LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. ®)p!p. SopttrigP Ifo...... Shelf :p£.\V\ * - M ir UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. <\J v\ FRANK McALPINE. TREASURES FEOM THE POFTm^rnpr r\ %s£> BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCHES, / PEOF. PRANK McAJjPINE. ILLUSTRATED. Sold by Subscription Only. CHICAGO, ILL.: ELLIOTT & BEEZLEY., 1882. V H&2i Mir COPYRIGHT, 1882, BY ELLIOTT & BEEZLEY. MANUFACTURED BY Elliott & Beezley's Publishing House, Chicago, Ills. INTRODUOTIOK 'HIS volume is compiled to meet a general demand. We all wish to know something of the life and writings of our most popular poets, but we have not the time to read each volume separately, besides the expense of a poetic library is a matter of no small consideration. Each poet's writings contain many things of a local character, and of special interest to the friends for whom they were intended, or to the section of country for which they were prepared. But the poetic treasures which we have gathered for our readers are world-wide in their interest. They are composed of "jewels, five words long, that, on the stretched forefinger of all time, sparkle forever." "There are verses and snatches of song that con- tinually haunt and twitter about the memory, as in summer the swallows haunt and twitter about the oaves of our dwelling." Such lines of verse whose cadence so delights the ear and charms the soul, should be committed to memory. They would become, m INTRODUCTION. as Kuskin says, "fairy palaces of beautiful thoughts, bright fancies, satisfied memories, noble histories, faith- ful sayings, treasures of precious and restful thoughts which care cannot disturb, nor pain make gloomy, nor poverty take away from us,— houses built without hands for our souls to live in." We are told that Goethe, the prince of German poets, always invoked the muse and made a poem on his troubles, and so got rid of nhem. He who fills his mind with poetic treasures has a fund of happi- ness that the longest life cannot exhaust. The muse becomes his true friend. 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 healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware." Frank McAlpine. CONTENTS. Among the Beautiful Pictures - - Alice Cory - - 44 Angels of Buena Vista - - - J. G. Whittier 324 Abou Ben Adeem ----- Leigh Hunt - 330 After - - 399 Barefoot Boy, The - - - - J. G. Whittier 395 Bay of Seven Islands, The - - - J. G. Whittier - 218 Beautiful Things - - 240 Battle, The Schiller - 126 Bay Bdllie 304 Bride, The - - - - -Mrs. Sigourney 45 Bunker Hill Mrs. C. M. Sawyer 309 Break, Break, Break - Alfred Tennyson 162 Briefless Barrister ... John G. Saxe - 389 Cotter"s Saturday Night, The - - Robert Burns - 58 Changed Cross, The - - - Mrs. C. Hobart 70 Children Laughed and Sang, The - Chamber s Journal 263 Common Lot, The - Montgomery - 102 Children's Hour, The - Longfellow - 337 Curtain, The Hunter - - 147 Charge of the Heavy Brigade - - Tennyson - 157 Cowper's Grave ----- Mrs. Browning - 200 Creeds of the Bells, The - - Geo. W. Bungay 373 Cabin Philosophy . - - - - J. H Macon - 377 6 CONTENTS. Changeling, The Dee am of Life, The Daniel Gray - - Deserted Village, The Driving Home the Cows - Dying Alchemist, The - Dick's Watch - Dapple Mare, The Day is Done, The Dead Calm in the Tropics - Day Dream, A Dreamer and His Dreams, The Drifting Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard Evening Eeverle, An Entertaining Her Big Sister's Beau - Fare Thee Well ... - First Gray Hair - Forest Hymn - Fred's Jacket - . - From "The Excursion" From "An Evening Walk' From "The Princess" Footsteps of' Angels Fountain, The - Farewell Gambler's Wife, The Garfield Good and Better - Hannah Jane J. R. Lowell - 386 Geo. D. Prentice 21 J. G. Holland 53 Oliver Goldsmith 76 Kate P. Osgood 91 Willis - - 229 Mrs. L. M. Blimm 267 J. G. Saxe - 270 Longfellow - 286 S. T. Coleridge- 12a 124 T. B. Thayer - 136 T. Buchanan Read 300 Thomas Gray - 47 Bryant - 230 Brete Harte - 268 Lord Byron - 207 Thos. H. Bayley 224 Bryant - 238 Youth's Companion 261 Wordsworth - 99 " 101 Alfred Tennyson 161 Longfellow 381 JT. R. Lowell - 385 Thos. Moore 177 Coates 280 Eugene JT. Hall 391 107 248 JD. R. Locke - CONTENTS. Hiawatha's Wooing - Longfellow - 288 Home and Mothee - Mrs. A. D. Bailey 333 Heart of Sorrows - - 362 Irish Emigrant, The - - - - Lady Duffer in 40 Intimations op Immortality - - - Dana - - 176 John Burns of Gettysburgh - - Brete Harte - 358 Long Life ------ Kennedy - - 32 Lost Day, A Mrs. Sigourney 80 Last Hour, The ----- Juliet C. Marsh 106 Little Meg and I - - - C. T. Murphy 114 Last Footfall, The - - - Anonymous - 129 Legend of, The Seven Towers, The- Agnes Leslie - 140 Little Golden Haer - Carleton - - 314 Labor Mrs. F. S. Osgood 168 Loom of Life 191 Launching the Ship - Longfellow - 351 My Own Fireside A. A. Watts - 212 Model Church r - - 117 My Mother - - - - - Sir Walter Scott 170 My Creed - Alice Carey - 399 Not one Child to Spare - - • - 254 No Sects in Heaven - - - - IE. II. ,T. Cleveland 214 Night - Southey - - 283 Old Clock, The Longfellow - 23 Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Kjlligrew Lryden - - 34 Orphans, The CM. Sawyer 241 Of Books Ada Cranahan - 282 Old Folk's Koom, The - - - 104 Old Arm-Chatr Eliza Cook - 132 Old Man's Dream, The - - - Holmes - 342 3 CONTENTS. Old Man Meditates, The - - - Will Carleton - 345 Only a Letter Mrs. Kidder - 196 Old Home, The - - -'• Tennyson - 160 Our Country ----- Montgomery - 179 Old Times and New - - - - A. C. Spooner 368 Painter of Seville ... - Susan Wilson - 25 Patience Henry Burton 93 Picket Before Bull Kun, The - - John Wm. Day 312 Poesy ------ Holmes - 341 Peri's Song Moore - - 145 Prayer in the Prospect of Death - Burns - - 184 Prisoner of Chillon, The - Byron - 185 Press On - - - - - Bark Benjamin 192 Bemembrance ----- Bobert Souihey - 19 Bock of Ages 94 Baven, The Edgar A. Boe - 108 Boll Call of Home, The - - - Chamber s Journal 119 Besignation -, Longfellow - 298 Beveries at a Mother's Grave - - Geo. B. Brentice 331 Bing Out, Wild Bells - - - - Alfred Tennyson 163 BlVER AND THE TlDE, The - - 167 Baphael's Account of the Creation - Milton - - 174 Bhyme of the Bail - - - - JT. G. Saxe - 355 Spoils of Time, The - Shakespeare - 13 Silent Melody ----- Holmes - 16 Selling the Farm - Beth Bay - - 84 Somebody's Mother - Harper s Weekly 89 Sabbath, The ----- James Grahame - 210 Song of the Shirt -.■-■-•- Thos. Hood - 214 Struggle - 279 CONTENTS. School, The Snow-Bound - - - - - Song of the Pioneers - Seventeen and Seventy Tragedy op Cato - Two Mysteries, The - - - Two Anchors, The - Toby's Supper - Turned Lesson, The Thought ------ Things in the Bottom Drawer TntED Mothers Time and its Changes - Time I've Lost in Wooing - Untimely Gathered - - - - Village Preacher, The Victoria's Tears - - - - Vine, The Whistling in Heaven ... Waiting for Mother - When We Two Parted Why the Dog's Nose is Always Cold Winter Walk at Noon Water-MhxL, The - Your Mission - - - Cowper - 134 J. G. Whittier - 319 W. D. Gallagher 182 330 39 Addison - JVJiitman - 42 E. H. Stoddard 82 245 256 Francis Haveral C. P. Cranch - 259 328 335 173 Bailey - Tlios. Moore - 178 M. W. M. 226 Oliver Goldsmith 78 Mrs. Browning - 203 W. M. L. Fay 194 65 96 Mary Brind Lord Byron - 205 265 134 Cowper - - 164 ■ 130 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. John Dryden, - 33 Joseph Addison, « • - 38 Eobekt Burns, - 56 Oliver Goldsmith, - • - 74 "William Wordsworth, 98 Samuel Taylor Colerddge, - - 121 Alfred Tennyson, - 155 Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, . - 198 William Gullen Bryant, 234 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, - - 284 John Greenleaf Whittier, 317 Oliver Wendell Holmes, ■ 339 James Bussell Lowell, - 383 "fecent a libino, man, there is nothing mere toonberfnl than a book; a message to ns fxom the oeab--from human souls toe neoer sato, toho lioeb, nerhans, thonsanbs of miles atoau, anb renturies ago. ^nb set these, in these little sheets oi paper, speak txr ns, arouse ns, terrify ns, soothe ns, tearh ns, open their hearts to ns as brothers." TEEASTJEES THE POETIC WORLD. The Spoils of Time. HEKE art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long To speak of that which gives thee all t thy might? Send'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects light ? Eeturn, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem In gentle numbers time so idly spent; Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Eise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey, If Time have any wrinkle graven there; If any, be a satire to decay, And make Time's spoils despised everywhere. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; So thou prevent' st his scythe and crooked knife. 14 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. What's in the brain that ink may character, Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? What's new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit? Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, I must each day say o'er the very same; Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine; Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. So that eternal love in love's fresh case Weighs not the dust and injury of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page; Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Where time and outward form would show it dead If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which laboring for invention bear amiss The second burden of a former child! 0, that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book Since mind at first in character was done! That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame; Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they, Or whether revolution be the same. 0! sure I am, the wits of former days To subjects worse have given admiring praise. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 15 Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for the scythe to mow. And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. "When I have seen 'by Time's fell hand defaced The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometimes lofty towers I see down-razed, And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay; Euin hath taught me thus to ruminate: — That time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 16 TREASURES FROK THE POETIC WORLD. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stionger than a flower? 0, how shall Summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays? 0, fearful meditation! where, alack! Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can Jjold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? 0, none — unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright., The Silent Melody. : 4 ?EING me my broken harp," he said; r / "We both are wrecks — but as ye will- Though all its ringing tones have fled, Their echoes linger round it still; It had some golden strings, I know, But that was long — how long! — ago. "I can not see its tarnished gold, I can not hear its vanished tone, TEEASUKES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 17 Scarce can my trembling fingers hold The pillared frame so long their own; We both are wrecks — a while ago It had some silver strings, I know. "Brit on them time too long has played The solemn strain that knows no change, And where of old my fingers strayed The chords they find are new and strange — Yes, iron strings — I know — I know — We both are wrecks of long ago. "We both are wrecks — a shattered pair — - Strange to ourselves in time's disguise. * * What say ye to the lovesick air That brought the tears from Marian's eyes? Ay! trust me — under breasts of snow Hearts could be melted long ago! "Or will ye hear the storm songs crash That from his dreams the soldier woke, And bade him face the lightning's flash When battle's cloud in thunder broke? * * Wrecks — nought but wrecks! — the time was when We two were worth a thousand men." And so the broken harp they bring With pitying smiles that none could blame; Alas! there's not a single string 2 Of all that filled the tarnished frame! 18 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. But see! like the children overjoyed, His fingers rambling through the void! "I clasp thee! Ay * * * mine ancient lyre * * * Nay, guide my wandering fingers * * there! They love to dally with the wire As Isaac played with Esau's hair. * * * Hush! ye shall hear the famous tune That Marian called 'The Breath of June!' " And so they softly gather round: Bapt in his tuneful trance he seems: His fingers move; but not a sound! A silence like the song of dreams. * * * "There! ye have heard the air," he cries, "That brought the tears from Marian's eyes!" Ah, smile not at his fond conceit, Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain; To him the unreal sounds are sweet — No discord mars the silent strain Scored on life's latest, starlit page — The voiceless melody of age. Sweet are the lips of all that sing, When nature's music breathes unsought, But never yet could voice or string So truly shape our tenderest thought As when by fife's decaying fire Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre! TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 19 Remembrance. «AN hath a weary pilgrimage, " As through the world he wends; On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends. "With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before, And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. To school the little exile goes, Torn from his mother arms, — What then shall soothe his earliest woes, When novelty hath lost its charms? Condemned to suffer through the day Restraints which no rewards repay, And cares where love has no concern, Hope lengthens as she counts the hours Before his wished return. From hard control and tyrant rules, The unfeeling discipline of schools, In thought he loves to roam, And tears will struggle in his eye While he remembers with a sigh The comforts of his home. Youth comes; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind; 20 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Where shall the tired and harassed heart Its consolation find? Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells, Life's summer prime of joy ? Ah, no! for hopes too long delayed, And feelings blasted or betrayed, Its fabled bliss destroy; And Youth remembers with a sigh The careless days of Infancy. Maturer Manhood now arrives, And other thoughts come on, But with the baseless hopes of Youth Its generous warmth is gone; Cold, calculating cares succeed, The timid thought, the wary deed, The dull realities of truth; Back on the past he turns his eye, Bemembering with an envious sigh The happy dreams of Youth. So reaches he the latter stage Of this our mortal pilgrimage, With feeble step and slow; New ills that latter stage await, And old Experience learns too late That all is vanity below. Life's vain delusions are gone by; Its idle hopes are o'er; Yet Age remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 21 The Dream of Life. ♦ flip i WAS but a bubble, yet 'twas bright, r And gayly danced along the stream Of life's wild torrent, in the light Of sunbeams sparkling like a dream Of heaven's own bliss for loveliness — For fleetness like a passing thought; And ever of such dreams as thee The tissue of my life is wrought. For I have dreamed of pleasures when The sun of young existence smiled Upon my wayward path, and then Her promised sweets my heart beguiled, But when I came those sweets to sip, They turned to gall upon my lip. And I have dreamed of friendship, too; For friendship, I had thought, was made To be man's solace in the shade, And glad him in the light, and so I fondly thought to find a friend Whose soul with mine would sweetly blend, And, as two placid streams unite And roll their waters in one bright And tranquil current to the sea, So might our happy spirits be Borne onward to eternity; TKEASUKES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. But he betrayed me, and with pain I woke — to sleep and dream again. And then I dreamed of love: and all The clustered visions of the past Seemed airy nothings to that last Bright dream. It threw a magical Enchantment o'er existence — cast A glory o'er my path so bright, I seemed to breathe and feel its light; But now that blissful dream is o'er, And I have waked to dream no more. Beyond the farthest glimmering star That twinkles in the arch above, There is a world of truth and love Which earth's vile passions never mar. Oh, could I snatch the eagle's plumes, And soar to that bright world away, "Which God's own holy light illumes With glories of eternal day ! How gladly every lingering tie That binds me down to earth I'd sever, And leave for that blest home on high, This hollow-hearted world forever. -•^^fe^^fe*^ TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 23 The Old Clock. SOMEWHAT back from the village street Stands the old-fa shion'd country-seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar- trees their shadows throw; And from its station in the hall An ancient time-piece says to all: "Forever, never! Never, forever!" Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass: " Forever, never! Never, forever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it stood; As if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe: "Forever, never! Never, forever!" In that mansion used to be Free hearted hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roar'd; 24 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The stranger feasted at his board; But, the skeleton at the feast, That warning time-piece never ceased: "Forever, never! Never, forever!" There groups of merry children play'd; There youths and maidens, dreaming, stray'd. precious hours! golden prime And affluence of love and time! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient time-piece told: "Forever, never! Never, forever!" From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding-night. There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in its shroud of snow! And in the hush that follow'd the prayer. Was heard the old clock on the stair: "Forever, never! Never forever!" All are scatter'd now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, Ah ! when shall they all meet again, As in the days long since gone by? The ancient time-piece makes reply: "Forever, never! Never, forever!" Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, TBEASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 25 And death, and time shall disappear! Forever there, but never here! The horologue of eternity Sayeth this incessantly: "Forever, never! Never, forever!" The Painter of Seville. Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murrillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the'churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a| holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630. I WAS morning in Seville, and brightly beamed ^ The early sunlight in one chamber there; Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed, Eich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where Murrillo, the famed painter, came to share With young aspirants his long-cherished art, To prove how vain must be the teacher's care, Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart, The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart. The pupils came, and glancing round, Mendez upon the canvass found, Not his own work of yesterday, TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. But, glowing, in the morning ray, A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright, It almost seemed that there were given To glow before his dazzled sight, Tints and expression warm from heaven. "Twas but a sketch — the Virgin's head — Yet was unearthly beauty shed Upon the mildly beaming face; The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, •Had separate, yet blended grace — A poet's brightest dream was there! Murillo entered, and amazed, On the mysterious painting gazed; "Whose work is this? — speak, tell me! — he "Who to his aid such power can call," Exclaimed the teacher eagerly, "Will yet be master of us all; Would I had done it! — Fredinand! Isturitz! — Mendez! — say, whose hand Among ye all?"— '-With half -breathed sigh, Each pupil answered, — "'Twas not I!" "How came it, then?" impatiently Murrillo cried; "but we shall see, Ere long, into this mystery, Sebastian !" At the summons came A bright-eyed slave. TEEASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 27 "Who trembled at the stern 'rebuke His master gave. For, ordered in that room to sleep, And faithful guard o'er all to keep, Murillo bade him now declare What rash intruder had been there, And threatened — if he did not tell The truth at once — the dungeon cell. "Thou answerest not," Murillo said; (The boy had stood in speechless fear.) "Speak on!" — At last he raised his head And murmured, "No one has been here." " 'Tis false!" Sebastian bent his knee, And clasped his hands imploringly, And said, "I swear it, none but me!" " List!" said his master. "I would know Who enters here — there have been found Before, rough sketches strewn around, By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show; See that to-night strict watch you keep, Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep. If on to-morrow morn you fail To answer what I ask, The lash shall force you — do you hear? Hence! to your daily task." 'Twas midnight in Seville; and faintly shone From one small lamp, a dim, uncertain ray 28 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Within Murillo's study — all were gone Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, One bright-eyed boy was there — Murillo's little slave. Almost a child — that boy had seen Not thrice five summers yet, But genius marked the lofty brow, O'er which his locks of jet Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, To Africa and Spain allied. "Alas! what fate is mine!" he said: The lash, if I refuse to tell Who sketched those figures — if I do, Perhaps e'en more — the dungeon cell!" He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid; It came — for soon in slumber laid, He slept, until the dawning day Shed on his humble couch its ray. "I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now, Three hours of freedom I may gain, Before my master comes; for then I shall be but a slave again. Three blessed hours of freedom! how TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 29 Shall I employ them? — ah! e'en now The figure on that canvass traced Must be — yes, it must be effaced." He seized a brush — the morning light Gave to the head a softened glow; Gazing enraptured on the sight, He cried, " Shall I efface it — No! That breathing lip! that beamimg eye! Efface them? — I would rather die." The terror of the humble slave Gave place to the overpowering flow Of the high feelings Nature gave — Which only gifted spirits know. He touched the brow — the lip — it seemed His pencil had some magic power; The eye with deeper feeling beamed — Sebastian then forgot the hour! Forgot his master, and the threat Of punishment still hanging o'er him For with each touch, new beauties met And mingled in the face before him. At length 'twas finished; rapturously He gazed — could aught more beauteous be!-^ Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood Then started — horror chilled his blood! His master and the pupils all 30 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. Were there e'en at his side! The terror-stricken slave was mute — Mercy would be denied, E'en could he ask it — so he deemed, And the poor boy half lifeless seemed. Speechless, bewildered — for a space They gazed upon that perfect face, Each with an artist's joy; At length Murillo silence broke, And with affected sternness spoke — "Who is your master, boy?" "You, senor," said the trembling slave. "Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, Before that Virgin's head you drew?" Again he answered, "Only you." "I gave you none!" Murillo cried. "But I have heard," the boy replied, "What you to others said." "And more than heard," in kinder tone, The painter said; " 'tis plainly shown That you have profited. "What (to his pupils) is' his mead? Keward or punishment?" "Eeward, reward!" they warmly cried, (Sebastian's ear was bent To catch the sound he scarce believed, But with imploring looks received.) "What shall it be?" They spoke of gold And of a splendid dress; TKEASUBES FKOM THE POETIC WORLD. 31 But still unmoved Sebastian stood, Silent and motionless. "Speak!" said Murillo, kindly, "choose Your own reward — what shall it be? Name what you wish, I'll not refuse: Then speak at once and fearlessly." "Oh! if I dared!" Sebastian knelt, And feelings he could not control, (But feared to utter even then) With strong emotion, shook his soul. "Courage!" his master said, and each Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech, To soothe his overpow'ring dread. He scarcely heard, till some one said, "Sebastian — ask — you have your choice, Ask for your freedom.'" At the word, The suppliant strove to raise his voice: At first but stifled sobs were heard, And then his prayer — breathed fervently — "0 master, make raj father free!" "Him and thyself, my noble boy!" Warmly the painter cried; Baising Sebastian from his feet, He pressed him to his side. "Thy talents rare, and filial love, > E'en more have fairly won; Still be thou mine by other bonds — My pupil and my son." 82 TEEASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. Murillo knew, e'en when the words Of generous feelings passed his lips, Sebastian's talents soon must lead To fame that would his own eclipse; And, constant to his purpose still, He joyed to see his pupil gain, Beneath his care, such matchless skill As made his name the pride of Spain. Long Life. /j? OUNT not thy life by calendars; for \C/ Years shall pass thee by unheeded, whilst an hour- Some little fleeting hour, too quickly past — May stamp itself so deeply on thy brain, Thy latest years shall live upon its joy. His life is longest, not whose boneless gums, Sunk eyes, wan cheeks, and snow-white hairs bespeak Life's limits; no! but he whose memory Is thickest set with those delicious scenes 'Tis sweet to ponder o'er when even falls. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 33 JOHN DRYDEN John Dryden was born on the 9th of August, 1631, in Northamptonshire, England ; and his death took place May 1 st, 1700. His family and connections were Puritan and anti- monarchical. The poet was the eldest of a family of four- teen. The father's means being limited, he procured his son admission to Westminster School, as a King's scholar under the famous Dr. Busby. While in this school, Dryden wrote some Elegiac verses upon the death of the young Lord Hast- ings, in 1649. These verses had the distinction of being printed in a bound volume, among others elegies by persons of nobility and worth. His education was completed at Trinity college; Cambridge, from which institution he re- ceived his degree of B. A. Dryden's next poem of importance was entitled Heroic Stanzas on the Death of Cromwell. In this poem he appears to good advantage. His genius, not yet restrained by policy, points out clearly the great possibility of the poet. On the return of Charles II., Dryden, with equal splendor of diction, congratulates the Bestoration. The Bestoration brought with it a renewal of the love of the theater, and Dryden turned his attention to writing for the stage. Thus he ap- pears under various guises. The genius which manifests it- self so favorably in Heroic Stanzas on the Death of CromweU x 2 34 TEEASUEES EEOM THE POETIC WOELD, for policy was led to congratulate the Bestoration, and for money and a desire to please the popular taste, was turned to writing for the stage. Some of his plays met with success, but many of them are weak and without character. Dryden's satires were overwhelming, and so completely crushed his enemies, that he was considered, by good authority, the "undisputed king and lawgiver of English literature, during his life." He held the position of poet-laureate of England for a short time. While we wish that Dryden might have avoided his many vulgar descents, yet we cannot help admiring the fiery energy of his satire, and the freedom and magnificence of his verse. Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Anne Killigrew. tHOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whose palms, now phicked from paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Eich with immortal green above the rest: Whether, adopted to some neighboring star, Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race, Or, in procession fixed and regular, Mov'st with the heaven-majestic pace; TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 35 Or, called to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss: Whatever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since heaven's eternal year is thine. Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, In no ignoble verse; But such as thine own voice did practice Here, When thy first fruits of poesy were given; To make thyself a welcome inmate there: While yet a young probationer And candidate of heaven. If by traduction came thy mind, , Our wonder is the less to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfused into thy blood; So wert thou bom into a tuneful strain, An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. But if thy pre-existing soul Was formed at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll, Who Greek or Latin laurels wore. And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge, from thy rich ore- Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find Than was the beauteous frame she left behind. Eeturn to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. 86 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. gracious God! how far have we Profaned thy heav'nly gift of poesy? Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debased to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordained above For tongues of angels and for hymns of love? wretched we! why were we hurried down This lubiique and adulterate age — Nay, added fat pollutions of our own — T' increase the steaming ordures of the stage? What can we say t' excuse our second fall? Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all; Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled, Unmixed with foreign filth, and undefiled; Her wit was more than man; her innocence a child. *■ * *■ * * . . * When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When in the valley of Jehoshaphat, The judging God shall close the book of fate; And there the last assizes keep For those who wake, and those who sleep; The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are covered with the lightest ground; And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing, Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go, As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learnt below. TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 37 JOSEPH ADDISON. Joseph Addison, born May 1, 1672, died June 17, 1719, was the eldest son of Launcelot Addison, Dean of Lichfield. Addison passed through several schools, and finally, at the age of about fifteen, entered Oxford. While at Oxford, he was noted for his skill in Latin versification. He took his master's degree in 1693. Addison held several public offices, and was for ten years a member of Parliament. His political life added nothing to his fame. To know and love him, we must be familiar with his life and writings. His chief works as an author are the following : Contributions to The Tattler and The Spectator, Tragedy of Cato, and Hymns. He left an unfinished work on the Evidences of the Christian Religion. "Addison's prose works constitute the chief source of his fame ; but his muse proved the architect of his fortune, and led him first to distinction." He did much for the literature of his time, and a "peculiar charm keeps his writings as green as in the days of Queen Anne." Addison's style is perfect after its kind. Dr. Johnson says "that whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison." It is true that 38 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. he has given a delicacy to English sentiment, and a modesty to English wit, which it never knew before. The following beautiful lines show his style: v7 00N as the evening shades prevail, V"4 The moon takes up the wonderous tale, And nightly to the listening earth Eepeats the story of her birth; And all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round this dark terrestrial ball; What though no real voice nor sound Among their radiant orbs be found: In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, Forever singing as they shine, The Hand that made us is divine! %£ %*%&&- TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 39 From Tragedy of Oato. )T must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well! Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man, Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass? The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us — And that there is, all nature cries aloud Through all her works — he must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy. But when? or where? This world was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures. This must end them. . [Laying his hand on his sword. Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me: This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. 40 TEEASUEES EEOM THE POETIC WOELD. The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the wars of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care, Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favor her, That my awakened soul may take her. flight, Kenewed in all her strength, and fresh with life, An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them; Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. The Irish Emigrant. I 'M sitting on the stile, Mary, iSJ Where we sat side by side, On a bright May morning long ago, When first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high, TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 41 And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day's as bright as then; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again. But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your warm breath on my' cheek, And I still keep listening for the words You never more may speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, The village church stands near, — The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, Where I've laid you, darling, down to sleep With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, oh, they love the better The few our Father sends. And you were all I had, Mary, My blessing and my pride; 42 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. I'm bidding you a long farewell, My Mary kind and true, But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm going to. They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there, But I'll not forget old Ireland, "Were it fifty times less fair. The Two Mysteries. In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, a nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, sur- rounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. The child looked curiously at the spectacle of death and then inquiringly into the old man's face. "You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?" said he, adding, "We don't, either." E know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still, The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill; The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 43 We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain; This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go Nor why we're left to wonder still; nor why we do not know. But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day — Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could say. Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be; Yet oh, how sweet it is to us, this life we live and see! Then might they say — these vanished ones — and blessed is the thought ! " So death is sweet to us, beloved ! though we may tell ye naught ; We may not tell it to the quick — this mystery of death — Ye may not tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath." The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, So those who enter death must go as little children sent. Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. 1 44 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. Among the Beautiful Pictures. i > /^MONG- the' beautiful pictures /V * That hang on Memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest, < That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest; Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep; Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long aero; TBEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOKLD. 45 But his feet on the hills grew weary And one of the autumn eves I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face; And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all. The Bride. J CAME, but she was gone. In her fair home, There lay her lute, just as she touched it last, At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups Filled with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat Lay the still open work-box and that book 46 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Which last she read, its penciled margin marked By an ill-quoted passage — traced, perchance, With hand unconscious, while her lover spake That dialect which brings forgetfulness Of all besides. It was the cherished home, Where, from her childhood, she had been the star Of hope and joy. I came — and she was gone. Yet I had seen her from the altar led, With silvery veil but slightly swept aside, The fresh, young rose-bud deepening in her cheek, And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought Of one who gives a priceless gift away. And there was silence 'mid the gathered throng; The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw Their breath suppressed, to see the mother's lip Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire Shrinks as with smothered sorrow, when he gave His darling to an untried guardianship, And to a far-off clime. Haply his thought Traversed the grass-grown prairies, and the shore Of the cold lakes; or those o'erhanging cliffs, And pathless mountain-top, that rose to bar Her long-reared mansion from the anxious eye Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt How strong and beautiful is woman's love, That, taking in its hand its thornless joys, The tenderest melodies of tuneful years, Yea! and its own life also — lays them all, TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 47 Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast Reserving nought, save that unspoken hope Which hath its root in God. Mock not with mirth A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones; The licensed jester's lip, the dancer's heel — "What do they here? Joy, serious and sublime, Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer, Should swell the, bosom when a maiden's hand, Pilled with life's dewy flow'rets, girdeth on That harness, which the ministry of Death Alone unlooses, but whose fearful power May stamp the sentence of Eternity. Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. tHE curfew tolls the knell of parting day; The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the ghmmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; — 48 TKEASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient, solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn Or busy housewife ply her evening care: ' Nor children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield: Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toh\ Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD 49 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await, alike, the inevitable hour; — The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 50 TREASURES FROM. THE POETIC WORLD. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;— Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray: Along the cool, sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet, e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial, still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered Muse,] The place of fame and elegy supply; TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 51 And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, — Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, — Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies; Some pious drops the closing eye requires: E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 52 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD "One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree: Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor "at the wood was he. "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn : " THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere: Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to misery all he had — a tear: — He gained from Heaven — 'twas all he wished — a friend, No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they, alike, in trembling hope, repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 53 Daniel Gray. In all of the late Dr. Holland's writings we know of nothing which equals in pathos and tenderness the following beautiful poem, and its value is enhanced when it is known that the author described his own father in "Old Daniel Gray": 1 F I shall ever win the home in heaven, A For whose sweet rest I humbly pray, In the great company of the forgiven, I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted On ready words his weight of gratitude, And was not called among the gifted, In the prayer-meeting of his neighborhood. He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases, Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes, And I suppose that in his prayers and graces I've heard them at least a thousand times. I see him now — his form, his face, his motions, His homespun habit and his silver hair, And hear the language of his trite devotions, Eising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. I can remember how the sentence sounded — " Help us, Lord, to pray and not to faint!" 54 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. And how the " conquering and to conquer" rounded The loftier inspirations of the saint. He had some notions that did not improve him: He never kissed his children — so they say, And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him Less than a horse-shoe picked up on his way. He had a hearty hatred of oppression, And righteous word for sin of any kind: - Alas, that the transgressor and transgression Were linked together in his honest mind. He could see naught but vanity in beauty, And naught but weakness in a fond caress, And pitied men whose views of Christian duty Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. Yet there were love and tenderness within him, And I am told that when his Charley died, Nor nature's needs nor gentle words could win him From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. And when they came to bury little Charley, They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair; And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early, And guessed, but did not know, who put it there. Honest and faithful, consistent in his calling, Strictly attendant on the means of grace, iTREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 55 Instant in prayer, and fearful most of failing, Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. A practical old man and yet a dreamer, He thought in some strange, unlooked-for way, His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Eedeemer, Would honor him with wealth some golden day. This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit, Until in death his patient eye grew dim, And his Eedeemer called him to inherit The heaven of wealth long gathered up for him. So if I ever win the home in heaven, For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, In the great company of the forgiven, I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 5G TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. ROBERT BURNS. Eobeet Buens, the great lyric poet of Scotland, was born January 25, 1759, in a small cottage near Ayr ; and, broken in health, he died July 21, 1796. Burns' parents were poor, but they possessed excellent qualities of head and heart, and did all in their power to educate their children. By habits of industry and study, Burns acquired a large fund of informa- tion. While a plow-boy, at. the age of sixteen, he commenced composing verses in the Scottish dialect. These verses at- tracted much attention, and helped to widen the circle of his acquaintance. Among the poems which his first volume contained, were the following : The Tiva Dogs, The Author's Prayer, Address to the Deil, The Vision, The Dream, Halloiv- een, Cotter s Saturday Night, To a Mouse, To a Daisy, Man Was Made to Mourn. This volume fully established the author's fame, and constituted the turning-point in his life. "The people murmured of him from sea to sea." He was at once invited to Edinburgh, where he was "welcomed among the scholars of the northern capital and its univer- sity," and brought into the literary circles of the age. ROBERT BURNS. TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 57 While a plow-boy we find him wishing "That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some useful plan or book could make, Or sing a sang, at least." He wrote Auld Lang Syne, Tarn O'Shanter, and many of his best songs are still ringing in the ear of every Scotchman the wide world over. In short, the world of pop- ular song is sweeter because of his having written, and the world of literature is filled with quotations from him. We love him notwithstanding his faults, and should be lonesome without him. Burns compares himself to an iEolian harp, tuned to every wind of heaven. "His genius flows over all living and lifeless things, with a sympathy that finds noth- ing mean or insignificant." Burns held offices, but none of importance. He wrote extensively, for one who did not leave the plow till he was twenty-five, and who died at thirty- seven. We will at once throw a veil over his faults, for they were errors of head and passion, and not of the heart. Lowland Scotland has four names that she looks upon with a feeling akin to reverence. William Wallace and Bobert Bruce fought her battles and made her history, but Bobert Burns and Walter Scott wrote her history and sang her songs. 58 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The Cotter's Saturday Night: "Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short but simple annals of the poor." —Gray. «Y loved, my honored, much respected friend, v No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise; To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning Winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, — This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 59 Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacker through, To meet their dad wi' flichterin noise and glee. His wee bit ingle blinkin bonnily, His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wine's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Belyve, the elder bairna came drappin in, At service out, amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town. Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthful bloom, love sparklin in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a brawn-new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift- winged, unnoticed, fleet; Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears; The parents' partial eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view; The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's and their mistress' command, ] The younkers' a' are warned to obey; 60 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, An' ne'er though out o' sight to jauk or play; "An' oh, be sure to fear the Lord alway! An' mind your duty, duly, morn and night! Leest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore his counsel and assisting might; They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!" But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Teils how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck, anxious care inquires his name, While Jenny hamins is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye;. Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.^ O happy love! where love like this is found! heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare! TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 61 I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare — "If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasures spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." Is there a human form, that bears a heart, A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth, That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts; dissembling, smooth, All honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled; Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child, Then paints the ruined maid, and the distraction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; Their soupe their only Hawkie does afford; That yont the hallan snugly chaws her cood: The dame brings forth in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an, aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wine, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 62 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha' Bible ance his father's pride; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare: Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And, "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise: They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim. Perhaps Dundee's wild, warbling measures rise, , Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin beats the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the strokes of heaven's avenging ire Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 63 How he, who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head; How his first followers and servants sped; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by heaven's command. Then kneeling down, to heaven's eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days, There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise. In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But happy, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest; 64 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to heaven the warm request That he, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. \From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; "An honest man's the noblest work of Grod;" And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind. "What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined. Scotia, my dear, my native soil, For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blessed with health, and peace, and sweet content; And oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile; Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. thou who poured the patriotic tide That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart; [TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 65 Who dared to nobly stern tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert: But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. Whistling in Heaven. tOU'EE surprised that I ever should say so? Just wait till the reason I've given Why I say I shan't care for the music, Unless there is whistling in heaven; Then you'll think it no very great wonder, Nor so strange, or bold a conceit, That unless there's a boy there a- whistling, Its music will not be complete. It was late in the autumn of '40 ; We had come from our far Eastern home Just in season to build us a cabin, Before the cold of the winter should come; And we lived all the while in our wagon, That husband was clearing the place Where the house was to stand; ; and the clearing And building it took many days. 66 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. So that our heads were scarce sheltered In under its roof, when our store Of provisions was almost exhausted, And husband must journey for more; And the nearest place where he could get them Was yet such a distance away, That it forced him from home to be absent At least a whole night and a day. You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, And the nearest was more than a mile; And we hadn't found time yet to know them, For we had been busy the while; And the man who had helped at the raising Just staid till the job was all done; And soon as his money was paid him Had shouldered his ax and had gone. Well, husband just kissed me and started, I could scarcely suppress a deep groan At the thought of remaining with baby So long in the house all alone; For my dear, I was childish and timid, And braver ones might well have feared, For the wild wolf was often heard howling, And savages sometimes appeared. But I smothered my grief and my terror Till husband was off on his ride, TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 67 And then in my arms I took Josey, And all the day long sat and cried, As I thought of the long dreary hours When the darkness of night should fall, And I was so utterly helpless, With no one in reach of my call! And when the night with its terrors, To hide every ray of light, I