THE LIBRARY
OF
THE
UNIVERSITY
SITY OF
食
​MNIBUS A ARTIBUS
REGENTS
MINNESOTA
CLASS
BOOK
820.1
K345-2
OUR
POETICAL FAVORITES
A SELECTION FROM THE BEST MINOR POEMS
OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE
THIRD SERIES
BY
ASAHEL C. KENDRICK
PROFESSOR IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF ROCHESTER

AND
co.
BOSTON
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY
1881
3
Copyright, 1880,
BY ASAHEL C. KENDRICK.
All Rights Reserved.

OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
First Series.
By A. C.
Being a Selection from the Best Minor Poems.
KENDRICK. 1 vol. 12mo. Tinted paper. Price, $2.00.
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Second Series.
Being a Selection Chiefly from the Best of the Longer English
Poems. By A. C. KENDRICK. I vol. 12mo. Tinted paper.
Price, $2.00.
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Third Series.
Being a Selection from the Best Poems of the English Lan-
guage; containing especially many recent poems, and pieces by.
the new writers, both English and American. By A. C.
KENDRICK.
I vol. 12mo. Tinted paper. Price, $2.00.
UNIVERSITY PRESS:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE,
820,1
K345-2
PREFACE.
THIS Volume closes the series of "Our Poetical Favor-
ites." Hardly more now than when he presented the
first volume does the Editor flatter himself that he has
exhausted the treasures of the poetry of our language.
It is perhaps not desirable, if it were possible, that they
should be exhausted in any one popular anthology. But
he has failed in his purpose if the three volumes do not
present such an array, from so wide a variety of sources,
that the reader who is familiar with them may be fairly
said to have some familiarity with the form and the
spirit of the great body of English poetry.
The first volume, as was natural, abounds in those
pieces, by standard authors, which are so excellent and
so famous that one could hardly conceive of a collection
without them. The second volume consists mainly of
longer poems, which yet are not so long but that they
may be read at a single sitting and retain the effect of a
single poem. One peculiarity of the present volume is
that it endeavors especially to recognize the claims of
new poets, not a few of whom have come into publicity
since the first volume appeared, ten years ago; another
is the introduction of a limited number of humorous
pieces. It is not often that humorous verses can be
strictly classed as poetry; few besides Hood and
Holmes have exhibited the exquisite faculty of blending
982647
iv
PREFACE.
humor and pathos in their rhymes; but the metrical
form has been used for so much that is wise as well as
brilliant, it would seem an affectation to ignore it al-
together. The reader of Browning will not appreciate
him any the less after laughing over one of Calverley's
more than clever parodies; and perhaps the illiberal
politician, while enjoying Bret Harte's Heathen Chinee,
may get a glimpse of himself as others see him, without
requiring any very powerful spectacles to read between
the lines. Many of the best poems here collected are
from authors who have presented no volume to the pub-
lic. This is especially true of American writers. Our
poetry, like our humor, is scattered with a free hand
through our current literature, and but for the popular
collections which are almost peculiar to this country,
would drift away with the rubbish of yesterday's papers .
and last year's magazines.
ROCHESTER, September, 1880.
A. C. K.
CONTENTS.
Abraham Lincoln
Adopted Child, The
·
After a Lecture on Moore
After War
Ailleen
Allan Percy
Annoyer, The
Another Year
•
Antony and Cleopatra.
Artemus Ward
Ask me no more
Astarte
•
As through the Land
Atheism
Athens
Atlantic, The
•
Aurum Potabile.
Baby Bye.
•
Bachelor's Dream, The
Badajos
Bannockburn
•
Barbara Frietchie
Before the Gate
•
Beleaguered City, The
Bendemeer's Stream
Beth Gêlert
•
Betrothed Anew
Bird at Sunset, A.
>
Bivouac of the Dead, The
Blue Beard
•
Boatman's Hymn
By the Alma River.
By the Fire
•
PAGE
Tom Taylor. 229
Felicia Hemans. 180
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 104
•
Isa Craig Knox. 139
50
John Banim.
Caroline Norton. 173
Nathaniel Parker Willis. 296
Nora Perry.
226
William H. Lytle. III
. Anonymous. 227
•
•
•
Alfred Tennyson.
Robert Bulwer Lytton.
•
52
93
Alfred Tennyson. 273
Arthur Hugh Clough. 435
Euripides. 365
Arthur Hugh Clough. 278
Bayard Taylor.
98
Theodore Tilton. 176
•
Thomas Hood.
56
•
•
Anonymous. 128
Robert Burns.
123
John G. Whittier. 263
William D. Howells. 35
Henry W. Longfellow. 390
Fitz-Greene Halleck.
351
William R. Spencer. 235
Edmund C. Stedman.
Robert Bulwer Lytton.
19
85
217
Theodore P. Cook.
•
9
Theodore O'Hara.
•
Samuel Ferguson. 369
Dinah M. Mulock Craik. 131
>
David Gray. 284
י
vi
CONTENTS.
Cane-bottomed Chair, The
Carmen Bellicosum
Castle-Building
·
Cavalier's Song, The
•
Cavalier to his Sword, A
•
Cavern of the Three Tells, The.
Celia, To.
Charmian
•
•
Christmas Night
Circuit Preacher, The .
Cock and the Bull, The
Come Home.
Compliment to Queen Elizabeth
Courtin', The
•
Crossing the Brook
Cuddle Doon
Daffodils.
Dead President, The.
Death Deposed .
Death's Final Conquest
De Profundis
Dirge for a Soldier.
Dirge for a Soldier.
•
PAGE
William M. Thackeray. 465
Guy Humphrey McMaster. 121
Augustine 7. H. Duganne.
William Motherwell.
5
124
124
• Joseph O'Connor.
Felicia Hemans. 163
Ben Jonson.
•
16
Robert Buchanan. 360
Frederick W. Faber. 421
186
George Alfred Townsend. 405
Charles S. Calverley.
Arthur Hugh Clough. 378
•
William Shakespeare.
James Russell Lowell.
62
26
Cecil Frances Alexander. 343
Alexander Anderson. 174
•
William Wordsworth. 311
Edward Rowland Sill. 238
William Allingham. 339
•
James Shirley. 249
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
221
Samuel P. Merrill.
162
161
Dirge for the Year.
Distant Hills, The.
Doris
•
Dream, A
Driving Home the Cows
Drop, drop, Slow Tears
Dying Actor, The
Endurance
Epitaph, An .
•
•
Epitaphs
•
Equinoctial
•
Eternal Years, The
•
Evening brings us Home.
Faded Violets, The
Farewell to his Native Country.
Farm-yard Song
Father-land and Mother-tongue
Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz, The .
Fishing Song, A
•
George H. Boker.
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 315
Rebecca S. Palfrey. 422
Arthur Munby.
Richard K. Munkittrick.
47
59
Kate Putnam Osgood. 136
•
Giles Fletcher. 399
Edgar Fawcett. 214
Elizabeth Akers Allen. 383
Thomas K. Hervey. 91
Ben Jonson. 220
Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 463
Frederick W. Faber. 368
Anonymous. 351
+
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
58
Robert Burns. 169
John T. Trowbridge. 319
·
Samuel Lover. 352
Henry W. Longfellow.
266
•
Rose Terry Cooke.
82
CONTENTS.
vii
Fontenoy.
•
For Charlie's Sake .
For my Sake.
Fount of Castaly, The.
Four Years After
Gladiator, The
Glenara
•
God's Acre
God's Acre
•
Going Home.
Goldilocks
Good Night!
Good Night!
•
•
Good Time going, A
Gradatim.
Grandmother, The.
Greyport Legend, A
•
PAGE
Thomas Davis. 116
John Williamson Palmer. 170
Evangeline M. Johnson. 394
• Joseph O'Connor. 471
William A. Croffut. 420
•
•
•
Groomsman to the Bridesmaid, The
Hannah Binding Shoes
Happy Life, The
Haunted Houses
Hellespont, The
Helvellyn.
•
•
Here's to them that are gane
Her Letter
Hero of the Commune, The.
Hero to Leander
Hester.
•
His Answer to her Letter
Hohenlinden.
Home
•
How's my Boy?
Hymn
Hymn, A
•
•
•
Hymn to the Flowers.
Hymn to the Night
I'd be a Butterfly
If the Wind rise
•
•
•
•
.Lord Byron. 147
Thomas Campbell.
72
Henry W. Longfellow. 247
Rachel Pomeroy. 251
Benjamin F. Taylor. 357
Jean Ingelow.
7
Karl Theodore Koerner. 415
. Anonymous. II
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 275
Josiah Gilbert Holland. 395
·
Alfred Tennyson. 292
•
Bret Harte.
285
Thomas W. Parsons. 44
•
Lucy Larcom.
87
Sir Henry Wotton. 366
Henry W. Longfellow. 321
•
Lord Byron. 298
Sir Walter Scott. 234
•
Lady Nairne. 334
•
Bret Harte.
39
Margaret J. Preston. 239
•
Alfred Tennyson.
•
Charles Lamb.
•
Bret Harte.
48
241
41
Thomas Campbell. 129
James Montgomery. 257
Sydney Dobell. 376
Henry Hart Milman. 338
Bernard of Cluny. 329
Horace Smith. 388
Henry W. Longfellow. 426
Thomas Haines Bayly. 283
•
Joseph O'Connor. 467
John G. Saxe. 468
Sewall S. Cutting. 342
I'm growing Old
Immortality
•
Incident of the French Camp
Indian Names
•
Robert Browning.
127
Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 312
་
viii
CONTENTS.
Indirection
In the Academy of Design
In the Half-way House
In the Shadow
Is my Lover on the Sea?.
Italian Mother, The
John Brown of Osawatomie.
Joseph Rodman Drake
Karamanian Exile, The
•
King of Denmark's Ride, The.
Kiss Me Softly.
Knight's Tomb, The
Kubla Khan
Lament, A
•
·
Lament for Owen Roe O'Neill
Land beyond the Sea, The .
Life
Life and Death
•
Light Woman, A
L'Ingenu.
Little While, A .
Little Years, The
Longing for God
Longing for Home.
Love at First Sight
Love is like a Dizziness
Lovers, and a Reflection
Lucy, To.
Lullaby
Mango-Tree, The
Mare Rubrum
•
Mariner's Dream, The
Mariner's Hymn, The.
Marriage Feast, The
Mary by the Cross .
Mary in Heaven, To
•
•
•
•
•
Match, A.
Midges
Milkmaid, 'The
Misconceptions
Miss Myrtle
•
Richard Realf.
David L. Proudfit.
PAGE
4
74
James Russell Lowell. 432
•
Jacob Hoekstra. 274
Bryan Waller Procter. 375
Alexandre Soumet. 416
Edmund C. Stedman. 151
Fitz-Greene Halleck. 231
•
James Clarence Mangan. 258
Caroline Norton.
86
John G. Saxe.
15
Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 149
•
Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 363
•
Percy Bysshe Shelley, 301
•
Thomas Davis. 147
Frederick W. Faber. 381
Henry King.
233
Adelaide A. Procter. 367
•
Robert Browning.
60
Anonymous. 299
Horatius Bonar. 332
Robert T. S. Lowell. 439
Frederick W. Faber.
396
•
Jean Ingelow. 245
•
Jean Ingelow.
17
James Hogg.
25
•
•
Charles S. Calverley. 279
Anna Katherine Green. 306
•
Alfred Tennyson. 178
Charles Kingsley.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
68
102
William Dimond. 373
•
•
Caroline Bowles Southey. 379
346
Isa Craig Knox.
Anonymous. 346
Robert Burns.
•
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Robert Bulwer Lytton.
•
92
21
199
Jeffreys Taylor. 431
Robert Browning. 415
Winthrop Mackworth Praed. 355
CONTENTS.
ix
Moonlight
Morning-Glory, The
Mortality.
Motherhood
Mowers, The
Musical Frogs, The
Musical Instrument, A
My Aunt
•
My Babes in the Wood
My Beau
My Friend
•
My Heid is like to rend, Willie
My Last Duchess
My Little Brook
•
•
My Native Land, Good Night
My Neighbor Rose
My Slain
•
•
My Triumph
My Wind is turned to Bitter North
Naseby
Nathan Hale .
New Comer, The
Nice Correspondent, A
No More.
Nongtongpaw
Northern Farmer
Not far to Go
Oh, breathe not his name!
October
•
•
PAGE
Robert Kelley Weeks. 322
Maria White Lowell. 358
•
William Knox. 456
Charles S. Calverley. 196
William Allingham. 318
John Stuart Blackie. 302
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 418
•
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
•
Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt.
Michael O'Connor.
Dinah M. Mulock Craik.
William Motherwell.
•
Robert Browning.
54
274
45
461
69
83
Mary Bolles Branch. 305
•
•
Lord Byron. 167
Frederick Locker. 353
Richard Realf. 340
John G. Whittier. 443
Arthur Hugh Clough. 237
132
Thomas B. Macaulay. 119
Francis M. Finch.
. Anonymous.
Frederick Locker.
•
2
37
Robert H. Newell. 145
Charles Dibdin. 453
Alfred Tennyson. 449
•
William Barnes. 106
146
Ode.
Old.
Old Familiar Faces, The
Old-Fashioned Choir, The
Old Man dreams, The
Old Man's Idyl, An
Old Politician, The
•
Old Professor, The
•
Old Sergeant, The .
On the Doorstep
Order for a Picture, An
•
Oh, the Pleasant Days of Old!
Oubit, The
•
•
Thomas Moore.
Benjamin F. Taylor. 323
•
Henry Timrod.
157
. Ralph Hoyt. 206
Charles Lamb. 205
Benjamin F. Taylor. 212
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 469
•
Richard Realf.
64
Robert Buchanan. 458
23
•
•
Fred W. Loring. 210
Forceythe Willson.
140
Edmund C. Stedman.
•
13
Alice Cary.
270
Frances Browne.
427
Charles Kingsley. 386
X
CONTENTS.
•
Our Autumns
Over the River
•
Paradox of Time, The
Pauper's Death-bed, The
Peace
•
Petition to Time, A
Pet Name, The.
Plain Direction, A
•
•
•
PAGE
James Russell Lowell. 464
Nancy Priest Wakefield. 244
•
Austin Dobson. 445
Caroline Bowles Southey. 336
Henry Vaughan. 329
•
•
Bryan Waller Procter.
448
· Plain Language from Truthful James
Plighted
•
Poet's Apology, The
•
Poet's Song to his Wife, The
Port Royal, At
•
Portrait of Addison
•
Portrait of Milton, Under the
Portrait, The
Puritan Lovers, The
•
•
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 347
Thomas Hood.
·
192
Bret Harte. 198
Dinah M. Mulock Craik.
•
•
·
36
Edward Rowland Sill." 317
Bryan Waller Procter. 63
John G. Whittier. 254
Alexander Pope.
•
228
John Dryden. 277
Robert Bulwer Lytton. 75
Annie D. Greon. 29
Quiet Mind, The
Relief of Lucknow, The.
Repentance.
Rest is not here
Restlessness .
•
Resurrection Hymn, A
Reveille
Rhine, The
•
Rhyme of Life, A
Robin, The
•
Romance of the Swan's Nest
Royal Guest, The
Saturday Afternoon
Serenade
•
Shakespeare.
Sheridan's Ride
Skylark, The
Slanten Light o' Fall.
Sleep
•
Snug Little Island, The
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er
Solemn Conceit, A.
Solitude
Song
•
•
•
John Clare. 441
Robert T. S. Lowell. 261
Dora Greenwell.
•
400
•
•
Lady Nairne.
331
Elizabeth Akers Allen.
333
Anna Lætitia Waring. 340
Michael O'Connor. 138
Lord Byron. 313
Charles Warren Stoddard. 382
John G. Whittier. 287
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 181
Julia Ward Howe.
78
Nathaniel Parker Willis. 281
12
John Sterling. 232
Henry W. Longfellow.
•
Thomas Buchanan Read.
134
James Hogg.
315
William Barnes.
269
•
•
165
139
248
William Shakespeare. 300
Charles Dibdin.
Sir Walter Scott.
William Motherwell.
Lord Byron. 323
Sir Charles Sedley. 20
CONTENTS.
xi
Song
Song
Song for September
Song of Fatima.
Song of Marion's Men
Song of Rorek, The
•
Song of the Cossack, The
Song of the Shirt
Soul and Body
•
Soul's Measure, The
Spinning-Wheel Song
Source of my Life
Spring .
Squandered Lives
St. Agnes.
•
·
•
Stranger on the Sill, The.
Stanzas
•
Sujâta
Summer
Summer Longings
Sun and Shadow
Sunset.
•
Suspiria Ensis
¿
Sweet are the Rosy Memories
Sword-chant of Thorstein Raudi
Tears, Idle Tears
·
Tears I Shed must ever Fall, The.
Tell her, oh, tell her
Temple to Friendship, A
Thanatopsis.
The Bloom hath fled thy Cheek, Mary
There is a Green Wood
•
They are all gone
Thomas Moore, To
Those Evening Bells
Three Fishers, The
Tithonus
Tommy's Dead
Too Near
•
Toper's Apology, The
Toujours Amour
•
Traveller's Return, The
Two Villages, The.
Dinah M. Mulock Craik.
•
. Sarah Helen Whitman.
Thomas W. Parsons.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
PAGE
13
73
326
19
William C. Bryant. 267
John W. Weidemeyer. 411
Pierre Jean de Béranger. 125
Thomas Hood. 408
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
I
George McKnight. 384
Anna Lætitia Waring. 400
32
John Francis Waller.
Algernon Charles Swinburne. 309
•
•
385
Bayard Taylor.
Alfred Tennyson. 335
Thomas Buchanan Read.
204
Christopher P. Cranch. 423
Edwin Arnold.
107
John T. Trowbridge. 307
Denis Florence MacCarthy. 362
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
316
. Lord Byron.
308
157
225
113
Henry Howard Brownell.
Robert Bulwer Lytton.
William Motherwell.
•
•
Alfred Tennyson. 224
Mrs. Dugald Stewart.
•
Thomas Moore.
Thomas Moore.
William C. Bryant. 392
William Motherwell.
66
Michael O'Connor. 434
•
Henry Vaughan. 242
Lord Byron. 103
Thomas Moore. 385
•
Charles Kingsley. 380
•
Alfred Tennyson. 324
Sydney Dobell. 289
17
100
6
Philip Bourke Marston.
Charles Morris.
Edmund C. Stedman.
Susanna Blamire. 436
. Rose Terry Cooke. 250
80
16
201
>
xii
CONTENTS.
Undiscovered Country, The.
PAGE
Vagabonds, The
Vanitas Vanitatum .
Verses
Verses
•
•
View across the Roman Campagna
Violet, The
Virtuoso, A.
Voyage, The.
Warden of the Cinque Ports, The .
Wearie's Well
•
We brought the Summer with us
Weep not for him that dieth
What is Life?
•
What Mr. Robinson thinks
What we all think
•
•
When the Kye comes Hame
Where is Miss Myrtle?
Where lies the Land?
•
Edmund C. Stedman. 419
John T. Trowbridge. 95
Gerald Griffin. 447
William Cowper. 403
Chediock Ticheborne. 455
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 387
•
•
•
Where shall the Lover rest?
Where the Brook and River meet.
Whosoever
Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles
Widow's Lullaby, The
Willie Winkie
Willis, The
•
•
Without and Within
•
Woman of Three Cows, The
Woman's Question, A
Wonderland
•
Would you be Young again?
•
William W. Story. 288
Austin Dobson. 424
Alfred Tennyson. 370
Henry W. Longfellow. 149
William Motherwell.
23
Joseph O'Connor. 304
Caroline Norton. 219
•
John Clare. 455
James Russell Lowell. 429
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 438
James Hogg.
33
Winthrop Mackworth Praed. 355
•
Sir Walter Scott.
William C. Wilkinson.
·
Arthur Hugh Clough.
377
79
8
398
53
•
Sydney Dobell.
89
•
179
Joseph Allen Ely.
Frances M. Whitcher.
•
William Miller.
David L. Proudfit. 282
James Russell Lowell. 184
James Clarence Mangan. 451
•
Adelaide A. Procter.
51
Cradock Newton. 202
•
Lady Nairne. 213
Yarn of the Nancy Bell, The
•
William S. Gilbert. 189
INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
INDEX OF AUTHORS REPRESENTED IN THE SERIES.
473
481
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Soul and Body.
EFORE the beginning of years
There came to the making of man
Time, with a gift of tears;
Grief, with a glass that ran ;
Pleasure, with sin for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance, fallen from heaven ;
And madness, risen from hell;
Strength, without hands to smite;
Love, that endures for a breath ;
Night, the shadow of light;
And life, the shadow of death.
And the high gods took in hand
Fire and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand
From under the feet of the years,
And froth and drift of the sea,
And dust of the laboring earth,
And bodies of things to be
In the houses of death and of birth,
And wrought with weeping and laughter,
And fashioned with loathing and love,
With life before and after,
And death beneath and above,
~
*
2
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
For a day and a night and a morrow,
That his strength might endure for a span,
With travail and heavy sorrow,
The holy spirit of man.
From the winds of the North and the South
They gathered as unto strife ;
They breathed up in his mouth,
They filled his body with life ;
Eyesight and speech they wrought
For the veils of the soul therein;
A time for labor and thought,
A time to serve and to sin;
They gave him light in his ways,
And love, and a space for delight,
And beauty and length of days,
And night, and sleep in the night.
His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth;
In his heart is a blind desire,
In his eyes foreknowledge of death.
He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap;
His life is a watch or a vision
Between a sleep and a sleep.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
The New Comer.
Lancashire Dialect.
"HA 'rt welcome, little bonny brid,
ΤΗ
But should n't ha' come just when tha did;
Toimes are bad.
We're short o' pobbies for eawr Joe,
But that, of course, tha did n't know,
Did ta, lad?
THE NEW COMER.
Aw 've often yeard mi feyther tell
'At when aw coom i' th' world misel
Trade wur slack;
An' neaw it's hard wark pooin' throo—
But aw munna fear thee, iv aw do
Tha 'll go back.
Cheer up! these toimes 'll awter soon;
Aw 'm beawn to beigh another spoon
One for thee;
An', as tha's sich a pratty face,
Aw 'll let thee have eawr Charley's place
On mi knee.
Hush! hush! tha munno cry this way,
But get this sope o' cinder tay
While it's warm ;
Mi mother used to give it me,
When aw wur sich a lad as thee,
In her arm.
Hush a babby, hush a bee
Oh, what a temper! dear a me,
Heaw tha skroikes!
Here's a bit o' sugar, sithee;
Howd thi noise, an' then aw 'll gie thee
Owt tha loikes.
We 'n nobbut getten coarsish fare,
But eawt o' this tha 'll ha' thi share,
Never fear.
Aw hope tha 'll never want a meal,
But allus fill thi bally weel
While tha 'rt here.
And tho' we 'n childer two or three,
We'll make a bit o' reawm for thee -
Bless thee, lad!
Tha 'rt th' prattiest brid we han i' th' nest;
Come, hutch up closer to mi breast
Aw 'm thi dad.
ANONYMOUS.
3
4
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
FAI
Indirection.
'AIR are the flowers and the children, but their subtle
suggestion is fairer ;
Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it
is rarer ;
Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes
it is sweeter;
And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out-mas-
tered the metre.
Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the
growing;
Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flow-
ing;
Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he
did enfold him ;
Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath
foretold him.
Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and
hidden;
Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is
bidden;
Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling;
Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the
revealing.
Great are the symbols of being, but that which is sym-
boled is greater;
Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator;
Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift
stands the giving,
Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves
of receiving.
CASTLE-BUILDING.
5
Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the
doing;
The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of
the wooing;
And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the
heights where those shine,
Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence
of life is divine.
RICHARD RealF.
WE
Castle-Building.
E wandered down the deep ravine
When sunset fires were redly glowing,
And all the vale with purple sheen
And golden smokes was overflowing.
The mountain slopes were still ablaze,
The tree-tops burned like waving torches,
And rainbow rays of rosy haze
Were flushing all the woodland porches.
Beyond we saw the sunset skies,
With gates and walls, and turrets builded,
Embattled piles that seemed to rise,
Tier after tier, with glory gilded.
Oh, look, my love! what mansions bright!
How rich and grand each climbing story!
Look up, my love! I'll build to-night,
For you and me, a House of Glory!
So, hand in hand, we rested still,
And upward looked through sunset splendor;
So, heart in heart, in loving thrill,
Grew mute beneath the glamour tender.
And thus we built, with painted mist,
Our castles grand, from floor to coping,
X
6
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Until the last low sunbeam kissed
The gay ravine, and left us
groping.
Ah me, my love! the darkness falls
Full soon to shroud our brightest dreaming;
And golden roofs and crystal walls
Are based, too oft, on cloudy seeming;
But, hand in hand, and heart with heart,
We twain abide the twilight hoary,
And wait until the shadows part
That hide from us our House of Glory.
AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE.
Toujours Amour.
RITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin,
PRITHEE
At what age does love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen,
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair;
When didst learn a heart to win?
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,
"I can't tell you if I try.
'T is so long I can't remember:
Ask some younger lass than I."
Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face,
Do your heart and head keep pace ?
When does hoary Love expire,
When do frosts put out the fire?
7
GOLDILOCKS.
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?
Care you still soft hands to press,
Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
When does Love give up the chase?
Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face!
"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,
"Youth may pass and strength may die;
But of Love I can't foretoken:
Ask some older sage than I!"
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
G
Goldilocks.
OLDILOCKS sat on the grass,
Tying up of posies rare :
Hardly could a sunbeam pass
Through the cloud that was her hair.
Purple orchis lasteth long,
Primrose flowers are pale and clear;
Oh, the maiden sang a song
It would do you good to hear!
Sad before her leaned the boy,
"Goldilocks that I love well,
Happy creature fair and coy,
Think o' me, sweet Amabel."
Goldilocks she shook apart,
Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes:
Like a blossom in her heart,
Opened out her first surprise.
As a gloriole sign o' grace,
Goldilocks, ah, fall and flow;
On the blooming, childlike face,
Dimple, dimple, come and go.
O
8
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Give her time: on grass and sky
Let her gaze if she be fain,
As they looked ere he drew nigh,
They will never look again.
Ah! the playtime she has known,
While her goldilocks grew long,
Is it like a nestling flown,
Childhood over like a song?
Yes, the boy may clear his brow,
Though she thinks to say him nay,
When she sighs, "I cannot now.
Come again some other dav.”
JEAN INGELOW.
"6 Where the Brook and River meet."
MY maiden visions curb their airy flights,
And droop their pinions and come back to me;
That first fair world, with all its young delights
And morning hopes, they can no longer see.
My girlhood's world lies lost beneath the flood
Of light, bright days that fell like silver rain,
Swollen from the fountains of my womanhood,
Now broken up, not to be sealed again.
But lo! another world, as fair, more calm,
Arisen like Delos, floats upon the wave;
I bare my brow to breezes blowing balm,
And smile, through tears, above my girlhood's grave.
A tender longing, full of gracious pain,
A want more rich than wealth possessed before,
Delicious rumors rife in heart and brain,
And rosy warmths that flush me more and more:
9
BLUE-BEARD.
A sense of incompleteness, new and strange,
Something that draws me toward support, beside
A hundred nameless heraldries of change
Forewarn me of a chance that may betide.
I watch to meet an eye I have not met;
I hearken for a voice I have not heard;
I tremble toward a touch that hath not yet
The dreaming blood's expectant pulses stirred.
Sometimes a look will startle, or a tone;
A touch sometimes half seem to shake my heart;
A moment then alone is more alone,
And fates were sweet together, not apart.
Yet well content with blessed discontent
I dream my dream, nor care to waken soon ;
The dream bides fair, though fairer far be meant,
Let the white dawn delay the golden noon.
So watch, my heart, and let me dream my dream;
Watch and awake me when the time shall come;
Perhaps our prince is nearer than we deem,
But greet him thou - my dream may make me dumb.
WILLIAM C. WILKINSON.
Blue-Beard.
E is not dead, for I am he!
HE
Nay, little one, you need not start;
That awful closet is my heart,
I pray you not to turn the key.
You hold the matter in suspense,
You hesitate, ah! all is lost;
The key is turned, the threshold crossed,
Now you must take the consequence.
C
IO
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Seven dead loves you bring to view
No wonder that you stood aghast ;
You should not dive into the past
If you would trust that men are true.
Seven dead loves! a heavy load.
You see the first, a little girl
With violet eyes and teeth of pearl;
That was a school-boy episode.
When college days gave life a glow,
And tender hearts wrought rapid slaughter,
I courted the Professor's daughter ;
That's she-the second in the row.
I scarcely know how it occurred;
I spent vacation with a friend,
And ere three weeks were at an end
I loved his sister she's the third.
-
A grim old lawyer taught me Kent;
I made his mansion my abode,
And spoke some words not in the "Code'
His youngest girl knew what they meant.
When Fashion's flame was all alive,
Where pleasure flung her golden haze
Athwart the pathway of the days,
I met and worshiped Number Five.
But yonder, where the maple-tree
Casts shadows on the old stone wall,
And slumberous peace broods over all,
A village maid enraptured me.
You see one other figure stand,
Her memory will forever last;
I hold her sacred since she passed
The portals of the Silent Land.
19
SERENADE.
So Blue-Beard lives, and I am he:
But come, Fatima, close the door,
You cannot love me any more;
The blood of knowledge stains the key.
THEODORE P. Cook.
Serenade.
TARS of the summer night!
STARS
Far in yon azure deeps,
Hide, hide your golden light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
Moon of the summer night!
Far down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
Wind of the summer night!
Where yonder woodbine creeps,
Fold, fold thy pinions light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
Dreams of the summer night!
Tell her, her lover keeps
Watch, while in slumbers light
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
II
*
12
OUR POETICAL FAVORites.
Ο
Good Night.
H, sweet my love, the hour is late;
The moon goes down in silver state,
As here alone I watch and wait.
Though far from thee, my lips repeat,
In whispers low, Good night, my sweet.
The house is still, but o'er the gloom
Of starlit gardens, faint with bloom,
I lean out from my darkened room,
And only hear the roaming breeze
Move softly in the lilac trees.
Somewhere beneath these gracious skies
My bonny love a-dreaming lies,
With slumber brooding in her eyes.
Go seek her, happy wind so free,
And kiss her folded hands for me.
Across this dome of silent air,
On tides of floating ether bear,
To where she sleeps, my whispered prayer;
The day has brought the night forlorn —
God keep thee, little love, till dawn.
While life is dear, and love is best,
And young moons drop adown the west,
My lone heart, turning to its rest,
Beneath the stars shall whisper clear,
Good night, my sweet, though none may hear.
ANONYMOUS.
ON THE DOORSTEP.
13
A
Song.
LONG the shore, along the shore
I see the wavelets meeting:
But thee I see — ah, never more,
For all my wild heart's beating.
The little wavelets come and go,
The tide of life ebbs to and fro,
Advancing and retreating :
But from the shore, the steadfast shore,
The sea is parted never:
And mine I hold thee ever more,
Forever and forever.
Along the shore, along the shore,
I hear the waves resounding,
But thou wilt cross them never more,
For all my wild heart's bounding :
The moon comes out above the tide
And quiets all the billows wide
Her pathway bright surrounding:
Thus on the shore, the dreary shore,
I walk with weak endeavor:
I have thy love's light ever more,
Forever and forever.
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
On the Doorstep.
HE conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past
Like snowbirds willing to be mated.
*
14
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes litten,
Than I, who stepped before them all,
Who longed to see me get the mitten.
But no; she blushed, and took my arm!
We let the old folks have the highway,
And started toward the Maple Farm
Along a kind of lover's by-way.
I can't remember what we said,
'T was nothing worth a song or story;
Yet that rude path by which we sped
Seemed all transformed and in a glory.
The snow was crisp beneath our feet,
The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,
Her face with youth and health was beaming.
The little hand outside her muff-
O sculptor, if you could but mold it! -
So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,
. To keep it warm I had to hold it.
To have her with me there alone,
'T was love and fear and triumph blended.
At last we reached the foot-worn stone
Where that delicious journey ended.
The old folks, too, were almost home;
Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,
We heard the voices nearer come,
Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.
She shook her ringlets from her hood,
And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled,
But yet I knew she understood
With what a daring wish I trembled.
KISS ME SOFTLY.
A cloud passed kindly overhead,
The moon was slyly peeping through it,
Yet hid its face, as if it said,
"L
Come, now or never! do it! do it!”
My lips till then had only known
The kiss of mother and of sister,
But somehow, full upon her own
Sweet, rosy, darling mouth — I kissed her!
Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still,
O listless woman, weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill
I'd give But who can live youth over?
–
EDMUND CLARENCE STtedman.
15
K
Kiss Me Softly.
Da me basia. — CATULLUS.
ISS me softly and speak to me low, -
Malice has ever a vigilant ear ;
What if Malice were lurking near?
Kiss me, dear!
Kiss me softly and speak to me low.
Kiss me softly and speak to me low,
Envy too has a watchful ear:
What if Envy should chance to hear?
Kiss me, dear!
Kiss me softly and speak to me low.
Kiss me softly and speak to me low:
Trust me, darling, the time is near
When lovers may love with never a fear,
Kiss me, dear!
Kiss me softly and speak to me low.
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
›
16
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
To Celia.
RINK to me only with thine eyes,
DF
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee.
BEN JONSON.
Tell her, oh, tell her.
'ELL her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying
TEL
Beneath the green arbor, is still lying there;
And breezes, like lovers, around it are sighing,
But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.
Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,
Beside the green arbor she playfully set,
As lovely as ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.
So while away from that arbor forsaken,
The maiden is wandering, still let her be
As true as the lute, that no sighing can waken,
And blooming forever, unchanged as the tree!
THOMAS MOORE.
17
Too Near.
O close we are, and yet so far apart,
So
So close, I feel your breath upon my cheek;
So far that all this love of mine is weak
To touch in any way your distant heart;
So close that when I hear your voice I start,
To see my whole life standing bare and bleak;
So far that though for years and years I seek,
I shall not find thee other than thou art;
So while I live I walk upon the verge
Of an impassable and changeless sea,
Which more than death divides me, love, from thee:
The mournful beating of its leaden surge
Is all the music now that I shall hear;
O love, thou art too far and yet too near!
PHILIP BOURKE MARston.
Love at First Sight.
HE racing river leaped and sang
ΤΗ
Full blithely in the perfect weather,
All round the mountain echoes rang,
For blue and green were glad together.
This rains out light from every part,
And that with songs of joy was thrilling;
But in the hollow of my heart,
There ached a place that wanted filling.
C
2
18
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Before the road and river meet,
And stepping-stones are wet and glisten,
I heard a sound of laughter sweet,
And paused to like it, and to listen.
I heard the chanting waters flow,
The cushat's note, the bee's low humming,
Then turned the hedge, and did not know
How could I? that my time was coming.
A girl upon the highest stone,
Half doubtful of the deed, was standing,
So far the shallow flood had flown,
Beyond the 'customed leap of landing.
She knew not any need of me,
Yet me she wanted all unweeting;
She thought not I had crossed the sea,
And half the sphere, to give her meeting.
I waded out, her eyes I met,
I wished the moments had been hours;
I took her in my arms and set
Her dainty feet among the flowers.
Her fellow-maids in copse and lane,
Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling;
The wind's soft whisper in the plain,
That cushat's coo, the water's falling.
But now it is a year ago,
And now possession crowns endeavor;
I took her in my heart to grow
And fill the hollów place forever.
JEAN INGELOW.
BETROTHED ANEW.
19
The Song of Fatima.
OH, sad are they who know not love,
But, far from passion's tears and smiles,
Drift down a moonless sea, and pass
The silver coasts of fairy isles!
And sadder they whose longing lips
Kiss empty air, and never touch
The dear warm mouth of those they love,
Waiting, wasting, suffering much!
But clear as amber, sweet as musk,
Is life to those whose lives unite;
They walk in Allah's smile by day,
And nestle in his heart by night.
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
THE
Betrothed Anew.
'HE sunlight fills the trembling air,
And balmy days their guerdons bring;
The Earth again is young and fair,
And amorous with musky spring.
The golden nurslings of the May
In splendor strew the spangled green,
And hues of tender beauty play,
Entangled where the willows lean.
Mark how the rippled currents flow;
What lustres on the meadows lie!
And hark! the songsters come and go,
And trill between the earth and sky.
*
20
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Who told us that the years had fled,
Or borne afar our blissful youth?
Such joys are all about us spread,
We know the whisper was not truth.
The birds that break from grass and grove
Sing every carol that they sung
When first our veins were rich with love,
And May her mantle round us flung.
O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life!
O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true,
With whose delights our souls are rife,
And aye their vernal vows renew!
Then, darling, walk with me this morn;
Let your brown tresses drink its sheen;
These violets, within them worn,
Of floral fays shall make you queen.
What though there comes a time of pain
When autumn winds forebode decay?
The days of love are born again;
That fabled time is far away!
And never seemed the land so fair
As now, nor birds such notes to sing,
Since first within your shining hair
I wove the blossoms of the spring.
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
Song.
OVE still has something of the sea,
LOVE
From whence his mother rose;
No time his slaves from doubt can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose.
!
A MATCH.
They are becalmed in clearest days,
And in rough weather tossed;
They wither under cold delays,
Or are in tempests lost.
One while they seem to touch the port,
Then straight into the main
Some angry wind, in cruel sport,
The vessel drives again.
At first Disdain and Pride they fear,
Which if they chance to 'scape,
Rivals and falsehood soon appear,
In a more cruel shape.
By such degrees to joy they come,
And are so long withstood;
So slowly they receive the sum,
It hardly does them good.
'Tis cruel to prolong a pain;
And to defer a joy,
Believe me, gentle Celemene,
Offends the wingèd boy.
An hundred thousand oaths your fears,
Perhaps, would not remove;
And if I gazed a thousand years,
I could not deeper love.
SIR CHARLES Sedley.
A Match.
F love were what the rose is,
IF
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together,
In sad or singing weather,
21
x
22
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single,
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling,
And I, your love, were death,
We'd shine and snow together,
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling
And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I, your love, were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons,
With loving looks and treasons,
And tears of night and morrow,
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May,
We'd throw with leaves for hours,
And draw for days with flowers,
•
WEARIE'S WELL.
Till day like night were shady,
And night were bright like day;
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.
ALGERNON CHARLES Swinburne.
Wearie's Well.
IN a saft simmer
N a saft simmer gloamin',
In yon dowie dell,
It was there we twa first met,
By Wearie's cauld well.
We sat on the broom-bank,
And looked in the burn,
But sidelang we looked on
Ilk ither in turn.
The corn-craik was chirming
His sad eerie cry,
And the wee stars were dreaming
Their path through the sky;
The burn babbled freely
Its love to ilk flower,
But we heard and we saw nought
In that blessed hour.
23
24
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
We heard and we saw nought,
Above or around;
We felt that our luve lived,
And loathed idle sound.
I gazed on your sweet face
Till tears filled my ee,
And they drapt on your wee loof-
A warld's wealth to me.
Now the winter snaw 's fa'ing
On bare holm and lea,
And the cauld wind is strippin'
Ilk leaf aff the tree.
But the snaw fa's not faster,
Nor leaf disna part
Sae sune frae the bough, as
Faith fades in your heart.
You've waled out anither
Your bridegroom to be;
But can his heart luve sae
As mine luvit thee?
Ye 'll get biggings and mailins,
And mony braw claes ;
But they a' winna buy back
The peace o' past days.
Fareweel, and forever,
My first luve and last;
May thy joys be to come –
Mine live in the past.
In sorrow and sadness
This hour fa's on me;
But light as thy luve may
It fleet over thee!
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS.
I
Love is like a Dizziness.
LATELY lived in quiet ease,
An' never wish'd to marry, O!
But when I saw my Peggy's face,
I felt a sad quandary, O!
Though wild as ony Athol deer,
She has trepann'd me fairly, O!
Her cherry cheeks an' e'en sae clear
Torment me late an' early, O!
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness,
It winna let a poor body
Gang about his business!
To tell my feats this single week,
Would mak' a daft-like diary, O!
I drave my cart out ow'r a dike,
My horses in a miry, O!
I wear my stockings white an' blue,
My love 's sae fierce an' fiery, O!
I drill the land that I should plow,
An' plow the drills entirely, O!
Ae morning, by the dawn o' day,
I rose to theek the stable, O!
I keust my coat an' plied away
As fast as I was able, O!
I wrought that morning out an' out,
As I'd been redding fire, O!
When I had done an' look'd about,
Gude faith, it was the byre, O!
Her wily glance I'll ne'er forget,
The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't
Has pierced me through an' through the heart,
An' plagues me wi' the prinklin' o't.
25
26
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
I tried to sing, I tried to pray,
I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't,
I tried wi' sport to drive't away,
But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.
Nae man can tell what pains I prove,
Or how severe my pliskie, O!
I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' love
Than e'er I was wi' whisky, O!
For love has raked me fore an' aft,
I scarce can lift a leggie, O!
I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft,
An' soon I'll dee for Peggy, O!
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness,
It winna let a poor body
Gang about his business!
JAMES HOGG.
G
The Courtin'.
OD makes sech nights, all white an' still
Fur 'z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,
All silence an' all glisten.
Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown,
An' peeked in thru' the winder,
An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'Ith no one nigh to hender.
A fireplace filled the room's one side
With half a cord o' wood in,
There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin'.
THE COURTIN'.
The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An' leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted
The ole queen's arm thet Gran❜ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.
The very room, coz she was in,
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin'.
'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessèd cretur,
A dogrose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.
He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clean grit an' human natur';
None could n't quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.
He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,
Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells, -
All is, he could n't love 'em.
But long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curled maple,
The side she breshed felt full o' sun
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.
She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir;
My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,
She knowed the Lord was nigher.
27
:
28
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin'-bunnet
Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upon it.
Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some!
She seemed to 've gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper,
All ways to once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work,
Parin' away like murder.
"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?"
“Wal . . . no . . . I come dasignin’"
"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."
To say why gals acts so or so,
Or don't, 'ould be presumin';
Mebby to mean yes an' say no
Comes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t' other,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He could n't ha' told ye nuther.
THE PURITAN lovers.
Says he, "I'd better call agin";
""
:
Says she, "Think likely, Mister
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips
An' teary roun' the lashes.
For she was jes' the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin',
Tell mother see how metters stood,
And gin 'em both her blessin'.
Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is, they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday.
29
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
DR
The Puritan Lovers.
RAWN out, like lingering bees, to share
The last, sweet summer weather,
Beneath the reddening maples walked
Two Puritans together.
A youth and maiden, heeding not
The woods which round them brightened,
Just conscious of each other's thoughts,
Half happy and half frightened.
O
30
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Grave were their brows, and few their words,
And coarse their garb, and simple;
The maiden's very cheek seemed shy
To own its worldly dimple.
For stern the time; they dwelt with care;
And fear was oft a comer;
A sober April ushered in
The Pilgrim's toilful summer.
And stern their creed; they tarried here
Mere desert-land sojourners:
They must not dream of mirth or rest,
God's humble lesson-learners.
The temple's sacred perfume round
Their week-day robes was clinging;
Their mirth was but the golden bells
On priestly garments ringing.
But as to-day they softly talked,
That serious youth and maiden,
Their plainest words strange beauties wore,
Like weeds with dew-drops laden.
The saddest theme had something sweet,
The gravest, something tender,
While with slow steps they wandered on,
'Mid summer's fading splendor.
He said, "Next week the church will hold
A day of prayer and fasting”;
And then he stooped, and bent to pick
A white life-everlasting.
A silvery bloom, with fadeless leaves;
He gave it to her, sighing;
A mute confession was his glance,
Her blush a mute replying.
THE PURITAN LOVers.
31
"Mehetabel!" (at last he spoke,)
(6
My fairest one and dearest!
One thought is ever to my heart
The sweetest and the nearest.
"You read my soul; you know my wish;
Oh, grant me its fulfilling!
""
She answered low, "If Heaven smiles,
And if my father's willing."
No idle passion swayed her heart,
This quaint New England beauty;
Faith was the guardian of her life;
Obedience was a duty.
Too truthful for reserve, she stood,
Her brown eyes earthward casting,
And held with trembling hand the while
Her white life-everlasting.
Her sober answer pleased the youth
Frank, clear, and gravely cheerful;
He left her at her father's door,
Too happy to be fearful.
She looked on high, with earnest plea,
And Heaven seemed bright above her;
And when she shyly spoke his name,
Her father praised her lover.
And when, that night, she sought her couch,
With head-board high and olden,
Her prayer was praise, her pillow down,
And all her dreams were golden.
And still upon her throbbing heart,
In bloom and breath undying,
A few life-everlasting flowers,
Her lover's gift, were lying.
32
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
O Venus' myrtles, fresh and green !
O Cupid's blushing roses!
Not on your classic flowers alone
The sacred light reposes.
Though gentler care may shield your buds,
From north winds rude and blasting,
As dear to Love, those few, pale flowers,
Oh, white life-everlasting!
ANNIE D. GREEN.
Spinning-Wheel Song.
MELLOW
ELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning;
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,
"Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping."
"'T is the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping."
"Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing.”
"'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.
"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?"
"'T is the little birds chirping the holly-bush under."
"What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on,
And singing all wrong that old song of The Coolun!'"
There's a form at the casement -the form of her true-love-
And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love;
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly,
We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly."
WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME. 33
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.
The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,
Steals up from her seat-longs to go, and yet lingers;
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other.
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound;
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her
The maid steps, then leaps to the arms of her lover.
Slower, and slower, and slower the wheel swings;
Lower, and lower, and lower the reel rings.
Ere the reel and the wheel stopped their ringing and rubbing,
Thro' the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.
JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.
When the Kye comes Hame.
OME, all ye jolly shepherds,
COME,
That whistle through the glen,
I'll tell ye of a secret
That courtiers dinna ken:
What is the greatest bliss
That the tongue of man can name?
'Tis to woo a bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
'T is not beneath a coronet,
Nor canopy of state,
'Tis not on couch of velvet,
Nor arbor of the great,
3
64
34
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
'Tis beneath the spreadin' birk,
In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
There the blackbird bigs his nest
For the mate he lo'es to see,
And on the topmost bough,
Oh, a happy bird is he;
Where he pours his melting ditty,
And love is a' the theme,
And he'll woo his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the blewart bears a pearl,
And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonny lucken gowan
Has fauldit up her e'e,
Then the laverock frae the blue lift
Droops down, an' thinks nae shame
To woo his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
See yonder pawkie shepherd,
That lingers on the hill,
His ewes are in the fauld,
An' his lambs are lying still;
Yet he downa gang to bed,
For his heart is in a flame,
To meet his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the little wee bit heart
Rises high in the breast,
An' the little wee bit starn
Rises red in the east,
Oh, there's a joy sae dear
That the heart can hardly frame,
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,
When the kye comes hame!
BEFORE THE GATE.
Then since all Nature joins
In this love without alloy,
Oh, wha would prove a traitor
To Nature's dearest joy?
Or wha would choose a crown,
Wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame?
JAMES HOGG.
35
Before the Gate.
THEY gave the whole long day to idle laughter,
To fitful song and jest,
To moods of soberness as idle, after,
And silences, as idle too as the rest.
But when at last upon their way returning,
Taciturn, late and loath,
Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,
They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered both.
Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish
Such as but women know
That wait, and lest love speak or speak not, languish,
And what they would, would rather they would not so;
Till he said, -man-like nothing comprehending
Of all the wondrous guile
That women won win themselves with, and bending
Eyes of relentless asking on her the while,
"Ah, if beyond this gate the path united
Our steps as far as death,
""
And I might open it!- His voice, affrighted
At his own daring, faltered under his breath.
36
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Then she-whom both his faith and fear enchanted
Far beyond words to tell,
Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted
The art he had that knew to blunder so well-
Slyly drew near, a little step, and mocking,
"Shall we not be too late
For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking:
Yes, thanks, your arm.
And will you open the gate ?"
WILLIAM D. HOWELLs.
M¹
Plighted.
WINE to the core of the heart, my beauty!
Mine, all mine, and for love, not duty :
Love given willingly, full and free,
Love for love's sake as mine to thee.
Duty's a slave that keeps the keys,
But Love, the master, goes in and out
Of his goodly chambers with song and shout,
Just as he please—just as he please.
Mine, from the dear head's crown, brown-golden,
To the silken foot that 's scarce beholden;
Give a few friends hand or smile,
Like a generous lady, now and awhile,
But the sanctuary heart, that none dare win,
Keep holiest of holiest evermore ;
The crowd in the aisles may watch the door,
The high-priest only enters in.
Mine, my own, without doubts or terrors,
With all thy goodnesses, all thy errors,
Unto me and to me alone revealed,
"A spring shut up, a fountain sealed."
A NICE CORRESPONDENT.
Many may praise thee-praise mine as thine,
Many may love thee I'll love them too:
But thy heart of hearts, pure, faithful, and true,
Must be mine, mine wholly, and only mine.
Mine! God, I thank thee that thou hast given
Something all mine on this side heaven;
Something as much myself to be
As this my soul which I lift to thee:
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,
Life of my life, whom thou dost make
Two to the world for the world's work's sake-
But each unto each, as in thy sight, one.
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
A Nice Correspondent.
HE glow and the glory are plighted
TH
To darkness, for evening is come;
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted;
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy
Is summoned to dinner at Kew:
I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy, -
I'm thinking of you.
I wish you were here. Were I duller
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am dressed in your favorite color,
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,
The necklace you fastened askew !
Was there ever so rude or so reckless
A darling as you?
37
38
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know “Janet's Repentance”?
I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott,
The story of Edgar and Lucy,
How thrilling, romantic, and true;
The master (his bride was a goosey!)
Reminds me of you.
To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning
The beacon; its magic still lures,
For up there you discoursed about Browning,
That stupid old Browning of yours.
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
I'm anxious to give him his due ;
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming
A poet as you.
I heard how you shot at The Beeches,
I saw how you rode Chanticleer,
I have read the report of your speeches,
And echoed the echoing cheer.
There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,—
I envy their owners, I do!
Small marvel that Fortune is making
Her idol of you.
Alas for the world, and its dearly
Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss!
Sometimes I half wish I were merely
A plain or a penniless miss;
But perhaps one is best with a measure
Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,
My dearest, to you.
Your whim is for frolic and fashion,
Your taste is for letters and art;
HER LETTER.
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman's heart.
Lay it by in a dainty deposit
For relics,
we all have a few! —
Love, some day they 'll print it, because it
Was written to you.
FREDERICK LOCKER.
Her Letter.
'M sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire,
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm bediamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue :
In short, sir, "the belle of the season
Is wasting an hour on you.
A dozen engagements I've broken ;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
""
That waits on the stairs-for me yet.
They say he'll be rich, — when he grows up,-
And then he adores me indeed.
And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.
"And how do I like my position ?”
"And what do I think of New York?”
"And now, in my higher ambition,
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"
"And is n't it nice to have riches,
And diamonds and silks, and all that?"
“And are n't it a change to the ditches
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?”
39
40
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Well yes,
if you saw us out driving
Each day in the park, four-in-hand;
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand,
•
If you saw papa's picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that,
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.
And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier,
In the bustle and glitter befitting
""
The "finest soirée of the year,'
In the mists of a gaze de chambéry
And the hum of the smallest of talk,
Somehow, Joe, I thought of "The Ferry,”
And the dance that we had on "The Fork";
Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee;
Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bed-clothes of snow;
Of that ride, that to me was the rarest;
Of the something you said at the gate :
Ah, Joe, then I was n't an heiress
To "the best-paying lead in the State."
Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER.”
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted highwater,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.
But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low,)
Instead of my triumphs reciting,
I'm spooning on Joseph, — heigh-ho!
And I'm to be "finished" by travel,
Whatever's the meaning of that, -
O, why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?
Good-night,
here's the end of my paper;
Good-night, if the longitude please, -
For maybe, while wasting my taper,
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you have n't got riches,
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you've struck it,— on Poverty Flat.
4I
BRET HARte.
His Answer to “Her Letter."
REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES.
EING asked by an intimate party,
BE
Which the same I would term as a friend, -
Which his health it were vain to call hearty,
Since the mind to deceit it might lend;
For his arm it was broken quite recent,
And has something gone wrong with his lung, -
Which is why it is proper and decent
I should write what he runs off his tongue :
A
42
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter
To the end, and the end came too soon.
That a slight illness kept him your debtor
(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon).
That his spirits are buoyant as yours is;
That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate
(Which the language that invalid uses
At times it were vain to relate).
And he says that the mountains are fairer
For once being held in your thought;
That each rock holds a wealth that is rarer
Than ever by gold-seeker sought
(Which are words he would put in these pages,
By a party not given to guile;
Which the same, not at date, paying wages,
Might produce in the sinful a smile).
He remembers the ball at the Ferry,
And the ride, and the gate, and the vow,
And the rose that you gave him — that very
Same rose he is treasuring now;
(Which his blanket he 's kicked on his trunk, Miss,
And insists on his legs being free ;
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
Is frequent and painful and free).
He hopes you are wearing no willows,
But are happy and gay all the while;
That he knows (which this dodging of pillows
Imparts but small ease to the style,
And the same you will pardon) - he knows, Miss,
That, though parted by many a mile,
Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss,
They'd melt into tears at your smile.
And you'd still think of him in your pleasures,`
In your brief twilight-dreams of the past,
HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER."
In this green laurel-spray that he treasures,
It was plucked where your parting was last.
In this specimen - but a small trifle
It will do for a pin for your shawl;
(Which the truth not to wickedly stifle
Was his last week's "clean up "
He's asleep
and his all).
43
which the same might seem strange, Miss,
Were it not that I scorn to deny
That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss,
In view that his fever was high.
