' e *£&8f ^b LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. ?JVM)SJ < ' " v^ - f GEMS FROM * THE POETS CONTAINING SELECTIONS FROM THE- WRITINGS OF HOMER, MILTON, SHAKSPERE, SCOTT, BURNS, BYRON, LONGFELLOW, WHITTIER, TENNYSON, LOWELL, AND MANY OTHER FAMOUS POETS. EDITED BY HAZLITT ALVA CUPPY, M.A., Ph.D. &?: ^ PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED. NEW YORK CITY Times Building. PUBLISHED BY MAST, CEOWELL & KIRKPATRICK, CHICAGO, ILL. Monadnock Block. 1894. SPRINGFIELD, Ouio. ! t. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ,-iTENRY WADSWORTH LONGFEEEOW was born in Portland, Maine, February 27, V® 1807. He was graduated from Bowdoin College in 1825. Afterward he studied and traveled abroad, returning to enter upon his duties as a professor in his Alma Mater. From 1836 to 1854 he held a professorship in Harvard University. He was twice married; in 1831 to Mary Storer Potter, of Portland, who died four years later. 1843 he married Francis Elizabeth Appleton, of Boston. March 24, 1882, he died, leaving two sons and three daughters. Eongfellow has been honored above all his contemporaries. He was honored by degrees from Harvard, Cambridge and Oxford Universities. His bust has been placed in the poets' corner in Westminster Abbey. His "Evangeline," "The Song of Hiawatha," and "The Courtship of Miles Standish," are known throughout the English-speaking world. By Way of Introduction. THERE is something of poetry born in us each, A Though in many, perhaps, it is born without speech- An existence but dumb and uncertain, that strives For expression in vain through the whole of their lives. That is glad when the spring wears its beautiful smiles, And is sad when all nature to tears would beguile ; That can weep with the world in its woe of to-day, And to-morrow take part in its merriest play. * * * * That can feel, and can be, yet can never express All the feeling and being its life may possess." BOETRY, music and art are three golden links binding our higher natures to the Divine. JTCHE starry firmament forms a picture so perfectly X. artistic that it could not be other than the embodiment of an infinite conception. JTCHERE is music, too, in the fascinating rhythm of the X, movements of the planets and in the silent harmonies of the myriads of stars as they step out on parade, night after night. KND the vaulted heavens, bedecked with scintillating J- * points — studded with clusters of brilliants, are but the fruition of a magnificent poetical idea. TZ ND so the best that is in us always responds to that j *■ which truly belongs to the artistic, the poetical or the musical, for such appeals to the heart. JJIHESE gems from the poets are often but the X expression of the unexpressed in each of us. They therefore belong to humanity, and will, it is hoped, find a responsive chord in every heart. "CIER the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, \, And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you." HAZUTT AEVA CUPPY. EDITORIAL ROOMS THE ALTRUISTIC REVTEW, CHICAGO, ILL. "" _— *uhi t» ft-E.ly AUTUMN. NIGHT. fHE autumn is old; The sear leaves are flying; He hath gathered up gold, And now he is dying: Old age, begin sighing! The vintage is ripe; The harvest is heaping; But some that hath sowed Have no riches for reaping: Poor wretch, fall a-weeping? The year's in the wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning. The rivers run chill; The red sun is sinking; And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking; Here's enow for sad thinking! Thomas Hood. cSh[OW beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh j$S Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear Were discord to the speaking quietude That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills, Robed in a garment of untrodden snow; Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, So stainless that their white and glittering spires Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castle steep,. Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower So idly that rapt fancy deemeth it A metaphor of peace — all form a scene Where musing solitude might love to lift Her soul above this sphere of earthliness; Where silence undisturbed might watch alone, So cold, so bright, so still. The orb of day In southern climes o'er ocean's waveless field THE ASCENSION OF CHRIST. ijTHJRIGHT portals of the sky, <2A$b Embossed with sparkling stars; Doors of eternity, With diamantine bars, Your arras rich uphold; Loose all your bolts and springs, Ope wide your leaves of gold; jThat in your roofs may come the King of kings " Scarfed in a rosy cloud, He doth ascend the air; Straight doth the Moon him shroud "With her resplendent hair; The next encrystalled light Submits to him its beams; And he doth trace the height .Of that fair lamp which flames of beauty streams. The choirs of happy souls, Waked with that music sweet, Whose descant care controls, Their Lord in triumph meet; The spotless spirits of light His trophies do extol, And, arched in squadrons bright, •Greet their great victor in his capitol. " O glory of the Heaven ! O soul delight of Earth ! ' To thee all power be given, God's uncreated birth; Of mankind lover true, Endurer of his wrong, Who dost the world renew, Still be thou our salvation, and our song." From top of Olivet such notes did rise, When man's Redeemer did transcend the skies. William Dkujimond. SPIRITS OF THE STORM. ■AEXOLL, thunders, roll! (■£«; On the cold mist of the night, cr 3 ^ As I watch the streaming light, Lurid blinking in the south, Like a mighty serpent's mouth Spitting fire. Peal on peal, the thunder's crashing, And the streaming lightning's flashing, Like great giants coming o'er us, Dancing to the distaut chorus, In their ire, Sowing fire, From the wild sky higher, higher, While the heaving, angry motion. Of a great aerial ocean, Dashes cloud-built ships asunder, As the distant coming thunder Rolls, rolls, rolls, And shakes the great earth to the poles. Roll, thunders, roll ! You wake my sleeping soul, To see the war in rage before me, And its dreadful menace o'er me, Lightning, Brightening, Flashing, Dashing; Thunders booming in the distance, Till the earth seems in resistance To the navies sailing higher, O'er the wild clouds dropping fire ; And there he comes! the wing'd horse comes, Beneath great Jove whose mighty arms Hurl thunder-bolts, and heaven drums Her awful roll of sad alarms : He stamps the clouds, and onward prances; As from him the wild lightning glances; By his neigh the world is shaken, And his hoof so fleetly dances That the lightning's overtaken, And he feeds upon its blazing Shafts, as if he were but grazing ; Stops, paws the clouds beneath his form, Then gallops o'er the raging storm ; Flies on! his long, disheveled mane Streams wildly through the leaden plane Of the dull skies, The while the drapery of the clouds Wraps this spirit as in shrouds, Our darting eyes In vague surprise Arise, And trace the wandering course Of heaven's fleet-foot winged horse! Roll, thunders, roll ! As lightnings in the arching scroll, Streak the heavens in their flight By their dazzling flow of light: While old Neptune, all alone, Is sitting on his mountain throne, O'er the sea, In a mood so lonely, he Thrusts his trident by his side, With such force that the great mountain Opens a deep cavern wide, And bursts forth a living fountain Sparkling with its silvery tide; And the Nereids, fifty strong, To the water's babbling song. Like fairy wands From Neptune's hands Sally from this cavern wide, Sailing o'er the gray, cold rocks, With their fairy rainbow locks, Down upon the water's brim, Either way the surface skim, Till their taper'd finger tips Gently in the water dips; Then beneath the raging skies Neptune in his chariot flies O'er the sea, With his trident in his hand, In a bearing of command, Fitting to his majesty, He calls to his daughters To quit the wild waters, .He calls, but they heed not his word : Then his trident he hurls At his sea nymph girls, But the truants— they flee from their lord. Unto the clouds they go In the whirlwinds of the storm, Arethusa leads the way Wheresoe'er the winds may blow. She lithely moves her graceful form As if she would herself survey, And then she rides the southern wind And bids her sisters follow, And leave old Neptune far behind, Lord of his mountain hollow, To nurse his wrath And tread his path, And curse his fairy daughters, These mountain elves That freed themselves From the lord of ocean's waters. He grasped a trident in his hand That mystic rose at his command, And wildly blew till the great ocean Trembled like an aspen-tree, And winds that were in wild commotion, Whirling through immensity, He'd by his magic art control And gather in a secret scroll And hurl them at his Dorian daughters O'er the heaving angry waters, Till the growling thunders roll, Giving spleen to Neptune's soul, As he sees them dart through the air, Daughters fifty, all so fair, Free from the Ionian sea, Designed to be Their destiny. 