hung my quilt by the window, And almost dead with affright, I kneeled by the side of the cradle, Scarce daring to draw my breath, Lest the baby should wake, and its crying Should bring us a horrible death. There I knelt until late in the evening, And scarcely an inch had I stirred, When suddenly, far in the distance, ' A sound as of whistling I heard; I started up dreadfully frightened, For fear 'twas an Indian's dread call; And then very soon I remembered The red man ne'er whistles at all. And when I was sure 'twas a white man, I thought were he coming for ill, He'd surely approach with more caution- Would come without warning, and still. TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. Then the sounds coming nearer and nearer, Took the form of a tune light and gay, And I knew I needn't fear evil From one that could whistle that way. Very' soon I heard footsteps approaching, Then came a peculiar dull thump, As if some one was heavily striking An ax in the top of a stump; And then in another brief moment There came a light tap at the door, And quickly I undid the fastenings, And in stepped a boy, and before There was either a question or answer, Or either had time to speak, I just threw my glad arms around him, And gave him a kiss on his cheek. Then I started back, scared at my boldness, But he only smiled at my fright, As he said, "I am your neighbor boy, Elick, Come to tarry with you through the night. "We saw your husband go eastward, And made up our mind where he'd gone, And I said to the rest of our people, 1 That woman is there all alone, And I venture she's awfully lonesome, And though she may have no great fear, TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. I think she would feel a hit safer If only a hoy were but near.' "So, taking my ax on my shoulder For fear that a savage might stray Across my path, and need scalping, I started right down this way; And coming in sight of the cabin, And thinking to save you alarm I whistled a tune, just to show you I didn't intend any harm. "And so here I am at your service, And if you don't want me to stay, Why, all you need do is to say so, And, should'ring my ax, I'll away." I dropped in a chair and near fainted, Just at the thought of his leaving me then, And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle, As he said, "I guess I'll remain." And then I just sat there and told him How terribly frightened I'd been, How his face was most welcome Of any I ever had seen; And then I laid down with the baby, And slept all the blessed night through, For I felt I was safe from all danger Near so brave a young fellow and true. 70 TREASURES EEOM THE POETIC WORLD. So my young friend, do you wonder, Since such a good reason I've given, Why I say I shan't care for the music Unless there is whistling in heaven? Yes, often I've said so in earnest, And now what I've said I repeat, That unless there's a hoy there a-whistlin^ Its music will not he complete. The Changed Cross. IT was i time of sadness, and my heart, A^iiough it knew and loved the hetter part, Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, And all the needful discipline of life. And while I thought on these as given to me — My trial tests of faith and love to he — It seemed as if I never could be sure That faithful to the end I should endure. And thus, no longer trusting to His might, Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight," Doubting, and almost yielding to despair, The thought arose — My cross I cannot bear. TREASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 71 Far heavier i ts weight must surely be Than those of others which I daily see. Oh! if I might another burden choose, Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose. A solemn silence reigned on all around — E'en Nature's voices uttered not a sound; The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell, And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. A moment's pause— and then a heavenly light Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight; Angels en silvery wings seemed everywhere, And angels' music thrilled the balmy air. Then One, more fair than all the rest to see — One to whom all the others bowed the knee — Came gently to me as I trembling lay, And ''Follow me!" He said; "I am the Way." Then, speaking thus, He led me far above, And there, beneath the canopy of love, Crosses of divers shape and size were seen, Larger and smaller than my own had been. And one there was, most beauteous to behold, A little one with jewels set in gold. Ah! this, me thought, I can with comfort wear, For it will be an easy one to bear: And. so the little cross I quickly took, But, all at once, my frame beneath it shook; 72 TREASURES FBOM THE POETIC WORLD. The sparkling jewels fair were they to see, But far too heavy was their weight for me. "This may not be," I cried, and looked again, To see if there was any here could ease my pain; But, one by one, I passed them slowly by, Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined, And grace and beauty seemed in it combined Wondering, I gazed, — and still I wondered more To think so many should have passed it o'er. But oh! that form so beautiful to see Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me; Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair; Sorrowing, I said: "This cross I may not bear." And so it was with each and all around, Not one to suit my need could there be found; Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down, As my Guide gently said: "No cross, — no crown.' At length, to Him I raised my saddened heart; He knew its sorrows, bid its doubts depart. "Be not afraid," He said, "but trust in me — My perfect love shall now be shown to thee." And then with lightened eyes and willing feet, Again I turned, my earthly cross to meet, TBEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 73 With forward footsteps, turning not aside, For fear some hidden evil might betide; And there — in the prepared, appointed way, Listening to hear, and ready to obey — A cross I quickly found of plainest form, With only words of love inscribed thereon. With thankfulness I raised it from the rest, And joyfully acknowledged it the best — The only one of all the many there That I could feel was good for me to bear. And, while I thus my chosen one confess'd I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest; And, as I bent, my burden to sustain, I recognized my own old cross again. But oh! how different did it seem to be, Now I had learned its preciousness to see! No longer could I unbelieving say, Perhaps another is the better way. Ah, no ! henceforth my own desire shall be, That He who knows me best should choose for me, And so, whate'er His love sees good to send, I'll trust it's best, because he knows the end. 74 TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Oliver Goldsmith was born in 1728 and died 1774. He was an Irishman, and his parents were quite poor. At the age of seventeen, Oliver went to Trinity College, Dublin, as a sizar. In this school he had to pay nothing for food and tuition, but he had to perform some menial service. He obtained his bachelor's degree, and left the university. Goldsmith was not a brilliant and attentive student. He became the common butt of boys and master, and was flogged as a dunce in school-room. He tried sev- eral professions, but all without success. Eighteen months were spent in studying medicine at Edinburgh, then some time pretending to be studying physic at Leyden. At the age of twenty-seven he left school, with a mere smattering of medical knowledge, and with no property but his clothes and flute. Next, Goldsmith commenced his wanderings. He ram- bled on foot through Flanders, France, Switzerland, Italy, "playing tunes which everywhere set the peasantry dancing." His flute frequently gained him meals and bed. Upon his return to England, he obtained a medical appointment in OLIVER GOLDSMITH. TREASURES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 75 the service of the East India Company, but the appointment was speedily revoked. At last he took a garret, and at thirty commenced to toil like a galley slave. ''Goldsmith's fame as a poet is secured by the Traveler, and the Deserted Village." He wrote the Vicar of Wakefield, a novel of much merit. Good-natured Man, She Stoops to Conquer, and many other good plays were written by him, for the stage. He also wrote for the use of schools, a His- tory of Rome, History of England, of Greece, and a Natural History. His knowledge, however, was not accurate enough to make his histories very valuable. Dr. Johnson says of his Natural History : "If he can tell a horse from a cow, that is the extent of his knowledge of zoology." But his ability to select and condense, enabled him to make histo- ries that are models of arrangement and condensation, and in this respect they are valuable. Although a sloven in his dress and life, yet he has a grace and beauty of style that is chaste and musical and fasci- nating. Goldsmith is one of the most beloved and brilliant of English writers, — full of tenderness and affection. 76 TEEASUKES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. The Deserted Village. WEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed. Dear, lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy, green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene! How often have I paused on every charm, — The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade For talking age, and whispering lovers made! How often have I blessed the coming day, When toil remitting lent its aid to play, And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, — The young contending, as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn; Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amid thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 77 And desolation saddens all thy green. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow- sounding bittern guards its nest. El fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, "Where wealth accumulates, and men decay; Princes and lords may nourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Bemembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs, — and God has given my share,— I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amid these humble bowers to lay rne down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose: I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return, — and die at home at last. blest retirement! friend to life's decline, Betreat from care, that never must be mine. How blessed is he who crowns, in shades like these, 78 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. A youth of labor with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! So on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay; While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past. The Village Preacher. jjEAE yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, AJW And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The .village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Eemote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train; TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 79 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, "Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed. The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by the fire, and talked the night away; "Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave e'er charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; But, in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And as a bird, each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last, faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; 80 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; E'en children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile; His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed; Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. A Lost Day. KOST! lost! lost! A gem of countless price Cut from the living rock, And graved in Paradise. Set round with three times eight Large diamonds, clear and bright, And each with sixty smaller ones, All changeful as the light. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 81 Lost — where the thoughtless throng In fashion's mazes wind, Where trilleth folly's song, Leaving a sting behind; Yet to my hand 'twas given A golden harp to buy, Such as the white -robed choir attune To deathless minstrelsy. Lost! losti lost! I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost Can ne'er be mine again. I offer no reward, For till these heart-strings sever, I know that heaven-intrusted gift Is reft away forever. But when the sea and land Like burning scroll have fled, I'll see it in his hand Who judgeth quick and dead; And when of softth and loss That man can ne'er repair, The dread inquiry meets my soul, What shall it answer there? 82 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The Two Anchors. IT was a gallant sailor man Had just come home from sea, And as I passed him in town He sang, "Ahoy!" to me. I stopped, and saw I knew the man- Had known him from a boy; And so I answered, sailor-like, "Avast!" to his "Ahoy!" I made a song for him one day — His ship was then in sight — "The little anchor on the left, The great one on the right." I gave his hand a hearty grip, "So you are back again? They say you have been pirating Upon the Spanish Main; Or was it some rich Indiaman You robbed of all her pearls? Of course you have been breaking hearts Of poor Kanaka girls!" "Wherever I have been," he said, "I kept my ship in sight — 'The little anchor on the left, The great one on the right.' " TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 83 "I heard last night that you were in; I walked the wharves to-day, But saw no ship that looked like yours. Where does the good ship lay? I want to go on board of her." "And so you shall," said he, "But there are many things to do When one comes home from sea; You know the song you made for me? I sing it morn and night — 'The little anchor on the left, The great one on the right!' " "But how's your wife and little one?" "Come home with me," he said, "Go on, go on; I follow you." I followed where he led, He had a pleasant little house; The door was open wide, And at the door the dearest face- A dearer one inside! He hugged his wife and child; he sang — His spirits were so light — "The little anchor to the left, The great one to the right." 'Twas supper-time, and we sat down — The sailor's wife and child, And he and I; he looked at them, And looked at me and smiled, 8-4 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. "I think of this when I am tossed Upon the stormy foam, And though a thousand leagues away Am anchored here at home." Then, giving each a kiss, he said, "I see in dreams at night This little anchor on the left, This great one on my right." Selling the Farm. ELL, why don't you say it, husband? I know what you want to say; You want to talk about selling the farm, for the mortgage we can not pay. I know that we can not pay it, I have thought of it o'er and o'er; For the wheat has failed on the corner lot, where wheat never failed before. And everything here's gone backward since Willie went off to sea, To pay the mortgage and save the farm, the homestead, for you and me. I know it was best to give it; it was right that the debts be paid, The debts that our thoughtless Willie, in the hours of his weak- ness, made; TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 85 And Will would have paid it fairly, you know it as well as I, If the ship had not gone down that night when no other ship was nigh. But, somehow, I didn't quit hoping, and ever I've tried to pray — (But I know if our Will was alive on earth, he'd surely be here to-day) I thought that the merciful Father would, somehow, care for the lad, Because he was trying to better the past, and because he was all we had, But now I am well nigh hopeless, since hope for my boy has fled, For selling the farm means giving him up, and knowing for sure he's dead. Oh! Thomas, how can we leave it, the home we have always known ? We won it away from the forest, and made it so much our own. First day that we kept house together was the day that you brought me here; And no other place in the wide, wide world will ever be half so dear. Of course, you remember it, Thomas — I need not ask you, I know, For this is the month, and this is the day — it was twenty-six And don't you remember it, Thomas, the Winter the barn was made? How we were so proud and happy, for all our debts were paid — The crops were good that Summer, and everything worked like a charm, 86 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. And we felt so rich and contented to think we had paid for the farm. And now to think we must leave it, when here I was hoping to die, It seems as if it was breaking my heart, but the fount of my tears is dry. There's a man up there in the village that's wanting to buy, you say. Well, Thomas, he'll have to have it; but why does he come to- day? But, there — it is wrong to grieve you, for you have enough to bear, And in all of our petty troubles you have always borne your share. I am but a sorry helpmeet since I have so childish grown. There, there — go on to the village, let me have it out alone. Poor Thomas, he's growing feeble, he steps so weary and slow, There is not much in his looks to-day like twenty-six years ago. But I know that his heart is youthful as it was when we first were wed, And his love is as strong as ever for me, and for Willie, our boy that is dead. Oh, Willie, my baby Willie, I never shall see him more; I never shall hear his footsteps, as he comes through the open door. "How are you, dear little mother?" were always the words he'd say; It seems as if I would give the world to hear it again to-day. I knew when my boy was coming, be it ever so early or late, TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 87 He was always a whistling "Home, Sweet Home," as he opened the garden gate. And many and many a moment, since the night that the ship went down, Have I started up at a whistle like his, out there on the road from town: And in many a night of sorrow, in the silence, early and late, Have I held my breath at a footstep, that seemed to pause at the gate. I hope that he cannot see us, wherever his soul may be; It would grieve him to know the trouble that's come to father and me. Out there is the tree he planted the day he was twelve years old; The sunlight is glinting through it, and turning its leaves to gold; And often when I was lonely, and no one near at hand, I have talked to it, hours together — as if it could understand — And sometimes I used to fancy, whenever I spoke of my boy, It was waving its leaves together, like clapping its hands for joy. It may be that the man who will own it, that's coming to buy it to-day, Will be chopping it down, or digging it up, and burning it of the way. And there are the pansies yonder, and the roses he helped to tend — Why, every bush on the dear old place is as dear as a tried old friend. And now we must go and leave them — but there! they have come from town; 88 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. I haven't had time to smooth my hair, or even to change my gown ; I can see them hoth quite plainly, although it is getting late. And the stranger's a whistling "Home, Sweet Home," as he comes up from the gate. I'll go out into the kitchen, now, for I don't want to look on his face. What right has he to be whistling that, unless he has bought the place? Why, can that be Thomas coming? he usually steps so slow; There's something come into his footstep like twenty- six years . ago. There's something that sounds like gladness, and the man that he used to be Before our Willie went out from home to die on the stormy sea. What, Thomas! Why are you smiling, and holding my hands so tight? And why don't you tell me quickly — must we go from the farm to-night? What's that? "You bring me tidings, and tidings of wonderful joy?" It cannot be very joyous, unless it is news from my boy. Oh, Thomas! You cannot mean it? Here, let me look in your face, — Now, tell me again it is Willie that's wanting to buy the place. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. t Somebody's Mother, HE woman was old and ragged and gray, And bent with the chill of the winter's day. The street was wet with the recent snow, And the woman's feet were aged and slow. She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for, amid the throng Of human beings who passed her by, Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of "school let out," Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep. Past the woman so old and gray Hastened the children on their way, Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop — The gayest laddie of all the group; 90 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. He paused beside her and whispered low, "I'll help you across if you wish to go." Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so without hurt or harm, He guides her trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong. Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content. "She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's aged and poor and slow; And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand, If ever she's poor and old and gray, When her own dear boy is far away." And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said Was, "God be kind to the noble boy, Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!" TREASURES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 91 Driving Home the Cows. UT of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again. Under the willow and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face. Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go, Two already were lying dead, Under the feet of the trampling foe. But, after the evening's work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. Across the clover and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And blinding bats flitting startled him. Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; 92 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. And now, when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove thern home. For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again. The summer day grew cold and late, He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one. Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind Cropping the buttercups out of the grass — ^But who was it following close behind? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army-blue, And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Looked out a face that the father knew. For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead to life again: And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane. The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes — For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb — And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 93 Patience. ERE there no night we could not read the stars, iqb: Vt# The heavens would turn into a blinding glare; Freedom is best seen through the prison-bars, And rough seas make the haven passing fair. We can not measure joys but by their loss, When blessings fade away we see them then Our richest clusters grow around the cross, And in the night-time angels sing to men. The seed must first he buried deep in earth, Before the lily opens to the sky; So "light is sown," and gladness has its birth In the dark deeps where we can only cry. "Life out of death" is Heaven's unwritten law, Nay, it is written in a myriad forms; The victor's palm grows on the fields of war, And strength and beauty are the fruit of storms. Come, then, my soul, be brave to do and bear; Thy lif e is bruised that it may be more sweet ; The cross will soon be left, the crown we'll wear — Nay, we will cast it at our Savior's feet. And up among the glories never told, Sweeter than music of the marriage-bell, 94 TKEASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Our hands will strike the vibrant harp of gold To the glad song, "He doeth all things well." "Rook of Ages." Seldom have we read a sweeter illustration of the thoughtless and experimental way of singing this precious hymn than that which is em- bodied in the following anonymous verse: tj2 0CE: of A s es > cleft for me >" A w Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, Fell the words unconsciously, From her girlish, gleeful tongue, Sang as little children sing; Sang as sing the birds in June; Fell the words like light leaves down On the current of the tune — "Bock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." "Let me hide myself in Thee," Felt her soul no need to hide; Sweet the song as song could be — And she had no thought beside; All the words unheedingly Fell from lips untouched by care, Dreaming not they each might be On some other lips a prayer — TREASURES , FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 95 "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." "Rock of Ages, cleft for me"— 'Twas a woman sang them now, Rose the song as storm-tossed bird Beats with weary wing the air, Every note with sorrow stirred — Every syllable a prayer — "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." "Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — Lips grown aged sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly — Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim. "Let me hide myself in Thee." Trembling though the voice and low, Ran the sweet strain peacefully, Like a river in its flow, Sung as only they can sing Who life's thorny paths have pressed; Sung as only they can sing Who behold the promised rest — "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." "Rock of Ages, cleft for me." Sang above a coffin lid; Underneath, all restfully, All life's joys and sorrows hid. 96 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Nevermore, storm-tossed soul! Nevermore from wind or tide, Nevermore from billows' roll, Wilt thou need to hide. Could the sightless, sunken eyes, Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye, still the words would be "Let me hide myself in Thee." "Waiting for Mother." tHE old man sits in his easy chair Slumbering the moments away, Dreaming a dream that is all his own On this gladsome, peaceful day. His children have gathered from far and near, His children's children beside — And merry voices are echoing through The "Homestead's halls" so wide. But far away in the years long flown, Grandfather lives again; And his heart forgets that it ever knew A shadow of grief and pain; TBEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 97 For he sees his wife as he saw her then — A matron comely and fair, With her children gathered around his hoard And never a vacant chair. Oh! happy this dream of the "Auld Lang Syne," Of the years long slipped away! And the old man's lips have gathered a smile And his heart grows young and gay. But a kiss falls gently upon his hrow, From his daughter's lips so true; "Dinner is ready; and, father, dear, We are only waiting for you!" The old man wakes at his daughter's call, And he looks at the table near — "There's one of us missing, my child," he says, "We will wait till mother is here." There are tears in the eyes of his children, then, As they gaze on an empty chair; For many a lonely year has passed Since "mother" sat with them there. But the old man pleads still wistfully; "We must wait for mother, you know!" And they let him rest in his old arm-chair Till the sun at last sinks low. Then, leaving a smile for the children here, He turns from the earth away, And has gone to "mother," beyond the skies, With the close of the quiet day. 98 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. William Wordsworth was born April 7, 1770, and on the 23d of April, 1850, "he closed a life so pure, serene, and priest-like in its consecration to lofty pur- pose, that we must go back to Milton in order to find its parallel. " He was a graduate of Cambridge University. In 1839, Oxford University recognized his ability by con- ferring upon him the degree of D. C. L. In 1843, he was made poet-laureate of England. Wordsworth studied Shakespeare, Milton, Spenser and Chaucer, as models. He was the founder of the "Lake School" of poets, composed of Wordsworth, Cole- ridge and Southey. As a writer, he first came to public notice in two poems, An .Evening Walk, and Descriptive Sketches Taken During a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps. The simplicity, refinement, and ori- ginality shown in these poems attracted general atten- tion. The Excursion is, without doubt, Wordsworth's finest and most important production. Most of the poet's life was devoted to a special study of poetry. Two legacies bequeathed him, gave means of support. His desire was to secure simpli- TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 99 city of language. The first efforts were so extremely simple that they were considered simple by all. This apparent silliness was ridiculed and laughed at by Jeffrey. He is now loved and admired by all the world. His poetry is completely emancipated from the arti- ficial. As Coleridge says, "He is austerely accurate in the use of words." By common consent, we place Wordsworth on the list of great poets, next to Milton, where his "all-embracing humanity" will forever shine. Frcm "The Excursion." r£r> HE mountain-ash, A Decked with autumnal berries that outshine Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show, Amid the leafy woods; and ye have seen, By a brook- side or solitary turn, How she her station doth adorn; the pool Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks Are brightened round her. In his native vale Such and so glorious did this youth appear; A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow,' 100 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. By all the graces with which Nature's hand Had bounteously arrayed him. As old bards Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form: Yet, like the sweet-breath'd violet of the shade Discovered in their own despite to sense Of mortals (if such fables without blame May find chance-mentioned on this sacred ground) So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, And through the impediment of rural cares, In him revealed a scholar's genius shown; And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, In him the spirit of a hero walked Our unpretending valley — How the quoit "Whizzed from the stripling's arm! If touched by him, The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rainbow curve, Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field! The indefatigable fox had learned To dread his perseverance in the chase. With admiration he could lift his eyes To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand Was loath to assault the majesty he loved, Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead, The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe, The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves, And cautious waterfowl, from distant climes, Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere, Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 101 From "An Evening Walk." lb i , r AR from my dearest friend, 'tis mine to rove F Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove, His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes, Thro' crags and forest glooms and opening lakes, Staying his silent waves, to hear the roar That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore, "Where peace to Gras mere's lonely island leads To willowy hedgerows, and to emerald meads; Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds; "Where, bosom'd deep, the shy "Winander peeps 'Mid clustering isles, and holy- sprinkled steeps; "Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore. And memory of departed pleasures, more. Fair scenes! erewhile I taught, a happy child, The echoes of your rocks my carols wild; Then did no ebb of cheerfulness demand Sad tides of joy from Melancholy's hand; In youth's wild eye the livelong day was bright, The sun at morning, and the stars at night, Alike, when first the valves the bittern fills Or the first woodcocks roamed the moonlight hills. In thoughtless gayety I coursed the plain, And hope itself was all I knew of pain ; For then, even then, the little heart would beat 102 TREASURES FRCM THE POETIC WORLD. At times, while young Content forsook her seat, And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed, Where, tipp'd with gold, the mountain summits glowed. Alas! the idle tale of man is found Depicted in the dial's moral round; With hope Eeflection blends her social rays To gild the total tablet of his days; Yet still the sport of some malignant power, He knows but from its shade the present hour. The Common Lot. /%\NCE, in the flight of ages past, ^/ There lived a man; — and who was he? Mortal, howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth; The land in which he died unknown: His name has perished from the earth; This truth survives alone: — That joy and grief, and hope and fear, Alternate, triumphed in his breast; His bliss and woe, — a smile, a tear, — Oblivion hides the rest. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. jQg The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirit's rise and fall, — We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all. He suffered — but his pangs are oer; Enjoyed, — but his delights are fled; Had friends, — his friends are now no more; And foes, — his foes are dead. He loved, — but whom he loved, the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb; Oh, she was fair! but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb. He saw whatever thou hast seen, Encountered all that troubles thee; He was whatever thou hast been; He is what thou shalt be. The rolling seasons, day and night, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Ere while his portion, life and light, To him exist in vain. The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, Their ruin since the world began, Of him afford no other trace Than this, — There lived a man. 104 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The Old Folks' Room. tHE old man sat by the chimney side; His face was wrinkled and wan; And he leaned both hands on his stout oak cane, As if all work were done. His coat was of good old-fashioned gray; The pockets were deep and wide, Where his "specs" and his steel tobacco box Lay snugly side by side. The old man liked to stir the fire, So near him the tongs were kept; Sometimes he mused as he gazed at the coals, Sometimes he sat and wept. What saw he in the embers there? Ah! pictures of other years; And now and then they wakened smiles, But oftener started tears. His good wife sat on the other side, In a high-back, flag-seat chair; I see 'neath the pile of her muslin cap The sheen of her silvery hair. There's a happy look on her aged face, As she busily knits for him, TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 105 And Nellie takes up the stitches dropped, For Grandmother's eyes are dim. Their children come and read the news, To pass the time, each day; How it stirs the blood in an old man's heart To hear of the world away! 'Tis a homely scene, — I told you so, — But pleasant it is to view; At least I thought it so myself, And sketched it down for you. Be kind unto the old, my friend; They're worn with this world's strife, Though bravely, once, perchance, they fought The stern, fierce battle of life. They taught our youthful feet to climb Upward life's rugged steep; Then let us lead them gently down To where the weary sleep. 