But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive;
And, now, my respects, Miss, to you:
Which, my language, although comprehensive,
Might seem to be freedom, it's true.
Which I have a small favor to ask you,
As concerns a bull-pup, which the same -
If the duty would not overtask you
You would please to procure for me, game,
And send per Express to the Flat, Miss,
Which they say York is famed for the breed,
Which though words of deceit may be that - Miss,
I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.
P. S. — Which this same interfering
Into other folks' way I despise;
Yet if it so be I was hearing
That it's just empty pockets as lies
Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers,
That, having no family claims,
Here's my pile; which it's six hundred dollars,
As is yours, with respects, TRUTHFUL JAMES.
BRET HARte.
C
ப்
44
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The Groomsman to the Bridesmaid.
Ε
VERY wedding, says the proverb,
EVERY wedding, says the pro
Makes another, soon or late;
Never yet was any marriage
Entered in the book of fate,
But the names were also written
Of the patient pair that wait.
Blessings then upon the morning
When my friend, with fondest look,
By the solemn rites' permission,
To himself his mistress took,
And the destinies recorded
Other two within their book.
While the priest fulfilled his office,
Still the ground the lovers eyed,
And the parents and the kinsmen
Aimed their glances at the bride;
But the groomsmen eyed the virgins
Who were waiting at her side.
Three there were that stood beside her;
One was dark, and one was fair;
But nor fair nor dark the other,
Save her Arab eyes and hair;
Neither dark nor fair I call her,
Yet she was the fairest there.
While her groomsman
shall I own it?
Yes to thee, and only thee
Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden
Who was fairest of the three,
Thus he thought: "How blest the bridal
Where the bride were such as she!"
MY BEAU.
Then I mused upon the adage,
Till my wisdom was perplexed,
And I wondered, as the churchman
Dwelt upon his holy text,
Which of all who heard his lesson
Should require the service next.
·
Whose will be the next occasion
For the flowers, the feast, the wine?
Thine, perchance, my dearest lady ;
Or, who knows?— it may be mine,
What if 't were forgive the fancy -
What if 't were
both mine and thine ?
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.
OH
My Beau.
H, I am dinned with rolling drums
And oft-repeated cheers,
And tired with marching 'mid the throng
Beside the Volunteers!
For all day long my heart and eyes
Went with the foremost row,
Where, handsomest among them all,
I saw my darling Beau.
The tears were on my cheeks unchecked
Throughout this woful day;
I did not heed the people's looks,
I cared not what they'd say;
For why should I disguise my grief,
Or strive to hide the woe
That burst unbidden at the thought
Of parting with my Beau?
45
46
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
You surely must have noticed,
As the ranks went marching by,
That tall young fellow in the front,
With such a bright blue eye.
I know a dozen hearts that ached
This day to see him go;
But I alone among them all
Could claim him as a beau.
He was the only beau I had:
Of all the lads, but he
Seemed ever to have cared to win,
Or thought of loving me.
But had a thousand sought my hand,
Howe'er so rich, I'd throw
The greed of gold from out my heart,
And give it to my Beau.
Yon starlit flag is dear to me,
Because beneath its shade,
To fight for what we all believe
Is right, he stands arrayed.
Though were he on the other side,
The Stars and Bars, I know,
Would be as dear as Stripes and Stars,
While floating o'er my Beau.
A victory would be death to me,
Were he among the slain 1;
I care not who shall win the fight,
So he comes back again;
Nor to which side the bloody tide
Of war shall ebb or flow,
If it but brings me home unwrecked
That man-of-war, my Beau.
MICHAEL O'CONNOR.
DORIS.
47
I
Doris.
SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden:
Her crook was laden with wreathèd flowers;
I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling,
And shadows stealing, for hours and hours.
And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses
Wild summer roses of rare perfume,
The while I sued her, kept hushed, and hearkened
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom.
She touched my shoulder with fearful finger :
She said, "We linger; we must not stay;
My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander :
Behold them yonder- how far they stray!
I answered bolder, "Nay, let me hear you,
And still be near you, and still adore ;
No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling;
Ah! stay, my darling, a moment more."
""
She whispered, sighing: "There will be sorrow
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ;
My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded,
I shall be scolded, and sent away."
Said I, replying: "If they do miss you,
They ought to kiss you when you get home;
And well rewarded by friends and neighbor
Should be the labor from which you come."
"They might remember,” she answered meekly,
“That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild;
But if they love me 't is none so fervent;
I am a servant, and not a child."
む
​48
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Then each hot ember glowed quick within me,
And love did win me to swift reply:
“Ah! do but prove me, and none shall blind you
Nor fray, nor find you, until I die."
She blushed and started, and stood awaiting,
As if debating in dreams divine;
But I did brave them I told her plainly
She doubted vainly; she must be mine.
So we twin-hearted, from all the valley
Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes,
And homeward drove them, we two together,
Through blooming heather and gleaming dews.
That simple duty fresh grace did lend her
My Doris tender, my Doris true:
That I, her warder, did always bless her,
And often press her to take her due.
And now in beauty she fills my dwelling
With love excelling, and undefiled;
And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent,
No more a servant, nor yet a child.
ARTHUR MUNBY.
O
Hero to Leander.
H, go not yet, my love,
The night is dark and vast;
The white moon is hid in her heaven above,
And the waves climb high and fast.
Oh, kiss me, kiss me, once again,
Lest thy kiss should be the last.
Oh, kiss me ere we part;
Grow closer to my heart.
My heart is warmer surely than the bosom of the main.
HERO TO LEANDER.
O joy! O bliss of blisses!
My heart of hearts art thou.
Come, bathe me with thy kisses,
My eyelids and my brow.
Hark how the wild rain hisses,
And the loud sea roars below.
Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs,
So gladly doth it stir;
Thine eye in drops of gladness swims.
I have bathed thee with the pleasant myrrh ;
Thy locks are dripping balm;
Thou shalt not wander hence to-night,
I'll stay thee with my kisses.
To-night the roaring brine
Will rend thy golden tresses;
The ocean with the morrow light
Will be both blue and calm;
49
And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss as soft as mine.
No Western odors wander
On the black and moaning sea,
And when thou art dead, Leander,
My soul must follow thee!
Oh, go not yet, my love,
Thy voice is sweet and low;
The deep salt wave breaks in above
Those marble steps below.
The turret stairs are wet
That lead into the sea.
Leander! go not yet.
The pleasant stars have set:
Oh, go not, go not yet,
Or I will follow thee.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
4
50
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Ailleen.
"TIS not for love of gold I go,
'Tis not for love of fame;
Though Fortune should her smile bestow,
And I may win a name,
Ailleen,
And I may win a name.
And yet it is for gold I go,
And yet it is for fame,
That they may deck another brow,
And bless another name,
Ailleen,
And bless another name.
For this, but this, I go for this
I lose thy love awhile,
And all the soft and quiet bliss
Of thy young, faithful smile,
Ailleen,
Of thy young, faithful smile.
And I go to brave a world I hate,
And woo it o'er and o'er,
And tempt a wave, and try a fate
Upon a stranger shore,
Ailleen,
Upon a stranger shore.
Oh, when the bays are all my own,
I know a heart will care!
Oh, when the gold is wooed and won,
I know a brow shall wear,
Ailleen,
I know a brow shall wear!
A WOMAN'S QUESTION.
And when with both returned again,
My native land to see,
I know a smile will meet me there,
And a hand will welcome me,
Ailleen,
And a hand will welcome me!
JOHN BANIM.
51
:
A Woman's Question.
BEFORE I trust my fate to thee,
Or place my hand in thine,
Before I let thy Future give
Color and form to mine,
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.
I break all slighter bonds, nor feel
A shadow of regret :
Is there one link within the Past
That holds thy spirit yet?
Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge
to thee?
Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouched, unshared by mine?
If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost.
Look deeper still. If thou canst feel
Within thy inmost soul,
That thou hast kept a portion back,
While I have staked the whole :
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell
me so.
52
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Is there within thy heart a need
That mine can not fulfil ?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?
Speak now
lest at some future day my whole life wither
and decay.
Lives there within thy nature hid
The demon-spirit Change,
Shedding a passing glory still
On all things new and strange?
It may not be thy fault alone - but shield my heart against
thy own.
Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day
And answer to my claim,
That Fate, and that to-day's mistake
Not thou had been to blame?
A
Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely
warn and save me now.
Nay, answer not, I dare not hear,
The words would come too late;
Yet I would spare thee all remorse,
So comfort thee, my fate:
Whatever on my heart may fall, remember, I would risk
it all!
•
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
Ask me no more.
A
SK me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But, O too fond, when have I answered thee?
Ask me no more.
WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:
I strove against the stream, and all in vain :
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
53
Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles.
O
REVEREND sir, I do declare
It drives me most to frenzy,
To think of you a lying there
Down sick with influenzy.
A body'd thought it was enough
To mourn your wive's departer,
Without sich trouble as this ere
To come a follerin' arter.
But sickness and affliction
Are sent by a wise creation,
And always ought to be underwent
By patience and resignation.
O, I could to your bedside fly,
And wipe your weeping eyes,
And do my best to cure you up,
If 't would n't create surprise.
54
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
}
It's a world of trouble we tarry in,
But, Elder, don't despair;
That you may soon be movin' again
Is constantly my prayer.
Both sick and well, you may depend
You'll never be forgot
By your faithful and affectionate friend,
PRISCILLA POOL BEDOTT.
FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER.
MY
My Aunt.
Y aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!
Long years have o'er her flown ;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone ;
I know it hurts her, though she looks
As cheerful as she can;
Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.
My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!
Her hair is almost gray;
Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way?
How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,
When, through a double convex lens,
She just makes out to spell?
Her father
grandpapa, forgive
This erring lip its smiles
Vowed she should make the finest girl
Within a hundred miles;
MY AUNT.
He sent her to a stylish school;
'T was in her thirteenth June;
And with her, as the rules required,
'Two towels and a spoon."
They braced my aunt against a board,
To make her straight and tall;
They laced her up, they starved her down,
To make her light and small;
They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,
They screwed it up with pins ;
Oh, never mortal suffered more
In penance for her sins.
So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back;
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track;)
"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,
"What could this lovely creature do
Against a desperate man!"
Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,
Nor bandit cavalcade,
Tore from the trembling father's arms
His all-accomplished maid.
For her how happy had it been!
And Heaven had spared to me
To see one sad, ungathered rose
On my ancestral tree.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
55
C
56
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The Bachelor's Dream.
MY
Y pipe is lit, my grog is mixed,
My curtains drawn, and all is snug;
Old Puss is in her elbow-chair,
And Tray is sitting on the rug.
Last night I had a curious dream,
Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg -
What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
She looked so fair, she sang so well,
I could but woo and she was won;
Myself in blue, the bride in white,
The ring was placed, the deed was done!
Away we went in chaise-and-four,
As fast as grinning boys could flog –
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
What loving tête-à-têtes to come!
What tête-à-têtes must still defer!
When Susan came to live with me,
Her mother came to live with her!
With sister Belle she could n't part,
But all my ties had leave to jog
What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
The mother brought a pretty Poll-
A monkey, too, what work he made!
The sister introduced a beau
My Susan brought a favorite maid.
She had a tabby of her own,·
A snappish mongrel christened Gog,-
What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d' ye think of that, my dog?
THE BACHELOR'S dream.
The monkey bit― the parrot screamed,
All day the sister strummed and sung ;
The petted maid was such a scold!
My Susan learned to use her tongue ;
Her mother had such wretched health,
She sat and croaked like any frog –
What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d' ye think of that, my dog?
No longer Deary, Duck, and Love,
I soon came down to simple "M!"
The very servants crossed my wish,
My Susan let me down to them.
The poker hardly seemed my own,
I might as well have been a log
What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
My clothes they were the queerest shape!
Such coats and hats she never met!
My ways they were the oddest ways !
My friends were such a vulgar set!
Poor Tompkinson was snubbed and huffed,
She could not bear that Mister Blogg-
What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
At times we had a spar, and then
Mamma must mingle in the song -
The sister took a sister's part-
The maid declared her master wrong
The parrot learned to call me "Fool!"
My life was like a London fog -
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d'ye think of that, my dog?
My Susan's taste was superfine,
As proved by bills that had no end;
57
58
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
I never had a decent coat
I never had a coin to spend !
She forced me to resign my club,
Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog-
What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d' ye think of that, my dog?
Each Sunday night we gave a rout
To fops and flirts, a pretty list;
And when I tried to steal away
I found my study full of whist!
Then, first to come, and last to go,
There always was a Captain Hogg -
What d'ye think of that, my cat?
What d' ye think of that, my dog?
Now was not that an awful dream
For one who single is and snug
With Pussy in the elbow-chair,
And Tray reposing on the rug?
If I must fotter down the hill,
'Tis safest done without a clog·
What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d' ye think of that, my dog?
THOMAS HOOD.
The faded Violets.
HAT thought is folded in thy leaves !
WH
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Thou darling of the April rain.
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Though scent and azure tint are fled -
O dry, mute lips! ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead :
1
A DREAM.
Of something wilted like thy leaves;
Of fragrance flown, of beauty gone;
Yet for the love of those white hands
That found thee - April's earliest born
That found thee when thy dewy mouth
Was purpled as with stains of wine-
For love of her who love forgot,
I hold thy faded lips to mine!
That thou shouldst live when I am dead,
When hate is dead for me and wrong,
For this I use my subtlest art,
For this, I fold thee in my song.
59
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
A Dream.
I
LINGER in a dream
By a lisping woodland stream,
Pretty scene!
And again we romp and play
On the meads in merry May,
Geraldine!
Your ringlets roses deck,
And around your pearly neck,
Soft as snow,
A necklace shines and plays
As it did in happy days
Long ago!
And you feed the sparrows still
As they chirp beside the sill
And the pump;
60
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And the birds their singing stop
When you pass them with a hop,
Skip, and jump.
Blushes warm your features crest;
In the east or in the west,
South or north,
There is naught so gay and sweet
So enchanting and petite,
&c.,
As yourself — for it's as true
As your loving eyes are blue -
You're divine !
As when you last were seen
By myself in May, 18
59.
Ah me! the vision breaks,
And the sunbeams o'er the lakes
Softly play,
While I rise, without a sigh,
And meander down to my
Déjeuner.
RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK.
S
A Light Woman.
O far as our story approaches the end,
Which do you pity the most of us three? —
My friend, or the mistress of my friend
With her wanton eyes, or me?
My friend was already too good to lose,
And seemed in the way of improvement yet,
When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose
And over him drew her net.
فالی
A LIGHT WOMAN.
When I saw him tangled in her toils,
A shame, said I, if she adds just him
To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,
The hundredth, for a whim!
And before my friend be wholly hers,
How easy to prove to him, I said,
An eagle's the game her pride prefers,
Though she snaps at the wren instead!
So I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,
My hand sought hers as in earnest need,
And round she turned for my noble sake,
And gave me herself indeed.
The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,
The wren is he, with his maiden face.
- You look away and your lip is curled?
Patience, a moment's space!
For see my friend goes shaking and white;
He eyes me as the basilisk:
I have turned, it appears, his day to night,
Eclipsing his sun's disk.
And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief :
(6
Though I love her that he comprehends
One should master one's passions (love, in chief),
And be loyal to one's friends!"
And she she lies in my hand as tame
As a pear hung basking over a wall;
Just a touch to try, and off it came;
'Tis mine can I let it fall?
With no mind to eat it, that's the worst!
6I
Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?
'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst
When I gave its stalk a twist.
62
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And I — what I seem to my friend, you see —
What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess.
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?
No hero, I confess.
'T is an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own.
Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals
He played with for bits of stone!
One likes to show the truth for the truth;
That the woman was light, is very true:
But suppose she says - never mind that youth
What wrong have I done to you?
Well, any how, here the story stays,
So far at least as I understand;
And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,
Here's a subject made to your hand!
ROBERT BROWNING.
Compliment to Queen Elizabeth.
MY
Y gentle Puck, come hither, thou remember'st
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back,
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
That the rude sea grew civil at her song;
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
To hear the sea-maid's music.
That very time, I saw, but thou couldst not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all armed: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, throned by the west;
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts :
THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell;
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it Love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower; the herb I showed thee once.
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
Will make a man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again,
Ere the Leviathan can swim a league.
Puck. I'll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.
63
Oberon. Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.
Puck. Ay, there it is.
Oberon. I pray thee, give it me.
I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
The Poet's Song to his Wife.
OW many summers, love,
HOV
Have I been thine?
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the wingèd wind
When 't bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind,
To count the hours!
64
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Some weight of thought, though loth,
On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both
Perhaps he weaves ;
Some fears, a soft regret
For joys scarce known;
Sweet looks we half forget;
All else is flown!
Ah!
With what thankless heart
I mourn and sing!
Look, where our children start,
Like sudden spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and time!
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.
An Old Man's Idyl.
Y the waters of life we sat together,
BY
Hand in hand, in the golden days
Of the beautiful early summer weather,
When skies were purple and breath was praise,
When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds,
And the birds kept tune to the songs which ran
Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards,
And trees with voices Eolian.
By the rivers of life we walked together,
I and my darling, unafraid;
And lighter than any linnet's feather
The burdens of being on us weighed;
AN OLD MAN'S IDYL.
And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threw
Mantles of joy outlasting time,
And up from the rosy morrows grew
A sound that seemed like a marriage chime.
In the gardens of Life we strayed together,
And the luscious apples were ripe and red,
And the languid lilac and honeyed heather
Swooned with the fragrance which they shed;
And under the trees the angel walked,
And up in the air a sense of wings
Awed us tenderly while we talked
Softly in sacred communings.
In the meadows of Life we strayed together,
Watching the waving harvests grow,
And under the benison of the Father
Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro;
And the cowslips hearing our low replies,
Broidered fairer the emerald banks,
And glad tears shone in the daisies' eyes,
And the timid violet glistened thanks.
Who was with us, and what was round us,
Neither myself nor my darling guessed;
Only we knew that something crowned us
Out from the heavens with crowns of rest;
Only we knew that something bright
Lingered lovingly where we stood,
Clothed with the incandescent light
Of something higher than humanhood.
Oh the riches love doth inherit!
Oh the alchemy which doth change
Dross of body and dregs of spirit
Into sanctities rare and strange !
My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old,
My darling's beautiful hair is gray;
But our elixir and precious gold
Laugh at the footsteps of decay.
65
5
66
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Harms of the world have come unto us,
Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain :
But we have a secret which doth show us,
Wonderful rainbows in the rain,
And we hear the tread of the years move by,
And the sun is setting behind the hills;
But my darling does not fear to die,
And I am happy in what God wills.
So we sit by our household fires together,
Dreaming the dreams of long ago;
Then it was balmy sunny weather,
And now the valleys are laid in snow.
Icicles hang from the slippery eaves,
The wind blows cold, — 't is growing late ;
Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves,
I and my darling, and we wait.
RICHARD REALF.
The Bloom hath fled thy Cheek, Mary.
HE bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary,
TH
As spring's rath blossoms die ;
And sadness hath o'ershadowed now
Thy once bright eye;
But look! on me the prints of grief
Still deeper lie.
Farewell!
Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary;
Thy step is sad and slow;
The morn of gladness hath gone by
Thou erst did know;
I, too, am changed like thee, and weep
For very woe.
Farewell!
:
THE BLOOM HATH FLED THY CHEEK. 67
It seems as 't were but yesterday
We were the happiest twain,
When murmured sighs and joyous tears,
Dropping like rain,
Discoursed my love, and told how loved
I was again.
Farewell!
'T was not in cold and measured phrase
We gave our passion name;
Scorning such tedious eloquence,
Our heart's fond flame
And long-imprisoned feelings fast
In deep sobs came.
Farewell!
Would that our love had been the love
That merest worldlings know,
When passion's draught to our doomed lips
Turns utter woe,
And our poor dream of happiness
Vanishes so!
Farewell!
But in the wreck of all our hopes
There's yet some touch of bliss,
Since Fate robs not our wretchedness
Of this last kiss:
Despair and love and madness meet
In this, in this.
Farewell!
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
2
68
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The Mango-Tree.
HE wiled me through the furzy croft;
Η
He wiled me down the sandy lane.
He told his boy's love, soft and oft,
Until I told him mine again.
We married, and we sailed the main;
A soldier, and a soldier's wife.
We marched through many a burning plain ;
We sighed for many a gallant life.
But his
God keep it safe from harm!
He toiled, and dared, and earned command.
And those three stripes upon his arm
Were more to me than gold or land.
Sure he would win some great renown :
Our lives were strong, our hearts were high.
One night the fever struck him down,
I sat, and stared, and saw him die.
I had his children one, two, three.
One week I had them, blithe and sound;
The next-beneath this mango-tree,
By him in barrack burying-ground.
I sit beneath the mango-shade;
I live my five years' life all o'er
Round yonder stems his children played;
He mounted guard at yonder door.
'T is I, not they, am gone and dead.
They live, they know, they feel, they see.
Their spirits light the golden shade
Beneath the giant mango-tree.
MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. 69
All things, save I, are full of life :
The minas' pluming velvet breasts;
The monkeys, in their foolish strife;
The swooping hawks, the swinging nests.
The lizards basking on the soil,
The butterflies who sun their wings;
The bees about their household toil,
They live, they love, the blissful things.
Each tender purple mango-shoot,
That folds and droops so bashful down:
It lives; it sucks some hidden root;
It rears at last a broad green crown.
It blossoms; and the children cry-
"Watch when the mango-apples fall; "
It lives; but rootless, fruitless, I -
I breathe and dream; — and that is all.
Thus am I dead: yet cannot die:
But still within my foolish brain
There hangs a pale-blue evening sky;
A furzy croft; a sandy lane.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
My Heid is like to rend, Willie.
Y heid is like to rend, Willie,
MY
My heart is like to break
I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,
I'm dyin' for your sake!
Oh, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane,
Oh, say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane !
70
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun ha'e its will;
But let me rest upon your briest
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never sall see mair!
I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,
And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,
Sae strang is its despair.
Oh, wae's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met,
Oh, wae's me for the time, Willie,
That our first tryst was set!
Oh, wae 's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae,
And wae's me for the destinie
That gart me luv thee sae!
Oh, dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame;
But oh, it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek
And hailin' ower your chin:
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow and for sin?
I'm weary of this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see,
71
MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.
I canna live as I ha'e lived,
Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,
The heart that still is thine,
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek
Ye said was red langsyne.
A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart;
Oh, haud me up, and let me kiss
Thy brow ere we twa pairt.
Anither, and anither yet!
How fast my life-strings break!
Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard
Step lichtly for my sake!
The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,
That lilts far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid;
And this green turf we're sittin' on,
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.
But oh, remember me, Willie,
On land where'er ye be;
And oh, think on the leal, leal heart,
That ne'er luvit ane but thee!
And oh, think on the cauld, cauld mools
That file my yellow hair,
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
Ye never sall kiss mair!
WILLIAM Motherwell.
72
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Glenara.
H! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
OH
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and the people are called to her bier.
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud :
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence, they looked on the ground.
In silence they reached, over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn;
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.
"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse!
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain. No answer is made.
But each mantle unfolding a dagger displayed.
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem.
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream.”
Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen!
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
'T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief ;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem.
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
SONG.
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
73
VOL. III.
I
Song.
BADE thee stay. Too well I know
The fault was mine-mine only:
I dared not think upon the past,
All desolate and lonely.
I feared in memory's silent air
Too sadly to regret thee,
Feared in the night of my despair
I could not all forget thee.
Yet go-ah, go! Those pleading eyes,
Those low, sweet tones, appealing
From heart to heart — ah, dare I trust
That passionate revealing.
For ah, those keen and pleading eyes
Evoke too keen a sorrow,
A pang that will not pass away
With thy wild vows to-morrow.
A love immortal and divine
Within my heart is waking;
Its dream of anguish and despair
It owns not but in breaking.
SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.
4
74
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
In the Academy of Design.
I
SAW her in the corridor,
Her form was beauty's own;
She tripped up lightly from the door,
And stood, a splendid dream, before
A portraiture by Stone.
She looked around with tranquil air
A muff before her stood;
He seemed, beside her beauty rare,
A study for a genre there
By Thomas W. Wood.
She seemed to care for him no whit,
As at her face he peered;
No doubt she only thought him fit
For application of the wit
Of dear, facetious Beard.
He matched so ill her grace divine,
I wished he might be shot
By one of those extremely fine
And stately soldiers, the design
Of Mr. Julian Scott.
Her hair was auburn; fold on fold
It fell in wavy flow;
And as its glory downward rolled,
It shone with shining gleams of gold
Like sunset by Gignoux.
Her lissome grace you could perceive,
For all her rich array;
I'm sure she rivalled Powers's Eve,
And was as sweet as Genevieve
By Henry Peters Gray.
THE PORTRAIT.
But oh, the splendor of her eyes!
Deep as the deepest sea!
As radiant as the stars that rise,
As fathomless as summer skies
By Jervis M'Entee!
She shone the brightest jewel there,
Among those gems of art;
With manners gay and debonair,
More brightly, softly, sweetly fair
Than autumn scene by Hart.
Methinks upon that lily hand
I fain would place a ring;
With her before the altar stand
And hear, with joy, the accents bland
Of Dr. S. H. Tyng.
75
DAVID L. PROUDFIT.
M
The Portrait.
IDNIGHT past! Not a sound of aught
Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.
I sat by the dying fire and thought
Of the dear dead woman upstairs. ·
A night of tears! for the gusty rain
Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet;
And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,
With her face all white and wet:
Nobody with me my, watch to keep,
But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:
And grief had sent him fast to sleep
In the chamber up above.
76
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Nobody else in the country-place
All round that knew of my loss beside,
But the good young priest with the Raphael-face
Who confessed her when she died.
That good young priest is of gentle nerve,
And my grief had moved him beyond control;
For his lip grew white as I could observe
When he speeded her parting soul.
I sat by the dreary hearth alone:
I thought of the pleasant days of yore:
I said, "The staff of my life is gone :
The woman I loved is no more.
"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies,
Which next to her heart she used to wear -
Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes
When my own face was not there.
"It is set all round with rubies red,
And pearls which a Peri might have kept ;
For each ruby there my heart hath bled:
For each pearl my eyes have wept."
And I said
"The thing is precious to me:
They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay :
It lies on her heart, and lost must be,
If I do not take it away."
I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,
And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright,
Till into the chamber of death I came,
Where she lay all in white.
The moon shone over her winding-sheet;
There, stark she lay on her carven bed:
Seven burning tapers about her feet,
And seven about her head.
THE PORTRAIT.
As I stretched my hand I held my breath;
I turned as I drew the curtains apart:
I dared not look on the face of death:
I knew where to find her heart.
I thought at first, as my touch fell there,
It had warmed that heart to life with love;
For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,
And I could feel it move.
'T was the hand of a man that was moving slow
O'er the heart of the dead, from the other side,
And at once the sweat broke over my brow;
“Who is robbing the corpse?” I cried.
Opposite me, by the tapers' light,
The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,
Stood over the corpse, and all as white ;
And neither of us moved.
"What do you here, my friend?" The man
Looked first at me, and then at the dead.
"There is a portrait here," he began;
"There is. It is mine," I said.
Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,
The portrait was, till a month ago,
When this suffering angel took that out,
And placed mine there, I know."
"This woman, she loved me well,” said I.
"A month ago,” said my friend to me:
"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie !"
He answered, . . . "Let us see.”
Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:
And whosesoever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraigned by Love."
77
78
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
We found the portrait there, in its place;
We opened it by the tapers' shine:
The gems were all unchanged: the face
Was neither his nor mine.
"One nail drives out another, at least!
The face of the portrait there," I cried,
"Is our friend's the Raphael-faced young priest
Who confessed her when she died."
The setting is all of rubies red,
And pearls which a Peri might have kept;
For each ruby there my heart hath bled:
For each pearl my eyes have wept.
ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.
The Royal Guest.
HEY tell me I am shrewd with other men,
THEY tell me I am sluit
With thee I'm difficult and slow of speech;
With others, I may guide the ear of talk,
Thou wring'st it oft to realms beyond my reach.
If other guests should come, I'd deck my hair,
And choose my newest garment from the shelf;
When thou art bidden, I would clothe my heart
With holiest purpose, as for God himself.
For them I while the hours with tale or song,
Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme;
But how to find a fitting lay for thee,
Who hast the harmonies of every time?
O friend beloved! I sit apart and dumb,
Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine;
My lips will falter, but my prisoned heart
Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with thine.
WHERE SHALL THE LOVER rest. 79
Thou art to me most like a royal guest
Whose travels bring him to some lowly roof,
Where simple rustics spread their simple fare,
And, blushing, own it is not good enough.
Bethink thee, then, whene'er thou com'st to me
From high emprise and noble toil to rest,
My thoughts are weak and trivial matched with thine,
But the poor mansion offers thee its best.
JULIA WARD Howe.
Where shall the Lover rest?
HERE shall the lover rest
WHERE
Whom the fates sever
"From his true maiden's breast
Parted for ever?
Where through groves deep and high
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow
Eleu loro
Soft shall be his pillow.
There through the summer day
Cool streams are laving:
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever,
Never again to wake
Never, O never!
Eleu loro
Never, O never!
80
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Where shall the traitor rest,
He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying;
Eleu loro
There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap
Ere life be parted:
Shame and dishonor sit
By his grave ever ;
Blessing shall hallow it
Never, O never!
Eleu loro
Never, O never!
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The Tears I Shed must ever Fall.
HE tears I shed must ever fall:
THE
I mourn not for an absent swain;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead:
Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er;
And those they loved their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.
Though boundless oceans rolled between,
If certain that his heart is near,
THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL. 81
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.
But bitter, bitter are the tears
Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of withered joy;
The flattering veil is rent aside,
The flame of love burns to destroy.
In vain does memory renew
The hours once tinged in transport's dye;
The sad reverse soon starts to view,
And turns the past to agony.
E'en time itself despairs to cure
Those pangs to every feeling due:
Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor,
To win a heart, and break it too!
No cold approach, no altered mien ;
Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between-
He made me blest, and broke my heart:
From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn,
Neglected and neglecting all;
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,
The tears I shed must ever fall.
MRS. DUGALD STEWART.
82
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
:
A Fishing Song.
DOWN in the wide, gray river
The current is sweeping strong;
Over the wide, gray river
Floats the fisherman's song.
The oar-stroke times the singing,
The song falls with the oar;
And an echo in both is ringing,
I thought to hear no more.
Out of a deeper current,
The song brings back to me
A cry from mortal silence,
Of mortal agony.
Life that was spent and vanished,
Love that had died of wrong,
Hearts that are dead in living,
Come back in the fisherman's song.
I see the maples leafing,
Just as they leafed before,
The green grass comes no greener
Down to the very shore
With the rude strain swelling, sinking,
In the cadence of days gone by,
As the oar, from the water drinking,
Ripples the mirrored sky.
Yet the soul hath life diviner:
Its past returns no more,
But in echoes, that answer the minor
Of the boat-song, from the shore.
1
MY LAST DUCHESS.
And the ways of God are darkness;
His judgment waiteth long;
He breaks the heart of a woman
With a fisherman's careless song.
83
ROSE TERRY Cooke.
TH
My Last Duchess.
FERRARA.
HAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive; I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say, " Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat; " such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart... how shall I say?... too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast,
84
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The dropping of the daylight in the west,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace — all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men - good; but thanked
Somehow... I know not how ... as if she ranked
My gift of a nine hundred years old name
With anybody's gift.
This sort of trifling?
Who'd stoop to blame
Even had you skill
In speech (which I have not) — to make your will
Quite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" - and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
E'en then would be some stooping, and I chuse
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we 'll go
Together down, sir! Notice Neptune though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.
ROBERT Browning.
A BIRD AT SUNSET.
85
A Bird at Sunset.
WILD bird, that
ILD bird, that wingest wide the glimmering moors,
Whither, by belts of yellowing woods, away?
What pausing sunset thy wild heart allures
Deep into dying day?
Would that my heart, on wings like thine, could pass
Where stars their light in rosy regions lose
A happy shadow o'er the warm brown grass,
Falling with falling dews!
Hast thou, like me, some true-love of thine own,
In fairy-lands beyond the utmost seas;
Who there, unsolaced, yearns for thee alone,
And sings to silent trees?
Oh, tell that woodbird that the summer grieves
And the suns darken and the days grow cold;
And, tell her, love will fade with fading leaves,
And cease in common mould.
Fly from the winter of the world to her!
Fly, happy bird! I follow in thy flight,
Till thou art lost o'er yonder fringe of fir
In baths of crimson light.
My love is dying far away from me.
She sits and saddens in the fading west.
For her I mourn all day, and pine to be
At night upon her breast.
ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.
86
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The King of Denmark's Ride.
WORD
ORD was brought to the Danish king
(Hurry!)
That the love of his heart lay suffering,
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
(O, ride as though you were flying!)
Better he loves each golden curl
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:
And his rose of the isles is dying!
Thirty nobles saddled with speed;
(Hurry!)
Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(O, ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his rose of the isles lay dying!
His nobles are beaten, one by one;
(Hurry!)
They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone ;
His little fair page now follows alone,
For strength and for courage trying!
The king looked back at that faithful child;
Wan was the face that answering smiled
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped; and only the king rode in
Where his rose of the isles lay dying!
The king blew a blast on his bugle horn
(Silence!)
No answer came; but faint and forlorn
87
HANNAH BINDING SHOES.
An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing.
The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcomed the king from that weary ride ;
For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
Who had yearned for his voice while dying!
The panting steed, with a drooping crest,
Stood weary.
The king returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast;
And, that dumb companion eying,
The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck:
"O steed, that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain
To the halls where my love lay dying!"
CAROLINE NORTON.
Hannah Binding Shoes.
POOR lone Hannah,
Sitting at the window binding shoes.
Faded, wrinkled,
Sitting stitching in a mournful muse.
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree;
Spring and winter
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
Not a neighbor
Passing nod or answer will refuse,
To her whisper,
"Is there from the fishers any news?"
Oh her heart 's adrift with one
88
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
?
On an endless voyage gone!
Night and morning
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
Fair young Hannah
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily wooes;
Hale and clever,
For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all aglow,
And the waves are laughing so!
For her wedding
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.
May is passing;
Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes.
Hannah shudders,
For the mild southwester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,
Outward bound, a schooner sped;
Silent, lonesome,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
'T is November;
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews,
From Newfoundland,
Not a sail returning will she lose,
Whispering hoarsely, "Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
Twenty winters
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views;
Twenty seasons
Never one has brought her any news.
Still her dim eyes silently
Chase the white sails o'er the sea ;
Hopeless, faithful,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
LUCY LARcom.
THE WIDOW'S LULLABY.
89
The Widow's Lullaby.
HE droops like a dew-dropping lily,
SHE
"Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!"
The sun comes up from the lea,
As he who will never come more
Came up that first day to her door,
When the ship furled her sails by the shore,
And the spring leaves were green on the tree.
But she droops like a dew-dropping lily,
"Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!"
The sun goes down in the sea,
As he who will never go more,
Went down that last day from her door,
When the ship set her sails from the shore,
And the dead leaves were sere on the tree.
But she droops like a dew-dropping lily,
"Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !"
The year comes glad o'er the lea,
As he who will never come more,
Never, ah never!
Came up that first day to her door,
When the ship furled her sails by the shore,
And the spring leaves were green on the tree.
Never, ah never!
He who will come again, never!
But she droops like a new-dropping lily,
"Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!"
90
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
:
The year goes sad to the sea,
As he who will never go more
For ever went down from her door,
Ever, for ever!
When the ship set her sails by the shore,
And the dead leaves were sere on the tree.
Ever, for ever!
For ever went down from her door.
But she droops like a dew-dropping lily,
"Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie !
Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !"
A gun, and a flash, and a gun,
The ship lies again where she lay !
High and low, low and high, in the sun,
There's a boat, a boat on the bay !
High and low, low and high, in the sun,
All as she saw it that day,
When he came who shall never come more,
And the ship furled her sails by the shore.
But she droops like a dew-dropping lily,
"Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !"
All as she saw it that day,
With a gun, and a flash, and a gun,
The ship lies again where she lay,
And they run, and they ride, and they run,
Merry, merry, merry, down the merry highway,
To the boat, high and low in the sun.
Nearer and nearer she hears the rolling drum,
Clearer and clearer she hears the cry, "They come,”
Far and near runs the cheer to her ear once so dear,
Merry, merry, merry, up the merry highway,
As it ran when he came that day
EPITAPH.
And said, "Wilt thou be my dearie?
Oh, wilt thou be my dearie?
My boat is dry in the bay,
And I'll love till thou be weary!"
And she could not say him nay,
For his bonny eyes o' blue,
And never was true-love so true,
To never so kind a dearie,
As he who will never love more,
When the ship furls her sails by the shore.
Then she shakes like a wind-stricken lily,
“Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !
SYDNEY Dobell.
91
""
Epitaph.
AREWELL! - since never more for thee
FA
The sun comes up our earthly skies,
Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be
To some fond heart and saddened eyes.
There are who, for thy last long sleep,
Shall sleep as sweetly never more,
Must weep because thou canst not weep,
And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er.
Sad thrift of love! — the loving breast,
Whereon thine aching head was thrown,
Gave up the weary head to rest,
But kept the aching for its own,
Till pain shall find the same low bed
That pillows now thy painless head,
And, following darkly through the night,
Love reach thee by the founts of light.
THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY.
92
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
To Mary in Heaven.
`HOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
THO
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade !
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace;
Ah! little thought we 't was our last!
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene;
The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
ROBERT Burns.
ASTARTE.
93
Astarte.
WHEN the latest strife is lost, and all is done with,
Ere we slumber in the spirit and the brain,
We drowse back, in dreams, to days that life begun with,
And their tender light returns to us again.
I have cast away the tangle and the torment
Of the cords that bound my life up in a mesh;
And the pulse begins to throb that long lay dormant
'Neath their pressure; and the old wounds bleed afresh.
I am touched again with shades of early sadness,
Like the summer-cloud's light shadow in my hair;
I am thrilled again with breaths of boyish gladness,
Like the scent of some last primrose on the air.
And again she comes, with all her silent graces,
The lost woman of my youth, yet unpossessed;
And her cold face so unlike the other faces
Of the women whose dead lips I since have pressed.
The motion and the fragrance of her garments
Seem about me, all the day long, in the room :
And her face, with its bewildering old endearments,
Comes at night, between the curtains, in the gloom.
When vain dreams are stirred with sighing, near the morning,
To my own her phantom lips I feel approach ;
And her smile at eve breaks o'er me without warning
From its speechless, pale, perpetual reproach.
When life's dawning glimmer yet had all the tint there
Of the orient, in the freshness of the grass,
(Ah what feet since then have trodden out the print there!)
Did her soft, her silent footsteps fall and pass.
94
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
They fell lightly, as the dew falls 'mid ungathered
Meadow-flowers; and lightly lingered with the dew.
But the dew is gone, the grass is dried and withered,
And the traces of those steps have faded too.
Other footsteps fall about me, — faint, uncertain,
In the shadow of the world, as it recedes:
Other forms peer through the half-uplifted curtain
Of that mystery which hangs behind the creeds.
What is gone, is gone forever. And new fashions
May replace old forms which nothing can restore:
But I turn from sighing back departed passions
With that pining at the bosom as of yore.
I remember to have murmured, morn and even :
"Though the earth dispart these Earthlies, face from face,
Yet the Heavenlies shall surely join in heaven,
For the spirit hath no bonds in time or space.
"Where it listeth, there it bloweth; all existence
Is its region; and it houseth, where it will.
I shall feel her through immeasurable distance,
And grow nearer and be gathered to her still.
"If I fail to find her out by her gold tresses,
Brows and breast and lips and language of sweet strains,
I shall know her by the traces of dead kisses,
And that portion of myself which she retains.”
But my being is confused with new experience,
And changed to something other than it was;
And the Future with the Past is set at variance;
And life falters with the burdens which it has.
Earth's old sins press fast behind me, weakly wailing;
Faint before me fleets the good I have not done;
And my search for her may still be unavailing
'Mid the spirits that are passed beyond the sun.
ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.
THE VAGABONDS.
95
The Vagabonds.
E are two travellers, Roger and I.
WE
Roger's my dog:
Jump for the gentlemen,
come here, you scamp!
mind your eye!
Over the table, — look out for the lamp!
The rogue is growing a little old;
Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank - and starved together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow !
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,
(This out-door business is bad for strings),
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings!
No thank ye, sir, — I never drink;
Roger and I are exceedingly moral,
Are n't we, Roger ? see him wink!
Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too, - see him nod his head?
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!
He understands every word that's said,
And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.
The truth is, sir, now I reflect,
I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.
96
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
There is n't another creature living
Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,
To such a miserable, thankless master!
No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin !
By George! it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow. But no matter !
We'll have some music, if you 're willing,
And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!)
Shall march a little. Start, you villain !
Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer!
Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle !
(Some dogs have arms, you see!)
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,
To aid a poor old patriot soldier !
Now hold your
March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps, that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses !
Quick, sir! I'm ill, my brain is going!
Some brandy, — thank you, — there!
there! — it passes!
Why not reform? That's easily said;
But I've gone through such wretched treatment,
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,
And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach 's past reform;
And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.
Is there a way to forget to think?
At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love,
If
THE VAGABONDS.
but I took to drink;
The same old story; you know how it ends.
you
could have seen these classic features,
You need n't laugh, sir, they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men!
If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung
97
When the wine went round, you would n't have guessed
That ever I, sir, should be straying
From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
Ragged and penniless, and playing
To you to-night for a glass of grog!
She's married since, a parson's wife :
'T was better for her that we should part,
Better the soberest, prosiest life
Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her? Once I was weak and spent
On the dusty road, a carriage stopped:
But little she dreamed, as on she went,
Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!
You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?
I had a mother so proud of me!
'T was well she died before Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?
Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing, in place of a heart?
VOL. 111.
5
98
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were, —
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.
I'm better now; that glass was warming.
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing
For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?
But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ;
The sooner, the better for Roger and me!
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRidge.
B
Aurum Potabile.
ROTHER Bards of every region
Brother Bards, (your name is legion !)
Were you with me while the twilight
Darkens up my pine-tree skylight —
Were you gathered, representing
Every land beneath the sun,
Oh, what songs would be indited,
Ere the earliest star is lighted,
To the praise of vino d'oro,
On the Hills of Lebanon!
Yes; while all alone I quaff its
Lucid gold, and brightly laugh its
Topaz waves and amber bubbles,
Still the thought my pleasure troubles,
That I quaff it all alone.
Oh for Hafiz-glorious Persian!
Keats, with buoyant, gay diversion
Mocking Schiller's grave immersion;
Oh for wreathed Anacreon!
:
AURUM POTABILE.
Yet enough to have the living-
They, the few, the rapture-giving!
(Blessèd more than in receiving,)
Fate, that frowns when laurels wreathe them,
Once the solace might bequeath them,
Once to taste of vino d'oro,
On the Hills of Lebanon !
Lebanon, thou mount of story,
Well we know thy sturdy glory,
Since the days of Solomon;
Well we know the Five old cedars,
Scarred by ages -
silent pleaders,
Preaching, in their gray sedateness,
Of thy forest's fallen greatness,
Of the vessels of the Tyrian,
And the palaces Assyrian,
And the temple on Morian
To the High and Holy One!
Know the wealth of thy appointment
Myrrh and aloes, gum and ointment;
But we knew not, till we clomb thee,
Of the nectar dropping from thee-
In the cup of vino d'oro,
On the Hills of Lebanon !
We have drunk and we have eaten,
Where Egyptian sheaves are beaten ;
Tasted Judah's milk and honey
On his mountains, bare and sunny;
Drained ambrosial bowls that ask us
Never more to leave Damascus ;
And have sung a vintage pæan
To the grapes of isles Ægean,
And the flasks of Orvieto,
Ripened in the Roman sun:
But the liquor here surpasses
All that beams in earthly glasses.
99
100
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
'Tis of this that Paracelsus
(His elixir vitæ) tells us,
That to happier shores can float us
Than Lethean stems of lotus,
And the vigor of the morning.
Straight restores when day is done.
Then, before the sunset waneth,
While the rosy tide, that staineth
Earth and sky and sea, remaineth,
We will take the fortune proffered -
Ne'er again to be re-offered -
We will drink of vino d'oro,
On the Hills of Lebanon!
Vino d'oro! vino d'oro ! —
Golden blood of Lebanon!
BAYARD TAYLOR.
The Toper's Apology.
'M often asked by plodding souls
And men of sober tongue,
What joy I take in draining bowls
And tippling all night long.
But though these cautious knaves I scorn,
For once I'll not disdain
To tell them why I sit till morn
And fill my glass again.
'Tis by the glow my bumper gives,
Life's picture 's mellow made;
The fading light then brightly lives,
And softly sinks the shade.
Some happier tint still rises there,
With every drop I drain;
And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.
THE TOPER'S APOLOGY.
My Muse, too, when her wings are dry,
No frolic flights will take,
But round the bowl she 'll dip and fly,
Like swallows round a lake.
Then, if each nymph will have her share,
Before she 'll bless her swain,
Why, that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.
In life I've rung all changes through,
Run every pleasure down,
Tried all extremes of folly too,
And lived with half the town;
For me there's nothing new nor rare,
Till wine deceives my brain;
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.
I find, too, when I stint my glass,
And sit with sober air,
I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass,
Who treads the path of care
Or, harder still, am doomed to bear
Some coxcomb's fribbling strain;
And that I'm sure 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.
There's many a lad I knew is dead,
And many a lass grown old,
And as the lesson strikes my head,
My weary heart grows cold;
But wine awhile drives off despair
Nay, bids a hope remain;
And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.
ΙΟΙ
CHARLES MORRIS.
102
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Mare Rubrum.
LASH out a stream of blood-red wine! -
FLASH
For I would drink to other days;
And brighter shall their memory shine,
Seen flaming through its crimson blaze.
The roses die, the summers fade;
But every ghost of boyhood's dream
By Nature's magic power is laid
To sleep beneath this blood-red stream.
It filled the purple grapes that lay
And drank the splendors of the sun
Where the long summer's cloudless day
Is mirrored in the broad Garonne ;
It pictures still the bacchant shapes
That saw their hoarded sunlight shed, -
The maidens dancing on the grapes,
Their milk-white ankles splashed with red.
Beneath these waves of crimson lie,
In rosy fetters prisoned fast,
Those flitting shapes that never die,
The swift-winged visions of the past.
Kiss but the crystal's mystic rim,
Each shadow rends its flowery chain,
Springs in a bubble from its brim,
And walks the chambers of the brain.
Poor Beauty! time and fortune's wrong
No form nor feature may withstand,
Thy wrecks are scattered all along,
Like emptied sea-shells on the sand;
Yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain,
The dust restores each blooming girl,
As if the sea-shells moved again
Their glistening lips of pink and pearl.
103
TO THOMAS MOORE.
Here lies the home of school-boy life,
With creaking stair and wind-swept hall,
And, scarred by many a truant knife,
Our old initials on the wall;
Here rest their keen vibrations mute
The shout of voices known so well,
The ringing laugh, the wailing flute,
The chiding of the sharp-tongued bell.
Here, clad in burning robes, are laid
Life's blossomed joys, untimely shed;
And here those cherished forms have strayed
We miss awhile, and call them dead.
What wizard fills the maddening glass?
What soil the enchanted clusters grew,
That buried passions wake and pass
In beaded drops of fiery dew?
Nay, take the cup of blood-red wine,
Our hearts can boast a warmer glow,
Filled from a vintage more divine,
Calmed, but not chilled, by winter's snow!
To-night the palest wave we sip,
Rich as the priceless draught shall be
That wet the bride of Cana's lip,
The wedding wine of Galilee !
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
To Thomas Moore.
Y boat is on the shore,
MX
And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
104
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Here's a sigh for those that love me,
And a smile for those who hate
And, whatever sky 's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were 't the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell
'T is to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be, - Peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore !
}
LORD BYRON.
After a Lecture on Moore.
HINE soft, ye trembling tears of light
STNE soft, le morning this,
That strew the morning skies;
Hushed in the silent dews of night
The harp of Erin lies.
What though her thousand years have past
Of poets, saints, and kings,
Her echoes only hear the last
That swept those golden strings.
Fling o'er his mound, ye star-lit bowers,
The balmiest wreaths ye wear,
Whose breath has lent your earth-born flowers
Heaven's own ambrosial air.
AFTER A LECTURE ON MOORE.
on
Breathe, bird of night, thy softest tone,
By shadowy grove and rill;
Thy song will soothe us while we own
That his was sweeter still.
Stay, pitying Time, thy foot for him.
Who gave thee swifter wings,
Nor let thine envious shadow dim
The light his glory flings.
If in his cheek unholy blood
Burned for one youthful hour,
'T was but the flushing of the bud
That blooms a milk-white flower.
Take him, kind mother, to thy breast,
Who loved thy smiles so well,
And spread thy mantle o'er his rest
Of rose and asphodel.
· The bark has sailed the midnight sea,
The sea without a shore,
That waved its parting sign to thee,
"A health to thee, Tom Moore !"
And thine, long lingering on the strand,
Its bright-hued streamers furled,
Was loosed by age, with trembling hand,
To seek the silent world.
Not silent! no, the radiant stars,
Still singing as they shine,
Unheard through earth's imprisoning bars,
Have voices sweet as thine.
Wake, then, in happier realms above,
The songs of by-gone years,
Till angels learn those airs of love
That ravished mortal ears!
105
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES,
5*
106
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
AS
Not far to Go.
S upland fields were sunburnt brown,
And heat-dried brooks were running small,
And sheep were gathered panting all,
Below the hawthorn on the down;
The while my mare, with dipping head,
Pulled on my cart, above the bridge;
I saw come on, beside the ridge,
A maiden, white in skin and thread,
And walking with an elbow load,
The way I drove, along my road.
As there, with comely steps, up-hill
She rose by elm-trees, all in ranks,
From shade to shade, by flowery banks,
Where flew the bird with whistling bill,
I kindly said, “Now won't you ride,
This burning weather, up the knap?
I have a seat that fits the trap-
And now is swung from side to side.”
""
Oh, no," she cried; "I thank you, no.
I've little farther now to go."
Then, up the timbered slope, I found
The prettiest house, a good day's ride
Would bring you by, with porch and side,
By rose and jessamine well bound,
And near at hand, a spring and pool,
With lawn well sunned and bower cool:
And while the wicket fell behind
Her steps, I thought, if I would find
A wife I need not blush to show,
I've little farther now to go.
WILLIAM Barnes.
SUJATA.
Sujata.
From "The Light of Asia."
NOW, by that
river dwelt a landholder
Pious and rich, master of many herds,
A goodly chief, the friend of all the poor;
And from his house the village drew its name
"Senáni." Pleasant and in peace he lived,
Having for wife Sujâta, loveliest
Of all the dark-eyed daughters of the plain;
Gentle and true, simple and kind was she,
Noble of mien, with gracious speech to all
And gladsome looks a pearl of womanhood
Passing calm years of household happiness.
Beside her lord in that still Indian home,
Save that no male child blessed their wedded love.
Wherefore with many prayers she had besought
Lukshmi; and many nights at full-moon gone
Round the great Lingam, nine times nine, with gifts
Of rice and jasmine wreaths and sandal oil,
Praying a boy; also Sujâta vowed
If this should be — an offering of food
Unto the wood-god, plenteous, delicate,
Set in a bowl of gold under his tree,
Such as the lips of Devs may taste and take.
And this had been: for there was born to her
A beauteous boy, now three months old, who lay
Between Sujâta's breasts, while she did pace
With grateful footsteps to the wood-god's shrine,
One arm clasping her crimson sari close
To wrap the babe, that jewel of her joys,
The other lifted high in comely curve
To steady on her head the bowl and dish
Which held the dainty victuals for the god.
But Radha, sent before to sweep the ground
107
108
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And tie the scarlet threads around the tree,
Came eager, crying, "Ah, dear mistress! look!
There is the wood-god sitting in his place,
Revealed, with folded hands upon his knees.
See how the light shines round about his brow!
How mild and great he seems, with heavenly eyes!
Good fortune is it thus to meet the gods."
So-thinking him divine - Sujâta drew
Tremblingly nigh, and kissed the earth and said,
With sweet face bent, "Would that the holy one
Inhabiting this grove, giver of good,
Merciful unto me his handmaiden,
Vouchsafing now his presence, might accept
These our poor gifts of snowy curds, fresh-made,
With milk as white as new-carved ivory!'
Therewith into the golden bowl she poured
The curds and milk, and on the hands of Buddh
Dropped attar from a crystal flask
distilled
Out of the hearts of roses: and he ate,
Speaking no word, while the glad mother stood
In reverence apart. But of that meal
So wondrous was the virtue that our Lord
Felt strength and life return as though the nights
Of watching and the days of fast had passed
In dream, as though the spirit with the flesh
Shared that fine meat and plumed its wings anew,
Like some delighted bird at sudden streams
Weary with flight o'er endless wastes of sand,
Which laves the desert dust from neck and crest.
And more Sujâta worshiped, seeing our Lord
Grow fairer and his countenance more bright:
"Art thou indeed the god?" she lowly asked,
"And hath my gift found favor?" But Buddh said,
"What is it thou dost bring me?" "Holy one!"
Answered Sujata, "from our droves I took.
Milk of a hundred mothers, newly-calved,
And with that milk I fed fifty white cows,
And with their milk twenty-and-five, and then
SUJATA.
With theirs twelve more, and yet again with theirs
The six noblest and best of all our herds.
That yield I boiled with sandal and fine spice
In silver lotas, adding rice, well-grown
From chosen seed, set in new-broken ground,
So picked that every grain was like a pearl.
