') f)00 .. ch fc . :s Class JPJ 1 1 fl fr Book . Xf CoRyrightN COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. / A YEAR BOOK OF FAMOUS LYRICS ' William Shakespeare 1564-1616 A Tear Book of Famous Lyrics * Selections from the^'Brifish /and American Poets, Arranged for Daily\J$.egding or Memorising Edited by ^/ FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES I) Editor of" Cap and Gown" " Golden Treas- ury of American Lyrics" etc.; author of"A Kipling Primer" " On Life's Stairway," etc. Illustrated with Portraits BOSTON DANA ESTES & CO MP ANT PUBLISHERS l&MV THE LIBRARY O CONGRESS, Two Copifc* Received AUG. 19 1901 Copyright entry ClL.t4. Kfot CLASS O-XXc. N« 2Z7* COPY B. Copyright, igoi By Dana Estes & Company All rights reserved A YEAR BOOK OF FAMOUS LYRICS ■ Colonial ^wss Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston, Mass., U. S. A PREFACE There are year-books many and collections of verse in- terminable ; yet the idea of arranging a general anthology in the form of a calendar of selections for every day, may, so far as the editor knows, claim at least novelty as its excuse for being. Similar ideas have been embodied in book form, but never exactly this idea; that, namely, of including only notable short poems, mainly lyrical, from the pens of English and American writers, and of so arranging the selections that one or two may be read or committed to memory daily. Mainly lyrical, we have said, since a number of poems are rather epigrammatic, or elegiac, or narrative, than in any strict sense song-like. The book will be found, however, to be so permeated by the lyrical spirit, that a few deviations from orthodox canons may be forgiven. Nor would the editor wish the word famous to be interpreted too rigidly. The great majority of the selections have obtained the suffrages of time. A limited number are drawn from contemporary sources, and have scarcely had opportunity to prove the strength of their hold on popular esteem. Some, also, are less widely known by the mass of readers than one could wish, but have already compelled praise from competent critics, and thus won a secure if a more limited fame. It would have been easy by including only one selection for each day to have placed on every page a poem which should be both famous and unquestionably lyrical. But it seemed better to present PREFACE a larger number of poems at the expense, in a few instances, of conformity to conventional standards. " A great critic on songs," wrote Robert Burns to Thom- son in 1795, "says that Love and Wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing." This certainly is only half the truth, even if song is here used in its narrower sense. Are there not religious songs, songs of friendship, of parting, of parental affection, of patriotism, of nature, of grief ? As to bacchanalian songs, one is surprised to discover how few approach the first order of excellence. Barry Cornwall's attempts are examples of mere posing. He was the most abstemious of men, and his laudations of " wine, boys, wine," are as little convincing as his praise of the ocean: " I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be," when he never could be induced to venture on the voyage from Dover to Calais. Burns's " Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut " is justly called by Mr. Henley " a little masterpiece of drunken fancy," but it hardly finds a place in our collec- tion. Burns, of course, has written others nearly as good, and Peacock penned several ; so, too, Moore and others. But the editor of this compilation was not prepared to find so few good drinking-songs in comparison with the number of superior love lyrics. When we turn to the theme of love, we find ourselves at once in a field of lyric production well- nigh exhaustless. Yet even in the age when the poets carolled of love as naturally as mating birds, we have lyrics of contemplation like " Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind," " Sweet be the Thoughts that Savour of Content," and " The Character of a Happy Life." The themes for song- writers, indeed, are practically unlimited. But if its themes are so varied, the true lyric has very exacting limitations. It must possess a singing quality as distinguished from the telling or narrative quality of the PREFACE epic; it must be subjective and personal, although the emo- tion must be of universal appeal; it must be simple, as opposed to a complex form like the drama ; it must have unity, and must be brief. As regards metrical structure, however, there is the widest liberty. Not only is the variety of stanza forms unlimited, and the order or arrangement of rhymes at the option of the versifier, but rhyme may be quite dispensed with. For are not Lamb's " Old Familiar Faces," Tenny- son's " Tears, Idle Tears," and Longfellow's " Golden Milestone " examples of true lyrics ? On the other hand it is equally obvious that such poems as " Thanatopsis," and " When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed," are not lyrics, though they are informed with much of the lyrical spirit. In several instances the editor of this book has omitted lines or stanzas when a distinct gain in unity would result, and in a few cases, too, extracts from long poems have been presented apart from their context ; but in practically all such instances as the latter, a note has been made of the excision. A few of the lyrical divisions of Tennyson's " In Memoriam," also, have been printed as complete poems under individual titles. For titles to a number of poems the editor has been indebted to those suggested by other modern compilers, notably Mr. Palgrave. The editor regrets that he has been prevented by copy- right restrictions from representing Stevenson, Field, and Lanier. For the same reason, he has been forced to give American verse in general less adequate representation than British. Whittier is omitted, since his most note- worthy lyrics are all too long for the limits of a single page. With few exceptions, however, the compiler has been able to make unrestricted choice among the treasures of English verse, finding his only serious barrier in the length of the poems, a good many, such as the inimitable PREFACE " Auld Robin Gray " of Lady Lindsay, the " Mariners of England " of Campbell, and the remarkable ballad, " Helen of Kirconnell," exceeding his limits. This is not, like most year-books, a collection of cheerful mottoes. Many of the poems relate to sorrow or death, though the melancholy is never morbid or of the sort which depresses the spirit. The compiler makes no claim regard- ing his work beyond the general one of having gathered within the limits of a single small volume about five hun- dred of what seemed to him to be among the most notable short poems in the English tongue. Thanks are due owners of copyright for the use of nu- merous selections. The following poems are included by permission of and by special arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of the works of the respective authors: "Fredericksburg," T. B. Aldrich ; "Memory," T. B. Aldrich ; " Concord Hymn," R. W. Emerson ; "Days," R. W. Emerson; "The Rhodora," R. W. Emer- son ; " Old Ironsides," O. W. Holmes ; " Divina Commedia," H. W. Longfellow; " Nature," H. W. Longfellow; "Snow Flakes," H. W. Longfellow; "The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls," H. W. Longfellow; " Auspex," J. R. Lowell; "She Came and Went," J. R. Lowell ; " Paradisi Gloria," T. W. Parsons; "The Future," E. R. Sill; " Toujours Amour," E. C. Stedman. Acknowledgments are also due the fol- lowing owners of copyright : The Century Co. : "On the Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln," R. W. Gilder ; " The Secret," G. E. Woodberry. Dana Estes &> Co. : " Sesostris," L. Mifflin ; " The Flight," L. Mifflin. John Lane: « Renouncement," Alice Meynell ; " Byron," W. Wat- son; "The Glimpse," W. Watson; "Insight," W. Watson. PREFACE Macmillan 6° Co. : " My Garden," T. E. Brown. G. P. Putna7n's Sons : " The Rosary," R. C. Rogers. Small, Maynard &* Co. : " Love in the Winds," R. Hovey ; " Confided," J. B. Tabb ; " In Absence," J. B. Tabb ; From « The Song of Myself," W. Whitman ; » O Captain ! My Cap- tain ! " W. Whitman. Whitaker &* Ray Co. : " The Port of Ships," J. Miller. Thanks are also extended to Mrs. S. P. McLean Greene, for the use of " De Sheepfol'," and, for personal permis- sions, to Mr. R. C. Rogers and Prof. G. E. Woodberry. The editor would also thank Mr. H. L. Traubel, literary- executor of Walt Whitman, for seconding Messrs. Small & Maynard's kind permission to include the two selections from Whitman's " Leaves of Grass." F. L. K. Boston, June, igoi. CONTENTS Abou Ben Adhem Absence Absence Adieu, Adieu ! My Native Shore Admonition to a Traveller L. Hunt Anon. J. Donne Lord Byron . W. Wordsworth Advice to a Girl T. Campion Advice to a Lover . . . . A non. Ae Fond Kiss R. Burns Af ton Water R. Burns Age of Wisdom, The . . . . W. M. Thackeray Airly Beacon C. Kingsley . All for Love Lord Byron . Angel in the House, An . . . L.Hunt Angler's Wish, The . . . . I. Walton Annie Laurie Douglas . Approach of Age, The . . . W. S. Landor April A . Tennyson . As Thro' the Land . . . .A. Tennyson . Ask Me No More . . . .A. Tennyson . Aspiration, The /• Norris At a Solemn Music . . . . /• Milton At Bethlehem R. Crashaw . At Her Window F. Locker-Lampson At the Church Gate . . . . W. M. Thackeray Auld Lang Syne R. Btirns Auspex J. R. Lowell Awake, My Heart . . . . R. Bridges Bag of the Bee, The .... R. Herrick Bannock-Burn R. Burns Bard's Epitaph, A . . . . R. Burns Battle Hymn of the Republic . . J . W. Howe Beauty E. Thurlow Beggar Maid, The . . . . A . Tennyson . Better Part, The M. A mold Better Resurrection, A . . . C. G. Rossetti Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind . W. Shakespeare Bonnie Doon R. Burns Bonnie Wee Thing . . . .7?. Burns Brave at Home, The . . . . T. B. Read . Break, Break, Break . . . . A . Tennyson . Breathes There the Man . . . Sir W. Scott Bridal Song, A Beaumont and Fletcher Bright Star, Were I as Steadfast as Thou Art /. Keats . Brook-side, The R.M.Milnes. Bubble, The W. Drummond Bugle, The A . Tennyson . Burial of Sir John Moore . C. Wolfe xi PAGE 36 283 338 68 223 283 196 106 16 108 182 133 278 62 3 1 355 97 216 293 252 365 251 332 27 267 226 129 275 64 155 *57 84 329 233 364 340 26 133 66 284 335 3i3 179 190 285 63 156 CONTENTS Burning Babe, The .... R. Southwell . By the Sea W. Wordsworth Byron Care-charmer Sleep Care-charming Sleep . Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes Cavalier's Song, The . Changeless, The Character of a Happy Life . Charlie He's My Darling . Cherry-ripe Chess-board, The Child of a Day . Child's Evening Hymn Childless Father, The . Come Not, When I am Dead Come, Rest in this Bosom . Come, Thou Monarch of the Vine Comin' Through the Rye . Concord Hymn . Confided .... Constancy .... Constancy .... Constant Lovers, The Contemplate All This Work Contemplation upon Flowers Contentment Contentment Counsel to Girls . Cradle Song, A . Crossing the Bar Cupid and Campaspe Cupid Swallowed Daffodils, The . Day Returns, My Bosom Burns Days Death The Death . Death-bed, A Death-bed, The Death the Leveller Delight in God Only . Deserted House, The . De Sheepfol' Destruction of Sennacherib Devotion Dinna Ask Me . Dirge .... Dirge for a Soldier Dirge for the Year Discipline . Ditty, A Divina Commedia Dream-Pedlary . Drop, Drop, Slow Tears Duncan Gray Dying Christian to His Soul Earl March Look'd on His Dying Child .... Echo's Lament for Narcissus Elizabeth of Bohemia . Enchainment England and Switzerland, 1802 Epilogue to Asolando Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy . . W. Watson . . S. Daniel . J. Fletcher . . R. Bums . W. Motherwell . A . H. Clough . Sir H. Wotton . R. Bums T. Campion . . R. B. Lytton W. S. Landor S. Baring-Gould W. Wordsworth . A . Tennyson . . T. Moore W. Shakespeare . Anon. . R. W. Emerson . /. B. Tabb . Sir C. Sedley . Sir J. Stickling . A?ion. . A . Tennyson . H. King . R. Greene . J. Sylvester . . R. Herrick . . W. Blake . A . Tennyson . . J.Lyly . . . L . Hunt W. Wordsworth The R. Burns . R. W. Emerson . J. Donne W. S. Landor . J.Aldrich . . T. Hood . J. Shirley . E. Quarles . A. Tennyson . . S. P. McL. Greene . L ord Byron . T. Campion . . J. Dttnlop . W. Shakespeare . G. H. Boker . . P. B. Shelley . . G. Herbert . . Sir P. Sidney . H. W. Longfellow T. L. Beddoes . P. Fletcher . . R. Bums . A . Pope . T. Campbell . B. Jonson Sir H. Wotton A . O'Shaughtiessy W. Wordsworth R. Browning B. Jonson xii CONTENTS Epitaph on Shakespeare, An . . /. Milton Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke B. Jonson Epitaph upon a Child that Died . R. Herrick . Epitaph upon a Virgin, An . . R. Herrick . Evening Hymn Sir T. Browne Fairy Song J. Keats Fairy Songs ..... W. Shakespeare Farewell, A C. Kingsley . Farewell, A R. Bums Farewell, A A . Tennyson Farewell ! If Ever Fondest Prayer . Lord Byron . Farewell to Arms . . . . G. Peele . Father's Blessing, A . . . . R. Corbet Fawnia R. Greene Fear of Death, The . . . .J. Keats . Feathers IV. S. Landor First Kiss, The T. Watts-Dunton Fishermen, The C. Kingsley . Flight, The L. Mifflin . Flight of Love, The . . . . P. B. Shelley Flight of Youth, The . . . . R.H. Stoddard Flower in the Crannied Wall . . A . Tennyson Folding the Flocks .... Beaumotit and Fletcher For a' That and a' That . . . R. Burns Fredericksburg T.B. Aldrich Freedom in Dress . . . . B. Jonson Friends in Paradise . . . . H. Vaughan From "The Song of Myself " . . W. Whitman Future, The E. R. Sill . Gane Were but the Winter Cauld . A . Cunningham Girl Describes Her Fawn, The . A . Marvell . Give Me More Love or More Disdain T. Carew Glimpse, The W. Watson . Go, Lovely Rose . . . . E. Waller God Moves in a Mysterious Way . W. Cowper . Good Great Man, The . .6". T. Coleridge Grace for a Child . . . . R . Herrick . Green Grow the Rashes O ! . . R.Burns Grief E. B. Browning Hame, Hame, Hame ! . . . A . Cunningham Happy Heart, The . T. Dekker . Hark, Hark ! the Lark . . . W.Shakespeare Harp that Once through Tara's Halls, The T. Moore Have'You a Desire ? . . . .P. Hausted . Hear, Ye Ladies J. Fletcher Heartsease ...... W. S. Landor Heath This Night Must Be My Bed, The Sir W. Scott Her First-born C. T. Turner Hester ...... C. Lamb Higher Pantheism, The . . . A . Tennyson Highland Mary R. Burns His Mistress T. Randolph Hohenlinden T. Campbell Holy Thursday W.Blake Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead Home Thoughts from Abroad . Human Seasons, The .... Hunting Song .... Hymn to Darkness . . . .J. Norris A. Tennyson R. Browning J. Keats Sir W. Scott Hymn to Diana Hymn to God the Father . Hymn to the Spirit of Nature B. Jonson J . Donne P. B Shelley PAGE 114 237 181 *9 272 308 312 220 69 i93 276 194 48 124 305 61 162 249 162 207 321 60 260 40 167 178 222 311 126 163 317 206 260 220 281 296 24 204 187 245 164 78 143 200 70 333 52 37 343 327 83 67 259 140 325 30 262 79 CONTENTS I Did but Look I Do Not Love Thee for That Fair I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden . I Give Thee Eternity . I Prithee Send Me JBack My Heart . I Remember, I Remember I Travell'd among Unknown Men . I Wish I Were by That Dim Lake . I'll Never Love Thee More Immortality In Absence . Indian Serenade, The Infant Joy . Inner Vision, The Insight Invictus It Was Not in the Winter Jean .... Jenny Kissed Me Jesus, Lover of My Soul Jock of Hazeldean John Anderson . Journey Onwards, The Joy ... Kiss, The . Kissing Her Hair Lament, A . Lament of the Border Widow Land Dirge, A . Land o' the Leal . Last Conqueror, The . Last Word, The . Lead, Kindly Light . Leaf after Leaf . Leonard Tarries Long Lesson, A . Lessons of Nature, The Letty's Globe Life .... Life .... Light . Light of Other Days, The Lines .... Lines .... Little Black Boy, The London, 1802 London Churches Long White Seam, The Lost Mistress, The Love .... Love .... Love In the Winds Love Is a Sickness Love Letters Love Me Not for Comely Grace Love's Disguises Love's Farewell . Love's Omnipresence Love's Philosophy Love's Secret Lovesight Lucy Lullaby Lullaby Lullaby, A T. Otway T. Carew P. B. Shelley . M. Drayton . Sir J. Suckling T. Hood W. Wordsworth T. Moore J. Graham M. A mold J. B. Tabb . P. B. Shelley W. Blake W. Wordsworth W. Watson . W. E. Henley T. Hood R. Burns L. Hunt C. Wesley Sir W. Scott R. Burns T. Moore C . Pati7iore . R. Herrick . A . C. Swinburne W. Drummond Anon. J. Webster . C. Nairn J. Shirley M. A mold J. H . Newman W. S . Landor Sir W. Scott W. Wordsworth W. Drummond C. T. Turner A . L. Barbatdd H. King F. W. Bourdillon T. Moore Sir W. Raleigh G. Meredith . W. Blake W. Wordsworth R. M. Milne s J. Inge low R. Browni?ig S. Butler G. Herbert . R. Hovey S . Da?iiel E. B. Brcr L v?iing A non. M. Prior M. Drayton . J. Sylvester . P. B. Shelley W. Blake D. G. Rossetti W. Wordsworth T. Dekker . A . Tennyson . Anon. XIV CONTENTS Maid of Neidpath, The . . . Sir W. Scott . Maid's Lament, The . . . . W. S. Landor Man Sir J. Davies Margaret W. S. Landor Mary Morison R. Btirns May Margaret T. Marzials . May Morning /. Milton Meeting C. G. Rossetti Meeting R. Browning Melancholy /• Fletcher . Memorabilia R- Browning- Memory Memory Men of England, Heirs of Glory Men of Gotham, The . Men of Old, The Mermaid Tavern, The Merry Lark, The Minstrel Boy, The W. Shakespeare T. B. A Idrich P. B. Shelley T. L. Peacock R. M. Milne s J Keats . C. Kingsley . T. Moore Morning Sir W. Davenant Morning Prayer R. Herrick . Mother's Dream, The . . . W. Barnes . Music When Soft Voices Die . . P. B. Shelley My Days among the Dead . . . R. Southey . My Garden T. E. Brown My Heart's in the Highlands . . R. Burns My Life Is Like the Summer Rose . R. H. Wilde . My Love's Attire . . . . A non. My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing . R. Burns Mystical Ecstasy, A . . . . F. Quarles Natural Comparisons with Perfect Love Anon. Nature H. W. Longfellow Never the Time and the Place . . R. Browning New Year's Eve A. Tennyson . Night W. Blake Night, The H. Vaughan . Night Piece to Julia, The . . . R. Herrick . Nightingale, The . . . . R. Barnefield Nile, The L. Hunt Noble Nature, The .... B.Jonson Nurse's Song W. Blake O Captain ! My Captain ! . . . W. Whitman O Come Quickly! .... T. Campion . O, Fain Would I Anon. O God ! Our Help in Ages Past . /. Watts O Mistress Mine . W. Shakespeare O, Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom ! Lord Byron . O Swallow, Swallow . . . . A . Tennyson . Ode A . O'Shaughnessy Ode Written in 1746 . . . . W. Collins . Of His Love's Beauty . . . B.Jonson Of My Dear Son Gervase Beaumont Sir J. Beaumont O That 'Twere Possible . . . A . Tennyson . Oh Yet We Trust That Somehow Good A . Tennyson . Oh, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast . R. Burns Old Age and Death . . . . E. Waller . Old Familiar Faces, The . C. Lamb Old Ironsides O. W. Holmes Old, Old Song, The . C. RMngsley . On a Girdle E. Waller . On First Looking into Chapman's Homer /. Keats . On Himself W.S. Landor PAGE I05 87 173 195 II 7 221 122 137 20 170 217 315 226 177 242 146 319 131 155 236 171 148 187 286 263 IO9 289 298 40 36l 329 41 136 366 2IO 112 3SO 147 177 I 2l6 160 174 339 81 352 4i 351 77 320 182 271 276 34 22 6 207 200 CONTENTS J. Milton J. Milton J. Milton J. Milton Lord Byron . W. Wordsworth J. Milton R. W. Gilder On Himself R. Herrick On His Being Arrived at the Age of Twenty-three .... On His Blindness .... On His Deceased Wife On His Own Blindness (To Cyriack Skinner) On the Castle of Chillon . On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic On the Late Massacre in Piedmont . On the Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America . . . G. Berkeley . On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey F. Beaumont . On Woman O. Goldsmith One Way of Love . . . . R. Browning One Word Is Too Often Profaned . P. B. Shelley Over Hill, Over Dale . W. Shakespeare Overcome by Love .... Sir P. Sidney Ozymandias of Egypt . . . . P. B. Shelley Pack, Clouds, Away . . . . T. Heywood . Paradisi Gloria T. W. Parsons Passionate Shepherd to His Love, The C. Marlowe . Per Pacem ad Lucem . . . . A . A . Procter Perfect Beauty B.Jonson Persuasions to Joy : A Song . . T. Carew Petition to Time, A . . . . B. W. Procter Phillida and Corydon . . . . N. Breton Poet's World, The . . . . P. B. Shelley Poet's Hope, A W. E. Channing Poet's Song to His Wife, The . . B. W. Procter Poetry of Dress, The . . . . R. Herrick . Port of Ships, The . . . . /. Miller Post Mortem IV. SJiakespeare Prayer H. Coleridge . Prayer, A R. Southey Prayer to Fate, A W. S. Landor Preparations Christ Church Ms Primrose, The R. Herrick . Prophecy, A TV. S. Landor Prospice R. Browning Proud Maisie Sir W. Scott Pulley, The G. Herbert . Qua Cursum Ventus . . . . A. H. Clough Rainbow, A W. Wordsworth Reaper, The W. Wordsworth Recessional R. Kipling Red, Red Rose. A . . . . R. Burns Remember or Forget .... H. A ide . Renouncement A . Meynell Requiem, A H. King Rest M. W. Howland Retreat, The H. Vaughan . Retrospect, A W. S. Landor Reverie of Poor Susan, The . . W. Wordsworth Revolutions W. Shakespeare Rhodora, The R. W. Emerson River of Life, The . . . T. Campbell . Robin Redbreast .... W. A lli?igham Rock of Ages . . . . • . A . M. Toplady Rosaline T. Lodge Rosary, The R. C. Rogers . Rose Aylmer W. S. Landor Rule Britannia J. Thomson . PAGE . 