mm . Mir"' ' Book_^ 1_ ': COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT THE Fireside Encyclopedia OF POETET. COMPRISING THE BEST POEMS OF THE MOST FAMOUS WRITERS^ ENOLISH AND AMERICAN. COMPILED AND EDITED BY HENRY T. COATES. THIRTY-FIRST EDITION. REVISED AND ENLARGED. PORTER & COATES, PHILADELPHIA. 1895. ^^1 < Copyright, isvs, by Porter & Coates. Copyright, i879, by Henry T. Coates. Copyright, issi, by Henry T. Coates. Copyright, isss, by Henry T. Coates. Copyright, isqs, by Henry T. Coates. TO MY ALMA MATER, Haverford College, IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE WARM FRIENDSHIPS FORMED THERE, THE MANY JOYOUS DAYS SPENT THERE, AND, ABOVE ALL, THE LITERARY ASPIRATIONS WHICH SHE KINDLED AND FOSTERED. WHICH HAVE SHED A GLADDENED LIGHT OVER THE YEARS SINCE I LEFT HER HALLOWED PRECINCTS, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. PREFACE. Nine years ago this month this work was commenced, principally to while away the long winter evenings, which threatened to hang heavily on the Editor's hands, and now it is with feelings akin to those felt at parting with an old and valued friend that lie pens these prefatory lines, which mark the completion of his task. It has been his aim to present a comprehensive collection — an Encyclo- paedia, in fact — of the best poetry in the English language ; one that will be a welcome companion at every Fireside ; and, while representing all that is best and brightest in our poetic literature, should contain nothing that would tend to undermine any one's faith or destroy a single virtuous impulse. Fully aware of the danger of trusting to the caprices or fancies of any individual judgment, the Editor has diligently consulted the works of the best critics and reviewers, and has not hesitated to accept such pieces as have received their united commendation, or such as, through some peculiar powci, have touched the popular heart. Each poem has been given complete, and great care has been taken to follow the most authentic and approved editions of the respective authors ; and though the quantity of space assigned to each and the selections made may not, and probably will not, satisfy every judg- ment, it is believed that few of the most famous minor poems of the English language will be found missing from these pages. At the very outset it was deemed best to discard the chronological arrange- ment followed by most compilers, and to adopt the plan of classifying each poem according to its subject-matter, originated by Mr. Charles A. Dana in his excellent Household Book of Poetry. In many cases this has been found exceedingly difficult ; as often, under-currents so run in opposite directions as to threaten the entire foundation upon which the title of a poem is based ; and in many poems the " moral" is dwelt on at greater length than the tale itself, so that the Editor has often been sorely tempted to end his perplexity by throw- ing them into those convenient "olla podridas," "Poems of Sentiment'' and " Moral and Didactic Poetry.'' But with all these drawbacks the advantages of the system are so great that there has been no hesitation in adopting it. By it, every taste may be gratified, all moods and humors the better served. Here are " Psalms and Hymns and Spiritual Songs " for Sunday reading. Poems of Home Life and Domestic Bliss for the cold winter nights when the logs are blazing brightly on the cozy hearth. Poems on Nature for the bloom- PREFACE. ing Spring-time and melancholy Autumn, Poems for the lover, and Historical Poems, Old Legends, and Ballads for all. From the days when " Adam delved and Eve span " to the present, human nature has been ever the same. Kingdoms have risen and been forgotten, languages been formed and fallen into disuse, but love, pa- triotism, sorrow and death, are the same in all ages and climes. The language may be different and the allusions seem strange to our ears, but the same old, old story was told by gallant knight to high-bred dame in the good old days of Queen Bess as is now whispered into the ear of rustic beauty or ball-room belle. " Each heart recall'd a different name, but all sang ' Annie Laurie.' " Tbe same impulses animated Horatius as he faced Lars Porsena's army on the banks of the Tiber centuries ago, and the brave boys Avho flocked to their country's standard during the late civil war; while the bereaved parent even now mourns for his erring child in the same heart-language as did the sweet Singer of Israel over his lost Absalom. Though long cycles have intervened between Shakespeare and Tennyson, Sir Walter Raleigh and Longfellow, Herrick and Burns, Herbert and Whittier, rare Ben Jonson and Mrs. Browning, one animating purpose breathes alike through the voices of the poets of the past and the present. As many poems are founded upon some historical fact or some interesting incident or legend, a knowledge of which greatly aids the reader in his appre- ciation of them. Explanatory and Corroborative Notes have been appended at the end of the volume. This plan has been adopted in preference to placing the notes at the bottom of the page ; as many readers, who are familiar with their substance, naturally object to such an arrangement as distracting their attention and marring the continuity of the poem. The compiler would express his thanks to the various authors and pub- lishers who have so kindly permitted him to use the copyright poems con- tained in this collection, and especially to Messrs. Houghton, Osgood & Co., who, notwithstanding that they publish excellent works of a similar character, generously granted the use of the various poems by Longfellow, Whittier, Emerson, Lowell, Holmes, Bret Harte, Saxe, Bayard Taylor, Stedman, Stod- dard, Trowbridge, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Parsons, Lucy Larcom, Julia Ward Howe, and Phoebe Gary, the brightest galaxy of names ever collected together by any American publishing-house. He would also acknowledge his obligation to Mr. N. Clemmons Hunt for the assistance rendered in the selec- tion and arrangement of many of the poems in this work. Originality cannot be claimed for a work of this character, notwithstanding the labor and thought bestowed upon it ; all the glory, all the praise, belongs to the poets themselves. In the words of Montaigne : " Here is a nosegay of culled flowers, to which I have brought nothing of my own but the thread that ties them." H. T. C. Philadelphia, October 18th, 1878. CONTENTS. PAGE INDEX OF AUTHOES ix INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS xxv POEMS OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE 1 POEMS OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD 29 POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION 73 POEMS OF LOVE 97 PERSONAL POEMS 223 HISTORICAL POEMS , 283 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM 353 LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY 369 POEMS OF NATURE 431 POEMS OF THE SEA 507 POEMS OF PLACES 521 "PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS" 543 MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY 633 POEMS OF SENTIMENT 721 WEIRD AND FANTASTIC POETRY 801 HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL POETRY 893 NOTES, EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE 975 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 1007 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Pagk ADAM, JEAN (1710-1765). The Mariner's Wife 10 ADAMS, SARAH (FLOWER), (1805-1848). "Father, Thy will be done" 564 "Nearer, my God, to Thee" 584 ADDISON, JOSEPH (1672-1719). An Ode— "The spacious firmament on high".. 565 " How are thy servants blest, Lord !" 578 Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII 581 "When all Thy mercies, O my God!" 567 AKENSIDE, MARK (1721-1770). Inscription for a Statue of Chaucer 227 AKERMAN, LUCY EVELINA (1816-1874). Nothing but Leaves 598 ALDRICH, JAMES (1810-1856). A Deathbed 645 ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY (1836 ). Baby Bell 30 On an Intaglio Head of Minerva 778 ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES (1823 ). The Burial of Moses 600 ALFORD, HENRY (1810-1871). Baptismal Hymn 583 Thanksgiving Hymn 578 ALISON, RICHARD (1606? ). "There is a garden in her face" 185 ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS (1832 ). Endurance 637 My Ship 787 Rock me to Sleep 74 ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM (1828-1889). A Wife 12 Lovely Mary Donnelly 142 Robin Redbreast 481 The Fairies. A Child's Song 802 The Touchstone 685 ALLSTON, WASHINGTON (1779-1843). Boyhood 53 ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN (1832 ). After Death in Arabia 701 Almond-Blossom 406 ARNOLD, GEORGE (1834-1865). The Jolly Old Pedagogue 937 ARNOLD, MATTHEW (1822-1888). Euphrosyne 213 Philomela 476 The Forsaken Merman 879 The Neckan 885 Urania 216 AUSTIN, JOHN (1613-1669). "Blest be Thy love, dear Lord " 568 Page AYTON, SIR ROBERT (1570-1638). To his Forsaken Mistress... 148 Woman's Inconstancy 141 AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE (1813- 1865). Edinburgh after Flodden 303 The Burial-March of Dundee 318 The Execution of Montrose 314 The Massacre of the Macpherson 944 BACON, FRANCIS, BARON VERULAM (1561- 1626). Life 633 BAILIE, JOANNA (1762-1851). Morning Song 503 Song—" Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray " 485 The Kitten 488 BAKEWELL, JOHN (1721-1819). "Hail! Thou once-despisSd Jesus !" 558 BALLANTYNE, JAMES (1808-1877). Castles in the Air 37 BAMPFYLDE, JOHN CODRINGTON (1754-1796). Sonnet— To the Redbreast 481 BARBAULD, ANNA L^ETITIA (1743-1825). Christ Risen 556 Life 633 Praise to God 568 The Death of the Virtuous 638 BARHAM, RICHARD HARRIS (1788-1845). Mr. Barney Maguire's account of the Corona- tion 965 The Execution • 951 BARNARD,LADY ANNE (LINDSAY),(1750-1825). Auld Robin Gray 137 BARNFIELD, RICHARD (1574-1627). The Nightingale 484 "Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled " 776 BARRY, MICHAEL JOSEPH (1815 ). The Place to Die 700 BARTON, BERNARD (1784-1849). Not ours the Vows 101 "There be Those" 637 BAXTER, RICHARD (1615-1691). Resignation 586 The Valediction 612 BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES (1797-1839). My Dejeuner a la Fourchette 898 The Mistletoe Bough 412 The Pilot 607 The Poppy 89? To My Wife t INDEX OF AUTHORS. Pagk BEATTIE, JAMES (1735-1803). The Hermit 668 BEATTIE, WILLIAM (1793-1875). Evening Hymn of the Alpine Shepherds 572 f BEAUMONT, FRANCIS (1584-1616). | t FLETCHER, JOHN (1579-1625). J Bridal Song 97 " Lay a garland on my hearse " 212 Lines on the Tombs in Westminster Abbey (Beaumont) 522 "Look out, bright eyes " 184 Melancholia (Fletcher) 676 Power of Love (Fletcher) 169 "Shepherds all and maidens fair" 499 Soug—" Care-charming sleep " 799 To Pan 433 Weep no More (Fletcher) 784 BEAUMONT, SIR JOHN (1583-1627). On my Dear Sou,Gervase Beaumont 228 BEDDOES, THOMAS LOVELL (1803-1849). Dirge 178 How Many Times 102 BEERS, ETHEL LYNN (1827-1879). All Quiet Along the Potomac 349 On the Shores of Tennessee 367 Which Shall it Be? 45 BEERS, HENRY AUGUSTIN (1847 ). Cargamon 406 BENNETT, HENRY (1785-?). St. Patrick was a Gentleman 934 BENNETT, WILLIAM COX (1820 ). Baby May 29 BERKELEY, GEORGE (1685-1753). On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learn- ing in America 721 BERNARD DE MORLAIX, Monk of Cluny (XII. CENTURY). The Celestial Country 624 BISHOP, SAMUEL (1731-1795). To Mary 10 BLACKSTONE, SIR WILLIAM (1723-1780). The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse 736 BLAKE, WILLIAM (1757-1827). Charity Children at St. Paul's 43 Introduction to "Songs of Innocence" 68 "My silks and fine array" 190 On Another's Sorrow 609 Song— "How Sweet I Roamed" 122 The Lamb 452 The Little Black Boy 37 The Tiger 498 To the Muses 752 BLAMIRE, SUSANNA (1747-1794). The Nabob 93 The Siller Croun 147 " What ails this heart o' mine?" 199 BLANCHARD, LAMAN (1804-1845). The Mother's Hope 52 BLOOD, HENRY AMES (1838 ). The Last Visitor 659 BOKER, GEORGE HENRY (1823-1890). Dirge for a Soldier 277 Page BONAR, HORATIUS (1808-1890). A Little While 615 "Come unto Me" 620 The Inner Calm 585 BOOTH, BARTON (1681-1733). "Sweet are the charms" 154 BOTTA, ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH (1815-1891). Thoughts in a Library 736 BOURDILLON, FRANCIS W. (1852 ). Light 222 BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE (1762-1850). Influence of Time on Grief 706 On the Funeral of Charles 1 313 BOWRING, SIR JOHN (1792-1872). "God is Love" 564 " Watchman, tell us of the night" 543 BRAINARD, JOHN GARDINER CALKINS (1796- 1828). Epithalamium 220 Niagara 538 BRENAN, JOSEPH (1829-1857). The Exile to his Wife 11 BRETON, NICHOLAS (1545?-1626?). A Pastoral 182 Phillida and Corydon 145 BROOKS, MARIA GOWEN (1795-1845). " Day in melting purple dying" 170 BROWNE, FRANCES (1816-1864). Is it come? 746 Losses 700 "Oh, the pleasant days of old!" 745 BROWNE, SIR THOMAS (1605-1682). Evening Hymn 576 BROWNE, WILLIAM (1591-1643?). "Shall I tell you whom I love?" 123 The Welcome 125 BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD (1820-1872). The Lawyer's Invocation to Spring 960 BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT (1809-1861). A Court Lady 361 A Musical Instrument 721 Cowper's Grave.. 248 Lady Geraldine's Courtship 104 Mother and Poet 26 Rhyme of the Duchess May 423 Sleeping and Watching 33 Sonnets from the Portuguese — XXXVIII. " First time he kissed me, he but only kiss'd" 135 XLIII. " How do I love thee? let me count the ways" 135 XXXV. " If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange" 135 XIV. " If thou must love me, let it be for naught" 134 Xl'III. "I never gave alock of hair away ". 134 XXVIII. " My letters ! all dead paper, . . . mute and white " 135 XXI. " Say over again, and yet once over again " 134 The Cry of the Children 63 The Forced Recruit at Solferino 364 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page The Lady's Yes 138 The Sleep 642 BROAVNING, ROBERT (1812-1889). Earl Mertoun's Song 144 Evelyn Hope 196 How they Brought the Good News 374 lu a Year ~ 211 Incident of the French Camp 340 Marching Along 311 The Lost Leader 264 The Pied Piper of Hamelin 859 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN (1791-1878). Song of Marion's Men 330 Thanatopsis 644 The Battle-Field 696 The Crowded Street 667 The Death of the Flowers 465 The Evening Wind 451 The Hunter of the Prairies ...„ 498 The Living Lost 702 To a Water-Fowl 475 To the Fringed Gentian 464 BRYDGES, SIR SAMUEL EGERTON (1762-1837). Echo and Silence 506 BUCHANAN, ROBERT (1841 ). Hermione 7 Langley Lane 203 Tom Dunstan; or, the Politician 791 BUNNER, HENRY CUYLER (1855 ). To a Dead Woman 142 BURNS, ROBERT (1759-1796). Address to the Toothache 962 A Man's a JIan for a' that. 793 A Red, Red Rose 157 Auld Lang Syne 81 Bonnie Lesley 145 Bruce to his Men at Bannockburn 296 Duncan Gray 144 Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 249 Farewell to Nancy 154 "Flow gently, sweet Afton" 533 Highland Mary 120 I love my Jean 126 Jessy — " Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear " 166 John Anderson 8 Mary Morison 147 "My heart's in the Highlands " 358 My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing 9 Tarn O'Shanter 877 The Banks of Doon 170 The Cotter's Saturday Night 3 The Lovely Lass o' Inverness 699 To a Mountain Daisy 463 To a Mouse 487 To Mary in Heaven 137 BURTON, JOHN (1773-1822). " Holy Bible, book divine" 582 BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN (1825 ) Nothing to Wear 920 BYROM, JOHN (1692-1763). A Pastoral •• l'?3 Careless Content 680 Christmas Carol 551 Epigram on Two Monopolists 971 Jacobite Toast 311 Page BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD (1788-1824). A Very Mournful Ballad on the Siege and Con- quest of Albania 296 And thou Art Dead, as Young and Fair 740 Fare thee Well 15 Girl of Cadiz 146 Maid of Athens 145 Oh, Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom 741 Oh Talk Not to Me of a Name (ireat in Story .. 157 On this Day I Complete my Thirty-sixth Year. 88 She Walks in Beauty 739 Song of the Greek Poet 360 The Destruction of Sennacherib 283 The Dream 788 The Prisoner of Chillon 400 There be None of Beauty's Daughters 157 There's not a Joy the World can Give 676 When Coldness Wraps this Suffering Clay 645 When We Two Parted 86 CAMPBELL, THOMAS (1777-1844). Adelgitha 145 Battle of the Baltic 340 Hallowed Ground 653 Hohenlinden 339 Lochiel's Warning 322 Lord Ullin's Daughter 383 "Men of England" 356 O'Connor's Child 397 The Exile of Erin 359 The Last Man 663 The Soldier's Dream 83 To the Evening Star 456 To the Rainbow 453 Y'e Mariners of England 3.56 CANNING, GEORGE (1770-1827). Epitaph on the Tombstone Erected over the Marquis of Anglesea's Leg 957 Song by Rogero, in "The Rovers" 945 Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder... 945 CAREW, THOMAS (1598?-1639?). "Ask me no more where Jove bestows" 192 Disdain Returned 180 Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villiers 276 The Airs of Spring 440 CAREY, HENRY (1G63?-1743). God Save the King 355 Maiden's Choice 210 Sally in our Alley 120 GARY, ALICE (1820-1871). Her Last Verses GARY, PHCEBE (1824-1871). Nearer Home CELANO, THOMAS DE (1253 ). Dies Irae 649 607 629 CENNECK, JOHN (1718-1755). Hymn— "Children of the heavenly King". CHALKHILL, JOHN (1600-1679). The Angler CHANDLER, BESSIE. Jacqueminot 282 CHANDLER, ELIZABETH MARGARET (1807- 1834). On returning a Copy of Halleck's Poems, 594 472 534 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page CHATTERTON, THOMAS (1752-1770). The Minstrel'sSong in " Aella" 147 The Resignation 585 CHAUCER, GEOFFREY (1340-1400). Good Counseil 718 GIBBER, COLLEY (1671-1757). The Blind Boy 67 CLARE, JOHN (1793-1864). His Last Verses 633 July 441 The Thrush's Nest 480 To the Glowworm 487 CLELAND, WILLIAM (1661?-1689). Hallo, my Fancy 886 CLEPHANE, ELIZABETH C. (1830-1869). The Ninety and Nine 601 CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH (1819-1861). Qua Ciirsum Ventus 742 Stream of Life 634 Where Lies the Land 520 COATES, FLORENCE EARLE. Man 694 Song— "For me the jasmine buds unfold" 102 COATES, REYNELL (1802-1886). Christian Charity 697 COFFIN, ROBERT BARRY (1826-1886). Ships at Sea 787 COLE, HELEN GRAY. Bach's St. Matthew Passion Music 632 COLERIDGE, HARTLEY (1796-1849). Address to Certain Gold-fishes 473 Night 773 November 468 " She is not fair to outward view " 172 The First Man 740 "'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark " 476 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR (1772-1834). Answer to a Child's Question 479 Christabel 849 Cologne 938 Dejection. An Ode 797 Epigram 968 Epigram on a Bad Singer «97 Epitaph on an Infant 708 Fancy in Nubibiis ; or, the Poet in the Clouds. 455 France. An Ode 332 Genevieve I55 Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Cha- mouni 536 Kubla Khan ; or a Vision in a Dream 856 Love 100 Rime of the Ancient Mariner 863 The Devil's Thoughts 927 The Eolian Harp 799 The Good, Great Man 682 The Knight's Tomb 646 Youth and Age 94 COLLIN.S, JOHN (XVIII. CENTURY) (d. 1808). "In the downhill of life" 694 COLLINS, WILLIAM (1721-1759). Dirge in Cymbeline 657 Ode— " How sleep the brave " 363 Page Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson 246 Ode to Evening 449 The Passions 728 COLMAN, GEORGE, THE YOUNGER (1762-1836). Sir Marmaduke 782 CONGREVE, WILLIAM (1670-1729). Amoret 155 Lesbia 155 CONOLLY, ERSKINE (1796-1843). Mary Macneil 201 CONSTABLE, HENRY (3562-1613). Diaphenia 179 "To live in hell, and heaven to behold" 212 COOK, ELIZA (1817-1889). The Old Arm-Chair 73 COOKE, PHILIP PENDLETON (1816-1850). Florence Vane 171 COOKE, ROSE TERRY (1827-1892). Reve du Midi 442 CORBET, RICHARD (1582-1635). Farewell to the Fairies 841 To Vincent Corbet, my Son 235 COTTON, CHARLES (1630-1687). Invitation to Izaak Walton 471 The Retirement 499 COTTON, NATHANIEL (1705-1788). The Fireside 2 COWLEY, ABRAHAM (1618-1667). A Fragment 142 A Supplication 121 Drinking 455 Epitaph on a Living Author 228 Of Myself 235 Of Solitude 438 The Chronicle. A Ballad 221 COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-1800). Boadicea. An Ode .367 Joy and Peace in Believing 593 Light Shining out of Darkness 563 "Lovest thou Me?" 561 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 15 Praise for the Fonntaiu Opened 620 Retirement 602 The Diverting History of John Gilpin 939 To Mary 247 To Mrs. Unwin 247 Verses supposed to be Written by Alexander Selkirk 699 Walking with God 584 COXE, ARTHUR CLEVELAND (1818 ). Christmas Carol 550 The Heart's Song 595 CRABBE, GEORGE (1754-1832). Hymn — "Pilgrim burdened with thy sin " 585 CRAIK, DINAH MARIA (MULOCK), (1826-1887). A Christmas Carol 553 A I>ancashire Do.xology 603 Now and Afterwards 640 Philip, my King 30 Too Late 17 CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE (1813-1892). " Thought is deeper than all speech " 780 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page CRASHAW, RICHARD (1613?-1649). Epitaph upon a Husband and Wife 655 On a Prayer-Book 606 Wishes for the Supposed Mistress 121 CRAWFORD, ANNE BARRY. Kathleen Mavourneen 209 CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN (1784-1842). " A wet sheet and a flowing sea" 509 " Gane were but the winter cauld " 658 It's Hame and it's Hame.... 357 She's gane to Dwall in Heaven 218 The Poet's Bridal-Day Song 18 "The Sun rises Bright in France" 358 " Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeauie".... 157 CUNNINGHAM, JOHN (1729-1773). Content. A Pastoral 747 DANA, RICHARD HENRY (1787-1879). The Little Beach-Bird 475 DANIEL, SAMUEL (1562-1619). "Love is a sickness" 98 Sleep 774 To the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumber- land 232 DARLEY, GEORGE (1795-1846). Gambols of Children 53 Loveliness of Love 139 The Call 178 DARWIN, ERASMUS (1731-1802). Song to May 440 DAVENANT, SIR WILLIAM (1606-1668). "The lark now leaves his watery nest" 476 DAVIS, FRANCIS. The Fisherman's Song 510 DAVIS, THOMAS OSBORNE (1814-1845). Fontenoy 320 The Welcome 158 DEKKER, THOMAS (1570 ?-1641 ?). Lullaby 32 Sweet Content 680 DE VERE, AUBREY THOMAS (1814 ). "Sad is our youth " 634 DIBDIN, CHARLES (1745-1814). Anne Hathaway 281 Nongtongpaw 957 Poor Jack 512 The High-Mettled Racer 492 Tom Bowling 659 DICKENS, CHARLES (1812-1870). The Ivy Green 465 DICKINSON, CHARLES MONROE (1842 ). The Children 62 DIMOND, WILLIAM (1800-1837). The Mariner's Dream 510 DIX, JOHN ADAMS (1798-1879). Translation of Dies Irse 631 DIX, WILLIAM CHATTERTON (1837 ). Epiphany 621 DOANE, GEORGE WASHINGTON (1799-1859). Evening Contemplation 572 DOBELL, SIDNEY THOMPSON (1824-1874). How's my Boy? 67 Tommy's Dead 640 Page DOBSON, HENRY AUSTIN (1840 ). A Virtuoso 967 The Child Musician 44 The Old Sedan Chair 779 To Q. H. F 931 DODDRIDGE, PHILIP (1702-1751). Confirmation Hymn 585 Epigram — Dum Vivimus, Vivamus 594 "Hark! the glad sound " 553 "Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell" 608 DOMETT, ALFRED (1811-1887). A Christmas Hymn 549 DONNE, JOHN (1573-1631). Hymn to God the Father 621 Valediction forbidding Mourning 661 DORR, JULIA CAROLINE (RIPLEY), (1825 ). Twenty-One 44 DORSET, CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF (1637-1705). "Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes" 127 DOTEN, ELIZABETH (1829 ). Song of the North 422 DOUGLAS, WILLIAM (1660? ). Maxwelton Banks 981 DOWLING, BARTHOLOMEW. Battle of Fontenoy 321 Indian Revelry 785 DOYLE, SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS (1810-1888). The Doncaster St. Leger 413 The Old Cavalier.... 311 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN (1795-1820). The American Flag. 353 The Culprit Fay 818 DRAYTON, MICHAEL (1563-1631). " Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part" 170 The Ballad of Agincourt 299 The Rivers of England 521 To his Fair Idea 762 DRUMMOND, WILLIAM (1585-1649). "Alexis, here she stay'd" 180 " A good that never satisfies the mind " 676 Beauty Fades 739 For the Baptist 629 No Trust in Time 777 The Lessons of Nature 470 To a Nightingale 481 To his Lute 732 To Spring 433 To the Nightingale 482 DRYDEN, JOHN (1631-1700). A Song for St. Cecilia's Day 724 Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music 722 Under Mr. Milton's Picture 242 Song of Jealousy, in Love Triumphant 213 Veni Creator Spiritus, paraphrased 563 DUFFERIN, HELEN SELINA SHERIDAN, LADY (1807-1867). Lament of the Irish Emigrant 86 DWIGHT, TIMOTHY (1752-1817). " I love Thy kingdom, Lord " 594 DYER, SIR EDWARD (1550?-1607). "My minde to me a kingdom is" 735 XIV INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page DYER, JOHN (17007-1758). Grongar Hill 524 EASTMAN, CHARLES GAMAGE (1816-1861). A Picture 6 Dirge 658 EDMESTON, JAMES (1791-1867). "Lead us, heavenly Father, lead us" 605 ELLIOT, SIR GILBERT (1722-1777). Amynta 200 ELLIOT JANE (1727-1805). The Flowers of the Forest 307 ELLIOTT, CHARLOTTE (1789-1871). " Just as I am" 588 "O Thou, the contrite sinner's friend " 559 "Thy will be done" 586 ELLIOTT, EBENEZER (1781-1849). A Poet's Epitaph 698 ELVEN, CORNELIUS (1797-1873). " With broken heart and contrite sigh " 582 EBIERSON, RALPH WALDO (1803-1882). Concord Hymn 367 Each and All 796 Good-Bye 677 The Humble-Bee -ISe Tlie Problem 683 The Rhodora 464 To Eva 217 EVERETT, EDWARD (1794-1865). Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth 292 EWEN, JOHN (1741-1821). The Boatie Rows 516 FABER, FREDERICK WILLIAM (1814-1863). Evening Hymn 576 The Right must Win 592 The Will of God 586 FANSHAWE, CATHERINE MARIA (1765-1834). A Riddle. The Letter H 932 FENNER, CORNELIUS GEORGE (1822-1847). Gulf- Weed 517 FERGUSON, SIR SAMUEL (1810-1886). The Forging of the Anchor 507 FIELD, EUGENE ( ). Little Boy Blue 72 FIELDING, HENRY (1707-1754). A Hunting we Will Go 497 FIELDS, JAMES THOMAS (1817-1881). Ballad of the Tempest 38 Jupiter and Ten 899 The Nantucket Skipper 937 FINLEY, JOHN (1797-1866). Bachelor's Hall 969 FLETCHER, GILES (1588-1623). Panglory's Wooing Song 98 FLETCHER, PHINEAS (1582?-1650?). " Drop, drop, slow tears" 564 FLOWERDEW, ALICE (1759-1830). "Fountain of mercy! God of love!" 583 FORD, JOHN (1.586-1640?). Awakening Song 752 Calantha's Dirge— Love and Death 203 FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS (1826-1864). My Old Kentucky Home 24 Old Folks at Home 18 Page GALL, RICHARD (1766-1801). My only Jo and Dearie, 203 GARRICK, DAVID (1717-1779). On Dr. Hill's Farces 898 GAY, JOHN (1685-1732). Sweet William's Farewell to Black-Eyed Susan. 119 The Painter who Pleased Nobody 955 "'Twas when the seas were roaring" , 125 GILBERT, WILLIAM SCHWENCK (1836 ). Captain Reece 963 Etiquette 935 The Yarn of the Nancy Bell 914 GILFILLIN, ROBERT (1798-1850). The Exile's Song 362 OILMAN, CAROLINE (HOWARD), (1794-1888). The Household Woman 24 GLADDEN, WASHINGTON (1836 ). Pastor's Reverie 92 GLEN, WILLIAM (1789-1826). Wae's me for Prince Charlie 325 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (1728-1774). An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 916 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 938 Stanzas on Woman 707 The Deserted Village 754 The Hermit 159 The Traveller; or, A Prospect of Society 765 "The wretch condemned with life to part" 783 GOULD, HANNAH FLAGG (1789-1865). A Name in the Sand 678 GRAHAM, ROBERT, of Gartmobe (1750-1797). Tell me how to woo thee 16J GRANT, ANNE (1755-1838). On a Sprig of Heath 456 GRANT, SIR ROBERT (1779-1838). Litany 559 " When gathering clouds around I view" 589 GRAY, THOMAS (1716-1771). Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 650 Hymn to Adversity 775 On a Distant Prospect of Eton College 522 On the Spring 435 The Bard 294 The Progress of Poesy 726 GREENE, ALBERT GORTON (1802-1868). Old Grimes 916 The Baron's Last Banquet 641 GREENE, ROBERT (1560-1592). Content 680 Samela 102 GRIGG, JOSEPH ( ). "Ashamed of Me" 619 GRINFIELD, THOMAS (1788-1870). "Oh how kindly hast Thou led me" 590 GURNEY, ARCHER THOMPSON (1820-1887). "Come, ye Lofiy" 550 HABINGTON, WILLIAM (1605-1654). Castara 179 Night 773 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE (1790-1867). Alnwick Castle 531 Burns 251 Marco Bozzaris 346 On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 254 HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM (1829-1868). The Trooper to his Mare 497 HAMILTON, ELIZABETH (1758-1816). My Ain Fireside 1 HAMILTON, WILLIAM (OP Bakgoue), (1704- 1754). The Braes of Yarrow 384 HARRINGTON, SIR JOHN (1534-1582). Epigram — Treason 775 Lines on Isabella Markham 124 Of a Precise Tailor 899 HART, JOSEPH (1712-1768). Come and Welcome to Jesus Christ 569 HARTE, FRANCIS BRET (1839 ). Dickens in Camp 280 Fate 783 Her Letter 207 Plain Language from Truthful James 943 The Society upon the Stanislaus 954 HASTINGS, THOMAS (1784-1872). In Sorrow 563 HAVERGAL, FRANCES RIDLEY (1836-1879). Bells Across the Snow 555 HAWEIS, THOMAS (1734-1820). " Thou from whom all goodness flows" 604 HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON (1830-1886). By the Autumn Sea 520 HEATH, LYMAN (1804-1870). Grave of Bonaparte 252 HEBER, REGINALD (1783-1826). Epiphany 5.54 " Help, Lord, or we perish" 579 Hymn for First Sunday after Epiphany 595 Hymn for Trinity Sunday 566 Lines Addressed to his Wife 9 Missionary Hymn 600 Stanzos on the Death of a Friend 614 Sympathy ^63 HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA (1793-1835). A Dirge ""^ Casablanca 344 The Better Land 618 The Graves of a Household 28 The Homes of England 1 The Hour of Death 650 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 309 The Treasures of the Deep 517 HERBERT, GEORGE (1593-1633). Life 754 Sunday 580 The Elixir 564 The Flower 599 The Pulley 682 682 Yertue . HERRICK, ROBERT (1591-1674), 'A Thanksgiving to God for His House 579 Cherry Ripe 214 Page Corinna's going a-Maying 436 Delight in Disorder 738 The Hag 891 The Night Piece. To Julia 127 The Primrose 214 To Anthea who may Command him Any- thing 221 To Blossoms 466 To Daffodils 462 To Dianeme 210 To Keep a True Lent 607 To Music, to Becalm his Fever 752 To Primroses filled with Morning Dew 461 To Virgins, to make much of Time 123 HEYWOOD, THOMAS (d. about 1650). Good-Morrow Song 215 Go, Pretty Birds 162 HILL, AARON (1685-1750). How to Deal with Common Natures 708 HINDS, SAMUEL (1793-1872). Sleeping Babe, The 45 HOBART, MRS. CHARLES. Changed Cross 610 HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO (1806-1884). Monterey 347 HOGG, JAMES (1770-1835). Bonnie Prince Charlie 325 Charlie is my Darling 324 " I hae naebody now " 83 Kilmeuy 841 The Abbot M'Kinnon 881 The Skylark 477 When Maggie gangs away 161 When the Kye comes Hame 167 HOLCROFT, THOMAS (1745-1809). Gaffer Gray 710 HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT (1819-1881). The Heart of the War 365 H0L:MES, OLIVER WENDELL (1809 ). The Boys 80 The Chambered Nautilus 474 The Deacon's Masterpiece 942 The Last Leaf 753 The Old Man Dreams 903 The Voiceless 646 HOOD, THOMAS (1799-1845). A Nocturnal Sketch 968 A Serenade 907 Epicurean Reminiscences of a Sentimentalist.. 961 Faithless Nelly Gray 900 Faithless Sally Brown 901 "I remember, I remember" 73 Ode to my Little Son 907 Ruth 144 Stanzas — " Farewell, life " 657 The Art of Book-Keeping 960 The Bachelor's Dream 906 The Bridge of Sighs 714 The Death-bed 645 The Dream of Eugene Aram 377 The Lady's Dream 709 The Lost Heir 908 The Song of the Shirt 711 To a Child Embracing his Mother 35 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page HOOPER, I.UCY HAMILTON (1835-1893). Three Loves 156 HOUGHTON, RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD (1809-1885). Good-Night and Good-Morning 72 The Brookside 169 The Men of Old 745 HOW, WILLIAM WALSHAM (1823 ). " Behold, I stand at the door and knock " 570 "O word of God incarnate" 605 HOAVE, JULIA (WARD), (1819 ). Battle Hymn of the Republic 354 HOWELL, ELIZABETH (LLOYD). Milton's Prayer of Patience 237 HOWITT, MARY (1799-1888). The Fairies of the Caldon Low 817 The Spider and the Fly. An Apologue 707 The Use of Flowers 464 HUNT, LEIGH (1784-1859). Abou Ben Adhem 684 An Angel in the House 741 Rondeau — " Jeuny Kissed me" 186 Song of Fairies robbing an Orchard 802 Songs of the Flowers 458 The Glove and the Lions 413 The Nile 535 The Nun 171 To the Grasshopper and Cricket 486 To T. L. H., Six Years Old, during a Sickness.. 36 HUNTER, ANNE (1742-1821). The Lot of Thousands 705 INGELOW, JEAN (1820 ). Songs of Seven 19 The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire... 417 IRONS, WILLIAM JOSIAH (1812-1883). Translation of Dies Irae 630 JACKSON, HELEN HUNT (1831-1885). Coronation 791 JAMES I. OF ENGLAND (1566-1625). To Prince Henry 702 JOHNSON, SAMUEL (1709-1784). On the Death of Dr. Levett 247 Prologue Spoken by Garrick at Opening of Theatre Royal, Drury Lane 774 The Vanity of Human Wishes 669 JONES, SIR WILLIAM (1746-1794). An Ode — In Imitation of Alcseus 363 The Babe (translailon) 50 JONSON, BEN (1573-1637). Epigram on Sir Francis Drake 227 Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H 235 Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy 234 Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 235 Good Life, Long Life 698 Lines on the Portrait of Shakespeare 232 On Lucy, Countess of Bedford 235 Song — " Follow a shadow, It still flies you " 124 Song— "Still to be neat" 738 The Triumph of Charis 160 ToCeiia 195 To Cynthia 455 Page To Himself 227 To the Memory of my Beloved Master, AVilliam Shakespeare 2.30 JUDSON, EMILY CHUBBOCK (1817-1854). My Bird 29 KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821). Fairy Song soi La Belle Dame sans Merci 873 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 522 On a Grecian Urn 744 (>u First Looking into Chapman's Homer 737 On the Grasshopper and Cricket 486 The Eve of St. Agnes 127 To a Nightingale 482 To Autumn 444 To Fancy 504 " To one who has been long in city pent" 503 To the Poets 738 KEBLE, JOHN (1792-1866). Evening 574 Flowers 457 Morning 573 KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE (1809-1893). Absence 101 Faith 699 KEN, THOMAS (1637-1711). Eveuing.Hymn 575 Midnight Hymn 577 Morning Hymn 573 KENYON, JAMES BENJAMIN (1858 ). The King is Dying 791 KEPPEL, LADY CAROLINE ((1735 ). Robin Adair 102 KETHE, WILLIAM (d. 1608?) Psalm C 621 KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT (1780-1843). " Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise Thee "... 568 The Star-Spangled Banner 353 KING, HENRY (1591-1669). Life 698 Sic Vita 718 KINGSLEY, CHARLES (1819-1875). A Farewell 48 A Parable from Lieblg 582 Dolciuo to Margaret 778 The Last Buccaneer 421 The Sands o' Dee 419 The Three Fishers 513 KNOWLES, HERBERT (1798-1817). Lines written in Richmond Churchyard, York- shire C53 KNOX, WILLIAM (1789-182.5). "Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" 647 LAMB, CHARLES (1775-1834). A Farewell to Tobacco 929 Hester 280 The Old Familiar Faces 77 LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE (1775-1864). Children 36 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page How many voices 695 Rose Aylmer 762 Sixteen 214 The Maid's Lament 141 The One Gray Hair 749 To the Sister of Elia 274 LANG, ANDREW (1844 ). Ballad of the Unattainable 762 LAPRATK, JOHN (1727-1807). Matrimonial Happiness 7 LARCOM, LUCY (1826-1893). Hannah Binding Shoes 512 LEIGH, HENRY SAMBROOKE (1837-1883). The Twins 910 L'ESTRANGE. SIR ROGER (1616-1704). Loyalty Confined 243 LEWIS, MATTHEW GREGORY (1775-1818). Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogine 875 LEYDEN, JOHN (1775-1811). Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 87 The Sabliath Morning 448 To the Evening Star 456 LIPPINCOTT, SARA JANE ("Grace Green- wood"), (182.3 ). The Horseback Ride 463 LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK (1821 ). A Nice Correspondent 202 Old Letters 88 LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON (1794-1854). Napoleon 269 The Bridal of A.\iA&\\a, (Translation) 209 The Bull-Fight of Gazul (Translation) 410 The Lamentation for Celin (Translation) 375 The Lamentation of Don Roderick (Ti-anslation) 293 Zara's Em-iings (Translation) 183 LODGE, THOMAS (1558 ?-1525). Rosader's Sonetto 156 Rosalind's Madrigal 98 Rosaline 123 LOGAN, JOHN (1748-1788). Heavenly Wisdom 595 The Braes of Yarrow 386 To the Cuckoo 485 LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH (1807- 1882). A Psalm of Life 635 Excelsior 783 Footsteps of Angels 771 Maidenhood 66 Old St. David's at Radnor 540 Paul Revere's Ride 328 Resignation 666 The Arsenal at Springfield 539 The Children's Hour 45 The Day is Done 772 The Old Clock on the Stairs 76 The Rainy Day 773 The Skeleton in Armor 872 The Village Blacksmith 739 Wreck of the Hesperus 514 LORD, WILLIAM WILBERFORCE (1819 ). On the Defeat of Henry Clay 270 Page LOVELACE, RICHARD (1618-1658). To Althea, from Prison 124 To Lucasta, on going beyond the Seas 125 To Lucasta, on going to the Wars 124 LOVER, SAMUEL (1797-1868). RoryO'More; or, Good Omens 165 The Angels' Whisper 33 The Birth of St. Patrick 953 The Low-Back'd Car 165 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL (1819-1891). Auf Wiedersehen 217 My Love 208 The Courtin' 893 The First Snowfall 446 The Heritage 794 The Present Crisis 342 What Mr. Robinson Thinks 932 Without and Within 796 LOWELL, MARIA WHITE (1821-1853). The Alpine Sheep 658 The Morning Glory 49 LOWELL, ROBERT TRAILLSPENCE (1816-1891). The Relief of Lucknow 347 LUKE, JEMIMA THOMPSON (1813 ). "Of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven" 588 LYLY, JOHN (1554-1606). Cupid and Campaspe 99 Song of the Fairies 801 The Songs of Birds 484 LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS (1793-1847). Abide with Me 577 "Jesus, I my cross have taken" 559 "Long did I toil" 589 Psalm LXXXIV 620 LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES (1826-1863). Antony and Cleopatra 290 LYTTON, EDWARD GEORGE EARLE LYTTON BULWER (Baron Lytton), (1803-1873). "When stars are in the quiet skies" 218 LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER (Earl OF Lytton), (1831-1891). Aux Italiens 180 The Chess-Board 85 The Portrait 199 MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON (Lord Macaulay), (1800-1859). Horatius 283 Ivry. A Song of the Huguenots 308 Naseby 312 MACDONALD, GEORGE (1824 ). "Where did you come from?" 31 MACKAY, CHARLES (1814-1889). Differences 794 " I lay in sorrow, deep distressed " 707 I Love my Love 146 The Child and the Mourners 55 The Good Time Coming 748 The Sailor's Wife 25 MACKAY, MARGARET (1802-1887). Asleep in Jesus 602 MACLEAN, LiETITIA ELIZABETH (LANDON), ("L.E.L."), (1802-1838). Crescentius 293 The Awakening of Eudymion 172 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page MACNEILL, HECTOR (1746-1818). Mary of Castle Cary 164 MAGINN, WILLIAM (1793-1842). The Irishman 900 MAHONY, FRANCIS SYLVESTER (1804-1866). Malbrouck 957 The Bells of Shandon 534 MALLET, DAVID (1705?-1765). William and Margaret 175 MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE (1803-1849). Napoleon's Midnight Review 269 The Karamanian Exile 874 MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER (1564-1593). The Milkmaid's Song 140 MARVELL, ANDREW (1621-1678). An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland 240 The Emigrants in the Bermudas 521 The Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fawn 505 The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers. 242 Thoughts in a Garden 501 MASON, JOHN (1646 ?-1694). Song of Praise for the Evening 574 MAYNE, JOHN (1759-1836). Helen of Kirkconnell 405 Logan Braes , 179 MCCARTHY, DENIS FLORENCE (1820-1882). Summer Longings 437 McCHEYNE, ROBERT MURRAY (1813-1843). Jehovah Tsidkenu 569 McMASTER, GUY HUMPHREY (1829-1887). Carmen Bellicosum 330 MERRICK, JAMES (1720-1769). The Chameleon 706 MESSINGER, ROBERT HINCKLEY (1811-1874). Give me the Old 747 MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS (1735-1788). Cumnor Hall 381 MIDDLETON, THOMAS (1570?-1627). What Love is Like 184 MILLER, WILLIAM (1810-1872). The Wonderfu' Wean 42 Willie Winkle 41 MILMAN, HENRY HART (1791-1868). "Bound upon th' accursed tree " 555 Bridal Song 220 Burial Hymn 615 Christ Crucified 554 "When our heads are bowed with woe" 602 MILTON, JOHN (1608-1674). Comus: A Mask 826 Epitaph on Shakespeare 232 II Penseroso 733 L'Allegro 731 Lycidas 237 On the Morning of Christ's Nativity 543 Song on May Morning 435 Sonnets — On his being Arrived to the Age of Twenty- three 228 On his Blindness 236 Page On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 314 To Cyriac Skinner 236 To the Lady Margaret Ley 237 To the Lord General Cromwell 236 To the Nightingale 482 When the Assault was Intended to the City 314 MITCHELL, WALTER (1826 ). Tacking Ship off Shore 516 MOIB, DAVID MACBETH (179&-1851). Casa Wappy 39 MONTGOMERY, JAMES (1771-1854). "For ever with the Lord" 617 "Friend after friend departs" 658 Gethsemane 554 Make Way for Liberty 298 Psalm LXXII 5-57 "Songs of praise the angels sang" 608 The Common Lot 638 The Stranger and his Friend 561 "To Thy temple I repair" 581 " What are these in bright array " 618 What is Prayer? 583 MONTROSE, JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF (1612-1650). " My dear and only love " 193 MOORE, CLARA (JESSUP), (1824 ). The Web of Life 637 MOORE, CLEMENT CLARKE (1779-1863). The Night before Christmas 67 MOORE, EDWARD (1712-1757). The Happy Marriage 2 MOORE, THOMAS (1779-1852). A Canadian Boat-Song 733 A Joke Versified 897 " As by the shore at break of day " 363 A Speculation 898 "Believe me, if all those endearing young charms" 162 "Come, rest in this bosom" 147 " Farewell !— but whenever you welcome the hour" 85 "Go where glory waits thee" 95 "I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled" 761 Miriam's Song 570 "Oft, in the stilly night" 77 "Oh, breathe not his name" 253 "She is far from the land" 274 Sweet Innisfallen 535 "The harp that once through Tara's halls" 362 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp 416 The Meeting of the Waters 535 Those Evening Bells 762 " Thou art, O God " 571 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer 465 "To sigh, yet feel no pain" 182 MORRIS, GEORGE POPE (1802-1864). "Woodman, spare that tree" 75 MOSS, THOMAS (1740-1808). The Beggar's Petition 712 MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM (1797-1835). Jeanie Morrison 118 The Covenanters' Battle-Chant 297 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page MOULTRIE, JOHN (1799-1874). "Here's to thee, ray Scottish lassie" 214 The Three Sons 50 MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AUGUSTUS (1796- 1877). " I would not live alway " 613 "Saviour, who Thy flock art feeding" 560 "Shout the glad tidings" 553 MUNBY, ARTHUR JOSEPH (1829 ). Doris. A Pastoral 201 NAIRNE, CAROLINA , LADY (1766-1845). The Laird o' Cockpen 894 The Laud of the Leal 656 NASH, THOMAS (1567-1601). Spring 435 NEALE, HANNAH (LLOYD). The Neglected Call 704 NEALE, JOHN MASON (1818-1866). "Art thou weary?" {Tmnslalion) 597 The Celestial Country " 624 NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY (1801-1890). Lead, Kindly Light 589 NEWTON, JOHN (1725-1807). Home ill View 609 " How sweet the name of Jesus sounds" 561 Psalm LXXXVII 618 NICOLL, ROBERT (1814-1837). " We are brethren a' " 795 NOEL, THOMAS. (1799-1861). The Pauper's Drive 717 NORTON, ANDREWS (1786-1853). After a Summer Shower 439 NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH (1808-1877). Eingen on the Rhine 83 Love Not 187 The Arab's Farewell to his Horse 496 The King of Denmark's Ride 422 O'BRIEN, FITZ-JAMES (1828-1862). Kane 275 The Challenge 694 O'CONNOR, MICHAEL (18377-1862). Reveille : 356 O'KEEFFE, JOHN (1747-1833). " I am a friar of orders gray " 926 OLDYS, WILLIAM (1696-1761). "Busy, curious, thirsty fly" 487 OLIVERS, THOMAS (1725-1799). " Lo ! He comes with clouds descending " 631 "The God of Abruham praise" 603 ONDERDONK, HENRY USTICK (1789-1858). "The spirit in our hearts" 593 OPIE, AMELIA (1769-1853). Forget me Not 94 The Orphan Boy's Tale 46 OSGOOD, FRANCES SARGENT (1811-1850). " I have something sweet to tell you " 213 Little Things 659 OSLER, EDWARD (1798-1863). Praise 621 OXFORD, EDWARD VERE, EARL OF (1534?- 1604). A Renunciation 190 Page PALMER, RAY (1808-1887). "My faith looks up to Thee" 558 PALMER, WILLIAM PITT (1805-1884). The Smack in School 933 PARKER, MARTYN. Ye Gentlemen of England 507 PARNELL, THOMAS (1679-1718). A Hymn to Contentment 679 The Hermit 686 PARR, HARRIET (1828 ). " Hear my prayer, O heavenly Father" 584 PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM (1819-1892). On a Bust of Dante 223 The Groomsman to the Bridesmaid 183 PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD (1792-1852). Home, Sweet Home 1 PEACOCK, THOMAS LOVE (1785-1866). The Grave of Love 126 PEELE, GEORGE (15527-1598?) The Aged Man-at-Arms 749 PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES (1795-1856). Coral Grove 518 It is Great for our Country to Die 365 The Reign of May 441 To Seneca Lake 639 PERCY, THOMAS (1728-1811). "O Nanny, wilt thou go with me"..... 161 The Friar of Orders Gray 117 PERRONET, EDWARD (1721-1792). Coronation 556 PERRY, NORA (1841 ). After the Ball 784 The Love-Knot 217 PHILIPS, AMBROSE (1671-1749). A P'ragment from Sappho 192 To Miss Charlotte Pulteney 35 PIATT, JOHN JAMES (1835 ). The Morning Street 780 PIERPONT, JOHN (1785-1866). My Child 48 Passing Away 648 Warren's Address 328 PINKNEY, EDWARD CO ATE (1802-1828). A Health 282 PIOZZI, HESTER LYNCH THRALE (1739-1821). The Three Warnings 6.39 PITT, WILLIAM. The Sailor's Consolation 896 PLUMPTRE, EDWARD HAYES (1821-1891). Dedication to Dante's Divine Comedy 281 The River 467 POE, EDGAR ALLAN (1809-1849). Annabel Lee 143 The Bells 763 The Haunted Palace 875 The Raven 857 POPE, ALEXANDER (1688-1744). Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady 655 Messiah. A Sacred Eclogue 547 Ode on Solitude 753 Ode on St. Cecilia's Day 725 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page | Prologue to Mr. Addison's Tragedy of Cato 244 The Dying Christian to his Soul 616 The Rape of the Lock 803 The Universal Prayer 565 PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH (1802-1839). Charade— Campbell 265 Quince ^'5 School and Schoolfellows 79 The Belle of the Ball 955 The Vicar 917 PRENTICE, GEORGE DENISON (1802-1870). Sabbath Evening 450 The Closing Year 95 To an Absent Wife !■! PRENTISS, ELIZABETH PAYSON (1818-1878). Cradle Song 32 PRINGLE, THOMAS (1789-1834). "Afar in the desert" 494 PRIOR, MATTHEW (1664-1721). Epitaph Extempore 243 "In vain you tell your parting lover" 196 "The merchant to secure his treasure" 142 To a Child of Quality Five Years Old 47 PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE (1825-1864). A Doubting Heart 704 A Dream 772 A Woman's Answer 188 A Woman's Question 187 Evening Hymn 572 One by One 703 Per Pacem ad Lucem 558 The Storm 515 PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER (1787-1874). A Petition to Time 749 Golden-tress6d Adelaide 39 Life 635 The Blood Horse 492 The Poet's Song to his Wife 14 The Sea 507 The Stormy Petrel 474 QUARLES, FRANCIS (1592-1644). Delight in God only 596 The Shortness of Life 635 The Vanity of the World 674 RALEIGH, SIR WALTER (1552-1618). An Epitaph upon Sir Philip Sidney 229 A Vision upon this Conceit of the Faerie Queene 737 Lines written the Night before his Execution. 232 The Lie 675 The Milkmaid's Mother's Answer 140 The Pilgrimage 598 The Silent Lover 182 RAMSAY, ALLAN (1686-1758). " At setting day and rising morn " 195 Lochaber uo More 195 RANDOLPH, THOMAS (1605-1634). To my Picture 753 •RANKIN, JEREMIAH EAMES (1828 ). TheBabie 41 READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN (1822-1872). Drifting 51<» Sheridan's Ride 351 Page The Closing Scene 660 The Stranger on the Sill 75 RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB (1852 ). When she comes home again 28 ROBINSON, ROBERT (1735-1790). "Come, Thou Fount of every blessing" 605 ROCHESTER, JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF (1647- 1680). "My dear mistress has a heart" 156 "Too late, alas! I must confess" 126 ROGERS, SAMUEL (1763-1855). An Italian Song 502 A Wish 6 Ginevra 408 To the Butterfly 486 ROSCOE, WILLIAM (1753-1831). On Parting with his Books 782 ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA GEORGINA (1830-1894). Maude Clare 188 Up-Hill 598 Weary in Well-Doing 611 ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL (1828-1882). The Blessed Damozel 847 ROWE, NICHOLAS (1673-1718). Colin's Complaint 194 RYAN, ABRAM JOSEPH (1839-1886). The Conquered Banner 357 SANDS, ROBERT CHARLES (1799-1832). Good-Night 638 SARGENT, EPES (1813-1880). A Life on the Ocean Wave 509 SAXE, JOHN GODFREY (1816-1887). A Reflective Retrospect 79 I'm Growing Old 749 The Briefless Barrister 930 SCOLLARD, CLINTON (1861 ). Song of the Nightingale 485 SCOTT, SIR WALTER (1771-1832), Alice Brand 846 Allen-a-Dale 186 Boat-Song— " Hail to the chief " 364 Border Ballad : 358 Coronach 645 County Guy 189 Hellvellyn 532 Jock of Hazeldean 134 Lochinvar 136 Paraphrase of Dies Irse 630 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 359 "Proud Maisie is in the wood" 892 Rebecca's Hymn 570 Rosabella 405 The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee 317 " The heath this night must be my bed " 186 The Outlaw 176 Time '^^'^ " Where shall the lover rest" 176 SEAGRAVE, ROBERT (1693-1755?). "Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings" 590 SEARS, EDMUND HAMILTON (1810-1876). "It came upon the midnight clear" 552 SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES (1639-1701). " Love still hath something of the sea" 99 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page "Not, Celia, that I juster am" 127 To a Very Young Lady 189 SEWALL, HARRIET WINSLOW (1819-1889). Why thus Longing? 764 SEWELL, GEORGE ( 1726). The Dying Man in his Garden 657 SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM (1564-1616). Birds 444 "Blow, blow, thou winter wind" 447 "Come away, come away. Death" 197 "Come unto these yellow sands" 802 Grabbed Age and Youth 754 Dirge from "Cymbeline" 657 " Full fathom five thy father lies " 802 Influence of Music 730 Morning Song from "Cymbeline" 448 "On a day — alack the day" 141 "Over hill, over dale" 802 "Sigh no more, ladies" 187 Silvia _ 217 Sonnets — " Full many a glorious morning have I • seen" 448 "Let me not to the marriage of true minds" 218 " Like as the waves make toward the peb- bled shore" 751 "No longer mourn for me when I am dead" 219 "Not marble nor the gilded monuments".. 750 " Oh, how much more doth beaiity beau- teous seem " 751 " Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth ". 751 "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ?". 220 "That time of year thou may'st in me be- hold" 219 "They that have power to hurt, and will do none" 752 " Tired with all these, for restful death I cry" 219 " To me, fair friend, you never can be old ". 750 " When I do count the clock that tells the time" 750 " When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes" 219 " When in the chronicle of wasted time".. 220 "When to the sessions of sweet silent thought" 751 Sweet-and-Twenty 163 "Tell me where is fancy bred" 846 Under the Greenwood Tree 466 "When icicles hang by the wall " 447 "Where the bee sucks, there suck I" 802 SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE (1792-1822). Adonais ; an Elegy on the Death of John Keats. 254 A Lament 764 Arethusa 469 Autumn; a Dirge 445 Lines to an Indian Air 103 Love's Philosophy 97 "Music when soft voices die" 185 Ode to the West Wind" 445 "One word is too often profaned " 148 Ozymandias 56i " Rarely, rarely comest thou" 777 Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples 262 Page The Cloud 453 The Invitation 503 The Question 500 To a Skylark 473 To Night 451 To the Moon 455 With a Guitar, To Jane 730 SHENSTONE, WILLIAM (1714-1763). A Pastoral Ballad 205 The Schoolmistress 57 SHIRLEY, JAMES (1596-1666). Death's Final Conquest 643 The Last Conqueror 643 SHIRLEY, WALTER (1725-1786). " Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing" 632 SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP (1554-1586). A Ditty 127 " Because I oft in dark abstracted guise" 779 "Having this day my horse, my hand, ray lance" 192 " O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear ". 191 On Sleep 774 To the Moon ng SIGOURNEY, LYDIA HUNTLEY (1791-1865). Indian Names 533 SKELTON, JOHN (1460?-1529). To Mistress Margaret Hussey 227 SMITH, CHARLOTTE (1749-1806). On the Departure of the Nightingale 484 SMITH, HORACE (1779-1849). Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibi- tion 742 A Tale of Drury Lane 946 Hymn to the Flowers 460 The Contrast 341 SMITH, JAMES (1775-1839). Epigram 963 The Baby's Debut 950 The Theatre 948 SMITH, SAMUEL FRANCIS (1808 ). America 354 Missionary Hymn 581 SMITH, SIDNEY (1771-1845). A Recipe for Salad 968 Parody on Pope 933 SMOLLETT, TOBIAS GEORGE (1721-1771). Ode to Leven Water The Tears of Scotland 533 326 SOUTHEY, CAROLINE BOAVLES (1787-1854). Once upon a Time 93 The Pauper's Deathbed 716 SOUTHEY, ROBERT (1774-1843). God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop 411 History 352 "My days among the dead are passed" 735 The Battle of Blenheim 697 The Cataract of Lodore 526 The Complaints of the Poor 709 The Holly Tree 467 The Inchcape Rock 380 The March to JIoscow 958 The Well of St. Keyne 902 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page SOUTHWELL, ROBERT (1560-1595). Times go by Turns "^"'^ SPENCER, HIRAM DODD. A hundred years to oome 700 SPENCER, WILLIAM ROBERT (1770-1834). Beth Gelert; or, tlie Grave of the Greyhound.. 394 To Lady Anne Hamilton 777 " When midnight o'er the moonless skies" 94 SPENSER, EDMUND (1552-1598). " Like as the culver on the bared bough " 190 " Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere ".... 778 "The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love " 101 SPRAGUE, CHARLES (1791-1875). The Family Meeting 17 STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE (1833 ). Cavalry Song 366 On the Doorstep 222 Pan in Wall Street 888 Toujours Amour 163 STERLING, JOHN (1806-1844). Louis XV 327 STILL, .JOHN (1543-1607). Jolly Good Ale and Old 927 STIRLING, WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF (1580-1640). To Aurora 162 STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY (1825 ). Birds 695 Never Again 762 "The house is dark and dreary" 783 Without and Within 12 STODDART, THOMAS TOD (1810-1880). The Angler's Trysting Tree 473 STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE (1819 ). At Dieppe 536 lo Victis 702 Praxiteles and Phryne 782 The Violet 462 STRODE, WILLIAM (1600-1644). Kisses 156 STRONG, LATHAM CORNELL (1845-1879). West Point 90 SUCKLING, SIR JOHN (1609-1642). " I prithee send me back my heart " 171 The Constant Lover 142 Why so Pale? 104 SURREY, HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF (1518- 1547). A Praise of his Love 154 Description of Spring 433 No Age content with his own Estate 677 Prisoned in Windsor 224 The Means to attain Happy Life 636 SWAIN, CHARLES (1803-1874). Dryburgh Abbey 265 SWIFT, JONATHAN (1667-1745). Baucis and Philemon 903 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES (1843 ). Age and Song 739 "Before the beginning of years" 742 "When the hounds of spring" 434 Page SYLVESTER, JOSHUA (1563-1618). A Contented Mind 680 Love's Omnipresence 99 TANNAHILL, ROBERT (1774-1810). Jessie, the Flower of Di'tnblane 163 The Braes of Balquhither 502 "The midges dance aboou the burn" 449 TATE (NAHUM), (1652-1715) and BRADY (NICH- OLAS), (1659-1726). Christmas 549 Psalm C 565 TAYLOR, BAYARD (1825-1878). Bedouin Song 177 The Quaker Widow 22 The Song of the Camp 216 TAYLOR, JANE (1783-1824). The Philosopher's Scales 685 The Squire's Pew 691 TAYLOR, TOM (1817-1880). Abraham Lincoln 278 TENNYSON, ALFRED LORD (1809-1892). "Ask me no more" 192 " As thro' the land at eve we went" 39 "Break, break, break" 88 Bugle Song 506 "Come into the garden, Maud" 177 Crossing the Bar 582 Deciication to " Idylls of the King " 278 From " In Memoriam " — "Again at Christmas did we weave" 719 " Her eyes are homes of silent prayer " 719 "I held it truth, with him who sings" 719 " Oh yet we trust that somehow good " 719 "Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky" 720 "Strong Son of God, immortal Love" 720 " Home they brought her warrior dead " 56 Lady Clara Vere de Vere 210 Lady Clare 138 Lady of Shalott, The 890 Lilian 203 Loeksley Hall 149 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington.. 271 Song of the Brook 469 St. Agues' Eve 566 "Sweet and low" 31 The Charge of the Light Brigade 348 The Days that are no Blore 85 The Death of the Old Year 447 The May Queen 69 The Miller's Daughter 155 " Thy voice is heard through rolling drums "... 741 Tithonus 785 Ulysses 289 THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE (1811- 1863). At the Church Gate 211 Little Billee 913 Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball 964 Sorrows of Werther 896 The Age of Wisdom 87 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 89 The Chronicle of the Drum 333 The End of the Play 693 The King of Brentford's Testament 910 THOM, WILLIAM (1799-1850). The Mitherless Bairn 46 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page THOMSON, JAMES (1700-1748). Hymn of the Seasons 431 Rule, Britanuia 355 THORNBURY, GEORGE WALTER (1828-1876). La Tricoteuse 331 The Jester's Sermou 926 The Pompadour 326 The Three Troopers 310 THORPE, ROSE HARTWICK (1850 ). Curfew must not Ring to-night 406 THRUPP, DOROTHY ANNE (1799-1847). "I am the Good Shepherd " 597 THURLOW, EDWARD HOVELL, LORD (1781- 1829). Song to May 436 Summer 442 To a Bird that Haunted the Waters of Laaken. 476 To the Moon 455 TICKELL, THOMAS (1686-1740). Colin and Lucy W7 On the Death of Mr. Addison 244 TIGHE, MARY (1773-1810). Written at Killarney, July 29, 1800 ... 536 TIMROD, HENRY (1829-1867). Spring 440 TODHUNTER, JOHN (1839 ). The First Spring Day 4.39 TOPLADY, AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE (1740-1778). Address to the Soul 616 Rock of Ages 560 TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX (1807-1886). Harmosan 291 "Some murmur, when their sky is clear" 678 The Kingdom of God 682 TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND (1827 ). At Sea 519 Midsummer 443 The Vagabonds 712 TURNER, CHARLES TENNYSON (1808-1879). The Lachrymatory 738 TYCHBORN, CHIDIOCK ( 1586). Lines Written by One in the Tower 718 VAUGHAN, HENRir (1621-1693). Sou-Dayes 580 They are all Gone..., 617 VAUX, THOMAS, LORD (1510-1556). On a Contented Mind 678 VENABLE, WILLIAM HENRY (1836 ). Teacher's Dream 91 WAKEFIELD, NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST (1836-1870). Over the River 649 WALLER, EDMUND (1605-1687). "Go, lovely Rose" 185 On a Girdle 185 On his Divine Poems 718 On the Statue of King Charles 1 270 WALTON, IZAAK (1593-1683). The Angler's Wish 471 WARING, ANNA L^TITIA. Thy Will be Done 587 Page WARTON, THOMAS (1687-1745). Sonnet — Written after Seeing Windsor Castle. 522 WARTON, THOM.4.S (1728-1790). On Revisiting the River Loddon 526 On a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's Monasticon 747 WASTELL, SIMON (1560 ?-1630 ?). Man's Mortality 646 WATSON, JOHN WHITAKER (1824-1890). Beautiful Snow , 715 WATSON, THOMAS (1557?-1692?). May 436 " Time wasteth years, and months, and hours." 172 WATSON, WILLIAM. First Skylark of Spring 457 WATTS, ISAAC (1674-1748). "Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove" 562 Cradle Hymn 34 Glorying in the Cross 567 "I give immortal praise " 566 "O happy soul that lives on high" 595 Psalm LXXII 609 Psalm XC 610 Psalm XCVIII 610 Psalm C 566 Psalm CXVII 572 Psalm CXXI 603 "There is a land of pure delight" 619 WAUGH, EDWIN (1818-1890). "The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine" 166 WEATHERLY, F. E. The Maids of Lee 972 The Men of Ware 971 AVEBSTER, JOHN (1585?-1654?). Dirge from "The White Devil" 658 WELBY, AMELIA B. COPPUCK (1819-1852). Twilight at Sea. A Fragment 515 WESLEY, CHARLES (1708-1788). "Hark, how all the welkin rings" 552 " Jesu, my strength, my hope" 599 "Jesus, lover of my soul " 560 The Lord is Risen 555 Wrestling Jacob 591 WESTWOOD, THOMAS (1814-1888). Little Bell 38 Under my Window 53 WHITE, HENRY KIRKE (1785-1806). Hymn for Family Worship 588 The Star of Bethlehem 597 To an Early Primrose 461 WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO (1775-1841). To Night 450 WHITMAN, WALTER (1819-1892). "O Captain! My Captain!" 223 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF (1807-1892). Barbara Frietchie 350 Brown of Ossawatomie 277 Ichabod 268 In School-Days 47 Maud Muller 167 My Playmate 82 My Psalm 633 Randolph of Roanoke...- 263 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page Skipper Ireson's Ride 373 The Angels of Buena \*ista 344 The Eve of Election 695 The Red River Voyageur 781 WILDE, RICHARD HENRY (1789-1847). "My life is like the summer rose" 636 To the Mocking Bird 479 WILLIAMS, HELEN MARIA (1762-1827). To Hope 683 "Whilst Thee I seek " 592 WILLIAMS, WILLIAM (1717-1791). "Guide me, Thou great Jehovah" 593 WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER (1806-1867). Saturday Afternoon 77 WILSON, ALEXANDER (1766-1813). The Blue Bird. 479 WILSON, JOHN (1785-1854). The Evening Cloud 451 WINCHELSEA, ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF (16C0?-1720). A Nocturnal Reverie 443 WINTER, WILLIAM (1836 ). Fidele 276 WITHER, GEORGE (1588-1667). A Rocking Hymn 34 A Stolen Kiss 156 At Sunsetting 576 Lemuel's Song 24 Psalm CXLVIII 571 The Shepherd's Resolution 169 The Steadfast Shepherd 153 WOLCOTT, JOHN (1738-1819). The Apple Dumplings and a King 970 WOLFE, CHARLES (1791-1823). " If I had thought thou couldst have died " 708 The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna 253 WOODWORTH, SAMUEL (1785-1842). The Old Oaken Bucket.. 74 The Whiskers 894 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM (1770-1850). Daffodils 461 Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle 523 Hart-Leap Well 389 Intimations of Immortality from Recollec- tions of Early Childhood 664 "It is a beauteous evening calm and free" 450 Lines Written in Early Spring 439 Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey 540 Lucy Gray ; or. Solitude 56 Ode to Duty 684 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic... 347 "Scorn not the sonnet" 779 She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways 49 "She was a Phantom of delight" 10 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle 225 Sonnet — Composed upon Westminster Bridge.. 521 Sonnet— "The world is too much with us" 452 The Kitten and the Falling Leaves 489 The Pet Lamb. A Pastoral 491 The Rainbow 483 Page The Solitary Reaper 799 "Three years she grew in sun and shade" 49 To a Highland Girl 65 To a Skylark 477 To a Skylark 477 To Milton 242 To Sleep 799 To the Cuckoo 484 To the Daisy 462 To the Daisy 463 AVe are Seven 51 Yarrow Revisited 529 Yarrow Unvisited 528 Yarrow Visited 528 WOTTON, SIR HENRY (1568-1639). Tears wept at the Grave of Sir Albertus Morton. 230 The Character of a Happy Life 681 To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 185 Upon the Death of Sir Albertus Morton's Wife 230 Upon the Sudden Restraint of the Earl of Somerset 232 Verses in Praise of Angling 471 WYATT, SIR THOMAS (1503-1542). Blame not my Lute 190 The Recured Lover Exulteth in his Freedom.. 191 WYNNE, FRANCES (1866-1893), Whisper 442 YATES, EDMUND HODGSON (1831-1894). Epigram— "All Saints" 896 YOUNG, ANDREW (1807-1889). "There is a happy land" 619 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. Annie Laurie 199 Armstrong's Good-Night 676 Ballad of Chevy-Chace 300 Barbara Allen's Cruelty 419 Between the Lights 703 Christmas Carol 551 Comin' through the Rye 214 Edward, Edward 382 Epigram — "Vox et prseterea nihil" 896 Fair Annie of Lochroyan 396 Fair Helen 404 Glenlogie 408 Good-Night 718 Katharine Janfarie 395 Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament 32 Lament of the Border Widow 419 Life 662 Lord Lovel 198 "Love not me for comely grace" 139 Love will Find out the Way 97 Monody on the Death of an Only Client 931 Our Minister's Sermon 970 Robin Hood and AUen-a-Dale 392 Sir Patrick Spens 369 St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes 919 Take thy Old Cloak about Thee 905 The Child of EUe 387 The Children in the Wood 53 The Cruel Sister 420 The Cumberland 350 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Page The Dead Politician 793 The Dowie Dens of Yarrow 383 The Dumb Child 41 The Fairy Queen 801 The Heir of Linne 370 The Jovial Beggar 928 The Merry Pranks of Robin Goodfellow 816 The New Jerusalem 622 The Nut-Brown Maid 112 The Old and Young Courtier 692 The Siege of BelgraJe... 969 The Twa Corbies 416 Page The Vicar of Bray 918 The Wandering Jew 376 "They're Dear Fish to Me" 513 To a Skeleton 662 To my Horse 497 Twenty Years Ago 78 Veni Creator Spiritus. 562 Waly, waly, but Love be Bonny 103 Where are you Going, my Pretty Maid? 902 White Rose 21-J Wiuifreda 7 Y'oung Airly 324 In addition to those to whose kind permission the compiler is indebted for the privilege of using the various copyright poems in this and previous editions, he would return his thanks to Mr. Eugene Field and his pub- lishers, Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, for the use of " Little Boy Blue " on page 72, and Mr. James Whitcomb Riley and his publishers, Messrs. Boweii, Merrill & Co., for that of " When She Comes Home Again " on page 28. H. T. C. April 2, 1895. Index of the Names of the Poems, Page Abbot M'Kinnon, The Hogg. 881 "Abide with me" Lyte. bll Abou Ben Adhem Hunt. 684 Absence Kemhle. 101 Absent Wife, To an, Prentice. 14 Addison, On the Death of Tickell. 244 Address to Certain Gold-Fishes Coleridge. 473 Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibi- tion Smith. 742 Address to the Soul Toplady. 616 Address to the Toothache Burns. 962 Adelgitha Campbell. 145 Adonais Shelley. 254 Adversity, Hymn to Gray. 775 "Afar in the Desert" Pringle. 494 After Death in Arabia Arnold. 701 After the Ball Perry. 784 Age and Song Swinburne. 739 Aged Man-at-Arms, The Peele. 749 Age of Wisdom, The Thackeray. 87 Agincourt, The Ballad of. Drayton. 299 " A good that never satisfies the mind," Drummond. 676 A-Hunting We Will Go Fielding. 497 Airs of Spring, The Carew. 440 Alexander's Feast Dryden. 722 Alexis, here she stay'd Drummond. 180 Alice Brand.. Scott. 846 A Little While Bonar. 615 Allen-a-Dale Scott. 186 All Quiet Along the Potomac Beers. 349 All Saints Yates. 896 Almond-Blossom Arnold. 466 Alnwick Castle tIaJleck. 531 Alonzo the Brave and tlie Fair Imogine Lewis. 875 Alpine Sheep, The Loicell. 658 Althea, To, from Prison Lovelace. 124 A man's a man for a' that Burns. 793 America Smith. 354 American Flag, The Drake. 353 Amoret Congreve. 155 Amynta Elliot. 200 Ancient Mariner, The Rime of the...Co^e)'(V/gfe. 863 "And art thou dead, as young and fair". Byron. 740 Angel in the House, An Hunt. 741 Angels of Buena Vista, The Whittier. 344 Angels' Whisper, The Lover. 33 Angler, The Chalkhill. 472 Angler's Trysting-Tree, The Stoddart. 473 Angler's Wish, The Walton. 471 Page Angling, Verses in Praise of Wotton. 471 Annabel Lee Poe. 143 Annie Laurie Unknown. 199 Annie Laurie Douglas. 979 Another's Sorrow, On Blake. 609 Answer to a Child's Question Coleridge. 479 Anthea, To Herrick. 221 Antony and Cleopatra Lytic. 290 Apple Dumplings and a King Wolcott. 970 Arab's Farewell to his Horse, The Norton. 496 Arethusa Shelley. 469 Ariel's Songs Shakesjieare. 802 Armstrong's Good-Night Unknoion. 676 Arsenal at Springfield, The., Longfellow. 539 Art of Book-keeping, The Hood. 960 Arts and Learning in America, On the Pros- pect of Planting Berkeley. 721 "Art thou Weary ?" Neale. 597 "As by the shore at break of day" .Moore. 363 "Ashamed of Me" Grigg. 019 "Ask me no more" Tennyson. 192 "Ask me no more where Jove bestows" Carew. 192 Asleep in Jesus Mackay. 602 "As thro' the land at eve we went" Te7inyson. 39 "At setting day and rising morn". ..Rnmsay. 195 At the Church-Gate Thackeray. 211 Auf Wiedersehen Lowell. 217 Auld Lang Syne Burns. 81 Auld Robin Gray Barnard. 137 Aurora, To Stirling. 162 Autumn. A Dirge Shelley. 445 Autumn, To Keats. 444 Aux Italiens Lytton. 180 Awakening of Endymion, The Maclean. 172 Awakening Song Ford. 752 Babe, The Jones. 50 Babie, The Rankin. 41 Baby Bell Aldrich. 30 Baby May Bennett. 29 Baby's Debut, The Smith. 950 Bachelor's Dream, The Hood. 906 Bachelors' Hall Finley. 969 Bach's St. Matthew Passion Music Cole. 632 Baltic, The Battle of the Campbell. 340 Banks o' Doon, The Burns. 170 Bannockburn Burns. 296 Baptismal Hymn Alford. 583 Baptist, For the Drummond. 629 xxvii INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. Page Bai-bara Allen's Cruelty Unknoion. 419 Barbara Frietchie Whittier. 350 "Bards of passion and of mirth" Keats. 738 Bard, The Gray. 294 Baron's Last Banquet, The Greene. 641 Battle-Field, The.... Bryant. 696 Battle-Hymn of the Republic Hoioe. 354 Baucis and Philemon Swift. 903 Beaumont, On Gervase Beaumont. 228 Be;iutiful Snow Watson. 715 Beauty Fades Drummond. 739 " Because I oft in dark abstracted guise," Sidney. 779 Bedford, On Lucy, Countess of Jonson. 235 Bedouin Song Taylor. 177 "Before the beginning of years "...Swinburne. 742 Beggar's Petition, The Moss. 712 " Behold, I stand at the door and knock" Hoto, 570 Belgrade, The Siege of. Unknown. 969 "Believe me, if all those endearing young charms" Moore. 162 Belle of the Ball, The Praed. 955 Bells, The Poe. 763 Bells Across the Snow Havergal. 555 Bells of Shandon, The Mahony. 534 Beth Gelert Spencer. 394 Better Land, The Hemans. 618 Between the Lights Unknown. 703 Bingen on the Rhine Norton. 83 Birds Shakespeare. 444 Birds Stoddard. 695 Bird, To a, that Haunted the Waters of Laaken Thurlow. 476 Birth of St. Patrick, The Lover. 953 " Blame not my Lute" Wyatt. 190 Blenheim, The Battle of. Southey. 697 Blessed Damozel, The Rossetti. 847 " Blest be thy love, dear Lord " Austin. 568 Blind Boy, The Cihher. 67 Blindness, On his Milton. 236 Blossoms, To Herrick. 466 " Blow, blow, thou winter wind "./S'AaA-esjjeare. 447 Blue-Bird, The Wilson. 479 Boadicea, An Ode Cowper. 367 Boatie Rows, The Eioen. 516 Boat Song Scott. 364 Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee, The Scott. 317 Bonnie Lesley Burns. 145 Bonnie Prince Charlie H'^gg- 325 Books, on Parting with his JRoscoe. 782 Border Ballad Scott. 358 Bouillabaisse, The Ballad of. Thackeray. 89 "Bound upon th' accursed tree" Milman. 555 Boyhood Allston. 53 Boys, The Holmes. 80 Braes o' Balquhither Tannahill. 502 Braes of Yarrow, The Hamilton. 384 Braes of Yarrow, The Logan. 386 Page "Break, break, break" Tennyson. 88 Bridal of Andalla, The Lockhart. 209 Bridal Song Beaumont and Fletcher. 97 Bridal Song Milman. 220 Bridge of Sighs, The Hood. 714 Briefless Barrister, The Saxe. 930 Brook, Song of the Tennyson. A&9 Brookside, The Houghton. 169 Brown of Ossawatomie Whittier, 277 Bugle Song Tennyson. 506 Bull-Fight of Gazul,The Lockhart. 410 Burial Hymn Milman. 615 Burial March of Dundee Aytoun. 318 Burial of Moses, The Alexander. 600 Burial of Sir John Moore Wolfe. 253 Burns Halleck. 251 "Busy, curious, thirsty fly" Oldys. 487 Butterfly, To the Rogers. 486 Call, The Barley. 178 Canadian Boat-Song, A Moore. 733 Captain Reece Gilbert. 963 Carfamon Beers. 406 Carmen Bellicosum McMaster. 330 Casablanca Hemans. 344 Casa Wappy Moir. 39 Castara Habington. 179 Castles in the Air BaUantyne. 37 Cataract of Lodore, The Southey. 526 Cavalry Song Stedman. 366 Celestial Country, The Bernard of Cluny. 624 Celia, To Jonson. 195 Challenge, The O'Brien. 694 Chambered Nautilus, The Holmes. 474 Chameleon, The Merrick. 706 Changed Cross, The Hohart. 610 Character of a Happy Life Wotton. 681 Charade — Camp-Bell Praed. 265 Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson. 348 Charity Children at St. Paul's, The Blake. 43 Charles L, On the Statue of Waller. 270 Charlie is my Darling Hogg. 324 Chaucer, Inscription for a Statue oi..Akenside. 227 Cherry-Ripe Herrick. 214 Chess-Board, The Lytton. 85 Chevy-Chace, The Ballad of Unknown. 300 Child and the Mourners, The Mackay. 55 Child embracing his Mother, To a Hood. 35 Child Musician, The Dobson. 44 Child of File, The Unknoxon. 387 Child of Quality, To a Prior. 47 Children Landor. 36 Children in the Wood, The Unknoion. 53 "Children of the Heavenly King "...Cennick. 594 Children, The Dickinson. 62 Children's Hour, The Longfellow. 45 Christabel Coleridge. 849 Christian Charity Coates. 697 INDEX OF THE KA3IES OF THE POEMS. Page Christ Crucified Milman. 554 Christmas Tate and Brady. 549 Christmas Carol Unknown. 551 Christmas Carol Byrom. 551 Christmas Carol Coxe. 550 Christmas Carol, A Graik, 553 Christmas Hymn, A Domett. 549 Christ Risen Barbauld. 556 Christ's Nativity, On the Morning of...Milton. 543 Chronicle, The Cowley. 221 Chronicle of the Drum, The Thackeray. 333 Clay, Henry, On the Defeat of. Lord. 270 Closing Scene, The Read. 660 Closing Year, The Prentice. 95 Cloud, The Shelley. 453 Colin and Lucy Tickell. 197 Colin's Complaint Rowe. 194 Cologne Coleridge. 938 Come and Welcome to Jesus Christ Hart. 569 " Come away, come away, Death "Shakespeare. 197 " Come Holy Spirit, Heavenly Dove"... Watts. 562 •' Come into the garden, Maud " Tennyson. 177 "Come, rest in this bosom" Moore. 147 " Come, Thou Fount of every blessings" Robinson. 605 " Come unto Me" Bonar. 620 "Come ye lofty, come ye lowly" Gurney. 550 Comin' through the Rye Unknown. 214 Common Lot, The Montgomery. 638 Complaints of the Poor, The Southey. 709 Comus: A Mask Milton. 826 Concord Hymn Emerson. 367 Confirmation Hymn Doddridge. 585 Conquered Banner, The Ryan. 357 Constancy Suckling. 142 Content Greene. 680 Content. A Pastoral Cunningham. 747 Content, Careless Byrom. 680 Contented Mind, A Sylvester. 680 Contented Mind, On a Vaiix. 678 Contentment, Hymn to Parnell. 679 Contrast, The Smith. 341 Coral Grove, The Percivnl. 518 Corbet, Vincent, To Corbet. 235 Corinna's Going a-Maying Herrick. 436 Coronach Scott. 645 Coronation Jackson. 791 Coronation Perronet. 656 Cotter's Saturday Night, The Burns. 3 County Guy Scott. 189 Courtin,' The Loioell. 893 Court Lady, A Browning. 361 Covenanter's Battle Chant Motherioell. 297 Cowper's Grave Browning. 248 Crabbed Age and Youth Shakespeare. 754 Cradle Hymn Watts. 34 Cradle Song Prentiss. 32 Crescentius Maclean. 293 Page Cromwell, To the Lord General Milton. 236 Crossing the Bar Tennyson. 582 Crowded Street, The Bryant. 667 Cruel Sister, The Unknoion. 420 Cry of the Children, The Broioning. 63 Cuckoo, To the Logan. 485 Cuckoo, To the Wordsworth. 484 Culprit Fay, The Drake. 818 Cumberland, The Unknoimi. 350 Cumberland, To the Lady Margaret, Countess of Daniel. 232 Cumnor Hall Mickle. 381 Cupid and Campaspe Lyly. 99 Curfew Must Not Ring To-Night .Thorpe. 406 Cynthia, To Jonson. 455 Daffodils Wordsworth. 461 Daffodils, To Herrick. 462 Daisy, To the Wordsworth. 462 Daisy, To the Wordsworth. 463 Dante, On a Bust of. Parsons. 223 " Day, in melting purple dying " Brooks. 170 Day is Done, The Longfellow. 772 Days That Are No More, The Tennyson. 85 Deacon's Masterpiece, The Holmes. 942 Dead Politician, The Unknown. 793 Dead AVoman, To a Bunner. 142 Death-bed, A Aldrich. 645 Death-bed, The Thomas Hood. 645 Death of a Friend, Stanzas on the Heber. 614 Death of an Only Client,On the London Punch. 931 Death of Sir Albertus Morton's Wife. Wotton. 230 Death of the Flowers, The Bryant. 465 Death of the Old Year, The Tennyson. 447 Death of the Virtuous, The Barbauld. 638 Death's Final Conquest Shirley. 643 Dedication to Idylls of the King.... yenoT/soji. 278 Dejection: An Ode Coleridge. 797 Delight in Disorder Herrick. 738 Delight in God Only Quarks. 596 Deserted Village, The Gotflsmith. 754 Destruction of Sennacherib, The Byron. 283 Devil's Thoughts, The Coleridge. 927 Dianeme, To Herrick. 210 Diaphenia Constable. 179 Dickens in Camp Bret Harte. 280 Dieppe, At William Story. 536 Dies Ira3 Thomas de Celano. 629 Dies Iras Dix. 631 Dies Iraj L-ons. 630 Dieslrae Scott. 630 Differences Mackay. 794 Different Minds Trench. 678 Dirge, A Hcmans. 703 Dirge Beddoes. 178 Dirge Eastman. 658 Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth Everett. 292 Dirge for a Soldier Boker. 277 INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. Page Dirge from "The White Devil" Webster. 658 Dirge from "Cymbeline" Shakespeare. 657 Dirge, in Cymbeline Collins. 657 Disdain Returned Garew. 180 Ditty, A Sidney. 127 Dolcino to Margaret Kingaley. 778 Doncaster St. Leger, The Doyle. 413 Doorstep, On the Stedman. 222 " Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes "...Dorset. 127 Doris Mundy. 201 Doubting Heart, A Procter. 704 Dowie Dens of Yarrow, The Unknoton. USS Drake, Epigram on Sir Francis Jonson. 227 Drake, Joseph Rodman, On Halleck, 254 Dream, A Procter. 772 Dream, The Byron. 788 Dream of Eugene Aram, The Hood. 377 Dr. Hill's Farces, On Garrick. 898 Drifting Read. 519 Drinking Cowley. 455 "Drop, drop, slow tears " Fletcher. 564 Drury Lane, A Tale of Smith. 946 Dryburgh Abbey Swain. 265 Duchess May, Rhyme of the Drowning. 423 Dumb Child, The Unknown. 41 Dum Vivimus Viramus Doddridge. 594 Duncan Gray Burns. 144 Duty, Ode to Wordsworth. 684 Dying Christian to his Soul, The Pope. 616 Dying Man in his Garden, The Sewell. 657 Each and All Emerson. 796 Earl Mertoun's Song Browning. 144 Early Piety Heher. 595 Echo and Silence Brydges. 506 Edinburgh after Flodden Aytoun. 303 " Edward, Edward " Unknown. 382 Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize, An.... Goldsmith. 916 Elegy on the Death of a Mad 'Dog.Goldsmith. 938 Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady..,., Pope. 655 Elegy in a Country Churchyard Gray. 650 Elizabeth L. H., Epitaph on Jonson. 235 Elixir, The Herbert. 664 Emigrants in the Bermudas, The Marvell. 521 End of the Play, The Thackeray. 693 Endurance Allen. 637 Eolian Harp, The Coleridge. 799 Epicurian Reminiscences Hood. 961 Epigram Coleridge. 968 Epigram Smith. 963 Epigram on a Bad Singer Coleridge. 897 Epigram on Two Monopolists Byrom. 971 Epiphany Dix. 621 Epiphany , Heher, 554 Epitaph E.xtempore Prior. 243 Epitaph on a Living Author Cowley. 228 Epitaph on an Infant Coleridge. 708 Page Epitaph on the Tombstone Erected over the Marquis of Anglesea's Leg Canning. 957 Epitaph upon Husband and Wife ...Crashaw. 665 Epithalamium Brainard, 220 Etiquette Gilbert. 935 Eton College, On a Distant Prospect of... G'ray. 622 Euphrosyne Arnold. 213 Eva, To Emerson. 217 Evelyn Hope Browning. 196 Evening Wordstcorth. 450 Evening, To Collins. 449 Evening Cloud, The Wilson. 451 Evening Contemplation Doane. 572 Evening Hymn Ken. 575 FIvening Hymn Procter. 572 Evening Hymn Keble. 574 Evening Hymn Faher. b76 Evening Hymn Browne. 576 Evening Hymn of the Alpine Shepherds, Beattie. 672 Evening, Song of Praise for the Mason. 674 Evening Star, To the Leyden. 456 Evening Star, To the Campbell. 456 Evening Wind, The Bryant. 451 Eve of Election, The Whittier. 695 Eve of St. Agnes, The Keats. 127 Excelsior Longfelloio. 783 Execution, The Barham. 951 Execution of Montrose, The Aytoun. 314 Exile of Erin, The Campbell. 369 Exile's Song, The Giljillan. 362 Exile to his Wife, The Brenan. 11 Fair Annie of Lochroyan Unknoivn. 396 Fair Helen Unknown. 404 Fair Idea, To his Drayton. 762 Fairies of the Caldon Low, The Howitt. 817 Fairies Robbing an Orchard, Song oi ...Hunt. 802 Fairies, Song of the •.•Lyly. 801 Fairies, The Allingham. 802 Fairy Queen Unknown. 801 Fairy Song Keats 801 Faith Kemhle. 699 Faithless Nellie Gray Hood. 900 Faithless Sallie Brown Hood. 901 Family Meeting, The Sprague. 17 Fancy Keats. 504 Fancy Shakespeare. 846 Fancy in Nubibus , Coleridge. 455 "Fare Thee M' ell ! and if Forever ".....Syron. 15 Farevell, A Kingsley. 48 " Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour" Moore. 85 " Farewell, life ! my senses swim " Hood. 657 Farewell to Nancy Burns. 154 Farewell to the Fairies Corbet. 841 Farewell to Tobacco, A Lamb. 929 Fate : Harte. 783 INDEX OF THE NA3IES OF THE POEMS. Page "Father, Thy "Will be Done" Adamg. 564 Fidele Winter. 276 Fireside, The Cotton. 2 First Man, The Coleridge. 740 First Skylark of Spring, The Watson. 457 First Snow-Fall, The Loioell. 446 Fisherman's Song, The Davis. 510 Florence Vane Cooke. 171 Flower, The Herbert. 599 Flowers Kehle. 457 Flowers, Hymn to the Smith. 460 Flowers, Chorus of the Hunt. 458 Flowers, The Use of Hewitt. 464 Flowers of the Forest, The Elliott. 307 "Flow gently, sweet Afton " Burns. 533 "Follow a shadow, it still flies jou" ...Jonson. 124 Fontenoy Davis. 320 Fontenoy, Battle of Dnwling. 321 Footsteps of Angels Longfellow. 771 Forced Recruit at Solferino, A Broioning. 354 " For ever with the Lord " Montgomery . 617 Forget me Not Opie. 94 Forging of the Anchor, The Ferguson. 507 "For me the jasmine buds unfold "....Coaxes. 102 Forsaken Merman, The Arnold. 879 Forsaken Mistress, To his Ayton. 148 " Fountain of Mercy ! God of Love !" Flowerdetc. 583 Fragment from Sappho, A Philips. 192 France: An Ode Coleridge. 332 Friar of Orders Gray, The Percy. 117 "Friend after friend de'parts".... Montgomery. 658 Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder, The Canning. 945 Fringed Gentian, To the Bryant. 464 "Full many a glorious morning have I seen," Shakespeare. 448 Funeral of Charles I., On the Bowles. 313 Gaffer Gray Holcroft. 710 Gambols of the Children, The Darley. 63 Gane were but the winter csmlH.. Cunningham, 658 Genevieve Coleridge. 155 Gethsemane Montgomery. 654 Ginevra Rogers. 408 Girdle, On a Waller. 185 Girl of Cadiz, The Byron. 146 Give me the Old Messinger, 747 Glenlogie Unknown. 408 Glorying in the Cross Watts. 667 Glove and the Lions, The Hunt. 413 Glow-Worm, To the Clare. 487 God is Love Bowring. 564 God Save the King... Carew. 365 God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop. .Sout key. 411 Golden-tressfid Adelaide Procter. 39 "Go, lovely rose" Waller. 185 Good-£ye Emerson, 677 Page Good Counseil Chancer. 718 Good, Great Man, The Coleridge. 682 Good Life, Long Life Jonson. 698 Good-Morrow Song Heywood. 215 Good-Night Unknown. 718 Good-Night Sands. 638 Good-Night and Good-Morning Houghton. 72 Good Time Coming, The Mackay. 748 Go, Pretty Birds Heywood. 162 "Go where glory waits thee" Moore. 95 Grasshopper and Cricket, On the Keats. 486 Grasshopper and Cricket, To the Hunt. 486 Grave of Bonaparte Heath. 252 Grave of Love, The Peacock. 126 Graves of a Household, The Hemans. 28 Grecian Urn, On a Keats. 744 Greek Poet, Song of the Byron. 360 Grongar Hill Dyer. 524 Groomsman to the Bridesmaid, The Parsons. 183 Guide me, Thou Great Jehovah !.. Williams. 693 Gulf- Weed Fenner. 617 Hag, The Herrick. 891 "Hail, Thou once-despised Jesus" 5aA;e(oe/Z. 558 Halleck's Poems, On returning Chandler. 534 Hallo, my Fancy Cleland. 886 Hallowed Ground Campbell. 663 Hamilton, To Lady Anne Spenser. 777 Hannah Binding Shoes Larcom, 512 Happy Marriage, The ..Moore. 2 "Hark ! how all the welkin rings" Wesley. 552 "Hark, the glad sound! the Saviour comes," Doddridge. 563 Harmosan Trench. 291 Hart-Leap Well Wordsioorth. 389 Hathaway, Anne Dibdin. 281 Haunted Palace, The Poe. 875 Health, A Pinkey. 282 " Hear my prayer, Heavenly Father". .Parr, 584 Heart of the War, The Holland. 366 Heart's Song, The Coxe. 695 Heath, On a Sprig of Grant. 466 Heavenly Wisdom Logan. 695 Heir of Linne, The Unknown. 370 Helen of Kirkconnell Mayne. 405 Hellvellyn Scott. 532 "Help, Lord, or we perish" Heber. 679 Henderson, Elegy on Capt. Matthew. ..ffitrjis. 249 " Here's to thee, my Scottish \a,ss,\Q" ..Moultrie. 214 Heritage, The Lowell. 794 Her Letter Bret Harte. 207 Hermiong Buchanan. 7 Hermit, The Beattie. 668 Hermit, The Goldsmith. 159 Hermit, The , Parnell. 686 Hes.ter Lamb. 280 Highland Girl, To a Wordsworth. 65 INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. Page Highland Mary Burns. 120 High-Mettled Racer, The Dibdin. 492 High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, Ingelow. 417 History Southey. 362 Hohenlinden Camjjhell. 339 Holly Tree, The Southey. 467 "Holy Bible, book divine" Burton. 582 Home in View Neioton. 609 Homes of England, The Hemana. 1 Home, Sweet Home Payne. 1 " Home they brought her warrior dead," Tennyson, 56 Hope, To Williams. 683 Horatian Ode, An Marvell. 240 Horatius Macaiday. 283 Horse, The Blood. Procter. 492 Horse, To my Unknown, 497 Horseback Ride, The Lippincott. 493 Hour of Death, The Hemans. 650 Household AVoman, The Oilman. 24 "How many times do I love thee ?"..Beddoe8. 102 How Sleep the Brave Collins. 363 How's my Boy? Dohell. 67 "How are Thy servants blest" Addison. 578 How sweet I roamed Blake. 122 How many voices Landor. 695 How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds. iVeu'fon. 561 How they Brought the Good 'News.Broioiiing. 374 How to Deal with Common Natures Hill. 708 Humble-Bee, The Emerson. 486 Hundred Years to Come, A Spencer. 700 Hunter of the Prairies, The Bryant, 498 Hussey, To Mistress Margaret Skelton. 227 Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Cha- mouni Coleridge. 536 Hymn for Family Worship White. 588 Hymn for Trinity Sunday Heher. 666 Hymn to God the Father Donne. 621 "I AM a friar of orders gray" O'Keefe. 926 "I am the Good Shepherd" Thrupp, 697 Ichabod Whittier. 268 " If I had thought thou couldst have died," Wolfe. 708 " I give immortal praise" Watts. 666 " I hae naebody now" Hogg. 83 " I have something sweet to tell you ".. Osgood. 213 "I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled" Moore, 761 "I lay in sorrow, deep di8tress'd"....jV/'ac/tai/. 707 "I love Thy kingdom, Lord" Dwight. 694 I love my Jean Burns. 126 I love my Love Mackay. 146 II Penseroso Milton, 733 I'm Growing Old Saxe, 749 In a Year Broioning. 211 Inchcape Rook, The Southey. 380 Page Incident of the French Camp Browning. 340 Indian Gold Coin, To an Leyden. 87 Indian Names Sigourney. 538 Indian Revelry Bowling, 785 Influence of Music Shakespeare. 730 Influence of Time on Grief Bowles. 706 "In Memoriam," From Tennyson. 719 Inner Calm, The Bonar. 585 In School-Days Whittier. 47 In Sorrow Hastings. 563 Intaglio Head of Minerva, On a Aldrich. 11^ In the Down-Hill of Life Collins. 694 Intimations of Immortality Wordsworth. 664 Introduction to " Songs of Innocence "..Blake, 68 "In vain you tell your parting lover "../"nor. 196 Invitation, The Shelley. 503 Invitation to Izaak Walton Cotton. 471 lo Victis Story. 702 " I prithee send me back my hea^rt" ..Suckling. 171 "I remember, I remember".. Hood. 73 Irishman, The .Maginn. 900 Is it Come? Brown. 746 Italian Song, An Rogers. 502 "It cameupon the midnight clear" Sears. 552 " It is great for our country to die "...Perciiml. 365 " It's hame, and it's hame" Cunningham. 357 Ivry Macaiday. 308 Ivy Green, The Dickens. 465 I would not Live Alway Muhlenberg, 613 Jacobite Toast Byrom. 311 Jacqueminot Chandler. 282 Jealousy, the Tyrant of the Mind Dryden. 213 Jeanie Morrison ,, Motherwell. 118 Jehovah Tsidkenu , McCheyne. 569 Jenny Kissed Me Hunt. 186 Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane Tannahill. 163 Jessy Burns. 166 Jester's Sermon, The Thornhury. 926 "Jesus, I my cross have taken " Lyte. 659 "Jesu, Lover of my Soul" Wesley. 660 "Jesu, my Strength, my Hope" Wesley. 599 Jock of Hazeldean Scott. 134 John Anderson, my Jo Burns, 8 John Gilpin, Diverting History of....Cowper. 939 Joke Versified Moore. 897 Jolly Good Ale and Old Still. 927 Jolly Old Pedagogue, The Arnold, 937 Jovial Beggar, The Unknown. 928 Joy and Peace in Believing Cowper. 693 July Clare, 441 Jupiter and Ten Fields. 899 "Just as I am" Elliott, 688 Kane O'Brien. 275 Karamanian Exile, The Mangan. 874 Katharine Janfarie Unknown. 395 Kathleen Mavourneeu Crawford. 209 INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. XXXIU Page Killarney, At Tighe. 536 Kilmeny S^ogg. 841 Kingdom of God, The Trench. 682 King is Dying, The Kenyan. 