, not loathing ! Touch her not scornfully ! Think of her mournfully. Gently and humanly, — Not of the stains of her ; All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny, Rash and undatiful ; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, — One of Eve's family, — Wipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, — Her fair auburn tresses, — Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home ? Who was her father ? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister ? Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other ? Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun ! 0, it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed, — Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence ; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river. With many a light From window and casement. From garret to basement. She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver ; But not the dark arch, Or the black" flowing river ; Mad from life's history. Glad to death's mysteiy, Swift to be hurled — Anywhere, anyAvhere Out of the world ! In she plunged boldly, — No matter how coldly f& POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 251 ft The rough river ran — Over the brink of it ! Picture it, — think of it ! Dissohite man ! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ! Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! Ere her limbs, frigidly, Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly. Smooth and compose them ; And her eyes, close them. Staring so blindly ! Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity. As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily. Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest ! Cross her hands humbly. As if praying dumbly. Over her breast ! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior. And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour ! THOMAS Hood. BEAUTIFUL SNOW. THE snow, the beautiful snow. Filling the sky and tlie earth below ! Over the house-tops, over the street. Over the heads of the people you meet. Dancing, Flirting, Skimming along. Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing \VTong. Flj'ing to kiss a fair lady's cheek ; Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak. Beautiful snow, from the heavens above,- Pure as an angel and fickle as love ! the snow, the beautiful snow ! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go ! Whirling about in its maddening fun. It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing, Laugliing, Hurrying by, It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ; And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound. Snap at the crystals that eddy around. The town is alive, and its heart in a glow To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. How the wild crowd goes swaying along. Hailing each other with humor and song ! How the gay sledges like meteors flash by, — Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye. Ringing, Swinging, Dashing they go Over the crest of the beautiful snow : Snow so pure when it falls from the sky. To be tramjjled in mud by the crowd rushing by ; To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street. Once I was pure as the snow, — but I fell : Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven — to hell : Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street : Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat. Pleading, Cursing, Dreading to die. Selling my soul to whoever would buy, Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread. Hating the living and fearing the dead. Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ? And yet I was once like this beautiful snow ! Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow ; Once I was loved for my innocent grace, — Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. Father, Mother, Sisters all, God, and myself I have lost by my fall. The veriest wretch that goes shivering by Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh ; For of all that is' on or about me, I know There is nothing that 's pure but the beautiful snow. How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! How strange it would be, when the night comes again. If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain ! Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone. Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down ; To lie and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow ! JAMES W. WATSON. -# [& 252 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. Tread softly, — Low the head, — In reverent silence bow, — No passing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger ! however great, "With lowly reverence bow ; There 's one in that poor shed — One by that paltry bed — Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo ! Death doth keep his state. Enter, no crowds attend ; Enter, no guards defend This palace gate. That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread ; One silent woman stands. Lifting with meagre hands A dying head. No mingling voices sound, — An infant wail alone ; A sob suppressed, — again That short deep gasp, and then — The parting groan. change ! wondrous change ! Burst are the prison bars, — This moment there so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars. change ! stupendous change ! There lies the soulless clod ; The sun eternal breaks. The new immortal wakes, — Wakes with his God. Caroline Bowles. THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. There 's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot, — To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot ; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs ; And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings : Rattle his hones over the stones I He 's only a pauper whom nobody oions 1 0, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there are none ; He has left not a gap in the world, now he ' s gone, — Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can : Rattle his hones over the stones I He 's only a fauper whom nohody owns ! What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din ! The whip, how it cracks ! and the wheels, how they spin ! How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled ! — The pauper at length makes a noise in the world ! Rattle his hones over the stones f He 's 07ily a pauper whom nobody owns I Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach To gentility, now that he 's stretched in a coach ! He 's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast : Rattle his bones over tJie stones / He 's only a 2}auper ivJwm nobody owns I You bumpkins ! who stare at your brother con- veyed, Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low. You ' ve a chance to the grave like a gemman to go ! Rattle his bones over the stoties 1 He 's only