This did I of true heart, because I vowed
Under thy tree, if I should bear a boy
I would make offering for my joy, and now
I have my son, and all my life is bliss!"
Softly our Lord drew down the crimson fold,
And, laying on the little head those hands
Which help the worlds, he said, "Long be thy bliss!
And lightly fall on him the load of life!
For thou hast holpen me who am no god,
But one, thy brother; heretofore a prince
And now a wanderer, seeking night and day
109
These six hard years that light which somewhere shines
To lighten all men's darkness, if they knew!
And I shall find the light; yea, now it dawned
Glorious and helpful, when my weak flesh failed
Which this pure food, fair sister, hath restored,
Drawn manifold through lives to quicken life
As life itself passes by many births
To happier heights and purging off of sins.
Yet dost thou truly find it sweet enough
Only to live? Can life and love suffice?"
Answered Sujâta, "Worshipful! my heart
Is little, and a little rain will fill
The lily's cup which hardly moists the field.
It is enough for me to feel life's sun
Shine in my Lord's grace and my baby's smile,
Making the loving summer of our home.
Pleasant my days pass filled with household cares
From sunrise when I wake to praise the gods,
And give forth grain, and trim the tulsi-plant,
And set my handmaids to their tasks, till noon,
When my lord lays his head upon my lap
110
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Lulled by soft songs and wavings of the fan;
And so to supper-time at quiet eve,
When by his side I stand and serve the cakes.
Then the stars light their silver lamps for sleep,
After the temple and the talk with friends.
How should I not be happy, blest so much,
And bearing him this boy whose tiny hand
Shall lead his soul to Swerga, if it need?
For holy books teach when a man shall plant
Trees for the travelers' shade, and dig a well
For the folks' comfort, and beget a son,
It shall be good for such after their death;
And what the books say that I humbly take,
Being not wiser than those great of old
Who spake with gods, and knew the hymns and charms,
And all the ways of virtue and of peace.
Also I think that good must come of good
And ill of evil - surely — unto all-
In every place and time-seeing sweet fruit
Groweth from wholesome roots, and bitter things
From poison-stocks; yea, seeing, too, how spite
Breeds hate, and kindness friends, and patience peace
Even while we live; and when 't is willed we die
Shall there not be as good a 'Then' as 'Now'?
Haply much better! since one grain of rice
Shoots a green feather gemmed with fifty pearls,
And all the starry champak's white and gold
Lurks in those little, naked, gray spring-buds.
Ah, sir! I know there might be woes to bear
Would lay fond patience with her face in dust;
If this my babe pass first, I think my heart
Would break almost I hope my heart would break!
That I might clasp him dead and wait my lord
In whatsoever world holds faithful wives -
Duteous, attending till his hour should come.
But if death called Senâni, I should mount
The pile and lay that dear head in my lap,
My daily way, rejoicing when the torch
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.
Lit the quick flame and rolled the choking smoke.
For it is written if an Indian wife
Die so, her love shall give her husband's soul
For every hair upon her head a crore
Of years in Swerga. Therefore fear I not.
And therefore, holy sir! my life is glad,
Nowise forgetting yet those other lives
Painful and poor, wicked and miserable,
Whereon the gods grant pity! but for me,
What good I see humbly I seek to do,
And live obedient to the law, in trust
III
That what will come, and must come, shall come well."
Then spake our Lord, “Thou teachest them who teach,
Wiser than wisdom in thy simple lore.
Be thou content to know not, knowing thus
Thy way of right and duty: grow, thou flower!
With thy sweet kind in peaceful shade — the light
Of truth's high noon is not for tender leaves
Which must spread broad in other suns and lift
In later lives a crowned head to the sky.
Thou who hast worshiped me, I worship thee!
Excellent heart! learnèd unknowingly.
As the dove is which flieth home by love,
In thee is seen why there is hope for man
And where we hold the wheel of life at will.
Peace go with thee, and comfort all thy days!
As thou accomplishest, may I achieve!
He whom thou thoughtest God bids thee wish this."
EDWIN ARNOLD.
I
Antony and Cleopatra.
AM dying, Egypt, dying,
Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,
And the dark Plutonian shadows
Gather on the evening blast;
II2
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Let thine arms, O Queen! support me,
Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear,
Listen to the great heart-secrets
Thou, and thou alone, must hear.
Though my scarred and veteran legions
Bear their eagles high no more,
And my wrecked and scattered galleys
Strew dark Actium's fatal shore,
Though no glittering guards surround me,
Prompt to do their master's will,
I must perish like a Roman,
Die the great Triumvir still.
Let not Cæsar's servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low;
'T was no foeman's hand that slew him,
'T was himself that struck the blow:
His who, pillowed on thy bosom,
Turned aside from glory's ray,
His who, drunk with thy caresses,
Madly threw a world away.
Should the base plebeian rabble
Dare assail my fame at Rome,
Where my noble spouse, Octavia,
Weeps within her widowed home,
Seek her say the gods have told me
Altars, augurs, circling wings -
That her blood, with mine commingled,
Yet shall mount the throne of kings.
As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian,
Glorious sorceress of the Nile,
Light the path to Stygian horrors
With the splendors of thy smile:
Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,
Let his brow the laurel twine;
I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,
Triumphing in love like thine.
SWORD-CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 113
I am dying, Egypt, dying;
Hark! the insulting foeman's cry.
They are coming-quick, my falchion!
Let me front them ere I die.
Ah! no more amid the battle
Shall my heart exulting swell;
Isis and Osiris guard thee!
Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!
WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.
The Sword-chant of Thorstein Raudi.
'TIS not the gray hawk's flight
O'er mountain and mere;
'Tis not the fleet hound's course
Tracking the deer;
'Tis not the light hoof-print
Of black steed or gray,
Though sweltering it gallop
A long summer's day;
Which mete forth the lordships
I challenge as mine:
Ha! ha! 't is the good brand
I clutch in my strong hand,
That can their broad marches
And numbers define.
LAND-GIVER! I kiss thee.
Dull builders of houses,
Base tillers of earth,
Gaping, ask me what lordships
I owned at my birth;
But the pale fools wax mute
When I point with my sword
East, west, north, and south,
Shouting, "There am I lord!”
114
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Wold and waste, town and tower,
Hill, valley, and stream,
Trembling, bow to my sway
In the fierce battle-fray,
When the star that rules Fate is
This falchion's red gleam.
MIGHT-GIVER! I kiss thee.
I've heard great harps sounding,
In brave bower and hall,
I've drunk the sweet music
That bright lips let fall,
I've hunted in greenwood,
And heard small birds sing;
But away with this idle
And cold jargoning:
The music I love is
The shout of the brave,
The yell of the dying,
The scream of the flying,
When this arm wields death's sickle,
And garners the grave.
JOY-GIVER! I kiss thee.
Far isles of the ocean
Thy lightning have known,
And wide o'er the mainland
Thy horrors have shone.
Great sword of my father,
Stern joy of his hand,
Thou hast carved his name deep on
The stranger's red strand,
And won him the glory
Of undying song.
Keen cleaver of gay crests,
Sharp piercer of broad breasts,
Grim slayer of heroes,
And scourge of the strong.
FAME-GIVER! I kiss thee.
SWORD-CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 115
In a love more abiding
Than that the heart knows
For maiden more lovely
Than summer's first rose,
My heart 's knit to thine,
And lives but for thee:
In dreamings of gladness,
Thou 'rt dancing with me
Brave measures of madness
In some battle-field,
Where armor is ringing,
And noble blood springing,
And cloven, yawn helmet,
Stout hauberk, and shield.
DEATH-GIVER! I kiss thee.
The smile of a maiden's eye
Soon may depart ;
And light is the faith of
Fair woman's heart;
Changeful as light clouds,
And wayward as wind,
Be the passions that govern
Weak woman's mind.
But thy metal's as true
As its polish is bright;
When ills wax in number,
Thy love will not slumber,
But, starlike, burns fiercer,
The darker the night.
HEART-GLADDENER! I kiss thee.
My kindred have perished
By war or by wave —
Now, childless and sireless,
I long for the grave.
When the path of our glory
Is shadowed in death,
116
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
With me thou wilt slumber
Below the brown heath;
Thou wilt rest on my bosom,
And with it decay —
While harps shall be ringing,
And Scalds shall be singing
The deeds we have done in
Our old fearless day.
SONG-GIVER! I kiss thee.
WILLIAM Motherwell.
THRICE
Fontenoy.
HRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English column
failed,
And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain
assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back diminished and dis-
persed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops like clouds at even-
tide.
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread;
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their
head.
Steady they step adown the slopes, steady they mount the hill.
Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace-blast,
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets shower-
ing fast;
FONTENOY.
117
And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve that mocked at hostile force,
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks,
They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Holland's
ocean-banks.
More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush
round;
As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the
ground;
Bomb-shell and grape and round-shot tore, still on they
marched and fired
Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired.
"Push on my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried.
To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged
they died.
On through the camp the column trod - King Louis turned
his rein.
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed; "the Irish troops
remain."
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement, and true.
"Lord Clare," he said, "you have your wish; there are your
Saxon foes!"
The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes.
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who 're wont to be
so gay!
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day :
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 't was writ could
dry;
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's
parting cry;
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country
overthrown
Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles
were.
118
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands:
"Fix bayonets charge!"
Like mountain-storm rush on
those fiery bands.
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant
show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill, to face that battle-wind!
Their bayonets the breakers' foam, like rocks the men be-
hind!
•
One volley crashes from their line, when through the surging
smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish
broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!
(6
'Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanagh!”
Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang;
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled
with gore;
Through scattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags
they tore.
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied,
scattered, fled;
The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead.
Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand-the field is fought and
won!
THOMAS Davis.
NASEBY.
119
O
Naseby.
H! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the north,
With your hands and your feet and your raiment all
red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread?
Oh! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the
strong,
Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,
That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine,
And the man of blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.
Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The general rode along us to form us for the fight;
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a
shout
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.
And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging line:
"For God! for the cause! for the Church! for the laws!
For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!"
The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall;
They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! Close
your ranks !
For Rupert never comes, but to conquer or to fall.
120
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
They are here- they rush on
gone
we are broken
we are
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.
O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!
Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the last!
the centre hath given ground.
Stout Skippen hath a wound
Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our
rear?
Whose banners do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank God! 'tis
he, boys!
Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here!
Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row:
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the accurst,
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.
Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar;
And he he turns! he flies! shame on those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.
Ho, comrades! scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain,
First give another stab to make your search secure;
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and
lockets,
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.
Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were
gay and bold,
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;
And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.
Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven and hell
and fate?
And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades?
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches, and your oaths?
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your
spades?
CARMEN BELLICOSUM,
121
Down! down! forever down, with the mitre and the crown!
With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope!
There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's
stalls;
The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope.
And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's
sword;
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear
What the hand of God hath wrought for the houses and the
word!
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.
Carmen Bellicosum.
IN
N their ragged regimentals
Stood the old Continentals,
Yielding not,
When the grenadiers were lunging,
And like hail fell the plunging
Cannon-shot;
When the files
Of the isles,
From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the
rampant
Unicorn,
And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the
drummer,
VOL. III.
Through the morn!
Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal,
Stood our sires;
And the balls whistled deadly,
6
122
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And in streams flashing redly
Blazed the fires;
As the roar,
On the shore,
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres
Of the plain;
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,
Cracking amain !
Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red St. George's
Cannoniers;
And the "villanous saltpetre
""
Rung a fierce, discordant metre
Round their ears;
As the swift
Storm-drift,
With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor
On our flanks.
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire
Through the ranks!
Then the old-fashioned colonel
Galloped through the white infernal
Powder-cloud;
And his broad sword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing
Trumpet loud.
Then the blue
Bullets flew,
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden
Rifle-breath;
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,
Hurling death!
GUY HUMPHREY MCMaster.
BANNOCKBURN.
123
Bannockburn.
ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.
COTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
SCOTS,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower :
See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slavery !
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha would fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave ?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's King and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ?
Let him on wi' me!
By Oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die!
ROBERT Burns.
124
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
A Cavalier to his Sword.
OME, kiss my gallant sword,
Co
And sprinkle it with wine;
This night it won its lord
A joy and hope divine!
Oft, in these gloomy days
That cloud our stormy isle,
It earned a leader's praise,
To-night, a woman's smile!
Behind its point, secure,
Oft life and honor lay;
To-night, it guarded pure
A richer prize than they.
Once did the steadfast blade
Our monarch's bulwark prove;
To-night, the steel was swayed
In loyalty to love!
With myrtle and the rose
Entwine it for the stroke;
In them it brighter glows
Than decked with bay or oak.
1
JOSEPH O'CONNOR.
A
The Cavalier's Song.
STEED! a steed of matchlesse speed,
A sword of metal keene!
All else to noble heartes is drosse,
All else on earth is meane.
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,
The rowlinge of the drum,
THE SONG OF THE COSSACK.
The clangor of the trumpet lowde,
Be soundes from heaven that come;
And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
Whenas their war-cryes swell,
May tole from heaven an angel bright,
And rouse a fiend from hell.
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine :
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe.
No shrewish teares shall fill our eye
When the sword-hilt 's in our hand,
Heart whole we 'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine and craven wight
Thus weepe and puling crye,
Our business is like men to fight,
And hero-like to die!
125
WILLIAM MOTHERWEll.
UP
The Song of the Cossack.
P! friend of the Cossack! fly forth in thy might,
At the blast of our trumpet, my own noble steed!
All ready for plunder, all fearless for fight,
Let Death borrow wings from thy hurricane speed.
Neither saddle nor rein has been garnished with gold,
But the deeds of thy rider shall make them thine own;
Neigh then all proudly, my courser so bold,
And trample in dust both the people and throne.
Peace flies, and surrenders thy reins to my will;
Her bulwark of strength from old Europe departs:
Then haste, let her treasures my eager hands fill;
Oh, haste, and repose in the home of her arts.
126
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Return to the Seine, whence fresh war-notes have rolled;
Thrice before have its waters thy bloody steps known;
Neigh then all proudly, my courser so bold,
And trample in dust both the people and throne.
Priests, princes, and nobles, besieged by the hordes
Of subjects not ages of wrong could subdue,
Have called to the Cossack: "Come down, be our lords;
To be tyrants to them, we'll be bondmen to you.”
My lance I have seized: from their ancient stronghold
Shall the sceptre and cross lie before it o'erthrown;
Neigh then all proudly, my courser so bold,
And trample in dust both the people and throne.
A phantom strides near me all dreadful and vast,
Whose terrible eyes on our bivouac rest;
And he cries: "Lo, my reign recommences at last,"
As with hatchet uplifted he points to the west.
'Tis the chief who the Huns led to conquest of old;
O shade of the mighty, thy mandate I own;
Neigh then all proudly, my courser so bold,
And trample in dust both the people and throne.
That splendor and pomp, Europe's glory and trust;
That learning which shields not from ruin her head,
Shall all be engulfed in those billows of dust
Which around me shall rise 'neath thy thundering tread.
Sweep, sweep them, as onward thy course thou shalt hold;
Thrones, temples, laws, rites, in one ruin be strown;
Neigh then all proudly, my courser so bold,
And trample in dust both the people and throne.
PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER.
Translated by A. C. KENDRICK.
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.
127
Incident of the French Camp.
You know we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow,
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,” -
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect,
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through,)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
"Well,” cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace
We've got you Ratisbon !
The marshal's in the market-place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.
128
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes:
"You're wounded!' "" 66
Nay," his soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside,
Smiling, the boy fell dead.
ROBERT BROWNING.
'T
Badajos.
WAS at Badajos one evening, one evening in May,
That we turned to rest ourselves after a bloody day ;
For the cannon had ceased roaring and the battle-cry was
still,
And though beneath a Spanish sky, the air was keen and chill.
That day there had been meeting, fierce meeting on the plain,
That day full many an eye had closed to open not again ;
But now the battle-cry was still, the trumpet had rung out,
And the British banner flapped above each fortified redoubt.
Then we turned ourselves in gladness, we turned unto our
board,
And each man put off his helmet, his musket, and his sword;
Then we called our muster over, but one answered not the
call, –
'T was the youngest and the bravest and the noblest of us
all.
He had gone forth at morning with the bugle's first shrill
sound;
He had gone forth at morning with a smile and with a bound,
As he took his sabre from the wall and waved it in the air;
But at night his place was empty, and untenanted his chair.
HOHENLINDEN.
129
By torchlight then we sought him, we sought him on the plain
(God grant that I may never look on such a sight again),
'Mid the moaning and the tortured and the dying and the
dead,
Who were lying, heaped together, on their green and grassy
bed.
But at last we stumbled o'er him (for the stars were waxing
pale,
And our torches flared and flickered in the breathings of the
gale).
Ten paces from his comrades he was lying all alone,
Half shrouded in the colors, with his head upon a stone.
We lifted him, we carried him, it was a weary track,
And we laid him down all tenderly within our bivouac.
He was dead long ere we laid him, ere we laid him on the
ground;
But perhaps he had not suffered, for he died without a sound.
Then we turned ourselves in sadness, we turned unto our
board,
And each man put off his helmet, his musket, and his sword;
And with the dead before us, by the blaze of the red pine,
We strove to pass the wine-cup, and to drain the ruby wine.
But our revel was a sad one; so awhile in prayer we kneeled,
Then slumbered till the morning called us forth unto the field:
Then we called our muster over, but one answered not the
call,
'T was the youngest and the bravest and the noblest of us
all.
ANONYMOUS.
Hohenlinden.
N Linden, when the sun was low,
ΟΝ
ON when the sun trodden
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
6*
130
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
THOMAS Campbell.
BY THE ALMA RIVER
131
By the Alma River.
ILLIE, fold your little hands;
WILLIE, fold
Let it drop, that soldier toy:
Look where father's picture stands,
Father, who here kissed his boy
Not two months since father kind,
Who this night may-
Never mind
Mother's sob, my Willie dear,
Call aloud that He may hear
Who is God of battles, — say,
"Oh, keep father safe this day
By the Alma River."
Ask no more, child. Never heed
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk,
Right of nations or of creed,
Chance-poised victory's bloody work:
Any flag i' the wind may roll
On thy heights, Sebastopol!
Willie, all to you and me
Is that spot, where'er it be,
Where he stands - no other word!
Stands God sure the child's prayer heard
By the Alma River.
Willie, listen to the bells
Ringing through the town to-day.
That's for victory. Ah, no knells
For the many swept away -
Hundreds thousands! Let us weep,
We, who need not — just to keep
Reason steady in my brain
Till the morning comes again;
Till the third dread morning tell
Who they were that fought and fell
By the Alma River.
132
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Come, we 'll lay us down, my child;
Poor the bed is, poor and hard;
Yet thy father, far exiled,
Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home :
Or beneath the starry dome
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries Willie, mark! -
Where he buries those who died
Fighting bravely at his side
By the Alma River.
Willie, Willie, go to sleep;
God will keep us, O my boy;
He will make the dull hours creep
Faster, and send news of joy,
When I need not shrink to meet
Those dread placards in the street,
Which for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eyes Child, say thy prayer
Once again, a different one,
Say, "O God, thy will be done
By the Alma River."
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
Nathan Hale.
O drum-beat and heart-beat
To
A soldier marches by ;
There is color in his cheek,
There is courage in his eye;
Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat
In a moment he must die.
By starlight and moonlight
He seeks the Briton's camp,
NATHAN HALE.
And he hears the rustling flag
And the armed sentry's tramp,
And the starlight and moonlight
His silent wanderings lamp.
With slow tread and still tread
He scans the tented line,
And he counts the battery guns
By the gaunt and shadowy pine;
And his slow tread and still tread
Gives no warning sign.
The dark wave, the plumed wave,
It meets his eager glance,
And it sparkles 'neath the stars
Like the glimmer of a lance;
The dark wave, the plumed wave,
On an emerald expanse.
A sharp clang, a steel clang,
And terror in the sound,
For the sentry, falcon-eyed,
In the camp a spy hath found;
With a sharp clang, a steel clang,
The patriot is bound.
With calm brow, with steady brow,
He robes him for the tomb;
In his look there is no fear,
Nor a shadow trace of gloom;
But with calm brow, with steady brow,
He robes him for the tomb.
Through the long night, the still night,
He kneels upon the sod,
And the brutal guards withhold
E'en the solemn word of God;
Through the long night, the still night,
He walks where Christ hath trod.
133
134
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
In the blue morn, the sunny morn,
He dies upon the tree,
And he mourns that he can lose
But one life for liberty;
In the blue morn, the sunny morn,
His spirit wings are free.
But his last words, his message words,
They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm
A patriot could die ;
With his last words, his message words,
A soldier's battle-cry.
From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
From monument and urn,
The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,
His tragic fate shall learn ;
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf
The name of Hale shall burn.
FRANCIS M. FINCH.
Sheridan's Ride.
P from the South at break of day,
UP
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar,
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
SHERIDAN'S RIDE.
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
With Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good, broad highway leading down;
And there, through the flash of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight.
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with the utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south,
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth,
Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away.
Under his spurning feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire;
But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire,
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.
135
The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
What was done, what to do, a glance told him both,
And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
136
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there because
The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray,
By the flash of his eye and his nostril's play
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester, down to save the day!"
Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan !
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldier's Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester, - twenty miles away!
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Driving Home the Cows.
UT of the clover and blue-eyed grass
of the
and
He turned them into the river-lane ;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow-bars again.
Under the willows and over the hill,
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go;
Two already were lying dead
Under the feet of the trampling foe.
DRIVING HOME THE COWS.
But after the evening work was done,
And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp,
Over his shoulder he slung his gun,
And stealthily followed the foot-path damp, -
Across the clover and through the wheat,
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bats flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again.
The summer day grew cool and late;
He went for the cows when the work was done ;
But down the lane, as he opened the gate,
He saw them coming, one by one,-
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,
Shaking their horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,
But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air
The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew;
For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.
137
138
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ;
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb;
And under the silent evening skies
Together they followed the cattle home.
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
Reveille.
THE morning is cheery, my boys, arouse !
The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs,
And the sleepy mist on the river lies,
Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes.
Awake! awake! awake!
O'er field and wood and brake,
With glories newly born,
Comes on the blushing morn,
Awake! awake!
You have dreamed of your homes and friends all night
You have basked in your sweethearts' smiles so bright;
Come, part with them all for a while again,
Be lovers in dreams; when awake, be men.
Turn out! turn out! turn out!
You have dreamed full long, I know.
Turn out! turn out! turn out!
The east is all aglow.
Turn out! turn out!
From every valley and hill there come
The clamoring voices of fife and drum ;
And out in the fresh, cool morning air
The soldiers are swarming everywhere.
Fall in fall in! fall in!
Every man in his place.
Fall in fall in! fall in!
Each with a cheerful face.
Fall in fall in !
MICHAEL O'CONNOR.
SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'er.
139
H'
After War
E came when the war was ended,
From camp and battle-field,
Home, to be gently tended,
His heavy wound half healed.
After the joy of meeting,
With its mingled pain, had passed,
Peace, with a holy greeting,
Kissed all our lips at last.
But when on her stay we reckoned,
A sad farewell she breathed,
And rose and softly beckoned
To him whose sword was sheathed.
He laid him down meek-hearted,
We filled his breast with flowers
Our hero had departed
To a surer peace than ours.
ISA CRAIG KNOX.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er.
OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,
SOLD
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battle-fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking,
In our isle's enchanted hall
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
140
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
:
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here;
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumberous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den ;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For, at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The Old Sergeant.
OME a little nearer, Doctor, — thank you, — let me take
"C°
the cup:
Draw your chair up, draw it closer, just another little
sup!
Maybe you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty well used
up,-
Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just a-going
up!
THE OLD SERGEANT.
141
"Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it an't much use to
try"
"Never say that," said the Surgeon, as he smothered down a
sigh;
"It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die!"
"What you say will make no difference, Doctor, when you
come to die.
"Doctor, what has been the matter?" "You were very
faint, they say;
You must try to get to sleep now."
away?"
"Not that anybody knows of!”
to stay!
"Doctor, have I been
“Doctor — Doctor, please
There is something I must tell you, and you won't have long
to stay!
"I have got my marching orders, and I 'm ready now to go;
Doctor, did you say I fainted? but it could n't ha' been so,
For as sure as I'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloh,
I've this very night been back there, on the old field of
Shiloh !
"This is all that I remember: The last time the Lighter
came,
And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much the
same,
He had not been gone five minutes before something called
my name:
'ORDERLY SERGEANT ROBERT BURTON!' just that
way it called my name.
"And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so
slow,
Knew it could n't be the Lighter, - he could not have
spoken so;
And I tried to answer, Here, sir!' but I could n't make
it go;
For I could n't move a muscle, and I could n't make it go!
142
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
"Then I thought: It's all a nightmare, all a humbug and a
bore;
Just another foolish grape-vine¹ -
more;
and it won't come any
But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as be-
fore:
'ORDERLY SERGEANT
than before.
ROBERT BURTON!' even plainer
"That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light,
And I stood beside the River, where we stood that Sunday
night,
Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite,
When the river was perdition and all hell was opposite!
"And the same old palpitation came again in all its power,
And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celestial Tower;
And the same mysterious voice said: 'IT IS THE ELEVENTH
HOUR!
ORDERLY SERGEANT
ROBERT BURTON
IT IS THE
ELEVENTH HOUR!'
"Doctor Austin !
what day is this?"
"It is Wednesday
night, you know."
"Yes, -to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right good
time below!
What time is it, Doctor Austin!" "Nearly Twelve." "Then
don't you go!
Can it be that all this happened — all this not an hour ago!
"There was where the gun-boats opened on the dark, rebel-
lious host;
And where Webster semicircled his last guns upon the coast;
There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else
their ghost,
And the same old transport came and took me over
or its
ghost!
I Canard.
THE OLD SERGEANT.
143
"And the old field lay before me all deserted far and wide;
There was where they fell on Prentiss, there McClernand
met the tide;
There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurlbut's
heroes died, -
Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept charging
till he died.
"There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of the
canny kin,
There was where old Nelson thundered, and where Rous-
seau waded in ;
There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all began to
win-
There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we began
to win.
"Now, a shroud of snow and silence over everything was
spread;
And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my
head,
I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I was
dead,
For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead!
"Death and silence! - Death and silence! all around me as
I sped!
And behold, a mighty TOWER, as if builded to the dead,
To the Heaven of the heavens, lifted up its mighty head,
Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed waving
from its head!
"Round and mighty-based it towered-up into the infinite-
And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so
bright;
For it shone like solid sunshine; and a winding stair of light,
Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out of
sight!
144
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
“And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and dazzled
stare,
Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great
Stair,
Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of 'Halt, and who
goes there!"
'I'm a friend,' I said, 'if you are.'
the Stair!'
'Then advance, sir, to
"I advanced! — That sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballantyne !
First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line:
Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! Welcome by that
countersign!'
And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of
mine !
"As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the
grave;
But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and blood-
less glaive:
That's the way, sir, to Headquarters.' 'What Headquar-
ters!' 'Of the Brave.'
'But the great tower?' 'That,' he answered, 'is the way,
sir, of the Brave!'
"Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of light;
At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and bright;
'Ah!' said he, 'you have forgotten the New Uniform to-
night, -
Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-
night!'
"And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there,
and I-
Doctor did you hear a footstep? Hark!
all! Good-by!
God bless you
Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when I
die,
To my Son-my Son that's coming, — he won't get here till
I die!
NO MORE.
145
"Tell him his old father blessed him as he 'never did be-
fore,
And to carry that old musket"
door!
Hark! a knock is at the
"Till the Union" See! it opens ! "Father Father!
speak once more!"
"Bless you!
""
gasped the old, gray Sergeant, and he lay
and said no more.
FORCEYTHE WILLSON.
H
No More.
USHED be the song and the love-notes of gladness
That broke with the morn from the cottager's door,
Muffle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness,
For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth
Silent he lies on the broad path of glory,
No more.
Where withers ungarnered the red crop of war.
Grand is his couch, though its pillows are gory,
'Mid forms that shall battle, 'mid guns that shall rattle
Soldier of Freedom, thy marches are ended, -
No more.
The dreams that were prophets of triumph are o'er;
Death with the night of thy manhood is blended, –
The bugle shall call thee, the fight shall enthrall thee
No more.
Far to the Northward the banners are dimming,
And faint comes the tap of the drummers before;
Low in the tree-tops the swallow is skimming;
Thy comrades shall cheer thee, the weakest shall fear thee
VOL. III.
7
No more.
146
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Far to the Westward the day is at vespers,
And bows down its head, like a priest, to adore;
Soldier, the twilight for thee has no whispers,
The night shall forsake thee, the morn shall awake thee
No more.
Wide o'er the plain where the white tents are gleaming,
In spectral array, like the graves they're before —
One there is empty, where once thou wert dreaming
Of deeds that are boasted, of one that is toasted
When the commander to-morrow proclaimeth
A list of the brave for the nation to store,
Thou shalt be known with the heroes he nameth,
No more.
Who wake from their slumbers, who answer their numbers
No more.
Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness
That broke with the morn from the cottager's door,
Muffle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness,
For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth
No more.
ROBERT H. NEWELL.
OH
Oh, breathe not his name!
ROBERT EMMETT.
H, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
As the night dew that falls on the grave o’er his head.
But the night dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
THOMAS MOORE.
LAMENT FOR OWEN ROE O'NEILL. 147
I
The Gladiator.
SEE before me the gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand; - his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch
who won.
He heard it, but he heeded not, — his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother, he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday;
All this rushed with his blood; - Shall he expire,
And unavenged?- Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
LORD BYRon.
Lament for Owen Roe O'Neill.
"DID
1649.
ID they dare, did they dare, to slay Owen Roe O'Neill?"
"Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet
with steel."
"May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to
flow!
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Roe!
148
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
"Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter
words."
"From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure
swords;
But the weapon of the Saxon met him on the way,
And he died at Clough-Oughter, upon St. Leonard's day."
Wail, wail ye for the mighty one! wail, wail ye for the dead!
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath, with ashes strew the
head.
How tenderly we loved him! how deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more.
Sagest in the counsel was he, kindest in the hall!
Sure, we never won a battle 't was Owen won them all.
Had he lived, had he lived, our dear country had been free;
But he's dead, but he's dead, and 't is slaves we 'll ever be.
O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh,
Audley and MacMahon
But
ye are valiant, wise, and true;
what are ye all to our darling who is gone?
The rudder of our ship was he, our castle's corner-stone!
Wail, wail him through the island! weep, weep for our pride!
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!
Weep the victor of Benburb-weep him, young men and old ;
Weep for him, ye women your beautiful lies cold!
We thought you would not die we were sure you would
not go,
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky —
Oh! why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die?
Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill; bright was your
eye.
Oh! why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die?
Your troubles are all over, you 're at rest with God on high;
But we 're slaves and we 're orphans, Owen! - why did you
THOMAS DAVIS.
die?
THE WARDEN of the CINQUE PORTS. 149
WH
The Knight's Tomb.
HERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be ?
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown.
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEridge.
The Warden of the Cinque Ports.
A
MIST was driving down the British Channel ;
The day was just begun;
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.
It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
And the white sails of ships;
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.
Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover,
Were all alert that day,
To see the French war-steamers speeding over
When the fog cleared away.
Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
Their cannon, through the night,
Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance
The seacoast opposite;
150
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And now they roared, at drum-beat, from their stations
On every citadel;
Each answering each, with morning salutations,
That all was well!
And down the coast, all taking up the burden,
Replied the distant forts
As if to summon from his sleep the warden
And lord of the Cinque Ports.
Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,
No drum-beat from the wall,
No morning gun from the black forts' embrasure,
Awaken with their call!
No more, surveying with an eye impartial
The long line of the coast,
Shall the gaunt figure of the old field-marshal
Be seen upon his post!
For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,
In sombre harness mailed,
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer,
The rampart wall has scaled!
He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The dark and silent room;
And, as he entered, darker grew, and deeper,
The silence and the gloom.
He did not pause to parley, or dissemble,
But smote the warden hoar
Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble
And groan from shore to shore.
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead,
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. 151
John Brown of Osawatomie.
OHN BROWN in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yan-
kee farmer,
J°
Brave and godly, with four sons—all stalwart men of might.
There he spoke aloud for Freedom, and the Border-strife
grew warmer,
Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence in the
night;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Came homeward in the morning to find his house burned
down.
Then he grasped his trusty rifle, and boldly fought for Free-
dom;
Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;
And he and his brave boys vowed so might Heaven help
and speed 'em!
They would save those grand old prairies from the curse
that blights the land;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ram-
rod down.
And the Lord did aid these men; and they labored day and
even,
Saving Kansas from its peril, and their very lives seemed
charmed;
Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessèd light of
Heaven
In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all
unarmed;
Then Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible
frown!
152
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Then they seized another brave boy, not amid the heat of
battle,
But in peace, behind his ploughshare, — and they loaded
him with chains,
And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their
cattle,
Drove him, cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his
brains;
Then Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's ven-
geance down.
And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty,
He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn
him so;
He would seize it by the vitals; he would crush it day and
night; he
Would so pursue its footsteps,
blow-
That Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
so return it blow for
Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town!
Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild blue eye
grew wilder,
And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snuffing battle
from afar;
And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas strife waxed
milder,
Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border War,
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful glare and
frown.
So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes behind
him,
Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all are born,
JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE.
153
Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew where to
find him,
Or whether he 'd turned parson, or was jacketed and
shorn;
For Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a parson's gown.
He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and shovels, or
such trifles;
But quietly to his rancho there came, by every train,
Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved Sharpe's
66
rifles;
And eighteen other madmen joined their leader there
again.
Says Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Boys, we've got an army large enough to march and whip
the town!
"Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the negroes,
and then arm them;
Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the potent
South;
On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims rise to
harm them
These Virginians! who believed not, nor would heed the
warning mouth.”
Says Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
"The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not John
Brown!"
'T was the sixteenth of October, on the evening of a Sun-
day
"This good work," declared the captain, "shall be on a
holy night!"
7*
154
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
It was on a Sunday evening, and, before the noon of Mon-
day,
With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen privates —
black and white,
Captain Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked the sen-
try down;
Took the guarded armory-building, and the muskets and the
cannon;
Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by
one;
Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on,
And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done.
Mad Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the
town.
Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder, made
he;
It was all done in the midnight, like the emperor's coup
d'état;
"Cut the wires! stop the rail-cars! hold the streets and
bridges!" said he,
Then declared the new Republic, with himself for guiding
star,-
This Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown;
And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town.
Then was riding and railroading and expressing here and
thither;
And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the Charlestown
Volunteers,
JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE.
155
And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia hastened
whither
Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand grena-
diers !
General Brown,
Osawatomie Brown!
Behind whose rampant banner all the North was pouring
down.
But at last, 't is said, some prisoners escaped from Old
Brown's durance,
And the effervescent valor of the Chivalry broke out,
When they learned that nineteen madmen had the marvel-
ous assurance
Only nineteen thus to seize the place and drive them
straight about;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Found an army come to take him, encamped around the
town.
But to storm with all the forces we have mentioned, was too
risky;
So they hurried off to Richmond for the Government Ma-
rines
Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with
Bourbon whiskey,
Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders
and machines;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave old
crown.
Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying!
In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily
away;
156
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for
slaying,
Not to lose a share of glory, fixed their bullets in his clay;
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid
him down.
How the conquerors wore their laurels; how they hastened.
on the trial;
How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charles-
town court-house floor;
How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial;
What the brave old madman told them - these are known
the country o'er.
"Hang Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,"
Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial
frown.
But, Virginians, don't do it! for I tell you that the flagon,
Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured
by Southern hands;
And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore
of the dragon,
May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through your
slave-worn lands!
And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,
May trouble you more than ever, when you 've nailed his
coffin down!
EDMUND CLARENCE Stedman.
SUSPIRIA ENSIS.
157
Ode.
Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead at
Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C., 1867.
LEEP sweetly in your humble graves,
SLE
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause !
Though yet no marble column craves
The pilgrim here to pause,
In seeds of laurel in the earth
The blossom of your fame is blown,
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone!
Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years
Which keep in trust your storied tombs,
Behold! your sisters bring their tears,
And these memorial blooms.
Small tributes! but your shades will smile
More proudly on these wreaths to-day,
Than when some cannon-moulded pile
Shall overlook this bay.
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!
There is no holier spot of ground
Than where defeated valor lies,
By mourning beauty crowned!
-
HENRY TIMROD.
Suspiria Ensis.
MOURN no more for our dead,
Laid in their rest serene,
With the tears a land hath shed
Their graves shall ever be green.
158
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Ever their fair, true glory
Fondly shall fame rehearse,-
Light of legend and story,
Flower of marble and verse!
(Wilt thou forget, O mother!
How thy darlings, day by day,
For thee, and with fearless faces,
Journeyed the darksome way,
Went down to death in the war-ship,
And on the bare hillside lay?)
For the Giver they gave their breath,
And 't is now no time to mourn,
Lo, of their dear, brave death
A mighty nation is born!
But a long lament for others,
Dying for darker powers!
Those that once were our brothers,
Whose children shall yet be ours.
That a people, haughty and brave,
(Warriors, old and young!)
Should lie in a bloody grave,
And never a dirge be sung!
We may look with woe on the dead,
We may smooth their lids, 't is true,
For the veins of a common red
And the mother's milk we drew.
But alas, how vainly bleeds
The breast that is bared for crime,
Who shall dare hymn the deeds
That else had been all sublime?
SUSPIRIA ENSIS.
Were it alien steel that clashed,
They had guarded each inch of sod,
But the angry valor dashed
On the awful shield of God!
(Ah — if for some great good —
On some giant evil hurled
The thirty millions had stood
'Gainst the might of a banded world!)
But now, to the long, long night
They pass, as they ne'er had been,
A stranger and sadder sight
Than ever the sun hath seen.
For his waning beams illume
A vast and a sullen train
Going down to the gloom,
One wretched and drear refrain
The only line on their tomb,
(6
They died
and they died in vain !”
Gone
ay me!
to the grave,
And never one note of song!
The Muse would weep for the brave,
But how shall she chant the wrong?
For a wayward wench is she,
One that rather would wait
With Old John Brown at the tree
Than Stonewall dying in state.
When, for the wrongs that were,
Hath she lilted a single stave?
Know, proud hearts, that, with her,
'Tis not enough to be brave.
159
160
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
By the injured, with loving glance,
Aye hath she lingered of old,
And eyed the evil askance,
Be it never so haught and bold.
With Homer, alms-gift in hand,
With Dante, exile and free,
With Milton, blind in the Strand,
With Hugo, lone by the sea!
In the attic, with Béranger,
She could carol, how blithe and free!
Of the old, worn frocks of blue,
(All threadbare with victory!)
But never of purple and gold,
Never of Lily or Bee!
And thus, though the traitor sword
Were the bravest that battle wields, -
Though the fiery valor poured
Its life on a thousand fields, —
The sheen of its ill renown
All tarnished with guilt and blame,
No poet a deed may crown,
No lay may laurel a name.
Yet never for thee, fair song!
The fallen brave to condemn ;
They died for a mighty wrong,
But their Demon died with them.
(Died, by field and by city!) -
Be thine on the day to dwell,
When dews of peace and of pity
Shall fall o'er the fading hell, -
DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.
And the dead shall smile in heaven,
And tears, that now may not rise,
Of love and of all forgiveness,
Shall stream from a million eyes.
161
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
Dirge for a Soldier.
CL
LOSE his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon or set of sun,
Hand of man or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!
As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!
Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars?
What but death bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!
162
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Leave him to God's watching eye ;
Trust him to the hand that made him.
Mortal love weeps idly by ;
God alone has power to aid him.
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!
GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
A
Dirge for a Soldier.
NOTHER brave in a soldier's grave
Hath laid him down to sleep:
In the battle-smoke, by the sabre-stroke,
No more his steps shall keep.
The heart so leal, and the hand of steel,
Are palsied aye for strife,
But the noble deed, and the patriot's meed,
Are left of the hero's life.
The sods may close o'er his calm repose,
With our country's flag around him,
Yet Liberty's hand with a victor's band
In Death's cold arms hath bound him.
Not length of years, nor woes, nor fears,
Compose a record grand;
Who grasp the right, and speed its might,
Serve God and fatherland.
Drop we a tear o'er the early bier,
In token of our sorrow,
While the army bleeds, that the hands she needs
Must idle be to-morrow.
THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS. 163
But the bugle call and the battle ball
Again shall rouse him never:
He fought and fell, he served us well;
His furlough lasts forever.
SAMUEL P. MERRILL.
The Cavern of the Three Tells.
Ο
H! enter not yon shadowy cave,
Seek not the bright spars there,
Though whispering pines that o'er it wave
With freshness fill the air;
For there the patriot three,
In the garb of old arrayed,
By their native forest-sea
On a rocky couch are laid.
The patriot three, that met of yore
Beneath the midnight sky,
And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore
In the name of liberty!
Now silently they sleep
Amidst the hills they freed;
But their rest is only deep
Till their country's hour of need.
They start not at the hunter's call,
Nor the lammergeyer's cry,
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall,
Nor the lauwine thundering by.
And the Alpine herdsman's lay,
To the Switzer's heart so dear,
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.
164
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through the eagle's lonely sky,
When the spear-heads light the lakes,
When the trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes
The glacier's mute repose,
When Uri's beechen woods wave red
In the burning hamlets' light,
Then from the cavern of the dead
Shall the sleepers wake in might!
With a leap like Tell's proud leap,
When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep
From the flashing billow sprung!
They shall wake beside their forest-sea,
In the ancient garb they wore
When they linked the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli's moonlit shore;
And their voices shall be heard,
And be answered with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirred,
And the signal-fires blaze out.
And the land shall see such deeds again
As those of that proud day,
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain,
Through the serried spears made way ;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crownèd casques, o'erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!
For the Kühreihen's notes must never sound
In a land that wears the chain,
THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND.
And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain !
And the yellow harvests wave
For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
165
The men of Grütli sleep!
FELICIA HEMANS.
The Snug Little Island.
DADDY NEPTUNE, one day, to Freedom did say,
ever I lived upon dry land,
The spot I should hit on would be little Britain!"
Says Freedom, "Why, that 's my own island!"
Oh, it's a snug little island!
A right little, tight little island!
Search the globe round, none can be found
So happy as this little island.
Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man,
Came by water, he could n't come by land;
And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turned their backs on,
And all for the sake of our island.
Oh, what a snug little island!
They'd all have a touch at the island!
Some were shot dead, some of them fled,
And some stayed to live on the island.
Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman,
Cried, "Drat it, I never liked my land.
It would be much more handy to leave this Normandy,
And live on your beautiful island.”
Says he, "'T is a snug little island;
Sha'n't us go visit the island?"
Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump,
And he kicked up a dust in the island.
166
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
But party deceit helped the Normans to beat;
Of traitors they managed to buy land;
By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne'er had been licked,
Had they stuck to the king of their island.
Poor Harold, the king of our island!
He lost both his life and his island.
That's all very true: what more could he do?
Like a Briton he died for his island!
The Spanish armada set out to invade — a,
'T will sure, if they ever come nigh land.
They could n't do less than tuck up Queen Bess,
And take their full swing on the island.
O the poor queen of the island!
The Dons came to plunder the island:
But snug in her hive the queen was alive,
And "buzz" was the word of the island.
These proud puffed-up cakes thought to make ducks and
drakes
Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land,
When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck
And stoop to the lads of the island!
The good wooden walls of the island;
Devil or Don, let them come on;
And see how they 'd come off the island!
Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune,
In each saying, "This shall be my land";
Should the "Army of England," or all it could bring, land,
We'd show 'em some play for the island.
We'd fight for our right to the island;
We'd give them enough of the island;
Invaders should just — bite once at the dust,
But not a bit more of the island.
THOMAS DIBDIN.
MY NATIVE LAND, GOOD NIGHT.
167
My Native Land, Good Night.
ADIEU, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight:
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land - Good Night!
A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate :
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.
Come hither, hither, my little page,
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along.
"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind:
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee — and One above.
h
168
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. '
"My father blessed me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again."
Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
My own would not be dry.
Come hither, hither, my stanch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman?
Or shiver at the gale?
"Deem 'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?"
Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay ;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.
For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.
And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea;
FAREWELL TO HIS NATIVE COUNTRY. 169
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native Land - Good Night!
LORD BYRON.
Farewell to his Native Country.
HE gloomy night is gathering fast,
TH
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scattered coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.
The Autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early Winter's ravage torn:
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.
VOL. III.
8
170
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Though death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.
Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!
Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those –
The bursting tears my heart declare;
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!
ROBERT BURNS.
T
For Charlie's Sake.
HE night is late, the house is still;
The angels of the hour fulfill
Their tender ministries, and move
From couch to couch in cares of love.
They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife,
The happiest smile of Charlie's life,
And lay on baby's lips a kiss,
Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss;
And, as they pass, they seem to make
A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."
My listening heart takes up the strain,
And gives it to the night again,
Fitted with words of lowly praise,
And patience learned of mournful days,
FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.
And memories of the dead child's ways.
His will be done, His will be done!
Who gave and took away my son,
In "the far land" to shine and sing
Before the Beautiful, the King,
Who every day doth Christmas make,
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.
For Charlie's sake I will arise;
I will anoint me where he lies,
And change my raiment, and go in
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin
Without, and seat me at his board,
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.
For wherefore should I fast and weep,
And sullen moods of mourning keep?
I cannot bring him back, nor he,
For any calling, come to me.
The bond the angel Death did sign,
God sealed for Charlie's sake, and mine.
I'm very poor- this slender stone
Marks all the narrow field I own;
Yet, patient husbandman, I till
With faith and prayers, that precious hill,
Sow it with penitential pains,
And, hopeful, wait the latter rains;
Content if, after all, the spot
Yield barely one forget-me-not-
Whether or figs or thistles make
My crop, content for Charlie's sake.
I have no houses, builded well-
Only that little lonesome cell,
Where never romping playmates come,
Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb-
An April burst of girls and boys,
Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys
171
172
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Born with their songs, gone with their toys;
Nor ever is its stillness stirred
By purr of cat, or chirp of bird,
Or mother's twilight legend, told
Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold,
Or fairy hobbling to the door,
Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor,
To bless the good child's gracious eyes,
The good child's wistful charities,
And crippled changeling's hunch to make.
Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake.
How is it with the child? 'Tis well;
Nor would I any miracle
Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance,
Or plague his painless countenance:
I would not any seer might place
His staff on my immortal's face,
Or lip to lip, and eye to eye,
Charm back his pale mortality.
No, Shunamite! I would not break
God's stillness. Let them weep who wake.
For Charlie's sake my lot is blest:
No comfort like his mother's breast,
No praise like hers; no charm expressed
In fairest forms hath half her zest.
For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed
That death left lonely in the nest;
For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed,
As for its birthday, in its best;
For Charlie's sake we leave the rest
To Him who gave, and who did take,
And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
ALLAN PERCY.
173
IT
Allan Percy.
T was a beauteous lady richly dressed;
Around her neck are chains of jewels rare ;
A velvet mantle shrouds her snowy breast,
And a young child is softly slumbering there.
In her own arms, beneath that glowing sun,
She bears him onward to the greenwood tree.
Is the dun heath, thou fair and thoughtless one,
The place where an earl's son should cradled be?
Lullaby!
Though a proud earl be father to my child,
Yet on the sward my blessèd babe shall lie;
Let the winds lull him with their murmurs wild,
And toss the green boughs upward to the sky.
Well knows the earl how long my spirit pined.
I loved a forester, glad, bold, and free;
And had I wedded as my heart inclined,
My child were cradled 'neath the greenwood tree.
Lullaby!
Slumber thou still, my innocent, - mine own,
While I call back the dreams of other days.
In the deep forest I feel less alone
Than where those palace splendors mock my gaze.
Fear not! my arm shall bear thee safely back ;
I need no squire, no page with bended knee,
To bear my baby through the wildwood track,
Where Allan Percy used to roam with me.
Lullaby!
Here I can sit; and while the fresh wind blows,
Waving the ringlets of thy shining hair,
Giving thy cheek a deeper tinge of rose,
I can dream dreams that comfort my despair;
174
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
I can make visions of a different home,
Such as we hoped in other days might be;
There no proud earl's unwelcome footsteps come,-
There, Allan Percy, I am safe with thee!
Lullaby!
Thou art mine own, — I'll bear thee where I list,
Far from the dull, proud tower and donjon-keep;
From my long hair the pearl-chains I'll untwist,
And with a peasant's heart sit down and weep.
Thy glittering 'broidered robe, my precious one,
Changed for a simpler covering shall be;
And I will dream thee Allan Percy's son,
And think poor Allan guards thy sleep with me.
Lullaby!
CAROLINE NORTON.
Cuddle Doon.
HE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,
TH
Wi' muckle faucht an' din;
O, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues,
Your father's comin' in.
They never heed a word I speak;
I try to gie a froon,
But aye I hap them up, an' cry,
“O bairnies, cuddle doon.”
Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid
He aye sleeps next the wa’–
Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece";
The rascal starts them a'.
I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks,
They stop awee the soun';
Then draw the blankets up an' cry,
"Noo, weanies, cuddle doon.”
CUDDLE DOON.
But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries oot frae 'neath the claes,
"Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance —
He's kittlin' wi' his taes."
The mischief's in that Tam for tricks,
He'd bother half the toon:
But aye I hap then up an' cry,
"O bairnies, cuddle doon."
At length they hear their father's fit,
An', as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa',
While Tam pretends to snore.
"Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks,
As he pits off his shoon;
"The bairnies, John, are in their beds,
An' lang since cuddled doon."
An' just afore we bed oorsel',
We look at oor wee lambs;
Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,
An' Rab his airm round Tam's.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
An' as I straik each croon,
I whisper, till my heart fills up,
"O bairnies, cuddle doon."
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,
Wi' mirth that's dear to me ;
But sune the big warl's cark an' care
Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet come what will to ilka ane,
May He who sits aboon
Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld,
"O bairnies, cuddle doon."
175
ALEXANDER ANDERSON.
176
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Baby Bye.
BABY Bye,
B Here's a fly;
Let us watch him, you and I.
How he crawls
Up the walls,
Yet he never falls!
I believe with six such legs
You and I could walk on eggs.
There he goes
On his toes,
Tickling baby's nose.
Spots of red
Dot his head;
Rainbows on his back are spread;
That small speck
Is his neck;
See him nod and beck.
I can show you, if you choose,
Where to look to find his shoes,-
Three small pairs,
Made of hairs;
These he always wears.
Black and brown
Is his gown;
He can wear it upside down;
It is laced
Round his waist;
I admire his taste.
Yet though tight his clothes are made,
He will lose them, I 'm afraid,
If to-night
He gets sight
Of the candle-light.
BABY BYE.
177
In the sun
Webs are spun ;
What if he gets into one?
When it rains
He complains
On the window-panes.
Tongue to talk have you and I;
God has given the little fly
No such things,
So he sings
With his buzzing wings.
He can eat
Bread and meat;
There's his mouth between his feet.
On his back
Is a pack
Like a pedler's sack.
Does the baby understand?
Then the fly shall kiss her hand;
Put a crumb
On her thumb,
Maybe he will come.
Catch him? No,
Let him go,
Never hurt an insect so;
But no doubt
He flies out
Just to gad about.
Now you see his wings of silk
Drabbled in the baby's milk;
Fie, oh fie,
Foolish fly!
How will he get dry?
All wet flies
Twist their thighs;
8*
178
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Thus they wipe their heads and eyes;
Cats, you know,
Wash just so,
Then their whiskers grow.
Flies have hairs too short to comb,
So they fly bareheaded home;
But the gnat
Wears a hat.
Do you believe that?
Flies can see
More than we,
So how bright their eyes must be!
Little fly,
Ope your eye;
Spiders are near by.
For a secret I can tell, -
Spiders never use flies well.
Then away
Do not stay.
Little fly, good day.
THEODORE TILTON.
Lullaby.
WEET and low, sweet and low,
SW
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
WILLIE WINKIE.
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
179
ALFRED TENNYSON.
W
Willie Winkie.
EE Willie Winkie rins through the town,
E
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,
"Are the weans in their bed? for it's now ten o'clock."
Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,
The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;
But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.
Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue! - glow'rin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk!
Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean 's in a creel!
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee-like a vera eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums:
Hey, Willie Winkie! See, there he comes!
Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close an ee;
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.
WILLIAM MILLER.
180
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
"WE
The Adopted Child.
HY wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, -
A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall ;
Mine is a fair and pillared hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of pictures forever streams."
"Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play
Through the long bright hours of the summer day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know, -
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go."
"Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell;
Here are sweet sounds that thou lovest well:
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune,
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountain heard.”
"Oh! my mother sings at the twilight's fall
A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree
To the babe half slumbering on her knee;
I dreamt last night of that music low, ·
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go."
"Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest;
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin door.
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye."
THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. 181
"Is my mother gone from her home away?
But I know that my brothers are there at play;
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell,
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well ;
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow, -
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go.”
"Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now;
They sport no more on the mountain's brow;
They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For the cabin home is a lonely spot."
"Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still;
And the red deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow,
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go.” ·
FELICIA HEMANS.
The Romance of the Swan's Nest.
LITTLE Ellie sits alone
'Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side on the grass,
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water's flow.
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.
182
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly uses,
Fills the silence like a speech,
While she thinks what shall be done,
And the sweetest pleasure chooses
For her future within reach.
Little Ellie in her smile
Chooses... "I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds!
He shall love me without guile,
And to him I will discover
The swan's nest among the reeds.
"And the steed shall be red-roan,
And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath.
And the lute he plays upon
Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.
"And the steed it shall be shod
All in silver, housed in azure,
And the mane shall swim the wind;
And the hoofs along the sod
Shall flash onward and keep measure,
Till the shepherds look behind.