10 Roll, thunders, roll! Till the many church-bells toll Once in unity, Touched by the enchanting wand Of his majesty, Who's arbiter of sea and land, And marks each destiny. But there! The fair-faced nymphs of air, Metamorphosed from the Dorian sea, O'er the waters, Lovely daughters, Through the misty clouds they flee, Their fairy forms Float o'er the storms So swift and magically That on the wings of the long streaming flashes They ride and they dance their delight, Wear crowns of electrical dashes. And bask in their dazzling light. Where the deep-voiced thunder peals louder, And the long-sheeted lightnings play fast, We see them peep through the dark cloud, or Bide off on a sulphurous blast. When the storm to its fullness is raging, And all nature at war seems to be, The cloud-sphere is then more engaging To them than a wild breaking sea. But now the growling, rolling, grumbling. Thunders in the distance mumbling, Fainter, fainter, dying, dying, And the lightning dimmer flying, O'er the dark cloud westward lying, As the morning in her glory Bursts forth like an ancient story, The while the resting sunbeams light On this dark cloud of the night, And the arching rainbow's given To the spirit-forms of heaven, In a moment unrolled In its pinions of gold, And quick as its birth It o'erclrcles the earth : And there the spirits of the storms Sit and rest their weary forms. N. J. Clodfelter. THE DAISY. SjHRIGHT flower whose home is everywhere! e|& A pilgrim bold in nature's care, And all the long year through, the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Giv'n to no other flower I see The forest through. Is it that man is soon depress 'd? A thoughtless thing! who, once unblest, Does little on his memory rest, Or on his reason, And thou wouldst teach him how to find A shelter under every wind, A hope for times that are unkind, And every season? Thou wanderest the wide world about, Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, With friends to greet thee, or without, Yet pleased or willing; Meek, yeilding to th' occasion's call, And all things suffering from all, Thy function apostolical In peace fulfilling. William Wobdswoeth. 13 14 15 16 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. On turning one down with the plough, in April, 1786. ["EE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour, For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonny gem. Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, The bonny lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward springing, blithe to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter, biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield: But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink! Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, That fate is thine — do distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom ! Robert Bubns. 17 A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE. ffj THOU of home the guardian Lar, 2* And when our earth hath wandered far Into the cold, and deep snow covers The walks of our New England lovers, Their sweet secluded evening star! 'Twas with thy rays the English Muse Ripened her mild domestic hues: 'Twas by thy nicker that she conned The fireside wisdom that enrings With light from heaven familiar things ; By thee she found the homely faith In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th, When death, extinguishing his torch, Gropes for the latch-string in the porch ; The love that wanders not beyond His earliest nest, but sits and sings While children smooth his patient wings : Therefore with thee I love to read Our brave old poets : at thy touch how stirs Life in the withered words: how swift recede Time's shadows! and how glows again Through its dead mass the incandescent verse, As when upon the anvils of the brain It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought By the fast-throbbing hammers of the poet's thought! Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred The aspirations unattained, The rhythms so rathe and delicate, They bent and strained And broke, beneath the somber weight Of any airiest mortal word. As who would say, " 'Tis those, I ween, Whom lifelong armor-chafe makes lean That win the laurel;" While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, To softest outline rounds the roof, Or the rude North with baffled strain Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane ! Now the kind nymph to Bacchus borne By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems Gifted upon her natal morn By him with fire, by her with dreams, Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grapes' bewildering juice, We worship, unf orbid of thee ; And, as her incense floats and curls In airy spires and wayward whirls, Or poises on its tremulous stalk A flower of frailest reverie, So winds and loiters, idly free, The current of unguided talk, Now laughter-rippled, and now caught In smooth, dark pools of deeper thought. Meanwhile thou mellowest every word, A sweetly unobstrusive third : For thou hast magic beyond wine, To unlock natures each to each ; The unspoken thought thou canst divine: Thou fillest the pauses of the speech With whispers that to dreamland reach, And frozen fancy-springs unchain In Arctic outskirts of the brain ; Sun of all inmost confidences! To thy rays doth the heart unclose Its formal calyx of pretenses, That close against rude day's offenses, And open its shy midnight rose. James Russell Lowell. By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 19 The tulip is a courtly quean, Whom, therefore, I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun ; But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one. The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand; The wolf's-bane I should dread ; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead ; But I will woo the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red. The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me ; And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, She is of such low degree; Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom's betrothed to the bee; But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she. Thomas Hood. MAY MORNING fOW the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May! that doth inspire Mirth and youth and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. Milton. ®. 20 WOODS IN WINTER. [HEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted 'round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day. But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowc And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year — I listen, and it cheers me long. Henry W. Longfellow 21 22 OH, MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE. r p)H, my Luve's like a red, red rose l)i That's newly sprung in June ; Oh, my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I ; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve ! And fare thee weel awhile ! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. Robert Burns.. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. c/t REMEMBER, I remember ^ The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn. He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day ; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups— Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday — The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wiDg; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy. Thomas Hood, 23 THE USE OF FLOWERS. qglOD might have bade the earth bring forth ^ Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all. We might have had enough, enough For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine and toil, And yet have had no flowers. Then, wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow-light, All fashioned with supremest grace Upspringing day and night — Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness Where no man passes by? Our outward life requires them not — Then wherefore had they birth? To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth ; To comfort man — to whisper hope, Whene'er his faith is dim, For who so careth for the flowers Will care much more for him ! Mart Howitt. ^feife^I 24 25 TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNAID. ^§WEET Highland Girl, a very shower fifo Of beauty is thy eartly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head ; And these gray rocks, this household lawn, These trees — a veil just half withdrawn — This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake, This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode ; In truth together ye doth seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep ! But O fair Creature! in the light Of common day so heavenly bright, I bless thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know thee nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. William Wordsworth. 26 THE FISHERMEN. c^apHREE fishers went sailing out into the c& west — Out into the west as the sun went down; Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work and women must weep; And there's little to earn and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown ; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are watching and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town; For men must work, and women must Sr^ weep,' And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, And good-by to the bar and its moaning. Chakles Kingsley. 27 mm); -«w 1 '„;»'':: :^4 LOVE'S SILENCE. BECAUSE I breathe not love to everie one, %^° Nor do not use set colors for to weare, Nor nourish special locks of vowed haire, Nor give each speech a full point of a groane — The courtlie nymphs, acquainted with the rnoane Of them who on their lips Love's standard beare, "What! he?" say they of me. "Now, I dare sweare He cannot love: No, no! let him alone." And think so still — if Stella know my minde. Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art; But you, faire maids, at length this true shall finde — That his right badge is but worne in the hearte. Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove; They love indeed who quake to say they love. Sir Philip Sidney. 