FiResme 'm'n eNcycL9i?;tDiR Class Book. 'DK^ Si GoDiiigiitN^- COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. THE Fireside Encyclopaedia OF POETET. COMPRISING THE BEST POEMS OF THE MOST FAMOUS WRITERS, ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. COMPILED AND EDITED BY HENEY T. COATES. TWENTY-SEVENTH EDITION. REVISED AND ENLARGED. PORTER & COATES, PHILADELPHIA. .C58 Copyright, ists, by Porter & Coates. Copyright, istq, by Henry T. Coates. Copyright, issi, by Henry T. Coates. Copyright, isss, by Henry T. Coates. TO MY ALMA MATER, Haverford College, IN REMEMBRANCE OP THE WARM l-^RIENDSHIPS FORMED THERE, THE MANY JOYOUS DAYS SPENT THERE, AND, ABOVE ALL, THE LITERARY ASPIRATIONS WHICH SHE KINDLED AND FOSTERED. WHICH HAVE SHED A GLADDENED LIGHT OVER THE YEARS SINCE I LEFT HER HALLOWED PRECINCTS, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. PREFACE Nine years ago this month this work was commenced, principally to while away the long winter evenings, w^hich threatened to hang heavily on the Editor's hands, and now it is with feelings akin to those felt at parting with an old and valued friend that he pens these prefatory lines, ^vhich mark the completion of his task. It has been his aim to present a comprehensive collection — an Encyclo- paedia, in fact — of the best poetry in the English language ; one that will be a welcome companion at every Fireside ; and, while representing all that is best and brightest in our poetic literature, should contain nothing that would tend to undermine any one's faith or destroy a single virtuous impulse. Fully aware of the danger of trusting to the caprices or fancies of any individual judgment, the Editor has diligently consulted the works of the best critics and reviewers, and has not hesitated to accept such pieces as have received their united commendation, or such as, through some peculiar powei, have touched the popular heart. Each poem has been given complete, and great care has been taken to follow the most authentic and approved editions of the respective authors ; and though the quantity of space assigned to each and the selections made may not, and probably will not, satisfy every judg- ment, it is believed that few of the most famous minor poems of the English language will be found missing from these pages. At the very outset it was deemed best to discard the chronological arrange- ment followed by most compilers, and to adopt the plan of classifying each poem according to its subject-matter, originated by Mr. Charles A. Dana in his excellent Household Book of Poetry. In many cases this has been found exceedingly difficult ; as often, under-currents so run in opposite directions as to threaten the entire foundation upon which the title of a poem is based ; and in many poems the ^^ moral" is dwelt on at greater length than the tale itself, so that the Editor has often been sorely tempted to end his perplexity by throw- ing them into those convenient ^^ olla podridas," ^' Poems of Sentimeyit " and ^' Moral and Didactic Poetry,^^ But with all these drawbacks the advantages of the system are so great that there has been no hesitation in adopting it. By it, every taste may be gratified, all moods and humors the better served. Here are "Psalms and Hymns and Spiritual Songs" for Sunday reading. Poems of Home Life and Domestic Bliss for the cold winter nio^hts when the logs are blazing brightly on the cozy hearth, Poems on Nature for the bloom- PREFACE. ing Spring-time and melancholy Autumn, Poems for the lover, and Historical Poems, Old Legends, and Ballads for all. From the days ^vdien "Adam delved and Eve span" to the present, human nature has been ever the same. Kingdoms have risen and been forgotten, languages been formed and fallen into disuse, but love, pa- tiiotism, sorrow and death, are the same in all ages and climes. The language may be different and the allusions seem strange to our ears, but the same old, old story was told by gallant knight to high-bred dame in the good old days of Queen Bess as is now whispered into the ear of rustic beauty or ball-room belle. " Each heart reeall'd a different name, but all sang ' Annie Laurie.' " The same impulses animated Horatius as he faced Lars Porsena's army on the banks of the Tiber centuries ago, and the brave boys who flocked to their country's standard during the late civil war; while the bereaved parent even now mourns for his erring child in the same heart-language as did the sweet Singer of Israel over his lost Absalom. Though long cycles have intervened between Shakespeare and Tennyson, Sir Walter Raleigh and Longfellow, Herrick and Burns, Herbert and Whittier, rare Ben Jonson and Mrs. Browning, one animating purpose breathes alike through the voices of the poets of the past and the present. As many poems are founded upon some historical fact or some interesting incident or legend, a knowledge of which greatly aids the reader in his ap})re- ciation of them, Explanatory and Corroborative Notes have been appended at the end of the volume. This plan has been adopted in preference to placing the notes at the bottom of the page ; as many readers, who are familiar with their substance, naturally object to such an arrangement as distracting their attention and marring the continuity of the poem. The compiler would express his thanks to the various authors and pub- lishers who have so kindly permitted him to use the copyright poems con- tained in this collection, and especially to Messrs. Houghton, Osgood & Co., M'ho, notwithstanding that they publish excellent works of a similar character, generously granted the use of the various poems by Longfellow, Whittier, Emerson, Lowell, Holmes, Bret Harte, Saxe, Bayard Taylor, Stedman, Stod- dard, Trowbridge, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Parsons, Lucy Larcom, Julia Ward Howe, and Phoebe Gary, the brightest galaxy of names ever collected together by any American publishing-house. He would also acknowledge his obligation to Mr. N. Clemmons Hunt for the assistance rendered in the selec- tion and arrangement of many of the poems in this work. Originality cannot be claimed for a work of this character, notwithstanding the labor and thought bestowed upon it ; all the glory, all the praise, belongs to the poets themselves. In the words of Montaigne : " Here is a nosegay of culled flowers, to which I have brought nothing of my own but the thread that ties themj' H. T. C. Philadelphia, October 18th, 1878. CONTENTS PAGE INDEX OF AUTHORS ix POEMS OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE 1 POEMS OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD 29 POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION 73 POEMS OF LOVE 97 PERSONAL POEMS 223 HISTORICAL POEMS 283 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM 353 LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY 369 POEMS OF NATURE 431 POEMS OF THE SEA 507" POEMS OF PLACES 521 "PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS" .543 MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY 633 POEMS OF SENTIMENT 721 WEIRD AND FANTASTIC POETRY 797 HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL POETRY 895 NOTES, EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE .971 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 1003 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page ADAM, JEAN (1710-1765). The Mariner's Wife 10 ADAMS, SARAH (FLOWER), (1805-1848). "Father, Thy will be done" 564 "Nearer, my God, to Thee" 584 ADDISON, JOSEPH (1672-1719). An Ode—" The spacious firmament on high ".. 565 "How are thy servants blest, O Lord !" 578 Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII 581 "When all Thy mercies, O my God!" 567 AKENSIDE, MARK (1721-1770). Inscription for a Statue of Chaucer 227 AKERMAN, LUCY EVELINA (1816-1874). Nothing but Leaves 598 ALDRICH, JAMES (1810-1856). A Death-bed 645 ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY (1836 ). Baby Bell 30 On an Intaglio Head of Minerva 778 ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES (1823 ). The Burial of Moses 600 ALEXANDER, SIR WILLIAM. See Stirling. ALFORD, HENRY (1810-1871). Baptispial Hymn 583 Thanksgiving Hymn 578 ALISON, RICHARD (1606? ). "There is a garden in her face" 185 ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS (1832 ). Endurance 637 My Ship 787 Rock me to Sleep 74 ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM (1828 ). A Wife 12 Lovely Mary Donnelly 122 Robin Redbreast 481 The Fairies. A Child's Song 798 The Touchstone 685 ALLSTON, WASHINGTON (1779-1843). Boyhood 53 ARNOLD, EDWIN (1832 ). After Death in Arabia 701 Almond-Blossom 466 ARNOLD, GEORGE (1834-1865). The Jolly Old Pedagogue 937 ARNOLD, MATTHEW (1822-1888). Euphrosyne 213 Philomela 476 The Neckan 887 Urauia 216 Page AUSTIN, JOHN (1613-1669). " Blest be Thy love, dear Lord " 568 AYTON, SIR ROBERT (1570-1638). To his Forsaken Mistress ;. 148 Woman's Inconstancy 141 AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE (1813- 1865). Edinburgh after Flodden 303 The Burial-March of Dundee 318 The Execution of Montrose 314 The Massacre of the Macpherson 944 BACON, FRANCIS, BARON VERULAM (1561- 1626). Life 633 BAILIE, JOANNA (1762-1851). Morning Song 503 Song — " Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray " 485 The Black Cock 485 The Kitten 488 BAKEWELL, JOHN (1721-1819). "Hail! Thou once-despisfed Jesus 1" 558 BALLANTYNE, JAMES (1808-1877). Castles in the Air 37 BAMPFYLDE, JOHN CODRINGTON (1754-1796). Sonnet— To the Redbreast 481 BARBAULD, ANNA L^TITIA (1743-1825). Christ Risen 556 Life 633 Praise to God 568 The Death of the Virtuous 638 BARHAM, RICHARD HARRIS (1788-1845). Mr. Barney Maguire's account of the Corona- tion 965 The Execution 951 BARNARD,LADY ANNE (LINDSAY), (1750-1825). Auld Robin Gray 137 BARNFIELD, RICHARD (1574-1627). The Nightingale 484 "Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled " 776 BARRY, MICHAEL JOSEPH (1815 ). The Place to Die 700 BARTON, BERNARD (1784-1849). Not ours the Vows 101 "There be Those" 637 BAXTER, RICHARD (1615-1691). Resignation 586 The Valediction .• 612 BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES (1797-1839). To My Wife 9 • ix INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page BEATTIE, JAMES (1735-1803). The Hermit 668 BEATTIE, WILLIAM (1793-1875). Evening Hymn of the Alpine Shepherds 572 ("BEAUMONT, FRANCIS (1584-1616).') \ FLETCHER, JOHN (1576-1625). i" Evening Song— " Shepherds all and maidens fair" 499 " Lay a garland on my hearse " 212 Lines on the Tombs in Westminster Abbey (Beaumont) 522 " Look out, bright eyes " 184 Melancholia (Fletcher) 676 "Take, oh take, those lips away" 184 The Power of Love (Fletcher) , 169 To Pan 433 Weep no More (Fletcher). 784 BEAUMONT, SIR JOHN (1583-1627). On my Dear Son, Gervase Beaumont 228 BEDDOES, THOMAS LOVELL (1803-1849). Dirge 178 How Many Times 102 BEDDOME, BENJAMIN (1717-1795). Jesus Wept 555 BEERS, ETHEL LYNN (1827-1879). All Quiet Along the Potomac 349 On the Shores of Tennessee 367 Which Shall it Be? 45 BEERS, HENRY AUGUSTIN (1847 ). Carjamon 406 BENNETT, HENRY (1785-?). St. Patrick was a Gentleman 934 BENNETT, WILLIAM COX (1820 ). Baby May 29 BERKELEY, GEORGE (1685-1753). On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learn- ing in America 721 BERNARD DE MORLAIX, Monk of Cluny (XII. CENTURY). The Celestial Country 624 BISHOP, SAMUEL (1731-1795). To Mary 10 BLACKSTONE, SIR WILLIAM (1723-1780). The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse 736 BLAKE, WILLIAM (1757-1827). Charity Children at St. Paul's 43 Introduction to " Songs of Innocence " 68 "My silks and fine array" 190 On Another's Sorrow 609 The Little Black Boy 37 The Tiger 498 To the Muses 752 BLAMIRE, SUSANNA (1747-1794). The Nabob 93 The Siller Croun 147 " What ails this heart o' mine?" 199 BLANCH A RD, LAMAN (1804-1845). The Mother's Hope 52 BLOOD, HENRY AMES. The Last Visitor 659 BOKER, GEORGE HENRY (1824 ). Dirge for a Soldier 277 Page BONAR, HORATIUS (1808 ). A Little While 615 The Inner Calm 585 BOOTH, BARTON (1681-1733). " Sweet are the charms " 154 BOTTA, ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH (1820-). Thoughts in a Library 736 BOURDILLON, FRANCIS W. (1852 ). Light 180 BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE (1762-1850). Influence of Time on Grief. 706 On the Funeral of Charles 1 313 The Rhine 536 BOWRING, SIR JOHN (1792-1872). "God is Love" 564 "Watchman, tell us of the night" 543 BRAINARD, JOHN GARDNER CALKINS (1796- 1828). Epithalamium 220 Niagara 533 BRENAN, JOSEPH (1829-1857). The Exile to his Wife 11 BflETON, NICHOLAS (1545 ?-1626 ?). A Pastoral 182 Phillida and Corydon 145 The Priest 572 BROOKS, MARIA (1795-1845). "Day in melting purple dying" 170 BROWN, WILLIAM GOLDSINIITH. A Hundred Years to Come 695 BROWNE, FRANCES (1816-1864). Is it come? 746 Losses 700 "Oh, the pleasant days of old!" 745 BROWNE, SIR THOMAS (1605-1682). Evening Hymn 576 BROWNE, WILLIAM (1591-1643?). "Shall I tell you whom I love?" 123 The Welcome 125 BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD (1820-1872). The Lawyer's Invocation to Spring 960 BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT (1809-1861). A Child's Thought of God 44 A Court Lady 361 A Musical Instrument 721 Cowper's Grave.. 248 Lady Geral din e's Courtship 104 Mother and Poet 26 Rhyme of the Duchess May 423 Sleeping and Watching 33 Sonnets from the Portuguese— XXXVIII. "First time he kissed me, he but only kiss'd " 135 XLIII. " How do I love thee? let me count the ways" 135 XXXV. " If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange" 135 XIV. " If thou must love me, let it be for naught" 134 XVIII. "I never gave a lock of hair away". 134 XXVIII. "My letters! all dead paper, . . . mute and white" 135 INDEX OF AUTHORS. XI Page XXI. "Say over again, aud yet once over again " 134 The Cry of the Children 63 The Forced Recruit at Solferino 364 The Lady's Yes 138 The Sleep 642 BROWNING, ROBERT (1812 ). Evelyn Hope 196 How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix 374 In a Year 211 Incident of the French Camp 340 Marching Along 311 The Lost Leader 264 The Pied Piper of Hamelin 855 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN (1794-1878). Song of Marion's Men 330 Thanatopsis 644 The Battle-Field 696 The Crowded Street 667 The Death of the Flowers 465 The Evening Wind 451 The Hunter of the Prairies 498 The Living Lost 702 To a Water-Fowl 475 To the Fringed Gentian 464 BRYDGES, SIR SAMUEL EGERTON (1762-1837). Echo and Silence 506 BUCHANAN, ROBERT (1841 ). Hermione 7 Langley Lane 203 Tom Dunstan; or, the Politician 791 BUNNER, HENRY C. To a Dead Woman 142 BURNS, ROBERT (1759-1796). Address to the Toothache 962 A Red, Red Rose. 157 Auld Lang Syne 81 Bonnie Lesley 145 Bruce to his Men at Bannockburn 296 Dunciin Gray 144 Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 249 Farewell to Nancy 154 "Flow gently, sweet Afton" 533 For a' that and a' that 793 Highland Mary 120 I love my Jean 126 Jessy—" Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear " 166 John Anderson 8 Mary Morison 147 "My heart's in the Highlands" 358 My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing 9 Tam O'Shanter 877 The Banks of Doon 170 The Cotter's Saturday Night 3 To a Mountain Daisy 463 To a Mouse 487 To Mary in Heaven 137 BURTON, JOHN (1773-1822). " Holy Bible, book divine" 582 BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN (1825 ) Nothing to Wear 920 BYROM, JOHN (1692-1763). A Pastoral 173 Careless Content 680 Page Christmas Carol 551 Jacobite Toast 311 BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824). A Very Mournful Ballad on the Siege and Con- quest of Alhama 296 And thou Art Dead, as Young and Fair 740 Fare thee Well 15 Girl of Cadiz 146 Maid of Athens 145 Oh, Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom 741 Oh Talk Not to Me of a Name Great in Story.. 157 On this Day I Complete my Thirty-sixth Year. 88 She Walks in Beauty 739 Song of the Greek Poet 360 Sonnet on Chillon 400 The Destruction of Sennacherib 283 The Dream 788 The Prisoner of Chillon 400 There be None of Beauty's Daughters 157 There's not a Joy the World can Give 676 When Coldness Wraps this Suffering Clay 645 When We Two Parted 86 CAMPBELL, THOMAS (1777-1844). Adelgitha 145 Battle of the Baltic 340 Hallowed Ground 653 Hohenliuden 339 Lochiel's Warning 322 Lord Ulliu's Daughter 383 "Men of England" 356 O'Connor's Child 397 The Exile of Erin 359 The Last Man 663 The Soldier's Dream 83 To the Evening Star 456 To the Rainbow 453 Ye Mariners of England 356 CANNING, GEORGE (1770-1827). Epitaph on the Tombstone Erected over the Marquis of Anglesea's Leg 957 Song by Rogero, in "The Rovers" 945 The Friend of Humanity and the Knife- Grinder 945 CAREW, THOMAS (15987-1639?). "Ask me no more where Jove bestows" 192 Disdain Returned 180 Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villiers 276 Loveliness of Love 139 The Airs of Spring 440 CAREY, HENRY (1663 ?-l 743). God Save the King 355 Maiden's Choice • 210 Sally in our Alley 120 CARY, ALICE (1820-1871). Her Last Verses 649 CARY, PHCEBE (1824-1871). Nearer Home 607 CELANO, THOMAS DE (1253 ). Dieslrae 629 CENNECK, JOHN (1718-1755). Hymn— " Children of the heavenly King" 594 CHALKHILL, JOHN (1600-1679). The Angler 472 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page CHANDLER, BESSIE. Jacqueminot 282 CIIATTERTON, THOMAS (1752-1770). The Minstrel's Song in "Aella" 147 The Resignation '. 585 CHAUCER, GEOFFREY (1340-1400). Good Counseil 718 CIBBER, COLLEY (1671-1757). The Blind Boy 67 CLARE, JOHN (1793-1864). His Last Verses 638 July 441 The Thrush's Nest 480 To the Glowworm 487 CLELAND, WILLIAM (16617-1689). Hallo, my Fancy 888 CLEPHANE, ELIZABETH C. (1830-1869). The Ninety and Nine 601 CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH (1819-1861). Qua Cursum Ventus 742 Stream of Life 634 Where Lies the Land 520 COATES, REYNELL (1802-1886). Christian Charity 097 COFFIN, ROBERT BARRY (1820-1886). Ships at Sea 787 COLERIDGE, HARTLEY (1796-1849). Address to Certain Gold fishes 473 Night 773 "She is not fair to outward view" 172 The First Man 740 "'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark" 476 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR (1772-1834). Answer to a Child's Question 479 Christabel 845 Cologne 938 Epigram 968 Epitaph on an Infant 708 Fancy in Nubibus ; or, the Poet in the Clouds. 455 France. An Ode... 332 Genevieve 155 Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Cha- mouni 536 Kubla Khan ; or a Vision in a Dream 852 Love 100 The Devil's Thoughts 927 The Good, Great Man 682 The Knight's Tomb 646 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 859 Youth and Age 94 COLLINS, JOHN (XVIIL CENTURY). "In the downhill of life" 694 COLLINS, WILLIAM (1721-1759). Dirge in Cymbeliiie 657 Ode— "How sleep the brave" 363 Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson 246 Ode to Evening 449 The Passions 728 COLMAN, GEORGE, THE YOUNGER (1762-18.36). Sir Marmaduke 782 CONGREVE, WILLIAM (1670-1729). Amoret 155 Lesbia 155 Page CONOLLY, ERSKINE (1796-1843). Mary Macneil 201 CONSTABLE, HENRY (1562-1613). Diaphenia 179 "To live in hell, and heaven to behold" 212 COOK, ELIZA (1817 ). The Old Arm-Chair 73 COOKE, PHILIP PENDLETON (1816-1850). Florence Vane 171 COOKE, ROSE TERRY (1827 ). Reve du Midi 442 CORBET, RICHARD (1582-1635). Farewell to the Fairies 837 To Vincent Corbet, my Son 235 COTTON, CHARLES (1630-1687). Invitation to Izaak Walton 471 The Retirement 499 COTTON, NATHANIEL (1705-1788). The Fireside 2 COWLEY, ABRAHAM (1618-1667). A Fragment 142 A Supplication 121 Drinking 455 Epitaph on a Living Author 228 Of Myself 235 The Chronicle. A Ballad 221 COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-1800). Joy and Peace in Believing 593 Light Shining out of Darkness 563 "Lovest thou Me?" 561 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 15 Retirement 602 The Diverting History of John Gilpin 939 To Mary 247 To Mrs. Unwin 247 Verses supposed to be Written by Alexander Selkirk 699 Walking with God 584 COXE, ARTHUR CLEVELAND (1818 -). Christmas Carol 550 The Chimes of England 521 The Heart's Song 595 CRAIK, DINAH MARIA (MULOCK), (1826-1887). A Christmas Carol 553 A Jjancashire Doxology 603 Now and Afterwards... 640 Philip, my King 30 Too Late 17 CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE (1813 ). " Thought is deeper than all speech " 780 CRASHAW, RICHARD (16l3?-1649). Epitaph upon a Husband and Wife 655 On a Prayer-Book 606 Wishes. To bis Supposed Mistress 121 CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN (1784-1842). "A wet sheet and a flowing sea" 509 "Gane were but the winter cauld" 658 It's Hame and it's Hame 357 She's gane to Dwall in Heaven 218 The Poet's Bridal-Day Song 18 "The Sun rises Bright in France" 358 " Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie".... 157 INDEX OF AUTHORS. xiu Page CUNNINGHAM, JOHN (1729-1773). Content. A Pastoral 747 DANA, MARY S. B. Passing Under the Rod 609 DANA, RICHARD HENRY (1787-1879). The Little Beach-Bird 475 DANIEL, SAMUEL (1562-1619). " Love is a sickness " 98 Sleep 774 To the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumber- land 232 DARLEY, GEORGE (1795-1846). Song of the Summer Winds. 442 The Call 178 The Gambols of Children 63 DARWIN, ERASMUS (1731-1802). Song to May 440 DAVENANT, SIR WILLIAM (1606-1668). "The lark now leaves his watery nest",.. 476 DAVIS, FRANCIS. The Fisherman's Song 510 DAVIS, THOMAS OSBORNE (1815-1845). Fontenoy 320 The Welcome 158 DEKKER, THOMAS (1575?-1640?). Lullaby 32 Sweet Content 680 DE VERE, AUBREY THOMAS (1814 ). "Sad is our youth" 634 DIBDIN, CHARLES (1745-1814). Nongtongpaw 957 Poor Jack 512 The High-Mettled Racer 492 Tom Bowling 659 DICKENS, CHARLES (1812-1870). The Ivy Green 465 DICKINSON, CHARLES M. (1842 ). The Children 62 DIMOND, WILLIAM (1800-1837). The Mariner's Dream 510 DIX, JOHN ADAMS (1798-1879). Translation of Dies Irse 631 DOANE, GEORGE WASHINGTON (1799-1859). Evening Contemplation 572 DOBELL, SIDNEY THOMPSON (1824-1874). How's my Boy? 67 Tommy's Dead 640 D0B30N, HENRY AUSTIN (1840 ). A Virtuoso 967 ToQ. H. F 931 DODDRIDGE, PHILIP (1702-1751). Confirmation Hymn 585 Epigram— Dum Vivimus, Vivamus 594 For New Year's Day 579 "Hark! the glad sound" 553 "O God of Bethel, by whose hand" 607 "Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell" 608 DOMETT, ALFRED (1811-1887). A Christmas Hymn 549 DORR, JULIA CAROLINE (RIPLEY), (1825 ). Twenty-One ^ 44 Page DORSET, CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF (1637-1705). "Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes" 127 DOTEN, ELIZABETH (1829 ). Song of the North 422 DOUGLAS, WILLIAM (1660? ). Maxwelton Banks 979 DOWLING, BARTHOLOMEW. Battle of Fontenoy 321 Indian Revelry 785 DOWNING, MARY (1830 ). The Grave of Macaura 223 DOYLE, SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS (1810-1888). The Doncaster St. Leger 413 The Old Cavalier 311 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN (1795-1820). The American Flag 353 The Culprit Fay 814 DRAYTON, MICHAEL (1563-1631). " Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part" 170 The Ballad of Agincourt 299 To his Fair Idea 762 DRUMMOND, WILLIAM (1585-1649). " A good that never satisfies the mind " 676 Beauty Fades 739 No Trust in Time 777 The Lessons of Nature 470 To a Nightingale 481 To his Lute 732 To Spring 433 To the Nightingale 482 DRYDEN, JOHN (1631-1700). A Song for St. Cecilia's Day 724 "Ah! how sweet it is to love" 97 Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music 722 Lines Written under the Picture of John Milton 242 Song of Jealousy, in Love Triumphant 213 Veni Ci'eator Spiritus, paraphrased 563 DUFFERIN, HELEN SELINA, LADY (1807- 1867). Lament of the Irish Emigrant 86 DWIGHT, TIMOTHY (1752-1817). " I love Thy kingdom. Lord " 594 DYER, SIR EDWARD (1550?-1607). "My minde to me a kingdom is" 735 DYER, JOHN (1698?-1758). GrongarHill 524 EASTMAN, CHARLES GAMAGE (1816-1861). A Picture 6 Dirge 658 EDMESTON, JAMES (1791-1867). "Lead us, heavenly Father, lead us" 605 ELLIOT, SIR GILBERT (1722-1777). Amynta 200 ELLIOT JANE (1727-1805). The Flowers of the Forest 307 ELLIOTT, CHARLOTTE (1789-1871). "Just as I am" 588 " Thou, the contrite sinner's friend " 559 "Thy will be done" 586 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page ELLIOTT, EBENEZER (1781-1849). A Poet's Epitaph 698 ELVEN, CORNELIUS (1797-1 87:{). " With broken heart and contrite sigh " 582 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO (1803-1882). Concord Hymn 367 Each and All 796 Good-Bye 677 The Humble-Bee 486 The Problem 683 The Rbodora 464 To Eva 217 EVERETT, EDWARD (1794-1855). Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth 292 EWEN, JOHN (1741-1821). The Boatie Rows 516 FABER, FREDERICK WILLIAM (1814-1868). Evening Hymn 576 Paradise 621 The Pilgrims of the Night 620 The Right must Win 592 The Will of God 586 FENNER, CORNELIUS GEORGE (1822-1847). Gulf-Weed 517 FERGUSON, SIR SAMUEL (1810 -). The Forging of the Anchor 507 FIELDING, HENRY (1707-1754). A Hunting we Will Go 497 FIELDS. JAMES TICKNOR (1817-1881). Ballad of the Tempest 38 Jupiter and Ten The Nantucket Skipper FINLEY, JOHN (1797-1866). Bachelor's Hall 899 937 FLETCHER, GILES (1588-1623). Panglory's Wooing Song FLETCHER, PHINEAS (1584?-1650?). "Drop, drop, slow tears" 564 FLOWERDEW, ANNE. "Fountain of mercy! God of love!" 583 FORD, JOHN (1586-1640?). Awakening Song 752 Calantha's Dirge— Love and Death 203 FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS (1825-1864). My Old Kentucky Home 24 Old Folks at Home 18 GALL, RICHARD (1766-1801). My only Jo and Dearie, O , 203 GAY, JOHN (1688-1732). Sweet William's Farewell to Black-Eyed Susan. 119 The Painter who Pleased Nobody and Every- body 955 " 'Twas when the seas were roaring " 125 GIBBONS, THOMAS (1720-1785). "Thy Goodness, Lord, our Souls Confess" 582 GILBERT, WILLIAM SCHWENCK (1836 ). Captain Reece 963 Etiquette. 935 The Yarn of the Nancy Bell 914 Page GILFILLIN, ROBERT (1798-1850). The Exile's Song 352 OILMAN, CAROLINE (HOWARD), (1794 ). The Household Woman 24 GLADDEN, WASHINGTON (1836 ). Pastor's Reverie 92 GLEN, WILLIAM (1789-1826). Wae's me for Prince Charlie 325 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (1728-1774). An Elegy on that Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize 916 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 938 Stanzas on Woman 707 The Deserted Village 754 The Hermit 159 The Traveller; or, A Prospect of Society 765 "The wretch condemned with life to part" 783 GOULD, HANNAH FLAGG (1789-1865). A Name in the Sand 678 GRAHAM, ROBERT, of Gartmore (1750-1797). Tell me how to woo thee 161 GRANT, ANNE (1755-1838). On a Sprig of Heath 456 GRANT, SIR ROBERT (1785-1838). Litany 559 " When gathering clouds around I view " 589 GRAY, THOMAS (1716-1771). Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 650 Hymn to Adversity 775 On a Distant Prospect of Eton College 522 On the Spring 435 The Bard 294 The Progress of Poesy 726 GREENE, ALBERT G. (1802-1868). Old Grimes 916 The Baron's Last Banquet 641 GREENE, ROBERT (1560-1592). Content 680 GRINFIELD, THOMAS (1788-18—). "Oh how kindly hast Thou led me!" 590 GURNEY, ARCHER THOMPSON (1820 ). "Come, ye Lofty" 550 HABINGTON, WILLIAM (1605-1645). Castara 179 Night 773 HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE (1790-1867). Alnwick Castle 531 Burns 251 Marco Bozzaris 346 On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 254 HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM (1829-1868). The Trooper to his Mare 497 HAMILTON, ELIZABETH (1758-1816). My Ain Fireside 1 HAMILTON, WILLIAM (of Bangour), (1704- 1754). The Braes of Yarrow 384 HARRINGTON, SIR JOHN (1534-1582). Epigram — Treason 775 Lines on Isabella Markham 124 Of a Precise Tailor 899 INDEX OF AUTHORS. XV Page HARTE, FRANCIS BRET (1839 ). Dickens in Camp 280 Fate 783 Her Letter 207 Plain Language from Truthful James 943 The Dead Politician 793 The Society upon the Stanislaus 954 HASTINGS, THOMAS (1784-1872). In Sorrow 563 HAWEIS, THOMAS (1733-1820). "O Thou from whom all goodness flows 604 HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON (1830-1886). By the Autumn Sea 520 HEBER, REGINALD (1783-1826). Epiphany Hymn 554 Hymn for First Sunday after Epiphany 695 Hymn for Trinity Sunday 566 Lines Addressed to his Wife 9 Missionary Hymn 600 Stanzas on the Death of a Friend 614 Sympathy 963 HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA (1793-1835). A Dirge 708 Casablanca 344 The Better Land 618 The Graves of a Household 28 The Homes of England 1 The Hour of Death 650 The Hour of Prayer 584 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 309 The Treasures of the Deep 517 HERBERT, GEORGE (1592-1634). Life 754 Sunday 580 The Elixir 564 The Flower ....: 699 The Pulley 682 Vertue. 682 HERRICK, ROBERT (1594-1674), A Thanksgiving to God for His House 579 Cherry Ripe 214 Corinna's going a-Maying 436 Delight in Disorder 738 The Captive Bee ; or, The Little Filcher 209 The Hag 879 The Night Piece. To Julia 127 The Primrose 214 To Anthea who may Command him Any- thing 221 To Blossoms 466 To Daflfodils 462 To Dianeme 210 To Keep a True Lent 607 To Music, to Becalm his Fever 752 To Primroses filled with Morning Dew 461 To Virgins, to make much of Time 123 HEYWOOD, THOMAS (d. about 1640). Good-Morrow Song 215 Go, Pretty Birds 162 HILL, AARON (1685-1750). How to Deal with Common Natures 708 Page HINDS, SAMUEL (1793-1872). " Lord, shall Thy children come to Thee " 602 Sleeping Babe, The 45 HOBART, MRS. CHARLES. Changed Cross 610 HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO (1806-1884), Monterey 347 HOGG, JAMES (1770-1835). Bonnie Prince Charlie 325 Charlie is my Darling 324 " I hae naebody now " 83 Kilmeny 837 The Abbot M'Kinnon 882 The Skylark 477 When Maggie gangs away 161 When the Kye comes Hame 167 HOLCROFT, THOMAS (1744:-1809). Gaffer Gray 710 HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT (1819-1881). The Heart of the War 365 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL (1809 ). The Boys 80 The Chambered Nautilus 474 The Deacon's Masterpiece 942 The Last Leaf 753 The Old Man Dreams 903 The Voiceless 646 HOOD, THOMAS (1799-1845). A Nocturnal Sketch 968 A Serenade 907 Epicurean Reminiscences of a Sentimentalist.. 961 Fair Ines 102 Faithless Nelly Gray 900 Faithless Sally Brown 901 "I remember, I remember " 73 Ode to my Little Son 907 Ruth 144 Stanzas— " Farewell, life " 657 The Art of Book-Keeping 960 The Bachelor's Dream 906 The Bridge of Sighs 714 The Death-bed 645 The Dream of Eugene Aram 377 The Haunted House 870 The Lady's Dream 709 The Lost Heir 908 The Song of the Shirt 711 To a Child Embracing his Mother 35 HOOPER, LUCY HAMILTON (1835 ). Three Loves 156 HOUGHTON, RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD (1809-1885). Good-Night and Good-Morning 72 The Brookside 169 The Men of Old 745 HOW, WILLIAM WALSHAM (1823 ). " Behold, I stand at the door and knock " 570 "0 word of God incarnate" 605 HOWARD, HENRY. See Surrey. HOWE, JULIA (WARD), (1819 ). Battle Hymn of the Republic 354 HOWELL, ELIZABETH (LLOYD). Milton's Prayer of Patience 237 XVI INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page HOWITT, MARY (1798 ). The Fairies of the Caldon Low 813 The Spider and the Fly. An Apologue 707 The Use of Flowers 464 HUNT, LEIGH (1784-1859). AbouBen Adhem 684 An Angel in the House 741 Rondeau—" Jeuny Kissed me" 186 Song of Fairies robbing an Orchard {Trans- lation) 798 Songs of the Flowers 458 The Glove and the Lions 413 The Nun 171 To the Grasshopper and Cricket 486 To T. L. H., Six Years Old, during a Sickness.. 36 HUNTER, ANNE (1742-1821), The Lot of Thousands 705 INGELOW, JEAN (1820 ). Songs of Seven 19 The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire... 417 IRONS, WILLIAM JOSEPH (1812 ). Translation of Dies Irae 630 JACKSON, HELEN HUNT (1831-1885). Coronation 791 JAMES L OF ENGLAND (1566-1625). To Prince Henry 702 JOHNSON, SAMUEL (1709-1784). On the Death of Dr. Levett 247 Prologue Spoken by Garrick at Opening of Theatre Royal, Drury Lane 774 The Vanity of Human AVishes 669 JONES, SIR WILLIAM (1746-1794). An Ode— In Imitation of Alcaeus 363 The Babe (translation) 50 JONSON, BEN (1573-1637). Epigram on Sir Francis Drake 227 Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H 235 Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy..... 234 Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 235 Good Life, Long Life 698 Lines on the Portrait of Shakespeare 232 On Lucy, Countess of Bedford 235 Song—" Follow a shadow, it still flies you " 124 Song— "Still to be neat" 738 The Triumph of Charis 160 ToCelia 195 To Cynthia 455 To Himself 227 To the Memory of my Beloved Master, William Shakespeare 230 JUDSON, EMILY CHUBBOCK (1817-1854). My Bird 29 KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821). Fairy Song 797 La Belle Dame sans Merci 869 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 522 On a Grecian Urn 744 (>u First Looking into Chapman's Homer 737 On the Grasshopper and Cricket 486 The Eve of St. Agnes 127 To a Nightingale 482 To Autumn 444 To Fancy 504 Page *' To one who has been long in city pent " 503 To the Poets 733 KEBLE, JOHN (1792-1866). Evening Hymn 575 Flowers 457 Morning Hymn 573 KELLY, THOMAS (1769-1855). "We sing the praise of Him who died " 555 KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE (1809 ). Absence loi Faith 699 KEN, THOMAS (1637-1711). Evening.Hymn 575 Midnight Hymn 577 Morning Hymn 573 KENYON, JAMES BENJAMIN (1858 ). The King is Dying 791 KEPPEL, LADY CAROLINE. Robin Adair 102 KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT (1780-1843). " Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise Thee "... 568 The Star-Spangled Banner 353 KING, HENRY (1591-1669). Life 698 Sic Vita 718 KINGSLEY, CHARLES (1819-1875). A Farewell 48 A Parable from Liebig 582 Dolciuo to Margaret 778 The Last Buccaneer 421 The Sands 0' Dee 419 The Three Fishers 513 KNOWLES, HERBERT (1798-1817). Lines written in Richmond Churchyard, York- shire 653 KNOX, WILLIAM (1789-1825). "Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" 647 LAMB, CHARLES (1775-1834). A Farewell to Tobacco 929 Hester 280 The Old Familiar Faces 77 LANDOR, WAI/TER SAVAGE (1775-1864). Children 36 Rose Aylmer 762 Sixteen 214 The Maid's Lament 141 The One Gray Hair 749 To the Sister of Elia 274 LANG, ANDREW (1844 ). Ballad of the Unattainable 762 LAPRAIK, JOHN (1717-1807). Matrimonial Happiness 7 LARCOM, LUCY (1826 ). Hannah Binding Shoes 512 LEIGH, HENRY S. The Twins 910 L'ESTRANGE, SIR ROGER (1616-1704). Loyalty Confined 243 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page LEWIS, MATTHEW GREGORY (1775-1818). Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogine 875 LEYDEN, JOHN (1775-1811). Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 87 The Sabbath Morning 448 To the Evening Star 456 I.IPPINCOTT, SARA JANE ("Grace Green- wood"), (1823 ). The Horseback Ride 463 LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK (1821 ). A Nice Correspondent 202 Old Letters 88 LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON (1794-1854). Napoleon 269 The Bridal of Andalla (TVanstofoon) 209 The Bull-Fight of Gazul {Translation) 410 The Lamentation for Cell n [Translation).. 375 The Lamentation of Don Roderick (ZVansto/ion) 293 Zara's 'E.»,v-rings {Translation) 183 LODGE, THOMAS (1556 ?-1525). Rosader's Sonetto 156 Rosalind's Madrigal , 98 Rosaline 123 LOGAN, JOHN (1748-1788). Heavenly Wisdom 595 "O God of Bethel, by whose hand" 607 The Braes of Yarrov? 386 To the Cuckoo 485 LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH (1807- 1882). A Psalm of Life 635 Excelsior 783 Flowers , 457 Footsteps of Angels 771 Maidenhood 66 Old St. David's at Radnor 540 Paul Revere's Ride 328 Resignation 666 The Arsenal at Springfield 539 The Children's Hour 45 The Day is Done , 772 The Ladder of St. Augustine 699 The Old Clock on the Stairs 76 The Rainy Day 778 The Skeleton in Armor 868 The Village Blacksmith 7.39 Wreck of the Hesperus 514 LORD, WILLIAM WILBERFORCE (1818 ). On the Defeat of Henry Clay 270 LOVELACE, RICHARD (1618-1658). On Sir Peter Lely's Portrait of Charles I 253 To Althea, from Prison 124 To Lucasta, on going beyond the Seas 125 To Lucasta, on going to the Wars 124 LOVER, SAMUEL (1797-1868). RoryO'More; or, Good Omens 165 The Angels' Whisper 33 The Birth of St. Patrick 953 The Low-Back'd Car 165 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL (1819 ). Auf Wiedersehen 217 My Love 208 The Courtin' 895 The First Snowfall 446 B Page The Heritage 794 The Present Crisis 342 What Mr. Robinson Thinks 9.32 Without and Within 796 LOWELL, MARIA WHITE (1821-1853). The Alpine Sheep 658 The Morning Glory 49 LOWELL, ROBERT TRAILLSPENCE (1816 ). The Relief of Lucknow 317 LUKE, JEMIMA THOMPSON (1813 ). "Of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven" 588 LYLY, JOHN (1554-1606). ' Cupid and Campaspe 99 Song of the Fairies 797 The Songs of Birds 484 LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS (1793-1847). Abide with Me 577 "Jesus, I my cross have taken" 559 "Long did I toil" 589 Psalm LXXXIV. 620 LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES (1826-1863). Antony and Cleopatra 290 LYTTON, EDWARD GEORGE EARLE BUL- WER (Lord Lytton), (1805-1873). "When stars are in the quiet skies" 218 LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER (Lord Lytton), (" Owen Meredith), (1831 ). Aux Italiens ." 180 The Chess-Board 85 The Portrait 199 MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINCxTON (Lord Macaulay), (1800-1859). Horatius 283 Ivry. A Song of the Huguenots 308 Naseby 312 MACDONALD, GEORGE (1824 ). "Where did you come from?" 31 MACKAY, CHARLES (1814 ). Differences 794 " I lay in sorrow, deep distressed " 707 I Love my Love 146 The Child and the Mourners 55 The Good Time Coming 748 The Sailor's Wife 25 MACLEAN, L^TITIA ELIZABETH (LANDON), ("L.E.L."), (1802-1838). Crescentius 293 The Awakening of Eudymion 172 MACNEILL, HECTOR (1746-1818). Mary of Castle Cary 164 MAGINN, WILLIAM (1794-1842). The Irishman 900 MAHONY, FRANCIS ("Father Prout"), (1805- 1866). Malbrouck {Translation) 957 The Bells of Shandon 534 MALLET, DAVID (1700-1765). William and Margaret 175 MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE (1803-1849). Napoleon's Midnight Review {Translation) 269 MANT, RICHARD (1776-1848). "There is a dwelling-place above" 619 XVIU INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER (1564-1593). The Milkmaid's Song 140 MARVELL, ANDREW (1G21-1678), An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland 240 The Emigrants in the Bermudas 509 The Nymph Complaining lor the Death of her P'awn 505 The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers. 242 Thoughts in a Garden 501 MASON, WILLIAM (1725-1797). Epitaph on Mrs. Mason 252 MAYNE, JOHN (1761-1836). Helen of Kirkconnell 405 MCCARTHY, DENIS FLORENCE (1820-1882). Summer Longings 437 McMASTER, GUY HUMPHREY (1829-1887). Carmen Bellicosum 330 MEREDITH, GEORGE (1828 ). Love in the Valley 142 MERRICK, JAMES (1720-1769). The Chameleon 706 MESSINGER, ROBERT HINCKLEY (1811-1874). Give me the Old 747 MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS (1734-1786). Cumnor Hall 381 MILLER, WILLIAM (1810-1872). The Wonderfu' Wean 42 Willie Winkie 41 MILLIKEN, RICHARD ALFRED (1757-1815). The Groves of Blarney 534 MILMAN, HENRY HART (1791-1868). "Bound upon th' accurs6d tree" 555 Bridal Song 220 Burial Hymn 615 Christ Crucified 554 "When our heads are bowed with woe" 602 MILNES, RICHARD MONCKTON. See Hough- ton, Lord, MILTON, JOHN (1608-1674). Coraus: A Mask 822 Epitaph on Shakespeare 232 II Penseroso 733 L'Allegro 731 Lycidas 237 On the Morning of Christ's Nativity 543 Song on May Morning 435 Sonnets— On his being Arrived to the Age of Twenty- three 228 On his Blindness 236 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 314 To Cyriac Skinner 236 To the Lady Margaret Ley 237 To the Lord General Cromwell 236 To the Nightingale 482 ■When the Assault was Intended to the City 314 MITCHEL, WALTER (1825 ). Tacking Ship off Shore 516 MOIR, DAVID MACBETH (1798-1851). Casa Wappy 39 Page MONTGOMERY, JAMES (1771-1854). "For ever with the Lord" 617 "Friend after friend departs" 658 Gethsemane 554 Make Way for Liberty 298 Psalm LXXII 557 "Songs of praise the angels sang" 608 The Common Lot 638 The Grave.. 661 The Stranger and his Friend 561 "To Thy temple I repair" 581 "What are these in bright array" 618 What is Prayer? 583 MONTROSE, JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF (1612-1651). "My dear and only love" 193 MOORE, CLARA (JESSUP), (1824 ). The Web of Life 637 MOORE, CLEMENT CLARKE (1779-1863). The Night before Christmas 67 MOORE, EDWARD (1712-1757). The Happy Marriage 2 MOORE, THOMAS (1779-1852). A Canadian Boat-Song 733 "As by the shore at break of day" 363 "Believe me, if all those endearing young charms" 162 " Come, rest in this bosom " 147 " Farewell !— but whenever you welcome the hour" 85 "Farewell, — farewell to thee, Araby's daugh- ter!" 779 "Go where glory waits thee" 95 " I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled" 761 "Oft, in the stilly night" 77 "Oh, breathe not his name 253 "She is far from the land" 274 " Sound the loud timbrel" 570 Sweet Innisfallen 535 "The harp that once through Tara's halls" 362 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp 416 The Meeting of the Waters 535 Those Evening Bells 762 "Thou art, God " 571 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer 465 "To sigh, yet feel no pain" 182 MORRIS, GEORGE PERKINS (1802-1864). "Woodman, spare that tree" 75 MOSS, THOMAS (1740-1808). The Beggar's Petition 712 MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM (1797-1835). Jeanie Morrison 118 The Covenanters' Battle-Chant 297 "They come! the merry summer months" 438 MOULTRIE, JOHN (1799-1874). "Here's fk> thee, my Scottish lassie" 214 The Three Sons 50 MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AUGUSTUS (1796- 1877). " I would not live alway " 613 "Saviour, who Thy flock art feeding" 560 "Shout the glad tidings" 553 INDEX OF AUTHORS. XIX Page MUNBY, ARTHUR JOSEPH (1828 ). Doris. A Pastoral 201 NAIRNE, CAROLINA , LADY (1766-1845). The Laird o' Cockpen 896 The Laud of the Leal 656 NASH, THOMAS (1564-1604). Spring 435 NEALE, HANNAH (LLOYD). The Neglected Call 704 NEALE, JOHN MASON (1818-1866). "Art thou weary?" {Translation) 597 The Celestial Country " 624 NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY (1801 ). The Pillar of the Cloud 589 NEWTON, JOHN (1725-1807). "How sweet the name of Jesus sounds " 561 Psalm LXXXVII 618 NICOLL, ROBERT (1814-1837). "We are brethren a'" 795 NOEL, THOMAS. The Pauper's Drive 717 NORRIS, JOHN (1657-1711). Superstition 179 NORTON, ANDREWS (1786-1852). After a Summer Shower 439 NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH (1808-1877). Bingeu on the Rhine 83 Love Not 187 The Arab's Farewell to his Horse 496 The King of Denmark's Ride 422 O'BRIEN, FITZ-JAMES (1828-1862). Kane 275 O'CONNOR, MICHAEL. Reveille 856 O'HARA, THEODORE (1820-1867). The Bivouac of the Dead 367 O'KEEFE, JOHN (1747-1833). "I am a friar of orders gray" 926 OLDYS, WILLIAM (1696-1761). "Busy, curious, thirsty fly" 487 OLIVERS, THOxMAS (1725-1799). "Lo! He comes with clouds descending" 631 "The God of Abraham praise" 603 ONDERDONK, HENRY USTICK (1789-1858). "The spirit in our hearts" 593 OPIE, AMELIA (1769-1853). Forget me Not 94 The Orphan Boy's Tale 46 OSGOOD, FRANCES SARGENT (1811-1850). " I have something sweet to tell you " 213 Little Things 659 OSLER, EDWARD (1798-1883). Praise 621 OXFORD, EDWARD VERB, EARL OF (1534?- 1604). A Renunciation 190 PALMER, RAY (1808-1887). " My faith looks up to Thee " 558 PALMER, AVILLIAM PITT (1805-1884). The Smack in School 933 PARKER, MARTYN. Ye Gentlemen of England 507 Page PARNELL, THOMAS (1679-1718). A Hymn to Contentment 679 The Hermit 686 PARR, HARRIET. "Hear my prayer, O heavenly Father" 584 PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM (1819 ). On a Bust of Dante 223 The Groomsman to the Bridesmaid 183 PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD (1792-1852). Home, Sweet Home 1 PEACOCK, THOMAS LOVE (1785-1866). The Grave of Love 126 PEELE, GEORGE (1552?-1598?) The Aged Man-at-Arms 749 PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES (1795-1856). Coral Grove 518 It is Great for our Country to Die 365 The Reign of May 441 To Seneca Lake 539 PERCY, THOMAS (1728-1811). "O Nanny, wilt thou go with me" 161 The Friar of Orders Gray 117 PERRONET, EDWARD (1721-1792). Coronation 556 PERRY, NORA (1841). After the Ball 784 The Love-Knot 217 PHILIPS, AMBROSE (1671-1749). A Fragment from Sappho 192 To Miss Charlotte Pulteney 35 PIATT, JOHN JAMES (1835- ). The Morning Street 780 PIERPONT, JOHN (1785-1866). My Child 48 Passing Away 648 Warren's Address 328 PIKE, ALBERT (1809 ). Hymn to Neptune 891 PINKNEY, EDWARD CO ATE (1802-1828). A Health 282 PIOZZI, HESTER LYNCH THRALE (1739-1821). The Three Warnings 639 PITT, WILLIAM. The Sailor's Consolation 898 PLUMPTRE, EDWARD HAYES (1821 ). Dedication to Dante's Divine Comedy 281 The River 467 POE, EDGAR ALLAN (1809-1849). Annabel Lee 412 The Bells 768 The Haunted Palace 875 The Raven 853 POPE, ALEXANDER (1688-1744). Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady. 655 Messiah. A Sacred Eclogue 547 Ode on Solitude 753 Ode on St. Cecilia's Day 725 Prologue to Mr. Addison's Tragedy of Cato..... 244 The Dying Christian to his Soul 616 The Rape of the Lock 799 The Universal Prayer 565 PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH (1802-1839). Charade— Campbell 265 Quince 915 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page School and Schoolfellows 79 The Belle of the Bali-Room 955 The Vicar 917 PRENTICE, GEORGE DENISON (1802-1870). Sabbath Evening 450 The Closing Year 95 To an Absent Wife 14 PRENTISS, ELIZABETH PAYSON (1818-1878). Cradle Song (Translation) 32 PRINGLE, THOMAS (1789-1834). " Afar in the desert " 494 PRIOR, MATTHEW (1664-1721). Epitaph Extempore 243 "In vain you tell your parting lover" 196 "The merchant to secure his treasure" 142 To a Child of Quality Five Years Old 47 PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE (1825-1864). A Doubting Heart 704 A Dream 772 A Woman's Answer 188 A Woman's Question 187 One by One 703 Per Pacem ad Lucem 557 The Storm 515 PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER (1787-1874). A Petition to Time 749 Golden-tressfid Adelaide 39 Life 635 The Blood Horse 492 The Poet's Song to his Wife. ; = 14 The Sea 507 The Stormy Petrel 474 QUARLES, FRANCIS (1592-1644). Delight in God only 596 The Shortness of Life 635 The Vanity of the World 674 RALEIGH, SIR WALTER (1552-1618). An Epitaph upon Sir Philip Sidney 229 A Vision upon this Conceit of the Faerie Queene 737 Lines written the Night before his Execution. 2.32 The Lie..... 675 The Milkmaid's Mother's Answer 140 The Pilgrimage 598 The Silent Lover 182 RAMSAY, ALLAN (1686-1758). "At setting day and rising morn" 195 Lochaber no More 195 RANDOLPH, THOMAS (1605-1634). To my Picture 753 RANKIN, J. E. (1828 ). The Babie 41 READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN (1822-1872). Drifting 519 Sheridan's Ride 351 The Closing Scene 660 The Stranger on the Sill 75 ROBINSON, ROBERT (1735-1790). "Come, Thou Fount of every blessing" 605 ROCHESTER, JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF (1647- 1680), " My dear mistress has a heart " 156 " Too late, alas ! I must confess " 126 Page ROGERS, SAMUEL (1763-1855). An Italian Song 502 A Wish 6 Ginevra 408 To the Butterfly 486 ROSCOE, WILLIAM (1753-1831). On Parting with his Books 782 ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA GEORGINA (1830 ). Maude Clare 188 Up-Hill 598 Weary in Well-Doing 611 ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL (1828-1882). Sister Helen 879 The Blessed Damozel 843 ROWE, NICHOLAS (1673-1718). Colin's Complaint 194 RYAN, ABRAM J. (1834? ). The Conquered Banner 357 SANDS, ROBERT C. (1799-1832). Good-Night 638 SARGENT, EPES (1812-1880). A Life on the Ocean Wave 509 SAXE, JOHN GODFREY (1816-1887). A Reflective Retrospect 79 I'm Growing Old 749 The Briefless Barrister 930 SCOTT, SIR WALTER (1771-1832), Alice Brand 842 Allen-a-Dale 186 Boat-Song— " Hail to the chief " 364 Border Ballad 358 Coronach 645 County Guy 189 Hellvellyn 532 Jock of Hazeldean 134 Lochinvar 136 Paraphrase of. Dies Irae 630 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 359 "Proud Maisie is in the wood" 894 Rebecca's Hymn 570 Rosabelle 405 The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee 317 " The heath this night must be my bed " 186 The Outlaw 176 Time 717 "Where shall the lover rest" 176 SEAGRAVE, ROBERT (1693-1755?). "Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings" 590 SEARS, EDMUND HAMILTON (1810-1876). "It came upon the midnight clear" 552 SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES (1639-1701). " Love still hath something of the sea" 99 "Not, Celia, that Ijuster am" 127 To a Very Young Lady 189 SEWALL, HARRIET W^INSLOW (1819 ). Why thus Longing? 764 SEWELL, GEORGE ( 1726). The Dying Man in his Garden 657 SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM (1564-1616). Birds 444 "Blow, blow, thou winter wind" 447 " Come awey, come away. Death" 197 "Come unto these yellow sands" 798 Crabbed Age and Youth 754 INDEX OF AUTHORS. XXI Page Dirge from "Cymbeliae" 657 "Full fathom five thy father lies" 798 Influence of Music 730 Morning Song from "Cymbeline" 448 "On a day— alack the day" 141 "Over hill, over dale" 798 "Sigh no more, ladies" 187 Silvia > 217 Sonnets — " Full many a glorious morning have I "Let me not to the marriage of true minds" 218 " Like as the waves make toward the peb- bled shore" 751 "No longer mourn for me when I am dead" 219 "Not marble nor the gilded monuments ".. 