"But my lover will not prize
All the glory that he rides in,
When he gazes in my face.
He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes
Build the shrine my soul abides in,
And I kneel here for thy grace.'
"Then, ay, then he shall kneel low,
With the red-roan steed anear him,
THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. 183
Which shall seem to understand-
Till I answer, 'Rise and go!
For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.'
"Then he will arise so pale,
I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say;
Nathless maiden-brave, Farewell,'
I will utter, and dissemble -
'Light to-morrow with to-day.'
"Then he'll ride among the hills
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong;
To make straight distorted wills,
And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.
"Three times shall a young foot-page
Swim the stream and climb the mountain
And kneel down beside my feet
'Lo, my master sends this gage,
Lady, for thy pity's counting!
What wilt thou exchange for it?'
"And the first time, I will send
A white rosebud for a guerdon-
And the second time a glove;
But the third time I may bend
From my pride, and answer, 'Pardon,
If he comes to take my love.'
"Then the young foot-page will run,
Then my lover will ride faster,
Till he kneeleth at my knee:
'I am a duke's eldest son!
Thousand serfs do call me master
But. O Love, I love but thee!'
184
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
"He will kiss me on the mouth
Then, and lead me as a lover
Through the crowds that praise his deeds;
And, when soul-tied by one troth,
Unto him I will discover
That swan's nest among the reeds."
Little Ellie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gayly,
Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,
And went homeward, round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,
What more eggs were with the two.
Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding up the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads,
Past the boughs she stoops
and stops.
Lo, the wild swan had deserted,
And a rat had gnawed the reeds.
Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not! but I know
She could never show him never
That swan's nest among the reeds!
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Without and Within.
MY coachman, in the moonlight there,
Looks through the side-light of the door;
I hear him with his brethren swear,
As I could do, but only more.
WITHOUT AND WITHIN.
Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies ine my brilliant lot,
Breathes on his aching fists in vain,
And dooms me to a place more hot.
He sees me in to supper go,
A silken wonder by my side,
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row
Of flounces, for the door too wide.
He thinks how happy is my arm
'Neath its white-gloved and jeweled load;
And wishes me some dreadful harm,
Hearing the merry corks explode.
Meanwhile I inly curse the bore
Of hunting still the same old coon,
And envy him, outside the door,
In golden quiets of the moon.
The winter wind is not so cold
As the bright smile he sees me win,
Nor the host's oldest wine so old
As our poor gabble sour and thin.
I envy him the ungyved prance
By which his freezing feet he warms,
And drag my lady's-chains, and dance
The galley-slave of dreary forms.
Oh, could he have my share of din,
And I his quiet! -past a doubt
'T would still be one man bored within,
And just another bored without.
185
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
186
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
You
The Cock and the Bull.
OU see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought
Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day –
I like to dock the smaller parts-o'-speech,
As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur
(You catch the paronomasia, play o' words ?) -
Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days.
Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern,
And clapped it i' my poke, and gave for same
By way, to wit, of barter or exchange –
"Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term
One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm.
O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four
Pence, one and fourpence-you are with me, sir?
What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock,
One day (and what a roaring day it was!)
In February, eighteen sixty-nine,
Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei
Hm-hm-how runs the jargon ?-being on throne.
Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put,
The basis or substratum — what you will
Of the impending eighty thousand lines.
"Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge.
But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.
Mark first the rationale of the thing:
Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed.
That shilling and, for matter o' that, the pence
I had o' course upo' me -wi' me say
(Mecum's the Latin, make a note o' that)
When I popped pen i' stand, blew snout, scratched ear,
Sniffedtch! - at snuff-box; tumbled up, he-heed,
Haw-hawed (not hee-hawed, that's another guess thing):
Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door,
THE COCK AND THE BULL.
I shoved the door ope wi' my omoplat ;
And in vestibulo, i' the entrance-hall,
Donned galligaskins, antigropeloes,
And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves,
One on and one a-dangle i' my hand,
And ombrifuge (Lord love you!), case o' rain,
I flopped forth, 'sbudddikins! on my own ten toes
(I do assure you there be ten of them),
And went clump-clumping up-hill and down-dale
To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy.
Put case I had n't 'em on me, could I ha' bought
This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call toy,
This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D.
That's proven without aid from mumping Pope,
Sleek porporate or bloated Cardinal.
(Isn't it, old Fatchaps? You 're in Euclid now.)
So, having the shilling - having i' fact a lot -
And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them,
I purchased, as I think I said before,
The pebble (lapis, lapidis, -di, -dem, -de-
187
What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchaps, eh ?)
O' the boy, a barelegged beggarly son of a gun,
For one and fourpence. Here we are again.
Now Law steps in, big-wigged, voluminous-jawed;
Investigates and reinvestigates.
Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head
Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.
At first the coin was mine, the chattel his.
But now (by virtue of the said exchange
And barter) vice versa all the coin,
Per juris operationem, vests
I' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom
(In sæcula sæculo-o-o-orum;
I think I hear the Abate mouth out that),
To have and hold the same to him and them...
188
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Confer some idiot on Conveyancing.
Whereas the pebble and every part thereof,
And all that appertaineth thereunto,
Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should,
(Subaudi cætera - clap we to the close
For what's the good of law in a case o' the kind ?)
Is mine to all intents and purposes.
This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale.
Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality.
He says a gen'l'man bought a pebble of him
(This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand) –
And paid for 't, like a gen'l'man, on the nail.
“Did I o'ercharge him a ha’penny? Devil a bit.
Fiddlestick's end! Get out, you blazing ass!
Gabble o' the goose.
Go double or quits?
Don't bugaboo-baby me!
Yah! tittup! what's the odds?"
There's the transaction viewed i' the vendor's light.
Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by,
With her three frowsy-blowsy brats o' babes,
The scum 'o the kennel, cream o' the filth-heap - Faugh!
Aie, aie, aie, aie ! οτοτοτοτοτοί,
('Stead which we blurt out Hoighty-toighty, now) -
And the baker and candlestick-maker, and Jack and Gill,
Bleared Goody this and queasy Gaffer that.
Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first.
He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad
A stone, and pay for it rite, on the square,
And carry it off per saltum, jauntily,
Propria quæ maribus, gentleman's property now
(Agreeable to the law explained above),
In proprium usum, for his private ends.
The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bit
I' the face the shilling: heaved a thumping stone
At a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by
(And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door),
THE YARN OF THE “NANCY BELL.” 189
—
Then abiit-what's the Ciceronian phrase?
Excessit, evasit, erupit-off slogs boy;
Off in three flea-skips. Hactenus, so far,
So good, tam bene. Bene, satis, male
Where was I? who said what of one in a quag?
I did once hitch the syntax into verse:
Verbum personale, a verb personal,
Concordat-ay, "agrees," old Fatchaps-
Nominativo, with its nominative,
Genere, i' point o' gender, numero,
O' number, et persona, and person. Ut,
Instance: Sol ruit, down flops sun, et, and,
Montes umbrantur, snuffs out mountains.
Eccuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad.
cum
Pah!
You see the trick on 't though, and can yourself
Continue the discourse ad labitum.
It takes up about eighty thousand lines,
A thing imagination boggles at:
And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands,
Extend from here to Mesopotamy.
CHARLES S. Calverley.
The Yarn of the “Nancy Bell.”
'T
WAS on the shores that round
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
our coast
That I found alone, on a piece of stone,
An elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
190
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid;
For I could n't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:
"O elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
How you can possibly be
"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig.”
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:
“'T was in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.
"And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul),
And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.
"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And the bo'sun tight and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig.
"For a month we 'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel,
So, we drawed a lot, and, accordin', shot
The captain for our meal.
THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL.” 191
"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.
"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig ;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.
"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question' Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,
And we argued it out as sich.
"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
“
And the cook he worshiped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed
In the other chap's hold, you see.
"I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom,
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you 'll be';
'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I,
And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.
Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,
For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can and will cook you!'
"So, he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,
And some sage and parsley too.
"Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell,
"T will soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you'll smell!'
192
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
"And he stirred it round and round and round,
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And as I eating be
The last of his chops, why I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see.
"And I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark nor play,
But I sit and croak, and a single joke
which is to say:
I have
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!"
WILLIAM S. GILBERT.
A Plain Direction.
"Do you ever deviate?"- JOHN BULL.
N London once I lost my way
IN
In faring to and fro,
And asked a little ragged boy
The way that I should go:
He gave a nod, and then a wink,
66
And told me to get there
Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I boxed his little saucy ears,
And then away I strode;
VOL. III.
A PLAIN DIRECTION.
But since I've found that weary path
Is quite a common road.
Utopia is a pleasant place,
But how shall I get there?
Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've read about a famous town
That drove a famous trade,
Where Whittington walked up and found
A fortune ready made.
The very streets are paved with gold,
<<
But how shall I get there?
Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've read about a Fairy Land,
In some romantic tale,
Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive
And wicked Giants fail.
My wish is great, my shoes are strong,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've heard about some happy Isle,
Where every man is free,
And none shall lie in bonds for life
For want of L. S. D.
Oh! that's the land of Liberty!
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've dreamt about some blessèd spot,
Beneath the blessed sky,
Where Bread and Justice never rise
Too dear for folks to buy.
9
193
194
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap,
66
But how shall I get there?
Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
They say there is an ancient House,
As pure as it is old,
Where Members always speak their minds,
And votes are never sold.
I'm fond of all antiquities,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.
They say there is a Royal Court
Maintained in noble state,
Where every able man and good
Is certain to be great!
I'm very fond of seeing sights,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
ހ
And all round the Square."
They say there is a Temple too,
Where Christians come to pray;
But canting knaves and hypocrites
And bigots keep away.
Oh! that's the parish church for me!
But how shall I get there?
'Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
They say there is a Garden fair,
That's haunted by the dove,
Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse
The golden light of love -
The place must be a Paradise,
But how shall I get there?
A PLAIN DIRECTION.
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”
I've heard there is a famous Land
For public spirit known -
Whose Patriots love its interests
Much better than their own.
The land of Promise sure it is!
But how shall I get there?
Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've read about a fine Estate,
A Mansion large and strong;
A view all over Kent and back,
And going for a song.
George Robbins knows the very spot,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've heard there is a Company,
All formal and enrolled,
Will take your smallest silver coin
And give it back in gold.
Of course the office-door is mobbed,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
I've heard about a pleasant Land,
Where omelettes grow on trees,
And roasted pigs run crying out,
"Come eat me, if you please."
My appetite is rather keen,
((
But how shall I get there?
Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."
195
THOMAS HOOD.
196
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Motherhood.
HE laid it where the sunbeams fall
SH
Unscanned upon the broken wall.
Without a tear, without a groan,
She laid it near a mighty stone,
Which some rude swain had haply cast
Thither in sport, long ages past,
And Time with mosses had o'erlaid,
And fenced with many a tall grass-blade,
And all about bid roses bloom
And violets shed their soft perfume.
There, in its cool and quiet bed,
She set her burden down and fled:
Nor flung, all eager to escape,
One glance upon the perfect shape
That lay, still warm and fresh and fair,
But motionless and soundless there.
No human eye had marked her pass
Across the linden-shadowed grass
Ere yet the minster-clock chimed seven :
Only the innocent birds of heaven
The magpie, and the rook whose nest
Swings as the elm-tree waves his crest -
And the lithe cricket and the hoar
And huge-limbed hound that guards the door,
Looked on when, as a summer wind
That, passing, leaves no trace behind,
All unappareled, barefoot all,
She ran to that old ruined wall
To leave upon the chill dank earth
(For ah! she never knew its worth)
'Mid hemlock rank, and fern, and ling,
And dews of night, that precious thing!
PLAIN LANGUAGE.
And there it might have lain forlorn
From morn till eve, from eve to morn:
But that, by some wild impulse led,
The mother, ere she turned and fled,
One moment stood erect and high;
Then poured into the silent sky
A cry so jubilant, so strange,
That Alice as she strove to 'range
Her rebel ringlets at her glass
Sprang up and gazed across the grass,
Shook back those curls so fair to see,
Clapped her soft hands in childish glee,
And shrieked, her sweet face all aglow,
Her very limbs with rapture shaking,
"My hen has laid an egg, I know;
And only hear the noise she 's making !'
""
197
CHARLES S. CALVERLEY.
Plain Language from Truthful James.
HICH I wish to remark
WHICH
And my language is plain -
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar :
Which the same I would rise to explain.
Ah Sin was his name;
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same
What that name might imply;
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.
198
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
2
It was August the third,
And quite soft was the skies,
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise :
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.
Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand :
It was euchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled, as he sat by the table,
With the smile that was childlike and bland.
Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye's sleeve,
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.
But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made,
Were quite frightful to see
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.
Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, "Can this be!
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,”
And he went for that heathen Chinee.
In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand;
MIDGES.
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game "he did not understand.”
In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs-
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers that 's wax.
Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark,
M
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar
Which the same I am free to maintain.
199
BRET HARTE.
Midges.
HE is talking æsthetics, the dear clever creature!
SHE
Upon Man, and his functions, she speaks with a smile.
Her ideas are divine upon Art, upon Nature,
The Sublime, the Heroic, and Mr. Carlyle.
I no more am found worthy to join in the talk, now;
So I follow with my surreptitious cigar;
While she leads our poetical friend up the walk, now,
Who quotes Wordsworth and praises her "Thoughts on
a Star."
Meanwhile, there is dancing in yonder green bower
A swarm of young midges. They dance high and low.
'T is a sweet little species that lives but one hour,
And the eldest was born half an hour ago.
200
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pouring
In the ears of a shy little wanton in gauze,
His eternal devotion; his ceaseless adoring;
Which shall last till the Universe breaks from its laws :
His passion is not, he declares, the mere fever
Of a rapturous moment. It knows no control:
It will burn in his breast through existence forever,
Immutably fixed in the deeps of the soul!
She wavers she flutters: ... male midges are fickle:
Dare she trust him her future? . . . she asks with a sigh:
He implores, . . . and a tear is beginning to trickle :
She is weak: they embrace, and . . . the lovers pass by.
While they pass me, down here on a rose-leaf has lighted
A pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn:
His existence is withered; its future is blighted :
His hopes are betrayed: and his breast is forlorn.
By the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived, now
In the virtue of midges no more he believes:
From love in its falsehood, once wildly believed, now
He will bury his desolate life in the leaves.
His friends would console him. . . the noblest and sagest
Of midges have held that a midge lives again.
In Eternity, say they, the strife thou now wagest
With sorrow shall cease... but their words are in vain!
Can Eternity bring back the seconds now wasted
In hopeless desire? or restore to his breast
The belief he has lost, with the bliss he once tasted,
Embracing the midge that his being loved best?
His friends would console him... life yet is before him;
Many hundred long seconds he still has to live :
In the state yet a mighty career spreads before him:
Let him seek in the great world of action to strive!
A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.
201
There is Fame! there's Ambition! and, grander than either,
There is Freedom!... the progress and march of the
race!...
But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and neither
Ambition nor action her loss can replace.
If the time had been spent in acquiring æsthetics
I have squandered in learning this language of midges,
There might, for my friend in her peripatetics,
Have been now two asses to help o'er the bridges.
As it is, . . . I'll report her the whole conversation.
It would have been longer; but, somehow or other
(In the midst of that misanthrope's long lamentation),
A midge in my right eye became a young mother.
Since my friend is so clever, I'll ask her to tell me
Why the least living thing (a mere midge in the egg!)
Can make a man's tears flow, as now it befell me...
O you dear clever woman, explain it, I beg!
ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.
A
A Temple to Friendship.
TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted,
"I'll build in this garden - the thought is divine!"
Her temple was built, and she now only wanted
An image of Friendship to place on the shrine.
She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her
A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent;
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer
Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.
"Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining
An image, whose looks are so joyless and dim;
But yon little god, upon roses reclining,
We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him."
9*
202
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden
((
She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove;
Farewell," said the sculptor, "you 're not the first maiden
Who came but for Friendship and took away Love."
THOMAS MOORE.
Wonderland.
OURNFULLY listening to the waves' strange talk,
M°
And marking with a sad and moistened eye
The summer days sink down behind the sea,
Sink down beneath the level brine, and fall
Into the Hades of forgotten things,
A mighty longing stealeth o'er the soul;
As of a man who panteth to behold
His idol in another land, if yet
Her heart be treasured for him, — if her eyes
Have yet the old love in them. Even so,
With passion strong as love and deep as death,
Yearneth the spirit after Wonderland.
Ah, happy, happy land! The busy soul
Calls up in pictures of the half-shut eye
Thy shores of splendor. As a fair blind girl,
Who thinks the roses must be beautiful,
But cannot see their beauty. Olden tones,
Borne on the bosom of the breeze from far,
Angels that came to the young heart in dreams,
And then like birds of passage flew away,
Return. The rugged steersman at the wheel
Softens into a cloudy shape. The sails
Move to a music of their own. Brave bark,
Speed well, and bear us unto Wonderland!
Leave far behind thee the vexed earth, where men
Spend their dark days in weaving their own shrouds;
And Fraud and Wrong are crownèd kings; and Toil
Hath chains for Hire; and all Creation groans,
WONDERLAND.
Crying, in its great bitterness, to God;
And Love can never speak the thing it feels,
Or save the thing it loves, is succorless.
For, if one say, "I love thee," what poor words
They are! Whilst they are spoken, the beloved
Traveleth as a doomèd lamb the road of death h;
And sorrow blanches the fair hair, and pales
The tinted cheek. Not so in Wonderland.
There, larger natures sport themselves at ease
'Neath kindlier suns that nurture fairer flowers,
And richer harvests billow in the vales,
And passionate kisses fall on godlike brows
As summer rain. And never know they there
The passion that is desolation's prey;
The bitter tears begotten of farewells;
Endless renunciations, when the heart
Loseth the all it lived for; vows forgot,
Cold looks, estranged voices, - all the woes
That poison earth's delight. For love endures,
Nor fades, nor changes, in the Wonderland.
Alas! the rugged steersman at the wheel
Comes back again to vision. The hoarse sea
Speaketh from its great heart of discontent,
And in the misty distance dies away.
The Wonderland! —'T is past and gone. O soul!
Whilst yet unbodied thou didst summer there,
God saw thee, led thee forth from thy green haunts,
And bade thee know another world, less fair,
Less calm! Ambition, knowledge, and desire
Drove from thee thy first worship. Live and learn ;
Believe and wait; and it may be that he
Will guide thee back again to Wonderland.
203
CRADOCK NEWTON.
204
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The Stranger on the Sill.
ETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn,
BE
Is the lowly home where I was born.
The peach tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway still,
But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.
There is the barn; and as of yore
I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallows throng,
And hear the pewee's mournful song;
But the stranger comes, -oh! painful proof,
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.
There is the orchard, the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run,
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air;
But the stranger's children are swinging there.
There bubbles the shady spring below,
With its bulrush brook, where the hazels grow;
'T was there I found the calamus root,
And watched the minnows poise and shoot,
And heard the robin lave his wing;
But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.
Oh, ye who daily cross the sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still;
And when you crowd the old barn eaves,
Then think what countless harvest sheaves
Have passed within that scented door
To gladden eyes that are no more.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
205
Deal kindly with these orchard trees,
And when your children crowd your knees,
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirred their heart.
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.
The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,
The meadows with their lowing herds,
The woodbine on the cottage wall,
My heart still lingers with them all;
Ye strangers, on my native sill
Step lightly, for I love it still.
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
I
The Old Familiar Faces.
HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
206
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces, –
How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
CHARLES LAMB.
Old.
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Oft I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing;
Poor, unknown,
By the wayside, on a mossy stone.
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat;
Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding;
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding :
There he sat !
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,
No one sympathizing, no one heeding,
None to love him for his thin gray hair,
And the furrows all so mutely pleading
Age and care:
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.
It was summer, and we went to school,
Dapper country lads and little maidens ;
Taught the motto of the "Dunce's stool,"
Its grave import still my fancy ladens,
"Here's a fool! >>
It was summer, and we went to school.
OLD.
When the stranger seemed to mark our play,
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,
I remember well, too well, that day!
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started
Would not stay
When the stranger seemed to mark our play.
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,
Oh, to me her name was always Heaven!
She besought him all his grief to tell,
(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)
Isabel!
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.
66
Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;
Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told."
Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow,
Down it rolled!
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old.
"I have tottered here to look once more
On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core:
I have tottered here to look once more.
"All the picture now to me how dear!
E'en this gray old rock where I am seated
Is a jewel worth my journey here;
Ah that such a scene must be completed
With a tear!
All the picture now to me how dear!
"Old stone school-house! —it is still the same
There's the very step I so oft mounted;
207
208
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches that I cut and counted
For the game.
Old stone school-house, it is still the same.
"In the cottage yonder I was born;
Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn ;
There the spring with limpid nectar swelling;
Ah, forlorn!
In the cottage yonder I was born.
"Those two gateway sycamores you see
Then were planted just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under;
Ninety-three!
Those two gateway sycamores you see.
"There's the orchard where we used to climb
When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,
Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;
Past its prime !
There's the orchard where we used to climb.
'There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails,
Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,
Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising;
Traps and trails!
There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails.
"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain ;
Pond and river still serenely flowing;
Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing.
Mary Jane!
There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.
OLD.
"There's the gate on which I used to swing,
209
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;
But alas! no more the morn shall bring
That dear group around my father's table;
Taken wing!
There's the gate on which I used to swing.
"I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled.
Yon green meadow was our place for playing ;
That old tree can tell of sweet things said
When around it Jane and I were straying;
She is dead!
I am fleeing, all I loved have fled.
"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,
Tracing silently life's changeful story,
So familiar to my dim old eye,
Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high!
Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.
"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided thither by an angel mother;
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;
Sire and sisters, and my little brother,
Gone to God!
Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.
"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;
Bless the holy lesson! - but, ah, never
Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices silent now forever!
Peaceful days!
There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.
"There my Mary blest me with her hand
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing,
210
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,
Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;
Broken band!
There my Mary blest me with her hand.
"I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshiped, in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core !
I have come to see that grave once more.
(6
Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,
Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."
In his eye another pearl of sorrow,
Down it rolled!
Angel," " said he sadly, "I am old."
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Still I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing;
Poor, unknown!
By the wayside, on a mossy stone.
RALPH HOYT.
The Old Professor.
HE old Professor taught no more,
TH
But lingered round the college walks ;
Stories of him we boys told o'er,
Before the fire in evening talks.
I'll ne'er forget how he came in
To recitation one dark night,
And asked our tutor to begin:
"And let me hear these boys recite."
THE OLD PROFESSOR.
As we passed out, we heard him say,
Pray leave me here awhile, alone,
Here in my old place let me stay
Just as I did in years long flown."
Our tutor smiled, and bowed consent;
Rose courteous from his high-backed chair,
And down the darkening stairs he went,
Leaving the old Professor there.
From out the shadows, faces seemed
To look on him in his old place,
Fresh faces that with radiance beamed,
Radiance of boyish hope and grace;
And faces that had lost their youth,
Although in years they still were young;
And faces o'er whose love and truth
The funeral anthem had been sung.
"These are my boys," he murmured then,
My boys, as in the years long past;
Though some are angels, others men,
Still as my boys I hold them fast;
There's one don't know his lesson now,
That one of me is making fun,
And that one's cheating
ah! I see,
I see and love them every one.
"And is it then so long ago
This chapter in my life was told?
Did all of them thus come and go,
And have I really grown so old?
No! here are my old pains and joys,
My book once more is in my hand,
Once more I hear these very boys,
And seek their hearts to understand."
They found him there with open book,
And eyes closed with a calm content;
211
212
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The same old sweetness in his look
There used to be when fellows went
To ask him questions and to talk
When recitations all were o'er;
We saw him in the college walk
And in his former place no more.
FRED W. LORING.
I
The Old Village Choir.
HAVE fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam,
That trembled to earth in the patriarch's dream,
Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest,
From the pillow of stone to the blue of the blest,
And the angels descending to dwell with us here,
"Old Hundred," and "Corinth," and "China," and "Mear."
All the hearts are not dead, not under the sod,
That those breaths can blow open to heaven and God!
Ah, "Silver Street" flows by a bright shining road,
Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed,
But the sweet human psalms of the old-fashioned choir,
To the girl that sang alto the girl that sang air!
"Let us sing to God's praise," the minister said.
All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York";
Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read,
While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead,
And politely picked up the key-note with a fork;
And the vicious old viol went growling along
At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song.
Oh, I need not a wing-bid no genii come
With a wonderful web from Arabian loom,
To bear me again up the river of Time,
When the world was in rhythm, and life was its rhyme
WOULD YOU BE YOUNG AGAIN?
213
Where the streams of the years flowed so noiseless and narrow,
That across it there floated the song of a sparrow -
For a sprig of green caraway carries me there,
To the old village church, and the old village choir,
Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung,
And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that they sung,
Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun
Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun!
You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown,
Who followed by scent till he ran the tune down;
And dear sister Green, with more goodness than grace,
Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place,
And where "Coronation " exultingly flows,
Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes!
To the land of the leal they have gone with their song,
Where the choir and the chorus together belong.
Oh, be lifted, ye gates! Let me hear them again
Blessed song, blessèd singers! forever, Amen!
BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.
Would You be Young again?
you be young again ?
WOULD You
So would not I-
One tear to memory given,
Onward I'd hie.
Life's dark flood forded o'er,
All but at rest on shore,
Say, would you plunge once more,
With home so nigh?
If you might, would you now
Retrace your way
?
Wander through stormy wilds,
Faint and astray?
214
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES,
Night's gloomy watches fled,
Morning all beaming red,
Hope's smiles around us shed,
Heavenward away.
Where, then, are those dear ones,
Our joy and delight?
Dear and more dear, though now
Hidden from sight.
Where they rejoice to be,
There is the lånd for me;
Fly, time, fly speedily;
Come, life and light.
LADY NAIRNE.
WH
The Dying Actor.
HAT time is it? — Seven o'clock you say?
Why, then I should be at the theatre soon.
Ah, no!-lying here day after day
Has set my intellect out of tune.
I remember now — it was weeks ago -
Thank God, I have savings left me still!
We actors were always given, you know,
To die without paying the doctor's bill.
Nay, life has not blended, at the last,
That bitter torment with wasted health;
And yet, as I search the perished past,
How I seem to have flung away my wealth !
It was easily gained, 't was rashly spent,
In times when my looks were a thing to laud,
When a bevy of fragrant notes were sent
On the morning after I played in Claude!
THE DYING ACTOR.
How the stubborn critics would wage their fight
As to what had made me the people's choice!
Some swore 't was merely my stately height,
And a sort of throb in my mellow voice;
Yet I thrilled my hearers, and moved to tears,
And I charmed them whether they would or no;
There were nights in those distant youthful years
When the whole house rang to my Romeo!
Yet none could chide me for being proud
While the fame I won was most broadly spread;
Though the women's praises were always loud,
It is certain they never turned my head.
I was stanch to my friends through worst and best;
That truth is my life's one spotless page;
They have played their parts and gone home to rest,
I am talking here on an empty stage!
"T is a sombre end for so bright a piece,
This dull fifth act of the parting soul,
Ere the last sad exit has brought release,
And the great green curtain begins to roll!
Yet, though they have left me, those trusted friends,
I cannot but fancy their absence means
That they wait outside till my own part ends,
And will join me somewhere behind the scenes.
I see them here while I dream and doze,
There was Ralph, too reckless and wild by half,
With his ludicrous Punchinello nose,
And his full, superb light-comedy laugh!
There was chubby Larry, with flaxen hair,
Who secretly longed to be dark and slight,
And believed his Hamlet a great affair,
But was better in Falstaff any night.
There was lean, grim Peter, so much in vogue,
Who could govern an audience by his wink;
215
216
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
There was brilliant Hugh, with his witty brogue,
His leaky purse, and his love for drink;
And then there was rosy old Robert, too,
With whom bitter fortunes were hard at strife,
Who felt himself born a Macready, and who
Had been handing in letters all his life.
But more than these there was brown-eyed Kate,
True, generous, brave, and her own worst foe,
With a love no insults could alienate
From the bad little husband who wronged her so!
Poor Kate! she would call to her lovely face
That radiant smile, in the nights long fled,
And act Lady Teazle with dazzling grace,
While the heart in her bosom ached and bled!
And one - O Amy, I dare not own
Your love as a friend's love, weak of worth,
Though we swore the most sacred promise known,
And were bound by the strongest bond on earth!
Ah, me! at the summons of death's weird spell,
I can see you while pangs of memory start,
In the waiting-maid roles you did so well,
Pirouetting with sweet unconscious art.
I remember the play where first we met,
How your glad eyes haunted me from afar
As you tripped and prattled, a pert soubrette,
While I was a grave, majestic "star!"
I remember when wedded joys were new —
The dawn of the troubles, the scandals coarse,
The last mad, passionate interview,
The wrangle of lawyers, the stern divorce.
Those dear, lost friends, they have grouped afresh
In the green-room quite as they used to do,
And Ralph has been laughing at Larry's flesh,
And Peter is growling a joke to Hugh,
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.
217
And Robert complains of his lowly lot,
And Emily gossips with Kate — Ah, well,
You may all be shadow, but I am not,
While I listen here for the Prompter's bell.
EDGAR FAWCETT.
VOL. III.
The Bivouac of the Dead.
TH
HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo ;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread;
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind:
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind:
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms,
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumèd heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud;
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow;
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.
ΙΟ
218
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are passed;
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Comes down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was, Victory or death.
Full many a norther's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain,
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its mouldered slain.
The raven's scream or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each solemn height
That frowned o'er that dark fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air;
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave:
She claims from war its richest spoil,-
The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield.
WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH. 219
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The hero's sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave.
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished year hath flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.
Theodore O'HARA..
Weep not for him that dieth.
EEP not for him that dieth
WEEP
For he sleeps, and is at rest;
And the couch whereon he lieth
Is the green earth's quiet breast:
But weep for him who pineth
On a far land's hateful shore,
Who wearily declineth
Where ye see his face no more!
Weep not for him that dieth,
For friends are round his bed,
220
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And many a young lip sigheth
When they name the early dead:
But weep for him that liveth
Where none will know or care,
When the groan his faint heart giveth
Is the last sigh of despair.
Weep not for him that dieth,
For his struggling soul is free,
And the world from which it flieth
Is a world of misery ;
But weep for him that weareth
The captive's galling chain:
To the agony he beareth,
Death were but little pain.
Weep not for him that dieth,
For he hath ceased from tears,
And a voice to his replieth
Which he hath not heard for years;
But weep for him who weepeth
On that cold land's cruel shore-
Blest, blest is he that sleepeth,
Weep for the dead no more.
CAROLINE NORTON.
UN
Epitaph.
NDERNEATH this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse, -
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death! ere thou hast killed another
Fair, and learned, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.
BEN JONSON.
DE PROFUNDIS.
221
De Profundis.
HE face which, duly as the sun,
TH
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With daily love, is dimmed away-
And yet my days go on, go on.
">
The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with "Good-day
Made each day good, is hushed away
And yet my days go on, go on.
The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon;
The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away
And yet my days go on, go on.
And cold before my summer's done,
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,
And here, with hope no longer here ·
While the tears drop, my days go on.
The world goes whispering to its own,
"This anguish pierces to the bone."
And tender friends go sighing round,
"What love can ever cure this wound?"
My days go on, my days go on.
The past rolls forward on the sun
And makes all night. O dreams begun,
Not to be ended! Ended bliss!
And life, that will not end in this!
My days go on, my days go on.
222
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Breath freezes on my lips to moan;
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.
I knock and cry... Undone, undone !
Is there no help, no comfort . . . none?
No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains
Where others drive their loaded wains?
My vacant days go on, go on.
This Nature, though the snows be down,
Thinks kindly of the bird of June.
The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such. What is for me,
Whose days so winterly go on?
No bird am I to sing in June,
And dare not ask an equal boon.
Good nests and berries red are Nature's
To give away to better creatures
And yet my days go on, go on.
I ask less kindness to be done
Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet
Cool deathly touch to these tired feet,
Till days go out which now go on.
Only to lift the turf unmown
From off the earth where it has grown,
Some cubit-space, and say, "Behold,
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,
Forgetting how the days go on."
What harm would that do? Green anon
The sward would quicken, overshone
By skies as blue; and crickets might
Have leave to chirp there day and night
While my new rest went on, went on.
DE PROFUNDIS.
From gracious Nature have I won
Such liberal bounty? May I run
So, lizard-like, within her side,
And there be safe, who now am tried
By days that painfully go on?
A Voice reproves me thereupon,
More sweet than Nature's, when the drone
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep,
Than when the rivers overleap
The shuddering pines, and thunder on.
God's Voice, not Nature's — night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne
And listens for the creatures' praise.
What babble we of days and days?
The Dayspring He, whose days go on.
He reigns above, he reigns alone:
Systems burn out and leave His throne:
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around Him, changeless amid all !
Ancient of days, whose days go on!
He reigns below, He reigns alone,
And having life in love foregone
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,
He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns
Or rules with HIM, while days go on?
By anguish which made pale the sun,
I hear Him charge his saints that none
Among the creatures anywhere
Blaspheme against Him with despair,
However darkly days go on.
Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown!
No mortal grief deserves that crown.
O supreme Love, chief misery,
The sharp regalia are for Thee
Whose days eternally go on!
223
224
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
For us,
whatever's undergone,
Thou knowest, willest what is done.
Grief may be joy misunderstood :
Only the Good discerns the good.
I trust Thee while my days go on.
Whatever's lost, it first was won :
We will not struggle nor impugn.
Perhaps the cup was broken here
That Heaven's new wine might show more clear.
I praise Thee while my days go on!
I praise Thee while my days go on;
I love Thee while my days go on!
Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost
I thank Thee while my days go on!
And, having in thy life-depth thrown.
Being and suffering (which are one),
As a child drops some pebble small
Down some deep well and hears it fall,
Smiling... so I! THY DAYS GO ON!
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Tears, idle Tears.
EARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
TEARS,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail
That brings our friends up from the under-world,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
SWEET ARE THE ROSY MEMORIES.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
225
ALFRED TENNYSON.
S
Sweet are the Rosy Memories.
WEET are the rosy memories of the lips
flour,
That first kissed ours, albeit they kiss no more :
Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships,
Although they leave us on a lonely shore :
Sweet are familiar songs, though Music dips
Her hollow shell in Thought's forlornest wells:
And sweet, though sad, the sound of midnight bells,
When the oped casement with the night-rain drips.
There is a pleasure which is born of pain :
The grave of all things hath its violet.
Else why, through days which never come again,
Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret ?
Why put the posy in the cold dead hand?
Why plant the rose above the lonely grave?
Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave?
Why deem the dead more near in native land?
Thy name hath been a silence in my life
So long, it falters upon language now,
!
10*
226
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Oh, more to me than sister or than wife
Once... and now nothing! It is hard to know
That such things have been, and are not, and yet
Life loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure,
And goes upon its business and its pleasure,
And knows not all the depths of its regret.
ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.
Another Year.
"ANOTHER year," she said, "another year,
These roses I have watched with so much care,
Have watched and tended without pain or fear,
Shall bud and bloom for me exceeding fair-
Another year," she said, "another year."
"Another year," she said, "another year,
My life perhaps may bud and bloom again,
May bud and bloom like these red roses here,
Unlike them, tended with regret and pain –
Another year perhaps, another year.
"Another
year, ah
yes, another year,
When bloom my roses, all my life shall bloom;
When summer comes, my summer too 'll be here,
And I shall cease to wander in this gloom -
Another year, ah yes, another year.
"For ah, another year, another year,
I'll set my life in richer, stronger soil,
And prune the weeds away that creep too near,
And watch and tend with never-ceasing toil
Another year, ah yes, another year."
ARTEMUS WARD.
Another year, alas! another year,
The roses all lay withering ere their prime,
Poor blighted buds, with scanty leaves and sere,
Drooping and dying long before their time
Another year, alas! another year.
And ah, another year, another year,
Lo, like the blighted dying buds, she lay,
Whose voice had prophesied without a fear,
227
Whose hand had trimmed the rose-tree day by day,
To bloom another year, another year.
NORA PERRY.
Artemus Ward.
S he gone to a land of no laughter,
IS
The man that made mirth for us all?
Proves death but a silent hereafter
From the sounds that delight or appall?
Once closed, have the eyes no more duty,
No more pleasure the exquisite ears ?
Has the heart done o'erflowing with beauty,
As the eyes have with tears?
Nay, if aught can be sure, what is surer
Than that earth's good decays not with earth?
And of all the heart-springs none are purer
Than the springs of the fountains of mirth.
He that sounds them has pierced the heart's hollows,
The places where tears chose to sleep;
For the foam-flakes that dance in life's shallows
Are wrung from life's deep.
He came with a heart full of gladness,
From the glad-hearted world of the West,
228
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Won our laughter, but not with mere madness,
Spake and joked with us, not in mere jest;
For the man in our hearts lingered after,
When the merriment died from our ears,
And those who were loudest in laughter
Are silent in tears.
ANONYMOUS.
Portrait of Addison.
PEACE to all such! but were there one whose fires
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires;
Blest with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease;
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserved to blame, or to commend,
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged,
And so obliging that he ne'er obliged;
Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause ;
Whilst wits and Templars every sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise:
Who but must laugh, if such a one there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
ALEXANDER POPE.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
229
Abraham Lincoln.
[First published in Punch.]
You lay a wreath
OU lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier,
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complacent British sneer
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,
His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,
His lack of all we prize as debonair,
Of power or will to shine, of art to please;
You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step as though the way were plain;
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph
Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain;
Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you?
Yes he had lived to shame me from my sneer,
To lame my pencil, and confute my pen;
To make me own this hind of princes peer,
This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.
My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,
Noting how to occasion's height he rose ;
How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true;
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows.
How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;
How in good fortune and in ill, the same;
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,
Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.
230
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
He went about his work, such work as few
Ever had laid on head and heart and hand,
As one who knows, where there's a task to do,
Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;
Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,
That God makes instruments to work his will,
If but that will we can arrive to know,
Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.
So he went forth to battle, on the side
That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,
As in his peasant boyhood he had plied
His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights
The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,
The iron bark, that turns the lumberer's axe,
The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil,
The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,
The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear;
Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train :
Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear,
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.
So he grew up, a destined work to do,
And lived to do it: four long-suffering years'
Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through,
And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,
The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,
And took both with the same unwavering mood:
Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,
And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,
A felon hand, between the goal and him,
Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest,
And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.
The words of mercy were upon his lips,
Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse
To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men.
The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high;
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.
A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
If more of horror or disgrace they bore;
But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out.
Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven;
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven.
231
TOM TAYLor.
Joseph Rodman Drake.
G
REEN be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.
Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.
When hearts whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth ;
な
​232
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine, -
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.
While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.
Shakespeare.
HOW little fades from earth when sink to rest
Η
The hours and cares that move a great man's breast!
Though naught of all we saw the grave may spare,
His life pervades the world's impregnate air;
Though Shakespeare's dust beneath our footsteps lies,
His spirit breathes amid his native skies
With meaning won from him forever glows
Each air that England feels, and star it knows;
His whispered words from many a mother's voice
Can make her sleeping child in dreams rejoice;
And gleams from spheres he first conjoined to earth
Are blent with rays of each new morning's birth.
Amid the sights and tales of common things,
Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths of kings,
Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round,
Of life that tills, and tombs that load, the ground,
His visions mingle, swell, command, pace by,
And haunt with living presence heart and eye;
LIFE.
And tones from him, by other bosoms caught,
Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought;
And the long sigh, and deep impassioned thrill,
Rouse custom's trance and spur the faltering will.
Above the goodly land, more his than ours,
He sits supreme, enthroned in skyey towers;
And sees the heroic brood of his creation
Teach larger life to his ennobled nation.
O shaping brain! O flashing fancy's hues!
O boundless heart, kept fresh by pity's dews!
O wit humane and blithe O sense sublime!
For each dim oracle of mantled Time!
233
Transcendent Form of Man! in whom we read
Mankind's whole tale of Impulse, Thought, and Deed!
Amid the expanse of years, beholding thee,
We know how vast our world of life may be ;
Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as thine,
Small tasks and strengths may be no less divine.
JOHN STERLING.
Life.
IKE to the falling of a star,
L'or as
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past — and man forgot!
HENRY KING.
་་
234
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Helvellyn.
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 bend-
ing,
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 nights didst thou number
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And oh, 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 :
BETH GÊLERt.
235
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleam-
ing;
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.
Beth Gelert.
THE spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn ;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obeyed Llewellyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer,
"Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last
Llewellyn's horn to hear.
"Oh, where does faithful Gêlert roam,
The flower of all his race;
So true, so brave, a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"
In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But now no Gêlert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
236
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart and hare ;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gêlert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But, when he gained his castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound all o'er was smeared with gore;
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Llewellyn gazed with fierce surprise;
Unused such looks to meet,
His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched, and licked his feet.
Onward, in haste, Llewellyn passed,
And on went Gêlert too;
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stained covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He called his child, no voice replied,
He searched with terror wild;
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.
"Hellhound! my child's by thee devoured,”
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gêlert's side.
MY WIND IS TURNED TO BITTER NORTH. 237
Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh :
What words the parent's joy could tell
To hear his infant's cry!
Concealed beneath a tumbled heap
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub boy he kissed.
Nor scath had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.
Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewellyn's heir.
WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.
My Wind is turned to Bitter North.
Y wind is turned to bitter north,
M'
MY win was so
a
That was so soft a south before;
My sky, that shone so sunny bright,
With foggy gloom is clouded o'er :
My gay green leaves are yellow-black,
Upon the dank autumnal floor;
For love, departed once, comes back
No more again, no more.
A roofless ruin lies my home,
For winds to blow and rains to pour;
238
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
One frosty night befell, and lo!
I find my summer days are o'er ;
The heart bereaved, of why and how
Unknowing, knows that yet before
It had what e'en to Memory now
Returns no more, no more.
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
The Dead President.
ERE there no crowns on earth,
WE
No evergreen to weave a hero's wreath,
That he must pass beyond the gates of death,
Our hero, our slain hero, to be crowned?
Could there on our unworthy earth be found
Naught to befit his worth?
The noblest soul of all!
When was there ever, since our Washington,
A man so pure, so wise, so patient, — one,
Who walked with this high goal alone in sight,
To speak, to do, to sanction only Right,
Though very heaven should fall?
Ah, not for him we weep;
What honor more could be in store for him?
Who would have had him linger in our dim
And troublesome world, when his great work was done, –
Who would not leave that worn and weary one
Gladly to go to sleep?
For us the stroke was just;
We were not worthy of that patient heart;
We might have helped him more, not stood apart,
THE HERO OF THE COMMUNE. 239
And coldly criticised his works and ways:
Too late now, all too late, our little praise
Sounds hollow o'er his dust.
Be merciful, O God!
Forgive the meanness of our human hearts,
That never, till a noble soul departs
See half the worth, or hear the angel's wings
Till they go rustling heavenward as he springs
Up from the mounded sod.
Yet what a deathless crown
Of Northern pine and Southern orange-flower,
For victory, and the land's new bridal-hour
Would we have wreathed for that belovèd brow!
Sadly upon his sleeping forehead now
We lay our cypress down.
O martyred one, farewell!
Thou hast not left thy people quite alone:
Out of thy beautiful life there comes a tone
Of power, of love, of trust, — a prophecy,
Whose fair fulfilment all the earth shall be,
And all the Future tell.
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.
The Hero of the Commune.
"GARÇON! You, you
Snared along with this cursed crew?
(Only a child, and yet so bold,
•
Scarcely as much as ten years old!)
Do you hear! do you know
Why the gens d'armes put you there, in the row,
You with those Commune wretches tall,
With your face to the wall?”
240
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Know? To be sure I know! Why not?
We're here to be shot;
And there by the pillar's the very spot,
Fighting for France, my father fell;
Ah, well!
That's just the way I would choose to fall,
With my back to the wall!”
66
(Sacre! Fair, open fight, I say,
Is something right gallant in its way,
And fine for warming the blood; but who
Wants wolfish work like this to do?
Bah! 't is a butcher's business!) How?
(The boy is beckoning to me now:
I knew that this poor child's heart would fail,
•
Yet his cheek's not pale :)
Quick! say your say, for don't you see
When the church-clock yonder tolls out Three,
You are all to be shot?
What?
'Excuse you one moment?' Oh, ho, ho!
Do you think to fool a gen d'arme so?”
"But, sir, here's a watch that a friend, one day,
(My father's friend) just over the way,
Lent me; and if you'll let me free
It still lacks seven minutes of Three
I'll come, on the word of a soldier's son,
Straight back into line, when my errand 's done."
Ha, ha! No doubt of it! Off! Begone!
(Now, good St. Denis, speed him on!
The work will be easier since he's saved;
For I hardly see how I could have braved
The ardor of that innocent eye,
As he stood and heard,
While I gave the word,
Dooming him like a dog to die.)”
HESTER.
"In time? Well, thanks, that my desire
Was granted; and now I'm ready : — Fire!
One word! - that's all!
You'll let me turn my back to the wall?”
"Parbleu! Come out of the line, I say,
Come out! (Who said that his name was Ney?)
Ha! France will hear of him yet, one day!"
241
MARGARET J. PRESTON.
VOL. III.
WE
Hester.
HEN maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavor.
A month or more has she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed
And her together.
A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flushed her spirit.
I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:- if 't was not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,
She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Which doth the human feeling cool,
But she was trained in Nature's school,
Nature had blest her.
.I I
242
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbor, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning,
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet forewarning?
CHARLES LAMB.
They are all gone.
HEY are all gone into the world of light,
Talone
THE
And I alone sit lingering here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear;
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun's remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days,
My days which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.
THEY ARE ALL GONE.
243
O holy hope! and high humility,-
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have showed them me
To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous death, — the jewel of the just, —
Shining nowhere but in the dark!
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell 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.
If a star were confined into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there,
But when the hand that locked her up gives room,
She'll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee!
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass.
HENRY VAUGHAN.
心
​244
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Over the River.
VER the river they beckon to me,
OVE
Loved ones who 've crossed to the farther side,
The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see:
Over the river, over the river,
My brother stands waiting to welcome me.
Over the river the boatman pale
Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,
Darling Minnie! I see her yet.
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We felt it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark;
We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be:
Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,
And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;
And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye;
We may not sunder the veil apart
That hides from our vision the gates of day;
LONGING FOR HOME.
We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.
And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold,
And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale
To the better shore of the spirit-land.
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.
245
NANCY PRIEST WAKEFIELD.
A
Longing for Home.
SONG of a boat:
There was once a boat on a billow:
Lightly she rocked to her port remote,
And the foam was white in her wake like snow,
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow,
And bent like a wand of willow.
I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat
Went courtesying over the billow,
I marked her course till a dancing mote
She faded out on the moonlit foam,
And I stayed behind in the dear-loved home;
And my thoughts all day were about the boat
And my dreams upon the pillow.
246
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
I pray you hear my song of a boat,
For it is but short:
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,
In river or port.
Long I looked out for the lad she bore,
On the open desolate sea,
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,
For he came not back to me
Ah me!
A song of a nest:
There was once a nest in a hollow,
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed,
Soft and warm, and full to the brim;
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim,
With buttercup-buds to follow.
I pray you hear my song of a nest,
For it is not long:
You shall never light in a summer quest
The bushes among
Shall never light on a prouder sitter,
A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter,
That wind-like did come and go.
I had a nestful once of my own,
Ah happy, happy I!
<
Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown
They spread out their wings to fly-
Oh, one after one they flew away
Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day,
And — I wish I was going too.
I pray you, what is the nest to me,
My empty nest?
And what is the shore where I stood to see
My boat sail down to the west?
GOD'S-ACRE.
Can I call that home where I anchor yet,
Though my good-man has sailed ?
Can I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hope hath failed?
Nay, but the port where my sailor went,
And the land where my nestlings be:
There is the home where my thoughts are sent,
The only home for me
247
Ah me!
JEAN INGELOW.
I
God's-Acre.
LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessèd name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth ;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
2
248
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
A Solemn Conceit.
TATELY trees are growing,
STA
Lusty winds are blowing,
And mighty rivers flowing
On, forever on.
As stately forms were growing,
As lusty spirits blowing,
And as mighty fancies flowing
On, forever on ;
But there has been leave-taking,
Sorrow, and heart-breaking,
And a moan pale Echo's making,
For the gone, forever gone!
Lovely stars are gleaming,
Bearded lights are streaming,
And glorious suns are beaming
On, forever on.
As lovely eyes were gleaming,
As wondrous lights were streaming,
And as glorious minds were beaming
On, forever on;
But there has been soul-sundering,
Wailing, and sad wondering;
For graves grow fat with plundering
The gone, forever gone!
We see great eagles soaring,
We hear deep oceans roaring,
And sparkling fountains pouring
On, forever on.
As lofty minds were soaring,
As sonorous voices roaring,
And as sparkling wits were pouring
On, forever on ;
DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.
But pinions have been shedding,
And voiceless darkness spreading,
Since a measure Death 's been treading
O'er the gone, forever gone!
Everything is sundering,
Every one is wondering,
And this huge globe goes thundering
On, forever on;
But 'mid this weary sundering,
Heart-breaking, and sad wondering,
And this huge globe's rude thundering
On, forever on,
I would that I were dreaming
Where little flowers are gleaming,
And the long green grass is streaming
O'er the gone, forever gone!
249
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
Death's Final Conquest.
HE glories of our birth and state
THE
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate :
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant with laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still;
心
​II*
250
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives! creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar, now,
See where the victor victim bleeds!
All heads must come
To the cold tomb,
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.
JAMES SHIRLEY.
O
The Two Villages.
VER the river on the hill
Lieth a village white and still;
All around it the forest trees
Shiver and whisper in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go
Of soaring hawk and screaming crow ;
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Grow in the middle of every street.
Over the river under the hill
Another village lieth still;
There I see in the cooling night
Twinkling stars of household light,
Fires that gleam from smithy's door,
Mists that curl on the river's shore;
And in the road no grasses grow,
For the wheels that hasten to and fro.
GOD'S-ACRE.
In that village on the hill
Never is sound of smithy or mill;
The houses are thatched with grass and flowers,
Never a clock to tell the hours;
The marble doors are always shut;
You may not enter at hall or hut.
All the village lie asleep,
Never a grain to sow or reap;
Never in dreams to moan or sigh
Silent, and idle, and low, they lie.
In that village under the hill,
When the night is starry and still,
Many a weary soul in prayer
Looks to the other village there,
And weeping and sighing, longs to go
Up to that home from this below;
Longs to sleep by the forest wild,
Whither have vanished wife and child,
And heareth, praying, the answer fall,
"Patience! That village shall hold ye all!"
251
ROSE TERRY COOKE.
O
God's-Acre.
PEACEABLE folk hid under the earth,
How quiet you are to-day!
I came to look in on your noiseless court,
And am loath to go away.
What it is holds me I cannot tell,
Or hardly why I should come;
For, whatever I do, you heed me not,
Whatever I ask, you are dumb.
O
252
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
How strange that you who are waiting here -
Waiting, nor wishing to go-
Have shut the book we are reading yet,
And already the sequel know!
Did you turn the pages as fast as we,
To learn what next would chance?
Was it tale or tragedy that you found?
Was it poem, or wild romance?
Maybe 't was all of these by turns:
Very likely you never chose
To ask which part of the book was rhyme,
And which was homely prose.
But, whate'er the text, I know you read
On, on, with never a pause
Willing at first, so hot your haste,
To skip a line or a clause;
Deeming the volume quite too vast
To be ever wholly read;
Always expecting something fine
In the chapter just ahead!
Perhaps you had to lay it by
Before the story was done;
I wonder what plot you are chasing now
In the new book you 've begun!
Or, possibly, when that chapter came
'T was dull, or gloomy, or grim;
The pages grew blotted and black with tears,
The type was worn and dim.
And maybe (but what of that now?) 't was all
Your secretest hope had told,
That every syllable sang a song,
And every letter was gold!
GOD'S-ACRE.
Yet, whether the legend were long or short,
Whether 't were grave or gay,
I'm very sure you were most of you loath
To put the book away.
'T was fascinating, after all,
'T was the universe to you;
And you thought it strange when you found, one day,
You had almost read it through !
'T was hard to leave your work or your play,
The faces in the street,
The human voices, friends and life,
That had grown so sudden sweet!
As hard as we shall find it, we,
Who puzzle and doubt and plan,
Tasting the bitter in every draught,
Yet drinking as deep as we can!
Counting our starveling little much,
Our thin ambitions great,
And ever hatching shallow schemes
To out-manoeuvre Fate.
Till some of us learn, as did some of you,
To try a manlier way,
To put into life a potency
That will keep the grave at bay;
And count this brief experience
That hangs upon a breath
Our first sweet hint of the rounded whole,
With its episode of death.
253
RACHEL POMEROY.
254
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
At Port Royal.
1862.
'HE tent-lights glimmer on the land,
TH
The ship-lights on the sea;
The night-wind smooths with drifting sand
Our track on lone Tybee.
At last our grating keels outslide,
Our good boats forward swing;
And while we ride the land-locked tide,
Our negroes row and sing.
For dear the bondman holds his gifts
Of music and of song:
The gold that kindly Nature sifts
Among his sands of wrong;
The power to make his toiling days
And poor home-comforts please;
The quaint relief of mirth that plays
With sorrow's minor keys.
Another glow than sunset's fire
Has filled the West with light,
Where field and garner, barn and byre,
Are blazing through the night.
The land is wild with fear and hate,
The rout runs mad and fast;
From hand to hand, from gate to gate,
The flaming brand is passed.
The lurid glow falls strong across
Dark faces broad with smiles:
Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss
That fire yon blazing piles.
AT PORT ROYAL.