81 ^l 28 BENEDICITE. — *- fOD'S love and peace be with thee, where Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lift the dark tresses oi thy hair ! Whether through city casements comes Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, Or out among the woodland blooms, It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, Imparting, in its glad embrace, Beauty to beauty, grace to grace! By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 29 Fair nature's book together read, The old wood-paths that knew our tread, The maple's shadows overhead — * * * * *- •:::- God's love— unchanging, pure and true — The Paraclete white-shining through His peace— the fall of Hermon's dew ! With such a prayer, on this sweet day, As thou mayst hear and I may say, I greet thee, dearest, far away ! John Greenleaf Whittier. CRADLE SONG. FROM "BITTER-SWEET.' little one thinking: HAT is the about? Very wonderful things, no doubt; Unwritten his story! Unfathomed mystery! Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx! Warped by colic and wet by tears, Punctured by pins and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years; And he'll never know Where the summers go; He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. Who can tell what a baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day? Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony; Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls- Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide! What does he think of his mother's eyes? What does he think of his mother's hair? What of the cradle-roof, that flies Forward and backward through the air? What does he think of his mother's breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight, Cup of his life, and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds- Words she has learned to murmur well? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes in soft eclipse, Over his brow and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips! Softly sinking, down he goes! Down he goes! down he goes! See! he's hushed in sweet repose. Josiah Gilbert Holland.. 30 31 -^^55*%%?^ THANATOPSIS. tO him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language: for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice, Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements; To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world— with kings, The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepnlcher. The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales, Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods ; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green : and, poured 'round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through all the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, traverse the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings— yet the dead are there! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep— the dead reign there alone! So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men— The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man- Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. William Cullen Bkyant. 32 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. \X/lLLIAM CUIylyEN BRYANT.— Cummington, Massachusetts, was the birthplace of William Cullen Bryant; the date, November 3, 1794. His father was a physician, who also served a number of terms as a member of the Massachusetts Legislature. The son early developed a talent for writing verse. At the age of thirteen his first published poem appeared. He was for one year a student at Williams College ; then he took up the study of law, and practiced at the bar for about ten years. In the meantime his " Thanatopsis," written when he was only eighteen years of age, had appeared in the North American Review. In 1825 Mr. Bryant removed to New York, where he accepted a position on the editorial staff of the Evening Post. Three years later he became editor-in-chief, a position which he held for fifty years — until his death, 1878. He stood in the foremost ranks of those who devote their time to letters. His poems are read and admired wherever the English language is spoken. His translations of the "Iliad" and "Odyssey" appeared in 1870-2. One of his latest efforts was a splendid compilation, "library of Poetry and Song," to the publishers of which we are indebted for several selections appearing in this series. TO A WATERFOWL. cilMHITHER, midst falling dew, <$& while glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side? There is a power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — The desert and illimitable air — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant. 34 BONNIE WEE- THING. fONNIE wee thing! cannie wee thing! Lovely wee thing! wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look, and languish, In that bonnie face o' thine; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine. 35 Wit and grace, and love and beauty, In ae constellation shine; To adore the"e is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine! Bonnie wee thing! cannie wee thing! Lovely wee thing! wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Robert Burns. 36 dun iillf Ipti slfci ■', JBBllL NATURE'S CHAIN. FROM THE "ESSAY ON MAN." fOOK 'round our world; behold the chain of love Combining all below and all above, See plastic nature working to this end, The single atoms each to other tend, Attract, attracted to, the next in place, Formed and impelled its neighbor to embrace. See matter next, with various life endued, Press to one center still, the general good. See dying vegetables life sustain, See life dissolving vegetate again ; All forms that perish other forms supply (By turns we catch the vital breath, and die); Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, They rise, they break, and to that sea return. Nothing is foreign ; parts relate to whole ; One all-extending, all-preserving Soul Connects each being, greatest with the least; Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast; All served, all serving; nothing stands alone; The chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown. Has God, thou fool! worked solely for thy good, Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, For him as kindly spread the flowery lawn. Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. The bounding steed you pompously bestride Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain? The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. Thine the full harvest of the golden year? Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer; The hog that plows not, nor obeys thy call, Lives on the labors of this lord of all. Know, nature's children all divide her care; The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear, While man exclaims, "See all things for my use!" "See man for mine!" replies a pampered goose; And just as short of reason he must fall Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. Pope. 37 Sillillili TO A MOUSE. [EE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, . Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need 1 na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle ! I wad be laith to rin' an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion "Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow mortal! 1 doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; "What then? poor beastie, thou maun live ! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green ! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste. An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, 'Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. \, ^/- That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld ! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain ; The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain For promis'd joy. Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee; But, och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, 1 guess an' fear. Robert Burns. ^tfrHE bowers whereat, in dreams, I see jS^ The wantonest singing birds, Are lips— and all thy melody Of lip-begotten words. Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart en- shrin'd, Then desolately fall, Oh, God! on my funereal mind Like starlight on a pall. 39 Thy heart— thy heart— I wake and sigh, And sleep to dream till day Of the truth that gold can never buy, Of the baubles that it may. Edgar Allan Poe. FROSTS ARE SLAIN AND FLOWERS BEGOTTEN. ^OR winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins ; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flowers and rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot, The faint, fresh flame of the young year flushes From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with delight The Maenad and the Bassarid ; And soft as lips that laugh and hide, The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid. The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows shading her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast shortening into sighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. Algernon Charles Swinbubne. 40 41 fej^ TO A SPIDER. cJ^gPIDER! thou needst not run in fear !ffi> about To shun my curious eyes; I won't humanely crush thy bowels out, Lest thou shoiildst eat the flies ; Nor will I roast thee, with cursed delight Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see, For there is One who might One day roast me. Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore perplext, The subject of his verse; There's many a one who on a better text Perhaps might comment worse. Then shrink not, old Free-Mason, from my view, But quietly like me spin out the line; Do thou thy work pursue, As I will mine. Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways Of Satan, Sire of lies ; Hell's huge black Spider, for mankind he lays His toils, as thou for flies. When Betty's busy eye runs 'round the room, Woe to that nice geometry, if seen ! But where is He whose broom The earth shall clean ? Spider! of old thy flimsy webs were thought — And 'twas a likeness true — To emblem laws in which the weak are caught, But which the strong break through ; And if a victim in thy toils is ta'en, Like some poor client is that wretched fly : I'll warrant thee thou'lt drain His lib-blood dry. And is not thy weak work like human schemes And care on earth employed? Such are young hopes and Love's delightful dreams So easily destroyed; So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers sleep, Self-deemed secure, his wiles in secret lay; Soon shall destruction sweep His work away. Thou busy laborer! one resemblance more May yet the verse prolong; For, Spider, thou art like the Poet poor, Whom thou hast helped in song. Both busily, our needful food to win, We work, as Nature taught, with cease- less pains: Thy bowels thou dost spin, I spin my brains. Robert Southey. TO MY MOTHER. JiDECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, p+P The angels, whispering to one another, ^f*. Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that ot "Mother," Therefore by that dear name I long have called you— You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you, In setting my Virgin's spirit free, My mother — my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its own soul-life. Edgar Allan Poe. 43 WHEN TO THE SESSIONS OF SWEET, SIEENT THOUGHT. csTAXHEN to the sessions of sweet, silent thought ^fiGs I summon up remembrance of things past, cr^ I sigh the lack of many a thing X sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since canceled woe, And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay, as if not paid before; But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end. Shakspeke. c\yi CANNOT tell what you say, green leaves, I cannot tell what you say; But I know that there is a spirit in you, And a word in you this day. I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks, I cannot tell what you say; But I know that there is a spirit in you, And a word in you this day. I cannot tell what you say, brown streams, I cannot tell what you say; But I know that in you, too, a spirit doth live, And a word doth speak this day. 44 "Oh, green is the color of faith and truth, And rose the color of love and youth, And brown of the fruitful clay. Sweet earth is faithful, fruitful and young, And her bridal day shall come ere long; And you shall know what the rocks and the streams And the whispering woodlands say." Charles Kingsley. 45 THE CATARACT OF LODORE. DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY, fOW does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, As many a time They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store ; And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing; Because I was Laureate To them and the King. From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through It runs and it creeps For awhile, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war waging | Its caverns and rocks among Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in ; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding. And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And bitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering; Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering; Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the water comes down at Lodore. Robert Southey. 47 JENNY KISSED ME. -6\>]ENNY kissed me when we met, <5-l Jumping from the chair she sat in. ^a fc 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, lint add— Jenny kissed me! Leigh Hunt. 48 ell me not, in mournful numbers. Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seeni* Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums are beating Funeral marohes to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act — act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of times- Footprints that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. Henry W. Longfellow. 49 50 LOVE LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS. j^ffSfN exquisite invention this, ■ Worthy of Love's most honeyed kiss- This art of writing billet-doux In buds, and odors, and" bright hues! In saying all one feels and thinks In clever daffodils and pinks; In puns of tulips; and in phrases, Charming for their truth, of daisies; Uttering, as well as silence may, The sweetest words the sweetest wpy. How fit, too, for the lady's bosom! The place where billet-doux repose 'em. What delight in some sweet spot Combining love wi-th .garden plot, At once to cultivate one's flowers And one's epistolary powers! Growing one's own choice words and fancies In orange tubs, and beds of pansies; One's sighs, and passionate declarations, In odorous rhetoric of carnations; Seeing how far one's stocks will reach, Taking due care one's flowers of speech To guard from blight as well as bathos, And watering every day one's pathos! A letter comes, just gathered. We Dote on its tender brilliancy, Inhale its delicate expressions Of balm and pea, and its confessions Made with as sweet a maiden's blush As ever morn bedewed on bush : ('Tis in reply to one of ours, Made of the most convincing flowers.) Then, after we have kissed its wit, And heart, in water putting it (To keep its remarks fresh), go 'round Our little eloquent plot of ground, And with enchanted hands compose Our answer— all of lily and rose, Of tuberose and of violet, And little darling (mignonette) ; Of look at me and call me to you (Words, that while they greet, go throu Of thoughts, of flames, forget-me-not, Bridcivort—in short, the whole blest lot Of vouchers for a lifelon kiss— And literally, breathin bliss ! Leigh Hunt. -V"' <**r r-f- 51 53 54 ^cSTARS they are, wherein Js history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery Like the burning stars, which they beheld. Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above; But not less in tbe bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of his love. Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth— these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same universal being Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay; Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gaily in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes blossoming at night! These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er- flowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the center of his brazen shield ; Not alone in meadows and green valleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink ; Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient games of flowers. In all plaees, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand ; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. Henry W. Longfellow. 55 EASTER WEEK. JeE the land, her Easter keeping, jjj| Rises as her Maker rose. Seeds so long in darkness sleeping, Burst at last from winter snows. Earth with heaven above rejoices; Fields and gardens hail the spring; Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices, While the wild birds build and sing. You, to whom your Maker granted Powers to those sweet birds unknown, Use the craft by God implanted, Use the reason not your own. Here, while heaven and earth rejoices, Each his Easter tribute bring— Work of fingers, chant of voices. Like the birds who build and sing. Charles Kingsley. 50 57 59 ALMOND BLOSSOM. ^IgLOSSOM of the almond-trees, e|& April's gift to April's bees, Birthday ornament of spring, Flora's fairest daughterling— Coming when no flowerets dare Trust the cruel outer air, When the royal king-cup bold Dares not don his coat of gold, And the sturdy blackthorn spray Keeps his silver for the May — Coming when no flowerets would, Save thy lowly sisterhood, Early violets, blue and white, Dying for their love of light. Almond blossom, sent to teach us That the spring days soon will reach us, Lest, with longing over-tried We die as the violets died — Blossom, clouding all the tree With thy crimson broidery, Long before a leaf of green On the bravest bough is seen — Ah! when winter winds are swinging All thy red bells into ringing, With a bee in every bell, Almond bloom, we greet thee well. Edwin Arnold 60 61 62 63 A HOPE. -4- fWIN stars, aloft in ether clear, Around each other roll away, Within one common atmosphere Of their own mutual light and day. And myriad happy eyes are bent Upon their changeless love alway; As, strengthened by their one intent, They pour the flood of life and day. So we through this world's waning night May, hand in hand, pursue our way; Shed 'round us order, love and light, And shine unto the perfect day. Charles Kingsley. 