750 *' Oh, how much more doth beauty beau- teous seem " 751 " Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth ". 751 " Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ?". 220 "That time of year thou may'st in me be- hold" 219 "They that have power to hurt, and will do none" 752 " Tired with all these, for restful death I cry" 219 " To me, fair friend, you never can be old ". 750 " When I do count the clock that tells the time" 750 " When in disgrac'e with fortune and men's eyes " 219 " When in the chronicle of wasted time".. 220 *'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought" 751 Sweet-and-Twenty 163 "Tell me where is Fancy bred" 842 Under the Greenwood Tree , 466 "When icicles hang by the wall " 447 "Where the bee sucks, tliere suck I" 798 SHELLEY, PERCY BY'SSHE (1792-1822). Adonais ; an Elegy on the Death of John Keats. 254 A Lament 764 Arethusa 469 Autumn; a Dirge 445 Lines to an Indian Air 103 Love's Philosophy 97 "Music when soft voices die" 185 Ode to the West Wind" 445 "One word is too often profaned " 148 "Rarely, rarely coraest thou" 777 Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples 262 The Cloud 453 The Invitation 503 The Question 500 To a Skylark 478 To Night 451 To the Moon 455 With a Guitar, To Jane 730 SHENSTONE, WILLIAM (1714^1763). A Pastoral Ballad 205 The Schoolmistress 57 SHIRLEY, JAMES (1596-1666). Death's Final Conquest 643 The Last Conqueror 643 Page SHIRLEY, WALTER (1725-1786). " Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing" 632 SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP (1554-1586). A Ditty 127 "Because I oft in dark abstracted guise" 779 "Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance" 192 " O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear ". 191 On Sleep 774 To the Moon 118 SIGOURNEY, LYDIA (HUNTLEY), (1791-1865). Indian Names 538 SKELTON, JOHN (1460 ?-l 529). To Mistress Margaret Hussey 227 SMITH, CHARLOTTE (1749-1806). On the Departure of the Nightingale 484 SMITH, HORACE (1779-1849). Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibi- tion 742 A Tale of Drury Lane 946 Hymn to the Flowers 460 The Contrast 341 SMITH, JAMES (1775-1839). Epigram 963 The Baby's Debut 950 The Theatre 948 SMITH, SAMUEL FRANCIS (1808 ). America 354 Missionary Hymn 581 SMITH, SIDNEY (1771-1845). A Recipe for Salad 968 Parody on Pope 933 SMOLLETT, TOBIAS GEORGE (1721-1771). Ode to Leven Water 533 The Tears of Scotland 326 SOUTHEY, CAROLINE (BOWLES), (1787-1854). Once upon a Time 93 The Pauper's Deathbed 716 SOUTHEY, ROBERT (1774-1843). God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop 411 History 352 " My days among the dead are passed " 735 The Battle of Blenheim 697 The Cataract of Lodore 526 The Complaints of the Poor 709 The Holly Tree 467 The Inchcape Rock 380 The March to Moscow 958 The Old Man's Comforts 694 The Well of St. Keyne 902 SOUTHWELL, ROBERT (1560-1595). Times go by Turns 776 SPENCER, PETER. A Thought among the Roses 465 SPENCER, WILLIAM ROBERT (1770-1834). Beth Gelert ; or, the Grave of the Greyhound.. 394 To Lady Anne Hamilton 777 " When midnight o'er the moonless skies " 94 SPENSER, EDMUND (1552-1598). " Like as the culver on the bar6d bough " 190 " Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere ".... 778 "The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love " 101 XXll INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page SPRAGUE, CHARLES (1791-1875). The Family Meeting.... 17 STARK. Modern Belle 932 STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE (1833 ). Cavalry Song 366 On the Doorstep 222 Pan in Wall Street 890 Toujoiirs Amour 163 STERLING, JOHN (1806-1844). Louis XV 327 STILL, JOHN (1543-1607). Jolly Good Ale and Old 927 STIRLING, WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF (1580?-1640). To Aurora 162 STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY (1825 ). Never Again 762 "The house is dark and dreary " 783 W^ithout and Within 12 STODDART, THOMAS TOD (1810 ). The Angler's Trysting Tree 473 STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE (1819 ). At Dieppe 536 lo Yictis 702 Praxiteles and Phryne 782 The Violet 462 STRODE, WILLIAM (1600-1644). Kisses..... w. 156 STRONG, L. C. West Point 90 SUCKLING, SIR JOHN (1609-1642). "I prithee send me back my heart " 171 The Constant Lover 142 Why so Pale? 104 SURREY, HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF (1518- 1547). A Praise of his Love 154 Description of Spring 433 No Age content with his own Estate 677 Prisoned in Windsor 224 The Means to attain Happy Life 636 SWAIN, CHARLES (1803-1874). Dryburgh Abbey 265 SWIFT, JONATHAN (1667-1745). Baucis and Philemon 903 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES (1837- ?). Age and Song 739 "Before the beginning of years" 742 "When the hounds of spring" 434 SYLVESTER, JOSHUA (1563-1618). A Contented Mind 680 Love's Omnipresence 99 TANNAHILL, ROBERT (1774-1810), Jessie, the Flower of Dumblane 163 The Braes of Balquhither 502 " The midges dance aboon the burn " 449 TATE (NAHUM), (1652-1715) and BRADY (NICH- OLAS), (1659-1726). Christmas 549 Psalm C 565 Page TAYLOR, BAYARD (1825-1878). Bedouin Song 177 The Quaker Widow 22 The Song of the Camp 216 TAYLOR, JANE (1783-1824). The Philosopher's Scales 685 The Squire's Pew 691 TAYLOR, TOM (1817-1880). Abraham Lincoln 278 TENNYSON, ALFRED (1809 ). " Ask me no more " 192 " As thro' the land at eve we went" 39 "Break, break, break" 88 Bugle Song „ 506 "Come into the garden, Maud" 177 Dedication to " Idylls of the King" 278 From " In Memoriam "— "Again at Christmas did we weave" 719 " Her eyes are homes of silent prayer " 719 "I held it truth, with him who sings" 719 "Oh yet we trust that somehow good " 719 "Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky" 720 "Strong Son of God, immortal Love" ., 720 " Home they brought her warrior dead" 56 Lady Clara Vere de Vere 210 Lady Clare 138 Lady of Shalott, The 832 Lilian 203 Locksley Hall 149 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington.. 271 Song of the Brook 469 St. Agnes' Eve 566 "Sweet and low" 31 The Charge of the Light Brigade 348 The Days that are no More 85 The Death of the Old Year 447 The May Queen 69 The Miller's Daughter 155 " Thy voice is heard through rolling drums"... 741 Tithonus 785 Ulysses 289 THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE (1811- 1863). At the Church Gate 211 Little Billee 913 Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball 964 Sorrows of Werther 898 The Age of Wisdom 87 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 89 The Chronicle of the Drum 333 The End of the Play 693 The King of Brentford's Testament ~ 910 THOM, WILLIAM (1799-1850). The Mitherless Bairn 46 THOMSON, JAMES (1700-1748). Hymn of the Seasons 431 Rule, Britannia 355 THORNBURY, GEORGE WALTER (1828-1876). La Tricoteuse 331 The Jester's Sermon 926 The Pompadour 326 The Three Troopers 310 THORPE, ROSA HARTWICK (1850 ). Curfew must not Ring to-night 406 THRUPP, DOROTHY ANNE (1799-1847). " I am the Good Shepherd " 597 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page THURLOW, EDWARD HOVELL, LORD (1781- 1829). Song to May 436 Summer 442 To a Bird that Haunted the Waters of Laaken. 476 To the Moon 455 TICKELL, THOMAS (1686-1740). Colin and Lucy 197 On the Death of Mr. Addison 244 TIMROD, HENRY (1829-1867). Spring 440 TODHUNTER, JOHN. The First Spring Day 439 TOPLADY, AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE (1740-1778). Address to the Soul 616 Rock of Ages 560 TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX (1807-1886). Harmosan 291 "Some murmur, when their sky is clear" 678 The Kingdom of God 682 TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND (1827 ). At Sea 519 Midsummer 443 The Vagabonds 712 TURNER, CHARLES (TENNYSON), 1808-1878). The Lachrymatory 738 TYCHBORN, CHIDIOCK ( 1856). Lines Written by One in the Tower 718 VAUGHAN, HENRY (1621-1693). Son-Dayes 580 The Rainbow 452 They are all Gone 617 VAUX, THOMAS, LORD (1510-1556). On a Contented Mind 678 VENABLE, W. H. Teacher's Dream 91 WAKEFIELD, NANCY A. W. (1836-1870). Over the River 649 WALLER, EDMUND (1605-1687). " Go, lovely Rose " 185 On a Girdle 185 On his Divine Poems 718 On the Statue of King Charles 1 270 , WALTON, IZAAK (1593-1683). The Angler's Wish 471 WARING, ANNA LtETITIA. Thy Will be Done 587 WARTON, THOMAS (1687-1745). Sonnet— Written aft«r Seeing Windsor Castle. 522 WARTON, THOMAS (1728-1790). On Revisiting the River Loddon 526 Sonnet— On Blank Leaf of Dugdale's Monasti- con 747 WASTELL, SIMON (1560?-1630?). Man's Mortality 646 WATSON, JOHN W. Beautiful Snow 715 WATSON, THOMAS (1557?-1692?). May 436 " Time wasteth years, and months, and hours ". 172 Page WATTS, ISAAC (1674-1748). "Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove" 562 Cradle Hymn 34 Glorying in the Cross 567 "I give immortal praise" 566 "O happy soul that lives on high" 595 Psalm XC 569 Psalm XCVm 569 Psalm C 566 Psalm CXVIl ; 572 Psalm CXXI 603 "There is a land of pure delight" 619 WAUGH, EDWIN (1818 ). "The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine" 166 WEBSTER, JOHN (1585 ?-1654?). Dirge from "The White Devil" 658 WELBY, AMELIA B. (1821-1852). Twilight at Sea. A Fragment ,515 WESLEY, CHARLES (1708-1788). "Hark, how all the welkin rings" 552 " Jesu, my strength, my hope" 599 "Jesus, lover of my soul" 560 The Lord is Risen 555 Wrestling Jacob 591 WESTWOOD, THOMAS (1814 ). Little Bell 38 Under my Window 53 WHITE, HENRY KIRKE (1785-1806). Additional Verse to Waller's "Go, lovely bose " 978 Hymn for Family Worship 588 The Star of Bethlehem 597 To an Early Primrose 461 WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO (1775-1841). To Night 450 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF (1807 ), Barbara Frietehie 350 Brown of Ossawatomie 277 Ichabod 268 In School-Days 47 Maud MuUer 167 My Playmate 82 My Psalm 633 Randolph of Roanoke 263 Skipper Iresou's Ride 373 The Angels of Buena Vista ....344 The Eve of Election 695 The Red River Voyageur 781 WILDE, RICHARD HENRY (1789-1847). "My life is like the summer rose" 636 To the Mocking Bird 479 WILLIAMS, HELEN MARIA (1762-1827). To Hope 68=^ "Whilst Thee I seek" 592 WILLIAMS, WILLIAM (1717-1791). "Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah" 593 WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER (1807-1867). Saturday Afternoon 77 WILSON, ALEXANDER (1766-1813). The Blue Bird. 479 WILSON, JOHN (1785-1854). The Evening Cloud 461 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page WINCHELSEA, ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF (1660?-1720). A Nocturnal Reverie 443 WINTER, WILLIAM. Fidele 276 WITHER, GEORGE (1588-1667). A Rocking Hymn 34 A Stolen Kiss 156 Evening Hymn 576 Lemuel's Song 24 Morning Hymn 574 Psalm CXLVIII 571 The Shepherd's Resolution 169 The Steadfast Shepherd 153 WOLFE, CHARLES (1791-1823). " If I had thought thou coiildst have died" 703 The Burial of Sir John Moore at Coruiina 253 WOODWORTH, SAMUEL (1785-1842). The Old Oaken Bucket 74 The Whiskers 896 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM (1770-1850). Daffodils 461 Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle 523 Hart-Leap Well 389 Intimations of Immortality from Recollec- tions of Early Childhood 664 " It is a beauteous evening calm and free " 450 Lines Written in Early Spring 439 Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey 540 Lucy Gray ; or, Solitude 56 "My Heart Leaps Up when I Behold" 453 Ode to Duty 684 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic... 347 " Scorn not the sonnet" 779 She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways 49 "She was a Phantom of delight" 10 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle 225 Sonnet — Composed upon Westminster Bridge.. 521 The Kitten and the Falling Leaves 489 The Pet Lamb. A Pastoral 491 " Three years she grew in sun and shade " 49 To a Highland Girl 65 To a Skylark 477 To a Skylark 477 To Milton 242 To the Cuckoo 484 To the Daisy 462 To the Daisy 463 We are Seven 51 Yarrow Revisited 529 Yarrow Unvisited 528 Yarrow Visited 528 WOTTON, SIR HENRY (1568-1639). Tears wept at the Grave of Sir Albertus Morton. 230 The Character of a Happy Life 681 To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 185 Upon the Death of Sir Albertus Morton's Wife 230 Upon the Sudden Restraint of the Earl of Somerset... 232 Verses in Praise of Angling 471 Page WYATT, SIR THOMAS (150:3-1542). Blame not my Lute 190 The Recured Lover Exultethiu his Freedom.. 191 YATES, EDMUND. Epigram— "All Saints" 898 YOUNG, ANDREW (1807 ). " There is a happy land " 619 ZEDLIETZ, JOSEPH CHRISTIAN VON. Napoleon's Midnight Review 269 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. Anne Hathaway 281 Annie Laurie 199 Armstrong's Good-Night 676 Ballad of Chevy-Chace 300 Barbara Allen's Cruelty 419 Between the Lights 703 Christmas Carol 551 "Christ will gather in His own" 629 Comin' through the Rye 214 Edward, Edward ■ 382 f^pigram — "Vox et prseterea nihil" 898 Fair Annie of Lochroyan 396 Fair Helen 484 Glenlogie 408 Good-Night 718 Katharine Janfarie 395 Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament 32 Lament of the Border Widow 419 Lord Lovel 198 "Love not me for comely grace" J39 Love will Find out the Way 97 Monody on the Death of an Only Client 931 Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale 392 Sir Patrick Spens 369 St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes 919 Take thy Old Cloak about Thee 905 The Child of Elle 387 The Children in the Wood 53 The Cruel Sister 420 The Cumberland 350 The Dowie Dens of Yarrow 383 The Dumb Child 41 The Fairy Queen 797 The Heir of Linne „ 370 The Jovial Beggar 928 The Merry Pranks of Robin Goodfellow 812 The New Jerusalem 622 The Nut-Brown Maid 112 The Old and Young Courtier ; 692 The Siege of Belgrade ^ 969 The Twa Corbies 416 The Vicar of Bray 918 The Wandering Jew 376 "They're Dear Fish to Me" 513 To a Skeleton 662 To my Horse 497 Twenty Years Ago 78 Veni Creator Spiritus 562 Waly, waly, but Love be Bonny 103 Where are you Going, my Pretty Maid? 902 White Rose 214 Winifreda 7 Young Airly 324 ' o ■^^L-.,^--<2^'<5'"e<^*'--»-*^-<:^^~SI^^^«-tje-^ / Poetry OF Home and the Fireside. Home, Sweet Home. 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home, sweet, sweet, home ! There's no place like home ! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; Oh! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again ! The birds, singing gayly, that came at my call — Give me them ! — and the peace of mind dearer than all. Home, sweet, sweet, sweet, home ! There's no place like home! John Howard Payne. The Homes of England. The stately Homes of England ! How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall, ancestral trees. O'er all the pleasant land ! The deer across their greensward bound. Through shade and sunny gleam. And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England ! Around their hearths by night. What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light ! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed Homes of England ! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn : All other sounds, in that still time. Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage Homes of England ! By thousands on her plains. They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, An i round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep. Each from its nook of leaves. And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair Homes of England ! Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be rear'd To guard each hallow'd wall ! And green for ever be the groves. And bright the flowery sod. Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God ! Felicia Dorothea Hemahb. My Ain Fireside. I HAE seen great anes, and sat in great ha's, 'Mang lords and fine ladies a' cover'd wi' braws. At feasts made for princes wi' princes I've been. When the grand shine o' splendor has dazzled my een ; FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. But a sight sae deliglitfu' I trow I ne'er spied As the bonny blithe blink o' my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside ; My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. Ance mair, Gude be thankit, round my ain heartsome ingle, Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle ; Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad, I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad. Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear, But truth to delight me, and friendship to cheer ; Of a' roads to happiness ever were tried, There's nane half so sure as ane's ain fire- side. My ain fireside, my ain fireside. Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. When I draw in my stool on my cozy hearthstane, My heart loups sae light I scarce ken't for my ain ; Care's down on the wind, it is clean out o' sight. Past troubles they seem but as dreams o' the night. I hear but kend voices, kend faces I see. And mark saft affection glent fond frae ilk ee ; Nae fleechings o' flattery, nae boastings o' pride, 'Tis heart speaks to heart at ane's ain fire- side. My ain fireside, my ain fireside. Oh there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. Elizabeth Hamilton. The Happy Marriage. How blest has my time been, what joys have I known. Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own ! So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray. Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : How pleasing their sport is ! The wanton ones see, And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen, In revels all day, with the nymphs on the green : Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles. And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue. Her wit and good-humor bloom all the year through; Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare And cheat with false vows the too credu • lous fair; In search of true pleasure, how vainly yoi» roam ! To hold it for life, you must find it at home Edward Moore. The Fireside. Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. In folly's maze advance. Though singularity and pride Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside, Nor join the giddy dance. From the gay world we'll oft retire To our own family and fire. Where love our hours employs ; No noisy neighbor enters here, No intermeddling stranger near, To spoil our heartfelt joys. If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam ; POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. The world hath nothing to bestow — From our own selves our bliss must flow, And that dear hut, our home. Of rest was Noah's dove bereft. When with impatient wing she left That safe retreat, the ark ; Giving her vain excursion o'er, The disappointed bird once more Explored the sacred bark. Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, We, who improve his golden hours, By sweet experience know That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good A paradise below. Our babes shall richest comforts bring ; If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring Whence pleasures ever rise ; We'll form their minds with studious care To all that's manly, good, and fair, And train them for the skies. While they our wisest hours engage. They'll joy our youth, support our age. And crown our hoary hairs ; They'll grow in virtue every day. And thus our fondest loves repay, And recompense our cares. No borrow'd joys, they're all our own, While to the world we live unknown, Or by the world forgot ; Monarchs ! we envy not your state — We look with pity on the great, And bless our humble lot. Our portion is not large, indeed ; But then how little do we need. For Nature's calls are few ! In this the art of living lies — To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do. We'll therefore relish with content Whate'er kind Providence has sent, Nor aim beyond our power ; For, if our stock be very small, 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all. Nor lose the present hour. To be resign'd when ills betide, Patient when favors are denied. And pleased with favors given — Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, This is that incense of the heart Whose fragrance smells to heaven. We'll ask no long-protracted treat, Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; But, when our feast is o'er. Grateful from table we'll arise, Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes. The relics of our store. Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe With cautious steps we'll tread ; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear, And mingle with the dead ; While conscience, like a faithful friend, . Shall through the gloomy vale attend, And cheer our dying breath — Shall, when all other comforts cease, Like a kind angel whisper peace, And smooth the bed of death. Nathaniel Cotton. The COTTER'S Saturday Night. Inscribed to Kobert Aiken, Esq. " Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short and simple annals of the poor."— Gray. My lov'd, my honor'd, much-respected friend ! 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 sequester'd scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah ! tho' 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,— FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 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 hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th* expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through To meet their '*dad," wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile. The lisping infant, prattling on his knee. Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile. And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. In youthfu' bloom — love sparkling in her e'e— Comes hame ; perhaps, to show a braw new gown. Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hard- ship be. With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet. And each for other's welfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forward points the view ; The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new: The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's and their mistress's com- mand. The younkers a' are warned to obey ; And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play; "And oh, be sure to fear the Lord alway, And mind your duty, duly, morn and night; Lest 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, Tells how a neibor 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 hafilins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; Blythe 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 an' 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 : O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond com- pare ! I've pac^d much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this de- clare, — " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas- ure spare — POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 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, in 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 ! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- traction wild ? But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food; The sowpe their only hawkie does aiFord, That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb- buck, fell ; And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid : The frugal wifie, 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 ; The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace. The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride : His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. His lyart haffets wearing thin and 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 no- blest aim : Perhaps " Dundee's " wild warbling meas- ures rise. Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble " Elgin " beets 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 stroke 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; 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 pro- nounced 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 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 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 ev'ry grace, except the heart ! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert. The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, 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 sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secret homage pay, *And proffer up to Heaven the warm request. That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry 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 God;" 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, I>ong may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest 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. O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart. Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part : (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- ward!) Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! Robert Burns. A WISH. Mine be a cot beside the hill ; A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear ; A willowy brook, that turns a mill. With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay -built nest ; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village church, among the trees. Where first our marriage vows were given, • With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven. Samuel IIogeb& A PICTURE. The farmer sat in his easy-chair Smoking his pipe of clay. While his hale old wife, with busy care.. Was clearing the dinner away ; A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes. On her grandfather's knee was catching flies. POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. The old man laid his hand on her head, With a tear on his wrinkled face ; He thought how often her mother, dead, Had sat in the self-same place. As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, " Don't smoke !" said the child ; " how it makes you cry !" The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal ; The busy old wife, by the open door, Was turning the spinning-wheel ; And the old brass clock on the manteltree Had plodded along to almost three. Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, While close to his heaving breast The moisten'd brow and the cheek so fair Of his sweet grandchild were press'd ; His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay : Fast asleep were they both, that summer day ! Charles G. Eastman. Matrimonial Happiness. When I upon thy bosom lean. And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, I glory in the sacred ties That made us ane wha ance were twain. A mutual flame inspires us baith. The tender look, the meltin' kiss ; Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, But only gi'e us change o' bliss. Hae I a wish ? it's a' for thee ! I ken thy wish is me to please ; Our moments pass sae smooth away That numbers on us look and gaze ; Weel pleased they see our happy days, Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame ; And aye when weary cares arise. Thy bosom still shall be my hame. I'll lay me there and tak' my rest ; And if that aught disturb my dear, I'll bid her laugh her cares away. And beg her not to drop a tear. Hae I a joy? it's a' her ain ! United still her heart and mine ; They're like the woodbine round the tree, That's twined till death shall them disjoin. John Lapraik. WiNIFREDA. Away ! let naught to love displeasing. My Winifreda, move your care ; Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear. What though no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood ; We'll shine in more substantial honors. And to be noble we'll be good. Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke, And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk. What though from fortune's lavish bounty No mighty treasures we possess ; We'll find within our pittance plenty, And be content without excess. Still shall each returning season Suflicient for our wishes give ; For we will live a life of reason ; And that's the only life to live. Through youth and age, in love excelling, We'll hand in hand together tread ; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwell- ing, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. How should I love the pretty creatures While round my knees they fondly clung, To see them look their mother's features. To hear them lisp their mother'o tongue ! And when with envy time, transported, Shall think to rob us of our joys. You'll in your girls again be courted. And I'll go a-wooing in my boys. Author Unknown. Hermionk Wherever I wander, up and about. This is the puzzle I can't make out — Because I care little for books, no doubt I have a wife, and she is wise. Deep in philosophy, strong in Greek ; Spectacles shadow her pretty eyes, Coteries rustle to hear her speak ; FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. She writes a little — for love, not fame ; Has publish'd a book with a dreary name ; And yet (God bless her!) is mild and meek. And how I happened to woo and wed A wife so pretty and wise withal, Is part of the puizle that fills my head — Plagues me at day-time, racks me in bed, Haunts me, and makes me appear so small. The only answer that I can see Is — I could not have married Hermion6 (That is her fine wise name), but she Stoop' d in her wisdom and married me. For I am a fellow of no degree. Given to romping and jollity ; The Latin they thrash'd into me at school The world and its fights have thrash'd away : At figures alone I am no fool. And in city circles I say my say. But I am a dunce at twenty-nine, And the kind of study that I think fine Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the Times, When I lounge, after work, in my easy- chair ; Punch for humor, and Praed for rhymes, And the butterfly mots blown here and there By the idle breath of the social air. A little French is my only gift. Wherewith at times I can make a shift. Guessing at meanings, to flutter over A filigree tale in a paper cover. Hermion6, my Hermion6 ! What could your wisdom perceive in me ? And, Hermione, my Hermione ! How does it happen at all that we Love one another so utterly ? Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two, A darling who cries with lung and tongue about : As fine a fellow, I swear to you, As ever poet of sentiment sung about ! And my lady-wife with the serious eyes Brightens and lightens when he is nigh. And looks, although she is deep and wise, As foolish and happy as he or I ! And I have the courage just then, you see. To kiss the lips of Hermion^ — Those learned lips that the learned praise — And to clasp her close as in sillier days ; To talk and joke in a frolic vein. To tell her my stories of things and men ; And it never strikes me that I'm profane. For she laughs and blushes, and kisses again ; And, presto ! fly ! goes her wisdom then I For boy claps hands, and is up on her breast, Eoaring to see her so bright with mirth ; And I know she deems me (oh the jest !) The cleverest fellow on all the earth ! And Hermion6, my Hermion6, Nurses her boy and defers to me ; Does not seem to see I'm small — Even to think me a dunce at all ! And wherever I wander, up and about, Here is the puzzle I can't make out : That Hermion6, my Hermion6, In spite of her Greek and philosophy, When sporting at night with her boy and me, Seems sweeter and wiser, I assever — ' Sweeter and wiser, and far more clever. And makes me feel more foolish than ever, Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace. And the silly pride in her learned face ! That is the puzzle I can't make out — Because I care little for books, no doubt ; But the puzzle is pleasant, I know not why. For, whenever I think of it, night or morn, I thank my God she is wise, and I The happiest fool that was ever born ! Robert Buchanan. John Anderson, my Jo. John Andersoist, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is held, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo ! John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither : POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. Now we maun totter down, John ; And hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. ROBEKT Burns. Lines Written to his Wife, While on a Visit to Upper India. If thon wert by my side, my love, How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale ! If thou, my love, wert by my "side, My babies at my knee, How gaily would our pinnace glide O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! I miss thee at the dawning gray, When, on our deck reclined, In careless ease my limbs I lay, And woo the cooler wind. I miss thee when by Gunga's stream My twilight steps I guide ; But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee from my side. I spread my books, my pencil try. The lingering noon to cheer. But miss thy kind, approving eye. Thy meek, attentive ear. But when of morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far. Thy prayers ascend for me. Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, My course be onward still — On broad Hindostan's sultry meads, O'er black Almorah's hill. That course nor Delhi's kingly gates Nor mild Malwah detain ; For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say. Across the dark blue sea ; But never were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee ! Reginald Heber. To My Wife. Oh, hadst thou never shared my fate, More dark that fate would prove : My heart were truly desolate Without thy soothing love. But thou hast suffer'd for my sake. Whilst this relief I found. Like fearless lips that strive to take The poison from a wound. My fond affection thou hast seen, Then judge of my regret To think more happy thou hadst been If we had never met ! And has that thought been shared by thee ? Ah, no ! that smiling cheek Proves more unchanging love for me Than labor'd words could speak. But there are true hearts which the sight Of sorrow summons forth ; Though knowm in days of past delight, We knew not half their worth. How unlike some who have profess'd So much in Friendship's name, Yet calmly pause to think how best They may evade her claim. But ah ! from them to thee I turn, — They'd make me loathe mankind ; Far better lessons I may learn From thy more holy mind. The love that gives a charm to home I feel they cannot take : We'll pray for happier years to come. For one another's sake. Thomas Haynes Batlt. The WINS03IE Wee Thing. She is a winsome wee thing. She is a handsome wee thing. She is a lo'esome wee thing, This dear wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer ; And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing. She is a handsome wee thing. 10 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. i She is a lo'esome wpe thing, This dear wee wife o' mine. The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't, Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. Robert Burns. She was a Phanto3i of Delight. She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight ; A lovely Apparition, sent . To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May -time and the cheerful Dawn ; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To hunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her, upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a AVoman too ! Her household motions light and free. And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A Creature, not too bright or good For human nature's daily food — For transient sorrows, simple wiles. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd. To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light. William Wordsworth. TO Mary. " Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed " — So, fourteen years ago, I said. Behold another ring! — "For what? — To wed thee o'er again ?" Why not ? With that first ring I married youth, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ; Taste long admired, sense long revered. And all my Molly then appear'd. If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now To justify a double vow. Here, then, to-day (with faith as sure, With ardor as intense, as pure. As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth and plighted mine), To thee, sweet girl, my second ring, A token and a pledge, I bring : With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart — Those virtues which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride ; Those virtues whose progressive claim. Endearing wedlock's very name. My soul enjoys, my song approves. For conscience' sake as w^ell as love's. And why ? They show me every hour Honor's high thought. Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sen- tence. And teach me all things — but repentance. Samuel Bishop. The MARINER'S Wife. Akd are ye sure the news is true ? And are ye sure he's weel ? Is this a time to think o' wark ? Ye jauds fling by your wheel ! Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin's at the door? Rax me my cloak, I'll to the quay And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a' ; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'. And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown ; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's come to town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My hose o' pearl blue ; It's a' to pleasure my ain gudeman. For he's baith leal and true. Rise up and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot ; Gie little Kate her Sunday gown. And Jock his button coat ; 1 POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 11 And rnak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw ; It's a' to please my ain gudeman. For he's been long awa'. There's twa fat hens upo' the bank They've fed this month and mair ; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare ; And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw ; For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa' ? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air ; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again ? . And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet ! Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I hae nae mair to crave : Could I but live to mak him blest, I'm blest aboon the lave : And will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a' ; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'. Jean Adam. The Exile to his Wife. Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee, Day-time and night-time, I'm thinking about thee ; Night-time and day-time, in dreams I be- hold thee ; Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten ; Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten ; Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, Telling of spring and its joyous renewing, And thoughts of thy love, and its mani- fold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. Spring of my spirit ! O May of my bosom ! Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom ; The waste of my life has a rose-root with- in it. And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. Figure that moves like a song through the even ; Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other ; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple. Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple ; — Oh, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming ! You have been glad when you knew I was gladden'd ; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am sad- den'd? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love: 1 cannot weep but your tears will be flowing. You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing ; I would not die without you at my side, love ; You will not linger when I shall have died, love. Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, Else on my gloom like the sun of to- morrow ; Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love. With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. 12 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Come, for my heart in your absence is weary, — Haste, for my spirit is sicken'd and dreary, — Come to the arms which alone should caress thee, Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee! Joseph Brenan. A Wife. The wife sat thoughtfully turning over A book inscribed with the school-girl's name; A tear, one tear, fell hot on the cover So quickly closed when her husband came. He came, and he went away, it was nothing ; "With commonplace upon either side; But, just as the sound of the room-door shutting, A dreadful door in her soul stood wide. Love she had read of in sweet romances, Love that could sorrow, but never fail ; Built her own palace of noble fancies, All the wide world like a fairy tale. Bleak and bitter and utterly doleful, Spread to this woman her map of life : Hour after hour she look'd in her soul, full Of deep dismay and turbulent strife. Face in hands, she knelt on the car- pet; The cloud was loosen'd, the storm-rain fell. Oh life has so much to wither and warp it, One poor heart's day what poet could tell ? William Allingham. Without and Within. I. The night is dark, and the winter winds Go stabbing about with their icy spears ; The sharp hail rattles against the panes. And melts on my cheeks like tears. 'Tis a terrible night to be out of doors, But some of us must be, early and late ; We needn't ask who, for don't we know It has all been settled by Fate ? Not woman, but man. Give woman her flowers. Her dresses, her jewels, or what she de- mands : The work of the world must be done by man, Or why has he brawny hands ? As I feel my way in the dark and cold, I think of the chambers warm and bright — The nests where these delicate birds of ours Are folding their wings to-night ! Through the luminous windows, above and below, I catch a glimpse of the life they lead : Some sew, some sing, others dress for the ball. While others (fair students) read. There's the little lady who bears my name — She sits at my table now, pouring her tea; Does she think of me as I hurry home, Hungry and wet ? Not she. She helps herself to the sugar and cream In a thoughtless, dreamy, nonchalant way; Her hands are white as the virgin rose That she wore on her wedding-day. My stubbed fingers are stain'd with ink — The badge of the ledger, the mark- of trade ; But the money I give her is clean enough, In spite of the way it is made. I wear out my life in the counting-room. Over day-book and cash-book. Bought and Sold ; My brain is dizzy with anxious thought. My skin is as sallow as gold. How does she keep the roses of youth Still fresh in her cheeks ? My roses are flown. It lies in a nutshell : why do I ask ? A woman's life is her own. POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 13 She gives me a kiss when we part for the j I think of woman, and think of man, day, The tie that binds, and the wrongs that Then goes to her music, blithe as a bird ; She reads it at sight, and the language too, Though I know never a word. She sews — a little; makes collars and sleeves ; Or embroiders me slippers (always too small) ; Nets silken purses (for me to fill) — Often does nothing at all But dream in her chamber, holding a flower. Or reading my letters (she'd better read me) ! Even now, while I am freezing with cold, She is cozily sipping her tea. If I ever reach home I shall laugh aloud At the sight of a roaring fire once more ; She must wait, I think, till I thaw myself, For the usual kiss at the door. 1*11 have with my dinner a bottle of port, To warm up my blood and soothe my mind ; Then a little music, for even I Like music — when I have dined. I'll smoke a pipe in the easy-chair. And feel her behind me patting my head ; Or, drawing the little one on my knee. Chat till the hour for bed. II. Will he never come ? I have watch'd for him Till the misty panes are roughen'd with sleet ; I can see no more : shall I never hear The welcome sound of his feet? I think of him in the lonesome night, Tramping along with a weary tread, And wish he were here by the cheery fire, Or I were there in his stead. I sit by the grate, and hark for his step. And stare in the fire with a troubled mind; The glow of the coals is bright in my face. But my shadow is dark behind. part, And long to utter in burning words What I feel to-night in my heart No weak complaint of the man I love, No praise of myself or my sisterhood ; But — something that women understand, By men never understood. Their natures jar in a thousand things ; Little matter, alas! who is right or wrong. She goes to the wall. ''She is weakT' they say; It is that that makes them strong.. But grant us weak (as in truth we are In our love for them), they should make us strong ; But do they? Will they? "Woman is WEAK !" Is the burden still of their song. Wherein am I weaker than Arthur, pray ? He has, as he should, a sturdier frame, And he labors early and late for me j But I — I could do the same. My hands are willing, my brain is clear, The world is wide, and the workers few ; But the work of the world belongs to man ; There is nothing for woman to do. Yes, she has the holy duties of home, A husband to love, and children to bear; The softer virtues, the social arts — In short, a life without care. So our masters say. But what do they know Of our lives and feelings when they are away? Our household duties, our petty tasks, The nothings that waste the day ? Nay, what do they care ? 'Tis enough for them That their homes are pleasant; thev seek their ease : One takes a wife to flatter his pride ; Another, to keep his keys. They say they love us ; perhaps they do, In a masculine way, *as they love their wine ; « 14 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. But the soul of a woman needs something more, Or it suffers at times like mine. Not that Arthur is ever unkind In word or deed, for he loves me well ; But I fear he thinks me weak as the rest — (And I may be : who can tell ?) I should die if he changed or loved me less, For I live at best but a restless life ; Y'et he may, for they say the kindest men Grow tired of a sickly wife. Oh, love me, Arthur, my lord, my life ! If not for my love and my womanly fears, At least for your child. But I hear his step — He must not find me in tears. EicHARD Henry Stoddard. The Poets Song to his Wife. How many summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, my dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours ! Some weight of thought, though loath. On thee he leaves ; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves ; Some fears, — a soft regret For joys scarce known ; Sweet looks we half forget ; All- else is flown ! Ah ! with what thankless heart I mourn and sing ! Look, where our children start, Like sudden spring ! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time ! Bryan Waller Proctkr (Barry Cornwall). To an Absent Wife. Written at Biloxi. 'Tis Morn : — the sea-breeze seems to bring Joy, health, and freshness on its wing ; Bright flowers, to me all strange and new^, Are glittering in the early dew, And perfumes rise from every grove, As incense to the clouds that move Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear : But I am sad — thou art not here ! 'Tis Noon : — a calm, unbroken sleep Is on the blue waves of the deep ; A soft haze, like a fairy dream, Is floating over wood and stream ; And many a broad magnolia flower, Within its shadowy woodland bower, Is gleaming like a lovely star : But I am sad — thou art afar ! 'Tis Eve : — on earth the sunset skies Are painting their own Eden dyes ; The stars come down, and trembling glow Like blossoms on the waves below , And, like an unseen spirit, the breeze Seems lingering 'midst these orange trees, Breathing its music round the spot : But I am sad — I see thee not ! 'Tis Midnight : — with a soothing spell, The far tones of the ocean swell. Soft as a mother's cadence mild. Low bending o'er her sleeping child ; And on each wandering breeze are heard The rich notes of the mocking-bird, In many a wild and wondrous lay : But I am sad — thou art away ! I sink in dreams: — low, sweet, and clear. Thy own dear voice is in my ear ; Around my neck thy tresses twine — Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine - Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed — Thy head is pillowed on my breast : — Oh ! I have all my heart holds dear, And I am happy — thou art here ! George Dennison Prentice. POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 15 FAEE thee WELL! Fare thee well ! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain. While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again ! Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee, — Though it smile upon the blow. Even its praises must offend thee. Founded on another's woe : Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found, Than the one which once embraced me. To inflict a cureless wound? Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not : Love may sink by slow decay. But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away : Still thine own its life retaineth, — Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; And the undying thought which paineth Is — that we no more may meet. These are w^ord's of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead ; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow. Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " Though his care she must forego ? When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee. Think of him thy love had blessed ! Should Lier lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore mayst see. Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest. All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Wither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken ; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee, — by thee forsaken. Even my soul forsakes me now : But 'tis done : all words are idl€, — Words from me are vainer still ; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the wdll. Fare thee well ! — thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie. Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die. Lord Byron. On the Receipt of my MOTHER'S Picture. Oh that those lips had language ! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine^thy own sweet smile I see. The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the Art that can immortalize, — The Art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, welcome guest, though unexpected, here ! Who bidst me honor with an artless song, Aflectionate, a mother lost so long. 1 will obey, not willingly alone. But gladly, as the precept were her own ; And while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, — Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead. Say, wast thou conscious of the tears T shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 16 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile ! — it answers — Yes. I heard the bell toU'd on thy burial-day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! I But was it such? — It was. — Where thou i art gone I Adieus and farewells are a. sound unknown. ' May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting words shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed. And disappointed still, was still deceived ; By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day. Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 'Tis now become a history little known. That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! But the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. Still outlives many a storm, that has ef- faced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ; All this, and, more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks That humor interposed too often makes ; All this, still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age. Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heaven, though little no- ticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers. The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick' d them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), — Could those few pleasant days again ap- pear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart ; the dear de- light Seems so to be desired, pephaps I might. But no — what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much. That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd). Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile. There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below. While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 17 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd \ the shore, " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ;" And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always dis- tress'd, — Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest- toss'd. Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and com- pass lost. And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth. But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell ! — Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine ; And, while the wings of fancy still are free. And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left, William Cowper. Too Late. " Dowglas, Dowglas, teudir and treu." Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, 2 I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do ;— Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Oh to call back the days that are not ! My eyes were blinded, your words were few; Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; Not half worthy the like of you ; Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — I love you, Douglas, tender and true. Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Dinah Mulock Craik. The Family Meeting. We are all here, Father, mother. Sister, brother, All who hold each other dear. Each chair is fill'd ; we're all at home ! To-night let no cold stranger come. It is not often thus around Our old familiar hearth we're found. Bless, then, the meeting and the spot ; For once be every care forgot ; Let gentle Peace assert her power. And kind Affection rule the hour. We're all — all here. We're not all here ! Some are away, — the dead ones dear. Who throng'd with us this ancient heartli, And gave the hour to guileless mirth. Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, Look'd in, and thinn'd our little band ; Some like a night-flash pass'd away. And some sank lingering day by day ; The quiet graveyard, — ^some lie there, — And cruel Ocean has his share. We're not all here. IS FIRESIDE ExNCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. We are all here ! Even they, — the dead,— though dead, so dear, — Fond Memory, to her duty true, Brings back their faded forms to view. How life-like, through the mist of years, Each well-remember'd face appears ! We see them, as in times long past ; From each to each kind looks are cast ; We hear their words, their smiles be- hold; They're round us, as they were of old. We are all here. We are all here, Father, mother, Sister, brother, You that I love with love so dear. This may not long of us be said ; Soon must we join the gather 'd dead, And by the hearth we now sit round Some other circle will be found. Oh, then, that wisdom may we know. Which yields a life of peace below ! So, in the w^orld to follow this, May each repeat in words of bliss. We're all — all here ! Charles Sprague. The Poets Bridal-Day Song. Oh, my love's like the steadfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run ; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between sighs and tears — Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain — Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows To sober joys and soften woes. Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse I see thee sit In maiden bloom and' matron wit — Fair, gentle as when first I sued, Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Arbigland tree, We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon ; Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew. When looks were fond and words were few. Though I see smiling at thy feet Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet ; And time, and care, and birth-time woes Have dimm'd thine eye and touch'd thy rose; To thee, and thoughts of thee belong Whate'er charms me in tale or song ; When words descend like dews unsoughc With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought, And Fancy in her heaven flies free — They come, my love, they come from thee. Oh, when more thought we gave of old To silver than some give to gold, 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er How we should deck our humble bower ! 'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee The golden fruit of Fortune's tree ; And sweeter still to choose and twine A garland for that brow of thine — A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow and woods grow green. At times there come, as come there ought. Grave moments of sedater thought — When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night One gleam of her inconstant light ; And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower, Shines like a rainbow through the shower — Oh, then I see, while seated nigh, A mother's heart shine in thine eye ; And proud resolve and purpose meek. Speak of thee more than words can speak : I think this wedded wife of mine The best of all things not divine. Allan Cunningham. Old Folks at Home. 'Way down upon de Swannee Ribber, Far, far away, — Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber, — Dare's wha de old folks stay. All up and down de whole creation Sadly I roam ; Still longing for de old plantation. And for de old folks at home. All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home ! POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 19 All 'round de little farm I wander' d When I was young ; Den many happy days I squander'd, — Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder, Happy was I ; Oh, take me to my kind old mudder ! Dare let me live and die ! All de world am sad and dreary Eb'ry where I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home ! One little hut among de bushes,— One dat I love, — Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes, No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-humming All round de comb ? When will I hear de banjo tumming Down in my good old home ? All de world am sad and dreary Eb'ry where I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home ! Stephkn C. Foster. Songs of Seven. SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATIOJT. There's no dew left on the daisies and clover. There's no rain left in heaven : I've said my " seven times " over and over, Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; My birthday lessons are done ; The lambs play always, they know no better ; They are only one times one. moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low ; You were bright ! ah bright ! but your light is failing, — You are nothing now but a bow. You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face ? I hope if you have you will soon be for- given. And shine again in your place. velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powder'd your legs with gold ! brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow. Give me your money to hold ! columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell I And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away ; 1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, lin- net, — I am seven times one to-day. SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes. How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. " Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily. While a boy listen'd alone ; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over. And mine, they are yet to be ; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover : You leave the story to me. The foxglove shoots out of the green mat- ted heather. Preparing her hoods of snow ; 20 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather : Oh, children take long to grow. I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late ; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait. I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head ; ''The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said." I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree ; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it! Such as I wish it to be. SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. I lean'd out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; ^ Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover — Hush nightingale, hush ! O sweet night- ingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late ! " The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree. The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters glow. Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me. " You night-moths that hOver where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; You glow-worms, shine out, and the path- way discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep — " Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one lover, I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore pass'd he, and through the white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd took flight ; But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright. SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses. And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small ! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all. Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups I Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge- sparrow. That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain ; Sing, " Heart, thou art wide, though the house be but narrow," — Sing once, and sing it again. Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow ; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks on you now ! Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall — POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 21 A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall ! Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all ! SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. I SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan Before I am well awake ; '' Let me bleed! oh let me alone, Since I must not break !" For children wake, though fathers sleep With a stone at foot and at head ; sleepless God, for ever keep, Keep both living and dead ! 1 lift mine eyes, and what to see But a world happy and fair ? I have not wish'd it to mourn with me — Comfort is not there. Oh, what anear but golden brooms, And a waste of reedy rills ! Oh, what afar but the fine glooms On the rare blue hills ! I shall not die, but live forlorn ; How bitter it is to part ! Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more ! Oh, my heart, my heart ! No more to hear, no more to see ; Oh, that an echo might wake, And waft one note of thy psalm to me Ere my heart-strings break ! I should know it how faint soe'er, And with angel-voices blent ; Oh, once to feel thy spirit anear, I could be content ! Or once between the gates of gold. While an angel entering trod, But once — thee sitting to behold On the hills of God ! SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE. To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose : To see my bright ones disappear. Drawn up like morning dews ; To bear, to nurse, to rear. To watch, and then to lose : This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose. To hear, to heed, to wed. And with thy Lord depart In tears that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart ; To hear, to heed, to wed. This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, " Mother, give me thy child." Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind. To God I gave with tears ; But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears. Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, God guards in happier spheres ; That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years. To hear, to heed, to wed. Fair lot that maidens choose. Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views ; Thy mother's lot, my dear. She doth in naught accuse ; Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love, — and then to lose. SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME. A SONG of a boat : — There was once a boat on a billow : Lightly she rock'd to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow, And her frail mast bow'd when the breez* would blow. And bent like a wand of willow. I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtseying over the billow, I mark'd her course till a dancing mote She faded out on the moonlit foam, And I stay'd behind in the dear loved home ; And my thoughts all day were about the boat And my dreams upon the pillow. FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. I pray you hear my song of a boat, For it ivS but short : — My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port. Long I look'd out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea. And I think he sail'd to the heavenly shore, For he came not back to me — Ah me ! A song of a nest : — There was once a nest in a hollow : Down in the mosses and knot-grass press'd, Soft and warm, and full to the brim. Vetches lean'd over it purple and dim. With buttercup buds to follow. I pray you hear my song of a nest. For it is not long : — You shall never light, in a summer quest, The bushes among — Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestful, nor ever know A softer sound than their tender twitter, That wind-like did come and go. I had a nestful once of my own. Ah happy, happy I ! Eight dearly I loved them : but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly. Oh, one after one they flew away Far up to the heavenly blue. To the better country, the upper day. And — I wish I was going too. I pray you, what is the nest to me. My empty nest ? And what is the shore where I stood to see My boat sail down to the west ? Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Though my good man has sail'd ? Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope hath fail'd ? Nay, but the port where my sailor went. And the land where my nestlings be, — There is the home where my thoughts are sent. The only home for me — Ah me ! Jean- Ingelow. The Quaker Widow. Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah, — • come in ! 'Tis kind of thee To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to comfort me. The still and quiet company a peace may give, indeed. But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. Come, sit thee down ! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit On the First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit ; He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple trees. 1 think he loved the spring : not that he cared for flowers; most men Think such things foolishness, — ^but we were first acquainted then. One spring : the next he spoke his mind ; the third I was his wife, And in the spring (it happen'd so) our children enter'd life. He was but seventy-five : I did not think to lay him yet In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met. The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better I should be Pick'd out to bear the heavy cross — alone in age — than he. We've lived together fifty years : it seems but one long day. One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was call'd away ; And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet contentment home. So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come. I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know If I had heard the Spirit right, that told me I should go; POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 23 For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day, But mother spoke for Benjamin, — she knew what best to say. Then she was still : they sat a while : at last she spoke again, " The Lord incline thee to the right !" and "Thou shalt have him, Jane !" My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not the least of shocks. For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox. I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Euth we lost: Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her cross'd. She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest — Ah, dear ! the cross was ours : her life's a happy one, at least. Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I, — Would thee believe it, Hannah? once I felt temptation nigh ! My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste : I wanted lace around the neck, and a rib- bon at the waist. How strange it seem'd to sit with him upon the women's side ! I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more fear than pride. Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then there came A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same. I used to blush when he came near, but then I show'd no sign ; With all the meeting looking on, I held | his hand in mine. | It seem'd my bashfulness was gone, now I ; was his for life : Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee, too, hast been a wife. As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours ; The woods were coming into leaf, the meadows full of flowers ; The neighbors met us in the lane, and every face was kind, — 'Tis strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind. I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wed- ding-dinner spread : At our own table we were guests, with father at the head. And Dinah Passmore help'd us both — 'twas she stood up with me. And Abner Jones with Benjamin, — and now they're gone, all three ! It is not right to wish for death ; the Lord disposes best. His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest ; And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see : For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two are left with me. Eusebius never cared to farm, — 'twas not his call, in truth, And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter Euth. Thee'll say her ways are not like mine, — young people now-a-days Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways. But Euth is still a Friend at heart; she keeps the simple tongue. The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young ; And it was brought upon my mind, remem- bering her, of late, That we on dress and outward things per- haps lay too much weight. I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit clothed with grace. And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face. And dress may be of less account: ""Jie Lord will look within : The soul it is that testifies of righteousness Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth : she's anxious I should go, And she will do her duty as a daughter should, I know. 24 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be resign'd: The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. Bayard Taylor. My Old Kentucky Home. The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky- home; 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay ; The corn top's ripe and the meadows in the bloom. While the birds make music all the day ; The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy, all bright ; By'm by hard times comes a-knockin' at the door,- Then, my old Kentucky home, good- night ! Weep no more, my lady ; 0, weep no more to-day ! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. They hunt no more for the possum and the coon On the meadow, the hill, and the shore ; They sing no more by the glimmer of the ■ moon On the bench by the old cabin door ; The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, With sorrow where all was delight ; The time has come, when the darkeys have to part. Then my old Kentucky home, good- night ! Weep no more, my lady ; O, weep no more to-day ! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home. For our old Kentucky home far away. The head must bow, and the back will have to bend. Wherever the darkey may go ; A few more days, and the troubles all will end, In the field where the sugar-canes grow ; A few more days to tote the weary load. No matter, it will never be light ; A few more days till we totter on the road. Then, my old Kentucky home, good- night ! Weep no more, my lady ; O, weep no more to-day ! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. Stephen Collins Foster. The Household woman. Graceful may seem the fairy form. With youth, and health, and beauty warm, Gliding along the airy dance, Imparting joy at every glance. And lovely, too, when o'er the strings Her hand of music woman flings, While dewy eyes are upward thrown, As if from heaven to claim the tone. And fair is she when mental flowers Engage her soul's devoted powers, And wreaths, unfading wreaths of mind, Around her temples are entwined. But never, in her varied sphere, Is woman to the heart more dear Than when her homely task she plies, With cheerful duty in her eyes ; And, every lowly path well trod, Looks meekly upward to her God. Caroline Gilman. LEMUEL'S Song. Who finds a woman good and wise, A gem more worth than pearls hath got ; Her husband's heart on her relies ; To live by spoil he needeth not. His comfort all his life is she ; No wrong she willingly will do ; For wool and flax her searches be, And cheerful hands she puts thereto. The merchant-ship, resembling right, Her food she from afar doth fet. Ere day she wakes, that give she might Her maids their task, her household meat. A field she views, and that she buys ; Her hand doth plant a vineyard there ; I POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. Her loins with courage up she ties ; Her arms with vigor strengthened are. If in her work she profit feel, By night her candle goes not out : She puts her finger to the wheel, Her hand the spindle turns about. To such as poor and needy are Her hand (yea, both hands) reacheth she. The winter none of hers doth fear. For double clothed her household be. She mantles maketh, wrought by hand, And silk and purple clothing gets. Among the rulers of the l-and (Known in the gate) her husband sits. For sale fine linen weaveth she. And girdles to the merchant sends. Kenown and strength her clothing be. And joy her later time attends. She speaks discreetly when she talks ; The law of grace her tongue hath learned ; She heeds the way her household walks. And feedeth not on bread unearned. Her children rise, and blest her call ; Her husband thus applaudeth her, " Oh, thou hast far surpassed them all. Though many daughters thriving are !" Deceitful favor quickly wears, And beauty suddenly decays ; But, if the Lord she truly fears, That woman well deserveth praise, The fruit her handiwork obtains : Without repining grant her that. And yield her when her labor gains, To do her honor in the gate. George Wither. The SAILOR'S Wife, Part I. I've a letter from thy sire, Baby mine, baby mine ; I can read and never tire, Baby mine. He is sailing o'er the sea, He is coming back to thee, He is coming home to me. Baby mine. He's been parted from us loDg, Baby mine, baby mine ; But if hearts be true and strong. Baby mine. They shall brave Misfortune's blast. And be overpaid at last For all pain and sorrow pass'd. Baby mine. Oh, I long to see his face. Baby mine, baby mine, In his old-accustom'd place, Baby mine. Like the rose of May in bloom, Like a star amid the gloom, Like the sunshine in the room, Baby mine. Thou wilt see him and rejoice, Baby mine, baby mine ; Thou wilt know him by his voice. Baby mine. By his love-looks that endear. By his laughter ringing clear. By his eyes that know not fear, Baby mine. I'm so glad — I cannot sleep. Baby mine, baby mine. I'm so happy — I could weep. Baby mine. He is sailing o'er the sea, He is coming home to me, He is coming back to thee, Baby mine. Part II. O'er the blue ocean gleaming She sees a distant ship, As small to view As the white sea-mew Whose wings in the billows dip. Blow, favoring gales, in her answering sails. Blow steadily and free ! Rejoicing, strong. Singing a song Her rigging and her spars among, And waft the vessel in pride along That bears my love to me." Nearer, still nearer driving. The white sails grow and swell ; Clear to her eyes The pennant flies, And the flag she knows so well. 26 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. " Blow, favoring gales, in her answering sails. Waft him, gentle sea I And still, O heart. Thy fluttering start ! Why throb and beat as thou wouldst part. When all so happy and bless'd thou art? He comes again to thee !" The swift ship drops her anchor, A boat puts oflf for shore ; Against its prow The ripples flow To the music of the oar. " And art thou here, mine own, my dear, Safe from the perilous sea ? Safe, safe at home. No more to roam ! Blow, tempests, blow; my love has come ! And sprinkle the clouds with your dashing foam! He shall part no more from me." Charles Mackay. Mother and Poet. Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the East, And one of them shot in the West by the sea. Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me! Yet I was a poetess only last year. And good at my art, for a woman, men said ; But this woman, — this^ who is agonized here, — The east sea and the west sea rhyme on in her head For ever instead. What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah, boys, how you hurt! You were strong as you pressed. And I proud by that test. What art's for a woman ? To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat. Cling, strangle a little! to sew by de- grees And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat; To dream and to dote. To teach them. — It stings there ! / made them, indeed, Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. / prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out. And when their eyes flashed, — oh, my beautiful eyes! — I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But, then, the surprise When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels ! God, how the house feels! At first, happy news came, in gay letters mailed With my kisses, — of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled. In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free !" And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. POEMS OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 27 I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- mained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand, " I was not to faint, — One loved me for two — would be with me ere long : And viva r Italia ! — he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint." My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls, — was imprest. It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear. And how 'twas impossible, quite dispos- sessed. To live on for the rest." On which, without pause, up the telegraph- line Swept smoothly the next news from Gae- ta: — Shot; Tell his mother. Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother, — not "mine," No voice says, ^^ My mother, ^^ again to me. What ! You think Guido forgot ? Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that love and sorrow which rec- onciled so The Above and Below. O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother ! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark. Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away. And no last word to say ! Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When the guns of Cavalli, with final re- tort, Have cut the game short ? When Venice and Eome keep their new jubilee. When your flag takes all heaven for it^ white, green and red. When you have your country from moun- tain to sea. When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head (And / have my Dead) — What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly ! My coun- try is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow : My Italy's there, with my brave civic Pair, To disfranchise despair ! Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn ; 28 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length luto wail such as this — and we sit on for- lorn When the man-child is born. Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the East, And one of them shot in the West by the sea. Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me / Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The Graves of a Household. They grew in beauty, side by side, They fill'd one home with glee ; — Their graves are sever'd, far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow ; rfhe had each folded flower in sight — VV^here are those dreamers now ? One, 'midst the forests of the West By a dark stream is laid — The Indian knows his place of rest Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one — He lies where pearls lie deep ; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain : He wrapt his colors round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; She faded midst Italian flowers — The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who play'd Beneath the same green tree ; Whose voices mingled as they pray'd Around one parent knee ! They that with smiles lit up the hall. And cheer'd with song the hearth ! — Alas! for love, if thou wert all, • And naught beyond, O earth ! Felicia Dorothea Hemans. '^f(^\L4^ 2.- ^^ Jlw. A. CUSkANC ^ \A> 9^' iv^ % SkK^ »^ ^v Ovcx \>^ X ^^A^.»^ Poetry OF Infancy and Childhood, Baby 31a y. Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; Lips whose velvet scarlet teaches Poppies paleness ; round large eyes Ever great with new surprise ; Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ; Minutes just as brimm'd with sadness ; Happy smiles and wailing cries, Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, Lights and shadows, swifter born Than on windswept autumn corn ; Ever some new tiny notion, Making every limb all motion, Catchings up of legs and arms, Throwings back and small alarms. Clutching fingers — straightening jerks, Twining feet whose each toe works, Kickings up and straining risings, Mother's ever-new surprisings ; Hands all wants, and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under ; Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings That have more of love than lovings ; Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness that we prize such sinning ; Breakings dire of plates and glasses, Graspings small at all that passes ; Pullings off of all that's able To be caught from tray or table ; Silences — small meditations Deep as thoughts of cares for nations- Breaking into wisest speeches In a tongue that nothing teaches. All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be woo'd to light by guessing ; Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings That we'd ever have such dreamings, Till from sleep we see thee breaking, And we'd always have thee waking ; Wealth for which we know no measure, Pleasure high above all pleasure, Gladness brimming over gladness, Joy in care — delight in sadness. Loveliness beyond completeness, Sweetness distancing all sweetness, Beauty all that beauty may be. That's May Bennett ; that's my baby. \V, C. Bennett. My Bibb. Ere last year's moon had left the sky, A birdling sought my Indian nest, And folded, oh, so lovingly. Her tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge, In winsome helplessness she lies; Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe, Shut softly on her starry eyes. There's not in Ind a lovelier bird ; Broad earth owns not a happier nest ; O God, thou hast a fountain stirred. Whose waters never more shall rest ! This beautiful, mysterious thing. This seeming visitant from heaven. This bird with the immortal wing. To me, to me, thy hand has given. The pulse first caught its tiny stroke. The blood its crimson hue from mine ; This life, which I have dared invoke, Henceforth is parallel with thine. A silent awe is in my room — I tremble with delicious fear ; The future, with its light and gloom, Time and Eternity is here. 29 30 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise ; Hear, my God, one earnest prayer ! Room for my bird in Paradise ; And give her angel plumage there ! Emily Chubbock Judson. Philip my King. •* Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty." Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king ! Round whom the enshadowing purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities : Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; T am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find a queen-hand- maiden, Philip, my king ! Oh, the day when thou goest a- wooing, Philip, my king ! When those beautiful lips 'gin suing. And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter, love-crown' d, and there Sittest, love-glorified ! — Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, Philip, my king ! Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Philip, my king ! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant, and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer Let me behold thee in future years ! Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king — A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king ! Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray ; Rebels within thee and foes without Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout, As thou sitt'st at the feet of God vic- torious, "Philip, the king!" Dinah Mulock Craik. Baby Bell. Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours ? The gates of heaven were left ajar : With folded hands and dreamy eyes. Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even, — Its bridges, running to and fro. O'er which the white-wing'd angels go, Bearing the holy dead to heaven. She touch'd a bridge of flowers, — those feet. So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels, They fell like dew upon the flowers : Then all the air grew strangely sweet ! And thus came dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours. She came, and brought delicious May. The swallows built beneath the eaves ; Like sunlight, in and out the leaves The robins went the livelong day ; The lily swung its noiseless bell ; And o'er the porch the trembling vine Seem'd bursting with its veins of wine. How sweetly, softly, twilight fell ! Oh, earth was full of singing-birds And opening spring-tide flowers, When the dainty Baby Bell Came to this world of ours ! Oh, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day ! What woman-nature fill'd her eyes, What poetry within them lay ! Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more ; Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born *, We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen — The land beyond the morn ; And for the love of those dear eyes. For love of her whom God led forth, (The mother's being ceased on earth When Baby came from Paradise), — it POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 31 For love of Him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ! — our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. And now the orchards, which were white And red with blossoms when she came. Were rich in autumn's mellow prime ; The clustered apples burnt like flame, The soft-cheek'd peaches blush'd and fell, The ivory chestnut burst its shell. The grapes hung purpling in the grange ; And time wrought just as rich a change In little Baby Bell. Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, In soften'd curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripen' d too : We thought her lovely when she came. But she was holy, saintly now : — Around her pale angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame ! God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech ; And oft she said a few strange words Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us. We never held her being's key ; We could not teach her holy things : She was Christ's self in purity. It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow ere it fell, — The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Baby Bell. We shudder'd with unlanguaged pain. And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tears Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, " Oh, smite us gently, gently, God ! Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief." Ah, how we loved her, God can tell ; Her heart was folded deep in ours. Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell ! At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands : And what did dainty Baby Bell ? She only cross'd her little hands, She only look'd more meek and fair ! We parted back her silken hair. We wove the roses round her brow, — White buds, the summer's drifted snow, — W^rapt her from head to foot in flowers ! And thus went dainty Baby Bell Out of this world of ours ! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Where did you Co3ie FROMf Where did you come from, baby dear ? Out of the everywhere into here. Where did get your eyes so blue ? Out of the sky as I came through. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear ? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so smooth and high ? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? I saw something better than any one knows. Whence that three-corner'd smile of bliss ? Three angels gave me at once a kiss. Where did you get this pearly ear ? God spoke, and it came out to hear. Where did you get those arms and hands ? Love made itself into hooks and bands. Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ? From the same box as the cherubs' wings. How did they all come just to be you ? God thought of me, and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear ? God thought of you, and so I am here. George Macdonald. ''Sweet and Low:' Sweet and low, sweet and low. Wind of the western sea. Low, loAv, breathe and blow. Wind of the western sea ! 32 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me, While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. Father will come to thee soon ; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon ; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon : Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. Alfred Tennyson. Lullaby. GoLDEX slumbers kiss your eyes. Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry. And I will sing a lullaby : Rock them, rock them, lullaby. Care is heavy, therefore sleep you ; You are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry. And I will sing a lullaby : Rock them, rock them, lullaby. Thomas Dekker. Lady Anne Bothwelvs Lament. Balow, my babe, lye stil and sleipe ! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe : If thou'st be silent, I'se be glad, Thy maining maks my heart ftil sad. Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy, Ihy father breides me great annoy. Balow, my babe, ly still and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Whan he began to court my luve, And with his sugred wordes to muve. His faynings fals, and flattering cheire To me that time did not appeire : But now I see, most cruell hee Cares neither for my babe nor mee. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. liV stil, my darling, sleipe a while, And when thou wakest, sweitly smile: But smile not, as thy father did. To cozen maids : nay, God forbid ! Bot yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. I cannae chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father stil : Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, My luve with him doth stil abyde : In well or wae, whair-eir he gae. Mine hart can neire depart him frae. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. But doe not, doe not, pretty mine. To faynings fals thine hart incline ; Be loyal to thy luver trew, And nevir change her for a new : If gude or faire, of hir have care. For women's banning's wondrous sair. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe, Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Thy winsome smiles maun else my paine ; My babe and I'll together live, He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve : My babe and I right saft will ly, And quite forgeit man's cruelty. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth, That evir kist a woman's mouth ! I wish all maides be warn'd by mee Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; For if we doe bot chance to bow, They'll use us than they care not how. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Author Unknowic. Cradle Song. [From the German.] Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father's watching the sheep. Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree, And down drops a little dream for thee. Sleep, baby, sleep ! Sleep, baby, sleep ! The large stars are the sheep, POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 33 The little stars are the lambs, I guess, 1 he bright moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep. Sleep, baby, sleep ! And cry not like a sheep. Else the sheep-dog will bark and whine, And bite this naughty child of mine. Sleep, baby, sleep ! Sleep, baby, sleep ! Thy Saviour loves His sheep ; He is the Lamb of God on high Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep ! Sleep, baby, sleep ! Away to tend the sheep, Away, thou sheep-dog fierce and wild, And do not harm my sleeping child ! Sleep, baby, sleep ! Elizabeth Prentiss. The Angels* Whisper. A BABY was sleeping ; Its mother was weeping ; For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling ; And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh come back to me !" Her beads while she number'd. The baby still slumber'd, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : " Oh, blest be that warning. My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee ! "And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me I And say thou wouldst rather They'd watch o'er thy father ! For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, " I knew that the angels were whis- pering with thee." Samuel Lovek. The Child and the Watcher. Sleep on, baby on the floor. Tired of all thy playing — Sleep with smile the sweeter for That you dropped away in ; On your curls, fair roundness stand Golden lights serenely ; One cheek, push'd out by the hand, Folds the dimple inly — Little head and little foot Heavy laid for pleasure ; Underneath the lids half-shut Plants the shining azure ; Open-soul'd in noonday sun, So, you lie and slumber ; Nothing evil having done, Nothing can encumber. I, who cannot sleep as well. Shall I sigh to view you ? Or sigh further to foretell All that may undo you ? Nay, keep smiling, little child, Ere the fate appeareth ! I smile too ; for patience mild Pleasure's token weareth. Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; I shall sleep, though losing ! As by cradle, so by cross. Sweet is the reposing. And God knows, who sees us twain. Child at childish leisure, I am all as tired of pain As you are of pleasure. Very soon, too, by His grace, Gently wrapt around me, I shall show as calm a face, I shall sleep as soundly — Differing in this, that you Clasp your playthings sleeping, While my hand must drop the few Given to my keeping — Differing in this, that I, Sleeping, must be colder. 34 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And, in waking presently, Brighter to beholder — Differing in this, beside (Sleeper, have you heard me ? Do you move and open wide Your great eyes toward me?), That while I you draw withal From this slumber solely, Me, from mine, an angel shall, Trumpet-tongued and holy ! Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Sweet Baby, Sleep. Sweet baby, sleep ! what ails my dear ? What ails my darling, thus to cry ? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear. To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep ; Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ? What thing to thee can mischief do ? Thy God is now thy Father dear. His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had ; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou now art made. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. While thus thy lullaby I sing, for thee great blessings ripening be ; Thine eldest brother is a King, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear ; For whosoever thee offends By thy Protector threaten'd are. And God and angels are thy friends. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. When God with us was dwelling here. In little babes He took delight ; Such innocents as thou, my dear. Are ever precious in His sight. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. A little infant once was He ; And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His virgin mother's knee, That power to thee might be convey'd. . Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. In this thy frailty and thy need He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. The King of kings, when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease ; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay and asses fed : Warm rooms we do to thee afford. An easy cradle or a bed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee ; And by His torments and His pain Thy rest and ease secured be. My baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Thou hast, yet more to perfect this, A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss. Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not ; Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. George Wither. Cradle Hymn. Hush, my dear ! Lie still and slumber ! Holy angels guard thy bed ! Heavenly blessings without number. Gently falling on thy head. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 35 Sleep, my babe ! thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide ; All without thy care or payment, All thy wants are well supplied. How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven He descended, And became a child like thee ! Soft and easy is thy cradle : Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable And His softest bed was hay. Blessed Babe ! what glorious features, — Spotless fair, divinely bright ! Must He dwell with brutal creatures ? How could angels bear the sight ? Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford, To receive the heavenly stranger ? Did they thus affront the Lord ? Soft, my child ! I did not chide thee. Though my song might sound too hard : 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee. And her arm shall be thy guard. Yet to read the shameful story, How the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of glory, Makes me angry while I sing. See the kinder shepherds round Him, Telling wonders from the sky ! Where they sought Him, there they found Him, With His virgin mother by. See the lovely Babe a-dressing ; Lovely Infant, how He smiled I When He wept. His mother's blessing Sooth'd and hush'd the holy Child, Lo, He slumbers in a manger. Where the hornfed oxen fed : — Peace, my darling, here's no danger : There's no ox a-near thy bed. 