THE UNIVERSITY i OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY Prom the collection of Julius Doerner, Chicago Purchased, 1918, 808 .. SaTs The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its return on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. University of Illinois Library I I \ 1 : m- ?IS70 L161— 0-1096 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/selectionsinpoet00sarg_0 SELECTIONS IN POETRY EXERCISES AT SCHOOL AND AT HOME (BMtpii liif Inrgtnt. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY BILLINGS AND OTHERS. Who is it that ever was a scholar, that doth not carry away some verses which in his youth he learned, and even to old age serve him for hourly lessons ? Sir Philip Sidney. PHILADELPHIA: THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO. M DCCC? LIII. ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 185^ BY EPES SARGENT, IN THE clerk’s OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE DISTRICT OP MASSACHUSETTS. Stereotyped by HOBART & ROBBINS, Boston. are. The influence of poetry as a beneficent auxiliary in education is hardly yet appreciated ; but there is a growing sense of its importance, and to meet the de- mands of this growth the present collection has been made. It is composed mainly of pieces of approved excellence, and such as are fitted as well by their pure moral tone as by the harmony and beauty of their structure to elevate the standard of taste, and happily impress the memory. Genuine poetry, in its simplest forms, appeals to the sympathies of all, — of the old as Tvell as the young ; and although this collection is adapted to the wants of more advanced pupils, it will be found to contain much that will be easily learned and recited by children. The aid of the pencil has been occasionally called in, to impart a graphic interest to pieces, and to indicate the alliance between the sister arts. All the original designs in the volume are by Mr. Hammatt Billings, an artist of singular merit, and of much felicity of execution. It is remarked by an English compiler, — Dr. Allen, to whose collection of ^'Select English Poetry^’ we are 469210 IV PREFACE. happy to acknowledge our indebtedness, — that ^Hhe earliest advantage which is found to arise from the practice of learning and reciting passages of poetry is an improvement of the faculty of memory. Sentiments ■which, if expressed in prose, would soon be forgotten, frequently, when clothed in verse, produce a permanent impression. The mind may thus be gradually stored with maxims of the purest morality ; while the reciting of poetry is, in the language of Lord Clarendon, ^ the best and most natural way to introduce an assurance and confidence in speaking with that leisure and tone of pronunciation that is decent and graceful, and in which so few men are excellent, for want of informa- tion and care -when they were young.’ ” We do not suppose that any vindication of poetry is needed in this country, at this stage of the world’s cultivation. The time has gone by for illiberal notions on the subject. Poetry, like religion, rests on the necessity of supplying the inherent cravings of our intellectual and spiritual nature ; and a taste for it should be cultivated with the assiduity with which any other faculty, essential to the health of a well- balanced organization, is brought into activity. It is ever the companion of an earnest religious faith. Gen- uine poetry, even in its most cheerful moods, is always religious ; indeed, it is cheerful simply because it is religious. It cannot survive in an atheistical atmos- o phcrc. Some few instances may be named in which the poetical faculty has been allied with intellectual PREFACE. V unbelief ; but the union has never been of long dura- tion. The one flame must absorb the other. If the undevout astronomer be mad, an undevout poet is an anomaly in nature. ^ ^ Creation has too much of the divinity insinuated into her beauties,’’ says the Rev. Charles Wolfe, ^^to allow poetry to hesitate in her creed. She demands no proof She waits for no demonstration. She looks, and she believes. She admires, and she adores.” ^‘It seems to us,” says Dr. Channing, referring to poetry, the divinest of all arts ; for it is the breath- ing or expression of that principle or sentiment which is deepest and sublimest in human nature. No doc- trine is more common among Christians than that of man’s immortality ; but it is not so generally under- stood that the germs or principles of his whole future being are nov) wrapped up in his soul, as the rudi- ments of the future plant in the seed. As a necessary result of this constitution, the soul, possessed and moved by these mighty though infant energies, is per- petually stretching beyond what is present and visible, struggling against the bounds of its earthly prison- house, and seeking relief and joy in imaginings of unseen and ideal being. This view of our nature, which has never been fully developed, and which goes further towards explaining the contradictions of human life than all others, carries us to the very foundation and sources of poetry.” ‘^It is not true that the poet paints a life which does not exist. He only extracts VI PREFACE. and concentrates, as it were, life’s ethereal essence, arrests and condenses its volatile fragrance, brings together its scattered beauties, and prolongs its more ' refined but evanescent joys. And in this he does well ; for it is good to feel that life is not wholly usurped by cares for subsistence and physical gratifi- cations, but admits, in measures which may be indefi- nitely enlarged, sentiments and delights worthy of a higher being. This power of poetry to refine our views of life and happiness is more and more needed as society advances.” If these views of poetry are true, we cannot well exaggerate the importance of the cultivation of a taste for its enjoyments by the young ; and especially by tlie female portion, by whom the destinies of future immortals are to be to so great an extent influenced, for evil or for good. “ What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed 1 — a beast, no more ! Sure He that made us with such large discourse. Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and God-like reason To rust in us unused ! ” CONTENTS PAGE The Sabbath Sunset, Prison Consolations of the Muse, . . . Fancy, Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland, Hymn, My Little Cousins, Admonition, I See Thee Still, Moral Alchemy, The Ministry of Angels, Summer Longings, Friendship, On the Death of Thomson, Never Despair, Love, Hope and Patience, in Education, Jafifar, Sun and Shower, . To Seneca Lake, The Call of Samuel, God is Here, Prayers for a Child, It is Told me I mi^st Die, The Dead Friend, The Sabbath Morning, Affectation, A Thought suggested by the New Year, The Child and the Angels, Lines in a Mother’s Bible, ‘‘Not to Myself Alone,” The Daisy, Stanzas, The Lamentation for Celin, Character of the Happy Warrior, , . A Plea for our Physical Life, .... Evening Time, “ We Joy that Thou art Free,” . . . The Ploughman, The First of March, Wither , . . . Leigh Hunt , . Daniel, . . . Addison, . . Praed, . . . Aaron Hill, . Sprague, . . Horace Smith, Spenser, . . Wordsworth, Collms , . . Coleridge, Leigh Hunt, Sarah Flower Adams , . . Percival, Cawood, Lady Duncan, . . . . Richard Langhorne, . . Southey, Leyden, Cumberland, Campbell, Charles Swain, .... Kennedy, . Good, . . , . Brainard, . , . Lockhart, . , . Wordsworth, . Mackay, . . . Montgomery, Holmes, . . Horace Smith, 21 22 24 24 26 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 47 48 48 49 50 51 53 54 55 57 60 61 62 63 65 VIII CONTENTS. Stanza, Bowring, GG The Light-house, 67 Hope and Love, Praed, 68 Sermons in Sonnets, Rev. C. H. Townshend, . 70 True Courage, Bowring, 73 The Three Homes, . 74 The Grood Man’s Exit, Blair, 75 Ode, 76 A Dream of Summer, Whittier, 77 Farewell Life, Hood, 78 Days of my Youth, Tucker, - 79 True Philosophy, 79 Blessed are They that Mourn,” . . .Bryant, 80‘ The Humble-bee, Emerson, 81 The Bitter Gourd, Leigh Hunt, 83 She Came and Went, Lowell, 84 Reasons for Risibility, Fitzgerald, 85 The Use of Flowers, Mary Howitt, 86 Hymn to the Flowers, Horace Smith, 88 On Poetry, Townshend, 90 Autumn Flowers, Mrs. Southey, 91 . 92 . 93 . 94 . 96 . 98 . 99 . 100 . 101 . 102 , 103 . 104 . 105 Give, Mrs. Sigourney, . The Better Land, Mrs. Hernans, . . A Psalm of Life, Longfellow, . . . Ode to Duty, Wordsworth, . . Summer Heat, Thomson, .... Forgiveness, Kennedy, .... Hannibal’s Oath, Miss Landon, . . Man, Herbert, .... The Daffodils, Wordsworth, . . Coronach, Scott, A Prayer, Beckford, .... Death and the Warrior, Mrs. Hernans, An Angel in the House, Leigh Hunt, 107 The Grasshopper, Cowley, 107 The Author’s Last Verses, Mrs. Osgood, 108 A Phantom of Delight, Wordsworth, 109 Farewell to Pdvilin, Ebenezer Elliot, . . . .110 The Winds, Bryant, Ill Sonnet to Wordsworth, Hartley Coleridge, . . .113 Adoration amid Natural Scenes, .... Wordsworth, 114 “0 ! Steal not Thou my Faith away,” . Lyons, 116 Imitated from the Persian, Southey, 117 April, Whittier, 118 My Jjittle Sister, Robert Macnish, . . . .119 Signals of Liberty, G. 1). Prentice, .... 120 The Child of Earth, Mrs. Norton, 121 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid, Sir Walter Scott, . . .123 To a Ljidy on her ALirriage, Fitzgerald, 124 Beauty, Wit and Gold, .’126 To my Piaiioforte, Leigh Hunt, 127 Song of a Guardian Spirit, Mrs. Hcnians, 128 CONTENTS. IX Helvellyn, . Faith, God, The Rainy Day, Why thus Longing The Mother and Child, The Factory Children’s Holiday, .... To a Friend on his Marriage, The Old Oaken Bucket, Immortality, Only Thine, Early Piety, Dreams, Hymn for One Departed, ‘. . Happiness, Christian Patriotism, The Deserted House, The Light of Stars, I Remember, I Remember, The Tranquil Mind, The Old Man’s Comforts, Too Late I Staid, The Lyre and Sword, The Flight of Faith, The Sky-lark, Blessing of a Concealed Future, .... Lycidas, The Alpine Storm, For Comfort in Death, The Servian Youth to a Traveller, . . . My Birth -day, Veni Creator, Glimpses of Future Life, To Little Mary, Sleep, Character of a Happy Life, Moonlight, Strength from Above, A Song of Contradictions, The Widow of Nain, The Song of the Shirt, The Happy Man, From the Arabic, Pvemorse, Blessings Unobserved, Of a Contented Mind, A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, . . . The Eloquent Pastor, The Holly-tree, Lift up Thine Eyes, Afflicted Soul, . . . Spirit of Delight, To a Child Six Fears Old, during Sickness, 1 # Sir Walter Scott, . . .129 Fritz and Leolett, . . .130 Derzhavine, 131 Longfellow, 135 Harriet Winslow, . . .135 137 Elliot, 138 Hartley Coleridge, . . .139 Woodworth, 140 Dana, 141 Heber, 142 Heber, 143 144 Wilson, 145 Heber, 148 Couyper, 149 Tennyson, 151 Longfellow, 151 Hood, 153 Waller, 154 Southey, 154 Spencer, 155 Mrs. Hemans, 156 Moore, 158 Hogg, 159 Pope, 160 Milton, 161 Byron, 164 Robert Herrick, . . . .165 166 Moore, 167 Dry den, 168 Henry Vaughan, . . .170 Mrs. Southey, 170 Mrs. Browning, . . . .173 Wotton, 175 Shakspeare, 176 Milton, 176 Laman Blanchard, . . .177 Heber, 178 Hood, 179 Cowper, 182 183 Byron, 184 Milnes, 185 186 Cunningham, 187 Laman Blanchard, . . .188 Southey, 189 Montgom.ery , 190 Shelley, 191 Leigh Hunt, 193 X CONTENTS. Where is the Seal Mrs, Hemansy 194 Christian Virgin to her Apostate Lover, . Rev. T. Dale^ 195 Summer Evening by the Sea, Rev, C. H. Townshend, , 197 On the Death of an Infant, Jane Taylor 198 Sonnet, Rev, W. L. Bowles y . .198 Bible, Rev. R. Hoyt, *199 The Lily of the Valley, Rev. G. Croly, , , . .201 Forgiveness, 201 Solitude, Shahspearey 202 The Evening Cloud, Wilson, 202 The Thunder-storm, Klopstock, 205 A Lesson for Future Life, 204 The Worth of Woman, Schiller, 205 Ode to a Gold Coin, Dr. John Leyden, . . . 207 The True Refuge, Heber, 209 To Fortune, Thomas Carew, Niagara, Brainard, . . . , Epitaph on Mrs. Mason, William Mason, Independence, Thomson, . . . , Is there, for Honest Poverty, Burns, .... Evening, Byron, . . . . , Hope, Schiller, . . . , Thanksgiving, Elliot, . . . . , God Pro vide th for the Morrow, .... Heber, Human Life, Coleridge, . . . , The Death of Schiller, Bryant, , 209 , 210 , 211 . 211 . 212 , 215 214 , 215 , 216 , 217 • 218 Castles in the Air, 219 Songs of Being, 221 Prose and Song, John Sterling, 223 An Evening Re very, Bryant, 224 The Golden Year, Tennyson, 225 Cheerfulness, Salis, 22^ Vespers, Heber, 228 The Kingdom of God, Harriet Winslow, . . .228 The Sonnet, Wordsworth, 230 Monody, Halleck, 231 Happiest Days, 232 I Dream of All Things Free, Mrs, Hemans, 233 A Christmas Hymn, Alfred Domett, , . . .234 The Past makes the Future, Coleridge, 236 The Home of thy Rest, T, K, Hervey, .... 236 The Glimpse, F, W. Faber, 238 Human Love, Willis, 238 Riches, Thos. Randolph, .... 239 Corn-fields, Mary Howitt, 240 Of Solitude, Cowley, 242 Temperance, Milton, 243 The Honest Man, Herbert, 244 The Parrot, Campbell, 245^ Persecution, Bowring, 246 Spiritual Population of the Universe, . . Milton, 248 May Morning at Ravenna, Leigh Hunt, 248 CONTENTS. XI The True Life, The Prison, Hymn, Stanzas, The Snow-storm, The Belvidere Apollo, Book of the World, Sin, Elijah’s Interview, The Marigold, Hymn to the Stars, “ There is a Tongue in Every Leaf,” . Address to Poets, Early Bising and Prayer, The Butterfly, An Apologue, Providence, The Hour of Death, Address to a Wild Deer, The Last Man, Lines written in Early Spring, . . . Bhyme not Poetry, . Cloud-land, The Sea-bird’s Song, Eden, Liberty, The Bugle Song, The Disembodied Spirit, An American Forest Spring, .... The Swallows, The Dilemma, To Night, The Village Preacher, Look Aloft, Occasion, Hope’s Brighter Shore, The Moral Law, * . . . . Books, On Parting with my Books, Immortality of Lrjve, Hymn of a Hermit, Boat-song, The Crucifixion, A Northern Spring, Musings in the Temple of Nature, . . Montgolfier in his Balloon, The Young Lochinvar, The Believer’s Triumph in Death, . . The Leap for Life, Ear out at Sea, On the Receipt of my Mother’s Picture, Nature’s Ministrations, . P. J. Bailey, 249 . Coleridge, 250 . Bowring, 251 252 . Emerson, 253 . Milman, 254 , Drummond, 256 . Herbert, 256 . Campbell, 257 . George Wither, . . . .258 259 . Mrs. Southey, 261 . Keble, 263 . Henry Vaughan, . . . .264 . Bernard Barton, .... 266 . T. Gas2')ry, 268 . Leigh Hunt, 270 . Mrs. Hemans, 270 . Wilson, 272 . Campbell, 275 . Wordsworth, 277 . Pope, 278 . Coleridge, 279 . Brainard, 280 . Milton, 281 . Coleridge, 283 . Tennyson, 283 . Peabody, 284 . Alfred B. Street, .... 285 . Hayley, 287 . Holmes, 288 . J. Blanco White, . . . 290 . Goldsmith, 290 . Lawrence, 292 293 294 . Wordsworth, 295 . Southey, 296 . William Roscoe, . . . .297 . Southey, 297 . John Sterling, 298 301 . Montgomery, 302 . Holmes, 302 , Chatfield, 305 . Darwin, 307 . Scott, 308 . Toplady, 309 . Geo. P. Morris, . . . .311 : 312 Cowper, 313 . Wordsworth, 317 XII CONTENTS. An Evenin" Thoupjht, , Rp/if. C. H. Townahend, 318 The Child’s Warning, Mrs. Southey, .... . 318 Immortal Hopes, Wilson, Hymn to Adversity, (rray, . 321 May, Pcrcival, . 323 Stanzas, , Charles Wolfe, . . . . 324 Elegy written in a Country Church-yard, (^rray, . 325 Life Beyond the Tomb, Beattie, To the Rainbow, Campbell, Autumn, Wordsworth, .... . 333 The Dying Christian to his Soul, . . . . Popp, Nature and her Lover, Mackay, . 335 INDEX OF AUTHORS Adams, Sarah F. page Sun and Shower, 39 Addison, Joseph. (Born, 1672 ; died, 1710.) How are thy Servants Blest, 0 Lord, 26 The Spacious Firmament on High, 76 Bailey, P. J. The True Life. (From “Festus ”), 249 Barton, Bernard. (Born, 1784 ; died, 1849.) The Butterfly. (Illustrated), 266 Beattie, James. (Born, 1735 ; died, 1803.) Life Beyond the Tomb, 330 Beckford, William. (Died, 1844.) Prayer, 104 Blair, Robert. (Born, 1700 ; died, 1746.) The Good Man’s Exit. (From “ The Grave ”), 75 Blanchard, Laman. (Born, 1803 ; died, 1845.) A Song of Contradictions, 177 The Eloquent Pastor, 188 Bowles, Bev. William Lisle. (Born, 1762 ; died, 1850.) Sonnet to a Lady, 198 Bowring, John. Stanza, 66 True Courage, 73 God. (From the Russian of Herzhavine), 131 Persecution, 246 Hymn, 251 Brainard, J. G. C. (Hied, 1828.) The Head Leaves Strew the Forest Walk, 54 Niagara, 210 The Sea-bird’s Song. (Illustrated), 280 Browning, Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett. Sleep. (Illustrated), 173 Bryant, William Cullen, Blessed are they that Mourn, 80 The Winds, Ill The Heath of Schiller, 218 An Evening Revery, 224 Byron, Lord George Gordon. (Born, 1788 ; died, 1824.) The Alpine Storm. (From ‘‘ Childe Harold ”), 164 Remorse. (From “Manfred”), 184 Evening. (From “ Hon Juan ”), 213 XIV INDEX OF AUTHORS. Burns, Robert. (Born, 1758 ; died, 179G.) Is there, for Honest Poverty, 212 Campbell, Thomas. (Born, 1777 ; died, 1844.) A Thought suggested by the New Year, 48 The Parrot. (A true incident), 245 Elijah’s Interview, 257 The Last Man, 275 To the Rainbow, 331 Carew, Thomas. (Born, 1589 ; died, 1G39.) To Fortune, 209 Cawood. The Call of Samuel, 41 Chatfield, Dr. Musings in the Temple of Nature, 305 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. (Born, 1770 ; died, 1834.) Love, Hope and Patience, in Education, 37 Human Life ; on the Denial of Immortality, 217 The Past makes the Future, 236 The Prison. (From the tragedy of “ Remorse ”), 250 Cloud-land : a Sonnet, 279 Liberty. (From “France, an Ode ”), 283 Coleridge, Hartley. (Born, 1797 ; died, 1849.) Sonnet to Wordsworth, 113 To a Friend on his Marriage, 139 Collins, William. (Born, 1720 ; died, 1756.) On the Death of Thomson, 35 Cowley, Abraham. (Born, 1618 ; died, 1667.) The Grasshopper, 107 Of Solitude, 242 CowPER, William. (Born, 1731 ; died, 1800.) Christian Patriotism, 149 The Happy Man, 182 On the Receipt of my Mother’s Picture, 313 Croly, Rev. George. The Lily of the Valley, 201 Cumberland, Richard. (Born, 1732 ; died, 1811.) Affectation, 48 Cunningham, Allan. (Born, 1785 ; died, 1842.) A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, 187 Dale, Rev. Thomas. The Christian Virgin to her Apostate Lover, 195 Dana, Richard H. Immortality, 141 Daniel, Samuel. (Born, 1562 ; died, 1619.) Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland. (Extract), .... 24 Darwin, Erasmus. (Born, 1721 ; died, 1802.) Montgolfier in his Balloon, 307 Derziiavine, Gabriel R. (Born, 1743 ; died, 1819.) God. (Translated from the Russian by Bowring), 131 Domett, Alfred. A (Jhristinas Hymn, 234 INDEX OP AUTHORS. XV Drummond, William. (Born, 1585 ; died, 1649.) The Book of the World, 256 Dryden, John. (Born, 1631 ; died, 1700.) Veni Creator (Come, Creator), 168 Duncan, Lady. Morning and Evening Prayers for a Child, 43 Elliot, Ebenezer. (Born, 1781 ; died, 1849.) Earewell to Rivilin, 110 The Factory Children’s Holiday, 138 Thanksgiving, 215 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. The Humble-bee, 81 The Snow-storm. (Illustrated), 253 Faber, Rev. F. W. The Glimpse, 238 Fitzgerald, E. M. Reasons for Risibility, 85 To a Lady on her Marriage, 124 Fritz and Leolett. Faith, 130 Gaspry, T. An Apologue, 268 Goldsmith, Oliver. (Born, 1731 ; died, 1774.) The Village Preacher. (From “The Deserted Village ”), . . 290 Good, John Mason. (Born, 1764 ; died, 1827.) The Daisy, 53 Gray, Thomas. (Born, 1716 ; died, 1771.) Ode to Adversity, 321 Elegy in a Country Church -yard, 325 Halleck, Fitz Greene. Monody on the Death of Lieutenant Allen, 231 Hayley, William. (Born, 1745 ;• died, 1820.) The Swallows ; Written in Expectation of Death, 287 Heber, Reginald, Bishop of Calcutta. (Born, 1783 ; died, 1826.) Only Thine, 142 Early Piety, 143 Happiness, 148 The Widow of Nain, 178 The True Refuge, .209 God Provideth for the Morrow. (Illustrated), 216 Vespers, 228 Hemans, Mrs. Felicia. (Born, 1794 : died, 1835.) The Better Land, 93 Death and the Warrior. (Illustrated), 105 Song of a Guardian Spirit, 128 The Lyre and the Sword. (Illustrated), 156 Where is the Sea .194 I Dream of all Things Free, 233 The Hour of Death, 270 Herbert, George. (Born, 1593 ; died, 1632.) Man, 101 XVI INDEX OF AUTHORS. Constancy ; or, The Honest Man, 244 Sin, 250 Herrick, Hobert. (Born, 1591 ; died, about 1G07.) For Comfort in Heath, 1G5 Hervey, T. K. I Know Thou art Gone to the Home of thy Rest, 23 G Hill, Aaron. (Born, 1G84 ; died, 1749.) Admonition, 29 Hogg, James. (Born, 1782 ; died, 1835.) The Skylark, 159 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. The Ploughman, G3 The Hilemma. (Illustrated), 288 A Northern Spring, 302 Hood, Thomas. (Born, 1798 ; died, 1845.) Farewell Life ! My Senses Swim, 78 I Remember, I Remember, 153 The Song of the Shirt, 179 IIowiTT, Mary, The Use of Flowers. (Illustrated), 80 Corn-fields, 240 Hoyt, Rev. Ralph. Bible. (Illustrated), 199 Hunt, Leigh. (Born, 1784.) Fancy, 24 Jafiar : an Eastern Tradition, 38 The Bitter Gourd : an Eastern Tradition, 83 An Angel in the House, 107 To my Pianoforte, 127 To a Child Six Years Old, during Sickness, 193 May Morning at Ravenna, ^ 248 Providence, 270 Keble, John. Address to Poets, 2C3 Kennedy, William. Lines in a Mother’s Bible, 50 Forgiveness, 99 Klopstock, Frederick Theophilus. (Born, 1724 ; died, 1803.) The Thunder-storm. (From the German of), 203 Landon, Letitia E. (Mrs. Maclean). (Born, 1802 ; died, 1838.) Hannibal’s Oath, 100 Langhorne, Richard. (Executed in 1679, for political reasons.) It is Told me I Must Hie, 44 Lawrence, Jonathan. Look Aloft, 292 Leyden, John. (Born, 1775 ; died, 1811.) The Sabbath Morning, 47 Ode to a Gold Coin, 207 Lockhart, J. G! Lamentation for the Heath of Celin, 55 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. A Psalm of Life, 94 INDEX OF AUTHORS. XVII The Rainy Day, 135 The Light of Stars, 151 Lowell, James Russell. She Came and Went, 84 Lyons, Rev. James Gilborne. 0, Steal not Thou my Faith Away, 116 Mackay, Charles. A Plea for our Physical Life, 60 Nature and her Lover, 335 Mason, William. (Born, 1725 ; died, 1797.) Epitaph on Mrs. Mason, 211 Macnisii, Robert. (Born, 1802 ; died, 1837.) My Little Sister, 119 Milman, Rev. Henry Hart. The Belvidere Apollo, 254 Milnes, R. M. Blessings Unobserved, 185 Milton, John. (Born, 1608 ; died, 1674.) Lycidas, a Monody, 161 Strength from Above. (From “ Samson Agonistes ”), . . . .176 Temperance. (From “ Comus ”), 243 Spiritual Population of the Universe, 248 Eden, Description of. (From ‘‘Paradise Lost ”), 281 Montgomery, James. (Born, 1771.) Evening Time, 61 Lift up Thine Eyes, Afflicted Soul, 190 The Crucifixion, 302 Moore, Thomas. (Born, 1780 ; died, 1852.) The Flight of Faith, 158 My Birth-day, 167 Morris, George P. The Leap for Life, 311 Norton; Mrs. Caroline. The Child of Earth, 121 Osgood, Mrs. Frances S. (Born, 1812 ; died, 1850.) The Author’s Last Verses, 108 Peabody, William B. 0. (Born, 1799 ; died, 1847.) The Disembodied Spirit, 284 Percival, James G. To Seneca Lake, 40 May. (Illustrated), 323 Pope, Alexander. (Born, 1688 ; died, 1744.) Blessing of a Concealed Future, 160 Rhyme not Poetry, 278 The Dying Christian to his Soul, 334 Praed, Winthrop Mackworth. (Born, 1802 ; died, 1839.) My Little Cousins, 28 Hope and Love, 68 Prentice, George D. Signals of Liberty, 120 Randolph, Thomas. (Born, 1605 ; died, 1634.) Riches, 239 B XVIII INDEX OF AUTHORS. Roscoe, William. (Born, 17C5 ; died, 1831.) On Parting with my Books, 297 Salis, Johann Gandenz Von. (Born, 1702 ; died, 1834.) Cheerfulness. (From the German of), 22G Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich. (B., 1759 ; d., 1805.) The Worth of Woman. (From the German of ), 205 Hope. (From the German of), 214 Scott, Sir Walter. (Born, 1771 ; died, 1832.) Coronach, 103 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid, 123 Helvellyn, 129 The Young Lochinvar, 308 Shakspeare, William. (Born, 1504 ; died, 1010.) Moonlight. (From “ The Merchant of Venice ”), 176 Solitude. (From “ As You Like It ”), 202 Shelley, Percy Bysshe. (Born, 1792 ; died, 1822.) Spirit of Delight, 191 Sigourney, Mrs. L. H. Give Prayers : the Evening hath Begun, 92 Smith, Horace. (Born, 1779 ; died, 1849.) Moral Alchemy, 31 The First of March, 05 Hymn to the Flowers. (Illustrated), 88 Smith, Seba. The Mother and Child. (Illustrated), 137 Southey, Robert. \Born, 1774 ; died, 1843.) The Dead Friend, 45 Imitated from the Persian, ‘ 117 The Old Man’s Comforts, 154 The Holly-tree, 189 Books. (Illustrated), 296 Immortality of Love. (From “ The Curse of Kehama ”), . . 297 Southey, Mrs. Caroline Bowles. Autumn Flowers, 91 To Little Mary, 170 There is a Tongue in Every Leaf, 261 The Child’s Warning, 318 Spencer, William Robert. (Born, 1770 ; died, 1834.) Too Late I Staid ; Forgive the Crime, 155 Spenser, Edmund. (Born, 1553 ; died, 1598.') The Ministry of Angels (From “The Faery Queene ”), ... 32 Sprague Charles. I See Thee Still, 30 Sterling, John. (Born, 1806 ; died, 1844.) Prose and Song, 223 Hymn of a Hermit, 298 Street, Alfred B. An American Forest Spring, 285 Swain, Charles. The Child and the Angels, 49 Taylor, Jane. (Born, 1783 ; died, 1823.) On the Death of an Infant, 198 INDEX OF AUTHORS. XIX Tennyson, Alfred. The Deserted House, 151 The Golden Year, 225 The Bugle Song, 283 Thomson, James. (Born, 1700 ; died, 1748.) Summer Heat. (From “ The Seasons ”), 98 Independence. (From ‘‘The Castle of Indolence”), .... 211 Toplady, Augustus Montague. (Born, 1740 ; died, 1778.) The Believer’s Triumph in Death, 309 Townshend, Rev. Chauncy Hare. Sermons in Sonnets (six), 70 On Poetry, 90 Summer Evening by the Sea, 197 An Evening Thought, 318 Tucker, St. George. (Died, 1828.) Days of my Youth, ye have Glided Away, 79 Vaughan, Henry. (Born, 1621 ; died, 1695.) Glimpses of Future Life, 170 Early Rising and Prayer, 264 Waller, Edmund. (Born, 1603 ; died, 1687.) The Tranquil Mind, 154 White, J. Blanco. Sonnet to Night, 290 Whittier, John G. A Dream of Summer, 77 April, 118 Willis, N. P. Human Love, 238 Wilson, John (Professor). Hymn for One Departed, 145 The Evening Cloud, 202 Address to a Wild Deer, 272 Immortal Hopes, 320 Winslow, Harriet. Why thus Longing 1 135 The Kingdom of God, 228 Wither, George. (Born, 1588 ; died, 1667.) Prison Consolations of the Muse, 22 The Marigold, 258 Wolfe, Rev. Charles. (Born, 1791 ; died, 1823.) If I had Thought Thou Could’st have Died, 324 Woodworth, Samuel. The Old Oaken Bucket, 140 WOEDSW'ORTH, WiLLiAM. (Bom, 1770 ; died, 1850.) Friendship, .34 Character of the Happy Warrior, 57 Ode to Duty, 96 The Daffodils, 103 She was a Phantom of Delight, 109 Adoration amid Natural Scenes, 114 The Sonnet, 230 Lines written in Early Spring,- 277 XX INDEX OF AUTHORS. The Moral Law, 295 Nature’s Ministrations,' 317 Autumn, 333 WoTTON, Sir IIknry. (Born, 15G8 ; died, 1G39.) Character of a Happy Life, 175 ANONYMOUS. The Sabbath Sunset. (Illustrated), 21 Summer Longings, 33 Never Despair, 36 God is Here. (Illustrated), 42 Not to Myself Alone, 51 We Joy that Thou art Free, 62 The Light-house. (Illustrated), 67 The Three Homes, 74 True Philosophy, 79 Beauty, Wit and Gold. (Illustrated), 126 0 ! there is a Dream of Early Youth, 144 The Servian Youth to a Traveller, 166 From the Arabic, 183 Of a Contented Mind. (Written in the sixteenth century), .... 186 Forgiveness, 201 A Lesson for Future Life, 204 Castles in the Air, 219 Songs of Being : the Birth, the Death, 221, 222 Happiest Days, 232 Stanzas, 252 Hymn to the Stars, 259 Occasion. (From the Italian), 293 Hope’s Brighter Shore, 294 Boat-song, 301 Far Out at Sea, 312 SELECTIONS IN POETEY THE SABBATH SUNSET. Behind that western hill How bright the sun declines, As over city, lake and plain, Its parting radiance shines ! The clouds above its bed In purple glory wait. As if they were the open bars Of Heaven’s resplendent gate. How all things whisper “ peace,” From meadow, stream, and hill ! The patient kine reposing stand. The very leaves are still. 22 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. A moment, and the sun, Beneath whose crimson glow Such beauty and delight are shed, Shall sink that hill below. Yet all around his track The sky shall long be bright, And not a cloud above his couch Shall hang unbathed in light. Thus shall the Christian die ; So bright his smile appear. That Grief itself shall be illumed, And Love shall cast out fear. PRISON CONSOLATIONS OF THE MUSE. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow ; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace. And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments. In my former days of bliss, Her divine skill taught me this : That from everything I saw I could some invention draw, And raise pleasure to her height Through the meanest object’s sight. By the murmur of a spring. Or the least bough’s rustleing, — By a daisy whose leaves spread. Shut when Titan goes to bed, — PRISON CONSOLATIONS OF THE MUSE. 23 Or a shady bush or tree, — She could more infuse in me Than all Nature’s beauties can In some other wiser man ! By her help, I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness, In the very gall of sadness. The dull loneness, the black shade. That these hanging vaults have made ; The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves ; This black den which rocks emboss. Overgrown with eldest moss ; The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight ; This my chamber of neglect. Walled about with disrespect ; From all these, and this dull air, A fit object of despair. She hath taught me, by her might. To draw comfort and delight. — Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this. Poesy, thou sweet’st content That ere Heaven to mortals lent ! Though they as a trifle leave thee. Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee ; Though thou be to them a scorn. That to naught but earth are born ; Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee. 24 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Though our wise ones call it madness, Let me never taste of gladness, If I love not thy madd’st fits Above all their greatest wits. And though some, too seeming holy. Do account thy raptures folly. Thou dost teach me to contemn What makes knaves and fools of them. WITHER. FANCY. Fancy ’s the wealth of wealth, the toiler’s hope, The poor man’s piecer-out ; the art of nature, Painting her landscapes twice ; the spirit of fact, As matter is the body ; the pure gift Of Heaven to poet and to child ; which he Who retains most in manhood, being a man In all things fitting else, is most a man ; Because he wants no human faculty. Nor loses one sweet taste of the sweet world. LEIGH HUNT. EPISTLE TO THE COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND. The following was esteemed by Wordsworth one of the finest poems in the language ; He that of such a height hath built his mind. And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved powers, — nor all the wind Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong His settled peace, or to disturb the same, — What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey ! EPISTLE TO THE COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND. 25 And with how free an eye doth he look down Upon these lower regions of turmoil, Where all the storms of passions mainly beat On flesh and blood ; where honor, power, renown, Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem To little minds, who do it so esteem ! He looks upon the mightiest monarch’s wars But only as on stately robberies. Where evermore the fortune that prevails Must be the right : the ill-succeeding mars The fairest and the best-faced enterprise. Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails : Justice he sees (as if seduced) still Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill. He sees the face of right t’ appear as manifold As are the passions of uncertain man. Who puts it in all colors, all attires. To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. He sees that, let deceit work what it can. Plot and contrive base ways to high desires. That the all-guiding Providence doth yet All disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit. Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks Of tyrants’ threats, or with the surly brow Of Power, that proudly sits on others’ crimes, ■ Charged with more crying sins than those he checks. The storms of sad confusion, that may grow Up in the present for the coming times, Appal not him ; that hath no side at all. But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 2 20 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Although his heart (so near allied to earth) Cannot but pity the perplexM state Of troublous and distressed mortality, That thus make way unto the ugly birth Of their own sorrows, and do still beget Affliction upon imbecility. Yet, seeing thus the course of things must run, lie looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. And whilst distraught ambition compasses. And is encompassed ; whilst as craft deceives. And is deceived ; whilst man doth ransack man. And builds on blood, and rises by distress. And the inheritance of desolation leaves To great expecting hopes, he looks thereon, As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye. And bears no venture in impiety. DANIEL. HYMN. How are thy servants blest, 0 Lord ! How sure is their defence ! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence. In foreign realms and lands remote. Supported by thy care. Through burning climes I passed unhurt. And breathed the tainted air. Thy mercy sweetened every toil, Made every region please ; The hoary Alpine hills it warmed. And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. HYMN. 27 Think, 0 my soul ! devoutly think, How, with affrighted eyes. Thou saw’st the wide-extended deep In all its horrors rise. Confusion dwelt in every face. And fear in every heart ; When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, O’ercame the pilot’s art. Yet then from all my griefs, 0 Lord, Thy mercy set me free. Whilst in the confidence of prayer My faith took hold on thee. For, though in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave, I knew thou wert not slow to 'hear. Nor impotent to save. The storm was laid, the winds retired, Obedient to thy will ; The sea, that roared at thy command, At thy command was still. In midst of dangers, fears and death, Thy goodness I ’ll adore. And praise thee for thy mercies past, And humbly hope for more. My life, if thou preserv’st my life, Thy sacrifice shall be ; And death, if death must be my doom, Shall join my soul to thee. ADDISON. SELECTIONS IN POETRY. IMY LITTLE COUSINS. E voi ridete ? — Certo Ridiamo. — Cosi fan tutte. Laugh on, fair cousins, for to you All life is joyous yet ; Your hearts have all things to pursue. And nothing to regret ; And every flower to you is fair. And every month is IMay ; You ’ve not been introduced to Care, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! Old Time will fling his clouds ere long Upon those sunny eyes ; The voice, whose every word is song. Will set itself to sighs : Your quiet slumbers, — hopes and fears Will chase their rest away ; To-morrow you ’ll be shedding tears, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 0, yes ; if any truth is found In the dull schoolman’s theme, — If friendship is an empty sound. And love an idle dream, — If mirth, youth’s playmate, feels fatigue Too soon on life’s long way. At least he ’ll run with you a league, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright As childhood’s hues depart ; You may be lovelier to the sight. And dearer to the heart ; ADMONITION. 29 You may be sinless still, and see This earth still green and gay ; But what you are you will not be, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! O’er me have many winters crept. With less of grief than joy ; But I have learned, and toiled, and wept, — I am no more a boy ! I ’ve never had the gout, ’t is true. My hair is hardly gray ; But now I cannot laugh like you, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! I used to have as glad a face. As shadowless a brow ; I once could run as blithe a race As you are running now ; But never mind how I behave, • — Don’t interrupt your play. And, though I look so very grave. Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! PRAED. ADMONITION. 0 Leolyn, be obstinately just ; Indulge no passion and deceive no trust. Let never man be bold enough to say. Thus, and no further, shall my passion stray ; The first crime past compels us into more. And guilt grows that was but choice before. AARON HILL. 30 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. I SEE THEE STILL. “ I rocked her in the cradle, And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest. What fireside circle hath not felt the charm Of that sweet tie ? The youngest ne’er gi-ow old, — The fond endearments of our earlier days We keep alive in them ; and when they die, Our youthful joys we bury with them.” I SEE thee still ! Kemembrance, faithful to her trust, Calls thee in beauty from the dust ; Thou comest in the morning light, Thou ’rt with me through the gloomy night ; In dreams I meet thee as of old ; Then thy soft arms my neck enfold. And thy sweet voice is in my ear ; In every scene to memory dear I see thee still ! I see thee still. In every hallowed token round ; This little ring thy finger bound, This lock of hair thy forehead shaded. This silken chain by thee was braided ; These flowers, all withered now, like thee. Sweet sister, thou didst cull for me ; This book was thine ; here didst thou read • This picture — ah, yes ! here, indeed, I see thee still ! ** I see thee still ! Here was thy summer noon’s retreat, Here was thy favorite fireside seat ; This was thy chamber, — here, each day, I sat and watched thy sad decay ; MORAL ALCHEMY. 31 Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie ; Here, on this pillow — thou didst die ! Dark hour ! once more its woes unfold ; As then I saw thee, pale and cold, I see thee still ! I see thee still ! Thou art not in the grave confined — Death cannot claim the immortal mind ; Let earth close o’er its sacred trust, But goodness dies not in the dust ! Thee, 0 my sister ! ’t is not thee Beneath the cofiin’s lid I see ! Thou to a fairer land art gone ; There, let me hope, my journey done, To see thee still ! SPRAGUE. MORAL ALCHEMY. From Nature’s magic hand, whose touch makes sadness Eventual gladness. The reverent moral alchemist may learn The art to turn Fate’s roughest, hardest, most forbidding dross. Into the mental gold that knows not change or loss. Lose we a valued friend? To soothe our woe, Let us bestow On those who still survive an added love ; So shall we prove. Howe’er the dear departed we deplore, In friendship’s sum and substance no diminished store. 32 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Lose we our health ? Now may we fully know What thanks we owe For our sane years, perchance of lengthened scope ; Now does our hope Point to the day when sickness taking flight Shalt make us better feel health’s exquisite delight. In losing fortune many a lucky elf Has found himself; — As all our moral bitters are designed To brace the mind, And renovate its healthy tone, the wise Their sorest trials hail as blessings in disguise. There is no gloom on earth, for God above Chastens in love ; Transmuting sorrows into golden joy. Free from alloy ; His dearest attribute is still to bless. And man’s most welcome hymn is grateful cheerfulness. HORACE SMITH. THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. And is there care in Heaven ? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base. That may compassion of their evils move ? There is : — else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts : but 0 ! the exceeding grace Of highest God, that loves his creatures so. And all his works with mercy doth embrace. That blessed angels he sends to and fro. To serve to wicked man, to serve His wicked foe ! SUMMER LONGINGS. 33 How oft do they their silver bowers leave, To come to succor us that succor want ! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant. Against foul flends to aid us militant ! They for us fight, they watch and duly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant ; And all for love and nothing for reward ; 0, why should heavenly God to men have such regard ? SPENSER. SUMMER LONGINGS. “ Cas Mananas floridas De Abril y Mayo.” — Calderon. Ah ! my heart is ever waiting. Waiting for the May ; Waiting for the pleasant rambles, Where the pleasant hawthorn bramble. With the woodbine alternating, ■ Scent the dewy way. Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May ; Longing to escape from study. To the young face fair and ruddy. And the thousand charms belonging To the summer day. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May. 2# c 34 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May ; Sighing for the sure returning, When the summer beams are burning, Hopes and flowers that dead or dying All the winter lay. Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. Sighing for the May. Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, Throbbing for the May ; Throbbing for the sea-side billows, Or the water-wooing willows. Where in laughing and in sobbing Glide the streams away. ^ Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing, Throbbing for the May. Waiting, sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May, Spring goes by with wasted warnings, — Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings, — Summer comes, yet dark and dreary Life still ebbs away ; Man is ever weary, weary, Waiting for the May. FRIENDSHIP. Small service is true service while it lasts ; Of friends, however humble, spurn not one ; The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun. WORDSWORTH. ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. 35 ON THE HEATH OF THOMSON. In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave ! The year’s best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet’s sylvan grave. In yon deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp shall now be laid ; That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds. May love through life the soothing shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here. And, while its sounds at distance swell. Shall sadly seem in Pity’s ear To hear the woodland pilgrim’s knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drcst. And oft suspend the dashing oar. To bid his gentle spirit rest ! And oft as ease and health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep. The friend shall view yon whitening spire. And ’mid the varied landscape weep. But thou who own’st that earthly bed. Ah ! what will every dirge avail ? Or tears which Love and Pity shed. That mourn beneath the gliding sail ? Yet lives there one whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ? With him, sweet bard, may fancy die. And joy desert the blooming year. 86 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide No sedge-crowned sisters now attend. Now waft me from the green hill’s side, Whose cold turf hides the buried friend. And see, the fairy valleys fade, — Dun Night has veiled the solemn view ! Yet once again, dear parted shade, IMeek Nature’s child, again adieu ! The genial meads, assigned to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ! There hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton’s eyes ; “ 0 ! vales and wild woods,” shall he say, “ In yonder grave your Druid lies ! ” COLLINS. NEVER DESPAIR. The opal-hued and many-perfumed morn From gloom is born ; From out the sullen depth of ebon night The stars shed light ; Gems in the rayless caverns of the earth Have their slow birth ; From wondrous alchemy of winter hours Come summer flowers ; The bitter waters of the restless main Give gentle rain; The fading bloom and dry seed bring once more The year’s fresh store ; LOVE, HOPE AND PATIENCE, IN EDUCATION. 3 , Just sequences of clashing tones ajBford The full accord ; Through weary ages, full of strife and ruth, Thought reaches truth ; Through efforts long in vain, prophetic need Begets the deed ; — Nerve, then, thy soul with direst need to cope ; Life’s brightest hope Lies latent ever in Fate’s deadliest lair. Never despair I LOVE, HOPE AND PATIENCE, IN EDUCATION. O’er wayward childhood would’st thou hold firm rule, And sun thee in the light of happy faces ? Love, Hope and Patience, these must be thy graces, And in thine own heart let them first keep school. For, as old Atlas on his broad neck places Heaven’s starry globe, and there sustains it, so Do these upbear the little world below Of Education, — Patience, Love and Hope. Methinks I see them grouped in seemly show. The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope. And robes that, touching as adown they flow. Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow. 0, part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie. Love, too, will sink and die. But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; And, bending o’er with soul-transfusing eyes, And the soft murmurs of the mother dove. 38 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half-supplies; — Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. Yet haply there will come a weary day, When, overtasked at length. Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. Then, with a statue’s smile, a statue’s strength. Stands the mute sister. Patience, nothing loth, And, both supporting, does the work of both. COLERIDGE. JAFFAPv. Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good vizier. The poor man’s hope, the friend without a peer, Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust ; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good and e’en the bad might say. Ordained that no man living, from that day. Should dare to speak his name, on pain of death. — All Araby and Persia held their breath. All but the brave Mondeer. He, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, And facing death for very scorn and grief (For his great heart wanted a great relief), Stood forth in Bagdad daily, in the square. Where once had stood a happy house ; and there Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. “ Bring me this man ! ” the caliph cried. The man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. “ Welcome, brave cords ! ” cried he ; “ From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me ; SUN AND SHOWER. 39 From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears ; Made a man’s eyes friends with delicious tears ; Restored me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay JaffM ? ” HMoun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great, And said, “ Let worth grow frenzied, if it will ; The caliph’s judgment shall be master still. Go ; and, since gifts thus move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar’s diadem. And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.” “ Gifts ! ” cried the friend. He took ; and, holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, “ This, too, I owe to thee, JaflFar ! ” LEIGH HUNT. SUN AND SHOWER. He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, — Alike they ’re needful to the flower ; And joys and tears alike are sent To give the soul fit nourishment. As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father ! thy will, not mine, be done. Can loving children e’er reprove With murmurs whom they trust and love ? Creator, I would ever be A trusting, loving child to thee ; As comes to me or cloud or sun. Father ! thy will, not mine, be done. 40 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. O, ne’er will I at life repine ; Enough that thou hast made it mine. Where falls the shadow cold of death, I yet will sing with parting breath, As comes to me or shade or sun. Father ! thy will, not mine, be done. SARAH FLOWER ADAMS. TO SENECA LAKE. On thy fair bosom, silver lake. The wild swan spreads his snowy sail. And round his breast the ripples break. As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream. The dipping paddle echoes far. And flashes in the moonlight gleam. And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore. As blows the north wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar. As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view' Thy golden mirror spreading wide. And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain’s side ! At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below. And swift she cuts, at highest noon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. THE CALL OF SAMUEL. 41 On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 0 ! I could ever sweep the oar. When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o’er. PERCIVAL. THE CALL OF SAMUEL. ISAM. 3: 1—10. In Israel’s fane, by silent night. The lamp of God was burning bright ; And there, by viewless angels kept, Samuel the child securely slept. A voice unknown the stillness broke : “ Samuel ! ” it called, and thrice it spoke ; He rose ; he asked whence came the word ? From Eli ? — no ; it was the Lord. Thus early called to serve his God, In paths of righteousness he trod ; Prophetic visions fired his breast. And all the chosen tribes were blessed. Speak, Lord ! and, from our earliest days. Incline our hearts to love thy ways. Thy wakening voice hath reached our ear ; Speak, Lord, to us ; thy servants hear. And ye who know the Saviour’s love. And richly all his mercies prove. Your timely, friendly aid afibrd. That we may early serve the liord. CAWOOD. 42 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. GOD IS HERE. Kneel, my child, for God is here ! Bend in love, but not in fear ; Kneel before Him now in prayer ; Thank Him for his constant care ; Praise Him for his bounties shed Every moment on thy head ; Ask for light to know his will ; Ask for love thy heart to fill ; Ask for faith to bear thee on. Through the might of Christ, his Son ; Ask his Spirit still to guide thee Through the ills that may betide thee ; Ask for peace, to lull to rest Every tumult of thy breast ; Ask in awe, but not in fear ; Kneel, my child, for God is here ! PRAYERS FOR A CHILD. 43 PRAYERS FOR A CHILD. MORNING. I THANK tliee, Lord, for quiet rest, And for thy care of me ; 0, let me through this day be blest. And kept from harm by thee ! 0, let me love thee ! Kind thou art To children such as I ; Give me a gentle, holy heart, Be thou my friend on high ! Help me to please my parents dear. And do whate’er they tell ; Bless all my friends, both far and near, And keep them safe and well ! EVENING. J esus, heavenly Shepherd, hear me, — Bless thy little lamb to-night ; Through the darkness be thou near me. Watch my sleep till morning light ! All this day thy hand has led me. And I thank thee for thy care ; Thou hast warmed, and fed, and clothed me, — Listen to my evening prayer ! May my sins be all forgiven ; Bless the friends I love so well ; When I die, take me to heaven. Happy there with thee to dwell ! LADY DUNCAN. 44 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. IT IS TOLD ME I MUST DIE. Richard Langhorne, a lawyer, was unjustly condemned, and put to death as a traitor, in the reign of Charles II. Just before his execution, he wrote the fol- lowing exquisite and remarkable poem. In the language of the Quarterly Review, “ A poem it must be called, though it is not in verse. Perhaps there is not in this or any other language a poem which appears to have flowed so entirely from the heart.” It is told me I must die : 0, happy news I Be glad, 0 my soul, And rejoice in Jesus, thy Saviour ! If he intended thy perdition. Would he have laid down his life for thee ? Would he have called thee with so much love, And illmninated thee with the light of the Spirit ? Would he have given thee his cross. And given thee shoulders to bear it with patience ? It is told me I must die : 0, happy news ! Come on, my dearest soul ; Behold, thy Jesus calls thee ! He prayed for thee upon his cross ; There he extended his arms to receive thee ; There he bowed down his head to kiss thee ; There he opened his heart to give thee entrance ; There he gave up his life to purchase life for thee. It is told me I must die : 0, what happiness ! I am going To the place of my rest ; To the land of the living ; To the haven of security ; THE DEAD FRIEND. 45 To the kingdom of peace ; To the palace of my God ; To the nuptials of the Lamb ; To sit at the table of my King ; To feed on the bread of angels ; To see what no eye hath seen ; To hear what no ear hath heard ; To enjoy what the heart of man cannot comprehend. 0, my Father ! 0, thou best of all Fathers, Have pity on the most wretched of all thy children ! I was lost, but by thy mercy found ; I was dead, but by thy grace am now raised again ; I was gone astray after vanity. But I am now ready to appear before thee. 0, my Father ! Come, now, in mercy, and receive thy child ! G ive him thy kiss of peace ; Remit unto him all his sins ; Clothe him with thy nuptial robe ; Permit him to have a place at thy feast ; And forgive all those who are guilty of his death. THE HEAD FRIEND. Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul. Descend to contemplate The form that once was dear ! The spirit is not there Which kindled that dead eye. Which throbbed in that cold heart. 46 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Which in that motionless hand Hath met thy friendly grasp. The spirit is not there ! It is but lifeless, perishable flesh That moulders in the grave ; Earth, air, and water’s ministering particles. Now to the elements Eesolved, their uses done. Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul. Follow thy friend beloved ; The spirit is not there ! Often together have we talked of death ; How sweet it were to see All doubtful things made clear ! How sweet it were with powers Such as the cherubim To view the depth of heaven ! 0, Edmund ! thou hast first Begun the travel of eternity ! I look upon the stars. And think that thou art there, Unfettered as the thought that follows thee. And we have often said how sweet it were, With unseen ministry of angel power. To watch the friends we loved. Edmund ! we did not err ! Sure I have felt thy presence ! Thou hast given A birth to holy thought. Hast kept me from the world unstained and pure. Edmuud ! we did not err ! Our best affections here. They are not like the toys of infancy ; THE SABBATH MORNING. 47 The soul outgrows them not ; We do not cast them off ; 0, if it could be so, It were, indeed, a dreadful thing to die ! Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul. Follow thy friend beloved ! But in the lonely hour. But in the evening walk. Think that he companies thy solitude ; Think that he holds with thee Mysterious intercourse ; And, though remembrance wake a tear. There will be joy in grief. SOUTHEY. THE SABBATH MORNING. With silent awe I hail the sacred morn. That slowly wakes while all the fields are still ! A soothing calm on every breeze is borne ; A graver murmur gurgles from the rill. And echo answers softer from the hill ; And softer sings the linnet from the thorn ; The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! The rooks float silent by, in airy drove ; The sun a placid yellow lustre throws ; The gales, that lately sighed along the grove. Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose ; The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move : So smiled the day when the first morn arose ! LEYDEN. 48 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. AFFECTATION. Why, Affectation, why this mock grimace ? Go, silly thing, and hide that simpering face ! Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait. All thy false mimic fooleries, I hate ; For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she Who is right foolish hath the better plea ; Nature’s true idiot I prefer to thee. Why that soft languish ? Why that drawling tone ? Art sick ? art sleepy ? — Get thee hence, — begone ! I laugh at all those pretty baby tears. Those flutterings, faintings, and unreal fears. Can they deceive us ? Can such mummeries move. Touch us with pity, or inspire with love ? No, Affectation, vain is all thy art ; Those eyes may wander over every part, They ’ll never find their passage to the heart. CUMBERLAND. A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YEAR. The more we live, more brief appear Our life’s succeeding stages ; A day to childhood seems a year. And years like passing ages. The gladsome current of our youth. Ere passion yet disorders. Steals, lingering, like a river smooth Along its grassy borders. But as the care-worn cheek grows wan. And sorrow’s shafts fly thicker, ^ THE CHILD AND THE ANGELS. 49 Ye stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker ? When joys have lost their bloom and breath. And life itself is vapid. Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, Feel we its tide more rapid ? It may be strange — yet who would change Time’s course to slower speeding. When one by one our friends have gone, And left our bosoms bleeding ? Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness ; And those of j^outh a seeming length. Proportioned to their sweetness. CAMPBELL. THE CIHLD AND THE ANGELS. The Sabbath sun was setting low. Amidst the clouds of even ; “ Our Father,” breathed a voice below, ‘‘ Father, who art in heaven.” Beyond the earth, beyond the clouds, Those infant words were given ; “ Our Father,” angels sang aloud, “ Father, who art in heaven.” “ Thy kingdom come,” still from the ground That child-like voice did pray ; “ Thy kingdom come,” God’s hosts resound. Far up the starry way. 5 D 50 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. “ Thy will be done,” with little tongue. That lisping love implores ; “Thy will be done,” the angelic throng, Sing from the heavenly shores. “ Forever,” still those lips repeat Their closing evening prayer ; “ Forever ” floats in music sweet High midst the angels there. CHARLES SWAIN. LINES IN A MOTHER’S BIBLE. Hemember, love, who gave thee this, When other days shall come, — When she who had thy earliest kiss Sleeps in her narrow home ; Kemember T was a mother gave The gift to one she ’d die to save. That mother sought a pledge of love The holiest for her son ; And from the gifts of God above She chose a goodly one, — She chose for her beloved boy The source of light, and life, and joy ; — And bade him keep the gift, that when The parting hour should come. They might have hope to meet again In an eternal home ! She said his faith in that would be Sweet incense to her memory. NOT TO MYSELF ALONE. 51 And should the scoffer, in his pride, Laugh that fond faith to scorn, And bid him cast the pledge aside That he from youth had borne. She bade him pause, and ask his breast If he, or she, had loved him best ! A parent’s blessing on her son Goes with this holy thing ; The love that would retain the one Must to the other cling ; Remember ! ’t is no idle toy, A Mother’s Gift, — remember, boy ! KENNEDY. “NOT TO MYSELF ALONE.” “ Not to myself alone,” The little opening flower transported cries, “ Not to myself alone I bud and bloom ; With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume, And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes. The bee comes sipping, every eventide. His dainty fill ; The butterfly within my cup doth hide From threatening ill.” “ Not to myself alone,” The circling star with honest pride doth boast, Not to myself alone I rise and set ; I write upon night’s coronal of jet His power and skill who formed our myriad host ; A friendly beacon at heaven’s open gate, I gem the sky, 52 SELECTIONS IN POETIIY. That man might ne’er forget, in every fate, Ilis home on high.” “Not to myself alone,” The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum, “ Not to myself alone, from flower to flower, I rove the wood, the garden, and the bower, And to the hive at evening weary come : For man, for man, the luscious food I pile With busy care. Content if he repay my ceaseless toil With scanty share.” “ Not to myself alone,” The soaring bird with lusty pinion sings, “ Not to myself alone I raise my song ; I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue. And bear the mourner on my viewless wings ; I bid the hymnless churl my anthem learn. And God adore ; I call the worldling from his dross to turn And sing and soar.” “Not to myself alone,” The streamlet whispers on its pebbly way, “ Not to myself alone I sparkling glide ; I scatter health and life on every side. And strew the fields with herb and flow’ret gay. I sing unto the common, bleak and bare. My gladsome tune ; I sweeten and refresh the languid air In droughty June.” THE DAISY. 53 “ Not to myself alone : ” — 0 man, forget not thou, — earth’s honored priest. Its tongue, its soul, its life, its pulse, its heart, — In earth’s great chorus to sustain thy part ! Chiefest of guests at Love’s ungrudging feast. Play not the niggard ; spurn thy native clod, And self disown ; Live to thy neighbor ; live unto thy God ; Not to thyself alone ! THE DAISY. Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep. Need we to prove a God is here ; The daisy, fresh from winter’s sleep. Tells of His hand in lines as clear. For who but He who arched the skies. And pours the day-spring’s living flood, Wondrous alike in all He tries. Could rear the daisy’s curious bud; Mould its green cup, its wiry stem. Its fringM border nicely spin. And cut the gold-embossed gem. That, set in silver, gleams within ; And fling it, beautiful and free. O’er hill and dale and desert sod, That man, where’er he walks, may sec. In every step, the stamp of God ? GOOD. SELECTIONS IN TOETRY. STANZAS. The dead leaves strc^7 the forest walk, And withered are the pale wild-flowers , The frost hangs blackening on the stalk, The dew-drops fall in frozen showers. Gone are the Spring’s green sprouting bowers, Gone Summer’s rich and mantling vines, And Autumn, with her yellow hours. On hill and plain no longer shines. I learned a clear and wild-toned note. That rose and swelled from yonder tree ; A gay bird, with too sweet a throat. There perched, and raised her song for me. The Winter comes, — and where is she ? Away, where Summer wings will rove, Where buds are fresh, and every tree Is vocal with the notes of love. Too mild the breath of southern sky, Too fresh the flower that blushes there ; The northern breeze that rustles by Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair. No forest-tree stands stripped and bare. No stream beneath the ice is dead ; No mountain top, with sleety hair. Bends o’er the snow its reverend head. Go there, with all the birds, and seek A happier clime with livelier flight ; Kiss with the sun the evening’s cheek, And leave me lonely with the night. THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. 55 I ’ll gaze upon the cold north light, And mark where all its glories shone ; See that it all is fair and bright, Feel that it all is cold, and gone. BRAIXARD. THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred, At twilight, at the A^ega-gate, there is a trampling heard ; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe. “ What tower is fallen ? what star is set ? what chief come these bewailing ? ” “ A tower is fallen ! A star is set ! — Alas I alas for Celin ! ” Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw ; Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go ! In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch. AVet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing, For all have heard the misery, — “ Alas I alas for Celin ! ’’ Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerrage’s blood * ’T was at the solemn jousting ; around the nobles stood ; The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share ; 5G SELECTIONS IN TOETRY. But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing, For he was Granada’s darling knight, — “Alas! alas for Cclin ! Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, AVith ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view; ]3ehind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, Between the tambour’s dismal strokes take up their dole- ful tale ; Wdien stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherlcss bewailing. And all the people, far and near, cry, — “ Alas ! alas for Celin ! ” O ! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall. The flower of all Granada’s youth, the loveliest of them all ; liis dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale. The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail ; And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing. Its sound is like no earthly sound, — “ Alas ! alas for Celin ! ” The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door ; One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore. Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and blue ; ]]efore each gate their bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing. From door and lattice, high and low, — “ Alas ! alas for Celin ! ” CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 57 An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hoars the people cry. Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye ; ’T was she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago ; She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know ! With one deep shriek, she through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing, — “ Let me kiss my Celin ere I die ! — Alas ! alas for Celin ! ” LOCKHART. CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. Who is the happy warrior ? Who is he. That every Man in arms should wish to be ? It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : Whose high endeavors are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright : Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is 'diligent to learn ; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there. But makes his moral being his prime care : Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature’s highest dower ; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves. Of their bad influence, and their good receives : By objects which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 3 =^ 58 SELECTIONS IN TOETRY. Is placable, — because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice ; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure. As tempted more ; more able to endure. As more exposed to suffering and distress, Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. ’T is he whose law is reason ; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends ; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He fixes good on good alone, and ow^es To virtue every triumph that he knows : Who, if he rise to station of command. Rises by open means ; and there will stand On honorable terms, or else retire. And in himself possess his own desire ; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall. Like showers of manna, if they come at all : Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad, for human kind. Is happy as a lover ; and attired With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 59 In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; Or, if an unexpected call succeed. Come when it will, is equal to the need : He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; Sweet images ! which, wheresoe’er he be. Are at his heart ; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve ; More brave for this, that he hath much to love : — ’T is finally the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye, Or left unthought of in obscurity, — Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse to his wish or not, Plays in the many games of life that one Where what he most doth value must be won : Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, ' Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last. From well to better, daily self-surpast : Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth, Forever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must go to dust without his fame, And leave a dead, unprofitable name. Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause : This is THE HAPPY WARRIOR ; this is he. Whom every Man in arms should wish to be. 'WORDSWORTH. 60 SELECTIONS IN TOETIIY. A PLEA FOR OUR PHYSICAL LIFE. We do our nature wrong, Neglecting over long The bodily joys that help to make us wise ; The ramble up the slope Of the high mountain cope, The long day’s walk, the vigorous exercise ; The fresh, luxurious bath. Far from the trodden path ; Or, ’mid the ocean waves dashing with harmless roar, Lifting us oif our feet upon the sandy shore. Kind Heaven ! there is no end Of pleasures, as we wend Our pilgrimage in life’s undevious way. If we but know the laws Of the Eternal Cause, And for His glory and our good obey ; But intellectual pride Sets half these joys aside, And our perennial care absorbs the soul so much. That life grows cold and dim beneath its deadening touch. Welcome, ye plump green meads, Ye streams and sighing reeds ! Welcome, ye corn-fields, waving like a sea ! Welcome, the leafy bowers. And children gathering flowers ! And farewell, for a while, sage drudgery ! AVhat though we ’re growing old, — Our blood is not yet cold: Come with me to the fields, thou man of many ills, And give thy limbs a chance among the dafibdils I EVENING TIME. 61 Come witli me to the woods, And let their solitudes Reecho to our voices, as we go ! Upon thy merry brain Let childhood come again. Spite of thy w^ealth, thy learning, or thy woe ! Stretch forth thy limbs, and leap, — Thy life has been asleep ; And, though the wrinkles deep may furrow thy pale brow, Show me, if thou art wise, how like a child art thou ! MACKAY. EVENING TIME. Zech. 14 : 7 . At evening time let there be light : Life’s little day draws near its close ; Around me fall the shades of night. The night of death, the grave’s repose : To crown my joys, to end my woes. At evening time let there be light. At evening time let there be light : Stormy and dark hath been my day ; Yet rose the morn divinely bright. Dews, birds and blossoms, cheered the way ; 0, for one sweet, one parting ray ! At evening tim.e let there be light. At evening time there shall be light ; For God hath spoken — it must be : Fear, doubt and anguish, take their flight, .. SELECTIONS IN TOETRY, Ills glory now is risen on me ! Mine eyes shall His salvation see ! — ’T is evening time, and there is liglit ! MONTGOJIEUy. “WE JOY THAT THOU ART FREE.” Time hath not power to bear away Thine image from the heart ; No scenes that mark life’s onward way Can bid it hence depart. Yet, while our souls, with anguish riven, Mourn, loved and lost, for thee. We raise our tearful eyes to Heaven, And joy that thou art free. We miss thee from the band so dear That gathers round our hearth. We listen still thy voice to hear Amid our household mirth ; We gaze upon thy vacant chair. Thy form we seem to see, — We start to find thou art not there. Yet joy that thou art free. A thousand old, familiar things. Within our childhood’s home. Speak of the cherished absent one. Who never more shall come. They wake, with mingled bliss and pain, Fond memories of thee ; But would we call thee back again ? — We joy that thou art free. THE PLOUGHMAN. 63 Amid earth’s conflict, woe and care, When dark our path appears, ’T is sweet to know thou can st not share Our anguish and our tears, — That on thy head no more shall fall The storms we may not flee ; Yes, safely sheltered from them all, We joy that thou art free. For thou hast gained a brighter land. And Death’s cold stream is past ; Thine are the joys, at God’s right hand, That shall forever last ; A crown is on thy angel brow, Thine eye the King doth see. Thy home is with the seraphs now, — We joy that thou art free ! THE PLOUGHMAN. Clear the brown path to meet his coulter’s gleam ! Lo, on he comes, behind his smoking team, With Toil’s bright dew-drops on his sun-burnt brow, The lord of earth, the hero of the plough ! First in the field before the reddening sun. Last in the shadows when the day is done. Line after line, along the bursting sod, Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod. Still where he treads the stubborn clods divide. The smooth, fresh furrow opens, deep and wide ; Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves ; Mellow and dark the ridgy corn-field cleaves. 64 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Up the steep hill-side, where the laboring train Slants the long track that scores the level plain, Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay. The patient convoy breaks its destined way ; At every turn the loosening chains resound. The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round. Till the wide field one billowy waste appears. And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings The peasant’s food, the golden pomp of kings ; This is the page whose letters shall be seen Changed by the sun to words of living green ; This is the scholar whose immortal pen Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men ; These are the lines, 0, heaven-commanded Toil, That fill thy deed — the charter of the soil ! 0, gracious mother, whose benignant breast Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest. How sweet thy features, kind to every clime. Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of Time ! We stain thy flowers, — they blossom o’er the dead ; We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread ; O’er the red field that trampling strife has torn Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn ; Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain, — Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. Yet, 0 our mother, while uncounted charms Hound the fresh clasp of thine embracing arms. Let not our virtues in thy love decay. And thy fond weakness waste our strength away ! THE FIRST OF MARCH. 65 No ! by these hills, whose banners, now displayed, In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed ; By yon twin crest, amid the sinking sphere, Last to dissolve, and first to reappear ; By these fair plains the mountain circle screens, And feeds in silence from its dark ravines, — True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil, To crown with peace their own untainted soil ; And, true to God, to Freedom, to Mankind, If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind. These stately forms, that, bending even now. Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough, Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land. The same stern iron in the same right hand. Till Greylock thunders to the parting sun. The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won ! HOLMES. THE rmST OF MAECH. The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud. And earth ’s beginning now in her veins to feel the blood, Which, warmed by summer’s sun in th’ alembic of the vine, From her fount will overrun in a ruddy gush of wine. The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower ; And the juices, meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits. Unerringly proceed to their preappointed roots. How awful is the thought of the wonders under ground. Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark profound ! How each thing upward tends, by necessity decreed. And a world’s support depends on the shooting of a seed ! E 6G SELECTIONS IN POETRY . The Summer ’s in her ark, and this sunny-pinioned day Is commissioned to remark whether Winter holds his sway : — Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing, Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world is ripe for Spring. Thou hast fanned the sleeping earth, till her dreams are all of flowers. And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers ; The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves. And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves. The vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave ; Ey the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave ; And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their wing. Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring. The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills. And the feathered race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills ; And if this cloudless arch fills the poet’s song with glee, 0, thou sunny first of March, be it dedicate to thee ! . HORACE SMITH. STAJ^^ZA. Few are the fragments left of follies past ; For worthless things are transient. Those that last Have in them germs of an eternal spirit, And out of good their permanence inherit. Baseness is mutability’s ally ; But the sublime affections never die. BOWRIXG. THE LIGIIT-IIOUSE. 67 THE LIGHT-HOUSE. The scene was more beautiful far to my eye Than if day in its pride had arrayed it ; The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky Looked pure as the Spirit that made it ; The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed On the shadowy waves’ playful motion, From the dim distant hill, ’till the light-house fire blazed Like a star in the midst of the ocean. No longer the joy of the sailor-boy’s breast Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest. The fisherman sunk to his slumbers : One moment I looked from the hill’s gentle slope, — All hushed was the billows’ commotion, — And thought that the light-house looked lovely as hope, That star of life’s tremulous ocean. 68 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. The time is long past, and the scene is afar, Yet when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory sometimes rekindle the star That blazed on the breast of the billow : In life’s closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, And death stills the heart’s last emotion, 0 ! then may the seraph of mercy arise. Like a star on eternity’s ocean. HOPE AND LOVE. One day, through Fancy’s telescope. Which is my richest treasure, I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope Set out in search of Pleasure : All mirth and smiles, I saw them go ; Each was the other’s banker ; For Hope took up her brother’s bow, And Love his sister’s anchor. They rambled on o’er vale and hill. They passed by cot and tower ; Through summer’s glow and winter’s chill. Through sunshine and through shower ; But what did those fond playmates care For climate or for weather ? All scenes to them were bright and fair On which they gazed together. Sometimes they turned aside to bless Some Muse and her wild numbers. Or breathe a dream of holiness On Beauty’s quiet slumbers ; HOPE AND LOVE. 69 “ Fly on,” said Wisdom, with cold sneers ; “ I teach my friends to doubt you “ Come back,” said Age, with bitter tears, “ My heart is cold without you.” When Poverty beset their path. And threatened to divide them. They coaxed away the beldame’s wrath. Ere she had breath to chide them. By vowing all her rags were silk. And all her bitters honey. And showing taste for bread and milk. And utter scorn of money. They met stern Danger in their way, Upon a ruin seated ; Before him kings had quaked that day. And armies had retreated : But he was robed in such a cloud. As Love and Hope came near him. That, though he thundered long and loud. They did not see or hear him. A gray-beard joined them, — Time by name ; And Love was nearly crazy. To find that he was very lame. And also very lazy : Hope, as he listened to her tale. Tied wings upon his jacket ; And then they far outran the mail. And far outsailed the packet. And so, when they had safely passed O’er many a land and billow, 70 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Before a grave they stopped, at last, Beneath a weeping willow : The moon upon the humble mound Her softest light was flinging ; And from the thickets all around Sad nightingales were singing. “ I leave you here,” quoth Father Time, As hoarse as any raven ; And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme Upon the rude stone graven : But Hope looked onward, calmly brave. And whispered, “ Dearest brother. We ’re parted on this side the grave, — We ’ll meet upon the other.” PRAED. SERMONS IN SONNETS. I. “What God hath cleansed, that call thou not common.” — Jets 10 : 15. Behold men’s judgments ! Common and unclean We call whatever with our pride doth jar, Though from one God and Father all things are. Behold men’s judgments ! The deep truth unseen, Bash we decide what mere externals mean. Know’st thou, while thy proud eye is closed afar. In what mean worm God may illume a star ? Know’st thou where His great Spirit dwells serene ? Thou dost not. What thy pride may worthless deem, Ay, tainted with pollution, may become — liaised from the dust — the fairest, loveliest home Wliere radiant Deity can shrine its beam ; ]May be redeemed from Nature’s common blot. Ay, though perhaps thy very self be not ! SERMONS IN SONNETS. 71 II. “ In my Father’s house are many mansions.” — St. John 14 : 2. Ye orbs that tremble through infinity, And are ye, then, linked only with our eyes. Dissevered from our thoughts, our smiles, our sighs, — Our hopes and dreams of being yet to be ? 0, if all nature be a harmony (As sure it is), why in those solemn skies Should ye our vision mock, like glittering lies To man all unrelated ? Must I see Your glories only as a tinselled waste ? If so, I half despise your spectacle ! But if I deem that ye form eras vast, And do, by mighty revolution, tell Time to intelligent existences. Awe-struck, I do assist at your solemnities f III. “The sting of death is sin.” — 1 Corinthians 15 : 56. “ 0, death will be so beautiful ! ” one said To me ; a child he was by sickness worn : I looked at him ; his face was like the morn When from its beauty the dull vapors glide. The dusky curtains that the next world hide Seemed for a moment’s space asunder torn. “ My Saviour loves me ! ” yet again he sighed, And upward gazed, with eye beatified ; — That look with him unto the grave was borne ! 0, could we smile into the next world too ! Why not ? 0 bounteous Nature, bounteous Grace, If Death be dread, ’t is we who make it so. Straying alike from God and Nature’s face. Two lovely roads lead to our common rest, — Forgiveness, Innocence, — and both are best ! 72 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. IV. “Eyes to the blind.” — Job 29; 15. O, joy it is when we our mission find, Even if it be to wipe the humblest tear, Or still the very faintest human fear. But something it must be for human kind ! How else appease the thirst of soul and mind, — Bemorse, — which most doth wait on wasted powers, The rankling nothingness of trifled hours And thwarted aims ? Feel’st thou that thou art blind ? Go unto Nature. Beauty, Joy and Use, Are severed but in man’s philosophy. The rose does more than feed the honey-bee ; Nothing dies in itself. Only unloose — In Christ, Creation’s eye — thy filmy sight. And thou on earth shalt choose thy place aright. “At tht right hand are pleasures forevermore.” — Ps«Zm 16 11. Without the smile of God upon the soul. We see not, and the world has lost its light ; For us there is no quiet in the night. No beauty in the stars. The saffron stole Of morning, or the pomp of evening’s goal. That celebrates Bay’s marriage with the Sea, — Blue distance, silver lake, hill, glen and tree, — Are sealed unto the spirit like a scroll Writ in a perished language. But a ray Upon this darkness suddenly may dart. And Christ’s dear love be poured into the heart. To clothe Creation in a robe of day. Then doth the morning cheer, the night hath calm, And skies a glory, and the dews a balm. TRUE COURAGE. 73 . VI. “Ills BANNER OVER ME WAS LOVE.” — Cant. 2 : 4. He who loves best knows most. Then why should I Let my tired thoughts so far, so restless, run, In quest of knowledge underneath the sun, Or round about the wide-encircling sky ? Nor earth nor heaven are read by scrutiny ! But touch me with a Saviour’s love divine, I pierce at once to wisdom’s inner shrine. And my soul seeth all things like an eye. Then have I treasures, which to fence and heed Makes weakness bold and folly wisdom-strung. As doves are valorous to guard their young. And larks are wary from their nests to lead. Is there a riddle, and resolved you need it ? Love — only love — and you are sure to read it ! REV. CHAUNCY HARE TOWNSHEND. TRUE COURAGE. Onwards ! throw all terrors off ! Slight the scorner, — scorn the scoff ! In the race, and not the prize. Glory’s true distinction lies. Triumph herds with meanest things, — Common robbers, vilest kings, ’Midst the reckless multitude ! But the generous, but the good, Stand in modesty alone. Still serenely struggling on. Planting peacefully the seeds Of bright hopes, and better deeds. 4 4 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Mark the slowly-moving plough : Is its day of victory now ? It defiles the emerald sod, ’Whelms the flowers beneath the clod. Wait the swiftly-coming hours, — Fairer green and sweeter flowers, Ficher fruits, will soon appear. Cornucopias of the year ! BOWRING. THE THREE HOMES. “ Where is thy home ? ” I asked a child. Who in the morning air Was twining flowers most sweet and wild In garlands for her hair. “ jMy home,” the happy heart replied. And smiled in childish glee, “ Is on the sunny mountain side. Where soft winds wander free.” 0, blessings fall on artless youth. And all its rosy hours. When every word is joy and truth. And treasures live in flowers ! “ Where is thy home ? ” I asked of one Who bent, with flushing face. To hear a warrior’s tender tone In the wild- wood’s secret place. She spoke not, but her varying cheek The tale might well impart ; The home of her young spirit meek Was in a kindred heart. THE GOOD man’s EXIT. 75 Ah ! souls that well might soar abo-^ To earth will fondly cling, And build their hopes on human love, That light and fragile thing. “ Where is thy home, thou lonely man ? ” I asked a pilgrim gray, Who came, with furrowed brow and wan. Slow musing on his way : He paused, and with a solemn mien Upturned his holy eyes, — “ The land I seek thou ne’er hast seen ; My home is in the skies ! ” 0, blessed, thrice blessed, the heart must be To whom such thoughts are given. That walks from worldly fetters free, — Its only home in heaven ! THE GOOD MAN’S EXIT. Sure the last end Of the good man is peace ! How calm his exit ! Night* dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him in the evening-tide of life, A life well-spent, whose early care it was His riper years should not upbraid his green ! By unperceived degrees he wears away ; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches ^ After the prize in view ! and, like a bird That ’s hampered, struggles hard to get away : Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded 76 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the fast-coming harvest. Then, 0, then Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears. Shrunk to a thing of naught ! 0 ! how he longs To have his passport signed, and be dismissed ! ’T is done ! and now he ’s happy ! — the glad soul Has not a wish uncrowned ! BLAIR. ODE. There is some doubt whether this beautiful ode should be attributed to Andrew Marvell or to Joseph Addison. It was originally inserted in the Spectator, with- out the name of the author. The spacious firmament on high. With all the blue ethereal sky. And spangled heavens, a shining frame. Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied sun, from day to day. Does his Creator’s power display, And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty Hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail. The moon takes up the wondrous tale. And nightly to the listening earth Repeats the story of her birth ; While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets, in their turn. Confirm the tidings as they roll. And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though in solemn silence all Move round this dark terrestrial ball ? A DREAM OF SUMMER. 77 What though no real voice or sound Amid their radiant orbs be found ? In Reason’s ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice ; Forever singing, as they shine, The hand that made us is divine ! ” A DREAM OF SUMMER. Bland as the morning breath of June The south-west breezes play ; And through its haze the winter noon Seems warm as summer’s day. The snow-plumed angel of the north Has dropped its icy spear ; Again the mossy earth looks forth. Again the streams gush clear. The fox his hill-side cell forsakes. The muskrat leaves his nook. The blue-bird in the meadow-brakes Is singing with the brook. Bear up, 0 Mother Nature ! ” cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ; ‘‘ Our winter voices prophesy Of summer days to thee ! ” So, in these winters of the soul, By bitter blasts and drear O’erswept from memory’s frozen pole. Will sunny days appear. Reviving Hope and Faith, they sliow The soul its living powers, SELECTIONS IN POETRY. And how beneath the winter’s snow Lie germs of summer flowers ! The night is mother of the day, The winter of the spring, As ever upon old decay The greenest mosses cling. Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, Through showers the sunbeams fall ; For God, who loveth all his works, Has left his hope with all ! WHITTIER. FAREWELL LIFE. Farewell Life ! ]\Iy senses swim. And the world is growing dim : Thronging shadows crowd the light, Like the advent of the night ; Colder, colder, colder still, Upward starts a vapor chill ; Strong the earthly odor grows, — I smell the mould above the rose ! Welcome Life ! The Spirit strives I Strength returns, and hope revives ; Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn Fly like shadows at the morn, — O’er the earth there comes a bloom ; Sunny light for sullen gloom. Warm perfume for vapor cold, — I smell the rose above the mould ! HOOD. DAYS OF MY YOUTH. TRUE PHILOSOPHY. 