With oar-strokes timing to their song,
They weave in simple lays
The pathos of remembered wrong,
The hope of better days, –
The triumph-note that Miriam sung,
The joy of uncaged birds:
Softening with Afric's mellow tongue
Their broken Saxon words.
SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.
Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come
To set de people free;
An' massa tink it day ob doom,
An' we ob jubilee.
De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves
He jus’ as ’trong as den ;
He say de word: we las' night slaves;
To-day, de Lord's freemen.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn ;
Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!
Ole massa on he trabbels gone;
He leaf de land behind:
De Lord's breff blow him furder on,
Like corn-shuck in de wind.
We own de hoe, we own de plough,
We own de hands dat hold;
We sell de pig, we sell de cow,
But nebber chile be sold.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn:
Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!
255
256
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
We pray de Lord: he gib us signs
Dat some day we be free;
De norf-wind tell it to de pines,
De wild-duck to de sea;
We tink it when de church-bell ring,
We dream it in de dream;
De rice-bird mean it when he sing,
De eagle when he scream.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn;
Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!
We know de promise nebber fail,
An' nebber lie de word;
So like de 'postles in de jail,
We waited for de Lord:
An' now he open ebery door,
An' trow away de key;
He tink we lub him so before,
We lub him better free.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
He'll gib de rice an' corn:
Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!
So sing our dusky gondoliers;
And with a secret pain,
And smiles that seem akin to tears,
We hear the wild refrain.
We dare not share the negro's trust,
Nor yet his hope deny;
We only know that God is just,
And every wrong shall die.
Rude seems the song; each swarthy face,
Flame-lighted, ruder still:
We start to think that hapless race
Must shape our good or ill;
HOME.
That laws of changeless justice bind
Oppressor with oppressed;
And, close as sin and suffering joined,
We march to Fate abreast.
Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be
Our sign of blight or bloom,
The Vala-song of Liberty,
Or death-rune of our doom!
257
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Home.
HERE is a land, of every land the pride,
THE
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth:
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ;
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend ;
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life!
258
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man? a patriot ? look around;
Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
I
The Karamanian Exile.
SEE thee ever in my dreams,
Karaman !
Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams,
Karaman! O Karaman !
As when thy gold-bright morning gleams,
As when the deepening sunset seams
With lines of light thy hills and streams,
Karaman !
So thou loomest on my dreams,
Karaman! O Karaman!
The hot bright plains, the sun, the skies,
Karaman!
Seem death-black marble to mine eyes,
Karaman! O Karaman !
I turn from summer's blooms and dyes;
Yet in my dreams thou dost arise
In welcome glory to mine eyes,
Karaman !
In thee my life of life yet lies,
Karaman !
Thou still art holy in mine eyes,
Karaman! O Karaman !
1
THE KARAMANIAN EXILE.
259
Ere my fighting years were come,
Karaman!
Troops were few in Erzerome,
Karaman! O Karaman !
Their fiercest came from Erzerome,
They came from Ukhbar's palace dome,
They dragged me forth from thee, my home,
Karaman!
Thee, my own, my mountain home,
Karaman !
In life and death, my spirit's home,
Karaman! O Karaman!
Oh, none of all my sisters ten,
Karaman!
Loved like me my fellow-men,
Karaman! O Karaman!
I was mild-as milk till then,
I was soft as silk till then,
Now my breast is as a den,
Karaman!
Foul with blood and bones of men,
Karaman !
With blood and bones of slaughtered men,
Karaman! O Karaman !
My boyhood's feelings, newly born,
Karaman !
Withered like young flowers uptorņ,
Karaman! O Karaman !
And in their stead sprang weeds and thorn :
What once I loved now moves my scorn;
My burning eyes are dried to horn,
Karaman !
I hate the blessed light of morn,
Karaman !
It maddens me, the face of morn,
Karaman! O Karaman!
260
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The Spahi wears a tyrant's chains,
Karaman !
But bondage worse than this remains,
Karaman! O Karaman!
His heart is black with million stains:
Thereon, as on Kaf's blasted plains,
Shall nevermore fall dews or rains,
Karaman !
Save poison-dews and bloody rains,
Karaman!
Hell's poison-dews and bloody rains,
Karaman! O Karaman!
But life at worst must end ere long,
Karaman !
Azreel avengeth every wrong,
Karaman! O Karaman!
Of late my thoughts rove more among
Thy fields; o'ershadowing fancies throng
My mind, and texts of bodeful song,
Karaman!
Azreel is terrible and strong,
Karaman !
His lightning sword smites all ere long,
Karaman! O Karaman!
There's care to-night in Ukhbar's halls,
Karaman !
There's hope, too, for his trodden thralls,
Karaman! O Karaman !
What lights flash red along yon walls?
Hark! hark! the muster-trumpet calls!
I see the sheen of spears and shawls,
Karaman!
The foe! the foe! - they scale the walls,
Karaman !
To-night Murad or Ukhbar falls,
Karaman! O Karaman !
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.
261
The Relief of Lucknow.
OH, that last day in Lucknow fort!
We knew that it was the last;
That the enemy's lines crept surely on,
And the end was coming fast.
To yield to that foe meant worse than death;
And the men and we all worked on;
It was one day more of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.
There was one of us, a corporal's wife,
A fair, young, gentle thing,
Wasted with fever in the siege,
And her mind was wandering.
She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid,
And I took her head on my knee;
"When my father comes hame frae the pleugh,” she said,
"Oh! then please wauken me."
She slept like a child on her father's floor,
In the flecking of woodbine-shade,
When the house-dog sprawls by the open door,
And the mother's wheel is stayed.
It was smoke and roar and powder-stench,
And hopeless waiting for death;
And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child,
Seemed scarce to draw her breath.
I sank to sleep; and I had my dream
Of an English village-lane,
And wall and garden; — but one wild scream
Brought me back to the roar again.
Q
262
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
There Jessie Brown stood listening
Till a sudden gladness broke
All over her face; and she caught my hand
And drew me near as she spoke :
"The Hielanders! Oh! dinna ye hear
The slogan far awa?
The McGregors. Oh! I ken it weel;
It's the grandest o' them a'!
"God bless the bonny Hielanders!
""
We're saved! we 're saved! she cried;
And fell on her knees; and thanks to God
Flowed forth like a full flood-tide.
Along the battery-line her cry
Had fallen among the men,
And they started back; - they were there to die ;
But was life so near them, then?
They listened for life; the rattling fire
Far off, and the far-off roar,
Were all; and the colonel shook his head,
And they turned to their guns once more.
But Jessie said, "The slogan 's done;
But winna ye hear it noo.
The Campbells are comin'? It's no a dream ;
Our succors hae broken through!"
We heard the roar and the rattle afar,
But the pipes we could not hear;
So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.
It was not long ere it made its way,
A thrilling, ceaseless sound:
It was no noise from the strife afar,
Or the sappers under ground.
1
BARBARA FRIETCHIE.
It was the pipes of the Highlanders!
And now they played Auld Lang Syne.
It came to our men like the voice of God,
And they shouted along the line.
And they wept, and shook one another's hands,
And the women sobbed in a crowd;
And every one knelt down where he stood,
And we all thanked God aloud.
That happy time, when we welcomed them,
Our men put Jessie first;
And the general gave her his hand, and cheers
Like a storm from the soldiers burst.
And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed,
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears,
As the pipes played Auld Lang Syne.
263
ROBERT T. S. LOWELL.
Barbara Frietchie.
UP from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,
264
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!" - the dust-brown ranks stood fast;
"Fire!" out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.
BARBARA FRIETCHIE.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word:
"Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law ;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!
VOL. III.
265
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
12
266
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz.
T was fifty years ago,
IT
In the pleasant month of May,
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,
A child in its cradle lay.
And Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying, "Here is a story-book
Thy Father has written for thee."
"Come, wander with me," she said,
"Into regions yet untrod,
And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God."
And he wandered away and away,
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.
And whenever the way seemed long,
Or his heart began to fail,
She would sing a more wonderful song,
Or tell a more marvelous tale.
So she keeps him still a child,
And will not let him go,
Though at times his heart beats wild
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;
Though at times he hears in his dreams.
The Ranz des Vaches of old,
And the rush of mountain streams
From glaciers clear and cold;
SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
267
And the mother at home says, "Hark!
For his voice I listen and yearn:
It is growing late and dark,
And my boy does not return!"
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Song of Marion's Men.
UR band is few, but true and tried,
band is few, but
Our leader frank and bold.
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea;
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear;
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.
&
268
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil;
We talk the battle over,
And share the battle's spoil.
The woodlands ring with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads,
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'T is life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp, -
A moment,
and away
!
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
Forever, from our shore.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
THE SLANTEN LIGHT O' FALL.
269
The Slanten Light o' Fall.
A
(Dorset Dialect.)
H! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you,
When you wer' cristen'd, small an' light,
Wi' tiny earms o' red an' blue,
A-hangen in your robe o' white.
We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone,
Vor Christ to teake ye vor his own,
When harvest-work wer' all a-done,
An' time brought round October zun
The slanten light o' Fall.
An' I can mind the wind wer' rough,
An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms,
An' you wer' nessled warm enough,
'Ithin your smilen mother's earms.
The whindlen grass did quiver light,
Among the stubble, feaded white,
An' if at times the zunlight broke
Upon the groun', or on the vo'k,
'T wer' slanten light o' Fall.
An' when we brought ye droo the door
O' Knapton Church, a child o' greace,
There cluster'd roun' a'most a score
O' vo'k to zee your tiny feace.
An' there we all did veel so proud,
To zee an op❜nen in the cloud,
An' then a stream o' light break droo,
A-sheenen brightly down on you
The slanten light o' Fall.
But now your time 's a-come to stan'
In church a-blushen at my zide,
270
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The while a bridegroom vrom my han'
Ha' took ye vor his faithvul bride.
Your Christian neame we gi'd ye here,
When Fall did cool the western year;
An' now, agean, we brought ye droo
The doorway, wi' your surneame new,
In slanten light o' Fall.
An' zoo vur, Jeane, your life is feair,
An' God ha' been your steadvast friend,
An' mid ye have more jay than ceare,
Vor ever, till your journey's end.
An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride,
But now I soon mus' leave your zide,
Vor you ha' still life's spring-tide zun,
But my life, Jeane, is now a-run
To slanten light o' Fall.
WILLIAM Barnes.
An Order for a Picture.
O
GOOD painter, tell me true
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things you never saw?
Ay? Well, here is an order for you.
Woods and cornfields a little brown,-
The picture must not be over-bright,
Yet all the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, and fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.
When the wind can hardly find breathing room
Under their tassels, cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With blue-birds twittering all around,
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)
These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little and black and old,
With children, many as it could hold,
All at the windows, open wide,
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush;
Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way
Out of a wilding wayside bush.
Listen closer, when you have done
With the woods and cornfields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon, you must paint for me;
Oh, if I only could make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while!
I need not speak these foolish words;
Yet one word tells you all I would say,
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.
Two little urchins at her knee,
You must paint, sir, one like me,
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise.
At ten years old he went to sea,
God knoweth if he is living now,
He sailed in the good ship Commodore,
Nobody ever crossed her track
271
272
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Oh, 't is twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck;
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother's knee;
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea.
Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn-leaves rustling, and of the shade
Of the huge hills, stretching so still and far,
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door,
And over the haystack's pointed top,
All of a tremble and ready to drop,
The first half hour, the great yellow star
That we with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree,
Which close to the edge of our flax field grew
Dead at the top, — just one branch full of leaves,
Notched round and lined with wool
From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads when we came to play
In its hand-breadth of shadow day after day.
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs;
The other, a bird held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat.
The berries we gave her she would n't eat,
But cried and cried till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.
At last we stood at our mother's knee,
AS THROUGH THE LAND AT EVE. 273
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?
If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that's likest me.
I think 't was solely mine indeed,
But that's no matter, — paint it so ;
The eyes of our mother (take good heed)
Looking not on the nest-full of eggs,
Nor the fluttering bird, held fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces down to our lies,
And oh with such injured, reproachful surprise,
I felt my heart bleed where the glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it. You, sir, know,
That you on the canvas are to repeat
Things that are fairest, things most sweet,
The mother, the lads with their bird at her knee;
Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree,
But oh, that look of reproachful woe!
High as the heavens your name I 'll shout,
If you paint the picture and leave that out!
ALICE CARY.
As through the Land at Eve we went.
S through the land at eve we went,
As
And plucked the ripened ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
Oh, we fell out I know not why,
And kissed again with tears.
For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,
Oh, there above the little grave,
We kissed again with tears.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
12*
274
POETICAL FAVORITES.
O
In the Shadow.
UR brightest fancies serve as rays
That many a dusty mote disclose,
Or play as summer lightning plays
And gathering darkness darker shows.
As mists from smoothest waters rise,
As reddening leaves must soonest fall,
So tears will stream from calmest eyes,
So Misery comes at Pleasure's pall.
Our sky shows darkest through the rifts;
Our spirits breathe infected air;
The dust we are about us lifts,
And rises with our purest prayer.
JACOB A. HOEKSTRA.
I
My Babes in the Wood.
KNOW a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder,
Than any story printed in your books.
You are so glad? It will not make you gladder;
Yet listen, with your pretty restless looks.
"Is it a fairy story?" Well, half fairy –
At least it dates far back as fairies do,
And seems to me as beautiful and airy;
Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true.
You had a baby sister and a brother,
Two very dainty people, rosy white,
Sweeter than all things else except each other
Older yet younger-gone from human sight!
A GOOD TIME GOING.
And I, who loved them, and shall love them ever,
And think with yearning tears how each light hand
Crept toward bright bloom and berries - I shall never
Know how I lost them. Do you understand?
Poor slightly golden heads! I think I missed them
First in some dreamy, piteous, doubtful way;
But when and where with lingering lips I kissed them,
My gradual parting, I can never say.
Sometimes I fancy that they may have perished
In shadowy quiet of wet rocks and moss,
Near paths whose very pebbles I have cherished,
For their small sakes, since my most bitter loss.
I fancy, too, that they were softly covered
By robins out of apple trees they knew,
Whose nursling wings in far home sunshine hovered,
Before the timid world had dropped the dew.
275
Their names were what yours are. At this you wonder,
Their pictures are your own, as you have seen;
And my bird-buried darlings, hidden under
Lost leaves — why, it is your dead selves I mean!
MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.
A Good Time going!
RAVE singer of the coming time,
BRAV
Sweet minstrel of the joyous present,
Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme,
The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant,
Good by! Good by!-- Our hearts and hands,
Our lips in honest Saxon phrases,
Cry, God be with him, till he stands
His feet among the English daisies!
276
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
'Tis here we part;
for other eyes
The busy deck, the fluttering streamer,
The dripping arms that plunge and rise,
The waves in foam, the ship in tremor,
The kerchiefs waving from the pier,
The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him,
The deep blue desert, lone and drear,
With heaven above and home before him!
His home!
the Western giant smiles,
And twirls the spotty globe to find it;
This little speck the British Isles?
'Tis but a freckle, never mind it!
He laughs, and all his prairies roll,
Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles,
And ridges stretched from pole to pole
Heave till they crack their iron knuckles!
But Memory blushes at the sneer,
And Honor turns with frown defiant,
And Freedom, leaning on her spear,
Laughs louder than the laughing giant :
"An islet is a world," she said,
"When glory with its dust has blended,
And Britain keeps her noble dead
Till earth and seas and skies are rended!"
Beneath each swinging forest-bough
Some arm as stout in death reposes,
From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed brow
Her valor's life-blood runs in roses;
Nay, let our brothers of the West
Write smiling in their florid pages,
One half her soil has walked the rest
In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages!
Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp,
From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather,
UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF MILTON. 277
The British oak with rooted grasp
Her slender handful holds together;
With cliffs of white and bowers of green,
And Ocean narrowing to caress her,
And hills and threaded streams between,-
Our little mother isle, God bless her!
In earth's broad temple where we stand,
Fanned by the eastern gales that brought us,
We hold the missal in our hand,
Bright with the lines our Mother taught us;
Where'er its blazoned page betrays
The glistening links of gilded fetters,
Behold, the half-turned leaf displays
Her rubric stained in crimson letters!
Enough! To speed a parting friend
'Tis vain alike to speak and listen;
Yet stay,
these feeble accents blend
With rays of light from eyes that glisten.
Good by! once more, and kindly tell
In words of peace the young world's story,
And say, besides, we love too well
Our mothers' soil, our fathers' glory!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
:
Under the Portrait of Milton.
HREE Poets, in three distant ages born,
TH
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed;
The next in majesty; in both the last.
The force of Nature could no further go:
To make a third she joined the former two.
JOHN DRYDEN.
278
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The Atlantic.
How in Heaven's name did Columbus get over,
Η
Is a pure wonder to me, I protest,
Cabot and Raleigh too, that well-read rover,
Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest ;
Bad enough all the same,
For them that after came;
But, in great Heaven's name,
How he should ever think
That, on the other brink
Of this wild waste, Terra Firma should be,
Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.
How a man ever should hope to get thither,
E'en if he knew there was another side!
But to suppose he should come anywhither,
Sailing straight on into chaos untried,
In spite of the motion,
Across the whole ocean,
To stick to the notion
That in some nook or bend
Of a sea without end,
He should find North and South America,
Was a pure madness, indeed I must say.
What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy,
Judged that the earth, like an orange, was round;
None of them ever said, Come along, follow me,
Sail to the West, and the East will be found.
Many a day before
Ever they'd come ashore,
Sadder and wiser men,
They'd have turned back again;
And that he did not, and did cross the sea,
Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION.
279
IN
Lovers, and a Reflection.
N moss-pranked dells which the sunbeams flatter
(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;
Meaning, however, is no great matter),
Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;
Through God's own heather we wonned together,
I and my Willie (O love my love):
I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,
And flitterbats wavered alow, above;
Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing
(Boats in that climate are so polite),
And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,
And oh, the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!
Through the rare red heather we danced together,
(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:
I must mention again it was gorgeous weather,
Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:
By rises that flushed with their purple favors,
Through becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,
We walked or waded, we two young shavers,
Thanking our stars we were both so green.
We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,
In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,
Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly
Or marjoram, kept making peacock-eyes :
Song-birds darted about, some inky
As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;
Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky -
They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!
X
280
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,
Or hang in the lift 'neath the white cloud's hem;
They need no parasols, no goloshes;
And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.
Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather)
That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;
And snapt (it was perfectly charming weather)—
W
-
Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms :
And Willie 'gan sing
(oh, his notes were fluty;
Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea) –
Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,
Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry."
Bowers of flowers encountered showers
In William's carol — (O love my Willie !)
Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow
I quite forget what say a daffodilly:
A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"
I think occurred next in his nimble strain;
And clay that was kneaden" of course in Eden-
A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:
Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,
And all least furlable things got "furled";
Not with any design to conceal their glories,
But simply and solely to rhyme with "world. "
Oh, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,
And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
Could be furled together, this genial weather,
And carted, or carried, on wafts away,
Nor ever again trotted out - ay me!
How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be!
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
281
I
Saturday Afternoon.
LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.
I have walked the world for fourscore years,
And they say that I am old
That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death,
And my years are wellnigh told.
It is very true it is very true
I am old, and I "bide my time” 4;
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.
Play on! play on! I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring ;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go -
For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low;
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness
To see the young so gay.
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
X
282
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
T¹
The Willis.
HE Willis are out to-night,
In the ghostly pale moonlight,
With robes and faces white.
Swiftly they circle round,
And make not any sound,
Nor footprint on the ground.
The forest is asleep;
All things that fly or creep
A death-like silence keep.
A fear is over all;
From spectral trees and tall
The gathering night-dews fall.
Moveless are leaf and limb,
While through the forest dim
Slow glides a figure slim
A figure slim and fair,
With loosened streaming hair,
Watching the Willis there!
"These are the ghosts," she said,`
"Of hapless ones unwed,
Who loved and now are dead."
Her hair was drenched with dew;
The moonlight shimmered through
And showed its raven hue.
"Each one of these," she cried,
"Or ever she was a bride,
For love's sake sinned and died.
I'D BE A BUTTERFLY.
"I come," she said, "I too;
Ye are by one too few,"
And joined the phantom crew.
Swiftly they circled round,
Nor was there any sound,
Nor footprint on the ground.
283
DAVID L. PROUDFIT.
I'd be a Butterfly.
'D be a butterfly born in a bower,
I'D
Where roses and lilies and violets meet;
Roving forever from flower to flower,
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I'd never languish for wealth or for power,
I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet:
I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,
I 'd have a pair of those beautiful wings.
Their summer-day's ramble is sportive and airy,
They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings.
Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary,
Power, alas! naught but misery brings:
I'd be a butterfly, sportive and airy,
Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings.
What though you tell me each gay little rover
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day;
Surely 't is better, when summer is over,
To die when all fair things are fading away.
Some in life's winter may toil to discover
Means of procuring a weary delay:
I'd be a butterfly, living a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
284
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
By the Fire.
OH, many a leaf will fall to-night,
As she wanders through the wood!
And many an angry gust will break
The dreary solitude.
I wonder if she's past the bridge,
Where Luggie moans beneath;
While rain-drops clash in planted lines
On rivulet and heath.
Disease hath laid his palsied palm
Upon my aching brow;
The headlong blood of twenty-one
Is thin and sluggish now.
'Tis nearly ten! A fearful night,
Without a single star
To light the shadow on her soul
With sparkle from afar :
The moon is canopied with clouds,
And her burden it is sore;
What would wee Jackie do, if he
Should never see her more?
Ay, light the lamp, and hang it up
At the window fair and free;
'T will be a beacon on the hill
To let your mother see.
And trim it well, my little Ann,
For the night is wet and cold,
And you know the weary, winding way
Across the miry wold.
All drenched will be her simple gown,
And the wet will reach her skin :
I wish that I could wander down,
And the red quarry win,
To take the burden from her back,
And place it upon mine;
A GREYPORT LEGEND.
With words of cheerful condolence,
Not uttered to repine.
You have a kindly mother, dears,
As ever bore a child,
And Heaven knows I love her well
In passion undefiled.
Ah me! I never thought that she
Would brave a night like this,
While I sat weaving by the fire
A web of fantasies.
How the winds beat this home of ours
With arrow-falls of rain;
This lonely home upon the hill
They beat with might and main.
And 'mid the tempest one lone heart
Anticipates the glow,
Whence, all her weary journey done,
Shall happy welcome flow.
'T is after ten! Oh, were she here,
Young man although I be,
I could fall down upon her neck,
And weep right gushingly!
I have not loved her half enough,
The dear old toiling one,
The silent watcher by my bed,
In shadow or in sun.
285
DAVID GRAY.
TH
A Greyport Legend.
HEY ran through the streets of the seaport town ;
They peered from the decks of the ships that lay:
The cold sea-fog that came whitening down
Was never as cold or white as they.
Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden !
Run for your shallops, gather your men,
Scatter your boats on the lower bay."
286
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Good cause for fear! In the thick midday
The hulk that lay by the rotting pier,
Filled with the children in happy play,
Parted its moorings, and drifted clear,
Drifted clear beyond the reach or call, –
Thirteen children they were in all,
All adrift in the lower bay!
Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all !
She will not float till the turning tide!"
Said his wife, "My darling will hear my call,
Whether in sea or heaven she bide."
And she lifted a quavering voice and high,
Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry,
Till they shuddered and wondered at her side.
The fog drove down on each laboring crew,
Veiled each from each and the sky and shore:
There was not a sound but the breath they drew,
And the lap of water and creak of oar;
And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown
O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone,
But not from the lips that had gone before.
They come no more. But they tell the tale,
That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef,
The mackerel fishers shorten sail;
For the signal they know will bring relief :
For the voices of children, still at play
In a phantom hulk that drifts alway
Through channels whose waters never fail.
It is but a foolish shipman's tale,
A theme for a poet's idle page;
But still, when the mists of doubt prevail,
And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age,
We hear from the misty troubled shore
The voice of the children gone before,
Drawing the soul to its anchorage.
BRET HARTE.
THE ROBIN.
287
MY
The Robin.
Y old Welsh neighbor over the way
Crept slowly out in the sun of spring,
Pushed from her ears the locks of gray,
And listened to hear the robin sing.
Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped,
And cruel in sport, as boys will be,
Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped
From bough to bough in the apple-tree.
"Nay!" said the grandmother; "have you not heard,
My poor bad boy, of the fiery pit,
And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird
Carries the water that quenches it?
"He brings cool dew in his little bill
And lets it fall on the souls of sin;
You can see the mark on his red breast still
Of fires that scorch as he drops it in.
My poor Bron rhuddyn ! my breast-burned bird,
Singing so sweetly from limb to limb,
Very dear to the heart of our Lord
Is he who pities the lost like Him!"
"Amen!" I said to the beautiful myth;
<<
Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well;
Each good thought is a drop wherewith
((
To cool and lessen the fires of hell.
Prayers of love like rain-drops fall;
Tears of pity are cooling dew;
And dear to the heart of our Lord are all
Who suffer like Him in the good they do.”
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
288
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
O
The Violet.
H! faint, delicious, spring-time violet,
Thine odor, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.
The breath of distant fields upon my brow
Blows through that open door
The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low,
And sadder than of yore.
It comes afar, from that belovèd place,
And that beloved hour,
When life hung ripening in love's golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.
A spring goes singing through its reedy grass;
The lark sings o'er my head,
Drowned in the sky - O pass, ye visions, pass!
I would that I were dead!
Why hast thou opened that forbidden door
From which I ever flee?
O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!
O violet! thy odor through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf.
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY.
TOMMY'S DEAD.
289
Tommy's Dead.
You may give
OU may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead,
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed's waste, I know, boys,
There's not a blade will grow, boys,
'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys,
And Tommy 's dead.
Send the colt to fair, boys,
He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,
To see him in the shed;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bred;
Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red;
There's no sign of grass, boys,
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land 's not what it was, boys,
And the beasts must be fed:
You may turn Peg away, boys,
You may pay off old Ned,
We've had a dull day, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
Move my chair on the floor, boys,
Let me turn my head:
She's standing there in the door, boys,
Your sister Winifred!
Take her away from me, boys,
Your sister Winifred!
VOL. III.
13
290
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Move me round in my place, boys,
Let me turn my head,
Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed!
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all 's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head;
Out of the big oak-tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,
And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.
There's something not right, boys,
But I think it's not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys-
The Lord be hallowed!
Outside and in
The ground is cold to my tread,
The hills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shriveled and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.
There's nothing but cinders and sand,
The rat and the mouse have fed,
And the summer 's empty and cold;
Over valley and wold
Wherever I turn my head
There's a mildew and a mould,
The sun's going out overhead,
And I'm very old,
And Tommy's dead.
TOMMY'S DEAD.
What am I staying for, boys?
You're all born and bred,
'T is fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed,
And she's gone before, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly head,
She knew she'd never see 't, boys,
And she stole off to bed;
I've been sitting up alone, boys,
For he 'd come home, he said,
But it's time I was gone, boys,
For Tommy 's dead.
Put the shutters up, boys,
Bring out the beer and bread,
Make haste and sup, boys,
For my eyes are heavy as lead;
There's something wrong i' the cup, boys,
There's something ill wi' the bread,
I don't care to sup, boys,
And Tommy 's dead.
I'm not right, I doubt, boys,
I've such a sleepy head,
I shall never more be stout, boys,
You may carry me to bed.
What are you about, boys,
The prayers are all said,
The fire 's raked out, boys,
And Tommy's dead?
The stairs are too steep, boys,
You may carry me to the head,
The night's dark and deep, boys,
Your mother's long in bed,
291
7
292
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
I'm not used to kiss, boys,
You may shake my hand instead.
All things go amiss, boys,
You may lay me where she is,-boys,
And I'll rest my old head:
'Tis a poor world, this, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
SYDNEY DOBELL.
The Grandmother.
AND Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne?
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a
man.
And Willy's wife has written: she never was overwise,
Never the wife for Willy: he would n't take my advice.
For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save,
Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave.
Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one.
Eh!-but he would n't hear me
and Willy, you say, is gone.
Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock;
Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock.
"Here's a leg for a babe of a week!" says doctor; and he
would be bound,
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his
tongue!
I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went so young.
I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay;
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.
THE GRANDMOTHER.
293
Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and
cold;
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old:
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.
For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear,
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear.
I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe,
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.
For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew
right well
That Jenny had tripped in her time: I knew, but I would not
tell.
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar!
But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is
a fire.
And the parson made it his text that week, and he said like-
wise,
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies,
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with out-
right,
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a
day;
And all things looked half-dead, though it was the middle of
May.
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been!
But soiling another, Annie, will never make one's self clean.
And I cried myself wellnigh blind, and all of an evening late
I climbed to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the
gate.
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale,
And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirped the night-
ingale.
3
294
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
All of a sudden he stopped: there passed by the gate of the
farm,
Willy — he did n't see me—and Jenny hung on his arm,
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how;
Ah, there's no fool like the old one - it makes me angry now.
Willy stood up like a man, and looked the thing that he
meant;
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went.
And I said, “Let us part: in a hundred years it 'll all be the
same,
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name."
And he turned, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moon-
shine :
"Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine.
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill;
But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still."
66
Marry you, Willy?" said I, "but I needs must speak my
mind,
And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and un-
kind."
But he turned and clasped me in his arms, and answered,
"No, love, no";
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.
So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown;
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a
crown.
But the first that ever I bear was dead before he was born,
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.
That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death.
There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath.
I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife;
But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for
his life.
THE GRANDMOTHER.
His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain:
295
I looked at the still little body - his trouble had all been in
vain.
For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn:
But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he
was born.
But he cheered me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay:
Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his
way:
Never jealous
not he: we had many a happy year;
And he died, and I could not weep-my own time seemed so
near.
But I wished it had been God's will that I, too, then could
have died:
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side.
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget :
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet.
Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two,
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you :
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will,
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill.
And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too
team;
they sing to their
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream.
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.
And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive;
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five:
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten;
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men.
For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve;
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve :
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I;
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by.
3
296
OUR POETICAL FAVORites.
To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad;
But mine is a time of peace, and there is grace to be had;
And God, not man, is the judge of us all when life shall cease:
And in this book, little Annie, the message is one of peace.
And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain,
And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again.
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest,
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.
So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower;
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour –
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next;
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vexed?
And Willy's wife has written, she never was overwise.
Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep my eyes.
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have passed away.
But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to
stay.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
L
The Annoyer.
OVE knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes unbidden everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.
He peeps into the warrior's heart
From the tip of a stooping plume,
THE ANNOYER.
And the serried spears, and the many men
May not deny him room.
He'll come to his tent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream,
And he'll float to his eye in the morning light,
Like a fay on a silver beam.
He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,
And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,
And flits in his woodland track.
297
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,
The cloud and the open sky,
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.
The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,
And a spell of thought has he;
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.
He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer,
And profanes the cell of the holy man
In the shape of a lady fair.
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of human thought
Will Love be lurking nigh.
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
13*
x
298
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
•
The Hellespont.
THE winds are high on Helle's wave,
As on that night of stormy water,
When Love, who sent, forgot to save
The young, the beautiful, the brave,
The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter.
Oh! when alone along the sky
Her turret-torch was blazing high,
Though rising gale, and breaking foam,
And shrieking sea-birds warned him home;
And clouds aloft and tides below,
With signs and sounds, forbade to go,
He could not see, he would not hear,
Or sound or sign foreboding fear;
His eye but saw the light of love,
The only star it hailed above;
His ear but rang with Hero's song,
"Ye waves, divide not lovers long!
That tale is old, but love anew
May nerve young hearts to prove as true.
""
The winds are high, and Helle's tide
Rolls darkly heaving to the main;
And Night's descending shadows hide
That field with blood bedewed in vain,
The desert of old Priam's pride;
The tombs, sole relics of his reign,
All save immortal dreams that could beguile
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle!
Oh! yet
for there my steps have been;
These feet have pressed the sacred shore,
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne –
Minstrel with thee to muse, to mourn,
To trace again those fields of yore,
L'INGENU.
Believing every hillock green
Contains no fabled hero's ashes,
And that around the undoubted scene
Thine own "broad Hellespont" still dashes,
Be long my lot, and cold were he
Who there could gaze, denying thee!
299
LORD BYRON.
I
L'Ingenu.
HAD never thought of her; we walked
With June underfoot and overhead.
I had never thought of her; we talked,
And I never noticed what we said.
I fell on flowers with my lout's long feet.
I shocked the solemn old oaks with laughter;
I droned of weather, the way, the wheat;
Her glance said shyly: And what comes after?
Kind counsels dropped from a clement sky;
The way was made, as it were, for two:
I could only hear the crickets cry;
She heard, higher up, the white doves coo.
I — eighteen, crude, and ashamed to please;
She — eighteen, ripe, with a looking-glass !
The birds sang love to her in the trees,
And the crickets hissed me in the grass !
She rifled berries in many a bush,
The white arm flashed in many a turn;
A sunbeam broke on it like a blush;
I watched a plover rise from the fern.
300
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
A brook ran rollicking on our way;
We stopped a moment, and as we stood,
The sweet, warm, amorous air of May
Hymned Hymen, Hymen, throughout the wood.
Her voice had tender and timid tones,
And a frightened laugh, and a laughing scream;
Her fine feet flew on the stepping-stones;
I watched the trout turn against the stream.
I found not a thing to say—and talked;
I heard her sigh and I saw her smile;
She was beside me, and as we walked
I wished it was over all the while!
We had left the woods ere I saw the red,
Meek mouth, and the face's sea-shell tints;
"Let's think no more of it, then," she said
And I have thought of it ever since.
ANONYMOUS.
Sleep.
How many thousands of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep! - O Sleep! O gentle sleep!
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch,
A LAMENT.
A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge;
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafening clamors in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
301
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
From King Henry IV.
S
A Lament.
WIFTER far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone ;
As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.
The swallow Summer comes again;
The owlet Night resumes her reign;
But the wild swan Youth is fain
To fly with thee, false as thou.
My heart each day desires the morrow;
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow ;
Vainly would my Winter borrow
Sunny leaves from any bough:
تو
302
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Lilies for a bridal bed,
Roses for a matron's head,
Violets for a maiden dead
Pansies let my flowers be;
On the living grave I bear,
Scatter them without a tear;
Let no friend, however dear,
Waste one hope, one fear for me.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
B
The Musical Frogs.
REKEKEKEX! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!
How sweet ye sing! would God that I
Upon the bubbling pool might lie,
And sun myself to-day
With you!
No curtained bride, I ween,
Nor pillowed babe, nor cushioned queen,
Nor tiny fay on emerald green,
Nor silken lady gay,
Lies on a softer couch.
O Heaven!
How many a lofty mortal, riven
By keen-fanged inflammation,
Might change his lot with yours, to float
On sunny pond with bright green-coat,
And sing with gently throbbing throat,
Amid the croaking nation,
Brekekekex co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!
Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!
Happy the bard who weaves his rhyme
Recumbent on the purple thyme,
In the fragrant month of June;
Happy the sage whose lofty mood
Doth with far-searching ken intrude
THE MUSICAL FROGS.
303
Into the vast infinitude
Of things beyond the moon;
But happier not the wisest man
Whose daring thought leads on the van
Of star-eyed speculation,
Than thou, quick-legged, light-bellied thing,
Within the green pond's reedy ring,
That with a murmurous joy dost sing
Among the croaking nation,
Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!
Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!
Great Jove with dark clouds sweeps the sky,
Where thunders roll and lightnings fly,
And gusty winds are roaring;
Fierce Mars his stormy steed bestrides
And, lashing wild its bleeding sides,
O'er dead and dying madly rides,
Where the iron hail is pouring.
'Tis well; such crash of mighty powers
Must be the spell may not be ours
To tame the hot creation.
But little frogs with paddling foot
Can sing when gods and kings dispute,
And little bards can strum the lute
Amid the croaking nation,
With Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!
Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!
Farewell! not always I may sing
Around the green pond's reedy ring
With you, ye boggy muses!
But I must go and do stern battle
With herds of stiff-necked human cattle,
Whose eager lust of windy prattle
The gentle rein refuses.
Oh, if- but all such ifs are vain ;
I'll go and blow my trump again,
With brazen iteration;
2
304
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And when, by logic's iron rule,
I've quashed each briskly babbling fool,
I'll seek again your gentle school,
And hum beside the tuneful pool,
Amid the croaking nation,
Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs!
JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
We brought the Summer with us.
April, 1865.
WE left the sunny South behind,
'Mid giant-leaved bananas,
Its cypress-trees with vines entwined,
And cotton-clothed savannas;
The wild rice-swamps, as we came on,
Round ripening harvests flooded,
But here the winter scarce seemed gone,
The maples only budded.
But though the skies wore darker stoles,
And though the woods grew dumber,
We bore the season in our souls,
And with us brought the summer.
A winter sad, ah, friends so dear,
You spent in lonesome sorrow;
While every moaning wind waked fear
And bodings of the morrow.
But home we came; and leaves grow green,
The good house shakes with laughter
Since olden times there has not been
Such joy beneath its rafter!
For though the skies wore darker stoles,
And though the woods grew dumber,
We bore the season in our souls,
And with us brought the summer.
JOSEPH O'Connor.
MY LITTLE BROOK.
305
A
My Little Brook.
LITTLE brook half hidden under trees,
It gives me peace and rest the whole day through,
Having this little brook to wander to,
So cool, so clear, with grassy banks and these
Sweet miracles of violets 'neath the trees.
There is a rock where I can sit and see
The crystal ripples dancing down and racing,
Like children round the stones each other chasing,
Then for a moment pausing seriously,
In a dark mimic pond that I can see.
The rock is rough and broken on its edge
With jutting corners, but there come alway
The merry ripples with their tiny spray,
To press it ere they flow on by the sedge,
They never fail the old rock's broken edge.
I sit here by the stream in full content;
It is so constant, and I lay my hand
Down through its waters on the golden sand,
And watch the sunshine with its shallows blent,
Watch it with ever growing, sweet content.
And yet the waves they come I know not whence,
And they flow on from me I know not whither,
Sometimes my fancy pines to follow thither;
But I can only see the forest dense,
Still the brook flows I know not where nor whence.
Who knows from what far hills it threads its way,
What mysteries of cliffs and pines and skies
O'erhang the spot where its first fountains rise,
What shy wild deer may stoop to taste its spray,
Through what rare regions my brook threads its way.
306
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
I only see the trees above, below,
Who knows through what fair lands the stream may run,
What children play, what homes are built thereon,
Through what great cities broadening it may go?
I only see the trees above, below.
What do I care? I pause with full content,
My little brook beside the rock to see,
What it has been or what it yet may be,
Naught matters, I but know that it is sent
Flowing my way, and I am well content.
MARY BOLLES BRANCH.
I
To Lucy.
MET thee, dear, and loved thee, yet we part,
Thou on thine unknown way, and I on mine,
Ere yet the music of my woman's heart
Hath had full time to harmonize with thine.
Yet since the stream begun hath seemed so sweet,
Forgive me that I dare to proffer thee
This echo from the depths where all complete
Trembles the soul's perfected melody.
Jewels I have not, else for memory
Would I bestow them on the friend I love,
But tears and smiles, and the sweet thoughts that move
The soul by day and night, such, such to thee
I give in these poor lines as lavishly
As summer winds yield fragrance when they blow
Up from a vale where countless roses grow.
ANNA KATHERINE GREEN,
SUMMER.
307
A
Summer.
ROUND this lovely valley rise
The purple hills of Paradise.
Oh, softly on yon banks of haze
Her rosy face the summer lays;
Becalmed along the azure sky
The argosies of cloudland lie,
Whose shores with many a shining rift
Far-off their pearl-white peaks uplift.
Through all the long midsummer day
The meadow sides are sweet with hay,
I seek the coolest sheltered seat,
Just where the field and forest meet,
Where grow the pine trees, tall and bland,
The ancient oaks, austere and grand,
And fringy roots and pebbles fret
The ripples of the rivulet.
I watch the mowers as they go
Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row;
With even stroke their scythes they swing,
In tune their merry whetstones ring.
Behind, the nimble youngsters run,
And toss the thick swaths in the sun.
The cattle graze; while warm and still
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill,
And bright, when summer breezes break,
The green wheat crinkles like a lake.
The butterfly and bumble-bee
Come to the pleasant woods with me;
Quickly before me runs the quail,
Her chickens skulk behind the rail,
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OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
High up the lone wood-pigeon sits,
And the woodpecker pecks and flits.
Sweet woodland music sinks and swells,
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells.
The swarming insects drone and hum,
The partridge beats his throbbing drum,
The squirrel leaps among the boughs,
And chatters in his leafy house;
The oriole flashes by; and look
Into the mirror of the brook,
Where the vain bluebird trims his coat,
Two tiny feathers fall and float.
As silently, as tenderly,
The down of peace descends on me.
Oh, this is peace! I have no need
Of friend to talk, or book to read ;
A dear Companion here abides,
Close to my thrilling heart he hides;
The holy silence is his voice;
I lie, and listen, and rejoice.
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
TH
Sunset.
HE moon is up, and yet it is not night:
Sunset divides the sky with her; a sea
Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be
Melted to one vast Iris of the west,
Where the day joins the past eternity;
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest
Floats through the azure air, an island of the blest.
A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still
SPRING.
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhotian hill,
As Day and Night contending were, until
Nature reclaimed her order : —
- gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil
The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
309
Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows,
Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar,
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse:
And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains: parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new color as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till 't is gone-and all is gray.
LORD BYRON.
Spring.
HEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,
WHE
The mother of months in meadow or plain
Fills the shadows and windy places
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ;
And the brown bright nightingale amorous
Is half assuaged for Itylus,
For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.
Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
Maiden most perfect, lady of light,
With a noise of winds and many rivers,
With a clamor of waters, and with might;
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet,
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet!
For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,
Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.
310
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,
Fold our hands round her knees and cling?
O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her,
Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!
For the stars and the winds are unto her
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing.
For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot,
The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit;
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,
And the hoofèd heel of a satyr crushes
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.
And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follow with dancing and fill with delight
The Mænad and the Bassarid;
And soft as lips that laugh and hide,
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair
Over her eyebrows shading her eyes;
:
DAFFODILS.
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare
Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves,
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare,
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.
311
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
I
Daffodils.
WANDERED lonely 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, beneath the trees,
Fluttering, 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.
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 the 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.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
312
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Indian Names.
YE say they all have passed away,
That noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanished
From off the crested wave,
That 'mid the forests where they roamed
There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.
'T is where Ontario's billow
Like ocean's surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,
Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their cone-like cabins,
That clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
Before the autumn gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.
Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it
Amid his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreathed it
Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.
THE RHINE.
Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock on his forehead hoar
Doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains build their monument
Though ye destroy their dust.
Ye call these red-browed brethren
The insects of an hour,
Crushed like the noteless worm amid
The regions of their power;
Ye drive them from their fathers' lands,
Ye break of faith the seal,
But can ye from the court of Heaven
Exclude their last appeal?
Ye see their unresisting tribes,
With toilsome step and slow,
On through the trackless desert pass,
A caravan of woe;
Think
ye the Eternal Ear is deaf,
His sleepless vision dim?
Think ye the soul's blood may not cry
From that far land to him?
313
LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.
The Rhine.
HE castled crag of Drachenfels
TH
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossomed trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
VOL. III.
14
314
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And scattered cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strewed a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me.
And peasant girls with deep-blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,
And many a rock which steeply lowers,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!
I send the lilies given to me:
Though long before thy hand they touch
I know that they must withered be,
But yet reject them not as such ;
For I have cherished them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
And know'st them gathered by the Rhine,
And offered from my heart to thine!
The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round:
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here ;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine.
LORD BYRON.
DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.
315
The Skylark.
BIRD of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Oh, 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,
Where 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,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-placé -
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
JAMES HOGG.
O
Dirge for the Year.
RPHAN Hours, the Year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry Hours, smile instead,
For the Year is but asleep;
See, it smiles, as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.
316
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
So white Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day;
Solemn Hours! wail aloud
For your mother in her shroud.
As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days
Rocks the Year. Be calm and mild,
Trembling Hours! she will arise
With new love within her eyes.
January gray is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier;
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps - but, O ye Hours!
Follow with May's fairest flowers.
PERCY BYSshe Shelley.
A
Sun and Shadow.
SI look from the isle, o'er its billows of green,
To the billows of foam-crested blue,
Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen,
Half dreaming my eyes will pursue;
Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray
As the chaff in the stroke of the flail;
Now white as the sea-gull she flies on her way,
The sun gleaming bright on her sail.
Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,-
Of breakers that whiten and roar:
A POET'S APOLOGY.
How little he cares if in shadow or sun
They see him who gaze from the shore !
He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef,
To the rock that is under his lee,
As he drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf,
O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea.
Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted caves
Where life and its ventures are laid,
The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves,
May see us in sunshine or shade;
Yet true to our course, though our shadow grow dark,
We'll trim our broad sail as before,
And stand by the rudder that governs the bark,
Nor ask how we look from the shore !
317
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
A Poet's Apology.
~RUTH cut on high in tablets of hewn stone,
TR
Or on great columns gorgeously adorned,
Perchance were left alone,
Passed by and scorned;
But Truth enchased upon a jewel rare
A man would keep, and next his bosom wear.
So, many an hour, I sit and carve my gems
Ten spoiled, for one in purer beauty set:
Not for kings' diadems,
Some amulet
That may be worn o'er hearts that toil and plod,
Though but one pearl that bears the name of God.
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.
318
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
WE
The Mowers.
HERE mountains round a lonely dale
Our cottage-roof enclose,
Come night or morn, the hissing pail
With yellow cream o'erflows;
And roused at break of day from sleep,
And cheerly trudging hither-
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the grass together.
The fog drawn up the mountain-side
And scattered flake by flake,
The chasm of blue above grows wide,
And richer blue the lake;
Gay sunlights. o'er the hillocks creep,
And join for golden weather -
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.
The good-wife stirs at five, we know,
The master soon comes round,
And many swaths must lie a-row
Ere breakfast-horn shall sound;
The clover and the fiorin deep,
The grass of silvery feather—
A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.
The noontide brings its welcome rest
Our toil-wet brows to dry;
Anew with merry stave and jest -
The shrieking hone we ply.
White falls the brook from steep to steep
Among the purple heather –
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.
FARM-YARD SONG.
For dial, see, our shadows turn;
Low lies the stately mead;
A scythe, an hour-glass, and an urn
All flesh is grass, we read.
To-morrow's sky may laugh or weep,
To Heaven we leave it whether-
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We've done our task together.
319
WILLIAM Allingham.
Ο
Farm-yard Song.
VER the hills the farm-boy goes,
His shadow lengthened along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;
The early dews are falling
Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling,-
แ Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
Farther, farther, over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still,
Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"
Into the yard the farmer goes,
With grateful heart, at the close of day;
Harness and chain are hung away;
In the wagon shed stand yoke and plough;
The straw 's in the stack, the hay in the mow,
The cooling dews are falling;
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
320
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling, –
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray,
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"
Now to her task the milkmaid goes,
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,
While the pleasant dews are falling;
The new-milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye;
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,
Soothingly calling, —
"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,
Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!"
To supper at last the farmer goes,
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling.
The housewife's hand has turned the lock :
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose;
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes
Singing, calling,—
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
And oft the milkmaid in her dreams
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring, "So, boss! so!"
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
HAUNTED HOUSES.
321
A
Haunted Houses.
LL houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.
There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.
The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.
We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.
The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.
Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.
2
14**
322
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star,
An undiscovered planet in our sky.
And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night—
So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the thick abyss.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Moonlight.
—
"NAY, wait me here - I'll not be long ;
'Tis but a little way;
I'll come ere you have sung the song
I made you yesterday.
"Tis but to cross yon streak of light,
And fresh the breezes blow;
You will not lose me from your sight, -
One kiss, and now I go!"
So, in the pleasant night of June,
He lightly sails away,
To where the glimmer of the moon
Lies right across the bay,
And she sits singing on the shore
A song of pure delight;
The boat flies on a little more,
And he will cross the light.
SOLITUDE.
The boat flies on, the song is done,
The light before him gleams;
A little more, and he has won!
'Tis farther than it seems.
The boat flies on, the boat flies fast;
The wind blows strong and free;
The boat flies on, the bay is past,
He sails into the sea.
And on, and on, and ever on,
The light lies just before;
But oh, forevermore is done
The song upon the shore!
323
ROBERT KELLEY WEEKS.
TH
Solitude.
HERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean, roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain :
Man marks the earth with ruin his control
Stops with the shore: upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
LORD BYRON.
324
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Tithonus.
HE woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
TH
The vapors weep their burden to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes; I wither slowly in thinę arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed
To his great heart none other than a god!
I asked thee, "Give me immortality."
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men who care not how they give.
But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills,
And beat me down and marred and wasted me,
And though they could not end me, left me maimed
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,
Immortal age beside immortal youth,
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,
Thy beauty, make amends, though even now,
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears
To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:
Why should a man desire in any way
To vary from the kindly race of men,
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?
A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
TITHONUS.
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renewed.
Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosened manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.
Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,
And make me tremble lest a saying learned,
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true?
"The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."
–
Ay me! ay me! with what another heart
In days far-off, and with what other eyes
I used to watch - if I be he that watched -
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings;
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood
Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds
Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
Yet hold me not forever in thine East:
How can my nature longer mix with thine?
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam
Floats up from these dim fields about the homes
325
326
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Of happy men that have the power to die,
And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Release me, and restore me to the ground:
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave;
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
A Song for September.
EPTEMBER strews the woodland o'er
SE
With many a brilliant color;
The world is brighter than before-
Why should our hearts be duller?
Sorrow and the scarlet leaf,
Sad thoughts and sunny weather!
Ah me! this glory and this grief
Agree not well together.
This is the parting season—this
The time when friends are flying;
And lovers now, with many a kiss,
Their long farewells are sighing.
Why is Earth so gayly drest?
This pomp, that Autumn beareth,
A funeral seems, where every guest
A bridal garment weareth.
Each one of us, perchance, may here,
On some blue morn hereafter,
Return to view the gaudy year,
But not with boyish laughter.
We shall then be wrinkled men,
Our brows with silver laden,
And thou this glen mayst seek again,
But nevermore a maiden!
OCTOBER.
Nature perhaps foresees that Spring
Will touch her teeming bosom,
And that a few brief months will bring
The bird, the bee, the blossom;
Ah! these forests do not know -
Or would less brightly wither
The virgin that adorns them so
Will nevermore come hither!
327
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.
October.
I
WOULD not die in May;
When orchards drift with blooms of white, like bil-
lows on the deep,
And whispers from the lilac-bush across my senses sweep,
That 'mind me of a girl I knew when life was always May,
Who filled my nights with starry hopes that faded out by
day -
When time is full of wedding-days, and nests of robins brim
Till overflows their wicker sides the old familiar hymn –
The window brightens like the eye, the cottage door swings
wide,
The boys come homeward, one by one, and bring a smiling
bride,
The fire-fly shows her signal light, the partridge beats his
drum,
And all the world gives promise of something sweet to come
Ah, who would die on such a day?
Ah, who would die in May?
I would not die in June;
When looking up with faces quaint the pansies grace the sod,
And, looking down, the willows see their doubles in the
flood
328
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
When, blessing God, we breathe again the roses in the air,
And lilies light the fields along with their immortal wear,
As once they lit the Sermon of the Saviour on the Mount,
And glorified the story they evermore recount
Through pastures blue the flocks of God go trooping one by
one,
And turn their golden fleeces round to dry them in the sun
When calm as Galilee the grain is rippling in the wind,
And nothing dying anywhere but something that has sinned-
Ah, who would die in life's own noon?
Ah, who would die in June?
But when October comes,
And poplars drift their leafage down in flakes of gold below,
And beeches burn like twilight fires that used to tell of snow,
And maples bursting into flame set all the hills afire,
And summer from her evergreens sees paradise draw nigher
A thousand sunsets all at once distill like Hermon's dew,
And linger on the waiting woods and stain them through and
through,
As if all earth had blossomed out, one grand Corinthian
flower,
To crown Time's graceful capital for just one gorgeous hour!
They strike their colors to the king of all the stately throng—
He comes in pomp, October! To him all times belong:
The frost is on his sandals, but the flush is on his cheeks,
September sheaves are in his arms, June voices when he
speaks -
The elms lit bravely like a torch within a Grecian hand.
See where they light the monarch on through all the splen-
did land!
The sun puts on a human look behind the hazy fold,
The mid-year moon of silver is struck anew in gold,
In honor of the very day that Moses saw of old ;
For in the burning bush that blazed as quenchless as a sword,
The old Lieutenant first beheld October and the Lord!
Ah, then, October let it be-
I'll claim my dying day from thee!
BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.
A HYMN.
329
Peace.
MY soul, there is a country
Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingèd sentry,
All skillful in the wars.
There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,
And one born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious friend,
And (O my soul, awake !)
Did in pure love descend,
To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither
Thy fortress and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges,
For none can thee secure,
But one who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.
HENRY VAUGHAN.
H
A Hymn.
ERE brief is the sighing,
And brief is the crying,
For brief is the life!
The life there is endless,
The joy there is endless,
And ended the strife.
What joys are in heaven!
To whom are they given?
כי
330
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Ah! whom? and to whom ?
The stars to the earth-born,
"Best robes " to the sin-worm,
The crown for the doom.
O country the fairest !
Our country the dearest,
We press towards thee;
O Sion the golden!
Our eyes now are holden,
Thy light till we see;
Thy crystalline ocean,
Unvexed by commotion,
Thy fountain of life;
Thy deep peace unspoken,
Pure, sinless, unbroken,
Thy peace beyond strife;
Thy meek saints all glorious,
Thy martyrs victorious,
Who suffer no more;
Thy halls full of singing,
Thy hymns ever ringing
Along thy safe shore.