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying. Save my dear from burning flame. Bitter groans and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came. May'st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days, Then go dwell for ever near Him : See His face, and sing His praise ! I could give thee thousand kisses ! Hoping what I most desire, Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire ! Isaac Watts. To A Child Embracing his Mother. Love thy mother, little one ! Kiss and clasp her neck again, — Hereafter she may have a son Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. Love thy mother, little one ! Gaze upon her living eyes, And mirror back her love for thee, — Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs To meet them when they cannot see. Gaze upon her living eyes ! Press her lips the while they glow With love that they have often told, — Hereafter thou may'st press in woe. And kiss them till thine own are cold. Press her lips the while they glow^ ! Oh, revere her raven hair ! Although it be not silver-gray — Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Oh, revere her raven hair ! Pray for her at eve and morn. That Heaven may long the stroke defer- For thou may'st live the hour forlorn When thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn ! Thomas Hoob, To Charlotte Pulteney. Timely blossom, infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight ; Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please ; Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale ; 86 FIRESIDE EXCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue ; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandon'd to thy will. Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush ; Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat, Chirping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys ; Like the linnet green in May Flitting to each bloomy spray ; Wearied then and glad of rest. Like the linnet in the nest ; — This thy present happy lot This, in time will be forgot : Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares ; And thou shalt in thy daughter see This picture, once, resembled thee. Ambrose Philips. To T. L. H. Six Years Old, During a Sickness. Sleep breathes at last from out thee. My little, patient boy ; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways ; Vet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise. Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, Thy thanks to all that aid. Thy heart, in pain and weakness. Of fancied faults afraid ; The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears : These, these are things that may demand IVead memories for years. Sorrows I've had, severe ones, I will not think of now ^ And calmly, midst my dear ones. Have wasted with dry brow ; But when thy fingers press And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness — The tears are in their bed. Ah, first-born of thy mother. When life and hope were new ; Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too ; My light, where'er I go ; My bird, when prison-bound ; My hand-in-hand companion — No, My prayers shall hold thee round. To say " He has departed " — " His voice " — " his face " — is gone, To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on — Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure That it will not be so. Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping I This silence too the while — Its very hush and creeping Seem whispering us a smile ; Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim, Who say, " We've finished here." Leigh Huno: Children. Children are what the mothers are. No fondest father's fondest care Can fashion so the infant heart As those creative beams that dart. With all their hopes and fears, upon The cradle of a sleeping son. His startled eyes with wonder see A father near him on his knee, Who wishes all the while to trace The mother in his future face ; But 'tis to her alone uprise His wakening arms ; to her those eyes Open with joy and not surprise. Walter Savage Landob. ! POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 37 Castles in the xUr. The bonnie, bonnie bairn, who sits poking in the ase, Glowering in the fire with his wee round face; Laughing at the fuffin' lowe, what sees he there ? Ha ! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air. His wee chubby face and his touzie curly pow, Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe ; He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air. He sees muckle castles towering to the moon ! He sees little sogers pu'ing them a' doun ! Worlds whombling up and down, bleezing wi' a flare, See how he loups ! as they glimmer '..i the air. For a' sae sage he looks, what can t^-^. icv:.aie ken? He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men, A wee thing maks us think, a sma' thing maks us stare, There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air. Sic a night in winter may weel mak him cauld : His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak him auld ; His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that daddy Care Would let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air. He'll glower at the fire ! and he'll keek at the light ! But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night ; Aulder een than his are glamour' d by a glare, Hearts are broken, heads are turn'd, wi' castles in the air. James Balla>'TYNe. THE LITTLE Black Boy. My mother bore me in the southern wild. And I am black, but, oh, my soul is white ! White as an angel is the English child. But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree ; And, sitting down before the heat of day. She took me on her lap and kissed me. And, pointing to the East, began to say : " Look on the rising sun : there God does live, And gives his light, and gives his heat away, And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men, receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noon- day. "And we are put on earth a little space. That we may learn to bear the beams of love ; And these black bodies and this sunburnt Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. " For, when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall heai His voice Saying: 'Come from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' " Thus did my mother say, and kissed me. And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black, and he from white cloud free. And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me. WiLMAM Blake. 38 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Ballad of the Te3Ipest. We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep, — It was midnight on the waters. And a storm was on the deep. 'Tis a fearful thing in Winter To be shattered in the blast. And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder : " Cut away the mast!" So we shuddered there in silence, — For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring, And the breakers talked with Death. As thus we sat in darkness. Each one busy in his prayers, " We are lost !" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered. As she took his icy hand : " Isn't God upon the ocean Just the same as on the land ?" Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear. James T. Fields. Little Bell. He prayeth -n-ell, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. Ancient Mariner. Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray : " Pretty maid, slow wandering this way. What's your name ?" quoth he — " What's your name ? Oh stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold," — "Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks — Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks — " Bonny bird," quoth she, '' Sing me your best song before I go." *' Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he. And the blackbird piped ; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird — Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, All for love of that sweet face below. Dimpled o'er with smiles. And the while the bonny bird did pour His full heart out freely o'er and o'er 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine forth in happy overflow From the blue, bright eyes. Down the dell she tripped and through the glade. Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade. And from out the tree Swung and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear, — While bold blackbird piped that all might hear — "Little Bell," piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern — "Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return — Bring me nuts," quoth she. Up, away the frisky squirrel hies — Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes — And adown the tree, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap dropped one by one — Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun ! " Happy Bell," pipes he. Little Bell looked up and down the glade — "Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid. Come and share with me !" Down came squirrel eager for his fare — Down came bonny blackbird, I declare ; Little Bell gave each his honest share — Ah the merry three ! And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow From her blue, bright eyes. By her snow-white cot at close of day Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray— POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. Very calm and clear Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, In blue heaven, an angel shape serene Paused a while to hear — " What good child is this," the angel said, " That with happy heart, beside her bed Prays so lovingly?" Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft. Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, " Bell, dear Bell !" crooned he. " Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' care; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm — Love, deep and kind, Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee !" Thomas Westwood. The Reconciliation. As thro' the land at eve we went, And pluck'd the ripen'd ears. We fell out, my wife and I, We fell out — I know not why — And kiss'd again with tears. And blessings on the falling-out That all the more endears. When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears ! For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years. There above the little grave. Oh there above the little grave, We kiss'd again with tears. Alfred Tennyson. Golden- Tressed Adelaide. A Song for a Child. Sing, I pray, a little song, Mother dear ! Neither sad nor very long : It is for a little maid. Golden-tressed Adelaide ! Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, Mother dear ! Let it be a merry strain, Mother dear ! Shunning e'en the thought of pain : For our gentle child will weep If the theme be dark and deep ; And toe will not draw a single, single tear, Mother dear ! Childhood should be all divine, Mother dear I And like an endless summer shine ; Gay as Edward's shouts and cries. Bright as Agnes' azure eyes : Therefore bid thy song be merry: — dost thou hear. Mother dear ? Bryan Waller Procter. Casa Wappy. And hast thou sought thy heavenly home. Our fond, dear boy — The realms where sorrow dare not come, Where life is joy? Pure at thy death, as at thy birth. Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, Casa Wappy ! Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye ; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die ; Words may not paint our grief for thee ; Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathom'd agony ! Casa Wappy ! Thou wert a vision of delight. To bless us given ; Beauty embodied to our sight — A type of heaven ! So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self, than a part Of mine, and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy ! Thy bright, brief day knew no decline— 'Twas cloudless joy ; Sunrise and night alone were thine. Beloved boy ! This morn beheld thee blythe and gay ; That found thee prostrate in decay ; And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy ! 40 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled. Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Our dear, sweet child ! Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; Yet had we hoped that Time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy ! Do what I may, go where I will. Thou meet'st my sight ; There dost thou glide before me still — A form of light ! I feel thy breath upon my cheek — I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — Till oh ! my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy ! Methinks thou smil'st before me now. With glance of stealth ; The hair thrown back from thy full brow In buoyant health ; I see thine eyes' deep violet light — Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright — Thy clasping arms so round and white — Casa Wappy ! The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy bat— thy bow— Thy cloak and bonnet — club and ball ; But where art thou ? A corner holds thine empty chair ; Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there, But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy ! Even to the last, thy every word — To glad — to grieve — Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird On summer's eve ; In outward beauty undecay'd, Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade. And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade, Casa Wappy ! We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night The chamber fills ; We pine for thee, when morn's first light Eeddens the hills; The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, All — ^to the wall-flower and wild-pea — Are changed ; we saw the world thro' thee, Casa Wappy ! And though, perchance, a smile may gleam Of casual mirth. It doth not own, whate'er may seem, An inward birth ; We miss thy small step on the stair ; — We miss thee at thine evening prayer ; All day we miss thee — everywhere — Casa Wappy ! Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below — The silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo and "the busy bee," Eeturn, but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy ! 'Tis so ; but can it be — while flowers Revive again — Man's doom, in death that we and ours For aye remain ? Oh can it be, that, o'er the grave, The grass renew'd should yearly wave. Yet God forget our child to save ? Casa Wappy ! It cannot be ; for were it so Thus man could die. Life were a mockery — ^thought were woe-* And truth a lie ; Heaven were a coinage of the brain — Religion frenzy — virtue vain — And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy ! Then be to us, O dear lost child ! With beam of love, A star, death's uncongenial wild Smiling above ! Soon, soon thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's ro&d, That led thee back from man to God, Casa Wappy ! Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair. Fond, fairest boy, That heaven is God's, and thou art there, With him in joy; There past are death and all its woes ; There beauty's stream for ever flows ; And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy I 1 1 POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 41 Farewell, then — for a while, farewell — Pride of my heart ! It cannot be that long we dwell Thus torn apart. Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; And, dark howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy ! David Macbeth Moie. Willie Winkie. Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town. Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed? — for it's no^y ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen. The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep ; But here's a waukrife laddie thatwdnna fa' asleep. Onything but sleep, ye rogue ! — glowerin' like the moon, Eattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Eumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, Skirl in' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk. Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean's in a creel ! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Kuggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums : Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! AVeary is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee; But a kiss frae afi" his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. William Miller. The Babie. Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, Nae stockin' on her feet ; Her supple ankles white as snaw, Or early blossoms sweet. Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, Her double, dimplit chin. Her puckered lips and balmy mou' With na ane tooth within. Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things ; Her face is like an angel's face : We're glad she has nae wings. She is the buddin' o' our luve, A giftie God gied us : We maun na luve the gift owre weel ; 'Twad be na blessin' thus. We still maun lo'e the Giver mair, An' see Him in the given ; An' sae she'll lead us up to Him, Our babie straight frae heaven. J. E. Rankin. The Dumb Child. She is my only girl : I ask'd for her as some most precious thing, For all unfinish'd was love's jewell'd ring Till set with this soft pearl : The shade that time brought forth I could not see ; How pure, how perfect, seem'd the gift to me! Oh, many a soft old tune I used to sing unto that deaden'd ear. And sufier'd not the lightest footstep neai, Lest she might wake too soon, And hush'd her brothers' laughter while she lay — Ah, needless care ! I might have let them play! 'Twas long ere I believed That this one daughter might not speak to me: Waited and watch' d. God knows how patiently ! How willingly deceived ! Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of Faith, And tended Hope until it starved to death. Oh if she could but hear For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach To call me mother, in the broken speech That thrills the mother's ear ! Alas ! those seal'd lips never may be stirr'd To the deep music of that lovtly word. 42 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. My heart it sorely tries To see her kneel, with such a reverent air, Beside her brothers, at their evening prayer ; Or lift those earnest eyes To watch our lips, as though our words she knew, — Then move her own, as she were speaking too. I've watch'd her looking up To the bright wonder of a sunset sky. With such a depth of meaning in her eye. That I could almost hope The struggling soul would burst its bind- ing cords, A.nd the long pent-up thoughts flow forth in words. The song of bird and bee. The chorus of the breezes, streams, and groves. All the grand music to which Nature moves. Are wasted melody To her; the world of sound a nameless void, While even Silence hath its charms de- stroy'd. Her face is very fair : Her blue eye beautiful : of finest mould The soft, white brow, o'er which in waves of gold Eipples her shining hair. Alas ! this lovely temple closed must be ; For He who made it keeps the master- key. Wills He the mind within Should from earth's Babel-clamor be kept free. E'en that His still small voice and step might be Heard at its inner shrine. Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill ? Then should I grieve? O murmuring heart, be still ! She seems to have a sense Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play. She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way, Whose voiceless eloquence Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear That even her father would not care for her. Thank God it is not so ! And when his sons are playing merrily, She comes and leans her head upon his knee. Oh, at such times I know. By his full eye and tones subdued and mild. How his heart yearns over his silent child. Not of all gifts bereft. Even now. How could I say she did not speak ? What real language lights her eye and cheek. And renders thanks to Him who left Unto her soul yet open, avenues For joy to enter, and for love to use ! And God in love doth give To her defect a beauty of its own : And we a deeper tenderness have known, Through that for which we grieve. Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear. Yes, and my voice shall fill it— but not here ! When that new sense is given, What rapture will its first experience be, That never woke to meaner melody Than the rich songs of Heaven — To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round. While angels teach the ecstasies of sound ! Author Unknown. The WONDERFir Wean. Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw ; It would tak me a lang simmer day to tell a' His pranks, frae the mornin' till night shuts his ee. When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father and me ; POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 43 For in liis quite turns siccan questions he'll spier ! How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae clear? What gars the wind blaw ? and wliar frae comes the rain ? He's a perfec' divirt — he's a wonderfu' wean ! Or wha was the first bodie's father ? and wha Made the vera first snaw-shooer that ever did fa'? And wha made the first bird that sang on a tree ? And the water that sooms a' the ships in the sea? But after I've told him as weel as I ken, Again he begins wi' his wha and his when ; And he looks aye sae wistfu' the whiles I explain : He's as auld as the hills — he's an auld- farrant wean. And folk wha hae skill o' the lumps on the head Hint there's mae ways than toilin' o' win- nin' ane's bread ; How he'll be a rich man, and hae men to work for him, Wi' a kyte like a baillie's, shug-shuggin' afore him; Wi' a face like the moon — sober, sonsy, and douce — And a back, for its breadth, like the side o' a house. 'Tweel ! I'm unco ta'en up wi't — they mak a' sae plain. He's just a town's talk ; he's a by-ord'nar wean! I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat. To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat; Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far owre his knees The tap-loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease ; Then he march'd through the house, he march'd but, he march'd ben. Like owre mony mae o' our great little men. That I leuch clean outright, for I cou'dna contain : He was sic a conceit — sic an ancient-like wean ! But 'mid a' his daffin sic kindness he shows, That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose; And the unclouded hinny-beam aye in his ee Maks him every day dearer and dearer to me. Though Fortune be saucy, and dorty, and dour, And gloom through her fingers like hills through a shooer. When bodies hae gat a bit bit bairn o' their ain, How he cheers up their hearts! — ^lie's a wonderfu' wean! "William Miller. Charity Children at St. Pauds. 'TwAs on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean. The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green ; Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow. Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow, Oh, what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town. Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own ; The hum of multitudes was there, but mul- titudes of lambs. Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song. Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among : Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guard- ians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. William Blake. 44 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY, Twenty-one. Grown to man's stature! O my little child ! My bird that sought the skies so long ago! My fair, sweet blossom, pure and unde- filed, How have the years flown since we laid thee low! What have they been to thee? If thou wert here, Standing beside thy brothers, tall and fair. With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining clear, And glints of summer sunshine in thy hair, I should look up into thy face and say, Wavering, perhaps, between a tear and smile, ** O my sweet son, thou art a man to- day 1" And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips the while. But — ^up in heaven — how is it with thee, dear? Art thou a man — to man's full stature grown ? Dost thou count time, as we do, year by year? And what of all earth's changes hast thou known? Thou hadst not learn'd to love me. Didst thou take Any small germ of love to heaven with thee. That thou hast watch'd and nurtured for my sake. Waiting till I its perfect flower may see? What is it to have lived in heaven always ? To have no memory of pain or sin ? Ne'er to have known in all the calm, bright days The jar and fret of earth's discordant din? Thy brothers — they are mortal — they must tread Ofttimes in rough, hard ways, with bleed- ing feet; Must fight with dragons, must bewail their dead, And fierce Apollyon face to face must meet. I, who would give my very life for theirs- - I cannot save them from earth's pain or loss; I cannot shield them from its griefs or cares ; Each human heart must bear alone its cross ! Was God, then, kinder unto thee than them, O thou whose little life was but a span? Ah, think it not ! In all his diadem No star shines brighter than the kingly man. Who nobly earns whatever crown he wears. Who grandly conquers or as grandly dies, And the white banner of his manhood bears Through all the years uplifted to the skies ! What lofty paeans shall the victor greet ! What crown resplendent for his brow be fit! O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet, Hast thou not something missed in miss- ing it? Julia Caroline Dorr. A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD. They say that God lives very high. But if you look above the pines You cannot see our God ; and Avhy ? And if you dig down in the mines, You never see Him in the gold. Though from Him all that's glory shines. God is so good. He wears a fold Of heaven and earth across His face. Like secrets kept for love untold. But still I feel that His embrace Slides down by thrills through all things made. Through sight and sound of every place. POETUY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 45 As if my tender mother laid On my shut lids her kisses' pressure, Half waking me at night, and said, " Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser ?" Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The Sleeping Babe. The baby wept ; The mother took it from the nurse's arms, And soothed its griefs, and stilled its vain alarms, And baby slept. Again it weeps, And God doth take it from the mother's arms. From present pain and future unknown harms, And baby sleeps. Samuel Hinds. Which Shall it be? " Which shall it be ? Which shall it be ?" I look'd at John — John look'd at me ( Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet) ; And when I found that I must speak, My voice seem'd strangely low and weak : " Tell me again what Eobert said." And then I, listening, bent my head. " This is his letter : ' I will give A house and land while you shall live, If, in return, from out your seven. One child to me for aye is given.' " I look'd at John's old garments worn, I thought of all that John had borne Of poverty and work and care, Which I, though willing, could not share ; I thought of seven mouths to feed, Of seven little children's need, And then of this. "Come, John," said I, "We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep ;" so, walking hand in hand, Dear John and I survey'd our band. First to the cradle lightly stepp'd, Where the new nameless baby slept. "Shall it be Baby?" whispered John. I took his hand, and hurried on To Lily's crib. Her sleeping grasp Held her old doll within its clasp ; Her dark curls lay like gold alight, A glory 'gainst the pillow white. Softly her father stoop'd to lay His rough hand down in loving way, When dream or whisper made her stir, Then huskily said John," Not her, not her I" We stopp'd beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamplight shed Athwart the boyish faces there. In sleep so pitiful and fair ; I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek A tear undried. Ere John could speak, " He's but a baby, too," said I, And kiss'd him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robbie's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. "No, for a thousand crowns, not him !" We whisper'd, while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless, idle one — Could he be spared ? Nay ; He who gave Bids us befriend him to his grave ; Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he ; "And so," said John, " I would not dare To send him from her bedside prayer." Then stole we softly up above And knelt by Mary, child of love. "Perhaps for her 'twould better be," I said to John. Quite silently He lifted up a curl astray Across her cheek in wilful way. And shook his head : " Nay, love ; not thee," The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our eldest lad, Trusty and truthful, good and glad — So like his father. "No, John, no — I cannot, wall not, let him go." And so we wrote, in courteous way, We could not give one child away ; And afterward toil lighter seem'd. Thinking of that of which we dream'd, Happy in truth that not one face We miss'd from its accustom' d place ; Thankful to work for all the seven, Trusting the rest to One in heaven. Ethel Lynn Beers. The CHILDREN'S Hour. Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. 46 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence : Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall ! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall ! They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair ; If I try to escape, they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine. Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Ehine ! Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall. Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all ? I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart. But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you for ever, Yes, for ever and a day. Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. And moulder in dust away ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Mitherless Bairn. When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, WTia stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin' ? 'T is the puir doited loonie, — ^the mitherless bairn ! The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Nane covers his cauld back or haps his bare head ; His wee hackit heeliesare hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hovei there O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair ; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern. That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn ! Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid ; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn. An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth. Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth ; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! Oh, speak him na harshly, — ^he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile ; In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn ! William Thom. The Orphan Bars Tale. Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless orphan's tale ; Ah, sure my looks must pity wake, — 'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale; Yet I was once a mother's pride. And my brave father's hope and joy ; POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 47 But in the Nile's proud fight he died, And I am now an orphan boy ! Poor, foolish child ! how pleased was I, When news of Nelson's victory came. Along the crowded streets to fly, To see the lighted windows flame ! To force me home my mother sought, — She could not bear to hear my joy ; For with my father's life 'twas bought, — And made me a poor orphan boy ! The people's shouts were long and loud ; My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; " Rejoice ! rejoice !" still cried the crowd,— ^ My mother answer'd with her tears ! " Oh why do tears steal down your cheek," Cried I, "while others shout for joy?" She kiss'd me ; and in accents weak, She call'd me her poor orphan boy ! " What is an orphan boy ?" I said ; When suddenly she gasp'd for breath, And her eyes closed ! I shriek'd for aid. But ah ! her eyes were closed in death. My hardships since I will not tell ; But now, no more a parent's joy, Ah, lady, I have learn' d too well What 'tis to be an orphan boy ! Oh, were I by your bounty fed ! — Nay, gentle lady, do not chide ; Trust me, I mean to earn my bread, — The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep ; what is't you say ? You'll give me clothing, food, employ ? Look down, dear parents ! look and see Your happy, happy orphan boy ! Amelia Opie. In School-Days. Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning ; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry-vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official ; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial ; The charcoal frescos on its wall ; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing 1 Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting ; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving. Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled ; His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered ; — As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. " I'm sorry that I spelt the word : I hate to go above you. Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — " Because, you see, I love you !" Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing ! He lives to learn, in life's hard school. How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss. Like her, — because they love him. John G. Whittier. To A Child of Quality. Five Years Old, MDCCIV., the Author THEN Forty. Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band. That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command. To show their passions by their letters. 48 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. My pen among the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. Nor quality, nor reputation. Forbid me yet my flame to tell, Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. For, while she makes her silkworms beds With all the tender things I swear. Whilst all the house my passion reads In papers round her baby's hair, She may receive and own my flame ; I For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame. And I for an unhappy poet. Then too, alas ! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends. For, as our difierent ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it !) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it. Matthew Prior. A Farewell. My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray ; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long ; And so make life, death, and that vast for- ever One grand, sweet song. Charles Kingsley. My Child. I CANNOT make him dead : His fair sunshiny head \< ever bounding round my study-chair ; Yet, when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him. The vision vanishes — he is not there ! I walk my parlor floor. And through the open door I hear a footfall on the chamber stair , I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call ; And then bethink me that — he is not there ! I thread the crowded street ; A satchell'd lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and color'd hair: And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye. Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! I know his face is hid Under the cofiin-lid ; Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; My hand that marble felt ; O'er it in prayer I knelt ; Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! I cannot viake him dead ! When passing by the bed. So long watch' d over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek it inquiringly. Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake. With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy. To Him who gave my boy. Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! Not there ! Where, then, is he ? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear : POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD, 49 The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-ofF dress, Is but his wardrobe lock'd; — he is not there ! He lives I In all the past He lives ; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair ; In dreams I see him now ; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there T^ Yes, we all live to God I Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit-land. Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that — he is ^^^^^ ^ John Pieepont. LUCY. She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love : A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me ! William Wordsworth. Three Years she Grew, Three years she grew in sun and shower ; Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower On earth was never sown ; This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. " Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse, and with me The girl, in rock and plain. In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. " She shall be sportive as the fawn. That wild with glee across the lawn 4 Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute, insensate things. " The floating clouds their -state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend : Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. " The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place. Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. " And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake ; the work was done — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene, The memory of what has been, And never more will be. William Wordsworth. The Morning- Gl 6r y. We wreathed about our darling's head The morning-glory bright ; Her little face looked out beneath, So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise, That we could only say, " She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they." So always from that happy time We called her by their name. And very fitting did it seem ; For sure as morning came. Behind her cradle-bars she smiled To catch the first faint ray. As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day. But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue 50 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew ; And not so close their tendrils fine Kound their supports are thrown As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own. We used to think how she had come, Even as comes the flower. The last and perfect added gift To crown Love's morning hour ; And how in her was imaged forth The love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops round Shines back the heart of day. We never could have thought, God, That she must wither up Almost before a day was flown, Like the morning-glory's cup ; We never thought to see her droop Her fair and noble head. Till she lay stretched before our eyes. Wilted, and cold, and dead ! The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round ; We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground ; The tender things the winter killed Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth. O Earth ! in vain our aching eyes Stretch over thy green j^lain ! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, Her spirit to sustain ; But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee. Maria White Lowell. The Babe. Naked on parent's knees, a new-born child. Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled : So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep, Thou then mayst smile while all around thee weep. Sir William Jones. The Three Sons, I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old. With eyes of thoughtful earnestness and mind of gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face is fair — And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air ; I know his heart is kind and fond, I know ■ he loveth me. But loveth yet his mother more with grate- ful fervency. But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind — The food for grave, inquiring speech he everywhere doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together walk ; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk ; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball. But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teacheth him to pray ; And strange and sweet and solemn then are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared tu manhood's years, like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; And when I look into his eyes and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel were 1 to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be. How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee ; POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. f do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Xor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, And his every look's a gleam- of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all; and yet, with cheerful tone. Will sing his little song of love when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to glad- den home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love ; And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I cannot tell. For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be — on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh. But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings. And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I) Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever ; But, if our own poor faith fail not, he I must be ours for ever. I When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be — When we muse on that world's perfect bliss and this world's misery — W^hen we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain — Oh, we'd rather lose our other two than have him here again ! John Moultrie. We ABE Seven. — A SIMPLE child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death ? I met a little cottage girl ; She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cluster'd round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad : Her eyes were fair, and very fair — , Her beauty made me glad. " Sisters and brothers, little maid. How many may you be?" " How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering look'd at me. " And where are they ? I pray you tell " She answer'd, " Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. '* Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother ; 52 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. And in the cliurcliyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother." " You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven 1 I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be ?" Then did the little maid reply : " Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree.'* " Y"ou run about, my little maid, Y'our limbs they are alive ; If two are in the churchyard laid. Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied, " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. *' My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem ; And there upon the ground I sit — I sit and sing to them. " And often after sunset, sir, AVhen it is light and fair, I take my little porringer. And eat my supper there. " The first that died was little Jane ; In bed she moaning lay. Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. " So in the churchyard she was laid ; And when the grass was dry. Together round her grave we play'd, ^ My brother John and I. ''And when the ground was white with snow. And I could run and slide. My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." '^How many are you, then," said I, " If they two are in Heaven ?" The little maiden did reply, " Oh, master, we are seven !" " But they are dead — those two are dead. Their spirits are in Heaven !" 'Twas throwing words away, for still The little maid would have her will. And said, " Nay, we are seven !" William Wordsworth. The MOTHER'S Hope. Is there, where the winds are singing In the happy summer-time. Where the raptured air is ringing With Earth's music heavenward springing. Forest chirp, and village chime ; Is there, of the sounds that float Minglingly, a single note Half so sweet, and clear, and wild. As the laughter of a child ? Listen ; and be now delighted. Morn hath touch'd her golden strings, Earth and sky their vows have plighted Life and light are reunited. Amid countless caroUings ; Yet, delicious as they are. There's a sound that's sweeter far — One that makes the heart rejoice More than all, — ^the human voice I Organ, finer, deeper, clearer, Though it be a stranger's tone ; Than the winds or waters dearer. More enchanting to the hearer. For it answereth his own. But of all its witching words. Sweeter than the songs of birds. Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child. Harmonies from time-touch'd towers, Haunted strains from rivulets. Hum of bees among the flowers. Rustling leaves, and silver showers,— These ere long the ear forgets ; But in mine there is a sound Einging on the whole year round ; Heart-deep laughter that I heard. Ere my child could speak a word. Ah ! 'twas heard by ear far purer, Fondlier form'd to catch the strain- Ear of one whose love is surer; Hers, the mother, the endurer Of the deepest share of pain ; POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 53 Hers the deepest bliss, to treasure Memories of that cry of pleasure ; Hers to hoard, a lifetime after, Echoes of that infant laughter. Yes, a mother's large affection Hears with a mysterious sense ; Breathings that evade detection, Whisper faint, and fine inflection, Thrill in her with power intense. Childhood's honey'd tones untaught Heareth she, in loving thought ! Tones that never thence depart. For she listens — with her heart ! Lama>f Blakchard. The Gambols of Children. DOAVX the dimpled green-sward dancing. Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy — Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, Love's irregular little levy. Rows of liquid eyes in laughter. How they glimmer, how they quiver ! Sparkling one another after, Like bright ripples on a river. Tipsy band of rubious faces, Flush'd with Joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At Love's self, and do not fear it. George Darley. Under my Window. U^iTDER my window, under my window. All in the Midsummer weather, Three little girls wdth fluttering curls Flit to and fro together : — There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver green, And Kate with her scarlet feather. Under my window, under my window, Leaning stealthily over. Merry and clear, the voice I hear. Of each glad-hearted rover. Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies. As merry as bees in clover. Under my window, under my window. In the blue Midsummer weather, Stealing slow, on a hush'd tip-toe, I catch them all together : — Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green. And Kate with the scarlet feather. Under my window, under my window. And off through the orchard closes ; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies ; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses. Thomas "\Viisi\vooD. Boyhood. Ah ! then how sweetly closed those crowded days! The minutes parting one by one like rays, That fade upon a summer's eve. But oh ! what charm, or magic numbers Can give me back the gentle slumbers Those weary, happy days did leave ? When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this— E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. Washixgtox Allston. The Children in the Wool. Now ponder well, you parents deare. These wordes, which I shall write ; A doleful story you shall heare, In time brought forth to light : A gentleman of good account In Norfolke dwelt of late, Who did in honor far surmount Most men of his estate. Sore sicke he was, and like to dye, No helpe his life could save ; His wife by him as sicke did lye, And both possest one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kinde ; In love they liv'd, in love they dyed, And left two babes behinde : The one a fine and pretty boy, Not passing three yeares olde ; The other a girl more young than he, And fram'd in beautyes moulde. The father left his little son. As plainlye doth appeare. When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred poundes a yeare. 54 FIRESIDE ENGYCLOP.