aass__P..S.Ai^I Book FAMOUS SINGLE AND FUGITIVE POEMS COLLECTED AND EDITED BY ROSSITER JOHNSON Does he paint? he fain would write a poem ; Does he write ? he fain would paint a picture,— Put to proof art alien to the artist's, Once, and only once, and for One only. Robert Browning. REVISED AND ENLARGED NEW YORK HENRY HOl/r & COMPANY 1890 7T^>'' ,f« Copyright, 1880, 1890, By Henry Holt & Co. C? U PREFACE. There are wide differences in the fame of the poems here collected, as well as in their merits. Some are familiar to everybody that reads poetry at all; others find reputation and perpetuity only with particular classes. Some are admired only by those who know nothing of real poetry; others almost require poets for appreciative readers. A few, like those of Bishop Berkeley and Michael Barry, have been saved from oblivion by a single happy line or quatrain ; while the richness and perfection of many leave us in wonder that their authors produced no more. If critical judgment in such matters is worth any- thing when opposed to a popular verdict, some of these authors have written, for no reward at all, better poems than those that have given them fame. However that may be, this volume is intended to represent popular rather than critical taste, and to include all the poems in the language that fairly come under its title,— excepting only those numerous anonymous ballads, belonging to the early centuries of our literature, which are preserved in Percy's and other similar collections. It is not expected that any one reader will prize all the pieces here brought together ; if each finds what he looks for, no one need be offended because the book also in- cludes some that he could have spared. Collecting poetry IV PREFACE. is like poking the fire ; nobody can sit by and see it done, without thinking that he himself could do it a little bet- ter, — as in truth he could, if it were for him alone. In all such work it is necessary to make a personal equation — a small allowance for quickness or slowness of appre- hension in the individual. Taking this into account, 1 hope the volume will be found to exhibit a generous ap- preciation of widely varied expressions of the poetic art. In a few instances the plan of the collection has been literally, but I think not essentially, transcended. Charles AVolfe wrote two other poems equally famous if not equally popular with "The Burial of Sir John Moore," and Francis M. Finch's " Nathan Hale " had an estab- lished place before he wrote "The Blue and the Gray." The best solution for this apparent difficulty seemed to be to include them all. My thanks are due to living writers represented, for permission to use their poems. The utmost pains have been taken to make the text absolutely correct, and in many instances the author's own manuscript has been used. Where the poems have any special history, it will be found in the notes at the end of the book. R. J. New York. September 1, 1890. CONTENTS. Afar in the Desert . Angler's Wish, The Ann Hathaway, Annuity, The Antony and Cleopatra, AuLD Robin Gray, . Balaklava, . Ballad op Agincourt, The Beacon, Tin- Beggar, The . Bells of Shandon, The Bivouac of the Dead, The Blue and the Gray, The Bonnie George Campbell, Braes of Yarrow, The Bride, The Bucket, The , Burial of Bbranger, . Burial of ]Moses, Burial of Sir John Moore, Burns, Ode on the Cente- nary OF . Carcassonne, . Carmen Bellicosum, . Chameleon, The Children, The Christmas Hymn, A Churchyard, Lines writ- ten IN A . Civil War, . PAGE Thomas Pvingle . .119 Izaak Walto7i . . 23 William SJiakespeare f . 282 George Outram . 142 William H. Lytle . 217 Lady Anne Barnard 88 Alexander B. Meek 186 Micliael Drayton 10 Paul Moon James 122 Thomas Moss . 96 Francis Mahony . 149 TJieodore O'Hara 197 Francis M. Finch 291 Anonymous 36 William Harnilton 52 Sir John Suckling 24 Samuel Woodicorth 115 Alfred Waits . 309 Cecil Frances Alexander 249 Charles Wolfe . 276 Isa Craig Knox 229 Gustave Nadaiid . 313 Guy H. McMasier . 220 James Merrick . . 65 Charles M. Dickinson . 274 Alfred Domett . . 180 Herbert Knoicles . . 130 Charles D. Shanly ? . 262 V VI CONTENTS. Closing Yeab, The Cloud, The . CONNEL AND FlORA, Contented Mind, A . Countersign, The . Crossing the Rappahan- nock, .... Cuckoo, To the . Cuddle Doon, , CuMNOR Hall, Curfew Must not Ring To- night, Death-Bed, A Death of King Bomba, The Death of Napoleon, The Death's Final Conquest, Doneraile, a Litany for Doris, .... Driving Home the Cows. Easter, EXEQUY, Exile to his Wipe, The First Miracle, The Florence Vane, . Forging of the Anchor, The Gaffer Gray, . Geehale, Gluggity Glug, Golden Wedding, The Good Ale, Grave of Bonaparte, The Grongar Hill, Groves of Blarney, The Happy Land, The . Health, A . . . PAGE Oeorge D. Prentice . 135 John Wilson . . 114 Alexander Wilson . 95 Joshua Sylvester . 15 Anonymous . . . 264 Anonymous . . 314 John Logan ... 87 Alexander Anderson 331 William J. Mickle . 72 Bosa Hartwick Thorpe 253 James Aldrich . .179 Anonymous . . 293 Isaac McLellan . .151 James Shirley . . 24 Patrick O'Kelly . . 106 Arthur Munby . . 221 Kate Putnam Osgood . 267 Sewall S. Cutting . 328 Henry King . . 19 Joseph Brenan . . 223 Richard Grashaw . . 279 Philip P. Cooke. . 190 Samuel Ferguson . 146 Thomas Holcroft . . 85 Henry R. Schoolcraft 127 George Colman . .158 David Gray . . 294 John Still ... 18 H. S. Washburn ? . 152 John Dyer ... 46 Richard A. Millikin . 92 Andrew Young . .157 Edward C. Pinkney . 138 CONTENTS. vii PAGE Helen OF KiRKCONNEL, . John Mayne . 93 Here She Goes— and There She Goes, . James Nack 158 Hermit, The Thojnas Parnell . 37 Heroes, Edna Dean Proctor , 317 Hospital, In the . Mary W. Howland 299 Hundred Years to Come, A William G. Brown . 203 Hylas, .... Anonymous 284 If I SHOULD DIE To-Night, Belle E. Smith . 329 Indian Gold Coin, To an John Leyden 100 Irish Emigrant, Lament of THE Lady Dufferin 155 Ivy Green, The Charles Dickens 181 I Would not Live Alway, William A. Muhlenberg 128 Javanese Poem, A . Eduard Douices Dekker 279 Jolly Old Pedagogue, The George Arnold 226 Last Redoubt, The Alfred Austin . 336 Life, ... Anna L. Barhauld 83 Light Francis W. Bourdillon 333 Light. . William Pitt Palmer . 177 Lincoln. Abraham . Ihm Taylor 193 Little Goose, A Eliza Sproat Turner . 270 Love me Little, Love me Long, Anonymous 16 Lucy's Flittin'. William Laidlaw 105 Lye, The Sir Walter Raleigh . 2 Man's Mortality, . Simon Wastel 6 Mariner's Dream, The William Dimond 131 Mary's Dream, John Lowe . 89 Memory of the Dead, The John Kells Ingrain . 195 Milton's Prayer of Pa tience, Elizabeth Lloyd Howell . 252 Mistress of the House, The Leslie Walte)' . 297 Mitherless Bairn, The William Thom . 117 Modest Wit, A Selleck Osborn 111 Moonlight, Robert Kelley Weeks 318 Vlll CONTENTS. MOKTALITY, My Am Countree, My Dear and Only Love, My Maryland, My Mind to me a Ktnodo>[ IS, . Nathan Hale, Nautilus and the Ammo- nite, The . Nearer, my God, to Thee, Night, .... Nothing to Wear, Ocean, The Old Canoe, The . Old Grimes, Old Sergeant, The Old Sexton, The O may I join the Choir, Only a Baby Small, Only Waiting, Orphan Boy, The . Over the River, Parting with his Books, On . Passage, The . Pauper's Drive, The . I'ETRiFiED Fern, The Philosopher's Scales, The Picket Guard, The Place where Man should Die, The . Polish Boy, The . Popping Corn, Private of the Buffs, The Prospect of Planting Arts AND Learning in Amer- ica, On the PAGE William Knox . . 122 Mary Lee Bemarest . 301 Marquis of Montrose . 27 J With bitter smile. I said to cold neglect and scorn. Pass on ! I heed you not ; Ye may pursue me till my form And being are forgot ; Yet still the spirit which you see Undaunted by your wiles. Draws from its own nobiUty Its high-born smiles. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. 117 I said to friendship's menaced blow, Strike deep ! my heart shall bear ; Thou canst but add one bitter woe To those already there; Yet still the spirit that sustains This last severe distress, Shall smile upon its keenest pains. And scorn redress. I said to death's uplifted dart, Aim sure ! oh, why delay ? Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — A weak, reluctant prey ; For still the spirit, firm and free, Unruffled by this last dismay. Wrapt in its own eternity. Shall pass away. Lavinia Stoddard. When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin' ? 'T is the puir doited loonie, — the mitherless bairn. 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 airn, And htheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his 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 seng o'er his saf tly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mami de is laid , 10* 1 1 8 SINGLE FA3I0 US P OEMS. 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 couthihe 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' anguish the heartless shall learn. That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn. William Thom. My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But, ere the shades of evening close. Is scattered on the ground — to die I Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see, — But none shall weep a tear for me ! My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; Its hold is frail — its date is brief. Restless — and soon to pass away ! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, — But none shall breathe a sigh for me I My life is hke the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat. All trace will vanish from the sand; AFAR IN THE DESERT. 119 Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea,— But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! Richard Henry Wilde. Efar in ti^e Mt^nt Afar in the desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, When the sorrov^s of life the soul o'ercast. And, sick of the present, I chng to the past ; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years ; And shadows of things that have long since fled Fht 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 reft ; Companions of early days lost or left — And my native land — whose magical name Thrills to Jhe 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 feehngs 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 undone — 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— 126 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, The scorner's laugh, and the suflferer'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, AFAR IN THE DESERT. 121 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 ; Which 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 ; AVhere sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty 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 Grod is near ! Thomas Pringle. 11 122 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Ci)e 13eacon. The scene was more beautiful far to the eye, Than if day in its pride had arrayed it: The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky Looked pure as the spirit that made it : The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed On the shadowy waves' playful motion. From the dim distant hill, till the light-house fire blazed Like a star in the midst of the ocean. No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest, The fisherman sunk to his slumbers : One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope, All hushed was the billows' commotion, And o'er them the hght-house looked lovely as hope, — That star of hfe's tremulous ocean. The time is long past, and the scene is afar. Yet when my head rests on its pillow. Will memory sometimes rekindle the star That blazed on the breast of the billow : In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, And death stills the heart's last emotion ; 0, then may the seraph of mercy arise, Like a star on eternity's ocean ! Paul Moon JAMEa imcirtalitp. O WHY should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave. MORTALITY. 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 he. The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection that proved, The husband that mother and infant that blessed. Each, all, are away to their dwelling 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 that beloved her and praised Are ahke from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the sceptre hatli borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn. The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar that wandered in search of his bread. Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven. The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just. Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed That wither away to let others succeed ; So the multitude comes, even those we behold. To repeat every tale that hath often been told. For we are the same that our fathers have been ; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, — We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun. And we run the same course that our fathers have run. 123 124 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think ; From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink ; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling ; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. They loved, but their story we cannot unfold ; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come ; They joyed, but the voice 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 dweUings a transient abode. Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ; And the smile and the tear, and 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 bier and the shroud, — why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? William Knox. "Ybtr have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood While he sat on a corn-sheaf, set daylight's decline, — " You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood : I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine." * And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. WE'LL GO TO SEA NO MORE. 125 " I would blow it," he answered, " and then my fair maid Would fly to my side and would there take her place." " Is that all you wish for ? Why, that may be yours Without any magic ! " the fair maiden cried : " A favor so shght 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 keep from my neck your white arm." She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck. " Y"et once more I would blow; and the music divine Would bring me a 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 the whistle you 'd make ! For only consider how silly 't would be To sit there and whistle for what you might take." Robert Story. see ni i^o to Sea no Moxt. 0, BLITHELY shine3 the bonny sun Upon the Isle of May, And blithely comes the morning tide Into St. Andrew's Bay. Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair, And up, my braw bairns three ; There 's goud in yonder bonny boat That sails sae weel the sea ! When haddocks leave the Firth o' Forth, An' mussels leave the shore. 126 SINGLE FA3I0 US P OEMS. "When oysters climb up Berwick Law, We '11 go to sea no more, — No more, We '11 go to sea no more. I 've seen the waves as blue as air, I '\re seen them green as grass ; But 1 never feared their heaving yet, From Grangemouth to the Bass. I 've seen the sea as black as pitch, I 've seen it white as snow ; But I never feared its foaming yet, Though the winds blew high or low. When squalls capsize our wooden walls, When the French ride at the Nore, When Leith meets Aberdour half way. We '11 go to sea no more, — No more, We '11 go to sea no more. I never hked the landsman's life. The earth is aye the same ; Gie me the ocean for my dower. My vessel for my hame. Gie me the fields that no man plows, The farm that pays no fee ; Gie me the bonny fish that glance So gladly through the sea. When sails hang flapping on the masts While through the waves we snore, When in a calm we 're tempest-tossed, We '11 go to sea no more, — No more. We '11 go to sea no more. The sun is up, and round Inchkeith The breezes softly blaw ; OEEHALR 127 The guderaan has the Knes on board, — Awa, my bairns, awa ! An' ye be back by gloamin' gray, An' bright the fire will low. An' in your tales and sangs we '11 tell How weel the boat ye row. When life's last sun gaes feebly down, An' death comes to our door, When a' the world 's a dream to us, We '11 go to sea no more, — No more. We '11 go to sea no more. Miss CORBETT. The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore, As sweetly and gayly as ever before ; For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie. And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light As it ever reflected, or ever expressed. When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best. The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night. Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light. And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track. For they know that their mates are expecting them back, Each bird and each beast, it is blessed in degree ; All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair ; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair ; I will sit on the shore where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes ; I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed. For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; 1 2 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay — The steel of the white man hath swept them away. This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss with disdain to the storm-beaten shore ; Its charms I no longer obey or invoke. Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke, I will raise up my voice to the source of the light ; I will dream on the wings of the blue-bird at night ; I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves. And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves; And will take a new Manito, such as shall seem To be kind and propitious in every dream. 0, then I shall banish these cankering sighs, And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes ; I shall wash from my face every cloud-colored stain ; Red, red shall alone on my visage remain ! I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow ; By night and by day I will follow the foe ; Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor snow^ ; His blood can alone give my spirit repose. They came to my cabin when heaven was black ; I heard not their coming, I knew not their track ; But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees, They were people engendered beyond the big seas, My wife and my children — 0, spare me the tale ! For who is there left that is kin to Geehale ? Henry Rowe Schoolcraft I mRoniti not Uibe aiiuai). I WOULD not live alway : I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found ; I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAT. 129 Where Hope, when she pamts her gay bow in the air, Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of despair, And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin. Temptation without, and corruption within; In a moment of strength if I sever the chain. Scarce the victory 's minfi ere I 'm captive again. E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears. The festival trump calls for jubilant songs. But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. I would not hve alway: no, welcome the tomb; Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid the gloom. There too is the pillow where Christ bowed his head— 0, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed ! And then the glad morn soon to follow that night. When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight, And the full matin-song, as the sleepers arise To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies. Who, who would live alway, away from his Grod, Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode. Where rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll. And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul ? That neavenly music ! what is it I hear ? The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear. And see soft unfolding those portals of gold, The King all arrayed in his beauty behold 1 11* 1 30 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. give me, give me the vp-ings of a dove ! Let me hasten ray flight to those mansions above. Ay, 't is now that my soul on swift pinions would soar, And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. William Augustus Muhlenberg. Ui'nes asaritten in a arturci^'BartJ^ "It is good for us to be here. If thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles ; one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias." Methinks it is good to be here ; If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom ? Nor Ehas nor Moses appear ; But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah no 1 Affrighted he shrinketh away ; For see, they would pen him below In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. To Beauty ? Ah no ! she forgets The charms which she wielded before ; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of pride ? To the trappings which dizen the proud ? Alas 1 they are all laid aside. And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the sliroud To Riches? Alas, 't is in vain ! Who hid, in their turns have been hid : The treasures are squandered again ; TKE iMAElKEB'S DREAM. 131 And here in the grave are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! B":it the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveler here. Shall we build to Affection and Love ? Ah no ! they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above. Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. Unto Sorrow ? — the dead cannot grieve ; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear. Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear ; Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? Ah no 1 for his empire is known. And here there are trophies enow ! Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, Ar3 the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled ; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. Herbert Knowles. Ci)e J^armec'is liceant. In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay ; His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind j 1 3 2 SINGLE FA MO US P OEMS. But watch- worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on hfe's merry morn ; While memory stood sideways half covered with flowers, And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide. And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall ; All trembling with transport he raises the latch. And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear ; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; Joy quickens his pulses, — his hardships seem o'er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest, — " God ! thou hast blest me, — I ask for no more." Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larms on his ear ? 'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky I 'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere' He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck ; Amazement confronts him with images dire ; Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a-wreck; The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on fire. OLD GRIMES. 133 Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing- his knell, And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave I sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight 1 In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bUss. Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, — Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss ? sailor-boy I sailor-boy ! never again Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee. Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge. But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge I On a bed of green sea-flowers thy Umbs shall be laid, — Ai-ound thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made. And every part suit to thy mansion below. Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away. And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye, — sailor-boy I sailor-boy ! peace to thy soul 1 William Dimo»d. (BVH ©crimes. Old G-rimes is dead ; that good old man We never shall see more ; He used to wear a long, black coat. All buttoned down before. 12 134 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. His heart was open as the day, His feeUngs all were true ; His hair was some inclined to gray, He wore it in a queue. Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burned ; The large, round head upon his cane From ivory was turned. Kind words he ever had for all. He knew no base design ; His eyes were dark and rather small. His nose was aquiline. He Hved at peace with all mankind. In friendship he was true ; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue. Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er. And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more. But good old Grimes is now at rest. Nor fears misfortune's frown; He wore a double-breasted vest — The stripes ran up and down. He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert ; He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt. His neighbors he did not abuse, Was sociable and gay ; He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day. TEE CLOSING YEAR. 135 His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise town-meeting days, As many people do. His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances. But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances. Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran ; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman. Albert Gtordon GtREenb. *T IS midnight's holy hour, — and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling, — 't is the knell Of the departed year. ISTo funeral train Is sweeping past ; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with its aged locks, — and breathe. In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year. Gone from the Earth forev^. 'T is a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep. 1 36 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are Kke the wizard voice of Time Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The cofiQn-Hd of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, — And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, — and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged The bright and joyous, — and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, Flashed in the light of midday, — and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, G-reen from the soil of carnage, waves above The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came, And faded Uke a wreath of mist at eve ; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time 1 Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power THE CLOSING TEAR. 13-7 Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity ? On, still on, He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home. Furls his broad vt^ings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag, — but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, A,nd night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow, — cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water, — fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns, — mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain, — new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries. And rush down Hke the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations, — and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Gutter a vt^hile in their eternal depths. And, hke the Pleiad, loveliest of their train. Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away To darkle in the trackless void. Yet, Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, To sit and muse, Hke other conquerors. Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. George Denison Prentice 1 3 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS, 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 hps each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose. Aflfections 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 sis^h Will not be life's, but hers. THE THREE SONS. 139 I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon, — Her health 1 and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame. That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. Edward Coate Pinkney. Cf)e Kf^xu Sons. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old. With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears. That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his child- ish years. I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face is fair — And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air; I know his heart is fond and kind ; I know he loveth me : But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills liis mind, The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball. But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed 140 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she tt acheth him to pray; And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say. 0, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A hoHer and a wiser man I trust that he will be; And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be. How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee ; I do not think his light-blue eye is, hke his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been; But his little heart 's a fountain pure of kind and tender feel- ing; And his every look 's a gleam of light, rich depths of love reveahng. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will shout for joy and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful tone. Will sing his httle song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is hke sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love: TEE THREE SONS. 14] And if. beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him ! I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell. For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given ; And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy forever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their ghttering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's di- vinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I) Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bHss can never cease; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever; 142 SINGLE FAMO US FOEMS. But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be — When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery — When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain — 01 we 'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. John Moultrie. I GAED to spend a week in Fife — ■ An unco week it proved to be — For there I met a waesome wife Lamentin' her viduity. Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell, I thought her heart wad burst the shell ; And, — I was sae left to mysel, — I sell't her an annuity. The bargain lookit fair eneugh — She just was turned o' saxty-three — I couldna guessed she'd prove sae teugh, By human ingenuity. But years have come, and years have gane, And there she 's yet as stieve £is stane — The lir^imer 's growin' young again, Since she got her annuity. She 's crined' awa' to bane and skin, But that, it seems, is nought to me; She 's like to live — although she 's in The last stage o' tenuity. She munches wi' her wizen 'd gums, An' stumps about on legs o' thrums; THE ANNUITY. 143 But comes, as sure as Christmas comes, To ca' for her annuity. I read the tables drawn wi' care For an insurance company ; Her chance o' life was stated there, Wi' perfect perspicuity. But tables here or tables there, She 's lived ten years beyond her share, An' 's like to live a dozen mair. To ca' for her annuity. Last Yule she had a fearfu' host, I thought a kink might set me free — I led her out, 'mang snaw and fro.st, Wi' constant assiduity. But deil ma' care — the blast gaed by, And miss'd the auld anatomy — It just cost me a tooth, for bye Discharging her annuity. If there 's a sough o' cholera. Or typhus, — wha sae gleg as she ? She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a', In siccan superfluity ! She doesna need — she 's fever proof — The pest Avalked o'er her very roof — She tauld me sae — an' then her loof Held out for her annuity. Ae day she fell, her arm she brak — A compound fracture as could be — Nae leech the cure wad undertake, Whate'er was the gratuity. It 's cured ! She handles 't hke a flail- It does as weel in bits as hale — But I 'm a broken man mysel' Wi' her and hor annuity. 144 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Her broozled flesh and broken banes Are weel as flesli and banes can be ; She beats the toads that live in stanes, An' fatten in vacuity ! They die when they 're exposed to air, They canna thole the atmosphere — But her ! expose her ony where, She hves for her annuity. If mortal means could nick her thread, Sma' crime it wad appear to me — Ca't murder — or ca't homicide — I 'd justify 't — an' do it tae. But how to fell a withered wife That 's carved out o' the tree of life — The timmer Hmmer dares the knife To settle her annuity. I 'd try a shot — but whar's the mark ? Her vital parts are hid f rae me ; Her backbone wanders through her sark In an unkenn'd corkscrewity. She 's palsified, an' shakes her head Sae fast about, ye scarce can see 't, [t 's past the power o' steel or lead To settle her annuity. bhe might be drowned ; but go she '11 not Witliin a mile o' loch or sea ; Or hanged — if cord could grip a throat O' siccan exiguity. It 's fitter far to hang the rope — It draws out hke a telescope ; 'T wad tak' a dreadfu' length o' drop To settle her annuity. Will poison do it? It has been tried, But be 't in hash or fricassee, THE ANNUITY. 145 That 's just the dish she can't abide, Whatever kind o' gout it hae. It 's needless to assail her doubts, She gangs by instinct, hke the brutes, An' only eats an' drinks what suits Hersel' and her annuity. The Bible says the age o' man Threescore and ten, perchance, may be ; She 's ninety-four. Let them who can, Explain the incongruity. She should hae lived afore the flood— She 's come o' patriarchal blood. She 's some auld Pagan mummified Alive for her annuity. She 's been embalmed inside and oot — • She 's sauted to the last degree — There *s pickle in her very snoot Sae caper-like an' cruety. Lot's wife was fresh compared to her — They 've kyanized the useless knir. She canna decompose — nae mair Than her accursed annuity. The water-drop wears out the rock, As this eternal jaud wears me; I could withstand the single shock. But not the continuity. It 's pay me here, an' pay me there, An' pay me, pay me, evermair — I '11 gang demented wi' despair — I 'm charged for her annuity. Georoe Odtram. 13 146 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS, Cf)e dTorfiinfi of tf)e anc!)or. Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 't is at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound ; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, AU clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe ; It rises, roars, rends all outright, — Vulcan, what a glow ! 'T is bhnding white, 't is blasting bright, the high sun shines not so ! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show, — The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; As, quivering tlirough his fleece of flame, the saihng mon- ster slow Sinks on the anvil, — all about the faces fiery grow, — " Hurrah 1" they shout, ''leap out, leap out:" bang, bang, the sledges go ; Huri'ah 1 the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the ratthng cinders strew The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fount- ains flow ; And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Hoi" THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. ' 147 Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load I Let 's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad ; For a liCart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road ; The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast by the board ; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains. But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains. And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky- high, Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear nothing, here am I! " Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime ! But while you sling your sledges, sing ; and let the Ijurden be. The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we ; Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling red I Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped ; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here. For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer ; When, weighing slow, at eve they go far, far from love and home. And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In Uvid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last. A shapely one he is, and strong as e'er from cat was cast. 148 • SmGLE FA3I0 US P OEMS. trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst Hfe hke me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea! deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monsters' palaces 1 methinks what joy 't were now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ; To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn ; To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles, Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; Meanwhile to swing, a-bufFeting the far astonished shoals Of his black-browsing ocean-calves, or haply in a cove Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal tliine ? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable fine ; And night by night 't is thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play. But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave ! A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but understand THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 149 Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that drip- ping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round abt ut thee bend, With sounds hke breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend — Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee. Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou 'dst leap with- in the sea! Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland ; Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave. So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave. Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among I Samuel Ferguson. With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells. Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee, — With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on [ I 150 SINGLE FAMOUS F0EM8. The plesant waters Of the river Lee. I 've heard bells chiming Full many a cUme in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glibe rate Brass tongues would vibrate ; But all their music Spoke naught like thine. For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry, knelling Its bold notes free. Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I 've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in. Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, — And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter . Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. Oh ! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. THE DEA TH OF NAP OLEOK 151 There 's a bell in Moscow ; While on tower and kiosk In St. Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer, From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them ; But there 's an anthem More dear to me, — 'T is the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. Francis Mahony. Ef)e Beats of Napoleon. Wild was the night, yet a wilder night Hung round the soldier's pillow ; In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight Than the fight on the wrathful billow. A few fond mourners were kneeling by. The few that his stern heart cherished ; They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye, That life had nearly perished. They knew by his awful and kingly look. By the order hastily spoken. That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, And the nations' hosts were broken. 1 52 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle, And the struggling Austrian fled anew, Like the hare before the beagle. The bearded Russian he scourged again. The Prussian's camp was routed, And again on the hills of haughty Spain His mighty armies shouted. Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, At the pyramids, at the mountain. Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, And by the Italian fountain, On the snowy clifis where mountain streams Dash by the Switzer's dweUing, He led again, in his dying dreams, His hosts, the broad earth queUing. Again Marengo's field was won. And Jena's bloody battle ; Again the world was overrun. Made pale at his cannon's rattle. He died at the close of that darksome day, A day that shall hve in story ; In the rocky land they placed his clay, " And left him alone with his glory." Isaac MoLellan. ^f)e €rrabe of iSonapacte. On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave. WIDOW MALONE. 153 The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle : He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain ; — He sleeps his last sleep — he has fought his last battle ! No sound can awake him to glory again ! shade of the mighty, where now are the legions That rush'd but to conquer when thou led'st them on ? Alas ! they have perish'd in far hilly regions. And all save the fame of their triumph is gone I The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle ! They heed not, they hear not, they 're free from all pain : They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle I No sound can awake them to glory again ! Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, For, like thine own eagle that soar'd to the sun, Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee A name which before thee no mortal had won. Though nations may combat, and war's thunders rattle, No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain : Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle I No sound can awake thee to glory again ! H. S. Washburn (?) S^aitioh) iftflalone. Did you hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone 1 Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone I 0, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, — So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone 1 So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score, Or more, 13* 154 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. 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 1 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 httle for blushing they care Down there) Put his arm round her waist, — G-ave ten kisses at laste, — "0," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone, My own ! " " 0," says he, " you 're my Molly Malone." And the widow they all thought so shy. My eye 1 Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, — For why ? But, " Lucius," says she, *' Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone 1 You may marry your Mary Malone." LAMENT OF THE HUSH EMIGRANT. 155 There 's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong ; And one comfort, it 's not rery 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 Lever. Uantent of tf)e Ittsf) (immigrant. 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 cora was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high ; And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-Ught in your eye. The place is httle changed, Mary ; The day is bright as then ; The 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 Ust'nin' for the words You never more will speak. 'T is but a step down yonder lane. And the httle church stands near. The church where we were wed, Mary ; I see the spire from here. But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, 156 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS 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 I 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, When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake ; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore, Oh ! 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 1 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 tl ere, But I '11 not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair I THE HAPP T LAND. 157 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. Ci)e J^appp ILantJ. There is a happy land, Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand. Bright, bright as day. Oh, how they sweetly sing, Worthy is our Saviour King; Loud let his praises ring — Praise, praise for aye. Come to this happy land — Come, come away ; Why will ye doubting stand — Why still delay ? Oh, we shall happy be, When, from sin and sorrow free, Lord, we shall live with thee — Blest, blest for aye. Bright in that happy land Beams every eye : Kept by a Father's hand. Love cannot die. On then to glory run ; Be a crown and kingdom won ; And bright above the sun, Reign, reign for aye. Andrew Youno. 1 5 8 smOLE FAMO US P OEMS. A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor good store, And he had drunk stoutly at supper ; He mounted his horse in the night at the door, And sat with his face to the crupper. *' Some rogue," quoth the friar, " quite dead to remorse, Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse. While I was engaged at the bottle, Which went gluggity, gluggity — glug — glug — glug.' The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 'T was the friar's road home, straight and level; But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail. So he scampered due north like a devil. "This new mode of docking," the friar then said, " I perceive does n't make a horse trot ill ; " And 't is cheap, for he never can eat off liis head While I am engaged at the bottle. Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug." The steed made a stop — in a pond he had got, He was rather for drinking than grazing; Quoth the friar, " 'T is strange headless horses should trot, But to drink with their tails is amazing ! " Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, In the pond fell this son of a pottle ; Quoth he, " The head 's found, for I 'm under his nose,— I wish I were over a bottle. Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug." George Colman. Two Yankee wags, one summer day, Stopped at a tavern on their way*^ HEBE SHE GOES— AND THERE SHE GOES. 159 Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest, And woke to breakfast on the best. The breakfast over, Tom and Will Sent for the landlord and the bill ; Will looked it over; " Very right- But hold ! V7hat wonder meets my sight ? Tom ! the surprise is quite a shock ! " " What wonder ? where ? " " The clock ! the clock i ' Tom and the landlord in amaze Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, And for a moment neither spoke ; At last the landlord silence broke : " You mean the clock that 's ticking there ? I see no wonder, I declare ; Though may be, if the truth were told, 'T is rather ugly — somewhat old ; Yet time it keeps to half a minute. But, if you please, what wonder 's in it ? " " Tom, do n't you recollect," said Will, " The clock in Jersey near the mill. The very image of this present, With which I won the wager pleasant? " Will ended with a knowing wink — Tom scratched his head, and tried to think. " Sir, begging pardon for inquiring," The landlord said, with grin admiring, " What wager was it? " " You remember. It happened, Tom, in last December. In sport I bet a- Jersey Blue That it was more than he could do. To make his finger go and come 160 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. In keeping with the pendulum, Repeating, till one hour should close, Still ' Here she goes — and there she goes ' — He lost the bet in half a minute." " Well, if I would, the deuce is in itl " Exclaimed the landlord ; " try me yet, And fifty dollars be the bet." " Agreed, but we will play some trick To make you of the bargain sick 1 " "I 'mup to that I" "Do n't make us wait; Begin, the clock is striking eight." He seats himself, and left and right His finger wags with all his might, And hoarse his voice, and hoarser grows, With " Here she goes — and there she goes ! " " Hold," said the Yankee, " plank the ready ! " The landlord wagged his fingers steady While his left hand, as well as able, Conveyed a purse upon the table. " Tom, with the money let 's be ofi"! " This made the landlord only scofil He heard them running down the stair. But was not tempted from his chair. Thought he, "The fools! I '11 bite them yet I So poor a trick sha' n't win the bet." And loud and loud the chorus rose Of " Here she goes — and there she goes ! " While right and left his finger swung. In keeping to his clock and tongue. His mother happened in, to see Her daughter. " Where is Mrs. B — When will she come, as you suppose ? Sonl" HERE SHE OOES-ANB THERE SHE GOES, loi " Here she goes — and there she goes I " " Here I where ? " — the lady in surprise His finger followed with her eyes ; " Son, why that steady gaze and sad ? Those words — that motion — are you mad ? But here 's your wife — perhaps she knows, And—" " Here she goes — and there she goes I " His wife surveyed him with alarm. And rushed to him and seized his arm ; He shook her off, and to and fro His finger persevered to go. While curled his very nose with ire, That she against him should conspire. And with more furious tone arose The " Here she goes — and there she goes ! ' " Lawks 1 " screamed the wife, "I 'ra in a whirl! Run down and bring the httle girl ; She is his darling, and who knows Bu^-" " Here she goes — and there she goes ! " " Lawks ! he is mad ! What made him thus ? Good Lord ! what will become of us ? Run for a doctor — run — run — run — For Doctor Brown, and Doctor Dun, And Doctor Black, and Doctor White, And Doctor G-rey, with all your might." The doctors came, and looked and wondered. And shook their heads, and paused and pondered, Till one proposed he should be bled, "No — leeched, you mean," the other said — " Clap on a bhster," roared another. "No — cup him" — "No — trepan him, brother! " 162 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. A sixth would recommend a purge, The next would an emetic urge, The eighth, just come from a dissection, His verdict gave for an injection ; The last produced a box of pills, A certain cure for earthly ills ; * I had a patient yesternight," Quoth he, " and wretched was her plight^ And as the only means to save her, Three dozen patent pills I gave her, And by to-morrow, I suppose That—" " Here she goes — and there she goes! " " You all are fools," the lady said, " The way is, just to shave his head. Run, bid the barber come anon — " " Thanks, mother," thought her clever son, " Tou help the knaves that would have bit me, But all creation sha' n't outwit me! " Thus to himself, while to and fro His finger perseveres to go. And from his lips no accent flows But " Here she goes — and there she goes! " The barber came — " Lord help him ! what A queer customer I 've got; But we must do our best to save him— So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him I " But here the doctors interpose — "A woman never — " " There she goes ! " " A woman is no judge of physic, Not even when her baby is sick. He must be bled " — " No — no — a bHster " — " A purge you mean " — " I say a clyster " — « No— cup him "— " leech him "— " piUs 1 pills I pills I And all the house the uproar fills. SHE LIED IN BEAUTY. 163 What means that smile ? What mear.\s that shiver ? The landlord's Umbs with rapture quiver, And triumph brightens up his face — His finger yet shall win the race I The clock is on the stroke of nine — And up he starts—" 'T is mine I 't is mine ! " " What do you mean ? " " I mean the fifty 1 I never spent an hour so thrifty ; But you, who tried to make me lose, Gro, burst with envy, if you choose ! But how is this ! Where are they ? " "Who?" " The gentlemen — I mean the two Came yesterday — are they below ? " " They galloped ofi" an hour ago." " Oh, purge me ! bhster ! shave and bleed ! For, hang the knaves, I 'm mad indeed ! " James Nack. Sje IBieti in 13eautg. She died in beauty, — like a rose Blown from its parent stem ; She died in beauty, — hke a pearl Dropped from some diadem. She died in beauty, — hke a lay Along a moonht lake ; She died in beauty,— hke the song Of birds amid the brake. She died in beauty, — hke the snow On flowers dissolved away ; She died in beauty, — hke a star Lost on the brow of day. 104 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. She lives in glory, — like night's gems Set round the silver moon ; She lives in glory, — like the sun Amid the blue of June, Charles Doyne Sillebt. CJe KelD Cale of a Cut). The Orient day was fresh and fair, A breeze sang soft in the ambient air, Men almost wondered to find it there, Blowing so near Bengal, Where waters bubble as boiled in a pot. And the gold of the sun spread melting hot, And there 's hardly a breath of wind to be got At any price at all. Unless, indeed, when the great Simoom Gets up from its bed with the voice of doom, And deserts no rains e'er drench Rise up and roar with a dreadful gust, Pillars of sand and clouds of dust Rushing on drifted, and rapid to burst, And filling all India's throat with thirst That its Ganges could n't quench. No great Simoom rose up to-day. But only a gentle breeze, And that of such silent and voiceless play That a lady's bustle Had made more rustle Than it did among the trees. 'T was not like the breath of a British vale, Where each Green acre is blessed with a Gale Whenever the natives please ; But it was of that soft inviting sort That it tempted to revel in picnic sport A couple of Bengalese. THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 165 Two Bengalese Resolved to seize The balmy chance of that cool-winged weather, To revel in Bengal ease together. One was tall, the other was stout, They were natives both of the glorious East, And both so fond of a rural feast That off they roamed to a country plain, Where the breeze roved free about, That during its visits brief, at least. If it never were able to blow again, It might blow upon then- blow-out. The country plain gave a view as small As ever man clapped his eyes on, Where the sense of sight did easily pall, For it kept on seeing notliing at all. As far as the far horizon. Nothing at all! — Oh! what do I say? — Something certainly stood in the way (Though it had neither cloth nor tray. With its " tiffin " I would n't quarrel- It was a sort of hermaphrodite thing, (It might have been filled with sugar or ling But is very unfit for a muse to sing). Betwixt a tub and a barrel It stood in the midst of that Indian plain. Burning with sunshine, pining for rain, A parenthesis balanced 'twixt pleasure and pain. And as stiff as if it were starching, — When up to it, over the brown and green Of that Indian soil, were suddenly seen Two gentlemen anxiously marching. Those two gentlemen were, if you please. The aforesaid couple of Bengalese ; And the tub or barrel that stood beyond — 14* lee SINGLE FAMO U8 POEMS. For short we will call it Tub — Contained with pride, In its jolly inside, The prize of which they were dotingly fond, The aforesaid gentlemen's grub. ' Leave us alone — come man or come beast," Said the eldest, " We '11 soon have a shy at the feast." They are now at their picnic with might and with maiu. But what do we see in the front of the plain ? A jungle, a thicket of bush, weed, and grass, And in it reposing — eh ? — no, not an ass — Not an ass, not an ass, — that could not come to pass ] No donkey, no donkey, no donkey at all. But, superb in his slumber, a Royal Bengal Though Royal, he was n't a king — No such thing ! He did n't rule lands from the Thames to the Niger, But he did hold a reign O'er that jungle and plain, And besides was a very magnificent Tiger. There he lay, in his skin so gay, His passions at rest, and his appetites curbed; A Minister Prime, In his proudest time. Asleep, was never more undisturbed ; For who would come to shake him ? 0, it 's certain sure, in his dream demure. That none would dare to wake him. Only the Royal snore may creep Over the dreams of a Tiger's sleep. The Bengalese, in cool apparel, Meanwhile have reached their picnic barrel ; In other words, they have tossed the grub THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 167 Out of their great provision Tub, And, standing it up for shelter, Sit guzzhng underneath its shade, With a glorious dinner ready-made. Which they're eating helter-skelter. Ham and chicken, and bread and cheese. They make a pass to spread on the grass. They sit at ease, with then plates on their knees, And now their hungry jaws they appease, And now they turn to the glass; For Hodgson's ale Is genuine pale. And the bright champagne Flows not in vain. The most convivial souls to please Of these very thirsty Bengalese. Ha 1 one of the two has relinquished his fork. And wakes up the Tiger by drawing a cork. Blurting and spurting 1 List! Olist! Perhaps the Tiger thinks he is hissed. Effervescing and whizzed and phizzed 1 Perhaps his Majesty thinks he is quizzed, Or haply deems. As he 's roused from his dreams, That his visions have come to a thirsty stop, And resolves to moisten his throat with a drop. At all events, with body and soul, He gives in his jungle a stretch and a roll, Then regally rises to go for a stroll. With a temperate mind, For a beast of his kind. And a tail uncommonly long behind. 1 6 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. He knows of no water, By field or by flood ; He does not seek slaughter, He does not scent blood. No I the utmost scope Of his limited hope Is, that these Bengalese, When they find he arrives, May not rise from their picnic and run for their lives, But simply bow on that beautiful plain, And ofier Sir Tiger a glass of champagne. " From my jungle it true is They woke me, I think. So the least they can do is To give me some drink." G-ently Tiger crouches along. Humming a kind of animal song, A sweet subdued familiar lay As ever was warbled by beast of prey ; And all so softly, tunefully done. That it made no more sound Than his shade on the ground ; never a one I Gently Tiger steals along, " Mild as a moonbeam," meek as a lamb, — What so suddenly changes his song From a tune to a growl ? "Och! by my so wl. Nothing on earth but the smell of the ham 1 " He quickens his pace. The illigant baste, And he 's running a race With himself for a taste. And he 's taken to roaring, and given up humming, Just to let the two Bengalese know he is coming. THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 169 What terrors sieze The Bengalese As the roar of the Tiger reaches the ear, Their hair is standing on end with fear. Short-and-stout, with his hair all gray, Has a rattling note in his jolly old throat ; If choking his laugh with a truss of hay, He could n't more surely have stifled the gay. While Tall-and-thin with his hair all carroty, Looks thrice as red with fright as his head, And his face bounds plump, at a single jump, Into horror, and out of hilarity. All they can hear, in their terrible fear. Behind and before, is the Tiger's roar ; Again and again, o'er the plain. Clearer and clearer, nearer and nearer. Into the Tub now its way it has found, Where its echoes keep rolling round and round. Till out of the bung-hole they bursting come. Like a regiment of thunders escaped from a drum. If an earthquake had shattered a thousand kegs, The terrified Bengalese could n't, i' fegs, Have leapt more rapidly on to their legs. He 's at 'em, he 's on 'em, the jungle guest 1 When a man's life by peril is prest, His wits will sometimes be at their best. So the presence of Tiger, I find. Inspires our heroes with presence of mind. There 's no time to be lost — Down the glasses are tossed; The Bengalese have abandoned their grub. And they 're dodging their gentleman round the Tub. Active and earnest they nowhere lodge, And he can't get at them, because of their dodge. Short-and-stout and Tall-and-thin Never before such a scrape were in, 15 1 7 U SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Xor ever yet used — can 3^ou well have a doubt of it ?- So uncommonly artful a dodge to get out of it. Tiger keeps prowling, Howling, and growling; He feels himself that their dodge is clever ; 1)1 it the quick fresh blood of the Bengalese Xicor and nicer he snuffs on the breeze. The more they practice their dodge recitals, The more he longs to dine on their vitals. His passion is up, his hunger is keen, His jaws are ready, his teeth are clean, And sharpened their limbs to sever. The fire is flashing in light from his eyes ; In his own peculiar manner he cries, The while they shine, " If I mean to dine, I had better begin," And then, with a grin. And a voice the loudest that ever was heard, He roars, " Never trust to a tiger's word. If this dodge shall last much longer ! No, no, no, no, — it shall be no go ! There 's a way of disturbing this Tub's repose ; So down on your knees. You Bengalese, And prepare to be eaten up, if you please. Here goes ! Here goes ! here goes ! " and he gave a spring. The gentlemen, looking for no such thing, Might have fallen a prey to the Tiger's fling ; But a certain interference. Which bursts from their most intelligent Tub, May enable them to return to their grub. On the selfsame plain a year hence. The Tub, though empty of roll and ration, Is full of a certain preservation. Of which — though it does not follow THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 171 In every case of argumentation It is full because it is hollow. For, not having a top, and no inside thingvS, It turns top-heavy when Tiger springs, And, making a kind of balancing pause, Keeps holding the animal up by his claws, In a manner that seems to fret it ; While Short-and-stout, in a state of doubt, Keeps on his belly a sharp lookout ; And Tall-and-thin, with an impudent grin, Exults in his way, As much as to say, " I only wish you may get it ! But much as I may respect your ability, I don't see at present the great probability." The Tiger has leapt up, heart and soul. It 's clear he meant to go the whole Hog, in his hungry efforts to seize The two defianceful Bengalese. But the Tub ! the Tub ! Ay, there 's the rub ! At present he 's balanced atop of the Tub, His fore legs inside, And the rest of his hide. Not weighing so much as his head and his legs, And having no hand in A pure understandin' Of the just equilibrium of casks and of kegs, Not bred up in attics, Nor taught mathematics. To work out the problems of Euchd with pegs, — He has plunged with the impetus wild of a lover. And the Tub has loomed large, balanced, paused, and turned over. The Tiger at first had a hobby-horse ride, But now he is decently quartered inside ; 1 Y 2 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. And the question is next, long as fortune may frown on him, How the two Bengalese are to keep the Tub down on him. 'Bout this there 's no blunder, The Tiger is under The Tub I My verse need not run To the length of a sonnet, To tell how the Bengalese Both jumped upon it. While the beautiful barrel Keeps acting as bonnet To the Tiger inside. Who no more in his pride Can roam over jungle and plain. But sheltered alike from the sun and the rain. Around its interior his sides deigns to rub With a fearful hub-bub. And longs for his freedom again. The two Bengalese, Not at all at their ease, Hear him roar, And deplore Their prospects as sore. Forgetting both picnic and flask ; Each, wondering, dumb. What of both will become, Helps the other to press on the cask ; Resigned to their fate, But increasing their weight By action of muscle and sinew, In order that forcibly you, Mr. Tub, Whom their niggers this morning Rolled here with their grub, May still keep the Tiger within you. THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 173 On the top of the Tub, In the warmest of shirts, The thhi man stands. While the fat by his skirts Holds, anxiously puffing and blowing ; And the thin peers over the top of the cask, " Is there any hope for us ? " As much as to ask. With a countenance cunning and knowing ; And just as he mournfully 'gins to bewail, In a grief-song that ought to be sung whole, He twigs the long end of the old Tiger's tail As it twists itself out of the bung-hole. Then, sharp on the watch, He gives it a catch. And shouts to the Tiger, " You 've now got your match ; You may rush and may riot, may wriggle and roar, But I 'm blest if I '11 let your tail go any more ! " It 's as safe as a young roasted pig in a larder. And no two Bengalese could hold on by it harder. W^ith the Tiger's tail clenched fast in his fist, And his own coat-tail grasped fast to assist. Stands Tall-and-thin with Short-and-stout, Both on the top of the Tub to scout. Tiger within and they without. And both in a pretty pickle. The Tiger begins by giving a bound ; The Tub 's half turned, but the men are found To have very carefully jumped to the ground — At trifles they must not stickle. It 's no use quaking and turning pale, Pluck and patience must now prevail. They must keep a hold on the Tiger's tail, And neither one be fickle. There they must pull, if they pull for weeks, Straining their stomachs and bursting theii cheeks, 1 7 4 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. WPiile Tiger alternately roars and squeaks, Trying to break away from 'em ; They must keep the Tub turned over his back, And never let his long tail get slack, For fear he should win the day from 'em. Yes, yes, they must hold him tight, From night till morning, from morn till night, — Must n't stop to eat, must n't stop to weep. Must n't stop to drink, must n't stop to sleep, — No cry, no laugh, no rest, no grub, Till they starve the Tiger under the Tub, Till the animal dies, To his own surprise. With two Bengalese in a deadly quarrel, And his tail thrust through the hole of a barrel Oh dear ! oh dear ! it 's very clear They can't live so; but they dare n't let go — Fate for a pitying world to wail, Starving behind a Tiger's tail. If Invention be Necessity's son, Now let him tell them what 's to be done. What 's to be done ! ha ! I see a grin Of joy on the face of Tall-and-thin, Some new device he has hit in a trice, The which he is telhng all about To the gratified gentleman, Short- and -stout. What 's to be done ! what precious fun I Have nH they found out what 's to be done I See ! see ! what glorious glee ! Note ! mark 1 what a capital lark ! Tiger and Tub, and bung-hole and all, Baffled by what is about to befall. Excellent ! marvelous ! beautiful ! 1 h nH it now an original go I Wliat, stop ! I 'm ready to drop. Hold ! stay I I 'm fainting away. THE OLD SEXTON. 176 Laughter I 'm certain will kill me to-day ; And Short-and-stout is bursting his skin, And almost in fits is Tall-and-thin, And Tiger is free, yet they do not quail. Though temper has all gone wrong with him No ! they 've tied a knot in the Tiger's tail. And he carried the Tub along with him ; He 's a freehold for life, with a tail out of joint, And has made his last climax a true knotty point. Frederick W. N. Bayley Ci^e O^lti Sexton. Nigh to a grave that was newly made. Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade ; His work was done, and he paused to wait The funeral-train at the open gate. A relic of by- gone days was he, And his locks were gray as the foamy sea; And these words came from his lips so thin ; " I gather them in — I gather them in — Gather — gather — I gather them in. " I gather them in ; for man and boy, Year after year of grief and joy, I 've builded the houses that lie around In every nook of this burial ground. Mother and daughter, father and son. Come to my sohtude one by one ; But come they stranger, or come they kin, I gather them in — I gather them in. " Many are with me, yet I 'm alone ; I 'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne On a monument slab of marble cold — My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. 1 76 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. Come they fi'om cottage, or come they from hall, Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all ! May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, I gather them in — I gather them in. " I gather them in, and their final rest Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast 1 " And the sexton ceased as the funeral-train Wound mutely over that solemn plain ; And I said to myself : When time is told, A mightier voice than that sexton's old, Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din ; " I gather them in — I gather them in — (rather — gather — gather them in." Park Benjamin. Cf)e Iribate of tfte 13uffs. Last night among his fellow-roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore ; A drunken private of the Buffs, Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, He stands in Elgin's place. Ambassador from Britain's crown, And type of all her race. Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone, A heai-t with English instinct fraught He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord or axe or flame. He only knows that not through him Shall England come to shame. Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed. Like dreams, to come and go; LIGHT. 177 Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, One sheet of living snow ; The smoke above his father's door In gray soft eddyings hung ; Must he then watch it rise no more, Doomed by himself so young ? Yes, honor calls! — with strength like steel He put the vision by ; Let dusky Indians whine and kneel, An EngUsh lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent. Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went. Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed, Vain those all-shattering guns, Unless proud England keep untamed The strong heart of her sons ; So let his name through Europe ring, — A man of mean estate, Who died as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great. Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. From the quickened womb of the primal gloom The sun rolled black and bare. Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast Of the threads of my golden hair ; And when the broad tent of the firmament Arose on its airy spars, I penciled the hue of its matchless blue, And spangled it round with stars. 15* 178 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers, And their leaves of Uving green, And mine were the djes in the sinless eyes Of Eden's virgin queen ; And when the fiend's art on the trustful heart Had fastened its mortal spell, In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear To the trembhng earth I fell. When the waves that burst o'er the world accurs'd Their work of wrath had sped, And the Ark's lone few, the tried and true. Came forth among the dead , With the wond'rous gleams of my bridal beams, I bade their terrors cease, As I wrote, on the roll of the storm's dark scroll, Grod's covenant of peace ! Like a pall at rest on a senseless breast, Night's funeral shadow slept; — Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains Their lonely vigils kept — When I flashed on their sight the heralds bright Of Heaven's redeeming plan, As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born — Joy, joy to the outcast man 1 Equal favor I show to the lofty and low, On the just and unjust I descend ; E'en the bhnd, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and tearg^ Feel my smile, the blest smile of a friend. Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced, As the rose in the garden of Kings ; At the chrysalis bier of the worm I appear, And lo ! the gay butterfly wings. The desolate Morn, hke a mourner forlorn, Conceals all the pride of her charms, A DEATH-BED. 179 Till I bid the bright hours chase night from her bowers, And lead the young day to her arms ; And when the gay Eover seeks Eve for his lover, And sinks to her balmy repose, I wrap their soft rest by the zephyr-fanned west, In curtains of amber and rose. From my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep, I gaze with unslumbering eye, When the cynosure star of the mariner Is blotted from out of the sky ; And guided by me through the merciless sea, Though sped by the hurricane's wings, His compassless bark, lone, weltering, dark, To the haven-home safely he brings. I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowerg, The birds in their chambers of green, And mountain and plain glow with beauty again, As they bask in my matinal sheen. Oh, if such the glad worth of my presence to earth, Though fitful and fleeting the while. What glories must rest on the home of the blest, Ever bright with the Deity's smile I William Pitt Palmer Her suffering ended with the day ; Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long, long night away In statue-hke 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. 1^0 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. It was the calm and silent night I Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars, — Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain: Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight. Centuries ago. 'T was in the calm and silent nightl The senator of haughty Rome, Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home ; Triumphal arches, gleaming, sAvell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away. In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ? Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor ; A streak of hght before him lay. Fallen through a half-shut stable-door, Across his path. He passed, for naught Told what was going on within ; How keen the stars, his only thought — The air, how calm, and cold, and thin, In the solemn midnight. Centuries ago! Oh, strange indifference ! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; THE IVY GREEN. 181 The earth was still, but knew not why ; The world was listening, unaAvaies. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ! It is the calm and solemn night ! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness, charmed and holy now ! The night that erst no name had worn. To it a happy name is given ; For in that stable lay, new-born. The peaceful Prince of earth and lieaven. In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago I Alfred Domett, 0, A DAINTY plant is the ivy green. That creepeth o'er ruins old I Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a stanch old heart has he I 16 182 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. How closely he twiueth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak-tree ! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been ; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past ; For the statehest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Charles Dickens Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, That cut, like blades of steel, the air. Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair ? Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe. Whence come they ? From yon temple, where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. THE POLISH BOY. 183 The dim funereal tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of hght The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that 's kneeling by. What hand is that, whose icy press Chngs to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress ? Ko thrilling fingers seek its clasp. It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there. With pallid lip and stony brow She murmurs forth her anguish now. But hark ! the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the bloody street ; Nearer and nearer yet they come. With clanking arms and noiseless drum. Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep ; The gate is burst; a ruffian band Rush in, and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain. The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child ; Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye. Shouted with fearful energy, " Back, ruffians, back ! nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead ; Nor touch the living boy ; I stand Between him and your lawless band. 1 84 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. Take me, and bind these arms, these handa, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 't will save my child! " " Peace, woman, peace I " the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side, And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door. " One moment! " shrieked the mother; " one I Will land or gold redeem my son ? Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russia's thrall ! Take these ! " and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gem's that gleamed like starhght there ; Her cross of blazing rubies, last, Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store ; — Up springing from the marble floor. The mother, with a cry of joy. Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. But no ! The Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony. But the brave child is roused at length, And, breaking from the Russian's hold. He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. Proudly he towers ; his flashing eye, So blue, and yet so bright, Seems kindled from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its hght. His curling Hps and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks ; THE POLISH BOY. 185 With a full voice of proud command He turned upon the wondering band ; " Ye hold me not ! no 1 no, nor can ; This hour has made the boy a man. I knelt before my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept! I was a child ; but now My noble mother, on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me ! " He drew aside his broidered vest. And there, like slumbering serpent's crest. The jeweled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight. " Ha ! start ye back ? Fool ! coward I knave I Think ye my noble, father's glaive Would drink the life-blood of a slave ? The pearls that on the handle flame, Would blush to rubies in their shame ; The blade would quiver in thy breast Ashamed of such ignoble rest. No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain 1 " A moment, and the funeral light Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright ; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang : ' Up, mother, up ! I 'm free ! I 'm free I The choice was death or slavery. Up, mother, up 1 Look on thy son 1 His freedom is forever won ; And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss, One last embrace, one blessing, — one ! To prove thou know'st, approv'st thy son. 186 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. What ! silent yet ? Canst tliou not feel My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head I What ! silent still ? Then art thou dead ! G-reat Grod, I thank thee ! Mother, I Rejoice with thee, — and thus — to die." One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom, — dead. Ann S. Stephens. 53alafelaba. THE charge at Balaklava ! that rash and fatal charge I Never was a fiercer, braver, Than that charge at Balaklava, On the battle's blood}'' marge ! All the day the Russian columns, Fortress huge, and blazing banks. Poured their dread destructive volumes On the French and Enghsh ranks, — On the gallant alUed ranks ! Earth and sky seemed rent asunder By the loud incessant thunder 1 When a strange but stern command — Needless, heedless, rash command — Came to Lucan's Httle band, — Scarce six hundred men and horses Of those vast contending forces : — " England 's lost unless you save her 1 Charge the pass at Balaklava 1 " that rash and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge I Far away the Russian Eagles Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, And their hordes, like howling beagles, Dense and countless, round them yell I BALAKLAVA. 187 Thundering cannoi, deadly mortar, Sweep tlie field in every quarter ! Never, since the days of Jesus, Trembled so the Chersonesus ! Here behold the G-allic lihes — Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies — Float as erst at old RamilUes ! And beside them, lo ! the Lion ! With her trophied Cross, is flying ! Glorious standards ! — shall they waver On the field of Balaklava ? No, by Heavens ! at that command — Sudden, rash, but stern command — Charges Lucan's little band ! Brave Six Hundred ! lo ! they charge, On the battle's bloody marge I Down yon deep and skirted valley, Where the crowded cannon play, — Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli, — Down that gorge tliey swept away ! • Down the new Thermopylte, Flashing swords and helmets see ! Underneath the iron shower. To the brazen cannon's jaws, Heedless of their deadly power, Press they without fear or pause, — To the very cannon's jaws ! Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland At the field of Roncesvalles, Dashes down the fatal valley. Dashes on the bolt of death, Shouting with his latest breath, " Charge, then, gallants ! do not waver Charge the pass at Balaklava! " that rash and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge I 1 88 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS Now the bolts of volleyed thunder Rend the little band asunder, Steed and rider wildly screaming, Screaming wildly, sink away; Late so proudly, proudly gleaming, Now but lifeless clods of clay, — Now but bleeding clods of clay ! Never since the days of Jesus, Saw such sight the Chersonesus ! Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred, Presses onward, onward, onward, Till they storm the bloody pass, — Till, like brave Leonidas, They storm the deadly pass ! Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli, In that wild shot-rended valley, — Drenched with fire and blood, like lava. Awful pass at Balaklava ! that rash and fatal charge, On that battle's bloody marge ! For now Russia's rallied forces. Swarming hordes of Cossack horses, TrampUng o'er the reeking corses, Drive the thinned assailants back. Drive the feeble remnant back, O'er their late heroic track ! Vain, alas ! now rent and sundered, Yain your struggles, brave Two Hundred ! Thrice your number lie asleep, In that valley dark and deep. Weak and wounded you retire From that hurricane of fire, — That tempestuous storm of fire, — But no soldiers firmer, braver, Ever trod the field of fame, Then the Knights of Balaklava, — Honor to each hero's name 1 THE PA UPER' S DRIVE. 1 8 Yet tlieli- country long shall mourn For her ranks so rashly shorn, — So gallantly, but madly shorn In that fierce and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge. Alexander B. Meek. €f)e Pauper's IBcibe. There s a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot — To the church-yard 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 : Battle Ms bones over the stones ! He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns I Oh, 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 bones over the stones! He 's only a pauper^ whom nobody owns I 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 I The pauper at length makes a noise in the world I Rattle his bones over the stones! He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! 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 the stones ! He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed, Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid 1 16* 190 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. And be joyful to tliink, when by death you 're laid low, You 've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go ! Rattle his hones over the stones ! He 's only a pauper ^ whom nobody owns ! But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad, To think that a heart in humanity clad Should make, hke the brutes, such a desolate end. And depart from the light without leaving a friend. Bear soft his hones over the stones ! Though a pauper^ he 's one whom his Maker yet oivns ! Thomas Noeu ^Florence Uane. 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 1 The ruin, lone and hoary, The ruin old. Where thou didst hark my story, At even told, That spot, the hues elysian Of sky and plain I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane ! Thou wast loveHer than the roses In their prime ; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme ; THE DULE '8 P THIS BONNET 0' MINE 191 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 young graves "weep. The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep, May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. Philip Pendleton Cooke. Ci^e mult '^ V ti)is i3onnet o* Jttme. 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 til' mass, if he'll let me, aw will I When he took my two bonds into his, G-ood Lord, heaw they trembled between I 1 92 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. An' aw durst n't look up in his face, Becose on him seein' my e'en. 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 M^'ong ; 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 't wur thee ? " Aw 'd tak him just while he 's inclined, An' a farrantly bargain he '11 be ; For Jamie 's as greadly a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sun. Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed ; An' mak th' best o' th' job when it 's done ! " Eh, dear ! but it 's time to be gwon : Aw should n't Uke Jamie to wait ; Aw connut for shame be too soon. An' aw would n't for th' wuld be too late. Aw 'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel : Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do ? " Be oif, lass, — thae looks very weel ; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae loo ! " Edwin Wauor ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 193 attajam Umcoln, FIRST PUBLISHED IN PUNCH. Tou lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, Tbw, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, His length of shambUng Hmb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonah, Of power or will to shine, of art to please ; Tow, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain ; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph. Of chief's perplexity or people's pain, — Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew. Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you f Yes : he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil and confute my pen ; To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men. My shallow judgment I had learned to rue. Noting how to occasion's height he rose ; How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true • How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows ; How humble yet how hopeful he could be ; How in good fortune and in ill the same ; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. 17 1 9 4 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. He went about his work, such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, As one who knows, where there 's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command; Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work his will. If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights — The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil. The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toU, The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks. The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,— Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train : Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. So he grew up, a destined work to do, And Hved to do it ; four long-sufifering years' 111 fate, ill feeUng, ill report Uved thi'ough. And then he heard the hisses change to cheers. The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise. And took both with the same unwavering mood, — TiU, as he came on Hght, from darkUng days. And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon hand, between the goal and him. Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest. And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim. Those gaunt, long -laboring limbs were laid to rest. THE MEMOR Y OF THE V E,W. 3 9 The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame. Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high ! Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came ! A deed accursed ! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore ; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out, Yile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven, Ajid with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, Uttle to be forgiven. Tom Taylor. Cf)e i^emorg of tje IBeati. Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? Who blushes at the name ? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, Who hangs his head for shame ? He 's all a knave, or half a slave. Who shghts his country thus ; But a true man, hke you, man, Will fill your glass with us. We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few — Some he far off" beyond the wave — Some sleep in Ireland, too ; All, all are gone — but still lives on The fame of those who died — 1 9 6 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. All true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made ; But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam — In true men, like you, men, Their spirit 's still at home. The dust of some is Irish earth ; Among their own they rest ; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast ; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, hke you, men. To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas I that might can vanquish right — They fell and passed away ; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here 's their memory — may it be For us a guiding Hght, To cheer our strife for liberty. And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate ; And true men, be you, men. Like those of Ninety-Eight 1 John Kells Ingram. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 197 Ct)e 13(bouac oC tje IBtati. The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo ; ISTo more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead. No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind ; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind ; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed ; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade. The bugle's stirring blast. The charge, the dreadful cannonade. The din and shout are past ; Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feel The rapture of the fight. 1 9 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain^ Came down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was " Victory or death." Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain ; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide ; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds Ms strength could bide. 'T was in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their fives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain — And long the pitying sky has wept Above the mouldering slain. The raven's scream, or eagle's flight. Or shepherd's pensive lay. Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody G-round, Ye must not slumber there, NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. 199 Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air ; Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave ; She claims from war his richest spoil — The ashes of her brave. So, 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, On many a bloody shield ; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Eest on, embalmed and sainted dead. Dear as the blood ye gave ; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave ; Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps. Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell ; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's bhght, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb. Theodore O'HarAc iaearer, mg (SotJ, to Cijee. Nearer, my Grod, to thee. Nearer to thee 1 2 00 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me ; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee ! Though, like the wanderer, The sun gone down, Darkness be over me, My rest a stone ; Yet in my dreams I 'd be Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee ! There let the way appear Steps unto heaven ; All that thou sendest me In mercy given ; Angels to beckon me Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee 1 Then with my waking thougnts Bright with thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Bethel I '11 raise ; So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee 1 Or if on joyful wing Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upward I fly ; Still all my song shall be,— Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee. Sarah Flower Adams. LINES ON A SKELETON. 2OI ILines on a 5)keleton. Behold this ruin ! 'T was a skull Once of ethereal spirit full. This narrow cell was Life's retreat, This space was Thought's mysterious seat. What beauteous visions filled this spot, What dreams of pleasure long forgot I Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear. Have left one trace of record here. Beneath this mouldering canopy Once shone the bright and busy eye. But start not at the dismal void, — If social love that eye employed. If with no lawless fire it gleamed. But through the dews of kindness beamed, That eye shall be forever bright When stars and sun are sunk in night. Within this hollow cavern hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue ; If Falsehood's honey it disdained, And when it could not praise was chained ; If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke, — This silent tongue shall plead for thee When Time unveils Eternity I Say, did these fingers delve the mine ? Or with the envied rubies shine ? To hew the rock, or wear a gem, Can little now avail to them. But if the page of Truth they sought, Or comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer meed shall claim Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame. 17* 202 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Avails it whether bare or shod These feet the paths of duty trod ? If from the bowers of Ease they fled, To seek Affliction's humble shed ; If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, And home to Virtue's cot returned, — These feet with angel-wings shall vie, And tread the palace of the sky. Anonymous. Elje ^lace bjere iHan sijoultJ Mt, How little recks it where men he. When once the moment 's past In which the dim and glazing eye Has looked on earth its last, — Whether beneath the sculptured urn The coffined form shall rest. Or in its nakedness return Back to its mother's breast ! Death is a common friend or foe, As different men may hold, And at his summons each must go. The timid and the bold ; But when the spirit, free and warm, Deserts it, as it must. What matter where the hfeless form Dissolves again to dust ? The soldier faUs 'mid corses piled Upon the battle-plain. Where reinless Avar-steeds gallop wild Above the mangled slain ; But though his corse be grim to see. Hoof-trampled on the sod, What recks it, when the spirit free Has soared aloft to God ? A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME. 203 The coward's dying eyes may close Upon his downy bed, And softest hands his hmbs compose, Or garments o'er them spread. But ye who shun the bloody fray, When fall the mangled brave. Go — strip liis coffin-lid away, And see him in his grave I 'T were sweet, indeed, to close our eyes, With those we cherish near, And, wafted upwards by their sighs, Soar to some calmer sphere. But whether on the scaffold high, Or in the battle's van. The fittest place where man can die Is where he dies for man ! Michael Joseph Barrt. a JBuntireli gears to OTome. Where, where will be the birds that sing, A hundred years to come ? The flowers that now in beauty spring, A hundred years to come ? The rosy lips, the lofty broAv, The heart that beats so gayly now. Oh, where will be love's beaming eye, Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, A hundred years to come ? Who '11 press for gold this crowded street, A hundred years to come ? Who '11 tread yon church with willing feet, A hundred years to come? Pale trembling age, and fiery youth, And childhood with its brow of truth : 204 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS, The rich and poor, on land and sea, — Where will the mighty millions be A hundred years to come ? We all within our graves shall sleep, A hundred years to come ; No living soul for us will weep, A hundred years to come. But other men our lands shall till, And others, then, our streets will fill, While other birds will sing as gay, As bright the sunshine as to-day, A hundred years to come. William Goldsmith Brown. ^i&e Song of Steam. Harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein. For I scorn the strength of your puny hands As the tempest scorns a chain. How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight, For many a countless hour. At the childish boast of human might, And the pride of human power. When I saw an army upon the land, A navy upon the seas. Creeping along, a snail-like band, Or waiting the wayward breeze, — When I marked the peasant faintly reel With the toil which he daily bore. As he feebly turned the tardy wheel. Or tugged at the weary oar, — When I measured the panting courser's speed, The flight of the carrier dove, THE SONG OF STEAM 206 As tliey bore the laAV a king decreed, Or the hues of impatient love, I could but think how the world would feel, As these were outstripped. afar, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Or chained to the flying car. Ha, ha, ha ! They found me at last, They invited me forth at length. And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast, And laughed in my iron strength ! Oh 1 then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and the ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind or tide. The ocean pales where'er I sweep, To hear my strength rejoice. And monsters of the briny deep Cower trembling at my voice. I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, The thoughts of his godlike mind ; The wind lags after my going forth. The lightning is left behind. In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine, My tireless arm doth play ; Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, Or the dawn of a glorious day ; I bring earth's ghttering jewels up From the hidden caves below. And I make the fountain's granite cup With a crystal gush o'erflow. I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, In all the shops of trade ; I hammer the ore and turn the wheel Where my arms of strength are made. 18 206 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. I mauage the furnace, the mill, the mint, — I carry, I spin, I weave ; And all my doings I put into print On every Saturday eve. I 've no muscle to w^eary, no brains to decay, No bones to be " laid on the shelf," And soon I intend you may " go and play,'' While I manage the w^orld myself. But harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein. For I scorn the strength of your puny hands As the tempest scorns a chain. GrEOKGK W. CUTTER 5l2af)g ti)m ILongmg? Why thus longing, thus forever sighing. For the far-off, un attained and dim, While the beautiful, all round thee lying, Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still ; Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw — If no silken cord of love hath bound thee To some little world through weal and woe ; If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten — No fond voices answer to thine own ; If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten, By daily sympathy and gentle tone. NOTHING TO WEAVx. 207 Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, Not by works that give thee world-renown, Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Every day a rich reward will give ; Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, And truly loving, thou canst truly Hve. Dost thou revel in the rosy morning, When all nature hails the lord of light. And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning, Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright ? Other hands may grasp the field and forest. Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ; But with fervent love if thou adorest, Thou art wealthier — all the world is thine. Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest, Sighing that they are not thine alone, Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest, And their beauty and thy wealth are gone. Nature wears the color of the spirit ; Sweetly to her worshiper she sings ; All the glow, the grace she doth inherit. Round her trusting child she fondly flings. Harriet Winslow Sewalu iaot!)mg to ©Hear. Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, Has made three separate journeys to Paris, And her father assures me, each time she was there, That she and her friend Mrs. Harris 208 SimiE FAMOUS POEMS. (Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery) Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping, In one continuous round of shopping, — Shopping alone, and shopping together, At all horj'S of the day, and in all sorts of weather, For all manner of things that a woman can put On the crown of her head, or the soul of her foot, Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, Or tied with a string, or stitched with a bow, In front or behind, above or below ; For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; Dresses for breakfast, and dinners, and balls ; Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; Dresses for Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall ; — All of them different in color and shape, Silk, musUn, and lace, velvet, satin, and crape, Brocade and broadcloth, and other material, Quite as expensive and much more ethereal ; In short, for all things that could ever be thought of. Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of, From ten-thousand-fi-anc robes to twenty-sous frills ; In all quarters of Paris, and to every store. While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore, They footed the streets, and he footed the bills ! The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Argo, Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, Sufficient to fill the largest sized chest. Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, But for which the ladies themselves manifested Such particular interest, that they invested Their own proper persons in layers and rows NOTHING TO WEAB. 209 Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes, Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those ; Then, wrapped in great shawls, Mke Circassian beauties, Gave good by to the ship, and go by to the duties. Her relations at home all marveled, no doubt, Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout For an actual belle and a possible bride ; But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out. And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside ; Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-House sentry, Had entered the port without any entry. And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, This same Miss M'FUmsey, of Madison Square, The last time we met was in utter despair, Because she had nothing whatever to wear ! Nothing to wear ! Now, as this is a true ditty, I do not assert — this, you know, is between us — That she 's in a state of absolute nudity, Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus; But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, When at the same moment she had on a dress Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less. And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess. That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear I I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, I had just been selected as he who should throw all The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections, Of those fossil remains which she called her " aflfections,*' And that rather decayed, but well-known work of art, Which Miss Flora persisted in styling her " heart." So we were engaged. Our troth had been pUghted, 2 1 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove, But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted, Beneath the gas-fixtures, we whispered our love. Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes, Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions. It was one of the quietest business transactions. With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis, And by way of putting me quite at my ease, " You know I 'm to polka as much as I please. And flirt when I like— now, stop, do n't you speak— And you must not come here more than twice in the week. Or talk to me either at party or ball, But always be ready to come when I call ; So do n't prose to me about duty and stuflf. If we do n't break this off, there will be time enough For that sort of thing ; but the bargain must be That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free, — For this is a kind of engagement, you see. Which is binding on you, but not binding on me." Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder At least in the property, and the best right To appear as its escort by day and by night ; And it being the week of the Stuckup's grand ball,— Their cards had been out a fortnight or so. And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe, — I considered it only my duty to call, And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her — as ladies are apt to be found, When the time intervening between the first sound NOTHING TO WEAR. 211 Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual— I found; I won't say— I caught her, Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning To see if perhaps it did n't need cleaning. She turned as I entered— " Why, Harry, you sinner,^ I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner! " " So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is swallowed. And digested, I trust, for 't is now nine and more, So being reheved from that duty, I followed Inchnation, which led me, you see, to your door ; And now will your ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend (All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) To the Stuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow ? " The fan- Flora looked up, with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, " Why, Harry, mon cher, I should hke above all things to go with you there, But really and truly— I 've nothing to wear." •• Nothing to wear ! go just as you are ; Wear the dress you have on, and you '11 be by far, I engage, the most bright and particular star On the Stuckup horizon—" I stopped, for her eye, Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, Opened on me at once a most terrible battery Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, But gave a sUght turn to the end of her nose, ■ (That pure Grrecian feature,) as much to say, " How absurd that any sane man should suppose That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, No matter how fine, that she wears every day ! " So I ventured again : " Wear your crimson brocade ; ' (Second turn up of nose)—" That 's too dark by a shade." *Tour blue silk"— "That 's too heavy." "Your pmk"— " That's too Hght." "Wear tulle over satin"— "I can't endure white." 212 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. " Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch. ' " I have n't a thread of point-lace to match." " Your brown inotre antique " — " Yes, and look like a Qua- ker ; " " The pearl-colored " — " I would, but that plaguy dress- maker Has had it a week." — " Then that exquisite lilac, In which you would melt the heart of a Shy lock ; " (Here the nose took again the same elevation) — " I would n't wear that for the whole of creation." " Why not ? It 's my fancy, there 's nothing could strike it As moie comme il fauV — "Yes, but, dear me, that lean Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." " Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine ; That superb 'point d'aigidlle, that imperial green. That zephyr-like tarletan, that rich grenadine " — " Not one of all which is fit to be seen," Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. "Then wear," I exclaimed in a tone which quite crushed Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which you sported In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation, And by all the grand court were so very much courted." The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, " I have M^orn it three times, at the least calculation. And that and most of my dresses are ripped up ! " Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash. Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an expression More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," And proved very soon the last of our session. " Fiddlesticks, is it, su- ? I wonder the ceiling Does n't faU down and crush you, — you men have no feel NOTHING TO WEAR. 213 You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers, Your silly pretense, — why, what a mere guess it is! Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities ? I have told you and shown you I 've nothing to wear, And it 's perfectly plain you not only do n't care, But you do not believe me," (here the nose went still higher.) * I suppose, if you dared, you Avould call me a liar. Our engagement is ended, sir, — yes, on the spot; You *re a brute, and a monster, and — I do n't know what.' I mildly suggested the words Hottentot, Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief. As gentle expletives which might give relief; But this only proved as a spark to the powder, And the storm I had raised came faster and louder ; It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed To express the abusive, and then its arrears Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears, And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too, Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo. In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say ; Then, without going through the form of a bow, Found myself in the entry, I hardly knew how. On door-step and side-walk, past lamp-post and square. At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair ; Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, And said to myself, as I lit my cigar, * Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, On the whole do you think he would have much to spare, If he married a woman with nothing to wear ? " Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited 18* 2 1 4 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. Abroad in society, I 've instituted A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, On this vital subject, and find, to my horror, That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising. But that there exists the greatest distress In our female community, solely arising From this unsupphed destitution of dress, Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air With the pitiful wail of " Nothing to wear." Researches in some of the " Upper Ten " districts Reveal the most painful and startling statistics, Of wliich let me mention only a few : In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two, Who have been three whole weeks without anything new In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch. Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. In another large mansion, near the same place, Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case Of entire destitution of Brussels point-lace. In a neighboring block there was found, in three calls, Total want, long continued, of camel' s-hair shawls ; And a suffering family, whose case exhibits The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ; One deserving young lady almost unable To survive for the want of a new Russian sable ; Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, In which were ingulfed, not friend or relation, (For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation, Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation,) But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars, And all as to style most recherche and rare. The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear, And renders her fife so drear and dyspeptic NOTHING TO WEAR. 215 That she 's quite a recluse, and almost a skeptic, For she touchingly says, that this sort of grief Cannot find in Rehgion the slightest relief, And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare For the victims of such overwhelming despair. But the saddest, by far, of all these sad features, Is the cruelty practiced upon the poor creatures By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons, Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds By their wives and their daughters, and leave them for days UnsuppHed with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets. Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance, And deride their demands as useless extravagance ; One case of a bride was brought to my view. Too sad for belief, but, alas! 't was too true, Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. The consequence was, that when she got there. At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear, And when she proposed to finish the season At Newport, the monster refused, out and out. For his infamous conduct alleging no reason. Except that the waters were good for his gout ; Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course. And proceedings are now going on for divorce. But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain From these scenes of woe ? Enough, it is certain. Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity Of every benevolent heart in the city. And spur up Humanity into a canter To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. Won't somebody, moved by this touching description, Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription ? Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is So needed at once by these indigent ladies. Take charge of the matter? Or won't Peter Cooper 216 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. The corner-stone lay of some new splendid super- Structure, like that which to-day links his name In the Union unending of Honor and Fame, And found a new charity just for the care Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear, Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed, The Laying-out Hospital well might be named ? Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers, Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters ? Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses, Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and thornier, Won't some one discover a new California ? ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, And the temples of Trade which tower on each side, To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Gruilt Their children have gathered, their city have built ; Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt. Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt. Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold ; See those skeleton Umbs, those frost-bitten feet, All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street ; Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor; Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell, As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door ; Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare, — Spoiled children of fashion, — you 've nothing to wear ! And 0, if perchance there should be a sphere Where all is made right which so puzzles us here. ANTONY AND CLEOfATllA. 217 Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of Time Fade and die in the light of that region sublime, Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, Unscreened by its trappings and shows and pretense. Must be clothed for the life and the service above. With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love, daughters of Earth ! foolish virgins, beware ! Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear ! William Allen Butler. Entong anti (meopatra. I AM dyuig, Egypt, dying. Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, And the dark Plutonian shadows Gather on the evening blast ; Let thine arms, Queen, infold me ; Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear ; Listen to the great heart-secrets, Thou, and thou alone, must hear. Though my scarred and veteran legions Bear their eagles high no more. And my wrecked and scattered galleys Strew dark Actium's fatal shore ; Though no glittering guards surround me^ Prompt to do their master's will, I must perish like a Roman, Die the great Triumvir still. Let not Caesar's servile minions Mock the Uon thus laid low ; 'T was no foeman's arm that felled him — 'T was his own that struck the blow, — His who, pillowed on thy bosom, Turned aside from glory's ray — His who, drunk with thy caresses, Madly threw a world away. 19 218 SIKGLE FAMO US P 0£!MS. Should the base plebeian rabble Dare assail my name at Rome, Where my noble spouse, Octavia, Weeps within her widowed home, Seek her ; say the gods bear witness — Altars, augurs, circling wings — That her blood, with mine commingled, Yet shall mount the thi-one of kings. As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian ! Glorious sorceress of the Nile, Light the path to Stygian horrors With the splendors of thy smile. Give the Caesar crowns and arches, Let his brow the laurel twine ; I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, Triumphing in love like thine. I am dying, Egypt, dying; Hark ! the insulting f oeman's cry. They are coming ! quick, my falchion ! Let me front them ere I die. Ah ! no more amid the battle Shall my heart exulting swell — Isis and Osiris guard thee ! Cleopatra, Rome, farewell ! William Haines liYTLB. ^f)e Kautilus anti tj)e liumonite. The nautilus and the ammonite Were launched in friendly strife, Each sent to float in its tiny boat On the wild, wide sea of hfe. For each could swim on the ocean's brim, And, when wearied, its sail could furl, TEE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE. 219 And sink to sleep in the great sea-deep, In its palace all of pearl. And theirs was a bliss more fair than this Which we taste in our colder time ; For they were rife in a tropic life — A brighter and better clime. They swam 'mid isles whose summer smiles Were dimmed by no alloy ; Whose groves Avere palm, whose air was balm, Where life was only joy. They sailed all day through creek and bay, And traversed the ocean deep ; And at night they sank on a coral bank, In its fairy bowers to sleep. And the monsters vast of ages past They beheld in their ocean caves ; They saw them ride in their power and pride, And sink in their deep-sea graves. And hand in hand, from strand to strand. They sailed in mirth and glee ; These fairy shells, Avith their crystal cells, Twin sisters of the sea. But they came at last to a sea long past. And as they reached its shore, The Almighty's breath spoke out in death, And the ammonite was no more. So the nautilus now in its shelly prow, As over the deep it strays, Still seems to seek, in bay and creek. Its companion of other days. 220 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS And alike do we, on life's stormy sea, As Ave roam from shore to shore, Thus tempest-tossed, seek the loved, the lost, And find them on earth no more. Yet the hope how sweet, again to meet. As we look to a distant strand, Where heart meets heart, and no more they part Who meet in that better land. Gr. F. Richardson. In their ragged regimentals Stood the old Continentals, Yielding not, When the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon-shot ; When the files Of the isles, [rampant From ine smoKy night encampment, bore the banner of the Unicorn, [drummer. And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the Through the morn I Then with eyes to the front all, And with guns horizontal, Stood our sires ; And the balls whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly Blazed the fires; As the roar On the shore, Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain ; And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain I DOBIS. 221 Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red St. George's Cannoneers ; And the " villainous saltpetre " Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears ; As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guard's clangor On our flanks. Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks 1 Then the old-fashioned colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud ; And his broadsAvord was swinging, And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet loud. Then the blue Bullets flew. And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath ; And rounder, rounder, rounder roared the iron six-poimder Hurling death I Guy Humphrey McMaster. I SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden ; Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers. I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling. And shadows steaHng for hours and hours. And she my Doris, whose lap incloses Wild summer roses of faint perfume, The while I sued her, kept hushed and hearkened Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 222 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. She touched my shoulder with fearful finger ; Sae said, " We linger, we must not stay ; My flock 's in danger, my sheep will wander ; Behold them yonder, how far they stray I " I answered bolder, " Nay, let me hear you, And still be near you, and still adore ! No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling — Ah ! stay my darling a moment more I " She whispered sighing, " There will be sorrow Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded — I shall be scolded and sent away ! " Said I replying, " If they do miss you. They ought to kiss you when you get home ; And well rewarded by friend and neighbor Should be the labor from which you come." " They might remember," she answered meekly, " That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild ; But if they love me it 's none so fervent — I am a servant and not a child." Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, And love did win me to swift reply : " Ah ! do but prove me, and none shall bind you, Nor fray nor find you until I die ! " She blushed and started, and stood awaiting. As if debating in dreams divine; But I did brave them —I told her plainly. She doubted vainly, she must be mine. So we twin-hearted, from all the valley Did rouse and rally her nibbUng ewes ; And homeward drove them, we two together, Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE. 223 That simple duty such grace did lend her, My Doris tender, my Doris true, That I her warder did always bless her, And often press her to take her due. And now in beauty she fills my dwelUng With love excelling, and undefiled ; And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent. No more a servant, nor yet a child. Arthur Munby. Cfte <^x\Xt to ijig m^iit. Come to me, darhng, I 'm lonely without thee ; Day-time and night-time I 'm dreaming about thee ; Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold thee. Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten ; Come in thy beauty, to bless and to brighten ; Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly ; Come in thy loveliness, queenly and holy. Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin. Telling of Spring and its joyous renewing ; As thoughts of thy love and its manifest treasure Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. Spring of my heart ! May of my bosom ! Shine out on my soul till it bourgeon and blossom. The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. Figure which moves like a song through the even. Features lit up with a reflex of heaven, Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, Where sunshine and shadow are chasing each other ; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple ; And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple ; 0, thanks to the Saviour that even the seeming Is left to the exile, to brighten his dreaming. 224 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened ; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love ; I cannot smile but your cheeks will be glowing ; You cannot weep but my tears will be flowing ; You will not linger when I shall have died, love ; I could not live without you at my side, love. Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow ; Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow ; Come swift and strong as the words which I speak, love, With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love ; Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary ; Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary ; Come to the arms which alone shall caress thee ; Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee. Joseph Brenan. lilocit 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 forhead 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 ! I have grown weary of dust and decay, — Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; Weary of sowing for otiiers to reap ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep 1 ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 225 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, mother, my heart calls for you ! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between ; Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again ; Come from the silence so long and so deep ;- Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep I Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 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 ; — Bock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Elizabeth Akers Allen, 19* 226 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. (Bnl)} a 13at)g SmalU Only a baby small, Dropt from the skies , Only a laughing face, Two smmy eyes; Only two cherry lips, One chubby nose ; Only two little hands, Ten little toes. Only a golden head. Curly and soft ; Only a tongue that wags Loudly and oft; Only a little brain, Empty of thought ; Only a little heart, Troubled with nought. Only a tender flower Sent us to rear ; Only a life to love While we are here ; Only a baby small. Never at rest ; Small, but how dear to us, God knoweth best. Matthias Barr Cf)e gollg <©lti ^etjagofiue. 'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, Tall and slender, and sallow, and dry ; His form was bent, and his gait was slow. His long, thin hair was as white as snow ; But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye, TEE JOLL Y OLD FED A GOGUE. 221 And he sang every night as he went to bed, " Let us be happy down here below ; The Hving should hve, though the dead be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He taught his scholars the rule of three, Writing, and reading, and history too, Taking the little ones on his knee, For a kind old heart in his breast had he. And the wants of the smallest child he knew : " Learn while you 're young," he often said, " There is much to enjoy down here below ; Life for the living, and rest for the dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. With stupidest boys, he was kind and cool. Speaking only in gentlest tones ; The rod was scarcely known in his school ; Whipping to him was a barbarous rule, And too hard work for his poor old bones; "Besides, it was painful," — he sometimes said, " We should make hfe pleasant here below. The hving need charity more than the dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He hved in the house by the hawthorn lane. With roses and woodbine over the door ; His rooms were quiet and neat and plain. But a spirit of comfort there held reign. And made him forget he was old and poor. " I need so httle," he often said, " And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. But th3 most pleasant times that he had, of all, Were the sociable hours he used to pass, 228 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's vvaii, Making an unceremonious call, Over a pipe and a friendly glass; — "This was the sweetest pleasure," he said, " Of the many I share in here below ; Who has no cronies, had better be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. The jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face Melted all over in sunshiny smiles ; — He stirred his glass with an old-school grace. Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles;— " I 'm a pretty old man," he gently said, " I 've lingered a long while here below, But my heart is fresh, if my youth be fled ! " Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He smoked his pipe in the balmy air. Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving its tenderest kisses there On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown ; And feeling the kisses, he smiled and said, " 'T is a glorious world down here below ; Why wait for happiness till we are dead ? " Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He sat at his door one midsummer night, After the sun had sunk in the west, And the lingering beams of golden light Made his kindly old face look warm and bright, While the odorous night-wind whispered " Rest I Gently, gently he bowed his head, — There were angels waiting for him, I know ; He was sure of happiness, hving or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. George Arnold. ODE ON THE CENTENARY OF BURNS. 229 <©tje on tf)e aTentenarg of l^urnjs. We hail this morn A century's noblest birth j A Poet peasant-born, Who more of Fame's immortal dower Unto his country brings Than all her kings ! As lamps high set Upon some earthly eminence ; And to the gazer brighter thence Than the sphere Hghts they flout — Dwindle in distance and die out, While no star waneth yet ; So through the past's far-reaching night Only the star-souls keep their light A gentle boy, With moods of sadness and of mirth, Quick tears and sudden joy, G-rew up beside the peasant's hearth. His father's toil he shares ; But half his mother's cares From his dark, searching eyes, Too swift to sympathize, Hid in her heart she bears. At early morn His father calls him to the field ; Through i he stiff soil that clogs his feet, Chill rain, and harvest heat, He plods all day ; returns at eve outworn. To the rude fare a peasant's lot doth yield — To what else was he bom ? The God-made king Of every hving thing ; 20 330 SINGLE FAMOUS FOEMS. (For his great heart in love could hold them all) ; The dumb eyes meeting his by hearth and stall- Gifted to understand ! — Knew it and sought his hand ; And the most timorous cretaure had not fled Could she his heart have read, Which fain all feeble things had blessed and sheltered To Nature's feast, Who knew her noblest guest And entertained him best, Kingly he came. Her chambers of the east She draped with crimson and with gold, And poured her pure joy wines For him the poet-souled ; For him her anthem rolled From the storm-wind among the winter pines, Down to the slenderest note Of a love-warble from the hnnet's throat. But when begins The array for battle, and the trumpet blows, A king must leave the feast and lead the fight j And with its mortal foes, G-rim gathering hosts of sorrows and of sins, Each human soul must close ; And Fame her trumpet blew Before him, wrapped him in her purple state, And made him mark for all the shafts of Fate That henceforth round him flew. Though he may yield. Hard-pressed, and wounded fall Forsaken on the field ; His regal vestments soiled ; His crown of half its jewels spoiled j He is a king for all. ODE ON THE CENTENARY OF BURNS. 231 Had he but stood aloof I Had he arrayed himseK in armor proof Against temptation's darts I So yearn the good — so those the world calls wise, With vain, presumptuous hearts, Triumphant moralize. Of martyr-woe A sacred shadow on his memory rests — Tears have not ceased to flow — Indignant grief yet stirs impetuous breasts, To think — above that noble soul brought low, That wise and soaring spirit fooled, enslaved — Thus, thus he had been saved ! It might not be 1 That heart of harmony Had been too rudely rent ; Its silver chords, which any hand could wound, By no hand could be tuned. Save by the Maker of the instrument, Its every string who knew, And from profaning touch his heavenly gift withdrew. Regretful love His country fain would prove, By grateful honors lavished on his grave ; Would fain redeem her blame That he so Httle at her hands can claim. Who unrewarded gave To her his life-bought gift of song and fame. The land he trod Hath now become a place of pilgrimage ; Where dearer are the daisies of the sod That could his song engage. The hoary hawthorn, wreathed Above the bank on which his limbs he flung 232 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. While some sweet plaint he breathed ; The streams he wandered near ; The maidens whom he loved ; the songs he sung — All, all are dear 1 The arch blue eyes — Arch but for love's disguise — Of Scotland's daughters, soften at his strain ; Her hardy sons, sent forth across the main To drive the plowshare through earth's virgin soils, Lighten with it their toils : And sister-lands have learned to love the tongue In which such songs are sung. For doth not song To the whole world belong ? Is it not given wherever tears can fall, Wherever hearts can melt, or blushes glow, Or mirth and sadness mingle as they flow, A heritage to all ? IsA Craig Knox. <©bet tf)t iafber. Over the river they beckon to me — Loved ones who 've passed to the further 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 BIVEB. 233 Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet ; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — Darhng Minnie I 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 grew strangely dark ; We know she is safe on the further side, Where all the ransomed and angels be — Over the river, the mystic 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 I they have passed from our yearning heart, They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the vaU apart That hides from our vision the gates of day ; We only know that their barks no more May sail with us o'er hfe'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. Nanoy Priest Wakefield. 234 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. " Come a little nearer, Doctor, — thank you I — let me take the cup : Draw your chair up, — draw it closer, — ^just another little sup! May be you may think I 'm better ; but I 'm pretty well used up, — Doctor, you 've done all you could do, but I 'm just a going up I " Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much use to try"- " Never say that," said the Surgeon, as he smothered down a sigh ; "It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die! " " What you say will make no difference. Doctor, when you come to die. " Doctor, what has been the matter ? " " You were very faint, they say ; You must try to get to sleep now." " Doctor, have I been away?" "Not that anybody knows of!" "Doctor — Doctor, please to stay ! There is something I must tell you, and you won't have long to stay I " I have got my marching orders, and I 'm ready now to go ; Doctor, did you say I fainted ? — but it could n't ha' been so, — For as sure as I 'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shi- loh, I 've this very night been back there, on the old field of Shi loh! THE OLD SERGEANT. 235 " Tliis is all that I remember : The last time the Lighter came, And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much the same, He had not been gone five minutes before something called my name: ' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton 1 ' — just that way it called my name. " And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so slow, Knew it could n't be the Lighter, — he could not have spoken so ; And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir ! ' but I could n't make it go; For I could n't move a muscle, and I could n't make it go ! " Then I thought : It 's all a nightmare, all a humbug and a bore; Just another foolish grape-vine^ — and it won't come any more; But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as be- fore: * Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton I ' even plainer than before. " That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of hght. And I stood beside the River, where we stood that Sunday night. Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluflfs opposite, When the river was perdition and all hell was opposite ! *•' And the same old palpitation came again in all its power. And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celestial Tower; ♦Canard. 236 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. And the same mysterious voice said : ' It is the eleventh hour! Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton — It is the eleventh HOUR ! ' 'Doctor Austin! — vs^hat day is this?" "It is Wednesd?iy night, you knovs^." '•Yes, — to-morrov7 will be New Year's, and a right good time below ! What time is it, Doctor Austin ? " " Nearly Twelve." " Then do n't you go ! Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an hour ago ! " There was where the gun-boats opened on the dark, re- bellious host ; And where Webster semicircled his last guns upon the coast ; There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else their ghost, — And the same old transport came and took me over — or its ghost ! "And the old field lay before me all deserted far and wide; There was where they fell on Prentiss, — there McClernand met the tide ; There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurl- but's heroes died, — Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept charging till he died. " There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of the canny kin. There was where old Nelson thundered, and where Eous- seau waded in ; There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all began tc win — There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we be- gan to win. THE OLD SERGEANT. 237 " Now, a shroud of snow and silence over everything was spread ; And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my head, I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I waa dead, — For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead ! " Death and silence I — Death and silence ! all around me aa I sped ! And behold, a mighty Tower, as if builded to the dead, — To the Heaven of the heavens, lifted up its mighty head, Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed waving from its head I " Round and mighty-based it towered — up into the infinite — And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so bright ; For it shone hke solid sunshine ; and a winding stair of light. Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out of sight I " And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and dazzled stare, — Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great . Stair,— Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of — ' Halt, and who goes there ! ' * I 'm a friend,' I said, ' if you are.' — ' Then advance, sir, to the Stair I ' *I advanced! — That sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballan- tyne ! — First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line: 20* 238 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. * Welcome, my old Sergjeant, welcome 1 Welcome by that countersign ! ' And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine! " As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the grave ; But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and bloodless glaive : * That 's the way, sir, to Head-quarters.' — * What Head- quarters? ' — * Of the Brave.' * But the great Tower ? ' — ' That,' he answered, 'Is the way, sir, of the Brave ! ' •' Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of light ; At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and bright ; ' Ah ! ' said he, ' you have forgotten the New Uniform to- night,— Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-night ! ' ' And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, and I — Doctor — did you hear a footstep ? Hark ! — Grod bless you all ! aood-by ! Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when Idle, To my Son — my Son that 's coming, — he won't get here till I die! " Tell him his old father blessed him as he never did before, — And to carry that old musket" — Harkl a knock is at the door ! — " Till the Union "—See ! it opens !— " Father 1 Father ! speak once more ! " Bless youf'^ — gasped the old gray Sergeant, and he lay and said no more. FORCEYTHE WiLLSON. TOO LATE. 239 Edo Eate. " Ahl si la jeunesse savait,— si la vleillesse pouvaiti " There sat an old man on a rock, And unceasing bewailed him of Fate, — That concern where we all must take stock, Though our vote has no hearing or weight ; And the old man sang him an old, old song, — Never sang voice so clear and strong That it could drown the old man's for long, For he sang the song " Too late ! too late I " • Wlien we want, we have for our pains The promise that if we but wait Till the want has burned out of our brains, Every means shall be present to state ; While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold. While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old. When we 've matched our buttons the pattern is sold And everything comes too late, — too late ! " When strawberries seemed like red heavens, — Terrapin stew a wild dream, — When my brain was at sixes and sevens, If my mother had ' folks ' and ice cream. Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger At the restaurant man and fruit-monger, — But oh ! how I wished I were younger When the goodies all came in a stream I in a stream » " I 've a splendid blood horse, and — a liver That it jars into torture to trot; My row-boat 's the gem of the river, — Gout makes every knuckle a knot ! I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome, But no palate for menus,— no eyes for a dome, — Those belonged to the youth who must tarry at home^ When no home but an attic he 'd got, — he 'd got I 240 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. " How I longed, in that lonest of garrets, Where the tiles baked my brains aU July, For ground to grow two pecks of carrots, Two pigs of my own in a sty, A rosebush, — a Httle thatched cottage, — Two spoons — love — a basin of pottage I — Now in freestone I sit, — and my dotage, — With a woman's chair empty close by, close by I " Ah ! now, though I sit on a rock, I have shared one seat with the great; I have sat — knowing naught of the clock — On love's high throne of state ; But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed, To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed. And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed. Had they only not come too late, — too late 1 " FiTZ Hugh Ludlow. aSEJat tf)e Q^nti sf)all fie. When another life is added To the heaving, turbid mass ; When another breath of being Stains creation's tarnished glass ; When the first cry, weak and piteous, Heralds long-enduring pain. And a soul from non-existence Springs, that ne'er can die again ; When the mother's passionate welcome, Sorrow-hke, bursts forth in tears, And a sire's self-gratulation Prophesies of future years. — It is well we cannot see What the end shall be. When across the infant features Trembles the faint dawn of mind. WHAT THE END SHALL BR 241 Aud the heart looks from the windows Of the eyes that were so Wind ; When the inarticulate murmurs Syllable each swaddled thought, To the fond ear of aflfection With a boundless promise fraught ; KindUng great hopes for to-morrow From that dull, uncertain ray. As by gUmmering of the twilight Is foreshown the perfect day, — It is well we cannot see What the end shall be. When the boy, upon the threshold Of his all-comprising home, Puts aside the arm maternal That enlocks him ere he roam ; When the canvas of his vessel Flutters to the favoring gale. Years of solitary exile Hid behind the sunny sail : When his pulses beat with ardor, And his sinews stretch for toil, And a hundred bold emprises Lure him to that eastern soil, — It is well we cannot see What the end shall be. When the youth beside the maiden Looks into her credulous eyes. And the heart upon the surface Shines too happy to be wise ; He by speeches less than gestures Hinteth what her hopes expound, Laying out the waste hereafter Like enchanted garden-ground ; He may falter — so do many ; She may suffer 80 must all: 21 242 SINGLE FAMOUS FOEMS. j3oth may yet, world-disappomted, This lost hour of love recall, — It is well we cannot see What the end shall be. When the altar of religion Greets the expectant bridal pair, And the vow that lasts till dying Vibrates on the sacred air ; When man's lavish protestations Doubts of after-change defy, Comforting the frailer spirit Bound his servitor for aye ; When beneath love's silver moonbeams Many rocks in shadow sleep, Undiscovered, till possession Shows the danger of the deep, — It is well we cannot see What the end shall be. Whatsoever is beginning, That is wrought by human skill ; Every daring emanation Of the mind's ambitious will ; Every first impulse of passion, Gush of love or twinge of hate ; Every launch upon the waters Wide-horizoned by our fate ; Every venture in the chances Of life's sad, oft desperate game, Whatsoever be our motive. Whatsoever be our aim, — It is well we cannot see What the end shall be. Frances Browne. (?) THE TWO WORLDS. 243 CJe €too 2l2Eorlbg. Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain, Whose magic joys we shall not see again ; Bright haze of morning veils its ghmmering shore. Ah, truly breathed we there Intoxicating air — Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of Nevermore. The lover there drank her delicious breath Whose love has yielded since to change or death ; The mother kissed her child, whose days are o'er. Alas ! too soon have fled The irreclaimable dead : We see them — visions strange — amid the Nevermore. The merrysome maiden used to sing — The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling To temples long clay-cold : to the very core They strike our weary hearts. As some vexed memory starts From that long faded land — the realm of Nevermore. It is perpetual summer there. But here Sadly may we remember rivers clear, And harebells quivering on the meadow-floor. For brighter bells and bluer. For tenderer hearts and truer People that happy land — the realm of Nevermore. Upon the frontier of this shadowy land We pilgrims of eternal sorrow stand : What realm Ues forward, with its happier store 244 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Of forests green and deep, Of valleys hushed in sleep, And lakes most peaceful ? 'T is the land of Evermore. Very far off its marble cities seem — Very far off — beyond our sensual dream — Its woods, unruffled by the wild wind's roar ; Yet does the turbulent surge Howl on its very verge. One moment — and we breathe within the Evermore. They whom we loved and lost so long ago Dwell in those cities, far from mortal wo — Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carol ing5 soar. Eternal peace have they ; God wipes their tears away : They drink that river of life which flows from Evermore. Thither we hasten through these regions dim, But, lo, the wide wings of the Seraphim Shine in the sunset! On that joyous shore Our lightened hearts shall know The hf e of long ago : The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for Evermore. Mortimer Collins. i^am on tje i^oof. When the humid shadows hover Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness Q-ently weeps in rainy tears, RAIN ON THE ROOF. 245 What a bliss to press the pillow Of a cottage-chamber bed And to listen to the patter Of the soft rain overhead I Every tinkle on the shingles Has an echo in the heart j And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start, And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woo^ As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. Now in memory comes my mother, As she used long years agone, To regard the darhng dreamers Ere she left them tiU the dawn : 1 I see her leaning o'er me, As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. Then my httle seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brother — A serene angelic pair ! — Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof. As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes, to thriU me With her eyes' delicious blue ; And I mind not, musing on her, That her heart was all untrue : I remember but to love her With a passion kin to pain. 246 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. And my heart's quick pulses vibrate To the patter of the rain. Art hath naught of tone or cadence That can work with such a spell In the soul's mysterious fountains, Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of nature, That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. CoATES Kinney. Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown, TirUn' 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' hke the moon, RattUn' in an aim jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumbhn' tumblin' roun' about, crowin' like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk. Hey, WiUie Winkie ! the wean 's in a creel 1 Waumblin' aflf a body's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravelhn' 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. That 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 Miller. THE OLD CANOK ^47 CJe (©Iti Canoe, Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, And the waters below look dark and deep, Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride, Leans gloomily over the murky tide. Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank. Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,— There hes at its moorings the old canoe. The useless paddles are idly dropped, Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm had lopped, And crossed on the railing one o'er one, Like the folded hands when the work is done ; While busily back and forth between The spider stretches his silvery screen. And the solemn owl, with his dull " too-hoo," Settles down on the side of the old canoe. The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave, Rots slowly away in its living grave. And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay, Hiding its mouldering dust away, Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower ; While many a blossom of loveliest hue Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe. The currentless waters are dead and still, But the light wind plays with the boat at will. And lazily in and out again It floats the length of the rusty chain. Like the weary march of the hands of time. That meet and part at the noontide chime ; And the shore is kissed at each turning anew, By the drippling bow of the old canoe. 248 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS, Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, And paddled it down where the stream runs quick, Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick, And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side, And looked below in the broken tide, To see that the faces and boats were two, That were mirrored back from the old canoe. But now, as I lean o'er the crumbUng side. And look below in the sluggish tide, The face that I see there is graver grown, And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone, And the hands that lent to the light skiflf wings Have grown familiar with sterner things. But I love to think of the hours that sped As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe. Emily Rebecca Page. K very old man In an alms-liouse was asked what he was dolnjT now He replied, " Only waiting." Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown ; Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown ; Till the night of earth is faded From the heart once full of day ; Till the stars of heaven are breaking Tlu-ough the twilight soft and gray. Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home; THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 249 For the summer-time is faded, And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers, gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart. Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate, At whose feet I long have Hngered, Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear the footsteps, And their voices far away ; If they call me, I am waiting, Only waiting to obey. Only waiting till the shadows Are a Httle longer grown ; Only waiting till the gUmmer Of the day's last beam is flown ; Then from out the gathered darkness, Holy, deathless stars shall rise, By whose Hght my soul shall gladly Tread its pathway to the skies. Frances Laughton Mace. * And be t>url^ him In a valley in the land of Moab, over agaluiA Beth -peor ; ont no man knoweth of his sepulchre imto this day." Dkut %x^U : 6. By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave ; But no man dug that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, 21* 250 SimZE FAMO US POEMS. For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the tramping, Or saw the train go forth ; Noiselessly as the daylight Comes when tlie night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun, — Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves. And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves, — So, without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle. On gray Beth-peor's height. Out of his rocky eyrie. Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking, Still shuns the hallowed spot ; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. Lo I when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war. With arms reversed, and muffled drum, Follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken. They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun. THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 351 Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place, With costly marble dressed, In the great minster transept, Where lights like glories fall, And the choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned wall. This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword ; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word ; And never earth's philosopher Traced, with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor ? The hill-side for his pall, To lie in state while angels wait, With stars for tapers tall ; And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave ; And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave, — In that deep grave, without a name. Whence his uncofl&ned clay Shall break again, — wondrous thought 1 — Before the judgment day ; And stand, with glory wrapped around, On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life, With the incarnate Son of God. lonely tomb in Moab's land I dark Beth-peor's hill 1 Zb'Z SINGLE FAMO U8 P OEMS. Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of grace, — Ways that we cannot tell ; He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well. Cecil Frances Alexander i^tiUon's ^rager of ^patience. I AM old and bhnd ! Men point at me as smitten by G-od's frown ; Afflicted and deserted of my kind, Yet am I not cast down. I am weak, yet strong : I murmur not that I no longer see ; Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, Father Supreme, to Thee. merciful One ! When men are farthest, then art Thou most near : When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear. Thy glorious face Is leaning towards me, and its holy light Shines in upon my lonely dwelUng-place, — And there is no more night. On my bended knee, I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown ; My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see Thyself— Thyself alone. 1 have naught to fear ; This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing ; Beneath it I am almost sacred, — here Can come no evil thing. CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGET. 253 Oh, I seem to stand Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapped in the radiance of Thy sinless hand Which eye hath never seen. Visions come and go, — Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng ; From angel lips I seem to hear the flow Of soft and holy song. It is nothing now, — When Heaven is ripening on my sightless eyes, When airs from Paradise refresh my brow. That earth in darkness lies. In a purer clime, My being fills with rapture, — waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit, — strains sublime Break over me unsought. G-ive me now my lyre ! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine ; Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, Lit by no skill of mine. Elizabeth Lloyd Howell. Olurfeto ifEust not l^mg Co:=nifl]&t, England s sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day; And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden fair, He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, floating hair ; He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, " Curfew must not ring to-night" 22 254 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. " Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its walls so dark and gloomy, — walls so dark, and damp, and cold, — " I 've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell Avill not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers, " Curfew must not ring to-night." " Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton — every word pierced her young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows — like a deadly poisoned dart; * Long, long years I 've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower ; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour ; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, Now I 'm old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings to- night!" Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, And within her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn vow; She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, " At the ringing of the Curfew — Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright — One low murmur, scarcely spoken — " Curfew must not ring to-night ! " She with Ught step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door. Left the old man coming slowly, paths he 'd trod so oft be- fore ; CUBFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 255 Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow, Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro : Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of hght. Upward still, her pale Hps saying: "Curfew shall not ring to-night." She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell, And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell; See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 't is the hour of Curfew now — And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring ? No, never ! her eyes flash with sud- den light. As she springs and grasps it firmly — ''Curfew shall not ring to-night 1 " Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck be- low; There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro ; And the half-deaf Saxon ringing (years he had not heard the bell,) And he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell ; Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white. Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating — " Curfew shall not ring to-nighV It was o'er — the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years before 256 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Human foot had not been planted; and what she this night had done, Should be told in long years after — as the rays of setting sun Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires with heads of white, Tell their children why the Curfew did not ring that one sad night. O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, and her brow, Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden beauty now ; At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all bruised and torn ; And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity — lit his eyes with misty light; **Go, your lover lives!" cried Cromwell; "Curfew shall not ring to-night." Rosa Hartwick Thorpe. Mebelrg in innia. We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, And the walls around are bare ; As they echo the peals of laughter It seems that the dead are there ; But stand to your glasses steady, We drink to our comrades' eyes ; Quaff a cup to the dead already — And hurrah for the next that dies I Not here are the goblets flowing, Not here is the vintage sweet ; *T is cold, as our hearts are growing, And dark as the doom we meet. BEVELEY IN INDIA. 257 But stand to your glasses steady, And soon shall our pulses rise ; A cup to the dead already — Hurrah for the next that dies I Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, Not a tear for the friends that sink ; We '11 fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles, As mute as the wine we drink. So stand to your glasses steady, 'T is in this that our respite hes ; One cup to the dead already — Hurrah for the next that dies 1 Time was when we frowned at others, We thought we were wiser then ; Ha ! ha 1 let those think of their mothers, Who hope to see them again. No ! stand to your glasses steady. The thoughtless are here the wise ; A cup to the dead already — Hurrah for the next that dies I There 's many a hand that 's shaking, There 's many a cheek that 's sunk ; But soon, though our hearts are breaking, They 'U burn with the wine we 've drunk. So stand to your glasses steady, 'T is here the revival Ues; A cup to the dead akeady — Hurrah for the next that dies ! There 's a mist on the glass congealing, 'T is the hurricane's fiery breath ; And thus does the warmth of feeUng Turn ice in the grasp of death. Ho I stand to your glasses steady ; For a moment the vapor flies ; 258 SINGLE FAMO US F OEMS. A cup to the dead already — Hurrah for the next that dies ! Who dreads to the dust returning ? Who shrinks from the sable shore, Where the high and haughty yearning Of the soul shall sing no more ? Ho ! stand to your glasses steady ; This world is a world of lies ; A cup to the dead already — Hurrah for the next that dies ! Cut oflf from the land that bore us, Betrayed by the land we find, Where the brightest have gone before us, And the dullest remain behind — Stand, stand to your glasses steady ! 'T is aU we have left to prize ; A cup to the dead aheady — And hurrah for the next that dies ! Bartholomew Dowling, Cf)e Hi'gmfl of tje ifHoon. " 0, THEN tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Tell me why you hurry so." " Hush, ma bouchal, hush and hsten,"- And his cheeks were aU aglow. " I bear ordhers from the captain, G-et you ready quick and soon. For the pikes must be together At the risin' of the moon." " 0, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Where the gatherin' is to be." " In the ould spot by the river. Right well known to you and me. MY MARYLAND. 259 One word more — for signal token Whistle up the marchin' tune, With your pike upon your shoulder, By the risin' of the moon." Out from many a mud-wall cabin Eyes were watching through that night ; Many a manly chest was throbbing For the blessed warning hght. Murmurs passed along the valleys, Like the banshee's lonely croon, And a thousand blades were flashing, At the rising of the moon. There beside the singing river That dark mass of men was seen ; Far above the shining weapons Hung their own beloved green. " Death to every foe and traitor ! Forward ! strike the marchin' tune, And hurrah, my boys, for freedom I — 'T is the risin' of the moon." Well they fought for poor old Ireland, And full bitter was their fate. 0, what glorious pride and sorrow Fill the name of Ninety-Eight ! Yet, thank God! e'en still are beating Hearts in manhood's burning noon, Who would follow in their footsteps At the risin' of the moon. John K. Casey. The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland I His torch ia at thy temple door, Maryland ! 260 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS, Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle queen of yore, Maryland, My Maryland ! Hark to a wandering son's appeal, Maryland ! My mother state, to thee I kneel, Maryland I For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, My Maryland I Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland ! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland I Remember Carroll's sacred trust. Remember Howard's warlike thrust, And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, My Maryland. Come, 't is the red dawn of the day, Maryland 1 Come with thy panoplied array, Maryland 1 With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. With Watson's blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland, My Maryland. Dear mother, burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland I Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland ! She meets her sisters on the plain ; " Sic semper ! " 't is the proud refrain, 261 MT MARYLAND. That baffles minions back amain, Maryland, My Maryland 1 Come, for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland ! Come, for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland I Come to thine own heroic thronof. That stalks with liberty along, And give a new key to thy song, Maryland, My Maryland I I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland ! But thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland 1 But lo 1 there surges forth a shriek From hill to hill, from creek to creek; Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, My Maryland I Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland ! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland 1 Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, My Maryland ! I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland ! The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum, Maryland ! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb- Huzza I she spurns the Northern scum ; She breathes, she burns — she '11 come ! she 'II come Maryland, My Maryland 1 James R. Randall. 262 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. (Eibil SHar. " Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot Straight at the heart of yon prowhng vidette; Ring me a ball in the gUttering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet 1 " *' Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There 's music around when my barrel 's in tune 1 " Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped. And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. "Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood ; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud 1 " " Oh captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette, For he looked so hke you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. " But I snatched ofi" the trinket, — this locket of gold ; An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." " Ha ! rifleman, fling me the locket ! — 't is she. My brother's young bride, — and the fallen dragoon Was her husband — Hush! soldier, 't was Heaven's decree, We must bury him there, by the light of the moon 1 " But, hark ! the far bugles their warnings unite ; War is a virtue, weakness a sin ; There 's a lurking and loping around us to-night;— Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in ! " Charles Dawson Shanlt (?) TEE PICKET GUARD. 263 " All quiet along the Potomac," they say, " Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'T is nothing — a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle ; Not an officer lost — only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." All quiet along the Potomac to-night. Where the soldiers he peacefully dreaming ; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the hght of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night- wind Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping ; While stars up above, with their ghttering eyes. Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. There 's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack — his face, dark and grim, Grrows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep — For their mother — may Heaven defend her I The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are weUing, And gathers his gun closer up to its place As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 264 SINGLE FAMOUS F OEMS, He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree — The footstep is lagging and weary ; Yet onward he goes, thi-ough the broad belt of light, Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark 1 was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? It looked hke a rifle—" Ah ! Mary, good-bye 1 " And the hfe-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river ; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — The picket 's off duty forever. Ethel Lynn Beers. Ci)e (Eountecjsifin. Alas ! the weary hours pass slow, The night is very dark and still. And in the marshes far below I hear the bearded whippoorwilL I scarce can see a yard ahead ; My ears are strained to catch each sound ; I hear the leaves about me shed, And the spring's bubbling through the ground. Along the beaten path I pace, Where white rags mark my sentry's track ; In formless shrubs I seem to trace The f oeman's form, with bending back ; I think I see him croucliing low — I stop and list — I stoop and peer, Until the neighboring hillocks grow To groups of soldiers far and near. With ready piece I wait and watch, Until my eyes, familiar grown, SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA. 265 Detect each harmless earthen notch, And turn guerillas into stone ; And then amid the lonely gloom, Beneath the tall old chestnut trees. My silent marches I resume. And think of other times than these. " Halt ! who goes there ? " my challenge cry, It rings along the watchful Hne ; " ReHef 1 " I hear a voice reply — " Advance, and give the countersig-n 1 " With bayonet at the charge I wait — The corporal gives the mystic spell ; With arms aport I charge my mate, Then onward pass, and all is well. But in the tent that night awake, I ask, if in the fray I fall. Can I the mystic answer make, When the angelic sentries call ? And pray that Heaven may so ordain, Where'er I go, what fate be mine. Whether in pleasure or in pain, I still may have the countersign. ANONTMOUa SSetman'^ i^arcf) to X\^t Sea. Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain That frowned on the river below. As we stood by our guns in the morning, And eagerly watched for the foe ; When a rider came out of the darkness That hung over mountain and tree, A.nd shouted, " Boys, up and be ready 1 Vor Skerman will march to the seal " 266 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman Went up from each valley and glen, And the bugles re-echoed the music That came from the Hps of the men ; For we knew that the stars in our banner More bright in their splendor would be, And that blessings from Northland would greet u& When Sherman marched down to the sea. Then forward, boys 1 forward to battle 1 We marched on our wearisome way, We stormed the wild hills of Eesaca — G-od bless those who fell on that day I Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory. Frowned down on the flag of the free; But the East and the West bore our standard And Sherman marched on to the sea. Still onward we pressed, till our banners Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, And the blood of the patriot dampened The soil where the traitor-flag falls ; We paused not to weep for the fallen, Who slept by each river and tree, Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel. As Sherman marched down to the sea. Oh, proud was our army that morning, That stood where the pine darkly towers, When Sherman said, " Boys, you are weary, But to-day fair Savannah is ours ! " Then sang we the song of our chieftain, That echoed o'er river and lea, And the stars in our banner shone brighter When Sherman marched down to the sea Samuel H. M. Bykrs. DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 267 ©ribmg J^ome tJje aiob)is. Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river-lane ; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again. Under the willows, and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober paoe ; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face Only a boy 1 and his father had said He never could let his youngest go ; Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the tramphng foe. But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow -swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun And stealthily followed the foot-path damp Across the clover and through the wheat With resolute heart and purpose grim. Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the bhnd bat's flitting startled him. Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; And now, when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home. For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain ; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again. The summer day grew cool and late, He went for the cows when the work was done ; 268 SINGLE FAMO US P OEiMS. But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming one by one, — Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, — But who was it following close behind ? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue ; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Looked out a face that the father knew. For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again ; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane. The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; For the heart must speak when the Mps are dumb ; And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home. Kate Putnam Osgood. popping OTorn, And there they sat, a-popping corn, John Styles and Susan Cutter — John Styles as fat as any ox. And Susan fat as butter. And there they sat and shelled the corn. And raked and stirred the fire, And talked of different kinds of corn, And hitched their chairs up nigher. Then Susan she the popper shook, Then John he shook the popper, THE TWINS. 269 Till both their faces grew as red As saucepans made of copper. And then they shelled, and popped, and ate, All kinds of fun a-poking, While he haw-hawed at her remarks. And she laughed at his joking. And still they popped, and still they ate— John's mouth was like a hopper — And stirred the fire, and sprinkled salt, And shook and shook the popper. The clock struck nine — the clock struck ten, And still the corn kept popping ; It struck eleven, and then struck twelve, And still no signs of stopping. And John he ate, and Sue she thought — The corn did pop and patter — Till John cried out, " The corn 's a-fire ! Why, Susan, what 's the matter?" Said sne, " John Styles, it 's one o'clock ; You '11 die of indigestion ; I 'm sick of all this popping corn — Why don't you pop the question?" ANONTMOUe. In form and feature, face and limbj I grew so like my brother, That folks got taking me for him, And each for one another. It puzzled all our kith and kin, It reached a fearful pitch ; 270 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. For one of us was born a twin, And not a soul knew which. One day to make the matter worse, Before our names were fixed, As we were being washed by nurse, We got completely mixed ; And thus, you see, by fate's decree, Or rather nurse's whim, My brother John got clu-istened me, And I got christened him. This fatal hkeness ever dogged My footsteps when at school, And I was always getting flogged, When John turned out a fooL I put this question, fruitlessly. To every one I knew, " What would you do, if you were me, To prove that you were you." Our close resemblance turned the tide Of my domestic life. For somehow, my intended bride Became my brother's wife. In fact, year after year the same Absurd mistakes went on. And when I died, the neighbors came And buried brother John. Henry S. LEioa a Hittle (Sfoose. The chill November day was done. The working world home faring ; The wind came roaring through the streets And set the gas-lights flaring ; .1 LITTLE GOOSE, 271 And hopelessly and aimlessly The scared old leaves were flying ; When, mingled with the sighing wind, I heard a small voice crying. And shivering on the corner stood A child of four, or over ; No cloak or hat her small, soft arms, And wind blown curls to cover. Her dimpled face was stained with tears ; Her round blue eyes ran over ; She cherished in her wee, cold hand, A bunch of faded clover. And one hand round her treasure while She slipped in mine the other : Half scared, half confidential, said, " Oh ! please, I want my mother ! ' " Tell me your street and number, pet : Do n't cry, I '11 take you to it." Sobbing she answered, " I forget: The organ made me do it " He came and played at Milly's steps, The monkey took the money ; And so I followed down the street, The monkey was so funny. I 've walked about a hundred hours, From one street to another : The monkey 's gone, I 've spoiled my flowers, Oh ! please, I want my mother." " But what 's your mother's name ? and what The street ? Now think a minute." " My mother's name is mamma dear — The street — I can't begin it." " But what is strange about the house, Or new — not Uke the others ? " 272 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS, " I guess you mean my trundle-bed, Mine and my little brother's. '* Oh dear I I ought to be at home To help him say his prayers, — He 's such a baby he forgets ; And we are both such players ; — And there 's a bar to keep us both From pitching on each other, For Harry rolls when he 's asleep : Oh dear 1 I want my mother." The sky grew stormy ; people passed All muffled, homeward faring : You '11 have to spend the night with me," I said at last, despairing. I tied a kerchief round her neck — " What ribbon 's this, my blossom ? " " Why do n't you know ? " she smiling, said, And drew it from her bosom. A card with number, street, and name ; My eyes astonished met it ; " For," said the little one, " you see I might sometimes forget it : And so I wear a Uttle thing That tells you all about it ; For mother says she 's very sure I should get lost without it." Eliza Sproat Turner. A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, Your tired knee that has so much to bear ; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. TmEB MOTHERS. 273 Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight ; You do not prize this blessing overmuch, — You almost are too tired to pray to-night. But it is blessedness I A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day — We are so dull and thankless ; and too slow To catch the sunshine till it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange^ to me, That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The httle child that brought me only good. And if, some night when you sit down to rest, You miss this elbow from your tired knee, — This restless curhng head from oflP your breast, — This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; If fhe white feet into their grave had tripped, 1 could not blame you for your heartache then. I wonder so that mothers ever fret At httle children chnging to their gown ; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor, — If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot. And hear it patter in my house once more, — If I could mend a broken cart to-day. To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than L But ah 1 the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a shining head; 2 74 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. My singing birdling from its nest is flown, — The little boy I used to kiss is dead 1 May Riley Smith. When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, The Uttle ones gather around me To bid me good-night and be kissed : Oh, the Uttle white arms that encircle My neck in their tender embrace I Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven. Shedding sunshine of love on my face 1 And when they are gone I sit dreaming Of my childhood too lovely to last ; Of joy that my heart will remember. While it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin. When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountains of feeling wiU flow. When I think of the paths, steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must go j Of the mountains of Sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild ; Oh I there 's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child 3 They are idols of hearts and of households; They are angels of Grod in disguise ; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still gleams in their eyes. Those truants from home and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild I TEE CHLLDREK. 275 And I know, now, how Jesus could liken The kingdom of Grod to a child. I ask not a life for the dear ones, All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun ; I would pray G-od to guard them from evil. But my prayer would bound back to myself ; Ah 1 a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himsell The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule and the rod ; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God ; My heart is the dungeon of darkness. Where I shut them for breaking a rule ; My frown is sufficient correction ; My love is the law of the school I shall leave the old house in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more ; Ah I how I shall sigh for the dear ones, That meet me each morn at the door ; I shall miss the " good nights " and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee. The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning for me. I shall miss them at morn and at even. Their song in the school and the street ; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their dehcate feet. When the lessons of life are all ended, And death says " the school is dismissed," May the little ones gather around me. To bid me good-night and be kissed ! Charles M. Diokinsoic. 276 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. CJe ISurial of Sit Sof)n iEoote. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the strugghng moonbeam's misty light, And the lanthorn dimly burning. No useless cofl&n enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow ; Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. SONO.—IF I HAD THOUGHT, 211 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — But we left him alone with his glory. Charles Wolfe. Song ~5f i i&ati Ciftourtt. If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee ; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be. It never through my mind had passed^ The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou wouldst smile no more. And still upon that face I look. And think 't will smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain. But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid, And now I feel, as well I may. Sweet Mary, thou art dead If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art^ All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own ; But there I lay thee in thy grave, And I am now alone. I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me ; 24 278 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. And I perhaps may soothe this heart In thinking too of thee ; Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore. Charles Wolfb. Song.— <^o, dForget Mt* G-o, forget me ! Why should sorrow O'er that brow a shadow fling ? Go, forget me, and to-morrow Brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile — though I shall not be near thee. Sing — though I shall never hear thee. May thy soul with pleasure shine, Lasting as the gloom of mine. Like the Sun, thy presence glowing Clothes the meanest things in light ; And when thou, like him, art going, LoveUest objects fade in night. All things looked so bright about thee, That they nothing seem without thee ; By that pure and lucid mind Earthly things are too refined. Go, thou vision wildly gleaming, Softly on my soul that fell ; Go, for me no longer beaming — Hope and Beauty, fare ye well I Go, and all that once dehghted Take, and leave me all benighted : Glory's burning, generous swell, Fancy, and the poet's shell Charles Wolfb, A JAVANESE POEM, 219 LympTia pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit. The modest water saw its Grod, and blushed. Richard Crashaw. a Sfabanese ^Poem, I DO not know where I shall die. I saw the great sea on the south coast, when I was there with my father making salt. If I die at sea, and my body is thrown into the deep water, then sharks will come : They will swim round my corpse, and ask, '' Which of us shall devour the body that goes down into the water?" I shall not hear it. I do not know where I shall die. I saw in a blaze the house of Pa-Ausoe, Which he himself had set on fire because he was mata- glap. If I die in a burning house, glowing embers will fall on my corpse. And outside the house there will be many cries of men throwing water on the fire to kUl it. I shall not hear it. I do not know where I shall die. I saw the httle Si-Oenah fall out of a klappa tree, when he plucked the klappa for his mother. If I fall out of a klappa tree, I shall lie dead below in the shrubs, like Si-Oenah. Then my mother will not ^Yeep, for she is dead. But others will say with a loud voice, "See, there lies Saidjah I " I shall not hear it. Mata-glap, insane. Klappa, cocoanut. 28a SINGLE FAMO U8 P0EM8. I do not know where I shall die. I have seen the corpse of Pa-Lisoe, who died of old age, for his hairs were white. If I die of old age, with white hairs, hired women will stand weeping near my corpse, And they will make lamentations, as did the mourners over Pa-Lisoe's corpse ; And the grandchildren will weep very loud. I shall not hear it. I do not know where I shall die. I have seen at Badoer many that were dead. They were dressed in white shrouds, and were buried in the earth. If I die at Badoer, and am buried beyond the village, east- ward against the hill where the grass is high. Then will Adinda pass by there, and the border of her sarong will sweep softly along the grass. I shall hear it. Eduard Douwes Dekkeb. !R'ansh,ted by Baron Alphonse Nahuys. The wind blows over the Yukon. My husband hunts the deer on the Koyukun mountaing. Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one. There is no wood for the fire. The stone axe is broken, my husband carries the other. Where is the sun- warmth ? Hid in the dam of the be^ayer, waiting the spring-time. Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not. Look not for ukali, old woman. Long since the cache was emptied, and the crow does not light on the ridge-pole. A YUKON CBADLE-SOm. 281 Long since my husband departed. Why does he wait in the mountains ? Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, softly. Where is my own ? Does he he starving on the hillside? Why does he linger? Comes he not soon, I will seek him among the mountains. Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, sleep. The crow has come, laughing. His beak is red, his eyes glisten, the false one ! " Thanks for a good meal to Kuskokala the shaman. On the sharp mountain quietly lies your husband." Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not. " Twenty deers' tongues tied to the pack on his shoulders ; Not a tongue in his mouth to call to his wife with. Wolves, foxes, and ravens are tearing and fighting for mor- sels. Tough and hard are the sinews ; not so the child in your bosom." Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, httle one, wake not. Over the mountain slowly staggers the hunter. Two bucks' thighs on his shoulders, with bladders of fat between them. Twenty deers' tongues in his belt. Gro, gather wood, old woman ! Off flew the crow — har, cheat, and deceiver I Wake, little sleeper, wake, and call to your father. He brings you buckfat, marrow, and venison fresh from the mountain. Tired and worn, he has carved a toy of the deer's horn. While he was sitting and waiting long for the deer on the hillside. Wake, and see the crow, hiding himself from the arrow I Wake, little one, wake, for here is your father. HYanslated ly W. H. Dall. 282 SINGLE FAMOUS POEM& Ci)e passage. Many a year is in its grave, Since 1 crossed this restless wave; And the evening, fair as ever, Shines on ruin, rock, and river. Then, in this same boat, beside, Sat tv70 comrades, old and tried ; One with all a father's truth. One with all the fire of youth. One on earth in silence wrought, And his grave in silence sought ; But the younger, brighter form Passed in battle and in storm. So, whene'er I turn my eye Back upon the days gone by. Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, Friends who closed their course before me. Yet what binds us friend to friend, But that soul with soul can blend ? Soul-like were those hours of yore ; Let us walk in soul once more ! Take, boatman, thrice thy fee ; Take — I give it wiUingly ; For, invisible to thee. Spirits twain have crossed with me. LuDwiG Uhland. Tramlated by Sarah Austin. 'B.XiXi Jgatfiatoap. Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng. With love's sweet notes to grace your song, ANN HATHAWAY, 28S To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, Listen to mine Ann Hathaway 1 She hath a way to sing so clear, Phoebus might wondering stop to hear. To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, And nature charm, Ann hath a way ; She hath a way, Ann Hathaway ; To breathe delight, Ann hath a way. When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth Do soil and bite fair worth and truth. And merit to distress betray, To soothe the heart, Ann hath a way. She hath a way to chase despair. To heal all grief, to cure all care, Turn foulest night to fairest day, Thou know'st, fond heart, Ann hath a way, She hath a way, Ann Hathaway ; To make grief bliss, Ann hath a way. Talk not of gems, the orient list, The diamond, topaz, amethyst, The emerald mild, the ruby gay, Talk of my gem, Ann Hathaway. She hath a way, with her bright eye, Their various lustre to defy, — The jewels she, and the foil they, So sweet to look Ann Hathaway, She hath a way, Ann Hathaway ; To shame bright gems, Ann hath a way. But were it to my fancy given. To rate her charms, I 'd call them heaven; For though a mortal made of clay, Angels must love Ann Hathaway ; 2 84 SINGLE FAMO U8 POEMS, She hath a way so to control^ To rapture the imprisoned soul, And sweetest heaven on earth display, That to be heaven Ann hath a way ; She hath a way, Ann Hathaway ; To be heaven's self, Ann hath a way. Attributed to Shakespeare. As one who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, but hopes again, erewhile, To share their converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart, — Thus, loved associates ! chiefs of elder art ! Teachers of wisdom ! who could once beguile My tedious hours, and Hghten every toil, I now resign you — nor with fainting heart. For, pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold. And all your sacred fellowship restore ; When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold. And kindred spirits meet to part no more. William Roscoe. " Lovely river, lovely river, to float upon thy stream I to rest on thee forever, Life a long, delicious dream ! " There are forms about me winging. Far too bright for mortal eye. There are thoughts within me springing, That would make it sweet to die." WE PABTED IK 8ILENGE 286 Where the sparkling crystal waters Shot in music from their cell, Couched on rose, the fountain's daughters AVitohed the working of their spell. Hylas, hark ! the breeze is gushing Through thy gallant vessel's sail. Hylas, hark ! the tide is rushing — Hark ! the sailors' parting hail I But a nobler fate has found thee Than was e'er by valor won ; And a deeper spell has bound thee Than was e'er by man undone. O'er the crystal waters bending, Low he dips the marble urn ; Thoughts of home and anguish blending With the dreams that in him burn. Deeper still the charm is stealing — Forms of beauty crowd the shore, Till his brain and eye are reehng — In he plunges — all is o'er I In the naiads' bosom ever, Vainly now by hill and grove, Ocean's marge, and sacred river, Shalt thou seek him, son of Jove. Anonymous. Mae lartetr m Silence. We parted in silence, we parted by night, On the banks of that lonely river; Where the fragrant hmes their boughs unite, We met — and we parted for ever. 24* 286 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. The night-bird sang, 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 hps that echoed the sounds of mine, Are as cold as that lonely river ; And that eye, that beautiful spirit'3 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 by-gone years Shall hang o'er its waters forever. Julia Crawford. Vanitas Vanitatnm. The stream that hurries by your fixed shore. Returns no more ; The wind that dries at morn yon dewy lawn Breathes and is gone ; Those withered flowers to summer's ripening glow No more shall blow ; Those fallen leaves that strew yon garden bed For aye are dead ; On shore, or sea, or hill, or vale, or plain, Naught shall remain ; Vainly for sunshine fled, and joys gone by, We heave a sigh ; VANITAS VANITATUM. 287 On, ever on, with unexhausted breath, Time hastes to death ; Even with each word we speak a moment flies — Is born and dies ; Of all for which poor mortals vainly mourn, Naught shall return ; Life hath its home in heaven and earth beneath, And so hath death ; Not all the chains that clank in eastern clime Can fetter time ; For all the phials in the doctor's store Youth comes no more ; No drugs on age's wrinkled cheek renew Life's early hue ; Not all the tears by pious mourners shed Can wake the dead. If thus through lesser nature's empire wide Nothing abide — If wind, and wave, and leaf, and sun, and flower, Have all their hour — He walks on ice whose dallying spirit clings To earthly things ; And he alone is wise whose well taught love Is fixed above : Truths firm and bright, but oft to mortal ear ChilHng and drear ; Harsh as the raven's croak the sounds that tell Of pleasure's knell. Pray, reader, that the minstrel's strain Not all be vain ; And when thou bend'st to G-od the suppHant knee. Remember me. Gerald Q-riffin. 288 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS, Mournfully listening to the waves' strange talk, And marking with a sad and moistened eye The summer days sink down behind the sea, — Sink down beneath the level brine, and fall Into the Hades of forgotten things, — A mighty longing stealeth o'er the soul ; As of a man who panteth to behold His idol in another land, — if yet Her heart be treasured for him, — if her eyes Have yet the old love in them. Even so, With passion strong as love and deep as death, Yearneth the spirit after Wonderland. Ah, happy, happy land ! The busy soul Calls up in pictures of the half-shut eye Thy shores of splendor. As a fair blind girl, Who thinks the roses must be beautiful. But cannot see their beauty. Olden tones, Borne on the bosom of the breeze from far, — Angels that came to the young heart in dreams. And then like birds of passage flew away, — Return. The rugged steersman at the wheel Softens into a cloudy shape. The sails Move to a music of their own. Brave bark, Speed well, and bear us unto Wonderland 1 Leave far behind thee the vext earth, where men Spend their dark days in weaving their own shrouds And Fraud and Wrong are crowned kings; and Toil Hath chains for Hire ; and all Creation groans, Crying, in its great bitterness, to God ; And Love can never speak the thing it feels, Or save the thing it loves, — is succorless. For if one say, " I love thee," what poor words They are ! Whilst they are spoken, the beloved Traveleth as a doomed lamb the road of death; NATHAN HALS. 2g# And sorrow blanches the fair hair, and pales The tinted cheek. Not so in Wonderland. There larger natures sport themselves at ease 'Neath kindlier suns that nurture fairer flowers, And richer harvests billow in the vales, And passionate kisses fall on godlike brows As summer rain. And never know they there The passion that is desolation's prey ; The bitter tears begotten of farewells ; Endless renunciations, when the heart Loseth the all it lived for ; vows forgot, Cold looks, estranged voices, — all the woes That poison earth's dehght. For love endures, Nor fades nor changes, in the Wonderland. Alas I the rugged steersman at the wheel Comes back again to vision. The hoarse sea Speaketh from its great heart of discontent, And in the misty distance dies away. The Wonderland ! — 'T is past and gone. soul. Whilst yet unbodied thou didst summer there, God saw thee, led thee forth from thy green haunts, And bade thee know another world less fair, Less calm. Ambition, knowledge, and desire Drove from thee thy first worship. Live and learn, BeMeve and wait, — and it may be that he Will guide thee back again to Wonderland. Cradook Newton. Nathan J^ale, To drum-beat and heart-beat, A soldier marches by : There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat In a moment he must die. 25 290 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. By starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton's camp ; He hears the rustUng flag, And the armed sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp. With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented Une ; And he counts the battery guns By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Grives no warning sign. The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance ; And it sparkles 'neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance— A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse. A sharp clang, a steel clang, And terror in the sound I For the sentry, falcon-eyed, In the camp a spy hath found ; With a sharp clang, a steel clang. The patriot is bound. With calm brow, steady brow, He listens to his doom ; In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadow-trace of gloom ; But with calm brow and steady broW He robes him for the tomb. In the long night, the still nighty He kneels upon the sod ; TBE BLUE AND THE GBAT, 2dl And the brutal guards withhold E'en the solemn Word of G-od! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod, 'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree ; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for Liberty ; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn. His spirit- wings are free. But his last words, his message-words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die. With his last words, his dying words, A soldier's battle-cry. From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, From monument and urn. The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn ; And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf The name of Hale shall burn I Francis Miles Finoh. By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the judgment day ; Under the one, the Blue ; Under the other, the Gray. 492 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat; All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the j udgment day ; Under the laurel, the Blue ; Under the willow, the G-ray. From the silence of sorrowful hours. The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe ; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day ; Under the roses, the Blue ; Under the lilies, the Gray. So, with an equal splendor. The morning sun-rays fall. With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all ; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day ; Broidered with gold, the Blue ; Mellowed with gold, the Q-ray. So, when the Summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain ; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue ; Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; THE DEATH OF KING BOMB A. 293 In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won ; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day ; Under the blossoms, the Blue ; Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger for ever, When they laurel the graves of our dead. Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day ; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and Love for the Gray. Francis Miles Finch. tUte IBeati) of Minq 13omt)a. Could I pass those lounging sentries, Through the aloe-bordered entries, Up the sweep of squalid stair. On through chamber after chamber, Where the sunshine's gold and amber Turn decay to beauty rare, — I should reach a guarded portal, Where, for strife of issue mortal. Face to face two kings are met: One the grisly King of Terrors; One a Bourbon, with his errors. Late to conscience-clearing set. Well his fevered pulse may flutter, And the priests their mass may mutter With such fervor as they may ; Cross and chrism and genuflection, Mop and mow and interjection, Will not frighten Death away. 2 94 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. By the dying despot sitting, At the hard heart's portals hitting, Shocking the dull brain to work, Death makes clear what life has hidden, Chides what life has left unchidden, Quickens truth life tried to burke. He but ruled within his borders After Holy Church's orders. Did what Austria bade him do, — By their guidance flogged and tortured High-born men, and gently nurtinred Chained with crime's felonious crew. What if summer fevers gripped them, What if winter freezings nipped them, Till they rotted in their chains ? He had word of Pope and Kaiser — None could hoUer be or wiser ; Theirs the counsel, his the reins. So he pleads excuses eager, Clutching with his fingers meagre At the bed-clothes as he speaks ; But King Death sits grimly grinning At the Bourbon's cobweb-spinning, As each cobweb-cable breaks. And the poor soul from life's islet, Eudderless, without a pilot, Drifteth slowly down the dark; While 'mid rolhng incense vapor, Chanted dirge, and flaring taper. Lies the body, stifi* and stark. Anonymous. Love, whose patient pilgrim feet Life's longest path have trod. TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. 295 Whose ministry hath symboled sweet The dearer love of God, — The sacred myrtle wreathes again Thine altar, as of old ; And what was green with summer then, Is mellowed now to gold. Not now, as then, the Future's face Is flushed with fancy's hght ; But Memory, with a milder grace, Shall rule the feast to-night. Blest was the sun of joy that shone, Nor less the blinding shower — The bud of fifty years agone Is Love's perfected flower. Memory, ope thy mystic door 1 dream of youth, return 1 And let the hghts that gleamed of yore Beside this altar burn 1 The past is plain ; 't was Love designed E'en Sorrow's iron chain. And Mercy's shining thread has twined With the dark warp of Pain. So be it still. thou who hast That younger bridal blest. Till the May-morn of love has passed To evening's golden west. Come to this later Cana, Lord, And, at thy touch divine, The water of that earUer board To-night shall turn to wine. David Gtrat. Cacltins 5Sip o« St)cre» The weather leech of the topsail shivers. The bowlines strain, and the lee shrouds slacken, 296 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken. Open one point on the weather bow, Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head. There 's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, And the pilot watches the heaving lead. I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, Till the muttered order of ".Full and by I " Is suddenly changed for " Full for stays 1 " The ship bends lower before the breeze, As her broadside fair to the blast she lays ; And she swifter springs to the rising seas, As the pilot calls, " Stand by for stays 1 " It is silence all, as each in his place. With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace. Waiting the watchword, impatient stands. And the light on Fire Island Head draws near, As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear, With the welcome call of " Ready I About 1 " No time to spare ! It is touch and go ; And the captain growls, " Down helm ! hard down 1 " As my weight on the whirling spokes I thi-ow. While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown. High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, As we meet the shock of the plunging sea ; And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay, As I answer, " Ay, ay. Sir ! Ha-a-rd a-lee I " With the swerving leap of a startled steed, The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind ; THE MI8TBES8 OF THE HOUSE. 297 The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, And the headland white we have left behind. The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, And belly and tug at the groaning cleats ; The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps ; And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets I " Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, Hisses the rain of the rushing squall ; The sails are aback from clew to clew, And now is the moment for "Mainsail haull " And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy. By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung ; She holds her way, and I look with joy For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. " Let go, and haul 1 " 'T is the last command, And the head-sails fill to the blast once more ; Astern and to leeward Hes the land, With its breakers white on a shingly shore. What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall ? I steady the helm for the open sea ; The first mate clamors, " Belay there, all ! " And the captain's breath once more comes free. And so ofi" shore let the good ship fly ; Little care I how the gusts may blow, In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry. Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. Walter Mitohelu ^fjt ifHistress of tje J^ouse, The guests are come, all silent they have waited ; Entering the noiseless hush with silent bows, They linger for her coming, sore belated — Where is the little mistress of the house ? 25* 298 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. She is not wont to leave her friends so lonely That come too seldom, as she gayly vows ; Yet they are here, and wait her pleasure only — Where is the little mistress of the house ? She cannot be far off" — perhaps but sleeping ; Doubtless at their low call she would arouse ; Why do they summon her alone with weeping ? Where is the little mistress of the house ? The portraits stare behind their veihng covers ; The dust is in the melancholy room, Upon the air a ghastly silence hovers — * Within the threshold loneliness and gloom. Cold, dai-k, and desolate the place without her, Wanting her gentle smile as each allows ; She bears a sunbeam light and warmth about her — Where is the little mistress of the house ? The curtains fall, undraped by her slight fingers, Behind the wainscot gnaws a secret mouse. Her treasures need her care, but still she lingers — Where is the little mistress of the house? Alas ! there was a rumor and a whisper Threading the busy town, this many days; The youngest baby here, a tiny lisper. Can falter forth the reason why she stays, Why care and love, the tenderest and sincerest, Have failed to shield and guard her fair young head Why she has fled from all she loved the dearest — For there has been a rumor, she is dead. Throw wide the door ! Within the gloomy portal, Where her small feet fell hght as falling snow, They bear her in, the mortal made immortall She comes again, but heavenly and slow 1 IN THE HOSPITAL. 299 empty shell ! beautiful frail prison ! Cold, white, and vacant, tenantless and dumb, From such poor clay as this has Christ arisen — For such as this He shall in glory come 1 But in the calm indifference to our sorrow, In the sharp anguish of her parting breath, In the dark gulf that hides her form to-morrow. Thou hast thy victory. Grave ; thy sting, Death ! Yet shall she walk so fair that we who knew her. Would pale before the glory of her brows. Nor in the radiant beauty dare to woo her To be again the mistress of the house. Leslie Walter $n X^z itoisipitaL I LAY me down to sleep, With httle thought or care Whether my waking find Me here, or there. A bowing, burdened head, That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving breast. My good right hand forgets Its cunning now ; To march the weary march I know not how. I am not eager, bold, Nor strong — all that is pastj I am ready not to do At last, at last. 300 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS My half day's work is done, And this is all my part — I give a patient God My patient heart, , And grasp His banner still. Though all the blue be dim ; These stripes as well as stars Lead after Him. Maky Wooi.sey Howland. Cime anti iSteinit|), It is not Time that flies ; 'T is we, 't is we are flying. It is not Life that dies ; 'T is we, 't is we are dying. Time and eternity are one ; Time is eternity begun. Life changes, yet without decay ; 'T is we alone who pass away. It is not Truth that flies ; 'T is we, 't is we are flying. It is not Faith that dies ; 'T is we, 't is we are dying. ever-during Faith and Truth, Whose youth is age, whose age is youth, Twin stars of immortahty. Ye cannot perish from our sky. It is not Hope that flies ; 'T is we, 't is we are flying. It is not Love that dies ; 'T is we, 't is we are dying. Twin streams that have in heaven your birtti, Ye glide in gentle joy through earth. We fade, hke flowers beside you sown ; Ye still are flowing, flowing on. MY AIN GO UNTBEK 801 Fet we but die to live ; It is from death we 're flying; Forever lives our life, For us there is no dying. We die but as the spring bud dies, In summer's golden glow to rise. These be our days of April bloom ; Our July is beyond the tomb. HORATIUS BONAR. Ml^ ^in Otountree. I AM far from my hame, an' I 'm weary often whiles For the longed-for hame-bringing an' my Father's welcome smiles ; I '11 ne'er be fu' content until my een do see The gowden gates o' heaven, an' my ain countree. The earth is fleck'd wi' flow'rs, mony-tinted, fresh an' gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae ; But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree. I 've his gude word of promise, that some gladsome day the King- To his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring; Wi' een an' wi' heart running over we shall see "The King in his beauty," an' our ain countree. My sins hae been mony' an' my sorrows hae been sair, But there they '11 never vex me, nor be remembered mair ; His bluid has made me white, his hand shall wipe mine ee, When he brings me hame at last to my ain countree. Like a bairn to his mither, a wee birdie to its nest, I wud fain be ganging noo unto my Saviour's breast^ 26 S02 SINGLE FAMO U8 POEMS. For he gathers in his bosom witless, worthless lambs like me, An' he carries them himself to his ain countree. He 's faithfu' that hath promised, he '11 surely come again ; He '11 keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken ; But he bids me still to watch, an' ready aye to be To gang at ony moment to my ain countree. So I 'm watching aye an' singing o' my hame as I wait, For the soun'ing o' his footsteps this side the gowden gate, God gie his grace to ilka ane wha listens noo to me. That we may a' gang in gladness to our ain countree. Mary Lee Demarest. Cf)e petrified dFetn. In a valley, centuries ago, G-rew a little fern-leaf green and slender, Veining delicate and fibres tender, Waving when the wind crept down so low. Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it ; Playful sunbeams darted in and found it ; Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it j But no foot of man e'er came that way ;— Earth was young and keeping holiday. Monster fishes swam the silent main ; Stately forests waved their giant branches ; Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches ; Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain, Nature revelled in grand mysteries ; But the little fern was not like these, Did not number with the hills and trees, Only grew and waved its sweet, wild way ; No one came to note it day by day. THE PETRIFIED EERN. 30S Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, Heaved tlie rocks, and changed tlie mighty motion Of the strong, dread currents of the ocean ; Moved the hills, and shook the haughty wood ; Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay, Covered it, and hid it safe away. 0, the long, long centuries since that day 1 0, the changes ! 0, life's bitter cost. Since the httle useless fern was lostl^ Useless ? Lost ? There came a thoughtful man, Searching Nature's secrets far and deep ; From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, — Leafage, veining, fibres, clear and fine — And the fern's life lay in every line. So, I think, God hides some souls away, Sweetly to surprise us the Last Day. Mary L. Bot,les BRANoa Culoom. On the coast of Yucatan, As untenanted of man As a castle under ban By a doom For the deeds of bloody hours, Overgrown with tropic bowers, Stand the teocallis towers Of Tuloom. One of these is fair to sight. Where it pinnacles a height ; And the breakers blossom white, As they boom 304 SINGLE FAMOV8 POEMS. And split beneath the walls, And an ocean murmur falls Through the melancholy halls Of Tuloom. On the summit, as you stand, All the ocean and the land Stretch away on either hand, But the plume Of the palm is overhead, And the grass, beneath your tread, Is the monumental bed Of Tuloom. All the grandeur of the woods, And the greatness of the floods. And the sky that overbroods, Dress a tomb. Where the stucco drops away, And the bat avoids the day. In the chambers of decay In Tuloom. They are battlements of death. When the breezes hold their breath, Down a hundred feet beneath, In the flume Of the sea, as still as glass, You can see the fishes pass By the promontory mass Of Tuloom. Toward the forest is displayed, On the terrace, a fa9ade With devices overlaid ; And the bloom TULOOM. 305 Of the vine of sculpture, led O'er the soffit overhead, Was a fancy of the dead Of Tuloora. Here are corridors, and there, From the terrace, goes a stair ; And the way is broad and fair To the room Where the inner altar stands ; And the mortar's tempered sands Bear the print of human hands, In Tuloom. O'er the sunny ocean swell, The canoas running well Toward the Isle of Cozumel Cleave the spume ; On they run, and never halt Where the shimmer, from the salt, Makes a twinkle in the vault Of Tuloom. When the night is wild and dark, And a roar is in the park, And the lightning, to its mark, Cuts the gloom, All the region, on the sight, Rushes upward from the night. In a thunder-crash of light O'er Tuloom. Oh ! could such a flash recall All the flamens to their hall. All the idols on the wall, In the fume 306 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Of the Indian sacrifice — All the lifted hands and eyes, All the laughters and the cries Of Tuloom — All the kings in feathered pride, All the people, like a tide, And the voices of the bride And the groom ! — But, alas ! the prickly pear, And the owlets of the air. And the lizards, make a lair Of Tuloom. We are tenants on the strand Of the same mysterious land. Must the shores that we command Reassume Their primeval forest hum, And the future pilgrim come Unto monuments as dumb As Tuloom ? 'Tis a secret of the clime. And a mystery sublime, Too obscure, in coming time, To presume ; But the snake amid the grass Hisses at us as we pass, And we sigh, Alas ! alas ! In Tuloom. Erastus Wolcott Ellsworth. THE OCEAN. 307 Likeness of heaven, agent of power, Man is thy victim, shipwrecks thy dower ! Spices and Jewels from valley and sea, Armies and banners, are buried in thee ! What are the riches of Mexico's mines To the wealth that far down in thy deep water shines ? The proud navies that cover the conquering west. Thou fling'st them to death with one heave of thy breast. From the high hills that visor thy wreck-making shore, When the bride of the mariner shrieks at thy roar. When, like lambs in the tempest or mews in the blast, O'er thy ridge-broken billows the canvas is cast, — How humbling to one with a heart and a soul, To look on thy greatness and list to thy roll. And to think how that heart in cold ashes shall be, While the voice of eternity rises from thee. Yes, where are the cities of Thebes and of Tyre ? Swept from the nations like sparks from the fire ! The glory of Athens, the splendor of Rome, Dissolved, and forever, like dew in thy foam ! But thou art almighty, eternal, sublime, Unweakened, unwasted, twin brother of Time ! Fleets, tempests, nor nations thy glory can bow ; As the stars first beheld thee, still chainless art thou. But holpd ! — when thy surges no longer shall roll. And that firmament's length is drawn back like a scroll, Then, then shall the spirit that sighs by thee now, Be more mighty, more lasting, more chainless than thou. John Augustus Shea. 308 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 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 Groaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting, — " Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." " 'T is the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." " Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." " 'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dy- ing." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot 's stir- ring ; 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 won- der?" '"Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." " What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of ' The Coolun ' ?" There's a form at the casement — the form of her true- love — 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 shining 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 grandmother, THE BURIAL OF BERANOER. 309 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. Thro' the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving. John Francis Waller. ^f)e ii3urial of l^erangn. The poet B^ranger is dead. The expenses of his funeral will be charged to the Imperial civil lisi.—Desjjotch of July 17, 1857. Non mes amis, au spectacle des ombres Je ne veux point une lege d'honneur.— B^ranger. Bury Beranger ! Well for you Could you bury the spirit of Beranger too ! Bury the bard if you will, and rejoice ; But yon bury the body, and not the voice. Bury the prophet and garnish his tomb ; The prophecy still remains for doom. And many a prophecy since proved true Has that prophet spoken for such as you. Bury the body of Beranger — Bury the printer's boy you may ; But the spirit no death can ever destroy That made a bard of that printer's boy. A clerk at twelve hundred francs per ann. Were a very easily buried man ; But the spirit that gave up that little all For freedom, is free of the funeral. 310 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. You may bury the prisoner, it may be, The man of La Force and Ste. Pelagie ; But the spirit, mon Empereur, that gave That prisoner empire knows no grave. " Au spectacle des ombres une loge d'honneur " Is easily given, mon Empereur ; But a something there is which even the will Of an emperor can not inter or kill — By no space restrained, to no age confined, The fruit of a simple great man's mind. Which to all eternity lives and feeds The births of which here it has laid the seeds. Could you bury these, you might sit secure On the throne of the Bourbons, mon Empereur. Alfred Watts. Ci)e Song of ti)e W^mtxxi JHen. A GOOD sword and a trusty hand, A merry heart and true, King James's men shall understand What Cornish lads can do. And have they fixed the where and when, And shall Trelawney die ? Then twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why. What ! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen ? And shall Trelawney die ? Then twenty thousand under ground Will know the reason why. Out spake the captain brave and bold, A merry wight was he : Though London's Tower were Michael's hold, We '11 set Trelawney free. TO A SWALLOW. 3ll We '11 cross the Taraar hand to hand, The Exe shall be no stay ; We '11 side by side from strand to strand, And who shall bid us nay ? What ! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen ? And shall Trelawney die ? Then twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why. *' And when we come to London wall We '11 shout with it in view, * Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all ! We 're better men than you ! Trelawney, he 's in keep and hold, Trelawney, he may die; But here 's twenty thousand Cornish bold Will known the reason why ! ' What ! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen ? And shall Trelawney die ? Then twenty thousand under ground Will know the reason why." Robert Stephen Hawker. Co a S^allob), iSuiltJing ^Entrer (©nr iSabes. Thou too hast travelled, little fluttering thing. Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing Thou too must rest. But much, my little bird, could'st thou but tell, I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well To build thy nest. For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight ; A world lay all beneath thee where to light ; And, strange thy taste. Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye. Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky. To choose this waste ! 312 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Did fortune try thee ? — was thy little purse Perehance run low, and thou, afraid of worse, Felt here secure ? Ah no ! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one ! Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man Alone is poor. What was it, then ? — some mystic turn of thought, Caught under German eaves, and hither brought, Marring thine eye For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown A sober thing that dost but mope and moan, Not knowing why ? Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask, Since here I see thee working at thy task With wing and beak. A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain, At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main, Nor more need'st seek. In truth, I rather take it thou hast got By instinct wise much sense about thy lot, And hast small care Whether an Eden or a desert be Thy home, so thou remain'st alive and free To skim the air. God speed thee, pretty bird ! May thy small nest With little ones all in good time be blest. I love thee much ; For well thou managest that life of thine, While I — oh, ask not what I do with mine ! Would I were such ! Jane Welsh Carlyle. CARCASSONNE. 311 OTarcagsonne. " I'm growing old, I've sixty years ; I've labored all my life in vain. In all that time of hopes and fears, I've failed my dearest wish to gain. I see full well that here below Bliss unalloyed there is for none, My prayer would else fulfilment know — Never have I seen Carcassonne I Never have I seen Carcassonne ! *' You spy the city from the hill, It lies beyond the mountain blue ; And yet to reach it one must still Five long and weary leagues pursue, And, to return, as many more. Had but the vintage plenteous grown - But, ah! the grape withheld its store. I shall not look on Carcassonne ! I shall not look on Carcassonne ! " They tell me every day is there Not more or less than Sunday gay; In shining robes and garments fair The people walk upon their way. One gazes there on castle walls As grand as those of Babylon, A bishop and two generals ! What joy to dwell in Carcassonne I Ah ! might I but see Carcassonne ! "The vicar's right : he says that we Are ever wayward, weak, and blind; He tells us in his homily Ambition ruins all mankind ; 314 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Yet could I these two days have spent, While still the autumn sweetly shone, Ah, me ! I might have died content When I had looked on Carcassonne, When I had looked on Carcassonne. "Thy pardon, Father, I beseech. In this my prayer if I offend ; One something sees beyond his reach From childhood to his journey's end. My wife, our little boy Aignan, Have travelled even to Narbonne ; My grandchild has seen Perpignan ; And I — have not seen Carcassonne, And I have not seen Carcassonne ! " So crooned, one day, close by Limoux, A peasant, double-bent with age. " Rise up, my friend," said I ; "with you I '11 go upon this pilgrimage." We left, next morning, his abode, But (Heaven forgive him!) half-way on The old man died upon the road. He never gazed on Carcassonne. Each mortal has his Carcassonne. GUSTAVE NADAUD. Translated by John R. Thompson. OTrossmg t1)e Happajannoclt. They leaped in the rocking shallops — Ten offered where one could go — And the breeze was alive with laughter, Till the boatmen began to row. Then the shore, where the rebels harbored, Was fringed with a gush of flame. GBOSSING THE RAPPAHANNOCK. 315 And buzzing like bees o'er the water The swarms of their bullets came. In silence how dread and solemn, With courage how grand and true, Steadily, steadily onward The line of the shallops drew. Not a whisper I Each man w^as conscious He stood in the sight of death, So he bowed to the awful presence And treasured his living breath. 'Twixt death in the air above them, And death in the waves below, Through ball and grape and shrapnel They moved — my God, how slow ! And many a brave, stout fellow, Who sprang in the boats with mirth. Ere they made that fatal crossing Was a load of lifeless earth. And many a brave, stout fellow, Whose limbs with strength were rife, Was torn and crushed and shattered — A helpless wreck for life. But yet the boats moved onward ; Through fire and lead they drove, With the dark, still mass within them, And the floating stars above. They formed in line of battle — Not a man was out of place ; Then with levelled steel they hurled them Straight in the rebels' face. Anonymous. 316 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Corporal Green 1 '' the orderly cried. ' ' Here ! " was the answer, loud and clear. From the lips of the soldier who stood near ; x\nd " Here! " was the word the next replied. Cyrus Drew! "—then silence fell, This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear man had seen him fall, Killed or wounded, he could not tell. There they stood in the failing light, These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night. The fern on the hill-side was splashed with blood. And down in the corn, where the poppies grew, Were redder stains than the poppies knew, And crimson-dyed was the river's Hood. For the foe had crossed from the other side That day, in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down in its terrible ire, And their life-blood went to color the tide. Herbert Kline ! " At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. Ezra Kerr ! " — and a voice answered "Here ! " " Hiram Kerr !" — but no man replied. They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. HEROES. 317 " Ephraim Deane ! " — then a soldier spoke : " Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said; " Where our ensign was shot I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke. " Close to the roadside his body lies; I paused a moment and gave him drink ; He murmured his mother's name, I think, And death came with it and closed his eyes." 'Twas a victory, yes, but it cost us dear ; For that company's roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight. Numbered but twenty that answered " Here!" Nathaniel Graham Shepherd. The winds that once the Argo bore Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines. And her hull is the drift of the deep-sea floor, Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. You may seek her crew on every isle Fair in the foam of ^gean seas, But out of their rest no charm can wile Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. And Priam's wail is heard no more By windy Dion's sea-built walls ; Nor great Achilles, stained with gore. Shouts '* O ye gods, 't is Hector falls ! " On Ida's mount is the shining snow. But Jove has gone from its brow away ; And red on the plain the poppies grow Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day. 31S SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Mother Earth, are the heroes dead ? Do they thrill the soul of the years no more ? Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red All that is left of the brave of yore ? Are there none to fight as Theseus fought, Far in the young world's misty dawn ? Or to teach as gray-haired Nestor taught ? Mother Earth, are the heroes gone ? Gone ? In a grander form they rise. Dead ? We may clasp their hands in ours. And catch the light of their clearer eyes, And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. Wherever a noble deed is done, 'T is the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred ; Wherever Right has a triumph won. There are the heroes' voices heard. Their armor rings on a fairer field Than the Greek and the Trojan fiercely trod ; For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield, And the gleam above is the smile of God. So, in his isle of calm delight, Jason may sleep the years away ; For the heroes hve, and the sky is bright. And the world is a braver world to-day. Edna Dean Proctor. JHoonligf)t. " Nay, wait me here — I '11 not be long ; 'T is but a little way ; I '11 come ere you have sung the song I made you yesterday. " 'T is but to cross yon streak of light, — And fresh the breezes blow ; You will not lose me from your sight, — One kiss, and now I go ! " THE SONG OF ROREK. 