219 CONTENTS W. Shakespeare G. Wither . J. R. Lowell . W. Wordsworth H. Coleridge . Lord Byron . W. Wordsworth Rules and Lessons . . . . H. Vaughan . Rustic Joys T. Campion . Ruth T. Hood Saint John Baptist .... W. Drummond Sands of Dee, The .... Charles Kingsley Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth A . H. Clottgh Sea Dirge, A W. Shakespeare Secret, The G. E. Woodberry Serenade E. C. Pinkney Serenade T. Hood Serenade, A Sir W. Scott Sesostris L. Mifflin Seven Times One . . . . J. Ingelow Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day? Shall I, Wasting in Despair She Came and Went .... " She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways" " She is Not Fair to Outward View " . She Walks in Beauty .... She Was a Phantom of Delight . Silence T. Hood Silent Noon D.G. Rossetti Sin G. Herbert . Sirens' Song, The . W. Browne . Sister, Awake Anon. Sleep Sir P. Sidney Sleep, Angry Beauty . . . . T. Campion . Sleep, Silence' Child .... W. Drtimmond Sleeping Beauty, The . . . .6". Rogers Slumber Did My Spirit Seal, A . W. Wordsworth Snow-flakes H. W. Longfellow Soldier Going to the Field, The . Sir W. Davenant Soldier's Dream, The . T. Campbell . Solitude A . Pope . Somewhere or Other . . . . C. G. Rossetti Song C. G. Rossetti Song A . De Vere . Song T. L. Beddoes Song W. Shakespeare Song T. Carew Song T. Campbell . Song . Beaumont and Fletcher Song A . CShaughnessy Song. By Two Voices . . . T. L. Beddoes Song for Music, A . . . . A non. Song to the Evening Star . . T. Campbell . Sonnet, The W. Wordsworth Sonnets from the Portuguese . . E. B. Browning Sonnets from the Portuguese . . E. B. Browning Soul and Body W. Shakespeare Sound, Sound the Clarion . . . Sir W. Scott . Spacious Firmament on High, The . /. A ddison Spring Beaumont and Fletcher Spring T. Nash Spring, The John Lyly St. Agnes' Eve A . Tennyson . Stanzas for Music .... Lord Byron . Strife, The A. Tennyson . Such a Starved Bank of Moss . . R. Browning Summum Bonum . . . . R. Browning Sunday G. Herbert . Supplication A.L. Waring Surrender H. King PAGE .336 264 38 55 203 269 149 18 191 191 237 5 £ 258 179 265 180 5 2 5 185 254 236 124 3i5 196 263 118 49 29 239 65 42 185 362 175 250 73 It 240 132 192 189 I5 2 248 90 304 259 310 82 98 101 94 358 298 224 341 96 231 353 37 CONTENTS Tables Turned, The . Take, O Take Those Lips Away Tears, Idle Tears Tell Me Where is Fancy Bred "Thalatta" That Holy Thing That Time of Year Threnos .... Thy Voice Is Heard . . Tide Rises, the Tide Falls, The Tiger, The . Time and Love • Time to Be Wise To a Fair Maiden To a Lover .... To Althea from Prison To America .... To an Athlete Dying Young To Autumn .... To a Waterfowl . To Blossoms ToCelia .... To Daffodils To Daisies, Not to Shut So Soon To Death . To Dianeme To Helen . To His Conscience To His Love To His Mistress . To Lucasta, Going Beyond the Seas To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars To Marguerite To Mary Unwin . To Night . To Night . To One in Paradise To Perilla . To Primroses To Sleep . To Stella To Thomas Moore To the Cuckoo . To the Fringed Gentian To the Lord General Cromwell To the Moon To the Moon. To the Nightingale To the Rose : A Song To the Skylark . Tom Bowling To-morrow . Too Late Too Late I Stayed Toujours Amour . Toys, The . True Beauty True Greatness . True Lent, A True Rest . Truth Is Great . Twa Corbies, The Under the Greenwood Under the Lindens Up-hill Tree W. Wordsworth W. Shakespeare A . Tennyson W. Shakespeare J. B. Brown . G. Mac Donald W. Shakespeare P. B. Shelley A . Tennyson H. W. Longfellow TV. Blake W. Shakespeare W. S. Landor IV. S. Landor Sir J. Suckling R. Lovelace . G. H. Boker . A. E. Housman J. Keats . W. C. Bryant R. Herrick . B.J orison R. Herrick . R. Herrick . R. Herrick R. Herrick . E.A.Poe R Herrick . W. Shakespeare R. Herrick . R. Lovelace . R. Lovelace . M. Arnold IV. Cowper . /. B. White . P. B. Shelley E.A.Poe . R. Herrick . R. Herrick . W. Wordsworth Sir P. Sidney Lord Byron . W. Wordsworth W. C. Bryant J. Milton Sir P. Sidney P. B. Shelley J. Milton R. Herrick . W. Wordsworth C. Dibdin J. Collins D. M. M. Craik W. R. Spencer E. C. Stedman C. Patmore . T. Carew Lady E. Carew R. Herrick . J. S. Dwight . C. Patmore . Anon. W. Shakespeare W. S . Landor C. G. R osselti XVlll PORTRAITS PAGE •* William Shakespeare .... Frontispiece Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ... 29 "Percy Bysshe Shelley 48 A Edgar Allan Poe 76 ^Robert Browning 96 n John Milton 114 *Sir Walter Scott 140 -Joseph Addison 164 » William Cowper 206 -Alfred Tennyson 224 ; Thomas Campbell 253 *John Keats 274 Lord Byron 298 Thomas Moore 330 \Robert Burns 344 -William Wordsworth 363 Arthu Bom u ?8x9 lough ' Jfanuarg tfje JFir^t THE NOBLE NATURE It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be ; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night — It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see ; And in short measures life may perfect be. Ben Jonson THE PULLEY When God at first made Man, Having a glass of blessings standing by ; Let us (said He) pour on him all we can : Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span. So strength first made a way ; Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure : When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure, Rest in the bottom lay. For if I should (said He) Bestow this jewel also on My creature, He would adore My gifts instead of Me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature, So both should losers be. Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness : Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to My breast. George Herbert Sanuarg tfje Second TRUE BEAUTY He that loves a rosy cheek Or a coral lip admires, Or from starlike eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires ; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires : — Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. Thomas Carew SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be ; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me. Oh then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light. But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye : Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are. Hartley Coleridge Sanuarg tfje ftijirti VIRTUE IMMORTAL Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky : The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. George Herbert ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart — The heart which love of Thee alone can bind ; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd, To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God. Lord Byron 3 Sanuarg tije iFourtfj A PETITION TO TIME Touch us gently, Time ! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently — as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream. Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, and children three — (One is lost — an angel fled To the azure overhead ! ) Touch us gently, Time ! We've not proud nor soaring wings, Our ambition, our content, Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are we, O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime ; — Touch us gently, gentle Time. Bryan Waller Procter THE "OLD, OLD SONG" When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green ; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen ; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away ; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day. When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown ; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down : Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maim'd among : God grant you find one face there You loved when all was young. Charles Kingsley 4 Sanuarg tfje JFtftfj SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove ; A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye ! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me ! William Wordsworth SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow But tell of days in goodness spent, — A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. Lord Byron 5 Sanuarg ttje Sixtfj Hart iTed C ?8 e 4 r 9 idse ' OLD AGE AND DEATH The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries. The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made : Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new. Edmund Waller LIGHT 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 Sanuarg tije Se&mtfj SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient 'sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength and skill ; A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light. William Wordsworth Sanuarg tfje 3Eigtrtlj JOHN ANDERSON John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. Robert Burns LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY The fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle — Why not I with thine ? See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another ; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdain'd its brother: And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea — What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me ? Percy Bysshe Shelley 8 Sanuarg tije Nintij THE LAND O' THE LEAL I'm wearing awa', Jean, Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean, I'm wearing awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal. Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, Your task's ended noo, Jean, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, She was baith guid and fair, Jean ; Oh we grudged her right sair To the land o' the leal ! Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, My soul langs to be free, Jean, And angels wait on me To the land o' the leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, This warld's care is vain, Jean ; We'll meet and aye be fain In the land o' the leal. Lady Carolina Nairn \ Sanuarg tije Stent!} COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry ? Every lassie has her laddie, — Ne'er a ane hae I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e myseV j But whaur his ha?ne, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. Gin a body meet a body Comin' frae the town, Gin a body greet a body, Need a body frown ? Every lassie has her laddie, — Ne'er a ane hae I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo^e myseV j But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. Anonymous Samtarg tije ^Etefaenttr PARADISI GLORIA There is a city, builded by no hand, And unapproachable by sea or shore, And unassailable by any band Of storming soldiery for evermore. There we no longer shall divide our time By acts or pleasures, — doing petty things Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme ; But we shall sit beside the silver springs That flow from God's own footstool, and behold Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few Who loved us once and were beloved of old, To dwell with them and walk with them anew, In alternations of sublime repose, Musical motion, the perpetual play Of every faculty that Heaven bestows Through the bright, busy, and eternal day. Thomas William Parsons TO NIGHT Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue ? . Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus with the host of heaven came, And lo ! creation widened in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ! Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife ? — If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life ? Joseph Blanco White Sanuarg tlje ftfoetftij LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION E'en such is Time, that takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who, in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days : But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust. Sir Walter Raleigh UP-HILL Does the road wind up-hill all the way ? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day ? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place ? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face ? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight ? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? Yea, beds for all who come. Christina Georgina Rossetti Sanuarg tije Eijtoottt) CROSSING THE BAR Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me ! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark ! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark : For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place, The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar. Alfred Tennyson DEATH Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear; Of his strange language all I know Is, there is not a word of fear. Walter Savage Landor 13 Sanuarg tjje jFourteentf) DEATH THE LEVELLER The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantia] things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow ; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor- victim bleeds : Your heads must come To the cold tomb ; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. James Shirley 14 Sanuarg tfje JFtfteentfj TEARS, IDLE TEARS Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the under world ; Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge, — So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others ; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, — O Death in Life, the days that are no more. Alfred Tennyson LIFE Life ! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part ; And when, or how, or where we met I own to me's a secret yet. Life ! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear — Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; — Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time ; Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. Anna Lcetitia Barbaulct, IS Sanuarg tije Sixteenth Edm D u i n e d d ? s p 9 e 9 nser * AFTON WATER Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream ! Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair ! How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills ; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; There oft as mild Evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave ! Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream ! Robert Burns JENNY KISSED ME Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in. Time, you thief ! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; Say that health and wealth have missed me ; Say I'm growing old, but add — Jennie kissed me ! Leigh Hunt 16 Sanuarg tije Sebcnteentf) THE DEATH -BED We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seem'd to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied — We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours. Thomas Hood A DEATH -BED Her suffering ended with the day, Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long, long night away In statue-like repose. But when the sun in all his state Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through Glory's morning gate And walked in Paradise. James Aldrich 17 Samtarg tfje lEigtrteentl} THE SECRET Nightingales warble about it, All night under blossom and star ; The wild swan is dying without it, And the eagle cryeth afar; The sun he doth mount but to find it, Searching the green earth o'er; But more doth a man's heart mind it, Oh, more, more, more ! Over the gray leagues of ocean The infinite yearneth alone ; The forests with wandering emotion The thing they know not intone ; Creation arose but to see it, A million lamps in the blue ; But a lover he shall be it If one sweet maid is true. George Edward Woodberry TO DIANEME Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies ; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives ; yours yet free : Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the lovesick air ; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone. Robert Herrick 18 Edg B a ;mX Poe ' Samtaro tfjc Nineteenth A WISH Mine be a cot beside the hill ; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue. The village church among the trees, Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven. Sa?nuel Rogers AN EPITAPH UPON A VIRGIN Here a solemn fast we keep, While all beauty lies asleep ; Hush'd be all things, no noise here But the toning of a tear; Or a sigh of such as bring Cowslips for her covering. Robert Herrick 19 Sanuarg tfjc Sfaentietf) DIRGE Fear no more the heat o' the sun Nor the furious winter's rages ; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; Care no more to clothe and eat ; To thee the reed is as the oak : The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; Fear not slander, censure rash ; Thou hast finish 'd joy and moan : All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. William Shakespeare MEETING The gray sea, and the long black land ; And the yellow half-moon large and low ; And the startled little waves, that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed in the slushy sand. Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach ; Three fields to cross, till a farm appears : A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts, beating each to each. Robert Browning Sanuarg tijc 2ttonttg4trst THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a Love once, fairest among women : Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling ? So might we talk of the old familiar faces, How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. Charles La7nb Sanuarg tfje Etomtg=seconl3 Ky BYRON Too avid of earth's bliss, he was of those Whom Delight flies because they give her chase. Only the odour of her wild hair blows Back in their faces hungering for her face. William Watson OH, WERT THOU IN. THE CAULD BLAST Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. Robert Burns ■ Char Al s ed K ] i 8 1 7 g 5 Sley, Sanuarg tije ffitoentg^ttli THE CHESS-BOARD My little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm'from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes ? Ah ! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight; Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand ; The double Castles guard the wings ; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling, through the fight. Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, And falter ; falls your golden hair Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow, her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware. Ah me ! the r little battle's done : Dispers'd is all its chivalry. Full many a move since then have we 'Mid life's perplexing checkers made, And many a game with Fortune played ; What is it we have won ? This, this at least, — if this alone : That never, never, nevermore, As in those old still nights of yore, (Ere we were grown so sadly wise,) Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world and wintry weather, And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we played together. Robert Bulwer-Lytton -3 Sattuarg tfje Etoentg^fourtfj HAME, HAME, HAME ! Hame, hame, hame ! oh hame I fain would be ! Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame / oh havie I fain would be ! Oh hame, hame, hame, to 7ny ai?i countrie / The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning now to fa' ; The bonnie white rose, it is withering an' a' ; But we'll water it wi' the bluid of usurping tyrannie, And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie ! Ha7)ie, hame, hame ! oh hame I fain would be / Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie / Oh there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save, But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie May rise again and fight for their ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame / oh hame I fain would be / Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie / The great now are gone wha attempted to save, The green grass is growing abune their grave ; Yet the sun through the mist seems to promise to me, " I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie." Ha7ne, hame, hame / oh hame I fain would be! Oh hame, hame, ha?ne / to my ain countrie / Allan Cunningham 24 Ro Bom ? 7 u 5 r 9 ns ' Sanuarg tije ffiton%fiftjj THE RETREAT Happy those early days, when I Shined in my Angel-infancy ! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white, celestial thought ; When yet I had not walk'd above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back, at that short space Could see a glimpse of His bright face ; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. Oh how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train ; From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees That shady City of palm trees ! But ah ! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way : — Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move ; And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. Henry Vaughan 25 Sanuarg tije 2Ctoentg=stxtfj LOVE'S SECRET Never seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be ; For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears : Ah ! she did depart. Soon after she was gone from me A traveller came by, Silently, invisibly : He took her with a sigh. William Blake BONNIE DOON Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon How can ye blume sae fair ! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae f u' o' care ! Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate ; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate. Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love ; And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree ; And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me. Robert Burns 26 Sanuarg tlje ©toents*ae&eiuij AT THE CHURCH GATE Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her. The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout And noise and humming; They've hush'd the Minster bell; The organ 'gins to swell : She's coming ! she's coming ! My Lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast And hastening hither, With modest eyes down-cast : She comes — she's here — she's pass'd. May heaven go with her ! Kneel undisturb'd, fair Saint ! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly ! I will not enter there To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute ! Like outcast spirits who wait And see through heaven's gate Angels within it. Willia7n Makepeace Thackeray 27 Samtarg tije SDtDentg=etgijtt) TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore ; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more. Richard Lovelace TOO LATE I STAYED Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime ! Unheeded flew the hours : How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers ! And who, with clear account, remarks The ebbings of his glass, When all its sands are diamond sparks, That dazzle as they pass ? Oh, who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of paradise have lent Their plumage to his wings ? William Robert Spencer 2S Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-1882 Sanuarjj tije Etoentpnintij SNOW-FLAKES Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest fields forsaken, Silent and soft and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow A PROPHECY Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, Over my open volume you will say, This man loved me / " then rise and trip away. Walter Savage Landor 29 Samtarg tfje Eijirtteti) Born 1775 HYMN TO DIANA Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep : Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose ; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver ; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever : Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright ! Ben Jonson TO THE MOON With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ! How silently, and with how wan a face ! What, may it be that e'en in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ! Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, I read it in thy looks ; thy languish'd grace, To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, e'en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness ? Sir Philip Sidney 30 Sanuarg tlje S^tttg^first ANNIE LAURIE Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true, — Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Her brow is like the snaw-drift ; Her throat is like the swan ; Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on, — That e'er the sun shone on ; And dark blue is her ee ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa o' her fairy feet ; Like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet, — Her voice is low and sweet ; And she's a' the world to me ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Douglas of Fingland 31 jFrtruarg flje jFtrst LETTY'S GLOBE When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year, And her young, artless words began to flow, One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, By tint and outline, all its sea and land. She patted all the world ; old empires peep'd Between her baby fingers ; her soft hand Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd, And laugh'd and prattled in her world-wide bliss ; But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye On our own isle, she rais'd a joyous cry, Oh ! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there ! " And, while she hid all England with a kiss, Bright over Europe fell her golden hair ! Charles Tennyson-Turner THY VOICE IS HEARD Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums That beat to battle where he stands ; Thy face across his fancy comes, And gives the battle to his hands : A moment, while the trumpets blow, He sees his brood about thy knee ; The next, like fire he meets the foe, And strikes him dead for thine and thee. Alfred Tennyson JFtbruarg tf)e SeconU REST I lay me down to sleep, With little 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 past ; I am ready not to do At last, at last. 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 its blue be dim ; These stripes, no less than stars, Lead after Him. Mary Woolsey Howland 33 jFefrruarg «je SHjtai SlTilh^vZZ OH YET WE TRUST THAT SOMEHOW GOOD Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; That nothing walks with aimless feet ; That not one life shall be destroy'd, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete ; That not a worm is cloven in vain ; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivelPd in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain. Behold, we know not anything ; I can but trust that good shall fall At last — far off — at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream : but what am I ? An infant crying in the night : An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry. Alfred Tennyson 34 jftfiruarg tije iFourtt} RECESSIONAL JUNK 22, 1897 God of our fathers, known of old — Lord of our far-flung battle-line — Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine — Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget ! The tumult and the shouting dies — The captains and the kings depart — Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget ! Far-call'd our navies melt away — On dune and headland sinks the fire — Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget ! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe — Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law — Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget ! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard — All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard — For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord ! Amen ! Rudyard Kipling 35 jftbruarg tlje jfaftij ABOU BEN ADHEM Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold : Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, What writest thou ? " — The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." And is mine one? " said Abou. " Nay, not so," Replied the angel. — Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had bless'd, - And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! Leigh Hunt 36 jfebruarg tije 3 JHarrfj ttje jFourti) BANNOCK- BURN ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled — Scots, wham Bruce has aften led — Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie ! Now's the day, and now's the hour ; See the front o' battle lower ; See approach proud Edward's power — Chains and slaverie ! Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Let him turn and flee ! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand or freeman fa' — Let him follow me ! By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty 's in every blow ! Let us do, or die ! Robert Burns Jflarri) tfje tftftt) THE SOLDIER'S DREAM Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track : 'Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. " Stay — stay with us ! — rest ! — thou art weary and worn ! " — And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; — But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Thomas Campbell 65 JMfrivi*^ +4yo Citftft Mrs - E - B - Browning, Born 1809 JttlarCTJ ITJE <£>IXU| Francis Beaumont, Died 1616 THE BRAVE AT HOME The maid who binds her warrior's sash With smile that well her pain dissembles, The while beneath her drooping lash One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, Though Heaven alone records the tear, And Fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear As e'er bedewed the field of glory ! The wife who girds her husband's sword, Mid little ones who weep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word, What though her heart be rent asunder, Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of death around him rattle, Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er Was poured upon the field of battle ! The mother who conceals her grief While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod Received on Freedom's field of honour ! Thomas Buchanan Read % JMarrf) tfje Setentij HOME -THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England — now ! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows ! Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture ! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! Robert Browning 67 JHarcJ} tfje Eigjjtl) THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet ; Though winter wild in tempest toil'd, Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line, — Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes, Heav'n gave me more ; it made thee mine. While day and night can bring delight, Or nature aught of pleasure give, — While joys above my mind can move, For thee and thee alone I live ; When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part, The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss, — it breaks my heart. Robert Burns ADIEU, ADIEU ! MY NATIVE SHORE Adieu, adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue ; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land — Good Night ! A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth ; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; My dog howls at the gate. Lord Byron 68 Jttarcl) tfje Ntnti) FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry : But in my breast and in my brain Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel : I only know we loved in vain — I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! Lord Byron THE LAST WORD Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said ! Vain thy onset ! all stands fast ; Thou thyself must break at last. Let the long contention cease ! Geese are swans, and swans are geese. Let them have it how they will ! Thou art tired ; best be still. They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee ? Better men fared thus before thee ; Fired their ringing shot and passed, Hotly charged — and sank at last. Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall, Find thy body by the wall ! Matthew Arnold 69 ilftarrf) tije ftenttj HESTER When maidens such as Hester die Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try With vain endeavour. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate That flush'd her spirit : I know not by what name beside I shall it call : if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool ; But she was train'd in Nature's school, Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbour ! gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore Some summer morning — When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet fore-warning ? Charles Lamb 70 JHarclj tlje llebentfj WEEP NOT, MY WANTON Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee. Mother's wag, pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy ; When thy father first did see Such a boy by him and me, He was glad, I was woe, Fortune changed made him so, When he left his pretty boy Last his sorrow, first his joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint, Like pearl drops from a flint, Fell by course from his eyes, That one another's place supplies; Thus he grieved in every part, Tears of blood fell from his heart, When he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee. The wanton smiled, father wept, Mother cried, baby leapt ; More he crow'd, more we cried, Nature could not sorrow hide : He must go, he must kiss Child and mother, baby bless, For he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee. Robert Greene 7i JSarcij tfje fttorfftfj ON A GIRDLE That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind : No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer : My joy, my grief, my hope, my love Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair : Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the Sun goes round. Ed.7nu7id Waller COUNSEL TO GIRLS Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying : And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying. The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time ; And while ye may, go marry : For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. Robert Herrick 72 JHarci) tije SDijtrteenti) SONG How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle hat and staff, And his sandal shoon. He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone ; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone. White his shroud as the mountain snow Larded with sweet flowers ; Which bewept to the grave did go With true-love showers. Williain Shakespeare DINNA ASK ME O, dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye : Troth, I daurna tell! Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye, — Ask it o' yoursel'. O, dinna look sae sair at me, For weel ye ken me true ; O, gin ye look sae sair at me, I daurna look at you. When ye gang to yon braw braw town, And bonnier lassies see, O, dinna, Jamie, look at them, Lest ye should mind na me. For I could never bide the lass That ye 'd lo'e mair than me ; And O, I'm sure my heart wad brak, Gin ye'd prove fause to me ! John Dtinfop 73 Ward) tfje jfourteenfy Arthur B^ h I a 8 u 4 ! hnessy ' SONG Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose ; For in your beauties, orient deep, These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day ; For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past ; For in your sweet, dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more where those stars light That downwards fall in dead of night ; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest ; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. Thomas Carew 74 JHardj tfje jFtftontJj THE POETRY OF DRESS A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness : — A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction, — An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher, — A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly, — A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat, — A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility, — Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part. Robert Herrick WHENAS IN SILKS Whenas in silks my Julia goes Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free ; Oh, how that glittering taketh me ! Robert Herrick 75 Jlarclj tfje Sixteenth TO ONE IN PARADISE Thou wast all that to me, love, For which my soul did pine : A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine All wreath'd with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine. Ah, dream too bright to last ! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise But to be overcast ! A voice from out the Future cries, « On ! on ! " — but o'er the Past (Dim gulf ! ) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast. For, alas ! alas ! with me The light of Life is o'er ! No more — no more — no more — (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar. And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams, — ■ In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams. Edgar Allan Poe 76 Edgar Allan Poe i 809-1 849 JHard) tfjc Sebotteotti) ODE We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams ; — World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams : Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story W T e fashion an empire's glory : One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown : And three with a new song's measure Can trample a kingdom down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself in our mirth ; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth ; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. Arthur O^ Shaughnessy 11 JHarcij tije 9£tgl)teenti) HEARTSEASE There is a flower I wish to wear, But not until first worn by you — Heartsease — of all earth's flowers most rare ; Bring it ; and bring enough for two. Walter Savage Landor A FAREWELL Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver : No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river : No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver ; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver ; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Alfred Tennyson 78 JHarclj fyz Nineteenth HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF NATURE Life of Life ! Thy lips enkindle With their love the breath between them ; And thy smiles before they dwindle Make the cold air fire ; then screen them In those locks, where whoso gazes Faints, entangled in their mazes. Child of Light ! Thy limbs are burning Through the vest which seems to hide them, As the radiant lines of morning Through the clouds, ere they divide them ; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. Fair are others : none beholds Thee ; But thy voice sounds low and tender Like the fairest, for it folds thee From the sight, that liquid splendour; And all feel, yet see thee never, — As I feel now, lost for ever ! Lamp of Earth ! where'er thou movest, Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness, Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! Percy Bysshe Shelley 7Q Jttarclj tfje Etomtiety DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY I love, and have some cause to love, the earth — She is my Maker's creature, therefore good. She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; She is my tender nurse, she gives me food : But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee ? Or what's my mother or my nurse to me? I love the air — her dainty sweets refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their flesh, And with their polyphonian notes delight me: But what's the air, or all the sweets that she Can bless my soul withal, compared to Thee ? I love the sea — she is my fellow creature, My careful purveyor; she provides me store; She walls me round; she makes my diet greater; She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : But, Lord of oceans, when compared with Thee, What is the ocean or her wealth to me ? To heaven's high city I direct my journey, Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye — Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky: But what is heaven, great God, compared to Thee ? Without Thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me. Fra,7icis Quarles 80 Ro D e ;ed S xC ey ' JHarrfj tlje &toet%first O GOD! OUR HELP IN AGES PAST O God ! our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home ! Under the shadow of Thy Throne Thy saints have dwelt secure ; Sufficient is Thine arm alone, And our defence is sure. Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same. A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone ; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun. Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly, forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day. O God ! our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Be Thou our guide while troubles last, And our eternal home ! Isaac Watts 81 J»arrij tije Efoentg*eam& Died 1832 THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim ; The unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display, And publishes, to every land, The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening Earth Repeats the story of her birth ; While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? What though no real voice or sound Amid their radiant orbs be found ? In Reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, Forever singing, as they shine, " The Hand that made us is divine ! " Joseph Addison 82 JHarcf) tfje &b3mt2=ti)tr& HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD Home they brought her warrior dead : She nor swooned, nor uttered cry; All her maidens, watching, said, " She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend, and noblest foe ; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee, — Like summer tempest came her tears, — " Sweet my child, I live for thee." Alfred Te7i?iyson THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade ; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes ! William Wordsworth 83 ffarcij tfje tttoentg^ourtji %Z£?$3£i!i£&l BEAUTY 'Tis much immortal beauty to admire, But more immortal beauty to withstand ; The perfect soul can overcome desire, If beauty with divine delight be scann'd. For what is beauty, but the blooming child Of fair Olympus, that in night must end, And be for ever from that bliss exiled, If admiration stand too much its friend ? The wind may be enamoured of a flower, The ocean of the green and laughing shore, The silver lightning of a lofty tower — But must not with too near a love adore ; Or flower, and margin, and cloud-capped tower, Love and delight shall with delight devour ! Lord Edward Thurlow WHO IS SILVIA? Who is Silvia ? what is she, That all the swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise, is she ; The heavens such grace did lend her That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair, For beauty lives with kindness ? Love doth to her eyes repair To help him of his blindness — And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing That Silvia is excelling ; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling ; To her let us garlands bring. William Shakespeare 84 882 Jttard) fije fttoentg^fiftfj SONG How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at love's beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there's no untying ! Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, Love has bliss, but love has rueing; Other smiles may make you fickle, Tears for other charms may trickle. Love he comes and Love he tarries, Just as fate or fancy carries ; Longest stays when sorest chidden ; Laughs and flies when press'd and bidden. Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Bind its odour to the lily, Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, Then bind love to last for ever ! Love's a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; Love's wing moults when caged and captur'd, - Only free he soars enraptur'd. Can you keep the bee from ranging, Or the ring-dove's neck from changing ? No ! nor fettered Love from dying In the knot there's no untying. Thomas Ca?npbell 85 iHarcij tije Etoentg^ixttj Walt Whitman, Died 1892 TO BLOSSOMS Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast ? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night ? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave : And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. Robert Herrick 86 ilarri) tlje Qfamt&Bttomti) THE MAID'S LAMENT I loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I check'd him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, Alas ! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him : I now would give My love, could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death ! I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns, And this lone bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart : for years, Wept he as bitter tears ! Merciful God! " such was his latest prayer, " These may she never share ! " Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And Oh, pray, too, for me ! Walter Savage Landor ^ Jttarrij tfje &tonttgmgi)ti) TIME TO BE WISE Yes ; I write verses now and then, But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talk'd of by young men As rather clever ; In the last quarter are my eyes, You see it by their form and size ; Is it not time then to be wise ? Or now or never. Fairest that ever sprang from Eve ! While Time allows the short reprieve, Just look at me ! would you believe 'Twas once a lover? I cannot clear the five-bar gate ; But, trying first its timber's state, Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait To trundle over. Through gallopade I cannot swing The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring : I cannot say the tender thing, Be't true or false, And am beginning to opine Those girls are only half divine Whose waists you wicked boys entwine In giddy waltz. I fear that arm above that shoulder ; I wish them wiser, graver, older, Sedater, and no harm if colder, And panting less. Ah! people were not half so wild In former days, when, starchly mild, Upon her high-heel'd Essex smil'd The brave Queen Bess. Walter Savage Landor S3 JSarri) tije ftfoentj^nintf) ONE WAY OF LOVE All June I bound 5 the rose in sheaves; Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves, And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside ? Alas ! Let them lie. Suppose they die ? The chance was they might take her eye. How many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingers to the lute ! To-day I venture all I know. She will not hear my music ? So ! Break the string — fold music's wing. Suppose Pauline had bade me sing! My whole life long I learn'd to love ; This hour my utmost art I prove, And speak my passion. — Heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven ? 'Tis well — Lose who may — I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they. Robert Browning IT WAS NOT IN THE WINTER It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses, We pluck'd them as we pass'd! That churlish season never frown'd On early lovers yet ! Oh no, the world was newly crown'd With flowers when first we met. 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast ; It was the time of roses, We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! Thomas Hood JHarctj tfje Eljtrttetf) SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say " I love her for her smile, her look, her way Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day." For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheek dry, — A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. I never gave a lock of hair away To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully I ring out to the full brown length, and say, Take it ! " My day of youth went yesterday ; My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, As girls do, any more. It only may Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral shears Would take this first, but love is justified, — Take it thou, — finding pure, from all those years, The kiss my mother left here when she died. Elizabeth Barrett Browning 9 c ^b™?™ 11 ' IHarcJ) tfje ®%itf&8xzt TOUJOURS AMOUR Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age does Love begin ? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen, But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats, Show the little archer there, Hidden in your pretty hair; When didst learn a heart to win? Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! " Oh ! " the rosy lips reply, " I can't tell you if I try. 'Tis so long I can't remember : Ask some younger lass than I ! " Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace ? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire ? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow ? Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless ? When does Love give up the chase ? Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face ! " Ah ! " the wise old lips reply, " Youth may pass and strength may die ; But of Love I can't foretoken : Ask some older sage than I ! " Edmwid Clarence Stedman 9i 3prti tjje JFirst THE LOST MISTRESS All's over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes ? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves ! And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully — You know the red turns gray. To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest ? May I take your hand in mine ? Mere friends are we, — well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign : For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavour, — Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul for ever ! — Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger ; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer ! Robert Browning 92 gtpril tfje SeconU A TRUE LENT Is this a fast, — to keep The larder lean, And clean From fat of veals and sheep ? Is it to quit the dish Of flesh, yet still To fill The platter high with fish ? Is it to fast an hour, Or ragged to go, Or show A downcast look, and sour ? No ! 'tis a fast to dole Thy sheaf of wheat, And meat, Unto the hungry soul. It is to fast from strife, From old debate And hate, — To circumcise thy life. To show a heart grief-rent ; To starve thy sin, Not bin, — And that's to keep thy lent. Robert Herrick 93 &pril tfje &i}tr* Geo - rge Herbert ' Born 1593 ECHO'S LAMENT FOR NARCISSUS Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears ; Yet, slower yet ; O faintly, gentle springs ; List to the heavy part the music bears ; Woe weeps out her division when she sings. Droop herbs and flowers ; Fall grief in showers, Our beauties are not ours ; O, I could still, Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since nature's pride is now a wither'd daffodil. Ben Jonson THE SPRING What bird so sings, yet does so wail ? O, 'tis the ravished nightingale ! J u g> J u g> j u g> J u g> tereu," she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear? None but the lark so shrill and clear ; Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings, The morn not waking till she sings. Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat Poor robin-redbreast tunes his note ; Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing ! Cuckoo to welcome in the spring, Cuckoo to welcome in the spring ! John Lyly 94 01iv Die r d o !77 S 4 lith ' ^P ril $* jFourtij TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas ! ye have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind ; Nor are ye worn with years ; Or warped, as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep. Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby ? Or, that ye have not seen as yet The violet ? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no ; this sorrow, shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read : — That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth. Robert Herrick 9S ^IlTl!tI tll£ "(Fifth Algernon Charles Swinburne, Born 1837 THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING The year's at the spring And day's at the morn ; Morning's at seven ; The hill-side's dew-pearled ; The lark's on the wing ; The snail's on the thorn : God's in his heaven — All's right with the world ! Robert Browning SUMMUM BONUM All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee: All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem : In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: Breath and bloom, shade and shine, — wonder, wealth, and — how far above them — Truth, that's brighter than gem, Trust, that's purer than pearl, — Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe — all were for me In the kiss of one girl. Robert Browning 96 Robert Browning 1812-1880 april tije Stxtij APRIL Now fades the last long streak of snow ; Now bourgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drowned in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea ; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood, that live their lives From land to land ; and in my breast Spring wakens too ; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. Alfred Tennyson 97 april fl)e Sebmtij Born 1770 SPRING Now the lusty Spring is seen; Golden yellow, gaudy blue, Daintily invite the view. Everywhere, on every green, Roses blushing as they blow, And enticing men to pull ; Lilies whiter than the snow; Woodbines of sweet honey full — All love's emblems, and all cry : Ladies, if not plucked, we die ! Beaumont and Fletcher ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shevv'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arrived so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven : All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye. Joh?i Milton aprtl tfje 3Etstrt|> TO THE CUCKOO blithe new-comer ! I have heard, 1 hear thee and rejoice : Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice ? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear ; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery ; The same whom in my school-boy days 1 listen'd to ; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And thou wert still a hope, a love ; Still long'd for, never seen ! And I can listen to thee yet ; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place, That is fit home for Thee ! William Wordsworth LofC. 99 3prtl tfje Nintfj TO DAFFODILS Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon : As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song ; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the Summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. Robert Herrick Dante Gabriel^Rossetti, g^ ^ ^^ SPRING Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king ; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! Spring ! the sweet Spring ! Thomas Nash UNDER THE GREENWOOD-. TREE Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat — Come hither, come hither, come hither Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets — Come hither, come hither, come hither ! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. William Shakespeare &prtl tfje Eiebentij WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING I heard a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran ; And much it grieved my heart to think What Man has made of Man. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths ; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, Their thoughts I cannot measure, — But the least motion which they made It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air ; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What Man has made of Man ? William Wordsworth * Itg&teetttlj EARL MARCH LOOK'D ON HIS DYING CHILD Earl March look'd on his dying child, And, smit with grief to view her — The youth, he cried, whom I exiled Shall be restored to woo her. She's at the window many an hour His coming to discover: And he look'd up to Ellen's bower And she look'd on her lover — But ah ! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling — And am I then forgot — forgot ? It broke the heart of Ellen. In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes. Thomas Campbell TO HIS LOVE When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have exprest Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all, you prefiguring ; And for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing : For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. William Shakespeare 139 IHag tfje Ntneteentij HUNTING SONG Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day; All the jolly chase is here With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily merrily mingle they, " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green ; Now we come to chant our lay, " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the greenwood haste away; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size ; We can show the marks he made When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd ; You shall see him brought to bay ; " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Louder, louder chant the lay Waken, lords and ladies gay ! Tell them youth and mirth and glee Run a course as well as we ; Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk ; Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay ! Sir Walter Scott 140 Sir Walter Scott 1771-1832 ffag tfje Etoentteti) THE TABLES TURNED Up ! up, my friend ! and quit your books, Or surely you'll grow double ; Up ! up, my friend ! and clear your looks ! Why all this toil and trouble ? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife ; Come, hear the woodland linnet — How sweet his music ! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it ! And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! He, too, is no mean preacher ; Come forth into the light of things — Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless, — Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which nature brings ; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things — We murder to dissect. Enough of science and of art ; Close up those barren leaves ; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. Willia7n Wordsworth Hi Hag ttje Efoatt2=first Alexander Pope, Born 1688 CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE How happy is he born and taught That serve th not another's will ; Whose armour is his honest thought And simple truth his utmost skill! Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care Of public fame, or private breath ; Who envies none that chance doth raise Nor vice ; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise ; Nor rules of state, but rules of good : Who hath his life from rumours freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great ; Who God doth late and early pray More of His grace than gifts to lend ; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend ; — This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands ; And having nothing, yet hath all. Sir Henry Wotton 142 v £°e r d?88 g 5 °' JHag tije Etoentg=seconti THE HEATH THIS NIGHT MUST BE MY BED SONG OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM THE SIDE OF HIS BRIDE BY THE "FIERY CROSS" OF RODERICK DHU The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! It will not waken me, Mary ! I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary. A time will come with feeling fraught ! For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if returned from conquered foes, How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose, To my young bride and me, Mary ! Sir Walter Scott 143 Jfiag flje 5HBn%tijirti Born 1799 CONTEMPLATE ALL THIS WORK Contemplate all this work of Time, The giant labouring in his youth ; Nor dream of human love and truth As dying Nature's earth and lime ; But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampler day For ever nobler ends. They say The solid earth whereon we tread In tracts of fluent heat began, And grew to seeming-random forms, The seeming prey of cyclic storms, Till at the last arose the man — Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more ; Or, crown'd with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not an idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipp'd in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly The reeling Faun, the sensual feast! Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die ! Alfred Tennyson 144 JHag tfje Efoetttg^ourtf) THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! Lord Byron H5 Jftag tfje Efoentg^fifttj Ralph Bom°£r son ' THE MEN OF OLD I know not that the men of old Were better than men now, Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, Of more ingenuous brow : I heed not those who pine for force A ghost of Time to raise, As if they thus could check the course Of these appointed days. To them was life a simple art Of duties to be done, A game where each man took his part, A race where all must run ; A battle whose great scheme and scope They little cared to know, Content, as men at arms, to cope Each with his fronting foe. Man now his Virtue's diadem Puts on and proudly wears, Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, Like instincts, unawares : Blending their souls' sublimest needs With tasks of every day, They went about their gravest deeds, As noble boys at play. Richard Monckton Milnes {Lord Houghton) 146 tije Etoentgtfixtlj THE NIGHTINGALE As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Every thing did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry ; Teru, teru, by and by : That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. — Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain : Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee ; King Pandion, he is dead, All thy friends are lapp'd in lead : All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing : Even so, poor bird, like thee None alive will pity me. Richard Barnefield HI Jfiag tfje STtanttg^ebentij THE MOTHER'S DREAM I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep, Oh ! the touching sight Makes me still to weep : Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Aye, the child I had, But was not to keep. As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There, in train, came by Children fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak. Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, But the lamp he had, Oh ! it did not burn ; He, to clear my doubt, Said, half turn'd about, " Your tears put it out ; Mother, never mourn." William Barnes A RAINBOW My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky : So was it when my life began, So is it now I am a man, So be it when I shall grow old Or let me die ! The Child is father of the Man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. William Wordsworth 148 JHag tfje Wmtnt&tigbib Born 1779 TO THOMAS MOORE My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea ; But before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee ! Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate ; And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate ! Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were 't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be, — Peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! Lord Byron A SEA DIRGE Full fathom five thy father lies : Of his bones are coral made ; Those are pearls that were his eyes : Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell ; Hark ! now I hear them, — Ding, dong, bell. William Shakespeare 149 JHag tfje Etocnt^nintij CHILD'S EVENING HYMN Now the day is over, Night is drawing nigh, Shadows of the evening Steal across the sky. Now the darkness gathers, Stars begin to peep, Birds and beasts and flowers Soon will be asleep. Jesu, give the weary Calm and sweet repose ; With Thy tenderest blessing May our eyelids close. Grant to little children Visions bright of Thee ; Guard the sailors tossing On the deep blue sea. Comfort every sufferer Watching late in pain ; Those who plan some evil From their sin restrain. Through the long night-watches May Thine angels spread Their white wings above me, Watching round my bed. When the morning wakens, Then may I arise Pure and fresh and sinless In Thy holy eyes. Glory to the Father, Glory to the Son, And to Thee, bless'd Spirit, Whilst all ages run. Amen. Sabine Baring-Gould 150 Alexander Pope, Died 1744 Jttag tfje &f)trtterti THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL Vital spark of heavenly flame ! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame ! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life ! Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister spirit, come away ! What is this absorbs me quite ? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 'Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? The world recedes ; it disappears ! Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring : Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! O Grave ! where is thy victory ? O Death ! where is thy sting ? Alexander Pope TRUTH IS GREAT Here, in this little Bay, Full of tumultuous life and great repose, Where, twice a day, The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes, Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town, I sit me down. For want of me the world's course will not fail ; When all its work is done, the lie shall rot; The truth is great, and shall prevail, When none cares whether it prevail or not. Coventry Patmore 151 Jfiag tlje &I)u%first Wa ™ tman ' 1819 DIVINA COMMEDIA Oft have I seen, at some cathedral door, A labourer, pausing in the dust and heat, Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er ; Far off the noises of the world retreat; The loud vociferations of the street Become an undistinguishable roar. So, as I enter here from day to day, And leave my burden at this minster gate, Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate murmurs dies away, While the eternal ages watch and wait. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow A RETROSPECT There are some wishes that may start Nor cloud the brow nor sting the heart. Gladly then would I see how smiled One who now fondles with her child ; How smiled she but six years ago, Herself a child, or nearly so. Yes, let me bring before my sight The silken tresses chain'd up tight, The tiny fingers tipt with red By tossing up the strawberry -bed ; Half-open lips, long violet eyes, A little rounder with surprise. And then (her chin against the knee) Mamma ! who can that stranger be ? How grave the smile he smiles on me ! " Walter Savage Landor S 2 Chnstopher Marlowe, J^ ^ jj^ SONG TO THE EVENING STAR Star that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary labourer free ! If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou That send'st it from above, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love. Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odours rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard And songs when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd Curls yellow in the sun. Star of love's soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse ; Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart. Thomas Campbell WITHOUT AND WITHIN A FRAGMENT Love in her sunny eyes doth basking play ; Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair ; Love does on both her lips for ever stray, And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there : In all her outward parts Love's always seen ; But oh ! he never went within. Abraha7n Cowley *53 June tfje .Seconfc A PRAYER TO FATE Fate ! I have asked few things of thee, And fewer have to ask. Shortly, thou knowest, I shall be No more : then con thy task. If one be left on earth so late Whose love is like the past, Tell her in whispers, gentle Fate ! Not even love must last. Tell her I leave the noisy feast Of life, a little tired, Amid its pleasures few possessed And many undesired. Tell her with steady pace to come And, where my laurels lie, To throw the freshest on the tomb, When it has caught her sigh. Tell her to stand some steps apart From others on that day, And check the tear (if tear should start) Too precious for dull clay. Walter Savage Landor '54 3tmc tfte 5Tl}trtr A BARD'S EPITAPH Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near, And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowd among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by ! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave ; Here pause, and, through the starting tear, Survey this grave. • The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame ; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name ! Reader, attend — whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkly grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit ; Know prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. Robert Burns 155 3nnt tfje jFourtfj THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. 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 hollow'd tiis narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow ! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. Charles Wolfe 156 Sunt tfje jFtftfj BATTLE -HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored ; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword : His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps ; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps ; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps : His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel : " As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal ; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat ; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment- seat : Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant my feet ! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me ; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. Julia Ward Howe 157 Sunt tfje Stxtij ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY Mortality, behold and fear What a change of flesh is here ! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones ; Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands, Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, " In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royallest seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin : Here the bones of birth have cried, " Though gods they were, as men they died ! " Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings : Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. Francis Beaumont TO THE MOON Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth, — And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy? Percy Bysshe Shelley 158 Sunt tije Sebetttfj CONCORD HYMN Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19, 1836 By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone, That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. Ralph Waldo Emerson THE MINSTREL BOY The minstrel boy to the war has gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him, His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. " Land of song ! " said the warrior bard, " Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee ! " The minstrel fell ! — but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder, And said, " No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery ! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery ! " Thomas Moore i59 3unt tije lEigijrtj O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring ; But O heart ! heart ! heart ! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths — for you the shores acrowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ; Here Captain ! dear father ! This arm beneath your head ! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells ! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Walt Whitman [60 3tme ti)c Ntntfj A WEARY LOT IS THINE A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green — No more of me you knew My Love ! No more of me you knew. This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain ; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again." • He turn'd his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said " Adieu for evermore My Love ! And adieu for evermore." Sir Walter Scott 161 Sunt tije ftentfj THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain : But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again. We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign : Still we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again. Something beautiful is vanished, And we sigh for it in vain : We behold it everywhere, On the earth, and in the air, But it never comes again. Richard Henry Stoddard THE FLIGHT Upon a cloud among the stars we stood. The angel raised his hand and looked and said, " Which world, of all yon starry myriad, Shall we make wing to? " The still solitude Became a harp whereon his voice and mood Made spheral music round his haloed head. I spake — for then I had not long been dead — " Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood A moment on these orbs ere I decide . . . What is yon lower star that beauteous shines And with soft splendour now incarnadines Our wings? — There would I go and there abide." He smiled as one who some child's thought divines : " That is the world where yesternight you died." Lloyd Mifflin 162 3tme tfje JSlefcentij THE GLIMPSE Just for a day you crossed my life's dull track, Put my ignobler dreams to sudden shame, Went your bright way, and left me to fall back On my own world of poorer deed and aim ; To fall back on my meaner world, and feel Like one who, dwelling 'mid some smoke-dimmed town, — In a brief pause of labour's sullen wheel, — 'Scaped from the street's dead dust and factory's frown, — In stainless daylight saw the pure seas roll, Saw mountains pillaring the perfect sky : Then journeyed home, to carry in his soul The torment of the difference till he die. William Watson TO STELLA Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame, Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee ; Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history : If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. Nor so ambitious am I as to frame A nest for my young praise in laurel tree : In truth, I swear, I wish not there should be Graved in my epitaph a poet's name. Nor, if I would, could I just title make, That any laud thereof to me should grow, Without my plumes from others' wings I take : For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, Since all my words thy beauty doth endite, And Love doth hold my hand and makes me write. Sir Philip Sidney 163 Mm $e mat® SSSJSoJjBSSS 1878 HEAR, YE LADIES Hear, ye ladies that despise What the mighty Love has done ; Fear examples, and be wise : Fair Calisto was a nun ; Leda, sailing on the stream To deceive the hopes of man, Love accounting but a dream, Doted on a silver swan ; Danae, in a brazen tower, Where no love was, loved a shower. Hear, ye ladies that are coy, What the mighty Love can do ; Fear the fierceness of the boy : The chaste Moon he makes to woo; Vesta, kindling holy fires, Circled round about with spies, Never dreaming loose desires, Doting at the altar dies ; Illion, in a short hour, higher He can build, and once more fire. John Fletcher. LIFE Like to the falling of the star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or, like the wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood — E'en such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to-night. The wind blows out, the bubble dies, The spring entombed in autumn lies, The dew dries up, the star is shot, The flight is past — and man forgot ! Henry King 164 Joseph Addison 1672-1719 3une tfje STijirteentfj DISCIPLINE Throw away Thy rod, Throw away Thy wrath; my God, Take the gentle path ! For my heart's desire Unto Thine is bent : 1 aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And Thy Book alone. Though I fail, I weep; Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove ; Love will do the deed ; For with love Stony hearts will bleed. Love is swift of foot ; Love's a man of war, And can shoot, And can hit from far. Who can 'scape his bow ? That which wrought on Thee, Brought Thee low, Needs must work on me. Throw away Thy rod ; Though man frailties hath, Thou art God : Throw away Thy wrath. George Herbert 165 3\mt flje jFcurtenttfi DE SHEEPFOL' De massa ob de sheepfoF, Dat guards de sheepfol' bin, Look out in de gloomerin' meadows, Wha'r de long night rain begin — So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd, " Is my sheep, is dey all come in ? " Oh den, says de hirelin' shepa'd : " Dey's some, dey's black and thin, And some, dey's po' oV wedda's ; But de res,' dey's all brung in. But de res', dey's all brung in." Den de massa ob de sheepfol', Dat guards de sheepfol' bin, Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows, Wha'r de long night rain begin — So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', Callin' sof, " Come in. Come in." Callin' sof, " Come in. Come in." Den up t'ro de gloomerin' meadows, T'ro de col' night rain and win', And up t'ro de gloomerin' rain-paf, Wha'r de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin, De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', Dey all comes gadderin' in. De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', Dey all comes gadderin' in. Sarah Pratt McLean Greene 166 Th0 Dkd C ?8^ pbe11, Sunt t\)t Jifteentij FROM "THE SONG OF MYSELF" Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, Afar down I see the huge first Nothing; I know I was even there ; I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist, And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. Long I was hugged close — long and long. Immense have been the preparations for me, Faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me. Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, They sent influences to look after what was to hold me. Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, My embryo has npver been tc^pid, notLing could overlay it. For it the nebula cohered to an orb, The long slow strata piled to rest it on, Vast vegetables gave it sustenance. Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care. All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me, Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul. Walt Whitman 167 3une tfje Sixteenth QUA CURSUM VENTUS As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas By each was cleaving, side by side : E'en so — but why the tale reveal Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence join'd anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged? At dead of night their sails were fill'd, And onward each rejoicing steer'd — Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd, Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd ! To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, Brave barks ! In iighl, in daikntsz too, Through winds and tides one compass guides — To that, and your own selves, be true. But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last ! One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where'er they fare, — O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! At last, at last, unite them there ! Arthur Hugh Clough :68 J ^d A i d 7 t on ' 3wte tlje Sebenteentij TO HIS CONSCIENCE Can I not sin, but thou wilt be My private protonotary ? Can I not woo thee, to pass by A short and sweet iniquity ? I'll cast a mist and cloud upon My delicate transgression, So utter dark, as that no eye Shall see the hugg'd impiety. Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please And wind all other witnesses ; And wilt not thou with gold be tied, To lay thy pen and ink aside, That in the mirk and tongueless night, Wanton I may, and thou not write ? — It will not be : And therefore, now, For times to come, 1 '11 make this vow From aberrations to live free : So I'll not fear the judge, or thee. Robert Herrick WHERE ARE SIGHS? Unless my senses are more dull Sighs are become less plentiful. Where are they all ? these many years Only mine own have reacht my ears. Walter Savage Landor 169 Sunt tfje 3£igljteentfj MELANCHOLY Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly : There's nought in this life sweet If man were wise to see't, But only melancholy, O sweetest Melancholy ! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound ! Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan ! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. John Fletcher 170 Sunt tije Nineteenth REVOLUTIONS Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore So do our minutes hasten to their end ; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow : — And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand. William Shakespeare A LAMENT My thoughts hold mortal strife ; I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries Peace to my soul to bring Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise : — But he, grim grinning King, Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come. William Drummond i 7 ] Sunt tfje fttoentietfj A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS Brave flowers — that I could gallant it like you, And be as little vain ! You come abroad, and make a harmless show, v And to your beds of earth again. You are not proud : you know your birth : For your embroider'd garments are from earth. You do obey your months and times, but I Would have it ever Spring : My fate would know no Winter, never die, Nor think of such a thing. Oh that I could my bed of earth but view And smile, and look as cheerfully as you ! Oh teach me to see Death and not to fear, But rather to take truce ! How often have I seen you at a bier, And there look fresh and spruce ! You fragrant flowers ! then teach me, that my breath Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death. Henry King 172 3une tfje SDtoentg^first VANITAS VANITATUM All the flowers of the spring Meet to perfume our burying ; These have but their growing prime, And man does flourish but his time : Survey our progress from our birth — We are set, we grow, we turn to earth. Courts adieu, and all delights, All bewitching appetites ! Sweetest breath and clearest eye Like perfumes go out and die ; And consequently this is done As shadows wait upon the sun. Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind. John Webster MAN I know my soul hath power to know all things, Yet she is blind and ignorant in all : I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall. I know my life's a pain and but a span ; I know my sense is mock'd in everything ; And, to conclude, I know myself a Man — Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing. Sir John Davies 173 Sunt ttje Etotttts^ecotrtr O COME QUICKLY! Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to .shore, Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast : O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest ! Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes : Glory there the sun outshines ; whose beams the Blessed only see : O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee! Thomas Campion DEVOTION Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet ! Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet ! There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love : But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne'er return again ! All that I sung still to her praise did tend ; Still she was first, still she my songs did end ; Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy : Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight ! It shall suffice that they were breath'd and died for her delight. Thomas Campion «74 Sunt ti)e fttoentg^tfjirti SONG Seek not the tree of silkiest bark And balmiest bud, To carve her name while yet 'tis dark Upon the wood. The world is full of noble tasks, And wreaths hard won : Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, Till day is done. Sing not that violet- veined skin, That cheek's pale roses, The lily of that form wherein Her soul reposes : Forth to the fight, true man, true knight; The clash of arms Shall more prevail than whispered tale To win her charms. The warrior for the True, the Right, Fights in Love's name : The love that lures thee from that fight Lures thee to shame : The love which lifts the heart, yet leaves The spirit free, That love, or none, is fit for one Man-shaped, like thee. Aubrey De Vere 175 3ime tfje &foent2J=fourtlj TO DEATH Thou bidst me come away, And I'll no longer stay, Than for to shed some tears For faults of former years ; And to repent some crimes Done in the present times ; And next, to take a bit Of bread, and wine with it ; To don my robes of love, Fit for the place above ; To gird my loins about With charity throughout ; And so to travel hence With feet of innocence ; These done, I'll only cry, " God, mercy ! " and so die. Robert Herrick MORNING PRAYER When with the virgin morning thou dost rise, Crossing thyself, come thus to sacrifice ; First wash thy heart in innocence ; then bring Pure hands, pure habits, pure, pure every thing. Robert Herrick 176 3tme tije &foetttg;fiftf) THE NILE It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands, Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream, And times and things, as in that vision, seem Keeping along it their eternal stands, — Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands That roam'd through the young world, the glory extreme Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam, The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands. Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong, As of a world left empty of its throng, And the void weighs on us ; and then we wake, And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along 'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for human sake. Leigh Hunt "MEN OF ENGLAND, HEIRS OF GLORY" (From " The Mask of Anarchy ") Men of England, heirs of Glory, Heroes of unwritten story, Nurslings of one mighty Mother,] Hopes of her, and one another ; Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number — Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you — Ye are many — they are few. Percy Bysshe Shelley 177 3une tije 2Dtoents=sixt|> THE FUTURE What may we take into the vast Forever ? That marble door Admits no fruit of all our long endeavour, No fame-wreathed crown we wore, No garnered lore. What can we bear beyond the unknown portal ? No gold, no gains Of all our toiling: in the life immortal No hoarded wealth remains, Nor gilds, nor stains. Naked from out that far abyss behind us We entered here : No word came with our coming, to remind us What wondrous world was near, No hope, no fear. Into the silent, starless Night before us, Naked we glide : No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us, No comrade at our side, No chart, no guide. Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow, Our footsteps fare : The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow — His love alone is there, No curse, no care. Edward Rowland Sill 178 Sunt tijc Efomtg^ebentJ) SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER'S DAY? Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate : Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date : Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd : And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd. But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest : — So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. William Shakespeare BRIGHT STAR! WOULD I WERE STEADFAST AS THOU ART Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art — Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors : — No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest ; Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever, — or else swoon to death. John Keats 179 3unt tije Etoentgmgljtf) Frederick William Faber, Born 1814 SHE CAME AND WENT As a twig trembles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; — I only know she came and went. As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven ; — I only know she came and went As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; — I only know she came and went. An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent ; The tent is struck, the vision stays ; — I only know she came and went. Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went. fames Russell Lowell 180 3une tfje Etooitgrnintfj THE CONSTANT LOVERS (From " Wit Restored," 1658) I know as well as you she is not fair, Nor hath she sparkling eyes, or curled hair ; Nor can she brag of virtue or of truth, Or anything about her, save her youth. She is a woman too, and to no end, I know, I verses write and letters send ; And nought I do can to compassion move her ; All this I know, yet cannot choose but love her ; Yet am not blind, as you and others be, Who think and swear they little Cupid see Play in their mistress' eyes, and that there dwell Roses on cheeks, and that her breasts excel The whitest snow, as if that love were built On fading red and white, the body's gilt, And that I cannot love unless I tell Wherein or on what part my love doth dwell. Vain heretics you be, for I love more Than ever any did that told wherefore ; Then trouble me no more, nor tell me why. 'Tis because she is she, and I am I. Anon EPITAPH UPON A CHILD THAT DIED Here a pretty baby lies Sung asleep with lullabies : Pray be silent, and not stir Th' easy earth that covers her. Robert Herrick 3UUt tjje SHjirtfcti) Etoteth^.toBrawnmg, AIRLY BEACON Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon ; O the pleasant sight to see Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, While my love climb'd up to me ! Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon ; O the happy hours we lay Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, Courting through the summer's day ! Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the weary haunt for me, All alone on Airly Beacon, With his baby on my knee ! Charles Kingsley OF HIS LOVE'S BEAUTY Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touch'd it? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutch'd it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver? Or swan's down ever ? Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar ? Or the nard in the fire ? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she ! Ben Jonson 182 Mg tije jHrst WE SAW, AND WOO'D EACH OTHER'S EYES We saw, and woo'd each other's eyes, My soul contracted then with thine, And both burnt in one sacrifice, By which our marriage grew divine. Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense, Profane the temple of delight, And purchase endless penitence, With the stolen pleasure of one night. Time's ever ours, while we despise The sensual idol of our clay, For though the sun do set and rise, We joy one everlasting day, Whose light no jealous clouds obscure, While each of us shine innocent. The troubled stream is still impure, With virtue flies away content. Thus when to one dark silent room, Death shall our loving coffins thrust; Fame will build columns on our tomb, And add a perfume to our dust. William Habington 183 3ulg tfje Secontr LUCY Strange fits of passion have I known; And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell. When she I loved look'd every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon. Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, All over the wide lea ; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reach'd the orchard-plot ; And, as we climb'd the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near and nearer still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon. My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopp'd : When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropp'd. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head ! O mercy," to myself I cried, " If Lucy should be dead ! " William Wordsworth 184 3ulg tfje Eljtrtr SOMEWHERE OR OTHER Somewhere or other there must surely be The face not seen, the voice not heard, The heart that not yet — never yet — ah me ! Made answer to my word. Somewhere or other, may be near or far ; Past land and sea, clean out of sight ; Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star That tracks her night by night. Somewhere or other, may be far or near; With just a wall, a hedge, between ; With just the last leaves of the dying year Fallen on a turf grown green. Christina Georgina Rossetti SILENT NOON Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, — The finger-points look through like rosy blooms : Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms 'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. All round our nest, far as the eye can pass, Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge. 'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass. Deep in the sun-search'd growths the dragon-fly Hangs like a blue thread loosen'd from the sky : — So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above. Oh ! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, This close-companion'd inarticulate hour When twofold silence was the song of love. Dante Gabriel Rossetti 185 ?iltTYY ftlfr 4^rt1tH4t Charles Tennyson-Turner, Born i JJUIJJ l\)K JJIHXUI) Nathaniel Hawthorne, Born 1804 OLD IRONSIDES Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky ; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar; — The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee ; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea ! Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave ! Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave ; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning, and the gale ! Oliver Wendell Holmes 186 Ms tfje jftftfj THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more ! No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. Thomas Moore MUSIC WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory ; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken ; Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the beloved's bed ; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. Percy Bysshe Shelley 187 Mg tije " Godd~~s, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight. George Peele 193 3ulg tlje Etoelftlj Born 1817 FAWNIA Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe ! Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand, That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land Under wide heavens, but yet I know not such. So as she shows, she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows, Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd bower ; Yet were she willing to be pluck'd and worn, She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn. Ah, when she sings, all music else be still, For none must be compared to her note ; Ne'er breath 'd such glee from Philomela's bill, Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat. Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed, She comforts all the world, as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapour's fled ; When she is set, the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun, imagine me thy west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast ! Robert Greene 194 Mg tlje Eijtrteentij ROSE AYLMER Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine ! What every virtue, every grace ! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. Walter Savage Landor MARGARET Mother, I cannot mind my wheel ; My fingers ache, my lips are dry ; Oh, if you felt the pain I feel ! But oh, who ever felt as I ! No longer could I doubt him true, All other men may use deceit ; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet. Walter Savage Landor 195 3ulg tfte Jourteentfj SLEEP, ANGRY BEAUTY Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me ! For who a sleeping lion dares provoke ? It shall suffice me here to sit and see Those lips shut up that never kindly spoke : What sight can more content a lover's mind Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind ? My words have charm'd her, for secure she sleeps, Though guilty much of wrong done to my love ; And in her slumber, see ! she close-eyed weeps : Dreams often more than waking passions move. Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee : That she in peace may wake and pity me. Thomas Campion ADVICE TO A LOVER The sea hath many thousand sands, The sun hath motes as many ; The sky is full of stars, and Love As full of woes as any : Believe me, that do know the elf, And make no trial by thyself ! It is in truth a pretty toy For babes to play withal : — But O the honeys of our youth Are oft our age's gall ! Self-proof in time will make thee know He was a prophet told thee so ; A prophet that, Cassandra-like, Tells truth without belief ; For headstrong Youth will run his race, Although his goal be grief : — Love's Martyr, when his heat is past, Proves Care's Confessor at the last. Anon 196 3ulg tije jftfteentlj ENCHAINMENT I went to her who loveth me no more, And prayed her bear with me, if so she might ; For I had found day after day too sore, And tears that would not cease night after night. And so I prayed her, weeping, that she bore To let me be with her a little ; yea, To soothe myself a little with her sight, Who loved me once, ah ! many a night and day. Then she who loveth me no more, maybe She pitied somewhat: and I took a chain To bind myself to her, and her to me ; Yea, so that I might call her mine again. Lo ! she forbade me not ; but I and she Fettered her fair limbs, and her neck more fair, Chained the fair wasted white of love's domain, And put gold fetters on her golden hair. Oh ! the vain joy it is to see her lie Beside me once again ; beyond release, Her hair, her hand, her body, till she die, All mine, for me to do with as I please ! For, after all, I find no chain whereby To chain her heart to love me as before, Nor fetter for her lips, to make them cease From saying still she loveth me no more. Arthur O 1 Shaughnessy 197 3ulg tije Sixteentij WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY I loved thee once, I'll love no more, Thine be the grief as is the blame ; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same ? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine ; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom did recall, That if thou might elsewhere inthrall ; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain ? When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost ; The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; To love thee still, but go no more A begging to a beggar's door. Sir Robert Ay ton [9 8 ^orn^' 3falg tije Sebenteentj) A WISH Happy were he could finish forth his fate In some unhaunted desert, where, obscure From all society, from love and hate Of worldly folk, there should he sleep secure; Then wake again, and yield God ever praise ; Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry ; In contemplation passing still his days, And change of holy thoughts to make him merry : Who, when he dies, his tomb might be the bush Where harmless robin resteth with the thrush : — Happy were he ! Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex CONTENTMENT Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content — The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent — The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown : Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. The homely house that harbours quiet rest, The cottage that affords no pride or care, The mean that 'grees with country music best, The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare, Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : A mind content both crown and kingdom is. Robert Greene 199 Ms fiie ItBfttentfl) wmiara M ^X Thackeray ' HER FIRST-BORN It was her first sweet child, her heart's delight: And, though we all foresaw his early doom, We kept the fearful secret out of sight; We saw the canker, but she kiss'd the bloom. And yet it might not be : we could not brook To vex her happy heart with vague alarms, To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look, Or send a thrill through those encircling arms. She smil'd upon him, waking or at rest : She could not dream her little child would die She toss'd him fondly with an upward eye : She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray, That dances with a blossom on its breast, Nor knows how soon it will be borne away. Charles Tennyson- Turner ON HIMSELF I strove with none, for none was worth my strife ; Nature I lov'd, and next to Nature, Art ; I warm'd both hands before the fire of life ; It sinks, and I am ready to depart. Walter Savage Landor 200 Suijj tije Ntnetemtij THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me : The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so link'd together I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed ! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Thomas Moore 201 Thomas Lovell Beddoes, 3ulg tije fttoentteti) ""^b^&J CONTENTMENT I weigh not fortune's frown or smile ; I joy not much in earthly joys ; I seek not state, I reck not style ; I am not fond of fancy's toys : I rest so pleased with what I have I wish no more, no more I crave. I quake not at the thunder's crack ; I tremble not at noise of war ; I swound not at the news of wrack ; I shrink not at a blazing star ; I fear not loss, I hope not gain, I envy none, I none disdain. I see ambition never pleased ; I see some Tantals starved in store ; I see gold's dropsy seldom eased ; I see even Midas gape for more ; I neither want nor yet abound, — Enough's a feast, content is crowned. I feign not friendship where I hate ; I fawn not on the great (in show) ; I prize, I praise a mean estate, — Neither too lofty nor too low : This, this is all my choice, my cheer, — A mind content, a conscience clear. Joshua Sylvester 202 Ro DYed? 7 96 ns ' 3ulg tfje Etoentg^firat u THE SANDS OF DEE " O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee ! " The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see ; The rolling mist came down and hid the land, And never home came she. " Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — A tress o' golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair — Above the nets at sea ? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes on Dee." They row'd her in across the rolling foam — The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, — To her grave beside the sea ; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands o' Dee. Charles Kingsley 203 3ulg tije Etomtjj=geam& THE HAPPY HEART Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers ? O sweet content ! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ? O punishment ! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers, golden numbers ? O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content ! Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; Honest labour bears a lovely face ; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring ? O sweet content! Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears ? O punishment ! Then he that patiently want's burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content ! Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; Honest labour bears a lovely face ; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! Thomas Dekker 204 Cove B n Sr8 a 2 t r re ' 3ulg tije Etomtg^irti PER PACEM AD LUCEM I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be A pleasant road ; I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me Aught of its load ; I do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet ; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet. For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead, Lead me aright — Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed — Through Peace to Light. I do not ask, O Lord, that Thou shouldst shed Full radiance here ; Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread Without a fear. I do not ask my cross to understand, My way to see ; Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand And follow Thee. Joy is like restless day ; but peace divine Like quiet night : Lead me, O Lord, — till perfect Day shall shine, Through Peace to Light. Adelaide Anne Procter 205 Sulg tlje Ctomtg-fourtfj GOD MOVES IN A MYSTERIOUS WAY God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform ; He plants His footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill He treasures up His bright designs, And works His sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ! The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for his grace ; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan His work in vain ; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain. William Cowper 206 William Camper 1731-1800 s ^lJ%^ Co ^ d ^ Sitta tije Etoentg=fi£tlj ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne . Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : — Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. John Keats FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower — but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. Alfred Tennyson 207 3ulg tfje ffitonrtg^ixtfj Winthrop B ^S 1 rth Praed * JOY Sweet order hath its draught of bliss Graced with the pearl of God's consent, Ten times ecstatic in that 'tis Considerate and innocent. In vain disorder grasps the cup ; The pleasure's not enjoyed, but spilt ; And, if he stoops to lick it up, It only tastes of earth and guilt; His sorry raptures rest destroys; To live, like comets they must roam ; On settled poles turn solid joys, And sun-like pleasures shine at home. Cove?itry Patmore SILENCE There is a silence where hath been no sound ; There is a silence where no sound may be; In the cold grave — under the deep, deep sea, Or in wide desert where no life is found, Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; No voice is hushed — no life treads silently. But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, That never spoke, over the idle ground. But in green ruins, in the desolate walls Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls, And owls, that flit continually between, Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone. Thomas Hood 208 Tho B a o s m C : 7 m 7 f eU * 3ulg tfje Etoaxtg^ebentfj THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US The World is too much with us ; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, — So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. William Wordsworth THE POET'S WORLD On a Poet's lips I slept Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept ; Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aerial kisses Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, Nor heed nor see what things they be ; But from these create he can Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of Immortality! Percy Bysshe Shelley 209 Ms tije ®foet%eigljtf) NIGHT The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine ; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy grove, Where flocks have ta'en delight ; Where lambs have nibbled, silent move The feet of angels bright ; Unseen, they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are cover'd warm, They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm : — If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed. William Blake i 2IO 3ulg tfje Etomtg^mntfj TRUE GREATNESS The fairest action of our human life Is scorning to revenge an injury : For who forgives without a further strife His adversary's heart to him doth tie : And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said To win the heart, than overthrow the head. If we a worthy enemy do find, To yield to worth, it must be nobly done : — But if of baser metal be his mind, In base revenge there is no honour won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow ? And who would wrestle with a worthless foe ? We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield ; Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor : Great hearts are task'd beyond their power but seld : The weakest lion will the loudest roar. Truth's school for certain does this same allow, High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. Lady Elizabeth Carew Ms fte BJirtletft SSSTgS.fSi; 7 ;^ ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee And was the safeguard of the West ; the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest child of Liberty. She was a maiden city, bright and free ; No guile seduced, no force could violate ; And when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, — Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reach'd its final day : Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is pass'd away. William Wordsworth ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802 Two Voices are there ; one is of the Sea, One of the Mountains ; each a mighty voice: In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty! There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought'st against him, — but hast vainly striven Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. — Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ; Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee ! William Wordsworth Mg tlje ®J)trts=firgt ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Barren of every glorious theme, In distant lands now waits a better time, Producing subjects worthy fame ; In happy climes, where from the genial sun And virgin earth such scenes ensue, The force of art by nature seems outdone, And fancied beauties by the true ; In happy climes, the seat of innocence, Where nature guides and virtue rules, Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense, The pedantry of courts and schools. There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts, The good and great inspiring epic rage, The wisest heads and noblest hearts. Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung. Westward the course of empire takes its way; The four first acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; Time's noblest offspring is the last. George Berkeley 2T 3 August tfje jFirst TOM BOWLING Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew ; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach'd him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft ; Faithful, below, he did his duty ; But now he's gone aloft. Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare, His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair : And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft ! But mirth is turn'd to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe " all hands." Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doff'd : For though his body's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft. Charles Dibdin 214 august tfje Sttoxto THE LITTLE BLACK BOY My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black; but, oh, my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree; And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap, and kissed me, And, pointing to the east, began to say : " Look on the rising sun ; there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away ; And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. " And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love, And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. " For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The clouds will vanish ; we shall hear His voice, Saying : ' Come from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' " Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, And thus I say to little English boy : When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me. William Blake 215 August tlje &|)irtr NURSE'S SONG When the voices of children are heard on the green, And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still. Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies. " No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep ; Besides in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all covered with sheep." — Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed. The little ones leap'd, and shouted, and laugh'd ; And all the hills echoed. William Blake AS THRO' THE LAND As thro' the land at eve we went, And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, We fell out, my wife and I, Oh, we fell out I know not why, And kiss'd again with tears. And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears ! For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, Oh, there above the little grave, We kiss'd again with tears. Alfred Tennyson 216 Percy & e 7g s 2 helley ' August tije tfourtlj MEMORABILIA Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new ! But you were living before that, And also you are living after ; And the memory I started at — My starting moves your laughter ! I cross'd a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world, no doubt, Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'Mid the blank miles round about: For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather ! Well, I forget the rest. Robert Browning THRENOS O World ! O Life ! O Time ! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before ; When will return the glory of your prime ? No more — Oh, never more ! Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight : Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more — Oh, never more ! Percy Bysshe Shelley 217 August rfje JFifflj TO MARGUERITE Yes ! in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing ; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour — Oh ! then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent ; For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent ! Now round us spreads the watery plain — Oh might our marges meet again ! Who order'd, that their longing's fire Should be as soon as kindled, cool'd? Who renders vain their deep desire ? A God, a God their severance ruled ! And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumb'd salt, estranging sea. Matthew Arnold 218 ^SvSftS*, ^gust ttje Stxtfj CONSTANCY Out upon it. I have loved Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me ; Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place. Sir John Suckling ON HIMSELF A wearied pilgrim I have wander'd here, Twice five-and-twenty, bate me but one year ; Long I have lasted in this world, 'tis true, But yet those years that I have lived, but few. Who by his gray hairs doth his lustres tell, Lives not those years, but he that lives them well : One man has reach'd his sixty years, but he Of all those three-score has not lived half three : He lives who lives to virtue ; men who cast Their ends for pleasure, do not live, but last. Robert Herrick 219 august tije Spotty GRACE FOR A CHILD Here, a little child, I stand, Heaving up my either hand : Cold as paddocks though they be Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat, and on us all. Amen. Robert Herrick A FAREWELL My fairest child, I have no song to give you ; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray ; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long : And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song. Charles Kingsley 220 auflust tfje 3Etflfjtfj MAY MARGARET If you be that May Margaret That lived on Kendal Green, Then where's that sunny hair of yours That crowned you like a queen ? That sunny hair is dim, lad, They said was like a crown — The red gold turned to gray, lad, The night a ship went down. If you be yet May Margaret, May Margaret now as then, Then where's that bonny smile of yours That broke the hearts of men ? The bonny smile is wan, lad, That once was glad as day — And oh ! 'tis weary smiling To keep the tears away. If you be yet May Margaret, As yet you swear to me, Then where's that proud, cold heart of yours That sent your love to sea ? Ah, me! that heart is broken, The proud, cold heart has bled For one light word outspoken, For all the love unsaid. Then Margaret, my Margaret, If all you say be true, Your hair is yet the sunniest gold, Your eyes the sweetest blue. And dearer yet and fairer yet For all the coming years — The fairer for the waiting, The dearer for the tears ! Thtofihile Marzials August tije Nintjj J B n ™ Ze?, 11 PROUD MAISIE Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early ; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. " Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me ? " — " When six braw gentlemen Kirk ward shall carry ye." " Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly ? " — " The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. " The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady ; The owl from the steeple sing, ' Welcome, proud lady.' " Sir Walter Scott GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD Gane were but the winter cauld, And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods, Where primroses blaw. Cauld's the snaw at my head, And cauld at my feet, And the finger o' death's at my een, Closing them to sleep. Let nane tell my father, Or my mither sae dear; I'll meet them baith in heaven At the spring o' the year. Allan Cunningham August fye ftenti) THE INNER VISION Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path be there or none, While a fair region round the traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon ; Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and the beauty gone. — If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : With Thought and Love companions of our way — Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, — The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay. William Wordsworth ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye ! — The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirr'd thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! But covet not the abode ; forbear to sigh As many do, repining while they look ; Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf with harsh impiety. — Think what the home must be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine : Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touch 'd, would melt away ! William Wordsworth, 223 august tlje IBlebentfj THE STRIFE The wish that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul ? Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life, That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear — I falter where I firmly trod ; And, falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs, That slope through darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. Alfred Tennyson A VISION I saw Eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright : — And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years, Driven by the spheres, Like a vast shadow moved ; in which the World And all her train were hurl'd. Henry Vaughan 224 ^Alfred, Lord Tennyson i 809- i 892 UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE (Sept. 3, 1802) Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning : silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky, — All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; And all that mighty heart is lying still ! William Wordsworth BY THE SEA It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea: Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear child! dear girl ! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. William Wordsworth 225 August fije ftftirteentij Philip f ?n%o arston ' AUSPEX My heart, I cannot still it, Nest that had song-birds in it; And when the last shall go, The dreary days to fill it, Instead of lark or linnet, Shall whirl dead leaves and snow. Had they been swallows only, Without the passion stronger That skyward longs and sings, — Woe's me, I shall be lonely When I can feel no longer The impatience of their wings ! A moment, sweet delusion, Like birds the brown leaves hover ; But it will not be long Before their wild confusion Fall wavering down to cover The poet and his song. James Russell Lowell MEMORY My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour — 'T was noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May — The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road ; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree. Thomas Bailey Aldrich 226 August tfje jFourteenti) TIME AND LOVE When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age ; When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay, Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate — That Time will come and take my Love away : — This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower ? O how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays ? O fearful meditation ! where, alack ! Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back, Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? O ! none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. Willia?n Shakespeare 227 &UflUSt flj* jFtftemtt) Sir Walter Scott, Born 1771 ROBIN REDBREAST Good-bye, good-bye to Summer ! For Summer's nearly done ; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun ; Our thrushes now are silent, Our swallows flown away, — But Robin's here in coat of brown, And scarlet breast-knot gay. Robin, robin redbreast, O Robin dear ! Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts ; The trees are Indian princes, But soon they'll turn to ghosts ; The leathery pears and apples Hang russet on the bough ; It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, robin redbreast, O Robin dear ! And what will this poor robin do? For pinching days are near. The fireside for the cricket, The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house. The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow, — Alas ! in Winter dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go ? Robin, robin redbreast, O Robin dear ! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. William Allingham 228 August tlje Sixteenth LOVE Love bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back-, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lacked anything. " A guest," I answered, " worthy to be here : " Love said, " You shall be he." " I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear! I cannot look on Thee." Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, " Who made the eyes but I ? " " Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame Go where it doth deserve." " And know you not," says Love, " who bore the blame ? " " My dear, then I will serve." " You must sit down," says Love, " and taste my meat." So I did sit and eat. George Herbert 229 August tije Sefonteentij LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on ! The night is dark, and I am far from home, — Lead Thou me on ! Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see The distant scene, — one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on : I loved to choose and see my path, but now Lead Thou me on ! I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. So long Thy power hath bless'd me, sure it still Will lead me on ; O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone ; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. John Henry Newman 230 Thomas Wmiam Parsons, &UgUgt tf)0 1£tgt)teetttij SUNDAY O Day most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, The indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with His blood ; The couch of Time, Care's balm and bay ; The week were dark but for thy light ; Thy torch doth show the way. Sundays the pillars are, On which Heaven's Palace arched lies: The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities: They are the fruitful beds and borders In God's rich garden : that is bare Which parts their ranks and orders. The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on Time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the Wife Of the eternal glorious King : On Sunday Heaven's gate stands ope ; Blessings are plentiful and rife, More plentiful than hope. Thou art a day of mirth ; And where the week-days trail on ground, Thy flight is higher, as thy birth : O let me take thee at the bound, Leaping with thee from seven to seven, Till that we both, being toss'd from Earth, Fly hand in hand to Heaven ! George Herbert 231 August tfje Ninetenttfj ON HIS OWN BLINDNESS TO CYRIACK SKINNER Cyriack, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask ? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In Liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, Content, though blind, had I no better guide. John Milton TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath : yet much remains To conquer still ; Peace hath her victories No less renowned than War. New foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains : Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. John Milton 232 August tfje Etoentietfj THE BETTER PART Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare ! " Christ," some one says, " was human as we are ; No judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin to scan ; " We live no more, when we have done our span." — " Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, " who can care? From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear ? Live we like brutes our life without a plan ! " So answerest thou ; but why not rather say : " Hath man no second life ? — Pitch this one high / Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see? — " More strictly, then, the inward judge obey / Was Christ a man like us ? Ah / let us try If we then, too, can be such men as he / " Matthew Arnold IMMORTALITY Foil'd by our fellow men, depress'd, outworn, We leave the brutal world to take its way, And, Patience ! in another life, we say, The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne. And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn The world's poor, routed leavings ? or will they, Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day, Support the fervours of the heavenly morn ? No, no ! the energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun ; And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife, From strength to strength advancing — only he, His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. Matthew Arnold 233 August tfje ®tontt2=fir£t ROCK OF AGES Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee ! Let the water and the blood, From Thy riven side which flowed, Be of sin the double cure — Cleanse me from its guilt and power. Not the labours of my hands Can fulfil Thy law's demands ; Could my zeal no respite know, Could my tears for ever flow, All for sin could not atone — Thou must save, and Thou alone. Nothing in my hand I bring — Simply to Thy cross I cling ; Naked come to Thee for dress — Helpless look to Thee for grace ; Foul, I to the Fountain fly — Wash me, Saviour, or I die ! While I draw this fleeting breath, When my eye-strings break in death, When I soar to worlds unknown, See Thee on Thy judgment throne, Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee ! Augustus Montague Top lady 234 August tfje Etoentg-secontr ON HIS DECEASED WIFE Methought I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint Purification in the Old Law did save, And such as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind. Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined So clear as in no face with more delight. But oh ! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. John Milton MORNING The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east, And to implore your light, he sings; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes ; Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn ! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn. Sir William Davenant 235 August tije SDtofentg^tijtrXi THE SIRENS' SONG Steer hither, steer your winged pines, All beaten mariners : Here lie love's undiscovered mines, A prey to passengers ; Perfumes far sweeter than the best That make the phoenix' urn and nest : Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips ; But come on shore, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. For swelling waves our panting breasts, Where never storms arise, Exchange ; and be awhile our guests : For stars, gaze on our eyes. The compass Love shall hourly sing ; And, as he goes about the ring, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss : Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. William Browne 236 August tlje 2Ctoent2=fourti} A SERENADE Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange-flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, But where is County Guy? The village maid steals through the shade Her shepherd's suit to hear ; To Beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings high-born Cavalier. The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky, And high and low the influence know — But where is County Guy ? Sir Walter Scott EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; Death ! ere thou hast slain another, Learn'd and fair and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee. Ben Jonson 237 August tfje Efoottg^fiftlj Bret Harte, Born 1839 TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS If to be absent were to be Away from thee ; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone ; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage; For whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. Though seas and land betwixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls : Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. So then we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. Richard Lovelace 238 August tije &foent2=sixtfj THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl, To purify the air ; Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl, On bracelets of thy hair. The trumpet makes the echo hoarse And wakes the louder drum ; Expense of grief gains no remorse, When sorrow should be dumb : For I must go, where lazy peace Will hide her drowsy head ; And, for the sport of kings, increase The number of the dead. But first I'll chide thy cruel theft; Can I in war delight, Who, being of my heart bereft, Can have no heart to fight ? Thou know'st the sacred laws of old Ordained a thief should pay, To quit him of his theft, sevenfold What he had stol'n away. Thy payment shall but double be ; Oh then with speed resign My own seduced heart to me, Accompanied with thine. Sir William Davenant 239 August tfje Efoentgtfebenflj Ja ^ e T d h ? 7 T n ' TO THE ROSE: A SONG Go, happy Rose, and, interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter'd me. Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands ; Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods (at will) For to tame, though not to kill. Take thou my blessing thus, and go And tell her this, — but do not so ! — Lest a handsome anger fly Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I ! Robert Herrick SONG Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew ; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true. My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth ! Beaumont and Fletcher 240 l&$Zgffi3S?™ August tjje Etomts^igJjt}) WE HAVE SEEN THEE, O LOVE! We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair ; thou art goodly, O Love; Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of a dove. Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of the sea ; Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the garment of thee. Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of fire ; Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire ; And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a maid; Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom delight makes afraid ; As the breath in the buds that stir is her bridal breath : But Fate is the name of her ; and his name is Death. Algernon Charles Swinburne INSIGHT Momentous to himself as I to me Hath each man been that ever woman bore ; Once, in a lightning-flash of sympathy, I felt this truth, an instant, and no more. William Watson 241 aUgUSt ttje Etoentg^nintf) Oliver Wendell Holmes, Born 1809 THE MEN OF GOTHAM Seamen three ! What men be ye ? Gotham's three wise men we be. Whither in your bowl so free ? To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine — And your ballast is old wine. Who art thou, so fast adrift ? I am he they call Old Care. Here on board we will thee lift No : I may not enter there. Wherefore so ? 'Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be — In a bowl Care may not be. Fear ye not the waves that roll ? No : in charmed bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl? Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine — And your ballast is old wine. Thomas Love Peacock 242 August tfje Eljirtietf) TO-MORROW In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea ; With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn Look forward with hope for To-morrow. With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail ; And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail : A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow ; I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, Or what honours may wait him To-morrow. From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighbouring hill ; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill : And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends may I share what To-day may afford, And let them spread the table To-morrow. And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow ; As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare To-day, May become Everlasting To-morrow. John Collins 243 august tije &ljii%firgt I WISH I WERE BY THAT DIM LAKE I wish I were by that dim Lake, Where sinful souls their farewell take Of this vain world, and half-way lie In death's cold shadow, ere they die. There, there, far from thee, Deceitful world, my home should be ; Where, come what might of gloom and pain, False hope should ne'er deceive again. The lifeless sky, the mournful sound Of unseen waters falling round ; The dry leaves quiv'ring o'er my head, Like man, unquiet ev'n when dead ! These, ay, these shall wean My soul from life's deluding scene, And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb. As they, who to their couch at night Would win repose, first quench the light, So must the hopes, that keep this breast Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest. Cold, cold, this heart must grow, Unmoved by either joy or woe, Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown Within their current turns to stone. Thomas Moore 244 September tlje Jtrst LULLABY Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock a lullaby. Care is heavy, therefore sleep you, You are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock a lullaby. Tho?nas Dekker HAVE YOU A DESIRE? Have you a desire to see The glorious Heaven's epitome ? Or an abstract of the Spring ? Adonis' garden ? or a Thing Fuller of wonder? Nature's shop displayed, Hung with the choicest pieces she has made? — Here behold it open laid. Or else would you bless your eyes With a type of Paradise ? Or behold how poets feign Jove to sit amidst his train? Or see (what made Actaeon rue) Diana 'mongst her virgin crew? — Lift up your eyes and view. Peter Hausted 245 Sqjtem&n: tfje Secontr TO NIGHT Swiftly walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear, — Swift be thy flight ! Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought ! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand — Come, long sought ! When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee ; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, " Wouldst thou me ? " Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noon-tide bee, " Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?" — And I replied, " No, not thee ! " Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon — Sleep will come when thou art fled ; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night — Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon ! Percy Bysshe Shelley 246 E K e x F 8so d ' September tije Etjirfc DREAM -PEDLARY If there were dreams to sell, What would you buy ? Some cost a passing bell ; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to seh\ Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell, What would you buy ? A cottage lone and still, With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still, Until I die. Such pearl from Life's fresh crown Fain would I shake me down. Were dreams to have at will, This would best heal my ill, This would I buy. Thomas Lovell Beddoes 247 September tfje jfourtfj LOVE LETTERS My letters ! all dead paper, mute and white ! And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said, — he wished to have me in his sight Once, as a friend : this fixed a day in spring To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing, Yet I wept for it ! — this . . . the paper's light . . . Said, Dear, I love thee j and I sank and quailed As if God's future thundered on my past. This said, I am thine — and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast. And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed If, what this said, I dared repeat at last ! Elizabeth Barrett Browning THE SONNET Scorn not the sonnet ; critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours ; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief ; The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from fairy-land To struggle through dark ways ; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew Soul-animating strains, — alas ! too few. William Wordsworth 248 September tfje jFtftij THE FLIGHT OF LOVE When the lamp is shatter'd The light in the dust lies dead — When the cloud is scatter'd, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remember'd not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute — No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest ; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possesst. O Love ! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier ? Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high ; Bright reason will mock thee Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. Percy Bysshe Shelley 249 September tfje