64 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 22, 1819. His father was the Rev. Charles Lowell, and was a direct descendant of English settlers. After graduating from Harvard (1838), he entered law. In 1841 "A Year's Life," his first volume of poems, was given to the public. In 1844 he was married to Maria White. The well-known "Bigelow Papers" made Mr. Lowell's name widely known ; they appeared in the Boston Courier in 1846-8. In 1845 "The Vision of Sir Launfal" was issued. It is one of the grandest poems in the English language ; the beautiful portrayal of a right gospel pervades it from beginning to end. He succeeded Longfellow as professor of belles-lettres at Harvard in 1855. He was a constant contributor to leading magazines, especially to the Atlantic Monthly. From 1863-72 he was one of the editors of The North Avierican Review. He was appointed minister to Spain by President Hayes in 1877, and in 1880 was transferred to London. He loved England almost as his own America, and was greatly admired and beloved by the English people. Oxford honored him with D.C.L., and Cambridge by making him an LL.D. His death occurred August 1, 1891. LOVE'S ALTAR. ojrb BUILT an altar in my soul, % I builded it to one alone ; And ever silently I stole, In happy days of long-agone, To make rich offerings to that one. 'Twas garlanded with purest thought, And crowned with fancy's flowers bright, With choicest gems 'twas all inwrought Of truth and feeling; in my sight It seemed a spot of cloudless light. Yet when I made my offering there, Like Cain's, the incense would not rise; Back on my heart down-sank theprayer, And altar-stone and sacrifice Grew hateful in my tear-dimmed eyes. O'ergrown with age's mosses green, The little altar firmly stands; It is not, as it once hath been, Aselfish shrine— these time-taughthands Bring incense now from many lands. Knowledge doth only widen love; The stream, that lone and narrow rose, Doth, deepening ever, onward move, And with an even current flows Calmer and calmer to the close. The love, that in those early days Girt 'round my spirit like a wall, Hath faded like a morning haze, And flames, unpent by self's mean thrall Rise clearly to the perfect all. James Russell Lowell. 66 THE HOLLY-TREE. cp) EEADER! hast thou ever stood to see oKS The Holly-tree? ^ The eye that contemplates it well per- ceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an Intelligence so wise As might confound the Atheist's sophis- tries. I love to view these things with curious eyes, And moralize; And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree Can emblem see Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the aftertime. Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere, To those who on my leisure would intrude Reserved and rude, Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree. And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree. And as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The Holly-leaves a sober hue display Less bright than they, But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree. So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng; So would I seem, amid the young and gay, More grave than they, That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly-tree. Robert Southey. % %^ikM AMY'S CRUELTY. C'RAIR Amy of the terraced house, . lis) Assist trie to discover ^ Why you who would not hurt a mouse Can torture so your lover. You give your coffee to the cat, You stroke the dog for coming, And all your face grows kinder at The little brown bee's humming. But when Tie haunts your door . . . the town Marks coming and marks going, . . . You seem to have stitched your eyelids down To that long piece of sewing! You never give a look, not you, Nor drop him a "Good-morning," To keep his long day warm and blue, So fretted by your scorning. She shook her head: "The mouse and bee For crumb or flower will linger; The dog is happy at my knee, The cat purrs at my finger. But he . . . to him, the least thing given Means great things at a distance; He wants my world, my sun, my heaven, Soul, body, whole existence. They say love gives as well as takes; But I'm a simple maiden— My mother's first smile when she wakes I still have smiled and prayed in. I only know my mother's love, Which gives all and asks nothing, And this new loving sets the groove Too much the way of loathing. Unless he gives me all in change, I forfeit all things by him : The risk is terrible and strange — I tremble, doubt, . . . deny him. He's sweetest friend, or hardest ioe, Best angel, or worst devil; I either hate or . . . love him so, I can't be merely civil ! You trust a woman who puts forth Her blossoms thick as summer's? You think she dreams what love is worth Who casts it to new-comers? Such love's a cowslip-ball to fling, A moment's pretty pastime; I give ... all me, if anything, The first time and the last time. Dear neighbor of the trellised house, A man should murmur never, Though treated worse than dog or mouse, Till doted on forever!" Elizabeth Bakbett Browning. GO TRIADS. I. fHE word of the sun to the sky, The word of the wind to the sea, The word of the moon to the night, What may it be? The sense of the flower to the fly, The sense of the bird to the tree, The sense of the cloud to the light, Who can tell me? The song of the fields to the kye, The song of the lime to the bee, The song of the depth to the height, Who knows all three ? II. The message of April to May, That May sends on into June, And June gives out to July For birthday boon. The delight of the dawn in the day, The delight of the day in the noon, The delight of a song in a sigh That breaks the tune. The secret of passing away, The cast of the change of the moon, None knows it with ear or with eye, But all will soon. III. The live wave's love for the shore, The shore's for the wave as it dies, The love of the thunder-fire That sears the skies. We shall know not though life wax hoar Till all life, spent into sighs, Burn out as consumed with desire Of death's strange eyes. Till the secret be secret no more In the light of one hour as it flies, Be the hour as of suns that expire Or suns that rise. Algernon Charles Swinburne. 70 MEETING. Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry? Every lassie has her laddie- Ne'er aane hae I; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Among the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e myseV ; But whaur his hamc, or what fiis name 1 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 ; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. Robert Burns. UNES. cy(| HEARD a thousand blended "5?! notes, While in a grove I sat re- clined, 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 meas- ure — 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 1 these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? William Wordsworth. COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. OME into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flownJ Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone ; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky — To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, To faint in its light, and to die. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirred To the dancers dancing in tune, Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon. I said to the lily, "There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away. 1 said to the rose, "The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those For one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, "For ever and ever mine!" And the soul of the rose went \nto my blood As the music clashed in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all ; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March wind sighs, He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet, And the valleys of Paradise. The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither! the dances are done; In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with, curls, To the flowers, and be their sun. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coining, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate! The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;" And the lily whispers, "I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet! Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed ; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. Alfred Tennyson. 79 ON PARTING. HE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift, Untainted, back to thine. Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see; The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me. I ask no pledge to make me blest In gazing when alone; Nor one memorial for a breast, Whose thoughts are all thine own. Nor need I write— to tell the tale My pen were doubly weak; Oh! what can idle words avail. Unless the heart could speak? By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee. Byron. IN MEMORIAM. .^STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, j}J| Whom we, that have not seen thy facet By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why; He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him : thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems hare their day ; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith: we cannot know: For knowledge is of things we see; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before. But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear; But help thy foolish ones to bear, Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. Forgive what seem'd my sin in me; What seem'd my worth since I began ; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth ; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. Alfred Tennyson. 80 81 God is so good, He wears a fold Of heaven and earth across his face- Like secrets kept, for love, untold. But still I feel that His embrace Slides down by thrills, through all things made, Through sight and sound of every place. As if my mother laid On my shut lids, her kisses' pressure, Half waking me at night, and said, "Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser? Elizabeth Bakkett Browning. 