319 So, in the pleasant night of June, He lightly sails away, To where the glimmer of the moon Lies right across the bay. And she sits singing on the shore A song of pure delight ; The boat flies on — a little more, And he will cross the light. The boat flies on, the song is done. The light before him gleams ; A little more, and he has won ! 'T is farther than it seems. The boat flies on, the boat flies fast ; The wind blows strong and free ; The boat flies on, the bay is past. He sails into the sea. And on, and on, and ever on, The light lies just before ; But oh, forevermore is done The song upon the shore ! Robert Kelley Weeks. CJe Song of i^orefe. 'TwAS on the night of Michaelmas that lordly Orloff's heir Wed with the noble Russian maid, Dimitry's daughter fair. With mirth and song, and love and wine, that was a royal day ; The banners streamed, the halls were hung in black and gold array. 320 81N0LE FAMOUS POEMS. The Twelve Apostles stood in brass, each with a flambeau bright, To blaze with holy altar sheen throughout the festive night. The rings were changed, the tabor rolled, the Kyrie was said ; The boyard father drew his sword, and pierced the loaf of bread. Soon as the priest did drain his cup, and put his pipe aside. He wiped his lip upon his sleeve, and kissed the blushing bride. That very night to Novgorod must hasten bride and heir, And Count Dimitry bade them well with robe and bell pre- pare. And when from feast and wedding-guest they parted at the door, He bade two hunters ride behind, two hunters ride before. " Look to your carbines, men," he called, " and gird your ready knives ! " With one accord they all replied, " We pledge thee with our lives ! " I was the haiduk of that night, and vowed, by horses fleet. Our sleigh must shoot with arrow speed behind the coursers' feet. We journeyed speedy, werst by werst, with bell and song and glee. And T, upon my postal-horn, blew many a melody. THE SONG OF ROREK. 321 I blew farewell to Minka mine, and bade the strain retire Where she sat winding flaxen thread beside the kitchen fire. We rode, and rode, by hollow pass, by glen and mountain- side, And with each bell soft accents fell from lips of bonny bride. The night was drear, the night was chill, the night was lone and bright ; Before us streamed the polar rays in green and golden The gypsy thieves were in their dens; the owl moaned in the trees ; The windmill circled merrily, obedient to the breeze. Shrill piped the blast in birchen boughs, and mocked the snowy shroud : Thrice ran a hare across our track ; thrice croaked a raven loud. The horses pawed the frigid sands, and drove them with the wind : We left the village gallows-tree full thirty wersts behind. We rode, and rode, by forest shade, by brake and river- side ; And as we rode T heard the kiss of groom and bonny bride. I heard again, — a boding strain ; 1 heard it. all too well; A neigh, a shout, a groan, a howl,— then heavy curses fell. 322 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS Our horses pricked their wary ears, and bounded with affright ; From forest kennels picket wolves were baying in the night. " Haiduk, haiduk, — the lash, — the steeds,— the wolves !" the lady cried ; The wily baron clutched his blade, and murmured to the bride : ' ' This all is but a moonlight hunt ; the starveling hounds shall bleed. And you shall be the tourney's queen, to crown the gal- lant deed ! " The moon it crept behind a cloud, as covered by a storm ; And the gray cloud became a wolf, a monster wolf in form. " Gramercy, Mother of our Lord, — gramercy in our needs ! " Hold well together hand and thong, hold well, ye sturdy steeds ! Like unto Tartar cavalry the wolf battalion sped ; Ungunned, unspurred, but well to horse, and sharpened well to head. The pines stood by, the stars looked on, and listless fell the snow ; The breeze made merry with the trees, nor heeded wolf nor woe. Now cracked the carbines, — bleeding beasts were rolling here and there ; 'T was flash and shot and howl, — and yet the wolves were everywhere. THE SONG OF ROREK. 323 No more they mustered iu our wake, their legion ranged beside. 'T was steed for speed, and wolf for steed, and wolf for lord and bride. In vain I cited Christian saints, I called Mahomet near : Methought, though all the saints did fail, the prophet would appear. A moment, and pursuit is stayed, — they tear their wounded kind ; A moment,— then the hellish pack did follow close behind. The baron silent rose amain, by danger unappalled. "Strive for your lives, with guns and knives," the mounted guardsmen called. The lady muttered agony, with crucifix and beads ; The wolves were snapping by her side, and leaping at our steeds. My limbs were numb, my senses dumb, nor reason held its place ; I fell beneath two glaring orbs, within a gaunt embrace. I roused to hear a volley fired, to hear a martial shout ; And when I oped my stricken eyes the wolves were all to rout. A hundred scouting Cossacks met and slew the deadly foe ; Fourscore of wolves in throes of death lay bleeding in the snow. Our lady rested in a swoon, our lord was stained with gore ; But none could tell of what befell the trusty hunters four. John William Weidemeyer. 3M SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. €te ^eign of Uato. The dawn went up the sky, Like any other day ; And they had only come To mourn Him where he lay : " We ne'er have seen the law Reversed 'neath which we lie ; Exceptions none are found, And when we die, we die. Resigned to fact we wander hither. We ask no more the whence and whither. " Vain questions ! from the first Put, and no answer found. He binds us with the chain Wherewith himself is bound. From west to east the earth Unrolls her primal curve ; The sun himself were vexed Did she one furlong swerve : The myriad years have whirled us liither, But tell not of the whence and whither. " We know but what we see — Like cause and like event : One constant force runs on, Transmuted but unspent. Because they are, they are ; The mind may frame a plan ; 'T is from herself she draws A special thought for man : The natural choice that brought us hither, Is silent on the whence and whither. THE REIGN OF LAW. 325 *^ If God there be, or gods, Without our science lies ; We cannot see or touch. Measure or analyze. Life is but what we live, We know but what we know, Closed in these bounds alone Whether God be, or no : The self-moved force that bore us hither Keveals no whence, and hints no whither. " Ah, which is likelier truth, That law should hold its way, Or, for this one of all, Life re-assert her sway ? Like any other morn The sun goes up the sky ; No crisis marks the day, For when w^e die, we die. No fair fond hope allures us hither : The law is dumb on whence and whither." — Then wherefore are ye come? Why watch a worn-out corse ? Why weep a ripple past Down the long stream of force ? If life is that which keeps Each organism whole, Xo atom may be traced Of what ye thought the soul : It had its term of passage hither, But knew no whence, and knows no wiiither. The forces that were Christ Have ta'en new forms and fled The common sun goes up, The dead are with the dead. 'T was but a nliantom-life 326 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. That seemed to think and will, Evolving self and God By some subjective skill, That had its day of passage hither. But knew no whence, and knows no whither. If this be all in all : Life but one mode of force ; Law but the plan which binds The sequences in course ; All essence, all design. Shut out from mortal ken, — We bow to Nature's fate. And drop the style of men. The summer dust the wind w^afts hither, Is not more dead to whence and whither. But if our life be life, And thought and will and love Not vague unconscious airs That o'er wild harp-strings move ; If consciousness be aught Of all it seems to be, And souls are something more Than lights that gleam and flee, — Though dark the road that leads us thither, The heart must ask its whence and whither. To matter or to force The All is not confined ; Beside the law of things Is set the law of mind ; One speaks in rock and star, And one within the brain ; In unison at times. And then apart again : And both in one have brought us hither, That we may know our whence and whither. THE REIQN OF LAW. 327 The sequences of law We learn through mind alone ; 'T is only through the soul That aught we know is known : With equal voice she tells Of what we touch and see Within these bounds of life, And of a life to be ; Proclaiming One who brought us hither And holds the keys of whence and whither. O shrine of God that now Must learn itself with awe ! O heart and soul that move Beneath a living law ! That which seemed all the rule Of nature, is but part ; A larger, deeper law Claims also soul and heart. The force that framed and bore us hither Itself at once is whence and whither. We may not hope to read Or comprehend the whole Or of the law of things, Or of the law of soul : E'en in the eternal stars Dim perturbations rise ; And all the searcher's search Does not exhaust the skies : He who has framed and brought us hither Holds in his hands the whence and whither. He in his science plans What no known laws foretell ; The wandering fires and fixed Alike are miracle : The common death of all, 328 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Tile life renewed above, And both within the scheme Of that all-circling love. The seeming chance that cast us hither Accomplishes his whence and whither. Then, though the sun go up His beaten azure way, God may fulfill his thought, And bless his world to-day ; Beside the law of things The law of mind enthrone, And, for the hope of all, Reveal himself in one ; Himself the way that leads us thither, The All-in-all, the Whence and Whither. Francis Turner Palgrave. IBaster. In Thee, thou Son of God, in Thee I rest. The immortality by sages guessed, Hath not the rocky strength thy promise gives, That who believes in Thee forever lives. The worm on wings disporting is not here The same that wove its shroud the vanished year. The flowers breathe out their fragrance and decay, The towering woods grow old and pass awaN" ; The flowers return, but not the same that vied For last year's prize of beauty, and then died ; Resurgent woods again their branches spread. But not the same that prostrate lie and dead. O reproducing Nature ! from thy strife. Comes never same, but always other life. Men die, but lives right on humanity, — So said a Greek ; — not this enough for me ; IF I SHOULD DIE TO-mQHT. 329 Shall I myself relive? — the quest I raise. To share an undistinguishable haze Of being, and, immerged in that vast sea, To lose what most I ask, myself to be, Is empty vision. Seer of Attic clime, Or Greek more earth-born of our modern time. man of Oalvar}^ O Son of God, 1 mark the path thy holy footsteps trod, Through death to life, thy Living Self to me Potence and pledge of immortality ! Sewall Sylvester Cutting. If I should die to-night. My friends would look upon my quiet face Before they laid it in its resting-place, And deem that death had left it almost fair ; And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair, Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, And fold my hands with lingering caress, — Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night ! If I should die to-night, My friends would call to mind, with loving thought. Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought. Some gentle word the frozen lips had said. Errands on which the willing feet had sped ; The memory of my selfishness and pride. My hasty words, would all be put aside. And so I should be loved and mourned to-night. If I should die to-night, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, Recalling other days remorsefully ; The eyes that chill me with averted glance Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, 330 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. And soften in the old familiar way ; For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay ? So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night. O friends, I pray to-night, Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow ; The way is lonely, let me feel them now. Think gently of me ; I am travel- worn ; My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. Forgive, O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead ! When dreamless rest is mine, I shall not need The tenderness for which I long to-night. Belle E, Smith. Longum illud tempus quum non ero magis rae movet quam hoc exiguum. — Cicero. O MAY I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence : live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self. In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues. So to live is heaven : To make undying music in the world, Breathing as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed, and agonized With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh tliat would not be subdued, A vicious parent shaming still its child Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; CUDDLE DOOJSr. 331 Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer self. That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burthen of the world, Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better — saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary, And shaped it forth before the multitude Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love- That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb Unread forever. This is life to come, AVhich martyred men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony. Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world. George Eliot. Ol'utitJle Boon. The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' mickle faucht an' din ; " O try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your faithers comin' in." They never heed a word I speak ; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, " O bairnies, cuddle doon." 332 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Wee Jamie \vi the curly head — He aye sleeps next the wa' — Bangs up an" cries, '• 1 want a piece!" The rascal starts them a\ I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, They stop awee the soun\ Then draw the blankets up, an' cry, '• Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." But ere five minutes gang wee Rab Cries oot frae 'neath the claes, ' ' Mither, mak' Tarn gie ower at ance, He's kittlin wi' his taes." The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, He'd bother half the toon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, " O bairnies, cuddle doon." At length they hear their father's fit, An' as he steeks the door They turn their faces to the wa'. While Tam pretends to snore. " Hae a' the weans been gude ?" he asks As he pits off his shoon. " The bairnies, John, are in their beds. An' lang since cuddled doon." An' Just afore we bed oorsel' We look at oor wee lambs; Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed. An' as I straik each croon I whisper, till my heart fills up, " O bairnies, cuddle doon." WHAT MY LOVER 8AID. 333 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; But sune the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet come what will to ilka ane, May He who sits aboon Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, " O bairnies, cuddle doon." Alexander Anderson. The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done. Francis William Bourdillon. 5iHijat mi^ itober Saiti. By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom, In the orchard path he met me; In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume, And I tried to pass, but he made no room, Oh I tried, but he would not let me. So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red, With my face bent down above it, While he took my hand as he whispering said— (How the clover lifted each pink, sweet head, To listen to all that my lover said ; Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it !) 334 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. In the high, wet grass went the path to hide, And the low wet leaves hung over ; But I could not pass upon either side, For I found myself, when I vainly tried, In the arms of my steadfast lover. And he held me there and he raised my head. While he closed the path before me, And he looked down into my eyes and said — (How the leaves bent down from the boughs o'erhead, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me !) Had he moved aside but a little way, I could surely then have passed him ; And he knew I never could wish to stay, And would not have heard what he had to say. Could I only aside have cast him. It was almost dark, and the moments sped, And the searching night wind found us, But he drew me nearer and softly said — (How the pure, sweet wind grew still, instead. To listen to all that my lover said ; Oh, the whispering wind around us !) I am sure he knew, when he held me fast. That I must be all unwilling ; For I tried to go, and I would have passed, As the night was come with its dew, at last. And the sky with its stars was filling. But he clasped me close when I would have fled, And he made me hear his story, And his soul came out from his lips and said — (How the stars crept out where the white moon led. To listen to all that my lover said ; Oh, the moon and the stars in glory !) WHAT DOBS IT MATTER? 336 I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell, And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover, Will carry my secret so safely and well That no being shall ever discover One word of the many that rapidly fell From the soul-speaking lips of my lover ; And the moon and the stars that looked over Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell They wove round about us that night in the dell, In the path through the dew-laden clover, Xor echo the whispers that made my heart swell As they fell from the lips of my lover. Homer Greene. 51Hf)at Boeis it i^atter? It matters little where I was born. Or if my parents were rich or poor ; Whether they shrank at the cold world's scorn, Or walked in the pride of wealth secure. But whether I live an honest man. And hold my integrity firm in my clutch, I tell you, brother, plain as I can, It matters much. It matters little how long I stay In a world of sorrow, sin, and care ; Whether in youth I am called away, Or live till my bones and pate are bare. But whether I do the best I can To soften the weight of Adversity's touch On the faded cheek of my fellow-man. It matters much. It matters little where be my grave, — Or on the land or in the sea, By purling brook, or 'neath stormy wave, — It matters httle or nought to me. 336 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. But whether the angel Death comes down And marks my brow with his loving touch, As one that shall wear the victor's crown, It matters much. Noah Barker. Kacelyevo's slope still felt The cannon's bolts and the rifles' pelt ; For the last redoubt up the hill remained, By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained. Mehemet Ali stroked his beard ; His lips were clinched and his look was weird ; Round him were ranks of his ragged folk, Their faces blackened with blood and smoke. ■ Clear me the Muscovite out ! '' he cried Then the name of "Allah I " echoed wide, And the fezzes were waved nnd the bayonets lowered. And on to the last redoubt they poured. One fell, and a second quickly stopped The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped : The second, — a third straight tilled his place ; The third, — and a fourth kept up the race. Many a fez in the mud was crushed, Many a throat that cheered was hushed, Many a heart that sought the crest Found Allah's arms and a houri's breast. Over their corpses the living sprang. And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang. Till the faces that lined the last redoubt Could see their faces and hear their shout. THE LAST REDOUBT. 337 In the redoubt a fair form towered, That cheered up the brave and chid the coward ; Brandishing blade with a gallant air ; His head erect and his bosom bare. "Fly ! they are on us ! " his men implored ; But he waved them on with his waving sword. "It cannot be held ; 'tis no shame to go ! " But he stood with his face set hard to the foe. Then clung they about him, and tugged, and knelt ; He drew a pistol from out his belt. And fired it blank at the first that set Foot on the edge of the parapet. Over that first one toppled ; but on Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone, As hurriedly fled his men dismayed, Not a bayonet's length from the length of his blade. ' ' Yield ! " But aloft his steel he flashed, And down on their steel it ringing clashed ; Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt. His honor full, but his life-blood spilt. They lifted him up from the dabbled ground ; His limbs were shapely and soft and round, No down on his lip, on his cheek no shade,— " Bismillah 1 " they cried, " 't is an infidel maid ! " Mehemet Ali came and saw The riddled breast and the tender jaw. ■'Make her a bier of your arms," he said, ' ' And daintily bury this dainty dead ! ' Make her a grave where she stood and fell, 'Gainst the jackal's scratch and the vulture's smell. 338 8INQLE FAMOUS POEMS. Did the Muscovite men like their maidens fight, In their lines we had scarcely supped to-night." So a deeper trench 'mong the trenches there Was dug, for the form as brave as fair ; And none, till the judgment trump and shout, Shall drive her out of the last redoubt. Alfeed Austin. NOTES. My Mind to Me a Kingdom is. Page 1. Byrd (b. 1540, d. 1623) wm organist to Queen Elizabeth, and composed an immense amount of vo- cal music. Three or four other stanzas, inferior to these, are some- times inserted in this poem, and its authorship has been claimed for Sir Edward Dyer, a contemporary of Byrd's. There are also four stanzas of precisely similar construction, having many of the same thoughts, and in some cases almost identical words, which are attrib- uted to Joshua Sylvester. These are given at page 15. The Lye. Page 2. The authorship of this poem has been disputed. Percy ascribes it to Raleigh (b. 1552, executed 1618), and a copy of it among the Chetham manuscripts bears his signature. Man's Mortality. Page 6. Wastel (b. about 1566) published in 1629 " Microbiblion, or the Bible's Epitome in Verse," of which these famous stanzas are a fragment. WiHy Drowned in Yartvw. Page 8. This poem is believed to date from the 15th century. Verses. Page 9. The story of Chediock Ticheborne is told in Dis- raeli's "Curiosities of Literature," Vol. II. He was executed for trea- son (of which he was probably innocent) in 1586. The Ballad of Agincmrt. Page 10. Drayton (b. 1563, d. 1631) pub- lished many poems, this being one of his latest. The battle, in which 15,000 English defeated 60,000 French, took place in 1415. Longfellow borrows the metrical formula of this poem for his " Skeleton in Ar- mor." Take thy Old Cloake about thee. Page 13. The seventh stanza of thif poem is sung by lago in the Second Act of " Othello." The whole ap- peared in Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724. A Contented Mind. Page lb. See the first of these Notes. Sylvestef was born in England in 1563, and died in 1618. 340 NOTES. LffOf. ine Little, Love tne Long. Page 16. This poem dates from th« latter half of the 16th century. Good Ale. Page 18. Still (d. 1607), Bishop of Bath and Wells, was the author of "Gammer Gurton's Needle," one of the earliest of Eng- lish comedies, in which this poem occurs. Exequy. Page 19. King (b. 1592, d. 1669) was chaplain to James I. and became Bishop of Chichester. A single stanza exactly imitating those of Simon Wastel given at page 6 of this volume, is attributed to him. He turned the Psalms of David into verse, and wrote other poems. TJie Angler's Wish. Page 23. These lines occur in the "Complete Angler" of Izaak Walton (b. 1593, d. 1683). Old Piscator says, " When I sat last on this primrose bank, and looked down these meadows, I thought of them as Charles the Emperor did of the city of Florence, ' that they were too pleasant to be looked on but only on holidays.' As I then sat on this very grass, I turned my pleasant thoughts into verse." Bryan, mentioned in the last stanza, is supposed to be his dog. Death's Final Conquest. Page 24. Shirley (b. In London, 1596, d. 1666) was a dramatist, and this poem occurs in his " Contention of Ajax and Ulysses." The Bnde. Page 2i. Suckling's (b. 1609, d. 1641) "Ballad upon a Wedding," from which the^e stanzas are taken, is never printed com- plete now-a-days ; for reasons which would be obvious if it were. Te Gentlemen of England. Page 26. These verses have probably at- tracted much more attention than they ever would if Campbell had not re-written them as " Ye Mariners of England." The three stanzas here given are the best of a long ballad which is not worth printing entire. Parker lived in the 17th century. Song. Page 26. Sedley (b. 1639, d. 1701) was one of the wits of the Restoration. 3fy Bear and Oidy Love. Page 27. The author of this poem (b. 1612, hanged in Edinburgh in 1^50) is the hero of Aytoun's "Execution of Montrose." The Splendid Shilling. Page 32. Philips (b. 1676, d. 1708) wrote this poem to parody the style of Milton. Bonnie George Camiibell. Page 36. Motherwell, in his " Minstrelsy," says this is " probably a lament for one of the adherents of the house of Argyle, who fell in the battle of Glenlivat, Oct. 3, 1594." The Hermit. Page 37. Parnell (b. 1679, d. 1718) was a native of Dublin, and became Archdeacon of Clogher. On tlie Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in Atnerica. Page 44. Bishop Berkeley (b. in Ireland, 1684, d. 1753) formed a scheme "for converting the American savages to Christianity, by a college to be erected in the Summer Islands, otherwise called the Isles of Bermuda,' NOTES. 341 obtained a royal charter, and with several friends came to Rhode Island. But his promised funds were not forthcoming, and at the end of seven years he returned. This poem was an expression of his enthu- siastic faith in the scheme. SaUy in our Alley. Page 44. Carey (d. by his own hand, 1743) was an Englishman and a musical composer. Gvongar Hill. Page 46. Dyer (b. in Wales, 1698, d. 1758) was a landscape painter, but afterward entered holy orders. Grongar Hill Is in Caermarthen, Wales. A Soliloquy. Page 51. Harte (b. about 1700, d. 1774) was a clergyman of the Church of England. The Braes of Yarrow. Page 52. Hamilton (b. 1704, d. 1754) wrote this ballad in imitation of an old one with the same refrain. TJie Schoolmistress. Page 56. Shenstone (b. 1714, d. 1763) published this poem in 1742. Goldsmith said, "It is one of those happinesses in which a poet excels himself, as there is nothing in all Shenstone which any way approaches it in merit." The Chaineleon. Page 65. Merrick (b. 1720, d. 1769) was an eminent Greek scholar at Oxford, and published a versification of the Psalms, and other poems. Waly, Waly, but Love be Bonny. Page 68. Percy says the heroine of this ballad was the wife of James, second Marquis of Douglas. "This lady, married in 1670, was expelled from the society of her husband in consequence of scandals which a disappointed lover basely insinuated into the ear of the Marquis." The Tears of Scotland. Page 69. Smollett the novelist (b. in Scot- land, 1721, d. 1771) produced a few poems, of which this, written just after the battle of Culloden, is the most successful. Oumn&r Hall. Page 72. Mickle (b. in Scotland, 1734, d. 1788) was a printer, and used frequently to put his poetry into type without writing it. This ballad suggested to Scott his novel of " Kenihvorth." The SaiUn^'s Wife. Page 76. This poem has been commonly attrib- uted to Mickle, author of " Cumnor Hall," because an imperfect copy of it was found among his papers. He never claimed it, nor would he be likely to have written it, as he never lived in a seaport. Miss Adam was a schoolmistress, who lived near Greenock, and died in Glasgow in 1765. She published a volume of poems, and claimed this as one of hers. The Toper's Apology. Page 78. Captain Morris (b. in England, 1739 or 1749, d. 1838) published a great number of songs, scarcely another one of which rises above doggerel. The Three Warnings. Page 80. It is said that Mrs. Thrale (b. 1740, d. 1821) was indebted to her good friend Dr. Jolmson for much of the finish of this poem. 342 NOTES. lAfe. Page 83. Mrs. Barbauld (b. 17-13, d. 1825) wi'ote numeroui short poems, including some hymns. This one was greatly admired toy Rogers. When Shall we Three Meet Again? Page 84. There is no very satis- factory theory as to the authorship of this poem. The one which as- ci-ibes it to three early students at Dartmouth College rests on slender evidence. Gaffer Chxiy. Page 85. Holcroft (b. 1745, d. 1800), author of "The Road to Ruin," was successively a shoemaker, horse-jockey, school- master, actor, playwright, and novelist. Y/hat Commutes a State. Page 86. Jones (b. 1746, d. 1794) tells us he got the idea of this poem from one of the extant fragments ol Alcaeus: Ov XiQoi, ovda ^vXa, ovdk Texvrj tektovgov ai itoXeii eidiv, "AXXP oTtov Ttor'> av cadiv"AN^PE2 Avrov's dao^eiv sidore?, ^ErravSa TEixr] nai itoXei'i. To the Guckjoo. Page 87. Logan (b. 1748, d. 1788) was a Scottish minister. Edmund Burke, when in Edinburgh, sought him out, solely oecause of his admiration for this poem. Its authorship has been claimed for Michael Bkuce (b. 1746, d. 1767), whose manuscript poems were entrusted to Logan for editing and publication. Avid Sobin Gray. Page 88. Lady Barnard (b. in Scotland, 1750, d. 1825) published this ballad anonymously, about 1771, and it excited so much comment that a reward of twenty guineas was offered for dis- covery of the authorship. She never acknowledged it till two years before her death. Scott said, " ' Auld Robin Gray ' is that real pastoral which is worth all the dialogues which Corydon and Phillis have had together, from the days of Theocritus downwards." Mary's Dream. Page 89. Lowe (b. in Scotland, 1750, d. in Virginia, 1798) wrote this poem on the loss at sea of a young surgeon named Miller, the fianrj of a Miss McGhie in whose father's family Lowe was tutor. What is Time ? Page 90. Marsden (b. in DubUn, 1754, d. 1836), who spent thirty years in India, was famous as an orientalist. The Gi'oves of Blarney. Page 92. Millikin (b. in Ireland, 1767, d. 1815) was a lawyer, painter, and litt&ateur. The intention of this poem, written about 1798, was to ridicule the songs of the Irish village bards. There are several versions, and it is said that the fifth stanza was inserted by John Lander, when singing the song at an electioneer- ing dinner. Helen (tf Kirkcmnel. Page 93. There are numerous versions of this NOTES. 343 poem. The one here given, by Matne (b. in Scotland, 1759, d. 1836), Is metrically the most perfect. It was published by Scott, in the "Edin- burgh Annual Register" for 1815, who says : " A lady of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter oi the laird of Kirkconnel, in Dumfriesshire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighborhood. The name of the favored suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick ; that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has been alleged that he was a Bell ol 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 church-yard of Kirkconnel, a romantic spot surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and leveled 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 the streets of Madrid." These events occurred in the reign of Mary Queen of Scots. Connd and Flora. Page 94. Wilson (b. in Scotland, 1766, d. in Philadelphia, 1813) wrote several poems, but was only famous as an ornithologist. The Soldier. Page 95. Smyth (b. 1766, d. 1849) was an Englishman. The Beggar. Page 96. Moss (d. 1808) was an English clergyman. He published anonymously in 1769 a small volume of poems, of which this one alone has survived. The Orphan Boy. Page 97. Mrs. Opie (b. 1769, d. 1853) was the wife of a portrait painter of considerable celebrity. She was better known lor her novels and tales than for her poems. Night. Page 99. White was bom in Spain in 1775, and died in Eng- land in 1841. Coleridge considered this sonnet one of the finest in the language. Th^ Tears I Shed. Page 99. Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun (b. in Scot- land, 1765, d. 1838) became in 1790 the second wife of Prof. Dugald Stewart. The first four lines of the last stanza were inserted by Bums. To an Indian Gold Coin. Page 100. Leyden (b. in Scotland, 1775) went to India as a surgeon in 1803, and died in 1811, of a malignant fever which he caught while searching the town library of Batavla, In the island ol Java, for Indian manuscripts. A Visit from St. NicTwlas. Page 103. MooRE (b. In New York, 1779 d. in Newport, B. I., 1863) was a professor in the Protestant Episcopal Seminary in New York, and published a volume of poems in 1844. The Star Spangled Banner. Page 108. Key (b. in Maryland, 1779, d. 26* 344; NOTES. 1843) bdgan writing this song while he witnessed the bombardment ol Fort McHenry, near Baltimore, by the British in 1814. A collection ol his poems was published in 1857. Lucy's Flittin\ Page 105. William Laidlaw (b. m Scotland, 1780, d. 1845) was the amanuensis and confidential friend of Sir Walter Scott. "Lucy's Flittin' " was contributed to Hogg's "Forest Minstrel," and Hogg himself wrote the closing stanza. A Litany for Doneraile. Page 106. O'Kelly published two volumes of poems in Dublin (1808 and 1812), the former of which contained this famous litany. When Lady Doneraile read it, she sent the poet a splen- did gold watch, " with chain and seal," whereupon he wrote a palinode, calling down all sorts of blessings on Doneraile. When he was intro- duced to Scott, at Limerick in 1825, he got off, as impromptu, the follow- ing parody on Dryden's epigram: Three poets, of three different nations born, The United Kingdom in this age adorn : Byron of England ; Scott of Scotia's blood ; And Erin's pride, O'Kelly, great and good. A Riddle. Page 109. This enigma has been frequently attributed to Lord Byron, and printed in two or three editions of his works. The answer is, the letter H. Miss Fanshawe was a contemporary ol Byron's. TJie PhUosopher's Scales. Page 109. Miss Taylor (b. in England 1783, d. 1824) was a sister of Isaac and Jeffreys Taylor. A Modest Wit. Page 111. Osborn (b. in Trumbull, Conn., 1783, d. in Philadelphia, 1826) was editor of various newspapers, in Connecticut, Vermont, and Delaware, and published a small volume of poems in Boston in 1823. Saint Patrick. Page 113. According to Croker, this ballad was com- posed by Henry Bennett and a Mr. Tolleken, of Cork, who sang it In alternate lines at a masquerade in that city in the winter of 1814-15. They at first made only the first, second, and fifth stanzas ; after it had become popular, Tolleken added the sixth at the request of Webb the comedian. The third and fourth are the work of some other hand. The Cloud. Page 114. Christopher North (b. in Scotland, 1785, d. 1854) vn-ote an abundance of poems, long and short, but this sonnet seems to be the only one that anybody now cares to read. T?ie Bucket. Page 115. Woodworth (b. in Massachusetts, 1785, d. 1S42) produced this poem by some happy accident. His other verses are Bcarcely more than doggerel. Tfie Smrs Defiance. Page 116. Lavinia Stoddard was born in Guil lord. Conn., in 1787, and died in 1820. The Mitherless Bairn. Page 117. Thom (b. in Scotland, 1789, d. 1848) was a weaver, and became a peddler, flute-player, and wandering poet. Speaking to a friend of this poem, he said, " When I was living in Aber- NOTES. 345 I was limping roun' the house to mj gaiTet, wheu I heard the greetln' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame bellowin' ' Ye hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn ? ' I hobbled up the stair, and wrote the sang afore sleepin'." Stanzm. Page 118. Wilde (b. in Ireland, 1789, d. in New Orleans, 1847) came to this country with his parents when he was a small boy. He was a lawyer, and served several terms in Congress. These stanzas, which were intended to be part of a long poem, are supposed to be sung by a European held captive among the savages of Florida. Afa7' in the Desert. Page 119. Pringle (b. in Scotland, 1788, d. 1834) spent several years in South Africa. TJie Beacon. Page 132. This little poem has been persistently at- tributed to Moore. James was a banker of Manchester, England, and was an uncle of the present Bishop of Lincoln. He first published this poem in 1810, and Included it in his collected poems (1853). He died in 1854. Mortality. Page 132. This poem owes its popularity to the fact that it was a favorite with President Lincoln, who found it in a newspaper and inquu'ed in vain for the authorship. Knox was born in Scotland in 1789, and died in 1835. The poem in its wanderings has become very much corrupted. I have here printed it exactly as it stands in Knox's " Songs of Israel " (1824). The Whistler. Page 134. Story was born in Scotland in 1790, and died in 1859. We ""11 go to Sea no More. Page 135. Miss Mitford quotes this poem in her "Recollections," but does not mention Miss Corbett's Christian name, or give any information about her ; and I have sought it in vain elsewhere. Geehale. Page 137. Schoolcraft (b. near Albany, 179:3, d. 1864) married the granddaughter of an Indian chief, and became famous for his researches and publications concerning the red race. I would not Live Alway. Page 138. Dr. Muhlenberg (b. in Philadel- phia, 1796, d. 1877) made several re^^sions of his famous poem. The versions in the hymn-books contain some striking lines that do not ap- pear in his final revision, which is here presented. Lines Written in a Church-yard. Page 130. Knowlks (b. in England, 1798, d. 1817) wrote this poem, at the age of eighteen, in the church-yard of Richmond, Yorkshire. The Mariner's Dream. Page 131. Dimond (b. in England, 1800, d. 1837) was a theatrical manager. Old Grimes. Page 133. Greene was a lawyer in Providence, R. I. where he was born in 1803, and died in Cleveland in 1868. He Is said to have written this poem at the age of fifteen. 