Like the lily for whiteness,
Like the jewel for brightness,
Thy vestments, O Bride!
The Lamb ever with thee,
The Bridegroom is with thee
With thee to abide !
We know not, we know not,
All human words show not,
The joys we may reach :
The mansions preparing,
The joys for our sharing,
The welcome for each.
REST IS NOT HERE.
O Sion the golden!
My eyes still are holden,
Thy light till I see;
And deep in thy glory,
Unveiled thou before me,
My King, look on thee!
Anonymous Translation.
331
BERNARD OF CLUNY.
Rest is not here.
HAT's this vain world to me?
WHAT
Rest is not here;
False are the smiles I see,
The mirth I hear.
Where is youth's joyful glee?
Where all once dear to me?
Gone, as the shadows flee
Rest is not here.
Why did the morning shine.
Blithely and fair ?
Why did those tints so fine
Vanish in air?
Does not the vision say,
Faint, lingering heart, away,
Why in this desert stay-
Dark land of care!
Where souls angelic soar,
Thither repair;
Let this vain world no more
Lull and ensnare.
That heaven I love so well
Still in my heart shall dwell;
All things around me tell
Rest is found there.
LADY NAIRNE.
332
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
BEY
A Little While.
EYOND the smiling and the weeping
I shall be soon;
Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
Beyond the blooming and the fading
I shall be soon;
Beyond the shining and the shading,
Beyond the hoping and the dreading,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
ร
Beyond the rising and the setting
I shall be soon;
Beyond the calming and the fretting,
Beyond remembering and forgetting,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
Beyond the gathering and the strowing
I shall be soon;
Beyond the ebbing and the flowing,
Beyond the coming and the going,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
RESTLESSNESS.
Beyond the parting and the meeting
I shall be soon;
Beyond the farewell and the greeting,
Beyond this pulse's fever beating,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
Beyond the frost-chain and the fever
I shall be soon ;
Beyond the rock-waste and the river,
Beyond the ever and the never,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!
Lord, tarry not, but come.
333
HORATIUS BONAR.
D
Restlessness.
OWN in the harbor the ships lie moored,
Weary sea-birds with folded wing, -
Anchors sunken and sails secured;
Yet on the water they rock and swing,
Rock and swing,
As though each keel were a living thing.
Silence sleeps on the earth and air,
Never a breath does the sea-breeze blow,
Yet like living pendulums there,
Down in the harbor, to and fro,
To and fro,
Backward and forward the vessels go.
As a child on its mother's breast,
Cradled in happy slumber, lies,
334
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Yet, half-conscious of joy and rest,
Varies its breathing, and moves and sighs,
Moves and sighs,
Yet neither wakes nor opens its eyes.
Or it may be, the vessels long-
For almost human they seem to me —
For the leaping waves, and the storm-wind strong,
And the fetterless freedom out at sea,
Out at sea,
And feel their rest a captivity.
So as a soul from a higher sphere,
Fettered down to this earthly clay,
Strives at the chains that bind it here,
Tossing and struggling, day by day,
Day by day,
Longing to break them and flee away,
Strive the ships in their restlessness,
Whether the tide be high or low;
And why these tear-drops, I cannot guess,
As down in the harbor, to and fro,
To and fro,
Backward and forward the vessels go.
ELIZABETH AKERS ALlen.
Here's to them that are gane.
Η
ERE 's to them, to them that are gane;
Here's to them, to them that are gane;
Here's to them that were here, the faithful and dear,
That will never be here again— no, never.
But where are they now that are gane?
Oh, where are the faithful and true?
They're gane to the light that fears not the night,
An' their day of rejoicing shall end
no, never.
ST. AGNES.
Here's to them, to them that were here;
Here's to them, to them that were here;
Here's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that's gane by,
But 't was ne'er like what's coming, to last forever.
Oh, bright was their morning sun!
Oh, bright was their morning sun!
Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down;
But the storm and the cloud are now past — forever.
Fareweel, fareweel! parting silence is sad;
Oh, how sad the last parting tear!
335
But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheek
Can bedim the bright vision again no never.
Then speed to the wings of old Time,
That waft us where pilgrims would be;
To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest,
Where the full tide of glory shall flow forever.
LADY NAIRNE.
St. Agnes.
EEP on the convent-roof the snows
DE
Are sparkling to the moon :
My breath to heaven like vapor goes:
May my soul follow soon!
The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to my Lord:
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies.
336
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
As these white robes are soiled and dark,
To yonder shining ground;
As this pale taper's earthly spark,
To yonder argent round;
So shows my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am,
To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
Through all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors;
The flashes come and go;
All heaven bursts her starry floors,
And strows her lights below,
And deepens on and up! the gates
Roll back, and far within
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity,
One sabbath deep and wide
A light upon the shining sea
The Bridegroom with his bride!
ALFRED TENNYSON.
The Pauper's Death-bed.
READ softly! bow the head
TR
In reverent silence bow!
No passing-bell doth toll;
Yet an immortal soul
In passing now.
THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.
Stranger, however great,
With lowly reverence bow!
There's one in that poor shed—
One by that paltry bed -
Greater than thou.
Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state !
Enter! no crowds attend
Enter ! no guards defend
This palace gate.
That pavement, damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.
No mingling voices sound.
An infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed again
-
That short deep gasp and then
The parting groan.
Oh, change — oh, wondrous change !
Burst are the prison bars!
This moment there, so low,
So agonized — and now
Beyond the stars!
VOL. III.
Oh, change
stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod!
The sun eternal breaks;
The new immortal wakes
Wakes with his God.
337
CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.
15
338
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Hymn.
BROTHER, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown, -
From the burden of the flesh,
And from care and sin released,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
The toilsome way thou 'st traveled o'er,
And hast borne the heavy load ;
But Christ hath taught thy wandering feet
To reach his blest abodę.
Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,
On his Father's faithful breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor can doubt thy faith assail
;
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail.
And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust,"
Thus the solemn priest hath said -
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And seal thy narrow bed;
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
DEATH DEPOSED.
And when the Lord shall summon us
Whom thou now hast left behind,
May we, untainted by the world,
As sure a welcome find;
May each, like thee, depart in peace,
To be a glorious guest
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
339
HENRY HART MILMAN.
DEATH
Death Deposed.
EATH stately came to a young man, and said,
"If thou wert dead,
What matter? The young man replied,
"See my young bride,
Whose life were all one blackness if I died.
My land requires me; and the world's self, too,
Methinks, would miss some things that I can do.”
Then Death in scorn this only said,
"Be dead."
And so he was.
And soon another's hand
Made rich his land.
The sun, too, of three summers had the might
To bleach the widow's hue, light and more light,
Again to bridal white.
And nothing seemed to miss beneath that sun
His work undone.
But Death soon met another man, whose eye
Was Nature's spy ;
Who said: "Forbear thy too triumphant scorn.
The weakest born
>
340
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Of all the sons of men is by his birth
Heir of the Might Eternal; and this Earth
Is subject to him in his place.
Thou leav'st no trace.
"Thou- the mock Tyrant that men fear and hate,
Grim fleshless Fate,
Cold, dark, and wormy thing of loss and tears!
Not in the sepulchres
Hast lodging, but in my own crimsoned heart;
Where while it beats we call thee Life.
A name, a shadow, into any gulf,
Out of this world, which is not thine,
But mine:
Or stay! because thou art
Only Myself."
Depart!
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
A Resurrection Hymn.
"The Lord is risen."
DEAR Saviour of a dying world,
Where grief and change must be,
In the new grave where thou wast laid,
My heart lies down with thee:
Oh, not in cold despair of joy,
Or weariness of pain,
But from a hope that shall not die,
To rise and live again.
I would arise in all thy strength
My place on earth to fill
To work out all my time of war
With love's unflinching will.
A RESURRECTION HYMN.
Firm against every doubt of thee
For all my future way —
To walk in Heaven's eternal light
Throughout the changing day.
Ah, such a day as thou shalt own
When suns have ceased to shine
A day of burdens borne by thee,
And work that all was thine.
Speed thy bright rising in my heart-
Thy righteous kingdom speed —
Till my whole life in concord say,
"The Lord is risen indeed.”
Oh for an impulse from thy love
With every coming breath,
To sing that sweet undying song
Amid the wrecks of death!
A "hail!" to every mortal pang
That bids me take my right
To glory in the blessed life
Which thou hast brought to light.
I long to see the hallowed earth
In new creation rise
To find the germs of Eden hid
Where its fallen beauty lies
To feel the spring-tide of a soul
By one deep love set free,
Made meet to lay aside her dust,
And be at home with thee.
And then there shall be yet an end —
An end now full to bless!
How dear to those who watch for thee
With human tenderness!
Then shall the saying come to pass
That makes our hope complete,
And, rising from the conquered grave,
Thy parted ones shall meet.
341
342
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Yes, they shall meet, and face to face
By heart to heart be known,
Clothed with thy likeness, Lord of Life,
And perfect in their own.
For this corruptible must rise
From its corruption free,
And this frail mortal must put on
Thine immortality.
Shine then, thou Resurrection Light-
Upon our sorrows shine!
The fullness of thy joy be ours,
As all our griefs were thine.
Now in this changing, dying life
Our faded hopes restore,
Till, in thy triumph perfected,
We taste of death no more.
ANNA LETITIA WARING.
IN
Immortality.
AN EASTER POEM. 1879.
N Thee, thou Son of God, in Thee I rest.
The immortality by sages guessed,
Hath not the rocky strength thy promise gives,
That who believes in Thee forever lives.
The worm on wings disporting is not here
The same that wove its shroud the vanished year.
The flowers breathe out their fragrance and decay,
The towering woods grow old and pass away;
The flowers return, but not the same that vied
For last year's prize of beauty, and then died
Resurgent woods again their branches spread,
But not the same that prostrate lie and dead.
CROSSING THE BROOK.
O reproducing Nature! from thy strife,
Comes never same, but always other life.
Men die, but lives right on humanity,
So said a Greek; not this enough for me;
Shall I myself relive ?— the quest I raise.
To share an undistinguishable haze
Of being, and immerged in that vast sea,
To lose what most I ask, MYSELF TO BE,
Is empty vision, Seer of Attic clime,
Or Greek more earth-born of our modern time.
O man of Calvary! O Son of God!
I mark the path thy holy footsteps trod,
Through death to life, thy Living Self to me,
Potence and pledge of immortality!
343
SEWALL S. CUTTING.
Crossing the Brook.
"The King also himself passed over the brook Kidron." — 2 Sam. xv. 23.
"When Jesus had spoken these words, he went forth with his disciples
over the brook Cedron."— JOHN Xviii. 1.
L
IKE him that doth the picture find
Of one beloved, but long unseen,
And gazes until form and mien
Live once again before his mind;
So, living on the page of truth,
Doth many a scene beloved shine,
And we have hung upon the line,
And haunts familiar from our youth;
And pictured every hill and brook,
And looked into the sky above,
Till, as it is with those that love,
We seemed to know their very look.
344
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
We seemed to see the yellow moon,
To watch ourselves the drifting clouds
That hurried by, or hung in shrouds,
Across the burning eastern noon.
How many Christian hearts have met
Between that city and the hill,
And over Cedron's mournful rill,
And up the steep of Olivet!
How oft that low mount, green and brown,
To substance and to shape has grown
Filled in with colors of our own,
And shadowed from the distant town.
Over the brook a weeping king,
Behind a weeping host, has passed;
A long, shrill wail comes on the blast,
We hear the quivering olives ring.
The faithful people go before,
Lamenting loud their monarch fled;
Barefoot he comes, with covered head,
Feeling another sorrow more, -
The grief that lay all deaf and dumb,
Behind the grief that sobbed and burned;
The father's injured love, that yearned
Still for his rebel Absalom.
Another King has crossed the flood!
How many wayward sons had part
To wound and break that loving heart,
Whose tears were drops of falling blood!
And what a pale and weary brow,
In that dark olive-shade bowed down,
The King that never wore a crown,
For whom the thorns are weaving now!
:
CROSSING THE BROOK.
O mount! where David's bitter tears
Fell on the softly shaded sod,
Where David's King, and David's God,
Strove with a whole world's weight of fears.
O wild, dark brook! that heard the cry,
A people's mourning on the air,
That murmured to the thrice-told prayer
Wrung from a deeper agony ;-
Bid our vain hearts some shade to borrow
From that great mystery of grief;
Let swelling wave and drooping leaf
Teach us the worth and depth of sorrow.
Tears were in royal David's eyes,
Strong tears upon my Saviour's cheek;
And shall we shun, with spirit weak,
All sadder, holier thoughts that rise?
Musings that mar our lighter strain,
Of heaven, and hell, and sinners lost,
And of the priceless price they cost,
Heart-sorrow, death, and lingering pain?
Nay, let us find some dark, sad hour,
When we may weep and think alone
Of Christ, and of the judgment throne,
Of death, and sin's destroying power.
Befits us well the brook of tears,
Befits us well the olive-shade,
Who have so rarely, coldly prayed,
Have trifled with so many fears.
Who shareth thus his Saviour's woe,
Shall come as David came again,
But to a city where no pain
Can enter, and no tear can flow.
345
CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.
1
15*
346
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The Marriage Feast.
HE came from fasting in the wild,
He made them glad with wine;
Amid the marriage mirth he smiled,
And gave a gift divine.
Upon the water coldly urned
He looked, to blood of vine
It blushed and glowed and swiftly turned,
Beneath his smile divine.
Not more is here than Nature yields :
The rain, the sweet sunshine,
Make miracles in all the fields,
And, Lord, the power is thine!
Life's blessings free as water flow
From the same source divine
Bid Jesus to the feast, and lo!
He makes the water wine.
ISA CRAIG KNOX.
Mary by the Cross.
EWS were wrought to cruel madness;
Christians fled in fear and sadness;
JE
Mary stood the cross beside.
At its foot her foot she planted,
By the dreadful scene undaunted,
Till the gentle Sufferer died.
Poets oft have sung her story,
Painters decked her brow with glory,
Priests her name have deified;
THE PET NAME.
But no worship, song, or glory
Touches like that simple story,
Mary stood the cross beside.
And when under fierce oppression,
Goodness suffers like Transgression,
Christ again is crucified:
But if love be there, true-hearted,
By no grief or terror parted,
Mary stands the cross beside.
347
ANONYMOUS.
The Pet Name.
"The name
MISS MITFORD'S Dramatic Scencs.
Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress.'
I
HAVE a name, a little name,
Uncadenced for the ear,
Unhonored by ancestral claim,
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm
The solemn font anear.
It never did, to pages wove
For gay romance, belong.
It never dedicate did move
As "Sacharissa," unto love, —
"Orinda," unto song.
Though I write books, it will be read
Upon the leaves of none,
And afterward, when I am dead,
Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread,
Across my funeral-stone.
348
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
This name, whoever chance to call
Perhaps your smile may win.
Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fall
Over mine eyes, and feel withal
The sudden tears within.
Is there a leaf that greenly grows
Where summer meadows bloom,
But gathereth the winter snows,
And changeth to the hue of those,
If lasting till they come?
Is there a word, or jest, or game,
But time encrusteth round
With sad associate thoughts the same?
And so to me my very name
Assumes a mournful sound.
My brother gave that name to me
When we were children twain, -
When names acquired baptismally
Were hard to utter, as to see
That life had any pain.
No shade was on us then, save one
Of chestnuts from the hill,
And through the word our laugh did run
As part thereof.
The mirth being done,
He calls me by it still.
Nay, do not smile! I hear in it
What none of you can hear, -
The talk upon the willow seat,
The bird and wind that did repeat
Around, our human cheer.
I hear the birthday's noisy bliss,
My sisters' woodland glee, -
MY SLAIN.
My father's praise I did not miss,
When, stooping down, he cared to kiss
The poet at his knee,
And voices which, to name me, aye
Their tenderest tones were keeping, —
To some I nevermore can say
An answer, till God wipes away
In heaven these drops of weeping.
My name to me a sadness wears;
No murmurs cross my mind.
Now God be thanked for these thick tears,
Which show, of those departed years,
Sweet memories left behind.
Now God be thanked for years enwrought
With love which softens yet.
Now God be thanked for every thought
Which is so tender it has caught
Earth's guerdon of regret.
Earth saddens, never shall remove,
Affections purely given;
And e'en that mortal grief shall prove
The immortality of love,
And heighten it with heaven.
349
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
ΤΗ
My Slain.
HIS sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee,
This amber-haired, four-summered little maid,
With her unconscious beauty troubleth me,
With her low prattle maketh me afraid.
Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle so
You hurt me, though you do not see me cry,
2
350
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh,
For the dear babe I killed so long ago.
I tremble at the touch of your caress;
I am not worthy of your innocent faith;
I who with whetted knives of worldliness
Did put my own child-heartedness to death,
Beside whose grave I pace forevermore,
Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore.
There is no little child within me now,
To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up
When June winds kiss me, when an apple bough
Laughs into blossoms, or a buttercup
Plays with the sunshine, or a violet
Dances in the glad dew. Alas! alas!
The meaning of the daisies in the grass
I have forgotten; and if my cheeks are wet
It is not with the blitheness of the child,
But with the bitter sorrow of sad years.
O moaning life, with life irreconciled;
O backward-looking thought, O pain, O tears,
For us there is not any silver sound
Of rhythmic wonders springing from the ground.
Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish lore
Which makes men mummies, weighs out every grain
Of that which was miraculous before,
And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain.
Woe worth the peering, analytic days.
That dry the tender juices in the breast,
And put the thunders of the Lord to test,
So that no marvel must be, and no praise,
Nor any God except Necessity.
What can ye give my poor, starved life in lieu
Of this dead cherub which I slew for ye?
Take back your doubtful wisdom, and renew
My early foolish freshness of the dunce,
Whose simple instincts guessed the heavens at once.
RICHARD REALF.
EVENING BRINGS US HOME.
351
Bendemeer's Stream.
HERE's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream,
TH
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ;
In the time of my childhood 't was like a sweet dream,
To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.
That bower and its music I never forget,
But oft when alone in the bloom of the year,
I think is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?
No, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave,
But some blossoms were gathered, while freshly they shone,
And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year;
Thus bright to my soul, as 't was then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer!
THOMAS MOORE.
U
Evening brings us Home.
PON the hills the wind is sharp and cold;
The sweet young grasses wither on the wold;
And we, O Lord, have wandered from thy fold;
But evening brings us home.
Among the mists we stumbled, and the rocks
Where the brown lichen whitens, and the fox
Watches the straggler from the scattered flocks;
But evening brings us home.
The sharp thorns prick us, and our tender feet
Are cut and bleeding, and the lambs repeat
Their pitiful complaints: oh! rest is sweet
When evening brings us home.
352
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
We have been wounded by the hunter's darts;
Our eyes are very heavy, and our hearts
Search for thy coming: when the light departs
At evening bring us home.
The darkness gathers. Through the gloom no star
Rises to guide us. We have wandered far.
Without thy lamp we know not where we are:
At evening bring us home.
The clouds are round us and the snow-drifts thicken.
O thou, dear Shepherd, leave us not to sicken
In the waste night: our tardy footsteps quicken;
At evening bring us home.
ANONYMOUS.
Father-land and Mother-tongue.
Ο
UR Father-land! and wouldst thou know
Why we should call it "Father-land"?
It is, that Adam, here below,
Was made of earth by Nature's hand;
And he, our father, made of earth,
Hath peopled earth on every hand,
And we, in memory of his birth,
Do call our country, "Father-land."
At first in Eden's bowers, they say,
No sound of speech had Adam caught,
But whistled like a bird all day
And maybe 't was for want of thought:
But Nature, with resistless laws,
Made Adam soon surpass the birds,
She gave him lovely Eve - because
If he'd a wife - they must have words.
MY NEIGHBOR ROSE.
And so the Native-land, I hold,
By male descent is proudly mine;
The language, as the tale hath told,
Was given in the female line.
And thus we see on either hand,
We name our blessings whence they 've sprung,
We call our country FATHER-land,
We call our language MOTHER-tongue.
353
SAMUEL LOver.
My Neighbor Rose.
HOUGH slender walls our hearths divide,
No word has passed from either side,
How gayly all your days must glide
Unvexed by labor!
I've seen you weep, and could have wept,
I've heard you sing, and may have slept;
Sometimes I hear your chimney swept,
My charming neighbor!
Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail
The pup, once eloquent of tail?
I wonder why your nightingale
Is mute at sunset?
Your puss, demure and pensive, seems
Too fat to mouse. She much esteems
Yon sunny wall, and sleeps and dreams
Of mice she once ate.
Our tastes agree. I dote upon
Frail jars, turquoise and celadon,
The "Wedding March" of Mendelssohn,
And Penseroso.
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OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
When sorely tempted to purloin
Your pietà of Marc Antoine,
Fair Virtue doth fair play enjoin,
Fair Virtuoso !
At times an Ariel, cruel-kind,
Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind,
And whisper low, "She hides behind;
Thou art not lonely."
The tricksy sprite did erst assist
At hushed Verona's moonlight tryst ;
Sweet Capulet! thou wert not kissed
By light winds only.
I miss the simple days of yore,
When two long braids of hair you wore,
And chat botté was wondered o'er,
-
In corner cozy.
But gaze not back for tales like those:
It's all in order, I suppose,
The Bud is now a blooming ROSE -
A rosy posy!
Indeed, farewell to bygone years ;
How wonderful the change appears,
For curates now and cavaliers
In turn perplex you :
The last are birds of feather gay,
Who swear the first are birds of prey;
I'd scare them all had I my way,
But that might vex you.
At times I've envied, it is true,
That hero blithe, of twenty-two,
Who sent bouquets and billets-doux,
And wore a sabre.
The rogue! how close his arm he wound
About her waist who never frowned.
He loves you, child. Now, is he bound
To love my neighbor?
MISS MYRTLE.
The bells are ringing. As is meet,
White favors fascinate the street,
Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet
'Twixt tears and laughter:
They crowd the door to see her go.
The bliss of one brings many woe;
Oh, kiss the bride, and I will throw
The old shoe after.
What change in one short afternoon —
My Charming Neighbor gone
Is yon pale orb her honeymoon
Slow rising hither?
O lady, wan and marvelous,
so soon!
How often have we communed thus ;
Sweet memory shall dwell with us,
And joy go with her!
355
FREDERICK LOCKER..
C
WH
Miss Myrtle.
HERE is Miss Myrtle? can any one tell?
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She flirts with another, I know very well;
And I am left all alone!
She flies to the window when Arundel rings
She's all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings -
It's plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Her love and my love are different things;
And I - am left all alone!
I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She told me such horrors were never worn now
And I am left all alone!
356
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair,
And I guess whom it came from- of course I don't care!
We all know that girls are as false as they 're fair;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
I'm sure the lieutenant 's a horrible bear;
And I am left all alone!
Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She looks for another to trot by her side
And I am left all alone!
And whenever I take her down stairs from a ball
She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl;
I'm a peaceable man, and I don't like a brawl
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
But I would give a trifle to horsewhip them all;
And I am left all alone!
She tells me her mother belongs to the sect
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect;
And I am left all alone!
But a fire 's in my heart, and a fire 's in my brain,
When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O'Shane ;
I don't think I ever can ask her again;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
And, Lord! since the summer she's grown very plain;
And I am left all alone!
She said she liked me a twelvemonth ago:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
And how should I guess that she 'd torture me so?
And I am left all alone!
Some day she 'll find out it was not very wise
To laugh at the breath of a true lover's sighs ;
After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Louisa Dalrymple has exquisite eyes;
And I'll be no longer alone!
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
GOING HOME.
357
Going Home.
RAWN by horses with decorous feet,
A carriage for one went through the street,
Polished as anthracite out of the mine,
Tossing its plumes so stately and fine,
As nods to the night a Norway pine.
The passenger lay in Parian rest,
As if, by the sculptor's hand caressed,
A mortal life through the marble stole,
And then till an angel calls the roll
It waits awhile for a human soul.
He rode in state, but his carriage-fare
Was left unpaid to his only heir;
Hardly a man, from hovel to throne,
Takes to this route in coach of his own,
But borrows at last and travels alone.
The driver sat in his silent seat;
The world, as still as a field of wheat,
Gave all the road to the speechless twain,
And thought the passenger never again
Should travel that way with living men.
Not a robin held its little breath,
But sang right on in the face of death;
You never would dream, to see the sky
Give glance for glance to the violet's eye,
That aught between them could ever die.
A wain bound east met the hearse bound west,
Halted a moment, and passed abreast;
And I verily think a stranger pair
Have never met on a thoroughfare,
Or a dim by-road, or anywhere:
358
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The hearse as slim and glossy and still
As silken thread at a woman's will,
Who watches her work with tears unshed,
Broiders a grief with needle and thread,
Mourns in pansies and cypress the dead;
Spotless the steeds in a satin dress,
That run for two worlds the Lord's Express,
The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on,
A moment or two, and both were gone;
The wain bound east, the hearse bound west,
Both going home, both looking for rest.
The Lord save all, and his name be blest!
BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.
The Morning-glory.
WE
E wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright;
Her little face looked out beneath,
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say,
"She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they.”
So always from that happy time
We called her by their name,
And very fitting did it seem
For sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.
THE MORNING-GLORY.
But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,
As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own.
We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower,
The last and perfect added gift
To crown Love's morning hour;
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say,
As on the little dew-drops round
Shines back the heart of day.
We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up,
Almost before a day was flown,
Like the morning-glory's cup;
We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head,
Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead !
The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground;
The tender things the winter killed
Renew again their birth,
But the glory of our morning
Has passed away from earth.
O Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain !
359
C
360
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,
Her spirit to sustain ;
But up in groves of Paradise
Full surely we shall see
Our morning-glory beautiful.
Twine round our dear Lord's knee.
MARIA WHITE LOWELL.
Charmian.
N the time when yellow lilies shake
IN
Their dusty gold on river and lake,
When the cuckoo calls in the heart o' the heat,
When the dog-star foams and the shade is sweet,
Where cool and fresh the river ran,
I sat by the side of thee, Charmian,
And heard no sound from the world of man.
All was so sweet and still that day!
The rustling shade, the rippling stream,
All life, all breath dissolved away
Into a golden dream ;
Warm and sweet the scented shade
Drowsily caught the breeze and stirred,
Faint and low through the green glade
Came hum of bee and song of bird;
Our hearts were full of drowsy bliss
And yet we did not clasp nor kiss,
Nor did we break the happy spell
With tender tone nor syllable.
But to ease our hearts and set thought free,
We plucked the flowers of a red-rose tree.
And leaf by leaf we threw them, sweet,
Unto the river at our feet,
And in an indolent delight,
Watched them glide onward, out of sight.
CHARMIAN.
Oh, had I spoken boldly then,
How might my love have gathered thee!
But I had left the world of men,
And sitting yonder dreamily
Was happiness enough for me;
Seeking no gift of word or kiss,
But looking into thy face was bliss ;
Plucking the rose-leaves in a dream,
Watching them glimmer down the stream,
Knowing that Eastern heart of thine
Shared the dim ecstasy of mine!
Then, while we lingered, cold and gray
Came twilight, chilling soul and sense;
And you arose to go away,
Full of sweet indifference!
I missed the spell - I watched it break -
And such come never twice to man:
In a less golden hour I spake,
And did not win thee, Charmian !
For wearily we turned away
Into the world of everyday,
And from thy heart the sweetness fled
Like the rose-leaves on the river shed;
But to me that hour is sweeter far
Than the world and all its treasures are:
Still to sit on, so close to thee,
Were happiness enough for me!
Still to sit in that green nook,
Nor break the spell by word or look,
To reach out happy hands forever,
To pluck the rose-leaves, Charmian!
To watch them fade on the golden river,
And hear no sound from the world of man.
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
VOL. III.
16
361
362
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Summer Longings.
AH! my heart is weary waiting,
Α
Waiting for the May,-
Waiting for the pleasant rambles
Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles,
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's day.
Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May,-
Sighing for their 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 seaside 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.
KUBLA KHAN.
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!
363
DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.
Kubla Khan.
IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran,
Through caverns measureless to man,
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Infolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh that deep chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
364
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 't would win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair.
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
ATHENS.
365
ΤΙ
Athens.
From the Medea of Euripides.
HE land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime,
Wooes the deep silence of sequestered bowers,
And warriors, matchless since the first of time,
Rear their bright banners o'er unconquered towers!
Where joyous youth, to Music's mellow strain,
Twines in the dance with nymphs forever fair;
While spring eternal on the lilied plain
Waves amber radiance through the fields of air!
The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell)
First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among ;
Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell;
Still in your vales they swell the choral song.
But there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair,
The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now
Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair
Waved in bright auburn o'er her polished brow!
ANTISTROPHE,
Where silent vales, and glades of green array,
The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave,
There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of day,
The Queen of Beauty bowed to taste the wave ;
And blest the stream, and breathed across the land
The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers;
And there the sister Loves, a smiling band,
Crowned with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers!
366
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
"And go," she cries, "in yonder valleys rove,
With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume;
Wake in each eye the radiant light of love,
Breathe on each cheek young passion's tender bloom!
"Intwine, with myrtle chains, your soft control,
To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind !
With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom's soul,
And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind?”
Translated by THOMAS CAMPBELL.
The 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,
Not tied unto the world with 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 accusers great;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend;
LIFE AND DEATH.
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.
367
SIR HENRY WOTTON.
Life and Death.
WH
HAT is Life, father?
"A battle, my child,
Where the strongest lance may fail,
Where the wariest eyes may be beguiled,
And the stoutest heart may quail;
Where the foes are gathered on every hand,
And rest not day or night,
And the feeble little ones must stand
In the thickest of the fight."
“What is Death, father?"
"The rest, my child,
When the strife and the toil are o'er ;
The angel of God, who, calm and mild,
Says we need fight no more ;
Who, driving away the demon band,
Bids the din of the battle cease;
Takes banner and spear from our failing hand,
And proclaims an eternal peace."
"Let me die, father! I tremble and fear
To yield in that terrible strife!
""
"The crown must be won for Heaven, dear,
In the battle-field of life;
My child, though thy foes are strong and tried,
He loveth the weak and small;
The angels of heaven are on thy side,
And God is over all!"
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
1
*
368
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
H
The Eternal Years.
OW shalt thou bear the cross that now
So dread a weight appears?
Keep quietly to God, and think
Upon the eternal years.
Austerity is little help,
Although it somewhat cheers ;
Thine oil of gladness is the thought
Of the eternal years.
Set hours and written rule are good,
Long prayer can lay our fears;
But it is better calm for thee
To count the eternal years.
Full many things are good for souls,
In proper times and spheres;
Thy present good is in the thought
Of the eternal years.
Thy self-upbraiding is a snare,
Though meekness it appears;
More humbling is it far for thee
To face the eternal years.
Brave quiet is the thing for thee,
Chiding thy scrupulous fears;
Learn to be real, from the thought
Of the eternal years.
Bear gently, suffer like a child,
Nor be ashamed of tears;
Kiss the sweet cross, and in thy heart
Sing of the eternal years.
BOATMAN'S HYMN.
Thy cross is quite enough for thee,
Though little it appears;
For there is hid in it the weight
Of the eternal years.
Death will have rainbows round it, seen
Through calm contrition's tears,
If tranquil Hope but trims her lamp
At the eternal years.
369
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
BAR
Boatman's Hymn.
ARK that bears me through foam and squall,
You in the storm are my castle-wall :
Though the sea should redden from bottom to top,
From tiller to mast she takes no drop.
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail galore.
She dresses herself and goes gliding on,
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn;
For God has blessed her, gunnel and wale,
And oh! if you saw her stretch out to the gale!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail galore.
Whillan, ahoy! old heart of stone,
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone,
16*
370
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Answer me well: on the bursting brine
Saw you ever a bark like mine?
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store !
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail galore.
Says Whillan: "Since first I was made of stone,
I have looked abroad o'er the beach alone,
But till to-day, on the bursting brine,
Saw I never a bark like thine."
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail galore.
"God of the air," the seamen shout,
When they see us tossing the brine about,
"Give us the shelter of strand or rock,
Or through and through us she goes with a shock!"
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail galore.
SAMUEL FERGUSON.
The Voyage.
E left behind the painted buoy
WE left bosses
That tosses at the harbor-mouth ;
And madly danced our hearts with joy,
As fast we fleeted to the South:
How fresh was every sight and sound
On open main or winding shore!
We knew the merry world was round,
And we might sail forevermore.
THE VOYAGE.
Warm broke the breeze against the brow,
Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail:
The lady's-head upon the prow
Caught the shrill salt, and sheered the gale.
The broad seas swelled to meet the keel,
And swept behind: so quick the run,
We felt the good ship shake and reel,
We seemed to sail into the Sun!
How oft we saw the Sun retire,
And burn the threshold of the night,
Fall from his ocean-lane of fire,
And sleep beneath his pillared light!
How oft the purple-skirted robe
Of twilight slowly downward drawn,
As through the slumber of the globe
Again we dashed into the dawn!
New stars all night above the brim
Of waters lightened into view;
They climbed as quickly, for the rim
Changed every moment as we flew.
Far ran the naked moon across
The houseless ocean's heaving field,
Or flying shone, the silver boss
Of her own halo's dusky shield;
The peaky islet shifted shapes,
High towns on hills were dimly seen,
We passed long lines of Northern capes
And dewy Northern meadows green.
We came to warmer waves, and deep
Across the boundless east we drove,
Where those long swells of breaker sweep
The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove.
By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade,
Gloomed the low coast and quivering brine
371
372
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
With ashy rains, that spreading made
Fantastic plume or sable pine;
By sands and streaming flats, and floods
Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast,
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods
Glowed for a moment as we past.
O hundred shores of happy climes,
How swiftly streamed ye by the bark!
At times the whole sea burned, at times
With wakes of fire we tore the dark;
At times a carven craft would shoot
From havens hid in fairy bowers,
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit,
But we nor paused for fruits nor flowers.
For one fair Vision ever fled
Down the waste waters day and night,
And still we followed where she led,
In hope to gain upon her flight.
Her face was evermore unseen,
And fixed upon the far sea-line
But each man murmured, "O my queen,
I follow till I make thee mine."
And now we lost her, now she gleamed
Like Fancy made of golden air,
Now nearer to the prow she seemed
Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair,
Now high on waves that idly burst
Like heavenly Hope she crowned the sea,
And now, the bloodless point reversed,
She bore the blade of Liberty.
And only one among us - him
We pleased not he was seldom pleased;
He saw not far: his eyes were dim:
But ours he swore were all diseased.
THE MARINER'S DREAM.
"A ship of fools,” he shrieked in spite,
"A ship of fools," he sneered and wept.
And overboard one stormy night
He cast his body, and on we swept.
And never sail of ours was furled,
Nor anchor dropped at eve or morn ;
We loved the glories of the world,
But laws of nature were our scorn;
For blasts would rise and rave and cease,
But whence were those that drove the sail
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace,
And to and through the counter-gale?
Again to colder climes we came,
For still we followed where she led :
Now mate is blind and captain lame,
And half the crew are sick or dead.
But blind or lame or sick or sound
We follow that which flies before:
We know the merry world is round,
And we may sail forevermore.
373
ALFRED TENNYSON.
I
The Mariner's Dream.
N slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay ;
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ;
While memory stood sideways half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
Q
374
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
1
Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise :
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.
The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch,
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.
A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear;
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.
The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;
Joy quickens his pulses - his hardships seem o'er;
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest:
"O God, thou hast blest me - I ask for no more."
Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound which now 'larms on his ear?
'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crashing of thunders,. the groan of the sphere!
He springs from his hammock — he flies to the deck ;
Amazement confronts him with images dire;
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck;
The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire.
Like mountains the billows tremendously swell;
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ;
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave!
O sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight!
In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss.
Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright-
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?
IS MY LOVER ON THE SEA?
O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again
Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay;
Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.
375
No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge,
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge!
On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid —
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.
Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;
Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye -
O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul!
WILLIAM DIMOND.
Is my Lover on the Sea?
IS my lover on the sea,
Is
Sailing east, or sailing west?
Mighty Ocean, gentle be,
Rock him into rest!
Let no angry wind arise,
Nor a wave with whitened crest;
All be gentle as his eyes
When he is caressed!
Bear him (as the breeze above
Bears the bird unto its nest)
Here unto his home of love,
And there bid him rest!
BRYAN WALLER PROCter.
376
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
"H
How's my Boy?
O, sailor of the sea!
How's my boy my boy?"
"What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he?"
"My boy John-
He that went to sea-
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.
"You come back from sea,
And not know my John?
I might as well have asked some landsman
Yonder down in the town.
There's not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.
"How's my boy — my boy?
And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,
Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no!
Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton""
"Speak low, woman, speak low!"
"And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud
I'd sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?"
"That good ship went down."
"How's my boy - my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?
WHERE LIES THE LAND?
I was never aboard her.
Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound,
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how's my John?
66
>>
Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her.”
"How's my boy my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother—
How's my boy my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
377
How's my boy-my boy?"
SYDNEY DObell.
W
Where lies the Land?
HERE lies the land to which the ship would go?
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know;
And where the land she travels from? Away,
Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face,
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace!
Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below
The foaming wake far widening as we go.
On stormy nights, when wild northwesters rave,
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.
Where lies the land to which the ship would go?
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know;
And where the land she travels from? Away,
Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
a
378
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
C
Come Home.
OME home, come home! And where is home for
Whose ship is driving o'er the trackless sea?
To the frail bark here plunging on its way,
To the wild waters, shall I turn and say,
To the plunging bark, or to the salt sea foam,
You are my home?
Fields once I walked in, faces once I knew,
Familiar things so old my heart believed them true,
These far, far back behind me lie; before
The dark clouds mutter, and the deep seas roar,
And speak to them that 'neath and o'er them roam
No words of home.
Beyond the clouds, beyond the waves that roar,
There may indeed, or may not be, a shore,
Where fields as green, and hands and hearts as true,
The old forgotten semblance may renew,
And offer exiles driven far o'er the salt sea foam
Another home.
But toil and pain must wear out many a day,
And days bear weeks, and weeks bear months away,
Ere, if at all, the weary traveler hear,
With accents whispered in his wayworn ear,
A voice he dares to listen to, say, Come
To thy true home.
Come home, come home! And where a home hath he,
Whose ship is driving o'er the driving sea?
Through clouds that mutter, and o'er waves that roar,
Say, shall we find, or shall we not, a shore
That is, as is not ship or ocean foam,
Indeed our home?
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
me,
THE MARINER'S HYMN.
379
The Mariner's Hymn.
LAUNCH thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee!
Let loose the rudder-bands
Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily;
Christian, steer home!
Look to the weather-bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the foresail, there!
Hold the helm fast!
So let the vessel wear
There swept the blast.
"What of the night, watchman?
What of the night?"
"Cloudy-all quiet-
No land yet — all 's right.”
Be wakeful, be vigilant -
Danger may be
At an hour when all seemeth
Securest to thee.
How! gains the leak so fast?
Clean out the hold
Hoist up the merchandise,
Heave out thy gold;
There - let the ingots go-
Now the ship rights;
Hurrah! the harbor's near
Lo! the red lights!
380
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Slacken not sail yet
At inlet or island;
Straight for the beacon steer,
Straight for the highland;
Crowd all thy canvas on,
Cut through the foam
Christian, cast anchor now
Heaven is thy home!
CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.
THR
The Three Fishers.
HREE fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbor-bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor-bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep;
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
THE LAND BEYOND THE SEA.
381
The Land beyond the Sea.
'HE Land beyond the Sea!
ΤΗ
When will life's task be o'er?
When shall we reach that soft blue shore,
O'er the dark strait whose billows foam and roar?
When shall we come to thee,
Calm Land beyond the Sea?
The Land beyond the Sea !
How close it often seems,
When flushed with evening's peaceful gleams;
And the wistful heart looks o'er the strait, and dreams!
It longs to fly to thee,
Calm Land beyond the Sea!
The Land beyond the Sea!
Sometimes distinct and near
It grows upon the eye and ear,
And the gulf narrows to a threadlike mere;
We seem half-way to thee,
Calm Land beyond the Sea!
The Land beyond the Sea!
Sometimes across the strait,
Like a drawbridge to a castle-gate,
The slanting sunbeams lie, and seem to wait
For us to pass to thee,
Calm Land beyond the Sea!
The Land beyond the Sea!
Oh, how the lapsing years,
'Mid our not unsubmissive tears,
Have borne, now singly, now in fleets, the biers
Of those we love to thee,
Calm Land beyond the Sea!
2
382
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The Land beyond the Sea!
How dark our present home!
By the dull beach and sullen foam
How wearily, how drearily we roam,
With arms outstretched to thee,
Calm Land beyond the Sea!
The Land beyond the Sea!
When will our toil be done?
Slow-footed years! more swiftly run
Into the gold of that unsetting sun!
Homesick we are for thee,
Calm Land beyond the Sea!
The Land beyond the Sea!
Why fadest thou in light?
Why art thou better seen toward night?
Dear Land, look always plain, look always bright,
That we may gaze on thee,
Calm Land beyond the Sea!
The Land beyond the Sea!
Sweet is thine endless rest,
But sweeter far that Father's breast
Upon thy shores eternally possest;
For Jesus reigns o'er thee,
Calm Land beyond the Sea!
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
IF
A Rhyme of Life.
F life be as a flame that death doth kill,
Burn, little candle lit for me,
With a pure flame, that I.may rightly see
To word my song, and utterly
God's plan fulfill.
ENDURANCE.
If life be as a flower that blooms and dies,
Forbid the cunning frost that slays
With Judas kiss, and trusting love betrays;
Forever may my song of praise
Untainted rise.
If life be as a voyage, foul or fair,
Oh, bid me not my banners furl
For adverse gale, or wave in angry whirl,
Till I have found the gates of pearl,
And anchored there.
383
CHARLES WARREN STODDARD.
Endurance.
How much the heart may bear, and yet not break!
How much the flesh may suffer, and not die!
I question much if any pain or ache
Of soul or body brings our end more nigh:
Death chooses his own time; till that is sworn,
All evils may be borne.
We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife,
Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel
Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life;
Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal,
That still, although the trembling flesh be torn,
This also can be borne.
We see a sorrow rising in our way,
And try to flee from the approaching ill;
We seek some small escape; we weep and pray;
But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still;
Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn,
But that it can be borne.
→
384
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
We wind our life about another life;
We hold it closer, dearer than our own:
Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife,
Leaving us stunned and stricken and alone;
But ah! we do not die with those we mourn,
This also can be borne.
Behold, we live through all things, famine, thirst,
Bereavement, pain; all grief and misery,
All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst
On soul and body, but we cannot die.
Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn,
Lo, all things can be borne!
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
The Soul's Measure.
OST thou of all attainments value those
DOST
Most that enlarge thy soul? and wouldst be shown
A sign, whereby it clearly may be known
How much, from year to year, thy spirit grows ?
By as much more as others' joys and woes,
Through wider sympathy, are made thine own,
By so much in soul-stature hast thou grown.
The bounds of personality that close
Around uncultured spirits narrowly
Have been so far extended, and contain
So much the more of conscious life's domain ;
And so much has thy knowledge grown to be
Like that of clearest souls, whose bounding walls
Will cast no shadow where the soul-light falls.
GEORGE MCKNIGHT.
SQUANDERED LIVES.
385
Those Evening Bells.
THOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 't will be when I am gone
That tuneful peal will still ring on ;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
THOMAS MOORE.
THE
Squandered Lives.
HE fisherman wades in the surges,
The sailor sails over the sea,
The soldier steps bravely to battle;
The woodman lays axe to the tree.
They are each of the breed of the heroes,
The manhood attempered in strife,
Strong hands that go lightly to labor,
True hearts that take comfort in life.
In each is the seed to replenish
The world with the vigor it needs,
The centre of honest affections,
The impulse to generous deeds.
VOL. III.
17
386
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
But the shark drinks the blood of the fisher,
The sailor is dropped in the sea;
The soldier lies cold by his cannon,
The woodman is crushed by his tree,
Each prodigal life that is wasted
In many achievements unseen,
But lengthens the day of the coward,
And strengthens the crafty and mean.
The blood of the noblest is lavished
That the selfish a profit may find;
But God sees the lives that are squandered,
And we to his wisdom are blind.
BAYARD TAYLOR.
The Oubit.
T was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang;
IT
A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang, -
"My Minnie bade me bide at hame until I won my wings,
I'll shew her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping
things."
This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn,
A swirl o' wind cam' down the glen, and blew that oubit in.
Oh, when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose,
And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes.
Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubiť's shame ;
Though Pegasus may nicker loud, keep Pegasus at hame.
Oh, haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo;
For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA.
387
A View across the Roman Campagna.
VER the dumb campagna-sea,
OVER
Out in the offing through mist and rain,
St. Peter's Church heaves silently
Like a mighty ship in pain,
Facing the tempest with struggle and strain.
Motionless waifs of ruined towers,
Soundless breakers of desolate land!
The sullen surf of the mist devours
That mountain-range upon either hand,
Eaten away from its outline grand.
And over the dumb campagna-sea
Where the ship of the Church heaves on to wreck,
Alone and silent as God must be
The Christ walks!- Ay, but Peter's neck
Is stiff to turn on the foundering deck.
Peter, Peter, if such be thy name,
Now leave the ship for another to steer,
And proving thy faith evermore the same
Come forth, tread out through the dark and drear,
Since He who walks on the sea is here!
Peter, Peter! he does not speak, –
He is not as rash as in old Galilee.
Safer a ship, though it toss and leak,
Than a reeling foot on a rolling sea!
And he's got to be round in the girth, thinks he.
Peter, Peter! he does not stir,
His nets are heavy with silver fish :
He reckons his gains, and is keen to infer,
"The broil on the shore, if the Lord should wish, –
But the sturgeon goes to the Cæsar's dish."
388
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Peter, Peter, thou fisher of men,
Fisher of fish wouldst thou live instead,
Haggling for pence with the other Ten,
Cheating the market at so much a head,
Griping the bag of the traitor dead?
At the triple crow of the Gallic cock
Thou weep'st not, thou, though thine eyes be dazed:
What bird comes next in the tempest shock ?
.. Vultures! See, as when Romulus gazed,
To inaugurate Rome for a world amazed!
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
DAY
Hymn to the Flowers.
AY-STARS! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle
As a libation!
Ye matin worshipers! 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!
'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.
HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.
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
389
Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the sod,
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder
The ways of God -
Your voiceless lips, O 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,"
Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender,
Your lore sublime!
"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory,
Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours;
How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory
Are human flowers!'
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.
390
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
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.
Were I, O 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.
I
The Beleaguered City.
HAVE read in some old marvelous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
THE BELEAGUERED CITY.
But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the hour of prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmèd air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read in the marvelous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.
391
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
392
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
T
Thanatopsis.
O him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language: for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware.
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
When thoughts
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air
Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad; and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone; nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings,
THANATOPSIS.
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,
393
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep- the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend.
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
17*
394
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
O
"For my Sake."
LORD, our lives are blank with constant losses,
Our feet are sore with pain,
Our hearts are weary with fast-coming crosses
We struggle, nor attain.
We watch for coming sails that never whiten
The still, unyielding blue;
We look for light whose dawn shall never brighten
The mist-enshrouded view.
The grasp is loosened that we held so tightly,
The steps ours timed with fleet;
On marble stones our household names gleam whitely,
Graves thicken round our feet.
Thy white-walled city grows more dim and distant,
The eternal shore recedes,
The upward path we thought to climb persistent
Is blind with unchecked weeds.
As heart and strength grow less, the way grows rougher.
Frail staves we leaned on break,
The glow of living fades, we bear, we suffer;
But is it "for Thy sake"?
GRADATIM.
Is this the cross that by its cheerful bearing
Makes worthy, Lord, of thee?
That lifts our weak endurance up to sharing
Thy mystic agony?
There is a resignation worse than murmur,
An acquiescence vain,
A giving up that roots self-will the firmer,
And silence may complain.
Oh, give us, Lord, that living love unshaken
That makes the heaviest cross
Thou layest on us be by us self-taken,
Makes sacrifice of loss.
395
Evangeline M. JOHNSON.
H¹
Gradatim.
EAVEN is not reached at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.
I count this thing to be grandly true,
That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting the soul from the common sod
To a purer air and a broader view.
We rise by things that are under feet;
By what we have mastered of good and gain,
By the pride deposed and passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.
We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
When the morning calls us to life and light,
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night
Our lives are trailing in sordid dust.
R
396
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,
And we think that we mount the air on wings
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.
Wings for the angels, but feet for the men!
We borrow the wings to find the way —
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray,
But our feet must rise, or we fall again.
Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;
But the dream departs and the vision falls,
And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.
Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.
JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.
Longing for God.
HOW gently flow the silent years,
The seasons one by one!
How sweet to feel, each month that goes,
That life must soon be done!
O weary ways of earth and men !
O self more weary still!
How vainly do you vex the heart
That none but God can fill!
It is not weariness of life
That makes us wish to die;
But we are drawn by cords which come
From out eternity.
LONGING FOR GOD.
Eye has not seen, ear has not heard,
No heart of man can tell,
The store of joys God has prepared
For those who love him well.
Oh, may those joys one day be ours,
Upon that happy shore!
And yet those joys are not enough,
We crave for something more.
The world's unkindness grows with life,
And troubles never cease;
'T were lawful then to wish to die,
Simply to be at peace.
Yes! peace is something more than joy,
Even the joys above;
For peace, of all created things,
Is likest him we love.
But not for joy, nor yet for peace,
Dare we desire to die;
God's will on earth is always joy,
Always tranquillity.
To die, that we might sin no more,
Were scarce a hero's prayer;
And glory grows as grace matures,
And patience loves to bear.
And yet we long and long to die,
We covet to be free,
Not for thy great rewards, O God!
Not for thy peace — but thee.
But call not this a selfish love,
A turning from the fight;
And tell us not, for others' sakes,
To doubt if this be right.
397
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
398
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
O
Whosoever.
NE word, dear Lord, where all are dear,
Is dearest still to me:
"No soul shall ever be cast out
That cometh unto thee."
Lost in my sin and self-despair,
This is my only plea,
That, full of longing for thy grace,
I come, Lord, unto thee.
My heart can ne'er forget to chide
Its own unfaithfulness;
But thou art greater than my heart,
And thou dost only bless.
If thou hadst left a single soul
Unwelcomed by thy grace,
So great are mine iniquities,
I dare not seek thy face.
But in this "all" is room for me,
With all my load of sin;
No other door were wide enough,
Through this I enter in.
Trembling in weakness, through my trust
I fall before thy feet;
That all my help may come from thee,
E'en helplessness is sweet.
Forgetting all my sin and woe,
I live alone in thee,
And learn the mystery of thy grace,
That thou shouldst live in me.
DROP, DROP, SLOW TEARS.
If simple coming brings such bliss
As heart hath never tried,
Oh, what must be the joy of those
Who in thee, Lord, abide !
Closed in the shelter of thine arms
In childlike peace to rest,
I dare not doubt, I dare not fear,
My head upon thy breast.
The night was dark and wild with storm,
The morn breaks clear and calm;
The night was full of fierce alarms,
The morn is like a psalm.
O morn of grace, O day of love,
On which no night shall fall!
Bring all thy wanderers home at last,
O Christ, thou light of all !
Where, through the eternal years of God
Transfigured more and more,
Thy perfect glory we shall see,
And change as we adore.
399
JOSEPH ALLEN ELY.
D
Drop, drop, Slow Tears.
ROP, drop, slow tears, and bathe those beauteous feet,
Which brought from heaven the news and Prince of
Peace!
Cease not, wet eyes, his mercy to entreat!
Το cry for vengeance sin doth never cease.
In your deep floods drown all my faults and fears;
Nor let his eye see sin but through my tears.
GILES FLETCHER.
400
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Source of my Life.
OURCE of my life's refreshing springs,
SOU
Whose presence in my heart sustains me,
Thy love appoints me pleasant things,
Thy mercy orders all that pains me.
If loving hearts were never lonely,
If all they wish might always be,
Accepting what they look for only,
They might be glad, but not in thee.
Well may thy own beloved, who see
In all their lot their Father's pleasure,
Bear loss of all they love, save thee,
Their living, everlasting treasure.
Well may thy happy children cease
From restless wishes prone to sin,
And, in thy own exceeding peace,
Yield to thy daily discipline.
We need as much the cross we bear,
As air we breathe, as light we see ;
It draws us to thy side in prayer,
It binds us to our strength in thee.
ANNA LÆTITIA WARING.
>
Repentance.
F the Lord were to send down blessings from heaven as
thick and as fast as the fall
IF
Of the drops of rain or the flakes of snow, I'd love him and
thank him for all
;
But the gift that I 'd crave, and the gift that I'd keep, if I'd
only one to choose,
Is the gift of a broken and contrite heart, — and that he will
not refuse.
▼
REPENTANCE.
401
For what is my wish and what is my hope, when I've toiled
and prayed and striven,
All the days that I live upon earth? It is this-to be for-
given.
And what is my wish and what is my hope, but to end where
I begin,
With an eye that looks to my Saviour, and a heart that
mourns for its sin!
Well, perhaps you think I'm going to say I'm the chief of
sinners; and then
You'll tell me, as far as you can see, I 'm no worse than other
men.
I've little to do with better or worse- I have n't to judge the
rest;
If other men are no better than I, they are bad enough at the
best.
I've nothing to do with other folks; it is n't for me to say
What sort of men the Scribes might be, or the Pharisees in
their day;
But we know that it was n't for such as they that the king-
dom of heaven was meant ;
And we 're told we shall likewise perish unless we do repent.
And what have I done, perhaps you'll say, that I should fret
and grieve?