82 POOR MAIL.IE. ?S Mailie, an' her lambs thegitber, fp± Were ae day nibbling on tbe tether, o^ Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch : There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When Hughoc he cam doytin' by, Wi' glowrin' e'en and lifted han's, Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's; He saw her days were near-hand ended, But, waes my heart! he could na mend it! He gaped wide, but naething spak — At length poor Mailie silence brak. "O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my wofu' case! My dying words attentive hear, An' bear them to my master dear. Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, Oh, bid him ne'er tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair! But ca' them out to park or hill. An' let them wander at their will; An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For monie a year come thro' the sheers; So wives will gie them bits o' bread, An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care.' An' if he live to be a beast, So may his flock increase, and grow To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo'! Tell him he was a master kin' An' ay was guid to me an' mine; An' now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. Oh, bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel'; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay, an' rips o' corn. To pit some havins in his breast! An' warn him, what I winna name, To stay content wi' yowes at name ; An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. An' niest my yowie, silly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string! Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop, By ay keep mind to moop an' mell Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'! An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith; An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kin' to ane anither. Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale; An' bid him burn this cursed tether, An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,! An' closed her een amang the dead. Robert Burns. 83 WIIvLIE WINKIE. JEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, §? Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed? for it's now ten o'clock.' Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to. the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep ; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue; glow'rin' like the moon, ■Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin',tumblin' roun'about, crawin' like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what — waukin' sleepin' folk ! Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel ! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravelin' a' her thrums; Hey, Willie Winkie! See, there he comes! Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an ee ; But a kiss f rae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. William Miller.. MINNIE AND WINNIE. INNIE and Winnie slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies! And they slept well. Pink was the shell within, Silver without; Sounds of the great sea Wander'd about. Sleep, little ladies! Wake not soon ! Echo on echo Dies to the moon. Two bright stars Peep'd into the shell. "What are they dreaming of, Who can tell?" Started a green linnet Out of the croft; Wake, little ladies, The sun is aloft ! Alfred Tennyson. 84 85 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. cAgHE walks in beauty, like the night fl)l Of cloudless climes aud 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! Byeon. 87 ODE TO TRANQUILITY. fRANQUILITY ! thou better name Than all the family of Fame ! Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age To low intrigue, or factious rage: For oh ' dear child of Thoughtful Truth, To thee I gave my early Ar. Er Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, On him but seldom, power divine, • Thy spirit rests ! Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope And dire Remembrance interlope, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind ; The bubble floats before, the specter stalks behind But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through the accustomed mead; And in the sultry summer's heat Will build me up a mossy seat. And when the gust of Autumn crowds And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. The feeling heart, the scorching soul, To thee I dedicate the whole! And while within myself I trace The greatness of some future race, Aloof with hermit eye I scan The present works of present man— A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 89 SEAWEED -4— CHEN descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks From Bermuda's reefs; from edges OJ sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore ; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, erelong, From each cave and rocky fastness- In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song; From the far-off isles enchanted Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of truth ; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the En- deavor That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate; 91 PEACE IN ACADIE. FROM "EVANGELINE." r ;t?HIS is the forest primeval. The mur- 4*s muring pines and the hemlocks, cfv-< Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep- voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman ? Henry \V. Longfellow. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. /THE fountains mingle with the river, ' 1 .' And the rivers with the ocean ; c^ The winds of heaven mix forever, With a sweet emotion : Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle- Why not I with thine? See! the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth. And the moonbeams kiss the sea— What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me? Percy Bysshe Shelley. 92 ' ENTEEL in personage, - Conduct and equipage; Noble by heritage; Generous and free ; Brave, not romantic ; Learned, not pedantic; Frolic, not frantic — This must he be. Honor maintaining, Meanness disdaining, Still entertaining, Engaging and new ; Neat, but not finical; Sage, but not cynical; Never tyrannical, But ever true. Henry Fielding. 94 SONNETS. qjgO, "Valentine, and tell that lovely maid, ^ Whom fancy still will portray to my sight, How here I linger in this sullen shade, This dreary gloom of dull, monastic night; Say that, from every joy of life remote, At evening's closing hour I quit the throng, Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note, Who pours like me her solitary song; Say that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh ; Say that of all her charms I love to speak, In fancy feel the magic of her eye, In fancy view the smile illume her cheek, Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove And heave the sigh of memory and of love. Think, Valentine, as, speeding on thy way, Homeward thou hastest light of heart along, If heavily creep on one little day The medley crew of travelers among, Think on thine absent friend; reflect that here On life's sad journey comfortless he roves, Remote from every scene his heart holds dear — From him he values, and from her he loves. And when, -disgusted with the vain and dull, Whom chance companions of thy way may doom, Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full, Turns to itself, and meditates on home, Ah ! think what cares must ache within his breast Who loathes the road, yet sees no home of rest. Robert Southey. 95 TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 3|hOU blossom, bright with autumn dew, $£ And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night; Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue— blue— as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall. I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart. William Cullen Bryant. 96 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. /~\LIVER WENDELL HOLMES was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 29, 1S09. ^^^ He attended Phillips Academy in Andover, and in 1S29 graduated from Harvard. The following year some of his poems appeared in the Advertiser, of Boston. At first he studied law, but soon gave this over for the study of medicine. After spending three years in medical study at Edinburgh and Paris, he was given a degree in 1836. During the same year his first volume of poems appeared. He practiced medicine some time in Boston. From 1847 to 1882 he was Parkman professor of anatomy at Harvard University. Among the famous contributions to literature from the pen of Dr. Holmes, "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," "The Professor at the Breakfast Table," "The Poet at the Breakfast Table," and "Over the Teacups" are probably most widely read. He has been a prolific writer for over fifty years, and a list of his writings would make a lengthy paper. At present he is engaged in writing his autobiography. He lives in a very pretty stone house on Beacon Street, Boston, Massachusetts. B m&mmmSSmSi:.. *Vv -sj-v--; ,. /: ^- ■'■; %..';,.