106 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The Last Hour. I HE long day dies with sunset down the west; ^ Comes the young moon through violet fields of air; A fragrance finer than the south winds hear Breathes from the sea — the time is come for rest. I wait. Birds nestward fly through deepening hlue. heart! Take comfort, peace will find thee too. For lo! between the lights, when shadows wane, Heart calls to heart across the widening breach Of hitter thought, chill touch, and jarring speech And Love cries out to take his own again. Give me the kiss of peace. Hold not your anger after the spent sun. Lo! I have wrought with sorrow all the day, With tear-wet cypress, and with hitter hay Bound all my doors. No thread of song has run Beside my thought to lighten it for me. Bise up, and with forgiveness set me free. For who may boast a gift of lengthened breath? And, lest you watch to-morrow's sun arise Across my face, new-touched with sudden death And the mute pathos of unanswering eyes, Turn not aside my hand outstretched, or smite The yearning heart. Let Love's repentance found Have Love's reward. All life is mixed with Fate. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 107 And, beloved! Death's angel will not wait For summoned feet to haste on anxious round With quick "Forgive, forgive, we pass to-night!" All day Eegret has walked and talked with me, And, lest to-morrow it should go with thee, Give me the kiss of peace. Good and Better. /j FATHEE sat by the chimney-post, V I ^ On a winter's day, enjoying a roast. By his side a maiden young and fair, A girl with a wealth of golden hair; And she teases the father, stern and cold, "With a question of duty trite and old; "Say, father, what shall a maiden do When a man of merit comes to woo? And, father, what . of this pain in my breast? Married or single — which is the best?" Then the sire of the maiden young and fair, The girl of the wealth of golden hair, He answers as ever do fathers cold, To the question of duty trite and old: "She who weddeth keeps God's letter; She who weds not, doeth better." 108 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Then meekly answered the maiden fair, The girl with the wealth of golden hair, "I will keep the sense of the Holy Letter, Content to do well, without doing better. The Raven. /| lNCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and VL ' weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door; Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate, dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Le- nore, For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Le- nore, Nameless here forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; TKEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 109 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door: This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rap- ping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door; — Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore;" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore." Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lat- tice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore; Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 110 TREASURES FKOM THE POETIC WORLD. Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or staid he; But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into smihng, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the Nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore. " Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Evermore." But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out- pour. Nothing 'further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered; TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. m Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before ; On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. " Then the bird said "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, Of " Never — nevermore . ' ' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bir! of yore Meant in croaking, "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore. 112 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD, Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an tin- seen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy Grod hath lent thee, by these angels he hath sent thee Eespite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, — On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — Is there — is there balm in Grilead? — tell me — tell me, I im- plore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aiden, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." TREASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 113 "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting — "Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that He thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dream- ing; And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted — nevermore! 114 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Little Meg and I. |wOU asked me, mates, to spin a yarn, before we go below; ^ Well, as trie night is calm and fair, and no chance for a blow, I'll give you one, — a story true as ever yet was told — For, mates, I wouldn't lie about the dead; no, not for gold. The story's of a maid and lad, who loved in days gone by: The maiden was Meg Anderson, the lad, messmates, was I. A neater, trimmer craft than Meg was very hard to find; "Why, she could climb a hill and make five knots agin the wind; And as for larnin,' hulks and spars! I've often heard it said That she could give the scholars points and then come out ahead. The old schoolmaster used to say, and mates, it made me cry, That the smartest there was little Meg; the greatest dunce was I. But what cared I for larnin' then, while she was by my side; For, though a lad, I loved her, mates, and for her would have died; And she loved me, the little lass, and often have I smiled "When she said, "I'll be your little wife," 'twas the prattle oi a child. For there lay a gulf between us, mates, with the waters run- ning high; On one side stood Meg Anderson, on the other side stood I. TEEASUEES EEOM THE POETIC WOELD. H5 Meg's fortune was twelve ships at sea and houses on the land; While mine — why, mates, you might have held my fortune in your hand. Her father owned a vast domain for miles along the shore; My father owned a fishing-smack, a hut, and nothing more; I knew that Meg I ne'er could win, no matter how I'd try, For on a couch of down lay she, on a bed of straw lay I. I never thought of leaving Meg, or Meg of leaving me, For we were young and never dreamed that I should go to sea. Till one bright morning father said: "There's a whale-ship in the bay: I want you Bill, to make a cruise — you go aboard to-day." Well, mates, in two weeks from that time I bade them all good- bye. While on the dock stood little Meg, and on the deck stood I. I saw her oft before we sailed, whene'er I came on shore. And she would say: "Bill, when you're gone, I'll love you more and more; And I promise to be true to you through all the coming years." But while she spoke her bright blue eyes were filled with pearly tears. Then, as I whispered words of hope and kissed her eyelids dry, Her last words were: "God speed you, Bill!" so parted Meg and I. Well, mates, we cruised for four long years, till at last one summer's day Our good ship, the Minerva, cast anchor in the bay, 116 TEEASUEES FKOM THE POETIC WOELD. Oh, how my heart beat high with hope, as I saw her home once more, And on the pier stood hundreds, to welcome us ashore; But my heart sank down within me as I gazed with anxious eye- No little Meg stood on the dock, as on the deck stood I. Why, mates, it nearly broke my heart when I went ashore that day, For they told me little Meg had wed, while I was far away. They told me, too, they forced her to't — and wrecked her fair young life — Just think, messmates, a child in years, to be an old man's wife. But her father said it must be so, and what could she reply? For she was only just sixteen — just twenty-one was I. Well, mates, a few short years from then — perhaps it might be four — One blustering night Jack Glinn and I were rowing to the shore, When right ahead we saw a sight that made us hold our breath — There floating in the pale moonlight was a woman cold in death. I raised her up: oh, God, messmates, that I had passed her by! For in the bay lay little Meg and oyer her stood I. ■£ TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Uf The Model Church. ELL, wife, I've found the model church! I worshiped there to-day; It made me think of good old times, before my hairs were gray. The meetin' -house was finer built than they were years ago; But then I found, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. The sexton didn't seat me 'way back by the door; He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor. He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through The long aisle of that pleasant church to find a pleasant pew. I wish you'd heard the singin' — it had the old-time ring— The preacher said with trumpet- voice, "Let all the people sing"; The tune was "Coronation," and the music upwards rolled Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. My deafness seemed to melt away, my spirit caught the fire, I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, And sang, as in my youthful days, "Let angels prostrate fall, Bring forth the royal diadem and crown him Lord of all." I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more, I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; I almost want to lay aside this weather-beaten form And anchor in the blessed port forever from the storm. 118 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. The preachin'! well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; I know it wasn't written, I know it wasn't read ; He hadn't time to read, for the lightnin' of his eye Went passing 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple Gospel truth, It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hopeful youth. 'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed, 'Twas full of invitations to Christ — and not to creed. The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; He shot the golden sentences straight at the finest pews. And, though I can't see very well, I saw the falling tear That told me hell was some way off, and heaven very near. How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place! How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face! Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend, When congregations ne'er break up and Sabbaths have no end. I hope to meet that minister, the congregation, too, In the dear home beyond the skies, that shines from heaven's blue, I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evening gray, The face of God's dear servant who preached His Word to-day. Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the victory be won, The shining goal is just ahead, the race is nearly run. O'er the river we are nearin', they are thronging to the shore To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 119 The Roll-Call of Home f J SOLDIEE came from distant lands, to seek his child- m ^ hood's home; A gallant boy he marched away, when first he longed to roam, With colors flying o'er his head, with music's thrilling strain- But now a saddened, dying man, he wandered home again. He left his love, the village belle, and cried in careless glee: "When medals shine upon my breast, a hero's bride thou'lt be!" To bring his mother laurels back, his youthful heart had yearned; A simple cross, a life of toil, were all that he had earned. Beside the old church-yard there sat, upon a rustic stile, A pretty little village maid, who gave him smile for smile. He asked her news of dear old friends — his dog among the rest — And trem'lous then, he slowly asked for those he loved the best. But when his father's, mother's name she heard him softly say, The merry face grew grave and sad, the bright smile passed away; 120 TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. She told, their son was lost or dead, their hearts' delight and pride ; " 'Neath yonder yew-tree," said the maid, "they're sleeping side hy side." He asked her of his boyhood's love; a joyous answer came, — "Thou knowest all my friends," she cried; "that was my moth- er's name!" The soldier's face was fraught with grief she could not under- stand; Yet, with a child's quick sympathy, she placed in his her hand, "Come home," she said; but with a kiss, quoth he, "That may not be; I soon shall reach the only home now left on earth for me." She was his last remaining friend; and thus, life's journey done, He gave her all he had to give — the cross, too dearly won! Bethought the maid, he needs repose, as he has come from far; So prayed that he would tell, some day, the story of the war. "We two will rest a little while, for I am tired," she said; "Where daisies grow, beneath the tree, come now and rest thy head." She led him gently to the spot; and sleeping calmly there, The mother found them, hand in hand. How different the pair ! He was at peace; but in that rest where sorrow ne'er may come. Ah, may the soldier then have gained, in heaven, a better home! TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 121 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born in Devonshire, England, October 20th, 1772, and he died in J 834. The poet was educated at Christ's Hospital, and Cam- bridge University. Coleridge was a great reader, and, mentally, he devoured the contents of whole libraries ; yet he was a builder of air-castles, — always forming great and noble outlines, but seldom filling them. "Much of the poet's life was spent in poverty and dependence, amidst disappointment and ill-health', and in irregularity caused by the excessive use of opium." He was almost without ambition. His father being dead, young Coleridge, at the age of fourteen, tried to appren- tice himself to a shoemaker, although, at this time, he possessed an immense stock of learning. The master of the school interfered, and kept him at his studies. In the poet's first year at college, he gained the gold medal for a Greek ode. His debts and attachment to the principles of the French Eevolution forced him to leave college suddenly. Poverty forced him to be- come a soldier under an assumed name, but he never advanced beyond the awkward squad. A Latin sentence which the captain discovered, led him to enquire for 122 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. the soldier who understood the classics. Coleridge was soon after discharged. He then commenced the publica- tion of Juvenile Poems by subscription. In company with Southey and others, he planned a scheme of emi- gration to America. The plan of the proposed govern- ment gave ample time for the poets to cultivate litera- ture, but the scheme was abandoned after several months of dreamy expectation. Coleridge's fame is secured chiefly by his poems, although he wrote many dramas and essays. His poems, Genevieve, Christabel, and Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, are among the best in the language. Although he wrote quite extensively, he fell far short of what his ability would lead us to expect. Toward the close of his life, he seemed to realize that he had wasted the greatest powers, which, for some time, had been granted to an Englishman. Ardent young men and true admirers came from all parts of the country to listen to the wisdom of the sage and poet. Coleridge could repeat whole pages of books from the first reading. While his style is pleasing, yet his conversation was far more pleasing, and he exerted a greater influence through conversation than through printed books. 6W^ TKEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 123 Dead Calm in the Tropics. tHE fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! • All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Eight up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water everywhere, And all the boards did shrink, Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. 124 TREASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. The very deep did rot: Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. .A Day Dream. fjjY eyes make pictures when they're shut: — ,JJlU I see a fountain large and fair, A willow and a ruined hut, And thee, and me, and Mary there. Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! Bend o'er us like a bower, my beautiful green willow! A wild rose roofs the ruined shed, And that and Summer will agree; And lo! where Mary leans her head Two dear names carved upon the tree! And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow: Our sister and our friends will both be here to-morrow. 'Twas day! But now, few, large, and bright, The stars are round the crescent moon! And now it is a dark, warm night, The balmiest of the month of June. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 125 A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet foun- tain! Oh, ever, ever be thou blest! For dearly, Nora, love I thee! This brooding warmth across my breast, This depth of tranquil bliss — ah, me! Fount, tree, and shed are gone — I know not whither; But in one quiet room, we three are still together. The shadows dance upon the wall, By the still-dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber, moveless all! And now they melt to one deep shade! But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee; I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee. Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play; 'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow! But let me check this tender lay, Which none may hear but she and thou! Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women! 