346 NOTES. TJie Closing Tear. Page 135. Prentice was born In Connecticut in 1802, and died in LouisviUerKy., in 1870. A Health. Page 138. Pinkney (b. in London while his father was U. S. Commissioner to England, 1803, d. in Baltimore, 1828) wrote a few other poems which deserve to be generally known, but are not. They maybe found in Morris and Willis's "Mirror Library,' at the end of the book The Three Sons. Page 139. Moultrie, (b. in England, 1800, d. 1874), was a schoolmate of Praed's and Macaulay's at Eton, became a clergy- man, and was Rector of Rugby. He published this poem in 1839. The Annuity. Page 142. Outram (b. in Scotland, 1805, d. 1856) was a lawyer and journalist, and printed privately a small volume of humor- ous verses, entitled "Legal Lyrics." The Forging of the Anchor. Page 146. Ferguson (b. in Belfast, 1805; d. in 1886) was a lawyer. He published two volumes of poetry. The Bdls of Shandon. Page 149. Mahony ("Father Prout," b. In Cork about 1805, d. 1866) first published this poem in Fraser's Magazine, of which he was an editor, in 1834. The bells referred to are the chime in the high steeple of St. Anne, or Upper Shandon, which is in plain view from Cork. The Death of Napoleon. Page 151. McLellan (^i. in Portland, Me., about 1805) has been a lawyer and a farmer, and has published three volumes of poetry. He resides on Shelter Island, east of Long Island. The Grave of Bonaparte. Page 152. I have not been able to learn anything concerning the author of this poem. Widow Malone. Page 153. Lever, the novelist, was born in Dublin In 1806, and died in 1872. Lament of the Irish Emigrant. Page 155. Helen Selina Sheridan (b. in Ireland, 1807, d. 1867) married the Hon. Price Blackwood in 1825. He became fourth Baron Dufferin, and died in 1841. In 1862 she mar- ried her old friend Earl Giflord. She was Mrs. Norton's sister. The Happy Land. Page 157. Young (b. about 1805) is a native and resident of Edinburgh, Scotland, where he was for many years a teacher. Gluggity Glug. Page 158. George Colman the Younger (b. in Eng- land, 1762, d. 1836) was a dramatist and theatrical manager. Here she Goes — and There she Goes. Page 1.58. Nack (b. in New York, 1809, d. 1879) became deaf by accident when he was a boy. His poems were published in 1859, with a memoir by George P. Morris. She Died in Beauty. Page 163. Sillery (b. in Ireland, 1807, d. in Ed- inburgh, 1836) studied medicine, and published two or three small vol- umes of poetry. The New Tale of a Tub. Page 164. Bayley (b. in England, 1807, d. 1852) was the first editor of the London Ilhistrated News- NOTES. 347 The Old Sexton. Page 175. Benjamin (b. in Demerara, British Gui- ana, 1809, d. in New York, 1864) was a journalist and lecturer. His writings have never been collected. The Private of the Buffs. Page 176. Doyle (b. in England, 1810; d. in 1888) was Professor of Poetry at Oxford in 1867-77. The poem is explained by an extract from a China letter to the London Times: "Some Seiks, and a private of the Buffs, having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next day they were brought before the authorities and ordered to perform ko- tow. The Seiks obeyed; but 3Ioyse, the English soldier, declared he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, and was im- mediately knocked upon the head, and liis body thrown upon a dung- hill." Light. Page 177. Palmer (b. in Stockbridge, Mass., 1805; d. in 1884) was an msurance officer in New York City. .4 Death-Bed. Page 179. Aldrich (b. in Sullivan Co., N. Y., 1810; d 1856) was at first a merchant, and afterward a magazine editor. This poem owes a great part of its fame to the fact that Poe pointed out the remarkable resemblance between it and one by Hood with an almost identical title. A Christmas Hymn. Page 180. Domett (b. in England. 1811; d. in 1886) published this poem in Blackwood's in 1837. He was educated at Cambridge, and wandered about the world in a most remai'kable manner. For some time he was Colonial Secretary in New Zealand, A few years ago he re-appeared in London, and published two volumes of poetry. He is understood to be the hero of Robert Browning's poem "Waring." The Ivy Green. Page 181. Dickens (b. 1812, d. 1870) published this jjoem as a song in the " Pickwick Papex's." The Polish Boy. Page 182. Mrs. Stephens {nee Winterbotham, b. Derby, Conn., 1813; d. in 1886), besides her many novels, wrote occa- sional poems, but never collected them into a volume. Balaklava. Page 186. Meek (b. in Columbia, S. C, 1814, d. In Georgia, 1865) was a lawyer and journalist. He published a volume of poems in Mobile in 1857. The Pauper's Dnve. Page 189. Noel, an English country gentle- man residing near Windsor, pubUshed in 1841 a volume of poems, which included this one. Florence Vane. Page 190. Cooke (b. in Martinsburg, Va., 1816, d. 1850) was a lawyer, and published a volume of poems in 1847. The DuUs i' this Bonnet o' Mine. Page 191. Waugh (b. in England, 1818) has published several small volumes of poems in the Lancashire dialect. Abraham Lincoln. Page 193. Taylor (b. in England, 1817, d. 1880) wrote or adapted numerous plays, and published a few fugitive poems. U8 ^OTES. The Memory of the Dead. Page 195. Ingram was born In Ireland la Tlbe Bivouac of the Bead. Page 197. In accordance with an act of the legislature of Kentucky, the remains of the soldiers from that state who fell at Buena Vista were brought home to Frankfort, and there interred under a handsome monument. This was the occasion of O'Hara's poem. He was born in Kentucky about 1820, and died in Alabama in 1867. Nearer, my God, to Thee. Page 199. Mrs. Adams (b. in England, 1805, d. 1848) wrote several hymns, and a drama. Lines on a Skeleton. Page 301. The manuscript of this poem was found near a skeleton in the London Royal College of Surgeons, about 1820. The author has never been found, though a reward of fifty guineas was offered for his discovery. Perhaps the lines were suggested to him, consciously or unconsciously, by the 6th stanza of the Second Canto of "Childe Harold," The Place where Man should Die. Page 202. Barry (b. In Ireland about 1815) published this poem in the Dublin Nation in 1843. A Hundred Years to Come. Page 203. Brown (b. in Whitingham, Vt., 1812) has been a teacher and editor, and now resides at Stevens Point, Wis. This poem was published originally in the Mother''s Journal, Philadelphia. The Song of Steam. Page 204. Cutter (b. in Massachusetts, 1801, d. in Washington, D. C, 1865) was a lawyer by profession. He won some distinction in the Mexican war, after which he married Miss Drake, an actress of Cincinnati, and settled at Covington, Ky. He published a volume entitled " Buena Vista, and other Poems," in Cincinnati in 1848. His "Song of the Lightning" is very similar to the "Song of Steam," but has not been so successful. Why thus Longing P Page 206. Mrs. Sewall (formerly Mrs. List) was born in Portland, Maine, and after her first marriage resided in Philadelphia. She now lives in Boston. Nothing to Wear. Page 207. Butler (b. in Albany, N. Y., 1825) pub- lished this poem in 1857. He considers his "Two Millions" a much better poem, though it never attained equal popularity. Antony and Cleopatra. Page 217. Gen Lytle (b. in Cincinnati, 1836, fell in the battle of Chickamauga, September, 1863) is said to have writ- ten this poem one night after seeing Edwin Booth in Shakespeare's "Antony and Cleopatra." The Nautilus and the Ammonite. Page 218. Richardson, who waa connected with the British Museum, wrote essays, poems, and geolog- ical works. This poem — first published, I believe, in Mantell's "Thoughts on a Pebble," London, 1849— gained much of its popularitj through recitation by lecturers on geology. NOTES. 340 Carmen Bellicosum. Page 220. Judge McMaster (b. 1829, d. 1887) resided in Bath. Steuben Co., N. Y. Doi'is. Page^2\. Munby, an Englishman, published a volume of poems In 1865. 21ie Exile to his Wife. Page 223. Brenan (b. 1829, d. 185T) was a native of the north of Ireland. He joined the Young Ireland party in 1j>18, and was one of the conductors of the Irish Felon. He was im- prisoned for nine months in Dublin, afterward edited the Imh/nan, and in October, 1841), being implicated in an insurrectionary movement in Tipperary, fled to America. He was for three years connected with the New Orleans Bella, and died in that city in May, 1857. Hock Me to Sleep. Page 224. Mrs. Allen sent this poem from Italy (she was then Mrs. Paul Akers) to the Saturday Evening Gazette In 1860. "When it had become popular, several claimants to Its authorship arose, and a flerce dispute ensued, one claimant hiring a whole page of a New York daily in which to set forth his proofs. Mrs. Allen's volume (Boston, 1865) contains better, though less popular, poems than this. Only a Baby Small. Page 226. Barr (b. In Edinburgh, 1831) resides in London. He published a volume of poems in 1865 ; enlarged edition, 1870. He has been called " the Children's Laureate." The Jolly Old Pedagogue. Page 236. Arnold (b. in New York city, 1834, d. 1865) published this poem in the Bound Table, and without his signature it traveled the rounds of the press. His poems were edited with a memoir by his friend William Winter (Boston, 1867). Ode on the Centenary of Burns. Page 229. Miss Craig's ode, which bore off the prize of £50, offered by the directors of the Crystal Palace Company, from more than six hundred competitors, is one of the few prize poems which have possessed any poetical merit. She was born in Edinburgh in 1831, and in 1866 married John Knox, a London merchant. She has published three small volumes of poetry. Over the River. Page 233. Miss Priest (b. in Hinsdale, N. H., 1837, d. 1870) published this poem in the Springfield Republican in August, 1857. She married Lieut. A. C. Wakefield in 1865. The Old Sergeant. Page 234. Willson (b. in Little Genesee, N. Y., 1837, d. 1867) wrote this poem as a carrier's address for the Louisville Journal, Jan. 1, 1863. John James Piatt published a sketch of him fti the Atlantic for March. 1875. His poems were published in 1867. Too Late. Page 239. Ludlow (b. in Poughkeepsie, N. Y., 1837, d. In Switzerland, 1870) wrote some of our best American college songs. What the End Shall be. Page 240. This poem has been handed aboul in manuscript for at least a quarter of a century. It is attributed to Frances Browne, the blind poetess (b. in Stranolar, Ireland, 1816). The Two Worlds. Page 243. This poem has long been going the 350 NOTES. rounds, credited only to the Dublin University Magazine. Collins (b. In England, 1827, d. 1876) was editor of that periodical. He published three volumes of poetry. Bain on the Roof. Page 244. Kinney (b. in Penn Yan, N. Y., 1826) is a lawyer and journalist, and resides in Xenia, O. The text of this poem as usually printed is very corrupt. It is here set from a copy furnished by the author. Willie Winkie. Page 246. Miller is a native of Scotland, T?ie Old Canoe. Page 247. Miss Page (b. in Bradford, Vt., about 1835, d. about 1859) wrote this poem at the age of seventeen. Only Waiting. Page 248. Published in the Waterville, Me., Mail in 1854. The Burial of Moses. Page 249. Miss Humphreys (b. In Strabane, Ireland) married in 1850 the Rev. William Alexander, who is now Bishop of Derry. Miltofi's P7'ayer of Patience. Page 252. Mrs. Howell was a resident of Philadelphia. Curfew Must not Ring To-night. Page 253. Rosa Hart wick (b. in Mlshawaka, Ind., 1850) married Edmund C. Thorpe in 1871, and now re- sides in Missouri. She wTote this poem in 1867, and published it in thd Detroit Commercial Advertiser in the autumn of 1870. Revelry in India. Page 256. These lines are said to have been sung by a company of British officers stationed at a frontier post in India during a pestilence. It is also said that the author of them was the next victim. They have been persistently attributed to Alfred Domett ; but in a letter to me, dated February 6, 1879, he says : "I did not write that poem, and was never in India in my life. I am as ignorant of the authorship as you can be ; indeed, I never heard of the poem until I saw it attributed to myself in an article in the Chicago Times, in the year 1872, I think The poem has splendid talent, and even more spirit, which makes me the more anxious to disclaim it, as I do not wish to take any credit that properly belongs to another man." Th^ Rising of the Moon. Page 258. Casey (b. in Ireland about 1840) has published a small volume of poems. My Maryland. Page 259. This song, written in the first year of the Rebellion, was first published in the Charleston Mercui^. Perhaps it was suggested by Mangan's "Karamanian Exile," to which it bears a strong resemblance. Ciml War. Page 262. This poem, which appeared originally in Lon- don Once a Week, with the signature " From the once Unired States," has been attributed to Charles Dawson Shanly (b. about 1830, d. 1876). The locket Guard. Page 263, The authorship of this poem has been disputed, but there is now no reason to doubt that it belongs to Mrs BEERS, wlio residfid in Oranoo, X. J., and died Oct. 10, 1*^7'.). NOTES. 35X The Countersign. Page 264. Concerning the authorship of " The Countersign," we only know that it was written by a private in Company G of Stuart's Engineers, at Camp Lesley, near Washington, during the first year of the Rebellion. It seems too good to have been a first poem ; but it is to be feared that the chances of war made it the last, as it has never been claimed. Sherman''s March to the Sea. Page 365. Adjutant Byers (b. In Penn- sylvania about 1835), Fifth Iowa Infantry, wrote this song while a prisoner at Columbia, S. C. General Sherman, to whom a copy of the lines was handed when he arrived at that place, so admired them that he sent for the author and attached bun to his staff. Byers was afterward U. S. Consul at Zurich, Switzerland. Driving Home the Cows. Page 367. Miss Osgood, who is a native of Fryeburg, Maine, contributed this poem to Harper's Magazine for March, 1865. The Twins. Page 369. Leigh (b. in England about 1840) published " Carols of Cockayne " in 1869. A Little Goose. Page 3T0. Mrs. Turner, who resides in Pennsylvania, published a volume of poems in 1871. Tired Mothers. Page 2T2. Mrs. Smith {nie Riley, Brighton, near Rochester, N. Y.) resides in New York city. Tlie Children. Page 274. Dickinson (b. about 1845) v/as a teacher when he wrote this poem. He is now a journalist in Binghamton, N. Y. TJie Burial of Sir John Moore. Page 276. This famous ode is here printed exactly as it stands in "Wolfe's Remains," where it is copied from the original manuscript. The Rev. Samuel O'Sullivan, writing under date of April 32, 1841, says : " I think it was about the summer of 1814 or 1815 (I cannot say for certainty which), I was sitting in my college rooms [in Dublin] and reading in the ' Edinburgh Annual Reg- ister,' in which a very striking and beautiful account is given of the burial of Sir John Moore. Wolfe came in, and I made him listen to me as I read the passage, which he heard with deep and sensible emotion. We were both loud and ardent in our commendation of it ; and after some little time I proposed to our friend to take a walk into the country. He consented, and we bent our way to Simpson's nursery, about half- way between Dublin and the Rock. During our stroll Wolfe was un- usually meditative and silent ; and I remember having been provoked a little by meeting with no response or sympathy to my frequent bursts of admiration about the country and the scenery, in which, on other occasions, he used so cordially to join. But he atoned for his apparent dullness and insensibility upon his return, when he repeated for me the first and last verses of his beautiful ode, in the composition of which he had been absorbed during i iir little perambulation These were the only verses which our dear friend at first contemplated ; but moved, as he said, by my approbation, his mind worked upon the subject after 352 ^^T^^- he left me, and in the morning he came over to me with the other verses by which It was completed." Wolfe (b. in Dublin, Dec. 14, 1791, d. Feb. 21, 1823) neither published this poem nor took pains to claim it. Manu- script copies were taken down from recitation, and it was Anally print- ed, with the initials "C. W.", in the Newry, Ireland, Telegraph, from which it was speedily copied far and wide. An interesting discussion of its merits by Byron and Shelley is given in Medwin's " Conversations of Byron." Song.— If I had tJmight. Page 277. The Irish air ' ' Gramachree ' ' was a favorite with Wolfe, but he thought no words had ever been written for it which were worthy of its peculiar pathos. Accordingly, he com- posed these. 8(mg.—Go,fwget me! Page 278. These words were written for a celebrated singer, to an unpublished air of her own composition. The First Miracle. Page 279. Crashaw (b. in London, d. in Italy about 1650) was a clergyman— at first Protestant, afterward Catholic. This, famous as "the one-line poem," appeared in a volume which he published anonymously at Cambridge in 1634. A Javanese Poem. Page 279. Dekker is a native of Holland. This poem occurs in his novel " Max Havelaar ; or, the Coffee Auctions of the Dutch Trading Company," the English translation of which was pub- lished in Edinburgh in 1868. A Yukon Cradk-Smg. Page 280. This occurs in Dall's " Alaska." The Passage. Page 282. Longfellow brought this poem into notice by quoting it in his " Hyperion," where he makes one of his characters say that, " though not very literal, it equals the original in beauty ; . . . though in the measure of the original there is something like the rock- ing motion of a boat, which is not preserved in the translation." Uhland was born in Tubingen in 1787, and died in 1862. Mrs. Austin, (wee Taylor, England, 1793, d. 1867) was the translator of Ranke's works. Ann Hathaway. Page 282. These lines were originally addressed " To the Idol of my Eyes and Delight of my Heart." On Parting with his Books. Page 284. Roscoe (b. in Liverpool 1753, d. 1831) was a banker and historian. His firm failed in 1816, and he was Obliged to sell his library and art collections. Hylas. Page 284. Hylas, a beautiful youth, was one of the Argonauts. When they stopped on the coast of Mysia, he went for water, and was seized by the nymphs of the stream into which he dipped his urn. Her- cules, to whom he had been entrusted, went in search of him, and was left by the ship. These lines appeared in the " London Keepsake," 1838. We Parted in Silence. Page 285. Mrs. Crawford was a native of Ireland. Vaaitas Vanitatum. Page 286. These lines, which do not appear ir NOTES. 353 the collected poems of Gritfin (b. In Ireland, 1803, d. 1840), are attrib- uted to him on the authority of the Glasgow Free Press, which published them about 1861. Wonderland. Page 388. Newton, an Englishman, contributed this poem to the London At/ienceum in September, 1851. Nathan Hale. Page 289. Nathan Hale (b. in Coventry, Conn., 1755) was a captain in the Continental army, went within the British lines at New York as a spy in September, 1776, was discovered and aiTCsted, and by order of Lord Howe was executed the next morning, 22d. The ladies of his native town have recently erected a monument to his memory. Finch (b. in Ithaca, N. Y., 1837) introduced this lyilc in the poem which he read before the Linonian Society of Yale in 185.3. An unknown con- temporary of Hale's wrote a poem on the subject, which is almost as unique as Finch's : The breezes went steadily through the tall pines, A-saying "Oh, hu-ush !;" a-saying " Oh, hu-ush ! " As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the bush. "Keep still," said the thrush, as she nestled her young In a nest by the road, in a nest by the road ; "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear What bodes us no good, what bodes us no good." The brave Captain heard It, and thought of his home In a cot by the brook, in a cot by the brook ; With mother and sister and memories dear. He so gayly forsook, he so gayly forsook. Cooling shades of the night were coming apace. The tattoo had beat, the tattoo had beat ; The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place, To make his retreat, to make his retreat. He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves, As he passed through the wood, as he passed through the wood And silently gained his rude launch on the shore, As she played with the flood, as she played with the flood. The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, Had a murderous will, had a murderous will ; They took him, and bore him afar from the shore, To a hut on the hill, to a hut on the hill. No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, In that little stone cell, in that little stone cell ; But he trusted in love from his Father above,— In his heart all was well, in his heart all was well. An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice, Sat moaning hard by, sat moaning hard by : "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, For he must soon die, for be must soon die." 354 NOTES. The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,— The cruel general, the cruel general,— Of his errand from camp, of the end to be gained, And said that was all, and said that was all. They took him, and bound him, and bore him away, Down the hill's grassy side, down the hill's grassy side ; 'T was there the base hirelings in royal array His cause did deride, his cause did deride. Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, For him to repent, for him to repent ; He prayed for his mother, he asked not another, — To heaven he went, to heaven he went. The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, As he trod the last stage, as he trod the last stage ; And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood. As his words do presage, as his words do presage. Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go frighten the slave, go frighten the slave ; Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe. No fears for the brave, no fears for the brave. The Blue and the Gray. Page 391. This poem appeared originally in the Atlantic Monthly. It was suggested by the women of Columbus, Miss., decorating alike the graves of national and rebel dead. Certainly no fault can be found with it as poetry ; I know of nothing of its kind that surpasses it ; but James M. Dalzell, who served in the 116th Ohio Volunteers, thus takes issue with it on the score of patriotism or policy : You may sing of the Blue and the Gray, And mingle their hues in your rhyme. But the blue that we wore in the fray Is covered with glory sublime. So no more let us hear of the Gray, The symbol of treason and shame — We pierced it with bullets— away ! Or we'll pierce it with bullets again. Then up with the Blue and down with the Gray, And hurrah for the Blue that won us the day I Of the rebels who sleep in the Gray, Our silence is flitting alone. But we cannot afford them a bay, A sorrow, a tear, or a moan. Let oblivion seal up their graves Of treason, disgrace, and defeat ; Had they triumphed, the Blue had been slaves. And Union been lost in retreat. Then up with the Blue and down with the Gray, Ajad hurrah for the Blue that won us the day 1 NOTES. 365 Of the rebels whom mercy still spares To boast of the traitorous fray, No boy In the Blue thinks or cares, For the struggle is ended to-day. Let them come as they pr(/mtsed to come. Under Vhion and Liberty too, And we'll hail them with flfe and with drum, And forget that they flrer^ on the Blue. Then up with the Blue and down with the Gray, And hurrah for the Blue that won us the day 1 As they carried your flag through the fray, Ye Northmen, ye promised the Blue That ye'd never disgrace with the Gray The color so gallant and true. Will ye trace on the leaves of your soula The Blue and the Gray in one line. And mingle their hues on the scrolls Which glorify Victory's shrine, And cheer for the false, and hiss at the true. And up with the Gray and down with the Blue ? Let the traitors all go if you may, (Your heroes would punish the Head), But never confound with the Gray The Blue, whether living or dead. Oh I remember the price that was paid— The blood of the brave and the true— And you never can suffer to fade The laurels that cover the Blue. Then up with the Blue, and down with the Gray, And hurrah for the Blue that won us the day I T?ie Death of King Bomba of Naples. Page 293. Ferdinand II, King of the two Sicilies, who died at Bari, on the Adriatic, in 1859, was called King Bomba, according to some authorities, because during an insiu*- rection he ordered the bombardment of his cities. This poem was first published in Punch. The Golden Wedding. Page 394. This poem has been mistakenly at- tributed to David Gray, the young Scottish poet (b. 1838, d. 1861) who had so romantic and mournful a history. It was written in 1862, by David Gray, editor of the Buffalo, N. Y., Courier, for a golden wedding in Albany. Mr. Gray died in 1888. His writings have been edited by J. N. Larned. TacUng Ship off Shore. Page 295. Mitchell (b. In Nantucket about 1835) is an Episcopal clergyman and resides in New York City. This poem was published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1858. The Mistress of the House. Page 397. I have not been able to ascer- tain anything whatever concerning the author of this poem. 356 NOTES. In the Hospital. Page 299. These lines were loug supposed to have been "found under thp pillow of a soldier who died at Port Royal, South Carolina." The Petrified Fern. Page 3(W. Mrs. Branxh, a native of Brooklyn, resides in Connecticut. Tuloom. Page 303. Mr. Ellsworth, who resides in Windsor, Conn.^ published a volume of poemsin 1855, of wliich this one alone has gained popular favor. It appeared originally in Putnam's Magazine. The Ocean. Page '607. A small volume of Mr. Shea's poems, edited by his son, the Hon. George Shea, was published in New York in 1846. Mr. Shea was born in Ireland in 1802, and died in New York in 1845. Spinning-Wheel Song. Page 308. Mr. Waller, an Irish barrister, was born in 1810. The Burial of Ber anger. Page 309. This poem, which appeared about three years before the John Brown song, probably furnishes the original of its popular refrain. It exemplifies the power of musical versification, the striking thought being put somewhat clumsily in the eariier poem, but with perfect rhythm in the later and better known one. The Song of the Western Men. Page 310. Mr. Hawker, who was Vicar of Morwenstow, in Cornwall, for forty-one years, was born in England in 1804, and died in 1875. He was an eccentric character, and published several little volumes of verse. The interesting story of his life, written by Sabine Baring-Gould, has been re-published in New York. Trelaw^ney was one of the seven bishops chat were committed to the Tower in 1688, and the refrain of this poem was a popular catch at the time. The story is told in chapter VIII. of Macaulay's History. Mr. Hawker slightly altered his poem from time to time; I have pre- ferred to give his first version. Crossing the Rappahannock. Page 314. The incident related in this poem occurred at the battle of Fredericksburg, in December, 1862, when the pontoon bridges were being laid for the National army to cross the river. *• The bridges had not spanned more than half the dis- tance when the sun rose and the fog lifted sufficiently to reveal what was going on. A detachment of Mississippi riflemen had been posted in cellars, behind stone walls, and at every point where a man could be sheltered on the south bank; and now the incessant crack of their weapons was heard, picking off the men that were laying the bridges. The losses were so serious that it was impossible to continue the work. .... At last, General Hunt suggested a solution of the difficulty. Four regiments that volunteered for the service— the 7th Michigan, the 19th and 20th Massachusetts, and the 89th New York— crossed the river in pontoon boats, under the fire of the sharpshooters, landed NOTES. 357 quickly, and drove them out of their fastness, capturing a hundred of them, while the remainder escaped to the hills. Roll-Call. Page 316. Mr. Shepherd was a New York journalist. Heroes. Page 317. This poem was contributed by Miss Proctor to the publication of a sanitary fair during the last year of the War of the Rebellion. Moonlight. Page 318. Mr. Weeks, born in New York in 1840, was a graduate of Yale College, and died in 1876. Three volumes of his poems were published, in 1866-76. They contain much fine work, but the piece here given has surpassed all the others in popularity. The Song of Rorek. Page 319. This poem appeared originally in the Atlantic Monthly. Its author, a business man of New York, published a small volume of original poems and translations in 1864, under the pen-name of John W. Montclair. Easter. Page 328. Dr. Cutting, who was born in Windsor, Vt., in 1813, and died in Brooklyn, N. Y., in 1882, wrote many fugitive poems, which have never been collected. If I Should Die To-Night. Page 329. This poem, originally published in The Christian Union in June, 1873, was brought into special promi- nence when H. Rider Haggard inserted a large portion of it, without credit, in his novel entitled " Jess" (1887), where it is supposed to be written by the heroine and addressed to the hero, the necessary changes for that purpose being made. The lines have been attributed to Henry Ward Beecher and to others, but the evidence leaves no reasonable doubt that Miss Smith, of Tabor College. Iowa, Is their author. Cuddle Doon. Page 331 . The author of this piece is a Scottish work- ing-man, whose poems have been published in a small volume. Light. Page 333, Mr. Bourdillon is an Englishman, born in 1852, What My Lover Said. Page 333. This poem has been attributed to Horace Greeley from the accident that the writer's initials, correspond- ing to his, were signed to it on its first appearance in tlie New York Evening Post. Some controversy has arisen over the authorship, one newspaper correspondent asserting with great positiveness that the lines were written by Richard Realf; but they bear no marks of Realf'shand. Mr. Greene is a lawyer of Honesdale, Pa., whose name is known in magazine literature. What Does It Matter? Page 335. Mr. Barker, being elected to the Maine legislature, received a circular requesting material for a bio- graphical sketch, and wrote this poem in reply. TJie Last Redoubt. Page 336. Mr. Austin, an English journalist, born in 1835, has published three novels, several tragedies, and two or three small volumes of poems, of which this one alone seems to have caught the popular ear. INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun Afar in the desert I love to ride A good sword and a trusty hand Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store . Alas ! how dismal is my tale Alas ! the weary hours pass slow A little elbow leans upon your knee " All quiet along the Potomac," they say A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er And are ye sure the news is true ? And there they sat, a-popping corn As one who, destined from his friends to part A supercilious nabob of the east . 19 114 119 310 56 158 106 264 272 263 109 76 268 284 111 Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight . 224 Behold this ruin I 'T is a skull 201 Bury Beranger ! Well for you 309 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride . . 52 By Nebo's lonely mountain 249 By the flow of the inland river 291 By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom . Come a little nearer, Doctor, — thank you ! — let me . 234 Come see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 't is at a . 146 Come to me, darling, I 'm lonely without thee . 223 " Corporal Green !" the orderly cried . . . 316 Could I pass those lounging sentries .... 293 359 3GU l^DEX OF FlUST LIMES. Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy maiu Did you hear of the Widow Malone .... England's sun was slowly setting, o'er the hills Fair stood the wind for France Far in a wild, unknown to public view From the quickened womb of the primal gloom . Goe, soule, the bodie's guest Go, forget me ! Why should sorrow . . . . Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! . . . Happy insect ! ever blest Happy the man who, void of cares and strife . Harness me down with your iron bauds Her suffering ended with the day .... Hie upon Hielands How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood Ho ! why dost thou shiver and shake How little recks it where men lie ... . I am dying, Egypt, dying I am far from my hame, an' I'm weary often whiles I am old and blind I asked an aged man. with hoary hairs I can not eat but little meat .... I do not know where 1 shall die If I had thought thou couldst have died I fill this cup to one made up . If I should die to-night .... I gaed to spend a week in Fife I have a son, a little sou, a boy just five years old I in these flowery meads would be . I lay me down to sleep .... I loved thee long and dearly I 'm growing old, I 've sixty years . I'm often asked by plodding souls PAGE 94 153 353 10 37 177 2 378 87 51 83 204 179 36 115 85 217 301 353 90 18 279 377 138 339 142 139 23 399 190 313 78 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 361 I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary In a valley, centuries ago In form and feature, face and limb . In good King Charles's golden days In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay In Thee, thou Son of God, in Thee I rest In their ragged regimentals I said to sorrow's awful storm I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden It is not time that flies It matters little where I was born It was the calm and silent night . I weigh not fortune's frown or smile I wish I were where Helen lies I would not live alway, I ask not to stay PAGE 155 302 269 71 131 328 220 116 221 300 335 180 15 93 128 Kacelyevo's slope still felt Last night among his fellow roughs Life, I know not what thou art Like as the damask rose you see Likeness of heaven, agent of power Lovely river, lovely river . Love me little, love me long- Love still has something of the sea 176 83 6 307 284 16 26 Many a year is in its grave .... Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning Methiuks it is good to be here Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square Mournfully listening to the waves' strange talk Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn My dear and only love, I pray My life is like the summer rose My mind to me a kingdom is . . . My prime of youth is but a frost of care . Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew 282 308 130 207 288 69 27 118 1 9 362 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. " Nay, wait me here— I'll not be long Nearer, my God, to thee .... Nigh to a grave that was newly made Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note . O, a dainty plant is the ivy green O, blithely shines the bonny sun . Of all the girls that are so smart Oft has it been my lot to mark Old Grimes is dead ; that good old man . O Love, whose patient pilgrim feet O may I join the choir invisible On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billow Only a baby small Only waiting till the shadows On the coast of Yucatan .... O say can you see, by the dawn's early light O, the charge at Balaklava ! . . . O then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall . Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass . Over the river they beckon to me O, waly, waly up the bank .... O, where will be the birds that sing O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Pity the sorrows of a poor old man Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot . St. Patrick was a gentleman She died in beauty, — like a rose . Silent nymph, with curious eye Slave of the dark and dirty mine Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore 331 137 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 363 The breezes went steadily through the tall pines The chill November day was done . The dawn went up the sky The despot's heel is on thy shore The dews of summer night did fall The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine The glories of our birth and state The groves of Blarney, they look so charming The guests are come, all silent they have waited . The maid, and thereby hangs a tale . The modest water saw its God, and blushed The moon had climbed the highest hill The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime The nautilus and the ammonite The night has a thousand eyes . The Orient day was fresh and fair There is a happy land There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot There sat an old man on a rock The scene was more beautiful far to the eye The stream that hurries by your fixed shore The tears I shed must ever fall The tree of deepest root is found The weather leech of the topsail shivers The wind blows over the Yukon The winds that once the Argo bore They leaped in the rocking shallops This winter weather, it waxeth cold Thou too hast travelled, little fluttering thing 'T is midnight's holy hour, — and silence now To drum-beat and heart-beat 'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago 'T was in heaven pronounced, and 'twas muttered . 'T was the night before Christmas, when all through 'T was on the night of Michaelmas .... 'T was when the wan leaf frae tlie birk tree wus fa'in' 105 364 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain . 243 Two Yankee wags, one summer day . . . .158 Wee Willie Wiukie rins tlirougli the town . . 246 We hail this morn 229 We meet 'neath the sounding rafter . . . 256 AVe parted in silence, we parted by night . . . 285 What constitutes a state 86 What dreaming drone was ever blest .... 95 When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame . 117 When another life is added 240 Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill . . 183 When shall we three meet again ? .... 84 When the humid shadows hover over all the . . 244 When the lessons and tasks are all ended . . . 274 When the sheep are in the fauld, and a' the kye . 88 Where the rocks are gray, and the shore is steep . . 247 Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? ... 195 Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing . . . 206 Wild was the night, yet a wilder night ... 151 Willy 's rare, and Willy 's fair 8 With deep affection 249 Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng . . .282 Ye gentlemen of England 26 " You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, . 124 You knew — who knew not Astrophel ? . . . 5 You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier . . 190 You may sing of the Blue and the Gray ... 354 THE END .04 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 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