■■, \ STANZAS. c^gTRAXGE! that one lightly whisper'd ^ tone Is far, far sweeter unto me Than all the sounds that kiss the earth, Or breathe along the sea; But, lady, when thy voice I greet, Not heavenly music seems so sweet. I look upon the fair, blue skies, And naught but empty air I see; But when I turn me to thine eyes, It seemeth unto me Ten thousand angels spread their wings Within those little azure rings. The lily hath the softest leaf That ever western breeze hath fann'd, But thou shalt have the tender flower, So I may take thy hand ; That little hand to me doth yield More joy than all the broider'd field. Oh, lady! there be many things That seem right fair, below, above; But sure not one among them all Is half so Sweet as love; Let us not pay our vows alone, But join two altars both in one. Oliver Wendell Holmes. ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. ejj you ask wllat the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet and thrush say, "I love and I love !" In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong; What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving— all come back together, But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings; and forever sings he, "I love my love, and my love loves me!" Samuel Taylor Coleridge. A PARABLE. oAMOKN and footsore was the Prophet J& 6 When he reached the holy hill ; "God has left the earth," he murmured, "Here his presence lingers still. God of all the olden prophets, Wilt thou talk with me no more? Have I not as truly loved thee As the chosen ones of yore? Hear me, guider of my fathers, Lo, an humble heart is mine; By thy mercy I beseech thee, Grant thy servant but a sign !" Bowing then his head, he listened For an answer to his prayer; No loud burst of thunder followed, Not a murmur stirred the air. But the tuft of moss before him Opened while he waited yet, And from out the rock's hard bosom Sprang a tender violet. "God! I thank thee," said the Prophet, "Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain For the gift of prophecy. Still thou speakest with thy children Freely as in Eld sublime, Humbleness and love and patience Give dominion over Time. - Had I trusted in my nature, And had faith in lowly things, Thou thyself would st then have sought me, And set free my spirit's wings. But I looked for signs and wonders That o'er men should give me sway; Thirsting to be more than mortal, I was even less than clay. Ere I entered on my journey, As I girt my loins to start, Ran to me my little daughter, The beloved of my heart. In her hand she held a flower, Like to this as like may be, Which beside my very threshold She had plucked and brought to me." James Russell Lowell. 100 WINTER. (^^EHE wintry west extends his blast, Jgi And hail and rain does blaw; g^> Or, the stormy north sends driving forth The blindingsleet and snaw: "While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day. "The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter day, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May; 101 102 103 104 LOVE-SONG. fEARER to thy mother-heart, Simple Nature, press me, Let me know thee as thou art, Fill my soul and bless me ! I have loved thee long and well, I have loved thee heartily ; Shall I never with thee dwell, Never be at one with thee? Inward, inward to thy heart, Kindly Nature, take me, Lovely even as thou art, Full of loving make me ! Thou knowest naught of dead-cold forms, Knowest naught of littleness, Lifeful Truth thy being warms, Majesty and earnestness. Homeward, homeward to thy heart, Dearest Nature call me ; Let nohalfness, no mean part, Any longer thrall me! I will be thy lover true, "Will be a faithful soul, Then circle me, then look me through, Fill me with the mighty "Whole. James Russell Lowell. 105 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. JHE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, > The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bo w'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droniilg flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the gj-ave. .-.■- ^■". { ^ESPl BH - :_ y^^^^^^^^ w^-^ ™^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^ ! ^liiiaH tB£ 1- %s« kP^% K -:£j& ' i ^*ferfllE J . - WW> . Kat-v WmHkM?,. iljjjl HSR?**- Bit l^flllf wai ? ■■- j sP9nm dfefci*^. - :s ^^^ BSfiW| ''i'lySfiSRw'!/} u ^^^^^8k Iggjlg eKKJk Q^y^ aTSmKWPI wjmm ElVI HlEsIss SEpy IsSliisto? - ^¥^&^^£ eHiS HBUjhIIII^S! li&sPslsIs mBBMwmB. P«^t=i£: Ji*-(?£^ E^yfaBs s^s*^ ^-TMITB.'Bril Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallows twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Nor 3'ou, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise; Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust? Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. 100 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise. To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; 'Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 107 Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. Off Eor thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiles as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;" l\ V -> 109 THE SONG OF THE UNMARRIED. i|f:'" <-' c^fcHE winds of March are humming gQ, Their parting song, their parting song, And summer skies are coming, And days grow long, and days grow long. I watch, but not in gladness, Our garden-tree, our garden-tree ; It buds in sober sadness, Too soon for me, too soon for me. My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don'i ask me why. 'Tis not asleep or idle That Love has been, that Love has been, For many a happy bridal The year has seen, the year has seen ; I've done a bridemaid's duty At three or four, at three or four; My best bouquet had beauty, Its doner more, its doner more. My second winter's over, Alas! and I, alas! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. His flowers my bosom shaded One sunny day, one sunny day; The next they fled and faded, Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet. In vain, at ball and parties, I've thrown my net, I've thrown my net; This waltzing, watching heart is Uuchosen yet, unchosen yet. My second winter's over, Alas ! and I, alas ! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. They tell me there is no hurry For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring; And I'm too young to marry: 'Tis no such thing, 'tis no such thing. The next springtides. will dash on My eighteenth year, my eighteenth year; It puts me in a passion, Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! My second winter's over, Alas ! and I, alas ! and I Have no accepted lover: Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. Fitz-Gheene Halleck. ■PNV 110 Ill 112 TO THE RIVER. — * — ?AIR river! in thy bright, clear flow & Of crystal, wandering water, Thou art an emblem of thy glow Of beauty— the unhidden heart— The playful maziness of art In old Alberto's daughter; 113 But when within thy wave she looks, Which glistens then, and trembles- Why, then, the prettiest of brooks Her worshiper resembles ; For in his heart, as in thy stream, Her image deeply lies— His heart, which trembles at the beam Of her soul-searching eyes. Edgar Allan Poe. i HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above ; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there — From those deep cisterns flow. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcomed, the thrice-prayed-for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night! Henry "W. Longfellow. THE NIGHT BIRD. J^nr FLOATING, a floating 4fo- Across the sleeping sea, All night I hear the singing bird Upon the topmost tree. "Oh, came you off the isles of Greece, Or off the banks of Seine; Or off some tree in forests free, Which fringe the western main?" "I came not off the Old World, Nor yet from off the New, But I am one of the birds of God, Which sing the whole night through." "Oh, sing and wake the dawning— Oh, whistle for the wind; The night is long, the current strong, My boat it lags behind. "The current sweeps the Old World, The current sweeps the New; The wind will blow, the dawn will glow, Ere thou hast sailed them through." Charles Kingsley. 114 THE SPARROW'S NEST. JJDEHOLD, wichin the leafy shade, i\2 Those bright blue eggs together laid! ^> On me the chance-discover'd sight Gleam'd like a vision of delight. I started— seeming to espy The home and shelter'd bed — The sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by My father's house, in wet or dry, My sister Emmeline and I Together visited. She look'd at it as if she fear'd it; Still wishing, dreading to be near it; Such heart was in her, being then A little prattler among men. The blessing of my later years Was with me when a boy : She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; And love, and thought, and joy. William Wordsworth. 115 FEOM "KING JOHN." O gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue "Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to- garnish, Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess. Shakspere- 116 117 SEVEN TIMES ONE. HERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven. I've said my "seven times" over and over — Seven times one are seven. I am old— so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done. The lambs play always — they know better; They are only one times one. OMoon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low. You were bright — ah, bright — but your light is failing; You are nothing now but a bow. You Moon! have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face ? I hope, if you have, you will soon be for- given, And shine again in your place. O velvet Bee ! you're a dusty fellow — You've powdered your legs with gold. O brave marsh Mary -buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold! O Columbine ! open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! O Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell ! And show me your nest, with the young ones in it — I will not steal them away: I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! I am seven times one to-day. Jean Ingelow. 