126 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. | : The Battle. ^EAVY and solemn, A cloudy column, Through the green plain they marching come! Measureless speed, like a table dread, For the wild grim dice of the iron game. Looks are bent on the shaking ground, Hearts beat low with a knelling sound; Swift by the breast that must bear the brunt, Gallops the major along the front — "Halt!" And fettered they stand at the stark command, And the warriors, silent, halt. Proud as the blush of the morning glowing, What on the hill-top shines in flowing? "See you the foeman's banner waving?" "We see the foeman's banner waving!" "God be with you, children and wife!" Hark to the music, the drum and fife — How they ring through the ranks, which they rouse to the strife! Thrilling they sound, with their glorious tone — Thrilling they go through the marrow and bone! Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, In the life to come that we meet once more! TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 127 See the smoke, how the lightning is cleaving asunder! Hark! the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thunder ! From host to host with kindling sound, The shouted signal circles round; Freer already breathes the breath! The war is waging, slaughter raging, And heavy through the reeking pall The iron death-dice fall! Nearer they close — foes upon foes — "Beady!" — from square to square it goes. They kneel as one man from flank to flank, And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank. Many a soldier to earth is sent, Many a gap by the balls is rent; O'er the corpse before springs the hinder man, That the line may not fall to the fearless van. To the right, to the left, and around and around, Death whirls in its dance on the bloody ground. God's sunlight is quenched in the fiery fight — Over the host falls a brooding night! Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, In the life to come we may meet once more. - The dead men are bathed in the weltering blood, And the living are blent in the slippery flood, And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go, Stumble still on the corpse that sleeps below. "What! Francis! — Give Charlotte my last farewell." 128 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell — "I'll give — Oh God! are the guns so near? Ho! comrades! one volley! look sharp to the rear! — I'll give to thy Charlotte thy last farewell! Sleep soft, where death thickest decendeth in rain, The friend, thou forsaken, thy side may regain!" Hitherward, thitherward, reels the fight; Dark and more darkly day glooms into night. Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, In the life to come that we meet once more. Hark to the hoofs that galloping go! The adjutants flying — The horsemen press hard on the panting foe, Their thunder booms in dying — Victory ! Tremor has seized on the dastards all, And their leaders fall! , Victory! Closed is the brunt, of the glorious fight, And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night, Trumpet and fife swelling choral along, The trumpet already sweeps marching in song. Farewell, fallen brothers, though this life be o'er, There's another, in which we shall meet you once more! TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The Last Footfall. tERE is often sadness in the tone, And a moisture in the eye, And a trembling sorrow in the voice, When we bid a last good-bye. But sadder far than this I ween, 0, sadder far than all, Is the heart-throb with which we strain To catch the last footfall. The last press of a loving hand Will cause a thrill of pain, When we think, "Oh, should it prove that we Shall never meet again." And as lingeringly the hands unclasp, The hot, quick drops will fall; But bitterer are the tears we shed, When we hear the last footfall. We never felt how dear to us Was the sound we loved full well, We never knew hoiv musical, 'Till its last echo fell: And till we heard it pass away Far, far beyond recall, We never thought what grief 'twould be To hear the last footfall. 129 !30 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. And years and days that long are passed, And the scenes that seemed forgot, Bush through the mind like meteor-light As we linger on the spot; And little things that were as nought, But now will he our all, Come to us like an echo low Of the last, the last footfall! j Your Mission. F you cannot on the ocean Sail among the swiftest fleet, Booking on the highest billows, Laughing at the storms you meet,- You can stand among the sailors Anchored yet within the bay, You can lend a hand to help them As they launch their boats away. If you are too weak to journey Up the mountains steep and high, You can stand within the valley While the multitude go by; TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. You can chant a happy measure As they slowly pass along,— Though they may forget the singer, They may not forget the song. If you cannot in the conflict Prove yourself a soldier true, If where smoke and fire are thickest There's no work for you to do; When the battle field is silent, You can go with careful tread, You can bear away the wounded, You can cover up the dead. Do not, then, stand idly waiting For some greater work to do; Fortune is a fickle goddess, She will never come to you. Go and toil in any vineyard, Do not fear to do and dare, If you want a field of labor, You can find it anywhere. 131 132 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The Old Arm Ohair. 1L0VE it! I love it! and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs, Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would you know the spell? A mother sat there! And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near That hallowed seat with a listening ear, To the gentle words that mother would give, To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm chair. I sat and watched her many a day When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray, And I almost worshiped her when she smiled And turned from her Bible to bless her child: Years rolled on, but the last one sped, My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled! I felt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old arm chair. TKEASUKES FKOM THE POETIC WOELD. 'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now With quivering lip and throbbing brow; 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory still flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, As the scalding drops start down my cheek; But I love it! I love it! and can not tear My soul from my mother's old arm chair! 133 The School. B E it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employed, Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroyed; The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot, Playing our games and on the very spot; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, 134 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain Our innocent, sweet, simple years again. This fond attachment to the well-known place, Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unf ailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. Winter Walk at Noon. in HEEE is in souls a sympathy with sounds, A And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. How soft the music of those evening bells, Falling at intervals upon the ear In cadence sweet, now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard A kindred melody the scene recurs, TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 135 And with it all its pleasures and its pains. The night was winter' in its roughest mood; The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, Upon the southern side of the slant hills, And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage, And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendor of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale; And through the trees I view the embattled tower Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted straiD And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk, still verdant under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade. The roof, though movable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, And, intercepting in their silent fall The frequent ^flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. The redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the hsart 136 TKEASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. May give a useful lesson to the head, And learning, wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have of times no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which wisdom builds, Till smoothed and squared, and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. The Dreamer and His Dreams. TRANGELY now the Northern morning Streams aloft its mystic light, And its fearful banners flashing Far along the heavenly height, Like a spectral army marching, Fill with wonder all the night! Gazing out upon the pageant, How it brings me back the past,— Young Ambition's mighty schemings Fame with its loud trumpet-blast; TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 137 AH my early dreams and longings Bright with glory to the last. Oh, the lofty heights that lifted Through the distance in those days, And the promise often whispered — "There thy standard thou shalt raise, Every summit shall be mastered, And the world be filled with praise." First of all the battle vision Blazed upon my boyhood days. Plumes and pennons, swords and lances, With the cannon's fearful play, And the' exultant joy of daring In the fierce and bloody fray. Then the conqueror home returning, Bells should ring and bon-fires flame, Floating flags, and arch triumphal, Blazoned with my honored name, And my country proud and glorious With the splendor of my fame! Next the wondrous pen should make me Fairy scenes with magic art, Touching all the chords of feeling, Quickening every selfish heart, Till the world with joy should witness I had acted well my part. 138 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Then the gifts of Tully won me, And the Greek stirred up my soul, Till my voice aroused the nations With its wide melodious roll, And I heard the world applauding From the tropics to the pole. But the gorgeous visions faded As the years went drifting by; Like the dancing lights above me, For a moment streaming high, Then as swiftly sinking downward, One by one they left the sky. Then another dream of beauty, Gentle as the mystic Dove, Eose upon my darkened spirit With a radiance from above, — Oh, there is no dream so blissful As the first sweet dream of Love. All my life was now illumined With a rich and rosy light; Earth itself seemed smiling on me, And the sky was always bright, Every morning fresh with glory, And new splendors every night. But alas! like this strange beauty Flaming up the northern sky, TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 139 Shifting, flashing, sinking, dying, So my dream of love did die; And my spirit, faint with thirsting, Sank beside the fountain dry. Last of all there came a vision Of earth's want, and woe, and sin; Of the wretched I might comfort, And the wandering I might win; Of the poor, the lone and out-cast I might safely gather in. But in vain I toiled among them, Though with ready heart and hand; All my words, and gifts, and pleadings, Fell like water in the sand, While the rising tide of evil Flooded through the darkened land. Thus the hopes of life have perished, All my brilliant dreams have fled, Fame's loud trump has never sounded, There's no laurel round my head — Toil and struggle now are useless, And Ambition's self is dead! Starless night is closing round me, Winter with its cold and snow; Light, nor warmth, nor hope within me, Life has nothing to bestow — Won from all my earthly longings, I am ready now to go. 140 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The Legend of the Seven Towers. On the declaration of war with Russia, made by the Turks in 1786, the young Russian minister was taken prisoner and sent to the Seven Towers, where he remained two years. He was, however, treated with great consideration, and allowed to erect a kiosk on the walls of the fortress, and to construct a handsome apartment within the tower itself. The commandant who lodged beneath the same roof had a young and lovely daughter, who, seeing the captive from her lattices, and moved by pity for his sadness, sang for him her sweetest songs, to woo him from his grief, and thus began a romance, whose termination proved fatal to the sensitive heart of Rechedi.— Miss Pardoe's History of the Turks. ITHIN his gorgeous prison sadly dreaming Of all the dear delights of native land, The Kussian captive sate, amid the gleaming Of June's soft sunshine, while her breezes bland Uplifted as with cool, caressing finger Bright curls as rich in their sunlighted hue, As those which round a maiden's fair brow linger, Or shyly shade her eyes of bashful blue. Unheeded is the joyous laughter coming From gayly gilded caiques upon the stream; Unheeded is the wild bee's softened humming, — They can not wake him from his sad home-dream. He muses on the time when round him flinging His purple vestments royal favor came; And proud ambition in his heart upspringing Was weaving for him an undying name. TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 141 The trumpet-call to battle he is hearing, — He buckles on his armor for the field; With anxious heart the liotle band he's cheering, "Who find it such a bitterness to yield. On speeds the vision, 'till the moonbeams round him Fall in their liquid lustre to his feet, When suddenly the 'thralling dream that bound him Is spoken by a lute tone, soft and sweet. He listens — 'tis a woman's clear voice singing, In rippling accents, whose resistless flow Hath charmed the nightingales, who erst were flinging Upon the perfumed air their warblings low. "Ha! can it be it is for me she singeth, For me, the weary captive stern and sad?" The only answer that the night wind bringeth Is that bewildering song so gay and glad. THE SONG. Why mournest thou, captive knight, While all the blessed day The bulbul tunes his throat of song To love's impassioned lay. Why mournest thou, when all the air Is burdened with delight, — Art yearning with the soaring birds To wing away in flight? 142 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Is not thy prison richly decked, — Thy prison garden fair. "With all the brightest flowers that shed Their perfume on the air? Chafe not beneath the silken cord That binds thee for a time Beside Marmora's silver tide, Within our sunny clime. Fret not to roam the distant hills That lift their snow-clad peaks, Where only coldest northern winds The brow of beauty seeks. The song hath ceased, — yet still the captive lingers And strives again to hear that voice in vain, Only the lute chords, swept by some fair fingers, Wake the sweet scented air with softest strain. It is the stern commandant's only daughter, K6chSdi Hanoum, fairest of the fair; \Vho, in her pity for his grief, bethought her With music's power to win him from despair. Another morrow finds this fair young maiden Beguiling with her songs his captive hours; And fleetly fly the moments, music-laden, While time seems gayly treading upon flowers. TREASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. 143 She waves a wreath of Cashmere's brightest roses, And binds them with a tress of silken hair, — Unseen, the latticed casement she uncloses, And flings them at his feet, an offering fair. "With eagerness he grasps this first sweet token, And covers it with kisses warm and fond; He listens, — yet the silence is unbroken, She dares not to his pleadings low respond. But when another sunset bright and tender Lights up the "gilded glories of Stamboul," Through lattice bars a fair hand soft and slender Waves o'er the cypress alley dim and cool. Then with a fearful thought of harem duty The jealous blinds she trembling thrusts away And stands before him, like a dream of beauty, As fresh in loveliness as fabled fay. No longer now he wearily outsitteth With bitter thoughts the purple twilight hour For ever in his visions softly flitteth A face that's fairer than the lotus flower. Erewhile succeeds a gentler dream than glory, The din of battle and of mortal strife; And glideth in the sweet yet olden story Where fond young hearts with dearest hopes are rife. He sees the fair face with its tender blushes, That deeper grow beneath his ardent gaze; 144 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. And through his proud, high heart joy's current gushes, When in his own that dear hand lightly lays. They think not that their sky will be o'erclouded Before another moon shall wax and wane, Their present is too full of sweet hopes crowded, To dream of future tears and future pains. ■Almost forgotten was the hope of pardon, That once lent all the sunshine to his heart,- Amid the sunshine of that prison garden, He seemed no longer of the world a part. They come at last with smiles and words of kindness, They open wide the barred and bolted doors, His eyes are misty with a tearful blindness, As memory unfolds her golden stores. How can he break to her who liveth only Upon his love, the news that they must part How can he think of her he leaveth lonely, Perhaps to perish of a broken heart? Again the night birds sing their songs of gladness, — Again the gilded caiques go gliding by; To him joy's cadences are full of sadness, As twilight brings the hour of meeting nigh. She comes, she comes, her small feet gayly springing, "With youth's elastic lightness in her tread, Along the cypress walk her sweet voice ringing, A sound which strikes his anguished heart with dread. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 145 Yet soon, too soon, alas! that girlish laughter Is hushed beneath the pulses of despair; Her stricken heart can think of no hereafter Wherein the noble captive cannot share. Ere shone another May noon's tender lustre, They laid her far away from human sight; Above her grave the cypress' dark leaves cluster, And whisper moaningly of maiden blight. Alas, that youthful hopes should ever perish, And youthful hearts be forced to rend away The golden net of love, they still must cherish, Throughout their weary life's declining day. ihe Peri's Song. /|L|NE morn a Peri at the gate Vtj/ Of Eden stood disconsolate; And as she listened to the springs Of life within, like music flowing, And caught the light upon her wings, Through the half-open, portal glowing, She wept to think her recreant race Had ever lost so bright a place. 