I did n't wrangle, nor curse, nor swear; I did n't lie nor thieve;
I'm clear of cheating and drinking and debt. — Well, perhaps,
but I cannot say ;
For some of these I had n't a mind, and some did n't come in
my way.
For there's many a thing I could wish undone, though the
law might not be broken;
And there's many a word, now I come to think, that I could
wish unspoken.
0
402
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
I did what I thought to be the best, and I said just what
came to my mind:
I was n't so honest that I could boast, and I'm sure that I
was n't kind.
Well, come to things that I might have done, and then there 'll
be more to say:
We'll ask for the broken hearts I healed, and the tears that
I wiped away.
I thought for myself and I wrought for myself - for myself,
and none beside:
Just as if Jesus had never lived, as if he had never died.
But since my Lord has looked on me, and since he has bid
me look
Once on my heart and once on my life and once on his
blessed Book,
And once on the cross where he died for me, he has taught
me that I must mend,
If I'd have him to be my Saviour, and keep him to be my
Friend.
Since he's taken this long account of mine and has crossed
it through and through,
Though he's left me nothing at all to pay, he has given me
enough to do;
He has taught me things that I never knew, with all my
worry and care,
Things that have brought me down to my knees, and things
that will keep me there.
He has shown me the law that works in him and the law
that works in me,
Life unto life and death unto death, and has asked how
these agree;
He has made me weary of self and of pelf; yes, my Saviour
has bid me grieve
For the days and years when I did n't pray, when I did n't
love nor believe.
VERSES.
403
Since he's taken this cold, dark heart of mine, and has
pierced it through and through,
He has made me mourn both for things I did and for things
that I did n't do;
And what is my wish and what is my thought, but to end
where I begin,
With an eye that looks to my Saviour, and a heart that
mourns for its sin!
DORA GREENWELL.
Verses
Supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk during his solitary
abode in the island of Juan Fernandez.
I
AM monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts, that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
Oh, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
404
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
Oh, tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see:
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-wingèd arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there ;
But alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
WILLIAM Cowper.
THE CIRCUIT PREACHER.“
405:
The Circuit Preacher.
HIS thin wife's cheek grows pinched and pale with anx-
iousness intense;
He sees the brethren's prayerful eyes o'er all the conference;
He hears the Bishop slowly call the long " Appointment " rolls,
Where in his vineyard God would place these gatherers of
souls.
Apart, austere, the knot of grim Presiding Elders sit;
He wonders if some city "Charge" may not for him have
writ?
Certes! could they his sermon hear on Paul and Luke awreck,
Then had his talent ne'er been hid on Annomesix Neck!
Poor rugged heart, be still a pause, and you, worn wife, be
meek!
Two years of banishment they read far down the Chesa-
peake!
Though Brother Bates, less eloquent, by Wilmington is
wooed,
The Lord that counts the sparrows fall shall feed his little
brood.
"Cheer up my girl, here's Brother Riggs our circuit knows
will please;
He raised three hundred dollars there, besides the marriage
fees.
What! tears from us who've preached the word these thirty
years or so?
Two years on barren Chincoteague, and two in Tuckahoe?
"The schools are good, the brethren say, and our Church
holds the wheel;
The Presbyterians lost their house; the Baptists lost their
zeal.
The parsonage is clean and dry; the town has friendly folk
Not half so dull as Rehoboth, nor proud like Pocomoke.
406
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
"Oh! thy just will, our Lord, be done, though these eight sea-
sons more
We see our ague-crippled boys pine on the Eastern Shore;
While we, thy stewards, journey out our dedicated years
'Midst foresters of Nanticoke, or heathen of Tangiers !
"Yea! some must serve on God's frontiers, and I shall fail,
perforce,
To sow upon some better ground my most select discourse;
At Sassafras, or Smyrna, preach my argument on 'Drink,'
My series on the Pentateuch, at Appoquinimink.
66
Gray am I, brethren, in the work, though tough to bear my
part;
It is these drooping little ones that sometimes wring my
heart,
And cheat me with the vain conceit the cleverness is mine,
To fill the churches of the Elk, and pass the Brandywine.
"These hairs were brown, when, full of hope, entering these
holy lists,
Proud of my Order as a knight—the shouting Methodists
I made the pine woods ring with hymns, with prayer the
night-winds shook,
And preached from Assawaman Light far north as Bombay
Hook.
"My nag was gray, my gig was new; fast went the sandy
miles ;
The eldest Trustees gave me praise, the fairest sisters smiles;
Still I recall how Elder Smith of Worten Heights averred
My Apostolic Parallels the best he ever heard.
"All winter long I rode the snows, rejoicing on my way;
At midnight our revival hymns rolled o'er the sobbing bay;
Three Sabbath sermons, every week, should tire a man of
brass
And still our fervent membership must have their extra Class!
THE CIRCUIT PREACHER.
407
"Aggressive with the zeal of youth, in many a warm requite
I terrified Immersionists, and scourged the Millerite;
But larger, tenderer charities such vain debates supplant,
When the dear wife, saved by my zeal, loved the Itinerant.
"No cooing dove of storms afeard, she shared my life's dis-
tress,
A singing Miriam alway, in God's poor wilderness:
The wretched at her footstep smiled, the frivolous were still;
A bright path marked her pilgrimage, from Blackbird to
Snow hill.
"A new face in the parsonage, at church a double pride!
Like the Madonna and her babe they filled the ‘Amen side.'
Crouched at my feet in the old gig, my boy, so fair and frank,
Nascongo's darkest marshes cheered, and sluices of Choptank.
"My cloth drew close; too fruitful love my fruitless life out-
ran;
The townfolk marveled, when we moved, at such a caravan!
I wonder not my lads grew wild, when, bright, without the
door
Spread the ripe, luring, wanton world, and we within so poor!
"For down the silent cypress aisles came shapes even me to
scout,
Mocking the lean flanks of my mare, my boy's patched round-
about,
And saying: Have these starveling boors, thy congregation,
souls,
That on their dull heads Heaven and thou pour forth such
living coals?'
"Then prayer brought hopes, half secular, like seers by
Endor's witch :
Beyond our barren Maryland God's folks were wise and rich;
Where climbing spires and easy pews showed how the
preacher thrived,
And all old brethren paid their rents, and many young ones
wived!
408
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
+
"I saw the ships Henlopen pass with chaplains fat and sleek ;
From Bishopshead with fancy's sails I crossed the Chesa-
peake;
In velvet pulpits of the North said my best sermons o'er,—
And that on Paul to Patmos driven drew tears in Baltimore.
"Well! well! my brethren, it is true we should not preach
for pelf,
(I would my sermon on St. Paul the Bishop heard himself!)
But this crushed wife, these boys, these hairs; they cut
me to the core ;
Is it not hard, year after year, to ride the Eastern Shore?
"Next year? Yes! yes! I thank you much! then my reward
may fall.
(That is a downright fine discourse on Patmos and St. Paul!)
So, Brother Riggs, once more my voice shall ring in the old
lists,
Cheer up, sick heart, who would not die among these Metho-
dists ? "
GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND.
The Song of the Shirt.
ITH fingers weary and worn,
WIT
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and 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!
>>
}
Y
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.
And work-work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's, oh, to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk, *
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
"Work
work work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work work - work
-
Till the eyes are heavy and dim !
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"O 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 thread,
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,
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep ;
O 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,
VOL. III.
A crust of bread
and rags,
18
409
410
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
:
That 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!
Work-work — work
As prisoners work for crime !
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 light!
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.
"Oh, but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet!
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!
"Oh, 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!"
THE SONG OF ROREK.
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, and dirt,
And still in a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the rich!
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"
411
THOMAS HOOD.
Tw
The Song of Rorek.
WAS on the night of Michaelmas that lordly Orloff's
heir
Wed with the noble Russian maid, Dimitry's daughter fair.
With mirth and song, and love and wine, that was a royal
day;
The banners streamed, the halls were hung in black and gold
array.
The Twelve Apostles stood in brass, each with a flambeau
bright,
To blaze with holy altar sheen throughout the festive night.
The rings were changed, the tabor rolled, the Kyrie was said;
The boyard father drew his sword, and pierced the loaf of
bread.
Soon as the priest did drain his cup, and put his pipe aside,
He wiped his lip upon his sleeve, and kissed the blushing
bride.
That very night to Novgorod must hasten bride and heir,
And Count Dimitry bid them well with robe and bell prepare.
412
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And when from feast and wedding-guest they parted at the
door,
He bade two hunters ride behind, two hunters ride before.
"Look to your carbines, men," he called, "and gird your
ready knives! "
With one accord they all replied, "We pledge thee with our
lives!"
I was the haiduk of that night, and vowed, by horses fleet,
Our sleigh must shoot with arrow speed behind the coursers'
feet.
We journeyed speedy, werst by werst, with bell and song and
glee,
And I, upon my postal-horn, blew many a melody.
I blew farewell to Minka mine, and bid the strain retire
Where she sat winding flaxen thread beside the kitchen fire.
We rode, and rode, by hollow pass, by glen and mountain-
side,
And with each bell soft accents fell from lips of bonny bride.
The night was drear, the night was chill, the night was lone
and bright;
Before us streamed the polar rays in green and golden light.
The gypsy thieves were in their dens; the owl moaned in
the trees;
The windmill circled merrily, obedient to the breeze.
Shrill piped the blast in birchen boughs, and mocked the
snowy shroud;
Thrice ran a hare across our track; thrice croaked a raven
loud!
The horses pawed the frigid sands, and drove them with the
wind;
We left the village gallows-tree full thirty wersts behind.
THE SONG OF ROREK.
413
We rode, and rode, by forest shade, by brake and river-side;
And as we rode I heard the kiss of groom and bonny bride.
I heard again,
a boding strain; I heard it, all too well ;
A neigh, a shout, a groan, a howl, then heavy curses fell.
Our horses pricked their wary ears, and bounded with affright;
From forest kennels picket wolves were baying in the night.
the lash, the steeds, the wolves!"
"Haiduk, haiduk,
the lady cried;
The wily baron clutched his blade, and murmured to the
bride :
"This all is but a moonlight hunt; the starveling hounds
shall bleed,
And you shall be the tourney's queen, to crown the gallant
deed!"
The moon it crept behind a cloud, as covered by a storm;
And the gray cloud became a wolf, a monster wolf in form.
"Gramercy, Mother of our Lord,
Hold well together hand and thong,
steeds!
gramercy in our needs!
hold well, ye sturdy
""
Like unto Tartar cavalry the wolf battalion sped;
Ungunned, unspurred, but well to horse, and sharpened well
to head.
The pines stood by, the stars looked on, and listless fell the
snow;
The breeze made merry with the trees, nor heeded wolf nor
woe.
Now cracked the carbines, - bleeding beasts were rolling
here and there;
'T was flash and shot and howl, — and yet the wolves were
everywhere.
414
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
No more they mustered in our wake, their legion ranged be-
side.
'T was steed for speed, and wolf for steed, and wolf for lord
and bride.
In vain I cited Christian saints, I called Mahomet near:
Methought, though all the saints did fail, the Prophet would
appear.
A moment, and pursuit is stayed, — they tear their wounded
kind;
A moment,
then the hellish pack did follow close behind.
The baron silent rose amain, by danger unappalled.
"Strive for your lives, with guns and knives," the mounted
guardsmen called.
The lady muttered agony, with crucifix and beads;
The wolves were snapping by her side, and leaping at our
steeds.
My limbs were numb, my senses dumb, nor reason held its
place;
I fell beneath two glaring orbs, within a gaunt embrace.
I roused to hear a volley fired, to hear a martial shout;
And when I oped my stricken eyes the wolves were all to
rout.
A hundred scouting Cossacks met and slew the deadly foe ;
Fourscore of wolves in throes of death lay bleeding in the
snow.
Our lady rested in a swoon, our lord was stained with gore;
But none could tell of what befell the trusty hunters four.
JOHN W. WEidemeyer.
GOOD NIGHT.
415
T¹
Misconceptions.
HIS is a spray the bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
This is a heart the queen leant on,
Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,
Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on —
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!
ROBERT BROWNING.
Good Night.
OOD night!
GOLD
Ꮐ
Let it on the weary light!
Now the day in silence closes,
Labor's toil-worn frame reposes.
Till awakes the morning light,
Good night!
Go to rest!
Weary eyes in sleep be prest.
Silence on the wide streets falleth,
Save where lone the watchman calleth;
Whispers night to each worn breast,
Go to rest!
x
416
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Sweetly sleep!
Heavenly dews your senses steep!
Feels your breast love's bitter pleasures,
Let the form your bosom treasures
Brightly imaged round you sweep.
Sweetly sleep!
So good night!
Slumber till the daylight breaketh;
Slumber till another morrow
Brings another weight of sorrow.
Fear ye not your Father waketh!
So good night!
KARL THEODORE KOERNER.
Translated by A. C. KENDRICK.
The Italian Mother.
WHE
HEN Luna drops her pearls of light
Between the blossoms of the trees,
When Philomela lulls at night
Her baby-birds to sleep and ease,
The Italian mother, fond and fair,
Her cradle rocks beneath the skies,
And, breathed upon the evening air,
Her prayers like angel-tones arise.
"Sleep, sleep, my child! these veiling leaves
From chilling dews protect thy bed,
E'en while thy shaded brow receives
The kiss of stars above thy head.
Hushed by these murmuring waves, sleep well!
Oh, may thy life be pure as they !
Like bird and flower, unconscious dwell
Of storms that follow childhood's day."
THE ITALIAN MOTHER.
417
The drowsy bird on downy nest
In plaintive sighs his notes prolongs;
Then, rousing, throws from east to west
The echoing marvel of his songs.
Sleep, child! the willow's waving bough
Reflects the hovering glow-worm's light;
The vigils of my heart allow
No dream to mar this blissful night.
As round his mother's bending form
The Holy Babe shed rays divine,
My being in thy smile grows warm,
Thy cradle 's my horizon-line."
The drowsy bird on downy nest
In plaintive sighs his notes prolongs;
Then, rousing, throws from east to west
The echoing marvel of his songs.
Sleep, child! on bush and branch and tree
Sweet blossoms open for thy sake;
The morning light will brighter be ;
I watch thy blue eyes till they wake.
Though day will bring the sun's bright beam,
In thy sweet face my light I seek;
Sing softly, birds! dance lightly, stream!
I listen lest my baby speak."
Thus, by a tiny, swaying nest,
Whose circlet held her world, her all,
With swelling heart and glowing breast
A mother did her joy recall.
Oh, what can heaven hold of bliss
More pure, more deep, more sweet, than this!
Translated by FLORENCE H. KENDRICK.
18*
ALEXANDRE Soumet.
2
418
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
A Musical Instrument.
HAT was he doing, the great god Pan,
WHE
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river?
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river.
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river,
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
Then notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes as he sate by the river.
"This is the way," laughed the great god Pan,
(Laughed while he sate by the river !)
"The only way since gods began
To make sweet music they could succeed."
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.
THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. 419
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan,
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan
To laugh, as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man.
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain -
For the reed that grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
C
The Undiscovered Country.
OULD we but know
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,
Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,
Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil
Aught of that country could we surely know,
Who would not go?
Might we but hear
The hovering angels' high imagined chorus,
Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,
One radiant vista of the realm before us,
With one rapt moment given to see and hear,
Ah, who would fear?
Were we quite sure
To find the peerless friend who left us lonely,
Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,
To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only, -
This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,
Who would endure?
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
C
420
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Y
Four Years After.
My absent daughter-gentle, gentle maid,
MY
Your life doth never fade!
Oh, everywhere I see your brown eyes shine,
And on my heart, in healing or command,
I feel the pressure of your warm, white hand
That slipped at dawn, almost without a sign,
So softly out of mine.
The birds all sing of you, my darling one.
Your day was just begun ;
But you had learned to love all things that grew:
And when I linger by the streamlet's side
Where bush and weed to you were glorified,
The violet looks up as if it knew,
And talks to me of you.
The lily dreams of you. The pensive rose
Reveals you where it glows
In purple trance above the waterfall.
The fragrant fern rejoices by the pond,
Framing your fair face in its feathery frond.
The winds blow chill, but sounding over all
I hear your sweet voice call.
My gentle daughter with us you have stayed,
Your life doth never fade.
Oh, everywhere I see your brown eyes shine!
In subtle moods, I cannot understand,
I feel the flutter of your warm, sweet hand
That slipped at dawn, almost without a sign,
So softly out of mine.
WILLIAM A. CROFFUT.
CHRISTMAS NIGHT.
421
A
Christmas Night.
T last thou art come, little Saviour!
And thine angels fill midnight with song;
Thou art come to us, gentle Creator!
Whom thy creatures have sighed for so long.
Thou art come to thy beautiful Mother;
She hath looked on thy marvelous face;
Thou art come to us, Maker of Mary!
And she was thy channel of grace.
Thou hast brought with thee plentiful pardon,
And our souls overflow with delight;
Our hearts are half broken, dear Jesus!
With the joy of this wonderful night.
We have waited so long for thee, Saviour!
Art thou come to us, dearest, at last?
Oh, bless thee, dear Joy of thy Mother!
This is worth all the wearisome past!
Thou art come, thou art come, Child of Mary!
Yet we hardly believe thou art come ;
It seems such a wonder to have thee,
New Brother! with us in our home.
Thou wilt stay with us, Master and Maker!
Thou wilt stay with us now evermore :
We will play with thee, beautiful Brother!
On Eternity's jubilant shore.
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
•
.:
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
422
The Distant Hills.
'HILE in a land of flowers
WHILE
My feet were set, where it seemed always June,
And Nature sang at her work a pleasant tune,
For joy in the long bright hours,
I did not often care
From the bright fields to lift my happy eyes,
Where, a blue shadow on the sunny skies,
Arose those summits fair.
But as the path led on,
Quick clouds arose the smiling heavens to hide ;
With sudden bend the pathway turned aside
Where fields were bare and brown.
All things looked sad and strange;
The sunlight faded, and the flowers gone,
In a rough path I seemed to stand alone,
Bewildered by the change.
Then lifting up my eyes,
Behold how beautiful, serene, and clear,
Bright with the radiance that has vanished here,
The distant hills arise.
All robed and crowned with light
That cannot fade, in beautiful array
Distinct they stand against the clouds of gray,
A vision of delight.
Renewed in strength I stand,
I see no more the landscape brown and vast;
No path seems long or dark that leads at last
Into that glorious land.
STANZAS.
There shall all trouble cease
Forevermore; and never fear nor dread
Nor change can reach the happy ones that tread
Those pleasant paths of peace.
A refuge and defense
They are to me; above all present ills
I lift my eyes unto the distant hills,
And all my help is thence.
423
REBECCA S. PALFREY.
T
Stanzas.
HOUGHT is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.
We are spirits clad in veils ;
Man by man was never seen ;
All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.
Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete.
Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.
What is social company
But a babbling summer stream ?
What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream?
K
424
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Only when the sun of love
Melts the scattered stars of thought,
Only when we live above
What the dim-eyed world hath taught,
Only when our souls are fed
By the fount which gave them birth,
And by inspiration led
Which they never drew from earth,
We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.
A Virtuoso.
E seated, pray.
BE
"A grave appeal?
The sufferers by the war, of course;
Ah, what a sight for us who feel,
This monstrous mélodrame of Force!
We, sir, we connoisseurs, should know
On whom its heaviest burden falls;
Collections shattered at a blow,
Museums turned to hospitals !
"And worse," you say; "the wide distress!"
Alas! 't is true distress exists,
Though, let me add, our worthy Press
Have no mean skill as colorists;
Speaking of color, next your seat
There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand;
Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,
Yet not indifferently planned;
A VIRTUOSO.
Note specially the gray old Guard,
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap;
But, as regards the present war,
-
Now don't you think our pride of pence
Goes
it? somewhat far
may I say it?
For objects of benevolence?
You hesitate. For my part, I -
Though ranking Paris next to Rome,
Esthetically still reply
That "Charity begins at Home."
The words remind me. Did you catch
My so-named "Hunt"? The girl's a gem ;
And look how those lean rascals snatch
The pile of scraps she brings to them!
"But your appeal 's for home," you say,
"For home, and English poor!" Indeed!
I thought Philanthropy to-day
Was blind to mere domestic need-
However sore Yet though one grants
P
That home should have the foremost claims,
At least these Continental wants
Assume intelligible names ;
While here with us Ah! who could hope
To verify the varied pleas,
Or from his private means to cope
With all our shrill necessities?
Impossible! One might as well
Attempt comparison of creeds;
Or fill that huge Malayan shell
With these half-dozen Indian beads.
Moreover, add that every one
So well exalts his pet distress,
425
426
OUR POETICAL, FAVORITES.
If
'T is Give to all, or give to none,
you 'd avoid invidiousness.
Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,
The same applies to B.'s and C.'s ;
By my selection I should raise
An alphabet of rivalries;
And life is short I see you look
At yonder dish, a priceless bit;
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book,
They say that Raphael painted it;
And life is short, you understand:
So, if I only hold you out
An open though an empty hand,
Why, you'll forgive me, I 've no doubt.
Nay, do not rise. You seem amused;
One can but be consistent, sir!
'T was on these grounds I just refused
Some gushing lady-almoner,
Believe me, on these very grounds.
Good-by, then. Ah, a rarity!
That cost me quite three hundred pounds, -
That Dürer figure," Charity."
AUSTIN DOBSON.
I
Hymn to the Night.
HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
OH, THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD! 427
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, -
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Oh, the Pleasant Days of Old!
OH, the pleasant days of old, which so often people praise!
True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace our mod-
ern days:
Bare floors were strewed with rushes, the walls let in the
cold;
Oh, how they must have shivered in those pleasant days of old!
Oh, those ancient lords of old, how magnificent they were!
They threw down and imprisoned kings, to thwart them
who might dare?
They ruled their serfs right sternly; they took from Jews
their gold,
Above both law and equity were those great lords of old!
A
428
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Oh, the gallant knights of old, for their valor so renowned!
With sword and lance and armor strong they scoured the
country round;
And whenever aught to tempt them they met by wood or
wold,
By right of sword they seized the prize, those gallant
knights of old!
Oh, the gentle dames of old! who, quite free from fear or pain,
Could gaze on joust and tournament, and see their champion
slain;
They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, which made them
strong and bold, –
Oh, more like men than women were those gentle dames of
old!
Oh, those mighty towers of old! with their turrets, moat, and
keep,
Their battlements and bastions, their dungeons dark and deep.
Full many a baron held his court within the castle hold;
And many a captive languished there, in those strong towers
of old.
Oh, the troubadours of old! with the gentle minstrelsie
Of hope and joy, or deep despair, whiche'er their lot might be;
For years they served their ladye-loves ere they their passions
told,
Oh, wondrous patience must have had those troubadours of
old!
Oh, those blessèd times of old, with their chivalry and state!
I love to read their chronicles, which such brave deeds relate;
I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear their legends
told, -
But, Heaven be thanked! I live not in those blessèd times of
old!
FRANCES Browne.
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS.
429
G
What Mr. Robinson thinks.
UVENER B. is a sensible man;
He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks ;
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ;-
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
My aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?
We can't never choose him o' course, - thet's flat;
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?)
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man :
He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf,
But consistency still was a part of his plan,
He's ben true to one party, — an' thet is himself; —
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;
He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud;
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint,
430
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.
The side of your country must ollers be took,
An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country;
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry;
An' John P.
Robinson he
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.
Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum:
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies
Is half ov it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.
Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,
To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes ;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee.
Wal, it's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell us
The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,-
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,
To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough;
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
THE MILKMAID.
431
A
The Milkmaid.
MILKMAID, who poised a full pail on her head,
Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said:
"Let me see,
I should think that this milk will procure
One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure.
"Well then, stop a bit, - it must not be forgotten,
Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten ;
But if twenty for accident should be detached,
It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.
"Well, sixty sound eggs,
Of these some may die,
Seventeen! not so many,
no, sound chickens, I mean:
we 'll suppose seventeen,
say ten at the most,
Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.
"But then there's their barley: how much will they need?
Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,-
So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see,
At a fair market price how much money there 'll be.
"Six shillings a pair - five
four — three-and-six,
To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix;
Now what will that make? fifty chickens, I said,
Fifty times three-and-sixpence — I'll ask Brother Ned!
"Oh, but stop,- three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell 'em ;
Well, a pair is a couple, now then let us tell 'em ;
A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain !)
Why, just a score times, and five pair will remain.
(6
Twenty-five pair of fowls now how tiresome it is
That I can't reckon up so much money as this!
Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess,
I'll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less.
܀
432
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
"Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow,
Thirty geese, and two turkeys, eight pigs and a sow;
Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year,
I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 't is clear.”
Forgetting her burden, when this she had said,
The maid superciliously tossed up her head;
When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail descended,
And so all her schemes for the future were ended.
This moral, I think, may be safely attached, -
“Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched.”
JEFFREYS TAYLOR.
In the Half-way House.
AT twenty we fancied the blest middle ages
Α
A spirited cross of romantic and grand;
All templars and minstrels and ladies and pages,
And love and adventure in Outre-Mer-land.
But, ah! where the youth dreamed of building a minster,
The man takes a pew and sits reckoning his pelf,
And the graces wear fronts, the muse thins to a spinster,
When Middle-Age stares from one's glass to himself!
Do you twit me with days when I had an ideal,
And saw the sear future through spectacles green?
Then find me some charm, while I look round and see all,
These fat friends of forty shall keep me nineteen ;
Should we go on pining for chaplets of laurel
Who've paid a perruquier for mending our thatch,
Or, our feet swathed in baize, with our fate pick a quarrel,
If, instead of cheap bay-leaves, she sent a dear scratch?
We called it our Eden, that small patent baker,
When life was half moonshine and half Mary Jane;
IN THE HALF-WAY HOUSE.
But the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker;
Did Adam have duns and slip down a back-lane?
Nay, after the fall did the modiste keep coming
With last styles of fig-leaf to Madam Eve's bower:
Did Jubal, or whoever taught the girls thrumming,
Make the patriarchs deaf at a dollar the hour?
As I think what I was, I sigh, Desunt nonulla!
Years are creditors Sheridan's self could not bilk;
But then, as my boy says, “What right has a fellah
To ask for the cream when himself spilt the milk?'
Perhaps when you 're older, my lad, you 'll discover
The secret with which Auld Lang Syne there is gilt,
Superstition of old man, maid, poet, and lover,
That cream rises thicker on milk that was spilt.
We sailed for the moon, but, in sad disillusion,
Snug under Point Comfort are glad to make fast,
And strive (sans our glasses) to make a confusion
433
'Twixt our rind of green cheese and the moon of the past:
Ah, Might-have-been, Could have been, Would have been!
rascals,
He's a genius or fool whom ye cheat at twoscore,
And the man whose boy-promise was likened to Pascal's
Is thankful at forty they don't call him bore!
With what fumes of fame was each confident pate full!
How rates of insurance should rise on the Charles!
And which of us now would not feel wisely grateful,
If his rhymes sold as fast as the Emblems of Quarles?
E`en if won, what's the good of life's medals and prizes?
The rapture 's in what never was or is gone;
That we miss them makes Helens of plain Ann Elizas,
For the goose of to-day still is memory's swan.
And yet who would change the old dream for new treasure?
Make not youth's sourest grapes the best wine of our life?
VOL. III.
19
434
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Need he reckon his date by the Almanac's measure
Who is twenty life-long in the eyes of his wife?
Ah, Fate, should I live to be nonagenarian,
Let me still take Hope's frail I. O. U.'s upon trust,
Still talk of a trip to the Island Macarian,
And still climb the dream-tree for — ashes and dust!
JAMES RUSSEll Lowell.
There is a Green Wood.
HERE is a green wood where the river runs darkly
Under the branches that shadow its tide,
ΤΗ
And the unsunned wave 's rolling above a fair maiden,
Around whom are clinging the robes of a bride.
Deep in its bosom her white form is lying,
And round it is drifting the soft yellow sand,
While her golden hair loose to the current is flying,
Waved by the water-sprite's tremulous hand.
Through the pulses of Nature a death-beat is throbbing,
Each tree, like a pall, o'er the wave flings its shade,
And from the far meadow the wind comes in sobbing
Aimlessly down through the sorrowing glade.
Yet the gloom has not spread where yon castle is shining
So bright in the sunlight that whitens its wall;
There guests are assembling, feasts spreading, wreaths twin-
ing;
But soon must it come like a blight over all.
'T will sadden the music the joy-bells are ringing,
'T will wither the garlands the peasant maids twine,
'T will hush the glad songs that the minstrels are singing,
'T will dim those bright eyes that the jewels outshine.
ATHEISM.
Now all are assembled, and gay plumes are dancing,
Music and laughter float over the throng,
435
White necks gleam with diamonds, and dark eyes are glan-
cing-
Why lingers the bride in her chamber so long?
Proud bridegroom, stern sire, blithe guests, she lies sleeping
In yonder green wood, 'neath the cold wave, to-day!
Be your pride and your anger and mirth turned to weeping;
For well is her vow kept with one far away.
MICHAEL O'CONNOR.
"T
Atheism.
HERE is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what he might have done with us
It's better only guessing."
"There is no God," a youngster thinks,
"Or really if there may be,
He surely did n't mean a man
Always to be a baby."
"Whether there be," the rich man thinks,
"It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual."
Some others also to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.
But country-folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson, and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;
3
436
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt and first confusion;
And almost every one when age,
Disease, and sorrow strike him, -
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like him.
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
The Traveller's Return.
WHE
HEN silent time, wi' lightly foot,
Had trod on thirty years,
I sought again my native land
Wi' mony hopes and fears.
Wha kens gin the dear friends I left
May still continue mine?
Or gin I e'er again shall taste
The joys I left lang syne!
As I drew near my ancient pile,
My heart beat a' the way;
Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak
O' some dear former day;
Those days that followed me afar,
Those happy days o' mine,
Whilk make me think the present joys
A' naething to lang syne:
The ivied tower now met my eye,
Where minstrel used to blaw,
Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand,
Nae weel-kenned face I saw;
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.
Till Donald tottered to the door,
Wham I left in his prime,
And grat to see the lad return
He bore about lang syne.
I ran to ilka dear friend's room,
As if to find them there,
I knew where ilk ane used to sit,
And hung o'er mony a chair;
Till soft remembrance threw a veil
Across these een o' mine,
I closed the door and sobbed aloud,
To think on auld lang syne!
Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race,
Wad next their welcome pay,
Wha shuddered at my Gothic wa's,
And wished my groves away.
Cut, cut," they cried, "those aged elms,
Lay low yon mournful pine.”
Na! na! our fathers' names grow there,
Memorials o' lang syne.
To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts,
They took me to the town;
But sair on ilka weel-kenned face
I missed the youthfu' bloom.
At balls they pointed to a nymph
Wham a' declared divine;
But sure her mother's blushing cheeks
Were fairer far lang syne!
In vain I sought in music's sound
To find that magic art,
Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays
Has thrilled through a' my heart.
437
438
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
The sang had mony an artfu' turn
My ear confessed 't was fine,
But missed the simple melody
I listened to lang syne.
Ye sons to comrades o' my youth,
Forgie an auld man's spleen,
Wha midst your gayest scenes still mourns
The days he ance has seen.
When time has passed and seasons fled,
Your hearts will feel like mine;
And aye the sang will maist delight
That minds ye o' lang syne !
SUSANNA Blamire.
What we all think.
THAT age was older once than now,
ΤΗ
In spite of locks untimely shed,
Or silvered on the youthful brow;
That babes make love and children wed.
That sunshine had a heavenly glow,
Which faded with those "good old days”
When winters came with deeper snow,
And autumns with a softer haze.
That
mother, sister, wife, or child
The "best of women" each has known.
Were school-boys ever half so wild?
How young the grandpapas have grown!
That but for this our souls were free,
And but for that our lives were blest ;
That in some season yet to be
Our cares will leave us time to rest.
THE LITTLE YEARS.
Whene'er we groan with ache or pain,
Some common ailment of the race,
Though doctors think the matter plain,
That ours is "a peculiar case."
That when like babes with fingers burned
We count one bitter maxim more,
Our lesson all the world has learned,
And men are wiser than before.
That when we sob o'er fancied woes,
The angels hovering overhead
Count every pitying drop that flows,
And love us for the tears we shed.
That when we stand with tearless eye
And turn the beggar from our door,
They still approve us when we sigh,
66
'Ah, had I but one thousand more !”
Though temples crowd the crumbled brink
O'erhanging truth's eternal flow,
Their tablets bold with what we think,
Their echoes dumb to what we know;
That one unquestioned text we read,
All doubt beyond, all fear above,
Nor crackling pile nor cursing creed
Can burn or blot it: GOD IS LOVE!
439
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
The Little Years.
'HESE years! these years! these naughty years!
Once they were pretty things:
Their fairy footfalls met our ears,
Our eyes their glancing wings.
They flitted by our school-boy way ;
We chased the little imps at play.
440
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
We knew them, soon, for tricksy elves:
They brought the college gown,
With thoughtful books filled up our shelves,
Darkened our lips with down,
Played with our throat, and lo! the tone
Of manhood had become our own.
They smiling stretched our childish size;
Their soft hands trimmed our hair;
Cast the deep thought within our eyes,
And left it glowing there;
Sang songs of hope in college halls,
Bright fancies drew upon the walls.
They flashed upon us love's bright gem;
They showed us gleams of fame;
Stout-hearted work we learned from them,
And honor more than name:
And so they came, and went away ;
We said not go, we said not stay.
But one sweet day, when quiet skies
And still leaves brought me thought,
When hazy hills drew forth my eyes,
And woods with deep shade fraught,
That day I carelessly found out
What work these elves had been about.
Alas! those little rogues, the years,
Had fooled me many a day,
Plucked half the locks above my ears,
And tinged the rest all gray.
They'd left me wrinkles great and small.
I fear that they have tricked us all.
Well, give the little years their way;
Think, speak, and act the while;
THE QUIET MIND.
Lift up the bare front to the day,
And make their wrinkles smile.
They mould the noblest living head;
They carve the best tomb for the dead.
441
ROBERT T., S. LOWELL.
C
TH
The Quiet Mind.
HOUGH low my lot, my wish is won,
My hopes are few and staid;
All I thought life would do is done,
The last request is made.
If I have foes, no foes I fear,
To fate I live resigned;
I have a friend I value here,
And that's a quiet mind.
I wish not it was mine to wear
Flushed honor's sunny crown ;
I wish not I were Fortune's heir,
She frowns, and let her frown.
I have no taste for pomp and strife,
Which others love to find:
I only wish the bliss of life, -
A poor and quiet mind.
The trumpet's taunt in battle-field,
The great man's pedigree,
What peace can all their honors yield?
And what are they to me?
Though praise and pomp, to eke the strife,
Rave like a mighty wind;
What are they to the calm of life, –
A still and quiet mind?
19*
442
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
I mourn not that my lot is low,
I wish no higher state;
I sigh not that Fate made me so,
Nor tease her to be great.
I am content - for well I see
What all at last shall find,
That life's worst lot the best may be,
If that's a quiet mind.
I see the world pass heedless by,
And pride above me tower;
It costs me not a single sigh
For either wealth or power:
They are but men, and I'm a man
Of quite as great a kind, –
Proud, too, that life gives all she can,
A calm and quiet mind.
I never mocked at beauty's shrine,
To stain her lips with lies;
No knighthood's fame or luck was mine,
To win love's richest prize:
And yet I've found in russet weed,
What all will wish to find,
True love and comfort's prize indeed,
A glad and quiet mind.
And come what will of care or woe,
As some must come to all;
I'll wish not that they were not so,
Nor mourn that they befall:
If tears for sorrows start at will,
They're comforts in their kind;
And I am blest, if with me still
Remains a quiet mind.
When friends depart, as part they must,
And love's true joys decay,
MY TRIUMPH.
That leave us like the summer dust,
Which whirlwinds puff away :
While life's allotted time I brave,
Though left the last behind,
A prop and friend I still shall have,
If I've a quiet mind.
443
JOHN CLARE.
Τ'
My Triumph.
HE autumn time has come ;
On woods that dreamed of bloom,
And over purpling vines,
The low sun fainter shines.
The aster-flower is failing,
The hazel's gold is paling;
Yet overhead more near
The eternal stars appear!
And present gratitude
Insures the future's good,
And for the things I see
I trust the things to be;
That in the paths untrod,
And the long days of God,
My feet shall still be led,
My heart be comforted.
O living friends who love me!
O dear ones gone above me!
Careless of other fame,
I leave to you my name.
444
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Hide it from idle praises,
Save it from evil phrases:
Why, when dear lips that spake it
Are dumb, should strangers wake it?
Let the thick curtain fall;
I better know than all
How little I have gained,
How vast the unattained.
Not by the page word-painted
Let life be banned or sainted:
Deeper than written scroll
The colors of the soul.
Sweeter than any sung
My songs that found no tongue;
Nobler than any fact
My wish that failed of act.
Others shall sing the song,
Others shall right the wrong, -
Finish what I begin,
And all I fail of win.
What matter, I or they?
Mine or another's day,
So the right word be said
And life the sweeter made?
Hail to the coming singers!
Hail to the brave light-bringers!
Forward I reach and share
All that they sing and dare.
The airs of heaven blow o'er me;
A glory shines before me
Of what mankind shall be,
Pure, generous, brave, and free.
THE PARADOX OF TIME.
A dream of man and woman
Diviner but still human,
Solving the riddle old,
Shaping the Age of Gold.
The love of God and neighbor;
An equal-handed labor;
The richer life, where beauty
Walks hand in hand with duty.
Ring, bells in unreared steeples,
The joy of unborn peoples!
Sound, trumpets far off blown,
Your triumph is my own!
Parcel and part of all,
I keep the festival,
Fore-reach the good to be,
And share the victory.
I feel the earth move sunward,
I join the great march onward,
And take, by faith, while living,
My freehold of thanksgiving.
445
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
The Paradox of Time.
'IME goes, you say? Ah no!
TIM
Alas! time stays, we go,
Or else, were this not so,
What need to chain the hours,
For youth were always ours?
Time goes, you say?ah no!
446
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Ours is the eyes' deceit
Of men whose flying feet
Lead through some landscape low;
We pass, and think we see
The earth's fixed surface flee;
Alas, Time stays- we go!
Once, in the days of old,
Your locks were curling gold,
And mine had shamed the crow;
Now, in the self-same stage,
We've reached the silver age;
Time goes, you say?—ah no!
Once, when my voice was strong,
I filled the woods with song,
To praise your “rose” and “snow ":
My bird, that sung, is dead;
Where are your roses fled?
Alas, Time stays — we go!
See, in what traversed ways,
What backward fate delays
The hopes we used to know;
Where are our old desires
Ah, where those vanished fires?
Time goes, you say? ah no!
How far, how far, O Sweet,
The past behind our feet
Lies in the even-glow!
Now, on the forward way,
Let us fold hands and pray;
Alas, Time stays-we go!
AUSTIN DOBSON.
VANITAS VANITATUM.
447
Vanitas Vanitatum.
HE stream that hurries by yon fixed shore
THE
Returns no more.
The wind that dries at morn yon dewy lawn
Breathes and is gone.
Those withered flowers to summer's ripening glow
No more shall blow.
Those fallen leaves that strew yon garden-bed
For aye are dead.
On shore, or sea, or hill, or vale, or plain,
Naught shall remain.
Vainly for sunshine fled and joys gone by
We heave a sigh ;
On, ever on, with unexhausted breath,
Time hastes to death;
Even with each word we speak a moment flies,
Is born and dies.
Of all for which poor mortals vainly mourn,
Naught shall return.
Life hath its home in heaven and earth beneath,
And so hath death.
Not all the chains that clank in Eastern clime
Can fetter time.
For all the phials in the doctor's store,
Youth comes no more.
No drugs on age's wrinkled cheek renew
Life's early dew.
Not all the tears by pious mourners shed
Can wake the dead.
If thus through lesser Nature's empire wide
Nothing abide,
If wind and wave and leaf and sun and flower
Have all their hour,
448
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
He walks on ice whose dallying spirit clings
To earthly things,
And he alone is wise whose well-taught love
Is fixed above:
Truths firm and bright, but oft to mortal ear
Chilling and drear;
Harsh as the raven's croak, the sounds that tell
Of pleasure's knell.
Pray, reader, that the humble minstrel's strain
Not all be vain;
But when thou bend'st to God the suppliant knee,
Remember me.
GERALD GRIFFIN.
A Petition to Time.
OUCH us gently, Time!
TOUC
Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently, as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream!
Humble voyagers are we,
Husband, wife, and children three,
(One is lost,
an angel, fled
To the azure overhead!)
Touch us gently, Time!
We've not proud nor soaring wings,
Our ambition, our content,
Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are we,
O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime;
Touch us gently, gentle Time!
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.
NORTHERN FARMER.
449
WE
Northern Farmer.
Old Style.
´HEER 'asta beän saw long and meä liggin' 'ere aloän ?
Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse: whoy, doctor's
abeän an' agoän:
Says that I moänt 'a naw moor yaäle: but I beänt a fool:
Git ma my yaäle, for I beänt a-goon' to breäk my rule.
Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what's nawways true:
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saäy the things that 'a do.
I've 'ed my point o' yaäle ivry noight sin' I beän ’ere,
An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year.
Parson's a beän loikewoise, an' a-sittin 'ere o' my bed.
'The amoighty's a taäkin o' you to 'issen, my friend," a said,
An' a towd ma my sins, an 's toithe were due, an' I gied it in
hond ;
I done my duty by un, as I 'a done by the lond.
I arn'd a ma' beä. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn.
But a cost oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Marris's barn.
Thof a knaws I hallus voäted wi' Squoire an' choorch an
staäte,
An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raäte.
An' I hallus comed to 's choorch afoor my Sally wur deäd,
An' 'eerd un a bummin' awaäy loike a buzzard-clock * ower
my yeäd,
An' I niver knaw'd whot a meän'd, but I thowt a 'ad summut
to saäy,
An I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said, an' I comed awaäy.
Bessy Marris's barn! tha knaws she laäid it to meä.
Mowt 'a beän, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, sheä.
'Siver, I kep un, I kep un, my lass, tha mun understond;
I done my duty by un as I 'a done by the lond.
* Cockchafer.
450
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
But Parson a comes an' a goos, an' a says it eäsy an' freeä
"The amoighty's a taäkin o' you to 'issen, my friend," says
'eä.
I weänt saäy men be loiars, thof summun said it in 'aäste ;
But a reads wonn sarmin a weeäk, an' I 'a stubb'd Thornaby
waäste.
D' ya moind the waäste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was not
born then ;
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eerd un mysen;
Moäst loike a butter-bump, for I 'eerd un aboot an aboot,
But I stubb'd un oop wi' the lot, and raäved an' rembled un
oot.
Keäper's it wur; fo' they fun un theer a laäid on 'is faäce
Doon i' the woild 'enemies † afoor I comed to the plaäce.
Noäks or Thimbleby toner 'ed shot an as deäd as a naäil.
Noäks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my yaäle.
Dubbut looäk at the waäste: theer war n't not feäd for a cow;
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' looäk at it now —
War n't worth nowt a haäcre, 'an now theer's lots o' feäd,
Fourscore yows upon it an' some on it doon in seäd.
Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall,
Done it ta-year I meän'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all,
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloän,
Meä, wi' haäte oonderd haäcre o' Squoire's an' loäd o' my oän.
Do godamoighty knaw what a 's doing a-taäkin' o' meä?
I beänt wonn as saws 'ere a beän an' yonder a peä ;
An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear!
And I 'a monaged for Squoire come Michaelmas thirty year.
A mowt 'a taäken Joänes, as 'ant a 'aäpoth o' sense,
Or a mowt 'a taäken Robins a niver mended a fence:
But godamoighty a moost taäke meä an' taäke ma now
Wi' 'auf the cows to cauve an' Thornaby holms to plow!
† Anémones.
* Bittern.
THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. 45I
Looök 'ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a passin' by,
Says to thessen naw doot "What a mon a be sewer-ly!"
For they knaws what I beän to Squoire sin fust a comed to
the 'All;
I done my duty by Squoire an' I done my duty by all.
Squoire's in Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite,
For who's to howd the lond ater meä thot muddles ma quoit;
Sartin-sewer I beä, thot a weänt niver give it to Joänes,
Noither a moänt to Robins a niver rembles the stoäns.
But summun 'ull come ater meä mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steäm
Huzzin' an' maäzin' the blessed feälds wi' the divil's oän
team.
Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an' loife they says is sweet,
But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it.
What atta stannin' theer for, an' doesn bring ma the yaäle?
Doctor's a 'tottler, lass, and a 's hallus i' the owd taäle;
I weänt break rules for doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy;
Git ma my yaäle I tell tha, an' gin I mun doy I mun doy.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
O
The Woman of Three Cows.
WOMAN of Three Cows agragh! don't let your tongue
thus rattle!
Oh, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle !
I've seen - and here's my hand to you, I only say what's
true
A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.
Good luck to you! don't scorn the poor, and don't be their
despiser;
For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very
miser,
452
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty
human brows;
Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of
Three Cows!
See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's de-
scendants, -
'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand
attendants!
If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,
Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three
Cows?
The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to
mourning;
Movrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their
returning.
Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven
to house?
Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three
Cows!
Oh, think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing
daunted,
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!
He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse;
Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of
Three Cows?
O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are
shrined in story,
Think how their high achievements once made Erin's great-
est glory!
Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress-
boughs,
And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three
Cows!
NONGTONGPAW.
453
The O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the
boldest,
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest;
Yet who so great as they of yore, in battle or carouse?
Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three
Cows!
Your neighbor's poor, and you it seems are big with vain
ideas,
Because, forsooth, you've got three cows
than she has;
—one more, I see,
That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows,
But if you're strong be merciful, great Woman of Three
Cows!
Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your
scornful bearing,
And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I 'm wear-
ing,
If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my
spouse,
I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of
Three Cows!
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Nongtongpaw.
OHN BULL for pastime took a prance,
Jo
Some time ago, to peep at France;
To talk of sciences and arts,
And knowledge gained in foreign parts.
Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,
And answered John in heathen Greek;
To all he asked, 'bout all he saw,
'T was
Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."
454
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
John, to the Palais-Royal come,
Its splendor almost struck him dumb.
"I say, whose house is that there here?"
"House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"What! Nongtongpaw again!" cries John;
"This fellow is some mighty Don:
No doubt he's plenty for the maw,
I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."
John saw Versailles from Marly's height,
And cried, astonished at the sight,
"Whose fine estate is that there here?"
"State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"His? What! the land and houses, too?
The fellow's richer than a Jew:
On everything he lays his claw!
I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."
Next tripping came a courtly fair;
John cried, enchanted with her air,
"What lovely wench is that there here?"
"Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"What! he again? Upon my life!
A palace, lands, and then a wife
Sir Joshua might delight to draw:
I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw."
"But hold! whose funeral 's that?" cried John.
"Je vous n'entends pas." "What is he gone?
Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save
Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave!
His race is run, his game is up,
I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup;
But since he chooses to withdraw,
Good-night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw."
CHARLES DIBDIN.
WHAT IS LIFE?
455
Verses
Made in the Tower of London the night before the author's execution for
treason, 1586.
Y prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
M'
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.
The day is filed, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done!
My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
My youth is past, and yet I am but young,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done!
I sought for death, and found it in the wombe,
I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade,
I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe,
And now I dye, and now I am but made.
The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!
CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE.
A
What is Life?
ND what is Life? An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.
Its length? A minute's pause, a moment's thought.
And Happiness? A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to naught.
456
·OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn,
That robs each floweret of its gem, and dies;
A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.
.And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound?
That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?
A long and lingering sleep the weary crave.
And Peace? Where can its happiness abound?
Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.
Then what is Life? When stripped of its disguise,
A thing to be desired it cannot be;
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
'Tis but a trial all must undergo,
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man's denied to know,
Until he's called to claim it in the skies.
JOHN CLARE.
Mortality.
OH, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection that proved,
The husband that mother and infant that blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
MORTALITY.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed,
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.
For we are the same that our fathers have been ;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.
457
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink;
To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling;
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but their story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come;
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.
VOL. III.
20
458
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
They died, — ay! they died: and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear and the song and the dirge
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
WILLIAM Knox.
The Old Politician.
N
OW that Tom Dunstan 's cold,
Our shop is duller;
Scarce a story is told,
And our chat has lost the old
Red-republican color.
Though he was sickly and thin,
He gladdened us with his face ;
How, warming at rich man's sin,
With bang of the fist, and chin
Thrust out, he argued the case!
He prophesied folk should be free,
And the money-bags be bled.
"She's coming, she's coming!" said he;
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"
All day we sat in the heat,
Like spiders spinning,
THE OLD POLITICIAN.
459
Stitching full fine and fleet,
While the old Jew on his seat
Sat greasily grinning.
And there Tom said his say,
And prophesied Tyranny's death,
And the tallow burnt all day,
And we stitched and stitched away
In the thick smoke of our breath,
Wearily, wearily,
With hearts as heavy as lead;
But, "Patience, she 's coming!" said he;
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"
And at night, when we took here
The pause allowed to us,
The paper came with the beer,
And Tom read, sharp and clear,
The news out loud to us;
And then, in his witty way,
He threw the jest about,
The cutting things he'd say
Of the wealthy and gay!
How he turned them inside out!
And it made our breath more free
To hearken to what he said.
"She's coming, she 's coming!" says he;
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom 's ahead!"
But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer,
Would mutter, “Master,
If Freedom means to appear,
I think she might step here
A little faster!'
Then it was fine to see Tom flame,
And argue and prove and preach,
Till Jack was silent for shame,
460
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Or a fit of coughing came
O'sudden to spoil Tom's speech.
Ah! Tom had the eyes to see,
66
When Tyranny should be sped;
"She's coming, she 's coming!" said he;
Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"
But Tom was little and weak,
The hard hours shook him ;
Hollower grew his cheek,
And when he began to speak
The coughing took him.
Erelong the cheery sound
Of his chat among us ceased,
And we made a purse all round,
That he might not starve, at least ;
His pain was sorry to see,
Yet there, on his poor sick-bed,
"She's coming, in spite of me!
Courage, and wait!" cried he,
"Freedom's ahead!"
A little before he died,
To see his passion!
'Bring me a paper!" he cried,
And then to study it tried
In his old sharp fashion;
And with eyeballs glittering
His look on me he bent,
And said that savage thing
Of the lords of the Parliament.
Then, darkening - smiling on me,
"What matter if one be dead?
She's coming, at least!" said he;
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom 's ahead!"
MY FRIEND.
Ay, now Tom Dunstan 's cold,
The shop feels duller;
Scarce a story is told,
Our talk has lost the old
Red-republican color.
But we see a figure gray,
And we hear a voice of death,
And the tallow burns all day,
And we stitch and stitch away
In the thick smoke of our breath;
Ay, here in the dark sit we,
While wearily, wearily,
We hear him call from the dead,
"She's coming, she 's coming!" said he;
"Freedom's ahead!"
How long, O Lord, how long
Doth thy handmaid linger,
She who shall right the wrong,
Make the oppressed strong?
Sweet morrow, bring her!
Hasten her over the sea,
O Lord, ere hope be fled;
Bring her to men and to me!
O slave, pray still on thy knee,
"Freedom's ahead!"
461
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
發
​My Friend.
Y friend wears a cheerful smile of his own,
And a musical tongue has he;
We sit and look in each other's face,
And are very good company.
A heart he has, full warm and red
As ever a heart I see!
And as long as I keep true to him,
Why, he 'll keep true to me.
462
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
When the wind blows high and the snow falls fast
And we hear the wassailer's roar,
My friend and I, with a right good-will
We bolt the chamber door;
I smile at him and he smiles at me
In a dreamy calm profound,
Till his heart leaps up in the midst of him,
With a comfortable sound.
His warm breath kisses my thin gray hair
And reddens my ashen cheeks;
He knows me better than you all know,
Though never a word he speaks,
Knows me as well as some had known
Were things not as things be;
But hey, what matters?
Are capital company.
my friend and I
At the dead of night, when the house is still,
He opens his pictures fair;
Faces that are, that used to be,
And faces that never were:
My wife sits sewing beside my hearth,
My little ones frolic wild,
Though — Lilian 's married these twenty years,
And I never had a child.
But hey, what matters when those who laugh,
May weep to-morrow, and they
Who weep be as those that wept not— all
Their tears long wiped away?
I shall burn out like you, my friend,
With a bright warm heart and bold,
That flickers up to the last then drops
Into quiet ashes cold.
Call q
And when you flicker on me, old friend,
In the old man's elbow-chair,
EQUINOCTIAL.
Or-something easier still, where we
Lie down, to rise up fair,
And young, and happy-why then, my friend,
Should other friends ask of me,
Tell them I lived and loved and died,
In the best of all company.
463
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
TH
Equinoctial.
HE sun of life has crossed the line;
The summer-shine of lengthened light
Faded and failed — till, where I stand,
'Tis equal day and equal night.
One after one, as dwindling hours,
Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away,
And soon may barely leave the gleam
That coldly scores a winter's day.
I am not young I am not old;
The flush of morn, the sunset calm,
Paling, and deepening, each to each,
Meet midway with a solemn charm.
One side I see the summer fields,
Not yet disrobed of all their green ;
While westerly, along the hills,
Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.
Ah! middle-point, where cloud and storm
Make battle-ground of this my life!
Where, even-matched, the night and day
Wage round me their September strife.
I bow me to the threatening gale:
I know, when that is over-past,
Among the peaceful harvest days
An Indian Summer comes at last!
MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.
464
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Our Autumns.
E, too, have autumns when our leaves
WE, too, have at
Drop loosely through the dampened air,
When all our good seems bound in sheaves,
And we stand reaped and bare.