79 DAYS OF MY YOUTH. Days of my youth, ye have glided away ; Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray ; Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more ; Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o’er ; Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone ; Thought^ of my youth, your gay visions are flown. Days of my youth, I wish not your recall ; Hairs of my youth, I ’m content ye should fall ; Eyes of my youth, ye much evil have seen ; Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears have ye been ; Thoughts of my youth, ye have led me astray ; Strength of my youth, why lament your decay ? Days of my age, ye will shortly be past ; Pains of my age, yet a while can ye last ; Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight ; Eyes of my age, be religion your light ; Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod ; Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God. TUCKER. TRUE PHILOSOPHY. With sweet flowers opening on thy sight daily. Sing as the birds sing, gladly and gayly. Think not of autumn sere, winter’s grim shadows ; Sing as the birds sing over the meadows. See what the hour reveals fairly and truly, — Not what the cloud conceals, but the cloud duly. Think every common day is a good granted ; Hail every trial sent as a seed planted. 80 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Paint not the tempest’s hour till it close o’er thee ; Trust not to Fancy’s power, — have it before thee. Seen its aurora-gleams, felt its dark terror. Then to thy work proceed, fearless of error. God sendeth naught in vain, gladness or sorrow : Strength giveth of its gain, weakness must borrow. Tempest and summer rain give the tree stature ; Each one who skulks the pain narrows his nature. “BLESSED ABE THEY THAT MOURN.” 0, DEEM not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ! The Power who pities man has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep. The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears ; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years. There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night ; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light. And thou, who o’er thy friend’s low bier Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again ! Nor let the good man’s trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny, — Though, with a pierced and broken heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die. THE HUMBLE-BEE. 81 For God has marked each sorrowing day, And numbered every secret tear ; And Heaven’s long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here. BRYANT. THE HUMBLE-BEE. Burly, dozing humble-bee. Where thou art is clime for me : Let them sail for Porto Bique, Far-off heats through seas to seek ; I will follow thee alone. Thou animated torrid-zone ! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer. Let me chase thy waving lines ; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer. Singing over shrubs and vines. Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion ! Sailor of the atmosphere. Swimmer through the waves of air ; Voyager of light and noon ; Epicurean of J une ; Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum, — All without is martyrdom ! When the south-wind, in May days. With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall. And, with softness touching all, 4 ^ F 82 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Tints the human countenance With a color of romance, And, infusing subtle heats. Turns the sod to violets. Thou, in sunny solitudes. Rover of the underwoods. The green silence dost displace With thy mellow, breezy bass. Hot midsummer’s petted crone. Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours. Long days and solid banks of flowers ; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found ; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavory or unclean Has my insect never seen ; But violets and bilberry bells. Maple-sap, and dafibdils, Grass with green-flag half-mast high. Succory to match the sky. Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony. Clover, catchfly, adder’s tongue. And brier roses, dwelt among. All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer. Yellow-breeched philosopher ! THE BITTER GOURD. 83 Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care. Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. When the fierce north-eastern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast. Thou already slumberest deep ; Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. EMERSON. THE BITTER GOURD. Lokman the Wise, therefore the good (for wise Is but sage good, seeing with final eyes). Was slave once to a lord, jealous though kind, Who, piqued sometimes at the man’s master mind, Gave him, one day, to see how he would treat So strange a grace, a bitter gourd to eat. With simplest reverence, and no surprise. The sage received what stretched the donor’s eyes ; And piece by piece, as though it had been food To feast and gloat on, every morsel chewed ; And so stood eating, with his patient beard. Till all the nauseous favor disappeared. Vexed and confounded, and disposed to find Some ground of scorn, on which to ease his mind, “ Lokman ! ” exclaimed his master, — “in God’s name. How can a slave himself become so tame ? Have all my favors been bestowed amiss ? Or could not brains like thine have saved thee this ? ” 84 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Calmly stood Lokman still, as duty stands, — “ Have I received,” he answered, “ at thine hands Favors so sweet they went to mine hearths root. And could I not accept one bitter fruit ? ” “ 0 Lokman ! ” said his lord (and, as he spoke, For very love his words in softness broke), “ Take but this favor yet : — be slave no more ; Be, as thou art, my friend and counsellor ; 0, be ; nor let me quit thee, self-abhorred ; — ’T is I that am the slave, and thou the lord.” LEIGH HUNT. SHE CAME AND WENT. As a twig trembles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; I only know she came and went. As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome’s measureless content, So my soul held that moment’s heaven ; I only know she came and went. As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; I only know she came and went. An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent : The tent is struck, the vision stays ; I only know she came and went. REASONS FOR RISIBILITY. 85 O, when the room grows slowly dim, And life’s last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim. Only to think she came and went. LOWELL. REASONS FOR RISIBILITY, Sweet coz ! I ’m happy when I can, I ’m merry while I may ; For life ’s at most a narrow span, At best a winter’s day. If care could make the sunbeam wear A brighter, warmer hue. The evening star shine out more fair. The blue sky look more blue, Then I should grow a graver man ; But, since ’t is not the way, Sweet coz ! I ’m happy when I can, And merry while I may ! If sighs could make us sin the less. Perchance I were not glad ; If mourning were the sage’s dress, My garb should still be sad ; But, since the angels’ wings are white, And even the young saints smile, — Since virtue wears a brow of light, And vice a robe of guile, — Since laughter is not under ban. Nor goodness clad in gray. Sweet coz ! I ’m happy when I can. And merry while I may ! 86 SELECTIONS IN POETllT. I ’ve seen a bishop dance a reel, And a sinner fast and pray ; A knave at top of fortune’s wheel, And a good man cast away. Wine have I seen your grave ones quaff Might set our fleet afloat, But I never heard a hearty laugh From out a villain’s throat ; And I never knew a mirthful man Make sad a young maid’s day ; — So, coz ! I ’m happy when I can. And merry while I may ! FITZGERALD. THE USE OF FLOWERS. G on might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, — The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all. We might have had enough, enough For every want of ours. For luxury, medicine and toil. And yet have had no flowers. The ore within the mountain mine Bequireth none to grow ; Nor doth it need the lotus-flower To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain, The nightly dews might fall. And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all. THE USE OF FLOWERS. 87 Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow light, All fashioned with supremest grace, Upspringing day and night, — Springing in valleys green and low. And on the mountains high. And in the silent wilderness, Where no man passes by ? Our outward life requires them not, — Then wherefore had they birth ? To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth ; To comfort man, to whisper hope, Whene’er his faith is dim ; For whoso careth for the flowers Will much more care for him. MARY HOWITT. 88 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn, to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth’s creation, And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle, As a libation ! Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending lowly Before the uprisen sun, God’s lidless eye. Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high ! Ye bright mosaics ^ that with storied beauty The floor of Nature’s temple tessellate. What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create ! HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 89 ’Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer ! Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand ; But to that fane, most catholic and solemn. Which God hath planned ! To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder. Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder. Its dome the sky ! There, as in solitude and shade I wander Through the lone aisles, or, stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God, Your voiceless lips, 0 flowers ! are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book. Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook ! Floral apostles ! that, in dewy splendor, “ Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,” 0, may I deeply learn, and ne’er surrender, Your lore sublime ! “ Thou wast not, Solomon, in all thy glory, Arrayed,” the lilies cry, “ in robes like ours ! How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how transitory Are human flowers ! ” 90 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist, With which thou paintest Nature’s wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all ! Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure, Blooming o’er field and wave by day and night ; From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope ! Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection And second birth. W'ere I, 0 God ! in churchless lands remaining. Far from all voice of teachers or divines, My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining. Priests, sermons, shrines! HORACE SMITH. ON POETRY. With thine compared, 0 sovereign Poesy, Thy sister Arts’ divided powers how faint ! For each combines her attributes in thee, Whose voice is music, and whose words can paint. TOWNSHEND. AUTUMN FLOWERS. 91 AUTUMN FLOWERS. Those few pale autumn flowers, How beautiful they are ! Than all that went before, Than all the summer store. How lovelier far ! And why ? They are the last — The last ! the last ! the last ! 0 ! by that little word How many thoughts are stirred, — That sister of the past ! Pale flowers ! Pale, perishing flowers ! Ye ’re types of precious things ; Types of those bitter moments, That flit like life’s enjoyments. On rapid, rapid wings. Last hours with parting dear ones (That time the fastest spends), Last tears in silence shed, Last words half uttered. Last looks of dying friends. Who but would fain compress A life into a day. The last day spent with one Who, ere the morrow’s sun. Must leave us, and for aye ? 0, precious, precious moments ! Pale flowers ! ye ’re types of those ; 92 SELECTIONS IN POETKY. The saddest, sweetest, dearest. Because, like those, the nearest To an eternal close. Pale flowers ! Pale, perishing flowers ! I woo your gentle breath, — I leave the summer rose For younger, blither brows : — Tell me of change and death ! MRS. SOUTHEY. GIVE. “IT IS MORE BLESSED TO GIVE THAN TO RECEIVE.” Give prayers : the evening hath begun ; Be earlier than the rising sun : Remember those who feel the rod ; Remember those who know not God. His hand can boundless blessings give : Breathe prayers ; through them the soul shall live. Give alms : the needy sink with pain ; The orphans mourn, the crushed complain. Give freely : hoarded gold is curst, A prey to robbers and to rust. Christ, through his poor, a claim doth make ; Give gladly, for thy Saviour’s sake. Give books : they live when you are dead ; Light on the darkened mind they shed : Good seed they sow, from age to age, Through all this mortal pilgrimage. They nurse the germs of holy trust ; They wake untired when you are dust. THE BETTER LAND. 93 Give smiles to cheer the little child, ^ A stranger on this thorny wild ; It bringeth love, its guard to be, — It, helpless, asketh love from thee. Howe’er by fortune’s gifts unblest. Give smiles to childhood’s guileless breast. Give words, kind words, to those who err ; Eemorse doth need a comforter. Though in temptation’s wiles they fall, Condemn not, — we are sinners all. With the sweet charity of speech. Give words that heal, and words that teach. Give thought, give energy, to themes That perish not like folly’s dreams. Hark ! from the islands of the sea. The missionary cries to thee ; To aid him on a heathen soil. Give thought, give energy, give toil. MRS. SIGOURNEY. THE BETTER LAND. “ I HEAR thee speak of the better land. Thou callest its children a happy band ; Mother ! 0, where is that radiant shore ? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? Is it where the flower of the orange blows. And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs ? ” “Not there, not there, my child ! ” “ Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise. And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 94 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Or ’ijflidst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, l^ear the rich hues of all glorious things ? ” “ Not there, not there, my child ! ” “ Is it far away, in some region old, AVhere the rivers wander o’er sands of gold ? — Where the burning rays of the ruby shine. And the diamond lights up the secret mine. And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ? Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ? ” “ Not there, not there, my child ! ” “ Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, — Sorrow and death may not enter there ; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb. It is there, it is there, my child ! ” MRS. HEMANS. A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST, Tell me not, in mournful numbers, “ Life is but an empty dream ! ” For the soul is dead that slumbers. And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! Life is earnest ! x\nd the grave is not its goal ; “Dust thou art, to dust returnest,” Was not spoken of the soul. A PSALM OF LIFE. 95 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us further than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting ; And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world’s broad field of battle. In the bivouac of Life, * Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, — act in the living present. Heart within, and God o’erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime. And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time ! Footprints, that perhaps another. Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing. With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing. Learn to labor and to wait. LONGFELLOW. 96 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. ODE TO DUTY. Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 0 Duty ! if that name thou love, Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove ; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe. From vain temptations dost set free. And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity ! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth. Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth ; Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot ; Who do thy work and know it not ; Long may the kindly impulse last ! But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand first Serene will be our days and bright. And happy will our nature be. When love is an unerring light. And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold. Even now, who, not unwisely bold. Live in the spirit of this creed ; Yet find that other strength, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried. No sport of every random gust. Yet being to myself a guide. Too blindly have reposed my trust ; ODE TO DUTY. 97 And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. ^ Through no disturbance of my soul. Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control ; But in the quietness of thought : Me this unchartered freedom tires ; I feel the weight of chance desires ; My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear The Godhead’s most benignant grace ; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face ; Flowers laugh before thee on their beds ; And Fragrance in thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power ! I call thee ; I myself commend Unto thy guidance, from thjs hour ; 0, let my weakness have an end I Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice ; The confidence of reason give ; And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live ! WORDSWORTH. 5 G 98 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. SUMMER HEvVT. All-conquering Heat, 0, intermit thy wrath ! And on my throbbing temples potent thus Beam not so fierce ! incessant still you fiow, And still another fervent flood succeeds, Poured on the head profuse. In vain I sigh, And restless turn, and look around for night ; Night is far olF ; and hotter hours approach. Thrice happy he, who, on the sunless side Of a romantic mountain, forest-crowned. Beneath the whole collected shade reclines ; Or in the gelid caverns, woodbine-wrought. And fresh bedewed with ever-spouting streams, Sits coolly calm ; while all the world without, Unsatisfied and sick, tosses in noon. Emblem instructive of the virtuous man, Who keeps his tempered mind serene and pure, And every passion aptly harmonized, Amid a jarring world with vice inflamed. Welcome, ye shades I ye bowery thickets, hail ! Ye lofty pines ! ye venerable oaks ! Ye ashes wild, resounding o’er the steep ! Delicious is your shelter to the soul. As to the hunted hart the sallying spring. Or stream full flowing, that his swelling sides Laves, as he floats along the herbaged brink. Cool, through the nerves, your pleasing comfort glides ; The heart beats glad ; the fresh-expanded eye And ear resume their watch ; tfle sinews knit ; And life shoots swift through all the lightened limbs. THOMSON. FORGIVENESS. 99 FORGIVENESS. O, WRING the black drop from your heart, Before you kneel in prayer ! You do but mock the Mercy Seat, If hatred linger there. How can you ask offended Heaven To clear your soul’s deep debt. If ’neath your ban lies brother man ? — Forgive, if not forget ! Remember, sons of earth are born To sorrow and to sin ; That poor and rich to dust return, A few brief years within. For guests that crowd round life’s strange board Joy’s cups are thinly set ; To poison them were fearful shame, — Forgive, if not forget ! In error or in guiltiness If men have wrought thee wrong, From ways of wrath thy steps restrain, In patience pass along. Should retribution be thy right. He will avenge thee yet. Who mortal ill repayeth still, — Forgive, if not forget ! How pleasant, when our orisons We breathe at eventide. To feel the heart untenanted By anger or by pride ! 100 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. 0, blessed are the merciful, Whose hopes on high arc set ! Like them, release thy soul in peace, — Forgive, and thou ’It forget ! KENNEDY. HANNIBAL’S OATH. And the night was dark and calm, There was not a breath of air ; The leaves of the grove were still, As the presence of death was there ; — Only a moaning sound Came from the distant sea ; It was as if, like life. It had no tranquillity. A warrior and a child Passed through the sacred wood. Which, like a mystery. Around the temple stood. The warrior’s brow was worn With the weight of casque and plume, And sun-burnt was his cheek. And his eye and brow were gloom. The child was young and fair. But the forehead large and high. And the dark eyes’ flashing light. Seemed to feel their destiny. They entered in the temple. And stood before the shrine ; MAN. 101 It streamed with the victim’s blood, With incense and with wine. The ground rocked beneath their feet, The thunder shook the dome ; But the boj stood firm, and swore Eternal hate to Borne. There ’s a page in history O’er which tears of blood were wept, And that page is the record How that oath of hate was kept. MISS LANDO.^. MAN. For us the winds do blow. The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow. Nothing we see but means our good, A s our delight, or as our treasure ; The whole is either our cupboard of food. Or cabinet of pleasure. The stars have us to bed ; Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws. Music and light attend our head. All things unto our flesh are kind. In their descent and being ; to our mind. In their ascent and cause. Each thing is full of duty : Waters united are our navigation ; Distinguished, our habitation ; Below^ our drink ; above, our meat ; 102 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty ? Then how are all things neat ! More servants wait on man Than he ’ll take notice of. In every path He treads down that which doth befriend him When sickness makes him pale and wan. O, mighty love ! Man is one world, and hath Another to attend him. Since, then, my God, thou hast So brave a palace built, 0, dwell in it. That it may dwell with thee, at last ! Till then, afford us so much wit, That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee ; And both thy servants be. HERBERT. THE DAFFODILS. I WANDERED loncly as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils ,* Beside the lake, beside the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way. They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay ; Ten thousand saw I at a glance. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. CORONACH. 103 The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; — A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company : I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth that show to me had brought. For oft, when on my couch I lie. In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills. And dances with the daffodils. WORDSWORTH. CORONACH.’^ He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest. Like a summer-dried fountain. When our need was the sorest. The fount, reappearing. From the rain-drops shall borrow ; But to us comes no cheering. To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary. But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory ; The autumn winds, rushing. Waft the leaves that are serest. But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest. * Funeral song. 104 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Fleet foot on the corei,^ Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber ! Like the dew on the mountain. Like the foam on the river. Like the bubble on the fountain. Thou art gone, and forever ! SCOTT. A PRAYER. Like the low murmur of the secret stream. Which through dark alders winds its shaded way, ]\Iy suppliant voice is heard. Ah ! do not deem That on vain toys I throw my hours away. In the recesses of the forest vale. On the wild mountain, on the verdant sod. When the fresh breezes of the morn prevail, I wander lone, communing with my God. When the faint sickness of a wounded heart Creeps in cold shudderings through my sinking frame, I turn to Thee ! that holy peace impart. Which soothes the invokers of Thy awful name ! 0, all-pervading Spirit ! sacred beam ! Parent of life and light ! Eternal power ! Grant me through obvious clouds one transient gleam Of Thy bright essence, in my dying hour ! BECKFORD. * The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies. DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. 105 DEATH AND THE WAERIOR. “ Ay, warrior, arm ! and wear thy plume On a proud and fearless brow ! I am the lord of the lonely tomb, And a mightier one than thou ! “ Bid thy soul’s love farewell, young chief. Bid her a long farewell ! Like the morning’s dew shall pass that grief, — Thou comest with me to dwell ! “ Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep, Thy steed o’er the breezy hill ; But they bear thee on to a place of sleep Narrow, and cold, and chill ! ” “Was the voice I heard thy voice, 0 Death ? And is thy day so near ? Then on the field shall my life’s last breath Mingle with victory’s cheer I 5 ^ 106 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. “ Banners shall float, with the trumpet’s note, Above me as I die ! And the palm-tree wave o’er my noble grave, Under the Syrian sky. “ High hearts shall burn in the royal hall. When the minstrel names that spot ; And the eyes I love shall weep my fall, — Death, Death ! I fear thee not ! ” “ Warrior ! thou bearest a haughty heart ! But I can bend its pride ! How should’st thou know that thy soul will part In the hour of victory’s tide ? “ It may be far from thy steel-clad bands, That I shall make thee mine ; It may be lone on the desert sands, Where men for fountains pine ! “ It may be deep, amidst heavy chains, In some strong Paynim hold ; I have slow, dull steps, and lingering pains, Wherewith to tame the bold ! ” Death, Death ! I go to a doom unblest, If this indeed must be ; But the cross is bound upon my breast. And I may not shrink for thee ! ‘‘ Sound, clarion, sound ! — for my vows are given To the cause of the holy shrine ; I bow my soul to the will of Heaven, 0 Death ! and not to thine ! ” MRS. HEMANS. AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. — THE GRASSHOPPER. 107 AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. How sweet it were, if, without feeble fright. Or dying of the dreadful, beauteous sight. An angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air. At evening, in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed, as we shall know forever. Alas ! we think not that we daily see About our hearths angels that are to be. Or may be, if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air, — A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. LEIGH HUNT. THE GRASSHOPPER. Happy insect ! what can be In happiness compared to thee ? Fed with nourishment divine. The dewy morning’s gentle wine ! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup doth fill ; ’T is filled wherever thou dost tread. Nature’s self ’s thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king ! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants, belong to thee ; 108 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Mail for thee does sow and plough ; Farmer he, and landlord thou ! Thou dost innocently joy, Nor does thy luxury destroy ; The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear. Prophet of the ripened year ! Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ; Phoebus is himself thy sire. To thee, of all things upon earth, .Life is no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect ! happy thou Dost neither age nor winter know ; But, when thou ’st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among. Sated with thy summer feast. Thou retir’st to endless rest. ' COWLEY. THE AUTHOR’S LAST VERSES. You ’vE woven roses round my way. And gladdened all my being ; How much I thank you, none can say. Save only the All-seeing. May he who gave this lovely gift. This love of lovely doings. Be with you wheresoe’er you go. In every hope’s pursuings ! A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 109 I ’m going through the eternal gates, Ere June’s sweet roses blow ! Death’s lovely angel leads me there, And it is sweet to go. MRS. OSGOOU. PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. She was a phantom of delight. When first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament ; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May- time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an image gay. To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions light and free. And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. And now I see, with eye serene. The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death ; 110 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength and skill ; A perfect woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command ; ' ' And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light. WORDSWORTH. FAREWELL TO RIVILIN. Beautiful river ! goldenly shining Where with thee cistus and woodbines are twinin^^^ O (Birklands around thee, mountains above thee), Bivilin wildest ! do I not love thee ? Why do I love thee, heart-breaking river ? Love thee and leave thee, — leave thee forever ? Never to see thee, where the storms greet thee ! Never to hear thee, rushing to meet me ! Never to hail thee, joyfully chiming. Beauty is music, sister of Wiming ! Playfully mingling laughter and sadness, Bibbledin’s sister, sad in thy gladness. Why must I leave thee, mournfully sighing Man is a shadow ? Biver undying ! Dreamlike he passeth, cloud-like he wasteth, E’en as a shadow over thee hasteth. 0, when thy poet, weary, reposes, Coffined in slander, far from thy roses. Tell all thy pilgrims, heart-breaking river. Tell them I loved thee, — love thee forever ! THE WINDS. Ill Yes, for the spirit blooms ever vernal ; River of beauty ! love is eternal ; While the rock reeleth, storm-struck and riven, Safe is the fountain flowing from heaven. There wilt thou hail me, joyfully chiming, Reauty is music, sister of Wiming ! Homed with the angels, hasten to greet me. Glad is the heath-flower, glowing to meet thee. EBENEZER ELLIOT. THE WINDS. Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air. Softly ye played a few brief hours ago ; Ye bore the murmuring bee ; ye tossed the hair O’er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow ; Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue ; Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew ; Before you the catalpa’s blossoms flew, Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. How are ye changed ! Ye take the cataract’s sound ; Ye take the whirlpool’s fury and its might ; The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground ; The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. The clouds before you shoot like eagles past ; The homes of men are rocking in your blast ; Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast Skyward the whirling fragments out of sight. The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain. To scape your wrath ; ye seize and dash them dead. Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain ; The harvest field becomes a river’s bed ; 112 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. And torrents tumble from the hills around ; Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned ; And wailing voices, midst the tempest’s sound, Ilise, as the rushing waters swell and spread. Ye dart upon the deep ; and straight is heard A wdlder roar, and men grow pale, and pray : Ye fling its floods around you, aswi bird Flings o’er his shivering plumes the fountain’s spray. See ! to the breaking mast the sailor clings ; Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs. And take the mountain billow on your wings, And pile the wreck of navies round the bay. Why rage ye thus ? — no strife for liberty Has made you mad ; no tyrant, strong through fear. Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free. And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere : For ye were born in freedom where ye blow ; Free o’er the mighty deep to come and go ; Earth’s solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow. Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. 0, ye wild winds ! a mightier Power than yours In chains upon the shore of Europe lies ; The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures, Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes ; And armed warriors all around him stand, And, as he struggles, tighten every band. And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand. To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. Yet 0 ! when that wronged Spirit of our race Shall break, as soon he must, his long- worn chains, SONNET TO WORDSWORTH. 113 And leap in freedom from his prison-place, Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air. To waste the loveliness that time could spare. To fill the earth with woe, and blot her fair Unconscious breast with blood from human veins ! But may he like the spring-time come abroad. Who crumbles winter’s gyves with gentle might. When in the genial breeze, the breath of God, Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light ; Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet. The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet. And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet. Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night. BRYANT SONNET TO WORDSWOETH. There have been poets that in verse display The elemental forms of human passions : Poets have been, to whom the fickle fashions, And all the wilful humors of the day. Have furnished matter for a polished lay : And many are the smooth elaborate tribe Who, emulous of thee, the shape describe, And fain would every shifting hue portray, Of restless Nature. But thou, mighty seer ^ ’T is thine to celebrate the thoughts that make The life of souls ; the truths for whose sweet sake We to ourselves and to our God are dear. Of Nature’s inner shrine thou art the priest, Where most she works when we perceive her least. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. H 114 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. ADORATION AMID NATURAL SCENES. How beautiful this dome of sky ! And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed At Thy command, how awful ! Shall the soul, Human and rational, report of Thee Even less than these ? Be mute who will, who can, Yet I will praise Thee with impassioned voice ; My lips, that may forget Thee in the crowd. Cannot forget Thee here ; where Thou hast built, For Thy own glory, in the wilderness. Me didst Thou constitute a priest of thine. In such a temple as we now behold Beared for Thy presence ; therefore am I bound To worship, here, — and everywhere, — as one Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread, From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; From unreflecting ignorance preserved. And from debasement rescued. By Thy grace The particle divine remained unquenched ; And, ’mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil. Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers, From Paradise transplanted ; wintry age Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart ; And, if they wither, I am worse than dead ! Come, labor, when the worn-out frame requires Perpetual sabbath ; come, disease and want. And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; But leave me unabated trust in Thee ; And let Thy favor, to the end of life. Inspire me with ability to seek Bepose and hope among eternal things, — ADORATION AMID NATURAL SCENES. 115 Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich, And will possess my portion in content. And what are things eternal ? Powers depart, Possessions vanish, and opinions change. And passions hold a fluctuating seat : But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken. And subject neither to eclipse nor wane. Duty exists ; — immutably survive, For our support, the measures and the forms Which an abstract Intelligence supplies, Whose kingdom is where time and space are not : Of other converse, which mind, soul and heart, Bo with united urgency require. What more, that may not perish ? Thou, dread Source, Prime, self-existing Cause and End of all, That, in the scale of being, fill their place. Above our human region, or below, Set and sustained ; — Thou, — who didst wrap the cloud Of infancy around us, that Thyself, Therein, with our simplicity a while Might’st hold, on earth, communion undisturbed, — Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep. Or from its death-like void, with punctual care. And touch as gentle as the morning light, Bestor’st us daily to the powers of sense. And reason’s steadfast rule, — Thou, Thou alone Art everlasting. This universe shall pass away, — a work Glorious, because the shadow of Thy might, — A step, or link, for intercourse with Thee. Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet 116 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. No more shall stray where meditation leads, By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, Loved haunts like these, the unimprisoned mind May yet have scope to range among her own. Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. If the dear faculty of sight should fail, Still it may be allowed me to remember What visionary powers of eye and soul. In youth, were mine ; when, stationed on the top Of some huge hill, expectant, I beheld The sun rise up, from distant climes returned. Darkness to chase, and sleep, and bring the day. His bounteous gift ! or saw him towards the deep Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds Attended ! Then my spirit was entranced With joy exalted to beatitude ; The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light. With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! WORDSWORTH. ‘‘0! STEAL NOT THOU MY FAITH AWAY.” 0 ! STEAL not thou my faith away. Nor tempt to doubt a lowly mind ; Make all that earth can yield thy prey, But leave this heavenly gift behind. Our hope is but the sea-boy’s dream, When loud winds rise in wrath and gloom ; Our life, — a faint and fitful beam. That lights us to the cold, dark tomb. IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN. 117 Yet since, as one from heaven has said, There lies beyond that dreary bourn A region where the faithful dead Eternally forget to mourn, — Welcome the scoif, the sword, the chain. The burning waste, the black abyss ; I shrink not from that path of pain Which leads me to that world of bliss. Then hush, thou troubled heart ! be still ; Renounce thy vain philosophy ; Seek thou to work thy Maker’s will. And light from Heaven shall break on thee, ’T will glad thee in the weary strife. Where strong men sink with failing breath ; ’T will cheer thee in the noon of life. And bless thee in the night of death. LYONS. IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN. Lord ! who art merciful, as well as just. Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust ! Not what I would, 0 Lord ! I offer thee, Alas ! but what I can. Father Almighty, who hast made me man. And bade me look to heaven, for thou art there. Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer. Four things, which are not in thy treasury, I lay before thee. Lord, with this petition : — My nothingness, my wants. My sins, and my contrition. SOUTHEY. 118 SELECTIONS IN. POETRY. APRIL. ’T IS tlie noon of the spring-time, but never a bird In the wind-shaken elm or maple is heard. For green meadow-grasses, wide levels of snow. And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow ! Where wild-flower and violet, amber and white, Ey south-sloping brook-sides should smile in the light. O’er the cold winter beds of their late-waking roots The frosty flake eddies, the ice-crystal shoots. And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps, Hound the boles of the pine-wood, the ground-laurel creeps. Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers. With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers ! We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south, The touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth ; For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God, — Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod ! Up our long river valley for days has not ceased The wail and the shriek of the bitter north-east. Raw and chill as if winnowed through ices and snow All the way from the land of the wild Esquimaux. 0, soul of the spring-time, its balm and its breath I 0, light of its darkness, and life of its death ! Why wait we thy coming ? why linger so long The warmth of thy breathing, the voice of thy song ? Renew the great miracle ! let us behold The stone from the mouth of the sepulchre rolled, And Nature, like Lazarus, rise as of old ! Let our faith, which in darkness and coldness has lain, Awake with the warmth and the brightness again. And in blooming of flower, and budding of tree, MY LITTLE SISTER. 119 The symbols and types of our destiny see, — The life of the spring-time, the life of the whole. And, as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul I WHITTIER. MY LITTLE SISTER. Thy memory as a spell Of love comes o’er my mind ; As dew upon the purple bell. As perfume on the wind. As music on the sea. As sunshine on the river. So hath it always been to me. So shall it be forever. I hear thy voice in dreams Upon me softly call, Like echo of the mountain streams In sportive waterfall. I see thy form as when Thou wert a living thing. And blossomed in the eyes of men, Like any flower of spring. Thy soul to heaven hath fled. From earthly thraldom free ; Yet ’tis not as the dead That thou appear ’st to me. In slumber I behold Thy form, as when on earth ; Thy locks of waving gold. Thy sapphire eye of mirth. 120 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. I Lear, in solitude, The prattle kind and free Thou utteredst in joyful mood While seated on niy knee. So strong each vision seems. My spirit that doth fill, I think not they are dreams. But that thou livest still. ROBERT MACNISH. SIGNALS OF LIBERTY. Weep not that Time Is passing on ! — it will ere long reveal A brighter era to the nations. Hark ! Along the vales and mountains of the earth There is a deep, portentous murmuring, Like the swift rush of subterranean streams. Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air. When the fierce tempest, with sonorous wing. Heaves his deep folds upon the rushing winds. And hurries onward, with his night of clouds. Against the eternal mountains. ’T is the voice Of infant Freedom, — and her stirring call Is heard and answered in a thousand tones From every hill -top of her western home ; And lo ! it breaks across old Ocean’s flood, — And “ Freedom ! Freedom ! ” is the answering shout Of nations, starting from the spell of years. The day-spring ! — see ! ’t is brightening in the heavens The watchmen of the night have caught the sign ; From tower to tower the signal-fires flash free, THE CHILD OF EARTH. 121 And the deep watchword, like the rush of seas That heralds the volcano’s bursting flame, Is sounding o’er the earth. Bright years of hope And life are on the wing ! — Yon glorious bow Of Freedom, bended by the hand of God, Is spanning Time’s dark surges. Its high arch, A type of Love and Mercy on the cloud. Tells that the many storms of human life Will pass in silence, and the sinking waves. Gathering the forms of glory and of peace, Reflect the undimmed brightness of the heavens. G. D. PRENTICE. THE CHILD OF EARTH. Fainter her slow step falls from day to day. Death’s hand is heavy on her darkening brow. Yet doth she fondly cling to life, and say, ‘‘ I am content to die, — but 0 ! not now ! — Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing ; Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe ! — Spare me, great God ! lift up my drooping brow ; I am content to die, — but 0 ! not now ! ” The spring hath ripened into summer time ; The season’s viewless boundary is past ; The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime ; 0 ! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ? ‘‘ Let me not perish while o’er land and sea With silent steps the Lord of light moves on ; 6 122 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Not while the murmur of the mountain bee Greets my dull ear with music in its tone ! Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my brow ; I am content to die, — but 0 ! not now ! ” Summer is gone ; and autumn’s soberer hues Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn ; The huntsman swift the flying game pursues. Shouts the halloo, and winds the eager horn. “ Spare me a while, to wander forth and gaze On the broad meadows and the quiet stream ; To watch in silence while the evening rays Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam ! Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; I am content to die, — but 0 ! not now ! ” The bleak wind whistles ; snow-showers, far and near Drift without echo to the whitening ground ; Autumn hath passed away ; and, cold and drear. Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound ; Yet still that prayer ascends : “ 0 ! laughingly My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd ; Our home-fire blades broad, and bright, and high. And the roof rings with voices light and loud : Spare me a while ! raise up my drooping brow ! I am content to die, — but 0 ! not now ! ” The spring is come again, — the joyful spring ! Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing : — The child of earth is numbered with the dead ! Thee never more the sunshine shall awake. Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane ; HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID. 123 The steps of friends thy slumber may not break, Nor fond familiar voice arouse again ! Death’s silent shadow veils thy darkened brow : Why didst thou linger ? — thou art happier now ! ” MRS. NORTON. HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAH). When Israel, of the Lord beloved. Out from the land of bondage came. Her father’s God before her moved. An awful guide, in smoke and flame. By day along the astonished lands The cloudy pillar glided slow ; By night Arabia’s crimsoned sands Beturned the fiery pillar’s glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise. And trump and timbrel answered keen ; And Zion’s daughters poured their lays. With priests’ and warriors’ voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, — Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; Our fathers would not know Thy ways. And Thou hast left them to their own. But present still, though now unseen ! When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen. To temper the deceitful ray. And, 0 ! when stoops on Judah’s path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be Thou, long-sufiering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light ! 124 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Our harps we left by Babel’s streams, The tyrant’s jest, the Gentiles’ scorn ; No censer round our altar beams. And mute are timbrel, trump and horn. But Thou hast said, — “ The blood of goats. The flesh of lambs, I will not prize ; A contrite heart and humble thoughts Are my accepted sacrifice.” SIR WALTER SCOTT. TO A LADY ON HER IVIiVRRIAGE. They tell me, gentle lady, that they deck thee for a bride. That the wreath is woven for thy hair, the bridegroom by thy side ; And I think I hear thy mother’s sigh, thy father’s calmer tone, As they give thee to another’s arms, — their beautiful, their own. I never saw a bridal but my eyelids have been wet. And it always seemed to me as though a joyous crowd were met To see the saddest sight of all, a gay and girlish thing Lay aside her maiden gladness, — for a name, — and for a rin£. And other cares will claim thy thoughts, and other hearts thy love, And gayer friends may be around, and bluer skies above ; Yet thou, when I behold thee next, may’st wear upon thy brow Perchance a mother’s look of care, for that which decks it now. TO A LADY ON HER MARRIAGE. 125 And when I think how often I have seen thee, with thy mild And lovely look, and step of air, and bearing like a child, 0 ! how mournfully, how mournfully, the thought comes o’er my brain, When I think thou ne’er may’st be that free and girlish thing again ! I would that as my heart dictates, just such might be my lay, And my voice should be a voice of mirth, a music like the May; But it may not be ! — within my breast all frozen are the springs, The murmur dies upon the lip, the music on the strings. But a voice is floating round me, and it tells me, in my rest, That sunshine shall illume thy path, that joy shall be thy guest. That thy life shall be a summer’s day, whose evening shall go down, Like the evening in the eastern clime, that never knows a frown. When thy foot is at the altar, when the ring hath pressed thy hand. When those thou lov’st and those that love thee weeping round thee stand, 0 ! may the rhyme that friendship weaves, like a spirit of the air. Be o’er thee at that moment, for a blessing and a prayer ! FITZGERALD. 126 SELECTIONS IN POETUY. BEAUTY, WIT AND GOLD. In a bower a widow dwelt ; At her feet three suitors knelt ; Each adored the widow much, Each essayed her heart to touch ; One had wit, and one had gold. And one was cast in beauty’s mould ; — Guess which was it won the prize. Purse, or tongue, or handsome eyes ? First appeared the handsome man. Proudly peeping o’er her fan ; Red his lips, and white his skin, — Could such beauty fail to win ? Then stepped forth the man of gold ; Cash he counted, coin he told. Wealth the burden of his tale, — Could such golden projects fail ? Then the man of wit and sense Wooed her with his eloquence. Now she blushed, she knew not why ; Now she heaved th’ unconscious sigh ; TO MY PIANOFORTE. 127 Then she smiled, to hear him speak ; Then the tear was on her cheek ; — Beauty, vanish ! Gold, depart ! Wit has won the widow’s heart ! TO MY PIANOFORTE. 0, FRIEND, whom glad or grave we seek. Heaven-holding shrine ! I ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak. And peace is mine. No fairy casket, full of bliss. Outvalues thee : Love only, wakened by a kiss. More sweet may be. To thee, when our full hearts o’erflow With grief or joys. Unspeakable emotions owe A fitting voice. Mirth flies to thee, and Love’s unrest. And Memory dear ; And Sorrow, with his tightened breast. Comes for a tear. 0 ! since no joys of human mould Thus wait us still, Thrice blessed be thine, thou gentle fold Of peace at will. No change, no sullenness, no cheat, In thee we find : Thy saddest voice is ever sweet. Thine answers kind. LEIGH nCNT. 128 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. SONG OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. Near tliee, still near thee ! — o’er thy pathway gliding, Unseen I pass thee with the wind’s low sigh ; Life’s veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing, Yet viewless love floats round thee silently ! Not ’midst the festal throng, In halls of mirth and song, But when thy thoughts are deepest, When holy tears thou weepest, Know then that love is nigh ! When the night’s whisper o’er thy harp-strings creeping, Or the sea-music on the sounding shore, Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping. Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore ; When every thought and prayer We loved to breathe and share, On thy full heart returning. Shall wake its voiceless yearning, Then feel me near once more ! Near thee, still near thee ! — trust thy soul’s deep dreaming, — 0 ! love is not an earthly rose to die ! Even when I soar where fiery stars are beaming. Thine image wanders with me through the sky. The fields of air are free. Yet lonely, wanting thee ; But when thy chains are falling. When heaven its own is calling. Know then thy guide is nigh ! MRS. HEMANS. HELVELLYN. 129 HELVELLYN. In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Ilelvellyn. Ilis remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful dog, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide ; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling. And, starting around me, the echoes replied. On the right Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending. One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending. When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was that spot ’mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay. Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather. Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For faithful in death his mute favorite attended. The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? 6^ I 130 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. And 0 ! was it meet, that, — no requiem read o’er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him, — Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart ? When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded. The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall ; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming ; In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming ; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature. To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb. When ’wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature. And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch, by this desert lake lying. Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying. With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying. In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. SIR WALTER SCOTT. FAITH. Ye who think the truth ye sow Lost beneath the winter’s snow, Doubt not, Time’s unerring law Yet shall bring the genial thaw. God in nature ye can trust, — Is the God of mind less just ? GOD. 131 Read we not the mighty thought Once by ancient sages taught ? Though it withered in the blight Of the mediaeval night, Now the harvest we behold ; See ! it bears a thousand fold. Workers on the barren soil, Yours may seem a thankless toil ; Sick at heart with hope deferred, Listen to the cheering word : Now the faithful sower grieves ; Soon he ’ll bind his golden sheaves. If Great Wisdom have decreed Man may labor, yet the seed Never in this life shall grow. Shall the sower cease to sow ? The fairest fruit may yet be born On the resurrection morn ! FRITZ AND LEOLETT. GOD. The following majestic ode to the Deity is from the Russian of Derzhavine, translated by Bowring. 0 THOU eternal One ! whose presence bright All space doth occupy, all motion guide. Unchanged through time’s all-devastating flight. Thou only God ! there is no God beside ! Being above all beings ! Mighty One ! Whom none can comprehend and none explore. Who fiU’st existence with thyself alone ; Embracing all, supporting, ruling o’er, — Being whom we call God, and know no more ! 132 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean deep, may count The sands or the sun’s rays ; but, God! for thee There is no weight nor measure ; none can mount Up to thy mysteries ; reason’s brightest spark, Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark ; And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, Even like past moments in eternity. Thou from primeval nothingness didst call First chaos, then existence ; Lord, on thee Eternity had its foundation ; all Sprang forth from thee, of light, joy, harmony. Sole origin ; all life, all beauty, thine. Thy word created all, and doth create ; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. Thou art, and wert, and shalt be, glorious, great, Life-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround. Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath ! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound. And beautifully mingled life and death ! As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from thee ; And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven’s bright army glitters in thy praise. A million torches, lighted by thy hand. Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; They own thy power, accomplish thy command. All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. GOD. 133 What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light ? A glorious company of golden streams ? Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright ? Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams ? — But thou to these art as the noon to night. Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in thee is lost ; What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee ? And what am J, then ? Heaven’s unnumbered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In all the glory of sublimest thought. Is but an atom in the balance, weighed Against thy greatness, — is a cipher brought Against infinity ! What am I, then ? — Naught. Naught ! But the effluence of thy light divine, Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too ; Yes ! in my spirit doth thy Spirit shine. As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. Naught ! — but I live, and on hope’s pinions fly Eager toward thy presence ; for in thee I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high. Even to the throne of thy divinity. I am, 0 God, and surely thou must be ! Thou art ! directing, guiding all. Thou art ! Direct my understanding, then, to thee ; Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart ; Though but an atom ’mid immensity. Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand ! I hold a middle rank ’twixt heaven and earth, 134 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realms where angels have their birth, J ust on the boundary of the spirit-land ! The chain of being is complete in me ; In me is matter’s last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit, — deity ! I can command the lightning, and am dust ! A monarch, and a slave ! a worm, a god ! Whence came I here, and how ? so marvellously Constructed and conceived ! unknown ? this clod Lives surely through some higher energy ? For from itself alone it could not be ! Creator, yes ! thy wisdom and thy word Created me, thou source of life and good ! Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! Thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude. Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere. Even to its source, — to thee, — its Author there. 0 thought ineffable ! 0 vision blest ! Though worthless our conceptions all of thee. Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to the Deity. God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar ; Thus seek thy presence. Being wise and good ! ’Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore ! And when the tongue is eloquent no more, The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. THE RAINY DAY. 135 THE RAINY DAY. The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall. But at every gust the dead leaves fall. And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all, — Into each life some rain must fall. Some days must be dark and dreary. 1.0NGFELL0W. WHY THUS LONGING? Why thus longing, thus forever sighing. For the far-off, unattained and dim. While the beautiful, all round thee lying. Offers up its low perpetual hymn ? Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, ' All thy restless yearnings it would still ; Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching, Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. Poor, indeed, thou must be, if around thee Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw ; 13G SELECTIONS IN TOETRY. Tf no silken cord of love hath bound thee To some little world through weal and woe ; If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, No fond voices answer to thine own ; If no brother’s sorrow thou canst lighten, By daily sympathy and gentle tone. Not by deeds that win the crowd’s applauses. Not by works that give thee world-renown. Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely. Every day a rich reward will give ; Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only. And truly loving, thou canst truly live. Dost thou revel in the rosy morning, When all nature hails the lord of light. And his smile, the mountain tops adorning, Bobes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright ? Other hands may grasp the field and forest. Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ; But with fervent love if thou adorest. Thou art wealthier, — all the world is thine ! Yet, if through earth’s wide domains thou rovest. Sighing that they are not thine alone, Not those fair fields, but thyself, thou lovest, And their beauty and thy worth are gone. Nature wears the colors of the spirit ; Sweetly to her worshipper she sings ; All the glow, the grace, she doth inherit. Hound her trusting child she fondly flings. HARRIET WINSLOW THE MOTHER AND CHILD. 137 THE MOTHER AND CHILD. The incidents which gave rise to these lines occurred in 1822, on the Green Mountains of Vermont. The mother was a Mrs. Blake. The cold winds swept the mountain height, And pathless was the dreary wild, And mid the cheerless hours of night A mother wandered with her child : As through the drifting snow she pressed, The babe was sleeping on her breast. And colder still the winds did blow. And darker hours of night came on. And deeper grew the drifting snow ; Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. “ 0 God ! ” she cried, in accents wild, “ If I must perish, save my child ! ” She stripped her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm ; 138 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. And round her child she wrapped the vest, And smiled to think her babe was warm. With one cold kiss a tear she shed, And sank upon her snowy bed. At dawn a traveller came by, And saw her ’neath a snowy veil ; The frost of death was in her eye, Her cheek was cold and hard and pale. He moved the robe that wrapped the child, The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled ! THE FACTORY CHILDREN’S HOLIDAY. The day was fair, the cannon roared. Cold blew the bracing north, And Preston mills by thousands poured Their little captives forth. All in their best they paced the street, All glad that they were free ; And sang a song with voices sweet, — They sang of liberty ! But from their lips the rose had fled ; Like “ death-in-life ” they smiled; And still, as each passed by, I said, “ Alas ! is that a child ? ” Flags waved, — and men, a ghastly crew Marched with them side by side ; While hand in hand, and two by two. They moved, a living tide. Thousands and thousands, — 0, so white With eyes so glazed and dull, — TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. 139 Alas ! it was indeed a sight Too sadly beautiful ; And, 0 ! the pang their voices gave Kefuses to depart ! “ This is a wailing for the grave ! ” I whispered to my heart. It was as if, where roses blushed, A sudden, blasting gale O’er fields of bloom had rudely rushed. And turned the roses pale ; It was as if in glen and grove The wild birds sadly sung, And every linnet mourned its love. And every thrush its young. It was ^ if in dungeon-gloom. Where chained Despair reclined, A sound came from the living tomb, And hymned the passing wind. And while they sang, and though they smiled, My soul groaned heavily, “0, who would he or have a child ! A mother who would be ! ” ELLIOT. TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. How shall a man fore-doomed to lone estate, Untimely old, irreverently gray. Much like a patch of dusky snow in May, Dead sleeping in a hollow, all too late, — How shall so poor a thing congratulate The blest completion of a patient wooing, 140 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Or how commend a younger man for doing What ne’er to do hath been his fault or fate ? Tliere is a fable that I once did read, Of a bad angel that was someway good, And therefore on the brink of heaven he stood, Looking each way, and no way could proceed ; Till at the last he purged away his sin By loving all the joy he saw within. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! — The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood. And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it ! The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it. And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well ! The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. That moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing. And quick to the white-pebbied bottom it fell ! Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well : The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well ! IMMORTALITY. 141 How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the neCtar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from that loved situation. The tear of regret will intrusively swell. As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation. And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; The old' oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well ! WOODWORTH. IMMORTALITY. And with our frames do perish all our loves ? Do those that took their root, and put forth buds. And their soft leaves unfolded, in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers ? Are thoughts and passions, that to the tongue give speech. And make it send forth winning harmonies, — That to the cheek do give its living glow. And vision in the eye the soul intense With that for which there is no utterance, — Are these the body’s accidents ? — no more ? — To live in it, and, when that dies, go out. Like the burnt taper’s flame ? 0 ! listen, man ! A voice within us speaks that startling word, Man, thou shalt never die ! ” Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls ; according harps, ' By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars 142 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality : Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain. The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas. Join in this solemn, universal song. 0 ! listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in From all the air. ’T is in the gentle moonlight ; ’T is floating ’midst Day’s setting glories ; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. As one vast mystic instrument, are touched By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony. DANA. ONLY THINE. 0, HAND of bounty, largely spread, By whom our every want is fed ! Whate’er we touch, or taste, or see. We owe them all, 0 Lord, to thee ; — The corn, the oil, the purple wine, Are all thy gifts, and only thine. The stream thy word to nectar dyed, Th6 bread thy blessing multiplied ; The stormy wind, the ’whelming flood. That silent at thy mandate stood. EARLY PIETY. 143 How well they knew thy voice divine, Whose works they were, and only thine ! Though now no more on earth we trace Thy footsteps of celestial grace, ^ Obedient to thy word and will. We seek thy daily mercy still ; Its blessed beams around us shine. And thine we are, and only thine. * HEBER. EARLY PIETY. By cool Siloam’s shady rill y How sweet the lily grows ; How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon’s dewy rose ! Lo ! such the child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod ; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Is upward drawn to God. By cool Siloam’s shady rill The lily must decay ; The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away. And soon, too soon, the wintry hour Of man’s maturer age Will shake the soul with sorrow’s power. And stormy passion’s rage. 0 Thou, whose infant feet were found Within thy Father’s shrine, 144 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned, Were all alike divine, — Dependent on thy bounteous breath. We seek thy grace alone. In childhood, manhood, age and death. To keep us still thine own. HEBLil. DREAMS. 0 ! THERE is a dream of early youth, And it never comes again ; ’T is a vision of light, of life, and truth, That flits across the brain ; And love is the theme of that early dream, So wild, so warm, so new. That in all our after years, I deem. That early dream we rue. 0 ! there is a dream of maturer years. More turbulent by far ; ’T is a vision of blood and of woman’s tears, For the theme of that dream is war ; And we toil in the fleld of danger and death. And shout in the battle array. Till we find that fame is a bodiless breath. That vanisheth away. 0 ! there is a dream of hoary age ; ’T is a vision of gold in store, — Of sums noted down on a figured page. To be counted o’er and o’er ; HYMN FOR ONE DEPARTED. 145 And we fondly trust in our glittering dust, As a refuge from grief and pain, Till our limbs are laid on that last, dark bed Where the wealth of the world is vain. And is it thus from man’s birth to his grave, In the path which we all are treading ? Is there naught in his long career to save From remorse and self-upbraiding ? 0 yes, there ’s a dream, so pure, so bright j That the being to whom it is given Hath bathed in a sea of living light) — And the theme of that dream is Heaven ! HYMN FOR ONE DEPARTED. FIRST VOICE. 0 , BEAUTIFUL the strdams That through our valleys run. Singing and dancing in the gleams Of summer’s cloudless sun ! The sweetest of them all From its fairy banks is gone ; And the music of the water-fall Hath left the silent stone ! «■- Up among the mountains. In soft and mossy cell. By the silent springs and fountains, The happy wild-flowers dwell. The queen-rose of the wilderness Hath withered in the wind, And the shepherds see no loveliness In the blossoms left behind. 7 j 14(3 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. l>irds clieer our lonely groves With many a beauteous wing ; When happy in their harmless loves, IIow tenderly they sing ! (3’er all the rest was hoard One wild and mournful strain, — But hushed is the voice of that hymning bird, She ne’er must sing again ! Briglit through the yew-tree’s gloom, I saw a sleeping dove ! On the silence of her silvery plume. The sunlight lay in love ; The grove seemed all her own Bound the beauty of that breast, — But the startled dove afar is flown. Forsaken is her nest ! In yonder forest wide A flock of wild deer lies, Beauty breathes o’er each tender side. And shades their peaceful eyes ! The hunter in the night Hath singled out the doe, In whose light the mountain flock lay bright, Whose hue was like the snow ! A thousand stars shine forth With pure and dewy ray. Till by night the mountains of our north Seem gladdening in the day : 0, empty all the heaven. Though a thousand lights be there, — HYMN FOR ONE DEPARTED. 147 For clouds o’er the evening star have driven, And shorn her golden hair ! SECOND VOICE. What, though the stream be dead, — Its banks all still and dry ! It murmureth now o’er a lovelier bed In the air-groves of the sky. What, though our prayers from death The queen-rose might not save ! With brighter bloom and balmier breath She springeth from the grave. What, though our bird of light Lie mute with plumage dim ! In heaven I see her glancing bright, I hear her angel hymn. What, though the dark tree smile No more with our dove’s calm sleep ! She folds her wing on a sunny isle In heaven’s untroubled deep ! True that our beauteous doe Hath left her still retreat, — But purer now in heavenly snow She lies at Jesus’ feet. 0 star untimely set ! Why should we weep for thee ? Thy bright and dewy coronet Is rising o’er the sea ! WILSON. 148 SELECTIONS IN rOETItV. HAPPINESS. One morning in the month of May, I wandered o’er the hill ; Though nature all around was gay, My heart was heavy still. Can God, I thought, the just, the groat. These meaner creatures bless, And yet deny to man’s estate The boon of happiness ? Tell me, ye woods, ye smiling plains, Ye blessed birds around. In which of nature’s wide domains Can bliss for man be found ! The birds wild carolled overhead, The breeze around me blew. And nature’s awful chorus said No bliss for man she knew. I questioned Love, whcs ^ early ray So rosy bright appears. And heard the timid genius say His light was dimmed by tears. I questioned Friendship : Friendship sighed And thus her answer gave : — The few whom fortune never turned Y/ere withered in the grave. « I asked if Vice could bliss bestow ? Vice boasted loud and well, liut, fading from her withered brow, The borrowed roses fell. CHRISTIAN PATRIOTISM. 149 I sought of Feeling, if her skill Could soothe the wounded breast ; And found her mourning, faint and still, For others’ woes distressed. I questioned Virtue ; Virtue sighed. No boon could she dispense ; Nor Virtue was her name, she cried, But humble Penitence. I questioned Death, — the grisly shade Eelaxed his brow severe ; And “ I am happiness,” he said, “ If Virtue guides thee here.” HEBER. CHRISTIAN PATRIOTISM. Patriots have toiled, and in their country’s cause Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve, Eeceive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times ; and Sculpture, in her turn. Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and to immortalize her trust : But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid. To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth, Have fallen in her defence. A patriot’s blood. Well spent in such a strife, may earn, indeed. And for a time insure, to his loved land The sweets of liberty and equal laws ; 150 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. But martyrs struggle for a brighter prizj, And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed In confirmation of the noblest claim, Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, To walk with God, to be divinely free. To soar, and to anticipate the skies. Yet few remember them. They lived unknown, Till persecution dragged them into fame, And chased them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew — No marble tells us whither. With their names No bard embalms and sanctifies his song : And History, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this. She execrates, indeed. The tyranny that doomed them to the fire, But gives the glorious sufferers little praise. He is the freeman whom the truth makes free. And all are slaves beside. There ’s not a chain. That hellish foes, confederate for his harm. Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green withas. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and, though poor, perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight. Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel. But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye. And smiling say, — “ My father made them all.” COWPEP.. THE DESERTED HOUSE. THE LIGHT OE STAR5. 151 THE DESERTED HOUSE. Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and window wide : Careless tenants they ! All within is dark as night : In the windows is no light ; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before. Come away : no more of mirth Is here, or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth. And shall fall again to ground. Come away : for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell ; But in a city glorious, — A great and distant city, — they have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have stayed with us ! TENNYSON. THE LIGHT OF STARS. The night is come, but not too soon ; And, sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven. But the cold light of stars ; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. 152 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Is it the tender star of love, — The star of love and dreams ? 0 no ! from that blue tent above, A hero’s armor gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar. Suspended in the evening skies. The shield of that red star. 0 star of strength ! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain ; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light. But the cold light of stars ; 1 give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast. Serene, and resolute, and still. And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. 0, fear not in a world like this. And thou shalt know, ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To sufier and be strong. LONGFELLOW I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 153 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born. The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day. But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away ! I remember, I remember. The roses, red and white. The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light ! The lilacs where the robin built. And where my brother set The laburnum on his birth-day, — The tree is living yet ! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing. And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then. That is so heavy now. And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow ! I remember, I remember, The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky : 7 # 154 SELECTIONS IN POETllY. It was a childish ignorance, But now ’t is little joy To know I ’m further ofi* from heaven Than when I was a boy ! HOOD. THE TRANQUIL fflND. The seas are quiet when the winds are o’er, — So calm are we when passions are no more ! For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of afiection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries ; The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new lights through chinks that time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become. As they draw near to their eternal home ; Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view. That stand upon the threshold of the new. WALLER. THE OLD MAN’S COIVIFORTS. “ You are old. Father William,” the young man cried ; “ The few locks which are left you are gray ; “ You are hale. Father William, a hearty old man ; Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “ In the days of my youth,” Father William replied, “ I remembered that youth would fly fast. And abused not my health and my vigor at first. That I never might need them at last.” TOO LATE I STAID- 155 “You are old, Father William,” the young man cried, “ And pleasures with youth pass away ; And yet you lament not the days that are gone ; Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “ In the days of my youth,” Father William replied, “ I remembered that youth could not last ; I thought of the future, whatever I did. That I never might grieve for the past.” “You are old. Father William,” the young man cried, “ And life must be hastening away ; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ; Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “ I am cheerful, young man,” Father William replied ; “ Let the cause thy attention engage ; In the days of my youth I remembered my God, And He hath not forgotten my age.” SOUTHEY. TOO LATE I STAID. Too late I staid ; forgive the crime ; Unheeded flew the hours ; How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers I What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of his glass. When all its sands are diamond sparks, That dazzle as they pass ? Ah ! who to sober measurement Time’s happy swiftness brings. When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings ? SPENCER. 156 SELECTIONS IN POETllV. LINES ON THE DEATH OF KORNER. Charles Theodore Korner, the celebrated young German poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops, on the 20th of August, 1813, a few hours after the composition of his popular piece, “ The Sword Song.” lie was buried at the village of Wobbelin, in Mecklenburgh, under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he had frequently deposited verses composed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected to his memory is of cast iron ; and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and sword, a favorite emblem of Korner’s, from which one of his works had been entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his loss, having only sur- vived him long enough to complete his portrait, and a drawing of his burial- place. The above cut is from the design on the tomb of Korner. Green wave the oak forever o’er thy rest. Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, And, in the stillness of thy country’s breast, Thy place of memory as an altar keepest ; Brightly thy spirit o’er her hills was poured, Thou of the Lyre and Sword ! llest, bard ! rest, soldier ! — By the father’s hand Here shall the child of after years be led, THE LYRE AND SWORD. 157 With his wreath-offering silently to stand In the hushed presence of the glorious dead. Soldier and bard ! for thou thy path hast trod With freedom and with God. The oak waved proudly o’er thy burial-rite ; On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee ; And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight W ept as they vailed their drooping banners o’er thee ; And the deep guns, with rolling peal, gave token That Lyre and Sword were broken. Thou hast a hero’s tomb ; — a lowlier bed Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying, — - The gentle girl, that bowed her fair young head When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. Brother, true friend ! the tender and the brave, — She pined to share thy grave. Fame was thy gift from others ; but for her^ To whom the wide world held that only spot, She loved thee ! — • lovely in your lives ye were, And in your early deaths divided not. Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy : — what hath she ? — Her own blest place by thee ! It was thy spirit, brother, which had made The bright earth glorious to her thoughtful eye, Since first in childhood ’midst the vines ye played, And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. Ye were but two, — and when that spirit passed. Woe to the one, the last ! 158 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Woe, yet not long ! — She lingered but to trace Thine image from the image in her breast, Once, once again to see that buried face But smile ujjon her ere she went to rest, — Too sad a smile ! its living light was o’er ; It answered hers no more. The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, The home too lonely whence thy step had fled ; What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted ? Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead ! Softly she perished ; — be the Flower deplored Here with the Lyre and Sword ! Have ye not met ere now ? — So let those trust That meet for moments but to part for years ; That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust, ~ That love, where love is but a fount of tears. Brother ! sweet sister ! peace around ye dwell : — Lyre, Sword and Flower, farewell ! MRS. HEMAJfS THE FLIGHT OF FAITH. The bird let loose in eastern skies, When hastening 'fondly home. Ne’er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle wanderers roam ; But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay. Where nothing earthly bounds her flight. Nor shadow dims her way. THE SKY-LARK. So grant me, God, from every snare And stain of passion free. Aloft, through Virtue’s purer air. To wing my course to Thee ; No sin to cloud, no lure to stay 3Iy Soul, as home she springs ; Tliy sunshine on her joyful way. Thy freedom in her wings ! MOORE. THE SKY-LARK. Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless. Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea ! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place — 0 to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay and loud Far in the downy cloud. Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, "VVliere art thou journeying ? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O’er fell and fountain sheen. O’er moor and mountain green. O’er the red streamer that heralds the day. Over the cloudlet dim. Over the rainbow’s rim, jMusical cherub, soar, singing, away I Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms 160 SELECT POETRY. Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place — 0 to abide in the desert with the ! IIOGG. BLESSING OF A CONCEALED FUTURE. Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate All but the page prescribed, their present state : From brutes what men, from men what spirits know Or who could suffer being here below ? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food. And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 0, blindness to the future ! kindly given, That each may fill the circle marked by Fleaven : Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurled. And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly, then ; with trembling pinions soar Wait the great teacher. Death ; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast : Man never Is, but always To be blest : The soul, uneasy, and confined from home. Bests and expatiates in a life to come ! POPE. LYCIDAS. 161 LYCIDAS. In the monody of Lycidas, the author bewails a learned friend, drowned in his passage on the Irish seas, 1637. The extracts here given will serve as introduc- tory to the study of the whole monody. Yet once more, 0 ye laurels, and once more. Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries, harsh and crude. And, with forced fingers rude. Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due ; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, — Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer ! Who would not sing for Lycidas ? He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. Without the meed of some melodious tear. For we were nursed upon the self-same liill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the morn. We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel. But, 0 the heavy change, now thou art gone ! Now thou art gone, and never must return ! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves. With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrowuj And all their echoes, mourn. R 1G2 SELECTIONS IN TOETRY. Tlie willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose. Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze ; Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white thorn blows ; — Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear. Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep. Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. Ay me ! I fondly dream ! Had ye been there — for what could that have done ? What could the Muse herself, that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal Nature did lament. When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? Alas ! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd’s trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair ? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble minds) To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 13ut the fair guerdon when we hope to find, LYCIDAS. 163 And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrM shears, And slits the thin-spun life. “ But not the praise,” Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears : ‘‘ Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. Nor in the glistering foil. Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies ; But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes. And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; — As he pronounces lastly on each deed. Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.” Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more ! For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor : So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head. And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves ; Where other groves and other streams along. With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. And hears the unexpressive nuptial song. In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops and sweet societies. That sing, and singing, in their glory move, And wipe the tears forever from his eyes. MILTOir. 164 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. THE ALPINE STORM. The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! 0 night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong ; Yet lovely in your strength^ as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud. But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! And this ife in the night : — ^ Most glorioas night ! Thou wort not sent for slumber ! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, •=^- A portion of the tempest and of thee I Flow the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! And now again ’t is black, — and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth. As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth. Now, where the swift Bhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intei vene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted. Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed : — Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters, war within themselves to wage. Now, where the quick Bhone thus has cleft his way, The mightiest of storms hath ta’en his stand : EOR COMFORT IN DEATH. 