10 146 TKEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. "How happy!" exclaimed this child of air, "Are the holy spirits who wander there, 'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall! Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me, One blossom of heaven out-blooms them all. "Though sunny the lake of cool Chasmere, With its plane-tree isle reflected clear, And sweetly« the founts of that valley fall ; Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-Hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray; Yet oh! 'tis only the blest can say, How the waters of heaven out- shine them all! "Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, — And multiply each through endless years; — One minute of heaven is worth them all." TREASURES PROM THE POETIC WORLD. 147 The Curtain. HE was walking in the spring time, in the morning-tide of life, Little reckoning of the journey, of its perils and its strife; For the flowers were peeping coyly, and the sunshine glistened bright ; And the dewdrops lingered, quivering, like fairy hells of light, Not a cloud was in the heavens, not a surge was on the deep, For the rimpled sea lay breathing in an unimpassioned sleep, And the fresh green leaves were nodding, to the whispers of the breeze — * "Oh! the world must be a paradise with promises like these! There's no canker in the blossoms, and no blight upon the trees." But tho' beauty bloomed around her, and the velvet turf was soft, And the budding earth was smiling at the sunny dome aloft; Tho' above, behind, beside her, spread a prospect far and wide, Yet shadows crossed her pathway, she would fain have cast aside : For a curtain hung before it — to her very feet it rolled, And it checked her looking forward, by its dark and massy fold : 'Twas her only bar to joyousness — that curtain dense and black, For at every onward step she took, it stretched across her track, While a form like Time's reached forth its hand and slowly pushed it back. 148 TKEASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. "Oh! the world is very lovely, and I'm } 7 oung and very gay, And the sunbeam's wealth of amber light lies broadcast on my way, And the sky is like a sea of blue — the sea a- blue, blue sky, And the foliage quickens vividly, that late was wan and shy; And the sky lark trills a melody, midway to purer spheres; And the dew-drops twinkle merrily, as childhood smiles in tears. There's no storm-cloud in the heavens, there's no moaning in the wind, Oh! life's road is not a rugged road, its thorns I cannot find But this darksome curtain mars my view and I want to peep behind!" But old Time passed by unheeding, and the curtain did not rise, While a voice like' - ' music whispered: "Child of earth, be wise! For that veils the future, which is better left unseen." But she answered more impatiently, "Oh! please to raise the screen ! I am sure I would be happier, if prescience were allowed; I should then be warned of danger — now I'm walking in a cloud ; It is surely best to be prepared for coming joys and woes!" So the air grew dark around her, like the dusk of evening's close ; But the voice like music spoke no more — and the curtain slowly rose. She was gazing on a piature of a home from childhood known, On a cluster of familiar forms — one form was like her own! And it seemed a festal gathering — like that of New Year's day; TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 149 For her grandsire stooped before her, with locks of silver gray; And her father, bland and stately, filled his wonted household place, With her gentle, comely mother, in her lovely matron grace, And she saw her dark-eyed sister, like a fairer second self — And a golden-headed brother — a mischief-loving elf — And a taller, elder, stripling, with a thoughtful student brow; 'Twas a knot of friends, both old and young, beneath the holly- bough, And the maiden clapped her hands and laughed, "All happy then as now!" While the smile was yet upon her lip the scene dissolved and changed — In a garden lustrous with the moon, a pair of lovers ranged; They were lovers— for a manly face so earnest and so brave Bent in fondness o'er mirrored self, grown womanly and grave, Yes, her mirrored self, whose sweet, frank look returned the stranger's gaze, As the sunbeam woos the leaf-bud forth, and the bud imbibes its rays; And the maid exclaimed with arch, gay glance, "They're going to confess! Oh, they both look rather silly! but all lovers do, I guess! And he really is so handsome, that I'm sure I'm saying Yes!" But again the picture faded, and another rose to view. On a river's bank a crowd had met to bid a ship adieu; There were again old home faces, older, sadder, than of yore 150 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. And herself — she stood the foremost weeping wildly on the shore ; Every eye was on the vessel, hut her own dim, straining sight Only sought on deck one girlish face, whose smiling lips were white, Tho' she leaned a stalwart form that held her to his heart, And the maiden wailed, "My sister! oh, my darling! must we part?" And a voice cried, "Bound for India" — how its echoes made her start ! She had clasped her hands across her eyes, for tears were welling fast; But when next she raised her eyes, hehold! the parting scene was past. It was now a bridal party, with a white-robed virgin troop And the guests in rich apparel — she the center of the group, In her snowy dress, and veil of lace, her wreath and jewels bright, With the rubies glowing redly, and the diamonds flashing bright. And the stranger — now her bridegroom — at the altar by her side ; And the wedding-bells were pealing — and the nuptial knot was tied, And the maiden murmured blushingly, "I should like to be a bride." But the pleasant prospect vanished, till it vanished like the rest; And anon, she was a mother with an infant on her breast, In an unknown, lofty chamber, she was pacing to and fro, And her face was looking upward, but the look was full of woe, For the baby lay so stilly, in a slumber so profound, TREASUKES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 151 There was one and only one repose, so very pale and sound, And she saw the mother knew it all, but wished to be beguiled, Tho' her haunting look of anguish almost drove the maiden wild, As she sobbed — "I will not be a wife, I will not lose my child." It waxed faint as she was speaking, for no vision lingered long, And another opened on her, 'midst a romping childish throng; Two bright prattlers at her footstool and one kneeling by her knee, And one throned upon a cushion in a chuckling fit of glee; And one tiny, chubby cherub nestled dimpling in her lap, While another arm wreathed round her neck, and stirred her widow's cap, Ah! that widow's cap! it told a tale so sorrowful and plain, But the chubby babe crowed laughing, and the widow smiled again. Still the maiden sighed and pondered while the vision changed anew. She was seated by a sick-bed — oh, how aged and gray she grew! She was watching, she was waiting for the coming hour of doom To the fairest of her household flock, in girl-hood's early bloom, For the fragile form lay nerveless, and the cheek like sunset flushed, And the spirit-eyes were darkening, the loving tones were hushed; Then the maiden questioned, shuddering, "The others, where are they?" And a voice said, "One is worthless, two are wedded far away. One lies sleeping in the ocean, one is still his mother's stay." 152 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. "Drop the curtain!" now she pleaded, but her pleadings were in vain; For another scene was dawning, as the last began to wane; Now, reclining in a grandam's chair, with features shrunk and old, She was pressing to her thin, white cheek a little head of gold; But the head of gold, the full bold glance, the pink and rounded face, They were surely bringing back to mind an earlier baby race, For oft' she sighed, and her furrowed brow was sadly overcast, t Unconscious grew the fond caress, and her eyes were filling fast With the dim, far look that mocks at space and pierces to the past. It was over! life was ended when that changing picture fled; In the next — two mourners sorrowed in the chamber of the dead ; But theirs was no equal, for he mourned for her who slept, While the fairer weeper mourned for him, and grieved because he wept: For the sleeper was his mother. And the maid with awe-struck breath Cried, "How strange a thing for young live self to gaze on self in age and death!" But the shrouded form that once was hers, wore such an air of peace, That it seemed as though the soul, rejoiced at prospect of release, Had lit again a long-quenched light, at the moment of decease. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 153 The scene died out, and the curtain moved as if about to fall, But the maiden moaned, "I know too much or need to know it all! I see my earth's career is run; but show me what became Of the student brother, keen to climb the steepest heights of fame? Of the blue-eyed boy of wayward mood and saucy love of mirth? Of the dear, dear sister? and of them to whom we owed our birth? Of the friends, the many friends of youth, whose trusty hearts we share? I have passed through all the scenes of life, but have not met them there; Oh, I missed so many from my path! where are they? tell me where? Then there rose in sight 'mid sombre yews a shadowy church- yard Where the signal stones loomed spectrally as though they stood on guard; There engraven on the sculptured slabs, were names of kith and kin; The vaults had need to be wide and deep, for all who slept therein ! Not a grave but bore some well-known name, no friend seemed missing here, And the maiden read each record, but she did not shed a tear, As she faltered, "Were there nought beyond the charnel-house abyss, 154 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Who would venture on life's journey? who would prize its shallow bliss? Show me something to redeem it from a misery like this? Then a flood of light shone round her, and the church-yard scene was hid, And her dazzled eyes ached quivering beneath each drooping lid; But she forced her glances upward, where a cloud of silvery hue Framed a band of angel faces; every angel face she knew; And her own was there among them, but so radiant and so fair! And she whispered gladly, eagerly, "Oh, are we all — all there?" But a solemn voice said, "Two are lost, the youngest of thy seven ; And the student youth with whose high aims there mixed unholy leaven, And whose genius found the way to fame, but lost the way to heaven!" The voice was mute; and the curtain dark fell silently and slow, And the maiden mused: "My path in life through every stage I know; That glorious final scene atones for all the grief I bore, But I've nothing left to hope for now, with all things known before; I shall never taste a present joy, for coming ills I scan; It was mercy's hand that screened from view the future years of man; Could we all behold the days to come, and read the troubled tale, The boldest glance would shrink appalled, and the stoutest heart would quail, Oh! I wish — I wish I had not asked to look behind the veil! ALFRED TENNYSON. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 155 ALFRED TENNYSON. Alfred Tennyson was born at Somersby, in Lin- colnshire, England, January 12, 1810 ; and, at the present writing, is living on the Isle of Wight. His father, a minister, was described as a man remarkable for strength and stature, and for the energetic force of his character. Alfred is the oldest of a family of poets. The three boys who became poets were educated at Trin- ity College, Cambridge, and were pupils of Dr. Whewell. In 1829, Alfred gained the Chancellor's medal for an English prize poem. He and his brother Charles published anonymously a small volume, entitled Poems by Two Brothers. In 1830 and '33, Alfred Tennyson published his first vol- umes over his own name. While these early poems were subject to severe crit- icism, yet many of them showed unmistakable signs of genius, and gave the world to understand most dis- tinctly that a great poet was arising to command its attention. Severe treatment from critics caused him to remain in close retirement and silent study for a period of about nine years. He was moved, probably, by a thought 156 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. similar to the one written by Carlyle to a young author: "If the critics treat your first book ill, write the second so much better as to shame them." So Tennyson per- severed till he placed himself where he belongs — at the head of living English poets. The following are among his productions : Godiva, May Queen, The Gardener's Daughter, Talking Oak, Locksley Hall, The Lotus Eaters, The Princess, In Memoriam, Enoch Arden, Idyls of the King. We have not space to mention more of his ex- cellent poems. In giving an estimate of the present poet- laureate of England, we can do no better than to quote from our own loved and lamented Longfellow, "To Alfred Tennyson " : Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine; Not as a knight, who on the listed field Of tourney touched his adversary's shield In token of defiance, but in sign Of homage to the mastery, which is thine In English song, nor will I keep concealed And voiceless as rivulet frost-congealed, My admiration for thy verse divine. Not of the howling dervishes of song, Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, Art thou, sweet historian of the heart! Therefore, to thee the laureate-leaves belong, To thee our love and our allegiance, For thy allegiance to the poet's art. TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 157 Charge of the Heavy Brigade- tHE charge of the gallant Three Hundred, the Heavy Brig- ade! Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Kussians, Thousands of horsemen drew to the valley — and stayed. For Scarlett and Scarlett's Three Hundred were riding hy When the points of the Eussian lances broke in on the sky; And he called "Left wheel into line!" and they wheeled and obeyed, Then he looked at the host that had halted, he knew not why, And he turned half round, and he bade his trumpeter sound "To the charge!" and he rode on ahead, as he waved his blade To the gallant Three Hundred, whose glory will never die. "Follow up the hill!" Up the hill, up the hill, followed the Heavy Brigade. The trumpet, the gallop, the charge and the might of the fight! Down the hill, slowly, thousands of Bussians Drew to the valley, and halted at last on the height With a wing pushed out to the left and a wing to the right. But Scarlett was far on ahead, and he dashed up alone Through the great gray slope of men; And he whirled his sabre, he held his own Like an Englishman there and then. 158 TREASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. And the three that were nearest him followed with force, Wedged themselves in between horse and horse, Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made, Four amid thousands; and up the hill, up the hill, Galloped the gallant Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade. Fell, like a cannon shot, Burst, like a thunderbolt, Crashed, like a hurricane, Broke through the mass from below, Drove through the midst of the foe, Plunged up and down, to and fro, Bode flashing, blow upon blow, Brave Enniskillens and Greys, "Whirling their sabres in circles of light; And some of us, all in amaze, Who were held for awhile from the fight And were only standing at gaze, When the dark muffled Bussian crowd Folded its wings from the left and the right And rolled them around like a cloud — Oh! mad for the charge and the battle were we When our own good red coats sank from sight, Like drops of blood in a dark gray sea; And we turned to each other, muttering, all dismayed, — "Lost are the gallant Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade!" But they rode, like victors and lords, Through the forests of lances and swords In the heart of the Bussian hordes They rode, or they stood at bay; TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 159 Struck with the sword hand and slew; Down with the bridle-hand drew The foe from the saddle, and threw Under foot there in the fray: Eaged like a storm, or stood like a rock In the wave of a stormy day; Till suddenly shock upon shock, Staggered the mass from without; For our men galloped up with a cheer and a shout, And the Eussians surged, and wavered and reeled Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, Over the brow and away! Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made! Glory to all the Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade! 160 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. The Old Home. E love the well beloved place Where first we gazed upon the sky; The roofs that heard our earliest cry Will shelter one of stranger race. We go, but ere we go from home, As down the garden- walks I move, Two spirits of a diverse love Contend for loving masterdom. One whispers, "Here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love -language of the bird, In native hazels, tassel hung." The other answers, "Yea, but here Thy feet have strayed in after hours, With thy best friend among the bowers, And this had made them trebly dear." These two have striven half the day, And each prefers his separate claim, Poor rivals in a losing game, That will not yield each other way. TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 161 I turn to go: my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms; They mix in one another's arms To one pure image of regret. From "The Princess.