^DIA OF POETRY. And to liis little daughter Jane Five hundred poundes in gold, To be paid downe on marriage-day, Which might not be controU'd ; But if the, children chance to dye Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possesse their wealth, For so the wille did run. Now, brother, said the dying man, Look to my children deare ; Be good unto my boy and girl. No friendes else have they here : To God and you I recommend My children deare this daye ; But little while be sure we have Within this world to staye. You must be father and mother both. And uncle all in one ; God knowes what will become of them When I am dead and gone. With that bespake their mother deare. Oh brother kinde, quoth shee. You are the man must bring our babes To Avealth or miserie : And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward ; But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deedes regard. With lippes as cold as any stone, They kist their children small : God bless you both, my children deare ; With that the teares did fall. These speeches then their brother spake To this sicke couple there : The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not feare : God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have. If I do wrong your children deare, When you are layd in grave. The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes. And bringes them straite unto his house, W^here much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a daye. But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both a wave. He bargain'd with two ruffians strong. Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children youngs And slaye them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale. He would the children send To be brought up in faire London, With one that was his friend. Away then went those pretty babeSj Rejoycing at that tide, Eejoycing with a merry minde, They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the wave, To those that should their butchers be^ And work their lives decaye : So that the pretty speeche they had. Made Murder's heart relent : And they that undertooke the deed Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them more hard of heart. Did vowe to do his charge, Because the wretch, that hired him, Had paid him x^vj large. The other won't agree thel'eto. So here they fall to strife ; With one another they did fight, About the childrens life : And he that was of mildest mood, Did slaye the other there, Within an unfrequented wood ; The babes did quake for feare I He took the children by the hand, Teares standing in their eye, And bad them straitwaye follow him. And look they did not crye ; And two long miles he ledd them on. While they for food complaine : Staye here, quoth he, I'll bring you bread When I come back againe. These pretty babes, with hand in hand. Went wandering up and downe, But never more could see the man Approaching from the towne : Their prettye lippes, with black-berries, Were all besmear'd and dyed. And, when they sawe the darksome night. They sat them downe and cry'd. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 55 Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till deathe did end their grief ; In one anothers arms they dyed, As wanting due relief. No burial " this " pretty " pair " Of any man receives, Till Robin-red-breast piously Did cover them with leaves. And now the heavy wrathe of God Upon their uncle fell ; Yea, fearfuU fiends did haunt his house. His conscience felt an hell. His barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd, His landes were barren made ; His cattle dyed within the field, And nothing with him stayd. And in a voyage to Portugal Two of his sonnes did dye ; And to conclude, himselfe was brought To want and miserye : He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about. And now at length this wicked act Did by this meanes come out : The fellowe, that did take in hand These children for to kill, "Was for a robbery judg'd to dye, Such was God's blessed w411 : Who did confess the very truth, As here hath been display'd : Their uncle having dyed in gaol, Where he for debt was layd. You that executors be made, And overseers eke Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek ; Take you example by this thing. And yield to each his right. Lest God, with such like miserye. Your wicked minds requite. Author Unknown. The Child and the iMouenees. A LITTLE child, beneath a tree, Sat and chanted cheerily A little song, a pleasant song, Which was — she sang it all day long — " When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; But a good God reigns over all." There pass'd a lady by the way, Moaning in the face of day : There were tears upon her cheek, Grief in her heart too great to speak ; Her husband died but yester-morn, And left her in the world forlorn. She stopp'd and listen'd to the child That look'd to heaven, and, singing. smiled ; And saw not, for her own despair. Another lady, young and fair, Who also passing, stopp'd to hear The infant's anthem ringing clear. For she but few sad days before Had lost the little babe she bore ; And grief was heavy at her soul As that sweet memory o'er her stole, And show'd how bright had been the past, The present drear and overcast. And as they stood beneath the tree Listening, soothed and placidly, A youth came by, whose sunken eye^ Spake of a load of miseries ; And he, arrested like the twain, Stopp'd to listen to the strain. Death had bow'd the youthful head Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : Her marriage robes were fitted on, Her fair young face with blushes shone. When the destroyer smote her low. And changed the lover's bliss to woe. And these three listen'd to the song, Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong. Which that child, the livelong day. Chanted to itself in play : " When the wind blows the blossoms fall • But a good God reigns over all.'' The widow's lips impulsive moved ; The mother's grief, though unreproved, Soften'd, as her trembling tongue Repeated what the infant sung ; And the sad lover, with a start, Conn'd it over to his heart. And though the child — if child it were. And not a seraph sitting there — Was seen no more, the sorrowing three Went on their way resignedly, 56 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The song still ringing in their ears — Was it music of the spheres ? Who shall tell ? They did not know. But in the midst of deepest woe The strain recurr'd, when sorrow grew, To warn them, and console them too : " When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; But a good God reigns over all." Charles Mackay. LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ; And, when I cross'd the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door. You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green. But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will nevermore be seen. " To-night will be a stormy night ; You to the town must go. And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow." " That, father, will I gladly do ; 'Tis scarcely afternoon ; The minster clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon." At this the father raised his hook, And snapp'd a fagot-band ; He plied his work ; and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe : With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time : She wander'd up and down. And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reach' d the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide, But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlook'd the moor. And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept, and turning homeward, cried, " In heaven we all shall meet :" When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Half breathless, from the steep hill's edge They track'd the foot-marks small. And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the long stone wall. And then an open field they cross'd : The marks were still the same ; They track'd them on, nor ever lost. And to the bridge they came. They foUow'd from the snowy bank Those foot-marks one by one. Into the middle of the plank, And further there were none. Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child ; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind ; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. William Wordsworth. The Widow and Child. Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry : All her maidens, watching, said, " She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved. Truest friend and noblest foe ; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place. Lightly to the warrior stept. Took the face-cloth from the face ; Yet she neither moved nor wept. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 57 JRose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee — Like summer tempest came her tears — " Sweet my child, I live for thee." Alfred Tennyson. The Schoolmistress. Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn. To think how modest worth neglected lies ; While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise ; Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous em- prize: Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies ; Such as I oft have chanced to espy. Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. In every village mark'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells in lowly shed, and mean at- tire, A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name; AVho boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Awed by the pow'r of this relentless dame; And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree. Which learning near her little dome did stow ; Whilom a twig of small regard to see, Tho' now so wide its waving branches flow; And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, , But their limbs shudder'd and their pulse beat low ; And as they look'd they found their horror grew. And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. So have I seen (who has not, may con- ceive) A lifeless phantom near a garden placed ; So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast : Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste I Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. Near to this dome is found a patch so green, On which the tribe their gambols do display ; And at the door impris'ning board is seen, Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray. Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! The noises intermix'd, which thence re- sound. Do learning's little tenement betray : Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound. And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow. As is the harebell that adorns the field: And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays ; with anxious fear entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd; And steadfast hate, and sharp afiliction join'd. And fury uncontroll'd and chastisement unkind. Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet portray'd, The childish faces of old Eol's train ; Libs, Notus, Auster ; these in frowns ar- ray'd. How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main. 58 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein ? And were not she rebellious breasts to quell, And were not she her statutes to main- tain, The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell. Where comely peace of mind and decent order dAvell. A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; Twas simple russet, but it was her own ; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair ; 'Twas her own labor did the fleece pre- pare ; And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around. Through pious awe, did term it passing rare ; For they in gaping wonderment abound. And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, Ne pompous title did debauch her ear ; Goody, good woman, gossip, n' aunt, for- sooth. Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ; Yet these sbe challenged, these she held right dear : Ne would esteem him act as mought be- hove. Who should not honor'd eld with these revere ; For never title yet so mean could prove. But there was eke a mind which did that title love. One ancient hen she took delight to feed. The plodding pattern of the busy dame. Which ever and anon, impell'd by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; Such favor did her past deportment claim ; And, if neglect had lavish' d on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same. For well she knew, and quaintly could ex- pound. What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak That in her garden sipp'd the silv'ry dew. Where no vain flow'r disclosed a gaudy streak ; But herbs for use and physic, not a few. Of gray renown, within those borders grew: The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme. Fresh balm, and marygold of cheerful hue. The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme. Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung. That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around ; And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue, And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reap- er's wound. And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posie found. And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall be erewhile in arid bundles bound, To lurk amidst the labors of her loom. And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perfume. And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd The daintiest garden of the proudest peer, Ere, driven from its envied site, it found A sacred shelter for its branches here ; Where, edged with gold, its glitt'ring skirts appear. Oh, wassel. days! oh, customs meet and well! Ere this was banish'd from his lofty sphere : Simplicity then sought this humble ceil. Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell. 1 POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 59 Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete ; If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, But in her garden found a summer- seat: Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foemen did a song en- treat, All, for the nonce, untuning ev'ry string, Uphung their useless lyres; small heart had they to sing. For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore. And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed. And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore The times when truth by popish rage did bleed. And tortuous death was true devotion's meed, And simj^le faith in iron chains did mourn. That nould on wooden image placed her creed. And lawny saints in smould'ring flames did burn ; Ah ! dearest Lord, forfend thilk days should e'er return ! In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem. By the sharp tooth of cank'ring eld de- faced. In which, when he receives his diadem. Our sov'reign prince and liefest liege is placed. The matron sate ; and some with rank she graced (The source of children's and of cour- tiers' pride), Eedress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd. And warn'd them not the fretful to de- ride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide. Right well she knew each temper to descry : To thwart the i>roud, and the submiss to raise : Some with vile copper prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise ; And other some with baneful sprig she 'frays : Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth hold. While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks be- hold, 'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. Lo now with state she utters the command ! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; Their books of stature small they take in hand. Which with pellucid horn secured are ; To save from fingers wet the letters fair : The work so gay, that on their back is seen, St. George's high achievements does de- clare ; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween ! Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the beam Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write ! As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream, Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite. For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight ! And down they drop ; appears his dainty skin. Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. Oh, ruthful scene ! when from a nook ob- scure His little sister doth his peril see : All playful as she sate, she grows demure ; She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee -, She meditates a pray'r to set him free ; Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny (If gentle j^ardon could with dames agree) To her sad grief that swells in either eye. And wrings her so that all for pity shft could die. 60 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. No longer can she now her shrieks com- mand; And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand. To stay hard justice in its mid career. On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear ! (Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!) She sees no kind domestic visage near. And soon a flood of tears begins to flow ; And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. But, ah ! what pen his piteous plight may trace ? Or what device his loud laments ex- plain? The form uncouth of his disguised face ? The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain? The plenteous shower that does his cheek disdain ? When he in abject- wise implores the dame, Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain; Or when from high she levels well her aim. And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke proclaim. The other tribe aghast, with sore dismay. Attend, and con their tasks with mickle care: By turns, astonied, ev'ry twig survey, And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, beware ; Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share; Till fear has taught them a performance meet. And to the well-known chest the dame repair ; Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth 'em greet. And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet! See to their seats they hie with merry glee. And in beseemly order sitteu there ; All but the wight of bum y-galled ; he Abhorreth bench, and stool, and form, and chair (This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his hair) ; And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast. Convulsions intermitting ! does declare His grievous wrongs; his dame's unjust behest, And scorns her offer' d love, and shuns to be caress'd. His face besprent with liquid crystal shines, His blooming face that seems a purple flow'r Which low to earth its drooping head de- clines, All smear' d and sullied by a vernal show'r. Oh, the hard bosoms of despotic pow'r ! All, all, but she, the author of his shame. All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour: Yet hence the youth, and hence the flow'r shall claim, If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame. Behind some door, in melancholy thought^ Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught, But to the wind all merriment re- signs ; And deems it shame if he to peace in- clines ; And many a sullen look askance is sent. Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ; And still the more to pleasure him she's bent. The more doth he, perverse, her 'havior past resent. Ah, me! how much I fear lest pride it be! But if that pride it be, which thus in- spires. Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires: POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 61 All, better far than all the muses' lyres, All coward arts, is valor's gen'rous heat ; The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires. Like Vernon's patriot soul ; more justly great Than craft that pimps for ill, or flow'ry false deceit. Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear ! Ev'n now sagacious foresight points to show A little bench of heedless bishops here ! And there a chancellor in embryo, Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so, As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die ! Though now he crawl along the ground so low. Nor weeting how the muse should soar on high, Wisheth, poor starv'ling elf! his paper kite may fly. And this perhaps, who censuring the design. Low lays the house which that of cards doth build, Shall Dennis be! if rigid fates incline, And many an epic to his rage shall yield ; And many a poet quit th' Aonian field ; And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear, As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd. Surveys mine work; and levels many a sneer, And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff is here?" But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky, And liberty unbars her prison-door ; And like a rushing torrent out they fly, And now the grassy cirque han cover'd o'er With boist'rous revel-rout and wild uproar ; A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, Heav'n shield their short-lived pastimes I implore For well may freedom, erst so dearly won, Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun. Enjoy, poor imjis ! enjoy your sportive trade. And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flow'rs ; For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid ; For never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly castles, or in ladies' bow'rs. Oh, vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! But most in courts where proud ambi- tion tow'rs ; Deluded wight, who weens fair peace can spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. See in each sprite some various bent appear ! These rudely carol most incondite lay ; Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer Salute the stranger passing on his way ; Some builden fragile tenements of clay ; Some to the standing lake their courses bend, With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play ; Thilk to the huxter's sav'ry cottage tend, In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend. Here, as each season yields a different store. Each season's stores in order ranged been; Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er. Galling fall sore th' unmoney'd wight, are seen ; And goose-b'rie clad in liv'ry red or green ; And here of lovely dye, the cath'rine pear. Fine pear ! as lovely for thy juice I ween. Oh, may no wight e'er penniless come there. Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless care ! See ! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, With thread so white in tempting jDOsiea tied. Scattering like blooming maid their glances round. With pamper'd look draw little eyea aside : 62 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. And must be bought, though penury betide. The pkim all azure, and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide, Whose honor'd names th' inventive city own, Rend'ring through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known. Admired Salopia ! that with venial pride Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave. Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried, Her daughters lovely and her striplings brave : Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave. Whose art did first these dulcet cates dis- play ! A motive fair to learning's imps he gave, Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray ; Till reason's morn arise, and light them on their way. William Shenstone. The Children. When the lessons and tasks are all ended. And the school for the day is dismiss'd, The little ones gather around me. To bid me good-night and be kiss'd : Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in their tender embrace ! Oh the smiles that are halos of heaven. Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! And when they are gone I sit dreaming Of my childhood, too lovely to last : Of joy that my heart will remember While it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin ; V/hen the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. Ail my heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony. Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them. Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild ; Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child I They are idols of hearts and of households ; They are angels of God in disguise ; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still gleams in their eyes. Those truants from home and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild, And I know now how Jesus could liken The kingdom of God to a child. I ask not a life for the dear oneSj All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun : I would pray God to guard them from evil. But my prayer would bound back to myself ; Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so easily bended, I have banish'd the rule and the rod ; I have taught them the goodness of know- ledge. They have taught me the goodness of God; My heart is the dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them for breaking a rule ; My frown is suflicient correction ; My love is the law of the school. I shall leave the old house in the autumn. To traverse its threshold no more ; Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door ! I shall miss the ''good-nights" and the kisses. And the gush of their innocent glee. The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning for me. I shall miss them at morn and at even. Their song in the school and the street j I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their delicate feet. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 63 When the lessons of life are all ended, And Death says, "The school is dis- missed !" May the little ones gather around me, To bid me good-night, and be kiss'd ! Chakles M. Dickinson. The Cry of the Children. Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest. The young fawns are playing with the shadows. The young flowers are blowing toward the west — But the young, young children, O my brothers. They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others. In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in their sorrow Why their tears are falling so ? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago ; The old tree is leafless in the forest. The old year is ending in the frost. The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest. The old hope is hardest to be lost : But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers. In our happy Fatherland ? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see. For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy ; "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary. Our young feet," they say, "are very weak ; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — Our grave-rest is very far to seek : Ask the aged why they weep, and not thei children. For the outside earth is cold. And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering. And the graves are for the old. " True," say the children, " it may happen That we die before our time : Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her : Was no room for any work in the close clay ! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her. Crying, ' Get up little Alice ! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries ; Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her. For the smile has time for growing in her eyes : And merry go her moments, lull'd and stiird in The shroud by the kirk-chime. It is good when it happens," say the children, " That we die before our time." Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have : They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city. Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cow- slips pretty. Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! 64 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. But they answer^ "Are yotir cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds a-near the mine ? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal- shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine ! " For oh," say the children, " we are weary, And we cannot run or leap ; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop dowm in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping. We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; And, underneath our heavy eyelids droop- ing, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For all day we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark, underground ; Or all day we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. •' For all day the wheels are droning, turn- ing; Their wind comes in our faces. Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning. And the walls turn in their places : Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling. All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, ' O ye wheels ' (breaking out in a mad moaning) ' Stop ! be silent for to-day !' " Ay, be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth ! Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that this cold metallic mo- tion Is not all the life God fashions or re- veals : Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark ; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers. To look up to Him and pray ; So the blessed One who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, " Who is God, that He should hear us. While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirr'd ? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door : Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more ? "Two words, indeed, of praying we re- member, And at midnight's hour of harm, ' Our Father,' looking upward in the cham- ber. We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except 'Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather. And hold both within His right hand which is strong. ' Our Father I' If He heard us He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, ' Come and rest with me, my child.' POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 65 "But no!" say the children, weeping faster, " He is speechless as a stone : And they tell us of His image is the master, Who commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children,— " up in heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us ; grief has made us un- believing : We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach ? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving. And the children doubt of each. And well may the children weep before you ! They are weary ere they run ; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man, without its wisdom ; They sink in man's despair, without its calm ; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christ- dom. Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm : Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap, — Are orphans of the earthly love and heav- enly. Let them weep ! let them weep ! They look up with their pale and sunken faces. And their look is dread to see, For they 'mind you of their angels in high places. With eyes turned on Deity. " How long," they say, "how long, cruel nation. Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, — Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpita- tion, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? b Our blood splashes upward, gold- heaper. And your purple shows your path ! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath." Elizabeth Bakkktt Bkowning. To A Highland Girl. (At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.) Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head : And, these gray Rocks ; this household Lawn ; These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent Lake ; This little Bay, a quiet Eoad That holds in shelter thy Abode ; In truth, together do ye seem Like something fashion'd in a dream ; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep ! Yet, dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart : God shield thee to thy latest years I I neither know thee nor thy peers ; And yet my eyes are fiU'd with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away : For never saw I mien or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scatter'd like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrass'd look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness : Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer : A face with gladness overspread ! Soft smiles by human kindness bred ! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays : With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech : 66 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life ! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull Por thee who art so beautiful ? Oh happy pleasure ! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell ; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality : Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea : and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see ! Thy elder Brother I would be, Thy Father, anything to thee ! Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had ; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : Then, why should I be loth to stir ? I feel this place was made for her ; To give new pleasure like the past. Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; For I, methinks, till I grow old. As fair before me shall behold. As I do now, the Cabin small. The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall ; And thee, the Spirit of them all ! William Wordsworth. Maidenhood. Maiden ! with the meek, brown In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies ! Thou whose locks outshine the sun. Golden tresses, wreath'd in one. As the braided streamlets run ! Standing, with reluctant feet. Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet ! Gazing, with a timid glance. On the brooklet's swift advance. On the river's broad expanse \ Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream. Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Seest thou shadows sailing by. As the dove, with startled eye. Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafen'd by the cataract's roar ? thou child of many prayers ! Life hath quicksands, — life hath snares ! Care and age come unawares. Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon. May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough, where slumber'd Birds and blossoms many-number'd : — Age, that bough with snows encumber'd. Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows. Bear a lily in thy hand ; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal. Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart. For a smile of God thou art. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 07 THE BLIND BOY. Oh, say what is that thing call'd Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy? What are the blessings of the sight, Oh, tell your poor blind boy ! You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright ; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night ? My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play ; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe ; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know. Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy ; Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy. COLLEY ClBBER. Hows MY BOYf " Ho, sailor of the sea ! How's my boy — my boy ?" " What's your boy's name, good wife. And in what good ship sailed he ?" '' My boy John — He that went to sea — What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. " You come back from sea, And not know my John ? I might as well have ask'd some lands- man Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But knows my John '* How's my boy — my boy ? And unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no. Brass buttons or no, sailor. Anchor and crown or no ! Sure his ship was the ' Jolly Briton ' " — " Speak low, woman, speak low !" " And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John ? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town ! Why should I speak low, sailor?" " That good ship went down." " How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the ship, sailor, I was never aboard her ? Be she afloat or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound Her owners can afford her ! I say, how's my John ?" " Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." " How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother — How's my boy — my boy ? Tell me of him and no other ! How's my boy — my boy?" Sydney Dobell. The Night Before Christmas. 'TwAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; The children were nestled all snug in their beds. While visions of sugar -plums danced through their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long win- ter's nap. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below ; 68 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. V/heii what to my wondering eyes should \ He had a broad face and a little round appear, | belly But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny j That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl reindeer, i full of jelly. With a little old driver, so lively and ! He was chubby and plump— a right jolly quick, ; old elf— I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. : And I laugh'd when I saw him, in spite More rapid than eagles his coursers they ' of myself. came, j A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd j Soon gave me to know I had nothing to them by name : j dread. "Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Pran- I He spake not a word, but went straight to cer ! now. Vixen ! j his work, On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and ! And filled all the stockings; then turn'd Blitzen !— | with a jerk, To the top of the porch, to the top of the And laying his finger aside of his nose, wall! - Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all !" As dry leaves that before the wild hurri- cane fly. When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. Bo, up to the house-top the coursers they flew. With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nich- olas too. And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dress'd all in fur from his head to his foot. And his clothes were all tarnish' d with ashes and soot ; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. And he look'd like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled ! his dimples how merry ! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry. His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth. And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle ; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night !" Clement C. Moore, introduction to '' songs of Innocence:' PiPiXG down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child. And he laughing said to me : " Pipe a song about a lamb !" So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again;" So I piped ; he wept to hear. " Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; Sing thy songs of happy cheer V So I sang the same again. While he wept with joy to hear. " Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read." So he vanish' d from my sight ; And I pluck'd a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen. And I stain' d the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. William Blakr. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 69 The May queen. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day ; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. If you do not call me loud, when the day begins to break : But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May. As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see. But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel tree ? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday — But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Effie shall ^o with me to-morrow to the green. And you'll be there too, mother, to see me made the queen ; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers. And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the mad- dest, merriest day. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. New- Year's Eve. If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear. For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 70 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. To night I saw the sun set: he set and left | You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath behind | the hawthorn shade, The good old year, the dear old time, and And you'll come sometimes and see me all my peace of mind ; w^here I am lowly laid. And the New-year's coming up, mother, ! I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse. Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There's not a flow^er on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the wdndy tall elm tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow^ lea. And the swallow 'ill come back again wdth summer o'er the wave. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the m.ouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine. In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm -asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, And be often, often wdth you when you think I'm far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore. And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden-tools upon the gran- ary floor : Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 71 Conclusion. I thouglit to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! To die before the snow-drop came, and now the violet's here. Oh, sweet is the new violet, that comes be- neath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun. And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet. His will be done ! But still I think it can't be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. Oh, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair. And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! Oh, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in ; Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet ; But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine. And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll. And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd. And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said. For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping, and I said, "It's not for them, it's mine ;" And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars. Then seem'd to go right up to heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am pass'd away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; There's many a worthier than I would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife, But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 72 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Oh, look ! the sun begins to rise, the heav- ens are in a glow ; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun, For ever and for ever with those just souls and true ; And what is life that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home. And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come. To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast, And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. Alfred Tennyson. •o* GOOD'NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING. A fAiR little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see ; Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, " Dear work, good-night, good- night!" Such a number of rooks .came over her head, Crying " Caw ! caw !" on their way to bed. She said, as she watched their curious flight, " Little black things, good-night, good- night !" The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed. The sheep's '' Bleat ! bleat !" came over the road ; All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, "Good little girl, good-night, gbod-night!" She did not say to the sun, " Good-night !" Though she saw him there like a ball of light; For she knew he had God's time to keep All over the world, and never could sleep. The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ; The violets curtsied, and went to bed ; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. And while on her pillow she softly lay. She knew nothing more till again it was day; And all things said to the beautiful sun, " Good-morning, good-morning ! our work is begun." Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton). 7L &ic^ /^._^^^^._;, i£ ^l^^am) 'iel Parker AVillis. Twenty Years Ago. I've wander'd to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the school-house play-ground, which shelter'd you and me ; But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know, That play'd with us upon the grass some twenty years ago. The grass is just as green, Tom — barefooted boys at play, Were sporting just as we did then, with spirits just as gay; But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow. Afforded us a sliding-place, just twenty years ago. The old school-house is alter'd some, the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our pen- knives had defaced ; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro. It's music, just the same, dear Tom, 'twas twenty years ago. I The boys were playing some old game, I beneath the same old tree — I I do forget the name just now; you've play'd the same with me On that same spot ; 'twas play'd with knives, by throwing so and so. The loser had a task to do, there, just twenty years ago. The river's running just as still, the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom, the stream appears less wide ; But the grapevine swing is ruin'd now where once we play'd the beau, And swung our sweethearts — " pretty girls " — just twenty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low — 'twas once so high that we could almost reach ; And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I even started so ! To see how much that I am changed since twenty years ago. Near by the spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name. Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same — Some heartless wretch had peel'd the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow. Just as the one whose name was cut, died twenty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came in my eyes, I thought of her I loved so well — those early broken ties — I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strew Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago. Some are in the churchyard laid, some sleep beneath the sea. But few are left of our old class, except- ing you and me. And when our time is come, Tom, and we are call'd to go, I hope they'll lay us where we play'd, just twenty years ago. Author Unknown POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 79 School and School-fellows. "Floreat Etona." Twelve years ago I made a mock Of filthy trades and traffics : 1 wonder'd what they meant by stock ; I wrote delightful sapphics ; I knew the streets of Eome and Troy, I supp'd with Fates and Furies ; Twelve years ago I was a boy, A happy boy at Drury's. Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought Of faded pains and pleasures Those whisper'd syllables have brought From Memory's hoarded treasures ! The fields, the farms, the bats, the books, The glories and disgraces. The voices of dear friends, the looks Of old familiar faces ! Kind Mater smiles again to me, As bright as when we parted ; I seem again the frank, the free, Stout-limb'd and simple-hearted ! Pursuing every idle dream, And shunning every warning : With no hard work but Bovney stream. No chill except Long Morning : Now stopping Hariy Vernon's ball That rattled like a rocket ; Now hearing Wentworth's "Fourteen all!' And striking for the pocket ; Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — Now drinking from the pewter ; Now leaping over Chalvey ditch, Now laughing at my tutor. Where are my friends? I am alone ; No playmate shares my beaker : Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, And some — before the Speaker ; And some compose a tragedy. And some compose a rondo ; And some draw sword for Liberty, And some draw pleas for John Doe. Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes Without the fear of sessions ; Charles Medlar loath'd false quantities, As much as false professions ; Now Mill keeps order in the land, A magistrate pedantic ; And Medlar's feet repose unscann'd Beneath the wide Atlantic. Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din. Does Dr. Martext's duty ; And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, Is married to a beauty ; And Darrel studies, week by week, His Mant, and not his Manton ; And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, Is very rich at Canton. And I am eight-and-twenty now ; — The world's cold chains have bound me; And darker shades are on my brow, And sadder scenes around me : In Parliament I fill my seat. With many other noodles ; And lay my head in Jermyn street, And sip my hock at Boodle's. But often, when the cares of life Have set my temples aching, When visions haunt me of a wife. When duns await my waking, When Lady Jane is in a pet, Or Hoby in a hurry. When Captain Hazard wins a bet. Or Beaulieu spoils a curry, — For hours and hours I think and talk Of each remember'd hobby ; I long to lounge in Poets' Walk, To shiver in the lobby ; I wish that I could run away From House, and Court, and Levee, Where bearded men appear to-day Just Eton boys, grown heavy, — That I could bask in childhood's sun, And dance o'er childhood's roses. And find huge wealth in one pound one. Vast wit in broken noses, And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, And call the milkmaids Houris, — That I could be a boy again,— A happy boy, — at Drury's. WiNTHKOP MACKWORTH PrAEU. A Reflective Retrospect. 