118 DAISY. ^ITH little here to do or see jS Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee, For thou art worthy. Thou unassuming commonplace Of nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace, Which Love makes for thee! 119 Sweet, silent creature ! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature! William Wordsworth. 120 MAIDENHOOD. JMAIDEN! with the meek brown eyes, ^y? In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies! Thou whose locks outshine the sun- Golden tresses wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run ! Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet! Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse ! Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem As the river of a dream. Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian? Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly? Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar? O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares ! Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered — Age, that bough with snows encumbered^ Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows. • Bear a lily in thy hand ; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. Bear through sorrow, wrong and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art. Henry W. Longfellow. 121 AIR the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows. Sweet the lai-k's wild-warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still, Steal thine accents on mine ear. The flower-enamour'd, busy bee, The rosy banquet loves to sip ; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lips; But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove! Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss! For, oh! my soul is parch 'd with love! Robert Burns. I MARY MORISON. fH, Mary, at thy window be ! It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen when to the trembling- string The dance gaed through the lighted ha' To thee my fancy took its wing — I sat, but neither heard nor saw : Though this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a', "Ye are na Mary Morison." Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me show; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. Robert Burns. THE MAY QUEEN. vr ^ly^OU must wake and call me early, call me early, y>ij3 mother, dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day ; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline, But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break ; But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel- tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday — But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be; They say his heart is breaking, mother— what is that to me? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Eme shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 124 The honeysuckle 'round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, | And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollow gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass; And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass, There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me v early, mother, dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Alfred Tennyson. i i ' i.4, 1 4JP (to; 126 T is the miller's daughter, •<§ And she has grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear; For, hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against m In sorrow and in rest; And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom With her laughter or her sighs; And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night. Alfred Tennyson 127 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. e£j@jITAL spark of heavenly flame! j^? 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? Pope. 128 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ALFRED TENNYSON was the third of twelve children. He was born in 1809, in sS> Somerby, Lincolnshire, England. He studied at Trinity College, Cambridge. While in the university he published, in conjunction with his brother Charles, a small volume, "Poems by Two Brothers." A little later he won a medal for a poem in blank verse on "Timbuctoo." In 1830, still an undergraduate, he issued "Poems Chiefly Lyrical." This production did not bring the young poet into any prominent notice, but ten years or more later (1842), when he had published two volumes of "English Idylls and Other Poems," containing "Locksley Hall," etc., was he recognized as one who had some right to stand at the head of English poets. "In Memoriam," "Locksley Hall," "The Holy Grail" and "Enoch Arden" are among his last productions. His style is a marvel of exactness and finish. His poetry has gathered largely the elements of all the poetic arts. He was made Poet Laureate in 1850. He will stand in coming time as one of the few great poets who embodied the Christlike in his work. Dante's "Inferno," Milton's "Paradise Lost" and Tennyson's "In Memoriam" stand out, and will ever stand out, as great, if not the greatest, works of poetical minds. Mr. Tennyson was made a lord in 1883, and died October 6, 1892, his soul taking its flight to heaven seemingly along a sunbeam which at that moment fell across the death-bed. 130 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. fWAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were nestled by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar plums danced in their heads; And Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave the luster of midday to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came, And he whistled and shouted and called them by name; "Now, Dasher, now, Dancer, now, Prancer and Vixen, On, Comet, on, Cupid, on, Doder and Blitzen — Now dash away, dash away, dash away all." As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So, up to the housetop the coursers they flew, With the sleighful of toys, and St. Nicholas, too. And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked just like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry. His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath, He had a broad face and a round little belly, That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump; a right jolly old elf; And I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself. 132 Gt^OR a day and a night Love sang to us, played with us, ■jis Folded us round from the dark and the light; And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us, Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us, Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight For a day and a night. From his foes thatkept watch, with his wings had he hidden us, Covered us close from the eyes that would smite, From the feet that had tracked and the tongue that had chidden us, Sheltering in shades of myrtles forbidden us, Spirit and flesh growing one with delight For a day and a night. But his wings will not rest, and his feet will not stay for us; Morning is here in the joy of its might ; With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us; Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us ; Love can but last in us here at his height For a day and a night. Algernon Charles Swinburne. 134 THE IVY GREEN. c STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide Take care ! She can both false and friendly be, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee ! She has two eyes, so soft and brown, Take care ! She gives a side glance and looks down, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee ! And she has hair of a golden hue, Take care ! And what she says, it is not true, Beware! Beware! Trust her not. She is fooling thee ! She has a bosom as white as snow, Take care ! She knows how much it is best to show, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She gives thee a garland woven fair, Take care! It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, Beware ! Beware ! Trust her not, The is fooling thee! Henry W. Longfellow. 186 ■ cMSTOW cruel are the parents & Who riches only prize, dy^Ajid, to the wealthy booby, Poor woman sacrifice! Meanwhile the hapless daughter Has but a choice of strife; To shun a tyrant father's hate, Become a wretched wife. The rav'ning hawk pursuing, The trembling dove thus flies, To shun impelling ruin Awhile her pinion tries; Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She thrusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet ! Robert Burns. 188 THE KISS. fMONG thy fancies tell me this: What is the thing we call a kiss?- I shall resolve ye what it is ; It is a creature horn and bred Between the lips all cherry red, By love and warm desires fed; And makes more soft the bridal bed. It is active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes, And charms them there with lullabies! And stills the bride, too, when she cries. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies— now here, now there; "Tis now far off, and then 'tis near; And here, and there, and everywhere. Has it a speaking virtue? — Yes. How speaks it, say ?*— Do you but this: Part your joined lips,then speaks your kiss; And this love's sweetest language is. Has it a body? — Ay, and wings, With thousand rare encolorings; And as it flies it gently sings; Love honey yields, but never stings. Robert Herrick. SWELL'S SOLILOQUY. tM DON'T appwove this hawid waw; ■T » ^Mcj i^^^^W :, ^ ssSV *? 91'- S> 4( #:J^ 5* *5 *m^ jm. •tug, v -v-aM ^z& '^1P» ■«* 1