a pauper wlwm, nobody owns I But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad. To think that a heart in hirmanity clad Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end. And depart from the light without leaving a friend ! Bear soft his bones over the stones ! Tlwugh a pauper, he 's one wlwm his Maker yet owns ! THOMAS NOEL. FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. Is there for honest poverty Wha hangs his head, and a' that ? The coward slave, we pass him by ; We dare be poor for a' that. For a' that and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that ; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, — The man 's the gowd for a' that. Wliat though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, ■ A man 's a man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that. Their tinsel show, and a' that ; The honest man, though e'er sae poor. Is king o' men for a' that. C& POEMS OF SOREOAV AND ADVERSITY. -•^ 253 Ye see yon Lirkie ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that, — Though hundreds -worsliip at his word, He 's but a coof for a' that ; For a' that, and a' that. His riband, star, and a' that ; The man of independent mind. He looks and laughs at a' that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man 's aboon his might, — Guid faith, he maunna fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that, Tlieir dignities, and a' that ; The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, — As come it will for a' that, — That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. May bear the gi-ee, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It 's coming yet, for a' that, — When man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that ! ROBERT BURNS. SONNET. A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, A beauty fading like the April flowers, A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined, A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours. An honor that more fickle is than wind, A glory at opinion's frown that lowers, A treasury which bankrupt time devours, A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind, A vain delight our equals to command, A style of greatness, in eff'ect a dream, A swelling thought of holding sea and land, A servile lot, decked with a pompous name, — Are the strange ends we toil for here below. Till ^visest death make us our errors know. William Drummond. THE DIRGE. What is the existence of man's life But open war, or slumbered strife ? Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the elements ; And never feels a perfect peace. Till death's cold hand signs his release. It is a storm where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood ; And each loud passion of the mind Is like a furious gust of wind. Which bears his bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave. It is a flower which buds and grows And withers as the leaves disclose ; Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, Like fits of waking before sleeji ; Then shrinks into that fatal mould Where its first being was enrolled. It is a dream whose seeming truth Is moralized in age and youth ; Where all the comforts he can share As wandering as his fancies are ; Till in the mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away. It is a dial which points out The sunset as it moves about ; And shadows out in lines of night The subtle stages of time's flight. Till all-obscuring earth hath laid The body in perpetual shade. It is a weary interlude. Which doth short joys, long woes include ; The world the stage, the prologue tears. The acts vain hopes and varied fears ; The scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no e^iilogue but death. Henry King. THE END OF THE PLAY. The play is done, — the curtain drops. Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; A moment yet the actor stops. And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ; And, when he 's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that 's anything but gay. One word, ere yet the evening ends, — Let 's close it with a parting rhyme ; And pledge a hand to all young friends. As fits the merry Christmas time ; On life's wide scene you, too, have parts That fate erelong shall bid you play ; Good night ! — with honest, gentle hearts A kindly gi'eeting go ahvay ! Good night ! — I 'd say the griefs, the joj'S, Just hinted in this mimic page. The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age ; tf a 254 POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. I 'd say your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain, than those of men, - Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again. I 'd say we suffer and we strive Not less nor more as men than hoys, — With grizzled heards at forty-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys ; And if, in time of sacred youth. We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early love and truth May never wholly pass away. And in the world, as in the school, I 'd say how fate may change and shift, — The prize he sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift : The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man he a vulgar clown. The knave he lifted over all. The kind cast pitilessly down. Who knows the inscrutahle design ? Blessed he He who took and gave ! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave ; We how to Heaven that willed it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the hlow, That 's free to give or to recall. This crowns his feast with wine and wit, — Who brought him to that mirth and state ? His betters, see, below him sit. Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? Come, brother, in that dust we '11 kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen ! — whatever fate be sent. Pray God the heart may kindly glow. Although the head .with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter sno\Y. Come wealth or want, come good or ill. Let young and old accept their part. And bow before the awful will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses, or who wins the prize, — Go, lose or conquer as you can ; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman. A gentleman, or old or young ! (Bear kindly with my humble lays ; ) The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days ; The shepherds heard it overhead, — The joyful angels raised it then : Glory to Heaven on high, it said. And peace on earth to gentle men ! My song, save thi^, is little worth ; I lay the weary pen aside. And wish you health and love and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still, — Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, Tl> men of gentle will. William makepeace Thackeray. t& ■a POEMS OF RELIGION }-- -ff (fl- — ^ — ™ — _ — . _^ ^^^LjiMt/f—- ^j;^^:^-''- ^fcxC^a,^^— ,=,^^^I^L<^ Cif^<=t-e--S>^ ■s