Our seasons have no fixed return,
Without our will they come and go;
At noon our sudden summers burn,
Ere sunset all is snow.
But each day brings less summer cheer,
Crimps more our ineffectual spring;
And something earlier, every year,
Our singing birds take wing.
As less the olden glow abides,
And less the chillier heart aspires,
With drift-wood beached in past spring tides
We light our sullen fires.
By the pinched rushlight's starving beam
We cower, and strain our wasted sight,
To stitch youth's shroud up, seam by seam,
In the long Arctic night.
It was not so we once were young-
When spring, to womanly summer turning,
Her dew-drops on each grass-blade strung,
In the sunshine burning.
We trusted then, aspired, believed
That earth could be re-made to-morrow;
Ah, why be ever undeceived?
Why give up faith for sorrow?
THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.
O, thou whose days are yet all spring,
Trust, blighted once, is past retrieving;
Experience is a dumb, dead thing;
The victory's in believing.
465
JAMES RUSSELL Lowell.
IN
The Cane-bottomed Chair.
N tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.
To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright, and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.
This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks
With worthless old knick-knacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.
Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
What matter? 't is pleasant to you, friend, and me.
No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 't is wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.
That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn :
"T is a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.
20*
466
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Long, long, through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie,
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.
But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best:
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair,
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.
'T is a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.
If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,
A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms;
I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair;
I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair.
It was but a moment she sat in this place,
She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,
And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.
And so I have valued my chair ever since,
Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;
Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair.
When the candles burn low, and the company 's gone,
In the silence of night as I sit here alone
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair –
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair.
She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom ;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
IF THE WIND RISE.
If the Wind rise.
AN open sea, a gallant breeze,
That drives our little boat
How fast each wave about us flees,
How fast the low clouds float !
"We'll never see the morning skies,
If the wind rise."
"If the wind rise,
We'll hear no more of earthly lies.”
The moon from time to time breaks out,
And silvers all the sea;
The billows toss their waves about ;
The little boat leaps free.
"We'll never see our true love's eyes,
If the wind rise."
"If the wind rise,
We'll waste no more our foolish sighs."
She takes a dash of foam before,
A dash of spray behind;
The wolfish waves about her roar,
And gallop with the wind.
"We'll see no more the woodland dyes,
If the wind rise."
"If the wind rise,
We'll hear the last of human cries."
The sky seems bending lower down,
And swifter sweeps the gale;
Our craft she shakes from heel to crown,
And dips her fragile sail.
"We may forgive our enemies,
If the wind rise."
"If the wind rise,
We'll sup this night in Paradise."
467
JOSEPH O'CONNOR.
C
468
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
I'm growing Old.
MY days pass pleasantly away;
My nights are blest with sweetest sleep;
I feel no symptoms of decay;
I have no cause to mourn nor weep;
My foes are impotent and shy;
My friends are neither false nor cold,
And yet, of late, I often sigh,
I'm growing old!
My growing talk of olden times,
My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy to rhymes,
My growing love of easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold,
All whisper, in the plainest voice,
I'm growing old!
I'm growing fonder of my staff;
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes;
I'm growing fainter in my laugh;
I'm growing deeper in my sighs;
I'm growing careless of my dress;
I'm growing frugal of my gold;
I'm growing wise; I'm growing, — yes,
I'm growing old!
I see it in my changing taste;
I see it in my changing hair ;
I see it in my growing waist;
I see it in my growing heir;
A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth,
I'm growing old!
THE OLD MAN DREAMS.
Ah me! my very laurels breathe
The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the Hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the Years!
E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare
The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells me in "How young you are!"
I'm growing old!
Thanks for the years! whose rapid flight
M
My sombre Muse too sadly sings;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light
That tint the darkness of their wings;
The light that beams from out the sky,
Those heavenly mansions to unfold,
Where all are blest, and none may sigh
"I'm growing old!”
469
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
The Old Man dreams.
OH
H for one hour of youthful joy!
Give back my twentieth spring!
I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy
Than reign a gray-beard king!
Off with the wrinkled spoils of age!
Away with learning's crown!
Tear out life's wisdom-written page,
And dash its trophies down!
One moment let my life-blood stream
From boyhood's fount of flame!
Give me one giddy, reeling dream
Of life all love and fame!
470
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said,
"If I but touch thy silvered hair,
Thy hasty wish hath sped.
"But is there nothing in thy track
To bid thee fondly stay,
While the swift seasons hurry back
To find the wished-for day?"
- Ah, truest soul of womankind!
Without thee, what were life?
One bliss I cannot leave behind:
I'll take
my - precious
wife!
- The angel took a sapphire pen
And wrote in rainbow dew,
"The man would be a boy again,
And be a husband too!"
"And is there nothing yet unsaid
Before the change appears ?
Remember, all their gifts have fled
With those dissolving years!"
Why, yes; for memory would recall
My fond paternal joys;
I could not bear to leave them all;
I'll take my — girl — and — boys !
The smiling angel dropped the pen,
"Why, this will never do;
The man would be a boy again,
And be a father too!"
And so I laughed, my laughter woke
The household with its noise,
And wrote my dream when morning broke,
To please the gray-haired boys.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
THE FOUNT OF CASTALY.
471
K
The Fount of Castaly.
I
WOULD the Fount of Castaly
Had never wet my lips,
For woe to him that hastily
Its sacred water sips!
Apollo's laurel flourishes
Above that stream divine;
Its secret virtue nourishes
The plants of love and wine.
No Dryad, Faun, or Nereid
Preserves its haunts in charge,
Or watches o'er the myriad
Of flowers about its marge.
But aye around the caves of it
The Muses chant their spells,
And charm the very waves of it
As out the fountain wells.
Its joyous tide leaps crystally
Up 'neath the crystal moon,
And falling ever mistily,
The sparkling drops keep tune!
The wavelets circle gleamily,
With lilies keeping trysts;
Fair emeralds glimmer dreamily
Below, and amethysts.
Once taste that fountain's witchery
On old Parnassus' crown,
And to this world of treachery,
Ah, nevermore come down!
Your joy will be to think of it;
'T will ever haunt your dreams;
You'll thirst again to drink of it
Among a thousand streams!
JOSEPH O'Connor.
INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
+
1
Adieu, adieu ! my native shore
Ah! Jeane, my maid, I stood by you
Ah my heart is weary waiting
A little brook, half hidden under trees
•
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Along the shore, along the shore.
•
A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head
A mist was driving down the British Channel
And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run
•
•
And Willie, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Annie?
An open sea, a gallant breeze
Another brave, in a soldier's grave
"Another year," she said, "another year
Around this lovely valley rise.
As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea
A song of a boat
•
A steed, a steed of matchless speed
•
•
As through the land at eve we went.
As upland fields were sunburnt brown
"A temple to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted
At last thou art come, little Saviour
At twenty we fancied the blest middle ages
Baby Bye
•
Bark that bears me through foam and squall
Before I trust my fate to thee
•
Before the beginning of years
Being asked by an intimate party
Be seated, pray. "A grave appeal?"
Between broad fields of wheat and corn
Beyond the smiling and the weeping
•
PAGE
167
269
362
305
321
13
•
43I
149
455
292
467
162
226
307
316
52
245
•
124
273
106
201
421
•
•
432
•
• 176
369
SI
I
4I
424
•
204
332
474
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Bird of the wilderness
Brave singer of the coming time.
Brother bards of every region.
Brekekekex! co-ax! co-ax! O happy, happy frogs
Brother, thou art gone before us.
By the waters of life we sat together
By the wayside, on a mossy stone
Close his eyes; his work is done.
Come a little nearer, Doctor
Come, all ye jolly shepherds
•
Come home, come home! And where is home for me
Come, kiss my gallant sword
Could we but know
•
•
Daddy Neptune, one day to Freedom did say
Day-stars that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle
Dear Saviour of a dying world
•
Death stately came to a young man, and said
Deep on the convent-roof the snows
•
Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Owen Roe O'Neill?.
Dost thou of all attainments value those
Down in the harbor the ships lie moored
Down in the wide, gray river
•
·
Drawn by horses with decorous feet.
Drawn out, like lingering bees, to share
Drink to me only with thine eyes
•
315
275
302
98
338
64
206
161
•
140
33
378
•
124
419
165
388
340
•
339
•
335
147
•
384
333
82
357
29
16
Drop, drop, slow tears
•
399
Every wedding, says the proverb
44
Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer
4
Farewell! - since nevermore for thee
Flash out a stream of blood-red wine
•
91
•
I02
Garçon !—you, you .
God makes sech nights, all white an' still
Goldilocks sat on the grass
Good night.
Green be the turf above thee
•
•
•
239
26
7
415
231
•
429
395
Guvener B. is a sensible man
Heaven is not reached at a single bound
He came from fasting in the wild
He came when the war was ended
•
•
•
346
139
Here's to them, to them that are gane.
INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
475
He is not dead, for I am he!.
Here brief is the sighing
9
•
•
329
334
68
•
405
376
396
•
366
•
278
He wiled me through the furzy croft
His thin wife's cheek grows pinched and pale
Ho, sailor of the sea .
•
How gently flow the silent years
How happy is he born and taught
•
•
How in Heaven's name did Columbus get over
How little fades from earth when sink to rest.
How many sunimers, love
•
How many thousands of my poorest subjects
How much the heart may bear, and yet not break
How shalt thou bear the cross that now
Hushed be the song and the love-notes of sadness
I am dying, Egypt, dying
•
I am monarch of all I survey
I bade thee stay, too well I knew
•
I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn
I'd be a butterfly
•
If life be as a flame that death doth kill
If love were what the rose is
If the Lord were to send down blessings from heaven
I had never thought of her; we walked
I have a name, a little name
I have fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam
I have had playmates, I have had companions
I have read in some old marvelous tale
I heard the trailing garments of the night.
I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder
I lately lived in quiet ease.
•
•
I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
I linger in a dream
•
I love to look on a scene like this
I met thee, dear, and loved thee, yet we part .
I'm often asked by plodding souls
I'm sitting alone by the fire.
In a saft simmer glowing
•
•
In London once I lost my way
•
•
•
In moss-pranked dells where the sunbeams flatter
In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay
In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars .
In thee, thou Son of God, in thee I rest
•
232
63
300
383
368
145
III
403
73
234
283
382
21
•
400
•
299
347
212
•
205
390
426
274
25
247
59
281
306
100
39
23
•
192
279
373
465
342
In their ragged regimentals
121
476
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
In the time when yellow lilies shake.
360
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
363
47
I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden .
I saw her in the corridor
•
I see before me the gladiator lie
I see thee ever in my dreams
•
Is he gone to a land of no laughter
Is my lover on the sea
•
It was a beauteous lady richly dressed
•
It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang
It was fifty years ago
I wandered lonely as a cloud
I would not die in May.
•
I would the Fount of Castaly.
•
•
Jews were wrought to cruel madness
John Brown in Kansas settled
John Bull for pastime took a prance
Kiss me softly and speak to me low.
Launch thy bark, mariner.
Like him that doth the picture find .
Like to the falling of a star
Little Ellie sits alone
•
Love knoweth every form of air
Love still has something of the sea
Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning
Midnight past not a sound of aught.
Mine to the core of the heart, my beauty
Mournfully listening to the waves' strange talk
Mourn no more for our dead
•
My absent daughter-gentle, gentle maid
My aunt, my dear unmarried aunt
My boat is on the shore
•
My coachman in the moonlight there
My days pass pleasantly away
•
•
My friend wears a cheerful smile of his own
74
147
258
227
375 .
173
•
·
386
266
311
•
327
471
•
346
151
453
15
379
343
233
181
296
20
My gentle Puck, come hither! Thou rememberest
My heid is like to rend, Willie
My maiden visions curb their airy flights
My old Welsh neighbor over the way
•
·
My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed.
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares
•
32
75
36
202
.
157
•
420
54
103
•
184
468
461
62
69
8
287
56
455
INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
My soul, there is a country
My wind is turned to bitter north
Nay, wait me here - I'll not be long
Now, by that river dwelt a landholder
Now that Tom Dunstan's cold
•
Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade.
Oh, faint, delicious, spring-time violet
Oh for one hour of youthful joy
Oh, go not yet, my love
O good painter, tell me true
·
•
•
Oh I heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale
Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave
Oh, I am dinned with rolling drums
Oh, many a leaf will fall to-night.
Oh, sad are they who know not love
Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort
•
•
Oh! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the North
O Lord, our lives are blank with constant losses
One word, dear Lord, where all are dear
On Linden when the sun was low
•
O peaceable folk hid under the earth
O Reverend sir, I do declare
Orphan Hours, the Year is dead .
Oh, sweet my love, the hour is late
Oh the pleasant days of old
Our band is few, but true and tried
Our brightest fancies serve as rays
Our Father-land! and wouldst thou know
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
Over the dumb campagna-sea.
Over the hills the farm-boy goes
Over the river on the hill
Over the river they beckon to me
•
•
•
•
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
O Woman of Three Cows agragh!
Peace to all such! But were there one whose fires
Poor lone Hannah
Prithee tell me, Dimple Chin
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled.
September strews the woodland o'er
She droops like a dew-dropped lily
•
•
477
•
329
237
322
107
458
146
288
469
48
270
72
163
45
284
19
261
119
394
398
129
251
53
315
II
427
267
274
352
136
387
319
•
250
244
456
•
451
228
87
6
123
326
89
478
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
·
She is talking æsthetics, the dear clever creature.
She laid it where the sunbeams fall
Shine soft, ye trembling tears of night
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves
So close we are, and yet so far apart
So far as our story approaches the end
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er
Source of my life's refreshing springs
Stars of the summer night.
Stately trees are growing
•
Sweet and low, sweet and low.
Sweet are the rosy memories of the lips
Swifter far than summer's flight
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean
Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying
Tha 'rt welcome, little bonny brid
That age was older once than now
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall
The autumn time has come
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary
The castled crag of Drachenfels .
The conference-meeting through at last
The face which duly as the sun
The fisherman wades in the surges
The gloomy night is gathering fast
•
.
•
The glories of our birth and state
The glow and the glory are plighted
The Land beyond the Sea!
•
The land where truth, pure, precious, and sublime
The moon is up, and yet it is not night
The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse
The muffled drum's sad rolling beat
The night is late, the house is still
The old Professor taught no more
The racing river leaped and ran
•
There is a green wood where the river runs darkly.
There is a land, of every land the pride
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods
There is no God, the wicked saith
•
•
There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream
These years! these years! these naughty years !
The spearmen heard the bugle sound
The stream that hurries by yon fixèd shore
•
199
196
•
104
157
17
бо
139
400
12
•
248
178
225
•
301
224
16
2
438
83
443
•
174
66
•
313
13
221
385
169
•
249
37
381
•
•
365
308
138
217
170
210
17
434
•
257
•
323
435
•
351
439
235
447
INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
The sunlight fills the trembling air
The sun of life has crossed the line
The tears I shed must ever fall
The tent-lights glimmer on the land
The Willis are out to-night
•
The winds are high on Helle's wave
•
•
•
•
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall
They are all gone into the world of light
They gave the whole long day to idle laughter
They ran through the streets of the sea port town
They tell me I am shrewd with other men
This is the spray the bird clung to
•
·
This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee
Those evening bells, those evening bells
Though low my lot, my wish is won
Though slender walls our hearths divide
Thought is deeper than all speech
•
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray
Three fishers went sailing away to the west
Three poets, in three distant ages born
Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed
Time goes, you say? Ah no!
'T is not for love of gold I go
'T is not the gray hawk's flight
To drum-beat and heart-beat
·
•
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Touch us gently, Time
'T was on the night of Michaelmas, the lordly Orloff's heir
'T was on the shores that round our coast.
Tread softly bow the head
•
Truth cut on high in tablets of hewn stone
•
'T was at Badajos one evening, one evening in May
Underneath this sable hearse
Up! friend of the Cossack! fly forth in thy might
Up from the meadows rich with corn
•
Up from the south at break of day
Upon the hills the wind is sharp and cold .
We are two travellers, Roger and I
Weep not for him that dieth
•
•
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town
We left behind the painted buoy .
We left the sunny South behind
Were there no crowns on earth
•
•
479
988888
19
•
463
254
282
•
298
•
324
242
35
285
•
78
415
349
385
44I
•
353
423
92
•
380
277
116
445
50
113
132
•
392
448
•
•
411
189
336
317
128
220
125
263
134
•
35T
95
219
179
370
304
238
480
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
We, too, have autumns when our leaves
We wandered down the deep ravine
We wreathed about our darling's head
What is Life, father?
•
What's this vain world to me
What thought is folded in thy leaves
•
What time is it? Seven o'clock, you say .
What was he doing, the great god Pan .
Wheer 'asta beän saw long and meä liggin' 'ere aloän ?·
When Luna drops her pearls of light
When maidens such as Hester die
When silent time, wi' lightly foot
•
•
•
When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces
When the latest strife is lost, and all is done with
Where is Miss Myrtle? can any one tell?.
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?.
Where lies the land to which the ship would go ?
Where mountains round a lonely dale
Where shall the lover rest
Which I wish to remark
While in a land of flowers
•
•
•
go?
•
Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child?.
Wild bird, that wingest wide the glimmering moors
Willie, fold your little hands.
With fingers weary and worn
•
Word was brought to the Danish king
•
Would you be young again?
Ye say they all have passed away
You know we French stormed Ratisbon
•
You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier
You may give over plough, boys.
You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought
•
•
464
5
358
367
331
58
214
418
449
416
241
436
309
93
355
•
149
377
318
79
198
·
442
•
180
8.5
131
408
86
•
213
312
•
127
229
289
186
INDEX OF AUTHORS
REPRESENTED IN THE THREE VOLUMES.
Addison, Joseph (England, 1672-1719). I. The Spacious Firmament
on High, 393.
Aldrich, James (New York, 1810-1856). I. A Death-bed, 107.
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey (Boston, Mass., living). III. Song of Fa-
tima, 19. Faded Violets, 58.
Alexander, Cecil Frances (Ireland, living). III. Crossing the
Brook, 343.
Allen, Elizabeth Akers (Portland, Me., living). I. Bringing our
Sheaves with Us, 407. III. Restlessness, 333. Endurance, 383.
Allingham, William (London, England, living). III. The Mowers,
318. Death Deposed, 339.
Anderson, Alexander (Scotland, living). III. Cuddle Doon, 174.
Arnold, Edwin (England, living). III. Sujâta, 107.
Aytoun, William Edmondstoune (Scotland, 1813-1865). II. The
Burial March of Dundee, 492. The Widow of Glencoe, 497.
Banim, John (Ireland, 1798-1842). III. Ailleen, 50.
Barbauld, Anna Lætitia (England, 1743-1825). I. Life's Good
Morning, 452.
Barnes, William (England, living). III. Not far to Go, 106. The
Slanten Light o' Fall, 269.
Bayly, Thomas Haynes (England, 1797-1839). III. I'd be a But-
terfly, 283.
Beattie, James (Scotland, 1735-1803). I. The Hermit, 274.
Benjamin, Park (New York, 1819-1864). I. The Sexton, 330.
Béranger, Pierre Jean de (France, 1780-1857). II. Song of the
Cossack (Maginn's paraphrase), 222. III. Song of the Cossack (Ken-
drick's translation), 125.
Berkeley, George (Ireland, 1684-1753). I. The Old World and the
New, 105.
Bernard of Cluny (France, 12th Century). III. A Hymn, 329.
Blackie, John Stuart (Scotland, living). III. The Musical Frogs, 302.
Blamire, Susanna (Scotland, 1747-1794). III. The Traveller's Re-
turn, 436.
VOL. II.
21
482
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Boker, George Henry (Philadelphia, Penn., living). III. Dirge for
a Soldier, 161.
Bonar, Horatius (Scotland, living). I. Time and Eternity, 446. III.
A Little While, 332.
Brainard, John G. C. (Connecticut, 1795-1828). I. How many now
are dead to me, 243.
Branch, Mary Bolles (New York, living). III. My Little Brook, 305.
Brenan, Joseph (Ireland, 1829; New Orleans, 1857). I. Come to me,
dearest, 133.
Bronté, Emily (England, 1819-1848). I. Fragment, 343.
Browne, Frances (Ireland, living). I. Is it come? 257. Losses, 285.
We are growing Old, 385. II. The Hills of my Country, 501. III. Oh
the Pleasant Days of Old! 427.
Brownell, Henry Howard (Connecticut, 1820-1872). III. Suspiria
Ensis, 157.
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (England, 1809; Italy, 1861). I.
Mother and Poet, 68. Catarina to Camoens, 150. Only a Curl, 310.
Cowper's Grave, 325. To Sleep, 328. Christ turned and looked upon
Peter, 379. II. Rhyme of the Duchess May, 368. Lady Geraldine's
Courtship, 387. Bertha in the Lane, 411. III. The Romance of the
Swan's Nest, 181. De Profundis, 221. The Pet Name, 347. A View
across the Roman Campagna, 387. A Musical Instrument, 418.
Browning, Robert (England, living). I. How they brought the Good
News from Ghent to Aix, 78. The Lost Leader, 113. The Flower's
Name, 125. Evelyn Hope, 175. II. The Statue and the Bust, 462. The
Pied Piper of Hamelin, 471. One Word More, 480.
III. A Light Woman, 60. My Last Duchess, 831.
French Camp, 127. Misconceptions, 415.
Bryant, William Cullen (New York, 1794-1878). I. Song of the
Stars, 5. The Death of the Flowers, 34. Song of Pitcairn's Island, 196.
The Return of Youth, 388. The Future Life, 420. III. Song of Marion's
Men, 267. Thanatopsis, 392.
Hervé Riel, 487.
Incident of the
Buchanan, Robert (Scotland, living). I. Langley Lane, 137. III.
Charmian, 360. The Old Politician, 458.
Bulwer, Robert Lytton (England, living; Viceroy of India). I. The
Prophet, 28. A Love-letter, 134. II. The Apple of Life, 514. The
Paradise Bird, 531. III. The Portrait, 75. A Bird at Sunset, 85..
Astarte, 93. Midges, 199. Sweet are the Rosy Memories, 225.
Burns, Robert (Scotland, 1759-1796). I. Highland Mary, 177. II.
The Cotter's Saturday Night, 99. Tam O'Shanter, 105. III. To
Mary in Heaven, 92. Bannockburn, 123. Farewell to his Native Coun-
try, 169.
Byron, Lord (England, 1788-1824). I. She walks in Beauty, 36. The
Destruction of Sennacherib, 37. The Isles of Greece, 57. Greece, 60.
Enslaved Greece, 61. The Snows of Parnassus, 63. Chillon, 112. Lines
1
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
483
written in an Album, 136. Stanzas, 173. Beauty and the Butterfly, 182.
Stanzas to Augusta, 200. Farewell to his Wife, 203. Life, 214. When
from the Heart, 236. My Thirty-sixth Year, 284. Henry Kirke White,
302. II. The Prisoner of Chillon, 224. The Dream, 236. Waterloo,
242. Ode to Napoleon, 245. Hassan's Desolated Palace, 250.
Thirza, 251. III. To Thomas Moore, 103. The Gladiator, 147. My
Native Land, Good Night, 167. The Hellespont, 298. Sunset, 308.
The Rhine, 313. Solitude, 323.
To
Calverley, Charles Stuart (England, living). III. The Cock and
the Bull, 186. Motherhood, 196. Lovers, and a Reflection, 279.
Campbell, Thomas (Scotland, 1777-1844). I. Lochiel's Warning, 86.
Lord Ullin's Daughter, 89. Ye Mariners of England, 94. Death-song
of the Oneida Chief, 106. The Spectre Boat, 184. The Soldier's Dream,
199. II. O'Connor's Child, 185. Hallowed Ground, 193. Caroline,
196. To the Evening Star, 198. III. Glenara, 72. Hohenlinden, 129.
Cary, Alice (New York, 1820-1871). I. Among the Beautiful Pictures,
241. III. An Order for a Picture, 273.
Cary, Phoebe (New York, 1824-1871). I. Our Baby, 433. Nearer
Home, 442. My Friend, 457.
Celano, Thomas de (Naples, 13th Century). I. Dies Iræ, 464.
Clare, John (England, 1793–1864). III. The Quiet Mind, 441. What
is Life? 455.
Clough, Arthur Hugh (England, 1819-1861). I. Qua Cursum Ven-
tus, 249. III. My Wind is turned to Bitter North, 237. The Atlantic,
278. Where lies the Land? 377. Come Home, 378. Atheism, 435.
Coffin, Robert Barry (New York, living). I. Ships at Sea, 416.
Coleridge, Hartley (England, 1796-1849). I. The First Voices of
Paradise, 275. Martha, thy maiden foot, 404.
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (England, 1772-1834). I. Morning Hymn
to Mont Blanc, 30. Genevieve, 114. Youth and Age, 213.
Know Thy-
self, 261. Extract, 262. Fancy in Nubibus, 266. For a Timepiece,
287. The Good Great Man, 295. The Teacher Taught, 409. II. Chris-
tabel, 139. Rime of the Ancient Mariner, 159. Dejection, 179. III. The
Knight's Tomb, 149. Kubla Khan, 363.
Collins, William (England, 1720-1756). I. How sleep the Brave, 112.
II. The Passions, 72.
Cooke, Rose Terry (Hartford, Conn., living). I. It is more Blessed,
40S. III. A Fishing Song, S2. The Two Villages, 250.
Cook, Theodore P. (Utica, N. Y., living). III. Blue Beard, 9.
Cowper, William (England, 1731-1800). I. Boadicea, 85. On the
Receipt of my Mother's Picture, 322. III. Verses, supposed to be writ-
ten by Alexander Selkirk, 403.
Coxe, Arthur Cleveland (Buffalo, N. Y., living). I. The Heart's
Song, 376.
484
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Crabbe, George (England, 1754-1832). I. Consolation, 378.
Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock (England, living). I. Philip, my King,
192. An Evening Guest, 344. Douglas, Douglas, tender and true, 346.
Labor and Rest, 389. III. Song, 13. Plighted, 36. By the Alma
River, 131. My Friend, 461.
Cranch, Christopher Pearse (Cambridge, Mass., living). III. Stan-
zas, 423.
Crashaw, Richard (England, 1600-1650). II. Wishes to his Supposed
Mistress, 6. On a Prayer-book, 10.
Crewdson, Jane (England, 19th Century). I. A Little While, 462.
What Then? 463.
Croffut, William A. (New York, living). III. Four Years After,.420.
Croly, George (Ireland, 1780-1860). I. Pericles and Aspasia, 56. The
Genius of Death, 443. A Dirge, 444.
Cutting, Sewall S. (Brooklyn, N. Y., living). III. Immortality, 342.
Davies, Sir John (England, 1570-1626). I. The Soul, 391.
Davis, Thomas (Ireland, 1814-1845). I. The Welcome, 131.
Shall I
fear, O Earth, thy bosom? 423. III. Fontenoy, 116. Lament for
Owen Roe O'Neill, 147.
Derzhavin, Gabriel Romanowitch (Russia, 1743-1816). I. God,
470.
Dibdin, Charles (England, 1745-1814). III. Nongtongpaw, 453.
Dibdin, Thomas (England, 1771-1841). III. The Snug Little Island,
165.
Dimond, William (England, 1800-1837). III. The Mariner's Dream,
373.
Dobell, Sydney (England, 1824-1874). III. The Widow's Lullaby,
89. Tommy's Dead, 289. How's my Boy? 376.
Dobson, Austin (England, living). III. A Virtuoso, 424. The Para-
dox of Time, 445.
Doddridge, Philip (England, 1702-1751). I. “Dum vivimus, vivamus,”
403.
Domett, Alfred (England, living). I. Christmas Hymn, 357.
Drake, Joseph Rodman (New York, 1795-1820). II. The Culprit
Fay, 285.
Dryden, John (England, 1631-1700). II. Alexander's Feast, 41. III.
Under the Portrait of Milton, 277.
Duganne, Augustine J. H. (Albany, N. Y., living). III. Castle
Building, 5.
Ely, Joseph Allen (Orange, N. J., living). III. Whosoever, 398.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo (Concord, Mass., living). II. Each and
All, 247. The Day's Rations, 261.
Euripides (Greece, B. C. 480-406). III. Athens, 365. (Translated by
Thomas Campbell.)
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
485
Faber, Frederick William (England, 1815-1863). III. The Eter-
nal Years, 368. The Land beyond the Sea, 381. Longing for God,
396. Christmas Night, 421.
Fawcett, Edgar (New York, living). III. The Dying Actor, 214.
Ferguson, Samuel (Ireland, living).
Finch, Francis Miles (Ithaca, N.
III. Boatman's Hymn, 369.
Y., living). III. Nathan Hale,
132.
Fletcher, Giles (England, 1580-1623). I. Excellency of Christ, 373-
III. Drop, drop, Slow Tears, 399.
Gilbert, William S. (England, living). III. The Yarn of the Nancy
Bell, 189.
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von (Germany, 1749-1843). I. Haste
Not, Rest Not, 406.
Goldsmith, Oliver (Ireland, 1728-1774)., II. The Traveller, 76. The
Deserted Village, 87.
Grant, Sir Robert (Scotland, 1785-1838). I. Litany, 370.
Saviour, whose Mercy, 399. Tempted like as we are, 400. The Brook-
let, 439.
*
Gray, David (Buffalo, N. Y., living). I. The Golden Wedding, 202.
Gray, David (Scotland, 1838-1861). III. By the Fire, 284.
Gray, Thomas (England, 1746-1771). I. Hymn to Adversity, 303.
Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, 317. II. On the Spring, 59.
The Progress of Poesy, 61. The Bard, 64. Ode on a Distant Prospect
of Eton College, 69.
III. To Lucy, 306.
III. The Puritan Lovers, 29.
Green, Anna Katherine (New York, living).
Green, Annie D. (Bristol, N. H., living).
Greenwell, Dora (England, living). III. Repentance, 400.
Griffin, Gerald (Ireland, 1803-1840). III. Vanitas Vanitatum, 447.
Halleck, Fitz-Greene (Connecticut, 1795-1869). I. Marco Bozzaris,
63. II. Alnwick Castle, 276. A Poet's Daughter, 280. Love, 283.
III. Joseph Rodman Drake, 231.
Harte, Bret (living, U. S. Consul at Glasgow). III. Her Letter, 39.
His Answer to her Letter, 41. Plain Language from Truthful James, 198.
A Greyport Legend, 285.
Heber, Reginald (England, 1783-1826). I. If thou wert by my side,
198. Epiphany, 360. Thou art gone to the Grave, 455. The Lord will
come, 464.
Heine, Heinrich (Germany, 1800-1856). I. The Lore-Lei, 77.
Hemans, Felicia (England, 1794-1835). I. The Songs of our Fathers,
2. Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, 101. The Hour of Death, 314. III.
The Cavern of the Three Tells, 163. The Adopted Child, 180.
Herbert, George (Wales, 1593-1632). I. Virtue, 296. The Gifts of
God, 383.
486
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Hervey, Thomas Kibble (Scotland, 1799-1859). I. Cleopatra em-
barking on the Cydnus, 44. Cleopatra at Actium, 46. The Convict
Ship, 234. I know thou hast gone, 455. III. An Epitaph, 91.
Hitchings, Charles H. (England, 19th Century). I. The Soul's Pass-
ing, 448.
Hoekstra, Jacob A. (Rochester, N. Y., living). III. In the Shadow,
274.
Hoffman, Charles Fenno (New York, living). I. Monterey, 108.
Hogg, James (Scotland, 1770-1835). III. Love is like a Dizziness, 25.
When the Kye comes Hame, 33. The Skylark, 315.
Holland, Josiah Gilbert (New York, living). III. Gradatim, 395.
Holmes, Oliver Wendell (Boston, Mass., living). I. The Voiceless,
I. The Last Leaf, 209. Bill and Joe, 211. The Chambered Nautilus,
404. Under the Violets, 430. II. Meeting of the Alumni of Harvard
College, 362. III. My Aunt, 54. Mare Rubrum, 102. After a Lec-
ture on Moore, 104. A Good Time Going, 275. Sun and Shadow, 316.
What we all think, 438. The Old Man Dreams, 469.
Hood, Thomas (England, 1798-1845). I. Ruth, 118. The Bridge of
Sighs, 185. The Death-bed, 317. Farewell Life, Welcome Life, 452.
II. The Dream of Eugene Aram, 315. III. The Bachelor's Dream, 56.
A Plain Direction, 192. Song of the Shirt, 408,
Howe, Julia Ward (Boston, Mass., living). III. The Royal Guest,
78.
Howells, William D. (Cambridge, Mass., living). III. Before the
Gate, 35.
Howland, Mrs. R. S. (United States, living). I. Rest, 437.
Hoyt, Ralph (New York, 1808-1878). III. Old, 206.
Hugo, Victor (France, living). II. Her Name, 344. The Grand-
mother, 345.
Hurlburt, William Henry (New York, living). I. Faith, 402.
Ingelow, Jean (England, living). I. Love (Songs of Seven), 124. Giv-
ing in Marriage, 190. Divided, 250. II. The High Tide on the Coast of
Lincolnshire, 509. III. Goldilocks, 7. Love at First Sight, 17. Long-
ing for Home, 245.
James, Paul Moon (England, 1780-1854). I. The Beacon, 32.
Jenks, Edward A. (Concord, N. H., living). I. Going and Coming,
419.
Johnson, Evangeline M. (Rochester, N. Y., living). I. Daughters
of Toil, 233. The Difference, 350. III. For my Sake, 394.
Johnson, Rossiter (New York, living). I. On the Cliff, 143. A Song
for the New Year, 258.
Jones, Sir William (England, 1746-1794). I. An Ode, 96. From
the Persian, 292.
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
487
Jonson, Ben (England, 1574-1637). III. To Celia, 16. Epitaph, 220.
Judson, Emily C. (Hamilton, N. Y., 1817-1854). I. My Bird, 191.
Angel Charlie, 194. Watching, 205. My Angel Guide, 207. To the
Southern Cross, 424.
Keats, John (England, 1796-1821). I. Ode on a Grecian Urn, 67. On
first looking into Chapman's Homer, 266. II. Fancy, 304. Ode to a
Nightingale, 307. To Autumn, 309.
Keble, John (England, 1792-1866). I. Imperfection of Human Sympa-
thy, 384. II. Nunquam Audituræ, 275.
Kemble, Frances Anne (England, living). I. Absence, 127. Son-
net, 136. Faith, 181.
King, Henry (England, 1591-1669). II. The Exequy, 3.
233.
III. Life,
I. The Sands o' Dee, 91.
The Three Fishers, 380.
Kingsley, Charles (England, 1819-1875).
III. The Mango Tree, 68. The Oubit, 386.
Knowles, Herbert (England, 1798-1827). I. Lines written in a
Churchyard, 421.
Knox, Isa Craig (Scotland, living). I. Going Out and Coming In, 287.
III. After War, 139. The Marriage Feast, 346.
Knox, William (Scotland, 1789-1825). III. Mortality, 456.
Koerner, Karl Theodore (Germany, 1791-1813).
415.
III. Good Night,
Lamb, Charles (England, 1775-1834). III. The Old Familiar Faces,
205. To Hester, 241.
Landon, Lætitia Elizabeth (England, 1802-1838). II. The awaken-
ing of Endymion, 342.
Larcom, Lucy (Beverly, Mass., living). III. A Strip of Blue, 411.
Follow Thou Me, 426. A Year in Heaven, 460. III. Hannah Binding
Shoes, 87.
Lee, Miss M. A. (Scotland). I. My ain Countree, 441.
Locker, Frederick (England, living). III. A Nice Correspondent, 37.
My Neighbor Rose, 353.
Logan, John (Scotland, 1748-1788). I. To the Cuckoo, 16.
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth (Cambridge, Mass., living). I.
The Day is Done, 3. Nuremberg, 72. The Arsenal at Springfield, 109.
The Children's Hour, 193. Maidenhood, 222, A Psalm of Life, 260.
Weariness, 288. Retribution, 293. Resignation, 304. Footsteps of
Angels, 347. II. The Skeleton in Armor, 352. III. Serenade, 12.
The Warden of the Cinque Ports, 149. Haunted Houses, 238. God's-
Acre, 247. The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz, 266. The beleaguered City,
390. Hymn to the Night, 426.
Loring, Fred W. (Boston, Mass., 1849-1871). III. The Old Pro-
fessor, 210.
Lover, Samuel (Ireland, 1797-1868). III. Father-land and Mother-
tongue, 352.
488
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Lowell, James Russell (living, U. S. Minister to England). I. My
Love, 119. Longing, 246. Extreme Unction, 290. From the Present
Crisis, 293. Auf Wiedersehen, 338. Palinode, 339. After the Burial,
340. The Dead House, 341. II. The Present Crisis, 503. To a Pine-
Tree, 507.
III. The Courtin', 26. Without and Within, 184. What
Mr. Robinson thinks, 429. In the Half-way House, 432. Our Autumns,
464.
Lowell, Maria White (Cambridge, Mass., 1821-1853). I. The Al.
pine Shepherd, 308. III. The Morning Glory, 358.
Lowell, Robert T. S. (Boston, Mass., living). III. The Relief of
Lucknow, 261. The Little Years, 439.
Ludlow, Fitz Hugh (Poughkeepsie, N. Y., 1837-1870). I. Too Late,
24.4.
Lynch, Anne C. Mrs. Botta (New York, living). I. As to the Dis-
tant Moon, 127.
Lyte, Henry F. (England, 1793-1847). I. How amiable are thy
Tabernacles, 375.
Lytle, William H. (Cincinnati, O., 1826-1863). III. Antony and
Cleopatra, 111.
Mac-Carthy, Denis Florence (Ireland, living). III. Summer Long-
ings, 362.
Macaulay, Thomas Babington (England, 1800-1859). I. Ivry, 80.
Moncontour, 83. II. Horatius, 321. III. Naseby, 119.
Mangan, James Clarence (Ireland, 1803-1849). III. The Kara-
manian Exile, 258. The Woman of Three Cows, 451.
Marston, Philip Bourke (England, living). III. Too Near, 17.
Marvell, Andrew (England, 1620-1678). II. The Garden, 38.
Massey, Gerald (England, living). I. To-day and To-morrow, 254.
McKnight, George (Sterling, N. Y., living). III. The Soul's
Measure, 384.
McMaster, Guy Humphrey (Bath, N. Y., living). III. Carmen
Bellicosum, 121.
Merrill, Samuel P. (Biddeford, Me., living). III. Dirge for a Sol-
dier, 162.
Miller, Thomas (England, 1807-1874). II. An Evening Hymn, 365.
Miller, William (Scotland, living). III. Willie Winkie, 179.
Milman, Henry Hart (England, 1791-1868). I. Song of the Cap-
tive Jews at Babylon, 38. The Crucifixion, 362. III. Hymn, 338.
Milnes, Richard Monckton, Lord Houghton (England, living). I.
Youth that Pursuest, 221.
The Long
J
The Beating of my Heart, 121.
Ago, 236.
Milton, John (England, 1608-1674). I. On his Blindness, 295. To
Cyriack Skinner, 296. Lycidas, 297. II. On the Morning of Christ's
Nativity, 14. L'Allegro, 22. Il Penseroso, 27. From "Comus," 32.
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
489
Moir, David Macbeth (Scotland, 1798-1851). I. Time's Changes,
231. Casa Wappy, 336. II. Hymn to Hesperus, 310.
Montgomery, James (Scotland, 1771-1854). I. The Crucifixion,
363. The Stranger, 372. Prayer, 380. The Lord, the Good Shepherd,
398. Palms of Glory, 453. III. Home, 257.
Moore, Thomas (Ireland, 1779-1852). I. The Parallel, 40. But who
shall see, 41.
While History's Muse, 97. Oh, blame not the Bard, 98.
When first I met thee, 178. Oft in the Stilly Night, 240. As down in
the Sunless Retreats, 447. II. The Light of the Haram, 199. Araby's
Daughter, 220. III. Tell her, oh, tell her, 16. Oh, breathe not his
Name, 146. A Temple to Friendship, 201. Bendemeer's Stream, 351.
Those Evening Bells, 385.
Morris, Charles (England, 1739-1838). III. The Toper's Apology,
100.
Motherwell, William (Scotland, 1797-1835). I. Jeanie Morrison,
147. III. Wearie's Well, 23. The Bloom hath fled thy Cheek, Mary,
66. My Heid is like to rend, Willie, 69. The Sword-chant of Thorstein
Raudi, 113. The Cavalier's Song, 124. A Solemn Conceit, 248.
Mueller, Wilhelm (Germany, 1794-1827). I. The Sunken City, 265.
Mulock. See, Craik.
Munby, Arthur (England, living). III. Doris, 47.
Munkittrick, Richard K. (New York, living). III. A Dream, 59.
Where is He? 316.
III. No More, 145.
Nairne, Lady (Scotland, 1766-1845). III. Would you be young again?
213. Rest is not here, 331. Here's to them that are gane, 334.
Neele, Henry (England, 1798-1828). I.
Newell, Robert H. (New York, living).
Newton, Cradock (England, 19th century).
Norton, Caroline E. (England, 1808-1877).
74. III. The King of Denmark's Ride, 86.
not for him that dieth, 219.
III. Wonderland, 202.
I. Bingen on the Rhine,
Allan Percy, 173. Weep
O'Connor, Joseph (Rochester, N. Y., living). III. A Cavalier to his
Sword, 124. We brought the Summer with us, 304. If the Wind rise,
467. The Fount of Castaly, 471.
O'Connor, Michael (Rochester, N. Y., 1837-1862). III. My Beau,
45. Reveille, 138. There is a Green Wood, 434.
Ogilvie, Mrs. (England, 19th century). I. Spinning of the Shroud,
312.
O'Hara, Theodore (Kentucky, 1820-1867). III. The Bivouac of the
Dead, 217.
Osgood, Kate Putnam (Fryeburg, Me., living). III. Driving Home
the Cows, 136.
Palfrey, Rebecca S. (Massachusetts, living). III. The Distant Hills,
422.
21*
490
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Palgrave, Francis Turner (England, living). I. Whence and
Whither, 364. Christus Consolator, 374.
Palmer, John Williamson (New York, living). III. For Charlie's
Sake, 170.
III. The Groomsman
Parnell, Thomas (England, 1679-1717). I. The Seraph throwing off
his Disguise, 374. II. Edwin of the Green, 46. The Hermit, 52.
Parsons, Thomas W. (Boston, Mass., living).
to the Bridesmaid, 44. A Song for September, 326.
Percival, James Gates (Berlin, Conn., 1785-1856). I. To a Carrier
Pigeon, 123.
Perry, Nora (Hartford, Conn., living). I. Maud and Madge, 229. III.
Another Year, 226.
Piatt, Mrs. S. M. B. (Ohio, living). III. My Babes in the Wood,
274.
Pierpont, John (Litchfield, Conn., 1785-1866). I. My Child, 306.
Pinkney, Edward Coate (Baltimore, Md., 1802-1828). I. A Health,
117.
Poe, Edgar A. (Baltimore, Md., 1809-1849). I. The Haunted Palace,
263. The Bells, 276. The Raven, 279.
Pomeroy, Rachel (United States, living). III. God's-Acre, 251.
Pope, Alexander (England, 1688-1744). I. Messiah, 354. The Dying
Christian to his Soul, 451. III. Portrait of Addison, 228.
Praed, Winthrop Mackworth (England, 1802-1839). I. The Pa-
triot Bard, 99. III. Miss Myrtle, 355.
Priest, Nancy A. W. — Mrs. Wakefield (Massachusetts, 1837–1870).
I. Heaven, 454. III. Over the River, 244.
Preston, Margaret J. (Virginia, living). I. A Year in Heaven, 458.
III. A Hero of the Commune, 239
Procter, Adelaide A. (England, 1826-1864). I. The Present, 256.
Strive, Wait, and Pray, 381. Incompleteness, 382. O Doubting Heart,
418. Per Pacem ad Lucem, 425. III. A Woman's Question, 51. Life
and Death, 367.
Procter, Bryan Waller (England, 1787-1874). III. A Poet's Song
to his Wife, 63. Is my Lover on the Sea? 375. A Petition to Time,
448.
Proctor, Edna Dean (Brooklyn, N. Y., living). I. Heroes, 348.
Proudfit, David L. (New York, living). III. In the Academy of De-
sign, 74. The Willis, 282.
Quarles, Francis (England, 1592-1644). I. God, 390,
Raleigh, Sir Walter (England, 1552–1618). I. Pilgrimage, 370.
Read, Thomas Buchanan (Pennsylvania, 1822-1872). I. Drifting,
26. The Closing Scene, 413. III. Sheridan's Ride, 134. The Stranger
on the Sill, 204.
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
491
Realf, Richard (b. England, 1834; d. California, 1878). I. At the
Window, 227. III. Indirection, 4. An Old Man's Idyl, 64. My Slain,
349.
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel (England, living). II. Sister Helen, 533.
Salis, Johann Gaudenz von (Switzerland, 1762-1820). I. The
Grave, 331.
Savonarola, Jerome (Italy, 1452-1498). I. Christ's Call to the Soul,
377.
Saxe, John Godfrey (Brooklyn, N. Y., living). III. Kiss Me Softly,
15. I'm growing Old, 468.
Schiller, Frederick von (Germany, 1759-1805). I. Light and Color,
10. Knight Toggenberg, 170.
Scott, Sir Walter (Scotland, 1771-1832). I. Hymn of the Hebrew
Maid, 36. Song, 189. Coronach, 333. II. The Fire King, 126. The
Wild Huntsman, 131. Lochinvar, 137. III. Where shall the Lover
rest? 79. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, 139. Helvellyn, 234.
Scudder, Eliza (United States, 19th Century). I. Can find out God,
401.
Sedley, Sir Charles (England, 1631-1701). III. Song, 20.
Shakespeare, William (England, 1564-1616). I. Imagination, 267.
When I do count the Clock, 294. Soul and Body, 398. II. From the
"Merchant of Venice," 1. III. Compliment to Queen Elizabeth, 62.
Sleep, 300.
Shea, John Augustus (Ireland, 1802; United States, 1845). I. The
Ocean, 19.
Shelley, Percy Bysshe (England, 1792-1822). I. The Cloud, 7. To
Night, 10. To the Skylark, 12. Lines to an Indian Air, 122. From the
Epipsychidion, 128. II. Adonais, 256. Hymn to Intellectual Beauty,
270. Arethusa, 272. III. A Lament, 301. Dirge of the Year, 315.
Shirley, James (England, 1594-1666). III. Death's Final Conquest,
249.
Sigourney, Lydia Huntley (Connecticut, 1791-1865). III. Indian
Names, 312.
Sill, Edward Rowland (San Francisco, Cal., living). III. The Dead
President, 238. A Poet's Apology, 317.
Smith, Horace (England, 1779-1839). I. The First of March, 33.
Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition, 42. On the Death of
George III., 92. Affliction one Day, 219. Hymn to the Flowers, 388.
Soumet, Alexandre (France, 1788-1845). II. The Italian Mother,
416.
Southey, Caroline Bowles (England, 1786-1854). III. The Pau-
per's Death-bed, 336. The Mariner's Hymn, 379.
Spencer, William Robert (England, 1770-1834). I. Too late I
stayed, 126. III. Beth-Gêlert, 235.
492
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Stedman, Edmund Clarence (New York, living). III. Toujours
Amour, 6. On the Doorstep, 13. Betrothed Anew, 19. John Brown of
Osawatomie, 151. The Undiscovered Country, 419.
Sterling, John (Scotland, 1806-1844). I. The Two Oceans, 17. II.
Dædalus, 348. Plato and Christ, 349. The Happy Hour, 351. III.
Shakespeare, 232.
Stewart, Mrs. Dugald (Scotland, 1765-1838). III. The tears I shed
must ever fall, 80.
Stoddard, Charles Warren (United States, living). III. A Rhyme
of Life, 382.
Stoddard, William O. (New York, living). I. Gethsemane, 369. The
Golden Street, 436.
Story, William W. (American, lives in Rome). III. The Violet, 288.
Street, Alfred B. (Albany, N. Y., living). II. The Gray Forest Eagle,
458.
Swinburne, Algernon Charles (England, living). III. Soul and
Body, I. A Match, 21. Spring, 309.
Taylor, Bayard (Pennsylvania, 1825-1878). I. A Song of the Camp,
139. In Italy, 141. Sunken Treasures, 238. III. Aurum Potabile,
98. Squandered Lives, 385.
Taylor, Benjamin F. (Chicago, Ill., living). I. The Northern Lights,
12. The Beautiful River, 20. Rhymes of the River, 22. III. The Old-
fashioned Choir, 212. October, 327. Going Home, 357.
Taylor, Jeffreys (England, 1793-1853). III. The Milkmaid, 431.
Taylor, Tom (England, 1817-1880). III. Abraham Lincoln, 229.
Tennyson, Alfred (England, living). I. The Splendor falls, 5. Flow
down, cold Rivulet, 18. Charge of the Light Brigade, 48. The Lotus-
Eaters, 50. The Land of Lands, 100. Come into the Garden, Maud, 129.
Locksley Hall, 155. When on my Bed, 242. Break, break, break, 244.
Ring out, wild Bells, 359. II. The Day-dream, 419. Ulysses, 424.
The Lord of Burleigh, 426. Enone, 429. Ode on the Death of the
Duke of Wellington, 437. From "In Memoriam," 445. III. Hero to
Leander, 48. Ask me no more, 52. Lullaby, 178. Tears, idle Tears,
224. As through the Land at Eve we went, 273. The Grandmother,
292. Tithonus, 324. St. Agnes, 335. The Voyage, 370. Northern
Farmer, 449.
Thackeray, William Makepeace (England, 1811-1863). III. The
Cane-bottomed Chair, 465.
Ticheborne, Chedioc (England, executed in 1586). III. Verses,
455.
Tilton, Theodore (New York, living). III. Baby Bye, 176.
Timrod, Henry (South Carolina, 1829-1867). III. Ode, 157.
Townsend, George Alfred (New York, living). III. The Circuit
Preacher, 405.
INDEX OF AUTHORS.
493
Trench, Richard Chenevix (England, living). I. Presumption and
Despair, 289.
Trowbridge, John Townsend (Arlington, Mass., living). III. The
Vagabonds, 95. Summer, 307. Farm-yard Song 319.
Uhland, Ludwig (Germany, 1787-1862). I. The Passage, 345.
Vaughan, Henry (England, 1621-1695). I. Son-dayes, 394.
They are all gone, 242. Peace, 329.
III.
Waller, Edmund (England, 1605-1687). I. The Rose, 429.
Waller, John Francis (Ireland, living). III. Spinning wheel Song,
32.
Waring, Anna Lætitia (Wales, living). I. "My Times are in thy
Hand," 410. III. A Resurrection Hymn, 340. Source of my Life, 400
Waring, Samuel M. (England, living). I. Looked upon Peter, 379.
Weeks, Robert Kelley (New York, 1840-1876). III. Moonlight, 322.
Weidemeyer, John William (New York, living). III. The Song of
Rorek, 411.
Wesley, Charles (England, 1708-1788). I. The Ascension, 368.
Whitcher, Frances M. (Whitesboro', N. Y., 1812-1852). III. Widow
Bedott to Elder Sniffles, 53.
White, Henry Kirke (England, 1785-1806). I. The Star of Bethle
hem, 361.
White, Joseph Blanco (Spain, 1773; England, 1840). I. Night and
Death, 11.
Whitman, Sarah Helen (Providence, R. I., 1803-1878). III. Song,
73.
Whitney, Adeline D. T. (Boston, Mass., living). III. Equinoctial,
463.
Whittier, John Greenleaf (Amesbury, Mass., living). I. The Battle
Autumn (1862), 110. Maud Muller, 166. My Psalm, 351. Our Saints,
403. The River Path, 434. II. Barclay of Ury, 358. III. At Port
Royal, 254. Barbara Frietchie, 263. The Robin, 287. My Triumph,
443.
Wilde, Richard Henry (Ireland, 1789; New Orleans, 1847). I. My
Life is like the Summer Rose, 293.
Wilkinson, William Cleaver (Rochester, N. Y., living). I. En-
ticed, 427. Desiderium, 432. III. "Where the Brook and River meet,” 8.
Willis, Nathaniel Parker (Portland, Me., 1807-1867). I. Lines on
leaving Europe, 102. Two Women, 183. Thoughts while making the
Grave of a new-born Child, 534. III. Saturday Afternoon, 281. The
Annoyer, 296.
Willson, Forceythe (Indiana, 1837-1867). III. The Old Sergeant
140.
Wilson, John (Scotland, 1788-1854). I. The Cloud, 438.
494
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
Wolfe, Charles (Ireland, 1791-1823). I. Burial of Sir John Moore, 84.
Go, forget me, 146. If I had thought, 332.
Wordsworth, William (England, 1770 1850). I. The Two Voices,
95. On a Picture of Peel Castle in a Storm, 215. She was a Phantom of
Delight, 224. Lucy, 225. Ode, 267. II. Yarrow, 112. Yarrow Revis-
ited, 117. Laodamia, 120. III. Daffodils, 311.
Wotton, Sir Henry (England, 1568-1639). III. The Happy Life,
366.
220.
Anonymous. I. The River, 17. Roll on, thou Sun, 29. Zara's Ear.
rings, 142. Jamie's on the Stormy Sea, 145. The Bridal of Andalla,
180. Old Folks, 208. What the End shall be, 217. Lines on a Skeleton,
The Three Voices, 353. Watching for Dawn, 387. The Spiritual
Temple, 395. The Seas are quiet, 440. In View of Death, 447. III. The
New-Comer, 2. Good Night, 11. Badajos, 128. Artemus Ward, 227.
L'Ingenu, 299. Mary by the Cross, 346. Evening brings us Home, 351.
THE END.
University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.


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