165 For here, not one, but many, make their play. And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around ; of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath forked His lightnings, — as if he did understand That in such gaps as desolation worked. There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked. Sky, mountains, rivers, winds, lake, lightnings! ye. With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be. Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll Of your departing voices is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. But where of ye, 0 tempests ! is the goal ? Are ye like those within the human breast ? Or do-ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ? BYRON. FOB COMFOBT IN DEATH. In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess. Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! When I lie within my bed, Sick in heart, and sick in head, And with doubts disquieted. Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! • When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drowned in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep ; Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 166 sp:lections in poetry. When the passing bell doth toll, And the F uries, in a shoal, Come to fright my parting soul, Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! When, God knows, I ’m tost about, Either with despair or doubt, — Yet, before the glass be out. Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! When the Tempter "me pursu’th AVith the sins of all my youth. And half damns me with untruth. Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! When the judgment is revealed. And that opened wliich was sealed, AVhen to Thee I have appealed. Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! ROBERT HERRICK. THE SERVLVN YOUTH TO A TRAVELLER 0 LEAVE me ! 0 leave me ! My wants are supplied, and my steed is the fleetest That dwells in our vales ; and my love is the sweetest, The sweetest of maidens ! 0 leave me I You do not, you cannot, deceive me ! You say there are brighter And richer domains than the land of our tillage, And cities to which our Belgrade is a village : But go to my love and invite her ; Will your lands and your cities delight her ? MY BIRTH-DAY. 167 0 no ! she will tell thee That the place of our birth of all places is dearest, That the heart curls its tendrils round that which is nearest ; She will smile at thy tales of the wealthy, And to shame and to silence compel thee. Then go, thou false rover ! We will cling to the scenes which our infancy clung to. We will sing the old songs which our fathers have sung too; To our country be true as a lover. Till its green sod our ashes shall cover ! MY BIRTH^DAY. “My Birth-day ! ^’ — what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears ! And how, each time the day comes round. Less and less white its mark appears ! When first our scanty years are toldj It seems like pastime to grow old ; And, as Youth counts the shining links That Time around him binds so fast. Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain. Who said, — “ Were he ordained to run His long career of life again. He would do all that he had done.” Ah, ’t is not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me ! Far otherwise, — of time it tells Lavished unwisely, carelessly ; SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Of counsel mocked ; of talents, made Haply for high and pure designs, But oft, like Israel’s incense, laid Upon unholy, earthly shrines; Of nursing many a wrong desire ; Of wandering after Love too far, x\nd taking every meteor fire, That crossed my pathway, for his star ; — All this it tells, and, could I trace The imperfect picture o’er again, ^Vith powder to add, retouch, efiace. The light and shades, the joy and pain, ITow little of the past would stay ! How quickly all should melt away ! — All, but that freedom of the mind. Which hath been more than wealth to me ; Those friendships in my boyhood twined. And kept till now unchangingly ; And that dear home, that saving ark. Where Love’s true light at last I ’ve found. Cheering within when all grows dark. And comfortless, and stormy, round ! MOORE. VENI CREATOR. Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world’s foundations first were laid. Come, visit every pious mind ; Come, pour thy joys on human kind ; From sin and sorrow set us free. And make thy temples worthy thee ! VENI CREATOR. 169 0, source of uncreated light, The Father’s promised Paraclete ! ^ Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire. Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ! Come, and thy sacred unction bring To sanctify us while we sing ! Plenteous of grace, descend from high. Rich in thy seven-fold energy ! Thou strength of his Almighty hand. Whose power does heaven and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence. Who dost the gift of tongues dispense. And crown ’st thy gift with eloquence ! Refine and purge our earthly parts : But, 0, inflame and fire our hearts ! Our frailties help, our vice control. Submit the senses to the soul ; And, when rebellious they are grown. Then lay thy hand, and hold them down. Chase from our minds the infernal foe. And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; And, lest our feet should step astray. Protect and guide us in the way ! Make us eternal truths receive. And practise all that we believe : Give us thyself, that we may see The Father and the Son, by thee ! Paraclete, from two Greek words, meaning to call, is the title given, in the original Greek of the New Testament, to the Holy Spirit, by our Saviour, — John 14 : 16. The word is translated comforter. 170 SELECTIONS IN TOETRY. Immortal honor, endless fame, Attend the Almighty Father’s name ! The Saviour Son be glorified. Who for lost man’s redemption died I And equal adoration be. Eternal Paraclete, to thee ! DRYDEN. GLIMPSES OF FUTURE LIFE. Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just ! Shilling nowhere but in the dark ! What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark ! lie that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know. At first sight, if the bird be flown ; But what fair field or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet, as angels, in some brighter dreams, Call to the soul, when man doth sleep. So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes. And into glory peep ! HENRY VAUGHAN. TO LITTLE MARY. I ’m bidden, little Mary, To write verses unto thee : I ’d fain obey the bidding. If it rested but with me ; But the mistresses I ’m bound to (Nine ladies hard to please). TO LITTLE MARY. 171 Of all their stores poetic So closely keep the keys, T is only now and then, By good luck, as we may say, A couplet or a rhyme or two Falls fairly in my way. Fruit forced is never half so sweet As that comes quite in season ; But some folks must be satisfied With rhyme, in spite of reason ; So, Muses, all befriend me, — Albeit of help so chary, — To string the pearls of poesy For loveliest little Mary. And yet, ye pagan damsels. Not over-fond am I To invoke your haughty favors. Your fount of Castaly. I ’ve sipped a purer fountain ; I Ve decked a holier shrine ; I own a mightier mistress ; 0 Nature, thou art mine ! And only to that well-head. Sweet Mary, I ’ll resort. For just an artless verse or two, — A simple strain, and short, — Befitting well a pilgrim Way-worn with care and strife, — To offer thee, young traveller. In the morning track of life. 172 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. There ’s many a one will tell thee ’T is all with roses gay ; There ’s many a one will tell thee ’T is thorny all the way. Deceivers arc they every one, Dear child, who thus pretend : God’s ways are not unequal ; Make him thy trusted Friend, And many a path of pleasantness He ’ll clear away for thee. However dark and intricate The labyrinth may be. I need not wish thee beauty, I need not wish thee grace ; Already both are budding In that infant form and face. I will not wish thee grandeur, I will not wish thee wealth ; But only a contented heart. Peace, competence, and health ; Fond friends to love thee dearly. And honest friends to chide. And faithful ones to cleave to thee. Whatever may betide. And now, my little Mary, If better things remain Unheeded in my blindness. Unnoticed in my strain, I ’ll sum them up succinctly In “English undefiled,” — My mother-tongue’s best benison, — God bless thee, precious child ! SLEtP. 173 SLEtiP. He giveth His beloved sleep. — Psalm 127 : 2. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist’s music deep, Now tell me if that any is Por gift or grace, surpassing this, — He giveth His beloved, sleep ” ? What would we give to our beloved ? The hero’s heart, to be unmoved, — The poet’s star4uned harp, to sweep, — The patriot’s Voice, to teach and rouse, — The monarch’s crown, to light the brows “ He giveth His beloved, sleep ! ” What do we give to our beloved ? A little faith, all undisproved, — A little dust, to overweep, — And bitter memories, to make The whole earth blasted for our sake ! “ He giveth His beloved, sleep ! ” “ Sleep soft, beloved ! ” we sometimes say. But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams, that through the eyelids creep. 174 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber, when “ He giveth His beloved, sleep ! ” 0 earth, so full of dreary noises ! 0 men, with wailing in your voices! 0 delved gold, the wailers heap ! 0 strife, 0 curse, that o’er it fall ! God makes a silence through you all. And giveth His beloved, sleep ! ” His dews drop mutely on the hill. His cloud above it saileth still ; Though on its slope men sow and reap. More softly than the dew is shed. Or cloud is floated overhead, “ He giveth His beloved, sleep ! ” Yea, men may wonder, while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man Confirmed, in such a rest to keep : But angels say, — and through the word 1 think their happy smile is heard, “ He giveth His beloved, sleep ! ” For me, my heart, that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show. That sees through tears the jugglers leap, Would now its weary vision close, — Would, childlike, on His love repose, Who “ giveth His beloved, sleep ! ” And friends ! — dear friends ! — when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me. CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. 175 And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one, most loving of you all. Say, ‘‘ Not a tear must o’er her fall, — ‘ lie givetli His beloved, sleep ! ’ ” Mils. BROWNING. CHARACTER OE A HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another’s will ; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill ! Whose passions not his masters are. Whose soul is still prepared for death. Untied unto the worldly care Of public fame, or private breath ! Who envies none that chance doth raise. Or vice ; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise ; Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; Who hath his life from rumors freed. Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; Whose state can neither flatterers feed. Nor ruin make oppressors great ; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend ; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend ; — This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands ; And, having nothing, yet hath all. WOTTON. 176 selections in poetry. MOONLIGHT. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! Here will we, sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica : look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ! There ’s not the smallest orb which thou bchold’st, But in his motion like an angel sings. Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubiins : Such harmony is in immortal souls ; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. SHAKSPEARE. STRENGTH FROM ABOVE. Many are the sayings of the wise. In ancient and in modern books enrolled, Extolling patience as the truest fortitude ; And to the bearing well of all calamities. All chances incident to man’s frail life, Consolatories writ With studied argument, and much persuasion sought, Lenient of grief and anxious thought ; But with the afflicted in his pangs their sound Little prevails, or rather seems a tune Harsh, and of dissonant mood from his complaint ; Unless he feel within Some source of consolation from above, Secret refreshings, that repair his strength, And fainting spirits uphold. MILTON A SONG OF CONTRADICTIONS. A SONG OF CONTRADICTIONS. The Passions, in festival meeting, I saw seated round, in a dream ; And vow, by my hatred of cheating. The ^Passions are not what they seem. There ’s mirth under faces the gravest. There ’s woe under visages droll ; There ’s fear in the breast of the bravest, And light in the desolate soul. Thus Joy, in my singular vision. Sat sobbing and gnashing his teeth ; While Gentleness scoffed in derision, And Hope picked the buds from his wreath* Despair, her tight bodice unlacing, With laughter seemed ready to die ; And Hate, her companions embracing. Won each with a smile or a sigh. Then Peace bellowed louder and louder. For Freedom, sent off to the hulks ; Fear sat on a barrel of powder, And Pleasure stood by in the sulks* Here Dignity shoots like a rocket Past Grace, who is rolling in fat j There Probity ’s picking a pocket. Here Pit}^ sits skinning a cat. Then Temperance, reeling off quite full. Charged Friendship with drugging her drau She vowed it was Love that was spiteful. While Charity, blaming all, laughed ; 8=^ L 178 SELECTIONS IN POETllY. When Rage, with the blandest expression, And Vengeance, low-voiced like a child. Cried, “ Mercy, forgive the transgression ! ' Rut Mercy looked horribly wild. Old Wisdom was worshipping Fashion, And J ollity dozing in gloom ; While Meekness was foaming with passion. And Misery danced round the room. Sweet Envy tripped off to her garret. Bright Malice smiled worthy of trust. Gay Want was enjoying his claret. And Luxury gnawed a dry crust. At Pride, as she served up the dinner, Humility turned up her nose ; Suspicion shook hands with each sinner. While Candor shunned all, as her foes. There ’s mirth under faces the gravest, There ’s woe under visages droll ; There ’s fear in the breast of the bravest, There ’s light in the desolate soul. LAMAN BLANCHARD. THE WIDOW OF NAIN. Wake not, 0 mother, sounds of lamentation ! Weep not, 0 widow, weep not hopelessly ! Strong is his arm, the bringer of salvation ; Strong is the word of God to succor thee. Bear forth the cold corpse slowly, slowly bear him : Hide his pale features with the sable pall : Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him : Widowed and childless, she has lost her all. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 179 Why pause the mourners ? Who forbids our weeping? Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed ? “ Set down the bier, — he is not dead, but sleeping. Young man, arise ! ” He spake, and was obeyed. Change, then, 0 sad one, grief to exultation ; Worship and fall before Messiah’s knee. Strong was his arm, the bringer of salvation, Strong was the word of Cod to succor thee. HEUER. TPIE SONG OF THE .SHIRT. With fingers weary and worn. With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread. Stitch, — stitch, — stitch, - — In poverty, hunger ajid dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the “ Song of the Shirt ! ’ Work, — work, — work, — While the cock is crowing aloof! And work, — work, — work, — Till the stars shine through the roof! It ’s 0 I to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save. If this is Christian work ! i.i Work, — work, — work, — Till the brain begins to swim ; Work, — work, — work, — Till the eyes are heavy and dim. 180 SELECTIONS IN POETIIY. Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam. Till over the buttons I fall asleep. And sew them on in my dream. “0, men with sisters dear ! O, men with mothers and wives . It is not linen you ’re wearing out, But human creatures’ lives ! Stitch, — stitch ^ — stitch, — In poverty^ hunger and dirt^ Sewing at once, with a double tlirctul, A shroud as well as a shirt. “ But why do I talk of Death, That phantom of grisly bone ? I hardly fear his terrible shape. It seems so like my own I It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep. 0 God ! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap ! “ Work, — work. — work, — My labor never flags ; And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, A crust of bread, and rags ; A shattered roof, and this naked floor ; A table, a broken chair ; And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there ! “ Work, — work, — work, — From weary chime to chime ; THE SONG OF THE SHIllT. 181 Work, — work, — work, — As prisoners work, for crime I Band, and gusset, and seam. Seam, and gusset, and band. Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed. As well as the weary hand. “ Work, — work, — work, — In the dull December night, And work, — work, — work, — When the weather is warm and bright ; While underneath the eaves. The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the spring. “ 0 but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose svreet, With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet I For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, , Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal ! 0, but for one short hour ! A respite, however brief ! No blessed leisure for love or hope. But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, — But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.” 182 SELECTIONS IN TOirTUV. With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rugs, Plying her needle and thread. Stitch, — stitch, — stitch, — In poverty, hunger and dirt ; And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, — Would that its tones could reach the rich ! — She sang this “ Song of the Shirt.” HOOD. THE HAPPY MAN. He is the happy man whose life even now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come ; Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state. Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose. Would make his fiite his choice ; whom peace, the fruit Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith. Prepare .for happiness ; bespeak him one Content, indeed, to sojourn where he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o’erlooks him in her husy search Of objects more illustrious in her view ; And, occupied as earnestly as she. Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not ; He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies ; and such he deems Her honors, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss. Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth FROM THE ARABIC. 188 She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, And shows him glories yet to be revealed. Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed. And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird That flutters least is longest on the wing. Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, Or what achievements of immortal fame He purposes, and he shall answer, — None. His warfare is within. There, unfatigued. His fervent spirit labors. There he fights, And there obtains fresh triumphs o’er himself, And never-withering wreaths, compared with which The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds. Perhaps the self-approving, haughty world, That, as she sweeps him with her rustling silks, Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see. Deems him a cipher in the works of God, Receives advantage from his noiseless hours Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous hai'vest, to the prayer he makes. When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint Walks forth to meditate at eventide. And think on her who thinks not for herself. COWI'KR. . FROM THE ARABIC. The morn that ushered thee to life, my child, Saw thee in tears, whilst all around thee smiled ; When summoned hence to thy eternal sleep, 0, mayst thou smile, whilst all around thee weep ! 184 SELECTIONS IN POKTIIY. REMORSE. The spirits I have raised abandon me, — The spells which I have studied baffle me, — The remedy I recked of tortured me. I lean no more on superhuman aid ; It hath no power upon the past ; and for The future, till the past be gulfed in darkness. It is not of my search. My mother earth ! And thou, fresh-breaking day, and you, ye moim tains. Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright eye of the universe. That ope nest over all, and unto all Art a delight, — thou shin’st not on my heart ! And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge J stand, and on the torrent’s brink beneath Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs In dizziness of distance, — - when a leap, A stir, a motion, even a breath, would ])ring My breast upon its rooky bosom’s bed To rest forever, wherefore do I pause ? I feel the impulse, yet I do not plunge ; I see the peril, yet do not recede ; And my brain reels, and yet my foot is firm : There is a power upon me, which withholds, And makes it my fatality to live, — If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of spirit, and to be . My own soul’s sepulchre ; for I have ceased To justify my deeds unto myself, — The last infirmity of evil. Ay, Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, BIvESSINGS UNOBSERVED, 185 Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, Well may’st thou swoop so near me ! — I should he Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets. Thou art gone Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine Yet pierces downward, onward, or above. With a pervading vision. Beautiful ! How beautiful is all this visible world ! How glorious in its action and itself! But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar, with our mixed essence make A conflict of its elements, and breathe The breath of degradation and of pride. Contending with low wants and lofty will. Till our mortality predominates, And men are what they name not to themselves, And trust not to each other, BYRON. BLESSINGS UNOBSERVED. A man’s best things are nearest him. Lie close about his feet ; It is the distant and the dim That we are sick to greet. For flowers that grow our hands beneath We struggle and aspire ; Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh Desire. Yet, brothers, who up Reason’s hill Advance with hopeful cheer, — 18G SELECTIONS IN POETRY. 0, loiter not ! those heights are chill, — As chill as they are clear ; And still restrain your haughty gaze, The loftier that ye go. Remembering distance leaves a haze On all that lies below. OF A CONTENTED MIND. When all is done and said. In the end thus shall you find : He most of all doth bathe in bliss. That hath a quiet mind ; And, clear from worldly cares, To deem can be content The sweetest time in all his life In thinking to be spent. The body subject is To fickle Fortune’s power, And to a million of mishaps Is casual every hour ; And death in time doth chancre O It to a clod of clay ; Whereas the mind, which is divine, Runs never to decay. Companion none is like Unto the mind alone ; For many have been harmed by speech, — Through thinking, few or none. Fear oftentimes restraineth words, But makes not thoughts to cease ; A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 187 And he speaks best that hath the skill When for to hold his peace. Our wealth leaves us at death ; Our kinsmen at the grave ; But virtues of the mind unto The heavens with us we have. Wherefore, for virtue’s sake, I can be well content The sweetest time of all my life To deem in thinking spent. A WET SHEET AIS'D A FLOWING SEA. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows flist. And fills the white and rustling sail. And bends the gallant mast ; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free. Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. “ 0, for a soft and gentle wind ! ” I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the swelling breeze, And white waves heaving high ; And white waves heaving high, my boys. The good ship tight and free, — The world of waters is our home. And merry men are we. SELECTIONS IN POETRY. There ’s tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud ; And hark, the music, mariners ! The wind is piping loud ; The wind is piping loud, my boys. The lightning flashes free, While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. CUNNINGHAM. TJIE ELOQUENT PASTOll. He taught the cheerfulness that still is ours. The sweetness that still lurks in human powers ; — If heaven be full of stars, the earth has flowers ! His was the searching thought, the glowing mind ; The gentle will to others’ soon resigned ; But, more than all, the feeling just and kind. His pleasures were as melodies from reeds, — Sweet books, deep music and unselfish deeds, Finding immortal flowers in human weeds. True to his kind, nor of himself afraid. He deemed that love of God was best arrayed In love of all the things that God has made. He deemed man’s life no feverish dream of care. But a high pathw^ay into freer air, Lit up with golden hopes and duties fair. He showed how wisdom turns its hours to years. Feeding the heart on joys instead of fears, And worships God in smiles, and not in tears. THE IIOLLY-TREE. 189 His thoughts were as a pyramid up-piled, On whose far top an angel stood and smiled, — Yet in his heart was he a simple child. LAMAN BLANCHARD. THE HOLLY-TREE. 0 READER ! hast thou ever stood to see The Holly-tree ? The eye that contemplates it well, perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an Intelligence so wise. As might confound the atheist’s sophistries. BeloWj a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen ; No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound ; But, as they grow where nothing is to fear. Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 1 love to view these things with curious eyes. And moralize : And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree Can emblems see Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme. One which may profit in the after-time. Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere. To those who on my leisure would intrude Beserved and rude. Gentle at home amid my friends I ’d be. Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree. 190 SELECTIONS IN POETllY. And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away. Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree. And as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The Holly-leaves a sober hue display Less bright than they ; But, when the bare and wintry woods we see. What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree ? -r- So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng ; So would I seem amid the young and gay More grave than they, That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly-tree. SOUTHEY. LIFT UP THINE EYES, AFFLICTEI) SOUL. Lift up thine eyes, afflicted soul ! From earth lift up thine eyes. Though dark the evening shadows roll, And daylight beauty dies ; One sun is set, — a thousand more Their rounds ef glory run. Where Science leads thee to explore In every star a sun. Thus, when some long-loved comfort ends, And nature would despair, SPIRIT OP DELIGHT. 191 Faith to the heaven of heaven ascends, And meets ten thousand there ; First faint and small, then clear and bright. They gladden all the gloom, And stars, that seem but points of light, The rank of suns assume, MONTGOMERY. SPIRIT OF DELIGHT. Harely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of delight ! Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night ? Many a weary night and day ’T is since thou art fled away. How shall ever one like me Win thee back again ? With the joyous and the free Thou wilt scoff at pain. Spirit false ! thou hast forgot All but those who need thee not. As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf. Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; Even the sighs of grief Keproach thee, that thou art not near ; And reproach thou wilt not hear. Let me set ray mournful ditty To a merry measure. 102 SELECTIONS IN POETrY. Thou wilt never come foT pity, Thou Avilt come for plea/^ure ; Pity then will cut away Those cruel wingsj and thou Avilt stay. I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of delight ! The fresh earth in new leaves dressed, And the starry night ; Autumn evening, and the morn. When the golden mists are born. I love snoAV, and all the forms Of the radiant frost ; I love Avaves, and Avinds, and storms. Everything almost Which is Nature’s, and may be Untainted by man’s misery. I love tranquil solitude. And such society As is quiet, wise, and good ; Between thee and me What difference ! but thou dost possess The things I seek — not love them less. I love Love, though h.e has wings. And like light can flee ; But, above all other things. Spirit, I love thee ; — Thou art love and life ; 0 come. Make once more my heart thy home ! SHELLKY. TO A CHILD. 193 TO A CHILD SIX YEARS OLD, DURING SICKNESS. Sleep breathes at last from out thee, Mj 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 ; Yet 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 Dread 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 thSir bed. Ah ! first-born of thy mother. When life and hope were new. Kind playmate of thy brother. Thy sister, father too ; 9 M 101 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. IMy 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 insure That it will not be so. Yes, still he ’s fixed, and sleeping ! 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 HUNT. WHERE IS THE SEA? SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied, “ The sea^ — where is it .2 ” Where is the sea ? I languish here, — Where is my own blue sea. With all its barks in fleet career. And flags and breezes fi*ee ? THE CHRISTIAN VIRGIN TO HER APOSTATE LOVER. 195 I miss that voice of waves, which first Awoke my childish glee ; The measured chime, the thundering burst, — Where is my own blue sea ? 0 ! rich your myrtle’s breath may rise Soft, soft your winds may be ; Yet my sick heart within me dies, — Where is my own blue sea ? 1 hear the shepherd’s mountain flute, I hear the whispering tree ; The echoes of my soul are mute, — Where is my own blue sea ? MRS. HEMANS. THE CHRISTIAN VIRGIN TO HER APOSTATE LOVER. 0, LOST to faith, to peace, to heaven ! Canst thou a recreant be To Him whose life for thine was given. Whose cross endured for thee ? Canst thou for earthly joys resign A love immortal, pure, divine. Yet link thy plighted truth to mine, And cleave unchanged to me? Thou canst not; and ’tis breathed in vain, Thy sophistry of love ! — Though not in pride, or cold disdain. Thy falsehood I reprove ; Inly my heart may bleed, but yet Mine is no weak, no vain regret ; Thy wrongs to me I might forget, But not to Him above. 196 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Cease, then, thy fond, impassioned vow, In happier hours so dear ; (No virgin pride restrains me now) I must not turn to hear ; For still my erring heart might prove Too weak to spurn thy proffered love ; And tears, though feigned and false, might move, And prayers, though insincere. But no ! the tie so firmly bound Is torn asunder now ; How deep that sudden wrench may wound. It recks not to avow ; Go thou to fortune and to fame, — I sink to sorrow, suffering, shame ; Yet think, when glory gilds thy name, I would not be as thou ! Thou canst not light or wavering deem The bosom all thine own ; Thou know’st, in joy’s enlivening beam, Or fortune’s adverse frown, My pride, my bliss, had been to share Thine hopes ; to soothe thine hours of care ; With thee the martyr’s cross to bear, Or win the martyr’s crOwn. ’T is o’er ; but never from my heart Shall time thine image blot ; The dreams of other days depart, — Thou shalt not be forgot ; And never, in the suppliant sigh Poured forth to Him who rules the sky. Shall mine own name be breathed on high. And thine remembered not. SUMMER EVENING BY THE SEA. 197 Farewell ! and 0, may he whose love Endures, though man rebel, In mercy yet thy guilt reprove, Thy darkening clouds dispel ! Where’er thy wandering steps decline, My fondest prayers, nor only mine, — The aid of Israel’s God be thine ; And, in his name, farewell ! REV. T. DALE. SUMMER EVENING BY THE SEA. Amid the west, the light decaying. Like Joy, looks loveliest ere it dies ; On Ocean’s breast, the small waves playing. Catch the last lustre as they rise. Scarce the blue-curling tide displaces One pebble in its gentle ebb ; Scarce on the smooth sand leaves its traces, In meshes fine as fairy’s web. From many a stone the sea-weed streaming Now floats, now falls, the waves between, Its yellow berries brighter seeming Amid the wreaths of dusky green. This is the hour the loved are dearest. This is the hour the severed meet ; The dead, the distant, now are nearest, And joy is soft, and sorrow sweet. REV. C. H. TOWNSHEND. 198 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. With what unknown delight the mother smiled, When this frail treasure in her arms she pressed ! Her prayer was heard, — she clasped a living child, — But how the gift transcends the poor request ! A child was all she asked, with many a vow ; Mother, behold the child an angel now ! Now in her Father’s house she finds a place ; Or, if to earth she take a transient flight, ’T is to fulfil the purpose of Ilis grace. To guide thy footsteps to the world of light ; — A ministering spirit sent to thee. That where she is, there thou mayst also be. JANE TAYLOR. SONNET. When last we parted thou wert young and fair ; How beautiful, let fond remembrance say ! Alas ! since then old Time has stolen away Full thirty years, leaving my temples bare. So hath it perished like a thing of air. The dream of love and youth ! — Now both are gray. Yet still remembering that delightful day. Though Time with his cold touch hath blanched my hair. Though I have suffered many years of pain Since then ; though I did never think to live To hear that voice or see those eyes again, I can a sad but cordial greeting give. And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer. Lady, as when I loved thee, young and fair ! REV. W. L. BOWLES. BIBLE. 199 BIBLE. Bible ! — Blessed Bible ! Treasure of the heart ! What sweet consolation Doth thy page impart ! In the fiercest trial, In the deepest grief, Strength, and hope, and comfort. In each holy leaf. Bible, — let me clasp thee, Anchor of the soul ! When the storm is raging. When the waters roll, 200 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. When the frowning heavens Darken every star, And no hopeful beacon Glimmereth afar, Be my refuge, Bible ! Then be thou my stay. Guide me on life’s billow. Light the dreary way ; Tell me of the morrow. When a sun shall rise. That shall glow forever. In unclouded skies ; Tell me of that heaven In the climes above. Where the bark rides safely In a sea of love ! Bible ! — let me clasp thee ! Chronicle divine Of a world’s redemption, Of a Saviour, mine ! Wisdom for the simple, niches for the poor, Hope for the desponding. For the sick a cure. Best for all the weary, Bansom for the slave. Courage for the fearful. Life beyond the grave ! Bible ! — blessed Bible ! Treasure of the heart. What sweet consolation Doth thy page impart ; — LILY OF THE VALLEY. — FORGIVENESS. 201 In the fiercest trial, In the deepest grief, Strength, and hope, and comfort. In each holy leaf. REV. R. HOYT. THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. White bud ! that in meek beauty so dost lean. The cloistered cheek as pale as moonlight snow. Thou seem’st, beneath thy huge, high leaf of green, An Eremite beneath his mountain’s brow. White bud ! thou ’rt emblem of a lovelier thing, — The broken spirit, that its anguish bears To silent shades, and there sits offering To Heaven the holy fragrance of its tears. REV. G. CROLY. FOEGIVENESS. When on the fragrant sandal-tree The woodman’s axe descends. And she who bloomed so beauteously Beneath the keen stroke bends. E’en on the edge that brought her death, Hying, she breathes her sweetest breath. As if to token in her fall “ Peace to her foes, and love to all ! ” How hardly man this lesson learns. To smile, and bless the hand that spurns ; To see the blow, and feel the pain. But render only love again ! 9 =^ 202 SELECTIONS IN POETKY. This Spirit ne’er was given on earth ; One had it, — He of heavenly birth ; licviled, rejected and betrayed, No curse He breathed, no plaint he made. But, when in death’s deep pang He sighed. Prayed for his murderers — and died. SOLITUDE. Are not these woods IMore free from peril than the envious court ? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The season’s difference ; as the icy fang. And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind ; Which, when it bites and blows upon my body. Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, This is no flattery : ’these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity ; Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous. Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; And this our life, exempt from public haunt. Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. SHAKSPEARE. THE EVENING CLOUD. A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, — A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : Long had I watched the glory moving on. O’er the still radiance of the lake below; THE THUNDER-STORM. 203 Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ; E’en in its very motion there was rest, While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul. To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven : Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. WILSON. THE THUNDER-STOEM. See ye the signals of his march ? — the flash Wide streaming round ? — the thunder of his voice Hear ye ? — Jehovah’s thunder ? — the dread peal Hear ye, that rends the concave ? Lord ! God supreme ! Compassionate and kind ! Praised be thy glorious name ! Praised and adored ! How sweeps the whirlwind ! — leader of the storm ! How screams discordant, and with headlong waves Lashes the forest ! — All is now repose. Slow sail the dark clouds — slow. Again new signals press ! — enkindled, broad, See ye the lightning ? — hear ye, from the clouds. The thunders of the Lord ? — J ehovah calls ; Jehovah ! — and the smitten forest smokes, 204 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. But not our cot ; Our heavenly Father bade The o’erwhelming power Pass o’er our cot, and spare it. KLOPSTOCK. A LESSON FOR FUTURE LIFE. Every present holds a future in it, Could we read its bosom secret right, Could we see the golden clue and win it. Lay our hand to work with heart and might. True it is we shall not live in story. But we may be waves within a tide, Help the human flood to near the glory That shall shine when we have toiled and died. Therefore, though few praise, or help, or heed us, Let us work, with head, or heart, or hand ; For we know the future ages need us. We must help our time to take its stand ; — That the after day may make beginning Where our present labor hath its end ; So each age, by that before it winning. To the following help in turn shall lend. Each single struggle hath its far vibration, Working results that work results again ; Failure and death are no annihilation. Our tears, absorbed, will make some future rain. Let us toil on ; the work we leave behind us. Though incomplete, God’s hand will yet embalm, THE WORTH OF WOMAN. 205 And use it some way : and the news will find us In heaven above, and sweeten endless calm. THE WORTH OF WOMAN. Honored be Woman ! she beams on the sight. Graceful and fair as a being of light ; Scatters around her, wherever she strays, Roses of bliss on our thorn-covered ways ; Roses of paradise, sent from above. To be gathered and twined in a garland of love. Man, on Passion’s stormy ocean. Tossed by surges mountain high, Courts the hurricane’s commotion, Spurns at Reason’s feeble cry. Loud the tempest roars around him, Louder still it roars within ; Flashing lights of Hope confound him, Stuns him life’s incessant din. Woman invites him, with bliss in her smile, To cease from his toil and be happy a while ; Whispering wooingly, “ Come to my bower ; Go not in search of the phantom of power. Honor and wealth are illusory, — come ! Happiness dwells in the temple of home.” Man, with fury stern and savage, Persecutes his brother-man ; Reckless if he bless or ravage, Action, action, still his plan. Now creating, now destroying. Ceaseless wishes tear his breast. 20G SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Ever seeking, ne’er enjoying; Still to be, but never blest. Woman, contented, in silent repose. Enjoys in its beauty life’s flower as it blows. And waters and tends it with innocent heart. Far richer than man with his treasures of art ; And wiser by far, in her circle confined. Than he with his science and lights of the mind. Coldly to himself sufficing, Man disdains the gentler arts, Knoweth not the bliss arising From the interchange of hearts. Slowly through his bosom stealing. Flows the genial current on. Till, by age’s frost congealing. It is hardened into stone. She, like the harp that instinctively rings. As the night-breathing zephyr soft sighs on the strings, Responds to each impulse with steady reply. Whether sorrow or pleasure her sympathy try ; And tear-drops and smiles on her countenance play. Like the sunshine and showers of a morning in May. Through the range of Man’s dominion, Terrror is the ruling word ; And the standard of opinion Is the temple or the sword. Strife exults, and Pity, blushing. From the scene departing flies. Where, to battle madly rushing, I*rother upon brother dies. ODE TO A GOLD COIN. 207 Woman commands with a milder control ; She rules by enchantment the realm of the soul ; As she glances around, in the light of her smile The war of the passions is hushed for a while ; And Discord, content from his fury to cease. Reposes, entranced, in the sunlight of Peace. SCHILLER. ODE TO A GOLD COIN. The following “ Ode to an Indian Gold Coin ” was written in Cherical, Mala- bar, by Dr. John Leyden, a native of Scotland, who went, in 1803, to reside in India, in the view of accumulating a fortune. His worldly prospects were term- inated by his death, which took place at Java, in 1811, three weeks after he had landed there with the British troops. 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 cheer. 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 perished bliss of youth’s first prime. 208 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. That once so bright on Fancy played, Ilevives no more in after-time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave ; The daring thoughts that soared 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 widowed heart to cheer : Her eyes are dim with many a tear. That once were guiding stars to mine ; Her fond heart throbs with many a fear ! — I cannot bear to see thee shine ! For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that loved me true ! I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, To roam in climes unkind and new. The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my withered 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 banished 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! THE TRUE REFUGE. — TO FORTUNE. 209 THE TRUE REFUGE. Forth from the dark and stormy sky, Lord, to thine altar’s shade we fly ; Forth from the world, its hope and fear. Saviour, we seek thy shelter here ; Weary and weak, thy grace we pray ; Turn not, 0 Lord, thy guests away ! Long have we roamed in want and pain, Long have we sought thy rest in vain ; ’Wildered in doubt, in darkness lost. Long have our souls been tempest-test : Low at thy feet our sins we lay ; Turn not, 0 Lord, thy guests away ! * HEBER. TO FORTUNE. The mists in which future events are wrapped, That oft succeed beside the purposes Of him that works, — his dull eyes not discerning The first great Cause, — oflered thy clouded shape To his inquiring search ; so in the dark The groping world first found thy deity, And gave thee rule over contingencies. Which, to the piercing eye of Providence, Are fixed and certain : where past and to come Are always present, thou dost disappear, Losest thy being, and art not at all. Be thou, then, only a deluding phantonj. At best a blind guide, leading blinder fools ; Who, would they but survey their mutual wants, And help each other, there were left no room N 10 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. For thy vain aid. Wisdom, whose strong-built plots Leave naught to hazard, mocks thy futile power. Industrious Labor drags thee by the locks, Bound to his toiling car, and not attending Till thou dispense, reaches his own reward. Only the lazy sluggish yawning lies Before thy threshold, gaping for thy dole. And licks the easy hand that feeds his sloth. THOMAS CAREW. mAGARX, The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee ! It would seem As if God poured thee from his hollow hand. And hung his bow upon thine awful front, And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour’s sake “ The sound of many waters,” and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back. And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks. Beep calleth unto deep, — and what are we That hear the question of that voice sublime ; 0, what are all the notes that ever rung From war’s vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ? Yea, what is all the riot man can make. In his short life, to thine unceasing roar ? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drowned the world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains ? — A light wave. That breaks and whispers of his Maker’s might ! ERAINARD. EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON. INDEPENDENCE. 211 EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON, IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL. Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear : Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave : To Bristol’s fount I bore with trembling care Her faded form ; she bowed to taste the wave. And died ! Does youth, does beauty, read the line ? Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ? Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine ; Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee ; Bid them in duty’s sphere as meekly move : And if so fair, from vanity as free, As firm in friendship, and as fond in love, — Tell them, though ’tis an awful thing to die (’Twas even to thee), yet, the dread path once trod. Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high. And bids “ the pure in heart behold their God.” WILLIAM MASON. INDEPENDENCE. I CARE not. Fortune, what you me deny : You cannot rob me of free Nature’s grace : You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face ; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream at eve : Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace. And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave ! THOMSON. SELECTIONS IN POETRY. 2V1 IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a’ that ? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that ! For a’ that, and a’ that. Our toils obscure, and a’ that, The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man ’s the gowd for a’ that ! What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin gray, and a’ that ? Grie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man ’s a man for a’ that ! For a’ that, and a’ that. Their tinsel show, and a’ that. The honest man, though e’er sae poor. Is king o’ men for a’ that ! Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that ; Though hundreds worship at his word, He ’s but a coof for a’ that ! For a’ that, and a’ that. His riband, star, and a’ that. The man of independent mind. He looks and laughs at a’ that ! A king can mak’ a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that ; Eut an honest man ’s aboon his might, Quid faith he mauna fa’ that ? EVENING. 213 For a’ that, and a’ that, Their dignities, and a’ that, Tlie pith o’ sense and pride o’ worth Are higher ranks than a’ that ! Then let us pray that come it may, — As come it will, for a’ that, — That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth, May bear the gree, and a’ that ! For a’ that, and a’ that. It ’s cornin’ yet, for a’ that. That man to man, the warld o’er. Shall brothers be for a’ that ! BURNS. EVENING. 0, Hesperus, thou bringest all good things, — Home to the weary, to the hungry, cheer ; To the young bird the parent’s brooding wings. The welcome stall to the o’er-labored steer ; Whate’er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Whate’er our household gods protect of dear. Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ; Thou bring’st the child, too, to the mother’s breast. Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way. As the far bell of vesper makes him start. Seeming to weep the dying day’s decay ; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns. 214 SELECTIONS IN POETllY. When Nero perished by the justest doom Which ever the destroyer yet destroyed, Amidst the roar of liberated Eome, Of nations freed, and the world overjoyed, Some hands unseen strewed flowers upon his tomb ; Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void Of feeling for some kindness done, when power Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. BYRON. HOPE. How many there are who sing and dream Of happier seasons coming ! And ever is Fancy, to catch a beam Of a golden era, roaming. The world may grow old, and young again, And the hope of a better shall still remain. Hope comes with life at its dawning hour ; Hope sports with the infant creeper ; Hope cheers up the youth, with her magic power And when, too, the gray-haired weeper Has closed in the grave his weary round. He plants the tree of Hope on the mound. It is not an empty, vain deceit. In the brains of fools created ; It speaks to the soul of a state more meet, Where its longings shall all be sated. And the promise the indwelling voice thus makes To the hoping soul, it never breaks. SCHILLER. THANKSGIVING. 215 THANKSGIVING. For spring, and flowers of spring, Blossoms, and what they bring. Be our thanks given ; Thanks for the maiden’s bloom. For the sad prison’s gloom, And for the sadder tomb. E’en as for Heaven ! Great God, thy will is done, • When the soul’s rivers run Down the worn cheeks ; Done when the righteous bleed ; When the wronged vainly plead ; Done in the unended deed. When the heart breaks. Lo ! how the dutiful Snows clothe in beautiful Life the dead earth ! Lo ! how the clouds distil liiches o’er vale and hill. While the storm’s evil will Dies in its birth ! Blessed is the unpeopled down ; Blessed is the crowded town. Where the tired groan ; Pain but appears to be ; What are man’s fears to Thee, God ! if all tears shall be Gems on thy throne ? ELLIOT. 1 210 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Lo ! the lilies of the field, How their leaves instruction yield ! Hark to Nature’s lesson given By the blessed birds of Heaven. Every bush and tufted tree Warbles sweet philosophy, — “ Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow : God provideth for the morrow ! “ Say, with richer crimson glows The kingly mantle than the rose ? Say, have kings more wholesome fare Than we poor citizens of air ? Barns nor hoarded grain have we, Yet we carol merrily ; — Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, God provideth for the morrow ! ‘‘ One there lives whose guardian eye G uides our humble destiny ; One there lives, who. Lord of all. Keeps our feathers lest they fall ; HUMAN LIFE. 217 Pass we blithely, then, the time. Fearless of the snare and lime, Free from doubt and faithless sorrow ; God provideth for the morrow ! ” HUMAN LIFE. ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY. If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom Swallow up life’s brief flash for aye, we fare As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom. Whose sound and motion not alone declare, But are^ their whole of being ! If the breath Be life itself, and not its task and tent, — If even a soul like Milton’s can know death, — 0 man I thou vessel purposeless, unmeant, Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! Surplus of Nature’s dread activity. Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase, Betreating slow, with meditative pause. She formed with restless hands unconsciously ! Blank accident ! nothing’s anomaly ! If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state. Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, The counter- weights ! — thy laughter and thy tears Mean but themselves, each fittest to create. And to repay the other ! Why rejoices Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good ? Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner’s hood ? Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, 10 218 SELECTIONS IN POETKY. Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf, That such a thing as thou feel’st warm or cold ? Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? Be sad ! be glad I be neither ! seek, or shun ! Thou hast no reason why ! Thou canst have none Thy being’s being is a contradiction. COLERIDGE. THE DEATH OF SCHILLER. T IS said, when Schiller’s death drew nigh, The wish possessed his mighty mind To wander forth wherever lie The homes and haunts of human-kind. Then strayed the poet, in his dreams. By Borne and Egypt’s ancient graves ; Went up the New World’s forest streams. Stood in the Hindoo’s temple caves ; Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, The sallow Tartar, midst his herds. The peering Chinese, and the dark. False Malay, uttering gentle words. How could he rest ? even then he trod The threshold of the world unknown ; Already from the seat of God A ray upon his garments shone ; — Shone, and awoke the strong desire For love and knowledge reached not here, Till, freed by death, his soul of fire Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere. CASTLES IN THE AIll. t>19 Then, who shall tell how deep, how bright, The abyss of glory opened round ? How thought and feeling flowed like light, Through ranks of being without bound ? CASTLES IN THE AIR. Farewell, my castles, raised so high ! Farewell, ye bowers of beauty ! From your enchantment I must fly To sober paths of duty. Ah ! many an hour could I employ. These lovely bowers adorning, Till every airy ball of joy Should seem a star of morning ! But, go, vain dreams, depart ! Though fondly loved, I feel it. That while you soothe the heart, From better things you steal it. When rose the storm of grief and care On life’s uncertain billow, I sought my castles in the air. And found a ready pillow. Here joys to come were always shown, The present grief dispelling ; For future woe is all unknown In my aerial dwelling. The lesson thus was lost. For which the storm was given, — To show the tempest-tost A refuge sure in heaven ! 220 SELECTIONS IN POETKY. Here Hope, though cheated o’er and o’er, I thought would dwell securest ; And deemed, of all her various store. This gift the best and surest. While Fancy strove, with magic glass. To raise the scene ideal. Still whispered Hope, — “ Though this may pasr>, The rest will sure be real.” Thus many a darling theme Was forming and undoing. But still a brighter dream Arose upon the ruin. Thus, in the fields of wild romance, I tarried for a season ; But still, at every change and chance, I heard the voice of Reason : — 0 ! at some holier, happier shrine. Devote thy thoughts so ranging, Whose base is truth and love divine, Its fabric never changing. Thy hopes through youth and age. If thou wilt hither guide them. Though tempests rise and rage. Securely shall abide them.” I raised my eyes from all beneath, And Hope stood in the portal ; She held an amaranthine wreath. And promised life immortal ! I felt the scene before my view Was more than idle seeming, And wished and strove to bid adieu To all my days of dreaming. SONGS OF BEING. 221 Then go, vain dreams, depart ! Though fondly loved, I feel it, That, while you soothe the heart, From better things you steal it. SONGS OF BEINa THE BIRTH. Hail ! new-waked atom of the Eternal whole, Young voyager upon Time’s mighty river ! Hail to thee, Human Soul ! Hail, and forever ! Pilgrim of life, all hail ! He who at first called forth From nothingness the earth. Who clothed the hills in strength, and dug the sea, Who gave the stars to gem Night like a diadem. Thou little child, made thee ; Young habitant of earth. Fair as its fiowers, though brought in sorrow forth, Thou art akin to God who fashioned thee ! The heavens themselves shall vanish as a scroll, The solid earth dissolve, the stars grow pale. But thou, 0 Human Soul, Shalt be immortal ! Hail ! Thou young Immortal, Hail ! He, before whom are dim Seraph and cherubim. Who gave the archangels strength and majesty, SELECTIONS IN POETRY. 1 Who sits upon heaven’s throne, The everlasting One, Thou little child, made thee ! Fair habitant of earth. Immortal in thy God, though mortal by thy birth. Born for life’s trials, hail ! all hail to thee ! THE DEATH. Shrink not, 0 Human Spirit ! The Everlasting Arm is strong to save ! Look up, look up, frail nature ! put thy trust In Him who went down mourning to the dust, And overcame the grave ! Quickly goes down the sun ; Life’s work is almost done ; Fruitless endeavor, hope deferred, and strife ! One little struggle more. One pang, and then is o’er All the long, mournful weariness of life. Kind friends, ’t is almost past ; Come now, and look your last ! Sweet children, gather near. And his last blessing hear. See how he loved you, who departeth now ! And, with thy trembling step and pallid brow, 0, most beloved one, Whose breast he leaned upon. Come, faithful unto death, Eeceive his parting breath ! The fluttering spirit panteth to be free, — Hold him not back who speeds to victory ! — The bonds are riven, the struggling soul is free ! PROSE AND SONG. 223 Hail, hail, enfranchised spirit ! Thou that the wine-press of the field hath trod ! On, blessed Immortal, on through boundless space. And stand with thy Redeemer, face to face. And bow before thy God ! Life’s weary work is o’er, Thou art of earth no more : No more art trammelled by the oppressive clay, But tread’st with winged ease The high acclivities Of truths sublime, up heaven’s crystalline way. Here is no bootless quest ; The city’s name is Best ; Here shall no fear appal ; Here love is all in all ; Here shalt thou win thy ardent soul’s desire ; Here clothe thee in thy beautiful attire, Lift, lift thy wondering eyes ! Yonder is Paradise, And this fair shining band Are spirits of thy land ! And these that throng to meet thee are thy kin, Who have awaited thee, redeemed from sin ’ The city gates unfold — enter, 0, enter in ' PROSE AND SONG. I LOOKED upon a plain of green. That some one called the land of prose, Where many living things were seen, In movement or repose. I looked upon a stately hill. That well was named the mount of song. 1 224 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. ^Vliere golden shadows dwelt at will, The woods and streams among. But most this fact my wonder bred, Though known by all the nobly wise, — It was the mountain streams that fed The fair green plain’s amenities. JOHN STERLING. AN EVENING REVERT. 0 THOU great Movement of the universe. Or Change, or Flight of Time, — for ye arc one ! — That bearest, silently, this visible scene Into night’s shadow and the streaming rays Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me ? 1 feel the mighty current sweep me on, Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar The courses of the stars ; the very hour He knows when they shall darken or grow bright ; Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death Come unforewarned. Who nextj of those I love, Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall From virtue? Strife with foeSj or bitterer strife With friends, or shame and genend scorn of men, — Which who can bear ? — or the fierce rack of pain, Lie 4hey within my path ? Or shall the years Push me, with soft and inofiensive pace, Into the stilly twilight of my age ? Or do the portals of another life. Even now, while I am glorying in my strength. Impend around me ? 0 ! beyond that bourn. In the vast cycle of being which begins THE GOLDEN YEAR. 225 At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms Shall the great law of change and progress clothe Its workings ? Gently, — so have good men taught, — Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new ; the eternal flow of things. Like a bright river of the fields of heaven. Shall journey onward in perpetual peace ! BRYANT. THE GOLDEN YEAR. We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move ; The sun flies forward to his brother sun ; The dark earth follows, wheeled in her ellipse ; And human things, returning on themselves. Move onward, leading up the golden year. Ah, though the times when some new thought can bud Are but as poets’ seasons when they flower. Yet seas that daily gain upon the shore Have ebb and flow conditioning their march. And slow and sure comes up the golden year. When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps. But, smit with freer light, shall slowly melt In many streams, to fatten lower lands. And light shall spread, and man be liker man. Through all the season of the golden year. Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be wrens ? If all the world were falcons, what of that ? The wonder of the eagle were the less. But he not less the eagle. Happy days Roll onward, leading up the golden year ! 10 ^^ o 226 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Fly, happy, happy sails, and bear the Press ; Fly, happy with the mission of the Cross ; Knit land to land, and, blowing havenward. With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, Enrich the markets of the golden year. But we grow old. Ah, when shall all men’s good Be each man’s rule, and universal peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land. And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. Through all the circle of the golden year ? TENNYSON. CHEERFULNESS. See how the day beameth brightly before us ! Blue is the firmament, green is the earth ; Grief hath no voice in the universe chorus, Nature is ringing with music and mirth. Lift up the looks that are sinking in sadness ; Gaze ! and if beauty can rapture thy soul, Virtue herself shall allure thee to gladness. Gladness ! philosophy’s guerdon and goal. Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses ; List ! how she trills in the nightingale’s lay ! Breathe ! she is wafting the sweets from the roses ; Feel ! she is cool in the rivulet’s play; Taste ! from the grape and the nectarine gushing. Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun ; Green in the hills are flower-groves blushing ; Look ! she is always and everywhere one. Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are trickling Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom ; CHEEEFULNESS. 227 Why should a man, like a girl or a sickling, Suffer his lamp to be quenched in the tomb ? Still may we battle for good and for beauty ; Still has philanthropy much to essay ; Glory rewards the fulfilment of duty ; Rest will pavilion the end of our way. What though corroding and multiplied sorrows, Legion-like, darken this planet of ours ? Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows. Even when anguish hath palsied its powers. Wherefore, though Fate play the part of a traitor. Soar o’er the stars on the pinions of hope. Fearlessly certain that, sooner or later. Over the stars thy desires shall have scope ; — Look round about on the face of creation ! Still is God’s earth undistorted and bright ; Comfort the captive’s too long tribulation, Thus shalt thou reap thy more perfect delight. Love ! — but if love be a hallowed emotion, Purity only its rapture should share ; Love, then, with willing and deathless devotion. All that is just, and exalted, and fair. Act ! for in action are wisdom and glory ; Fame, immortality, these are its crown ; Wouldst thou illumine the tablets of story ? Build on achievements thy doom of renown. Honor and feeling were given to cherish ; Cherish them, then, though all else should decay ; Landmarks be these that are never to perish. Stars that will shine on the duskiest day. SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Courage ! disaster and peril, once over, Freshen the spirit as flowers may the grove ; O’er the dim graves that the cypresses cover, Soon the forget-me-not rises in love. Courage, then, friends ! though the universe crumble. Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath. Patient and trustful, and joyous and humble. Smiles through the ruin on darkness and death ! SALIS. VESPERS. God, that mad’st the Earth and Heaven Darkness and light. Who the day for toil hast given. For rest the night. May thine angel-guards defend us. Slumber sweet thy mercy send us. Holy dreams and hopes attend us. This livelong night ! HEBER. THE KINGDOM OF GOD. “ For behold the kingdom of God is within you.” Pilgrim to the heavenly city. Groping ’wildered on thy way. Look not to the outward landmark. List not what the blind guides say. For long years thou hast been seeking Some new idol found each day ; All that dazzled, all that glittered. Lured thee from the path away. THE KINGDOM OF GOD. 229 On the outward world relying, Earthly treasures thou wouldst heap ; Titled friends and lofty honors Lull thy higher hopes to sleep. Thou art stored with worldly wisdom, All the lore of books is thine ; And within thy stately mansion Brightly sparkle wit and wine. Richly droop the silken curtains. Round those high and mirrored halls. And on mossy Persian carpets Silently thy proud step falls. Not the gentlest wind of heaven Dares too roughly fan thy brow. Nor the morning’s blessed sunbeams Tinge thy cheek with ruddy glow. Yet, ’midst all these outward riches. Has thy heart no void confessed, — Whispering, though each wish be granted, “ Still, 0, still I am not blessed ” ? And when happy, careless children. Lured thee with their winning ways. Thou hast sighed, in vain contrition, “ Give me back those golden days ! ” Hadst thou stooped to learn their lesson, — Truthful preachers, — they had told Thou thy kingdom hadst forsaken. Thou hadst thy own birthright sold. SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Thou art heir to vast possessions, — Up and boldly claim thine own ! Seize the crown that waits thy wearing, Leap at once into thy throne ! Look not to some cloudy mansion, ’Mong the planets far away ; Trust not to the distant future. Let thy heaven begin to-day ! When thy struggling soul hath conquered, When the path lies fair and clear. When thou art prepared for heaven. Thou wilt find that heaven is here. HARRIET WINSLOW. THE SONNET. Scorn not the Sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honors : with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound ; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; Camdens soothed with it an exile’s grief ; The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp. It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery -land To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains, — alas, too few ! WORDSWORTH. MONODY. 231 MONODY. ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT. WM. HOWARD ALLEN, OF THE AMERICAN NAVY. He hath been mourned as brave men mourn the brave, And wept as nations weep their cherished dead, With bitter, but proud tears ; and o’er his head ' The eternal flowers, whose root is in the grave. The flowers of Fame, are beautiful and green ; And by his grave’s side pilgrim-feet have been. And blessings, pure as men to martyrs give. Have there been breathed by those he died to save. Pride of his country’s banded chivalry. His fame their hope, his name their battle-cry. He lived as mothers wish their sons to live, — He died as fathers wish their sons to die. If on the grief-worn cheek the hues of bliss. Which fade when all we love is in the tomb, Could ever know on earth a second bloom, The memory of a gallant death like his Would call them into being ; — but the few Who, as their friend, their brother, or their son. His kind, warm heart, and gentle spirit knew. Had long lived, hoped and feared, for him alone ; His voice their morning music, and his eye The only starlight of their evening sky. Till even the sun of happiness seemed dim. And life’s best joys were sorrows but with him ; And when, the burning bullet in his breast. He dropped, like summer fruit from off the bough, There was one heart that knew and loved him best, — It was a mother’s, — and is broken now ! HALLECK, 232 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. HAPPIEST DAYS. They tell us, Love, that you and I Our happiest days are seeing. While yet is shut from either’s eye The change that waits on being. Ah ! life they say ’s a weary way, With less of joy than sorrow ; For where the sunlight falls to-day There ’ll l)e a shade to-morrow. If ours be love that will not bear The test of change and sorrow, And only deeper channels wear In passing to each morrow, Then better were it that to-day We fervently were praying. That what we have might pass away While we the words were saying. The heart has depths of bitterness. As well as depths of pleasure ; And those who love, love not, unless They both of these can measure. There is a time, and it will come. When this they must discover ; And woe if either then be dumb To power that moved the Lover ! There are some spots where each may fall. And each will need sustaining ; And suffering is the lot of all. And is of God’s ordaining ; I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE. 233 Then wherefore do our hearts unite In bonds that none can sever, If not to bless each changing light, And strengthen each endeavor ? Then, while these happy days we bless. Let us no doubt be sowing ; God’s mercy never will be less, Though He should change the showing. Such be our faith, as on we tread, Each trusting and obeying. As two who by His hand are led, And hear what He is saying. I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE. I DREAM of all things free ! Of a gallant, gallant bark. That sweeps through storm and sea, Like an arrow to its mark ! Or a stag that o’er the hills Goes bounding in his glee ; Of a thousand flashing rills, — Of all things glad and free. I dream of some proud bird, A bright-eyed mountain king ! In my visions I have heard The rushing of his wing. I follow some wild river. On whose breast no sail may oo ; Dark woods around it shiver, — I dream of aU things free ! 2U SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Of a happy forest child, With the fawns and flowers at play , Of an Indian midst the wild, With the stars to guide his way , Of a chief his warriors leading. Of an archer’s green-wood tree : - — My heart in chains is bleeding. And I dream of all things free ! MRS. HEMANS. A CHRISTMAS HYMN. It was the calm and silent night ! — Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Home been growing up to might. And now was queen of land and sea I No sound was heard of clashing wars. Peace brooded o’er the hushed domain ; Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, Held undisturbed their ancient reign. In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ! ’T was in the calm and silent night ! The senator of haughty Home Impatient urged his chariot’s flight, From lordly revel rolling home. Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; What recked the Homan what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ? A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 235 Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor ; A streak of light before him lay, Fallen through a half-shut stable-door Across his path. He paused, for naught Told what was going on within ; How keen the stars, his only thought ; The air how calm, and cold, and thin. In the solemn midnight. Centuries ago ! 0, strange indifference ! — low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares ; The earth was still, but knew not why ; The world was listening — unawares ! How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever ! To that still moment, none would heed, Man’s doom was linked, no more to sever. In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ! It is the calm and solemn night ! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness, charmed and holy now ! The night that erst no shame had worn. To it a happy name is given ; For in that stable lay, new-born. The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven. In the solemn midnight. Centuries ago ! ALFRED DOMETT. 236 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. THE PAST MAKES THE FUTURE. Time, as he onward courses, still unrolls The volume of concealment. In the future, As in the optician’s glassy cylinder. The undistinguishable blots and colors Of the dim past collect and shape themselves. Upstarting in their own completed image To scare or to reward. COLERIDGE. THE HOME OF THY REST. I KNOW thou art gone to the home of thy rest, — Then why should my soul be so sad ? I know thou art gone where the weary are blest, And the mourner looks up and is glad ; Where Love hath put off, in the land of its birth. The stain it had gathered in this ; And Hope, the sweet singer, that gladdened the earth. Lies asleep on the bosom of Bliss. I know thou art gone where thy forehead is starred With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul ; Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred, Nor thy spirit flung back from its goal. I know thou hast drunk of the Lethe that flows Through a land where they do not forget ; Which sheds over Memory only repose, And takes from it only regret. In thy far-away dwelling, wherever it be, I believe thou hast visions of mine ; For the love that made all things as music to me I have not yet learned to resign. THE HOME OF THY REST. 237 In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea, Or alone with the breeze on the hill, I have ever a presence that whispers of thee, And my spirit lies down and is still. The eye must be dark, that so long hath been dim, Ere again it may gaze upon thine ; But my heart hath revealings of thee and thy home, In many a token and sign. I never look up, with a vow, to the sky, But a light like thy beauty is there ; And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply. When I pour out my spirit in prayer. And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb, I am wrapt in a mantle of care. Yet the grief of my spirit — 0, call it not gloom ! — - Is not the black grief of Despair. By Sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night. Far off a bright vision appears ; And Hope, like the rainbow, a being of light, Is born, like the rainbow, of tears ! T. K. HERVEY. 238 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. THE GLIMPSE. Our many deeds, the* thoughts that we have thought, They go out from us, thronging every hour ; And in them all is folded up a power That on the earth doth move them to and fro ; And mighty are the marvels they have wrought, III hearts we know not, and may never know ! Our actions travel, and are veiled : and yet We sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of one. When out of sight its march hath well-nigh gone ; An unveiled thing which we can ne’er forget ! All sins it gathers up into its course. And they do grow with it, and are its force ; One day, with dizzy speed, that thing shall come. Recoiling on the heart that was its home. F. W. FABER. HUMAN LOVE. 0, IF there is one law above the rest Written in wisdom, — if there is a word That I would trace as with a pen of fire Upon the unsunned temper of a child, — If there is anything that keeps the mind Open to angel visits, and repels The ministry of ill, — ’t is human love ! Grod has made nothing worthy of contempt. The smallest pebble in the well of truth Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand When man’s best monuments have passed away. The law of heaven is love, and though its name Has been usurped by passion, and profaned RICHES. 239 To its unholy uses through all time, \ Still the eternal principle is pure ; And, in these deep affections that we feel Omnipotent within us, we but see The lavish measure in which love is given ; And, in the yearning tenderness of a child For every bird that sings above his head. And every creature feeding on the hills. And every tree, and flower, and running brook, We see how everything was made to love, — And how they err, who, in a world like this, Find anything to hate but human pride ’ WILLIS. RICHES. Say, then, thou man of wealth, in what degree May thy proud fortunes over-balance me ? Tliy many barks plough the rough ocean’s back, - And I am never frighted with a wrack. Thy flocks of sheep are numberless to tell, — And with one fleece I can be clothed as well. Thou hast a thousand several farms to let, — And I do feed on ne’er a tenant’s sweat. Thou hast the commons to enclosure brought, — And I have fixt a bound to my vast thought. Variety is sought for to (Jelight Thy witty and ambitious appetite ; Three elements at least dis-peopled be. To satisfy judicious gluttony ; — And yet, for this, I love my commons here Above the choicest of thy dainty cheer. SELECTIONS IN POETIIY. No widow’s curse caters a dish of mine, I drink no tears of orphans in my wine. Thou may’st, perchance, to some great office come, And I can rule a commonwealth at home. And that preeminence enjoy more free Than thou, puffed up with vain authority. What boots it him a large command to have. Whose every part is some poor vice’s slave, Which over him as proudly lords it there. As o’er the rustic he can domineer ? THOS. RANDOLPH. CORN-FIELDS. In the young merry time of spring. When clover ’gins to burst, When bluebells nod within the wood. And sweet May whitens first, When merle and mavis sing their fill. Green is the young corn on the hill. But when the merry spring is past. And summer groweth bold, And in the garden and the field A thousand flowers unfold. Before a green leaf yet is sere, The young corn shoots into the ear. But then, as day and night succeed, And summer weareth on, And in the flowery garden-beds The red rose groweth wan. And hollyhocks and sunflowers tall O’er top the mossy garden wall ; . CORN-FIELDS. 241 VVlien on the breath of autumn breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought. The fair, white thistle-down ; 0, then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest-hill ! What joy in dreamy ease to lie Amid a field new-shorn. And see all round, on sunlit slopes, The piled-up shocks of corn, And send the fancy wandering o’er All pleasant harvest-fields of yore ! I feel the day ; I see the field ; The quivering of the leaves ; And good old Jacob and his house Binding the yellow sheaves ; And at this very hour I seem To be with Joseph in his dream* I see the fields of Bethlehem, And reapers many a one. Bending unto their sickle’s stroke. And Boaz looking on ; And Buth, the Moabitess fair. Among the gleaners stooping there. Again : I see a little child, His mother’s sole delight ; God’s living gift of love unto The kind, good Shunamite ; To mortal pangs I see him yield. And the lad bear him from the field* 11 p 242 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, The fields of Galilee, That eighteen hundred years agone Were full of corn, I see ; And the dear Saviour take his way ’Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day. 0, golden fields of bending corn. How beautiful they seem ! > The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves. To me are like a dream ; The sunshine and the very air Seem of old time, and take me there ! MARY IIOWITT. OF SOLITUDF. Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good ! Hail, ye plebeian underwood ! Where the poetic birds rejoice. And for their quiet nests and plenteous food Pay with their grateful voice. Hail, the poor muse’s richest manor-seat ! Ye country houses and retreat. Which all the happy gods so love. That for you oft they quit their bright and great Metropolis above. Here Nature does a house for me erect,— Nature ! the wisest architect. Who those fond artists does despise That can the fair and living trees neglect. Yet the dead timber prize. TEMPERANCE. 243 Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying, "With all their wanton boughs dispute, And the more tuneful birds to both replying, Nor be myself, too, mute. A silver stream shall roll his waters near, Gilt with the sunbeams here and there^ On whose enamelled bank I ’ll walk, And see how prettily they smile, And hear how prettily they talk. Ah ! wretched and too solitary he Who loves not his own company ! He ’ll feel the weight of ’t many a day, Unless he call in sin or vanity, To help to bear ’t away. .COWLEY. TEMPERANCE, Impostor ! do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous With her abundance ; she, good cateress. Means her provision only to the good, That live according to her sober laws, And holy dictate of spare temperance. If every just man that now pines with want Had but a moderate and beseeming share Of that which lewdly-pampered luxury Now heaps upon some few with vast excess, Nature’s full blessings would be well dispensed In unsuperfluous even proportion. And she no whit encumbered with her store * 244 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. And then the Giver would be better thanked, His praise due paid ; for swinish Gluttony Ne’er looks to heaven amidst his gorgeous feast, But, with besotted, base ingratitude. Crams, and blasphemes his feeder. MILTON. THE HONEST ]\UN. Wordsworth must have had the following in his mind, though perhaps uncon- sciously, when he penned his noble poem of The Happy Warrior. Who is the honest man ? He that doth still and strongly good pursue. To God, his neighbor and himself, most true. Whom neither force nor fawning can Unfix or wrench from giving all their due. Whose honesty is not So loose or easy that a ruffling wind - Can blow away, or, glittering, look it blind ; Who rides his sure and easy trot, While the world now rides by, now lags behind. Who, when great trials come, Nor seeks nor shuns them ; but doth calmly stay Till he the thing and the example weigh ; All being brought into a sum. What place or person calls for, he doth pay. Whom none can work or woo To use in anything a trick or sleight ; For, above all things, he abhors deceit I His words and works, and fashion, too, All of a piece, and all are clear and straight. THE PARROT. 245 Who never melts or thaws At close temptations ; when the day is done, His goodness sets not, but in dark can run ; — The sun to others writeth laws, And is their virtue ; virtue is his sun. Who, when he is to treat With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway Allows for that, and keeps his constant way : Whom others’ faults do not defeat. But, though men fail him, yet his part doth play. Whom nothing can procure. When the whole world runs bias from his will, To writhe his limbs, and share, not mend, the ill. This is the marksman safe and sure. Who still is right, and prays to be so still. HERBERT. THE PAKROT. This incident, so strongly illustrating the power of memory and association in the lower animals, is not a fiction. I heard it many years ago, in the Island of Mull, from the family to whom the bird belonged. The deep affections of the breast. That Heaven to living things imparts. Are not exclusively possessed By human hearts. A parrot from the Spanish Main, Full young and early caged, came o’er With bright wings to the bleak domain Of Mulla’s shore. 246 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. The spicy groves where he had won His plumage of resplendent hue, His native fruits, and skies, and sun. He bade adieu ! For these he changed, the smoke of tuiT, A heathery land and misty sky. And turned on rocks and raging surf His golden eye. But, petted in our climate cold. He lived and chattered many a day ; Until, with age, from green and gold. His wings grew gray. At last, when, blind and seeming dumb, He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more, A Spanish stranger chanced to come To Mulla’s shore. He hailed the bird in Spanish speech ; The bird in Spanish speech replied. Flapped round his cage with joyous screech. Dropped down and died ! CAMPBELL. PERSECUTION. Let those who doubt the heavenly source Of revelation’s page divine Use as their weapons fraud and force, — No such unhallowed arms are mine. I only wield its holy word, Reason its shield, and truth its sword. PERSECUTION. 24 I doubt not ; — my religion stands A beacon on the eternal rock. Let malice throw her fiery brands, — Its sacred fane has stood the shock Of ages, and shall tower sublime Above the waves and winds of time. Infinite wisdom formed the plan ; Infinite power supports the pile ; Infinite goodness poured on man Its radiant light, its cheering smile. Need they thine aid ? — poor worm ! — thine aid 0 mad presumption, vain parade ! Thou wilt not trust the Almighty One With his own thunders ; thou wouldst throw The bolts of heaven ! — 0 senseless son Of dust and darkness ! — Spider ! go. And with thy cobweb bind the tide, And the swift, dazzling comet guide. Yes ! force has conquering reasons given. And chains and tortures argue well. And thou hast proved thy faith from heaven By weapons thou hast brought from hell. Yes ! thou hast made thy title good, For thou hast signed the deed with blood. Daring impostor ! sure that God Whose advocate thou feign ’st to be Will smite thee with that awful rod Which thou would’st seize ; and pour on thee The vial of that wrath which thou Wouldst empty on thy brother’s brow ! BOWRING. 48 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. SPIRITUAL POPULATION OF THE UNIVERSE. Nor think, though men were none, That heaven would want spectators, God want praise. Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep. All these with ceaseless praise His works behold. Both day and night. How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thickets have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive to each other’s note. Singing their great Creator ! Oft in bands. While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk. With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic numbers joined, their songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. MILTOX. MAY MORNING AT RAVENNA. The sun is up, and ’t is a morn of May Bound old Bavenna’s clear-shown towers and bay, — A morn the loveliest which the year has seen. Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green ; For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night, Have left a sparkling welcome for the light, And there ’s a crystal clearness all about ; The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out ; A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze ; The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees ; And when you listen, you may hear a coil Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil ; And all the scene, in short, — sky, earth, and sea, — THE TREE LIFE. 249 Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly, ’T is Nature, full of spirits, waked and springing : — The birds to the delicious time are singing. Darting with freaks and snatches up and down. Where the light woods go seaward from the town ; While happy faces, striking through the green Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen ; And the far ships, lifting their sails of white Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light. Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day. And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay. Already in the streets the stir grows loud. Of expectation and a bustling crowd. With feet and voice the gathering hum contends, The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends ; Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite. And shouts from mere exuberance of delight. And armed bands, making important way. Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday. And nodding neighbors, greeting as they run, And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun. LEIGH HUNT. THE TRUE LIFE. W E live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest ; Lives in one hour more than in years do some Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins. P. J. BAILEY. ll^ •250 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. THE PRISON. And this place my forefathers made for man! This is the process of our love and wisdom To each poor brother who offends against us, — IMost innocent, perhaps, — and what if guilty ? Is this the only cure ? Merciful God ! Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up By ignorance and parching poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt, till, changed to poison. They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot ! Then we call in our pampered mountebanks ! And this is their best cure ! uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning and tears ; And savage faces, at the clanking hour. Seen through the steam and vapors of his dungeon By the lamp’s dismal twilight ! So he lies Circled with evil, till his very soul Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed By sights of ever more deformity ! With other ministrations thou, 0 Nature ! Healest thy wandering and distempered child : Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, — Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, — Till he relent, and can no more endure To be a jarring and a dissonant thing Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; But, bursting into tears, wins back his way. His angry spirit healed and harmonized By the benignant touch of love and beauty. COLERIDGE. HYMN. 251 HYMN. FiiOM the recesses of a lowly spirit My humble prayer ascends — 0 Father ! hear it Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meekness : Forgive its weakness. I know, I feel, how mean and how unworthy The trembling sacrifice I pour before Thee ; What can I offer in Thy presence holy. But sin and folly ? Ibr in Thy sight, who every bosom viewest. Cold are our warmest vows, and vain our truest ; Thoughts of a hurrying hour, our lips repeat them. Our hearts forget them. We see Thy hand — it leads us, it supports us; We hear Thy voice— it counsels and it courts us ; And then we turn away — and still Thy kindness Pardons our blindness* And still Thy rain descends. Thy sun is glowing, Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath us blowing, And, as if man were some deserving creature, Joys cover nature* 0, how long-suffering. Lord ! but Thou delightest To win with love the wandering — Thou invitest, By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors, Man from his errors. Who can resist Thy gentle call, appealing To^very generous thought, and grateful feeling? 252 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. That voice paternal, whispering, watching ever ? — My bosom ? — never ! Father and Saviour ! plant within tha,t bosom These seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal. And spring eternal, Then place them in those everlasting gardens. Where angels walk, and seraphs are the wardens ; Where every flower that creeps through death’s dark portal Becomes immortal. BOWRING. STANZAS. Where are ye with whom in life I started. Dear companions of my golden days ? Ye are dead, estranged from me, or parted ; Flown, like morning clouds, a thousand ways. Where art thou, in youth my friend and brother ? Yea, in soul my friend and brother stiU ! Heaven received thee, and on earth none other Can the void in my lorn bosom fill. Where is she whose looks were love and gladness ? Love and gladness I no longer see ; She is gone, and since that hour of sadness Nature seems her sepulchre to me. Where am I ? Life’s current faintly flowing Brings the welcome warning of release ; Struck with death ; ah ! whither am I going ? All is well, — my spirit parts in peace ! THE SNOW-STORM. THE SNOW-STORM. Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields. Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come, see the north-wind’s masonry ! Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Found every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer’s sighs ; and, at the gate, A tapering turret overtops the work : 254 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not. Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad w^ind’s night work. The frolic architecture of the snow. EMERSON. THE BELVIDERE AI^OLLO. Heard ye the arrow hurtle in the sky ? Heard ye the dragon monster’s deathful cry ? In settled majesty of calm disdain. Proud of his might, yet scornful of the slain. The heavenly Archer stands,^ — no human birth , No perishable denizen of earth ; Youth blooms immortal in his beardless face, A God in strength, with more than godlike grace ; All, all divine, — no struggling muscle glows, Through heaving vein no mantling life-blood flows, But, animate with deity alone. In deathless glory lives the breathing stone. Bright kindling with a conqueror’s stern delight. His keen eye tracks the arrow’s fateful flight ; Burns his indignant cheek with vengeful fire. And his lip quivers with insulting ire : Firm fixed his tread, yet light, as when on high He walks the impalpable and pathless sky ; The rich luxuriance of his hair, confined In graceful ringlets, wantons on the wind, * The Apollo is in the act of watching the arrow with which he slew the serpent Python. THE BELVIDERE APOLLO. 255 That lifts in sport his mantle’s drooping fold, Proud to display that form of faultless mould. Mighty Ephesian ! ^ with an eagle’s flight Thy proud soul mounted through the fields of light, Viewed the bright concave of Heaven’s blest abode. And the cold marble leapt to life a God : Contagious awe through breathless myriads ran, And nations bowed before the work of man. For mild he seemed, as in Elysian bowers, Wasting in careless ease the joyous hours ; Haughty, as bards have sung, with princely sway Curbing the fierce^ flame-breathing steeds of day ; Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep By holy maid on Delphi’s haunted steep, ’Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove. Too fair to worship, too divine to love ! Yet on that form, in wild, delirious trance. With more than- reverence gazed the Maid of France. Day after day ihe love-sick dreamer stood With him alone, nor thought it solitude ! To cherish grief, her last, her dearest care, Her one fond hope — to perish of despair. Oft as the shiftmg light her sight beguiled, Blushing she shrank, and thought the marble smiled Oft breathless listening heard, or seemed to hear, A voice of music melt upon her ear. Slowly she waned, and, cold and senseless grown. Closed her dim eyes, herself benumbed to stone. Yet love in death a sickly strength supplied : Once more she gazed, then feebly smiled and died.t MILMAN. * Agasias of Ephesus. t The foregoing fact is related in the work of M. Pinal on Insanity 256 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. BOOK OF THE WORLD. Of this fair volume which we “ World ” do name, If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame, We clear might read the art and wisdom rare ; Find out His power, — which wildest powers doth tame; His providence, — extending everywhere ; His justice, — wliich proud rebels doth not spare ; In every page, — no period of the same ! But silly we, like foolish children, rest Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold. Fair, dangling ribands, leaving what is best. On the great Writer’s sense ne’er taking hold ; Or, if by chance we stay our minds on aught, It is some picture on the margin wrought. DRUMMOND. SIN. Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round ! Parents first season us ; then schoolmasters Deliver us to laws ; they send us bound To rules of reason, holy messengers, — Pulpits and Sundays ; sorrow dogging sin ; Afflictions sorted ; anguish of all sizes ; Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in ; Bibles laid open ; millions of surprises ; Blessings beforehand ; ties of gratefulness ; The sound of glory ringing in our ears ; Without, our shame ; within, our consciences ; Angels and grace ; eternal hopes and fears ; — Yet all these fences, and their whole array. One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away. HERBERT. ELIJAH’S INTERYIEW. 257 ELIJAH’S INTERVIEW. On Horeb’s rock the prophet stood, — The Lord before him passed : A hurricane in angry mood Swept by him strong and fast ; The forest fell before its force, The rocks were shivered in its course ; — God was not in the blast. ’T was but the whirlwind of his breath, Announcing danger, wreck, and death. It ceased. The air grew mute, — a cloud Came, muffling up the sun ; ' When, through the mountain, deep and loud, An earthquake thundered on : The frighted eagle sprang in air. The wolf ran howling from his lair ; — God was not in the storm. ’T was but the rolling of His car. The tramping of His steed from far. ’T was still again, — and Nature stood And calmed her ruffled frame ; When swift from heaven a fiery fiood To earth devouring came : Down to the depth the ocean fled. The sickening sun looked wan and dead, — Yet God filled not the flame. ’T was but the terror of His eye. That lightened through the troubled sky. At last a voice all still and small Rose sweetly on the ear, Q 258 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Yet rose so shrill and clear, that all In heaven and earth might hear. It spoke of peace, it spoke of love. It spoke as angels speak above. For God himself was there ; — For 0 ! it was a Father's voice That bade the trembling heart rejoice. CAMPBELL. THE MARIGOLD. When with a serious musing I behold The graceful and obsequious marigold. How duly, every morning, she displays Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays ; How she observes him in his daily walk, Still bending towards him her small, slender stalk ; How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns, Bedewed as ’t were with tears, till he returns ; And how she veils her flowers when he is gone. As if she scorned to be lookM on By an inferior eye, or did contemn To wait upon a meaner light than him ; — When I thus meditate, methinks the flowers Have spirits far more generous than ours. And give us fair examples, to despise The servile fawnings and idolatries Wherewith we court these earthly things below. Which merit not the service we bestow. But, 0 my God ! though grovelling I appear Upon the ground, and have a rooting here, Which hauls me downward, yet in my desire To that which is above me I aspire. HYMN TO THE STARS. 259 And all my best affections I profess To Him that is the Son of Righteousness. 0, keep the morning of his incarnation, The burning noontide of his bitter passion, The night of his descending, and the height Of his ascension, ever in my sight, — That, imitating him in what I may, I never follow an inferior way ! GEORGE WITHER. HYMN TO THE STARS. Ay, there ye shine, and there have shone, In one eternal “ hour of prime,” Each rolling, burningly, alone, Through boundless space and countless time. Ay, there ye shine ! the golden dews That pave the realms by seraphs trod ; Tliere, through yon echoing vault, diffuse The song of choral worlds to God. Ye visible spirits ! bright as erst Young Eden’s birth-night saw ye shine. On all her flowers and fountains first, Yet sparkling from the hand divine ; Yes, bright as then ye smiled, to catch The music of a sphere so fair. Ye hold your high, imm.ortal watch, And gird your God’s pavilion there. Gold frets to dust, — yet, there ye are ; Time rots the diamond, — there ye roll. 260 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. In primal light, as. if each star Enshrined an everlasting soul ! And does it not, — since your bright throngs One all-enlightening Spirit own. Praised there by pure, sidereal tongues, Eternal, glorious, blessed, alone ? Could man but see what ye have seen. Unfold a while the shrouded past. From all that is, to what has been, — The glance how rich, the range how vast ! The birth of time, the rise, the fall Of empires, myriads, ages flown. Thrones, cities, tongues, arts, worships, — all The things whose echoes are not gone ! Ye saw rapt Zoroaster send His soul into your mystic reign ; Ye saw the adoring Sabian bend. The living hills his mighty fane ! Beneath the blue and beaming sky He worshipped at your lofty shrine, And deemed he saw, with gifted eye, The Godhead in His works divine. And there ye shine, as if to mock The children of a mortal sire ; The storm, the bolt, the earthquake’s shock. The red volcano’s cataract fire. Drought, famine, plague, and blood, and flame. All nature’s ills, and life’s worse woes. Are naught to you ; ye smile the same. And scorn alike their dawn and close. THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. 261 Ay, there ye roll, — emblems sublime Of Him, whose spirit o’er us moves, Beyond the clouds of grief and crime, Still shining on the world He loves : Nor is one scene to mortals given. That more divides the soul and sod. Than yon proud heraldry of Heaven, Yon burning blazonry of God ! “TRERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.” There is a tongue in every leaf, A voice in every rill ; A voice that speaketh everywhere, — In flood and fire, through earth and air, — A tongue that ’s never still. ’T is the great Spirit, wide diffused Through everything we see. That with our spirits communeth Of things mysterious, — life and death. Time and eternity. I see Him in the blazing sun. And in the thunder-cloud ; I hear Him in the mighty roar That rushes through the forest hoar When winds are piping loud. I see Him, hear Him, everywhere ; In all things, — darkness, light, Silence, and sound ; but, most of all. When slumber’s dusky curtains fall. At the dead hour of night. 262 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. I feel Him in the silent dews By grateful earth betrayed ; I feel Him in the gentle showers, The soft south wind, the breath of flowers. The sunshine and the shade. And yet — ungrateful that I am ! — I ’ve turned in sullen mood From all these things, whereof He said, When the great work was finished. That they were “ very good ” ! My sadness on the fairest things Fell like unwholesome dew ; The darkness that encompassed me, The gloom I felt so palpably. Mine own dark spirit threw. Yet He was patient, slow to wrath, Though every day provoked By selfish, pining discontent. Acceptance cold, or negligent. And promises revoked. And still the same rich feast was spread For my insensate heart. — Not always so; I woke again. To join creation’s rapturous strain ; “ 0 Lord ! how good Thou art ! ” The clouds drew up, the shadows fled. The glorious sun broke out ; And love, and hope, and gratitude. Dispelled that miserable mood Of darkness and of doubt. MRS. SOUTHEY. ADDRESS TO POETS. 263 ADDKESS TO POETS. Ye whose hearts are beating high With the pulse of poesy, Heirs of more than royal race, Framed by Heaven’s peculiar grace, God’s own work to do on earth (If the word be not too bold). Giving virtue a new birth. And a life that ne’er grows old, — Sovereign masters of all hearts ! Know ye who hath set your parts ? He, who gave you breath to sing, By whose strength ye sweep the string. He hath chosen you to lead His hosannas here below ; — Mount, and claim your glorious meed ! Linger not with sin and woe ! But, if ye should hold your peace. Deem not that the song would cease ; Angels round His glory-throne. Stars, His guiding hand that ov>m. Flowers, that grow beneath our feet. Stones, in earth’s dark womb that rest High and low in choir shall meet. Ere His name shall be unblest. Lord, by every minstrel tongue Be thy praise so duly sung. That thine angel’s harps may ne’er Fail to find fit echoing here ! ( 4 264 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. We, the while, of meaner birth, Who in that divinest spell Dare not hope to join on earth, Give us grace to listen well ! But should thankless silence seal Lips that might half heaven reveal, Should bards in idol-hymns profane The sacred soul-enthralling strain (As in this bad world below Noblest things find vilest using). Then thy power and mercy show. In vile things noble breath infusing. Then waken into sound divine The very pavement of thy shrine. Till we, like heaven’s star-sprinkled floor. Faintly give back what we adore. Childlike though the voices be. And untunable the parts. Thou wilt own the minstrelsy. If it flow from childlike hearts. KEBLE. EAELY RISING AND PRAYER. When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave To do the like ; our bodies but forerun The spirit’s duty : true hearts spread and heave Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun ; Give him thy first thoughts, then, — so shalt thou keep Him company all day, and in him sleep. EARLY RISING AND PRAYER. 265 Yet never sleep, the sun up ; prayer should Dawn with the day : there are set, awful hours ’Twixt heaven and us ; the manna was not good After sun-rising ; far day sullies flowers : Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut. And heaven’s gate opens when the world’s is shut. Walk with thy fellow-creatures : note the hush And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring Or leaf but hath his morning hymn ; each bush And oak doth know I am. Can’st thou not sing ? 0, leave thy cares and follies ! go this way. And thou art sure to prosper all the day. Serve God before the world ; let him not go Until thou hast a blessing ; then resign The whole unto him, and remember who Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine : Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin. Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. Mornings are mysteries ; the first world’s youth, Man’s resurrection, and the future’s bud. Shroud in their births ; the crown of life, light, truth. Is styled their star ; the stone and hidden food : Three blessings wait upon them, two of which Should move, — they make us holy, happy, rich. When the world ’s up, and every swarm abroad. Keep well thy temper ; mix not with each clay : Despatch necessities ; life hath a load Which must be carried on, and safely may : Yet keep those cares without thee; let the heart Be God’s alone, and choose the better part. 12 HENRY VAUGHAN. 266 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. THE BUTTERFLY. Beautiful creature ! I have been Moments uncounted watching thee, Now flitting round the foliage green Of yonder dark, embowering tree ; And now again, in frolic glee, Hovering around those opening flowers, ' Happy as Nature’s child should be. Born to enjoy her loveliest bowers. And I have gazed upon thy flight. Till feelings I can scarce define. Awakened by so fair a sight. With desultory thoughts combine, — Not to induce me to repine, Or envy thee thy happiness ; But from a lot so bright as thine To borrow musings born to bless. THE BTJTTEIIFLY. 267 Then thou delightful creature, who Wert yesterday a sightless worm, Becom’st a symbol fair and true Of hopes that own no mortal term ; In thy proud change we see the germ Of man’s sublimer destiny, While holiest oracles confirm The type of immortality ! A change more glorious far than thine. E’en I, thy fellow-worm, may know. When this exhausted frame of mine Down to its kindred dust shall go ; W^hen the anxiety and woe Of being’s embryo state shall seem Like phantoms flitting to and fro In some confused and feverish dream. For thee, who flittest gayly now. With all thy nature asks supplied, A few brief summer days, and thou No more amid these haunts shall glide. As hope’s fair herald, in thy pride The sylph-like genius of the scene. But, sunk in dark oblivion’s tide, Shalt be as thou hadst never been ! While man’s immortal part, when time Shall set the chainless spirit free. May seek a brighter, happier clime Than fancy e’er could feign for thee ; Though bright her fairy bowers may be, Yet brief as bright their beauties fade. And sad experience mourns to see Each gourd hope trusted in, decayed. SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Sport on, then, lovely summer fly. With whom began my votive strain ’ Yet purer joys their hopes supply. Who, by faith’s alchemy, obtain Comfort in sorrow, bliss in pain. Freedom in bondage, light in gloom. Through earthly losses heavenly gain. And life immortal through the tomb. BERNARD BARTON. AN APOLOGUE. ’T WAS eight o’clock, and near the fire My ruddy little boy was seated, ^ And with the titles of a sire My ears expected to be greeted. But vain the thought ! by sleep oppressed. No father there the child descried ; His head reclined upon his breast. Or, nodding, rolled from side to side. I “ Let this young rogue be sent to bed ! ” More I had scarce had time to say. When the poor urchin raised his head, To beg that he might longer stay. Refused, away his steps he bent. With tearful eye and aching heart, But claimed his playthings ere he went. And took up stairs his horse and cart. Still for delay, though oft denied, He pleaded, wildly craved the boon ; AN APOLOGUE. 269 Though past his usual hour, he cried At being sent to bed so soon ! If stern to him, his grief I shared ; (Unmoved who sees his offspring weep^) Of soothing him I half despaired ; When all his cares were lost in sleep. “ Alas, poor infant ! ” I exclaimed, “ Thy father blushes now to scan, In all that he so lately blamed. The follies and the fears of man. The vain regret, the anguish brief, Which thou hast known, sent up to bed, Portrays of man the idle grief. When doomed to slumber with the dead. ” And more, I thought, when up the stairs, With longing, lingering looks he crept. To mark of man the childish cares. His playthings carefully he kept ! Thus mortals on life’s later stage, When nature claims their forfeit breath, Still grasp at wealth, in pain and age, And cling to golden toys in death ! ” ’Tis morn, and see, my smiling boy Awakes to hail returning light ; To fearless laughter, boundless joy ! Forgot the tears of yesternight ! Thus shall not man forget his woe. Survive of age and death the gloom. Smile at the cares he knew below, And, renovated, burst the tomb ? T. GASPRY. 270 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. PROVIDENCE. Just as a mother, with sweet pious face, Yearns towards her little children from her seat. Gives one a kiss, another an embrace. Takes this upon her knees, that on her feet ; And while from actions, looks, complaints, pretences. She learns their feelings and their various will. To this a look, to that a word, dispenses. And, whether stern or smiling, loves them still ; — So Providence for us, high, infinite. Makes our necessities its watchful task. Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants, And, even if it denies what seems our right. Either denies because T would have us ask. Or seems but to deny, or in denying grants. LEIGH HUNT. THE HOUR OF DEATH. Leaves have their time to fall. And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath. And stars to set, — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 0 Death ! Day is for mortal care. Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer ; But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth ! The banquet hath its hour. Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; There comes a day for grief’s o’erwhelming power, A time for softer tears, — but all are thine ! THE HOUR OP DEATH. 271 Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee ! — but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath. And stars to set, — but all. Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 0 Death ! We know when moons shall wane. When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea. When autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden grain ; But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? Is it when spring’s first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — They have one season, — all are ours to die ! Thou art where billows foam. Thou art where music melts upon the air. Thou art around us in our peaceful home. And the world calls us forth, — and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend. Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall. And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath. And stars to set, — but all. Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 0 Death ! MRS. HEMANS. 272 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. Magnificent creature ! so stately and bright ! In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight, — For what hath the child of the desert to dread, Wafting up his own mountains that far-beaming head. Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale ? — Hail ! King of the wild and the beautiful ! — hail ! Hail, Idol divine ! whom Nature hath borne O’er a hundred hi 11 -tops, since the mists of the morn. Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and moor. As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore; For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free, Are spread in a garment of glory o’er thee. Up ! up to yon cliff, like a king to his throne ! O’er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone — A throne which the eagle is glad to resign Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. There the bright heather springs up in love of thy breast — Lo ! the clouds in the depth of the sky are at rest ; And the race of the wild winds is o’er on the hill ! In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still — Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight. Like the arms of the pine on your shelterless height. One moment, thou bright Apparition, delay ! Then melt o’er the crags, like the sun from the day. Aloft on the weather-gleam, scorning the earth. The wild spirit hung in majestical mirth ; In dalliance with danger, he bounded in bliss O’er the fathomless gloom of each moaning abyss ; O’er the grim rocks careering with prosperous motion. Like a ship by herself in full sail o’er the ocean ! ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 273 Tlien proudly he turned ere he sunk to the dell, And shook from his forehead a haughty farewell, While his horns in a crescent of radiance shone. Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone. The ship of the desert hath passed on the wind. And left the dark ocean of mountains behind ! But my spirit will travel wherever she flee. And behold her in pomp, o’er the rim of the sea, Her voyage pursue, till her anchor be cast In some clifi-girdled haven of beauty, at last. . What lonely magnificence stretches around ! Each sight how sublime.! and how awful each sound ! All hushed and serene, as a region of dreams. The mountains repose ’mid the roar of the streams. Their glens of black umbrage by cataracts riven. But calm their blue tops in the beauty of heaven. Here the glory of nature hath nothing to fear, — Ay ! Time the destroyer in power hath been here ; And the forest that hung on yon mountain so high. Like a black thunder-cloud on the arch of the sky. Hath gone, like that cloud when the tempest came by. Deep sunk in the black moor, all worn and decayed. Where the floods have been raging the limbs are displayed Of the pine tree and oak sleeping vast in the gloom, The kings of the forest disturbed in their tomb. E’en now, in the pomp of their prime, I behold O’erhanging the desert the forests of old ! So gorgeous their verdure, so solemn their shade. Like the heavens above them, they never may fade. The sunlight is on them — in silence they sleep — 12^ R i274 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. A glimmering glow, like the breast of the deep, When the billows scarce heave in the calmness of morn. Down the pass of Glen-Etive the tempest is borne. And the hill-side is swinging, and roars with a sound In the heart of the forest embosomed profound. Till all in a moment the tumult is o’er. And the mountain of thunder is still as the shore When the sea is at ebb ; not a leaf or a breath To disturb the wild solitude, steadfast as death ! From his eyrie the eagle hath soared with a scream. And I wake on the edge of the cliff from my dream ; — Where now is the light of thy far-beaming brow ? Fleet son of the wilderness ! where art thou now ? Again o’er yon crag thou return’st to my sight. Like the horns of the moon from a cloud of the night ! Serene on thy travel as soul in a dream. Thou needest no bridge o’er the rush of the stream. With thy presence the pine-grove is filled, as with light. And the caves, as thou passest, one moment are bright. Through the arch of the rainbow that lies on the rock, ’Mid the mist stealing up from the cataract’s shock. Thou fling’st thy bold beauty, exulting and free. O’er a pit of grim blackness, that roars like the sea ! His voyage is o’er ! As if struck by a spell. He motionless stands in the hush of the dell ; There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast. In the midst of his pastime enamored of rest. A stream in a clear pool that endeth his race, A dancing ray chained to one sunshiny place, A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven, A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven ! WILSON. THE LAST MAN. 275 THE LAST MAH. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality ! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time ! I saw the last of human mould. That shall creation’s death behold. As Adam saw her prime ! The Sun’s eye had a sickly glare. The Earth with age was wan. The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man ! Some had expired in fight, — the brands Still rested in their bony hands, — In plague and famine some ! Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread ; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb ! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood. With dauntless words and high. That shook the sere leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by ; — Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun ! Thy face is cold, thy race is run, ’Tis mercy bids thee go ; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. 276 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. What though bcneatli thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill ; And arts that made fire, flood and earth, The vassals of his will ; Yet mourn I not thy parted sway. Thou dim, discrowned king of day ; For all those trophied arts. And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. Go ! let Oblivion’s curtain fall Upon the stage of men. Nor with thy rising beams recall Life’s tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe, — Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. Even I am weary, in yon skies To watcli thy fading fire ; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire ! My lips that speak thy dirge of death, — Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shaft not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, The majesty of Darkness shall Beceive my parting ghost ! LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 277 This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark ; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim. When thou thyself art dark ! No ! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine. By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity. Who robbed the grave of victory. And took the sting from Death ! Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On nature’s awful waste. To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste ; Go, tell the night that hides thy face. Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race. On Earth’s sepulchral clod. The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God ! CAMPBELL, LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes. While in a grove I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran ; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. 278 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; And ’t is my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, — Their thoughts I cannot measure. But the least motion which they made. It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan. To catch the breezy air ; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature’s holy plan. Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man ? WORDSWORTH. KHYME NOT POETEY. Most men by numbers judge a poet’s song. And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong ; In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; Who haunt Parnassus but to please the ear, Not mend their minds, — as some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These, equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire. While expletives their feeble aid do join. And ten low words oft creep in one dull line. While they ring round the same unvaried chimes. With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; CLOUD-LAND. 279 Where’er you find “ the cooling western breeze,” In the next line it “ whispers through the trees ; ” If crystal streams “ with pleasing murmurs creep,” The reader ’s threatened (not in vain) with “ sleep ; ” Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song. That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What ’s roundly smooth or languishingly slow, And praise the easy vigor of a line. Where Denham’s strength and Waller’s sweetness join. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance. POPE. CLOUD-LAND. 0, IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease. Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, To make the shifting clouds be what you please. Or let the easily-persuaded eyes Own each quaint likeness, issuing from the mould Of a friend’s fancy ; or, with head bent low. And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold ’Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go From mount to mount through Cloud-land, gorgeous land ! Or, listening to the tide, with closed sight. Be that blind bard, who, on the Chian strand, By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee Bise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. COLERIDGE. 280 SELECTIONS IN TOETUY. THE SEA-BIRD’S SONG. On the deep is the mariner’s danger, On the deep is the mariner’s death ; Who, to fear of the tempest a stranger, Sees the last bubble burst of his breath ? ’T is the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, Lone looker on despair. The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird. The only witness there. Who watches their course, who so mildly Careen to the kiss of the breeze ? Who lists to their shrieks, who so wildly Are clasped in the arms of the seas ? ’T is the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird. Who hovers on high o’er the lover. And her who has clung to his neck ? Whose wing is the wing that can cover EDEN. 281 With its shadow the foundering wreck ? ’T is the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird. My eye in the light of the billow. My wing on the wake of the wave, I shall take to my breast, for a pillow, The shroud of the fair and the brave. I ’m the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird. jMy foot on the iceberg has lighted. When hoarse the wild winds veer about ; ]My eye, when the bark is benighted, Sees the lamp of the light-house go out. I ’m the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, Lone looker on despair ; The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, The only witness there ! BEAINARD. EDEN. Southward through Eden went a river large ; Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill Passed underneath ingulfed ; for God had thrown That mountain, as his garden-mound, high raised Upon the rapid current ; which, through veins Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn, K-ose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill Watered the garden, thence united fell Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, Which from his darksome passage now appears ; And now, divided into four main streams, Kuns diverse, wandering many a famous realm And country, whereof here needs no account ; But rather to tell how, if art could tell. How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks, 282 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, With mazy error, under pendent shades Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed Flowers worthy of Paradise ; which not nice art In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon Poured forth profuse on hill and dale and plain. Both where the morning sun first warmly smote The open field, and where the unpierccd shade Imbrowned the noon-tide bowers. Thus was this place A happy rural seat of various view ; Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm ; Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind, Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true, If true, here only, and of delicious taste. Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks Grazing the tender herb, were interposed ; Or palmy hillock, or the flowery lap Of some irriguous valley spread her store ; Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose. Another side, umbrageous grots and caves Of cool recess, o’er which the mantling vine Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps Luxuriant : meanwhile murmuring waters fall Down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake, That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams ; The birds their quire apply ; airs, vernal airs. Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune The trembling leaves ; while universal Pan, Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, Led on the eternal spring. MILTON. LIBERTY. — THE BUGLE SONG. 283 LIBERTY. Ye clouds ! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control ! Ye ocean waves ! that, wheresoe’er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws ! Ye woods ! that listen to the night-birds singing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined. Save when your own imperious branches, swinging. Have made a solemn music of the wind ! Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms which never woodman trod, How oft, pursuing fancies holy. My moonlight way o’er flowering weeds I wound, Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape, and wild, unconquerable sound ! 0 ye loud waves ! and 0 ye forests high ! And 0 ye clouds that far above me soared ! Thou rising sun ! thou blue rejoicing sky ! Yea, everything that is and will be free ! Bear witness for me, wheresoe’er ye be. With what deep worship I have still adored The spirit of divinest Liberty ! COLERIDGE. THE BUGLE SONG. The splendor falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory ; Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ; Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying. 1>84 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. 1 (), hark ! 0, hear ! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, further going ! (3 ! sweet and far, from cliff and scaur. The horns of elf-land faintly blowing. Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying ; Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying. 0 love, they die on yon rich sky. They faint on hill, on field, on river ; (3ur echoes roll from soul to soul. And grow forever, and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ; And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. TENNYSON. THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT. 0, SACRED star of evening, tell In what unseen, celestial sphere Those spirits of the perfect dwell. Too pure to rest in sadness here ! Koam they the crystal fields of light, O’er paths by holy angels trod, Their robes with heavenly lustre bright, Their home the paradise of God ? Soul of the just ! and canst thou soar Amid those radiant spheres sublime. Where countless hosts of heaven adore. Beyond the bounds of space or time ? And canst thou join the sacred choir. Through heaven’s high dome the song to raise, AN AMERICAN FOREST SPRING. 285 Where seraphs strike the golden lyre, In ever-during notes of praise ? 0, who would heed the chilling blast, That flows o’er time’s eventful sea, If bid to hail, its perils past, The bright wave of eternity ? And who the sorrows would not bear Of such a transient world as this, When Hope displays, beyond its care. So bright an entrance into bliss ? PEABODY. AN AMERICAN FOREST SPRING. Now fluttering breeze, — now stormy blast. Mild rain, then blustering snow, — Winter’s stern fettering cold is passed. But, sweet Spring, where art thou ? The white cloud floats ’mid smiling blue. The broad bright sunshine’s golden hue Bathes the still frozen earth : ’T is changed ! — above, black vapors roll, — We turn from our expected stroll. And seek the blazing hearth. Hark — that sweet carol ! with delight W e leave the stifling room, — The little blue-bird meets our sight, — Spring, glorious Spring, has come ! The south-wind’s balm is in the air. The melting snow-wreaths everywhere Are leaping oiF in showers ; 28G SELECTIONS IN POETRY. And Nature, in her brightening looks, Tells that her flowers and leaves and brooks And birds will soon be ours. A few soft sunny days have shone. The air has lost its chill, A bright green tinge succeeds the brown Ui>on the southern hill. Off to the woods — a pleasant scene ; Here sprouts the fresh young wintergreen, There swells a mossy mound ; Though in the hollow, drifts are piled. The wandering wind is sweet and mild. And buds are bursting round. Where its long rings uncurls the fern. The violet, nestling low. Casts back the white lid of its urn^ Its pui'ple streaks to show. Beautiful blossom ] first to rise And smile beneath Spring’s wakening skies, The courier of the band Of coming flowers, — what feelings sweet Gush as the silvery gem we meet Upon its slender wand ! Warmer is each successive sky. More soft the breezes pass ; The maple’s gems of crimson lie Upon the thick green grass. The dogwood sheds its clusters white. The birch has dropped its tassels slight. Cowslips are round the rill ; THE SWALLOWS. 287 The thresher whistles in the glen, Flutters around the warbling wren, And swamps have voices shrill. A simultaneous burst of leaves Has clothed the forest now ; A single day’s bright sunshine weaves This vivid, gorgeous show. Masses of shade are cast beneath. The flowers are spread in varied wreath, Night brings its soft, sweet moon ; Morn wak^s in mist, and twilight gray Weeps its bright dew, and smiling May Melts into blooming J une ! ALFRED B. STREET. THE SWALLOWS. WRITTEN ON SEEING THEM GATHER ON HIS ROOF DURING HIS LAST ILLNESS. Ye gentle birds, that perch aloof, And smooth your pinions on my roof, Preparing for departure hence. Now winter’s angry threats commence ; — Like you my soul would smooth her plume For longer flights beyond the tomb. May God, by whom is seen and heard Departing men and wandering bird, In mercy mark us for his own. And guide us to the land unknown ! HAYLEY. SELECTIONS IN rOI^TRV. THE dile:mma. Now, by the blessed Paphian queen, Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen ; By every name I cut on bark Before my morning star grevv^ dark ; By Hymen’s torch, by Cupid’s dart. By all that thrills the beating heart ; The bright black eye, the melting blue, — I cannot choose between the two. I had a vision in my dreams ; — I saw a row of twenty beams ; From every beam a rope was hung. In every rope a lover swung : I asked the hue of every eye That bade each luckless lover die ; Ten livid lips said heavenly blue, And ten accused the darker hue. I asked a matron which she deemed With fairest light of beauty beamed ; THE DILEMMA. 289 She answered, some thought both were fair, — Give her blue eyes and golden hair. I might have liked her judgment well, Eut, as she spoke, she rang the bell. And all her girls, nor small nor few. Came marching in, — their eyes were blue. I asked a maiden ; back she flung The locks that round her forehead hung. And turned her eye, — a glorious one. Bright as a diamond in the sun, — On me, until beneath its rays I felt as if my hair would blaze ; She liked all eyes but eyes of green ! She looked at me, — -.what could she mean ? Ah ! many lids Love lurks between. Nor heeds the coloring of the screen ; And when his random arrows fly. The victim falls, but knows not why. Gaze not upon his shield of jet, — The shaft upon the string is set ; Look not beneath his azure veil. Though every limb were cased in mail. Well, both might make a martyr break The chain that bound him to the stake ; And both, with but a single ray, Can melt our very hearts away ; And both, when balanced, hardly seem To stir the scales, or rock the beam ; But that is dearest, all the while. That wears for us the sweetest smile. HOLMES. 13 s 290 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. TO NTGirr. The following sonnet was so much admired by Coleridge, tliat he pronounced it the finest in our language. “ In reading these lines,” says Uliss Mitford, “ it is difficult to believe that the author (Blanco White) was not only bom and educated in Spain, but wrote English very imperfectly until he was turned of thirty.” Mysterious night ! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue ? Yet ’neath a curtain of translucent dew. Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus with the host of heaven came, And, lo ! creation widened in man’s view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, 0 sun ? or who could find. Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed. That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind ? Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife ? If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? J. BLANCO WHITE. THE mLAGE PREACHER. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear. And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Bemote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power. By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; THE VILLAGE PREACHER. 291 Far other aims his heart had learnt to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, — He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; The long-remembered beggar was his guest. Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. Claimed kindred there, and had his claim allowed ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guest, the good man learned to glow And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan. His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. And even his failings leaned to virtue’s side ; But in his duty prompt at every call. He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all ; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries. To tempt its new-fledged oJffspring to the skies. He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid. And sorrow, guilt and pain, by turns dismayed. The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; • Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unafiected grace. His looks adorned the venerable place , 292 SELECTIONS IN POETllY. Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man. With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; Even children followed, with endearing wile. And plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile. His ready smile a parent’s warmth exprest. Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest ; To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given. But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. Eternal sunshine settles on its head. GOLDSMITH. LOOK ALOFT. The following lines are founded upon the little story, said to have been related by the late Dr. Godman, of the ship-boy, who was about to fall from the rigging, and was only saved by the mate’s exclamation — “ Look aloft ! ” In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale, Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, “ Look aloft ! ” and be firm and be fearless of heart. If the friend who embraced in prosperity’s glow, With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe. Should betray thee, when sorrows, like clouds, are arrayed, “ Look aloft ! ” to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the vision which hope spreads in light to thine eye. Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten ta fly. Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret “ Look aloft ! ” to the sun that is never to set. OCCASION. 293 Should they who are dearest — the son of thy heart, The wife of thy bosom — in sorrow depart, “ Look aloft ! ” from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that soil where afiPection is ever in bloom. And 0 ! when death comes in his terrors to cast His fears on the future, his pall on the past, In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, And a smile in thine eye, “ Look aloft ! ” and depart. LAWRENCE. OCCASION. “ Say, who art thou, with more than mortal air. Endowed by Heaven with gifts and graces rare, Whom restless, winged feet forever onward bear ? ” “ I am Occasion — known to few at best ; And since one foot upon a wheH I rest. Constant my movenients are — they cannot be repressed. “ Not the swift eagle in his swiftest flight Can equal me in speed, — my wings are bright ; And man, who sees them waved, is dazzled by the sight. “ My thick and flowing locks before me thrown Conceal my form, — nor face nor breast is shown, ' That thus, as I approach, my coming be not known. “ Behind my head no single lock of hair Invites the hand that fain would grasp it there ; But he who lets me pass to seize me may despair.” ‘‘ Whom, then, so close behind thee do I see ? ” “ Her name is Penitence ; and Heaven’s decree Hath made all those her prey who profit not by m® 294 SELECTIONS IN POETRV^. And thou, 0 mortal, who dost vainly ply • These curious questions, thou dost not descry That now thy time is lost, — for I am passing by.” HOPE’S BRIGHTER SHORE. O’er the wild waste the autumnal leaf careers. Nor vale nor mountain now is ripe with flowers ; Nature’s fair brow the snow of winter scars. And all but Hope hath fled her once green bowers, Hope with her sunny hair. And why thus lonely lingers she, when all The glorious gifts of summer are no more ? — Her foot already treads Spring’s leafy hall ! Her eyes see sunbeams gild the distant shore, — Distant, yet still how fair ! So when the laugh of childhood and the song Are heard no longer, as in other days, Hope, with her rainbow wand, still leads along To where, all flushed with Manhood’s noontide rays, Succeeds a prouder age. Who loveth Fame ? — Lo ! where her temple stands ! Who, mad Ambition ? — There the laurel waves ! All that the majesty of mind commands. All that the heart of man insatiate craves, Is found in Hope’s bright page. And yet the mighty majesty of mind. Ambition, Fame, are mixed with earthly leaven. What are their purest joys to the refined And spotless ones, the promised ones of Heaven, Joys that shall ne’er decay ! THE MORAL LAW. 295 The tear of sorrow hath no dwelling there, — Earth is its birth-place ; why should angels weep ? They know not Sorrow, as they know not Care, But, as Life’s pilgrim climbs the rugged steep, They cheer him on his way. Thrice happy he whom through each devious path The Lamp of Faith conducts with steady light ! His spirit quails not at the tempest’s wrath ; He trembles not when lowers the moonless night, Nor fears the Ocean’s roar. 0 ! life may have its sorrows and its cares. Yet come they but from sin to purify While Death itself, the power that never spares, Is but the soul-bark of Mortality, Seeking a brighter shore ! THE MORAL LAW. All true glory rests. All praise of safety, and all happiness, Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, Tyre by the margin of the sounding waves. Palmyra central in the desert, fell ! And the arts died by which ihey had been raised. Call Archimedes from his buried tomb Upon the plain of vanished Syracuse, And feelingly the sage shall make report How insecure how baseless in itself. Is that philosophy, whose sway is framed For mere material instruments : — how weak Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropped By virtue. ^ WORDSWORTH. 20G SELECTIONS IN POETRY. BOOKS. My days among the dead are past ; Around me I behold, Where’er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old ; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe ; And, while I understand and feel How much to them I owe. My cheeks have often been bedewed With tears of Thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the dead ; — with them I live in long-past years ; Their virtues love, their faults condemn. Partake their hopes and fears ; And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the dead ; anon My place with them will be, IMMORTALITY OF LOVE. 29 And I with them shall travel on Through all futurity ; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust. SOUTHEY. ON PARTING WITH MY BOOKS. As one who, destined from his friends to part, llegrets his loss, but hopes again ere while To share their converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers, as he may, affliction’s dart, — Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art. Teachers of wisdom ! who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; For, pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore ; When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers. Mind shall with mind direct communion hold. And kindred spirits meet to part no more ! WILLIAM IlOSCOE. IMMORTALITY OF LOVE. They sin who tell us love can die. With life all other passions fly. All others are but vanity ; In heaven ambition cannot dwell. Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; Earthly these passions of the earth. They perish where they have their birth ; 13 # / 298 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. But love is indestructible : Its holy flame forever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven rcturncth. Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times oppressed, It here is tried and purified. Then hath in heaven its perfect rest : It soweth here with toil and care. But the harvest-time of love is there. 0 ! when a mother meets on higli The babe she lost in infancy. Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of woe, the watchful night. For all her sorrow, all her tears. An over-payment of delight ? SOUTHEY. HYMN OF A HER^HT. Sweet morn ! from countless cups of gold Thou liftest reverently on high More incense fine than earth can hold. To fill the sky. One interfusion wide of love — Thine airs and odors moist descend, And mid the azure depths above With light they blend. The lark, by his own carol blest. From thy green harbors eager springs ; And his large heart in little breast Exulting sings. HYMN OF A HERMIT. 200 On lands and seas, on fields and woods, x\nd cottage roofs, and ancient spires, 0 morn ! thy gaze creative broods. While night retires. Aloft the mountain ridges beam Above their quiet steeps of gray ; The eastern clouds with glory stream, And vital day. By valleys dank and rivers brim, Through corn-clad fields and wizard groves, O’er dazzling tracks and hollows dim, One spirit roves. The broad-helmed oak-tree’s endless growth. The mossy stone that crowns the hill, The violet’s breast, to gazers loath, In sunshine thrill. A joy from hidden paradise Is rippling down the shiny brooks, With beauty like the gleams of eyes In tenderest looks. , Where’er the vision’s boundaries glance, Existence swells with teeming power. And all-illumined earth’s expanse Inhales the hour. Not sands, and rocks, and seas immense, And vapors thin and halls of air, • — Not these alone, with kindred glance, The splendor share. 300 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. The fly his jocund round inweaves, With choral strain the birds salute The voiceful flocks, and nothing grieves, And naught is mute. In man, 0 morn ! a loftier good. With conscious blessing, fills the soul, — A life by reason understood, Which metes the whole. With healthful pulse, and tranquil fire, Which plays at ease in every limb. His thoughts unchecked to heaven aspire, Ptcvealed in him. To thousand tasks of fruitful hope. With skill against his toil, he bends. And finds his work’s determined scope Where’er he wends. From earth, and earthly toil and strife. To deathless aims his love may rise ; Each dawn may wake to better life. With purer eyes. Such grace from thee, 0 God ! be ours, Kenewed with every morning’s ray. And freshening still, with added flowers. Each future day. To man is given one primal star ; The day-spring’s beam has dawned below, From thine our inmost glories are. With thine we glow. BOAT-SONG. 301 Like earth, awake, and warm, and bright. With joy the spirit moves and burns ; So up to thee, 0 Fount of Light ! Our light returns. JOHN STERLING. BOAT-SONG. “ Eripite o socii, pariterque insurgite remis.” Bend on your oars, — for the sky it is dark. And the wind it is rising apace ; For the waves they are white, with their crests all so bright, And they strive as if running a race. Tug on your oars, — for the day ’s on the wane. And the twilight is deepening fast ; For the clouds in the sky show the hurricane nigh. As they flee from the face of the blast. Stretch on your oars, — for the sun it is down. And the waves are like lions in play ; The stars they are fled, and no moon is o’erhead. Or to point or to cheer our lone way. Rise on your oars, — let the bright star of hope Be seen ’mid the tempest’s wild roar ; And cheer, lads ! for we, who were, born on the sea. Have weathered such tempests before. Rest on your oars, — for the haven is won, And the tempest may bluster till morn ; For the bold and the brave are now freed from the wave. Where they late roamed so lonely and lorn. 302 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. THE CRUCIFIXION. I ASKED the heavens ; — “ What foe to God had done This unexampled d(^ed? The heavens exclaim, ‘‘ ’T was man ; and we in horror snatched the sun From such a spectacle of guilt and shame.” I asked the sea ; — the sea in fury boiled, And answered with his voice of storms, — “ ’T was man My waves in panic at his crime recoiled, Disclosed the abyss, and from the centre ran.” I asked the earth ; — the earth replied aghast, “ ’T was man ; and such strange pangs my bosom rent, That still I groan and shudder at the past.” To man, gay, smiling, thoughtless man, I went. And asked him next : — he turned a scornful eye. Shook his proud head, and deigned me no reply. MONT^GOMERY. A NORTHERN SPRING. Winter is past ; the heart of Nature warms Beneath the wrecks of unresisted storms \ Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen, The southern slopes are fringed with tender green ; On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves. Spring’s earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves. Bright with the hues from wider pictures won, White, azure, golden, — drift, or sky, or sun ; — The snowdrop, bearing on her patient breast The frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest ; The violet, gazing on the arch of blue Till her own iris wears its deepened hue ; The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould. Naked and shivering with his cup of gold. A NORTHERN SPRING. 308 Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on high Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky ; On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves ; The housefly, stealing from his narrow grave. Drugged with the opiate that November gave, Beats with faint wing against the sunny pane. Or crawls, tenacious, o’er its lucid plain ; From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls. In languid curves, the gliding serpent crawls ; The bog’s green harper, thawing from his sleep, Twangs a hoarse note and tries a shortened leap ; On floating rails that face the softening noons The still shy turtles range their dark platoons. Or toiling, aimless, o’er the mellowing fields, Trail through the grass their tessellated shields. At last young April, ever frail and fair. Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair. Chased to the margin of receding floods O’er the soft meadows starred with opening buds. In tears and blushes sighs herself away. And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May. Then the proud tulip lights her beacon blaze. Her clustering curls the hyacinth displays ; O’er her tall blades the crested fleur-de-lis. Like blue-eyed Pallas, towers erect and free ; With yellower flames the lengthened sunshine glows^ And love lays bare the passion-breathing rose ; Queen of the lake, along its reedy verge The rival lily hastens to emerge. SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Her snowy shoulders glistening as she strips, Till morn is sultan of her parted lips. Then bursts the song from every leafy glade, The yielding season’s bridal serenade ; Then flash the wings returning summer calls Through the deep arches of her forest halls ; The bluebird breathing from his azure plumes The fragrance borrowed where the myrtle blooms ; The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down, Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown ; The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire Rent by the whirlwind from a blazing spire. The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat. Repeats, staccato^ his peremptory note ; The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight ; Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings. Feels the soft air, and spreads his idle wings ; — Why dream I here within these caging walls. Deaf to her voice while blooming Nature calls ; Peering and gazing with insatiate looks Through blinding lenses, or in wearying books ? OS’, gloomy spectres of the shrivelled past ! Fly with the leaves that filled the autumn blast ! Ye imps of Science, whose relentless chains Lock the warm tides within these living veins. Close your dim cavern, while its captive strays Dazzled and giddy in the morning’s blaze ! HOLMES. MUSINGS IN THE TEMPLE OF NATURE. 305 MUSINGS IN THE TEMPLE OF NATUPE. Man can build nothing worthy of his Maker ; — From royal Solomon’s stupendous fane, Down to the humble chapel of the Quaker, All, all are vain. The wondrous world which He himself created Is the fit temple of creation’s Lord ; There may His worship best be celebrated. And praises poured : Its altar, earth ; its roof, the sky untainted ; Sun, moon and stars, the lamps that give it light : And clouds, by the celestial Artist painted. Its pictures bright : Its choir, all vocal things, whose glad devotion In one united hymii is heavenward sped ; The thunder-peal, the winds, the deep-mouthed ocean, Its organ dread ! The face of Nature its God- written Bible, Which all mankind may study and explore. While none can wrest, interpolate, or libel Its living lore ! Hence learn we that our Maker, whose affection Knows no distinction, suffers no recall. Sheds His impartial favor and protection Alike on all. Thus by Divine example do we gather. That every race should love alike all others ; Christian, Jew, Pagan, children of one Father, All, all are brothers ! T 06 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Conscience, Heaven’s silent oracle, the assessor Of right and wrong in every human breast Sternly condemns the impenitent transgressor To live unblest. The pious and the virtuous, though assaulted By fortune’s frown, or man’s unjust decrees. Still in their bosoms find a pure, exalted. Unfailing peace ’ Hence do we learn that hardened vice is hateful. Since Heaven pursues it with avenging rod ; While goodness, self-rewarded, must be grateful To man and God. 0 ! Thou most visible, yet unseen Teacher, Whose finger writes its lessons on our sphere, 0 ! Thou most audible, but unheard Preacher, Whose sermons clear Are seen and read in all that Thou performest, Wilt Thou look down and bless, if, when I kneel Apart from man-built fanes, I feel the warmest And purest zeal ? If in the temple Thine own hands have fashioned, ’Neath the bright sky, by lonely stream or wood 1 pour to Thee, with thrilling heart impassioned. My gratitude ? If in Thy present miracles terrestrial Mine eyes behold, wherever I have kneeled. New proofs of the futurity celestial To man revealed ? MONTGOLFIER IN HIS BALLOON. 307 If, fearing Thee, I love the whole creation. Keeping my bosom undefiled by guilt. Wilt Thou receive and bless mine adoration ? Thou wilt, Thou wilt ! CHATFIELD. MONTGOLFIER IN HIS BALLOON. See on the shoreless air the intrepid Gaul Launch the vast concave of his flying ball ! Journeying on high, the silken castle glides. Bright as a meteor through the azure tides ; O’er towns and towers and temples wins its way. Or mounts sublime, and gilds the vault of day. Silent, with upturned eyes, unbreathing crowds Pursue the floating wonder to the clouds ; And, flushed with transport or benumbed with fear, Watch, as it rises, the diminished sphere. — Now less and less, and now a speck is seen ; And now the fleeting wrack obtrudes between ; With bended knees, raised arms, and suppliant brows. To every shrine they breathe their mingled vows. “ Save him, ye saints who o’er the good preside ! Bear him, ye winds ! ye stars benignant, guide ! ” The calm philosopher in ether sails. Views broader stars, and breathes in purer gales ; Sees, like a map, in many a waving line. Bound earth’s blue plains her lucid waters shine ; Sees at his feet the forky lightnings glow. And hears innocuous thunders roar below. DARWIN. 308 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. THE YOUNG LOCHINVAR. Tue young Lochinvar is come out of the west ! Through all the wide border his steed was the best ; And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, — He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so gallant in war. There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone. He swam the Esk river where ford there was none ; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. The bride had consented, the bridegroom came late ; For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of young Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ; Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), “0, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? ” “ I long wooed your daughter, — my suit you denied ; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; And now I am come, with this lost love of mine. To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.” The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up. He quaffed off the wine and he threw down the cup ; She looked down to blush, and she looked 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. THE believer’s TRIUMPH IN DEATH. 309 So stately his form, and so lovely his 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 whispered, “ ’T were better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.” One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. When they reached 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 Loch- invar. 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 Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love and so gallant in war. There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. SCOTT. THE BELIEVER’S TRIUMPH IN DEATH. Deathless principle, arise ! Soar, thou native of the skies ! Pearl of price, by Jesus bought. To His glorious likeness wrought. Go to shine before His throne. Deck His mediatorial crown ; Go, His triumphs to adorn ; Made for God, to God return. 310 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. ' Lo ! lie beckons from on high ! Fearless to His presence fly ; Thine the merit of His blood, Thine the righteousness of God. Is thy earthly house distressed ? Willing to retain her guest ? ’T is not thou, but she, must die ; Fly, celestial tenant, fly ! Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay ! Sweetly breathe thyself away ; To thy heavenly crown remove. Swift of wing, and fired with love ! Shudder not to pass the stream ; Venture all thy care on Him, — Him whose dying love and power Stilled its tossing, hushed its roar. Safe as the expanded wave. Gentle as the summer’s eve, — Not one object of His care Ever suffered shipwreck there. See the haven full in view ! Love divine shall bear thee through ; Trust to that propitious gale. Weigh thy anchor, spread thy sail ! Saints in glory perfect made Wait thy passage through the shade ; Ardent for thy coming o’er. See, they throng the blissful shore ! Swiftly to their wish be given. Kindle higher joy in heaven. THE LEAP FOR LIFE. 311 Such the prospects that arise To the dying Christian’s eyes ! Such the glorious vista Faith Opens through the shades of death ! TOPLADY. THE LEAP FOR LIFE. Old Ironsides at anchor lay, In the harbor of Mahon ; A dead calm rested on the bay, The waves to sleep had gone, When little Jack, the captain’s son. With gallant hardihood. Climbed shroud and spar, and then upon The main-truck rose and stood ! A shudder ran through every vein. All eyes were turned on high ! There stood the boy, with dizzy brain. Between the sea and sky ! No hold had he above, below ! Alone he stood in air ! At that far height none dared to go. No aid could reach him there. We gazed, — but not a man could speak ! — With horror all aghast. In groups, with pallid brow and cheek. We watched the quivering mast. The atmosphere grew thick and hot, And of a lurid hue. As, riveted unto the spot. Stood officers and crew. 312 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. The father came on deck ! — He gasped, “ 0 God ! thy will be done ! ” Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his son ! “Jump, far out, boy, into the wave ! Jump, or I fire ! ” he said ; “ That only chance your life can save ! Jump, jump, boy ! ” — He obeyed. He sunk, — he rose, — he lived, — he moved. He for the ship struck out ! On board we hailed the lad beloved, With many a manly shout ; His father drew, in silent joy. Those wet arms round his neck, Then folded to his heart the boy, And fainted on the deck. GEO. P. MORRIS. FAR OUT AT SEA. Far out at sea, — the sun was high, — While veered the wind and flapped the sail. We saw a snow-white butterfly Dancing before the fitful gale, Far out at sea. The little stranger, who had lost His way, of danger nothing knew, — Settled a while upon the mast, Then fluttered o’er the waters blue. Far out at sea. Above, there gleamed the boundless sky ; Beneath, the boundless ocean sheen ; ON THE RECEIPT OP MY MOTHER’S PICTURE. 313 Between them danced the butterfly, The spirit life in this vast scene, Far out at sea. Away he sped, with shimmering glee ! Dim, indistinct, — now seen, now gone ; Night comes, with wind and rain, and he No more will dance before the morn. Far out at sea. He dies unlike his mates I ’ve seen. Perhaps not sooner nor worse crossed ; And he hath felt and known and seen A larger life and hope, though lost Far out at sea. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER’S PICTURE. 0 THAT those lips had language ! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine, — thine 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, 0 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! Who bid’st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 1 will obey, not willingly alone, 14 314 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. 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 revery, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother ! when I learnt that thou wast dead. Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son. Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun? 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 tolled 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 ! But was it such ? It was. — Where thou art gone. Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return : What ardently I wished, 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 sorrow spent, I learned, 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 ; ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER’S PICTURE. 315 And where the gardener Eobin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, ’T is now become a history little known. That once we called 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 effasced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. That thou might’st know me safe and warmly laid ; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home. The biscuit or confectionary plum ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed : All this, and, more endearing still than all. Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and breaks That humor interposed too often makes ; All this, still legible in memory’s page. And still to be so till 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 scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours. When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers. The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile). 316 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? I would not trust my heart, — the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps 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 weathered, and the ocean crossed. Shoots into port at some well-havened 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 ; So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore “ Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,” And thy loved consort, on the dangerous tide Of life, long since has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. Always from port withheld, always distressed. Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed. Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost. And day by day some current’s thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet, 0 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 passed into the skies. nature’s ministrations. 317 And now farewelj, — Time unrevoked hath run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain, I seem t’ have lived my childhood o’er again ; To have renewed 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. COWP^IR. NATURE’S MINISTRATIONS. Nature never did betray The heart that loved her ; ’t is her privilege. Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy ; for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Bash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life. Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee ; and in after years. When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 318 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; O ! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. And these my exhortations ! WORDSWORTH. AN EVENING THOUGHT. Reflected in the lake, I love To mark the star of evening glow ; So tranquil in the heaven above. So restless on the wave below ! Thus heavenly hope is all serene ; But earthly hope — how bright soe’er — Still fluctuates o’er this changing scene. As false and fleeting as ’t is fair ! REV. C. H. TOWNSHEND. THE CHILD’S WAENING. There ’s bloom upon the lady’s cheek. There ’s brightness in her eye : Who says the sentence is gone forth That that fair thing must die ? Must die before the flowering lime. Out yonder, sheds its leaf ! — Can this thing be ? 0 human flower ! Is then thy date so brief ? THE child’s warning. 319 Nay, nay, ’t is but a passing cloud, Thou did’st but droop awhile ; There ’s life, long years, and love and joy. Whole ages, in that smile, — In the gay call that to thy knee Brings quick that loving child. Who looks up in those laughing eyes With his large eyes so mild. Yet, thou art doomed, — art dying ! all The coming hour foresee. But, in Love’s cowardice, withhold The warning word from thee ! God keep thee and be merciful ! His strength is with the weak ; Through babes and sucklings the Most High Hath oft vouchsafed to speak, — And speaketh now, “0, mother dear ! ” Murmurs the little child ; And there is trouble in his eyes. Those large blue eyes so mild, — “0, mother dear ! they say that soon, When here I seek for thee, I shall not find thee ; nor out there, Under the old oak-tree ; “ Nor up stairs in the nursery. Nor anywhere, they say ; — Where wilt thou go to, mother dear ? 0, do not go away ! ” 320 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. Then was long silence, a deep hush, And then the child’s low sob : Her quivering eyelids close, — one hand Keeps down the heart’s quick throb. And the lips move, though sound is none, — That inward voice is prayer ! And hark ! “ Thy will, 0 Lord, be done ! ” And tears are trickling there, Down that pale cheek, on that young head ; And round her neck he clings ; And child and mother murmur out Unutterable things. He half unconscious, — she deep-struck With sudden solemn truth. That numbered are her days on earth. Her shroud prepared in youth ; That all in life her heart holds dear God calls her to resign, — She hears, feels, trembles, but looks up. And sighs, “ Thy will be mine I ” MRS. SOUTHEY. IMMORTAL HOPES. 0, WHAT were life. Even in the warm and summer light of joy. Without those hopes, that, like refreshing gales At evening from the sea, come o’er the soul, Breathed from the ocean of eternity ! A.nd 0 ! without them who could bear the storms That fall in roaring blackness o’er the waters Of agitated life ! Then hopes arise HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 321 All round our sinking souls, like those fair birds, O’er whose soft plumes the tempest hath no power. Waving their snow-white wings amid the darkness. And wiling us, with gentle motion, on To some calm island, on whose silvery strand Dropping at once, they fold their silent pinions. And, as we touch the shores of paradise. In love and beauty walk around our feet ! WILSON. HYMN TO ADVERSITY. Daughter of Jove, relentless power. Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and torturing hour The bad affright, afflict the best ! Bound in thy adamantine chain. The proud are taught to taste of pain. And purple tyrants vainly groan, With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, designed. To thee he gave th^ heavenly birth. And bade to form her infant mind. Stern, rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore ; What sorrow was, thou bad’st her know. And from her own she learned to melt at others’ woe. Scared at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly’s idle brood, — Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. 14 ^ u SELECTIONS IN POETIIY. Light they disperse, and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe ; By vain Prosperity received. To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. "Wisdom in sable garb arrayed. Immersed in rapturous thought profound. And Melancholy, silent maid. With leaden eye that loves the ground. Still on thy solemn steps attend : AVarm Charity, the general friend. With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 0, gently on thy suppliant’s head, Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand ! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Not circled with the vengeful band. As by the impious thou art seen. With thundering voice, and threatening mien, AVith screaming Horror’s funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty : Thy form benign, 0 goddess, wear, Thy milder influence impart, Thy philosophic train be there. To soften, not to wound, the heart. The generous spark extinct revive. Teach me to love, and to forgive, . Exact my own defects to scan, . What others are, to feel, and know myself a man. GRAY. 31AY. 823 MAY. I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; — The winds that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, Tell of serener hours, — Of hours that glide unfelt away Beneath the sky of May. The spirit of the gentle south- wind calls From his blue throne of air. And where his whispering voice in music falls. Beauty is budding there ; The bright ones of the valley break Their slumbers, and awake. ‘24 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. The waving verdure rolls along thp plain, And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its [)lajful mates again, A canopy of leaves ; And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes. Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; The tresses of the woods With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; And the full brimming floods. As gladly to their goal they run. Hail the returning sun. PERCIVAL. STANZAS. If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee ; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be : It never through my mind had past, The time would e’er be o’er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more ! And still upon that face I look, And think ’twill smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook. That I must look in vain ! But when I speak, thou dost not say. What thou ne’er left’st unsaid ; And now I feel, as well I may. Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CnURCII-YARD. 325 If thou would’st stay, e’en as thou art, All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart. And where thy smiles have been ! While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have. Thou seemest still mine own ; But there I lay thee in thy grave, — And I am now alone ! I do not think, where’er thou art. Thou hast forgotten me ; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, In thinking too of thee : Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne’er seen before. As Fancy never could have drawn. And never can restore ! CHARLES WOLFE. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARU. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary w’^ay. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds. Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. Molest her ancient solitary reign. 326 SELECTIONS IN rOETRV. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering hea}», Each in his narrow cell forever laid. The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire’s return. Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth, e’er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour ; The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise. Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. ELEGY WHITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD. 327 Caa storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll ; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage. And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, — Some mute, inglorious Milton, — here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood. The applause of listening senates to command. The threats of pain and ruin to despise. To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land. And read their history in a nation’s eyes. Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : SELECTIONS IN POETllY. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride AVith incense kindled at the Muses’ flame. Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews. To teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries. Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. Dost in these lines th.eir artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate : ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD. 320 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, “ Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. “ There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. His listless length at noontide would he stretch. And pore upon the brook that babbles by. “ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, would he rove, Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. “ One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill. Along the heath, and near his favorite tree : Another came, — nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he : “ The next, with dirges due, in sad array. Slow through the church- way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth. And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; He gave to misery (all he had) a tear. He gained from heaven (’t was all he wished) a friend. 330 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God. GUAY. LIFE BEYOND THE TOMB. Such is the destiny of all on earth : So flourishes and fades majestic Man ; — Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth, And fostering gales a while the nursling fan. 0 smile, ye Heavens, serene ! Ye mildews wan, Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime. Nor lessen of his life the little span. Borne on the swift though silent wings of Time, Old age comes on apace, to ravage all the clime. And be it so. Let those deplore their doom, Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn ; But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb. Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn. Shall spring to these sad scenes no more return ? Is yonder wave the sun’s eternal bed ? Soon shall the Orient with new lustre burn. And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed, Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. Shall I be left, forgotten in the dust. When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ? Shall Nature’s voice, to Man alone unjust. Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live ? Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive THE RAINBOW. oo-| ooi With disappointment, penury, and pain ? No ! Heaven’s immortal spring shall yet arrive. And man’s majestic beauty bloom again, Bright through the eternal year of Love’s triumphant reign. BEATTIE. TO THE RAINBOW. Triumphal arch, that fill’st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight, A midway station given. For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow ? When Science from Creation’s face Enchantment’s veil withdraws. What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws I And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams. But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. SEJJ^CTIONS IN POETRY. When o’er the green undeluged earth Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine, IIow came the world’s gray fathers foi*th, To watch thy sacred sign ! And when its yellow lustre smiled O’er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child, To bless the bow of God. 3Iethinks, thy jubilee to keep. The first-made anthem rang On earth, delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye Unraptured greet thy beam ; Theme of primeval prophecy. Be still the poet’s theme ! The earth to thee her incense yields. The lark thy welcome sings. When, glittering in the freshened fields, The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast O’er mountain, tower and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh in yon horizon dark. As young, thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam,. ^UTUMN. For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thj span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man. CAMPBELL. AUTUMN. The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields x\re hung, as if with golden shields. Bright trophies of the sun ! Like a fair sister of the sky, ^ Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, ^ The mountains looking on. And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, Albeit uninspired by love. By love untaught to ring. May well afford to mortal ear An impulse more profoundly dear Than music of the spring. For that from turbulence and heat Proceeds, from some uneasy seat In nature’s struggling frame, — Some region of impatient life ; x\nd jealousy and quivering strife Therein a portion claim. This, this is holy ; while I hear These vespers of another year. This hymn of thanks and praise. My spirit seems to mount above 1 831 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. The anxieties of human love, And earth’s precarious days. But list ! though winter storms Ixi nigh, Unchecked is that soft harmony ; There Jives Who can provide For all his creatures; and in Him, Even like the radiant seraphim, These choristers confide. WORDSWORTH. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. Vital spark of heavenly flame. Quit, 0, quit this mortal frame ! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 0, the pain, the bliss, of dying ! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life ! Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, Sister Spirit, come away ; What is this absorbs me quite, — Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? Tell me, my soul ! can this be death ? The world recedes, — it disappears ! Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring ! Lend, lend your wings ! I mount, I fly I 0 Grave ! where is thy victory ? 0 Death ! where is thy sting ? POPE. NATURE AND HER LOVER. 335 NATURE AND HER LOVER. I REMEMBER the time, thou roaring sea, When thj voice was the voice of Infinity, — A joy, and a dread, and a mystery. I remember the time, ye young May-flowers, When your odors and hues in the fields and bowers Fell on my soul as on grass the showers. I remember the time, thou blustering wind, When thy voice in the woods, to my dreaming mind, Seemed the sigh of the earth for human kind. I remember the time, ye sun and stars. When ye raised my soul from mortal bars. And bore it through heaven in your golden cars. And has it, then, vanished, that dreamful time ? Are the winds, and the seas, and the stars sublime. Deaf to thy soul in its manly prime ? Ah, no ! ah, no ! amid sorrow and pain, When the world and its facts oppress my brain. In the world of spirit I rove, I reign. I feel a deep and a pure delight In the luxuries of sound and sight, — In the opening day, in the closing night. The voices of youth go with me still. Through the field and the wood, o’er the plain and the hill ; In the roar of the sea, in the laugh of the rill. Every flower is a Idver of mine. Every star is a friend divine ; For me they blossom, for me they shine. 330 SELECTIONS IN POETRY. To give me joy the oceans roll, They breathe their secrets to my soul, With me they sing, with me condole. Man cannot harm me, if he would ; I have h\ich. friends for my every mood, In the overflowing solitude. Fate cannot -touch me ; nothing can stir To put disunion or hate of her ’Twixt nature and her worshipper. Sing to me, flowers ! preach to me, skies ! Ye landscapes, glitter in mine eyes.! Whisper, ye deeps, your mysteries ! Sigh to me, winds ! ye forests, nod ! Speak to me ever, thou flowery sod ! Ye are mine — all mine — in the peace of God. MACKAY. ( / j ..d*