'Tis twenty years, and something more, Since, all athirst for useful knowledge, 80 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. I took some draughts of classic lore, Drawn very mild, at rd College ; Yet I remember all that one Could wish to hold in recollection ; The boys, the joys, the noise, the fun; But not a single Conic Section. I recollect those harsh aflfairs, The morning bells, that gave us panics I recollect the formal prayers, That seemed like lessons in Mechanics ; I recollect the drowsy way In which the students listen' d to them. As clearly, in my wig, to-day. As when a boy I them. slumber'd through I recollect the tutors all As freshly now, if I may say so, As any chapter I recall, In Homer or Ovidius Naso. I recollect extremely well " Old Hugh," the mildest of fanatics ; I well remember Matthew Bell, But very faintly Mathematics. I recollect the prizes paid For lessons fathom'd to the bottom ; (Alas that pencil-marks should fade !) I recollect the chaps who got 'em, — The light equestrians who soar'd O'er every passage reckon'd stony ; And took the chalks, — ^but never scored A single honor to the pony ! Ah me ! what changes Time has wrought, And how predictions have miscarried ! A few have reach'd the goal they sought, And some are dead, and some are mar- ried! And some in city journals war ; And some as politicians bicker ; And some are pleading at the bar— For jury-verdicts, or for liquor ! And some on Trade and Commerce wait ; And some in school with dunces battle ; And some the gospel propagate ; And some the choicest breeds of cattle ; And some are living at their ease ; And some were wreck'd in " the revul- sion ;" Some serve the State for handsome fees. And one, I hear, upon compulsion ! Lamont, who, in his college days, Thought e'en a cross a moral scandal. Has left his Puritanic ways, And worships now with bell and candle ; And Mann, who mourn'd the negro's fate. And held the slave as most unlucky, Now holds him, at the market rate. On a plantation in Kentucky ! Tom Knox — w^ho swore in such a tone It fairly might be doubted whether It was really himself alone, Or Knox and Erebus together — Has grown a very alter'd man, And, changing oaths for mild entreaty, Now recommends the Christian plan To savages in Otaheite! Alas for young ambition's vow ! How envious Fate may overthrow it ! — Poor Harvey is in Congress now, Who struggled long to be a poet ; Smith carves (quite well) memorial stones. Who tried in vain to make the law go ; Hall deals in hides; and "Pious Jones" Is dealing faro in Chicago ! And, sadder still, the brilliant Hays, Once honest, manly, and ambitious. Has taken latterly to ways Extremely profligate and vicious ; By slow degrees-^I can't tell how — He's reach'd at last the very groundsel, And in New York he figures now, A member of the Common Council ! John G. Saxe. The Boys. Has there any old fellow got mix'd with the boys ? If there has, take him out, without mak- ing a noise. Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Cata- logue's spite I Old Time is a liar ! We're twenty to-night ! We're twenty ! We're twenty ! Who says we are more ? He's tipsy, — young jackanapes ! — show him the door ! POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 81 "Gray temples at twenty?" — Yes I white, if we please ; Where the snow-flakes fiill thickest there's nothing can freeze ! Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake ! Look close, — yoM will see not a sign of a flake! We want some new garlands for those we have shed, — And these are white roses in place of the red. We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old : That boy we call " Doctor," and this we call "Judge";— It's a neat little fiction, — of course it's all fudge. That fellow's the " Speaker," — the one on the right ; " Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night ? That's our " Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the " Eeverend " What's his name ? — don't make me laugh ! That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the Eoyal Society thought it was true ! So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was too ! There's a boy, we pretend, with a three- decker brain. That could harness a team with a logical chain ; When he spoke for our manhood in syl- labled fire. We call'd him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire." And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,— Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith ; 6 But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!" You hear that boy laughing ? — You think he's all fun ; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all ! Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue or with pen ; And I sometimes have ask'd, Shall we ever be men ? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay. Till the last dear companion drops smil- ing away? Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its winter, the dews of it» • May! And when we have done with our life-last' ing toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children. The Boys. Oliver Wendell Holmes AuLD Lang Syne. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne ? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. And surely ye'll be your pint stowp ! And surely I'll be mine ! And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. 82 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. We twa ha'e run about the braes, And pou'd the gowans fine ; But we've wander'd mony a weary fitt Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We twa ha'e paidl'd in the burn, Frae morning sun till dine ; But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. And there's a hand, my trusty fiere ! And gie's a hand o' thine ! And we'll tak' a right gude-willie waught. For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. Robert Burns. My Playmate. The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low ; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear ; The sweetest and the saddest day It seem'd of all the year. For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home. And took with her the laughing spring. The music and the bloom. She kiss'd the lips of kith and kin. She laid her hand in mine : What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine ? She left us in the bloom of May : The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns. But she came back no more. I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years ; Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears. She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow ; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go. There haply with her jewell'd hands She smooths her silken gown, — No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down. The wild grapes wait us by the brook. The brown nuts on the hill. And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill. The lilies blossom in the pond. The bird builds in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea. I wonder if she thinks of them. And how the old time seems, — If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams. I see her face, I hear her voice : Does she remember mine ? And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father's kine? What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours, — That other hands with nuts are fiU'd, And other laps with flowers ? playmate in the golden time I Our mossy seat is green. Its fringing violets blossom yet. The old trees o'er it lean. The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow ; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago. And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea, — The moaning of the sea of change JBetween myself and thee ! John Green leaf Whittier 'i POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 83 I Hae Naebody now. I HAE naebody now, I hae naebody now, To meet me upon the green, Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow. An' joy in her deep blue e'en ; Wi' the raptured kiss, an' the happy smile, An' the dance o' the lightsome fay, An' the wee bit tale o' news the while That had happen'd when I was away. I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now. To clasp to my bosom at even, O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow. An' pray for a blessing from Heaven ; An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face. In the morning that met my eye, Where are they now? where are they now? In the cauld, cauld grave they lie. There's naebody kens, there's naebody kens, An' oh,^ may they never prove. That sharpest degree o' agony For the child o' their earthly love. To see a flower, in its vernal hour, By slow degrees decay. Then calmly aneath the hand o' death, Breathe its sweet soul away ' Oh, dinna break, my poor auld heart, Nor at thy loss repine. For the unseen hand that threw the dart Was sent frae her Father and thine. Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn. Even till my latest day, For though my darling can never return, I shall follow thee soon away. James Hogg. The SOLDIER'S Dream. Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky, And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd. The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain. At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dream 'd it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track : 'Twas Autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that wel- comed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn- reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. " Stay, stay with us ; rest, — thou art weary and worn !" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay, But sorrow return'dwith the dawning of morn. And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Thomas Campbell. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears. But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier falter'd as he took that comrade's hand. And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native land ; Take a message and a token to some dis- tant friends of mine. For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine. 84 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. " Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale be- neath the setting sun. And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their, gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen, fair Bin- gen on the Khine. " Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age. And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage, For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword. And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bin- gen on the Khine. " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head. When the troops are marching home again with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame. And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bin- gen on the Rhine. "There's another — not a sister: in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ; Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning ; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain — my soul be. out of prison), 1 dream'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vineclad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on the Ehine. "I saw the blue .Rhine sweep along — I heard, or seemed to hear, , The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear. And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill. The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still ; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we pass'd with friendly talk Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remember'd walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confid- ingly in mine ; But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the Rhine." His voice grew faint and hoarser — his grasp was childish weak — His eyes put on a dying look — he sigh'd and ceased to speak ; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled — The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she look'd down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown ; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seem'd to shine. As it shone on distant Bingen— fair Bin- gen on the Rhine. Caroline Norton. 4\ POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 85 The Chess-board. My little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise. Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtain'd warm from the snowy weather, When you and I play'd chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes ? Ah, still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand : The double Castles guard the wings : The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves sidling through the fight. Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, And falter ; falls your golden hair Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Eides slow her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware. Ah me*! the little battle's done, Dispersed is all its chivalry ; Full many a move since then have we Mid Life's perplexing checkers made, And many a game with Fortune play'd, — What is it we have won ? This, this at least — if this alone ; — That never, never, never more. As in those old still nights of yore (Ere we were grown so sadly wise), Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world, and wintry weather, And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we play'd, together ! Robert Bulwer Lytton. The Days that are no More. Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine de- spair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the un- der-world. Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are n ) more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign 'd On lips that are for others : deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all re- gret; Oh, death in life! the days that are no more. Alfred Tennyson. FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower. Then think of the friend who once wel- comed it too. And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return — not a hope may re- main Of the few that have brighten'd his path- way of pain — But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him while linger- ing with you ! And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each cup. Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that night — Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles. And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles ; FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Too blest if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur'd, " I wish he were here !" Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she can- not destroy ! Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memo- ries filPd! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd ; You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will. But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. Thomas Moore. When we Two Parted. When we two parted In silence and tears. Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss ; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow — It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame ; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear ; A shudder comes o'er me — Why wert thou so dear ? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well : — Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met — In silence I grieve. That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years. How should I greet thee ? — With silence and tears. Lord Byron. Lament of the Irish Emigrant. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, When first you were my bride ; The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high ; And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary ; The day is bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my ear. And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. And your breath, warm on my cheek ; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near — The church where we were wed, Mary ; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest — For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends ; But, oh ! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary — My blessin' and my pride : There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on. When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow — I bless you, Mary, for that same. Though you cannot hear me now. POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 87 I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break — When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake ; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore — Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more! I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary — kind and true ! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to ; They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there — But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes. And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ! And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side. And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. Lady Dufferin. The Age of Wisdom. Ho, pretty page with the dimpled chin That never has known the barber's shear. All your wish is woman to win. This is the way that boys begin, — Wait till you come to Forty Year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; Sighing and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes, — Wait till you come to Forty Year ! Forty times over let Michaelmas pass. Grizzling hair the brain doth clear — Then you know a boy is an ass, Then you know the worth of a lass, Once you have come to Forty Year. Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are grey. Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere • Ever a month was pass'd away ? The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd. The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper, and we not list, . Or look away, and never be miss'd. Ere yet ever a month is gone. Gillian's dead, God rest her bier ! How I loved her twenty years syne ! Marian's married, but I sit here Alone and merry at Forty Year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. William Makepeace Thackerat. Ode to an Indian Gold Coin. Written in Cherical, Malabar. Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! What vanity has brought thee here ? How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear ? — The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear, For twilight converse, arm in arm ; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm. By Cherical's dark wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild. Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot, loved while still a child, Of castled rocks stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wave. Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade !— The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime. That once so bright on fancy play'd, Revives no more in after time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave ; The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widow'd heart to cheer ; Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine: 88 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Her fond heart throbs with many a fear ! 1 cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that loved me true ! I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave. To roam in climes unkind and new. The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my wither'd heart : the grave Dark and untimely met my view, — And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey ; Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! John Leyden. Break, Break, Break. Break, break, break. On thy cold, gray stones, O sea ! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. Oh, well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play ! Oh, well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill ; But oh, for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. Alfred Tennyson. On This Day I Complete my Thirty-sixth Year. MissoLONGHi, Jan. 22, 1824. *Tis time this heart should be unmoved. Since others it has ceased to move : Yet, though I cannot be beloved. Still let me love ! My days are in the yellow leaf ; The flowers and fruits of love are gone ;- The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone ! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile ! The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see ! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake) Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. And then strike home ! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regret' st thy youth, why live f The land of honorable death Is here : — up to the field, and give Away thy breath ! Seek out — ^less often sought than found — A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. Lord Byron, Old Letters. Old letters ! wipe away the tear For vows and hopes so vainly worded? A pilgrim finds his journal here Since first his youthful loins were girded. Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove, How could philosophy expect us To live with Dr. Wise, and love Rice-pudding and the Greek Delectus ? Explain why childhood's path is sown With moral and scholast.fc tin-tacks ; if POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 89 Ere sin original was known, Did Adam groan beneath tlie syntax ? How strange to parley with the dead ! Keep ye your green, wan leaves ? How many From Friendship's tree untimely shed ! And here is one as sad as any ; A ghastly bill ! " I disapprove," And yet She helped me to defray it — What tokens of a mother's love ! Oh, bitter thought ! I can't repay it. And here's the offer that I wrote In '33 to Lucy Diver ; And here John Wylie's begging note, — He never paid me back a stiver. And here my feud with Major Spike, Our bet about the French Invasion ; I must confess I acted like A donkey upon that occasion. Here's news from Paternoster Row ! How mad I was when first I learn' d it : They would not take my book, and now I'd give a trifle to have burnt it. And here a pile of notes, at last. With "love," and "dove," and "sever," " never :" Though hope, though passion may be past. Their perfume is as sweet as ever. A human heart should beat for two, Despite the scoff's of single scorners ; And all the hearths I ever knew Had got a pair of chimney corners. See here a double violet — Two locks of hair — a deal of scandal ; I'll burn what only brings regret — Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle. Frederick Locker. The Ballad of Bouillabaisse. A STREET there is in Paris famous. For which no rhyme our language yields, Hue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid. But still in comfortable case ; The which in youth I oft attended. To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — A sort of soup or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo ; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : All these you eat at Terre's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savory stev/ 'tis ; And true philosophers, methinks. Who love all sorts of natural beauties. Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is ? Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; The smiling red-cheek'd 6caillere is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and able? I recollect his droll grimace : He'd come and smile before your table. And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. We enter — nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder — " Monsieur is dead this many a day." " It is the lot of saint and sinner. So honest Terre's run his race." "What will Monsieur require for din- ner?" " Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" "Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter'4 an- swer; " Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?" " Tell me a good one." — " That I can, sir • The Chambertin with yellow seal." " So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place ; " He's done with feasting and with drink- ing, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." My old accustom'd corner here is. The table still is in the nook ; Ah ! vanish'd many a busy year is This well-known chair since last I took. 90 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now, a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days here met to dine ? Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty — I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace ; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. There's Jack has made a wondrous mar- riage; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; There's brave Augustus drives his car- riage ; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; On James's head the grass is growing : Good Lord ! the world has wagg'd apace Since here we set the Claret flowing. And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place — but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face look'd fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me. — ^There's no one now to share my cup. •X- ■!<■ * * * -X- I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: Fill up the lonely glass and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. — Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! William Makepeace Thackerat. West Point. 'TwAS Commencement eve, and the ball- room belle In her dazzling beauty was mine that night, As the music dreamily rose and fell, And the waltzers whirled in a blaze of light: I can see them now in the moonbeam's glance Across the street on a billowy floor, That rises and falls with the merry dance, To a music that flows in my heart once more. A long half hour in the twilight leaves Of the shrubbery : she, with coquettish face, And dainty arms in their flowing sleeves, A dream of satins and love and lace. In the splendor there of her queenly smile, Through her two bright eyes I could see the glow Of cathedral windows, as up the aisle We marched to a music's ebb and flow. All in a dream of Commencement eve ! I remember I awkwardly buttoned a glove On the dainty arm in its flowing sleeve, With a broken sentence of hope and love. But the diamonds that flashed in her wavy hair. And the beauty that shone in her fault- less face. Are all I recall as I struggled there, A poor brown fly in a web of lace. Yet a laughing, coquettish face I see, As the moonlight falls on the pavement gray, I can hear her laugh in the melody Of the waltz's music across the way. And I kept the glove so dainty and small, That I stole as she sipped her lemonade. Till I packed it away I think with all Of those traps I lost in our Northern raid. But I never can list to that waltz divine, With its golden measure of joy and pain, But it brings like the flavor of some old wine To my heart the warmth of the past again. A short flirtation— that's all, you know, Some faded flowers, a silken tress, P0E3IS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 91 The letters I burned up years ago, When I heatd from her last in the Wil- derness. I suppose, could she see I am maimed and old, She would soften the scorn that was changed to hate. When I chose the bars of the gray and gold. And followed the South to its bitter fate. But here's to the lads of the Northern blue, And here's to the boys of the Southern gray, And I would that the Northern star but knew How the Southern cross is borne to-day. L. C. Strong. TBE TEACHER'S BREAM. The weary teacher sat alone While twilight gathered on ; And not a sound was heard around. The boys and girls were gone. The weary teacher sat alone, Unnerved and pale was he ; Bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spoke In sad soliloquy : ''Another round, another round Of labor thrown away, — Another chain of toil and pain Dragged through a tedious day. " Of no avail is constant zeal. Love's sacrifice is loss. The hopes of morn, so golden, turn, Each evening, into dross. " I squander on a barren field, My strength, my life, my all ; The seeds I sow will never grow. They perish where they fall." He sighed, and low upon his hands His aching brow he prest ; And o'er his frame, erelong there came A soothing sense of rest. And then he lifted up his face. But started back aghast, — The room by strange and sudden change Assumed proportions vast. It seemed a Senate hall, and one Addressed a listening throng ; Each burning word all bosoms stirred, Applause rose loud and long. The 'wildered teacher thought he knew The speaker's voice and look, "And for his name," said he, " the same Is in my record-book." The stately Senate hall dissolved, A church rose in its place, Wherein there stood a man of God, Dispensing words of grace. And though he spoke in solemn tone. And though his hair was gray, The teacher's thought was strangely wrought, " I whipped that boy to-day." The church, a phantasm, vanished soon ; What saw the teacher then ? In classic gloom of alcoved room, An author plied his pen. " My idlest lad !" the teacher said. Filled with a new surprise — " Shall I behold his name enrolled Among the great and wise?" The vision of a cottage home The teacher now descried ; A mother's face illumed the place Her influence sanctified. "A miracle ! a miracle ! This matron, well I know. Was but a wild and careless child Not half an hour ago. "And when she to her children speaks Of duty's golden rule, Her lips repeat, in accents sweet. My words to her at school." The scene was changed again, and lo, The school-house rude and old. Upon the wall did darkness fall, The evening air was cold. "A dream !" the sleeper, waking, said. Then paced along the floor, And, whistling slow and soft and low, He locked the school-house door. 92 FIRESIDE. ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. And, walking home, his heart was full Of peace and trust and love and praise ; And singing slow and soft and low, He murmured, ''After many days." W. H. Yenable. The PASTOR'S Reverie. The pastor sits in his easy-chair, With the Bible upon his knee, From gold to purple the clouds in the west Are changing momently ; The shadows lie in the valley below, And hide in the curtains' fold ; And the page grows dim whereon he reads, " I remember the days of old." "Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith, The pastor's memories are ; No day that is gone was shadowless. No night was without its star : But mingled bitter and sweet hath been The portion of his cup : " The hand that in love hath smitten," he saith, " In love hath bound us up." Fleet flies his thought over many a field Of stubble and snow and bloom. And now it trips through a festival, And now it halts at a tomb ; Young faces smile in his reverie Of those that are young no more, And voices are heard that only come With the winds from a far-oflf shore. He thinks of the day when first, with fear And faltering lips, he stood To speak in the sacred place the Word To the waiting multitude ; He walks again to the house of God With the voice of joy and praise. With many whose feet long time have pressed Heaven's safe and blessed ways. He enters again the homes of toil, And joins in the homely chat ; He stands in the shop of the artisan ; He sits, where the Master sat. At the poor man's fire and the rich man's feast. But who to-day are the poor, And who are the rich? Ask Him who keeps The treasures that ever endure. Once more the green and grove resound With the merry children's din ; He hears their shout at the Christmas tide, When Santa Glaus stalks in. Once more he lists while the camp-fire roars On the distant mountain-side, Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook Where the fierce young troutiings hide. And now he beholds the wedding- train To the altar slowly move, And the solemn words are said that seal The sacrament of love. Anon at the font he meets once more The tremulous youthful pair, With a white-robed cherub crowing re- sponse To the consecrating prayer. By the couch of pain he kneels again ; Again, the thin hand lies Cold in his palm, while the last far look Steals into the steadfast eyes ; And now the burden of hearts that break Lies heavy upon his own — The widow's woe and the orphan's cry And the desolate mother's moan. So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad. Are the days that are no more. So mournfully sweet are the sounds that float With the winds from a far-off* shore. For the pastor has learned what meaneth the word That is given him to keep, — " Rejoice with them that do rejoice, And weep with them that weep." It is not in vain that he has trod This lonely and toilsome way. It is not in vain that he has wrought In the vineyard all the day ; For the soul that gives is the soul that lives. And bearing another's load Doth lighten your own, and shorten the way And brighten the homeward road. Washington Gladden. POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 93 The Nabob. Whej? silent time, wi' lightly foot, Had trod on thirty years, I sought again my native land Wi' mony hopes and fears. Wha kens gin the dear friends I left May still continue mine? Or gin I e'er again shall taste The joys I left langsyne ? As I drew near my ancient pile My heart beat a' the way ; Ilk place I pass'd seem'd yet to speak O' some dear former day ; Those days that follow'd me afar, Those happy days o' mine, Whilk made me think the present joys A' naething to langsyne ! The ivied tower now met my eye Where minstrels used to blaw ; Nae friend stepp'd forth wi' open hand, Nae weel-kenn'd face I saw ; Till Donald totter'd to the door, Wham I left in his prime, And grat to see the lad return He bore about langsyne. I ran to ilka dear friend's room. As if to find them there, I knew where ilk ane used to sit, And hang o'er mony a chair; Till soft remembrance threw a veil Across these e'en o' mine, I closed the door, and sobb'd aloud. To think on auld langsyne. Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race. Wad next their welcome pay, Wha shudder' d at my Gothic wa's And wish'd my groves away. " Cut, cut," they cried, "those aged elmt Lay low yon mournfu' pine." Ka ! na ! our fathers' names grow there, Memorials o' langsyne. To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts. They took me to the town ; But sair on ilka weel-kenn'd face I miss'd the youthfu' bloom. At balls they pointed to a nymph Wham a' declared divine ; But sure her mother's blushing cheeks Were fairer far langsyne ! In vain I sought in music's sound To find that magic art, Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays Has thrill' d through a' my heart. The song had mony an artfu' turn ; My ear confess'd 'twas fine ; But miss'd the oimple melody I listen'd to langsyne. Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, Forgi'e an auld man's spleen, Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns The days he ance has seen. When time has pass'd and seasons fled. Your hearts will feel like mine ; And aye the sang will maist delight That minds ye o' langsyne ! Susanna Blamire. Once upon a Time. I MIND me of a pleasant time, A season long ago ; The pleasantest I've ever known, Or ever now shall know. Bees, birds, and little tinkling rills So merrily did chime ; The year was in its sweet spring-tide, And I was in my prime. I've never heard such music since, From every bending spray ; I've never pluck'd such primroses. Set thick on bank and brae ; I've never smelt such violets As all that pleasant time I found by every hawthorn root — When I was in my prime. Yon moory down, so black and bare, Was gorgeous then and gay With golden gorse — bright blossoming- As none blooms nowaday. The blackbird sings but seldom now Up there in the old lime. Where hours and hours he used to sing- When I was in my prime. Such cutting winds came never then To pierce one through and through ; More softly fell the silent shower, More balmily the dew. 94 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The morning mist and evening haze — Unlike this cold gray rime — Seem'd woven warm of golden air When I was in my prime. And blackberries — so mawkish now — Were finely flavor'd then ; And nuts — such reddening clusters ripe I ne'er shall pull again ; Nor strawberries blushing bright — as rich As fruits of sunniest clime ; How all is alter'd for the worse Since I was in my prime ! Caroline Bowles Southey. Forget me Not. Go, youth beloved, in distant glades New friends, new hopes, new joys to find. Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids. To think on her thou leav'st behind. Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share. Must never be my happy lot. But thou mayst grant this humble prayer. Forget me not, forget me not ! Yet should the thought of my distress Too painful to thy feelings be. Heed not the wish I now express, Nor ever deign to think on me ; But, oh, if grief thy steps attend. If want, if sickness be thy lot. And thou require a soothing friend ; Forget me not, forget me not ! Amelia Opie. Youth and Age. Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying. Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — Both were mine ! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young ! When I was young ? — Ah, woful When ! Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! This breathing house not built with hands. This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands How lightly then it flash' d along : Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore. On winding lakes and rivers wide. That ask no aid of sail or oar. That fear no spite of wind or tide ! Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in 't together. Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; Friendship is a sheltering tree ; Oh the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old ! Ere I was old ? — Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me. Youth's no longer here ! Youth ! for years so many and sweet 'Tis known that thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit — It cannot be, that thou art gone ! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : — And thou wert aye a masker bold ! What strange disguise hast now put on To make believe that thou art gone ? 1 see these locks in silvery slips. This drooping gait, this alter'd size : But springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! Life is but Thought : so think I will That Youth and I are housemates still. Dew-drops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve ! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve, When we are old : — That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest That may not rudely be dismist. Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while. And tells the jest without the smile. Samuel Taylor Coleridgb. Stanzas. When midnight o'er the moonless skies Her pall of transient death has spread, When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, And naught is wakeful but the dead ; No bloodless shape my way pursues. No sheeted ghost my couch annoys ; Visions more sad my fancy views. Visions of long-departed joys ! The shade of youthful hope is there. That linger'd long, and latest died ; POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 95 Ambition all dissolved to air, With phantom honors by his side. What empty shadows glimmer nigh ? They once were Friendship, Truth, and Love! Oh, die to thought, to memory die. Since lifeless to my heart ye prove ! William Robert Spencer. Ga WHERE Glory waits Thee. Go where glory waits thee ; But while fame elates thee, Oh still remember me I When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh then remember me ! Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee. All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be ; But when friends are nearest. And when joys are dearest, Oh then remember me ! When at eve thou rovest By the star thou lovest. Oh then remember me ! Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning. Oh thus remember me ! Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses, Once so loved by thee. Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them — Oh then remember me ! When around thee dying Autumn leaves are lying. Oh then remember me I And at night when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, Oh still remember me ! Then should musi^, stealing All the soul of feeling. To thy heart appealing. Draw one tear from thee ; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee — Oh then remember me ! Thomas Moore. The Closing Year. 'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling, — 'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past ; yet, on the stream and wood. With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirr'd As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud That floats so still and placidly through heaven. The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with its aged locks, — and breathe. In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the Earth for ever. 'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep. Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have pass'd away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale. Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has pass'd to nothingness. The year Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, % FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, — And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, — and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of reveliy, where throng'd The bright and joyous, — and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It pass'd o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and sliield, Flash'd in the light of mid-day, — and the strength Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass. Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crush'd and mouldering skeleton. It came, And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time ! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on. He presses, and for ever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home. Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain -crag, — but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness. And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow, — cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water, — fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns, — mountains rear To heaven their bald and blacken'd cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain, — new empires rise. Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche. Startling the nations, — and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths. And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train. Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away To darkle in the trackless void, — yet Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career. Dark, stern, all-pitiless, anc pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. George D. Prkntice. /6 e^CJOo-cc^ Scryu2 ^ >ev^-j^ /. ','owiy. LINES TO AN Indian Air. I ARISE from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright : I arise from dreams of thee. And a spirit in my feet Has led me — who knows how ? — To thy chamber-window, sweet ! The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream — The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; The nightingale's complaint. It dies upon her heart, As I must on thine, Beloved as thou art ! Oh lift me from the grass ! I die, I faint, I fail ! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. 104 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! " My heart beats loud and fast, Oh ! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last. Pkrcy Bysshe Shelley. Why so Pale? "Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prethee, why so pale ? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail ? Prethee why so pale ? AYhy so dull and mute, young sinner? Prethee, why so mute ? Will, when speaking well can't win her. Saying nothing do't? Prethee why so mute ? Quit, quit for shame ; this will not move, This cannot take her ; j If of herself she will not love, | Nothing can make her, The devil take her ! Sir John Suckling. Lady Geraldine's Courtship. A EOMANCE OF THE AgE. A poet writes to his friend. Place — A room in Wycombe Mall. Time — Late in ike evening. Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you ! Down the purple of this chamber tears should scarcely run at will. I am humbled who was humble. Friend, I bow my head before you : You should lead me to my peasants, but their faces are too still. There's a lady, an earl's daughter — she is proud and she is noble, And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air, And a kingly blood sends glances up, her princely eye to trouble. And the shadow of a monarch's crown is soften'd in her hair. She has halls among the woodlands, she has castles by the breakers. She has farms and she has manors, she can threaten and command, And the palpitating engines snort in steam across her acres. As they mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of the land. There are none of England's daughters who can show a prouder presence ; Upon princely suitors, praying, she has look'd in her disdain, She was sprung of English nobles, T was born of English peasants ; What was I that I should love her, save for competence to pain ? I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her casement. As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things. Oh, she walk'd so high above me, she ap- pear'd to my abasement. In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings ! Many vassals bow before her as her car- riage sweeps their door-ways ; She has blest their little children, as a priest or queen were she : Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was, For I thought it was the same smile which she used to smile on me. She has voters in the commons, she has lovers in the palace, And of all the fair court-ladies, few have jewels half as fine ; Oft the prince has named her beauty 'twixt the red wine and the chalice : Oh, and what was I to love her ? my be- loved, my Geraldine ! Yet I could not choose but love her : I was born to poet-uses, To love all things set above me, all of good and all of fair. Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the Muses ; And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star. And because I was a poet, and because the public praised me. With a critical deduction for the modem writer's fault, POEMS OF LOVE. 105 I could sit at rich men's tables — though the courtesies that raised me, Still suggested clear between us the pale spectrum of the salt. And they praised me in her presence ; — " Will your book appear this sum- mer ?" Then returning to each other— "Yes, our plans are for the moors." Then with whisper dropp'd behind me — " There he is ! the latest comer. Oh, she only likes his verses ! what is over, she endures. " Quite low-born, self-educated ! somewhat gifted though by Nature, And we make a point of asking him — of being very kind. You may speak, he does not hear you ! and besides he writes no satire — All these serpents kept by charmers leave the natural sting behind." I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as I stood •up there among them, Till as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorning scorch'd my brow ; When a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced, overrung them, And a sudden silken stirring touch'd my inner nature through. I look'd upward and beheld her. With a calm and regnant spirit, Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and said clear before them all — " Have you such superfluous honor, sir, that, able to confer it. You will come down, Mister Bertram, as my guest to Wycombe Hall ?" Here she paused ; she had been paler at the first word of her speaking. But because a silence foUow'd it, blush'd somewhat, as for shame. Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly — " I am seeking More distinction than these gentlemen think worthy of my claim, " Ne'ertheless, you see, I seek it — not be- cause I am a woman " (Here her smile sprang like a fountain, and, so, overflow'd her mouth), " But because my woods in Sussex have some purple shades at gloaming Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth. " I invite you, Mister Bertram, to no scene for worldly speeches — Sir, I scarce should dare — but only where God ask'd the thrushes first : And if you will sing beside them, in the covert of my beeches, I will thank you for the woodlands, . . . for the human world, at worst." Then she smiled around right childly, then she gazed around right queenly, And I bow'd — I could not answer ; al- ternated light and gloom — While as one w^ho quells the lions, with a steady eye serenely, She, with level fronting eyelids, pass'd out stately from the room. Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex, I can hear them still around me, With their leafy tide of greenery still rippling up the wind. Oh, the cursed woods of Sussex ! wiiere the hunter's arrow found me. When a fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind ! In that ancient hall of Wycombe throng'd the numerous guests invited. And the lovely London ladies trod the floors with gliding feet ; And their voices low with fashion, not with feeling, softly freighted All the air about the windows with elas- tic laughter sweet. For at eve the open windows flung their light out on the terrace Which the floating orbs of curtains did with gradual shadow sweep, While the swans upon the river, fed at morning by the heiress. Trembled downward through their snowy wings at music in their sleep. And there evermore was music, both of instrument and singing, Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless in the dark : 106 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. But the cedars stood up motionless, each in a moonlight ringing, i^nd the deer, half in the glimmer, strew'd the hollows of the park. And though sometimes she would bind me with her silver-corded speeches To commix my words and laughter with the converse and the jest, 3ft I sate apart, and, gazing on the river through the beeches, Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, her pure voice o'eriloat the rest. In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof of steed, and laugh of rider, Spread out cheery from the courtyard till we lost them in the hills. While herself and other ladies, and her suitors left beside her, Went a -wandering up the gardens through the laurels and abeles. Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass, bareheaded, with the flowing Of the virginal white vesture gather'd closely to her throat, And the golden ringlets in her neck just quicken'd by her going, And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubting if to float, — With a bunch of dewy maple, which her right hand held above her. And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt her and the skies, As she turn'd her face in going, thus, she drew me on to love her. And to worship the divineness of the smile hid in her eyes. For her eyes alone smile constantly ; her lips have serious sweetness. And her front is calm, the dimple rarely ripples on the cheek ; But her deep-blue eyes smile constantly, as if they in discreetness Kept the secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak. Thus she drew me the first morning, out across into the garden. And I walk'd among her noble friends, and could not keep behind. Spake she unto all and unto me — '' Be- hold, I am the warden Of the song-birds in these lindens, which are cages to their mind. " But within this swarded circle into which the lime-walk brings us, Whence the beeches, rounded greenly, stand away in reverent fear, I will let no music enter, saving what the fountain sings us Which the lilies round the basin may seem pure enough to hear. " The live air that waves the lilies waves the slender jet of water Like a holy thought sent feebly up from soul of fasting saint : Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping (Lough the sculptor wrought her), So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush ; — a fancy quaint. " Mark how heavy white her eyelids ! not a dream between them lingers ; And the left hand's index droppeth from the lips upon the cheek : While the right hand — with the symbol- rose held slack within the fingers- Has fallen backward in the basin — yet this Silence will not speak ! " That the essential meaning growing may exceed the special symbol, Is the thought as I conceive it : it ap- plies more high and low. Our true noblemen will often through right nobleness grow humble, And assert an inward honor by denying outward show." " Nay, your Silence," said I, "truly, holds her symbol-rose but slackly, Yet she holds it, or would scarcely be a Silence to our ken : And your nobles wear their ermine on the outside, or walk blackly In the presence of the social law as mere ignoble men. " Let the poets dream such dreaming : madam, in these British islands 'Tis the substance that wanes ever, 'tis the symbol that exceeds. I POEMS OF LOVE. 107 Soon we shall have naught but symbol, and, for statues like this Silence, Shall accept the rose's image — in another case, the weed's." " Not so quickly," she retorted — " I con- fess, where'er you go, you Find for things, names — shows for ac- tions, and pure gold for honor clear : But when all is run to symbol in the Social, I will throw you The world's book which now reads drily, and sit down with Silence here." Half in playfulness she spoke, I thought, and half in indignation ; Friends who listen'd laugh'd her words off, while her lovers deem'd her fair : A fair woman, flush'd with feeling, in her noble-lighted station Near the statue's white reposing — and both bathed in sunny air ! With the trees round, not so distant but you heard their vernal murmur. And beheld in light and shadow the leaves in and outward move. And the little fountain leaping toward the sun-heart to be warmer, Then recoiling in a tremble from the too much light above. 'Tis a picture for remembrance. And thus, morning after morning, Did I follow as she drew me by the spirit to her feet. Why, her greyhound followed also ! dogs — we both were dogs for scorning — To be sent back when she pleased it and her path lay through the wheat. And thus, morning after morning, spite of vows and spite of sorrow. Did I follow at her drawing, while the week-days pass'd along. Just to feed the swans this noontide, or to see the fawns to-morrow. Or to teach the hillside echo some sweet Tuscan in a song. Ay, for sometimes on the hillside, while we sate down in the gowans, With the forest green behind us and its shadow cast before. And the river running under, and across it from the rowans A brown partridge whirring near us till we felt the air it bore — There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own ; Read the pastoral parts of Spenser, or the subtle interflowings Found in Petrarch's sonnets — here's the book, the leaf is folded down ! Or at times a modern volume, Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl, Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie — Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which, if cut deep down the middle, Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a vein'd humanity. Or at times I read there, hoarsely, some new poem of my making : Poets ever fail in reading their own verses to their worth. For the echo in you breaks upon the words which you are speaking. And the chariot wheels jar in the gate through which you drive them forth. After, when we were grown tired of books, the silence round us flinging A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beatings at the breast. She would break out on a sudden in a gush of woodland singing, Like a child's emotion in a god — a naiad tired of rest. Oh, to see or hear her singing! scarce I know which is divinest. For her looks sing too — she modulates her gestures on the tune, And her mouth stirs with the song, like song ; and when the notes are finest, 'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light and seem to swell them on. Then we talk'd — oh, how we talk'd! her voice, so cadenced in the talking. Made another singing — of the soull a music without bars : 108 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Wliile the leafy sounds of woodlands, hum- ming round where we were walking, Brought interposition worthy-sweet — as skies about the stars. And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if she always thought them ; She had sympathies so rapid, open, free as bird on branch. Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever way besought them, In the biiiphen-wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow in the grange. In her utmost lightness there is truth — and often she speaks lightly, Has a grace in being gay which even mournful souls approve, For the root of some grave earnest thought is understruck so rightly As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above. And she talk'd on — we talk'd, rather! — upon all things, substance, shadow. Of the sheep that browsed the grasses, of the reapers in the corn, Of the little children from the schools, seen winding through the meadow. Of the poor rich world beyond them, still kept poorer by its scorn. So, of men, and so, of letters — books are men of higher stature. And the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear ; So, of mankind in the abstract, which grows slowly into nature. Yet will lift the cry of "progress," as it trod from sphere to sphere. And her custom was to praise me when I said — " The Age culls simples. With a broad clown's back turn'd broadly to the glory of the stars. We are gods by our own reck'ning, and may well shut up the temples. And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thunder of our cars. '* For we throw out acclamations of self- thanking, self-admiring, With, at every mile run faster, — ' the wondrous, wondrous age I' Little thinking if we work our souls as nobly as our iron. Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pilgrimage. " Why, what is this patient entrance into nature's deep resources But the child's most gradual learning to walk upright without bane ? When we drive out, from the cloud of steam, majestical white horses, Are we greater than the first men who led black ones by the mane ? " If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we struck the stars in rising. If we wrapp'd the globe intensely with one hot electric breath, 'Twere but power within our tether, no new spirit-power comprising. And in life we were not greater men, nor bolder men in death." She was patient with my talking ; and I loved her, loved her, certes. As I loved all heavenly objects, with up- lifted eyes and hands ; As I loved pure inspirations, loved the graces, loved the virtues. In a Love content with writing his own name on desert sands. Or at least I thought so, purely ; thought no idiot Hope was raising Any crown to crown Love's silence, silent love that sate alone: Out, alas! the stag is like me, he that tries to go on grazing With the great deep gun-wound in his neck, then reels with sudden moan. It was thus I reel'd. I told you that her hand had many suitors ; But she smiles them down imperially, as Venus did the waves. And with such a gracious coldness that they cannot press their futures On the present of her courtesy, which yieldingly enslaves. And this morning as I sat alone within the inner chamber With the great saloon beyond it, lost in pleasant thought serene, POEMS OF LOVE. 109 For I had been reading Cambens, that poem, you remember, Which his lady's eyes are praised in as the sweetest ever seen. And the book lay open, and my thought flew from it, taking from it A vibration and impulsion to an end be- yond its own. As the branch of a green osier, when a child would overcome it. Springs up freely from his claspings and goes swinging in the sun. As I mused I heard a murmur ; it grew deep as it grew longer. Speakers using earnest language — "Lady Geraldine, you would/" And I heard a voice that pleaded, ever on in accents stronger. As a sense of reason gave it power to make its rhetoric good. Well I knew that voice ; it was an earl's, of soul that match'd his station, Soul completed into lordship, might and right read on his brow ; Very finely courteous; far too proud to doubt his domination Of the common people, he atones for grandeur by a bow. High straight forehead, nose of eagle, cold blue eyes of less expression Than resistance, coldly casting oiF the looks of other men. As steel, arrows ; unelastic lips which seem to taste possession. And be cautious lest the common air should injure or distrain. For the rest, accomplish'd, upright — ay, and standing by his order With a bearing not ungraceful ; fond of art and letters too ; Just a good man made a proud man — as the sandy rocks that border A wild coast, by circumstances, in a regnant ebb and flow. Thus, I knew that voice, I heard it, and I could not help the hearkening : In the room I stood up blindly, and my . burning heart within Seem'd to seethe and fuse my senses till they ran on all sides darkening, And scorch'd, weigh'd like melted metal round my feet that stood therein. And that voice, I heard it pleading, for love's sake, for wealth, position. For the sake of liberal uses and great actions to be done — And she interrupted gently, "Nay, my lord, the old tradition Of your Normans, by some worthier hand than mine is, should be won." " Ah, that white hand !" he said quickly — and in his he either drew it Or attempted — for with gravity and in- stance she replied, " Nay indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, and we had best eschew it And pass on, like friends, to other points less easy to decide." What he said again, I know not : it is likely that his trouble Work'd his pride up to the surface, for she answer'd in slow scorn, " And your lordship judges rightly. Whom I marry, shall be noble. Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush to think how he was born." There, I madden'd ! her words stung me. Life swept through me into fever. And my soul sprang up astonish'd, sprang full-statured in an hour. Know you what it is when anguish, with apocalyptic never, To a Pythian height dilates you, and despair sublimes to power? From my brain the soul-wings budded, waved a flame about my body, Whence conventions coil'd to ashes. I felt self-drawn out, as man. From amalgamate false natures, and I saw the skies grow ruddy With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew what spirits can. I was mad, inspired — say either ! (anguish worketh inspiration) Was a man or beast — perhaps so, for the tiger roars when spear'd; 110 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. And I walk'd on, step by step along the level of my passion — O my soul ! and pass'd the doorway to her face, and never fear'd. He had left her, per ad venture, when my footstep proved my coming. But for her — she half arose, then sate, grew scarlet and grew pale. Oh, she trembled! 'tis so always with a worldly man or woman In the presence of true spirits ; what else can they do but quail ? Oh, she flutter'd like a tame bird, in among its forest brothers Far too strong for it ; then drooping, bow'd her face upon her hands ; And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of her and others ; /, she planted in the desert, swathed her, windlike, with my sands. I pluck'd up her social fictions, bloody- rooted though leaf-verdant. Trod them down with words of shaming, all the purple and the gold. All the "landed stakes" and lordships, all that spirits pure and ardent Are cast out of love and honor because chancing not to hold. ^'For myself I do not argue," said I, "though I love you, madam, But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod. And this age shows, to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam Than directly, by profession, simple infi- dels to God. " Yet, O God," I said, " O grave," I said, " mother's heart and bosom. With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child. We are fools to your deductions in these figments of heart-closing, We are traitors to your causes in these sympathies defiled. ^ Learn more reverence, madam ; not for rank or wealth — that needs no learn- ing ; Thai comes quickly, quick as sin does ; ay, and culminates to sin ; But for Adam's seed, man ! Trust me, 'tis a clay above your scorning, With God's image stamp'd upon it, and God's kindling breath within. " What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace mirror daily. Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others must adore. While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gaily You will wed no man that's only good to God, and nothing more? " Why, what right have you, made fair by that same God, the sweetest woman Of all women he has fashion'd, with your lovely spirit-face. Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human. And your voice of holy sw^eetness, turn- ing common words to grace, "What right ca?i you have, God's other w^orks to scorn, despise, revile them In the gross, as mere men, broadly — not as noble men, forsooth — As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbid- den to assoil them In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetness of your mouth ? " Have you any answer, madam ? If my spirit were less earthly. If its instrument were gifted w^ith a better silver string, I would kneel down where I stand, and say, ' Behold me ! I am w^orthy Of thy loving, for I love thee! I am w^orthy as a king.' "As it is — your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel this stain upon her. That /, poor, weak, tost with passion^ scorn'd by me and you again. Love you, madam, dare to love you, to my grief and your dishonor. To my endless desolation and your im- potent disdain !" More mad words like these — mere mad- ness ! friend, I need not write them fuller. For I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in showers of tears. POEMS OF LOVE. Ill Oh, a woman! friend, a woman! why, a beast had scarce been duller Than roar bestial loud complaints against the shining of the spheres. But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder Which my soul had used. The silence drew her face up like a call. Could you guess what word she utter'd? She look'd up, as if in wonder, With tears beaded on her lashes, and said, " Bertram !" — it was all. If she had cursed me — and she might have — or if even with queenly bear- ing Which at need is used by women, she had risen up and said, " Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing ; Now, beseech you, choose a name exact- ing somewhat less, instead !" I had borne it: but that " Bertram " — why, it lies there on the paper A mere word, without her accent; and you cannot judge the weight Of the calm which crush'd my passion: I seem'd drowning in a vapor, And her gentleness destroyed me whom her scorn made desolate. So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward flow of passion Which had rush'd on, sparing nothing, into forms of abstract truth. By a logic agonizing through unseemly demonstration. And by youth's own anguish turning grimly gray the hairs of youth, By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I spake wisely I spake basely, using truth, if what I spake indeed was true, To avenge wrong on a woman — her, who sate there weighing nicely A poor manhood's worth, found guilty of such deeds as I could do ! — By such wrong and woe exhausted — what I sufFer'd and occasion'd, — As a wild horse through a city runs with lightning in his eyes, And then dashing at a church's cold and passive wall, impassion'd, Strikes the death into his burning brain, and blindly drops and dies — So I fell, struck down before her — do you blame me, friend, for weakness? 'Twas my strength of passion slew me ! — fell before her like a stone ; Fast the dreadful world roU'd from me on its roaring wheels of blackness : When the light came, I was lying in this chamber and alone. Oh, of course, she charged her lacqueys to bear out the sickly burden, And to cast it from her scornful sight, biit not beyond the gate ; She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon Such a man as I ; 'twere something to be level to her hate. But for me — you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter, How my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone. I shall leave her house at dawn ; I would to-night, if I were better — And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthen'd for the sun. When the sun hath dyed the oriel, I depart with no last gazes, No weak moanings (one word only, left in writing for her hands), Out of reach of all derision, and some un- availing praises. To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands. Blame me not. I would not squander life in grief — I am abstemious. I but nurse my spirit's falcon that it* wing may soar again. There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius : Into work the poet kneads them, and he does not die till then. Conclusion. Bertram finish'd the last pages, while along the silence ever Still in hot and heavy splashes fell the tears on every leaf. 112 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief. Soh ! how still the lady standeth ! 'tis a dream — a dream of mercies ! 'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains how she standeth still and pale ! 'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his self-curses, Sent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the tossing of his wail. , " Eyes," he said, " now throbbing through me ! are ye eyes that did undo me ? Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian statue-stone ! Underneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever burning torrid O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life undone ?" With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air the purple curtain Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows. While the gliding of the river sends a rippling noise for ever Through the open casement whiten'd by the moonlight's slant repose. Said he : " Vision of a lady ! stand there silent, stand there steady ! Now I see it plainly, plainly, now I can- not hope or doubt — There, the brows of mild repression — there, the lips of silent passion. Curved like an archer's bow to send the bitter arrows out." Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling. And approach'd him slowly, slowly, in a gliding measured pace ; With her two white hands extended as if praying one offended, And a look of supplication gazing earnest in his face. Said he : " Wake me by no gesture — sound of breath, or stir of vesture I Let the blessed apparition melt not yet to its divine I No approaching — hush, no breathing! or my heart must swoon to death in The too utter life thou bringest, O thou dream of Geraldine !" Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling. But the tears ran over lightly from her eyes and tenderly : — "Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me? Is no woman far above me Found more worthy of thy poet-heart than such a one as /.^" Said he : "I would dream so ever, like the flowing of that river. Flowing ever in a shadow greenly onward to the sea ! So, thou vision of all sweetness, princely to a full completeness. Would my heart and life flow onward, deathward, through this dream of THEE !" Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling. While the silver tears ran faster down the blushing of her cheeks ; Then with both her hands enfolding both of his, she softly told him, " Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 'tis the vision only speaks." Soften'd, quicken' d to adore her, on his knee he fell before her, And she whisper'd low in triumph, "It shall be as I have sworn. Very rich he is in virtues, very noble — noble, certes ; And I shall not blush in knowing that men call him lowly-born." Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The Nut-Brown 3Iaid. Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among On women do complayne ; Affyrmynge this, how that it is A labour spent in vayne. To love them wele ; for never a dele They love a man agayne : For late a man do what he can, Theyr favour to attayne, I P0E31S OF LOVE. 113 Yet, yf a newe do them persue, Theyr first true lover than Laboureth for nought : for from her thought He is a banj^sh'd man. I say nat nay, but that all day It is bothe writ and sayd That womans faith is, as who sayth, All utterly decayd ; But, neverthelesse ryght good wytn^sse In this case might be layd, That they love true, and continiie : Recorde the Not-browne Mayde : Which, when her love came, her to prove, To her to make his mone, Wolde nat depart ; for in her hart She loved but hym alone. Than betwaine us late us dyscus What was all the manere Betwayne them two : we wyll also Tell all the payne, and fere, That she was in. Now I begyn So that ye me answere ; Wherfore, all ye that present' be I pray you, gyve an ere : " I am the knyght ; I come by nyght, As secret as I can ; Sayinge, Alas ! thus standeth the case, I am a banysh'd man." SHE. And I your wyll for to fulfyll In this wyll nat refuse ; Trustying to shewe, in wordes fewe, That men have an yll use (To theyr own shame) women to blame, And causelesse them accuse ; Therfore to you I answere nowe, All women to excuse, — Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere ? I pray you, tell anone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. It standeth so ; a dede is do Whereof grete harme shall growe ; My destiny is for to dy A shameful! deth, I trowe ; Or elles to fle : the one must be. None other way I knowe, 8 But to withdrawe as an outlawe, And take me to my bowe. Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true ! None other rede I can ; For I must to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Lord, what is thys worldys blysse, That changeth as the mone ! My somers day in lusty may Is derked before the none. 1 here you say farewell : Nay, nay, We depart nat so sone. Why say ye so ? wheder wyll ye go ? Alas ! what have ye done ? All my welfare to sorrowe and care Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone ; For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. I can beleve, it shall you greve. And somewhat you dystrayne ; But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde Within a day or twayne Shall sone aslake ; and ye shall take Comfort to you agayne. Why sholde ye ought? for, to make thought, Your labour were in vayne. And thus I do ; and pray you to As hartely, as I can ; For I must to the grene wode go. Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Now, syth that ye have shew'd to me The secret of your mynde, I shall be playne to you agayne, Lyke as ye shall me fynde. Syth it is so, that ye wyll go, I wolle not leve behynde : Shall never be sayd, the Not-browne Mayd Was to her love unkynde : Make you redy, for so am I, Allthough it were anone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Yet I you rede to take good hede What men wyll thynke, and say : 114 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. Of yonge, and olde it shall be tolde, That ye be gone away, Your wanton wyll for to fulfill, In grene wode you to play ; And that ye myght from your delyght No lenger make delay. Rather than ye sholde thus for me Be called an yll woman, Yet wolde I to the grene wode go Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Though it be songe of old and yonge. That I sholde be to blame, Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large In hurtynge of my name : For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love It is devoyd of shame ; In your dystresse, and hevynesse, To part with you, the same : And sure all tho, that do not so. True lovers are they none ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. I counceyle you, remember howe, It is no may dens lawe, Nothynge to dout, but to renne out To wode with an outlawe : For ye must there in your hand here A bowe, redy to drawe ; And, as a thefe, thus must you ly ve. Ever in drede and aw^e ; Wherby to you grete harme myght growe Yet had I lever than. That I had to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. 1 thinke nat nay, but as ye say. It is no maidens lore : But love may make me for your sake. As I have sayd before To come on fote, to hunt, and shote To gete us mete in store ; For so that I your company May have, I aske no more : From which to part, it maketh my hart As colde as ony stone ; For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. For an outlawe this is the lawe, That men hym take and bynde ; Without pytfe, hanged to be, And waver with the wynde. If I had nede, (as God forbede !) What rescous coude ye fynde ? Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe For fere wolde drawe behynde : And no mervayle ; for lytell avayle Were in your counceyle than : Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go. Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Right wele know ye, that woman be But feble for to fyght ; No womanhede it is indede To be bolde as a knyght : Yet, in such fere yf that ye were With enemyes day or nyght, I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande To greve them as I myght. And you to save ; as women have From deth ' men ' many one : For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Yet take good hede ; for ever I drede That ye coude nat sustayne The thornie wayes, the deep vallfeies, The snowe, the frost, the rayne. The colde, the hete : for dry, or wete, We must lodge on the playne ; And, us above, none other rofe But a brake bush, or twayne : Which sone sholde greve you, 1 beleve^ And ye w^olde gladly than That I had to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Syth I have here bene partyn^re With you of joy and blysse, I must also part of your wo Endure, as reson is : Yet am I sure of one ples^re And, shortely, it is this : That, where ye be, me semeth, pardfe, I could not fare amysse. POEMS OF LOVE. 115 Witliout more speche, I you beseche That we were sone agone : For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. If ye go thyder, ye must consyder, Whan ye have lust to dyne, There shall no mete be for you gete, Xor drinke, here, ale, ne ^vyne. No schetes clene, to lye betwene, Made of threde and twjme ; None other house, but leves and bowes. To cover your hed and myne. myne harte swete, this evyll dy^te Sholde make you pale and wan ; Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Amonge the wild dere, such an arch^re, As men say that ye be, Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle, Where is so grete plenty : And water clere of the ryvere Shall be full swete to me ; With which in hele I shall ryght wele Endure, as ye shall see ; And, or we go, a bedde or two I can provyde anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Lo yet, before, ye must do more, Yf ye wyll go with me : As cut your here up by your ere, Your kyrtel by the kne ; With bowe in hande, for to withstande Your enemyes yf nede be ; And this same nyght before day-light, To wode-warde wyll I fie. Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill, Do it shortely as ye can ; Els wyll I to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. 1 shall as nowe do more for you Than longeth to womanhede ; To shote my here, a bowe to here, To shote in tyme of nede. my swete mother, before all other For you I have most drede : But nowe, adue ! I must ensue, Where fortune doth me lede. All this make ye : Now let us fle : The day cometh fast upon ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Nay, nay, nat so ; ye shall nat go, And I shall tell ye why, — Your appetyght is to be lyght Of love, I wele espy : For, lyke as ye have sayd to me, In lyke wyse hardely Ye wolde answere whosoever it were. In way of company. it is sayd of olde, Sone hote, sone colde; And so is a woman. Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Yf ye take hede, it is no nede Such wordes to say by me ; For oft ye pray'd, and longe assay'd, Or I you loved, parde ; And though that I of auncestry A barons daughter be. Yet have you proved howe I you loved , A squyer of low^e degr^ ; And ever shall, whatso befall ; To dy therfore anone ; For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. A barons chylde to be begylde! It were a cursed dede ; To be felawe with an outlawe ! Almighty God forbede ! Yet beter were, the pore squy^re Alone to forest yede. Than ye sholde say another day, That, by my cursed dede. Ye were betray'd : Wherfore, good mayd. The best rede that I can. Is, that I to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. 116 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. SHE. Whatever befall, I never shall Of this thyng you upbrayd : But yf ye go, and leve me so, Then have ye me betrayd. Remember you wele, howe that ye dele ; For, yf ye, as ye sayd, Be so unkynde, to leve behynde Your love the Not-browne Mayd, Trust me truly, that I shall dy iSone after ye be gone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent ; For in the forest nowe I hp.ve purvay'd me of a mayd, Whom I love more than you ; Another fayrere, than ever ye were, I dare it wele avowe ; And of ye bothe eche sholde be wrothe AVith other, as I trowe : It were myne ese, to lyve in pese ; So wyll I, yf I can ; Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Though in the wode I undyrstode Ye had a paramour, All this may nought remove my thought. But that I will be your : And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde, And courteys every hour ; Glad to fulMl all that she wyll Gommaunde me to my power : For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, ' Of them I wolde be one ;' For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Myne owne dere love, I se the prove That ye be kynde, and true : Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe, The best that ever I knewe. Be mery and glad, be no more sad, The case is chaunged newe ; For it were ruthe, that, for your truthe, Ye sholde have cause to rewe. Be nat dismay'd ; whatsoever I sayd To you, whan I began. I wyll nat to the grene wode go, I am no banysh'd man. SHE. These tydings be more gladd to me, Than to be made a queue, Yf I were sure they sholde endure ; But it is often sene, Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke The wordes on the splene. Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, And stele from me, I wene : Than were the case worse than it was. And I more wo-begone : For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE,. Ye shall nat nede further to drede ; I will nat dysparage You (God forfend!), syth ye descend Of so grete a lynage. Nowe undyrstande ; to Westmarlande, Which is myne herytage, I wyll you brynge, and with a rynge By way of maryage I wjdl you take, and lady make. As shortely as I can : Thus have you won an erlys son And not a banysh'd man. Author. • Here may ye se, that women be In love, meke, kynde, and stable ; Late never man reprove them than, Or call them variable ; But, rather, pray God that we may To them be comfortable. Which sometyme proveth such, as he lov eth, Yf they be charytable. For syth men wolde that women sholde Be meke to them each one, Moche more ought they to God obey. And serve but Hym alone. Althor Unknown. POEMS OF LOVE. 117 THE Friar of Orders Gray. It was a friar of orders gray Walkt forth to tell his beades ; And he met with a lady faire Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see. And how should I know your true love For many another one ? O, by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoone. Bui chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view ; His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, And eyne of lovely blue. O lady, he is dead and gone ! Lady, he's dead and gone ! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone. Within these holy cloysters long He languisht and he dyed, Lamenting of a ladyes love. And 'plaining of her pride. Here bore him barefaced on his bier Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall. And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ! And art thou dead and. gone ! And didst thou dye for love of me ! Break, cruel heart of stone ! O weep not, lady, weep not soe : Some ghostly comfort seek : Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Ne teares bedew thy cheek. O do not, do not, holy friar. My sorrows now reprove ; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er wan ladyes love. And nowe, alas ! for thy sad losse, I'll evermore weep and sigh : For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye. Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrowe is in vaine : For violets pluckt the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow againe. Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, Why, then, should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy losse. Grieve not for what is past. O say not soe, thou holy friar ; I pray thee say not soe : For since my true-love dyed for mee, 'Tis meet my tears should flow. And will he ne'er come again ? Will he ne'er come again ? Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, For ever to remain. His cheek was redder than the rose ; The comeliest youth was he ! But he is dead and laid in his grave .- Alas, and woe is me ! Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever : One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never. Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy ; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy. Now say not soe, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not soe ; My love he had the truest heart : O he was ever true ! And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth, And didst thou dye for mee ? Then farewell home, for ever-more A pilgrim I will bee. But first upon my true-loves grave My weary limbs I'll lay. And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf, That wraps his breathless clay. Yet stay, fair lady : rest a while Beneath this cloyster wall : See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind. And drizzly rain doth fall. 118 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. O stay me not, thou holy friar ; O stay me not, I pray ; No drizzly rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away. Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears ; For see beneath this gown of gray Thy owne true-love aj)pears. Here forced by grief and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought : k And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought. But haply, for my year of grace Is not yet pass'd away. Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay. Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart ; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part. Thomas Percy. Sonnet. To THE MoON. With how sad steps, Moon, thou climb'st the skies ! How silently, and with how wan a face ! What ! may it be, that e'en in heav'nly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Bure, if that long-with-love-acquainted Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Ls constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess ? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? Sir Philip Sidney. Jeanie Morrison. I've wander'd east, I've wander'd Avest, Through mony a weary w^ay ; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day ! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. Oh dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wd' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part ; Sweet time — sad time ! t^va bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart I 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Eemember'd evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink. Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun ower ae braid page^, Wi' ae bulk on our knee. Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame. Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin,' said We cleek'd thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The scule then skail't at noon). When we ran off to speel the braes, — The broomy braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about — My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back O' scule-time and o' thee. Oh mornin' life ! oh momin' luve ! Oh lichtsome days and lang, When hinny'd hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang ! FOEiMS OF LOVE. 119 Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon ? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet ; The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees — And we, with Nature's heart in tune. Concerted harmonies ; And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time. When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled — unsung ! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me ? Oh, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine ? Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near. Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness. And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd O' bygone days and me ! William Motherwell. Sweet William's Farewell to Black-Eyed Susan. All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd. The streamers waving in the wind. When black-eyed Susan came aboard : — " Oh ! where shall I my true-love find ? Tell me, ye jovial sailors ! tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew/ AVilliam, who high upon the yard Rock'd with the billow to and fro. Soon as her well-known voice he heard, He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below : The cord slides swiftly through his glow- ing hands. And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast, If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. " O Susan ! Susan ! lovely dear. My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss ofi" that falling tear ; We only p?irt to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. " Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : They'll tell thee, sailors, when away. In every port a mistress find : Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. " If to far India's coast we sail. Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory, so white : Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. " Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 120 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms "William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." The boatswain gave the dreadful word ; The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard ; They kiss'd; she sigh'd; he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : ''Adieu!" she cries ; and waved her lily hand. John Gay. Highland Mary. Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie ! There simmer first unfauld her robes. And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk. How rich the hawthorn's blossom. As, underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary ! Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender ; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder ; But, oh, fell death's untimely frost. That nipp'd my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary ! Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwalt on me sae kindly ! And mouldering now in silent dust. That heart that lo'ed me dearly ; But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary ! Robert Burns. Sally in our Alley. Of all the girls that are so smart. There's none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em : But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally ! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely ; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely — But let him bang his bellyful^ I'll bear it all for Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day — And that's the day that comes betwix't A Saturday and Monday ; For then I'm drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named ; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. When Christmas comes about again. Oh then I shall have money ; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey : I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. POEMS OF LOVE. 121 My master and the neighbors all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave and row a galley ; But when my seven long years are out, Oh then I'll marry Sally,— Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, But not in our alley. Henry Caeey. A Supplication. Awake, awake, my Lyre ! And tell thy silent master's humble tale In sounds that may prevail ; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : Though so exalted she And I so lowly be, Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark ! how the strings awake : And, though the moving hand approach not near. Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try ; Now all thy charms apply ; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure, but not to wound. And she to wound, but not to cure. Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove ; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! For thou canst never tell my humble tale In sounds that will prevail, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ; All thy vain mirth lay by. Bid thy strings silent lie. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die. Abraham Cowley. Wishes for the Supposed mistress. Whoe'er she be. That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me ; Where'er she lie, Lock'd up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny : Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth. And teach her fair steps to our earth ; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine : — Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses. And be ye call'd, my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie : Something more than Taffata or tissue can. Or rampant feather, or rich fan. A face that's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone command the rest : A face made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. Whate'er delight Can make day's forehead bright Or give down to the wings of night. Soft silken hours. Open suns, shady bowers ; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow : 122 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, friend." say, " Welcome, i wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes ; and I wish no more. — Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows ; Her that dares be What these lines wish* to see : I seek no further, it is She. 'Tis She, and here Lo ! I unclothe and clear My wishes' cloudy character. Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes. And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye ; Be ye my fictions : — ^but her story. RiCHAED CrASHAW. Lovely 3Iary Donnelly. O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best ! If fifty girls were around you, I'd hardly see the rest ; Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flow- ing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock ; Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up. Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup ; Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine — It's rolling d^wn upon her neck, and gath- er'd in a twine. The dance o' last Whit Monday night ex- ceeded all before — No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor ; But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh ! but she was gay ; She danced ajig, she sung a song, and took my heart away ! When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete. The music nearly kill'd itself, to listen to her feet ; The fiddler mourn'd his blindness, he heard her so much praised ; But bless'd himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung ; Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue. But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower of womankind, in country or in town ; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright. And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. Oh, might we live together in lofty palace hall Where joyful music rises, and where scar- let curtains fall ! Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small. With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall ! P0E3IS OF LOVE. 123 O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress — It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wisli it less ; The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low, But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go ! William Allingham. Sir ALL I Tell you Whom I Love? Shall I tell you whom I love ? Hearken then a while to me ; And if such a woman move As I now shall versify, Be assured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone. Nature did her so much right As she scorns the help of art. In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart. So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified. Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath ; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be. Though perhaps not so to me. Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth ; Lovely as all excellence. Modest in her most of mirth. Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is ; and if you know Such a one as I have sung ; Be she brown, or fair, or so That she be but somewhile young; Be assured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone. William Browne. TO Virgins, to make Much of time. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying, And this same flower that smiles to-day. To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting The sooner will his race be run. And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer. But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time. And while ye may, go marry ; For having lost but once your prime. You may for ever tarry. Egbert Hebrick- Rosaline. Like to the clear in highest sphere Where all imperial glory shines, Of selfsame color is her hair. Whether unfolded, or in twines ; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling heaven by every wink ; The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think. Heigh ho, would she were mine ! Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud That beautifies Aurora's face. Or like the silver crimson shroud That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace ; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity ; Heigh ho, would she were mine ! Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprison'd lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes : Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Her paps are centres of delight. Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light To feed perfection with the same ; Heigh ho, would she were mine ! With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire IVlue, 124 FIRESIDE ENCYGLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. Her body every way is fed, Yet soft in touch and sweet in view ; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Nature herself her shape admires ; The gods are wounded in her sight, And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light ; Heigh ho, would she were mine ! Then not, nymphs, though I be- muse moan The absence of fair Rosaline, Since for a fair there's fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine ; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ; Heigh ho, my heart ! would God that she were mine ! Thomas Lodge. To Althea, fro 31 Prison. When Love, with unconfined wings, Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates ; When I lye tangled in her haire ; And fetter'd with her eye, The birds that wanton in the aire Know no such libertye. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd, Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe, AVhen healths and draughts goe free, Fishes, that tipple in the deepe, Know no such libertle. When, linnet-like, confined I With shriller note shall sing The mercye, sweetness, majestye, And glories of my king ; When I shall voyce aloud how good He is, how great should be, Th' enlarged windes, that curie the flood, Know no such libertie. Stone walls doe not a prison make, Nor iron barres a cage, Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take That for an hermitage : If I have freedom in my love, And in my soule am free, Angels alone, that soare above, Enjoy such libertie. ElCHARD LOVELACB. Lines on Isabella Markham. Whence comes my love? O heart, dis* close ; It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : Whence comes my woe ? as freely own ; Ah me ! 'twas from a heart like stone. The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind, The eye does tempt to love's desire, And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire ; Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Sith naught doth say the heart of stone. Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek — Yet not a heart to save my pain ? O Venus, take thy gifts again ! Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like our own. John Harringtox. Song. Follow a shadow, it still flies you ; Seem to fly it, it will pursue : So court a mistress, she denies you ; Let her alone, she will court you. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men ? At morn and even shades are longest ; At noon they are or short or none ; So men at weakest they are strongest, But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men ? Ben Jov'son. To LUC AST A, On Going to the Wars. Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, That from the nunnerie Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, To warre and armes I flee. P0E3IS OF LOVE. 125 True, a new inistresse now I chase — The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith imbrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, should adore ; I could not love thee, deare, so much. Loved I not honor more. KicHARD Lovelace. To Luc AST A. If to be absent were to be Away from thee : Or that, when I am gone, You or I were alone ; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail. Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage ; For, whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both. Our faith and troth. Like separated souls, All time and space controls : Above the highest sphere we meet, Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels greet. So, then, we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' th' skies. If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In heaven — ^their earthly bodies left be- hind. Richard Lovelace. The Welcome. Welcome, welcome, do I sing. Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love that to the voice is near. Breaking from your ivory pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale. Welcome, welcome, then I sing. Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never. Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love, that still looks on your eyes, Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries. Shall not want the summer's sun. Welcome, welcome, then I sing. Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love, that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes. Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses. Welcome, welcome, then I sing. Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love, to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odors of the fields Never, never shall be missing. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never. Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love, that question would anew What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you, And a brief of that behold. Welcome, welcome, then I sing. Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring for ever. William Brownr, 'TWA8 WEEN THE SEAS WERE ROARING. 'TwAS when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind ; A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined. Wide o'er the roaring billows She cast a wistful look : 126 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Her head was crown'd with willows, That tremble o'er the brook. Twelve months are gone and over, And nine long, tedious days, Why didst thou, vent'rous lover. Why didst thou trust the seas ? Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean, And let my lover rest : Ah ! what's thy troubled motion To that within my breast ? The merchant robb'd of pleasure, Sees tempests in despair ; But what's the loss of treasure To losing of my dear ? Should you some coast be laid on Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find a richer maiden. But none that loves you so. How can they say that Nature Has nothing made in vain ; Why then beneath the water Should hideous rocks remain ? No eyes the rocks discover. That lurk beneath the deep. To wreck the wandering lover. And leave the maid to weep. All melancholy lying. Thus wail'd she for her dear ; Eepaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear ; When, o'er the white wave stooping, His floating corpse she spied ; Then like a lily drooping. She bow'd her head and died. John Gay. Jean. Oi- a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the West, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best ; There wild woods grow, and river-s «o.^. And mony a hill between. But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air ; There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings But 'minds me o' my Jean. Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees ; Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, Bring hame the laden bees ; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean ; Ae blink o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean. What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae pass'd atween us twa ! How fain to meet, how wae to part That day she gaed awa ! The Powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean ! Robert Burns. The Grave of Love, I DUG, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave ; And every pledge in earth I laid. That erst thy false affection gave. I pressed them down the sod beneath ; I placed one mossy stone above ; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulchre of love. Frail as thy love,, the flowers were dead, Ere yet the evening sun was set : But years shall see the cypress spread. Immutable as my regret. Th^omas Love Peacock. Song. Too late, alas ! I must confess, YoTl need not arts to move me ; Such charms by nature you possess, 'Twere madness not to love ye. Then spare a heart you may surprise, And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my unfaithful eyes Betray a tender story. John Wilmot (Earl of Rochester). POEMS OF LOVE. 127 Song. Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes, United, cast too fierce a light, Which blazes high, but quickly dies ; Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. Love is a calmer, gentler joy; Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace ; Her Cupid is a blackguard boy, That runs his link full in your face. Chables Sackville (Earl of Dorset). Song. Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest ; For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest. But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have ; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave. All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find, — For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind. Why then should I seek further store. And still make love anew ? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true. Sir Charles Sedley. The Night Piece. To Julia. Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, The shooting-starres attend thee ; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-wispe mislight thee. Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; But on thy way. Not making stay, Since ghost there's none t' affright thee ! Let not the darke thee cumber ; What though the moon does slumber ? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers cleare, without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me ; And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet. My soule I'le pour into thee ! Robert Hekrick. A Bitty. My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. By just exchange one to the other given : I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. There never was a better bargain driven ; My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one. My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : He loves my heart, for once it was his owa. I cherish his because in me it bides : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. Sir Philip Sidney. The Eve of St. Agnes. St. Agn'Es' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold : Numb were the beadsnian's fingers while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven without a death. Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. II. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from hia knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 128 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The sculptured dead, on each side seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. III. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's gold- en tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; But no — already had his death-bell rung ; The joys of all his life were said and sung : His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve ; Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. IV. That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanced, for many a door was wide. From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide ; The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests. With hair blown back, and wings put cross- wise on their breasts. V. At length burst in the argent revelry. With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new-stufF'd, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away. And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there Whose heart had brooded, all that win- try day, On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, As she had heard old dames full many times declare. VI. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright ; As, supperless to bed they must retire. And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. VII. Full of this whim was thoughtful Made- line; The music, yearning like a god in pain. She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes di- vine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by — she heeded not at all ; in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retired; not cool'd by high disdain. But she saw not; her heart was other- where ; She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. VIII. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes. Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short ; The hallow' d hour was near at hand ; she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd re- sort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate and scorn, Hoodwink'd with fairy fancy ; all amort, Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. IX. So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, POEMS OF LOVE. 129 Buttress'd from moonliglit, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Made- line, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all un- seen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been. X. He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart. Love's feverous citadel : For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage : not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. XI. Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came. Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland : He startled her; but soon she knew his face. And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ; They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race ! XII. *' Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hildebrand ; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit! Flit like a ghost away !" — "Ah, gossip dear. We're safe enough ; here in this arm- chair sit. And tell me how " — " Good saints, not here, not here ; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." XIII. He follow'd through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; And as she mutter'd " Well-a — well-a-day!' He found him in a little moonlight room. Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. " Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, " Oh tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." XIV. " St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve- Yet men will murder upon holy days : Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays, To venture so. It fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays This very night : good angels her deceive ! But let me laugh a while, I've mickle time to grieve." XV. Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Porphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle- book, As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook Tears, at the thought of those enchant- ments cold, And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. XVI. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 130 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Made purple riot: then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : "A cruel man and impious thou art ! Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." XVII. " I will not harm her, by all saints I swear !" Quoth Porphyro. " Oh, may I ne'er find grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Or look with ruffian passion in her face : Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; Or I will, even in a moment's space, Awake with horrid shout my foemen's ears. And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." XVIII. "Ah, why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church- yard thing, Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. Were never miss'd." Thus plaining doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. XIX. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide • Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied, And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy- eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met, Since Merlin paid his demon all the mon- strous debt. XX. "It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame ; " All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night; by the tam- bour-frame Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare. For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." XXI. So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear To follow her ; with aghd eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste ; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. XXII. Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair. When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmfeo maid, Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : With silver taper's light, and piou?* care, She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare, Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. iii POEMS OF LOVE. 131 XXIII. Out went the taper as she hurried in ; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide : No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide ! But to her heart, her heart was voluble. Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. XXIV. A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- grass. And diamonded with panes of quaint device. Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings ; And in the midst, 'mong thousand her- aldries. And twilight saints, and dim emblazon- ings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. XXV. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint : She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint : She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. XXVI. Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; * Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive a while she dreams awake, and sees. In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. XXVII. Soon trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep op- press'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- day ; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; Clasp' d like a missal where swart Pay- nims pray ; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. XXVIII. Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hush'd carpet, silent stept, And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — how fast she slept. XXIX. Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 132 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — Oh for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, . The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. XXX. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and laven- der'd ; While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Leb- anon. XXXI. These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night. Filling the chilly room with perfume light.— " And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite; Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." XXXII. Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as ic^d stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; It seem'd he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; Bo mused a while, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. XXXIII. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — Tumultuous, — and, in chords that ten- derest be. He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute. In Provence called " La belle dame sans mercy :" Close to her ear touching the melody ; — Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan : He ceased — she panted quick — and sud- denly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : Upon his knees he sank, pale as. smooth- sculptured stone. XXXIV. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : There was a painful change, that nigh expeird The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. At which fair Madeline began to weep. And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. XXXV. "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : How changed thou art! how pallid, chill and drear ! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complain- ings dear ! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go." XXXVI. Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, POEMS OF LOVE. 133 Ethereal, flushi'd, and like a throbbing star Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet, — Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — Drown' d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise ! my love, and fearless be, Solution sweet: meantime the frost- wind I For o'er the southern moors I have a home blows Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath set. XXXVII. 'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : " This is no dream, my bride, my Mad- eline !" 'Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat : " No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring ? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, un- prun^d wing." XXXVIII. "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride ! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil-dyed ? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest, Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. XXXIX. " Hark ! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon in- deed : Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — The bloated wassailers will never heed. for thee. XL. She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around. At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. In all the house w^as heard no human sound. A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door ; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. XLI. They glide like phantoms into the wide hall ! Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side : The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide. But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : By one and one the bolts full easy slide : The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. XLII. And they are gone : ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin - worm. Were long benightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ; 134 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. The beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. John Keats. Jock of Hazeldean. " Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? Why weep ye by the tide ? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sail be his bride ; And ye sail be his bride, ladie, Sae comely to be seen ;"— But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. " Now let this wilful grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale ; Young Frank is chief of Errington, And lord of Langley-dale ; His step is first in peaceful ha'. His sword in battle keen ;" — But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. " A chain of gold ye shall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair. Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; And you, the foremost o' them a', Shall ride our forest queen ;" — But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. The kirk was deck'd at morning tide. The tapers glimmer' d fair. The priest and bridegroom wait the bride. And dame and knight are there. They sought her baith by bower and ha'. The lady was not seen ! — She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean ! Sir Walter Scott. SONNETS FR03I THE PORTUGUESE. If thou must love me, let it be for naught Except for love's sake only. Do not say " I love her for her smile, her look, her way Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day—" For these things in themselves, beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,— A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby ! But love me for love's sake, that ever- more Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. I NEVEE gave a lock of hair away To a man, dearest, except this to thee, Which now upon my fingers thought- fully I ring out to the full brown length, and say, " Take it." My day of youth went yester- day: My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee. Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle tree. As girls do, any more : it only may Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears. Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral shears Would take this first, but love is justi- fied,— Take it thou, — ^finding pure, from all those years. The kiss my mother left here when she died. Say over again, and yet once over again, That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated Should seem " a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it. Kemember, never to the hill or plain, POEMS OF LOVE. 135 Valley and wood, without her cuckoo- strain, Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed. Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted By a doubtful spirit- voice, in that doubt's pain Cry, "Speak once more — thou lovest!" Who can fear Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll — Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year ? Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll The silver iterance ! — only minding, dear. To love me also in silence with thy soul. My letters ! all dead paper, . . . mute and white ! And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to- night. This said, ... he wish'd to have me in his sight Once, as a friend: this fix'd a day in spring To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing. Yet I wept for it! this, . . . the paper's light, ... Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quail' d As if God's future thunder'd on my past. This said, lam thine, — and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast. A.nd this . . . O Love, thy words have ill avail'd. If what this said, I dared repeat at last ! If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me? Shall I never miss Home-talk and blessing and the com- mon kiss That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange. When I look up, to drop on a new range Of walls and floors — another home than this? Nay, wilt thou fill that place by ma which is Fill'd by dead eyes too tender to know change ? That's hardest. If to conquer love has tried, To conquer grief tries more, as all things prove ; For grief indeed is love and grief beside. Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to love. Yet love me — wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. FiEST time he kiss'd me, he but only kiss'd The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; And ever since, it grew more clean and white, Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "Oh, list," When the angels speak. A ring of ame- thyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, Than that first kiss. The second pass'd in height The first, and sought the forehead, and half miss'd, Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed ! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown. With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state; since when, in- deed, I have been proud, and said, " My love, my own !" How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways: I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. 136 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for right ; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my child- hood's faith. I love thee with a love I seem'd to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life ; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. LOCHINVAR. Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,— Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, — He rode all unarm'd and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war. There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone. He swam the Eske river where ford there was none, But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- invar. So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall, 'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen and broth- ers and all. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), " Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?" "I long woo'd your daughter, — my suit you denied ; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; And now am I come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more love- ly, by far. That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up. He quaff 'd off the wine and he threw down the cup. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and .a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar : "Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar. . So stately his form, and so lovely her face. That never a hall such a galliard did grace, While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume. And the bridemaidens whisper'd, " 'Twere better by far To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar. " One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. POEMS OF LOVE. 137 There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? Sir Walter Scott. AuLD Robin Gray. "When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame. When a' the weary warld to rest are gane, • The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, Untenn'd by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride ; But saving ae crown-piece, he had naething beside ; To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea ; And the crown and the pound, — they were baith for me ! He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day. When my father brake his arm, and the cow was stown away ; My mither she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea — And Auld Eobin Gray came a-courting me. My father cou'dna wark, my mother cou'dna spin ; I toil'd day and night, but their bread I cou'dna win ; Auld Robin maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee. Said, " Jeanie, oh ! for their sakes, will ye no marry me ?" My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie back ; But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack : His ship was a wrack — Why didna Jamie dee? Or, why am I spared to cry, Wae is me ! My father urged me sair — my mother didna speak. But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break ; They gied him my hand — my heart was in the sea — And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I cou'dna think it he, Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee !" Oh sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a' ; I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa' — I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to dee ; For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, Wae is me ! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin ; I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For, oh ! Robin Gray, he is kind to me. Lady Anne Barnard. To Mary in Heaven. Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 138 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? That sacred hour can I. forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the Avinding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace ; Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! Ayr gurgling kiss'd his j^ebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green. The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang w^anton to be press'd. The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. And fondly broods with miser care ! Time but the impression deeper makes. As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy blissful place of rest ? Beest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? KoBERT Burns. THE LADY'S Yes. Yes," I answer'd you last night ; " No," this morning, sir, I say : Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day. When the viols play'd their best. Lamps above and laughs below, Love me sounded like a jest, Fit for yes or fit for no. Call me false or call me free. Vow, whatever light may shine,- No man on your face shall see Any grief for change on mine. Yet the sin is on us both ; Time to dance is not to woo ; Wooing light makes fickle troth. Scorn of me recoils on you. Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high. Bravely, as for life and death. With a loyal gravity. Lead her from the festive boards, Point her to the starry skies ; Guard her, by your truthful words Pure from courtship's flatteries. By your truth she shall be true. Ever true, as wives of yore ; And her yes, once said to you. Shall be Yes for evermore. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Lady Clare. It was the time when lilies blow. And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Konald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin. Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn : Lovers long betroth'd were they : They two will wed the morrow morn : God's blessing on the day ! " He does not love me for my birth. Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, " Who was this that went from thee?" " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, " To-morrow he weds with me." " Oh, God be thank'd .'"said Alice the nurse, " That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Eonald is heir of all your lands. And you are not the Lady Clare." " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ?" Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild?" " As God's above," said Alice the nurse, '' I speak the truth : you are my child. P0E3IS OF LOVE. 139 "^ The old earl's daughter died at my breast ; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." '' Falsely, falsely have ye done, mother," she said, " if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due." ■' Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret for your life. And all you have will be Lord Eonald's, When you are man and wife." " If I'm a beggar born," she said, " I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold. And fling the diamond necklace by." " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret all ye can." She said, " Not so : but I will know If there be any faith in man." " Nay now, what faith ?" said Alice the nurse, " The man will cleave unto his right." " And he shall have it," the lady replied, *' Though I should die to-night." " Yet give one kiss to your mother, dear ! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." " O mother, mother, mother," she said, " So strange it seems to me ! " Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear. My mother dear, if this be so. And lay your hand upon my head. And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself in a russet gown. She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down. With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Eonald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropp'd her head in the maiden's hand. And follow'd her all the way. Down stepp'd Lord Ronald from his tower : " O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you dress'd like a village maid. That are the flower of the earth ?" " If I come dress'd like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar born," she said, " And not the Lady Clare." " Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, " For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, " Your riddle is hard to read." Oh, and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail : She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale. He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood ; " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the next in blood — " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn. And you shall still be Lady Clare." Alfred Tennyson. Love not he foe Comely Grace. Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face. Nor for any outward part. No, nor for my constant heart, — For those may fail, or turn to ill. So thou and I shall sever : Keep therefore a true woman's eye. And love me still, but know not why— So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever ! Author Unknown. The Loveliness of Love. It is not beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair : Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where. Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed : — 140 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY^ A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers, These are but gauds : nay what are lips ? Coral beneath the ocean stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips Full oft he perisheth on them. And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good ? Eyes can with baleful ardor burn ; Poison can breath, that erst perfumed ; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. For crystal brows there's naught within ; They are but empty cells for pride ; He who the siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide. Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind Which with temptation I would trust. Yet never link'd with error find, — One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose, — My earthly Comforter ! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit wonn'd above. Hers could not stay, for sympathy. Thomas Carew. Milk-Maid's Song. The Shepherd to his Love. Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, or hills, or field, Or woods and steepy mountains yield : Where we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed our flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. Atid I will make thee beds of roses. And then a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle • A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; Slippers lined choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold ; A belt of straw and ivy buds. With coral clasps and amber studs ; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. Thy silver dishes for my meat. As precious as the gods do eat, Shall, on an ivory table, be Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight, each May morning. If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. Christophee Marlowe. MILK- MAID' 8 MOTHER'S ANSWER. The Nymph's Eeply. If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; Then Philomel becometh dumb, And age complains of care to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields. A honey tongue, a heart of gall. Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten ; In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds. Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love. POEMS OF LOVE. 141 What should we talk of dainties, then, Of better meat than's fit for men ? These are but vain : that's only good Which God hath bless'd, and sent for food. But could youth last and love still breed. Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then those delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love. Sir Walter Raleigh. On a Day, Alack the Day! On a day, alack the day ! Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air : Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen 'gan passage find ; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ; Air, would I might triumph so ! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn : Vow, alack, for youth unmeet ; Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee : Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were. And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. William Shakespeare. WOMAN'S Inconstancy. I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more, Thine be the grief as is the blame ; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same ? He that can love unloved again. Hath better store of love than brain ; God send me love my debts to pay. While •unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine ; Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom did recall, That if thou might elsewhere inthrall ; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain ? When new desires had conquer'd thee, And changed the object of thy will. It had been lethargy in me. Not constancj^, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so. Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice. Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost ; The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; To love thee still, but go no more A begging to a beggar's door. Sir Robert Ayton. The MAID'S LA3IENT. I LOVED him not ; and yet now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I checkt him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, Alas ! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought. And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him : I now would give My love, could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death ! I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns And this lone bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart : foi years Wept he as bitter tears ! " Merciful God !" such was his latest prayer " These may she never share !" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould. 142 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Where children spell athwart the church- yard gate His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be. And oh, pray, too, for me ! Walter Savage Landor. An Ode.^ The merchant, to secure his treasure. Conveys it in a borrow'd name : Euphelia serves to grace my measure But Chloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia's toilet lay ; When Chloe noted her desire. That I should sing, that I should play, My lyre I tune, my voice I raise ; But with my numbers mix my sighs; And while I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blush'd, Euphelia frown'd.: I sung, and gazed : I play'd and trembh^d: And Venus to the Loves around Kemark'd how ill we all dissembled. Matthew Prior. Constancy. Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together ; And am like to love three more If it prove fine weather. Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me ; Love with me had made no stays Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she. And that very face. There had been at least ere this, A dozen in her place. Sir John Suckijng. A Fragment. Love in her sunny eyes does basking play ; Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair ; Love does on both her lips for ever stray. And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there : In all her outward parts Love's always seen ; But oh ! he never went within. Abraham Cowley. To A Dead Woman. Not a kiss in life ; but one kiss at life's end, I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee, Through long years, keep it fresh on thy lips, O friend! At the gate of silence, give it back to me. Henry C. Bunner. Love in the Valley. UjSTDEE, yonder beech-tree standing on the green sward, Couch'd with her arms behind her little head, Her knees folded up, and her tresses on her bosom, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her. Press her dreaming lips as her waist I folded slow, Waking on the instant she could not but embrace me — Ah ! would she hold me, and never let me go ? Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the swallow ; Swift as the swallow when, athwart the western flood, Circleting the surface, he meets his mir- ror'd winglets — Is that dear one in her maiden bud. Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the pine tops ; Gentle — ah ! that she were jealous — as the dove! Full of all the wildness of the woodland creatures, Happy in herself is the maiden that I love ! What can have taught her distrust of all I tell her? Can she truly doubt me when looking on my brows? P0E3IS OF LOVE. 143 Nature never teaches distrust of tender love-tales — What can have taught her distrust of all my vows? No, she does not doubt me ! on a dewy eve- tide, Whispering together beneath the listening moon, I pray'd till her cheek flush'd, implored till she falter'd— Flutter'd to my bosom — ah ! to fly away so soon ! When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, Often she thinks — Were this wild thing wedded, I should have more love, and much less care. When her mother tends her before the bashful mirror. Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Oftep she thinks — Were this wild thing wedded, I should lose but one for so many boys and girls. Clambering roses peep into her chamber ; Jasmine and woodbine breathe sweet, sweet ; White-neck'd swallows, twittering of sum- mer, Fill her with balm and nested peace from head to feet. Ah! wdll the rose-bough see her lying lonely. When the petals fall and fierce bloom is on the leaves ? Will the autumn garners see her still un- gather'd. When the fickle swallows forsake the weep- ing eaves ? Comes a sudden question — should a strange hand pluck her ! Oh, what an anguish smites me at the thought ! Should some idle lordling bribe her mind with jewels ! — Can such beauty ever thus be bought ? Sometimes the huntsmen, prancing down the valley. Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly mirth ; They see, as I see, mine is the fairest ! Would she were older and could read my worth ! Are there not sweet maidens, if she still deny me ? Show the bridal heavens but one bright star? Wherefore thus then do I chase a shadow, Clattering one note like a brown eve-jar? So I rhyme and reason till she darts before me — Through the milky meadows from flower to flower she flies, Sunning her sweet palms to shade her dazzled eyelids From the golden love that looks too eager in her eyes. When at dawn she wakens, and her fair face gazes Out on the weather through the window- panes. Beauteous she looks I like a white water- lily Bursting out of bud on the rippled river plains. When from bed she rises, clothed from neck to ankle In her long night-gown, sweet as boughs of May, Beauteous she looks ! like a tall garden lily, Pure from the night and perfect for the day ' Happy, happy time, when the gray star twinkles Over the fields all fresh with bloomy dew ; When the cold-cheek'd dawii,grows ruddy up the twilight. And the gold sun wakes and weds her in the blue. Then when my darling tempts the early breezes. She the only star that dies not with the dark ! Powerless to speak all the ardor of my passion, I catch her little hand as we listen to the lark. I 144 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Shall the birds in vain then valentine their sweethearts? Season after season tell a fruitless tale ? Will not the virgin listen to their voices? Take the honey'd meaning, wear the bridal veil? Fears she frosts of winter, fears she the bare branches? Waits she the garlands of spring for her dower ? Is she a nightingale that will not be nested Till the April woodland has built her bridal bower ? Then come, merry April, with all thy birds and beauties ! With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, showery glee ; With thy budding leafage and fresh green pastures ; And may thy lustrous crescent grow a hon- eymoon for me ! Come, merry month of the cuckoo and the violet ! Come, weeping loveliness in all thy blue delight ! Lo ! the nest is ready, let me not languish longer ! Bring her to my arms on the first May night. George Meredith. DUNCAN Gray. Duncan Gray cam here to woo. Ha, ha, the wooing o't. On blythe Yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't : Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent and unco' skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't ! Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd,' Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleert an' blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie dee ? She may gae to — France for me I Ha, ha, the wooing o't. How it comes let doctors tell. Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings ; And oh, her een, they spak sic things . Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan couldna be her death. Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; Now they're crouse and canty baith. Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Robert Burns. Ruth. She stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden light of morn. Like the sweetheart of the sun. Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripen'd ; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born. Like red poppies grown with corn. Eound her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could telL But long lashes veil'd a light. That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim ; Thus she stood amid the stooks. Praising God with sweetest looks :- ■ Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean. Where I reap thou shouldst but glean. Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home. Thomas Hood. POEMS OF LOVE. 145 Phillida and Corydon, In" the merrie moneth of Maye, In a morne by brealy of daye, With a troope of damselles playing Forthe " I yode " forsooth a-maying : When anon by a wood side, Where as Maye was in his pride, I espied all alone Phillida and Corydon. Much adoe there was, god wot ; He wold love, and she wold not. She sayde, never man was trewe ; He sayes, none was false to you. He sayde, hee had lovde her longe : She sayes, love should have no wronge. Corydon wold kisse her then : She sayes, niaydes must kisse no men, Tyll they doe for good and all. When she made the shepperde call All the heavens to wytnes truthe. Never loved a truer youthe. Then with manie a prettie othe, Yea and nay, and faith and trothe ; Suche as seelie shepperdes use When they will not love abuse ; Love, that had bene long deluded. Was with kisses sweete concluded ; And Phillida with garlands gaye Was made the lady of the Maye. Nicholas Breton. Maid of Athens. Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart ! Or, since that has left my breast. Keep it now, and take the rest ! Hear my vow before I go, Z(I)7^ fxouj ffdq dyaTzu). By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; 'By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge. By those wild eyes like the roe, Zd>7j fiody