791 King of Brentford's Testament.... T^acA;era3^. 910 King of Denmark's Ride, The Norton. 422 Kisses Strode. 156 Kitten, The Baillie. 488 Kitten and the Falling Leaves... Wordsworth. 489 Knight's Tomb, The Coleridge. 646 Kubla Khan Coleridge. 856 La Belle Dame sans Merci Keats. 873 Lachrymatory, The Tamer. 738 Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament Unknown. 32 Lady Clara Vere de Vere Tennyson. 210 Lady Clare Tennyson. 138 Lady Geraldine's Courtship Broxoning. 104 Lady Margaret Ley, To the Milton. 237 Lady of Shalott, The Tennyson. 890 Lady's Dream, The Hood. 709 Lady's Yes, The , Browning. 138 Laird o' Cockpen, The Nairne. 894 Lake of the Dismal Swamp, The Moore. 416 L'Allegro Milton. 731 Lamb, The Blake. 452 Lament, A Shelley. 764 Lamentation for Celin, The Lockhart. 375 Lamentation of Don Roderick Lockhart. 293 Lamentation of the Border Widow... Unknown. 419 Lament of the Irish Emigrant Dufferin. 86 Lancashire Doxology, A Craik, 603 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers Hemana. 309 Land o' the Leal, The Nairne. 656 Langley Lane Buchanan. 203 Last Buccaneer, The Kingsley. 421 Last Conqueror, The Shirley. 643 Last Leaf, The Holmes. 753 Last Man, The Campbell. 663 Last Rose of Summer, The Moore. 465 Last Verses Clare. 638 Last Verses Cary. 649 Last Visitor, The Blood. 659 La Tricoteuse Thornbury. 331 Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse Blacksfone. 736 Lawyer's Invocation to Spring Brownell. 960 " Lay a garland on my hearse," Beaumont & Fletcher. 212 Lead, Kindly Light Newman. 589 Lead us, Heavenly Father Edmeston. 605 Lemuel's Song Wither. 24 Lent, To Keep a True Herrick. 607 Lesbia Congreve. 155 Lessons of Nature, The Drummond. 470 Leven AVater, Ode to ,, Smollett. 633 Levett, On the Death of Dr Johnson. 247 Lie, The Raleigh. 675 Life ; Bacon. 633 190 203 278 913 37 72 Page Life Barhauld. 633 Life Herbert. 754 Life King. 698 Life Procter. 635 Life Unknown. 662 Life on the Ocean Wave, A Sargent. 509 Light Bourdillon. 222 Light Shining out of Darkness Coivper. 563 " Like as the culver, on the bared bough," Spenser. Lilian Tennyson. Lincoln, Abraham Taylor. Lines to an Indian Air Shelley. 103 Lines Written in Richmond Churchyard, Yorkshire Knowles. 653 Lines Written in the Tower Tychborn. 713 Lines Written the Night before his Execution, Ealeigh. 232 Litany Grant. 559 Little Beach-Bird, The Bona. 475 Little Bell Westwood. 38 Little Billee Thackeray. Little Black Boy, The Blake. Little Boy Blue Field. Little Things Osgood. 659 Living Lost, The Bryant. 702 Lochaber no More Ramsay. 195 Lochiel's Warning Cavtpbell. 322 Lochinvar Scott. 136 Locksley Hall Tennyson. 149 Loddon, On Revisiting the River Warton. 526 Logan Braes Mayne. 179 Lo ! He comes, with clouds descending.. Olivers. 631 "Long did I toil" Lyte. 589 *■■ Look out, bright eyes ".Beaumont & Fletcher. 184 " Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing ".Shirley. 632 Lord is Risen, The Wesley. 555 Lord Lovel Unknoion. 198 " Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise Thee," Key. 568 Lord Ullin's Daughter Campbell. 383 Lost Heir, The Hood. 908 Lost Leader, The Browning. 264 Lot of Thousands, The Hunter. 705 Louis XV Sterling. 327 Losses Browne. 700 Love Coleridge. Love and Death Ford. "Love is a Sickness" Daniel 98 " Love in her sunny eyes does basking play," Cowley. 142 Love-Knot, The Perry. 217 Loveliness of Love, The ....Barley. 139 Lovely Lass of Inverness Burns. 699 Lovely Mary Donnelly Allingham. 142 Love Not Norton. 187 " Love not me for comely grace "... Unknown. 139 Love's Omnipresence, Sylvester. 99 100 203 INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. Page Love's Philosophy Shelley. 97 " Love still hath something of the sea," Sedley. 99 " Lovest thou Me ?" Cowper. 561 Love will Find out the Way Unknown. 97 Low-backed Car, The Lover. 165 Loyalty Contined L' Estrange. 243 Lucasta, To. (On Going beyond the Seas.), Lovelace, 125 Lucasta, To. (On Going to the Wars.), Lovelace. 124 Lucy Gray ; or, Solitude Wordsworth. 56 Lullaby Dekker. 32 Lute, To his Drummond. 732 Lycidas Milton. 237 Maidenhood Longfellow. 66 Maiden's Choice, The Carey. 210 Maid of Athens Byron. 145 Maid's Lament, The Landor. 141 Maids of Lee, The Weatherly. 972 Make AVay for Liberty Montgomery. 298 Malbrouck Mahony. 957 Man , Coates, 694 Man's Mortality Wastell. 646 Marching Along Browning. 311 March to Moscow, The Sonthey. 958 Marco Bozzaris Halleck. 346 Mariner's Dream, The Dimond. 510 Mariner's Wife, The Adam. 10 Marion's Men, Song of Bryant. 330 Markham, Isabella, Lines on Harrington. 124 Mary, To Bishop. 10 Mary, To Coioper. 247 Mary in Heaven, To Burns. 137 Mary MacNeil Gonolly. 201 Mary Morison Burns. 147 Mary of Castle Cary Macneill. 164 Massacre in Piedmont, On the h&te.. ..Milton. 314 Massacre of the Macpherson Aytoun. 944 Matrimonial Happiness Lapraik. 7 Maude Clare Rossetti. 188 Maud Muller Whittier. 167 May Watson. 436 May, Song to , Daricin. 440 May, Song to Thurlow. 436 May, The Reign of Percival. 441 May Morning, Song on Milton. 435 May Queen, The Tennyson. 69 Means to Attain Hnppy Life, The Surrey. 636 Meeting of the Waters, The Moore. 535 Melancholia Beaumont & Fletcher. 676 Men of England Campbell. 356 Men of Old, The Houghton. 745 Men of Ware, The Weatherly. 971 Mermaid Tavern, Lyies on the Keats. 522 Merry Pranks of Robin Good-Fellow JJji/cjioicn. 816 Messiah Pope. 547 Page Midnight Hymn Ken. d71 Midsummer Trowbridge. 443 Milk-Maid's Mother's Answer Raleigh. 140 Milk-Maid's Song Marlowe. 140 Miller's Daughter, The Tennyson. 155 Milton, Lines written under the Picture of, Drydeti. 242 Milton, To Wordsworth. 242 Milton's Prayer of Patience Howell. 237 Minstrel's Song, The Chatterton. 147 Missionary Hymn Heber. 600 Missionary Hymn Smith. 681 Mistletoe Bough, The Bayly. 412 Mitherless Bairn, The Thorn. 46 Mocking Bird, To the Wilde. 479 Monterey Hoffman. 347 Moon, To the Shelley. 455 Moon, To the Sidney. 118 Moon, To the Thurloto. 455 Morning Shakespeare. 448 Morning-Glory, The Lowell. 49 Morning Keble. 573 Morning Hymn , Ken. 573 Morning Song Baillie. 503 Morning Street, The Piatt. 780 Mother and Poet Browning. 26 Mother's Hope, The Blanchard. 52 Mountain Daisy, To a Burns. 463 Mouse, To a Burns. 487 Mr. Barney Maguire's Account of the Corona- tion Barham. 965 Mr. Molony's Account of the '&aA\,..Thackeray. 964 Muses, To the Blake. 752 Musical Instrument, A Browning. 721 Music, to Becalm his Fever, To Herrick. 752 "Music, when soft voices die" Shelley. 185 My Ain Fireside Hamilton. 1 My Bird Judson. 29 My Child Pierpont. 48 " My days among the dead are passed," Southey. 735 My Dear and Only Love Graham. 193 "My dear mistress has a h.^^xi" ....Rochester. 156 My Dejeuner a la Fourchette Bayly. 898 "My faith looks up to Thee" Palmer. 558 "My heart's in the Highlands" Burns. 358 "My life is like the summer rose" Wilde. 636 My Love Lowell. 208 " My minde to me a kingdom is " Dyer. 735 My Old Kentucky Home Foster. 24 My Mother's Picture, On the Receipt of, Coioper. 1 5 My Only Jo and Dearie, Gall. 203 My Playmate Whittier. 82 My Psalm Whittier. 633 Myself, Of.... Cowley. 235 My Ship Allen. 787 "My silks and fine array" Blake. 190 INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. Page Nabob, The Blamh-e. 93 Name in the Sand, A Gould. 678 Nantucket Skipper, The Fields. 937 Napoleon LocJchart. 269 Napoleon's Midnight Tieview. .. Von Zeidlitz. 269 Naseby Macaiday. 312 Nearer Home Cary. 607 "Nearer, my God, to Thee " Adams. 584 Neckan, The Arnold. 885 Neglected Call, The Neale. 704 Never Again Stoddard. 762 New Jerusalem, The Unknown. 632 Niagara Brainard. 538 Nice Correspondent, A Locker. 202 jg-jirht Coleridge. 773 Night Hahington. 773 Night before Christmas, The Moore. 67 Nightingale, On the Departure of iho... Smith. 484 Nightingale, Song of the Scollard. 485 Nightingale, The Barnefield. 484 Nightingale, To a Keats. 482 Nightingale, To a Drummond. 481 Nightingale, To the Drummond. 482 Nightingale, To the Milton. 482 Night Piece, The Herrick. 127 Night, To ShMey. 451 Night, To White. 450 Nile, The Hunt. 535 Ninety and Nine, The Clephane. 601 No Age Content with his own Estate. ./Surrey. 677 Nocturnal Reverie, A Winchelsea. 443 Nocturnal Sketch, A Hood. 968 Nongtongpaw Dihdin. 957 " Not, Celia, that I juster am " Sedley. 127 Nothing but Leaves Akerman. 598 Nothing to Wear Butler. 920 Not Ours the Vows Barton. 101 No Trust in Time Drummond. Ill November Coleridge. 468 Now and Afterwards Craik. 640 Nun, The Hunt. 171 Nut-Brown Maid, The Unknown. 112 Nymph Complaining for the Death of her Fawn, The Marvell. 505 Captain! My Captain Whitman. 223 O'Connor's Child Campbell. 397 Ode in Imitation of Alcaeus .Jones, 363 Ode to Himself. Jonson. 227 Ode to my Little Son Hood. 907 " Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven "...Luke. 588 "Oft, in the stilly night" Moore. 77 " happy soul, that lives on high ".... Watts. 595 " Oh, breathe not his name " Moore. 253 "Oh how kindly hast Thou led me" Grinjield. 590 Oh ! snatched away in beauty's bloom. %ron, 741 "Oh, talk not to me" Byron. 157 Page "Oh! the pleasant days of old" Brown. 745 "Oh welcome, bat and owlet gta,j" ...Baillie. 485 Oh why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? Knox. 647 Old and Young Courtier, The Unknoxcn. 692 Old Arm-Chair, The Cook. 73 Old Cavalier, The Doyle. 311 Old Clock on the Stairs, The Longfelloxo. 76 Old Familiar Faces, The Lamh. 11 Old Folks at Home Foster. 18 Old Grimes Greene. 916 Old Letters Locker. 88 Old Man Dreams, The Holmes. 903 Old Oaken Bucket, The Woodworth. 74 Old Sedan Chair, The Dobson. 779 "On a day, alack the day" Shakespeare. 141 "0 Nanny, wilt thou go with me" Percy. 161 Once upon a Time Southey. 93 One by One Procter. 703 One Gray Hair, The Landor. 749 "One word is too often profaned" Shelley. 148 On First Looking into Chapman's Homer, Keats. 737 On his Being Arrived to the Age of Twenty- Three Milton. 228 On the Shores of Tennessee Beers. 367 On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year Byron. 88 Orphan Boy's Tale, The Opie. 46 " Thou, from whom all goodness flows," Haweis. 604 "0 Thou, the contrite sinner's friend" Elliott. 559 Outlaw, The Scott. 176 Our Minister's Sermon Unknown. 970 "Over hill. Over dale" Shakespeare. 802 Over the River Wakefield. 649 "0 Word of God incarnate" How. 605 Ozymandias Hunt. 661 Painter who Pleased Nobody and Every- body, The Gay. 955 Pan, To Beaumont & Fletcher. 433 Pan in Wall Street Stedman. 888 Panglory's Wooing Song Fletcher. 98 Parable from Liebig, A Kingsley. 682 Parody on Pope Smith. 933 Passing Away Pierpont. 648 Passions, The Collins. 728 Pastoral, A Breton. 182 Pastoral, A Byrom. 173 Pastoral Ballad, A Shenstone. 205 Pastor's Reverie, The Gladden. 92 Paul Revere's Ride.. Longfellow. 328 Pauper's Death-Bed, The Southey. 716 Pauper's Drive, The Noel. Ill Pavy, Epitaph on Salathiel Jonson. 234 Peele Castle, Elegiac Stanzas on. Wordsicorth. 623 INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. Page Pembroke, Epitaph on Countess of..... Joiison. 235 Per Pacetn ad Lucem Procter. 558 Petition to Time, A Procter. 749 Pet Lamb, The Wordsworth. 491 Philip, my King Craik. 30 Phillida and Corydon Breton. 145 Philomela Arnold. 476 Philosopher's Scales, The Taylor. 685 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Scott. 359 Picture, A Eastman. 6 Picture of T. C, in a Prospect of Flowers, Mar veil. 242 Picture, To my Randolph. 753 Pied Piper of Hamelin, The Broivning. 859 " Pilgrim burdened with thy sin " Grahhe. 684 Pilgrimage, The Raleigh, 598 Pilot, The Bayly. 607 Place to Die, The Barry. 700 Plain Language from Truthful Ja,raes..Harte. 943 Poems, On his Divine Waller, 718 Poet's Bridal-Day Song, The Cunningham. 18 Poet's Epitaph, A Elliott. 698 Poet's Song to his Wife, The Procter. 14 Pompadour, The Thornhury. 326 Poor Jack Dihdin. 612 Poppy, The Bayly. 897 Portrait, The Lytton. 199 Power of Love, The Beaumont db Fletcher. 169 Praise Osier. 621 Praise for the Fountain opened Ootvper. 620 Praise of his Love, A Surrey. 154 Praise to God Barhauld. 568 Praxiteles and Phryne Story. 782 Prayer Book, On a Crashaio. 606 Precise Tailor, Of a Harrington. 899 Present Crisis, The Lotcell. 342 Primrose, The Herriek. 214 Primrose, To an Early White. 461 Primroses Filled with Morning Dew. .Herriek. 461 Prince Henry, To James I. 702 Prisoned in Windsor, he Recounteth his Pleasure there Passed Surrey. 224 Prisoner of Chillon, The Byron. 400 Problem, The Emerson, 683 Progress of Poesy, The Gray. 726 Prologue Spoken by Garrick Johnson. 774 Prologue to Mr. Addison's "Cato" Pope. 244 " Proud Maisie is in the wood" Scott. 892 Psalm of Life, A Longfelloio. 635 Psalm XXIII., Paraphrase of Addison. 581 Psalm LXXII Montgomery, bbl Psalm LXXII Watts. 609 Psalm LXXXIV Lyte. 620 Psalm LXXXVII Neioton. 618 Psalm XC Watts. 610 Psalm XCVIII Watts. 610 Psalm C Kethe. 621 Psalm C Tatedc Brady. 565 Page Psalm C Watts & Wesley. 566 Psalm CXVII Watts. 572 Psalm CXXI Watts. 603 Psalm CXLVIII Wither. 571 Pulley, The Herbert. 682 Pulteney, Miss Charlotte, To Phillips, 85 Qua Cursum Ventus Clough. 742 Quaker Widow, The Tarjlor. 22 Queen of Bohemia, To the Wotton, 185 Question, The Shelley, 500 Q. H. F., To Dohson. 931 Quince Praed. 915 Rainbow, The Wordsworth. 453 Rainbow, To the Camphell. 453 Rainy Day, The Longfelloio. 11Z Randolph of Roanoke Whittier. 263 Rape of the Lock, The Pope. 803 " Piarely, rarely comest thou" Shelley. Ill Raven, The Poe. 857 Rebecca's Hymn Scott. 570 Recipe for Salad, A Smith. 968 Re-cured Lover, The Wyatt. 191 Redbreast, To the Bampfylde. 481 Red, Red Rose, A Burns. 157 Red River Voyageur, The Whittier. 781 Reflective Retrospect, A Saxe. 79 Relief of Lucknow, The Loioell. 347 Renunciation, A Oxford. 190 Resignation Baxter. 586 Resignation Chatterton, 585 Resignation Longfellow. 666 Retirement Cowper. 602 Retirement, The Cotton. 499 Reve du Midi Cooke. 442 Reveille O'Connor. 356 Rhodora, The Emerson. 464 Riddle, A Fanshaice. 932 Right must Win, The Faber. 592 Rise, my Soul, and stretch thy vfings. Seagrave. 590 River, The Plumptre. 467 Rivers of England, The Drayton. 521 Robin Adair Ke])pel. 102 Robin Hood and AUen-a-Dale Unknown. 392 Robin Redbreast Allingham. 481 Rock me 10 Sleep Allen. 74 Rock of Ages Toplady. 560 Rogero's Song in Prison Canning. 945 Rory O'More Lover. 165 Rosabelle Scott. 405 Rosadei-'s Sonetto Lodge. 156 Rosalind's Madrigal Lodge. 98 Rosaline Lodge. 123 Rose Aylmer Landor. 762 Rule, Brittania Thomson. 355 Ruth Hood. 144 Sabbath Evening Prentice. 450 INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. Page Sabbath Morning, The Let/den. 448 " Sad is our youth, for it is ever going".Z>e Vere. 634 Sailor's Consolation Pitt. 896 Sailor's Wife, The Madcay. 25 Sally in our Alley Carey. 120 Samela Greene. 102 Sands of Dee, The Kingsley. 419 Saturday Afternoon Willis. 77 " Saviour, who Thy flock art feeding," Muhlenher(j. 560 School and School-fellows Praed. 79 Schoolmistress, The Shenstone. 67 Scorn not the Sonnet Wordsieorth. 779 Sea, At Trowbridge. 519 Sea, By the Autumn Hayne. 520 Sea, The Procter. 507 Seasons, Hymn of the Thomson. 431 Selkirk, Alexander, Verses Supposed to be Written by Cotojier. 699 Seneca Lake, To Percival. 639 Serenade, A Hood. 907 Shakespeare, Epitaph on ...Milton. 232 Shakespeare, Lines on the Portrait oL.Jonson. 232 Shakespeare, To the Memory of Jonson. 230 " Shall I tell you whom I love ?" Browne. 123 " She dwelt among the untrodden ways," Wordsworth. 49 "She is far from the land" Moore. 274 "She is not fair to outward vie^ "..Coleridge. 172 " Shepherds all, and maidens fair," Deanmont & Fletcher. 499 Shepherd's Resolution, The Wither. 169 Sheridan's Ride Read. 351 " She's gane to dwall in Heaven". C'uHJu'njrftam. 218 "She walks in beauty like the night "...^*/fOH. 739 " She was a Phantom of delight ". Wordsworth. 1 Ships at Sea Coffin. 787 Shortness of Life, The Quarles. 635 Shout the Glad Tidings Muhlenberg. 553 Sic Vita King. 718 Sidney, Epitaph upon Sir Philip Raleigh. 229 "Sigh no more, ladies" Shakespeare. 187 Silent Lover, The Raleigh. 182 Siller Croun, The Blamire. 147 "Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part " Drayton. 170 Sir Marmaduke Colman. 782 Sir Patrick Spens Unknoion. 369 Sister of Elia, To the Landor. 274 Sixteen Landor. 214 Skeleton, To a Unknown. 662 Skeleton in Armor, The Longfellow. 872 Skinner, Cyriac, To Milton. 236 Skipper Ireson's Ride Whittier. 373 Skylark, The Hogg. 477 Skylark, Toa Shelley. 478 Skylark, To a Wordsioorth. 477 Skylark, Toa Wordsworth. 477 Sleep, On.... Daniel. 774 Sleep, On Sidney. 774 Sleep, The Browning. 642 Sleep, To Wordsworth. 799 Sleeping Babe, The Hinds. 45 Sleeping and Watching Browning. 33 Smack in School, The Palmer. 933 Society upon the Stanislaw, The Harte. 954 Soldier's Dream, The Campbell. S3 Solitary Reaper, The Wordsworth. 799 Solitude, Ode on Pope. 763 Solitude, Of. Coxoley. 438 Somerset, Upon the Sudden Restraint of the Earl of. Wotton. 232 Son-Dayes Vaughun. 580 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, Wordsworth. 225 Song from yaX^ntimaxi.. Beaumont & Fletcher. 799 Song of the Camp, The Taylor. 216 Song of the North, A Doten. 422 Song of the Shirt, The Hood. 711 Songs of Birds, The Lyly. 484 " Songs of praise the angels sang," Montgomery. 608 Songs of Seven Ingelow. 19 Soiinets..Shakespeare. 218, 219, 220, 750, 751, 7.52 Sonnets to Stella .S";";- Philip Sidney. 191, 192 Sonnets from the Portuguese..^. B.Browning, 134, 135, 136 Sonnet AVritten on a Blank Leaf of Dug- dale's Monasticon Warton. 747 Sorrows of Werther, The Thackeray. 896 "Sound the Loud Timbrel" Moore. 670 Speculation, A Moore. 898 Spider and the Fly, The Howitt. 707 Spring Nas^'- 435 Spring Timrod. 440 Spring Day, The First Todhunter. 439 Spring, Description of Surrey. 433 Spring, Lines Written in Early... Wordsieorth. 439 Spring, On the Gray. 435 Spring, To Drummond. 433 Squire's Pew, The Taylor. 691 St. Agnes' Eve Tennyson. 566 Stanzas on Woman Goldsmith. 707 Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples, Shelley. 262 St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes. t/n/fjioiOM. 919 Star of Bethlehem, The White. 697 Star-Spangled Banner, The Key. 353 St. Cecilia's Day, On Pope. 725 St. Cecilia's Day, Song for Dryden. 724 St. David's at Radnor, Old Longfellow. 540 Steadfast Shepherd, The Wither. 153 " Still to be neat, still to be drest" Jonson. 738 Stolen Kiss, A Wither. 156 Storm, The Procter. 515 Stormy Petrel, The Procter. 474 XXXVIU INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. Page St. Patrick was a Gentleman Bennett. 934 Stranger and his Friend, The Montgomenj. 561 Stranger on the Sill, The Read. 75 Stream of Life, The Cloitgh. 634 Summer Thurlow. 442 Summer Longings McCarthy. 437 Summer Shower, After a Norton. 439 Sunday Herbert. 580 Sunsetting, At Wither. 576 Supplication, A Cowley. 121 Sweet and Low Tennyson. 31 Sweet-and-Twenty Shakespeare. 163 Sweet are the Charms Booth. 154 Sweet Baby, Sleep ....Wither. 34 Sweet Content Dekker. 680 Sweet Innisfallen Moore. 535 "Sweetis the rose" Spenser. 778 Sweet William's Farewell to Black-Eyed Susan (^"ll- 11^ Sympathy Heber. 963 Tacking Ship off Shore Mitchel. 516 Take thy Old Cloak about Thee Unknown. 905 Tam O'Shanter Burns. 877 Teacher's Dream, The Venable. 91 Tears of Scotland, The Smollett. 326 Tears Wept at the Grave of Sir Albertus Morton Wotton. 230 Tell me How to Woo Thee Graham. 161 Tempest, Ballad of the Fields. 38 Thanatopsis Bryant. 644 Thanksgiving Hymn Alford. 578 Thanksgiving to God for his House.. //ecncfc. 579 Theatre, The Smith. 948 '• The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain" Spenser. 101 " The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine "... Watujh. 166 "The God of Abraham praise" Olivers. 603 "The harp that once through Tara's halls," Moore. 362 "The heath this night must be my bed" Scott. 186 "The house is dark and drenry " ...Stoddard. 783 "The lark now leaves his watery nest," Davenant. 476 " The merchant, to secure his treasure ".Prior. 142 " The midges dance aboon the burn," Tunnahill. 449 " There be none of Beauty's daughters," Byron. 157 "There be those who sow beside" Barton. 637 "There is a garden in her face" Alison. 185 "There is a Happy Land" Young. 619 "There is a land of pure delight" Watts. 619 "There's not a joy the world can give," Byron. 676 " The spacious firmament on high "..Addison. 565 " The Spirit in our hearts " Onderdonk. 593 Page "The sun rises bright in France" Cunningham. 353 "The world is too much with us" Wordsworth. 452 " The wretch, condemn'd with life to part," Goldsmith. 783 They are all Gone Vaughan. 617 They're Dear Fish to Me Unknoton. 513 Thomson, On the Death of Collins. 246 Those Evening Bells Moore. 752 "Thou art, God, the life and light" Moore. 571 " Thought is deeper than all speech "...C7rancA. 780 Thoughts in a Garden Marvell. 501 Thoughts in a Library Botta. 736 " Thou hast Sworn by thy God ".Cunningham. 157 Three Fishers, The Klugsley. 513 Three Loves Hooper. 156 Three Sons, The Moultrie. 50 Three Troopers, The Thornbury. 310 Three Warnings, The Piozzi. 639 " Three years she grew in sun and shower," Wordsworth. 49 Thrush's Nest, The Clare. 480 " Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums," Tennyson. 741 Thy AVill be Done Elliott. 586 Thy Will be Done Waring. 587 Tiger, The Blake. 498 Time Scott. Ill Time Watson. 172 Times Goby Turns Southieell. 776 Tintern Abbey, Lines Composed Near, Wordsworth. 540 " 'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark". Co^er«c/(/e. 476 Tithonus Tennyson. 785 To Himself Jonson. 227 "To live in hell and heaven to behold," Constable. 212 Tom Bowling Bibdin. 659 Tombs in Westminster Abbey, The. Beaumont. 522 Tom Dunstan, Buchanan. 791 Tommy's Dead Dobell. 640 "To one who has been long in city pent," Keats. 503 Too Late Craik. 17 " Too late, alas ! I must confess "...Rochester. 126 "To sigh, yet feel no pain " Moore. 182 "To Thy temple I repair" Montgomery. 581 T. L. H., Six Years Old, To Hunt. 36 Touchstone, The Allingham. 685 Toujours Amour Stedman. 163 Traveller, The Goldsmith. 765 Treason Harrington. 775 Treasures of the Deep, The Hemans. 517 Triumph of Charis, The Jonson. 160 Trooper to his Mare, The Halpine. 497 Twa Corbies, The Unknown. 416 INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. XXXIX Page " 'Twas when the seas were roaring" Gay. 125 Twenty-One Dorr. 44 Twenty Years Ago Unknoion. 78 Twilight at Sea Welhy. 615 Twins, The Leigh. 910 Ulysses Tennyson. 289 Unattainable, Ballad of the Lang. 762 Under my Window Weatwood. 53 Under the Greenwood Tree Shakespeare. 466 Universal Prayer, The. Pope. 565 Unwin, Mrs., To Cotoper. 247 Up-Hill Rosaetti. 698 Urania Arnold. 216 Vagabonds, The Trowbridge. 712 Valediction forbidding Mourning Donne. 661 Valediction, The Baxter. 612 Vanity of Human Wishes, The Johnson. 669 Vanity of the World, The Quarles. 674 Venetian Republic, On the Extinction of, Wordsioorth. 347 Veni Creator Dryden. 563 Veni Creator Spiritus Unknown. 662 Very Mournful Ballad, A Byron. 296 Very Young Lady, To a Sedley. 189 Vicar, The Praed. 917 Vicar of Bray, The Unknown. 918 Village Blacksmith, The Longfellow. 739 Villiers, Lady Mary, Epitaph on the... Careto. 276 Violet, The Story. 462 Virgins to make Much of Time, 1o...Herrick. 123 Virtue Herbert. 682 Virtuoso, A Dobson. 967 Vision upon this Conceit of the Faerie Queene, A Raleigh. 737 VitaNuova Plumptre. 281 Voiceless, The Holmes. 646 Vox et praeterea nihil London Punch. 896 Wae's me for Prince Charlie Glen. 325 Walking with God Cotoper. 584 Waly, Waly, but Love be 'Bonnj....Unknown. 103 Wandering Jew, The Unknown. 376 Warren's Address Pierpont. 328 Watchman, tell us of the Night Bowring. 543 Water-Fowl, To a Bryant. 475 We are Brethren a' Nicoll. 795 We are Seven Wordsicorth. 51 Weary in Well-Doing Rossetti. 611 Web of Life, The Moore. 637 Weep no More Beaumont & Fletcher. 784 Welcome, The Browne. 125 Welcome, The Davis. 158 Wellington, Ode on the Death of the Duke of » Tennyson. 271 Well of St. Keyne, The Southey. 902 Westminster Bridge, Sonnet Composed on, Wordsworth. 521 Page West Point Strong. 90 West Wind, To the Shelley. 445 Wet sheet and a flowing sea. A... Cunningham. 609 "What ails this heart o' mine" Blamire. 199 " AVhat are these in bright array ".Montgomery. 618 What is Prayer? Montgomery. 683 What Love is Like Middleton. 184 What Mr. Robinson Thinks Lowell. 932 "When all Thy mercies, my God ".Addison. 567 " When coldness wraps this sufi'ering clay," Byron. 645 "When gathering clouds around I view," Grant. 589 " When icicles hang by the wall ".Shakespeare. 447 When Maggie Gangs Away Hogg. 161 " When midnight o'er the moonless skies," Spencer. 94 " When our heads are bowed with woe," Milman. 602 When she comes home again Riley. 28 " When stars are in the quiet skies "...Lytfon. 218 When the Assault was Intended to the City, Milton. 314 " When the hounds of Spring are on Winter's traces" Swinburne. 434 When the Kye comes Hame ffogg. 167 "When we two parted" Byron. 86 " AVhere did you come from ?" Macdonald. 31 "Where are you Going, my Pretty Maid?" Unknown. 902 "Where lies the land " Clough. 520 "Where shall the lover rest" Scott. 176 Which shall it be? Beers. 45 " Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled " .Barnefield. 776 Whilst Thee I Seek Williams. 592 Whiskers, The Woodworth. 894 Whisper Wynne. 442 White Rose, The Unknoion. 214 Who is Sylvia? Shakespeare. 217 Why so Pale? Suckling. 104 "Why thus longing?" Sewall. 764 Wife, A Allingham. 12 Wife, Lines Written to his Heber. 9 Wife, To my Bayly. 9 William and Margaret Mallet, 175 Willie Winkie Miller. 41 Will of God, The Faber. 586 Windsor Castle, After seeing Warton. 522 Winifreda Unknown. 7 Winsome Wee Thing, The Bnrns. 9 AVish, A Rogers. 6 Wishes for the Supposed Mistress ...Crashaw. 121 With a Guitar, To Jane Shelley. 730 " With broken heart and contrite sigh ".Elven. 582 Without and Within Lowell. 796 Without and Within Stoddard. 12 Woman's Answer, A Procter. 188 Woman's Inconstancy Ayton. 141 xl INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. Page Woman's Question, A Procter. 187 Wonderfu' Wean, The Miller. 42 Woodman Spare that Tree ! Morris. 75 Wreck of the Hesperus, The Longfellow. 514 Wrestling Jacob Wesley. 591 Yarn of the "Nancy Bell," The Gilbert. 914 Yarrow Revisited Wordsworth. 529 Yarrow Unvisited Wordsivorth. 528 Page Yarrow Visited Wordsworth. 528 Ye Gentlemen of England Parker. 507 " Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell," Doddridge. 608 Ye Mariners of England Cani]jhell. 356 Young Airly Unknown. 324 Youth and Age Coleridge. 94 Zara's Ear-Rings LoMiart. 183 PORTER & COATES P'-'ILADELPH i A . POETRT OF Home and the Fireside. H03IE, Sweet Home. 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home, sweet, sweet, home ! There's no place like home ! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; Oh ! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again ! The birds, singing gayly, that came at my call — Give me them ! — and the peace of mind dearer than all. Home, sweet, sweet, sweet, home ! There's no place like home! John Howard Payne. The Homes of England. The stately Homes of England ! How beautiful they stand. Amidst their tall, ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land ! The deer across their greensward bound. Through .shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England ! Around their hearths by night. What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light ! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed Homes of England ! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn ; All other sounds, in that still time. Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage Homes of England ! By thousands on her plains. They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, An i round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep. Each from its nook of leaves. And fearless there the lowly sleep. As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair Homes of England ! Long, long, in hut and hall. May hearts of native proof be rear'd To guard each hallow'd wall ! And green for ever be the groves. And bright the flowery sod. Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God ! Felicia Dorothea Hemahb. My Ain Fireside. I HAE seen great anes, and sat in great ha's, 'Mang lords and fine ladies a' cover'd wi' braws, At feasts made for princes wi' princes I've been, When the grand shine o' splendor has dazzled my een ; I FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er spied As the bonny blithe blink o' my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside ; My ain fireside, my ain fireside. Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. Ance mair, Gude be thankit, round my ain heartsome ingle, Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle ; Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad, I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad. Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear. But truth to delight me, and friendship to cheer ; Of a' roads to happiness ever were tried, There's nane half so sure as ane's ain fire- side. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. When I draw in my stool on my cozy hearthstane. My heart loups sae light I scarce ken't for my ain ; Care's down on the wind, it is clean out o' sight, Past troubles they seem but as dreams o' the night. I hear but kend voices, kend faces I see, And mark saft afiection glent fond frae ilk ee ; Nae fleechings o' flattery, nae boastings o' pride, 'Tis heart speaks to heart at ane's ain fire- side. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. Elizabeth Hamilton. The Happy Marriage. How blest has my time been, what joys have I known, Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own! So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray. Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : How pleasing their sport is ! The wanton ones see, And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen. In revels all day, with the nymphs on the green : Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles. And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, Her wit and good-humor bloom all the year through ; Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth. And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare And cheat with false vows the too credu lous fair; In search of true pleasure, how vainly yoi" roam ! To hold it for life, you must find it at home. Edward Moore. The Fireside. Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd. The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. In folly's maze advance, Though singularity and pride Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside, Nor join the giddy dance. From the gay world we'll oft retire To our own family and fire, Where love our hours employs ; No noisy neighbor enters here, No intermeddling stranger near. To Si^oil our heartfelt joys. If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies. And they are fools who roam ; POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. The world hath nothing to bestow — From our own selves our bliss must flow, And that dear hut, our home. Of rest was Noah's dove bereft. When with impatient wing she left That safe retreat, the ark ; Giving her \nm excursion o'er. The disappointed bird once more Explored the sacred bark. Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, We, who improve his golden hours. By sweet experience know That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good A paradise below. Our babes shall richest comforts bring ; If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring Whence pleasures ever rise ; We'll form their minds with studious care To all that's manly, good, and fair, And train them for the skies. While they our wisest hours engage, They'll joy our youth, support our age. And crown our hoary hairs ; They'll grow in virtue every day. And thus our fondest loves repay, And recompense our cares. No borrow'd joys, they're all our own, While to the world we live unknown, Or by the world forgot ; Monarchs ! we envy not your state — We look with pity on the great. And bless our humble lot. Our portion is not large, indeed ; But then how little do we need, For Nature's calls are few ! In this the art of living lies — To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do. We'll therefore relish with content Whate'er kind Providence has sent. Nor aim beyond our power ; For, if our stock be very small, 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all. Nor lose the present hour. To be resign'd when ills betide, Patient when favors are denied, And pleased with favors given — Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, This is that incense of the heart Whose fragrance smells to heaven. We'll ask no long-protracted treat. Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; But, when our feast is o'er. Grateful from table we'll arise. Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes, The relics of our store. Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe With cautious steps we'll tread ; Quit its vain scenes without a tear. Without a trouble or a fear, And mingle with the dead ; While conscience, like a faithful friend, Shall through the gloomy vale attend. And cheer our dying breath — Shall, when all other comforts cease, Like a kind angel whisper peace. And smooth the bed of death. Nathaniel Cotton. The COTTER'S Saturday Night, Inscribed to Eobeet Aiken, Esq. " Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short and simple annals of the poor." — Gray. My lov'd, my honor'd, much-resijected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays ; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise ; To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah ! tlio' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween ! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,^ FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. This night his weekly moil is at an end, — Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. Hoping the morn in ease and rest to sj^end, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through To meet their "dad," wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie. His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile. The lisping infant, prattling on his knee. Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile. And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom — love sparkling in her e'e — Comes hame ; perhaps, to show a braw new gown. Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. To help her parents dear, if they in hard- ship be. With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet. And each for other's welfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forAvard points the view ; The mother, wi' her needle and her shears. Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new: The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's and their mistress's com- mand. The younkers a' are warnfed to obey ; And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play ; "And oh, be sure to fear the Lord alway, And mind your duty, duly, morn and night ; Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright." But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. Tells how a neibor lad came o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. happy love ! where love like this is found : O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond com- pare ! I've pacfed much this weary, mortal round. And sage experience bids me this de- clare, — " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas- ure spare — POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. One cordial in this melancholy vale, — 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling, smooth ! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- traction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board. The halcsome parritch, chief of Scotia's food ; The sowpe their only hawkie does afford. That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb- buck, fell ; And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid : The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride : His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. He wales a portion with judicious care ; And " Let us worship God !" he says with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise. They tune their hearts, by far the no- blest aim: Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling meas- ures rise. Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ; Or noble " Elgin " beets the heavenward flame. The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these, Italian trills are tame : The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or, how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name. Had not on earth whereon to lay His head : How His first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : How he, who lone in Patmos banishfed. Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. And heard great Bab'lon's doom pro- nounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days. There, ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. Together hymning their Creator's praisa FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. In suck society, yet still more dear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, hoAV poor Eeligion's pride. In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart. May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request. That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest. And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best. For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of God ;" And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road. The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much- loved isle. O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart. Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part : (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- ward !) Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! Robert Burns. A WISH. Mike be a cot beside the hill ; A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear ; A willowy brook, that turns a mill. With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch. Shall twitter from her clay -built nest ; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village church, among the trees. Where first our marriage vows were given. With merry peals shall swell the breeze. And point with tajier spire to heaven. Samuel Eogers. A Picture. The farmer sat in his easy-chair Smoking his pipe of clay. While his hale old wife, with busy care, Was clearing the dinner away ; A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes. On her grandfather's knee was catching flies. POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. The old man laid his hand on her head, With a tear on his wrinkled face ; He thought how often her mother, dead, Had sat in the self-same place. As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, "Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it makes you cry !" The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor. Where the shade after noon used to steal ; The busy old wife, by the open door, Was turning the spinning-wheel ; And the old brass clock on the manteltree Had plodded along to almost three. Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, While close to his heaving breast The moisten'd brow and the cheek so fair Of his sweet grandchild were press'd ; His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay : Fast asleep were they both, that summer day ! Charles G. Eastman. Matrimonial Happiness. When I upon thy bosom lean, And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, I glory in the sacred ties That made us ane Avha ance were twain. A mutual llame inspires us baith, The tender look, the meltin' kiss ; Even years shall ne'er destroy our love. But only gi'e us change o' bliss. Hae I a wish ? it's a' for thee ! I ken thy wish is me to please ; Our moments pass sae smooth away That numbers on us look and gaze ; Weel pleased they see our happy days. Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame ; And aye when weary cares arise. Thy bosom still shall be my hame. I'll lay me there and tak' my rest ; And if that aught disturb my dear, I'll bid her laugh her cares away. And beg her not to drop a tear. Hae I a joy? it's a' her ain ! United still her heart and mine ; They're like the woodbine round the tree, That's twined till death shall them disjoin. John Lapraik. WiNIFREDA. Away ! let naught to love displeasing. My Winifreda, move your care ; Let naught delay the heavenly blessing. Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear. What though no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood ; We'll shine in more substantial honors, And to be noble we'll be good. Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke. And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk. What though from fortune's lavish bounty No mighty treasures we possess ; We'll find within our pittance plenty. And be content without excess. Still shall each returning season Sufficient for our wishes give ; For we will live a life of reason ; And that's the only life to live. Through youth and age, in love excelling. We'll hand in hand together tread ; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwell- ing, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. How should I love the pretty creatures While round my knees they fondly clung, To see them look their mother's features. To hear them lisp their mother'^ tongue ! And when with envy time, transported, Shall think to rob us of our joys. You'll in your girls again be courted. And I'll go a-wooing in my boys. Author Unknown. Hermionk Wherever I wander, up and about. This is the puzzle I can't make out — Because I care little for books, no doubt ; I have a wife, and she is wise. Deep in philosophy, strong in Greek ; Spectacles shadow her pretty eyes, Coteries rustle to hear her speak ; FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. She writes a little — for love, not fame ; Has publish'd a book witli a dreary name ; And yet (God bless her!) is mild and meek. And how I happened to woo and wed A wife so pretty and wise withal, Is part of the puzzle that fills my head — Plagues me at day-time, racks me in bed. Haunts me, and makes me appear so small. The only answer that I can see Is — I could not have married Hermione (That is her fine wise name), but she Stoop'd in her wisdom and married me. For I am a fellow of no degree, Given to romping and jollity ; The Latin they thrash'd into me at school The world and its fights have thrash'd away : At figures alone I am no fool, And in city circles I say my say. But I am a dunce at twenty-nine, And the kind of study that I think fine Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the Times, When I lounge, after work, in my easy- chair ; Punch for humor, and Praed for rhymes. And the butterfly mots blown here and there By the idle breath of the social air. A little French is my only gift. Wherewith at times I can make a shift. Guessing at meanings, to flutter over A filigree tale in a paper cover. Hermione, my Hermion6 ! What could your wisdom perceive in me ? And, Hermione, my Hermione ! How does it happen at all that we Love one another so utterly ? Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two, A darling who cries with lung and tongue about : As fine a fellow, I swear to you, As ever poet of sentiment sung about ! And my lady-wife with the serious eyes Brightens and lightens when he is nigh, And looks, although she is deep and wise. As foolish and happy as he or I ! And I have the courage just then, you see, To kiss the lips of Hermione — Those learned lips that the learnfed praise — And to clasp her close as in sillier days ; To talk and joke in a frolic vein, To tell her my stories of things and men ; And it never strikes me that I'm profane. For she laughs and blushes, and kisses again ; And, presto ! fly ! goes her wisdom then ! For boy claps hands, and is up on her breast, Koaring to see her so bright with mirth ; And I know she deems me (oh the jest !) The cleverest fellow on all the earth ! And Hermion6, my Hermion6, Nurses her boy and defers to me ; Does not seem to see I'm small — Even to think me a dunce at all ! And wherever I wander, up and about, Here is the puzzle I can't make out : That Hermion6, my Hermion6, In spite of her Greek and philosophy, When sporting at night with her boy and me, Seems sweeter and wiser, I assever — Sweeter and wiser, and far more clever. And makes me feel more foolish than ever. Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace, And the silly pride in her learnfed face ! That is the puzzle I can't make out — Because I care little for books, no doubt ; But the puzzle is pleasant, I know not why, For, whenever I think of it, night or morn, I thank my God she is wise, and I The happiest fool that was ever born ! Egbert Buchanan, John Anderson, 3iy Jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent. Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is held, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow,' John Anderson, my jo! John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither. And mony a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. JNow we maun totter down, John ; And hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. Robert Burns. Lines Written to his Wife, While on a Visit to Upper India. If tho'i wert by my side, my love, How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale ! If thou, my love, Avert by my side, My babies at my knee. How gaily would our pinnace glide O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! I miss thee at the dawning gray, When, on our deck reclined. In careless ease my limbs I lay, And woo the cooler wind. I miss thee when by Gunga's stream My twilight steps I guide ; But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee from my side. I spread my books, my pencil try, The lingering noon to cheer. But miss thy kind, approving eye, Thy meek, attentive ear. But when of morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far, Thy prayers ascend for me. Then on ! then on ! where duty leads. My course be onward still — On broad Hindostan's sultry meads, O'er black Almorah's hill. That course nor Delhi's kingly gates Nor mild Malwah detain ; For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say. Across the dark blue sea ; But never v/ere hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee ! Reginald Heber. To MY Wife. Oh, hadst thou never shared my fate, More dark that fate would prove : My heart were truly desolate Without thy soothing love. But thou hast suffer'd for my sake, Whilst this relief I found. Like fearless lips that strive to take The poison from a wound. My fond affection thou hast seen, Then judge of my regret To think more happy thou hadst been If we had never met ! And has that thought been shared by thee ? Ah, no ! that smiling cheek Proves more unchanging loxe for me Than labor'd words could speak. But there are true hearts which the sight Of sorrow suminons forth ; Though known in days of past delight, We knew not half their worth. How unlike some who have profess'd So much in Friendship's name. Yet calmly pause to think how best They may evade her claim. But ah ! from them to thee I turn, — They'd make me loathe mankind ; Far better lessons I may learn From thy more holy mind. The love that gives a charm to home I feel they cannot take : We'll pray for happier years to come, For one another's sake. Thomas Haynes Batly The Winsome Wee Thing. She is a winsome wee thing. She is a handsome wee thing. She is a lo'esome wee thing, This dear wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer ; And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome Avee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, 10 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. She is a lo'esome wee thing, This dear wee wife o' mine. The warld's wrack we share o't, The Avarstle and the care o't, Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. And thinlv my lot divine. Robert Burns. She was a Phanto3i of Delight. She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight ; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To hunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her, upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A Creature, not too bright or good For human nature's daily food — For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd, To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light. William Wordsworth. To Mary. " Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed " — So, fourteen years ago, I said. Behold another ring! — "For what? — To wed thee o'er again?" Why not? With that first ring I married youth, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ; Taste long admired, sense long revered. And all my Molly then appear'd. If she, by merit since disclosed. Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now To justify a double vow. Here, then, to-day (with faith as sure. With ardor as intense, as pure. As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth and plighted mine). To thee, sweet girl, my second ring, A token and a pledge, I bring : With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart — Those virtues which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride ; Those virtues whose progressive claim. Endearing wedlock's very name. My soul enjoys, my song approves. For conscience' sake as well as love's. And why ? They show me every hour Honor's high thought, Afiiection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sen- tence. And teach me all things — but repentance. Samuel Bishop. The MARINER'S Wife. And are ye sure the news is true ? And are ye sure he's weel ? Is this a time to think o' wark ? Ye jauds fling by your wheel ! Is this a time to think o' wark. When Colin's at the door? Eax me my cloak, I'll to the quay And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a' ; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'. And gie to me my bigonet. My bishop's satin gown ; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's come to town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My hose o' pearl blue ; It's a' to pleasure my ain gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Rise up and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot ; Gie little Kate her Sunday gowa And Jock his button coat ; POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 11 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as wliite as snaw ; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been long awa'. There's twa fat hens upo' the bank They've fed this month and mair ; »Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare ; And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw ; For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa' ? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air ; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. In troth I'm like to greet ! Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I hae nae mair to crave : Could I but live to mak him blest, I'm blest aboon the lave : And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. In troth I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a' ; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'. Jean Adam. The Exile to his Wife. Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee. Day-time and night-time, I'm thinking about thee ; Night-time and day-time, in dreams I be- hold thee ; Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten ; Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten ; Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, Telling of spring and its joyous renewing, And thoughts of thy love, and its mani- fold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. Spring of my sjiirit ! May of my bosom ! Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom ; The waste of my life has a rose-root with- in it. And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. Figure that moves like a song through the even ; Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother. Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other ; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple. Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple ; — Oh, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming ! You have been glad when you knew I was gladden'd ; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am sad- den'd? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love : 1 cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, You cannot smile but my cheek vvill be glowing ; I would not die without you at my side, love ; You will not linger when I shall have died, love. Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow. Rise on my gloom like the sun of to- morrow ; Strong, swift, and fond as the words whit-h I speak, love. With a song on your lip and a smile oi> your cheek, love. 12 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Come, for my heart in your absence is weary, — Haste, for my spirit is sicken'd and dreary, — Come to the arms which alone should caress, thee, Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee ! Joseph Bkenam. A Wife. The wife sat thoughtfully turning over A book inscribed with the school-girl's name ; A tear, one tear, fell hot on the cover So quickly closed when her husband came. He came, and he went away, it was nothing ; With commonplace upon either side ; But, just as the sound of the room-door shutting, A dreadful door in her soul stood wide. Love she had read of in sweet romances. Love that could sorrow, but never fail ; Built her own palace of noble fancies. All the wide world like a fairy tale. Bleak and bitter and utterly doleful. Spread to this woman her map of life : Hour after hour she look'd in her soul, full Of deep dismay and turbulent strife. Face in hands, she knelt on the car- pet; The cloud was loosen'd, the storm-rain fell. Oh life has so much to wither and warp it, One poor heart's day what poet could tell ? William Allingham. Without and Within. I. The night is dark, and the winter winds Go stabbing about with their icy spears; The sharp hail rattles against the panes. And melts on my cheeks like tears. 'Tis a terrible night to be out of doors, But some of us must be, early and late ; We needn't ask who, for don't we know It has all been settled by Fate ? Not woman, but man. Give woman her flowers. Her dresses, her jewels, or what she de- mands : The work of the world must be done by man, Or why has he brawny hands ? As I feel my way in the dark and cold, I think of the chambers warm and bright — The nests where these delicate birds of ours Are folding their wings to-night ! Through the luminous windoAvs, above and below, I catch a glimpse of the life they lead : Some sew, some sing, others dress for the ball, While others (fair students) read. There's the little lady who bears my name — She sits at my table now, pouring her tea; Does she think of me as I hurry home. Hungry and wet ? Not she. She helps herself to the sugar and cream In a thoughtless, dreamy, nonchalant way; Her hands are white as the virgin rose That she wore on her wedding-day. My stubbed fingers are stain'd with ink — The badge of the ledger, the mark of trade ; But the money I give her is clean enough, In spite of the way it is made. I wear out my life in the counting-room, Over day-book and cash-book, Bought and Sold ; My brain is dizzy with anxious thought, My skin is as sallow as gold. How docs she keep the roses of youth Still fresh in her cheeks ? My roses are flown. It lies in a nutshell : why do I ask ? A woman's life is her own. POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 13 She gives me a kiss when we part for the day, Then goes to her music, blithe as a bird ; She reads it at sight, and the language too, Though I know never a word. She sews — a little; makes collars and sleeves ; Or embroiders me slippers (always too small) ; Nets silken jnirses (for me to fill) — Often does nothing at all But dream in her chamber, holding a flower. Or reading my letters (she'd better read me) ! Even now, while I am freezing with cold, She is cozily sipping her tea. If I ever reach home I shall laugh aloud At the sight of a roaring fire once more ; She must wait, I think, till I thaw myself, For the usual kiss at the door. I'll have with my dinner a bottle of port, To warm up my blood and soothe my mind ; Then a little music, for even I Like music — when I have dined. I'll smoke a pipe in the easy-chair. And feel her behind me patting my head ; Or, drawing the little one on my knee. Chat till the hour for bed. Will he never come ? I have watch'd for him Till the misty panes are roughen'd with sleet ; I can see no more : shall I never hear The welcome sound of his feet? I think of him in the lonesome night. Tramping along with a weary tread. And wish he were here by the cheery fire. Or I were there in his stead. I sit by the grate, and hark for his step. And stare in the fire with a troubled mind ; The glow of the coals is bright in my face. But my shadow is dark behind. I think of woman, and think of man. The tie that binds, and the wrongs that part. And long to utter in burning words What I feel to-night in my heart. No weak complaint of the man I love. No praise of myself or my sisterhood ; But — something that women understand, By men never understood. Their natures jar in a thousand things ; Little matter, alas ! who is right or wrong. She goes to the wall. "She is weak/" they say ; It is that that makes them strong But grant us weak (as in truth we are In our love for them), they should make us strong ; But do they? Will they? "Woman is WEAK !" Is the burden still of their song. Wherein am I weaker than Arthur, pray ? He has, as he should, a sturdier frame. And he labors early and late for me •, But I — I could do the same. My hands are willing, my brain is clear. The world is wide, and the workers few ; But the work of the world belongs to man ; There is nothing for woman to do. Yes, she has the holy duties of home, A husband to love, and children to bear; The softer virtues, the social arts — In short, a life without care. So our masters say. But what do they know Of our lives and feelings when they are away ? Our household duties, our petty tasks. The nothings that waste the day ? • Nay, what do they care? 'Tis enough for them That their homes are pleasant; thev seek their ease : One takes a wife to flatter his pride ; Another, to keep his keys. They say they love us ; perhaps they do, In a masculine way, as they love their wine; 14 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. But the soul of a woman needs something more, Or it suffers at times like mine. Not that Arthur is ever unkind In word or deed, for he loves me well ; But I fear he thinks me weak as the rest — (And I may be: who can tell?) I should die if he changed or loved me less, For I live at best but a restless life ; Yet he may, for they say the kindest men Grow tired of a sickly wife. Oh, love me, Arthur, my lord, my life ! If not for my love and my womanly fears. At least for your child. But I hear his step — He must not find me in tears. Richard Henry Stoddard. The Poets Song to his Wife. How many summers, love, Have I been thine ? How many days, my dove, Hast thou been mine ? Time, like the winged wind When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind. To count the hours ! Some weight of thought, though loath, On thee he leaves ; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves ; Some fearSj^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 I With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme. They tell how much I owe To thee and Time ! Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). To AN Absent Wife. Written at Biloxi. 'Tis Morn : — the sea-breeze seems to bring Joy, health, and freshness on its wing; Bright flowers, to me all strange and new. Are glittering in the early dew. And perfumes rise from every grove. As incense to the clouds that move Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear : But I am sad — thou art not here I 'Tis Noon : — a calm, unbroken sleep Is on the blue waves of the deep ; A soft haze, like a fairy dream. Is floating over wood and stream ; And many a broad magnolia flower, Within its shadowy woodland bower, Is gleaming like a lovely star : But I am sad — thou art afar ! 'Tis Eve : — on earth the sunset skies Are painting their own Eden dyes ; The stars come down, and trembling glow Like blossoms on the waves below , And, like an unseen spirit, the breeze Seems lingering 'midst these orange trees, Breathing its music round the sjiot: But I am sad — I see thee not ! 'Tis Midnight : — with a soothing spell, The far tones of the ocean swell, Soft as a mother's cadence mild. Low bending o'er her sleeping child ; And on each wandering breeze are heard The rich notes of the mocking-bird. In many a wild and wondrous lay : But I am sad — thou art away 1 I sink in dreams : — low, sweet, and clear, Thy own dear voice is in my ear ; Around my neck thy tresses twine — Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine - Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed — Thy head is pillowed on my breast : — Oh ! I have all my heart holds dear, And I am happy — thou art here ! George Dennison Prentick. POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 15 Fare Thee Well.' Fare thee well ! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again ! Would that breast, by thee glanced over. Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee, — Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe : Though my many faults defaced me. Could no other arm be found. Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound? Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not : Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away : Still thine own its life retaineth, — Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; And the undying thought which paineth Is — that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead ; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather. When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall press thee. When her lip to thine is pressed. Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee. Think of him thy love had blessed ! Should Lier lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know ; All my hopes, where'er thou goest. Wither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken ; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee, — by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now : But 'tis done : all words are idle, — Words from me are vainer still ; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will. Fare thee well ! — thus disunited. Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted. More than this I scarce can die. Lord Byron. On the Receipt of my MOTHER'S Picture. Oh that those lips had language ! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see. The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the Art that can immortalize, — The Art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, welcome guest, though unexpected, here ! Who bidst me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 1 will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own ; And while that face renews my filial grief. Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, — Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead. Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 16 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kis3 ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile ! — it answers — Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial-day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting words shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And disappointed still, was still deceived ; By expectation every day beguiled. Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. Till, all my stock of infant sorrows sjjent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot. But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more. Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener Robin, day by day. Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 'Tis now become a history little known. That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! But the record fair. That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has ef- faced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ; All this, and, more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks That humor interposed too often makes ; All this, still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. Not scorn'd in heaven, though little no- ticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours. When playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers. The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), — Could those few pleasant days again ap- pear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart ; the dear de- light Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might But no — Avhat here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd). Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 17 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore, " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ;" And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always dis- tress'd, — Me howling blasts drive devious, temjoest- toss'd, Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and com- pass lost. And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth, But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell ! — Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine. Without the sin of violating thine ; And, while the wings of fancy still are free. And I can view this mimic show of thee. Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. William Cowpee. Too Late. " Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu." Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do ; — Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Oh to call back the days that are not ! My eyes were blinded, your words were few; Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; Not half worthy the like of you ; Now all men beside seem to me like shadows— I love you, Douglas, tender and true. Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Dinah Mulock Craik. The Fa JULY Meeting. We are all here. Father, mother. Sister, brother. All who hold each other dear. Each chair is fill'd ; we're all at home ! To-night let no cold stranger come. It is not often thus around Our old familiar hearth we're found. Bless, then, the meeting and the spot ; For once be every care forgot ; Let gentle Peace assert her power, And kind Affection rule the hour. We're all — all here. We're not all here ! Some are away, — the dead ones dear. Who throng'd with us this ancient liearth And gave the hour to guileless mirth. Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, Look'd in, and thinn'd our little band ; Some like a night-flash pass'd away. And some sank lingering day by day ; The quiet graveyard, — some lie there. — And cruel Ocean has his share. We're not all here. 18 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. We are all here ! Even they, — the dead, — though dead, so dear, — Fond Memory, to her duty true. Brings back their faded forms to view. How life-like, through the mist of years. Each well-remember'd face appears ! We see them, as in times long past ; From each to each kind looks are cast ; We hear their words, their smiles be- hold; They're round us, as they were of old. We are all here. We are all here, Father, mother, Sister, brother, You that I love with love so dear. This may not long of us be said ; Soon must we join the gather'd dead, And by the hearth we now sit round Some other circle will be found. Oh, then, that wisdom may we know, Which yields a life of peace below ! So, in the world to follow this. May each repeat in words of bliss. We're all — all here ! Charles Sprague. The Poets Bridal-Day Song. Oh, my love's like the steadfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run ; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years. Nor moments between sighs and tears — Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain — Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows To sober joys and soften woes. Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse I see thee sit In maiden bloom and matron wit — Fair, gentle as when first I sued. Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Arbigland tree. We stay'd and Avoo'd, and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon ; Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew. When looks were fond and words were few. Though I see smiling at thy feet Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet ; And time, and care, and birth-time woes Have dimm'd thine eye and touch'd thy rose; To thee, and thoughts of thee belong Whate'er charms me in tale or song ; When words descend like dews unsought With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought, And Fancy in her heaven flies free — They come, my love, they come from thee. Oh, when more thought we gave of old To silver than some give to gold, 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er How we should deck our humble bower ! 'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee The golden fruit of Fortune's tree ; And sweeter still to choose and twine A garland for that brow of thine — A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow and woods grow green. At times there come, as come there ought, Grave moments of sedater thought — When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night One gleam of her inconstant light; And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower, Shines like a rainbow through the sliower — • Oh, then I see, while seated nigh, A mother's heart shine in thine eye ; And proud resolve and purpose meek. Speak of thee more than words can speak : I think this wedded wife of mine The best of all things not divine. Allan Cunningham. Old Folks at Hobie. 'Way down upon de Swannee Ribber, Far, far away, — Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber, — Dare's wha de old folks stay. All up and down de whole creation Sadly I roam ; Still longing for de old plantation, And for de old folks at home. All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home I POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 19 All 'round de little farm I wander'd When I was young ; Den many happy days I squander'd, — Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder, Happy was I ; Oh, take me to my kind old mudder ! Dare let me live and die ! All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary. Far from de old folks at home ! One little hut among de bushes, — One dat I love, — Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes, No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-humming All round de com b ? When will I hear de banjo tumming Down in my good old home ? All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary. Far from de old folks at home ! Stephen C. Foster. SojvGS OF Seven. SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. There's no dew left on the daisies and clover. There's no rain left in heaven : I've said my "seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old, I can write a letter; My bii'thday lessons are done ; The lambs play always, they know no better ; They are only one times one. O moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low ; You were bright ! ah bright ! but your light is failing, — You are nothing now but a bow. You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven That God has hidden vour face ? I hope if you have you will soon be for- given, And shine again in your place. velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, Y''ou've powder'd your legs with gold ! brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold ! O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! cuckoopint, toll me the pnrple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell I And show me your nest with the young ones in it ; I will not steal them away ; 1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, lin- net, — I am seven times one to-day. SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes. How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys. And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily. While a boy listen'd alone ; Made bis heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your days are over, And mine, they are yet to be ; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover : Y''ou leave the story to me. The foxglove shoots out of the green mat- ted heather. Preparing her hoods of snow ; 20 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather : Oh, children take long to grow. I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster. Nor long summer bide so late ; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait. I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover. While dear hands are laid on my head; "The child is a woman, the book may close over. For all the lessons are said." I wait for my story — ^the birds cannot sing it. Not one, as he sits on the tree ; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it! Such as I wish it to be. SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. I lean'd out of window, I smelt the white clover. Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; '■' Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover — Hush nightingale, hush ! O sweet night- ingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near. For my love he is late ! " The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? Let the star-clusters glow. Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me. " You night-moths that hover where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; You glow-worms, shine out, and the path- way discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep — " Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one lover, I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore pass'd he, and through the white clover. Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd took flight ; But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before. Be the days dark or bright. SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups. Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small ! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses. Eager to gather them all. Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge- sparrow. That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain ; Sing, " Heart, thou art wide, though the house be but narrow," — Sing once, and sing it again. Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow ; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. O bonny brown sons, and sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks on you now ! Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall — POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 21 A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall ! Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all ! SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. I SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan Before I am well awake ; " Let me bleed ! oh let me alone, Since I must not break !" For children wake, though fathers sleep With a stone at foot and at head ; sleepless God, for ever keep, Keep both living and dead ! 1 lift mine eyes, and what to see But a world happy and fair? I have not wish'd it to mourn with me — Comfort is not there. Oh, what anear but golden brooms, And a waste of reedy rills ! Oh, what afar but the fine glooms On the rare blue hills ! I shall not die, but live forlorn ; How bitter it is to part ! Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more ! Oh, my heart, my heart ! No more to hear, no more to see ; Oh, that an echo might wake, And waft one note of thy psalm to me Ere my heart-strings break I I should know it how faint soe'er, And with angel-voices blent ; Oh, once to feel thy spirit anear, I could be content ! Or once between the gates of gold, While an angel entering trod, But once — thee sitting to behold On the hills of God ! SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE. To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose : To see my bright ones disappear. Drawn u]) like morning dews ; To bear, to nurse, to rear. To watch, and then to lose : This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose. To hear, to heed, to wed. And with thy Lord depart In tears that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart ; To hear, to heed, to Aved, This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, " Mother, give me thy child." Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, To God I gave with tears ; But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears. Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, God guards in happier spheres ; That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years. To hear, to heed, to wed. Fair lot that maidens choose. Thy mother's tenderest words are said. Thy face no more she views ; Thy mother's lot, my dear. She doth in naught accuse ; Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear. To love, — and then to lose. SEVEN TIMES SEVEN, LONGING FOR HOME. A SONG of a boat : — There was once a boat on a billow : Lightly she rock'd to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow, And her frail mast bow'd when the breeze would blow. And bent like a wand of willow. I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtseying over the billow, I mark'd her course till a dancing mote She faded out on the moonlit foam. And I stay'd behind in the dear loved home ; And my thoughts all day were about the boat And my dreams upon the pillow. 22 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 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 look'd out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea, And I think he sail'd to the heavenly shore. For he came not back to me — Ah me ! A song of a nest : — There was once a nest in a hollow : Down in the mosses and knot-grass press'd. Soft and warm, and full to the brim. Vetches lean'd over it purple and dim. With buttercup buds to follow. I pray you hear my song of a nest, For it is not long : — You shall never light, in a summer quest, The bushes among — Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestful, nor ever know A softer sound than their tender twitter, That wind-like did come and go. I had a nestful once of my own. Ah hapi^y, 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 ? Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Though my good man has sail'd ? Can I call that home where my nest was set. Now all its hope hath fail'd ? Nay, but the port where my sailor went. And the land where my nestlings be, — There is the home where my thoughts are sent. The only home for me — Ah me ! Jean Ingelow. The Quaker Widow. Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah,— come in ! 'Tis kind of thee To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to comfort me. The still and quiet company a jjeace may give, indeed. But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. Come, sit thee down ! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit On the First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit ; He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple trees. 1 think he loved the spring : not that he cared for flowers; most men Think such things foolishness, — but we were first acquainted then. One spring : the next he spoke his mind ; the third I was his wife. And in the spring (it happen'd so) our children enter'd life. He was but seventy-five : I did not think to lay him yet In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met. The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better I should be Pick'd out to bear the heavy cross — alone in age — than he. We've lived together fifty years : it seems but one long day. One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was call'd away ; And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet contentment home, So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come. I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know If I had heard the Spirit right, that told me I should go; POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 23 For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day, But mother spoke for Benjamin, — she knew what best to say. Then she was still : they sat a while : at last she spoke again, "' The Lord incline thee to the right !" and "Thou shalt have him, Jane !" My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not the least of shocks, For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox. I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost: Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her cross'd. She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest — Ah, dear ! the cross was ours : her life's a haj^py one, at least. Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I, — Would thee believe it, Hannah? once J felt temptation nigh ! My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste : I wanted lace around the neck, and a rib- bon at the waist. How strange it seem'd to sit with him ujjon the women's side ! I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more fear than pride. Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then there came A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same. I used to blush AA'hen he came near, but then I show'd no sign ; With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine. It seem'd my bashfulness was gone, now I was his for life : Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee, too, hast been a wife. As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours ; The woods were coming into leaf, the meadows full of flowers ; The neighbors met us in the lane, and every face was kind, — 'Tis strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind. I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wed- ding-dinner spread : At our own table we were guests, with father at the head. And Dinah Passmore help'd us both — 'twas she stood up with me. And Abner Jones with Benjamin, — and now they're gone, all three ! It is not right to wish for death ; the Lord disposes best. His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest ; And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see : For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two are left with me. Eusebius never cared to farm, — 'twas not his call, in truth, And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter Ruth. Thee'll say her ways are not like mine, — young people now-a-days Have fallen sadly off", I think, from all the good old ways. But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she keeps the simple tongue, The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young ; And it was brought upon my mind, remem- bering her, of late. That we on dress and outAvard things per- haps lay too much weight. I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit clothed with grace, And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face. And dress may be of less account: ^Jie Lord will look within : The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin. Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth : she's anxious I should go. And she will do her duty as a daughter should, I know. 24 FIRESIDE ENGYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be resign'd : The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. Bayaed Taylor. My Old Kentucky Home. The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky- home ; 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay ; The corn top's ripe and the meadows in the bloom. While the birds make music all the day ; The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy, all bright ; By'm by hard times comes a-knockin' at the door,- Then, my old Kentucky home, good- night ! Weep no more, my lady ; O, weep no more to-day ! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home. For our old Kentucky home far away. They hunt no more for the possum and the coon On the meadow, the hill, and the shore ; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon On the bench by the old cabin door ; The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart. With sorrow where all was delight ; The time has come, when the darkeys have to part. Then my old Kentucky home, good- night ! Weep no more, my lady ; O, weep no more to-day ! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home. For our old Kentucky home far away. The head must bow, and the back will have to bend. Wherever the darkey may go ; A few more days, and the troubles all will end, In the field where the sugar-canes grow ; A few more days to tote the weary load, No matter, it will never be light ; A few more days till we totter on the road, Then, my old Kentucky home, good- night ! Weep no more, my lady ; O, weep no more to-day ! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. Stephen Collins Foster. The Household IVoman. Graceful may seem the fairy form. With youth, and health, and beauty warm. Gliding along the airy dance, Imparting joy at every glance. And lovely, too, when o'er the strings Her hand of music woman flings, While dewy eyes are upward thrown, As if from heaven to claim the tone. And fair is she when mental flowers Engage her soul's devoted powers, And wreaths, unfading wreaths of mind. Around her temples are entwined. But never, in her varied sphere, Is woman to the heart more dear Than when her homely task she plies, With cheerful duty in her eyes ; And, every lowly path well trod, Looks meekly upward to her God. Caroline Oilman. LEMUEL'S Song. Who finds a woman good and wise, A gem more worth than pearls hath got ; Her husband's heart on her relies ; To live by spoil he needeth not. His comfort all his life is she ; No wrong she willingly will do ; For wool and flax her searches be. And cheerful hands she puts thereto. The merchant-ship, resembling right, Her food she from afar doth fet. Ere day she wakes, that give she might Her maids their task, her household meat. A field she views, and that she buys ; Her hand doth plant a vineyard there ; POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 25 Her loins with courage up she ties ; Her arms with vigor strengthened are. If in lier work slie profit feel, By night her candle goes not out : She puts her finger to tlie wheel, Her hand the spindle turns about. To such as poor and needy are Her hand (yea, both hands) reacheth she. The winter none of hers doth fear, For double clothed her household be. She mantles maketh, wrought by hand, And silk and purple clothing gets. Among the rulers of the land (Known in the gate) 'her husband sits. For sale fine linen weaveth she. And girdles to the merchant sends. Renown and strength her clothing be, And joy her later time attends. She speaks discreetly when she talks; The law of grace her tongue hath learned ; She heeds the way her household walks. And feedeth not on bread unearned. Her children rise, and blest her call ; Her husband thus ajsplaudeth her, " Oh, thou hast far surpassed them all. Though many daughters thriving are !" Deceitful favor quickly w^ears, And beauty suddenly decays ; But, if the Lord she truly fears. That woman well deserveth praise, The fruit her handiwork obtains : Without repining grant her that, And yield her when her labor gains, To do her honor in the gate. George Wither. The SAILOR'S WIFK Part I. I've a letter from thy sire, Baby mine, baby mine ; I can read and never tire, Baby mine. He is sailing o'er the sea, He is coming back to thee. He is coming home to me. Baby mine. He's been parted from us long. Baby mine, baby mine ; But if hearts be true and strong, Baby mine, They shall brave Misfortune's blast, And be overpaid at last For all pain and sorrow pass'd. Baby mine. Oh, I long to see his face. Baby mine, baby mine, In his old-accustom'd j^lace. Baby mine. Like tlie rose of May in bloom, Like a star amid the gloom. Like the sunshine in the room, Baby mine. Thou wilt see him and rejoice. Baby mine, baby mine ; Thou wilt know him by his voice, Baby mine. By his love-looks that endear. By his laughter ringing clear, By his eyes that know not fear. Baby mine. I'm so glad — I cannot sleep. Baby mine, baby mine. I'm so happy — I could weep, Baby mine. He is sailing o'er the sea. He is coming home to me, He is coming back to thee. Baby mine. Part II. O'er the blue ocean gleaming She sees a distant ship. As small to view As the white sea-mew Whose wings in the billows dip. Blow, favoring gales, in her answering sails, Blow steadily and free ! Rejoicing, strong. Singing a song Her rigging and her spars among. And waft the vessel in pride along That bears my love to me." Nearer, still nearer driving, The white sails grow and swell ; Clear to her eyes The pennant flies. And the flag she knows so well. 26 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. " Blow, favoring gales, in her answering sails. Waft him, O gentle sea ! And still, O heart, Thy fluttering start ! Why throb and beat as thou wouldst part, When all so happy and bless'd thou art? He comes again to thee !" The swift ship drops her anchor, A boat puts off for shore ; Against its prow The ripples flow To the music of the oar. " And art thou here, mine own, my dear. Safe from the perilous sea ? Safe, safe at home, No more to roam ! Blow, tempests, blow; my love has come ! And sprinkle the clouds with your dashing foam ! He shall part no more from me." ClIAKLES MaCKAY. Mother and Poet. Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the East, And one of them shot in the West by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free. Let none look at me! Yet I was a poetess only last year. And good at my art, for a woman, men said ; But this woman, — (his, who is agonized here, — The east sea and the west sea rhyme on in her head For ever instead. What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain ! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah, boys, how you hurt! You were strong as you pressed. And I proud by that test. What art's for a woman ? To hold on her knees Both darlings I to feel all their arms round her throat, Cling, strangle a little! to sew by de- grees And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat ; To dream and to dote. To teach them. — It stings there! /made them, indeed, Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt. That a country's a thing men should die for at need. / prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out. And when their eyes flashed, — oh, my beautiful eyes ! — I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But, then, the surprise When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels ! God, how the house feels ! At first, happy news came, in gay letters mailed With my kisses, — of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled. In return would fan off" every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free !" And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. POEMS OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. 27 I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- mained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand, " I was not to faint, — One loved me for two — would be with me ere long : And viva V Italia ! — he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint." My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls, — was imprest, It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how 'twas impossible, quite dispos- sessed. To live on for the rest." On which, without pause, up the telegraph- line Swept smoothly the next news from Gae- ta : — Shot ; Tell his mother. Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother, — not "mine," No voice says, "il/y mother" again to me. What! You think Guido forgot? Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? 1 think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that love and sorrow which rec- onciled so The Above and Below. O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst throua;h the dark To the face of Thy mother ! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark. Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away. And no last word to say I Both boys dead ? but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall ; And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When the guns of Cavalli, with final re- tort, Have cut the game short ? When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green and red. When you have your country from moun- tain to sea. When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head (And / have my Dead) — What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low. And burn your lights faintly! Mij coun- try is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow : My Italy's there, with my brave civic Pair, To disfranchise despair ! Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn ; 28 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this — and we sit on for- lorn When the man-child is born. Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the East, And one of them shot in the West by the sea. Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me/ Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The Geaves of a Household. They grew in beauty, side by side. They fill'd one home with glee ; — Their graves are sever'd, far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow ; She had each folded flower in sight — - Where are those dreamers now ? One, 'midst the forests of the West By a dark stream is laid — The Indian knows his place of rest Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- He lies where pearls lie deep ; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain : He wrapt his colors round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; She faded midst Italian flowers — The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who play'd Beneath the same green tree ; Whose voices mingled as they pray'd Around one parent knee ! They that with smiles lit up the haU. And cheer'd with song the hearth 1 — Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, And naught beyond, O earth ! Felicia Dorothea Hemans. When She Cosies Home Again. When she comes home again : a thousand ways I fashion, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome. I shall tremble — yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared up- raise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress. Then silence : and the perfume of her dress ; The room will sway a little, and a haze Cloy eyesight — soulsight even — for a space ; And tears — yes ; and the ache here in the threat. To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace. James Whitcomb Riley. Poetry OF Infancy and Childhood. Baby May. Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; Lips whose velvet scarlet teaches Poppies paleness ; round large eyes Ever great with new surprise ; Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ; Minutes just as brimm'd with sadness ; Happy smiles and wailing cries, Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, Lights and shadows, swifter born Than on windswept autumn corn ; Ever some new tiny notion, Making every limb all motion, Catchings up of legs and arms, Throwings back and small alarms. Clutching fingers — straightening jerks, Twining feet whose each toe works, Kickings np and straining risings, Mother's ever-new surprisings ; Hands all wants, and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under ; Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings That have more of love than lovings ; Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness that we prize such sinning ; Breakings dire of plates and glasses, Graspings small at all that passes ; Pullings off of all that's able To be caught from tray or table ; Silences — small meditations Deep as thoughts of cares for nations- Breaking into wisest speeches In a tongue that nothing teaches. All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be woo'd to light by guessing ; Slumbers — such sweet angel-seeminga That we'd ever have such dreamings. Till from sleep we see thee breaking, And we'd always have thee waking ; Wealth for which we know no measure, Pleasure high above all pleasure, Gladness brimming over gladness, Joy in care — delight in sadness, Loveliness beyond completeness, Sweetness distancing all sweetness, Beauty all that beauty may be. That's May Bennett ; that's my baby. VV. C. Bennett. My Bird. Ere last year's moon had left the sky, A birdling sought my Indian nest. And folded, oh, so lovingly. Her tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge. In winsome helplessness she lies; Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe. Shut softly on her starry eyes. There's not in Ind a lovelier bird ; Broad earth owns not a hapijier nest ; God, thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters never more shall rest! This beautiful, mysterious thing. This seeming visitant from heaven, This bird with the immortal wing. To me, to me, thy hand has given. The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, The blood its crimson hue from mine ; This life, which I have dared invoke. Henceforth is parallel with thine. A silent awe is in my room — I tremble with delicious fear ; The future, with its light and gloom, Time and Eternity is here. 29 30 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise ; Hear, O my God, one earnest prayer ! Room for my bird in Paradise ; And give her angel plumage there I Emily Chubbock Judson. Philip iir King. " Who bears npon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty." Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king ! Eound whom the enshadowing purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities : Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find a queen-hand- maiden, Philil?, my king ! Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king ! When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, And, some gentle heart's bars undoing. Thou dost enter, love-crown'd, and there Sittest, love-glorified ! — Eule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, Philip, my king ! Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Philip, my king ! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant, and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer Let me behold thee in future years ! Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king — A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king ! Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray; Rebels within thee and foes without Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious. Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout, As thou sitt'st at the feet of God vic- torious, "Philip, the king!" Dinah Mulock Craik. Baby Bell. Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours ? The gates of heaven were left ajar : With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star. Hung in the glistening depths of even, — Its bridges, running to and fro. O'er which the white-wing'd angels go, Bearing the holy dead to heaven. She touch'd a bridge of flowers, — those feet, So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels, They fell like dew upon the flowers : Then all the air grew strangely sweet ! And thus came dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours. She came, and brought delicious May. The swallows built beneath the eaves ; Like sunlight, in and out the leaves The robins went the livelong day ; The lily swung its noiseless bell ; And o'er the porch the trembling vine Seera'd bursting with its veins of wine. How sweetly, softly, twilight fell ! Oh, earth was full of singing-birds And opening spring-tide flowers, When the dainty Baby Bell Came to this world of ours ! Oh, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day ! What woman-nature fiU'd her eyes. What poetry within them lay ! Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more : Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born •, We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen — The land beyond the morn ; And for the love of those dear eyes. For love of her whom God led forth, (The mother's being ceased on earth When Baby came from Paradise), — POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 31 For love of Him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ ! — our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. And now the orchards, which were white And red with blossoms when she came. Were rich in autumn's mellow prime ; The cluster'd apples burnt like flame, The soft-cheek'd peaches blush'd and fell. The ivory chestnut burst its shell. The grapes hung purpling in the grange ; And time wrought just as rich a change In little Baby Bell. Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace. In soften'd curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripen'd too : We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now : — Around her pale angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame ! God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech ; And oft she said a few strange words Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us. We never held her being's key ; We could not teach her holy things : She was Christ's self in purity. It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow ere it fell, — The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Baby Bell. We shudder'd with unlanguaged pain. And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tears Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, " Oh, smite us gently, gently, God ! Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief." Ah, how we loved her, God can tell ; Her heart was folded deep in ours. Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell ! At last he came, the messenger. The messenger from unseen lands : And what did dainty Baby Bell ? She only cross'd her little hands, She only look'd more meek and fair ! We parted back her silken hair. We wove the roses round her brow, — White buds, the summer's drifted snow, — ■ Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers ! And thus went dainty Baby Bell Out of this world of ours ! Thomas Baili;y Aldrich- Where did you Come fhom? Where did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into here. Where did get your eyes so blue ? Out of the sky as I came through. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear ? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? I saw something better than any one knows. Whence that three-corner'd smile of bliss ? Three angels gave me at once a kiss. Where did you get this pearly ear ? God spoke, and it came out to hear. Where did you get those arms and hands ? Love made itself into hooks and bands. Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ? From the same box as the cherubs' wings. How did they all come just to be you ? God thought of me, and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear ? God thought of you, and so I am here. Geokge Macdonai.d. ''Sweet and Low." Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea. Low, low, breathe and blow. Wind of the western sea 1 32 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me, While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon ; Rest, rest, on mother's breast. Father will come to thee soon ; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon : Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. Alfred Tennyson. Lullaby. Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby : Rock them, rock them, lullaby. Care is heavy, therefore sleep you ; You are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby : Rock them, rock them, lullaby. Thomas Dekker. Lady Anne Bothwelvs Lament. Balow, my babe, lye stil and sleipe ! It grieves me sair to see thee weipe : If thou'st be silent, I'se be glad. Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy, Thy father breides me great annoy. Balow, my babe, ly still and sleipe. It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Whan he began to court my luve, And with his sugred wordes to muve. His faynings fals, and flattering cheire To me that time did not appeire : But now I see, most cruell liee Cares neither for my babe nor mee. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Ly stil, my darling, sleipe a while, And when thou wakest, sweitly smile : But smile not, as thy father did. To cozen maids : nay, God forbid ! Bot yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. I cannae chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father stil : Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, My luve with him doth stil abyde : In well or wae, whair-eir he gae, Mine hart can neire depart him frae. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. But doe not, doe not, pretty mine. To faynings fals thine hart incline ; Be loyal to thy luver trew. And nevir change her for a new : If gude or faire, of hir have care, For women's banning's wondrous sair. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Thy winsome smiles maun else my painc; My babe and I'll together live. He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve : My babe and I right saft will ly, And quite forgeit man's cruelty. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth, That evir kist a woman's mouth ! I wish all maides be warn'd by mee Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; For if we doe bot chance to bow. They'll use us than they care not how. Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Author Unknown. Cradle Song. [From the German.] Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father's watching the sheep. Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree. And down drops a little dream for thee Sleep, baby, sleep ! Sleep, baby, sleep J The large stars are the sheep. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 33 The little stars are the lambs, I guess, Ihe bright moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep. Sleep, baby, sleep ! And cry not like a sheep. Else the sheep-dog will bark and whine, And bite this naughty child of mine. Sleep, baby, sleep ! Sleep, baby, sleep ! Thy Saviour loves His sheep ; He is the Lamb of God on high Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep ! Sleep, baby, sleep ! Away to tend the sheep. Away, thou sheep-dog fierce and wild, And do not harm my sleeping child ! Sleep, baby, sleep ! Elizabeth Prentiss. The Anoels' Whisper. A BABY was sleeping ; Its mother was weeping ; For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling ; And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh come back to me !" Her beads while she number'd. The baby still slumber'd, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: " Oh, blest be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning. For I know that the angels are whispering with thee ! "■ And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Ob, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! And say thou wouldst rather They'd watch o'er thy father ! For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, 3 And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, " I knew that the angels were whis- pering with thee." Samuel Lover. The Child and the Watcher. Sleep on, baby on the floor. Tired of all thy playing — Sleep with smile the sweeter for That you dropped away in ; On your curls, fair roundness stand Golden lights serenely ; One cheek, push'd out by the hand Folds the dimple inly — Little head and little foot Heavy laid for pleasure ; Underneath the lids half-shut Plants the shining azure ; Open-soul'd in noonday sun. So, you lie and slumber ; Nothing evil having done, Nothing can encumber. I, who cannot sleep as well. Shall I sigh to view you? Or sigh further to foretell All that may undo you ? Nay, keep smiling, little child, Ere the fate appeareth ! I smile too ; for patience mild Pleasure's token weareth. Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; I shall sleeji, though losing ! As by cradle, so by cross, Sweet is the reposing. And God knows, who sees us twain. Child at childish leisure, I am all as tired of pain As you are of pleasure. Very soon, too, by His grace, Gently wrapt around me, I shall show as calm a face, I shall sleep as soundly — Differing in this, that you Clasp your playthings sleeping While my hand must drop the few Given to my keeping — Differing in this, that I, Sleeping, must be colder, 34 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And, in waking presently, Brighter to beholder — Differing in this, beside (Sleei^er, have you heard me ? Do you move and open wide Your great eyes toward me?), That while I you draw withal From this slumber solely, Me, from mine, an angel shall, Trumpet-tongued and holy ! Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Sweet Baby, Sleep. Sweet baby, sleep ! what ails my dear ? What ails my darling, thus to cry ? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear. To hear me sing tliy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep ; Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ? What thing to thee can mischief do ? Thy God is now thy Father dear. His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had ; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou now art made. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. While thus thy lullaby I sing. For thee great blessings ripening be ; Thine eldest brother is a King, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear ; For whosoever thee offends By thy Protector threaten'd are. And God and angels are thy friends. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. When God with us was dwelling here. In little babes He took delight ; Such innocents as thou, my dear. Are ever precious in His sight. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. A little infant once was He ; And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His virgin mother's knee. That power to thee might be convey'd. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. In this thy frailty and thy need He friends and helpers doth prepare. Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. The King of kings, when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease ; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay and asses fed : Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle or a bed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee ; And by His torments and His pain Thy rest and ease secured be. My baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Thou hast, yet more to perfect this, A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss. Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not ; Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. George Wither. Cradle Hymn. Hush, my dear ! Lie still and slumber ! Holy angels guard thy bed ! Heavenly blessings without number. Gently falling on thy head. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 35 Sleep, my babe ! thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide ; All without thy care or payment, All thy wants are well supplied. How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be. When from heaven He descended, And became a child like thee ! Soft and easy is thy cradle : Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable And His softest bed was hay. Blessed Babe ! what glorious features, — Spotless fair, divinely bright ! Must He dwell with brutal creatures ? How could angels bear the sight ? Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford, To receive the heavenly stranger ? Did they thus affront the Lord ? Soft, my child ! I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard : 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee. And her arm shall be thy guard. Yet to read the shameful story. How the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of glory, Make& me angry while I sing. See the kinder shepherds round Him, Telling wonders from the sky ! Where they sought Him, there they found Him, With His virgin mother by. See the lovely Babe a-dressing ; Lovely Infant, how He smiled I When He Avept, His mother's blessing Sooth'd and hush'd the holy Child. Lo, He slumbers in a manger. Where the horned oxen fed : — Peace, my darling, here's no danger : There's no ox a-near thy bed. 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame. Bitter groans and endless crying, That thy blest Kedeemer came. May'st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days, Then go dwell for ever near Him : See His face, and sing His praise ! I could give thee thousand kisses ! Hoping what I most desire, Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire ! Isaac Watts. To A Child Embracing his Mother. Love thy mother, little one ! Kiss and clasp her neck again, — Hereafter she may have a son Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. Love thy mother, little one ! Gaze upon her living eyes. And mirror back her love for thee, — Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs To meet them when they cannot see. Gaze upon her living eyes ! Press her lips the while they glow With love that they have often told, — Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, And kiss them till thine own are cold. Press her lips the while they glow ! Oh, revere her raven hair ! Although it be not silver-gray — Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Oh, revere her raven hair ! Pray for her at eve and morn, That Heaven may long the stroke defer— For thou may'st live the hour forlorn When thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn ! Thomas Hood, To Charlotte Fulteney. Timely blossom, infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair. Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight ; Sleeping, waking, still at ease, Pleasing, without skill to please ; Little gossip, blithe and hale. Tattling many a broken tale j 86 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue ; Simple maiden, void of art. Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandon'd to thy v^^ill. Yet imagining no ill. Yet too innocent to blush ; Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat, Chirping forth thy petty joys. Wanton in the change of toys ; Like the linnet green in May Flitting to each bloomy spray ; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest ; — This thy present happy lot This, in time will be forgot : Other pleasures, other cares. Ever-busy Time jorepares ; And thou shalt in thy daughter see This picture, once, resembled thee. Ambrose Philips. To T. L. H. Six Years Old, During a Sickness. Sleep breathes at last from out thee. My little, patient boy ; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways ; Vet almost wish, with sudden shrink. That I had less to praise. Thy sidelong pillowed meekness. Thy thanks to all that aid, Thy heart, in pain and weakness, Of fancied faults afraid ; The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears : These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years. Sorrows I've had, severe ones, I will not think of now ; And calmly, midst my dear ones. Have wasted with dry brow; But when thy fingers press And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness — The tears are in their bed. Ah, first-born of thy mother. When life and hope were new ; Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too ; My light, where'er I go ; My bird, when prison-bound ; My hand-in-hand companion — No, My prayers shall hold thee round. To say " He has departed " — "His voice " — " his face" — is gone, To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on — Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe. Unless I felt this sleep ensure That it will not be so. Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping I This silence too the while — Its very hush and creeping Seem whispering us a smile ; Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear. Like parting wings of cherubim, Who say, " We've finished here." Leigh Hunx Children. Children are what the mothers are. No fondest father's fondest care Can fashion so the infant heart As those creative beams that dart. With all their hopes and fears, upon The cradle of a sleeping son. His startled eyes with wonder see A father near him on his knee, Who wishes all the while to trace The mother in his future face; But 'tis to her alone uprise His wakening arms ; to her those eyes Open with joy and not surprise. Walter Savage Landor. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 37 Castles in the Air. The Donnie, bonnie bairn, who sits poking in the ase, Glowering in the fire with his wee round face ; Laughing at the fuffin' lowe, what sees he there ? Ha ! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air. His wee chubby face and his touzie curly pow, Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe ; He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air. He sees muckle castles towering to the moon ! He sees little sogers pu'ing them a' doun ! Worlds whombling up and down, bleezing wi' a flare. See how he loups ! as they glimmer "n the air. For a' sae sage he looks, what can tijifi ^aaaie ken ? He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men, A wee thing maks us think, a sma' thing maks us stare. There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air. Sic a night in winter may weel mak him cauld : His chin upon his bufFy hand will soon mak him auld ; His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that daddy Care Would let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air. He'll glower at the fire ! and he'll keek at the light ! But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night ; Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a glare, Hearts are broken, heads are turn'd, wi' castles in the air James Ballantyne, The Little Black Boy. My mother bore me in the southern wild. And I am black, but, oh, my soul is white ! White as an angel is the English child. But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree ; And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissfed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say : " Look on the rising sun : there God does live, And gives his light, and gives his heat away. And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men, receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noon- day. "And we are put on earth a little space. That we may learn to bear the beams of love ; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. " For, when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear. The cloud will vanish, we shall heai His voice Saying : * Come from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' " Thus did my mother say, and kissfed me. And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black, and he from white cloud free. And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair. And be like him, and he will then love me. William Blake. 38 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep, — It was midnight on the waters. And a storm was on the deep. 'Tis a fearful thing in Winter To be shattered in the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder: " Cut away the mast!" So we shuddered there in silence, — For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring. And the breakers talked with Death. As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, " We are lost !" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand : " Isn't God upon the ocean Just the same as on the land ?" Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear. James T. Fields. Little Bell. He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. Ancient Mariner. Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray : " Pretty maid, slow wandering this way. What's your name ?" quoth he — " What's your name ? Oh stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold," — "Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks — Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks — " Bonny bird," quoth she, " Sing me your best song before I go." " Here's the very finest song I know. Little Bell," said he. And the blackbird piped ; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird — Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow. All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with sjiiles. And the while the bonny bird did pour His full heart out freely o'er and o'er 'Neath the morning skies. In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine forth in happy overflow From the blue, bright eyes. Down the dell she tripped and through the glade, Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree SAVung and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear, — While bold blackbird piped that all might hear — "Little Bell," piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern — "Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return — Bring me nuts," quoth she. Up, away the frisky squirrel hies — Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes — And adown the tree, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap dropped one by one — Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun ! "Happy Bell," pii^es he. Little Bell looked up and down the glade — " Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, Come and share with me !" Down came squirrel eager for his fare — Down came bonny blackbird, I declare ; Little Bell gave each his honest share — Ah the merry three ! And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow From her blue, bright eyes. By her snow-white cot at close of day Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms pray — to POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 39 Very calm and clear Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, In blue heaven, an angel shape serene Paused a while to hear — " What good child is this," the angel said, ^' That with happy heart, beside her bed Prays so lovingly?" Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft, Crooned tlie blackbird in the orchard croft, " Bell, dear Bell !" crooned he. " Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' care ; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm — Love, deep and kind, Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee !" Thomas Westwood. The Reconciliation. As thro' the land at eve we went, And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, We fell out, my wife and I, We fell out — I know not why — And kiss'd again with tears. And blessings on the falling-out That all the more endears. When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears ! For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years. There above the little grave. Oh there above the little grave, We kiss'd again with tears. Alfred Tennyson. Golden-Tressed Adelaide. A Song for a Child. Sing, I pray, a little song, Mother dear ! Neither sad nor very long : It is for a little maid, Golden-tressfed Adelaide ! Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, Mother dear I Let it be a merry strain, Mother dear ! Shunning e'en the thought of pain : For our gentle child will weep If the theme be dark and deep ; And we will not draw a single, single tear, Mother dear ! Childhood should be all divine, Mother dear ! And like an endless summer shine ; Gay as Edward's shouts and cries. Bright as Agnes' azure eyes : Therefore bid thy song be merry : — dost thou hear, Mother dear ? Bryan Waller Procter. Casa Wappy. And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy — The realms where sorrow dare not come, Where life is joy? Pure at thy death, as at thy birth, Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, Casa Wappy ! Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye ; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die ; Words may not paint our grief for thee ; Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathom'd agony ! Casa Wappy ! Thou wert a vision of delight, To bless us given ; Beauty embodied to our sight — A type of heaven ! So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self, than a part Of mine, and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy ! Thy bright, brief day knew no decline— 'Twas cloudless joy ; Sunrise and night alone were thine. Beloved boy ! This morn beheld thee blythe and gay ; That found thee prostrate in decay ; And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy ! 40 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died. Our dear, sweet child ! Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; Yet had we hoped that Time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy ! Do what I may, go where I will. Thou meet'st my sight ; There dost thou glide before me still — A form of light ! I feel thy breath upon my cheek — I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — Till oh ! my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy ! Methinks thou smil'st before me now. With glance of stealth ; The hair thrown back from thy full brow In buoyant health ; I see thine eyes' deep violet light — Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright — Thy clasping arms so round and white — Casa Wappy ! The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy bat — thy bow — Thy cloak and bonnet — club and ball; But where art thou ? A corner holds thine empty chair ; Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there. But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy ! Even to the last, thy every word — To glad — to grieve — Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird On summer's eve ; In outward beauty undecay'd. Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade. And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade, Casa Wappy ! We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night The chamber fills ; We pine for thee, when morn's first light Reddens the hills ; The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea. All — ^to the wall-flower and wild-pea — Are changed ; we saw the world thro' thee, Casa Wappy ! And though, perchance, a smile may gleam Of casual mirth. It doth not own, whate'er may seem, An inward birth ; We miss thy small step on the stair ; — We miss thee at thine evening prayer ; All day we miss thee — everywhere — Casa Wappy ! Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below — The silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo and "the busy bee," Eeturn, but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy ! 'Tis so ; but can it be — while flowers Revive again — Man's doom, in death that we and ours For aye remain ? Oh can it be, that, o'er the grave, The grass renew'd should yearly wave. Yet God forget our child to save ? Casa Wappy ! It cannot be ; for were it so Thus man could die. Life were a mockery — thought were woe— And truth a lie ; Heaven were a coinage of the brain — Religion frenzy — virtue vain — And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy ! Then be to us, O dear lost child I With beam of love, A star, death's uncongenial wild Smiling above ! Soon, soon thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's road, That led thee back from man to God, Casa Wappy ! Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, Fond, fairest boy. That heaven is God's, and thou art there, With him in joy ; There past are death and all its woes ; There beauty's stream for ever flows ; And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy! POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 41 Farewell, then — for a while, farewell — Pride of ray heart ! Jt cannot be that long we dwell Thus torn apart. Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; And, dark howe'er life's night may be. Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy ! David Macbeth Moie. 'Willie Winkle. Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed? — for it's 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. Onything but sleep, ye rogue! — glowerin' like the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Eumblin', tumbliu' roun' about, crawiu' like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what — Avauknin' sleepin' folk. Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean's in a creel ! Waumblin' aflf a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Euggin' at the cat's lug, andravellin' a' her thrums : Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! Weary 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. The Dab IE. Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, Nae stockin' on her feet ; Her supple ankles white as snaw. Or earlv blossoms sweet. Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, Her double, dimplit chin, Her puckered lips and balmy mou' With na ane tooth within. Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things ; Her face is like an angel's face : We're glad she has nae wings. She is the buddin' o' our luve, A giftie God gied us : We maun na luve the gift owre weel ; 'Twad be na blessin' thus. We still maun lo'e the Giver mair. An' see Him in the given ; An' sae she'll lead us up to Him, Our babie straight frae heaven. J. E. Rankin. The Dubib Child. She is my only girl : I ask'd for her as some most precious thing. For all unfinish'd was love's jewell'd ring Till set with this soft pearl : The shade that time brought forth I could not see ; How i:>ure, how perfect, seem'd the gift to me ! Oh, many a soft old tune I used to sing unto that deaden'd ear. And suffer'd not the lightest footstep neai, Lest she might wake too soon, And hush'd her brothers' laughter while she lay — Ah, needless care ! I might have let them play! 'Twas long ere I believed That this one daughter might not speak to me: Waited and watch'd. God knows how patiently ! How willingly deceived ! Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of Faith, And tended Hope until it starved to death, Oh if she could but hear For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach To call me mother, in the broken speech That thrills the mother's ear ! Alas ! those seal'd lips never may be stirr'd To the deep music of that lovely word. 42 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. My heart it sorely tries To see her kneel, with such a reverent air, Beside her brothers, at their evening prayer ; Or lift those earnest eyes To watch our lips, as though our words she knew, — Then move her own, as she were speaking too. I've watch'd her looking up To the bright wonder of a sunset sky. With such a depth of meaning in her eye. That I could almost hope The struggling soul would burst its bind- ing cords. And the long pent-up thoughts flow forth in words. The song of bird and bee. The chorus of the breezes, streams, and groves. All the grand music to which Nature moves. Are wasted melody To her; the world of sound a nameless void, While even Silence hath its charms de- stroy'd. Her face is very fair : Her blue eye beautiful : of finest mould The soft, white brow, o'er which in waves of gold Ripples her shining hair. Alas ! this lovely temple closed must be ; For He who made it keeps the master- key. Wills He the mind within Should from earth's Babel-clamor be kept free, E'en that His still small voice and step might be Heard at its inner shrine. Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill ? Then should I grieve? murmuring heart, be still ! She seems to have a sense Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play. She hath a jileasant smile, a gentle way. Whose voiceless eloquence Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear That even her father would not care for her. Thank God it is not so ! And when his sons are playing merrily, She comes and leans her head upon his knee. Oh, at such times I know. By his full eye and tones subdued and mild. How his heart yearns over his silent child. Not of aJl gifts bereft. Even now. How could I say she did not speak ? What real language lights her eye and cheek, And renders thanks to Him who left Unto her soul yet open, avenues For joy to enter, and for love to use ! And God in love doth give To her defect a beauty of its own : And we a deeper tenderness have known, Through that for which we grieve. Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear. Yes, and my voice shall fill it — but not here ! When that new sense is given, What rapture will its first experience be. That never woke to meaner melody Than the rich songs of Heaven — To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round. While angels teach the ecstasies of sound ! Author Unknown. The WoNDERFir Wean. Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw ; It would tak me a lang simmer day to tell a' His pranks, frae the mornin' till night shuts his ee, When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father and me ; POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 43 For in his quite turns siccan questions he'll apier ! How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae clear? What gars the wind blaw ? and whar frae comes the rain ? He's a perfec' divirt — he's a vvonderfu' Avean ! Or wha was the first bodie's father ? and wha Made the vera first snaw-shooer that ever did fa'? And wha made the first bird that sang on a tree ? And the water that sooms a' the ships in the sea? But after I've told him as weel as I ken, Again he begins wi' his wha and his when ; And he looks aye sae wistfu' the whiles I explain : He's as auld as the hills — he's an auld- farrant wean. And folk wha hae skill o' the lumps on the head Hint there's mae ways than toilin' o' win- nin' ane's bread ; How he'll be a rich man, and hae men to work for him, Wi' a kyte like a baillie's, shug-shuggin' afore him ; Wi' a face like the moon — sober, sonsy, and douce — And a back, for its breadth, like the side o' a house. 'Tweel ! I'm unco ta'en up wi't — they mak a' sae plain. He's just a town's talk ; he's a by-ord'nar wean! I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat. To see him i)ut on father's waistcoat and hat; Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far owre his knees The tap-loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease; Then he marcb'd through the house, he march'd but, he march'd ben, Like owre mony mae o' our great little men, That I leuch clean outright, for I cou'dna contain : He was sic a conceit — sic an ancient-like wean ! But 'mid a' his daffin sic kindness he shows, That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose ; And the unclouded hinny-beam aye in his ee Maks him every day dearer and dearer to me. Though Fortune be saucy, and dorty, and dour, And gloom through her fingers like hills through a shooer. When bodies hae gat a bit bit bairn o' their ain, How he cheers up their hearts ! — he's a wonderfu' wean ! William Miller. Charity Children a t St. Pa ul's. 'TwAS on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean. The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green ; Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow. Oh, what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town. Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own ; The hum of multitudes was there, but mul- titudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song. Or like harmonious thunderiugs the seats of heaven among : Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guard- ians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. William Blake. 44 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Twenty-one. Grown to man's stature ! O my little child ! My bird that sought the skies so long ago! My fair, sweet blossom, pure and unde- filed. How have the years flown since we laid thee low ! What have they been to thee? If thou wert here. Standing beside thy brothers, tall and fair, With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining clear. And glints of summer sunshine in thy hair, I should look \x]) into thy face and say, Wavering, perhaps, between a tear and smile, " O my sweet son, thou art a man to- day !" And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips the while. But — up in heaven — how is it with thee, dear? Art thou a man — to man's full stature grown ? Dost thou count time, as we do, year by year ? And what of all earth's changes hast thou known? Thou hadst not learu'd to love me. Didst thou take Any small germ of love to heaven with thee, That thou hast watch'd and nurtured for my sake, Waiting till I its perfect flower may see ? What is it to have lived in heaven always ? To have no memory of pain or sin ? Ne'er to have known in all the calm, bright days The jar and fret of earth's discordant din? Thy brothers — they are mortal — they must tread Ofttimes in i-ough, hard ways, with bleed- ing feetj Must fight with dragons, must bewail their dead. And fierce Apollyon face to face must meet. I, who would give my very life for theirs- - I cannot save them from earth's pain oi loss; I cannot shield them from its griefs or cares ; Each human heart must bear alone its cross ! Was God, then, kinder unto thee than them, O thou whose little life was but a span? Ah, think it not ! In all his diadem No star shines brighter than the kingly man, Who nobly earns whatever crown he wears, Who grandly conquers or as grandly dies. And the white banner of his manhood bears Through all the years uplifted to the skies ! What lofty pteans shall the victor greet ! What crown resplendent for his brow be fit! child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet, Hast thou not something missed in miss- ing it ? Julia Caroline Dorr. The Child Musician. He had played for his lordship's levee. He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor little head was heavy, And the poor little brain would swim. And the face grew peaked and eerie. And the large eyes strange and bright. And they said — too late — " He is weary I He shall rest for at least to-night !" But at dawn, Avhen the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent room. With the sound of a strained cord breaking, A something snapped in the gloom. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 45 'Twas a string of his violoncello, And they heard him stir in his bed : — " Make room for a tired little fellow, Kind God !"— was the last that he said. Austin Dobson. The Sleeping Babe. The baby wept ; The mother took it from the nurse's arms. And soothed its griefs, and stilled its vain alarms, And baby slept. Again it weeps, And God doth take it from the mother's arms. From present pain and future unknown harms. And baby sleeps. Samuel Hinds. WHICH Shall it BEf " Which shall it be ? Which shall it be ?" I look'd at John — John look'd at me (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet) ; And when I found that I must speak. My voice seem'd strangely low and weak : " Tell me again what Robert said." And then I, listening, bent my head. " This is his letter : ' I will give A house and land while you shall live, If, in return, from out your seven, One child to me for aye is given.' " I look'd at John's old garments worn, I thought of all that John had borne Of poverty and work and care. Which I, though willing, could not share ; I thought of seven mouths to feed. Of seven little children's need, And then of this. " Come, John," said I, "We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep ;" so, walking hand in hand. Dear John and I survey'd our band. First to the cradle lightly stepp'd, Where the new nameless baby slept. "Shall it be Baby?" whispered John. I took his hand, and hurried on To Lily's crib. Her sleeping grasp Held her old doll within its clasp ; Her dark curls lay like gold alight, A glory 'gainst the pillow white. Softly her father stoop'd to lay His rough hand down in loving way, When dream or whisper made her stir, Then huskily said John," Not her, not her I" We stopp'd beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamplight shed Athwart the boyish faces there. In sleep so pitiful and fair ; I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek A tear undried. Ere John could speak, "He's but a baby, too," said I, And kiss'd him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robbie's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. "No, for a thousand crowns, not him !" We whisper'd, while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son. Turbulent, reckless, idle one- Could he be spared ? Nay ; He who gave Bids us befriend him to his grave ; Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he ; "And so," said John, " I would not dare To send him from her bedside prayer." Then stole we softly up above And knelt by Mary, child of love. "Perhaps for her 'twould better be," I said to John. Quite silently He lifted up a curl astray Across her cheek in wilful way, And shook his head : " Nay, love ; not thee," The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our eldest lad. Trusty and truthful, good and glad- So like his father. " No, John, no— I cannot, will not, let him go." And so we wrote, in courteous way. We could not give one child away ; And afterward toil lighter seem'd. Thinking of that of which we dream'd, Ha]ipy in truth that not one face We miss'd from its accustom'd place ; Thankful to work for all the seven, Trusting the rest to One in heaven. Ethel Lynn Beers. The CHILDREN'S Hour. Between the dark and the daylight. When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. 46 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence : Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall ! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall ! They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair ; If I try to escape, they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine. Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti. Because you have scaled the wall. Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all ? I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there Avill I keep you for ever. Yes, for ever and a day. Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. And moulder in dust away ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The Mitherless Bairn. When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin' ? 'T is the puir doited loonie, — the mitherless bairn 1 The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Nane covers his cauld back or haps his bare head ; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitheiless bairn. Aneatli his cauld brow siccan dreams hovei there O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn ! Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid ; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn. An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth ; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! Oh, speak him na harshly, — ^lie trembles the while. He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile ; In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn ! William Thom. The Orphan Bots Tale. Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless orphan's tale ; Ah, sure my looks must pity wake, — 'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale; Yet I was once a mother's pride. And my brave father's hope and joy ; POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 47 But in the Nile's proud fight he died, And I am now an orphan boy ! Poor, foolish child ! how pleased was I, When news of Nelson's victory came, Along the crowded streets to fly, To see the lighted windows flame ! To force me home my mother sought, — She could not bear to hear my joy ; For Avith my father's life 'twas bought, — And made me a poor orphan boy ! The people's shouts were long and loud ; My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; " Rejoice ! rejoice !" still cried the crowd, — My mother answer'd with her tears ! " Oh why do tears steal down your cheek," Cried I, "while others shout for joy?" She kiss'd me ; and in accents weak. She call'd me her poor orphan boy ! " What is an orj^han boy ?" I said ; When suddenly she gasp'd for breath, And her eyes closed ! I shi'iek'd for aid, But ah ! her eyes were closed in death. My hardships since I will not tell ; But now, no more a parent's joy. Ah, lady, I have learn'd too well What 'tis to be an orphan boy ! Oh, were I by your bounty fed ! — Nay, gentle lady, do not chide ; Trust me, I mean to earn my bread, — The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep ; what is't you say ? You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear jiarents ! look and see Your happy, happy orphan boy ! Amelia Opie. In School-Days. Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning ; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry-vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen. Deep scarred by raps oflicial ; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial ; The charcoal frescos on its wall ; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing ! Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting ; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls. And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled ; His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered ; — As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. " I'm sorry that I spelt the word : I hate to go above you. Because," — ^the brown eyes lower fell, — " Because, you see, I love you !" Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing ! He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss. Like her, — because they love him. John G. Whittier. To A Child of Quality. Five Years Old, MDCCIV., the Authob THEN Forty. Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band. That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters. Were summoned by her high command. To show their passions by their letters. 48 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. My pen among the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. Nor quality, nor reputation. Forbid me yet my flame to tell, Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. For, while she makes her silkworms beds With all the tender things I swear, Whilst all the house my passion reads In papers round her baby's hair, She may receive and own my flame ; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame. And I for an unhappy poet. Then too, alas ! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends. She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends. For, as our different ages move, 'Tissooi'dained (would Fate but mend it !) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it. Matthew Prior. A Farewell. My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long ; And so make life, death, and that vast for- ever One grand, sweet song. Charles Kingsley. My Child. I CANNOT make him dead : His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study-chair ; Yet, when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him. The vision vanishes — he is not there I I walk my parlor floor. And through the open door I hear a footfall on the chamber stair , I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call ; And then bethink me that — he is not there ! I thread the crowded street ; A satchell'd lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and color'd hair : And, as he's running by. Follow him with my eye. Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! I know his face is hid Under the coffin-lid ; Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; My hand that marble felt ; O'er it in prayer I knelt ; Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! I cannot make him dead ! When passing by the bed, So long watch'd over with parental care. My spirit and my eye Seek it inquiringly. Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake. With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy. To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer. Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! Not there ! Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear; POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 49 The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-ofF dress, Is but his wardrobe lock'd ; — he is not there I He lives ! In all the past He lives ; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now ; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, " Thou shaltsee me there/" Yes, we all live to God ! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear. That, in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that — he is there / ^ ^ John Pierpont. Lucy. She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the sjjrings of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love : A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, oh. The difference to me ! AViLLiAM Wordsworth. Three Years she Grew. Three years she grew in sun and shower ; Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower On earth was never sown ; This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. " Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse, and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. " She shall be sportive as the fawn. That wild with glee across the lawn 4 Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute, insensate things. " The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend : Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. " The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place, Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. " And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake ; the work was done — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene. The memory of what has been, And never more will be. William Wordswortk The Morning- Gl or y. We wreathed about our darling's head The morning-glory bright ; Her little face looked out beneath, So full of life and light. So lit as with a sunrise, That we could only say, " She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they." So always from that happy time We called her by their name. And very fitting did it seem ; For sure as morning came, Behind her cradle-bars she smiled To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day. But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue 50 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew ; And not so close their tendrils fine Kound their supports are thrown As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own. We used to think how she had come, ^ven as comes the flower, The last and perfect added gift To crown Love's morning hour ; And how in her was imaged forth The love we could not say. As on the little dewdrops round Shines back the heart of day. We never could have thought, God, That she must wither up Almost before a day was flown. Like the morning-glory's cup ; We never thought to see her droop Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes. Wilted, and cold, and dead ! The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round ; We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground ; The tender things the winter killed Eenew 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 ! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air. Her spirit to sustain ; But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee. Maria White Lowell. The Babe. Naked on parent's knees, a new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled : So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep, Thou then mayst smile while all around thee weep. Sir William Jones. The Three Sons. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old. With eyes of thoughtful earnestness and mind of gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face is fair — And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air ; I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grate- ful fervency. But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind — The food for grave, inquiring speech he everyAvhere doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together walk ; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk ; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perjjlext With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teacheth him to pray; And strange and sweet and solemn then are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years, like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; And when I look into his eyes and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel were 1 to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be. How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee ; POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 61 I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling. And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street. Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to glad- den home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love ; And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given. And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now. Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel. Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be— on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more tliis weary load of flesh. But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I) Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever ; But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be — When we muse on that world's perfect bliss and this world's misery — When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain — Oh, we'd rather lose our other two than have him here again ! John Moultrie. We are Seven. — A SIMPLE child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death ? I met a little cottage girl ; She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cluster'd round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air. And she was wildly clad : Her eyes were fair, and very fair — Her beauty made me glad. " Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" " How many ? Seven in all," she said. And wondering look'd at me. " And where are they ? I pray you tell '' She answer'd, " Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell. And two are gone to sea. " Two of us in the churchyard lie. My sister and my brother ; 52 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And in the churchyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother," " You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven ! I pi'ay you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be ?" Then did the little maid reply : " Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of us in the churchyard lie. Beneath the churchyard tree." " You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied, " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. And they are side by side. " My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem ; And there upon the ground I sit — I sit and sing to them. " And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And cat my supper there. " The first that died was little Jane ; In bed she moaning lay. Till God released her of her pain ; And then she went away. " So in the churchyard she was laid ; And when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we play'd, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." ' How many are you, then," said I, " If they two are in Heaven ?" The little maiden did reply, " Oh, master, we are seven !" " But they are dead — those two are dead. Their spirits are in Heaven !" 'Twas throwing words away, for still The little maid would have her will. And said, " Nay, we are seven !" William Wordsworth. The MOTHER'S Hope. Is there, Avhere the winds are singing In the happy summer-time, Where the raptured air is ringing With Earth's music heavenward springing, Forest chirp, and village chime ; Is there, of the sounds that float Minglingly, a single note Half so sweet, and clear, and wild. As the laughter of a child ? Listen ; and be now delighted. Morn hath touch'd her golden strings, Earth and sky their vows have plighted. Life and light are reunited, Amid countless carollings ; Yet, delicious as they are, There's a sound that's sweeter far — One that makes the heart rejoice More than all, — the human voice 1 Organ, finer, deeper, clearer. Though it be a stranger's tone ; Than the winds or waters dearer, More enchanting to the hearer, For it answereth his own. But of all its witching words, 'Sweeter than the songs of birds, Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child. Harmonies from time-touch'd towera, Haunted strains from rivulets, Hum of bees among the flowers, Bustling leaves, and silver showers, — - These ere long the ear forgets ; But in mine there is a sound Ringing on the wliole year round ; Heart-deep laughter that I heard, Ere my child could speak a word. Ah ! 'twas heard by ear far purer, Fondlier form'd to catch the strain- Ear of one Avhose love is surer ; Hers, the mother, the endurer Of the deei)est share of pain ; POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 53 Hers the deepest bliss, to treasure Memories of that cry of pleasure ; Hers to hoard, a lifetime after, Echoes of that infant laughter. Yes, a mother's large affection Hears with a mysterious sense ; Breathings that evade detection. Whisper faint, and fine inflection, Thrill in her with power intense. Childhood's honey'd tones untaught Heareth she, in loving thought ! Tones that never thence depart, For she listens — with her heart ! Laman Blanchard. The Gambols of Children. Down the dimpled green-sward dancing. Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy — Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, Love's irregular little levy. Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, How they glimmer, how they quiver ! sparkling one another after. Like bright ripples on a river. Tipsy band of rubious faces, Flush'd with Joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At Love's self, and do not fear it. Geokge Darley. Under 3iy Window. Under my window, under my window, All in the Midsummer weather. Three little girls with fluttering curls Flit to and fro together : — There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen. And Maud with her mantle of silver green, And Kate with her scarlet feather. Under my window, under my window. Leaning stealthily over. Merry and clear, the voice I hear. Of each glad-hearted rover. Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies. As merry as bees in clover. Lender my window, under my window, In the blue Midsummer weather, Stealing slow, on a hush'd tip-toe, I catch them all together: — Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with the scarlet feather. Under my window, under my window. And off through the orchard closes ; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies ; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses. Thomas Westwood. Boyhood. Ah ! then how sweetly closed those crowded days! The minutes parting one by one like rays, That fade upon a summer's eve. But oh ! what charm, or magic numbers Can give me back the gentle slumbers Those weary, happy days did leave ? When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this^' E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. Washington Allston. The Children in the Wool. Now ponder well, you parents deare, These wordes, which I shall write ; A doleful story you shall heare. In time brought forth to light : A gentleman of good account In Norfolke dwelt of late, Who did in honor far surmount Most men of his estate. Sore sicke he was, and like to dye, No helpe his life could save ; His wife by him as sicke did lye, And both possest one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kinde ; In love they liv'd, in love they dyedj And left two babes behinde : The one a fine and pretty boy. Not passing three yeares olde ; The other a girl more young than he. And fram'd in beautyes moulde. The father left his little son, As plainlye doth appeare, When he to perfect age should come. Three hundred poundes a yeare. 54 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And to his little daughter Jane Five hundred jjoundes in gold, To be paid downe on marriage-day, Which might not be controll'd ; But if the children chance to dye Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possesse their wealth. For so the wille did run. Now, brother, said the dying man, Look to my children deare ; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friendes else have they here : To God and you I recommend My children deare this daye ; But little while be sure we have Within this world to staye. You must be father and mother both. And uncle all in one ; God knowes what will become of them When I am dead and gone. With that bespake their mother deare, Oh brother kinde. quoth shee, You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or miserie : And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward ; But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deedes regard. With lippes as cold as any stone, They kist their children small : God bless you both, my children deare ; With that the teares did fall. These speeches then their brother spake To this sicke couple there : The keeping of your little ones. Sweet sister, do not feare : God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children deare, When you are layd in grave. The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And bringes them straite unto his house, Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a daye, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both awaye. He bargain'd with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young, And slaye them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale. He would the children send To be brought up in faire Lond6n, With one that was his friend. Away then went those pretty babes, Eejoycing at that tide, Eejoycing with a merry minde, They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they rode on the waye, To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives decaye : So that the pretty speeche they had, Made Murder's heart relent : And they that undertooke the deed Full sore did now repent. Yet one of them more hard of heart. Did vowe to do his charge, Because the wretch, that hired him, Had paid him very large. The other won't agree thereto. So here they fall to strife ; With one another they did fight, About the childrens life : And he that was of mildest mood, Did slaye the other there, Within an unfrequented Avood ; The babes did quake for feare ! He took the children by the hand, Teares standing in their eye. And bad them straitwaye follow him, And look they did not crye ; And two long miles he ledd them on. While they for food complaine : Staye here, quoth he, I'll bring you bread, When I come back againe. These pretty babes, with hand in hand. Went wandering up and downe. But never more could see the man Approaching from the towne : Their prettye lippes, with black-berries. Were all besmear'd and dyed. And, when they sawe the darksome night. They sat them downe and cry'd. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 55 Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till deathe did end their grief; In one anothers arms they dyed, As wanting due relief. No burial " this " pretty " pair " Of any man receives, Till Eobin-red-breast piously Did cover them with leaves. And now the heavy wrathe of God Upon their uncle fell ; Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house. His conscience felt an hell. His barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd, His landes were barren made ; His cattle dyed within the field, And nothing with him stayd. And in a voyage to Portugal Two of his sonnes did dye ; And to conclude, himselfe was brought To want and miserye : He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about. And now at length this wicked act Did by this meanes come out : The fellowe, that did take in hand These children for to kill. Was for a robbery judg'd to dye. Such was God's blessed will : Who did confess the very truth. As here hath been display'd : Their uncle having dyed in gaol. Where he for debt was layd. You that executors be made. And overseers eke Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek ; Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right. Lest God, with such like miserye, Y'^Dur wicked minds requite. Author Unknown. The Child and the Mourners. A LITTLE child, beneath a tree. Sat and chanted cheerily A little song, a plea^^ant song. Which was — slie sang it all day long — " When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; But a good God reigns over all." There pass'd a lady by the way. Moaning in the face of day : There were tears upon her cheek. Grief in her heart too great to speak ; Her husband died but yester-morn. And left her in the world forlorn. She stopp'd and listen'd to the child That look'd to heaven, and, singing, smiled ; And saw not, for her own despair. Another lady, young and fair. Who also passing, stopp'd to hear The infant's anthem ringing clear. For she but few sad days before Had lost the little babe she bore ; And grief was heavy at her soul As that sweet memory o'er her stole. And show'd how bright had been the past, The present drear and overcast. And fis they stood beneath the tree Listening, soothed and placidly, A youth came by, whose sunken eye^ Spake of a load of miseries ; And he, arrested like the twain, Stopp'd to listen to the strain. Death had bow'd the youthful head Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : Her marriage robes were fitted on. Her fair young face with blushes shone. When the destroyer smote her low. And changed the lover's bliss to woe. And these three listen'd to the song. Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, Which that child, the livelong day. Chanted to itself in play : " When the wind blows the blossoms fall • But a good God reigns over all." The widow's lips impulsive moved ; The mother's grief, though unrepioved, Soften'd, as her trembling tongue Eepeated what the infant sung ; And the sad lover, with a start, Conn'd it over to his heart. And though the child— if child it were. And not a seraph sitting there — Was seen no more, the sorrowing three Went on their way resignedly, 56 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The song still ringing in their ears — Was it music of the spheres ? Who shall tell ? They did not know. But in the midst of deepest woe The strain recurr'd, when sorrow grew, To warn them, and console them too : " When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; But a good God reigns over all." Charles Mackay. Lucy Gray-, or, Solitude. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ; And, when I cross'd the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door. You yet may spy the fawn at play. The hare upon the green, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will nevermore be seen. " To-night will be a stormy night ; You to the town must go, And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow." " That, father, will I gladly do ; 'Tis scarcely afternoon ; The minster clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon." At this the father raised his hook. And snapp'd a fagot-band ; He plied his work ; and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe : With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time : She wander'd up and down. And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reach'd the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide. But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlook'd the moor. And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept, and turning homeward, cried, " In heaven we all shall meet :" When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Half breathless, from the steep hill's edge They track'd the foot-marks small, And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the long stone wall. And then an ojien field they cross'd : The marks were still the same ; They track'd them on, nor ever lost, And to the bridge they came. They follow'd from the snowy bank Those foot-marks one by one, Into the middle of the plank, And further there were none. Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child ; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind ; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. William Wordsworth. The Widow and Child. Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry : All her maidens, watching, said, " She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved. Truest friend and noblest foe ; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept. Took the face-cloth from the face ; Yet she neither moved nor wept. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 57 Bose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee — Like summer tempest came her tears — "Sweet my child, I live for thee." Alfred Tennyson. TffE Schoolmistress. Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn. To think how modest worth neglected lies ; While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise ; Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous em- prize : Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies ; Such as I oft have chancfed to espy. Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. In every village mark'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells in lowly shed, and mean at- tire, A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name ; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Awed by the pow'r of this relentless dame ; And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent. For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree. Which learning near her little dome did stow ; Whilom a twig of small regard to see. The' now so wide its waving branches flow ; And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew. But their limbs shudder'd and their pulse beat low ; And as they look'd they found their horror grew, And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. So have I seen (who has not, may con- ceive) A lifeless phantom near a garden placed ; So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast : Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste ! Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. Near to this dome is found a patch so green. On which the tribe their gambols do display ; And at the door impris'ning board is seen, Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray, Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! The noises intermix'd, which thence re- sound. Do learning's little tenement betray : Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound. And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow. Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow. As is the harebell that adorns the field: And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays ; with anxious fear entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd ; And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd, And fury uncontroll'd and chastisement unkind. Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet portray'd, The childish faces of old Eol's train ; Libs, Notus, Auster ; these in frowns ar- ray'd, How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main. 58 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein ? And were not she rebellious breasts to quell, And were not she her statutes to main- tain, The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell, iVhere comely peace of mind and decent order dwell. A. russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own ; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair ; 'Twas her own labor did the fleece pre- pare ; And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around. Through pious awe, did term it passing rare ; For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, Ne pompous title did debauch her ear ; Goody, good woman, gossip, n' aunt, for- sooth. Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear : Ne would esteem him act as mought be- hove. Who should not honor'd eld with these revere ; For never title yet so mean could prove. But there was eke a mind which did that title love. One ancient hen she took delight to feed. The plodding pattern of the busy dame. Which ever and anon, impell'd by need. Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ; Such favor did her past deportment claim ; And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same. For well she knew, and quaintly could ex- pound, What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could sjjeak That in her garden sipp'd the silv'ry dew, Where no vain flow'r disclosed a gaudy streak ; But herbs for use and physic, not a few. Of gray renown, within those borders grew : The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme. Fresh balm, and marygold of cheerful hue. The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme. Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around ; And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue. And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reap- er's wound. And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posie found. And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall beerewhile in arid bundles bound, To lurk amidst the labors of her loom. And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perfume. And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd The daintiest garden of the proudest peer, Ere, driven from its envied site, it found A sacred shelter for its branches here ; Where, edged with gold, its glitt'ring skirts appear. Oh, wassel days ! oh, customs meet and well! Ere this was banish'd from his lofty sphere : Simplicity then sought this humble cell, Nor ever would she more with thane and lordlins; dwell. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 59 Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, Hymnfed such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete ; If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, But in her garden found a summer- seat: Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king. While taunting foemen did a song en- treat, All, for the nonce, untuning ev'ry string, Uphung their useless lyres; small heart had they to sing. For she Avas just, and friend to virtuous lore. And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed. And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore The times when truth by popish rage did bleed. And tortuous death was true devotion's meed, And simple faith in iron chains did mourn. That nould on wooden image placed her creed. And lawny saints in smould'ring flames did burn ; Alj ! dearest Lord, forfend thilk days should e'er return ! In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem, By the sharp tooth of cank'ring eld de- faced, In which, when he receives his diadem. Our sov'reign prince and liefest liege is placed. The matron sate ; and some with rank she graced (The source of children's and of cour- tiers* pride), Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd. And warn'd them not the fretful to de- ride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide. Right well she knew each temper to descry : To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise ; Some with vile copper prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise;" And other some with baneful sprig she 'frays : Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks be- hold, 'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. Lo now with state she utters the command ! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; Their books of stature small they take in hand. Which with pellucid horn secured are ; To save from fingers wet the letters fair : The work so gay, that on their back is seeni, St. George's high achievements does de- clare ; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been. Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween ! Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the beam Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write ! As erst the bard by MuUa's silver stream, Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite. For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight ! And down they drop ; appears his dainty skin. Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. Oh, ruthful scene ! when from a nook ob- scure His little sister doth his peril see : All playful as she sate, she grows demure ; She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee ; She meditates a pray'r to set him free ; Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) To her sad grief that swells in either eye. And wrings her so that all for pity she. could die. 60 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. No longer can she now her shrieks com- mand ; And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand. To stay hard justice in its mid career. On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear ! (Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow ! ) She sees no kind domestic visage near. And soon a flood of tears begins to flow ; And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. But, ah ! what pen his piteous plight may trace ? Or what device his loud laments ex- plain? The form uncouth of his disguised face ? The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain? The plenteous shower that does his cheek disdain ? When he in abject-wise implores the dame, Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; Or when from high she levels well her aim, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke proclaim. The other tribe aghast, with sore dismay. Attend, and con their tasks with mickle care: By turns, astonied, ev'ry twig survey. And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, beware ; Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share ; Till fear has taught them a performance meet. And to the well-known chest the dame repair ; Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth 'em greet. And ginger-bread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet! See to their seats they hie with merry glee, And in beseemly order sitteu there ; All but the wight of .bum y-gallfed ; he Abhorreth bench, and stool, and form, and chair (This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his hair) ; And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast, Convulsions intermitting ! does declare His grievous wrongs; his dame's unjust behest, And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be caress'd. His face besprent with liquid crystal shines. His blooming face that seems a purple flow'r Which low to earth its drooping head de- clines. All smear'd and sullied by a vernal show'r. Oh, the hard bosoms of despotic pow'r ! All, all, but she, the author of his shame, All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour : Yet hence the youth, and hence the flow'r shall claim. If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame. Behind some door, in melancholy thought^ Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiflf! pines; Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught, But to the wind all merriment re- signs ; And deems it shame if he to peace in- clines; And many a. sullen look askance is sent. Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ; And still the more to pleasure him she's bent. The more doth he, perverse, her 'havior past resent. Ah, me ! how much I fear lest pride it be! But if that pride it be, which thus in- spires. Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires : POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 61 Ah, better far than 9,11 the muses' lyres, All coward arts, is valor's gen'rous heat ; The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires, Like Vernon's patriot soul ; more justly great Than craft that pimps for ill, or flow'ry false deceit. Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear ! Ev'n now sagacious foresight points to show A little bench of heedless bishops here ! And there a chancellor in embryo. Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so, As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die ! Though now he crawl along the ground so low, Nor weeting how the muse should soar on high, Wisheth, poor starv'ling elf! his paper kite may fly. And this perhaps, who censuring the design. Low lays the house which that of cards doth build, Shall Dennis be ! if rigid fates incline, And many an epic to his rage shall yield ; And many a poet quit th' Aonian field ; And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear. As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd. Surveys mine work ; and levels many a sneer. And furls his wrinkly front,' and cries, "What stuff is here?" But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky, And liberty unbars her jDrison-door ; And like a rushing torrent out they fly. And now the grassy cirque han cover'd o'er With boist'rous revel-rout and wild uproar ; A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, Heav'n shield their short-lived pastimes I implore For well may freedom, erst so dearly won. Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flow'rs ; For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid ; For never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly castles, or in ladies' bow'rs. Oh, vain to seek delight in, earthly thing! But most in courts where proud ambi- tion tow'rs ; Deluded wight, Avho weens fair peace can spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. See in each sprite some various bent appear ! These rudely carol most incondite lay ; Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer Salute the stranger passing on his way ; Some builden fragile tenements of clay ; Some to the standing lake their courses bend. With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play ; Thilk to the huxter's sav'ry cottage tend, In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend. Here, as each season yields a different store. Each season's stores in order ranged been ; Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er, Galling full sore th' unmoney'd wight, are seen ; And goose-b'rie clad in liv'iy red or green ; And here of lovely dye, the cath'rine pear, ■ Fine pear ! as lovely for thy juice I ween. Oh, may no wight e'er penniless come there. Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless care I See ! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, With thread so white in tempting posies tied, Scattering like blooming maid their glances round. With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside ; 62 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. And must be bought, though penury- betide. The plum all azure, and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide, Whose honor'd names th' inventive city- own, Rend'ring through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known. Admired Salopia ! that with venial pride Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave. Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried, Her daughters lovely and her striplings brave : Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave. Whose art did first these dulcet cates dis- play ! A motive fair to learning's imps he gave. Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray ; Till reason's morn arise, and light them on their Avay. William Shenstone. The Children. When the lessons and tasks are all ended. And the school for the day is dismiss'd. The little ones gather around me. To bid me good-night and be kiss'd : Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in their tender embrace ! Oh the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! And when they are gone I sit dreaming Of my childhood, too lovely to last : Of joy that my heart will remember While it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin ; "When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony. Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them. Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild ; Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child ! They are idols of hearts and of households; They are angels of God in disguise ; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still gleams in their eyes. Those truants from home and from heaven. They have made me more manly and mild, And I know now how Jesus could liken The kingdom of God to a child. I ask not a life for the dear ones, All radiant, as others have done. But that life may have just enough shadow To temi^er the glare of the sun : I would pray God to guard them from evil. But my prayer would bound back to myself ; Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so easily bended, I have banish'd the rule and the rod ; I have taught them the goodness of know- ledge. They have taught me the goodness of God; My heart is the dungeon of darkness. Where I shut them for breaking a rule ; My frown is sufficient correction ; My love is the law of the school. I shall leave the old house in the autumn, To traverse its threshold no more ; Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door ! I shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning for me. I shall miss them at morn and at even. Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their delicate feet. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 63 When the lessons of life are all ended, And Death says, "The school is dis- miss'd !" May the little ones gather around me, To bid me good-night, and be kiss'd ! Charles M. Dickinson. THE Cry of the Children. Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers. Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers. And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest. The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west — But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in their sorrow Why their tears are falling so ? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago ; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost : But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland ? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see. For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy ; "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary. Our young feet," they say, "are very weak ; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — Our grave-rest is very far to seek : Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, • And the graves are for the old. " True," say the children, " it may happen That we die before our time : Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her : Was no room for any work in the close clay! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, * Get up little Alice ! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries ; Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her. For the smile has time for growing in her eyes : And merry go her moments, lull'd and still'd in The shroud by the kirk-chime. It is good when it happens," say the children, " That we die before our time." Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have : They are binding up their hearts away from breaking. With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city. Sing out, children, as the little thrishes do ; Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cow- slips pretty, Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! 64 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds a-near the mine ? Leave us quiet in tlie dark of the coal- sliadows, From your pleasures fair and fine ! '■' For oh," say the children, " we are weary, And we cannot run or leap ; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; And, underneath our heavy eyelids droop- ing. The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For all day we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark, underground ; Or all day we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. '' For all day the wheels are droning, turn- ing ; Their wind comes in our faces, rill our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning. And the walls turn in their places : Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall. Turn the black flies that craAvl along the ceiling. All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day the iron wheels are droning. And sometimes we could pray, ' O ye wheels ' (breaking out in a mad moaning) ' Stop ! be silent for to-day !' " Ay, be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth I Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that this cold metallic mo- tion Is not all the life God fashions or re- veals ; Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark ; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward. Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers. To look up to Him and pray ; So the blessed One who blesseth all the others. Will bless them another day. They answer, " Who is God, that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirr'd ? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. And ire hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door : Is it likely God, Avith angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more ? "Two words, indeed, of praying we re- member. And at midnight's hour of harm, ' Our Father,' looking upward in the cham- ber. We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except ' Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather. And hold both within His right hand which is strong. ' Our Father !' If He heard us He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, ' Come and rest with me, my child.' POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 65 "But no!" say the children, weeping faster, " He is speechless as a stone : And they tell us of His image is the master, Who commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children, — "up in heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us ; grief has made us un- believing : We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach ? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving. And the children doubt of each. And well may the children weep before you ! They are weary ere they run ; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man, without its wisdom ; They sink in man's despair, without its calm ; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christ- dom. Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm : Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap, — Are orphans of the earthly love and heav- enly. Let them weep ! let them weep ! They look up with their pale and sunken faces. And their look is dread to see. For they 'mind you of their angels in high places. With eyes turned on Deity. " How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation. Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, — Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpita- tion. And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? 6 Our blood splashes upward, gold- heaper, And your purple shows your path ! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath." Elizabeth Bakrett Browning. To A Highland Girl. (At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.) Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head : And, these gray Kocks ; this household Lawn ; These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent Lake ; This little Bay, a quiet Eoad That holds in shelter thy Abode ; In truth, together do ye seem Like something fashion'd in a dream ; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep ! Yet, dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart : God shield thee to thy latest years ! I neither know thee nor thy peers ; And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away : For never saw I mien or face. In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Eipening in perfect innocence. Here scatter'd like a random seed, Eemote from men, thou dost not need The embarrass'd look of shy distress. And maidenly shamefacedness : Thou wear'st upon thy forehead cleai The freedom of a Mountaineer : A face with gladness overspread .' Soft smiles by human kindness bred ! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays : With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech r 66 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife That gives tliy gestures grace and life ! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful ? Oh happy pleasure ! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell ; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A Shepherd, thou a Sheijherdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality : Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea : and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see I Thy elder Brother I would be, Thy Father, anything to thee ! Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had ; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : Then, why should I be loth to stir ? I feel this place was made for her ; To give new pleasure like the past. Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though j^leased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; For I, methinks, till I grow old. As fair before me shall behold. As I do now, the Cabin small, The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall ; And thee, the Spirit of them all ! William Wordsworth. Maidenhood. Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes. In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies ! Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreath'd in one. As the braided streamlets run ! Standing, with reluctant feet. Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet ! Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance. On the river's broad expanse \ Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream. Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye. Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafen'd by the cataract's roar? O thou child of many prayers ! Life hath quicksands, — life hath snares j Care and age come unawares. Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon. May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough, where slumber'd Birds and blossoms many-number'd : — Age, that bough with snows encumber'd. Gather, then, each flower that groAvs, When the young heart overflows. To embalm that tent of snows. Bear a lily in thy hand ; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth. On thy lips the smile of truth. Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal. Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. G7 The Blind Boy. Oh, say what is that thing call'd Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy? What are the blessings of the sight, Oh, tell your ijoor blind boy ! You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright ; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night ? My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play ; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe ; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know. The^i let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy ; Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy. COLLEY ClBBER. Hows 31 Y Boy? " Ho, sailor of the sea ! How's my boy — my boy ?" " What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he ?" " My boy John- He that went to sea — What care I for the ship, sailor ? My boy's my boy to me. " You come back from sea, And not know my John ? I might as well have ask'd some lands- man Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But knj)ws my John " HoAv's my boy — my boy ? And unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor, Bluejacket or no, Brass buttons or no, sailor. Anchor and crown or no! Sure his ship was the ' Jolly Briton ' " — "Speak low, woman, speak low!" " And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John ? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town ! Why should I speak low, sailor ?" " That good ship went down." " How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the ship, sailor, I was never aboard her ? Be she afloat or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound Her owners can afford her ! I say, how's my John ?" " Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." " How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the men, sailor ? I'm not their mother — How's my boy — my boy ? Tell me of him and no other ! How's my boy — my boy?" Sydney Dobell. The Night Before Christmas, 'TwAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar -plums danced through their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my ^ cap. Had just settled our brains for a long win- ter's nap. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash. Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below ; 68 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name : "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Pran- cer ! now. Vixen I On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzen !— To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall ! Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all !" As dry leaves that before the wild hurri- cane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew. With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nich- olas too. And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dress'd all in fur from his head to his foot. And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot ; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he look'd like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled I his dimples how merry ! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry. His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth. And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump — a right jolly old elf— And I laugh'd when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spake not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings ; then turn'd with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle ; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night !" Clement C. Moore. Introduction to "Songs of Innocence." Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me : " Pipe a song about a lamb !" So I piped with merry cheer. " Piper, pipe that song again;" So I piped ; he wept to hear. " Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; Sing thy songs of happy cheer !" So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. " Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read." So he vanish'd from my sight ; And I pluck'd a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Eveiy child may joy to hear. William Blake. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 69 The May Queen. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day ; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud, when the day begins to break : But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May. As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel tree ? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday — But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the IMay. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there too, mother, to see me made the queen ; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; There will not be a droji of rain the whole of the livelong day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the mad- dest, merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. New- Year's Eve. If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 70 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. To night I saw the sun set : he set and left I You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath behind the hawthorn shade. The good old year, the dear old time, and j And you'll come sometimes and see me all my peace of mind ; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but 1 shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tojis. There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm tree, where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow And you see me carried out from the lea. And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine. In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill. When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. threshold of the door ; Don't let Efiie come to see me till my grave be growing green : She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden-tools upon the gran- ary floor : Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. POETRY OF INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD. 71 Conclusion. I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! To die before the snow-drop came, and now the violet's here. Oh, sweet is the new violet, that comes be- neath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise. And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet, His will be done ! But still I think it can't be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. Oh, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair. And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! Ohj blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in ; Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat. There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet ; But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effic on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd. And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said. For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping, and I said, " It's not for them, it's mine ;" And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am pass'd away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; There's many a worthier than I would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife, But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 72 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Oh, look ! the sun begins to rise, the heav- ens are in a glow ; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun. For ever and for ever with those just souls and true ; And what is life that Ave should moan ? why make we such ado ? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home. And there to wait a little while till you and EfRe come. To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast, And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. Alfred Tennyson. Good-night and Good-horning. A FAIR little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see ; Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, " Dear work, good-night, good- night!" Such a number of rooks came over her head, Crying " Caw ! caw !" on their way to bed, She said, as she watched their curious flight, "Little black things, good-night, good- night !" The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed. The sheep's " Bleat ! bleat !" came over the road ; All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, " Good little girl, good-night, good-night!" She did not say to the sun, " Good-night !" Thougli she saw him there like a ball of light ; For she knew he had God's time to keep All over the world, and never could sleep. The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ; The violets curtsied, and went to bed ; And good little Lucy tied up her hair. And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. And while on her pillow she softly lay. She knew nothing more till again it was day; And all things said to the beautiful sun, " Good-morning, good-morning ! our work is begun." Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghtou). Little Boy Blue. The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands ; And the little toy soldier is red with rust. And his musket molds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was passing fair , And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. " Now, don't you go till I come," he said, " And don't you make any noise ! " So, toddling off* to his trundle-bed. He dreamt of his pretty toys ; And, as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue — Oh ! the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true ! Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place — Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face ; And they wonder, as waiting the long years through In the dust of that little chair. What has become of our Little Boy Blue, Since he kissed them and put them there. Eugene Field. Poems OF Memory and Retrospection. / Remember, I Remember. I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born. The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn : He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day ; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away. I remember, I remember. The roses, red and white ; The violets and the lily-cups. Those flowers made of light ! The lilacs where the robin built. And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday, — The tree is living yet ! I remember, I remember. Where I was used to swing ; And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing : My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow ! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky : It was a childish ignorance. But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off" from heaven Than when I was a boy. Thomas Hood. The Old Arm- Chair. I LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there ; And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I linger'd near The hallow'd seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watch'd her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray : And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled. And turn'd from her Bible, to bless her child. Years roll'd on : but the last one sped — My idol was shatter'd ; my earth-star fled : I learnt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 73 74 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 'Twas there she nursed me ; 'twas there she died : And Memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. Eliza Cook. Rock me to Sleep. Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight. Make me a child again just for to-night ! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore ; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years I am so weary of toil and of tears, — Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — Take them, and give me my childhood again ! I have grown weary of dust and decay, — Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — Kock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother ! O mother ! my heart calls for you ! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossom'd, and faded our faces between, Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone ; No other worshiji abides and endures, — Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours : None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listen'd your lullaby song : Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasp'd to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweej)ing my face. Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Elizabeth Akees Allen. The Old Oaken Bucket. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood. When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood. And every loved sjjot which my infancy knew ; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it. The bridge and the rock where the cat- aract fell ; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it. And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well : POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 75 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure ; For often, at noon, when return'd from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing ! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- flowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well : The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it. As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it. Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupi- ter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation. The tear of regret will intrusively swell. As fancy reverts to my father's planta- tion. And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well : The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket, which hangs in the well. Samuel Woodworth. Wood 31 AN, Spare that Treei Woodman, spare that tree ! Touch not a single bough ! In youth it shelter'd me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot : There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not ! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea — And would'st thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! Cut not its earth-bound ties ; Oh, spare that agfed oak. Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade ; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters play'd. My mother kiss'd me here ; My father press'd my hand — Forgive this foolish tear. But let that old oak stand ! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend ! Here shall the wild bird sing. And still thy branches bend. Old tree ! the storm still brave ! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save. Thy axe shall harm it not ! George P. Mokkis. The Stranger on the Sill. Between the broad fields of wheat and corn 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 cross'd 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. re FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. And watch'd 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; Twas 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. O 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 pass'd within that scented door To gladden eyes that are no more. Deal kindly with these orchard trees ; And when your children crowd your knees. Their sweetest fruit they shall impart. As if old memories stirr'd their heart : To youthful sport still leave the swing. And in sweet reverence hold the spring. Thomas Buchanan Kead. THE OLD Clock on the Stairs. Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashion'd country-seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw : And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" Halfway up the stairs it stands. And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak. Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" By day its voice is low and light ; But in the silent dead of night. Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall. Along the ceiling, along the floor. And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — " Forever — never 1 Never — forever !" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. And as if, like God, it all things saw. It calmly repeats those words of awe, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality ; His great fires up the chimney roar'd ; The stranger feasted at his board ; But, like the skeleton at the feast. That warning timepiece never ceased, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" There groups of merry children play'd, There youths and maidens dreaming stray'd ; O precious hours ! O golden prime. And affluence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding- night ; There, in that silent room below. The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; And in the hush that follow'd the prayer. Was heard the old clock on the stair, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever I" All are scatter'd now and fled. Some are married, some are dead ; And when I ask with throbs of pain, " Ah I when shall they all meet again, As in the days long since gone by?" The ancient timepiece makes reply, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care. POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 77 And death, and time shall disappear,— Forever there, but never here I The horologe of Eternity Bayeth this incessantly, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" Henry Wadswokth Longfellow. The Old Familiar Faces. I HAVE had playmates, I have had com- panions. 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 carous- in or 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 ab- ruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to trav- erse. Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. Why wert not thou 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 de- parted, — A.11, all are gone, the old familiar faces. Charles Lamb. Oft, in the Stilly Night. Oft, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me ; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years. The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone. Now dimm'd and gone. The cheerful hearts now broken 1 Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather ; I feel like one. Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed ! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Thomas Moore. Saturday Afternoon. I LOVE to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, A.nd 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 walk'd 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. 78 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. It is very true ; it is very true ; I'm old, and I " bide my time ;" 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 smother'd 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. T]V£:jvty Yea as Ago. I've wander'd to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree. Upon the school-house play-ground, which shelter'd you and me ; But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know. That play'd with us upon the grass some twenty years ago. The grass is just as green, Tom — barefooted boys at play, Were sporting just as we did then, with spirits just as gay; But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow, A.flbrded us a sliding-place, just twenty years ago. The old school-house is alter'd some, the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our pen- knives had defaced ; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro. It's music, just the same, dear Tom, 'twas twenty years ago. The boys were playing some old game, beneath the same old tree — I do forget the name just now; you've play'd the same with me On that same spot ; 'twas play'd with knives, by throwing so and so, The loser had a task to do, there, just twenty years ago. The river's running just as still, the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom, the stream appears less wide ; But the grapevine swing is ruin'd now where once w^e play'd the beau, And swung our sweethearts — " pretty girls " — just twenty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very Ioav — 'twas once so high that we could almost reach ; And kneeling down to get a drink, dear ■-■ Tom, I even started so ! To see how much that I am changed since twenty years ago. Near by the spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same — Some heartless wretch had peel'd the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow. Just as the one whose name was cut, died twenty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came in my eyes, I thought of her I loved so well — those early broken ties — I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strew Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago. Some are in the churchyard laid, some sleep beneath the sea, But few are left of our old class, except- ing you and me. And when our time is come, Tom, and we are call'd to go, I hope they'll lay us where we play'd, just twenty years ago. Author Unknown POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 79 School and School-fellows. ''Floreat Etona." Twelve years ago I made a mock Of filthy trades and traffics : 1 wonder'd what they meant by stock ; I wrote delightful sapphics ; I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, I supp'd with Fates and Furies ; Twelve years ago I was a boy, A happy boy at Drury's. Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought Of faded pains and pleasures Those whisper'd syllables have brought From Memory's hoarded treasures ! The fields, the farms, the bats, the books. The glories and disgraces. The voices of dear friends, the looks Of old familiar faces I Kind Mater smiles again to me, As bright as when we parted ; I seem again the frank, the free, Stout-limb'd and simple-hearted ! Pursuing every idle dream. And shunning every warning ; With no hard work but Bovney stream. No chill except Long Morning : Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball That rattled like a rocket ; Now hearing Wentworth's "Fourteen all!" And striking for the pocket ; Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — Now drinking from the pewter ; Now leaping over Chalvey ditch, Now laughing at my tutor. Where are my friends? I am alone; No playmate shares my beaker : Some lie beneath the churchyard stone. And some — before the Speaker ; And some compose a tragedy. And some compose a rondo ; And some draw sword for Liberty, And some draw pleas for John Doe. Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes Without the fear of sessions ; Charles Medlar loath'd false quantities. As much as false professions ; Now Mill keeps order in the laud, A magistrate pedantic ; And Medlar's feet repose unscann'd Beneath the wide Atlantic. Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din. Does Dr. Martext's duty ; And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, Is married to a beauty ; And Darrel studies, week by week. His Mant, and not his Manton ; And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, Is very rich at Canton. And I am eight-and-twenty now ; — The world's cold chains have bound me; And darker shades are on my brow, And sadder scenes around me : In Parliament I fill my seat. With many other noodles ; And lay my head in Jermyn street, And sip my hock at Boodle's. But often, when the cares of life Have set my temples aching, When visions haunt me of a wife, When duns await my waking. When Lady Jane is in a pet. Or Hoby in a hurry, When Captain Hazard wins a bet, Or Beaulieu spoils a curry, — For hours and hours I think and talk Of each remember'd hobby ; I long to lounge in Poets' Walk, To shiver in the lobby ; I wish that I could run away From House, and Court, and Levee, AVhere bearded men appear to-day Just Eton boys, grown heavy, — That I could bask in childhood's sun, And dance o'er childhood's roses. And find huge wealth in one pound one. Vast wit in broken noses, And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, And call the milkmaids Houris, — That I could be a boy again, — A happy boy,— at Drury's. WiNTHROP MACKWOKTH PRAEU A Reflective Retrospect. 'Tis twenty years, and something more. Since, all athirst for useful knowledge, 80 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. I took some draughts of classic lore, Drawn very mild, at rd College ; Yet I remember all that one Could wish to hold in recollection ; The boys, the joys, the noise, the fun ; But not a single Conic Section. I recollect those harsh affairs. The morning bells, that gave us panics ; I recollect the formal prayers, That seemed like lessons in Mechanics; T recollect the drowsy way In which the students listen'd to them. As clearly, in my wig, to-day. As when a boy I slumber'd through them. T recollect the tutors all As freshly now, if I may say so, As any chapter I recall. In Homer or Ovidius Naso. I recollect extremely well " Old Hugh," the mildest of fanatics ; I well remember Matthew Bell, But very faintly Mathematics. I recollect the prizes paid For lessons fathom'd to the bottom ; (Alas that pencil-marks should fade!) I recollect the chaps who got 'em, — The light equestrians who soar'd O'er every passage reckon'd stony ; And took the chalks,— but never scored A single honor to the pony I Ah me I what changes Time has wrought, And liow predictions have miscarried ! A few have reach'd the goal they sought. And some are dead, and some are mar- ried ! And some in city journals war ; And some as politicians bicker ; And some are pleading at the bar — For jury-verdicts, or for liquor ! And some on Trade and Commerce wait ; And some in school with dunces battle ; And some the gospel propagate ; And some the choicest breeds of cattle ; And some are living at their ease ; And some were wreck'd in " the revul- sion ;" Some serve the State for handsome fees, And one, I hear. Upon compulsion ! Lamont, who, in his college days, Thought e'en a cross a moral scandal, Has left his Puritanic ways, And worships now with bell and candle .: And Mann, who mourn'd the negro's fate, And held the slave as most unlucky, Now holds him, at the market rate, On a plantation in Kentucky ! Tom Knox — who swore in such a tone It fairly might be doubted whether It was really himself alone. Or Knox and Erebus together — Has grown a very alter'd man, And, changing oaths for mild entreaty, Now recommends the Christian plan To savages in Otaheite I Alas for young ambition's vow ! How envious Fate may overthrow it I — Poor Harvey is in Congress now, Who struggled long to be a poet ; Smith carves (quite well) memorial stones. Who tried in vain to make the law go ; Hall deals in hides ; and " Pious Jones " Is dealing faro in Chicago ! And, sadder still, the brilliant Hays, Once honest, manly, and ambitious. Has taken latterly to ways Extremely profligate and vicious ; By slow degrees — I can't tell how — He's reach'd at last the very groundsel, And in New York he figures now, A member of the Common Council ! John G. Saxe. The Boys. Has there any old fellow got mix'd with the boys ? If there has, take him out, without mak- ing a noise. Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Cata- logue's spite ! Old Time is a liar ! We're twenty to-night ! We're twenty ! We're twenty I Who says we are more ? He's tipsy, — young jackanapes ! — show him the door I P0E3IS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 81 "Gray temples at twenty ?"— Yes ! white, if we please ; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze! Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake ! Look close,— you will see not a sign of a flake! We want some new garlands for those we have shed, — And these are white roses in place of the red. We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old : That boy we call " Doctor," and this we call "Judge";— It's a neat little fiction, — of course it's all fudge. That fellow's the " Speaker," — the one on the right ; " ]Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!" You hear that boy laughing ? — You think he's all fun ; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop tc his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all I Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue or with pen; And I sometimes have ask'd. Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay. Till the last dear companion drops smil- ing away? Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! That's our " Member of Congress," we say The stars of its winter, the dews of its when we chaft"; Mav ! There's the " Reverend " What's his name ? '< And when we have done with our life-last- — don't make me laugh ! That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book. And the Royal Society thought it was true / So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was too ! There's a boy, we pretend, with a three- decker brain, That could harness a team with a logical chain ; When he spoke for our manhood in syl- labled fire, We call'd him " The Justice," but now he's "The Squire." A.nd there's a nice youngster of excellent pith, — Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith ; 6 ing toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children. The Boys. Oliver Wendell HoLMKa AuLD Lang Syne. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And auld lang syne ? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. And surely ye'll be your pint stowp I And surely I'll be mine ! And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang svne. 82 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. We twa lia'e run about the braes, And pou'd the gowans fine ; But we've wander'd mony a weary fitt Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. We twa ha'e paidl'd in the burn, Frae morning sun till dine ; But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. And there's a hand, my trusty fiere ! And gie's a hand o' thine ! And we'll tak' a right gude-willie waught, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. Robert Burns. My Playmate. The pines were dark on Eamoth hill. Their song was soft and low ; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet. The orchard birds sang clear ; The sweetest and the saddest day It seem'd of all the year. For, more to me than birds or flowers. My playmate left her home. And took with her the laughing spring. The music and the bloom. She kiss'd the lips of kith and kin. She laid her hand in mine : What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine ? She left us in the bloom of May : The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns, But she came back no more. I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years ; Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears. She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow ; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go. There haply with her jewell'd hands She smooths her silken gown, — No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down. The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The browu nuts on the hill. And still the May-day flowers make sweel The woods of Follymill. The lilies blossom in the pond. The bird builds in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea. I wonder if she thinks of them. And how the old time seems, — If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams. I see her face, I hear her voice : Does she remember mine ? And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father's kine? What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours, — That other hands with nuts are fill'd, And other laps with flowers ? O playmate in the golden time I Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet- The old trees o'er it lean. The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow ; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago. And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea, — The moaning of the sea of change Between myself and thee ! John Green leaf Whittiee. POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 83 I Hae Kaebody now. I HAE naebody now, I hae naebody now, To meet me upon the green, Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow, An' joy in her deep blue e'en ; Wi' the raptured kiss, an' the happy smile. An' the dance o' the lightsome fay. An' the wee bit tale o' news the while That had happen'd when I was away. X hae naebody now, I hae naebody now. To clasp to my bosom at even, O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow, An' pray for a blessing from Heaven ; An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face, In the morning that met my eye, Where are they now? where are they now? In the cauld, cauld grave they lie. There's naebody kens, there's naebody kens, An' oh, may they never prove. That sharpest degree o' agony For the child o' their earthly love. To see a flower, in its vernal hour. By slow degrees decay. Then calmly aneath the hand o' death. Breathe its sweet soul away ' Oh, dinna break, my poor auld heart. Nor at thy loss repine. For the unseen hand that threw the dart Was sent frae her Father and thine. Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn. Even till my latest day. For though my darling can never return, I shall follow thee soon away. James Hogg. The SOLDIER'S Dream. Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky. And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw. By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, Atthedeadof thenightasweetvision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dream'd it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array. Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that wel- comed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. And knew the sweet strain that the corn- reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. " Stay, stay with us ; rest, — thou art weary and worn !" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay. But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn. And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Thomas Campbell. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears. But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier falter'd as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native land ; Take a message and a token to some dis- tant friends of mine. For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine. 84 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. " Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale be- neath the setting sun. And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars. The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline. And one had come from Bingen, fair Bin- gen an the Ehine. " Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bin- gen on the Ehine. " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye. For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame. And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine). For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bin- gen on the Ehine. "There's another — not a sister: in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ; Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison), I dream'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vineclad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on the Ehine. " I saw the blue Ehine sweep along — I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear. And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill. The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still ; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we pass'd with friendly talk Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remember'd walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confid- ingly in mine ; But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the Ehine." His voice grew faint and hoarser — his grasp was childish weak — His eyes put on a dying look — he sigh'd and ceased to speak ; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled — The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she look'd down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown ; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seem'd to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bin- gen on the Ehine. Caroline Norton. POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 85 The Chess-board. My little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtain'd warm from the snowy weather. When you and I jjlay'd chess together. Checkmated by each other's eyes ? Ah, still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand : The double Castles guard the wings : The Bisliop, bent on distant things. Moves sidling through the fight. Our fingers touch ; our glances meet. And falter ; falls your golden hair Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow her soldiery all between. And checks me unaware. Ah me ! the little battle's done, Dispersed is all its chivalry ; Full many a move since then have we Mid Life's perplexing checkers made. And many a game with Fortune play'd, — What is it we have won ? This, this at least — if this alone ; — That never, never, never more. As in those old still nights of yore (Ere we were grown so sadly wise), Can you and I shut out the skies. Shut out the world, and wintry weather, And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we play'd, together ! Robert Bulwer Lytton. The Days that are no More. Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine de- spair Else in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. That brings our friends up from the un- der-world. Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others : deeji as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all re- gret ; Oh, death in life ! the days that are no more. Alfred Tennyson. FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOiME THE HOUR. Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower. Then think of the friend who once wel- comed it too. And forgot his own griefs to be hajjpy with you. His griefs may return — not a hope may re- main Of the few that have brighten'd his path- way of pain — But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him while linger- ing with you ! And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that night — Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles ; FIRESIDE ENCYCLOP.EDIA OF POETRY. Too blest if it tells me that, mid the gay- cheer, Some kind voice had murmur'd, " I wish he were here !" Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she can- not destroy ! Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care. And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memo- ries fiU'd ! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd ; You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. Thomas Moore. When we Two Parted. When we two parted In silence and tears. Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss ; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sxxnk chill on my brow — It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame ; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me — Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well : — Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met — In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget. Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years. How should I greet thee ? — With silence and tears. Lord Byron. Lament of the Irish e3iigrant. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago. When first you were my bride ; The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high ; And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary ; The day is bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my ear. And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek ; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane. And the little church stands near — The church where we were wed, Mary ; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest — For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends ; But, oh ! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary — My blessin' and my pride : There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on. When the trust in God had left my soul. And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow — I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 87 I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break — When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake ; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore — Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more ! I'm biddin' you a long farewell. My Mary — kind and true ! But I'll not forget you, darling. In the land I'm goin' to ; They say there's bread and work for all. And the sun shines always there — But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes. And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ! And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side. And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. Lady Dufferin. The Age of Wisdom. Ho, pretty page with the dimpled chin That never has known the barber's shear, All your wish is woman to win. This is the way that boys begin, — Wait till you come to Forty Year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains. Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; Sighing and singing of midnight strains. Under Bonnybell's window-panes, — Wait till you come to Forty Year ! Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, Grizzling hair the brain doth clear — Then you know a boy is an ass. Then you know the worth of a lass. Once you have come to Forty Year. Pledge me round, I bid ye declare. All good fellows whose beards are grey, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was pass'd away ? The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd, The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper, and we not list. Or look away, and never be miss'd. Ere yet ever a month is gone. Gillian's dead, God rest her bier ! How I loved her twenty years syne ! Marian's married, but I sit here Alone and merry at Forty Year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. William Makepeace Thackeray. Ode to an Indian Gold Coin. Written in Cherical, Malabar. Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! What vanity has brought thee here ? How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear ? — The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear, For twilight converse, arm in arm ; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm. By Cherical's dark wandering streams. Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot, loved while still a child, Of castled rocks stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wave. Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade !— The jjerish'd bliss of youth's first prime. That once so bright on fancy play'd, Revives no more in after time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave ; The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widow'd heart to cheer ; Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were uuidin"; stars to mine: 88 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Her fond heart throbs with many a fear ! 1 cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that loved me true ! I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave. To roam in climes unkind and new. The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my wither'd heart : the grave Dark and untimely met my view, — And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn. Now that his frame the lightning shock Of sun -rays tipt with death has borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn. To memory's fond regrets the prey ; Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! Go mix thee with thy kindi-ed clay ! John Leyden. Break, Break, Break. Break, break, break. On thy cold, gray stones, O sea ! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. Oh, well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play ! Oh, well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill ; But oh, for the touch of a vanish'd hand. And the sound of a voice that is still I Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. Alfred Tennyson. On This Day I Complete my Thirty-sixth Year. MiissoLONGHl, Jan. 22, 1824. 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move : Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love ! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone ! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile ! The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier. Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see ! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake) Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home ! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regret' st thy youth, why live ? The land of honorable death Is here : — uj} to the field, and give Away thy breath ! Seek out — less often sought than found — A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. Lord Byron. Old Letters. Old letters ! wipe away the tear For vows and hopes so vainly worded? A pilgrim finds his journal here Since first his youthful loins were girded. Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove, How could philosophy expect us To live with Dr. Wise, and love Rice-pudding and the Greek Delectus ? Explain why childhood's path is sown With moral and scholastic tin-tacks ; J *^ POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 89 Ere sin original was known, Did Adam groan beneath the syntax ? How strange to parley with the dead ! Keep ye ijour green, wan leaves ? How many From Friendship's tree untimely shed ! And here is one as sad as any ; A ghastly bill ! " I disapprove," And yet She helped me to defray it — What tokens of a mother's love ! Oh, bitter thought ! I can't repay it. And here's the oflfer that I wrote In '33 to Lucy Diver ; And here John Wylie's begging note, — He never paid me back a stiver. And here my feud with Major Spike, Our bet about the French Invasion ; I must confess I acted like A donkey upon that occasion. Here's news from Paternoster Row ! How mad I was when first I learn'd it : They would not take my book, and now I'd give a trifle to have burnt it. And here a pile of notes, at last. With "love," and "dove," and "sever," " never :" Though hope, though passion may be past. Their perfume is as sweet as ever. A human heart should beat for two, Despite the scoflFs of single scorners ; And all the hearths I ever knew Had got a pair of chimney corners. See here a double violet — Two locks of hair — a deal of scandal ; I'll burn what only brings regret — Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle. Frederick Locker. The Ballad of Bouillabaisse. A STREET there is in Paris famous. For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Xeuve des Petits Champs its name is — The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case ; The which in youth I oft attended. To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — A sort of soup or broth, or brew. Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. That Greenwich never could outdo ; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : All these you eat at Terre's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis ; And true philosophers, methinks. Who love all sorts of natural beauties. Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting. Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is ? Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; The smiling red-cheek'd 6caillfere is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and able ? I recollect his droll grimace : He'd come and smile before your tabla And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. We enter — nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder— " Monsieur is dead this many a day." " It is the lot of saint and sinner. So honest Terre's run his race." "What will Monsieur require for din- ner?" " Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" "Oh, oui. Monsieur," 's the waiter's an- swer ; " Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?" " Tell me a good one."—" That I can, sir • The Chambertin with yellow seal." " So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place ; " He's done with feasting and with drink ing, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." My old accustom'd corner here is. The table still is in the nook ; Ah ! vanish'd many a busy year is This well-known chair since last I took. 90 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now, a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days here met to dine? Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty — I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace ; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. There's Jack has made a wondrous mar- riage ; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; There's brave Augustus drives his car- riage ; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; On James's head the grass is growing : Good Lord ! the world has wagg'd apace Since here we set the Claret flowing. And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! I mind me of a time that's gone. When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting. In this same place — but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face look'd fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me. — There's no one now to share my cup. ****** I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: Fill up the lonely glass and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. ' — Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! William Makepeace Tiiackerat. West Point. 'TWAS Commencement eve, and the ball- room belle In her dazzling beauty was mine that night. As the music dreamily rose and fell. And the waltzers whirled in a blaze of light : I can see them now in the moonbeam's glance Across the street on a billowy floor, That rises and falls with the merry dance. To a music that flows in my heart once more. A long half hour in the twilight leaves Of the shrubbery : she, with coquettish face. And dainty arms in their flowing sleeves, A dream of satins and love and lace. In the splendor there of her queenly smile. Through her two bright eyes I could see the glow Of cathedral windows, as up the aisle We marched to a music's ebb and flow. All in a dream of Commencement eve ! I remember I awkwardly buttoned a glove On the dainty arm in its flowing sleeve. With a broken sentence of hope and love. But the diamonds that flashed in her wavy hair. And the beauty that shone in her fault- less face, Are all I recall as I struggled there, A poor brown fly in a web of lace. Yet a laughing, coquettish face I see. As the moonlight falls on the pavement gray, I can hear her laugh in the melody Of the waltz's music across the way. And I kept the glove so dainty and small. That I stole as she sipped her lemonade, Till I packed it away I think with all Of those traps I lost in our Northern raid. But I never can list to that waltz divine, With its golden measure of joy and pain. But it brings like the flavor of some old wine To my heart the warmth of the past again. A short flirtation — that's all, you knoAv, Some faded flowers, a silken tress. POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 91 The letters I burned up years ago, When I heard from her last in the Wil- derness. I suppose, could she see I am maimed and old, She would soften the scorn that was changed to hate, When I chose the bars of the gray and gold. And followed the South to its bitter fate. But here's to the lads of the Northern blue, And here's to the boys of the Southern gray. And I would that the Northern star but knew How the Southern cross is borne to-day. L. C. Strong. The TEACHER'S DREAM. The weary teacher sat alone While twilight gathered on ; And not a sound was heard around, The boys and girls were gone. The weary teacher sat alone, Unnerved and pale was he ; Bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spoke In sad soliloquy : "Another round, another round Of labor thrown away, — Another chain of toil and pain Dragged through a tedious day. " Of no avail is constant zeal. Love's sacrifice is loss, The hopes of morn, so golden, turn, Each evening, into dross. " I squander on a barren field, My strength, my life, my all ; The seeds I sow will never grow. They perish where they fall." He sighed, and low upon his hands His aching brow he prest ; And o'er his frame, erelong there came A soothing sense of rest. And then he lifted up his face, But started back aghast, — The room by strange and sudden change Assumed proportions vast. It seemed a Senate hall, and one Addressed a listening throng ; Each burning word all bosoms stirred. Applause rose loud and long. The 'wildered teacher thought he knew The speaker's voice and look, "And for his name," said he, " the same Is in my record-book." The stately Senate hall dissolved, A church rose in its place, Wherein there stood a man of God, Dispensing words of grace. And though he spoke in solemn tone, And though his hair was gray, The teacher's thought was strangely wrought, " I whipped that boy to-day." The church, a phantasm, vanished soon ; What saw the teacher then ? In classic gloom of alcoved room. An author plied his pen. " My idlest lad !" the teacher said, Filled with a new surprise — "Shall I behold his name enrolled Among the great and wise?" The vision of a cottage home The teacher now descried ; A mother's face illumed the place Her influence sanctified. "A miracle ! a miracle ! This matron, well I know. Was but a wild and careless child Not half an hour ago. "And when she to her children speaks Of duty's golden rule, Her lips repeat, in accents sweet. My words to her at school." The scene was changed again, and lo. The school-house rude and old. Upon the wall did darkness fall, The evening air was cold. "A dream !" the sleeper, waking, said, Then paced along the floor. And, whistling slow and soft and low. He locked the school-house door. 92 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And, walking home, his heart was full Of peace and trust and love and praise ; And singing slow and soft and low. He murmured, "After many days." W. H. Venable. TffE Pas TOE'S Reverie. The pastor sits in his easy-chair, With the Bible upon his knee, From gold to purple the clouds in the west Are changing momently ; The shadows lie in the valley below, And hide in the curtains' fold ; And the page grows dim whereon he reads, •' I remember the days of old." "Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith, The pastor's memories are ; No day that is gone was shadowless, No night was without its star ; But mingled bitter and sweet hath been The portion of his cup : " The hand that in love hath smitten," he saith, " In love hath bound us up." Fleet flies his thought over many a field . Of stubble and snow and bloom, And now it trips through a festival. And now it halts at a tomb ; Young faces smile in his reverie Of those that are young no more. And voices are heard that only come With the winds from a far-oflT shore. He thinks of the day when first, with fear And faltering lips, he stood To speak in the sacred place the Word To the waiting multitude ; He walks again to the house of God With the voice of joy and praise. With many whose feet long time have pressed Heaven's safe and blessed ways. He enters again the homes of toil, And joins in the homely chat ; He stands in the shop of the artisan ; He sits, where the Master sat, At the poor man's fire and the rich man's feast. But who to-day are the poor, And who are the rich? Ask Him who keeps The treasures that ever endure. Once more the green and grove resound With the merry children's din ; He hears their shout at the Christmas tide. When Santa Glaus stalks in. Once more he lists while the camp-fire roars On the distant mountain-side, Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook Where the fierce young troutlings hide. And now he beholds the wedding-train To the altar slowly move, And the solemn words are said that seal The sacrament of love. Anon at the font he meets once more The tremulous youthful pair, With a white-robed cherub crowing re- sponse To the consecrating prayer. By the couch of pain he kneels again ; Again, the thin hand lies Cold in his palm, while the last far look Steals into the steadfast eyes ; And now the burden of hearts that break Lies heavy upon his own — The widow's woe and the orphan's cry And the desolate mother's moan. So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad. Are the days that are no more. So mournfully sweet are the sounds that float With the winds from a far-off" shore. For the pastor has learned what meaneth the word That is given him to keep, — " Eejoice with them that do rejoice. And weep with them that weep." It is not in vain that he has trod This lonely and toilsome way. It is not in vain that he has wrought In the vineyard all the day ; For the soul that gives is the soul that lives. And bearing another's load Doth lighten your own, and shorten the way And brighten the homeward road. Washington Gladden. POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 93 The Nabob. When silent time, wi' lightly foot, Had trod on thirty years, 1 sought again my native land Wi' mony hopes and fears. Wha kens gin the dear friends I left May still continue mine? Or gin I e'er again shall taste The joys I left langsyne? As I drew near my ancient pile My heart heat a' the way ; Ilk place I pass'd seem'd yet to speak O' some dear former day ; Those days that follow'd me afar, Those happy days o' mine, Whilk made me think the present joys A' naething to langsyne ! The ivied tower now met my eye Where minstrels used to blaw ; Nae friend stepp'd forth wi' open hand, Nae weel-kenn'd face I saw ; Till Donald totter'd to the door. Wham I left in his prime, And grat to see the lad return He bore about langsyne. I ran to ilka dear friend's room, As if to find them there, I knew where ilk ane used to sit, And hang o'er mony a chair; Till soft remembrance threw a veil Across these e'en o' mine, I closed the door, and sobb'd aloud. To think on auld langsyne. Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race, Wad next their welcome pay, Wha shudder'd at my Gothic wa's And wish'd my groves away. "Cut, cut," they cried, "those aged elms; Lay low yon mournfu' pine." Na ! na ! our fathers' names grow there, Memorials o' langsyne. To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts, They took me to the town ; But sair on ilka weel-kenn'd face I miss'd the youthfu' bloom. At balls they pointed to a nymph Wham a' declared divine ; But sure her mother's blushing cheeks Were fairer far langsyne ! In vain I sought in music's sound To find that magic art. Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays Has thrill'd through a' my heart. The song had mony an artfu' turn ; My car confess'd 'twas fine ; But miss'd the simple melody I listen'd to langsyne. Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, Forgi'e an auld man's spleen, Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns The days he ance has seen. When time has pass'd and seasons fled, Your hearts will feel like mine ; And aye the sang will maist delight That minds ye o' langsyne ! Susanna Blamire. Once upon a Time. I MIND me of a pleasant time, A season long ago ; The pleasantest I've ever known. Or ever now shall know. Bees, birds, and little tinkling rills So merrily did chime ; The year was in its sweet spring-tide, And I was in my prime. I've never heard such music since. From every bending spray ; I've never pluck'd such primroses, Set thick on bank and brae ; I've never smelt such violets As all that pleasant time I found by every hawthorn root — When I was in my prime. Yon moory down, so black and bare. Was gorgeous then and gay With golden gorse — bright blossoming— As none blooms nowaday. The blackbird sings but seldom now Up there in the old lime, Where hours and hours he used to sing- When I was in my prime. Such cutting winds came never then To pierce one through and through, More softly fell the silent shower, ]More balmily the dew. 94 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETIiY. The morning mist and evening haze — Unlike this cold gray rime — Seem'd woven warm of golden air When I was in my prime. And blackberries — so mawkish now — Were finely flavor'd then ; And nuts — such reddening clusters ripe I ne'er shall pull again ; Nor strawberries blushing bright — as rich As fruits of sunniest clime ; How all is alter'd for the worse Since I was in my prime ! Caroline Bowles Southey. Fob GET 3IE Not. Go, youth beloved, in distant glades New friends, new hopes, new joys to find, Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids. To think on her thou leav'st behind. Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share. Must never be my happy lot, But thou mayst grant this humble prayer. Forget me not, forget me not ! Yet should the thought of my distress Too painful to thy feelings be. Heed not the wish I now express, Nor ever deign to think on me ; But, oh, if grief thy steps attend, If want, if sickness be thy lot. And thou require a soothing friend ; Forget me not, forget me not ! Amelia Opie. Youth and Age. Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying. Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — Both were mine ! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young ! When I was young ? — Ah, woful When ! Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands How lightly then it flash'd along : Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar. That fear no spite of wind or tide I Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in 't together. Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; Friendship is a sheltering tree ; Oh the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old ! Ere I was old ? — Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me. Youth's no longer here ! Youth ! for years so many and sweet 'Tis known that thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit — It cannot be, that thou art gone ! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd : — ■ And thou wert aye a masker bold ! What strange disguise hast now put on To make believe that thou art gone ? 1 see these locks in silvery slips. This drooping gait, this alter'd size : But springtide blossoms on thy lips. And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! Life is but Thought : so think I will That Youth and I are housemates still. Dew-drops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve ! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve. When we are old : — That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave. Like some poor nigh -related guest That may not rudely be dismist. Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile. Samuel Taylor Coleridgk Stanzas. When midnight o'er the moonless skies Her pall of transient death has spread, When mortals sleep, when spectres rise. And naught is wakeful but the dead ; No bloodless shape my way pursues. No sheeted ghost my couch annoys ; Visions more sad my fancy views. Visions of long-departed joys ! The shade of youthful hope is there. That linger'd long, and latest died ; POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 95 Ambition all dissolved to air, With phantom honors by his side. What empty shadows glimmer nigh ? They once were Friendship, Truth, and Love ! Oh, die to thought, to memory die. Since lifeless to my heart ye prove ! William Robert Spencer. Ga WHERE Glory waits Thee. Go where glory waits thee ; But while fame elates thee, Oh still remember me ! When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest. Oh then remember me ! Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee. All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be ; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh then remember me ! When at eve thou rovest By the star thou lovest. Oh then remember me ! Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning. Oh thus remember me ! Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses. Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them — Oh then remember me ! When around thee dying Autumn leaves are lying. Oh then remember me ! And at night when gazing On the gay hearth blazing. Oh still remember me ! Then sliould music, stealing All the soul of feeling. To thy heart appealing. Draw one tear from thee ; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee — Oh then remember me ! Thomas Mooke. are swelling, — 't4s No funeral train on the stream and The Closing Year. 'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds The bell's deep tone? the knell Of the departed year. Is sweeping past ; yet wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirr'd As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with its aged locks, — and breathe, In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the Earth for ever. 'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep. Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have pass'd away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has pass'd to nothingness. The year Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow. 96 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, — And they are not. It laid its joallid hand Upon the strong man, — and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, Avhere throng'd The bright and joyous, — and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It pass'd o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, Flash'd in the light of mid-day, — and the strength Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crush'd and mouldering skeleton. It came. And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air. It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time ! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe I — what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on, He presses, and for ever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain-crag, — ■but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorroAV, — cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water, — 'fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns, — mountains rear To heaven their bald and blacken'd cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the j^lain, — new empires rise. Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations, — and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths. And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away To darkle in the trackless void, — yet Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. George D. Prentice. Poems of Love. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. The fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single ; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle — Why not I with thine ? See the mountains kiss high heaven. And the waves clasp one another ; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdain'd its brother : And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea ; — What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me ? Percy Bysshe Shelley. Love will Find out the Way. Over the mountains And over the waves ; Under the fountains And under the graves ; Under floods that are deepest. Which Neptune obey ; Over rocks that are steepest. Love will find out the way. Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lye ; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly ; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay ; If love come he will enter. And soon find out his way. You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward from his flight : But if she whom love doth honor Be conceal'd from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way. Some think to lose him By having him confined ; And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind ; But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind love', if so ye call him. Will find out his way. You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist ; Or you may inveigle The phoenix of the East ; The lioness, ye may move her To give o'er her prey ; But you'll ne'er stop a lover. He will find out his way. Author Unknown. A Bridal Song. Roses, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone. But in their hue ; Maiden-pinks of odor faint. Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true ; Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Merry spring-time's harbinger. With her bells dim ; Oxlips in their cradles growing. Marigolds on death-beds blowing, Lark-heels trim. 98 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. All, dear Nature's children sweet, Lie fore bride and bridegroom's feet, Blessing their sense ! Not an angel of the air Bird melodious, or bird fair, Be absent hence ! The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chattering pie. May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring. But from it fly ! Beaumont and Fletcher. Love IS A Sickness. Love is a sickness full of woes. All remedies refusing ; A plant that with most cutting grows. Most barren with best using : Why so ? More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries, Hey, ho 1 Love is a torment of the mind. A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full, nor fasting : Why so ? More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries. Hey, ho ! Samuel Daniel. Panglory's Wooing Song. Love is the blossom where there blows Everything that lives or grows : Love doth make the heavens to move, And the sun doth burn in love; Love the strong and weak doth yoke. And makes the ivy climb the oak. Under Avhose shadows lions wild, Boften'd by love, grow tame and mild. Love no med'cine can appease; He burns the fishes in the seas ; Not all the skill his wounds can stanch ; Not all the sea his fire can quench. Love did make the bloody spear Once a leafy coat to wear. While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play ; And of all love's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me — Thy wooing shall thy winning be. See ! see the flowers that below Now freshly as the morning blow. And of all, the virgin rose, That as bright Aurora shows- How they all unleavfed die, Losing their virginity ; Like unto a summer shade, But now born, and now they fade : Everything doth pass away ; There is danger in delay. Come, come, gather then the rose; Gather it, or it you lose. All the sand of Tagus' shore In my bosom casts its ore ; All the valleys' swimming corn To my house is yearly borne ; Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine ; While ten thousand kings, as proud To carry up my train, have bow'd; And a world of ladies send me. In my chambers to attend me ; All the stars in heaven tnat shine. And ten thousand more, are mine. Only bend thy knee to me — Thy wooing shall thy winning be. Giles Fletcher ROSALIND'S Madrigal, Love in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet ; Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest. His bed amidst my tender breast ; My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he I'obs me of my rest : Ah, wanton, will ye? And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight. And makes his pillow of my knee The livelong night. POEMS OF LOVE. 99 Strike I my lute, he tunes the string : He music plays if so I sing ; He lends me every lovely thing, Yet cruel he my heart doth sting : Whist, wanton, still ye : Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence ; I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, I'll make you fast it for your sin, I'll count your power not worth a pin : Alas ! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me ? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod ? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be ; Lurk in mine eyes, — I like of thee, O Cupid ! so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee. Thomas Lodge. Love still hath Something of THE Sea. Love still hath something of the sea, From whence his mother rose ; No time his slaves from love can free, Nor give their thoughts repose. They are becalm'd in clearest days. And in rough weather toss'd ; They wither under cold delays. Or are in tempests lost. One while they seem to touch the port ; Then straight into the main Some angrj'' 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 dreadful 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 bliss, Believe me, gentle Hermoine, No less inhuman is. A hundred thousand oaths your fears Perhaps would not remove ; And if I gazed a thousand years, I could no deeper love. 'Tis fitter much for you to guess Than for me to explain, But grant, oh ! grant that happiness Which only does remain. Sir Charles Sedley. LOVE'S Omnipresence. Were I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain Ascend to heaven, in honor of my Love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go. Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies. My love should shine on you like to the sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done. Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you, Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. Joshua Sylvester. Cupid and Cajipaspe. Cupid and my Campaspe playd At cardes for kisses ; Cupid payd : He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mothers doves, and teame of sparrows ,, Loses them too ; then down he throws The coral of his lippe, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) With these, the crystal of his browe, And then the dimple of his chinne ; All these did my Campaspe winne. At last he set her both his eyes. She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 100 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPyEDIA OF POETRY. Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas ! become of mee ? John Lyly. Love. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay. Beside the ruin'd tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy. My own dear Genevieve ! She leant against the armfed man. The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listen'd to my lay, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air, 1 sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listen'd with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he woo'd The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined ; and ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face. But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den. And sometimes from the darksome shade. And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade. There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight ! And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land ! And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees ; And how she tended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain. And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay. His dying words — but when I reach'd That tenderest strain of all the ditty. My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturb'd her soul with pity ! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve ; The music, and the doleful tale. The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng. And gentle wishes long subdued. Subdued and cherish'd long ! She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love, and virgin-shame: And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved — she stepp'd aside, As conscious of my look she stepp'd — ■ Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept. POEMS OF LOVE. 101 She half enclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head, look'd up. And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly Love, luid jjartly Fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art. That I might rather feel than see, The swelling of her heart, 1 calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride. And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Not Ours the Vows. Not ours the vows of such as plight Their troth in sunny weather. While leaves are green and skies are bright, To. walk on flowers together. But we have loved as those who tread The thorny path of sorrow. With clouds above, and cause to dread Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. That thorny path, those stormy skies, Have drawn our spirits nearer, And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, Each to the other dearer. Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, With mirth and joy may perish ; That to which darker hours gave birth Still more and more we cherish. It looks beyond the clouds of time. And through death's shadowy portal. Made by adversity sublime. By faith and hope immortal. Bernard Barton. Sonnet. The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain. That fondly fear to lose your liberty ; When, losing one, two liberties ye gain, And make him bound that bondage erst did fly. Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth tye Without constraint, or dread of any ill : The gentle bird feels no captivity Within her cage; but sings and feeds her fill; There pride dare not approach, nor discord S23ill The league 'twixt them that loyal love hath bound ; But simple truth, and mutual good-will. Seeks, with sweet peace, to salve each other's wound ; There faith doth fearless dwell in brazen tower, And spotless pleasure builds her sacred bower. Edmund Spenser. Absence. What shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thy face ? How shall I charm the interval that lowers Between this time and that sweet time of grace? Still I in slumber steep each weary sense — Weary with longing? Shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pre- tence Cheat myself to forget the present day ? Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin Of ca.sting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? Oh, how, or by what means, may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? I'll tell thee ; for thy sake I Avill lay hold Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee. In worthy deeds, each moment that is told While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try . All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains. 102 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task-time ; and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomfed time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ; 3o may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine. Frances Anne Kemble. How Many Tuies. How many times do I love thee, dear? Tell me how many thoughts there be In the atmosphere Of a new-fallen year. Whose white and sable hours appear The latest flake of Eternity ; So many times do I love thee, dear. How many times do I love thee, again? Tell me how many beads there are In a silver chain Of the evening rain, Unravelled from the tumbling main. And threading the eye of a yellow star ; So how many times do I love, again. Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Song. Fob me the jasmine buds unfold. And silver daisies star the lea, The crocus hoards the sunset gold. And the wild rose breathes for me. I feel the sap through the bough returning, I share the skylark's transport fine ; I know the fountain's wayward yearning — I love, and the world is mine ! I love, and thoughts that some time grieved, Still, well remembered, grieve not me ; ' From all that darkened and deceived Upsoars my spirit free. For soft the hours repeat one story, ^ Sings the sea one strain divine, My clouds arise all flushed with glory — I love, and the world is mine ! Florence Earle Coates. Samel A. Like to Diana in her summer weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, Goes fair Samela ; Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed. When washed by Arethusa faint they lie. Is fair Samela ; As fair Aurora in her morning grey, Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, Is fair Samela ; Like lovely Thetis, on a calm'd day, When as her brightness Neptune's fancy move, Shines fair Samela; Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams. Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory Of fair Samela ; Her cheeks, like rose and lily yield forth gleams, Her brows'-bright arches framed of ebony ; Tims fair Samela Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, And Juno in the show of majesty, For she's Samela : Pallas in wit, all three, if you will view, For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity Yield to Samela. Robert Greene. Robin Adaie. What's this dull town to me? Eobin's not near, — He whom I wished to see. Wished for to hear ! Where's all the joy and mirth Made life a heaven on earth ? Oh, they're all fled with thee, Robin Adair ! What made the assembly shine ? Robin Adair. What made the ball so fine? Robin was there ! What, when the play was o'er. What made my heart so sore ? Oh, it was parting with Robin Adair! But now thou'rt far from me, Robin Adair; POEMS OF LOVE. 103 But now I never see Robin Adair; Yet he I loved so well Still in my heart shall dwell : Oh, I can ne'er forget Robin Adair! Welcome on shore again, Robin Adair! Welcome once more again, Robin Adair! I feel thy trembling hand ; Tears in thy eyelids stand, To greet thy native land, Robin Adair. Long I ne'er saw thee, love, Robin Adair; Still I prayed for thee, love, Robin Adair. When thou wert far at sea, Many made love to me ; But still I thought on thee, Robin Adair. Come to my heart again, Robin Adair; Never to part again, Robin Adair! And if thou still art true, I -U'ill be constant too, And will wed none but you, Robin Adair. Lady Caroline Keppel. Waly, Waly, but love be bonny. Oh waly waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn side, Where I and my love were wont to gae. I leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree ! But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lichtly me. Oh Avaly waly gin love be bonny, A little time while it is new ; But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades awa' like morning dew. Oh wherefore shuld I busk my head? Or wherefore shuld I kame my hair? For my true love has me forsook, And says he'll never lo'e me mair. Now Arthur-seat sail be my bed. The sheets sail ne'er be fyl'd by me : Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, Since my true love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw. And shake the green leaves afi" the tree? gentle death, whan wilt thou cum? For of my life I am wearle. Tis not the frost, that freezes fell. Nor blawing snaws inclemencle ; 'Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry. But my loves heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgowe town. We were a comely sight to see. My love was cled in black velvet. And I my sell in cramasie. But had I wist, before I kisst. That love had been sae ill to win ; I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, And pinn'd it with a siller pin. And, oh ! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurses knee, And I my sell were dead and ganeJ For a maid again Ise never be. Author Unknown, Lines to an Indian Air. I ARISE from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright • I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me — who knows how ?— To thy chamber-window, sweet ! The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream-^ The champak odors fail Like s-weet thoughts in a dream ; The nightingale's complaint. It dies upon her heart. As I must on thine. Beloved as thou art! Oh lift me from the grass ! I die, I faint, I fail ! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. 104 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast, Oh ! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last. Percy Bysshe Shelley. Why so Pale? Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Frethee, why so pale ? Will, when looking well can't move her. Looking ill prevail? Prethee why so pale ? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prethee, why so mute ? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prethee why so mute ? Quit, quit for shame ; this will not move, This cannot take her ; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her. The devil take her ! Sir John Suckling. Lady Geraldine's Courtship. A EOMANCE OF THE AgE. A poet writes to his friend. Place — A room in Wycombe Hall. Time — Late in the evening. Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you ! Down the purple of this chamber tears should scarcely run at will. I am humbled who was humble. Friend, I bow my head before you : You should lead me to my peasants, but their faces are too still. There's a lady, an earl's daughter — she is proud and she is noble. And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air, And a kingly blood sends glances up, her princely eye to trouble, And the shadow of a monarch's crown is soften'd in her hair. She has halls among the woodlands, she has castles by the breakers, She has farms and she has manors, she can threaten and command. And the palpitating engines snort in steam across her acres. As they mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of the land. There are none of England's daughters who can show a prouder presence ; Upon princely suitors, praying, she has look'd in her disdain. She was sprung of English nobles, I was born of English peasants ; What was / that I should love her, save for competence to pain ? I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her casement. As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things. Oh, she walk'd so high above me, she aj^- pear'd to my abasement. In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings ! Many vassals bow before her as her car- riage sweeps their door- ways ; She has blest their little children, as a priest or queen were she : Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was. For I thought it was the same smile which she used to smile on vie. She has voters in the commons, she has lovers in the palace. And of all the fair court-ladies, few have jewels half as fine ; Oft the prince has named her beauty 'twixt the red wine and the chalice : Oh, and what was /to love her ? my be- loved, my Geraldine ! Yet I could not choose but love her : I was born to poet-uses. To love all things set above me, all of good and all of fair. Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the Muses ; And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star. And because I was a poet, and because the public praised me, With a critical deduction for the modern writer's fault, POEMS OF LOVE. 105 I could sit at rich men's tables— though the courtesies that raised me, Still suggested clear between us the pale spectrum of the salt. And they praised me in her presence ;— " Will your book appear this sum- mer ?" Then returning to each other— "Yes, our plans are for the moors." Then with whisper dropp'd behind me— " There he is ! the latest comer. Oh, she only likes his verses ! what is over, she endures. *' Quite low-born, self-educated ! somewhat gifted though by Nature, And we make a point of asking him — of being very kind. You may speak, he does not hear you ! and besides he writes no satire — All these serpents kept by charmers leave the natural sting behind." I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as I stood up there among them, Till as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorning scorch'd my brow ; When a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced, overrung them, And a sudden silken stirring touch'd my inner nature through. I look'd upward and beheld her. With a calm and regnant spirit. Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and said clear before them all — " Have you such superfluous honor, sir, that, able to confer it, You will come down, Mister Bertram, as my guest to Wycombe Hall ?" Here she paused ; she had been paler at the first word of her speaking. But because a silence follow'd it, blush'd somewhat, as for shame, Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly — " I am seeking More distinction than these gentlemen think worthy of my claim. Ne'ertheless, you see, I seek it — not be- cause I am a woman " (Here her smile sprang like a fountain, and, so, overflow'd her mouth). "But because my woods in Sussex have some purple shades at gloaming Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth. " I invite you. Mister Bertram, to no scene for worldly speeches — Sir, I scarce should dare — but only where God ask'd the thrushes first ; And if you will sing beside them, in the covert of my beeches, I will thank you for the woodlands, . . . for the human world, at worst." Then she smiled around right childly, then she gazed around right queenly, And I bow'd — I could not answer ; al- ternated light and gloom — While as one who quells the lions, with a steady eye serenely. She, with level fronting eyelids, pass'd out stately from the room. Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex, I can hear them still around me. With their leafy tide of greenery still rippling up the wind. Oh, the cursed woods of Sussex ! where the hunter's arrow found me, When a fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind ! In that ancient hall of Wycombe throug'd the numerous guests invited. And the lovely London ladies trod the floors with gliding feet ; And their voices low with fashion, not with feeling, softly freighted All the air about the windows with elas- tic laughter sweet. For at eve the open windows flung their light out on the terrace Which the floating orbs of curtains did with gradual shadow sweep. While the swans upon the river, fed at morning by the heiress. Trembled downward through their snowy wings at music in their sleep. And there evermore was music, both of instrument and singing, Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless in the dark ; 106 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. But the cedars stood uj} motionless, each in a moonlight ringing, j^nd the deer, half in the glimmer, strew'd the hollows of the park. And though sometimes she would bind me with her silver-corded speeches To commix my words and laughter with the converse and the jest, Oft I sate apart, and, gazing on the river through the beeches. Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, her pure voice o'erfloat the rest. In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof of steed, and laugh of rider. Spread out cheery from the courtyard till we lost them in the hills. While herself and other ladies, and her suitors left beside her. Went a -wandering up the gardens through the laurels and abeles. Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass, bareheaded, with the flowing Of the virginal white vesture gather'd closely to her throat. And the golden ringlets in her neck just quicken'd by her going. And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubting if to float, — With a bunch of dewy maple, which her right hand held above her, And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt her and the skies. As she turn'd her face in going, thus, she drew me on to love her. And to worship the divineness of the smile hid in her eyes. For her eyes alone smile constantly ; her lips have serious sweetness. And her front is calm, the dimple rarely ripples on the cheek ; But her deep-blue eyes smile constantly, as if they in discreetness Kept the secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak. Thus she drew me the first morning, out across into the garden, And I walk'd among her noble friends, and could not keep behind. Spake she unto all and unto me — " Be- hold, I am the warden Of the song-birds in these lindens, which are cages to their mind. "But within this swarded circle into which the lime-walk brings us. Whence tlie beeches, rounded greenly, stand away in reverent fear, I will let no music enter, saving what the fountain sings us Which the lilies round the basin may seem pure enough to hear. " The live air that waves the lilies waves the slender jet of water Like a holy thought sent feebly up from soul of fasting saint : Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping (Lough the sculptor wrought her). So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush ; — a fancy quaint. " Mark how heavy white her eyelids ! not a dream between them lingers ; And the left hand's index droppeth from the lips upon the cheek : While the right hand — with the symbol- rose held slack within the fingers — Has fallen backward in the basin — yet this Silence will not sjjeak ! " That the essential meaning growing may exceed the special symbol, Is the thought as I conceive it : it ap- plies more high and Ioav. Our true noblemen will often through right nobleness grow humble, And assert an inward honor by denying outward show." " Nay, your Silence," said I, "truly, holds her symbol-rose but slackly, Yet she holds it, or would scarcely be a Silence to our ken : And your nobles wear their ermine on the outside, or walk blackly In the presence of the social law as mere ignoble men. " Let the poets dream such dreaming ! madam, in these British islands 'Tis the substance that wanes ever, 'tis the symbol that exceeds. POEMS OF LOVE. 107 Soon we shall have naught but symbol, and, for statues like this Silence, Shall accept the rose's image— in another case, the weed's." " Not so quickly," she retorted—" I con- fess, where'er you go, you i Find for things, names— shows for ac- tions, and pure gold for honor clear : But when all is run to symbol in the Social, I will throw you The world's book which now reads drily, and sit down with Silence here." Half in playfulness she spoke, I thought, and half in indignation ; Friends who listen'd laugh'd her words oif, while her lovers deem'd her fair : A fair woman, flush'd with feeling, in her noble-lighted station Near the statue's white reposing— and both bathed in sunny air ! With the trees round, not so distant but you heard their vernal murmur. And beheld in light and shadow the leaves in and outward move, And the little fountain leaping toward the sun-heart to be warmer. Then recoiling in a tremble from the too much light above. 'Tis a picture for remembrance. And thus, morning after morning. Did I follow as she drew me by the spirit to her feet. Why, her greyhound followed also ! dogs — we both were dogs for scorning — To be sent back when she pleased it and her path lay through the wheat. And thus, morning after morning, spite of vows and spite of sorrow, Did I follow at her drawing, while the week-days pass'd along, Just to feed the swans this noontide, or to see the fawns to-morrow, Or to teach the hillside echo some sweet Tuscan in a song. Ay. for sometimes on the hillside, while we sate down in the gowans, With the forest green behind us and its shadow cast before, And the river running under, and across it from the rowans A brown partridge whirring near us till we felt the air it bore- There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own ; Read the pastoral parts of Spenser, or the subtle interflowings Found in Petrarch's sonnets — here's the book, the leaf is folded down ! Or at times a modern volume, Wordsworth's solenm-thoughted idyl, Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie — Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which, if cut deep down the middle. Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a vein'd humanity. Or at times I read there, hoarsely, some new poem of my making : Poets ever fail in reading their own verses to their worth. For the echo in you breaks upon the words which you are speaking, And the chariot wheels jar in the gate through which you drive them forth. After, when we were grown tired of books, the silence round us flinging A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beatings at the breast. She would break out on a sudden in a gush of woodland singing. Like a child's emotion in a god— a naiad tired of rest. Oh, to see or hear her singing! scarce I know which is divinest, For her looks sing too— she modulates her gestures on the tune. And her mouth stirs with the song, like song ; and when the notes are finest, 'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light and seem to swell them on. Then we talk'd— oh, how we talk'd ! her voice, so cadenced in the talking, Made another singing — of the soul I a music without bars : 108 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. While the leafy sounds of woodlands, hum- ming round where we were walking, Brought interposition worthy-sweet — as skies about the stars. And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if she always thought them ; She had sympathies so rapid, open, free as bird on branch, Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever way besought them, In the birchen-wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow in the grange. In her utmost lightness there is truth — and often she speaks lightly. Has a grace in being gay which even mournful souls approve, For the root of some grave earnest thought is understruck so rightly As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above. And she talk'd on — tve talk'd, rather! — upon all things, substance, shadow, Of the sheep that browsed the grasses, of the reapers in the corn. Of the little children from the schools, seen winding through the meadow, Of the poor rich world beyond them, still kept poorer by its scorn. So, of men, and so, of letters — books are men of higher stature, And the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear ; So, of mankind in the abstract, which grows slowly into nature. Yet will lift the cry of " progress," as it trod from sphere to sphere. And her custom was to praise me when I said — " The Age culls simples. With a broad clown's back turn'd broadly to the glory of the stars. We are gods by our own reck'ning, and may well shut up the temples, And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thunder of our cars. " For we throw out acclamations of self- thanking, self-admiring, With, at every mile run faster, — ' O the wondroug, wondrous age 1' Little thinking if we work our souls as nobly as our iron. Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pilgrimage. " Why, what is this patient entrance into nature's deep resources But the child's most gradual learning to walk upright without bane ? When we drive out, from the cloud oi steam, majestical white horses, Are we greater than the first men who led black ones by the mane? " If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we struck the stars in rising, If we wrapp'd the globe intensely with one hot electric breath, 'Twere but power within our tether, no new spirit-power comprising, And in life we were not greater men, nor bolder men in death." She was patient with my talking ; and I loved her, loved her, certes, As I loved all heavenly objects, with up- lifted eyes and hands ; As I loved pure insi^irations, loved the graces, loved the virtues, In a Love content with writing his own name on desert sands. Or at least I thought so, purely ; thought no idiot Hope was raising Any crown to crown Love's silence, silent love that sate alone: Out, alas ! the stag is like me, he that tries to go on grazing With the great deep gun-wound in his neck, then reels with sudden moan. It was thus I reel'd. I told you that her hand had many suitors ; But she smiles them down imperially, as Venus did the Avaves, And with such a gracious coldness that they cannot press their futures On the present of her courtesy, which yieldingly enslaves. And this morning as I sat alone within the inner chamber With the great saloon beyond it, lost in pleasant thought serene, POEMS OF LOVE. 109 For I had been reading Camijens, that poem, you remember, Which his lady's eyes are praised in as tlie sweetest ever seen. And the book Lay open, and my thought flew from it, taking from it A vibration and impulsion to an end be- yond its own, As the branch of a green osier, when a child would overcome it. Springs up freely from his claspings and goes swinging in the sun. As I mused I heard a murmur ; it grew deep as it grew longer, Speakers using earnest language — " Lady Geraldine, you would /" And I heard a voice that pleaded, ever on in accents stronger. As a sense of reason gave it power to make its rhetoric good. Well I knew that voice ; it was an earl's, of soul that match'd his station, Soul completed into lordship, might and right read on his brow ; Very finely courteous ; far too proud to doubt his domination Of the common people, he atones for grandeur by a bow. High straight forehead, nose of eagle, cold blue eyes of less expression Than resistance, coldly casting off the looks of other men, As steel, arrows ; unelastic lips which seem to taste possession, And be cautious lest the common air should injure or distrain. For the rest, accomplish'd, upright — ay, and standing by his order With a bearing not ungraceful ; fond of art and letters too ; Just a good naan made a proud man — as the sandy rocks that border A wild coast, by circumstances, in a regnant ebb and flow. Thus, I knew that voice, I heard it, and I could not help the hearkening : In the room I stood up blindly, and my burning heart within Seem'd to seethe and fuse my senses till they ran on all sides darkening, And scorch'd, weigh'd like melted metal round my feet that stood therein. And that voice, I heard it pleading, for love's sake, for wealth, position, For the sake of liberal uses and great actions to be done — And she interrupted gently, "Nay, my lord, the old tradition Of your Normans, by some worthier hand than mine is, should be won." " Ah, that white hand !" he said quickly — and in his he either drew it Or attempted — for with gravity and in- stance she replied, " Nay indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, and we had best eschew it And pass on, like friends, to other points less easy to decide." What he said again, I know not: it is likely that his trouble Work'd his pride up to the surface, for she answer'd in slow scorn, " And your lordship judges rightly. Whom I marry, shall be noble, Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush to think how he was born." There, I madden'd ! her words stung me. Life swept through me into fever. And my soul sprang up astonish'd, sprang full-statured in an hour. Know you what it is when anguish, with apocalyptic never, To a Pythian height dilates you, and despair sublimes to power? From my brain the soul-wings budded, waved a flame about my body, Whence conventions coil'd to ashes. I felt self-drawn out, as man, From amalgamate false natures, and I saw the skies grow ruddy With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew what spirits can. I was mad, inspired — say either! (anguish worketh inspiration) Was a man or beast — perhaps so, for the tiger roars when spear'd ; 110 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And I walk'd on, step by step along the level of my passion — O my soul ! and j^ass'd the doorway to her face, and never fear'd. lie had left her, perad venture, when my footstep proved my coming, But for her — she half arose, then sate, grew scarlet and grew pale. Oh, she trembled ! 'tis so always with a worldly man or woman In the presence of true spirits ; what else can they do but quail ? Oh, she flutter'd like a tame bird, in among its forest brothers Far too strong for it ; then drooping, bow'd her face upon her hands ; And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of her and others ; /, she planted in the desert, swathed her, windlike, with my sands. I pluck'd up her social fictions, bloody- rooted though leaf-verdant. Trod them down with words of shaming, all' tlie 2>urple and the gold, All the " landed stakes " and lordships, all that spirits pure and ardent Are cast out of love and honor because chancing not to hold. " For myself I do not argue," said I, " though I love you, madam. But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod. And this age shows, to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam Than directly, by profession, simple infi- dels to God. " Yet, God," I said, " grave," I said, " O mother's heart and bosom, With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child, We are fools to your deductions in these figments of heart-closing. We are traitors to your causes in these sympathies defiled. ' Learn more reverence, madam ; not for rank or wealth — that needs no learn- ing; That comes quickly, quick as sin does; ay, and culminates to sin ; But for Adam's seed, man ! Trust me, 'tis a clay above your scorning. With God's image stamp'd upon it, and God's kindling breath within. " What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace mirror daily. Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others must adore, While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gaily You will wed no man that's only good to God, and nothing more? " Why, what right have you, made fair by that same God, the sweetest woman Of all women he has fashion'd, with your lovely spirit-face. Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human, And your voice of holy sweetness, turn- ing common words to grace, " What right can you have, God's other works to scorn, desjiise, revile them In the gross, as mere men, broadly — not as noble men, forsooth — As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbid- den to assoil them In the hope of living, dying, near that ."weetness of your mouth ? " Have you any answer, madam ? If my spirit were less earthly. If its instrument were gifted with a better silver string, I would kneel down where I stand, and say, ' Behold me ! I am worthy Of thy loving, for I love thee! I am worthy as a king.' " As it is — ^your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel this stain upon her. That /, poor, weak, tost with passion scorn'd by me and you again, Love you, madam, dare to love you, to my grief and your dishonor, To my endless desolation and your im- potent disdain I" More mad words like these — mere mad- ness ! friend, I need not write them fuller. For I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in showers of tears. POEMS OF LOVE. Ill Oh, a woman ! friend, a woman ! why, a beast had scarce been duller Than roar bestial loud complaints against the shining of the spheres. But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder Which my soul had used. The silence drew her face up like a call. Could you guess what word she utter'd? She look'd up, as if in wonder. With tears beaded on her lashes, and said, " Bertram !" — it was all. If she had cursed me— and she might have— or if even with queenly bear- ing Which at need is used by women, she had risen up and said, "Sir, you are ray guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing ; Now, beseech you, choose a name exact- ing somewhat less, instead !" I had borne it: but that " Bertram "—why, it lies there on the paper A mere word, without her accent ; and you cannot judge the weight Of the calm which crush'd my passion : I seem'd drowning in a vapor, And her gentleness destroy'd me whom her scorn made desolate. So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward flow of passion Which had rush'd on, sparing nothing, into forms of abstract truth. By a logic agonizing through unseemly demonstration, And by youth's own anguish turning grimly gray the hairs of youth, By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I spake wisely I spake basely, using truth, if what I spake indeed was true. To avenge wrong on a woman — her, who sate there weighing nicely A poor manhood's worth, found guilty of such deeds as I could do ! — By such wrong and woe exhausted — what I sufFer'd and occasion'd, — As a wild horse through a city runs with lightning in his eyes, And then dashing at a church's cold and passive wall, impassion'd. Strikes the death into his burning brain, and blindly drops and dies — So I fell, struck down before her — do you blame me, friend, for weakness? 'Twas my strength of passion slew me ! — fell before her like a stone; Fast the dreadful world roU'd from me on its roaring wheels of blackness : When the light came, I was lying in this chamber and alone. Oh, of course, she charged her lacqueys to bear out the sickly burden, And to cast it from her scornful sight, but not beyond the gate ; She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon Such a man as I; 'twere something to be level to her hate. But for me — you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter, How my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone. I shall leave her house at dawn ; I would to-night, if I were better — And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthen'd for the sun. When the sun hath dyed the oriel, T depart with no last gazes. No weak moanings (one Avord only, left in writing for her hands). Out of reach of all derision, and some un- availing praises. To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands. Blame me not. I would not squander life in grief — I am abstemious. I but nurse my spirit's falcon that its wing may soar again. There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius : Into work the poet kneads them, and he does not die fill then. CoxcLUSiOiSr. Bertram finish'd the last pages, while along the silence ever Still in hot and heavy splashes fell the tears on every leaf. 112 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Having ended, lie leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief. Soh ! how still the lady standeth ! 'tis a dream — a dream of mercies ! 'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains how she standeth still and pale ! 'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his self-curses, 8ent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the tossing of his wail. " Eyes," he said, " now throbbing through me ! are ye eyes that did undo me? Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian statue-stone ! Underneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever burning torrid O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life undone ?" With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air the purple curtain Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows. While the gliding of the river sends a rippling noise for ever Through the open casement whiten'd by the moonlight's slant repose. Said he : " Vision of a lady ! stand there silent, stand there steady ! Now I see it plainly, plainly, now I can- not hope or doubt — There, the brows of mild repression — there, the lips of silent passion. Curved like an archer's bow to send the bitter arrows out." Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling, And approach'd him slowly, slowly, in a gliding measured pace ; With her two Avhite hands extended as if praying one offended. And a look of supplication gazing earnest in his face. Said he : " Wake me by no gesture — sound of breath, or stir of vesture ! Let the blessfed apparition melt not yet to its divine ! No approaching — hush, no breathing! or my heart must swoon to death in The too utter life thou bringest, O thou dream of Geraldine !" Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling. But the tears ran over lightly from her eyes and tenderly : — "Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me? Is no woman far above me Found more worthy of thy poet-heart than such a one as I?" Said he : "I would dream so ever, like the flowing of that river. Flowing ever in a shadow greenly onward to the sea! So, thou vision of all sweetness, princely to a full completeness, Would my heart and life flow onward, deathward, through this dream of THEE !" Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling, While the silver tears ran faster down the blushing of her cheeks ; Then with both her hands enfolding both of his, she softly told him, " Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 'tis the vision only speaks." Soften'd, quicken'd to adore her, on his knee he fell before her. And she whisper'd low in triumph, " It shall be as I have sworn. Very rich he is in virtues, very noble — noble, certes ; And I shall not blush in knowing that men call him lowly-born." Elizabeth Bakrett Browning. The Nut-Brown Maid. Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among On women do complayne ; Afl"yrmynge this, how that it is A labour spent in vayne. To love them wele ; for never a dele They love a man agayne : For late a man do what he can, Theyr favour to attayne. POEMS OF LOVE. 113 Yet, yf a newe do them persue, Theyr first true lover than Laboureth for nought : for from her thought He is a banysh'd man. I say nat nay, but that all day It is bothe writ and sayd That wonians faith is, as who sayth, All utterly decayd ; But, neverthelesse ryght good wytnesse In this case might be layd, That they love true, and continfie : Recorde the Not-browne Mayde : Which, when her love came, her to prove, To her to make his mone, Wolde nat depart ; for in her hart She loved but hym alone. Than betwaine us late us dyscus What was all the manere Betwayne them two ; we wyll also Tell all the payne, and fere, That she was in. Now I begyn So that ye me answfere ; Wherfore, all ye that present be I pray you, gyve an ere : " I am the knyght ; I come by nyght. As secret as I can ; Sayinge, Alas ! thus standeth the case, I am a banysh'd man." SHE. And I your wyll for to fulfyll In this wyll nat refuse ; Trustying to shewe, in wordes fewe. That men have an yll use (To theyr own shame) women to blame, And causelesse them accuse ; Therfore to you I answere nowe. All women to excuse, — Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? I pray you, tell anone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. It standeth so ; a dede is do Whereof grete harme shall growe ; My destiny is for to dy A shamefull detb, I trowe ; Or elles to fle : the one must be. None other way I knowe, But to withdrawe as an outlawe. And take me to my bowe. Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true ! None other rede I can ; For I must to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Lord, what is thys worldys blysse. That changeth as the mone ! My somers day in lusty may Is derked before the none. 1 here you say farewell : Nay, nay, We depart nat so sone. Why say ye so ? wheder wyll ye go ? Alas ! what have ye done? All my welfare to sorrowe and care Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone ; For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. I can beleve, it shall you greve, And somewhat you dystrayne ; But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde Within a day or twayne Shall sone aslake ; and ye shall take Comfort to you agayne. Why sholde ye ought ? for, to maKe thought. Your labour were in vayne. And thus I do ; and pray you to As hartely, as I can ; For I must to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. Now, syth that ye have shew'd to me The secret of your mynde, I shall be playne to you agayne, Lyke as ye shall me fynde. Syth it is so, that ye wyll go, I wolle not leve behynde • Shall never be sayd, the Not-browne Mayd Was to her love unkynde : Make you redy, for so am I, Allthough it were anone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Yet I you rede to take good hede What men wyll thynke, and say : J 14 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Of yonge, and olde it shall be tolde, That ye be gone away, Your wanton wyll for to fulfill, In grene wode you to play ; And that ye myght from your delyght No lenger make delay. Rather than ye sholde thus for ine Be called an yll womtln, Yet wolde I to the grene wode go Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Though it be songe of old and yonge. That I sholde be to blame, Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large In hurtynge of my name : For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love It is devoyd of shame ; In your dystresse, and hevynesse, To part with you, the same : And sure all tho, that do not so, True lovers are they none ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. I counceyle you, remember howe, It is no maydens lawe, Nothynge to dout, but to renne out To wode with an outhiwe : For ye must there in your hand bere A bowe, redy to drawe ; And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve. Ever in drede and awe ; Wherby to you grete harme myght growe : Yet had I lever than, That I had to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. 1 thinke nat nay, but as ye say, It is no maidens lore : But love may make me for your sake, As I have sayd before To come on fote, to hunt, and shote To gete us mete in store ; For so that I your company May have, I aske no more : From which to part, it maketh my hart As colde as ony stone ; For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. For an outlawe this is the lawe, That men hym take and bynde ; Without pytfe, hangfed to be. And waver with the wynde, If I had nede, (as God forbede !) What rescous coude ye fynde ? Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe For fere wolde drawe behynde : And no mervayle ; for lytell avayle Were in your counceyle than : Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go. Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Right wele know ye, that woman be But feble for to fyght ; No womanhede it is indede . To be bolde as a knyght : Yet, in such fere yf that ye were With enemyes day or nyght, I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande To greve them as I myght. And you to save ; as women have From deth ' men ' many one : For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Yet take good hede ; for ever I drede That ye coude nat sustayne The thornie wayes, the deep vallfeies, The snowe, the frost, the rayne. The colde, the hete : for dry, or wete, We must lodge on the playne ; And, us above, none other rofe But a brake bush, or twayne : Which sone sholde greve you, 1 beleve : And ye wolde gladly than That I had to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Syth I have here bene partynfere With you of joy and blysse, I must also part of your wo Endure, as reson is : Yet am I sure of one plesClre And, shortely, it is this : That, where ye be, me semeth, pardfe, I could not fare amysse. POEMS OF LOVE. 115 Without more speche, I you beseche That we were sone agone : For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. If ye go thyder, ye must consyder, Whan ye have lust to dyne, There shall no mete be for you gete, Nor drinke, here, ale, ne wyne. No schetes clene, to lye betwene. Made of threde and twyne ; None other house, but leves and bowes, To cover your hed and myne. myne harte swete, this evyll dyfete Sholde make you pale and wan ; Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Amonge the wild dere, such an archfere, As men say that ye be, Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle, Where is so grete plentfe : And water clere of the ryvfere Shall be full swete to me ; With which in hele I shall ryght wele Endure, as ye shall see ; And, or we go, a bedde or two I can provyde anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Lo yet, before, ye must do more, Yf ye wyll go with me : As cut your here up by your ere, Your kyrtel by the kne ; With bowe in hande, for to withstande Your enemyes yf nede be ; And this same nyght before day-light, To wode-warde wyll I fle. Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill, Do it shortely as ye can ; Els wyll I to the grene wode go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. 1 shall as nowe do more for you Than longeth to womanhede; To shote my here, a bowe to bere. To shote in tyme of nede. O my swete mother, before all other For you I have most drede : But nowe, adue ! I must ensue, Where fortune doth me lede. All this make ye : Now let us fle : The day cometh fast upon ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Nay, nay, nat so ; ye shall nat go, And I shall tell ye why, — Your ajipetyght is to be lyght Of love, I wele espy : For, lyke as ye have sayd to me. In lyke wyse hardely Ye wolde answfere whosoever it were, In way of company. It is sayd of olde, Sone bote, sone colde: And so is a woman. Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Yf ye take hede, it is no nede Such wordes to say by me ; For oft ye pray'd, and longe assay'd, Or I you loved, pardfe ; And though that I of auncestry A barons daughter be. Yet have you proved howe I you loved A squyer of lowe degrfe ; And ever shall, whatso befall ; To dy therfore anone ; For in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. A barons chylde to be begylde I It were a cursfed dede ; To be felkwe with an outlawe ! Almighty God forbede ! Yet beter were, the pore squyfere Alone to forest yede, Than ye sholde say another day, That, by my cursM dede, Ye Avere betray'd : Wherfore, good mayd, The best rede that I can, Is, that I to the grene wode go. Alone, a banysh'd man. 116 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. SHE. Whatever befall, I never shall Of this thyng you upbrayd : But yf ye go, and leve me so. Then have ye me betrayd. Remember you wele, hovve that ye dele ; For, yf ye, as ye sayd. Be so unkynde, to leve behynde Your love the Not-browne Mayd, Trust me truly, that I shall dy Sone after ye be gone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent ; For in the forest nowe I have purvay'd me of a mayd, Whom I love more than you ; Another fayrfere, than ever ye were, I dare it wele avowe ; And of ye bothe eche sholde be wrothe With other, as I trowe : It were myne ese, to ly ve in pese ; So wyll I, yf I can ; Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, Alone, a banysh'd man. SHE. Though in the wode I undyrstode Ye had a paramour. All this may nought remove my thought. But that I will be your : And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde, And courteys every hour ; Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll Commaunde me to my power : For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, ' Of them I wolde be one ;' For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. HE. Myne owne dere love, I se the prove That ye be kynde, and true : Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe. The best that ever I knewe. Be mery and glad, be no more sad, The case is chaungfed ncAve ; For it were ruthe, that, for your truthe, Ye sholde have cause to rewe. Be nat dismay'd ; whatsoever I sayd To you, whan I began. I wyll nat to the grene wode go, I am no banysh'd man. SHE. These tydings be more gladd to me. Than to be made a quene, Yf I were sure they sholde endure ; But it is often sene. Whan men wyll breke promyse, they S2:)eke The wordfes on the splene. Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, And stele from me, I wene : Than were the case worse than it was. And I more wo-begone : For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Ye shall nat nede further to drede ; I will nat dysparjlge You (God for fend !), syth ye descend Of so grete a lyn^ge. Nowe undyrstande ; to Westmarlande, Which is myne herytage, I wyll you brynge, and with a rynge By way of maryage I wyll you take, and lady make, As shortely as I can : Thus have you won an erlys son And not a banysh'd man. Author. Here may ye se, that women be In love, meke, kynde, and stable ; Late never man reprove them than. Or call them variable ; But, rather, pray God that we may To them be comfortable. Which sometyme proveth such, as he lov eth, Yf they be charytable. For syth men wolde that women sholde Be meke to them each one, Moche more ought they to God obey. And serve but Hym alone. Author Unknown, POEMS OF LOVE. 117 THE Friar of Orders Gray. It was a friar of orders gray Walkt forth to tell his beades ; And he met with a lady faire Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me. If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see. And how should I know your true love For many another one ? O, by his cockle hat, and staff. And by his sandal shoone. But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view ; His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, And eyne of lovely blue. O lady, he is dead and gone ! Lady, he's dead and gone ! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone. Within these holy cloysters long He languisht and he dyed. Lamenting of a ladyes love. And 'plaining of her pride. Here bore him barefaced on his bier Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall. And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ! And art thou dead and gone ! And didst thou dye for love of me ! Break, cruel heart of stone ! O weep not, lady, weep not soe : Some ghostly comfort seek : Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Ne teares bedew thy cheek. O do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrows now reprove ; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er wan ladyes love. And nowe, alas ! for thy sad losse, I'll evermore weep and sigh : For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye. Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrowe is in vaine : For violets pluckt the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow againe. Our joys as winged dreams doe flye, Why, then, should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy losse, Grieve not for what is past. O say not soe, thou holy friar ; I pray thee say not soe : For since my true-love dyed for mee, 'Tis meet my tears should flow. And will he ne'er come again ? Will he ne'er come again ? Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave. For ever to remain. His cheek was redder than the rose ; The comeliest youth was he ! But he is dead and laid in his grave .- Alas, and woe is me ! Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever : One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never. Hadst thou been fond, he had been false. And left thee sad and heavy ; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy. Now say not soe, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not soe ; My love he had the truest heart : O he was ever true ! And art thou dead, thou much-loved youtL, And didst thou dye for mee ? Then farewell home, for ever-more A pilgrim I will bee. But first upon my true-loves grave My weary limbs I'll lay. And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf, That wraps his breathless clay. Yet stay, fair lady : rest a while Beneath this cloyster wall : See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, And drizzly rain doth fall. 118 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. O stay me not, thou holy friar ; stay me not, I pray ; No drizzly rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away. Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears ; For see beneath this gown of gray Thy owne true-love appears. Here forced by grief and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought : And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought. But haply, for my year of grace Is not yet pass'd away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay. Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart ; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part. Thomas Percy. Sonnet. To THE Moon. With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ! How silently, and with how wan a face! What ! may it be, that e'en in heav'nly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? •Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; 1 read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of * wit? A.re beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess ? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? Sir Philip Sidney. Jeanie Morrison. I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, Through mony a weary way ; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day ! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. Oh dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine. As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part ; Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule^ Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink. Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof. What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun ower ae braid page^ Wi' ae bulk on our knee. Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame. Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin,' said We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The scule then skaiPt at noon), When we ran off to speel the braes, — The broomy braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about — My heart flows like a sea. As ane by ane the thochts rush back O' scule-time and o' thee. Oh mornin' life ! oh mornin' luve ! Oh lichtsome days and lang. When hinny'd hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang ! POEMS OF LOVE. 119 Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside. And hear its waters croon ? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet ; The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees — And we, with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies ; And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time. When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled — unsung ! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? Oh, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine ? Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near. Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper, as it rins. The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness. And happy could I dee. Did I but ken your heart still dream'd O' bygone days and me ! William Motherwell. Sweet William's Farewell to Black-Eyed Susan. All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard : — " Oh ! where shall I my true-love find ? Tell me, ye jovial sailors ! tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew.' William, who high upon the yard Rock'd with the billow to and fro. Soon as her well-known voice he heard. He sigli'd, and cast his eyes below : The cord slides swiftly through his glow- ing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air. Shuts close his pinions' to his breast. If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. " O Susan ! Susan ! lovely dear. My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss ofi" that falling tear ; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. " Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find : Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. " If to far India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. Thy skin is ivory, so white : Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. " Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 120 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." The boatswain gave the dreadful word ; The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard ; They kiss'd; she sigh'd; he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : " Adieu !" she cries ; and waved her lily hand. John Gay. Highland Mary. Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie ! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary, How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As, underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary ! Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender ; And, pledging aft to meet again. We tore oursels asunder ; But, oh, fell death's untimely frost. That nipp'd my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay. That wraps my Highland Mary ! Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lijjs I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwalt on me sae kindly ! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly ; But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary ! Robert Bcens. Sally in our Alley. Of all the girls that are so smart. There's none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em : But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally ! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely ; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely — But let him bang his bellyful, I'll bear it all for Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day — And that's the day that comes betwirl A Saturday and Monday ; For then I'm drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named ; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. When Christmas comes about again. Oh then I shall have money ; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey : I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. POEMS OF LOVE. 121 My master and the neighbors all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave and row a galley , But when my seven long years are out, Oh then I'll marry Sally, — Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed. But not in our alley. Henry Carey. A Supplication: Awake, awake, my Lyre ! And tell thy silent master's humble tale In sounds that may prevail ; Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : Though so exalted she And I so lowly be. Tell her, such diflferent notes make all thy harmony. Hark ! how the strings awake : And, though the moving hand approach not near. Themselves with awful fear A kind of numerous trembling make. Now all thy forces try ; Now all thy charms apply ; Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure, but not to wound, And she to wound, but not to cure. Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove ; Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! For thou canst never tell my humble tale In sounds that will prevail, Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ; All thy vain mirth lay by. Bid thy strings silent lie. Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die. Abraham Cowley. Wishes foe the Supposed Mistress. Whoe'er she be, That not impossible she That shall command my heart and me : Where'er she lie, Lock'd up from mortal eye. In shady leaves of destiny : Till that ripe birth Of studied fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps to our earth : Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine : Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call'd my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie : Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm's toil. Or a bought blush, or a set smile. A face, that's best By its own beauty dress'd, And can alone command the rest. A face, made up Out of no other shop. Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. A cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth. Write what the reader sweetly rueth. A cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes. Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play. Yet carry nothing thence away. 122 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness. Eyes, that displace The neighboring diamond, and out-face That sunshine by their own sweet grace. Tresses, that wear Jewels, but to declare How much themselves more precious are. Whose native ray Can tame the w^anton day Of gems that in their bright shades play. Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear, A well-tamed heart. For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm. That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within. ******* Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow. Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night. ******* Life, that dares send A challenge to his end. And when it comes, say, " Welcome, friend !" Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old winter's head with flowers. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers, 'Bove all — nothing within that lowers. Whate'er delight Can make day's forehead bright. Or give down to the wings of night. In her whole frame, Have Nature all the name. Art and ornament the shame. Her flattery, Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be. I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes ; and I wish — no more. Now, if Time knows That her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows ; Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise ; Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see : I seek no further, it is she. ******* Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes. And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory. My fancies, fly before ye. Be ye my fictions but — her story. Richard Ckashaw. Song. How sweet I roamed from field to field. And tasted all the summer's pride, Till I the Prince of Love beheld Who in the sunny beams did glide ! He showed me lilies for my hair, And blushing roses for my brow ; He led me through his gardens fair Where all his golden pleasures grow. With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, And Phcebeus fired my vocal rage; POEMS OF LOVE. 123 He caught me in his silken net, And shut me in his golden cage. He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing. And mocks my loss of liberty. William Blake. Shall I Tell you Whom I Love? Shall I tell you whom I love ? Hearken then a while to me ; And if such a woman move As I now shall versify, Be assured 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone. Nature did her so much right As she scorns the help of art. In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart. So much good so truly tried. Some for less were deified. . Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath ; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be. Though perhaps not so to me. Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth ; Lovely as all excellence. Modest in her most of mirth. Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is : and if you know Such a one as I have sung ; Be she brown, or fair, or so That she be but somewhile young; Be assured 'tis she, or none, That 1 love, and love alone. William Browne. to virgins, to 3iake much of Time. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Old Time is still a-flying, And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer, But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry ; For having lost but once your prime. You may for ever tarry. Robert Herrick- Rosaline. Like to the clear in highest sphere Where all imperial glory shines, Of selfsame color is her hair. Whether unfolded, or in twines ; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling heaven by every wink ; The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think. Heigh ho, Avould she were mine ! Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud That beautifies Aurora's face. Or like the silver crimson shroud That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace ; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity ; Heigh ho, would she were mine ! Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprison'd lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes : Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Her paps are centres of delight, Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame. Where Nature moulds the dew of light To feed perfection with the same ; Heigh ho, would she were mine ! With orient pearl, with ruby red, I With marble white, with sapphire blue, 124 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Her body every way is fed, Yet soft in touch and sweet in view ; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Nature herself her shape admires ; The gods are wounded in her sight. And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light ; Heigh ho, would she were mine ! Then muse not, nymphs, though I be- moan The absence of fair Rosaline, Since for a fair there's fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine ; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ; Heigh ho, my heart ! would God that she were mine ! Thomas Lodge. To Althea, from Prison. When Love, with uuconfinfed wings, Hovers within my gates. And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates ; When I lye tangled in her haire ; And fetter'd with her eye, The birds that wanton in the aire Know no such libertye. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd, Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe, When healths and draughts goe free, Fishes, that tipple in the deepe, Know no such libertle. When, linnet-like, confined I With shriller note shall sing The mercy e, sweetness, majestye, And glories of my king ; When I shall voyce aloud how good He is, how great should be, Th' enlarged windes, that curie the flood, Know no such libertle. Stone walls doe not a prison make, Nor iron barres a cage, Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take That for an hermitage : If I have freedom in my love, And in my soule am free, Angels alone, that scare above. Enjoy such libertle. EiCHARD Lovelace. Lines on Isabella Markham. Whence comes my love? O heart, dis close ; It was from cheeks that shamed the rose. From lips that spoil the ruby's praise. From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : Whence comes my woe ? as freely own ; Ah me ! 'twas from a heart like stone. The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind. The eye does tempt to love's desire. And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire ; Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Sith naught doth say the heart of stone. Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek — Yet not a heart to save my pain ? O Venus, take thy gifts again ! Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like our own. John Harrington Song. Follow a shadow, it still flies you ; Seem to fly it, it will pursue : So court a mistress, she denies you ; Let her alone, she will court you. Say, are not women truly, then. Styled but the shadows of us men ? At morn and even shades are longest; At noon they are or short or none ; So men at weakest they are strongest. But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men ? Ben Jo^'son. To Lucasta, On Going to the Wars. Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde. That from the nuunerie Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde. To warre and armes I flee. POEMS OF LOVE. 125 True, a new mistresse now I chase — The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faitli imbrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, should adore ; I could not love thee, deare, so much, Loved I not honor more. RiCHAKD Lovelace. To LUCASTA. If to be absent were to be Away from thee : Or that, when I am gone, You or I were alone ; Then, my Lucasta, might I Crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage ; For, whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both. Our faith and troth. Like separated souls, All time and space controls : Above the highest sphere we meet. Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels greet. 80, then, we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' th' skies. If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In heaven — their earthly bodies left be- hind. Richard Lovelack. Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love, that still looks on your eyes, Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries. Shall not want the summer's sun. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never. Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love, that still may see your cheeks. Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses. Welcome, welcome, then I sing. Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love, to whom your soft lip yields, And perceiv&s your breath in kissing, All the odors of the fields Never, never shall be missing. Welcome, welcome, then I sing. Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love, that question would anew What fiiir Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you. And a brief of that behold. Welcome, welcome, then I sing, Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring for ever. William Brownb The Welcome. Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring ; He that parteth from you never. Shall enjoy a spring for ever. Love that to the voice is near. Breaking from your ivory pale, ^twas when the seas were Roaring. 'TwAS when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind ; A damsel lay deploring. All on a rock reclined. Wide o'er the roaring billows She cast a wistful look ; 126 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Her head was crown'd with willows, That tremble o'er the brook. Twelve months are gone and over, And nine long, tedious days, Why didst thou, vent'rous lover, Why didst thou trust the seas ? Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean, And let my lover rest : Ah ! what's thy troubled motion To that within my breast ? The merchant robb'd of pleasure, Sees tempests in despair ; But what's the loss of treasure To losing of my dear? Should you some coast be laid on Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find a richer maiden. But none that loves you so. How can they say that Nature Has nothing made in vain ; Why then beneath the water Should hideous rocks remain ? No eyes the rocks discover, That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep. All melancholy lying, Thus wail'd she for her dear ; Repaid each blast with sighing. Each billow with a tear ; When, o'er the white wave stooping. His floating corpse she spied ; Then like a lily drooping, She bow'd her head and died. John Gat. Juan. Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the West, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best; There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between. But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air ; There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings But 'minds me o' my Jean. Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees ; Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, Bring hame the laden bees ; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean ; Ae blink o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean. What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae pass'd atween us twa ! How fain to meet, how wae to part That day she gaed awa ! The Powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen. That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean ! Robert Burns. The Grave of Love. I DUG, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave; And every pledge in earth I laid. That erst thy false affection gave. I pressed them down the sod beneath ; I placed one mossy stone above ; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulchre of love. Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead. Ere yet the evening sun was set: But years shall see the cypress spread, Immutable as my regret. Thomas Love Pkacock. Song. Too late, alas I I must confess, You need not arts to move me ; Such charms by nature you possess, 'Twere madness not to love ye. Then spare a heart you may surprise. And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my unfaithful eyes Betray a tender story. John Wilmot (Earl of Eoehester). POEMS OF LOVE. 127 Song. Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes, United, cast too fierce a light, Which blazes high, but quickly dies ; Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. Love is a calmer, gentler joy ; Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace ; Her Cupid is a blackguard boy. That runs his link full in your face. Charles Sackville (Earl of Dorset). Song. Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest ; For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest. But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have ; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave. All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find, — For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind. Why then should I seek further store, And still make love anew ? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true. Sir Charles Sedlby. The Night Piece. To Julia. Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, The shooting-starres attend thee ; And the elves also. Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-wispe mislight thee. Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; But on thy way. Not making stay, Since ghost there's none t' affright thee ! Let not the darke thee cumber ; What though the moon does slumber ? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers cleare, without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me ; And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soule I'le pour into thee ! Robert Herrick. A Ditty. My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. By just exchange one to the other given : I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven • My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : He loves my heart, for once it was his own. I cherish his because in me it bides : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. Sir Philip Sidney. The Eve of St. Agnes. St. Agnes' Eye — Ah, bitter chill it was ! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold : The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass. And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the beadsman's fingers whilp he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. II. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man 5 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from hit) knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 128 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The sculptured dead, on each side seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. III. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's gold- en tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; But no — already had his death-bell rung ; The joys of all his life were said and sung : His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve ; Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. IV. That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide ; The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross- wise on their breasts. At length burst in the argent revelry. With plume, tiara, and all rich array. Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new-stuflf'd, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away, And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there Whose heart had brooded, all that win- try day. On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, As she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night. If ceremonies due they did aright ; As, supperless to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. VII. Full of this whim was thoughtful Made- line; The music, yearning like a god in pain. She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes di- vine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by — she heeded not at all ; in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retired; not cool'd by high disdain. But she saw not ; her heart was other- where ; She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. VIII. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short ; The hallow'd hour "was near at hand ; she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd re- sort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate and scorn, Hoodwink'd with fairy fancy ; all amort, Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. IX. So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, POEMS OF LOVE. 129 Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Made- line, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all un- seen ; T'erchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been. X. He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell: All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart. Love's feverous citadel : For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, AVhose very dogs Avould execrations howl Against his lineage : not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. XI. Ah, happy chance I the aghd creature came, Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland : He startled her; but soon she kneAV his face. And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ; They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race ! XII. "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand ; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit! Flit like a ghost away!" — "Ah, gossip dear. We're safe enough ; here in this arm- chair sit, And tell me how" — "Good saints, not here, not here ; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." XIII. He follow'd through a lowly archfed way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; And as she mutter'd " Well-a — well-a-day I' He found him in a little moonlight x'oom, Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. " Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, " Gh tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." XIV. " St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve — Yet men will murder upon holy days : Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays, To venture so. It fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays This very night : good angels her deceive! But let me laugh a while, I've mickle time to grieve." XV. Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, Wliile Porphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle- book, As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could l)rook Tears, at the thought of those enchant- ments cold. And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. XVI. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose Flushing his brow, and in his painfed heart 130 FIRESIDE ENGYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. Made purple riot: then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : "A cruel man and impious thou art ! Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." XVII. " I will not harm her, by all saints I swear !" Quoth Porphyro. " Oh, may I ne'er find grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer. If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Or look with ruffian passion in her face : Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; Or I will, even in a moment's space, Awake with horrid shout my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." XVIII. "Ah, why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church- yard thing. Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. Were never miss'd." Thus plaining doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. XIX. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied. And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy- eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met. Since Merlin paid his demon all the mon- strous debt. XX. " It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame ; " All cates and dainties shall be storfed there Quickly on this feast-night ; by the tam- bour-frame Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare. For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer The while : Ah! thou must needs the lady wed. Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." XXI. So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear To follow her ; with agfed eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste ; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. XXII. Her faltering hand upon the balustrade. Old Angela was feeling for the stair. When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, Eose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : With silver taper's light, and pious care, She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare, Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. POEMS OF LOVE. 131- XXIII. Out went the taper as she hurried in ; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide : No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide ! But to her heart, her heart was voluble. Paining with eloquence her balmy side; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. XXIV. A casement high and triple-arch'd there was. All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings ; And in the midst, 'mong thousand her- aldries. And twilight saints, and dim emblazon- ings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. XXV. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint : She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint : She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. XXVI. Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. Of all its wreathfed pearls her hair she frees ; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. Pensive a while she dreams awake, and sees. In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. XXVII. Soon trembling in her soft and chilly nest. In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay. Until the poppied warmth of sleep op- press'd Her soothfed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- day; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; Clasjj'd like a missal where swart Pay- nims pray ; Blinded alike from sunshine and fron» rain. As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. XXVIII. Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hush'd carpet, silent stept, And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo 1 — how fast she slept. XXIX. Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 132 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — Oh for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. XXX. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and laven- der'd ; While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez ; and spicfed dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Leb- anon. XXXI. These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathfed silver. Sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night. Filling the chilly room with perfume light.— "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." XXXII. Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; It seem'd he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; So mused a while, entoil'd in wooffed phantasies. XXXIII. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — Tumultuous, — and, in chords that ten- derest be, He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence called " La belle dame sans mercy :" Close to her ear touching the melody ; — Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: He ceased — she panted quick — and sud- denly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- sculptured stone. XXXIV. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. At which fair Madeline began to weep. And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; Who knelt, with Joinfed hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. XXXV. "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : How changed thou art! how pallid, chill and drear ! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro. Those looks immortal, those complain- ings dear ! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go." XXXVI. Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, POEMS OF LOVE. 133 Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet, — Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind blows Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath set. XXXVII. 'Tis dark • quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : " This is no dream, my bride, my Mad- eline !" 'Tis dark : the ichd gusts still rave and beat: " No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, un- prunfed wing." XXXVIII. " My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil-dyed ? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest. Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. XXXIX. "Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land. Of haggard seeming, but a boon in- deed : Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — The bloated wassailers will never heed. Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." XL. She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around. At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found, In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door ; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; And the long carjjets rose along the gusty floor. XLI. They glide like phantoms into the wide hall ! Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide. Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side : The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide. But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : By one and one the bolts full easy slide : The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. XLII. And they are gone : ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the baron dreamt of many a woe. And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large cofiin- worm, Were long benightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ; 134 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. John Keats. Jock of Hazeldean. " Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? Why weep ye by the tide ? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sail be his bride ; And ye sail be his bride, ladie, Sae comely to be seen ;" — But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. " Now let this wilful grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington, And lord of Langley-dale ; His step is first in peaceful ha'. His sword in battle keen ;" — But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. " A chain of gold ye shall not lack. Nor braid to bind your hair, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; And you, the foremost o' them a', Shall ride our forest queen ;" — But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. The kirk was deck'd at morning tide, The tapers glimmer'd fair, The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And dame and knight are there. They sought her baith by bower and ha'. The lady was not seen ! — She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean ! Sir Walter Scott. SOJ^NETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. If thou must love me, let it be for naught Except for love's sake only. Do not say " I love her for her smile, her look, her way Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day—" For these things in themselves, beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought. May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,— A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby ! But love me for love's sake, that ever- more Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. I NEVER gave a lock of hair away To a man, dearest, except this to thee. Which now upon my fingers thought- fully I ring out to the full brown length, and say, " Take it." My day of youth went yester- day: My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee. Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle tree, As girls do, any more : it only may Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral shears Would take this first, but love is justi- fied, — Take it thou, — finding pure, from all those years. The kiss my mother left here when she died. Say over again, and yet once over again. That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated Should seem " a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it. Remember, never to the hill or plain. POEMS OF LOVE. 135 Valley and wood, without her cuckoo- strain, Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed. Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain Cry, "Speak once more— thou lovest!" Who can fear Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll — Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year ? Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll The silver iterance !— only minding, dear. To love me also in silence with thy soul. When I look up, to drop on a new range Of walls and floors — another home than this? Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is Fill'd by dead eyes too tender to know change ? That's hardest. If to conquer love has tried, To conquer grief tries more, as all things prove ; For grief indeed is love and grief beside. Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to love. Yet love me — wilt thou? Open thine heart wide. And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. My letters ! all dead paper, . . . mute and white ! And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to- night. This said, ... he wish'd to have me in his sight Once, as a friend: this fix'd a day in spring To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing, Yet I wept for it ! this, . . . the paper's light, . . . Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quail' d As if God's future thunder'd on my past. This said, lam thine, — and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast. And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill avail'd, If what this said, I dared repeat at last ! If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me? Shall I never miss Home-talk and blessing and the com- mon kiss That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, First time he kiss'd me, he but only kiss'd The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And ever since, it grew more clean and white. Slow to world-greetings, quick with its " Oh, list," When the angels speak. A ring of ame- thyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight. Than that first kiss. The second pass'd in height The first, and sought the forehead, and half miss'd. Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed ! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state; since when, in- deed, I have been proud, and said, " My love, my own !" How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways : I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight ' For the ends of being and ideal grAce. 136 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. I love thee to the level of every clay's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for right ; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my child- hood's faith. I love thee with a love I seem'd to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life ; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. LOCHIIfVAE. Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,— Through all the wide Border his steed was the best. And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, — He rode all unarm'd and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none. But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- invar. So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall, 'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen and broth- ers and all. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), " Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" " I long woo'd your daughter, — my suit you denied ; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; And now am I come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more love- ly, by far. That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up. He quaff'd off the wine and he threw down the cup. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar : "Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace. While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bridemaidens whisper'd, " 'Twere better by far To -have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar. " One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. POEMS OF LOVE. 137 There was mounting 'mong Grtemes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Sir Walter Scott. AuLD ROBIN Gray. When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame. When a' the weary warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, Un^enn'd by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride ; But saving ae crown-piece, he had naething beside ; To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea ; And the crown and the pound, — they were baith for me ! He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day. When my father brake his arm, and the cow was stown away ; My mither she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea — And Auld Eobin Gray came a-courting me. My father cou'dna wark, my mother cou'dna spin ; My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie back ; But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack : His ship was a wrack— Why didna Jamie dee? Or, why am I spared to cry, Wae is me ! My father urged me sair— my mother didna speak, But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break ; They gied him my hand— my heart was in the sea — And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I cou'dna think it he, Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee !" Oh sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a' ; I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa' — I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to dee ; For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, Wae is me ! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin ; I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me. Lady Anne Barnard. To Mary in Heaven. Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, I toil'd day and night, but their bread I I That lov'st to greet the early morn, cou'dna win ; i Again thou usher'st in the day Auld Robin maintain'd them baith, and, j My Mary from my soul was torn, wi' tears in his ee, | Said, " Jeanie, oh ! for their sakes, will ye | Mary ! dear departed shade^! no marry me ?" Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 138 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the 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 'twas our last ! Ayr gurgling kiss'd 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 press'd. The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of wingfed day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ! Time but the impression deeper makes. As streanis their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy blissful place of rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? Robert Bukns. THE LADY'S Yes. Yes," I answer'd you last night ; " No," this morning, sir, I say : Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day. When the viols play'd their best. Lamps above and laughs below, Love me sounded like a jest. Fit for yes or fit for no. Call me false or call me free. Vow, whatever light may shine,- No man on your face shall see Any grief for change on mine. Yet the sin is on us both ; Time to dance is not to woo ; Wooing light makes fickle troth, Scorn of me recoils on you. Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high. Bravely, as for life and death, With a loyal gravity. Lead her from the festive boards, Point her to the starry skies ; Guard her, by your truthful words Pure from courtship's flatteries. By your truth she shall be true, Ever true, as wives of yore ; And her yes, once said to you, Shall be Yes for evermore. Elizabeth Barrett Browningi Lady Clare. It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn : Lovers long betroth'd were they : They two will wed the morrow morn : God's blessing on the day ! " He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse. Said, " Who was this that went from thee ?" " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, " To-morrow he weds with me." " Oh, God be thank'd !" said Alice the nurse, " That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare." " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?" Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild?" " As God's above," said Alice the nurse, " 1 speak the truth :. you are my child. POEMS OF LOVE. 139 " The old earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." '' Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said, " if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due." ■' Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Eonald's, When you are man and wife." " If I'm a beggar born," she said, " I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold. And fling the diamond necklace by." " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret all ye can." She said, " Not so : but I will know If there be any faith in man." " Nay now, what faith ?" said Alice the nurse, " The man will cleave unto his right." " And he shall have it," the lady replied, " Though I should die to-night." " Yet give one kiss to your mother, dear ! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." " O mother, mother, mother," she said, " So strange it seems to me ! *' Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so. And lay your hand upon my head. And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropp'd her head in the maiden's hand. And follow'd her all the way. Down stepp'd Lord Ronald from his tower: " Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you dress'd like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth ?" " If I come dress'd like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar born," she said, " And not the Lady Clare." " Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, " For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, " Your riddle is hard to read." Oh, and proudly stood she up ! Her heart wdthin her did not fail : She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. And told him all her nurse's tale. He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood : " If you are not the heiress born. And I," said he, " the next in blood— " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn. And you shall still be Lady Clare." Alfred Tennyson. Love not me for Comely Grace. Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face. Nor for any outward part, No, nor for my constant heart, — For those may fail, or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever : Keep therefore a true woman's eye, And love me still, but know not why — So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever ! Author Unknown. The Loveliness of Love. It is not beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair. Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand. Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair : Tell me not of your starry eyes. Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed : — 140 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY^ A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooiug flowers, These are but gauds : nay what are lips ? Coral beneath the ocean stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips Full oft he perisheth on them. And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good ? Eyes can with baleful ardor burn ; Poison can breath, that erst perfumed ; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed For crystal brows there's naught within ; They are but empty cells for pride ; He who the siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide. Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind Which with temptation I would trust, Yet never link'd with error find, — One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose, — My earthly Comforter ! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit wonn'd above. Hers could not stay, for sympathy. George Darley. Milk-Maid's Song. The Shepherd to his Love. Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, or hills, or field, Or woods and steepy mountains yield ; Where we will sit upon the rocks. And see the shepherds feed our flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And then a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ; A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; Slippers lined choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold ; A belt of straw and ivy buds. With coral clasps and amber studs ; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. Thy silver dishes for my meat. As precious as the gods do eat. Shall, on an ivory table, be Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight, each May morning. If these delights thy mind may move. Then live with me and be my love. Christopher Marlowe. MILK-MAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWER. The Nymph's Reply. If all the Avorld and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue. These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; Then Philomel becometh dumb. And age complains of care to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields. A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten : In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs. All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love. POEMS OF LOVE. 141 What should we talk of dainties, then, Of better meat than's fit for men ? These are but vain : that's only good Which God hath bless'd, and sent for food. But could youth last and love still breed. Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then those delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love. Sir Walter Raleigh. On a Day, Alack the Day.' On a day, alack the day ! Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air : Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen 'gan passage find ; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ; Air, would I might triumph so ! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn : Vow, alack, for youth unmeet ; Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me • That I am forsworn for thee : Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. William Shakespeare. W03fAK's Inconstancy. I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more, Thine be the grief as is the blame ; Thou art not what thou wast before, AVhat reason I should be the same? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain : God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine ; Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom did recall, That if thou might elsewhere inthrall -• And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain ? When new desires had conquer'd thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me. Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so. Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost ; The height of my disdain shall be. To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; To love thee still, but go no more A begging to a beggar's door. Sir Robert Ayton. The MAID'S Lament. I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I checkt him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, Alas ! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought. And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him : I now would give My love, could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death ! I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns And this lone bosom burns With s'tifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And Avaking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart : foi years Wept he as bitter tears ! " Merciful God !" such was his latest prayer " These may she never share !" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold ! Than daisies in the mould, 142 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Where children spell athwart the church- yard gate His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be, And oh, pray, too, for me ! Walter Savage Landor. An Ode. The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name : Euphelia serves to grace my measure But Chloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia's toilet lay ; When Chloe noted her desire, That I should sing, that I should play, My lyre I tune, my voice I raise ; But with my numbers mix my sighs; And while I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blush'd, Euphelia frown'd : I sung, and gazed : I play'd and trembh-d: And Venus to the Loves around Remark'd how ill we all dissembled. Matthew Prior. Constancy. Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together ; And am like to love three more If it prove fine weather. Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me ; Love with me had made no stays Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this, A dozen in her place. Sir John Suckling. A Fragment. Love in her sunny eyes does basking play ; Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair; Love does on both her lips for ever stray. And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there : In all her outward parts Love's always seen ; But oh ! he never went within. Abraham Cowley. To A Dead Woiian. > Not a kiss in life ; but one kiss at life's end, I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee. Through long years, keep it fresh on thy lips, O friend ! At the gate of silence, give it back to me. Henry C. Bunner. Lovely Mary Donnelly. O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best ! If fifty girls were around you, I'd hardly see the rest ; Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flow- ing on a rock. How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock ; Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower. Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up. Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup ; Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine — It's rolling down upon her neck, and gath- er'd in a twine. The dance o' last Whit Monday night ex- ceeded all before — No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor ; But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh ! but she was gay ; She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my heart away ! POEMS OF LOVE. 143 When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music neai'ly kill'd itself, to listen to her feet ; The fiddler mourn'd his blindness, he heard her so much praised ; But bless'd himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung ; Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue. But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower of womankind, in country or in town ; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright. And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. Oh, might we live together in lofty palace hall Where joyful music rises, and where scar- let curtains fall ! Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small. With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall ! O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress — It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less ; The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low, But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go ! William Allingham. ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived, whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee ; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea ; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee — With a love that the wingfed seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago. In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee ; So that her high-born kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me, Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know. In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we. Of many far wiser than we ; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bring- ing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea. In her tomb by the sounding sea. Edgar Allan Poe. 144 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPyEDTA OF POETRY. Eabl Mertoun's Song in ''A Blot IN THE 'Scutcheon." There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest ; And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest : And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sun- nier than the wild-grape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble : Then her voice's music . . call it the well's bubbling, the birds warble ! And this woman says, " My days were sun- less and my nights were moonless, Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbrake tuneless, If you loved me not ! " And I who — (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her — I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me ! Robert Browning. Duncan Gray. Duncan Gray cam here to woo. Ha, ha, the wooing o't. On blythe Yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't : Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent and unco' skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't ! Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd. Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleert an' blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Slighted love is sair to bide. Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. For a haughty hizzie dee ? She may gae to — France for me I Ha, ha, the wooing o't. How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Something in her bosom wrings. For relief a sigh she brings ; And oh, her een, they spak sic things . Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan was a lad o' grace. Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan couldna be her death. Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; Now they're crouse and canty baith. Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Egbert Burns, Ruth. She stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden light of morn. Like the sweetheart of the sun. Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripen'd ; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Eound her eyes her tresses fell. Which were blackest none could tell. But long lashes veil'd a light. That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim. Made her tressy forehead dim ; Thus she stood amid the stooks. Praising God with sweetest looks :- ■ Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean. Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come. Share my harvest and my home. Thomas Hood. POEMS OF LOVE. 145 Phillida and Corydon. In the merrie moneth of Maye, In a morne by break of daye, With a troope of damselles playing Forthe " I yode " forsooth a-maying : When anon by a wood side, Where as Maye was in his pride, I espifed all alone Phillida and Corydon. Much adoe there was, god wot ; He wold love, and she wold not. She sayde, never man was trewe ; He sayes, none was false to you. He sayde, hee had lovde her longe : She sayes, love should have no wronge. Corydon wold kisse her then : She sayes, maydes must kisse no men, Tyll they doe for good and all. When she made the shepperde call All the heavens to wytnes truthe, Never loved a truejr youthe. Then with manie a prettie othe, Yea and nay, and faith and trothe ; Suche as seelie shepperdes use When they will not love abuse ; Love, that had bene long deluded. Was with kisses sweete concluded ; And Phillida with garlands gaye Was made the lady of the Maye. Nicholas Breton. Maid of Athens. Maid of Athens, ere we part. Give, oh, give me back my heart ! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest I Hear my vow before I go, Zui-q ;jLod, ffd^ dyanui. By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge. By those wild eyes like the roe, ZwY/ ij.iid, ffd^ dyanu). By that lip I long to taste ; By that zone-encircled waist ; 10 By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well ; By love's alternate joy and woe, Zd)-q [lou, adq dyaizm. Maid of Athens ! I am gone : Think of me, sweet ! when alone. — Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul : Can I cease to love thee ? No ! Z(Ufi iJ.nL), cdq dyaiTU). Lord Byron. Adelgitha. The Ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded. And sad, pale Adelgitha came, When forth a valiant champion bounded, And slew the slanderer of her fame. She wept, deliver'd from her danger ; But when he knelt to claim her glove — " Seek not," she cried, " O gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha's love. " For he is in a foreign far land Whose arm should now have set me free ; And I must wear the willow garland For him that's dead, or false to me." " Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted !''- He raised his visor, — at the sight She fell into his arms and fainted ; It was indeed her own true knight. Thomas Campbell. Bonnie Lesley. Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border ? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her. And love but her for ever ; For Nature made her what she is. And never made anither. Thou art a queen, fair Lesley — Thy subjects we, before thee ; Thou art divine, fair Lesley — Tho hearts o' men adore thee. 146 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee ; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, "I canna wrang thee." The powers abooji will tent thee ; Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; Thou'rt like themsel' sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley ! Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie. RoBEET Burns. The Girl of Cadiz. Oh never talk again to me Of northern climes and British ladies ; It has not been your lot to see, Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. Although her eye be not of blue, Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, How far its own expressive hue The languid azure eye surpasses ! Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole The fire that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll, From eyes that cannot hide their flashes ; And as along her bosom steal In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses. You'd swear each clustering lock could feel. And curl'd to give her neck caresses. Our English maids are long to woo, And frigid even in possession ; And if their charms be fair to view. Their lips are slow at Love's confession : But born beneath a brighter sun, For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, And who — when fondly, feirly won, — Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz? The Spanish maid is no coquette, Nor joys to see a lover tremble. And if she love, or if she hate. Alike she knows not to dissemble. Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; And, though it will not bend to gold, 'Twill love you long and love you dearly. The Spanish girl that meets your love Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, For every thought is bent to prove Her passion in the hour of trial. When thronging foemen menace Spain, She dares the deed and shares the danger ; And should her lover press the plain. She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. And when, beneath the evening star. She mingles in the gay Bolero, Or sings to her attuned guitar Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, Or counts her beads with fairy hand Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, Or joins devotion's choral band. To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper, In each her charms the heart must move Of all who venture to behold her ; Then let not maids less fair reprove Because her bosom is not colder : Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam. Where many a soft and melting maid is, But none abroad, and few at home. May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz Lord Byron. / LOVE 3IY LOVE. What is the meaning of the song That rings so clear and loud. Thou nightingale amid the copse. Thou lark above the cloud ? What says thy song, thou joyous thrush, Up in the walnut tree ? " I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me." What is the meaning of thy thought, O maiden fair and young? There is such pleasure in thine eyes, Such music on thy tongue ; There is such glory on thy face. What can the meaning be? " I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me." Oh happy words ! at Beauty's feet We sing them ere our prime. And when the early summers pass. And Care comes on with Time. TMIE" ©BIRL ®F (BAiOI POEMS OF LOVE. 147 Still be it ours, in Care's despite, To join the chorus free : " I love my Love, because I know My Love loves me." Charles Mackay. CojiE, Rest in this Bosom. Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here ; Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast. And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh, what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss. And thy angel I'll be 'mid the horrors of this, Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue. And shield thee, and save thee, — or per- ish there too ! Thomas Mooee. The Siller Croun. '' And ye sail walk in silk attire, And siller hae to spare, Gin ye'll consent to be his bride. Nor think o' Donald mair." Oh wha wad buy a silken goun Wi' a puir broken heart ? Or what's to me a siller croun Gin frae my love I part? The mind, whose meanest wish is pure. Far dearest is to me, And ere I'm forced to break my faith, I'll lay me doun an' dee. For I hae vow'd a virgin's vow My lover's fate to share, An' he has gi'en to me his heart, And what can man do mair ? His mind and manners won my heart ; He gratefu' took the gift ; And did I wish to seek it back, It wad be waur than theft. The langest life can ne'er repay The love he bears to me. And ere I'm forced to break my faith, I'll lay me doun an' dee. Susanna Blamire. Mary 3I0RIS0N: Mary, at thy window be ! It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison ! Yestreen' when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha' To thee my fancy took its wing, — I sat, but neither heard nor saw : Though this was fair, and that was braw. And yon the toast of a' the town, 1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', " Ye are na Mary Morison." O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt na gie. At least be pity to me shown ; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. Egbert Buems The MINSTREL'S Song. Oh, sing unto my roundelay ! Oh, drop the briny tear with me ! Dance no more at holiday ; Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. 148 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Buddy his face as the morning light ; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead. Gone to his death bed. All under the willow tree. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ; Quick in dance as thought can be ; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; Oh, he lies by the willow tree I My love is dead. Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. Hark ! the raven flaps his wing In the brier'd dell below ; Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. See ! the white moon shines on high ; Whiter is my true-love's shroud. Whiter than the morning sky. Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead. Gone to his deathbed. All under the willow tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave Shall the baren flowers be laid. Nor one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers Round his holy corse to gre ; Ouphante fairy, light your fires ; Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed. All under the willow tree. Come, with acorn-cup and thorn. Drain my heart's blood all away ; Life and all its good I scorn. Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead. Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree. Water-witches, crown'd with reytes. Bear me to your lethal tide. I die ! I come ! my true love waits Thus the damsel spake, and died. Thomas Chatterton. One Word is too often Profaned. One word is too often profaned For me to profaue it, One feeling too falsely disdain'd For thee to disdain it. One hoi>e is too like despair For prudence to smother, And pity from thee more dear Than that from another. I can give not what men call love; But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the heavens reject not ; The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow? Perc:y Bysshe Shelley. To HIS Forsaken Mistress. I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair. And I might have gone near to love thee. Had I not found the lightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee : But I can let thee now alone. As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet ; yet find Tliee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favors are but like the wind, That kisses everything it meets; And since thou canst with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none. The morning rose that untouch'd stands Arm'd with her briers, how sweetl\'^ smells ! But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands. No more her sweetness with her dwells. But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one. POEMS OF LOVE. 149 Such fate, erelong, will thee betide, When thou hast handled been a while,— Like sere flowers to be thrown aside : And I will sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by none. Sir lloBEKT Ayton. LocKSLEY Hall. Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn : Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; Locksley Hall that in the distance over- looks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade. Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wander'd, nourish- ing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it 'closed : When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest : In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me. Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light. As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong :" Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ?"' weeping, " I have loved thee long." Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the hari? of Life, and smote on all the chords with might ; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring. And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness of the Spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! the dreary, dreary moorland ! the barren, barren shore I 150 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known me — to decline On a range of lower feelings and a nar- rower heart than mine ! Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought ; Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in j Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and a last embrace. the shadows rise and fall. Well— 'tis well that I should bluster!— Hadst thou less unworthy proved^ Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit ? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. Where is comfort ? in division of the rec- ords of the mind ? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ? No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings. That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remem- bering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof. In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall. 'Curs6d be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! Curs6d be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool ! Then a hand shall pass before thee, point- ing to his drunken sleep. To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the " Never, never,' whis- per'd by the phantom years. And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ; POEMS OF LOVE. 151 And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. Oh, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. Oh, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. "They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt — Truly, she herself had suflfer'd " — Perish in thy self-contempt ! Overlive it — lower yet — ^be happy ! where- fore should I care ? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. "What is that which I should turn to, light- ing upon days like these? Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels. And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but re-live in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, thou wondrous Mother- Age! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife. When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield. Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men : Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new ; That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do ; For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argo- sies of magic sails. Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south wind rushing warm. With the standards of the peoples plung- ing thro' the thunderstorm ; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 152 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. There tlie common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry. Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint ; Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creejj- ing on from point to point ; Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying fire. Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increas- ing purjjose runs. And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's ? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore. And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast. Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. Hark ! my merry comrades call me, sound- ing on the bugle-horn. They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn ; Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. "Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain, — Nature made them blinder motions bound- ed in a shallower brain ; Woman is the lesser man, and all thy pas- sions, match'd with mine. Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — Here at least, where Nature sickens, noth- ing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ; Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ; — I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away. On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and haj^py skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossom 'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind. In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions cramp'd-no longer shall have scope and breathing-space, I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run. Catch the wild-goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks. Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — POEMS OF LOVE. 153 Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, lo herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains. Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — I that rather held it better men should perish one by one. Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! Not in vain the distance beacons. For- ward, forward let us range, Let the great world «pin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother-Age (for mine I knew not), help me as when life begun : Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. <.)h, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapor from the margin, blacken- ing over heath and holt. Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; For the mighty wind arises, roaring sea- ward, and I go. Alfred Tknnyson. The Steadfast Shepherd. Hence away, thou Syren ; leave me. Pish ! unclasp those wanton arms ; Sugred words shall ne'er deceive me— Though thou prove a thousand charms. Fie, fie, forbear ; no common snare Can ever my affection chain : Your painted baits, and poor deceits, Are all bestow'd on me in vain. I'm no slave to such as you be ; Neither shall a snowy breast, Wanton eye, or lip of ruby, Ever rob me of my rest. Go, go, display your beauty's ray To some o'er-soon enamor'd swain : Those common wiles, of sighs and smiles, Are all bestow'd on me in vain. I have elsewhere vow'd my duty ; Turn away your tempting eyes ; Show not me a naked beauty ; Those impostures I despise : My spirit loathes where gaudy clothes And feigned oaths may love obtain : I love her so whose look swears no, That all your labors will be vain. Can he prize the tainted posies. Which on every breast are worn. That may pluck the spotless roses From their never-touched thorn ? I can go rest on her sweet breast That is the pride of Cynthia's train ; Then hold your tongues ; your mermaid songs Are all bestow'd on me in vain. He's a fool that basely dallies Where each peasant mates with him Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, AVhile there's noble hills to climb? No, no, though clowns are scared with frowns, I know the best can but disdain: And those I'll prove : so shall your love Be all bestow'd on me in vain. Yet I would not deign embraces With the fairest queens that be, If another shared those graces Which they had bestow'd on me. I'll grant that one my love, where none Shall come to rob me of my gain ; The fickle heart makes tears and art, And all, bestow'd on me in vain. 154 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. I do scorn to vow a duty, Where each lustful lad may woo ; Give me her whose sunlike beauty Buzzards dare not soar unto : She, she it is affords that bliss. For which I would refuse no pain ; But such as you, fond fools, adieu, You seek to captive me in vain. She, that's proud in the beginning, And disdains each looker-on, If a coy one in the winning, Proves a true one, being won. Whate'er betide, she'll ne'er divide The favor she to one doth deign ; But your fond love will fickle prove, And all, that trust in you, are vain. Therefore know, when I enjoy one, And for love employ my breath, She I court shall be a coy one Though I win her with my breath. A favor there few aim at dare ; And if, perhaps, some lover plain, She is not won, nor I undone By placing of my love in vain. Leave me, then, thou Syren, leave me ; Take away these charmed arms ; Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, I am proof 'gainst women's charms : You labor may to lead astray The heart, that constant must remain ; And I the while will sit and smile To see you spend your time in vain. George Wither. Farewell to Nancy. Ae fond kiss and then we sever ! Ae farewell, and then for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee ; Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him ? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me ; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy — Naething could resist my Nancy : But to see her was to love her, Love but her and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly. Had we never loved sae blindly. Never met — or never parted. We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest 1 Thine be ilka joy and treasure. Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever I Ae farewell, alas ! for ever! Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee; Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Robert Burnsi A Praise of his Love. Give place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; My lady's beauty passeth more The best of yours, I dare well sayen, Than doth the sun the candlelight, Or brightest day the darkest night ; And thereto hath a troth as just As had Penelope the fair ; For what she saith ye may it trust. As it by writing seated were ; — And virtues hath she many mo' Than I with pen have skill to show. I could rehearse, if that I would. The whole effect of Nature's plaint, When she had lost the perfect mould, The like to whom she could not paint. With wringing hands, how did she cry ! And what she said, I know it aye. I know she swore, with raging mind, Her kingdom only set apart. There was no loss by law of kind That could have gone so near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain — "She could not make the like again." Sith Nature thus gave her the praise To be the chiefest work she wrought, In faith, methink, some better ways On your behalf might well be sought, Than to compare, as ye have done. To match the candle with the sun. Henry Howard (Earl of Surrey). Sweet are the Charms. Sweet are the charms of her I love: More fragrant than the damask rose, Soft as the down of turtle dove. Gentle as air when Zephyr blows, Refreshing as descending rains To sunburnt climes and thirsty plains. POEMS OF LOVE. 155 True as the needle to the pole, Or as the dial to the sun ; Constant as gliding waters roll, Whose swelling tides obey the moon — From every other charmer free, My life and love shall follow thee. The lamb the flowery thyme devours, The dam the tender kid pursues ; Sweet Philomel in shady bowers Of verdant spring her note renews : All follow what they most admire. As I pursue my soul's desire. Nature must change her beauteous face, And vary as the seasons rise. As winter to the spring gives place. Summer th' approach of autumn flies : No change on love the seasons bring, — Love only knows perpetual spring. Devouring Time with stealing pace, Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow ; And marble towers and gates of brass In his rude march he levels low ; But Time, destroying far and wide, Love from the soul can ne'er divide. Death only, with his cruel dart. The gentle godhead can remove. And drive him from the bleeding heart. To mingle with the blest above. Where, known to all his kindred train, He finds a lasting rest from pain. Love and his sister fair, the Soul, Twin born, from heaven together came; Love will the universe control When dying seasons lose their name ; Divine abodes shall own his power. When Time and Death shall be no more. Bakton Booth. Geni:vieve. Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve ; In beauty's light you glide along; Your eye is like the star of eve. And sweet your voice as seraph's song. Yet not your heavenly beauty gives This heart with passion soft to glow ; Within your soul a voice there lives, It bids you hear the tale of woe. When sinking low the sufferer wan Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save ; Fair as the bosom of the swan That rises graceful o'er the wave, I've seen your breast with pity heave, And there/ore love I you, sweet Genevieve, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The MILLER'S Daughter. It is the miller's daughter. And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear ; For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist. And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest ; And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom. With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. ALFRED Tennyson. Lesbia. When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair. With eyes so bright and with that awful air, I thought my heart would durst so high as- pire. As bold as his who snatched celestial fire. But soon as e'er the beauteous idiot spoke, Forth from her coral lips such folly broke; Like balm the trickling nonsense healed my wound, And what her eyes enthralled, her tongue unbound. William Congreve. Amoret. Fair Amoret is gone astray. Pursue and seek her, every lover ; I'll tell the signs by which you may The wandering shepherdess discover. 15G FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Coquet and coy at once her air, Both studied, though both seem neg- lected ; Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to be unaffected. With skill her eyes dart every glance, Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them ; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct them. She likes herself, yet others hates For that which in herself she prizes ; And, while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing which she despises. William Congeeve. EOSABER'S /SONETTO. Turn I my looks unto the skies, Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes; If so I look upon the ground, Love then in every flower is found ; Search I the shade to flee my pain, Love meets me in the shades again ; Want I to walk in secret grove. E'en there I meet with sacred love ; If so I bathe me in the spring, E'en on the brink I hear him sing ; If so I meditate alone, He will be partner of my moan ; If so I mourn, he weeps with me, And where I am there will he be ; When as I talk of Eosalind, The god from coyness waxeth kind, And seems in self-same frame to fly. Because he loves as well as I. Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue. For why, than love I am more true : He, if he speed, will quickly fly. But in thy love I live and die. Thomas Lodge. Kisses. My love and I for kisses play'd : She would keep stakes — I was content ; But when I won, she would be paid ; This made me ask her what she meant. " Pray, since I see," quoth she, " your wrangling vein. Take your own kisses ; give me mine again." William Strode. A Stolen Kiss. Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe ; And free access unto that sweet lip lies. From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal From those melting rubies, one poor kiss ; None sees the theft that would the theft reveal. Nor rob I her of aught what she can miss : Nay, should I twenty kisses take away. There would be little sign I would do so ; Why, then, should I this robbery delay ? Oh, she may wake, and therewith angry grow ! Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one, And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. George Wither. Three Loves. There were three maidens who loved a king ; They sat together beside the sea ; One cried, " I love him, and I would die If but for one day he might love me !" The second whispered, "And I would die To gladden his life, or make him great." The third spake not, but gazed afar With dreamy eyes that were sad as Fate. Tlie king he loved the first for a day. The second his life with fond love blest; And yet the woman who never spoke Was the one of the three who loved him best. Lucy Hamilton Hooper. Song. My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me, When with love's resistless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me. POEMS OF LOVE. 157 But her constancy's so weak, She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary, — What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? Melting joys about her move, Killing pleasures, wounding blisses : She can dress her eyes in love, And her lips can warm with kisses. Angels listen when she speaks, She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break. Should we live one day asunder. John Wilmot (Earl of Rochester). A Red, Red Rose. My luve is like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June ; My luve is like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry; Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee well, my only Luve ! And fare thee well a while. And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile. Robert Burns. Stanzas. OiT, talk not to me of a name great in story ; The days of our youth are the days of our glory. And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be- sprinkled ; Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sound- ing phrases Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. Lord Byron. Stanzas for Music. There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee. And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me ; When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing. The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving As an infant's asleep ; So the spirit bows before thee To listen and adore thee, With a full but soft emotion. Like the swell of Summer's ocean. Lord Byron. Thou hast Sworn by thy God, MY Jeanie. Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, By that pretty white hand o' thine, And by a' the lowing stars in heaven, That thou Avad ay be mine ; And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie. And by that kind heart o' thine. 158 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven, That thou shalt ay be mine. Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bauds, An' the heart that wad part sic love ; But there's nae hand can loose the band, Save the finger o' God above. Though the wee wee cot maun be my bield, An' my claithing e'er sae mean, I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve, Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. Her white arm wad be a pillow to me Fu' safter than the down ; An' Love wad winnow owre us his kind kind wings, An' sweetly I'd sleep, an' soun'. Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve, Come here, an' kneel wi' me, The morning is fu' o' the presence o' God, An' I canna pray but thee. The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers. The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie, Our gudeman leans owre his kail-yard dyke, An' a blythe auld body is he. The Book maun be ta'en when the carl comes hame, Wi' the holie psalmodie. An' thou maun speak o' me to thy God, An' I will speak o' thee. Allan Cunningham. The Welcome. Come in the evening, or come in the morning ; Come when you're looked for, or come without warning ; Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, The green of the trees looks far greener than ever. And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever !" II. I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ! Or, after you've kiss'd them, they'll lie git my bosom ; I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. Oh, your step's like the rain to the summer-vex'd farmer, Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love me. III. We'll look through the trees at the cliflf and the eyrie; We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy ; We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. Oh, she'll whisper you, — "Love, as un- changeably beaming, And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming ; Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver. As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." ly. So come in the evening, or come in the morning ; Come when you're look'd for, or come without warning; Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, ,'lnd the oftener you come here the more And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; I'll adore you ! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; POEMS OF LOVE. 159 The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever !" Thomas Osborne Davis. The Hermit. "Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. " For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds, immeasurably spread. Seem lengthening as I go." " Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. " Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. "Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows ; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. " No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that power that pities me, I learn to pity them ; " But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied. And water from the spring. " Then, pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego ; All earth-born cares are wrong ; Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell ; The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighboring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Kequired a master's care : The wicket, opening with a latch, Received the harmless pair. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest. The hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheer'd his pensive guest ; And spread his vegetable store. And gaily prest and smiled ; And, skill'd in legendary lore. The lingering hours beguiled. Around, in sympathetic mirth. Its tricks the kitten tries ; The cricket chirrups on the hearth ; The crackling fagot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger's woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the hermit spied, With answering care opprest : " And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, " The sorrows of thy breast ? " From better habitations spurn'd. Reluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love ? " Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. " And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows wealth or fame. And leaves the wretch to weep ? " And love is still an emptier sound. The modern fair one's jest ; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. " For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows hush And spurn the sex," he said ; But, while he spoke, a rising blush His lovelorn guest betray'd. 100 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view ; Like colors o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confest, A maid in all her charms. " And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried ; " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heaven and you reside. " But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. " My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine. He had but only me. ' To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came ; Who praised me for imputed charms. And felt, or feign'd, a flame. " Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove : Among the rest young Edwin bow'd. But never talk'd of love. " In humble, simplest habit clad. No wealth nor power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. " And when beside me in the dale He caroll'd lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale. And music to the grove. " The blossom opening to the day. The dews of heaven refined. Could naught of purity display To emulate his mind. '' The dew, the blossom on the tree. With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but, woe to me ! Their constancy was mine. " For still I tried each fickle art. Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touch'd my heart. I triuraph'd in his pain: " Till, quite dejected with my scorn. He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. " But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. And well my life shall pay ; I'll seek the solitude he sought. And stretch me where he lay. " And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die ; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." " Forbid it, Heaven !" the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast ; The wondering fair one turn'd to chide,— 'Twas Edwin's self that prest. " Turn, Angelina, ever dear. My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restored to love and thee. " Thus let me hold thee to my heart. And every care resign ; And shall we never, never part. My life — my all that's mine? " No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too." Oliver Goldsmith. TiTE TBIU3IPH OF CHARTS. See the chariot at hand here of Love ! Wherein my lady rideth ! Each that draws is a swan, or a dove — And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty ; And, enamor'd, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight. That they still were to run by her side Through swords, through seas, wbither she would ride. POEMS OF LOVE. IGl Do but look on her eyes ! they do light All that Love's world compriseth ; Do but look on her hair ! it is bright As Love's star when it riseth ! Do but mark — her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her ! And from her arch'd brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life, All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow. Before rude hands have touch'd it? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow. Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? Or swan's down ever ? Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier ? Or the nard i' the fire ? Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? Oh, so white ! oh, so soft ! oh, so sweet is she ! Ben Jonson. Tell 3ie How to Woo Thee. If doughty deeds my lady please, Right soon I'll mount my steed ; And strong his arm, and fast his seat That bears frae me the meed. I'll wear thy colors in my cap, Thy picture at my heart ; And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart ! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ; Oh tell me how to woo thee ! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. If gay attire delight thine eye I'll dight me in array ; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thine ear. These sounds I'll strive to catch ; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, That voice that nane can match. But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow ; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring. For you I wear the blue ; H For you alone I strive to sing, Oh tell me how to woo ! Then tell me how to woo thee. Love ; Oh tell me how to woo thee. For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. Robert Graham of Gartmork. Nanny, ]vilt Thou go with Me. Nanny, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? Can silent glens have charms for thee, — The lowly cot and russet gown ? No longer drest in silken sheen. No longer deck'd with jewels rare, — Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, AVhere thou wert fairest of the fair ? O Nanny, when thou'rt far away. Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? Oh, can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor sad regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? O Nanny, canst thou love so true. Through perils keen with me to go ; Or when thy swain mishap shall rue. To share with him the pang of woe ? Say, should disease or pain befall. Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, AVhere thou wert fairest of the fair ? And when at last thy love shall die. Wilt thou receive his parting breath, Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh. And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? Tho.mas Perct. When Maggy Gangs Away, Oh, what will a' the lads do When Maggy gangs away ? Oh, what will a' the lads do Wlien Maggy gangs away ? 162 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. There's no a heart in a' the glen That disna dread the day : Oh, what will a' the lads do When Maggy gangs away? Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't, A waefu' wight is he ; Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't, An' laid him down to dee ; An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk, An' learnin' fast to pray : And oh, what will the lads do When Maggy gangs away ? The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw Has drunk her health in wine ; The priest has said — in confidence — The lassie was divine, And that is mair in maiden's praise Than ony priest should say : But oh, what will the lads do When Maggy gangs away ? The wailing in our green glen That day will quaver high ; 'Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood, The laverock frae the sky ; The fairies frae their beds o' dew Will rise an' join the lay : An' hey ! what a day 'twill be When Maggy gangs away ! James Hogg. Believe me, if All those En- dearing Young Charms. Believe me, if all those endearing young charms. Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this mo- ment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks uuprofaned by a teai', That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear ; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose. Thomas Mooee. SONNET: TO AURORA. O, IF thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm. And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest; Then thou wouldst melt the ice out of thy breast And thy relenting heart [would kindly warm. O, if thy pride did not our joys control. What world of loving wonders should'st thou see ! For if I saw thee once transform'd in me. Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul ; Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine. And if that aught mischanced thou should not moan Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone ; No, 1 would have my share in what were thine : And whilst we thus should make our sor- rows one. This happy harmony would make them none. William Alexander (Earl of Stirling). Go, Pretty Birds. Ye little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys, And see how Phillis sweetly walka Within her garden-alleys, — Go, pretty birds, about her bower; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; Ah me I methinks I see her frown ! Ye pretty wantons, warble. POEMS OF LOVE. 163 Go tell her through your chirping bills, As you by me are bidden, To her is only known my love, Which from the world is hidden, — Go, pretty birds, and tell her so ; See that your notes strain not too low, For still, methinks, I see her frown. Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go, tune your voices' harmony, And sing I am her lover ; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her ; And she that hath the sweetest voice. Tell her I will not change my choice ; Yet still, methinks, I see her frown. Ye pretty wantons, warble. Oh fly ! make haste ! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber ; Sing round about her rosy bed, That, waking, she may wonder; Say to her 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you ; And when you hear her kind reply Keturn with pleasant warblings. Thomas Heywood. To u JOURS Amour. Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, 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 I ' Oh !" the rosy lips reply, " I can't tell you if I try. 'Tis so long I can't remember : Ask some younger lass than 1 1" 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 ? 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 Stedmabt. S WEET-AND - Twenty. 0, MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? Oh, stay and hear ; your true love's coming. That can sing both high and low: Trip no farther, pretty sweeting ; Journeys end in lovers' meeting. Every wise man's son dotli know. What is love ? 'tis not hereafter ; Present mirth hath present laughter ; What's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty ; Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-Twenty, Youth's a stufi" will not endure. William Shakespeare. Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben- lomond. And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene. While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flow'r o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green ; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom. Is lovely young Jessie, the Flow'r o" Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie, — For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; And far be the villain, divested of feel- ing, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flow'r o' Dumblane. 164 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening! — Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calder- wood glen : Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the Flow'r o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ! The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain : I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the Flow'r o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor. If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flow'r o' Dumblane. Robert Tannahill. Mary of Castle Cary. ''Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, Saw ye my true love down on yon lea ? Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming. Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw tree ? Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white, Dark is the blue of her saft-rolling ee ; Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses — Where could my wee thing wander frae me?" * I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing. Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea; But I met my bonny thing late in the gloaming, Down by the burnie where flowers the haw tree : Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white, Dark was the blue of her saft-rolling ee ; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses — Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me." " It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing. It was nae my true love ye met by the tree; Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature ; She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed me. Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle Cary; Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee : Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee." " It was then your Mary ; she's frae Castle Cary; It was then your true love I met by the tree; Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me." Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew. Wild flash'd the fire frae his red-rolling ee; " Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorning. Defend ye, fause traitor; fu' loudly ye lie." "Away wi' beguiling 1" cried the youth, smiling — Off" went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee. The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the loved maid \d' the dark- rolling ee. " Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing, Is it mv true love here that I see?" POEMS OF LOVE. 165 "0 Jamie, forgie me; your heart's con- stant to me ; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee." Hector Macneill. RORY O'MORE. Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn ; He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as the dawn ; He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. " Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye— *' With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, what I'm about ; Faith, you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." " Och ! jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day; And 'tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure ? For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. " Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." " Faith !" says Rory, " I'd rather love you than the ground." •' Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I dhrame every night that I'm hating you so." " Och !" says Rory, " that same I'm de- lighted to hear, For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. So, jewel, keep dhramin' that same till you die, And bright mornin' will give dirty night the black lie ; And 'tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure ? Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. " Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough ; Sure I've thrash'd, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, dhrinkin' your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, / may talk to the j)riest.'" Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; And he look'd in her eyes, that were beaming with light. And he kiss'd her sweet lips — don't you think he was right ? " Now, Rory, leave off, sir, you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day that you've kiss'd me before." " Then here goes another," says he, " to make sure. For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. Samuel Lovek. The Low-backed Car. When first I saw sweet Peggy, 'Twas on a market-day ; A low-back'd car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay ; But when that hay was blooming grass, And deck'd with flowers of spring, No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-back'd car, The man at the turnpike bar Never ask'd for the toll, But just rubb'd his owld poll. And look'd after the low-back'd car. In battle's wild commotion. The proud and mighty Mars With hostile scythes demands his tithes Of death — in warlike cars ; While Peggy, peaceful goddess. Has darts in her bright eye 166 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. That knock men down in the market-town, As right and left they fly ; While she sits in her low-back'd car, Than battle more dangerous far, — For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-back'd car. Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these ; While she among her poultry sits. Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of love ; While she sits in her low-back'd car, The lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin', As she sits in her low-back'd car. Oh, I'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side. Than a coach and four, and gold galore, And a lady for my bride ; For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste, While Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist. While we drove in the low-back'd car To be married by Father Maher ; Oh, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, Though it beat in a low-back'd car. Samuel Lover. Jessy. Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet. And soft as their parting tear, Jessy ! Altho' thou maun never be mine, Altho' even hope is denied, 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing Than aught in the world beside, Jessy. I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms, But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, For then I am lock'd in thine arms, Jessy. I guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by thy love-rolling ee ; But why urge the tender confession 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessy? Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear. Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet. And soft as their parting tear, Jessy. Robert Burns. THEDULE'S r THISBONNET O' MINE. The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine : My ribbins'll never be reet ; Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet; He met me i' th' lone t' other day (Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), An' he begg'd that aw'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will ! When he took my two bonds into his. Good Lord, heaw they trembled be- tween ! An' aw durstn't look up in his face, Becose on him seein' my e'en. My cheek went as red as a rose ; There's never a mortal con tell Heaw happy aw felt, — for, thae knows, One couldn't ha' ax'd him theirsel'. But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung : To let it eawt wouldn't be reet. For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung, So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet. But, Mally, thae knows very weel. Though it isn't a thing one should own, Iv aw'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel', Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. Neaw, Mally, aw've towd thae my mind ; What would to do iv it wur thee ? " Aw'd tak him just while he'se inclined, An' a farrantly bargain he'll be; For Jamie's as greadly a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sun. Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed ; An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's done!" Eh, dear! but it's time to be gwon: Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait; POEMS OF LOVE. 167 Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw wouldn't for th' wuld be too late. Aw'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel ; Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do ? " Be off, lass, — thae looks very weel ; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo !" Edwin Waugh. When the Kye comes Hame. Come, all ye jolly shepherds, That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken ; What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name ? 'Tis to woo a bonny lassie When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloaming and the mirk, AVhen the kye comes hame. 'Tis not beneath the coronet, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, Nor arbor of the great — 'Tis beneath the spreading 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, AVhen the kye comes hame. AVhen the blewart bears a pearl. And the daisy turns a pea. And the bonny lucken gowan Has fauldit up her ee. Then the laverock, frae the blue lift. Drops down and thinks nae shame To woo his bonny lassie AVhen 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 AVhen the kye comes hame. AVhen the little wee bit heart Eises 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. Then since all Nature joins In this love without alloy. Oh, wha wad prove a traitor To Nature's dearest joy? Or wha wad choose a crown, Wi' its perils and its fame, And miss his bonny lassie. When the kye comes hame ? James Hooe. Maud Mullee. Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glow'd the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mockbird echo'd from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-oif town, White from its hillslope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing fill'd her breast,— A wish, that she hardly dared to own. For something better than she had known. The judge rode slowly down the lane. Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple trees to greet the maid. And ask a draught from the spring that flow'd Through the meadow across the road. 168 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. She stoop'd where the cool spring bubbled up, And fiU'd for him her small tin cup, And blush'd as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tatter'd gown. "Thanks!" said the judge; "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaff'd." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; Then talk'd of the haying, and wonder'd whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; And listen'd, while a pleased surprise Look'd from her long-lash'd hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud Muller look'd and sigh'd: "Ah me! That I the judge's bride might be! " He would dress me up in silks so fine. And praise and toast me at his wine. " My father should wear a broadcloth coat, My brother should sail a painted boat. " I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The judge look'd back as he climb'd the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. "A form more fair, a face more sweet Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. "And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. " Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her a harvester of hay : "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, " But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words." But he thought of his sisters proud and cold. And his mother vain of her rank and gold So, closing his heart, the judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. When he humm'd in court an old love- tune ; And the young girl mused beside the well. Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow. He watch'd a picture come and go ; And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Look'd out in their innocent surprise. Oft, when the wine in his glass was red. He long'd for the wayside well instead ; And closed his eyes on his garnish'd rooms. To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. And the proud man sigh'd, with a secret pain, " Ah, that I were free again ! — " Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearn'd and poor. And many children play'd round her door. But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall. In the shade of the apple tree again She saw a rider draw his rein. POEMS OF LOVE. 169 And. gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretch'd away into stately halls ; The weary wheel to a spinnet turn'd, The tallow candle an astral burn'd, And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again. Saying only, " It might have been." Alas for maiden, alas for judge. For rich repiner and household drudge ! God pity them both ! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. For of all sad words of tongue or pen. The saddest are these : " It might have been !" Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes ; And, in the hereafter, angels may KoU the stone from its grave away ! John Greenleaf Whittihe. The Power of Love. Hear ye, ladies that despise What the mighty Love has done ; Fear examples and be wise : Fair Calisto was a nun : Leda, sailing on a stream, To deceive the hopes of man, Love accounting but a dream, Doted on a silver swan ; Danae in a brazen tower. Where no love was, loved a shower. Hear ye, ladies that are coy. What the mighty Love can do ; Fear the fierceness of the boy ; The chaste moon he makes to woo ; Vesta, kindling holy fires, Circled round about with spies, Never dreaming loose desires, Doting at the altar dies ; Ilion, in a short hour, higher He can build, and once more fire. Beaumont and Fletcher. The Brookside. I wander'd by the brookside, I wander'd by the mill ; I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still : There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird ; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm tree, ♦ I watch'd the long, long shade, And as it grew still longer I did not feel afraid ; For I listen'd for a footfall, I listen'd for a word : But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not — no, he came not, — The night came on alone, — The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne ; The evening air pass'd by my cheek. The leaves above were stirr'd ; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast, silent tears were flowing. When something stood behind ; A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind ; It drew me nearer, nearer — We did not speak one word ; But the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. Richard Monckton Milnks (Lord Houghton). The SHEPHERD'S Resolution. Shall I, wasting in despair. Die because a woman's fair ? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are ? Be she fairer than the day Or the flowery meads of May, If she be not so to me What care I how fair she be ? 170 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind ; Or a well-disposed nature Joined to a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love ? Or her merit's value known Make me quite forget my own ? Be she with that goodness blest. Which may gain her name of Best ; If she be not such to me. What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortunes seem too high. Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind Where they want of riches find. Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo ; And unless that mind I see. What care I how great she be ? Great or good, or kind or fair, I will ne'er the more despair ; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve ; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and bid her go ; For if she be not for me. What care I for whom she be ? George Wither. SONJ^ET. Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part, — Nay, I have done, you get no more of me, And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart. That thus so clearly I myself can free ; Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows. And, when we meet at any time again. Be it not seen in either of our brows. That we one jot of former love retain. Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speech- less lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death. And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou mightst him yet recover. Michael Drayton. Song. Day, in melting purple dying, Blossoms all around me sighing. Fragrance, from the lilies straying, Zephyr, with my ringlets playing, Ye but waken my distress : I am sick of loneliness. Thou to whom I love to hearken. Come, ere night around me darken ; Though thy softness but deceive me. Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee ; Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent ! Let me think it innocent ! Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure : All I ask is friendship's pleasure : Let the shining ore lie darkling. Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ; Gifts and gold are naught to me , I would only look on thee ! Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Ecstasy but in revealing ; Paint to thee the deep sensation, Rapture in participation. Yet but torture, if comjjrest In a lone unfriended breast. Absent still? Ah! come and bless me! Let these eyes again caress thee ; Once, in caution, I could fly thee : Now, I nothing could deny thee : In a look if death there be, Come and I will gaze on thee ! Maria Brooks. The Banks o' Doon. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds. And I sae weary fu' o' care I POEMS OF LOVE. 171 Thou'll break my heart, thou warb- ling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return. Aft bae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine ; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine ; Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ! And my fause luver staw my rose. But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. Robert Burns. Florence Vane. I LOVED thee long and dearly, Florence Vane ; My life's bright dream and early Hath come again ; I renew in my fond vision My heart's dear pain, My hopes and thy derision, Florence Vane ! The ruin, lone and hoary. The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story. At even told, That spot, the hues elysian Of sky and plain I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane ! Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime ; Thy voice excell'd the closes Of sweetest rhyme ; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane. But fairest, coldest wonder I Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under ; Alas the day ! And it boots not to remember Thy disdain. To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane I The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep. May their bloom, in beauty vying. Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. Philip Pendleton Cooke. / Prithee send me back 3ir Heart. I PRITHEE send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine. For if from yours you will not part. Why, then, shouldst thou have mine ? Yet now I think on't, let it lie ; To find it were in vain ; For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again. Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O Love ! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out ; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine ; For I'll believe I have her heart. As much as she has mine. Sir John Sucklin«. The Hun. If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be ; In any cell you run, dear. Pray look behind for me. The roses all turn pale, too ; The doves all take the veil, too ,' The blind will see the show : 172 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. What ! you become a nun, my dear? I'll not believe it, no ! If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be ; The Cupids every one, dear. Will chant, " We trust in thee !" The incense will go sighing. The candles fall a-dying, The water turn to wine : What ! you go take the vows, my dear ? You may — but they'll be mine. Leigh Hunt. She is not Fair to Outward Vie w. She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be ; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me. Oh then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a sj^ring of light. But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye : Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are. Hartley Coleridge. Sonnet. Time wasteth years, and months, and hours ; Time doth consume fame, honor, wit, and strength ; Time kills the greenest herbs and sweetest flowers ; Time wears out Youth and Beauty's looks at length ; Time doth convey to ground both foe and friend, And each thing else but Love, which hath no end. time maketh every tree to die and rot ; Time turneth oft our pleasure into pain ; Time causeth wars and wrongs to be for- got ; Time clears the sky which first hung full of rain ; Time makes an end of all humane desire. But only this which sets my heart on fire. Time turneth into naught each princely state ; Time brings a flood from new-resolvfed snow ; Time calms the sea where tempest was of late; Time eats whate'er the moon can see below : And yet no time prevails in my be- hoof. Nor any time can make me cease to love! Thomas Watson. The Awakening of Endyhion. Lone upon a mountain, the pine trees wailing round him, Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid ; Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him. Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is undecay'd. When will he awaken ? When will he awaken ? a loud voice hath been crying, Night after nigiit, and the cry has been in vain ; Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for replying. But the tones of the beloved one were never heard again. When will he awaken? Asked the midnight's silver queen. Never mortal eye has look'd upon his sleeping ; Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourn'd for him as dead ; By day the gather'd clouds have had him in their keejiing. And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed. When will he awaken ? POEMS OF LOVE. 173 Long has been the cry of faithful love's Lovely is the green earth,— she knows the imj^loring ; hour is holy ; Long has hope been watching with soft Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal eyes fix'd above ; When will the fates, the life of life restor- Own themselves vanquish'd by much- enduring love? When will he awaken? Asks the midnight's weary queen. Beautiful the sleep that she has watch'd untiring, Lighted up with visions from yonder ra- diant sky. Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring, Soften'd by the woman*s meek and lov- ing sigh. When will he awaken ? He has been dreaming of old heroic stories. And the poet's passionate world has enter'd in his soul ; He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories, When sages and when kings first upheld the mind's control. When will he awaken ? Asks the midnight's stately queen. Lo, the appointed midnight ! the present hour is fated ! It is Endymion's planet that rises on the air, How long, how tenderly his goddess-love has waited, Waited with a love too mighty for despair ! Soon he will awaken. Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of sing- ing, Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing flowers depart ; \ot a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos When Phoebe Went with me wherever I joy; Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy. Soon he will awaken I Red as the red rose toward the morning turning. Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his own ; While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and burning With a life more glorious than, ere they closed, was known. Yes, he has awaken'd For the midnight's happy queen ! What is this old history, but a lesson given. How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth — How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven. Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and youth ? ,:^ 'Tis for such they waken ! When every worldly thought is utterly for- saken. Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted few ; Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken To a being more intense, more spiritual, and true. So doth the soul awaken. Like that youth to night's fair queen ! L^.TiTiA Elizabeth Landon Maclean. A Pastoral. My time, ye Muses, was happily spent, but is bringing went ; Music that is murmur'd from nature's { Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my inmost heart. Soon he will awaken To his and midnight's queen I breast ; Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest. 174 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. But now she is gone, and has left me be- hind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possibly be, I thought 'twas the spring ; but, alas ! it was she. With such a companion, to tend a few sheep. To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep, I was so good-humor'd, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day. But now I so cross and so peevish am grown. So strangely uneasy as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd. And my heart — I am sure it weighs more than a pound. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along. And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among ; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe were there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear , But now she is absent, I walk by its side. And still as it murmurs do nothing but chide. Must you be so cheerful while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. When my lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And when Phcebe and I were as joyful as they, How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time, When spring, love, and beauty were all in their prime ? But now in their frolics when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass : Be still, then I cry ; for it makes me quite mad, To see you so merry while I am so sad. My dog I was ever well pleasfed to see Come wagging his tail at my fair one and me: And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry, Sirrah ! and give him a blow with my crook. And I'll give him another ; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away ? When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen ! How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green ! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn-fields and hedges, and every- thing made ! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear : 'Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes. Made so many beautiful prospects arise. Sweet music went with us both all the wood through. The lark, linnet, throstle and nightingale too; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp ! went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on. The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found. Gave everything else its agreeable sound. Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile ? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? POEMS OF LOVE. 175 Ah ! rivals, I see what it was that you dress'd And made yourselves fine for — a place in her breast ; You put on your colors to pleasure her eye, To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die. How slowly Time creeps, till my Phoebe return ! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn ! Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for't when she is here. Ah, Colin ! old Time is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. Will no pitying power that hears me com- plain, Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? To be cured thou must, Colin, thy passion remove ; But Avhat swain is so silly to live without love ? No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly for- lorn. Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair ! Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair. John Byrom. William and Margaret. 'TwAs at the silent, solemn hour, When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost. And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn, Clad in a Avintry cloud ; And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable shroud. So shall the fairest face appear. When youth and years are flown : Such is the robe that kings must wear. When death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower That sips the silver dew ; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view. But love had, like the canker-worm. Consumed her early prime ; The rose grew pale, and left her cheek — She died before her time. "Awake," she cried, "thy true love calls. Come from her midnight grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid. Thy love refused to save. "This is the dark and dreary hour, When injured ghosts complain ; When yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain. " Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath ! And give me back my maiden vow, And give me back my troth. " Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep? Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep ? " How could you say my face was fair. And yet that face forsake ? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break ? " Why did you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale? And why did I, young witless maid! Believe the flatt'ring tale ? "That face, alas! no more is fair. Those lips no longer red ; Dark are my eyes now closed in death. And every charm is fled. " The hungry worm my sister is ; This winding-sheet I wear : And cold and weary lasts our night. Till that last morn appear. 176 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. " But hark ! the cock has warn'd me hence ; A long and last adieu ! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you." The lark sung loud ; the morning smiled With beams of rosy red ; Pale William quaked in every limb, And raving left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place. Where Margaret's body lay ; And stretch'd him on the green grass turf, That wrapt her breathless clay. And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name. And thrice he wept full sore ; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, And word spake never more. David Mallet. Wbere shall the lover Rest? Where shall the lover rest 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 lore 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, oh never! Eleu loro Never, oh never ! 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, oh never I Eleu loro Never, oh never ! Sir Walter Scott, The Outlaw. Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair. And Greta woods are green. And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen. And as I rode by Dalton Hall Beneath the turrets high, A Maiden on the castle-wall Was singing merrily : " Oh Brignall banks are fresh and fair. And Greta woods are green ; I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen." " If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me To leave both tower and town. Thou first must guess Avhat life lead we That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May." Yet sung she " Brignall banks are fair. And Greta woods are green ; I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen. " I read you by your bugle-horn And by your palfrey good, I read you for a Ranger sworn To keep the king's greenwood." " A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light ; P0E3IS OF LOVE. vn His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night." Yet sung she " Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay ; I would I were with Edmund there To reign his Queen of May ! *' With burnish'd brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum." " I list no more the tuck of drum. No more the trumpet hear ; But when the beetle sounds his hum My comrades take the spear. And oh ! though Brignall banks be fair And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare Would reign my Queen of May. " Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die! The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I ! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the greenwood bough. What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now." Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green. And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen. Sir Walter Scott. Bedouin Song. From the desert I come to thee. On a stallion shod with fire ; And the v.'inds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry : I love thee, I love but thee. With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold. And the stars are old. And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! Look from thy window, and see My passion and my pain ; I lie on the sands below. And I faint in thy disdain. 12 Let the night-winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold. And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! My steps are nightly driven. By the fever in my breast. To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart. And open thy chamber door. And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old. And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! Bayard Taylor. Come into the Garden, Maud. Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown ! Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone ; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daflfodil sky, — To faint in the light of the sun she loves. To faint in his light, and to die. All night have the ro^es heard The flute, violin, bassoon ; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune, — Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon. I said to the lily, " There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone ? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day ; 178 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away. I said to the rose, " The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those For one that will never be thine ? But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, " For ever and ever mine !" And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash'd in the hall ; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood. Our wood, that is dearer than all ; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March wind sighs, He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet, And the valleys of Paradise. The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree ; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; But the rose was awake all night for your sake. Knowing your promise to me ; The lilies and roses were all awake. They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. Come hither, the dances are done. In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls. Queen lily and rose in one ; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear ; She is coming, my life, my fate ! The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near;" And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ;" And the lily whispers, *' I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet ! Were it ever so airy a tread. My heart would hear her and beat. Were it earth in an earthy bed ; My dust would hear her and beat. Had I lain for a century dead ; Would startle and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. Alfred Tennyson. The Call. Awake thee, my lady-love, Wake thee and rise ; The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes. Behold how the early lark Springs from the corn ; Hark, hark ! how the flower-bird Winds her wee horn. The swallow's glad shriek is heard All through the air, The stock-dove is murmuring Loud as she dare. Apollo's wing'd bugleman Cannot contain. But peals his loud trumpet-call Once and again. Then wake thee, my lady-love, Bird of my bower. The sweetest and sleepiest Bird at this hour. Geoege Darlky. Dirge. If thou wilt ease thine heart Of love, and all its smart, — Then sleep, dear, sleep ! And not a sorrow Hang any tear on your eyelashes; Lie still and deep. Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The rim o' the sun to-morrow, In eastern sky. But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love, and all its smart — Then die, dear, die ! POEMS OF LOVE. 179 'Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming With folded eye ; And then alone, amid the beaming Of Love's stars, thou'lt meet her In eastern sky. Thomas Lovell Beddoes. DiAPHENIA. DiAPHENiA like the daffodowndilly, White as the sun, fair as the lily. Heigh ho, how I do love thee ! I do love thee as my lambs Are beloved of their dams ; How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me. Diaphenia like the spreading roses, Tkat in thy sweets all sweets encloses, Fair sweet, how I do love thee ! I do love thee as each flower Loves the sun's life-giving power ; For dead, thy breath to life might move me. Diaphenia like to all things blessed When all the praises are expressed, Dear joy, how I do love thee I As the birds do love the spring. Or the bees their careful king : Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me! Henry Constable. CASTARA. Like the violet, which alone Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown, To no ruder eye betray'd ; For she's to herself untrue Who delights i' the public view. Such is her beauty as no arts Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace. Her high birth no pride imparts. For she blushes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood, — She is noblest being good. Cautious, she knew never yet What a wanton courtship meant ; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit. In her silence eloquent. Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes. She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands ; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands. Women's feet run still astray If to ill they know the way. She sails by that rock, the court. Where oft virtue splits her mast ; And retiredness thinks the port, Where her fame may anchor cast. Virtue safely cannot sit Where vice is enthroned for wit. She holds that day's pleasure best Where sin waits not on delight ; Without mask, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. vShe her throne makes reason climb, While wild passions captive lie ; And each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly ; All her vows religious be. And she vows her love to me. William Habington. Logan Braes. By Logan streams that rin sae deep, Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep ; Herded sheep and gathered slaes, Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. But wae's my heart, thae days are gane, And I wi' grief may herd alane. While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he Atween the preachings meet wi' me ; Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk, Convoy me hame frae Logan Kirk. I weel may sing thae days are gane : Frae kirk and fair I come alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes. Far, far frae me and Logan braes. At e'en, when hope is amaist gane, I dauner out and sit alane ; 180 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Sit alane beneath the tree Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me. Oh ! could I see thae days again, My lover skaithless, and my ain I Beloved by friends, revered by faes, We'd live in bliss on Logan braes. John Mayne, Sonnet. Alexis, here she stay'd ; among these pines, Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair ; Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, More rich than that brought from the Col- chian mines. She sate her by these musked eglantines, The happy place the print seems yet to bear ; Her voice did sweeten here thy sugared lines. To which winds, trees, beasts, birds did lend their ear. Me here she first perceived, and here a morn Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face; Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born. And I first got a pledge of promised grace: But, ah ! what served it to be happy so. Since passed pleasures double but new woe? William Drummond of Hawthornden. Disdain Returned. He that loves a rosy cheek. Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires, — As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. No tears, Celia, now shall win My resolved heart to return ; I have search'd thy soul within. And find naught but pride and scorn ; I have learn'd thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou. Some power, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away. Thomas Carew. AUX ITALIENS. At Paris it was, at the opera there ; — And she look'd like a queen in a book that night. With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair. And the brooch on her breast so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note. The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; And who was not thrill'd in the stran- gest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burn'd low, " No}i ll srnrdnr di me " f The emperor there, in his box of state, Look'd grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate. Where his eagles in bronze had been. The empress, too, had a tear in her eye : You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, undor the old blue sky. To the old glad life in Spain, Well, there in our front-roAv box we sat Together, my bride betroth'd and I ; My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad ; Like a queen she lean'd on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had, So confident of her charm I POEMS OF LOVE. 181 I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was, Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass ; I wish him well, for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas. Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years. Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood 'neath the cypress trees to- gether. In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather ; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot). And her warm white neck in its golden chain. And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again ; And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast, (Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) And the one bird singing alone to his nest, And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife. And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seem'd then, in the waste of life. Such a very little thing ! For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over. And I thought, "Were she only living still. How I could forgive her, and love her !" And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour. And of how, after all, old things were best. That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet. It made me creep, and it made me cold; Like the scent that steals from the crum- bling sheet Where a mummy is half unroll'd. And I turn'd and look'd : she was sitting there. In a dim box over the stage, and drest In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair. And that jasmine in her breast. I was here : and she was there : And the glittering horse-shoe curved be- tween. From my bride betroth'd, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien. To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade. (In short, from the future back to the past There was but a step to be made.) To my early love from my future bride One moment I look'd. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage, and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain. Or something which never will be ex- prest. Had brought her back from the grave again. With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not Aved, But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. 182 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and hand- some still, A.nd but for her, — well, we'll let that pass — She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face, for old things are best, And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is fill'd with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say. For beauty is easy enough to win, But one isn't loved every day. And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even. If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven. But oh, the smell of that jasmine flower ! And oh, that music ! and oh, the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower : Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me ! Egbert Bulwbr Lytton. To SiGII, YET FEEL NO PAIN. To sigh, yet feel no pain, To weep, yet scarce know why ; To sport an hour with beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by ; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none ; To think all other charms divine, But those we just have won ; This is love, faithless love. Such as kindleth hearts that rove. To keep one sacred flame. Through life unchill'd, unmoved, To love in wintry age the same As first in youth we loved ; To feel that we adore, Ev'n to such fond excess, That, though the heart would break with more. It could not live with less ; This is love, faithful love. Such as saints might feel above. Thomas Moore. A Pastoral. On a hill there grows a flower, Fair befall the dainty sweet ! By that flower there is a bower, Where the heavenly Muses meet. In that bower there is a chair, Fringfed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair That ever eye did yet behold. It is Phillis, fair and bright. She that is the shepherds' joy, She that Venus did despite. And did blind her little boy. This is she, the wise, the rich. That the world desires to see ; This is ipsa quae, the which There is none but only she. Who would not this face admire ? Who would not this saint adore ? Who would not this sight desire. Though he thought to see no more f O fair eyes, yet let me see One good look, and I am gone: Look on me, for I am he. The poor silly Corydon. Thou that art the shepherds' queen, Look upon thy silly swain ; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life again. Nicholas Breton. The Silent Lover. Passions are likened best to floods and streams, The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb ; So when affection yields discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come; POEMS OF LOVE. 183 They that are rich in words must needs discover They are but poor in that which makes a lover. Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart Who sues for no compassion. Since if my plaints were not t' approve The conquest of thy beauty. It comes not from defect of love. But fear t' exceed my duty. For, knowing that I sue to serve A saint of such perfection As all desire, but none deserve A place in her affection, I rather choose to want relief Than venture the revealing : — Where glory recommends the grief, Despair disdains the healing. Thus those desires that boil so high In any mortal lover. When reason cannot make them die. Discretion them must cover. Yet when discretion doth bereave The plaints that I should utter, Then your discretion may perceive That silence is a suitor. Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty : A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity. Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My love, for secret passion : He smarteth most that hides his smart. And sues for no compassion. Sir Walter Raleigh. The GR003ISMAN TO THE BRIDES- 3IAID. Every wedding, says the proverb. Makes another, soon or late ; Never yet was any marriage Enter'd 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 his heart his true love took, And the destinies recorded Other two within their book. While the priest fulfiU'd his office^ Still the ground the lovers eyed, And the parents and the kinsmen Aim'd 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 the 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 !" Then I mused upon the adage, Till my wisdom was perplex'd, And I wonder'd, 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 'twere — forgive the fancy — What if 'twere — both mine and thine? Thomas William Parsons. ZARA'S Ear-Rings. My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropp'd into the well. And what to say to Mu§a, I cannot, cannot tell— 'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter : — The well is deep — far down they lie, be- neath the cold blue water; 184 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. To me did Mu^a give them when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell. My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — they were pearls in silver set, That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget ; That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kiss'd, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropp'd them in the well, Oh, what will Muga think of me? — I can- not, cannot tell ! My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — he'll say they should have been. Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear. Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere ; That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well. Thus will he think — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell. He'll think when I to market went I loiter'd by the way ; He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say ; He'll think some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed, From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl unloosed ; He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well My pearls fell in — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell. He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same ; He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame — But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken. And thought no more of Mu§a, and cared not for his token. My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless, luckless well, — For what to say to Muga — alas ! I cannot tell. I'll tell the truth to Muja — and I hope he will believe — That I thought of him at morning and thought of him at eve ; That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone. His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone ; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell. And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well. (From the Spanish.) John Gibson Lockhakt. Look Out, bright Eyes. Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! Even in shadows you are fair. Shut-up beauty is like fire. That breaks out clearer still and higher. Though your beauty be confined, And soft Love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind Neither check nor chain hath found. Look out nobly, then, and dare Even the fetters that you wear. Beaumont and Fletchee. What Love is Like. Love is like a lamb, and love is like a lion; Fly from love, he fights ; fight, then does he fly on ; Love is all on fire, and yet is ever freezing ; Love is much in winning, yet is more in leesing.* Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying ; Love is ever true, and yet is ever lying ; Love does doat in liking, and is mad in loathing ; Love indeed is any thing, yet indeed is nothing. 1 losing. Thomas Middleton. POEMS OF LOVE. 185 Go, LOVELY Rose. " Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. " Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. " Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired : Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired. And not blush so to be admired. " Then die ! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee, How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair." Edmund Waller. Music, when Soft Voices Die. Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory — Odors, when sweet violets sicken. Live within the sense they quicken. Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the beloved's bed ; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone. Love itself shall slumber on. Percy Bysshe Shelley. To HIS Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia. You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light — You common people of the skies — What are you when the moon shall rise? You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents — what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise? You violets that first appear. By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year. As if the spring were all your own — What are you when the rose is blown ? So when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind ; By virtue first, then choice, a queen- Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind? Sir Henry Wotton. On a Girdle. That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind ; No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this has done. It was my heaven's extremest sphere. The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair. Give me but what this ribbon bound. Take all the rest the sun goes round ! Edmund Waller. There is a Garden in her Fack There is a garden in her face. Where roses and white lilies blow ; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; There cherries grow that none may buy. Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row. Which when her lovely laughter shows. They look like rosebuds filled with snow ; Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till cherry-i-ipe themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still. Her brows like bended bows do stand, 186 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. BiCHAKD Alison. Jenny Kissed Me. Jenny kiss'd me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in ; Time, you thief! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I'm weary, "say I'm sad ; Say that health and wealth have miss'd me; Say I'm growing old, but add — Jenny kiss'd me ! Leigh Hunt. Allen-a-Dale. Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the win- ning. Come, read me my riddle ! come, hearken my tale ! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride. And he views his domains upon Arkindale side. The mere for his net, and the land for his game. The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame ; Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a- Dale I Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight. Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright ; Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil, Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale. Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; The mother, she ask'd of his household and home : "Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill. My hall," quoth bold Allen, " shows gal- lanter still ; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale. And with all its bright spangles!" said Allen-a-Dale. The father was steel, and the mother was stone ; They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry ; He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love- tale. And the youth it was told by was Allen-a- Dale! Sir Walter Scott. The IIea th this Night must be 3IY Bed. The heath this night must be my bed. The bracken curtain for my head. My lullaby the warder's tread. Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. My couch may be my bloody plaid. My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid ! It will not waken me, Mary ! I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow ; I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know ; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe. His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary. A time will come with feeling fraught ! For, if I fall in battle fought. Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. POEMS OF LOVE. 187 And if return'd from conquer'd foes, How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose To my young bride and me, Mary ! Sir Walter Scott. Sigh no More, Ladies. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ; Men were deceivers ever ; One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never : Then sigh not so, But let them go. And be you blythe and bonny ; Converting all your sounds of woe Into, Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no mo Of dumps so dull and hea\y ; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy : Then sigh not so. But let them go. And be you blythe and bonny ; Converting all your sounds of woe Into, Hey nonny, nonny. William Shakespeare. Love Not. Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers — Things that are made to fade and fall away Ere they have blossom'd for a few short hours. Love not ! Love not ! the thing ye love may change ! The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange. The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not ! Love not ! the thing you love may die — May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. Love not ! Love not! oh, warning vainly said In present hours as in years gone by ; Love ilings a halo round the dear one's head. Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. Love not ! Caroline Norton. A WoBiAN'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, Untouch'd, 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. Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot 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. 188 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 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 ? 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 — remem- ber, I 'would risk it all ! Adelaide Anne Procter. A Wo3fAN's Answer. I WILL not let you say a woman's part Must be to give exclusive love alone ; Dearest, although I love you so, my heart Answers a thousand claims besides your own. I love — what do I not love? Earth and air Find space within my heart, and myriad things You would not deign to heed are cherish'd there. And vibrate on its very inmost strings. I love the Summer, with her ebb and flow Of light, and warmth, and music, that have nursed Her tender buds to blossoms . . . and you know It was in summer that I saw you first, I love the Winter dearly too, . . . but then I owe it so much ; on a winter's day. Bleak, cold, and stormy, you return'd again. When you had been those weary months away. I love the Stars like friends; so many nights I gazed at them, when you were far from me, rill 1 grew blind with tears ; . . . those far- off lights Could watch you, whom I long'd in vain to see. I love the flowers ; happy hours lie Shut up within their petals close and fast: You have forgotten, dear ; but they and I Keep every fragment of the golden past. I love, too, to be loved ; all loving praise Seems like a crown upon my life. — to make It better worth the giving, and to raise Still nearer to your ovv'n the heari you take. I love all good and noble souls ; — I heard One speak of you but lately, and for days, Only to think of it, my soul was stirr'd In tender memory of such generous praise. I love all those who love you : all who owe Comfort to you ; and I can find regret Even for those poorer hearts who once could know. And once could love you, and can now forget. Well, is my heart so narrow, — I, who spare Love for all these ? Do I not even hold My favorite books in special tender care. And prize them as a miser does his gold ? — The poets that you used to read to me While summer twilights faded in the sky; But most of all I think Aurora Leigh, Because — because — do you remember why? Will you be jealous? Did you guess be- fore I loved so many things? — Still you the best : — Dearest, remember that I love you more, Oh more a thousand times, than all tiie rest! Adelaide Anne Procter. Maude Clare. Out of the church she follow'd them With a lofty step and mien : His bride was like a village maid, Maude Clare was like a queen. POEMS OF LOVE. 189 " Son Thomas," his Lady mother said, With smiles, almost with tears : " iMay Nell and you but live as true As we have done for years ; " Your father thirty years ago Had just your tale to tell ; But he was not so pale as you, Nor I so pale as Nell." My lord was pale with inward strife, And Nell was pale with pride ; My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare Or ever he kiss'd the bride. " Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord. Have brought my gift," she said : " To bless the hearth, to bless the board. To bless the marriage-bed. " Here's my half of the golden chain You wore about your neck, That day we waded ankle-deep For lilies in the beck : " Here's my half of the faded leaves We pluck'd from budding bough. With feet amongst the lily-leaves, — The lilies are budding now." He strove to match her scorn with scorn, He falter'd in his place : "Lady," he said, — "Maude Clare," he said, — " Maude Clare:" — and hid his face. She turn'd to Nell : " My Lady Nell, I have a gift for you ; Though were it fruit, the bloom were gone. Or, were it flowers, the dew. " Take my share of a fickle heart, Mine of a paltry love : Take it or leave it as you will, I wash my hands thereof." ■' And what you leave," said Nell, " I'll take. And what you spurn, I'll wear ; For he's my lord for better and worse, And him I love, Maude Clare. " Yea, though you're taller by the head, More wise, and much more fair ; I'll love him till he loves me best, Me best of all, Maude Clare." Christina (Jeorgina Rossetti. A Serenade. Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange-flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trill'd all day, Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; Breeze, bird, and flower confess the houi;, But where is County Guy ? The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear ; To beauty shy, by lattice high. Sings high-born cavalier. The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky, And high and low the influence know, But where is County Guy? Sir Walter Scott. To A Very Young Lady. Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit As unconcern 'd as when Your infant beauty could beget No happiness or pain ! When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the rising fire Would take my rest away. Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in a mine ; Age from no face takes more away Than youth conceal'd in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their jjerfection prest, So love as unperceived did fly, And centred in my breast. My passion with your beauty grew. While Cupid at my heart Still as his mother favor'd you Threw a new flaming dart ; Each gloried in their wanton part ; To make a lover he Employ'd the utmost of his art — To make a beauty, she. Though now I slowly bend to love Uncertain of my fate, If your fair self my chains approve, I shall mv freedom hate. 190 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Lovers, like dying men, may well At first disorder'd be, Since none alive can truly tell What fortune they must see. Sir Charles Sedley. Sonnet. Like as the culver, on the barfed bough, Sits mourning for the absence of her mate. And in her songs sends many a wishful vow For his return that seems to linger late ; So I alone, now left disconsolate, Mourn to myself the absence of my love, And, wand'ring here and there, all deso- late, Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove ; Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth hove Can comfort me but her own joyous sight. Whose sweet aspect both God and men can move, In her unspotted pleasures to delight. Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss, And dead my life, that wants such lively bliss. Edmund Spenser. My Silks and Fine Array. My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away ; And mournful, lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave : Such end true lovers have. His face is as fair as heaven When springing buds unfold ; O, why to him was't given. Whose heart is wintry cold ? His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb. Where all love's pilgrims come. Bring me an axe and spade, Bring me a winding sheet ; When I my grave have made Let winds and tempests beat ! Then down I'll lie as cold as clay : True love doth pass away. William Blake. A Renunciation. If women could be fair, and yet not fond. Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good- will. But when I see how frail those creatures are, I muse that men forget themselves so far. To mark the choice they make, and how they change. How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan, Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range. These gentle birds that fly from man to man; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list. Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both. To pass the time when nothing else can please. And train them to our lure with subtle oath, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves wg ease ; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I ! Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. Blame not my Lute. Blame not my Lute ! for he must sound Of this or that as liketh me ; For lack of wit the Lute is bound To give such tunes as pleaseth me ; POEMS OF LOVE. 191 Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch my change, Blame not my Lute ! My Lute, alas ! doth not offend, Though that perforce he must agree To sound such tunes as I intend To sing to them that heareth me ; Then though my songs be somewhat plain, And toucheth some that use to feign, Blame not my Lute ! My Lute and strings may not deny, But as I strike they must obey ; Break not them so wrongfully. But wreak thyself some other way ; And though the songs which I indite Do quit thy change with rightful spite, Blame not my Lute ! 8pite asketh spite, and changing change. And fals^d faith must needs be known ; The faults so great, the case so strange ; Of right it must abroad be blown : Then since that by thine own desert My songs do tell how true thou art, Blame not my Lute ! Blame but thyself that hast misdone. And well deserved to have blame ; Change thou thy way, so evil begone. And then my Lute shall sound that same ! But if till then my fingers play, By thy desert their wonted way, Blame not my Lute ! Farewell, unknown ; for though thou break My strings in spite Avith great disdain. Yet have I found out, for thy sake, Strings for to string my Lute again : And if perchance this silly rhyme Do make thee blush at any time. Blame not my Lute ! Sir Thomas Wyatt. Sonnet. that didst my Stella HAPPY Thames bear! I saw myself with many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear. While those fair planets on thy streams did shine; The boat for joy could not to dance for- bear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Ravish'd, staid not till in her golden hair They did themselves, O sweetest prison ! twine ; And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay Have made, but forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks dis- play. She so dishevell'd, blush'd : — from win- dow I, With sight thereof, cried out, O fair dis- grace ! Let honor's self to thee grant highest place. Sir Philip Sidney. The Re-cured Lover Exulteth IN HIS Freedom. I AM as I am, and so will I be : But how that I am none knoweth truly. Be it ill, be it well, be I bond, be I free, I am as I am, and so will I be. I lead my life indifferently ; I mean nothing but honesty ; And though folks judge full diversely, I am as I am, and so will I die. I do not rejoice nor yet complain, Both mirth and sadness I do refrain. And use the means since folks will feign ; Yet I am as I am, be it pleasant or pain. Divers do judge as they do trow, Some of pleasure and some of woe, Yet for all that, nothing they know ; But I am as I am, wheresoever I go. But since judgers do thus decay. Let every man his judgment say ; I will it take in sport and play, For I am as I am, whosoever say nay. Who judgeth well, well God them send ; Who judgeth evil, God them amend; To judge the best therefore intend. For I am as I am, and so will I end. 192 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Yet some there be that take delight, To judge folks' thought for envy and spite ; But whether they judge me wrong or right, I am as I am, and so do I write. Praying you all that this do read. To trust it as you do your creed ; And not to think I change my weed, For I am as I am, however I speed. But how that is I leave to you ; Judge as ye list, false or true, Ye know no more than afore ye knew, Yet I am as I am, whatever ensue. And from this mind I will not flee. But to you all that misjudge me, I do protest, as ye may see. That I am as I am, and so will be. Sir Thomas Wyatt. Sonnet. Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize. Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemy France ; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship ad- vance ; Townfolks my strength; a daintier judge ai^plies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise ; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think Nature me a man of arms did make. Row far they shot aAvry ! the true cause is Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. Sir Philip Sidney. A Fragment from Sappho. Blest as the immortal gods is he. The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak and sweetly smile. 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast : For while I gazed, in transport tost, My breath was gone, my voice was lost. My bosom glow'd ; the subtle flame Ran quick through all my vital frame : O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; My ears with hollow murmurs rung. In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd ; My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd : My feeble pulse forgot to play — I fainted, sunk, and died away. Ambrose Philips. Ask Me no More. Ask 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, oh too fond, when have I answer'd thee ? Ask me no more. Ask me no more : what ansAver should I give ? I love not hoUoAV 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 seal'd. 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. Ask me no More where Jove Besto ws. Ask me no more, where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose ; For in your beauties, orient deep, These flow'rs, as in their causes, sleep. POEiMS OF LOVE. 193 Ask me no more, whitlier do stray The golden atoms of the day ; For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more, whither doth haste The nightingale, Avhen May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downward fall in dead of night ; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixfed become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest ; For unto you at last she flies. And in your fragrant bosom dies. Thomas Carew. 3IY Dear and Only Love. Part First. My dear and only love, I pray, This noble world of thee Be govern'd by no other sway But purest monarchie. For if confusion have a jjart, Which virtuous souls abhore, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more. Like Alexander I will reign. And I will reign alone, My thoughts shall evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small. That puts it not unto the touch, To win or lose it all. But I must rule and govern still. And always give the law. And have each subject at my will, And all to stand in awe. But 'gainst my battery if I find Thou shun'st the prize so sore As that thou set'st me up a blind, I'll never love thee more. If in the em])ire of thy heart, Where I should solely be, Another do pretend a part, And dares to vie with me ; Or if committees thou erect, And go on such a score, I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect, And never love thee more. But if thou wilt be constant then, And faithful of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen, And famous by my sword. I'll serve thee in such noble ways Was never heard before ; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee evermore. Part Secoxd. My dear and only love, take heed, Lest thou thyself expose, And let all longing lovers feed Upon such looks as those. A marble wall then build about, Beset without a door ; But if thou let thy heart fly out, I'll never love thee more. Let not their oaths, like volleys shot. Make any breach at all ; Nor smoothness of their language ploi Which way to scale the wall ; Nor balls of wild-fire love consume The shrine which I adore ; For if such smoke about thee fume, I'll never love thee more. I think thy virtues be too strong To suffer by surprise ; Those victuall'd by my love so long. The siege at length must rise. And leave thee ruled in that heaUh And state thou wast before ; But if thou turn a commonwealth, I'll never love thee more. Or if by fraud, or by consent, Thy heart to mine come, I'll sound no trumpet as I wont. Nor march by tuck of drum ; But hold my arms, like ensigns, up, Thy falsehood to deplore, And bitterly will sigh and weep, And never love thee more. 194 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. I'll do with thee as Nero did, When Rome was set on fire, Not only all relief forbid, But to a hill retire, And scorn to shed a tear to see Thy spirit grown so poor ; But smiling sing, until I die, I'll never love thee more. Yet, for the love I bare thee once. Lest that thy name should die, A monument of marble-stone The truth shall testifie : That every pilgrim passing by May pity and deplore My case, and read the reason why I can love thee no more. The golden laws of love shall be Upon this pillar hung, — A simple heart, a single eye, A true and constant tongue ; Let no man for more love pretend Than he has hearts in store; True love begun shall never end ; Love one and love no more. Then shall thy heart be set by mine. But in far different case ; But mine was true, so was not thine, But lookt like Janus' face. For as the waves with every wind. So sail'st thou every shore. And leav'st my constant heart behind, — How can I love thee more ? My heart shall with the sun be fix'd For constancy most strange. And thine shall with the moon be mix'd. Delighting aye in change. Thy beauty shined at first more bright. And woe is me therefore. That ever I found thy love so light I could love thee no more ! The misty mountains, smoking lakes, The rocks' resounding echo, The whistling wind that murmur makes Shall with me sing hey ho ! The tossing seas, the tumbling boats, Tears dropping from each shore. Shall tune with me their turtle notes — I'll never love thee more. As doth the turtle, chaste and true. Her fellow's death regrete, And daily mourns for his adieu, And ne'er renews her mate ; So, though thy faith was never fast Which grieves me wondrous sore, Yet I shall live in love so chast, That I shall love no more. And when all gallants ride about These monuments to view, Whereon is written, in and out, Thou traitorous and untrue ; Then in a passion they shall pause, And thus say, sighing sore, 'Alas ! he had too just a cause, Never to love thee more." And when that tracing goddess Fame From east to west shall flee. She shall record it to thy shame. How thou hast lovfed me: And how in odds our love was such As few have been before: Thou loved too many, and I too much, So I can love no more. James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. CoLiN's Complaint. Despairing beside a clear stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid ; And while a false nymph was his theme, A willow supported his head. The wind that blew over the plain, To his sighs with a sigh did reply. And the brook, in return to his pain. Ran mournfully murmuring by. Alas ! silly swain that I was ! Thus sadly complaining he cried; When first I beheld that fair face, 'Twere better by far I had died : She talk'd, and I bless'd her dear tongue ; When she smiled, 'twas a pleasure too great ; I listen'd, and cried when she sung. Was nightingale ever so sweet ! How foolish was I to believe. She could dote on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve To forsake the fine folk of the town; POEMS OF LOVE. 195 To think that a beauty so gay So kind and so constant would prove, Or go clad, like our maidens, in gray. Or live in a cottage on love ! What though I have skill to complain, Though the muses my temples have crown'd. What though, when they hear my soft strain. The virgins sit weeping around? Ah, Colin ! thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign, Thy false one inclines to a swain Whose music is sweeter than thine. All you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suflfer, forbear, Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly ; 'Twas hers to be false and to change, 'Tis mine to be constant and die. If while my hard fate I sustain. In her breast any pity is found. Let her come with the nymphs of the plain. And see me laid low in the ground : The last humble boon that I crave. Is to shade me with cypress and yew ; And when she looks down on my grave. Let her own that her shepherd was true. Then to her new love let her go And deck her in golden array ; Be finest at every fine show, And frolic it all the long day : While Colin, forgotten and gone, No more shall be talk'd of or seen. Unless when beneath the pale moon. His ghost shall glide over the green. Nicholas Rowe. To CELT A. Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in 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 wither'd 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 ! (From the Greek.) Bex Jonson. At Setting Day and Rising Morn. At setting day and rising morn. With soul that still shall love thee, I'll ask of Heaven thy safe return, With all that can improve thee. I'll visit aft the birken bush. Where first thou kindly told me Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush. Whilst round thou didst enfold me. To all our haunts I will repair, By greenwood shaw or fountain, Or where the summer day I'd share With thee upon yon mountain ; There will I tell the trees and flowers, From thoughts unfeign'd and tender, By vows you're mine, by love is yours A heart that cannot wander. Allan Ramsay. LOCHABER NO MORE. Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been ! For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more ! These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear. And no for the dangers attending on war, Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Mavbe to x-eturn to Lochaber no more. 196 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind ; Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd ; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd ; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave. Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my ex- cuse ; Since honor commands me, how can I re- fuse ? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, And without thy favor I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame. And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love run- ning o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. Allan Ramsay. Song. In vain you tell your parting lover — Your wish fair winds may waft him over: Alas ! what winds can happy prove. That bear me far from what I love ? (Jan equal those that I sustain, From slighted vows and cold disdain ? Be gentle, and in pity choose To wish the wildest tempests loose, That, thrown again upon the coast Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost, I may once more repeat my pain ; Once more in dying notes complain Of slighted vows and cold disdain. Mattiikw Prior. Evelyn Hope. Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; She pluck'd that piece of geranium- flower, Beginning to die, too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I think ; The shutters are shut — no light may pass. Save two long rays thro' the hinges' chink. Sixteen years old when she died ! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — It was not her time to love ; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares ; And now was quiet, now astir — Till God's hand beckon'd unawares. And the sweet white brow is all of her. Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? What ! your soul was pure and true ; The good stars met in your horoscope. Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; And just because I was thrice as old. And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told ? We were fellow-mortals — naught beside ? No, indeed ! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make. And creates the love to reward the love ; I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! Delay'd, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; Much is to learn and much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. But the time will come — at last it will — When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth — in the years long still — That body and soul so gay ? Why your hair was amber I shall divine. And your mouth of your own geranium's red — And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead. POEMS OF LOVE. 197 I have lived, I shall say, so much since then. Given up myself so many times, Gain'd me the gains of various men, Ransack'd the ages, spoil'd the climes; Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full scope. Either I miss'd or itself miss'd me — And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! What is the issue? let us see ! I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; My heart seem'd full as it could hold — There was place and to spare for the frank young smile And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold. So hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; !See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; You will wake, and remember, and un- derstand. Robert Browning. Come a way, Come away, Death. Come away, come away. Death, And in sad cypres let me be laid ; Fly away, fly away, breath ; I am slain by a ftiir cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew. Oh prepare it ! My part of death no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet On my black coffin let there be strown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save. Lay me, oh where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there. William Shakespeare. Colin and Lucy. Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair, Bright Lucy was the grace ; Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream Reflect so fair a face. Till luckless love and pining care Impair'd her rosy hue. Her coral lip, and damask cheek, And eyes of glossy blue. Oh, have you seen a lily pale, When beating rains descend ? So droop'd the slow-consuming maid ; Her life now near its end. By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains Take heed, ye easy fair ; Of vengeance due to broken vows Ye perjured swains beware. Three times, all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring; And at her window, shrieking thrice, The raven flapp'd his wing. Too well the love-lorn maiden knew That solemn boding sound ; And thus in dying words bespoke The virgins weeping round : " I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says I must not stay ; I see a hand you cannot see. Which beckons me away. " By a false heart and broken vows, In early youth I die. Am I to blame because his bride Is thrice as rich as I ? " Ah, Colin ! give not her thy vows, Vows due to me alone : Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, Nor think him all thy own. " To-morrow in the church to wed. Impatient, both prepare, But know, fond maid, and know, false youth, That Lucy will be there. " Then bear my corse, ye comrades, bear, The bridegroom blithe to meet ; He in his wedding-trim so gay, I in my winding-sheet." She spoke, she died ; — her corse was borne The bridegroom blithe to meet; He in his wedding-trim so gay, She in her winding-sheet. 198 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts? How were those nuptials kept? The bride-men flock'd round Lucy dead, And all the village wept. Confusion, shame, remorse, despair. At once his bosom swell ; The damps of death bedew'd his brow, He shook, he groan'd, he fell. From the vain bride (ah, bride no more !) The varying crimson fled. When, stretch'd before her rival's corse, She saw her husband dead. Then to his Lucy's new-made grave, Convey'd by trembling swains, One mould with her beneath one sod, For ever now remains. Oft at their grave the constant hind And plighted maid are seen ; With garlands gay, and true-love knots They deck the sacred green. But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art. This hallow'd spot forbear, Remember Colin's dreadful fate, And fear to meet him there. Thomas Tickell. Loan LovEL. Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate Combing his milk-white steed ; When up came Lady Nancy Belle, To wish her lover good speed, speed. To wish her lover good speed. " Where are you going. Lord Lovel ?" she said, " Oh ! where are you going?" said she; " I'm going, my Lady Nancy Belle, Strange countries for to see, to see, ' Strange countries for to see." "When will you be back. Lord Lovel?" she said ; " Oh ! when will you come back ?" said she; " In a year or two — or three, at the most, I'll return to my fair Nancy-cy, I'll return to my fair Nancy." But he had not been gone a 3'ear and a day, Strange countries for to see, When languishing thoughts came into his head, Lady Nancy Belle he would go see, see, Lady Nancy Belle he would go see. So he rode and he rode on his milk-white steed. Till he came to London town. And there he heard St. Pancras' bells, And the people all mourning, round. round. And the people all mourning round. " Oh ! what is the matter?" Lord Lovel he said, " Oh ! what is the matter?" said he ; " A lord's lady is dead," a woman replied, " And some call her Lady Nancy-cy, And some call her Lady Nancy." So he order'd the grave to be open'd wide, And the shroud he turnfed down. And there he kiss'd her clay-cold lips. Till the tears came trickling down, down. Till the tears came trickling down. Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day, Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow ; Lady Nancy she died out of j^ure, pure grief. Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sor- row, Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow. Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras' church. Lord Lovel was laid in the choir ; And out of her bosom there grew a red rose, And out of her lover's a brier, brier. And out of her lover's a brier. They grew, and they grew, to the church<<- steeple top. And then they could grow no higher: So there they entwined in a true-lover'a knot. For all lovers true to admire-mire, For all lovers true to admire. Author Unknowr. POEMS OF LOVE. 199 Annie Laurie. Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true — Gie'd me her i:)romise true, Which ne'er forgot will be ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Her brow is like the snaw-drift; Her throat is like the swan ; Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on — That e'er the sun shone on — And dark blue is her ee ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; And like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet — Her voice is low and sweet — And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Author Unknown. What Ails this Heart o' Mine? What ails this heart o' mine? What ails this watery ee? What gars me a' turn pale as death When I take leave o' thee? When thou art far awa', Thou'lt dearer grow to me ; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee. When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning air, Ilka rustling bush will seem to say, I used to meet thee there. Then I'll sit down and cry, And live aneath the tree. And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca' 't a word frae thee. I'll hie me to the bowser That thou wi' roses tied. And Avhere wi' mony a blushing bud I strove myself to hide. I'll doat on ilka spot Where I hae been wi' thee ; And ca' to mind some kindly word. By ilka burn and tree. Susanna Blamire. The Portrait. Midnight 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 up stairs. A night of tears ! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon look'd 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. Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Ra- phael-face, Who confess'd 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." 200 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And I said — " The thing is precious to me : They will bury her soon in the church- yard 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 creak'd 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. As I stretch'd my hand, I held my breath ; I turn'd 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 warm'd that heart to life, with love ; For the thing I touch'd was warm, I swear. And I could feel it move. 'Twas 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 Look'd 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 groan'd, " you lie!" He answer'd, ..." Let us see." " Enough !" I return'd, " let the dead de- cide: And whose soever the portrait prove. His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Where Death is arraign'd by Love." We found the portrait there, in its place : AVe open'd 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 confess'd 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. (Owen Meredith.) Amynta. My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep- hook. And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ; No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove: For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love. Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do? Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my vow? Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep- hook restore. And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more. Through regions remote in vain do I rove. And bid the wide ocean secure me from love! POEMS OF LOVE. 201 O fool ! to imagine tliat auglit could subdue A love so well founded, a jjassion so true ! Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do? Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my vow? Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep- hook restore, And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more. Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ; Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine : Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain, The moments neglected return not again. Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do? Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my vow? Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep- hook restore, And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more. Sir Gilbert Elliot. Mary Macneil. The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sink- in', Owre mountain and meadowland glintin' fareweel ; An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin', As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Mac- neil. A' glowing wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover. Her een tellin' secrets she thought to conceal. And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover The tryst o' young Eonald an' Mary Macneil. Oh ! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily. That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal ; Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil. She moved, and the graces played sportive around her; She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauld- est wad thrill ; She sang, and the mavis cam' listenin' in wonder. To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil. But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin', Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal; An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in' Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal. The simmer saw Eonald on glory's path hiein' ; The autumn, his corse on the red battle- fiel' ; The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin' ; An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil. Erskine Conolly. Doris. I SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden : Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers ; I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheel- ing And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses Wild sunnner-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 year- ling, Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more !" 202 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. She whispered, sighing, " There will be sor- row Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, I shall be scolded, and sent away." Said I, denying, " If they do miss you. They ought to kiss you when you get home : And well rewarded by friend 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 'tis none so fervent ; I am a servant, and not a child." 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: I 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 drave them, we two to- gether. 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 Joseph Munby. A Nice Correspondent. The glow and the glory are plighted 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 ? I want you to come and pass sentence On two or three books with a plot ; Of cou rse 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 !) Eeminds me of you, To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning The beacon ; its magic still lures. For 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 ech-oed the echoing cheer. There's a whisper of hearts you are break- ing,— 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 I 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 ; POEMS OF LOVE. 203 This rhyme is the commonplace passion That glows in a fond woman's heart. Lay it by in a dainty deposit For relies, — we all have a few ! — Love, some day they'll print it, because it Was w'ritten to you. Feedeeick Locker. My Only Jo and Dearie, 0. Thy cheelc is o' the rose's hue, My only jo and dearie, ; Thy neck is like the siller dew Upon the banks sae briery, ; Thy teeth are o' the ivory. Oh, sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee ! Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me, My only jo and dearie, 0. The birdie sings upon the thorn Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie, O, Rejoicing in the summer morn, Nae care to niake it eerie, O ; But little kens the sangster sweet Aught o' the cares I hae to meet, That gar my restless bosom beat. My only jo and dearie, 0. Whan we were bairuies on yon brae, And youth was blinking bonny, O, Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day. Our joys fu' sweet and mony, O ; Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lee. And round about the thorny tree, Or pu' the wild-flowers a' for thee. My only jo and dearie, O. I hae a wish I canna tine 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O ; I wish thou wert for ever mine. And never mair to leave me, O : Then I wad daut thee night and day, Nor ither warldly care wad hae. Till life's warm stream forgot to play. My only jo and dearie, O. RiCHAKD Gall. Lilian. Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Clasps her tiny hands above me. Laughing all she can : She'll not tell me if she love me. Cruel little Lilian. When my passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs. She, looking thro' and thro' me Thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks : So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple. From beneath her gather'd wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks ; Then away she flies. Prythee weep. May Lilian I Gayety without eclipse Wearieth me. May Lilian : Thro' my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth : Prythee weep. May Lilian. Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee. Fairy Lilian. Alfred Tennyson- Love and Death. Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease, Can but please The outward senses, when the mind Is or untroubled, or by peace refined. Crowns may flourish and decay, Beauties shine, but fade away. Youth may revel, yet it must Lie down in a bed of dust. Earthly honors flow and waste, Time alone doth change and last. Sorrows mingled with contents, prepare Rest for care ; Love only reigns in death ; though art Can find no comfort for a broken heart. John Ford. Langley Lane. In all the land, range up, range down. Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet As Langley Lane, in London town. Just out of the bustle of square and street? 204 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Little white cottages, all in a row, Gardens, where bachelors'-buttons grow, Swallows' nests in roof and wall, And up above the still blue sky, Where the woolly-white clouds go sailing by- I seem to be able to see it all ! For now, in summer, I take my chair, And sit outside in the sun, and hear The distant murmur of street and square. And the swallows and sparrows chirping near ; And Fanny, who lives just over the way. Comes running many a time each day. With her little hand's-touch so warm and kind ; And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek, And the little live hand seems to stir and speak, — For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she Has fine black ringlets, and dark eyes clear. And I am older by summers three, — Why should we hold one another so dear? Because she cannot utter a word, Nor hear the music of bee or bird, The water-cart's splash, or the milkman's call. Because I have never seen the sky, Nor the little singers that hum and fly, — Yet know she is gazing upon them all. For the sun is shining, the swallows fly. The bees and the blue-flies murmur low, And I hear the water-cart go by, With its cool splash -splash down the dusty row ; And the little one, close at my side, per- ceives Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves. Where birds are chirping in summer shine. And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, Though she cannot hear, can the singers see, — And the little soft fingers flutter in mine. Hath not the dear little hand a tongue. When it stirs on my palm for the love of me? Do I not know she is pretty and young? Hath not my soul an eye to see? 'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir, To wonder how things appear to her, That I only hear as they pass around ; And as long as we sit in the music and light. She is happy to keep God's sight, And / am happy to keep God's sound. Why, I know her face, though I am blind — I made it of music long ago : Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined Round the pensive light of a brow of snow ; And when I sit by my little one, And hold her hand, and talk in the sun, And hear the music that haunts the place, I know she is raising her eyes to me, And guessing how gentle my voice must be. And seeing the music upon my face. Though, if ever Lord God should grant me a prayer (I know the fancy is only vain), I should pray : Just once, when the weather is fair, To see little Fanny and Langley Lane; Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear The voice of the friend that she holds so dear. The song of the birds, the hum of the street, — It is better to be as we have been, — Each keeping up something, unheard, un- seen. To make God's heaven more strange and sweet. Ah ! life is pleasant in I^angley Lane J There is always something sweet to hear ! Chirping of birds, or patter of rain ; And Fanny, my little one, always near ; POEMS OF LOVE. 205 And though I am weak, and cannot live long, And Fanny, my darling, is far from strong, And though we can never married be, — What then ? — since we hold one another so dear. For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, And the pleasure that only one can see? Robert Buchanan. A Pastoral Ballad. IN FOUR PARTS. I. Absence. Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay. Whose flocks never carelessly roam ; Should Corydon's happen to stray, Oh call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh. Nor talk of the change that ye find ; None once was so watchful as I : I have left my dear Phillis behind. Now I know what it is, to have strove With the torture of doubt and desire ; What it is, to admire and to love, kndi to leave her we love and admire. Ah lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each ev'ning repel ; Alas ! I am faint and forlorn : I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. iSince Phillis vouchsafed me a look, I never once dreamt of my vine ; May I lose both my pipe and my crook, If I knew of a kid that was mine. I prized every hour that went by. Beyond all that had pleased me before ; But now they are past, and I sigh ; And I grieve that I prized them no more. But why do I languish in vain? Why wander thus pensively here? Oh, why did I come from the plain, Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me my favorite maid. The pride of that valley, is flown ; -Vlas ! where with her I have stray'd, I could wander with pleasure, alone. When forced the fair nymph to forego, What anguish I felt at my heart ! Yet I thought — but it might not be so — 'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gazed, as I slowly withdrew ; My path I could hardly discern ; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day To visit some far-distant shrine, If he bear but a relic away, Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely removed from the fair. Where my vows, my devotion, I owe. Soft hope is the relic I bear. And my solace wherever I go. II. Hope. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep ; My grottos are shaded with trees. And my hills are white-over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss. Such health do my fountains bestow — My fountains all border'd with moss. Where the harebells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green. But a sweetbrier entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold : Not a brook that is limpid and clear. But it glitters with fishes of gold. One would think she might like to retire To the bow'r I have labor'd to rear ; Not a shrub that I heard her admire, But I hasted and planted it there. Oh how sudden the jessamine strove With the lilac to render it gay ! Already it calls for my love, To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, What strains of wild melody flow? How the nightingales warble their loves From the thickets of roses that blow ! And when her bright form shall appear, Each bird shall harmoniously join In a concert so soft and so clear, As — she may not be fond to resign. 206 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. I have found out a gift for my fair ; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, Who could rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more, when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue. I have heard her with sweetness unfold How that pity was due to — a dove : That it ever attended the bold. And she called it the sister of Love. But her words such a pleasure convey, So much I her accents adore. Let her speak, and whatever she say, Methinks I should love her the more. Can a bosom so gentle remain Unmoved when her Corydon sighs ? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain. These plains and this valley despise ? Dear regions of silence and shade ! Soft scenes of contentment and ease ! Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, If aught, in her absence, could please. But where does my Phyllida stray ? And where are her grots and her bo'wrs ? Are the groves and the valleys as gaj^. And the shepherds as gentle as ours ? The groves may perhaps be as fair. And the face of the valleys as fine ; The swains may in manners compare. But their love is not equal to mine. III. Solicitude. Why will you my passion reprove ? Why term it a folly to grieve ? Ere I show you the charms of my love, She is fairer than you can believe. With her mien she enamors the brave; With her wit she engages the free ; With her modesty pleases the grave ; She is ev'ry way pleasing to me. you that have been of her train. Come and join in my amorous lays ; 1 could lay down my life for the swain That will sing but a song in her praise. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town Come trooping, and listen the while ; Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown ; — But I cannot allow her to smile. For when Paridel tries in the dance Any favor with Phyllis to find. Oh how, with one trivial glance. Might she ruin the peace of my mind ! In ringlets he dresses his hair, And his crook is bestudded around ; And his pipe — oh may Phyllis beware Of a magic there is in the sound ! 'Tis his with mock passion to glow ; 'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, "How her face is as bright as the snow, And her bosom, be sure, is as cold ! How the nightingales labor the strain. With the notes of his charmer to vie; How they vary their accents in vain, Repine at lier triumphs, and die." To the grove or the garden he strays, And pillages every sweet; Then, suiting the wreath to his lays. He throws it at Phyllis's feet. " Phyllis," he whispers, " more fair. More sweet than the jessamine's flow'r ' What are pinks, in a morn, to compare ? What is eglantine, after a show'r ? " Then the lily no longer is white. Then the rose is deprived of its bloom, Then the violets die with despite. And the woodbines give up their per- fume." Thus glide the soft numbers along. And he fancies no shepherd his peer. Yet I never should envy the song, Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. Let his crook be with hyacinths bound. So Phyllis the trophy despise ; Let his forehead with laurels be crown d So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. The language that flows from the heart Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue. Yet may she beware of his art, Or sure I must envy the song. POEMS OF LOVE. 207 IV. Disappointment. Yk shepherds^, give ear to my lay, And take no more heed of my sheep ; They have nothing to do but to stray, — I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove ; She was fair — and my passion begun ; She smiled — and I could not but love ; She is faithless— and I am undone. Perhaps I was void of all thought ; Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be sought By a swain more engaging than me. Ah ! love every hope can inspire ; It banishes wisdom the while, And the lip of the nymph we admire Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile. She is faithless, and I am undone ; Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to shun What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how ye loiter in vain Amid nymphs of a higher degree; It is not for me to explain How fair and how fickle they be. Alas ! from the day that we met. What hope of an end to my woes, When I cannot endure to forget The glance that undid my repose ? Yet time may diminish the pain ; The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose. The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows. Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight. But we are not to find them our own ; Fate never bestow'd such delight As I with my Phyllis had known. ye woods, spread your branches apace ; To your deepest recesses I fly ; 1 would hide with the beasts of the chase ; I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound thro' the grove With the same sad complaint it begun ; How she smiled, and I could not but love ; Was faithless, and I am undone ! William Shenstone. Ber Letter. I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dress'd just as I came from the dance, In a robe even you would admire— It cost a cool thousand in France ; I'm be-diamonded 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 isn't it nice to have riches. And diamonds and silks, and all that ?" " And aren't it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat ?" 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 soire^ of the year," 208 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. In the mists of a gaze de ChamMry, 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 festoon'd 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-d-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 bedclothes of snow ; Of that ride — that to me was the rarest ; Of — the something you said at the gate : Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress To " the best-paying lead in the State." Well, well, it's all j^ast ; yet it's funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daugh- ter. 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 " finish'd " by travel — Whatever's the meaning of that — Oh, 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 haven't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there iy the ditches. And you've struck it — on Poverty Flat. F. Brkt IIartk. iMY LOVE. Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear ; Her glorious fancies come from far. Beneath the silver evening-star ; And yet her breast is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know ; God giveth them to her alone. And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair ; No simplest duty is forgot; Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease. And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemfed in her eyes. She hath no scorn of common things ; And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. Blessing she is ; God made her so ; And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow ; Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize ; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue, Unclouded heaven of her eyes. She is a woman — one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, And yet doth ever flow aright. POEMS OF LOVE. 209 And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles, my duties lie ; It flows around them and between. And makes them fresh and fair and green- Sweet homes wherein to live and die. James Eussell Lowell. The Bridal of and all a. " ElSE up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing, And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing. And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere. And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! " Arise, arise, Xarifa ! I see Andalla's face — He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace ; Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquiver Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely, never. Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purjile mixed with white, I guess 'twas wreath'd by Zara, whom he will wed to-night. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! "What aileth thee, Xarifa — what makes thine eyes look down? Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town? I've heard you say on many a day — and sure you said the truth — Andalla rides without a peer among all Uranada's youth : 14 Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk- white horse doth go Beneath his stately master with a stately step and slow : — • Then rise — oh rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ; Unseen here through the lattice you may gaze with ail the town !" The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down. Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town ; But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove. And though her needle press'd the silk, no flower Xarifa wove ; One bonny rosebud she had traced before the noise drew nigh — That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow droop- ing from her eye — " No — no !" she sighs — " bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down. To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town!" " Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down? Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town? Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry ; He stops at Zara's palace-gate — why sit ye still — oh, why?" — "At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover ? I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla with all the ijaz- ing town !" From the Spanish. John Gibson Lockhart. Ka thleen Ma vo urneen. Kathleen Mavourneen ! the gray dawn is breaking, The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill, 210 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking, Kathleen Mavourneen ! what, slumber- ing still ? Oh hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever ? Oh, hast thou forgotten, this day, we must part ? It may be for years, and it may be for ever. Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ? Kathleen Mavourneen I awake from thy slumbers, The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light; Ah ! where is the spell that once hung on my numbers ! Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night. Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling, To think that from Erin and thee I must part; It may be for years, and it may be for ever ! Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Anna (Barry) Crawford. To DIANE3IE. Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free ; Be you not proud of that rich haire. Which wantons with the love-sick aire ; When as that ruble which you weare. Sunk from the tip of your soft eare. Will last to be a precious stone, When all your Avorld of beautie's gone. Robert Herrick. The MAIDEN'S Choice. Genteel in personage. Conduct and equipage ; Noble by heritage ; Generous and free ; Brave, not romantic; Learu'd, not pedantic ; Frolic, not frantic — This must he be. Honor maintaining, Meanness disdaining. Still entertaining, Engaging, and new; Neat, but not finical ; Sage, but not cynical; Never tyrannical, But ever true, Henry Carey Lady Clara Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown ; You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine. Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than L Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. POEMS OF LOVE. 211 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear ; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door : You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse. To make him trust his modest worth. And, last, you fixed a vacant stare. And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent. The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets. And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : You pine among your halls and towers : The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth. But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time. You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If time be heavy on your hands. Are there no beggars at your gate. Nor any poor about your lands ? Oh teach the orphan boy to read, Or teach the orphan girl to sew, Pray heaven for a human heart. And let the foolish yeoman go. Alfred Tennyson. At the Church Gate. Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover ; And near the sacred gate. With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her. The minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming ; They've husli'd the minster bell : The organ 'gins to swell : She's coming, she's coming ! My lady comes at last. Timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast : She comes — she's here — she's past — • May Heaven go with her I Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint ! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly ; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace Pound the forbidden place. Lingering a minute. Like outcast spirits who wait And see through heaven's gate Angels within it. William Makepeace THACKERAy. In a Year. Never any more While I live. Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive, — Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still. Was it something said. Something done, Vex'd him ? was it touch of hand, Turn of head ? Strange ! that very way Love begun. I as little understand Love's decay. When I sew'd or drew, I recall How he look'd as if I sang —Sweetly too. 212 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. If I spoke a word, First of all Up his cheek the color sprang, Then he heard. Sitting by my side, At my feet, So he breathed the air I breathed. Satisfied ! I, too, at love's brim Touch'd the sweet. I would die if death bequeath'd Sweet to him. " Speak, — I love thee best !" He exclaim'd, — " Let thy love my own foretell." I confess'd : ' Clasp my heart on thine Now unblamed, Since upon thy soul as well Hangeth mine !" Was it wrong to own, Being truth ? Why should all the giving prove His alone ? I had wealth and ease. Beauty, youth, — Since my lover gave me love, I gave these. That was all I meant, — To be just, iind the passion I had raised To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust, If I gave him what he praised, Was it strange ? Would he loved me yet. On and on. While I found some way undream'd, — Paid my debt ! Gave more life and more, Till, all gone. He should smile, " She never seem'd Mine before. " What— she felt the while. Must I think ? Love's so different with us men," He should smile. Dying for my sake — White and pink ! Can't we touch these bubbles then But they break ?" Dear, the pang is brief. Do thy part. Have thy pleasure. How perplext Grows belief? Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart. Crumble it, — and what comes next ? Is it God ? Robert Browning. SONO. Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew : Maidens, willow branches bear ; Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm, From my hour of birth ; Upon my buried body, lie Lightly, gentle earth ! Beaumont and Fletcher Sonnet. To live in hell, and heaven to behold, To welcome life, and die a living death, To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold, To grasp at stars, and lie the earth be- neath. To tread a maze that never shall have end. To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears. To climb a hill, and never to descend. Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears, To pine for food, and watch the Hesperian tree. To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw, To live accursed, whom men hold blest to be. And weep those wrongs, which never creature saw ; If this be love, if love in these be founded. My heart is love, for these in it are grounded. Hknky Constable. POEMS OF LOVE. 213 IIIA VE Something Sweet to Tell You. I HAVE something sweet to tell you, But the secret you must keep ; And remember, if it isn't right, I'm " talking in my sleep." For I know I am but dreaming, When I think your love is mine ; And I know they are but seeming, All the hopes that round me shine. So remember, when I tell you What I cannot longer keep. We are none of us responsible For what we say in sleep. My pretty secret's coming ! O, listen with your heart ; And you shall hear it humming. So close 'twill make you start. O, shut your eyes so earnest, Or mine will wildly weep ; I love you ! I adore you! but — " I'm talking in my sleep !" Frances Sargent Osgood. EUPHROSYNE. I WILL not say that thou wast true, Yet let me say that thou wast fair ! And they that lovely face who view, They should not ask if truth be there. Truth — what is truth ? Two bleeding hearts Wounded by men, by Fortune tried. Out-wearied with their lonely parts, Vow to beat henceforth side by side. The world to them was stern and drear. Their lot was but to weep and moan ; Ah, let them keep their faith sincere. For neither could subsist alone ! But souls whom some benignant breath Has charm'd at birth from gloom and care, These ask no love, these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are. The world to them may homage make, And garlands for their forehead weave ; And what the world can give, they take — But they bring more than they receive. They smile uj^on the world. Their ears To one demand alone are coy ; They will not give us love and tears — They bring us light, and warmth, and joy- On one she smiled, and he was blest ! She smiles elsewhere — we make a din ! But 'twas not love which heaved hei breast. Fair child ! — it was the bliss within. Matthew Arnold. Jealousy, the Tyrant of the Mind. What state of life can be so blest As love, that warms a lover's breast? Two souls in one, the same desire To grant the bliss, and to require I But if in heaven a hell we find, 'Tis all from thee, Jealousy ! 'Tis all from thee, O Jealousy ! Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, Thou tyrant of the mind ! All other ills though sharp they prove, Serve to refine and perfect love : In absence, or unkind disdain. Sweet hope relieves the lover's pain. But, ah ! no cure but death we find. To set us free from Jealousy : O Jealousy ! Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, Thou tyrant of the mind ! False in thy glass all objects are, Some set too near, and some too far; Thou art the fire of endless night. The fire that burns, and gives no light. All torments of the damn'd we find In only thee, O Jealousy ! Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, Thou tyrant of the mind. JOUN Dkydei' 214 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Sixteen. In Clementina's artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see, — And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me? Lucilla asks, if that be all, Have I not cull'd as sweet before ? Ah yes, Lucilla ! and their fall I still deplore. T now behold another scene. Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light, — More pure, more constant, more serene. And not less bright : Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose. Whose chain of flowers no force can sever ; And Modesty, who, when she goes, Is gone for ever. Walter Savage Landor. CojuiN' Through the Rye. Gin a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body. Need a body cry ? Every lassie has her laddie — Ne'er a ane hae I; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysel'; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. Gin a body meet a body Comin' frae the town. Gin a body greet a body. Need a body frown ? Every lassie has her laddie — Ne'er a ane hae I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysei' ; But whaur his hame, or what his name, 1 dinna care to tell. Adthok Unknown. Cherry-Ripe. Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones ; come and buy ; If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer, there, Where my Julia's lips do smile, There's the land, or cherry isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow, Robert Herkick. The White Rose. SENT BY A YORKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCAS- TRIAN MISTRESS. If this fair rose offend thy sight, Placed in thy bosom bare, 'Twill blush to find itself less white. And turn Lancastrian there. But if thy ruby lip it spy. As kiss it thou mayst deign. With envy pale 'twill lose its dye. And Yorkish turn again. Author Unknown. The Pruirose. Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year ? Ask me why I send to you This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? I will whisper to your ears, The sweets of love are mixt with tears. Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly, too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break ? I will answer : these discover What fainting hopes are in a lover. Robert Hereick. HERE'S TO Thee, my Scottish Lassie. Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! here's a hearty health to thee ! For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free ; POEMS OF LOVE. 215 For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace ; For the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy face ; For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech can be, — Here's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here's a hearty health to thee ! Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! Though my glow of youth is o'er, And I, as once I felt and dream'd, must feel and dream no more ; Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chill'd my soul at last. And genius with the foodful looks of youthful friendship pass'd ; Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this world's dreary sea. Here's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here's a hearty health to thee ! Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! though I know that not for me Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free ; Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often j^ass me by. Unconscious of my swelling heart and of my wistful eye; Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste one thought on me. Here's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here's a hearty health to thee ! Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! when I meet thee in the throng Of merry youths and maidens dancing lightsomely along, I'll dream away an hour or twain, still gazing on thy form. As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning through a storm ; And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of glee, And for once, my Scottish lassie, dance a giddy dance with thee ! Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! I shall think of thee at even. When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up through heaven ; I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice in every wind that grieves. As it whirls from the abandon'd oak its wither'd autumn leaves; In the gloom of the wild forest, in the still- ness of the sea, I shall think, my Scottish lassie, I shall often think of thee ! Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! In my sad and lonely hours. The thought of thee comes o'er me like the breath of distant flowers : Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine eye. Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky. Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on the tree, Is the thought, my Scottish lassie, is the lonely thought of thee. Here's a health, my Scottish lassie ! — here's a parting health to thee ! May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me ! May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow. Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now And, whatsoe'er my after-fate, my dearest toast shall be, — Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health to thee ; John Moultrie. GooD-MoRROw Song, Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day, With night we banish sorrow ; Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, aloft. To give my Love good-morrow ! Wings from the wind to please her mind. Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing. To give my Love good-morrow ; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, Robin redbreast. Sing, birds, in every furrow ; And from each hill let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow ! 216 FIRESIDE ENGYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sjiarrow ! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow ! Thomas Ueywood. The Song of the Camp. *' Give us a song !" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding. When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding, Tiie dark Redan, in silent scoff. Lay grim and threatening under ; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belch'd its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said : " We storm the forts to-morrow ; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." They lay along the battery's side. Below the smoking cannon : Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame ; Forgot was Britain's glory : Each heart recall'd a different name. But all sang " Annie Laurie." Voice after voice caught up the song. Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak. But as the song grew louder. Something upon the soldier's cheek Wash'd off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd The bloody sunset's embers. While the Crimean valleys learn'd How English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell Rain'd on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars ! And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory ; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie." Sleep, soldiers ! still in honor'd rest Your truth and valor wearing : The bravest are the tenderest, — The loving are the daring. Bayard Taylor. Urania. She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, While we for hopeless passion die; Yet she could love, those eyes declare, Were but men nobler than they are. Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turn'd upon the sons of men ; But light the serious visage grew — She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through. Our petty souls, our strutting wits, Our labor'd, puny passion-fits — Ah, may she scorn them still, till we Scorn them as bitterly as she ! Yet show her once, ye heavenly poAvers, One of some worthier race than ours ! One for whose sake she once might prove How deejily she who scorns can love. His eyes be like the starry lights — His voice like sounds of summer nights — In all his lovely mien let pierce The magic of the universe ! And she to him will reach her hand. And gazing in his eyes will stand. And know her friend, and weep for glee. And cry, " Long, long I've look'' d for thee." Then will she weep ! — with smiles, till then, Coldly she mocks the sons of men. Till then her lovely eyes maintain Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. Matthew Arnold. POEMS OF LOVE. 217 To EVA. FAIR and stately maid, whose eyes Were kindled in the upper skies At the same torch that lighted mine ; For so I must interpret still Thy sweet dominion o'er my will, A sympathy divine. Ah, let me blameless gaze upon Features that seem at heart my own ; Nor fear those watchful sentinels, Who charm the more their glance forbids. Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids, With fire that draws while it repels. Ealph Waldo Emerson. Who is Sylvia? Who is Sylvia ? what is she, That all the swains commend her ? Holy, fair, and wise is she ; The heavens such grace did lend her That she might adored be. Is she kind, or is she fair ? For beauty lives with kindness. Love does to her eyes repair To help him of his blindness — And, being help'd, inhabits there. Then to Sylvia let us sing That Sylvia is excelling ; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling ; To her let us garlands bring. William Shakespkake. AUF WIEDEESEHEN- Summer. The little gate was reach'd at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; She push'd it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast. And said, " Aiif Wiedersehen /" With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again. Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night. She said, "An/ Wiedersehen!" The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; I linger in delicious pain ; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she, " Auf Wiedersehen !" 'Tis thirteen years : once more I press The turf that silences the lane ; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and — ah yes, I hear, " Auf Wiedersehen !" Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! The English words had seem'd too fain ! But these — they drew us heart to heart. Yet held us tenderly apart ; §he said, " Auf Wiedersehen !" James Bussell Loweli-. The Love-Knot. Tying her bonnet under her chin. She tied her raven ringlets in; But not alone in its silken snare Did she catch her lovely floating hair, For, tying her bonnet under her chin. She tied a young man's heart within. They were strolling together up the hill, Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill ; And it blew the curls a frolicsome race All over the happy peach-color'd face, Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in. Under her beautiful dimpled chin. And it blew a color, bright as the bloom Of the pinkest fuschia's tossing plume. All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl That ever imprison'd a romping curl, Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin. Tied a young man's heart within. Steeper and steeper grew the hill^ Madder, merrier, chillier still The western wind blew down and play'd The wildest tricks with the little maid. As, tying her bonnet under her chin. She tied a young man's heart within. western wind, do you think it was fair To play such tricks with her floating hair' 218 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. To gladly, gleefully do your best To blow her against the young man breast ? Where he as gladly folded her in ; He kiss'd her mouth and dimpled chin. Oh, Ellery Vane, you little thought, An hour ago, when you besought This country lass to walk with you, After the sun had dried the dew, What perilous danger you'd be in. As she tied her bonnet under her chin. Nora Perry. When Stars are in the quiet Skies. When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee ; Bend on me then thy tender eyes. As stars look on the sea ! For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest when they shine ; Mine earthly love lies husli'd in light Beneath the heaven of thine. There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch o'er men, When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep — Sweet spirit, meet me then ! There is an hour when holy dreams Through slumber fairest glide; And in that mystic hour it seems Thou shouldst be by my side. My thoughts of thee too sacred are For daylight's common beam : I can but know thee as my star, My angel and my dream ; When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee ; Bend on me then thy tender eyes, As stars look on the sea ! Edward Bulwer Lytton. Shes Gane to Dwall in Hea yen. She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie. She gane to dwall in heaven ; Ye're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, For dwalling out o' heaven. Oh, what'll she do in heaven, my lassie, Oh, what'll she do in heaven? She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, An' make them mair meet for heaven. She was beloved by a', my lassie, She was beloved by a', But an angel fell in love wi' her, An' took her frae us a'. Lowly there thou lies, my lassie. Lowly there thou lies ; A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, Nor frae it will arise. Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, Fu' soon I'll follow thee ; Thou left me naught to covet ahin'. But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie, I look'd on thy death-cold face ; Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud, An' fading in its place. I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, I look'd on thy death-shut eye ; An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven Fell Time shall ne'er destroy. Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; But gane was the holy breath o' heaven, That sing the evening psalm. There's naught but dust now mine, lassie, There's naught but dust now mine ; My soul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave. An' why should I stay behin' ? Allan Cunningham. Sonnet. Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments ; love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. Oh no ! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering bark. Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. POEMS OF LOVE. 219 Love's not Time's fool, though rosy 'lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come ; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. William Shakespeare. Sonnet. Tired with all these, for restful death I cry. As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honor shamefully misplaced. And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted. And right perfection wrongfully disgraced. And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority. And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill. And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive Good attending Captain 111;— Tired with all these, from these vfould I be gone. Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone. William Shakespeare. Sonnet. No longer mourn for me when I am dead. Than you shall hear the surly, sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell. Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you v^'oe. Oh, if, I say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. But let your love even with my life de- cay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone. William Shakespeare. Sonnet. That time of year thou may'st in me be- hold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake again.st the cold. Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west. Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest; In me thou seest the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie. As the deathbed whereon it must expire. Consumed with that which it was nour- ish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong. To love that well which thou must leave ere long. William Shakespeare. Sonnet. When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state. And trouble deaf Heaven with my boot- less cries. And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd. Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, AVith what I most enjoy contented least ; Yet in these thoughts myself almost de- spising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state 220 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heav- en's gate : For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. William Shakespeare. Sonnet. AVhen in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have exprest Ev'u such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; And for they look'd but with divining eyes. They had not skill enough your worth to sing ; For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. William Shakespeare. Sonnet. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? Thou art more lovely and more temper- ate; Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, And every fair from fair sometime de- clines, By chance, or Nature's changing course, untrimm'd. But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest. Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade. When in eternal lines to time thou growest. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see. So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. William Shakespeare. EP1THALA3IIUM. I SAW two clouds at morning. Tinged by the rising sun, And in the dawn they floated on, And mingled into one ; I thought that morning cloud was bless'd, It moved so sweetly to the west. I saw two summer currents Flow smoothly to their meeting. And join their course, with silent force, In peace each other greeting ; Calm was their course through banks of green. While dimpling eddies play'd between. Such be your gentle motion, Till life's last pulse shall beat ; Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, Float on, in joy, to meet A calmer sea, where storms shall cease — A jiurer sky, where all is peace. John G. C. Brainard. Bridal Song. To the sound of timbrels sweet Moving slow our solemn feet. We have borne thee on the road To the virgin's blest abode ; With thy yellow torches gleaming, And thy scarlet mantle streaming. And the canopy above Swaying as we slowly move. Thou hast left the joyous feast, And the mirth and wine have ceased; And now we set thee down before The jealously-unclosing door, That the favor'd youth admits Where the veiled virgin sits In the bliss of maiden fear. Waiting our soft tread to hear, And the music's brisker din At the bridegroom's entering in — Entering in, a welcome guest. To the chamber of his rest. Henry Hart Milman. POEMS OF LOVE. 221 To ANTHEA, who 3IAY CO^UIAND Him Anything. Bid me to live, and I will live Thy protestant to be : Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee. A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find. That heart I'll give to thee. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, To honor thy decree : Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see : And having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee. Bid me despair, and I'll despair. Under that cypress tree : Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me, And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee. Robert Herrick. The CHRONICLE: A Ballad. Margarita first possess'd. If I remember well, my breast, Margarita first of all ; But when a while the wanton maid With my restless heart had play'd, Martha took the flyiilg ball. Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine : Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loth and angry she to part With the possession of my heart) To Eliza's conquering face. Eliza to this hour might reign, Had she not evil counsels ta'en : Fundamental laws she broke And still new favorites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke. Mary then, and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began ; Alternately they sway'd, And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, And sometimes both I obey'd. Another Mary then arose. And did rigorous laws impose ; A mighty tyrant she I Long, alas ! should I have been Under that iron-sceptred queen. Had not Eebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me : But soon those pleasures fled ; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride. And Judith reigned in her stead. One month, three days and half an hour Judith held the sovereign power : Wondrous beautiful her face, But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit, And so Susanna took her place. But when Isabella came, Arm'd with a resistless flame ; And th' artillery of her eye, Whilst she proudly march'd about, Greater conquests to find out, She beat out Susan by-the-by. But in her place I then obey'd Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy maid, To whom ensued a vacancy. Thousand worst passions then possess'd The interregnum of my breast. Bless me from such an anarchy I Gentle Henrietta then. And a third Mary, next began : Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria ; And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catharine, And then a long et cetera. But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribands, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint, and warlike things, That make up all their magazines : 222 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts, The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, the smiles and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries. Numberless, nameless mysteries ! And all the little lime-twigs laid By Mach'avel the waiting-maid ; I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I like them should tell All change of weathers that befell) Than Holiushed or Stow. But I will briefer with them be. Since iew of them were long with me. A higher and a nobter My present emperess does claim, Heleonora ! first o' the name. Whom God grant long to reign. Abraham Cowley. On the Doorstep. The conference-meeting through at last. We boys around the vestry waited To see the girls come tripping past Like snowbirds willing to be mated. 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 I We let the old folks have the highway. And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lover's by-way. I cau't remember what we said, 'Twas 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 gleam- ing; 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, — 'Twas 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," dis- sembled. But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud passed kindly overhead. The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, " Come, now or never ! do it I 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 'twas boyish love, yet still, listless woman, weary lover ! To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill I'd give — But who can live youth over? Edmund Clarence Stedman. Light. The night ha§ a thousand eyes. And the day but one ; Yet the light of the bright world dies, With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes. And the heart but one ; Yet the light of a whole life dies. When love is done. Francis W. Bourdillon. Personal Poems. CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! A DIRGE FOR LINCOLN. O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won. The port is near, the bells I hear, the peo- ple all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring ; But, heart ! heart ! heart ! O the bleeding drops of red. Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; Eise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills. For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ; Here Captain ! dear father I This arm beneath your head 1 It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won ; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells ! But I with mournful tread. Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Walt Whitman. On a Bust of Dante. See, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim. The father was of Tuscan song ! There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care, and scorn, abide — Small friendship for the lordly throng. Distrust of all the world beside. Faithful if this wan image be. No dream his life was — but a fight ; Could any Beatrice see A lover in that anchorite ? To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight Who could have guessed the visions came Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light. In circles of eternal flame? The lips as Cumse's cavern close. The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within. Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe. Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn, hestrayed, With no companion save his book, To Corvo's hushed monastic shade; Where, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the pilgrim guest, The single boon for which he prayed The convent's charity was rest. Peace dwells not here— this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose ; The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. 223 224 FIRESIDE ENCYCIOPyEDIA OF POETRY. Such was hia mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine — ■ When hell he peopled with his foes, The scourge of many a guilty line. War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; Baron and duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth. He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of Time. O Time ! whose verdicts mock our own, The only righteous judge art thou ; That poor, old exile, sad and lone, Is Latium's other Virgil now. Before his name the nations bow ; His words are parcel of mankind, Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow. The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. Thomas William Parsons. PRISONED IN WINDSOR, HE RE- CO UN TETH HIS Pleasure there Passed. So cruel prison how could betide, alas ! As proud Windsor? where I in lust and joy, With a King's son, my childish years did pass. In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy. Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour. The large green courts, where we were wont to hove. With eyes cast up into the Maiden's Tower, And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love. The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue, The dances short, long tales of great de- light ; With words, and looks, that tigers could but rue. Where each of us did plead the other's right. The palme-play, where despoiled for the game, With dazfed eyes oft we by gleams of love Have miss'd the ball, and got sight of our dame, To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. The gravel'd ground, with sleeves tied on the helm. On foaming ho.^'se, with swords and friendly hearts ; With chere, as though one should another whelm. Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts. With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth, In active games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth. Our tender limbs, that yet shot up in length. The secret groves, which oft we made re- sound Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise ; Recording oft what grace each one had found. What hope of speed, what dread of long delays : The wild forest, the clothed holts with green ; With reins avail'd, and swift-ybreathed horse, With cry of hounds and merry blasts be- tween, Where we did chase the fearful hart of force. The void vales, eke, that harbor'd us each niglit ; Wherewith, alas ! reviveth in my breast The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet delight ; The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest ; The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust ; The wanton talk, the divers change of play ; The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just, Wherewith we past the winter night away. And with this thought the blood forsakes the face, The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue: PERSONAL POEMS. 225 The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas, Upsuppfed have, thus I my plaint renew : O place of bliss ! renewer of my woes I Give me account, where is my noble fere? Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose ; To other lief; but unto me most dear : Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue. Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew, In prison pine with bondage and restraint. And with remembrance of the greater grief. To banish the less, I find my chief relief. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. The Good Lord Clifford. Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle UPON the Restoration of Lord Clif- ford, THE Shepherd, to the Instates AND Honors of his Ancestors. High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate. And Emont's murmur mingled with the song. The words of ancient time I thus translate, A festal strain that hath been silent long. " From town to town, from tower to tower, The red rose is a gladsome flower. Her thirty years of winter past, The red rose is revived at last ; She lifts her head for endless spring, For everlasting blossoming : Both roses flourish, red and white. In love and sisterly delight The two that were at strife are blended. And all old troubles now are ended. Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her Who is the flower of Lancaster ! Behold her how she smiles to-day On this great throng, this bright array ! Fair greeting doth she send to all From every corner of the Hall ; But, chiefly, from above the board Where sits in state our rightful lord, A Clifford to his own restored ! " They came with banner, spear, and shield : And it was proved in Bosworth field. Not long the avenger was withstood — Earth help'd him with the cry of blood 15 St. George was with us, and the might Of blessed angels crown'd the right. Loud voice the land has utter'd forth. We loudest in the faithful north : Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring. Our streams proclaim a welcoming ; Our strong abodes and castles see The glory of their loyalty. " How glad is Skipton at this hour — Though she is but a lonely tower ! To vacancy and silence left ; Of all her guardian sons bereft — Knight, squire, or yeoman, page or groom We have them at the feast of Brougham. How glad Pendragon — though the sleep Of years be on her 1 — She shall reap A taste of this great pleasure, viewing As in a dream her own renewing. Rejoiced is Brough, right glad, I deem. Beside her little humble .stream ; And she that keepeth watch and ward Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; They both are happy at this hour, Though each is but a lonely tower : — But here is perfect joy and pride For one fair House by Emont's side, This day, distinguish'd without peer, To see her Master, and to cheer Him and and his Lady Mother dear 1 " Oh ! it was a time forlorn. When the fatherless was born — Give her wings that she may fly, Or she sees her infant die ! Swords that are with slaughter wild Hunt the mother and the child. Who will take them from the light ? — Yonder is a man in sight — Yonder is a house — but where ? No, they must not enter there. To the caves, and to the brooks, To the clouds of heaven she looks • She is speechless, but her eyes Pray in ghostly agonies. Blissful Mary, mother mild. Maid and mother undefiled. Save a mother and her child! " Now who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side — a Shepherd Boy? No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass. 226 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Can this be he who hither came In secret, like a smother'd flame? O'er whom such thankful tears were shed For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! God loves the child, and God hath will'd That those dear words should be fulfill'd. The lady's words, when forced away. The last she to her babe did say, ' My own, my own, thy fellow-guest I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, For lowly shepherd's life is best !' " Alas ! when evil men are strong No life is good, no pleasure long. The boy must part from Mosedale's groves And leave Blencathara's rugged coves. And quit the flowers that summer brings To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; Must vanish, and his careless cheer Be turn'd to heaviness and fear. — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! Hear it, good man, old in days ! Thou free of covert and of rest For this young bird that is distrest ; Among the branches safe he lay, And he was free to sport and play When falcons were abroad for prey. " A recreant harp, that sings of fear And heaviness in Cliflbrd's ear ! I said, when evil men are strong, No life is good, no pleasure long, — A weak and cowardly untruth ! Our Clifford was a happy youth. And thankful through a weary time That brought him uj) to manhood's prime. — Again he wanders forth at will And tends a flock from hill to hill : His garb is humble : ne'er was seen Such garb with such a noble mien : Among the Shepherd-grooms no mate Hath he, a child of strength and state ! Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee. And a cheerful company. That learn'd of him submissive ways, And comforted his private days. To his side the fallow-deer Came, and rested without fear; The eagle, lord of land and sea, Stoop'd down to pay him fealty ; And both the undying fish that swim Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him, The pair were servants of his eye In their immortality ; They moved about in open sight, To and fro, for his delight. He knew the rocks which angels haunt On the mountains visitant ; He hath kenn'd them taking wing: And the caves where faeries sing He hath enter'd ; — and been told By voices how men lived of old. Among the heavens his eye can see Face of thing that is to be ; And, if men report him right. He could whisper words of might. — Now another day is come. Fitter hope, and nobler doom : He hath thrown aside his crook. And hath buried deep his book ; Armor rusting in his halls On the blood of Clifford calls ;- ' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance — Bear me to the heart of France, Is the longing of the shield — Tell thy name, thou trembling field; Field of death, where'er thou be, Groan thou with our victory ! Happy day, and mighty hour. When our Shepherd, in his power, Mail'd and horsed, with lance and swordj To his ancestors restored. Like a re-appearing star, Like a glory from afar, First shall head the flock of war !" Alas ! the fervent harper did not know That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed. Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go, Was soften'd into feeling, soothed, and tamed. Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky. The sleep that is among the lonely hills. In him the savage virtue of the race, Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred. PERSONAL POEMS. 227 (ilad were the vales, and every cottage hearth ; The Shepherd Lord was honor'd more and more : And ages after he was laid in earth, " The good Lord CliiFord " was the name he bore. William Wordsworth, Inscription for a Statue of Chaucer at Woodstock. Such was old Chaucer: such the placid mien Of him who first with harmony inform'd The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls Have often heard him, while his legends blithe He sang ; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles Of homely life ; through each estate and age, The fashions and the follies of the world With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come Glowing with Churchill's trophies ; yet in vain Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold To him, this other hero ; who in times Dark and untaught, began with charming verse To tame the rudeness of his native land. Mark Akenside. To Mistress Margaret Hussey. Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower ; With solace and gladness. Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness ; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning, — \\\ everything Far, far passing That I can indite. Or suffice to write, Of merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower ; As patient and as still, And as full of good-will, As fair Isiphil, Coliander, Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander ; Steadfast of thought. Well made, well wrought ; Far may be sought Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower. Gentle as falcon. Or hawk of the tower. John Skelton. Epigram on Sir Francis Brake. The stars above will make thee known, If man were silent here : The sun himself cannot forget His fellow-traveller. Ben Jonsom. An Ode— to Himself. Where dost thou careless lie Buried in ease and sloth ? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die: And this security. It is the common moth. That eats on wits and arts, and so destroys them both. Are all the Aonian springs Dried up? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius' harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings? Or droop they as disgraced To see their seats and bowers by chatter- ing pies defaced ? If hence thy silence be, As 'tis too just a cause — Let this thought quicken thee; Minds that are great and free Should not on fortune pause ? 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause. 228 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. What though the greedy fry Be taken with false baits Of worded balladry, And think it poesy ? They die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. Then take in hand thy lyre. Strike in thy proper strain ; With Japhet's line asjjire Sol's chariot for new fire To give the world again ; Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. And since our dainty age Cannot indure reproof, Make not thyself a page To that strumpet, the stage ; But sing high and aloof Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof. Ben Jonson. On his Being Arrived to the Age of Twenty-three. How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twenti- eth year ! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom show'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so near ; And inward ripeness doth much less ap- pear That some more timely-happy spirits en- du'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high. Toward which Time leads me, and the will of heaven : All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-master's eye. John Milton. Epitaph on a Living Author. Here, passenger, beneath this shed, Lies Cowley, tho' entomb'd, not dead ; Yet freed from human toil and strife, And all th' impertinence of life. Who in his poverty is neat, And even in retirement great. With Gold, the people's idol, he Holds endless war and enmity. Can you not say, he has resigned His breath, to this small cell confined? With this small mansion let him have The rest and silence of the grave : Strew roses here as on his hearse, And reckon this his funeral verse : With wreaths of fragrant herbs adorn The yet surviving poet's urn. Abraham Cowley. On Mr Dear Son, Gervase Be a u- MONT. Can I, who have for others oft compiled The songs of death, forget my sweetest child, Which like a flower crushed with a blast is dead, And ere full time hangs down his smiling head. Expecting with clear hope to live anew. Among the angels fed with heavenly dew ? We have this sign of joy, that many days, While on the earth his struggling spirit stays. The name of Jesus in his mouth contains His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains. Oh, may that sound be rooted in my mind, Of which in him such strong effect I find ! Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love To me was like a friendship, far above The course of nature or his tender age ; Whose looks could all my bitter griefs as- suage : Let his pure soul — ordain'd seven years to be In that frail body, which was part of me- > PERSONAL POEMS. 229 Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show How to this port at every step I go. Sib John Beaumont. Ajv Epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Phillip Sidney. To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death, And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, divine. Is far beyond the powre of mortall line, Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath. Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learn- ings lore, And friendly care obscurde in secret brest, And love that envie in thy life supprest, Thy deere life done, and death hath doubled more. And I, that in thy time and living state, Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought, As one that feeld the rising sun hath sought, With words and teares now waile thy timelesse fate. Drawne was thy race aright from princely line, Nor lesse than such (by gifts that nature gave, The common mother that all creatures have) Doth vertue shew, and i^rincely linage shine. A king gave thee thy name : a kingly minde That God thee gave ; who found it now too deere For this base world, and hath resumde it neere. To sit in skies, and sort with powres divine. Kent thy birth dales, and Oxford held thy youth ; The heavens made hast, and staid nor yeers, nor time : The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime ; Thy will, thy words ; thy words the scales of truth. Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence. To treat from kings with those more great than kings ; Such hope men had to lay the highest things On thy wise youth, to be transported hence. Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call, Thy countries love, religion, and thy friends : Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends, And her defence, for whom we labor all. There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortuhes might : Thy rising day saw never wofull night. But past with praise from off this worldly stage. Back to the campe, by thee that day was brought. First thine owne death, and after thy long fame ; Teares to the soldiers, the proud Castil- ians shame, Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught. What hath he lost that such great grace hath won ? Yoong yeeres for endless yeeres, and hope unsure Of fortunes gifts for Avealth that still shall dure : Oh, happie race with so great praises run ! England doth hold thy lims that bred the same, Flaunders thy valure where it last was tried, , The campe thy sorrow where thy bodie . died. Thy friends thy want ; the world thy ver- tues fame : Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy love ; Letters thy learning, thy losse yeeres long to come : 230 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy tombe ; Thy soule and spright enrich the heavens above. Thy liberall hart imbahnd in gratefull teares, Yoong sighes, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy fall ; Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her gall, Malice her selfe a mourning garment weares. That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell! Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time ! Whose vertues, wounded by my worth- lesse rime. Let Angels speake, and heaven thy praises tell. Sir Walter Raleigh. Tears Wept at the Grave of Sir Albertus Morton. Silence, in truth, would speak my sorrow best. For deepest wounds can least their feel- ings tell ; Yet let me borrow from mine own unrest But time to bid him, whom I loved, fare- well. O my unhappy lines ! you that before Have served my youth to vent some wanton cries. And now, congeal'd with grief, can scarce implore . Strength to accent, " Here my Albertus lies!" This is the sable stone, this is the cave And womb of earth, that doth his corpse embrace : While others sing his praise, let me en- grave These bleeding numbers to adorn the place. Here will I paint the characters of woe ; Here will I pay my tribute to the dead ; And here my faithful tears in showers shall flow. To humanize the flints whereon I tread. Where, though I mourn my matchless loss alone. And none between my weakness judge and me, Yet even these gentle walls allow my moan, Whose doleful echoes to my plaints agree. But is he gone ? and live I rhyming here, As if some Muse would listen to my lay, When all, distuned, sit wailing for their dear. And bathe the banks where he was wont to play ? Dwell thou in endless light, discharged soul. Freed now from Nature's and from For- tune's trust, While on this fluent globe my glass shall roll. And run the rest of my remaining dust. Sir Henry Wotton. Upon the Death of Sir Alber- tus MORTON'S Wife. He first deceased ; she for a little tried To live without him, liked it not, and died. Sir Henry Wotton. TO THE MEMORY OF MY BE- LOVED, THE Author, Mr. Wil- liam Shakespeare, and what he hath left us. To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame ; While I confess thy writings to be such, As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much ; 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage ; but these ways Were not the path I meant unto thy praise : For seeliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right. Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise : PERSONAL POEMS. 231 These are, as some infamous bawd, or whore, Should praise a matron : what could hurt her more ? But thou art proof against them ; and, in- deed, Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin : — Soul of the age. The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage. My Shakespeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser ; or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room ; Thou art a monument without a tomb ; And art alive still, while thy book doth live. And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses ; I mean, with great but disproportion'd muses : For, if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers ; And tell how far thou didst our Lyly out- shine, Or sportingKyd, or Marlowe's mighty line: And though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek, From thence to honor thee, I would not seek For names; but call forth thundering ^schylus, Euripides, and Sophocles, to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To live again, to hear thy buskin tread And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on, Leave thee alone, for the comparison Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome, Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to show, I'o whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time ; And all the muses still were in their prime. When like Apollo he came forth to warm Oui ears, or like a Mercury to charm. Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines: Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit. As since she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of Nature's family. Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy art, My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part: For though the poet's matter nature be. His art doth give the fashion ; and that he. Who casts to write a living line, must sweat (Such as thine are), and strike the second heat Upon the muses' anvil ; turn the same (And himself with it) that he thinks to frame ; Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn. For a good poet's made as well as born : And such wert thou. Look, how the fa- ther's face Lives in his issue ; even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind, and manners, brightly shines In his well-turned and true-filed lines ; In each of which he seems to shake a lance. As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon, what a sight it were. To see thee in our water yet appear ; And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza, and our James. But stay ; I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there : Shine forth, thou star of poets ; and with rage. Or influence, chide, or cheer, the drooping stage ; Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night. And despairs day, but for thy volume's light. Ben Jonson. 232 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. An Epitaph on the Adaiirable Dramatic POET, W. Shakespeare. What need my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones, The labour of an age in pilfed stones ; Or that his hallovv'd reliques should be hid Under a star-ypointed pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such dull witness of thy name? Thou, in our wonder and astonishment, Hast built thyself a lasting monument : For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeav- ouring art, Thy easy numbers flow ; and that each part Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book. Those Delphic lines with deep impression took; Then thou, our fancy of herself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much con- ceiving ; And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. John Milton. lines on the portrait of Shakespeare. This figure, that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakespeare cut ; Wherein the Graver had a strife With Nature to outdo the life : Oh, could he but have drawn his wit As well in brass, as he hath hit His face ; the Print would then surpass All that was ever writ in brass. But since he cannot. Reader, look Not at his picture, but his book. Ben Jonson. Lines. Written the Night before his Exe- cution. E'en such is time ; which takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have. And pays us but with earth and dust ; Which in the dark and silent grave, When we have wander'd all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days : But from this earth, this grave, this dust. My God shall raise me up, I trust. Sir Walter Raleigh. Upon the Sudden Restraint of THE Earl of Somerset, then Falling from Favor. Dazzled thus with height of place, Whilst our hopes our wits beguile, No man marks the narrow space 'Twixt a prison and a smile. Then, since Fortune's favors fade, You that in her arms do sleep Learn to swim, and not to wade. For the hearts of kings are deep. But if greatness be so blind As to trust in towers of air. Let it be with goodness lined. That at least the fall be fair. Then, though darken'd, you shall say, When friends fail and princes frown, Virtue is the roughest way But proves at night a bed of down. Sir Henry Wotton To THE Lady 3IARGARET, Countess OF Cumberland. He that of such a height hath built his mind. And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved powers ; nor all the wind Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong His settled peace, or to disturb the same ; What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey ! And with how free an eye doth he look down Upon these lower regions of turmoil ! PERSONAL POEMS. 233 Where all the storms of passions mainly beat On flesh and blood : where honor, power, renown Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet As frailty doth; and only great doth seem To little minds, who do it so esteem. He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars But only as on stately robberies ; Where evermore the fortune that prevails Must be the right ; the ill-succeeding Mars The fairest and the best-faced enterprise. Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails ; Justice, he sees, (as if seduced) still Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill. He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold As are the passions of uncertain man; Who puts it in all colors, all attires, To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. He sees, that let deceit work what it can, Plot and contrive base ways to high de- sires ; That the all -guiding Providence doth yet All disappoint, and mocks the smoke of wit. Nor is he moved with all the thunder- cracks Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes; Charged with more crying sins than those he checks. The storms of sad confusion, that may grow Up in the present for the coming times. Appal not him that hath no side at all, But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. Although his heart (so near allied to earth) Cannot but pity the perplexed state Of troublous and distress'd mortality, That thus make way unto the ugly birth Of their own sorrows, and do still beget Affliction upon imbecility ; Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, He looks thereon not strange, but as fore- done. And whilst distraught ambition compasses, And is encompass'd ; whilst as craft de- ceives. And is deceived ; whilst man doth ransack man. And builds on blood, and rises by distress, And th' inheritance of desolation leaves To great-expecting hopes; he looks there- on. As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, And bears no venture in impiety. Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath prepared A rest for his desires, and sees all things Beneath him ; and hath learn'd this book of man. Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared The best of glory with her sufferings ; By whom, I see, you labor all you can To plant your heart ; and set your thoughts as near His glorious mansion as your powers can bear. Which, madam, are so soundly fashioned By that clear judgment that hath carried you Beyond the feeble limits of your kind, As they can stand against the strongest head Passion can make ; inured to any hue The world can cast ; that cannot cast that mind Out of her form of goodness, that doth see Both what the best and worst of earth can be. Which makes, that whatsoever here J>e- falls, You in the region of yourself remain. Where no vain breath of th' impudent mo- lests. That hath secured within the brazen walls 234 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain) Rises in peace, in innocency rests ; Whilst all what Malice from without pro- cures. Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours. And whereas none rejoice more in re- venge Than women use to do ; yet you well know. That wrong is better checked by being con- temn'd, Than being pursued ; leaving to Him t' avenge To whom it appertains. Wherein you show How worthily your clearness hath con- demn'd Base malediction, living in the dark. That at the rays of goodness still doth bark. Knowing the heart of man is set to be The centre of this world, about the which These revolutions of disturbances Still roll ; where all th' aspects of misery Predominate ; Avhose strong effects are such As he must bear, being powerless to re- dress ; And that unless above himself he can Erect himself, how poor a thing is man! And how turmoil'd they are that level lie With earth, and cannot lilt themselves from thence ; That never are at peace with their desires, But work beyond their years; and even deny Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense With death : that when ability expires. Desire lives still— so much delight they have To carry toil and travel to the grave. Whose ends you see ; and what can be the best They reach unto, when they have cast the sum And reckonings of their glory. And you know. This floating life hath but this port of rest, A heart prepared, that fears no ill to come; And that man's greatness rests but in his show. The best of all whose days consumed are, Either in war, or peace conceiving war. This concord, madam, of a well-tuned mind Hath been so set by that all-working Hand Of heaven, that though the world hath done his worst To put it out by discords most unkind, Yet doth it still in perfect union stand With God and man ; nor ever will be forced From that most sweet accord, but still agree. Equal in fortune's inequality. And this note, madam, of your worthiness Remains recorded in so many hearts, As time nor malice cannot wrong your right, In th' inheritance of fame you must pos- sess : You that have built you by your great de- serts (Out of small means) a far more exquisite And glorious dwelling for your honor'd name Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame. Samuel Daniel. AN Epitaph on Salathiel Paw, A Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel. Weep with me, all you that read This little story ; And know, for whom a tear you shed Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As heaven and nature seem'd to strive Which own'd the creature. Years he number'd scarce thirteen When fates turn'd cruel, Yet three fiU'd Zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel; And did act, what now we moan. Old men so duly, As, sooth, the Parcfe thought him one, He play'd so truly. PERSONAL POEMS. 235 So by error to his fate They all consented ; But viewing him since, alas, too late I They have repented ; And have sought, to give new birth, In baths to steep him ; But being so much too good for earth, Heaven vows to keep him. Ben Jonson. EPITAPH ON Elizabeth L. H. WouLDST thou heare what man can say In a little ? — reader, stay ! Underneath this stone doth lye As much beauty as could dye ; Which in life did harbor give To more vertue than doth live. If at all she had a fault, Leave it buried in this vault. One name was Elizabeth — Th' other, let it sleep with death : Fitter, where it dyed to tell. Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! Ben Jonson. Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke. Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; Death ! ere thou hast slain another, Learn'd and fair and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee. Ben Jonson. To Vincent Corbet, my Son. What I shall leave thee, none can tell, But all shall say I wish thee well. I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, Both bodily and ghostly health ; Nor too much wealth nor wit come to thee, So much of either may undo thee. I wish thee learning not for show, Enough for to instruct and know ; Not such as gentlemen require To prate at table or at fire. I wish thee all thy mother's graces, Thy father's fortunes and his places. I wish thee friends, and one at court, Not to build on, but support ; To keep thee not in doing many Oppressions, but from suffering any. I wish thee peace in all thy ways, Nor lazy nor contentious days ; And, when thy soul and body part, As innocent as now thou art. Richard Corbet. On Lucy, Countess of Bedford. This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, What kind of creature I could most desire, To honor, serve, and love ; as poets use, I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise. Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great ; I meant the day-star should not brighter rise. Nor lend like influence from his lucei't seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet. Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride ; I meant each softest virtue there should meet. Fit in that softer bosom to reside. Only a learned and a manly soul I purposed her ; that should, with even powers. The rock, the spindle, and the shears control Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see. My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she. Ben Jonson. Of Myself. This only grant me, that my means may lie Too low for envj', for contempt too high Some honor I would have. Not from great deeds, but good alone ; The unknown are better than ill known : Rumor can ope the grave. 236 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. Books should, not business, entertain the light. And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night. My house a cottage more Than palace ; and should fitting be For all my use, no luxury. My garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleas- ures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field. Thus would I double my life's fading space ; For he that runs it well twice runs his race. And in this true delight. These unbought S2:)orts, this happy state, I would not fear, nor wish, my fate ; But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived to- day, Abraham Cowley. Sonnet. To THE Lord General Cromwell. Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd And on the neck of crownfed fortune proud Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud. And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still ; peace hath her vic- tories No less renown'd than war. New foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains ; Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. John Milton, Sonnet. To Cyriac Skinner, Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask ? The conscience, friend, t' have lost them overplied In liberty's defence, my noble task. Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, Content though blind, had I no better guide. John Milton. Sonnet On his Blindness. When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide ; " Doth God exact day-labor, light de- nied?" I fondly ask : but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon reijlies, " God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts : who best PERSONAL POEMS. 237 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his state Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; They also serve who only stand and wait." John Milton. MiLToys Prayer of Patience. I AM old and blind I Men point at me as smitten by God's frown ; Afflicted and deserted of my kind, Yet am I not cast down. I am weak, yet strong ; I murmur not that I no longer see ; Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, Father Supreme ! to Thee. All-merciful One ! When men are furthest, then art Thou most near ; When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear. Thy glorious face Is leaning toward me ; and its holy light Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place, — And there is no more night. On my bended knee I recognize Thy purpose clearly shown : My vision Thou hast dimm'd, that I may see Thyself, — Thyself alone. I have naught to fear ; This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing ; Beneath it I am almost sacred ; here Can come no evil thing. Oh, I seem to stand Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapp'd in that radiance from the sinless land. Which eye hath never seen ! Visions come and go : Shapes nf resplendent beauty round me throng ; From angel lips I seem to hear the How Of soft and holy song. It is nothing now. When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes. When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, The earth in darkness lies. In a purer clime My being fills with rapture, — waves of thought Poll in upon my spirit, — ^strains sublime Break over me unsought. Give me now my lyre ! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine : Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, Lit by no skill of mine. Elizabeth Lloyd Howell. To THE Lady Margaret Ley. Daughter to that good earl, once Presi- dent Of England's Council, and her Treasury, Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee. And left them both, more in himself con- tent. Till the sad breaking of that Parliament Broke him, as that dishonest victory At Chseronea, fatal to liberty, Kill'd with report that old man eloquent. Though later born than to have known the days Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you. Madam, methinks I see him living yet; So well your words his noble virtues praise, That all both judge you to relate them true. And to possess them, honor'd Margaret. John Milton. Lycidas. Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude. And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, 238 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Compels me to disturb your season due ; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float ujson his watery bier Unwejit, and welter to the parching wind. Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse ; Bo may some gentle muse With lucky words favor my destined urn, And as he passes turn. And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns ap- pear'd Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his west'ring wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th' oaten flute ; Rough satyrs danced and fauns with cloven heel From the glad song would not be absent long. And old Damastus loved to hear our song. But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone — NoAV thou art gone, and never must re- turn! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves. With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, A.nd all their echoes, mourn ; The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose. Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze. Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows ; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. Where were ye, nymphs, when the re- morseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Ly- cidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep. Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie. Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. Ay me ! I fondly dream I Had ye been there, for what could that have done ? What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore. The muse herself for her enchanting son. Whom universal Nature did lament. When, by the rout that made the hideous roar. His gory vision down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas 1 what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade. And strictly meditate the thankless muse ? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze. Comes the blind fury with th' abhorrfed shears,* And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, Phoebus replied, and touch'd my tremb- ling ears ; PERSONAL POEMS. 239 Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumor lies ; But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. O fountain Arethuse, and thou honor'd flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea ; He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, "What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain ? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promon- tory : They knew not of his story ; And sage Hippotades their answer brings. That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd ; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark. Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge. Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. Ah ! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge ? Last came, and last did go. The pilot of the Galilean Lake ; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; Ho shook his mitred locks, and stern be- spake : How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reckoning make, Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least That to the faithful herdsman's art be- longs ! What recks it them ? what need they ? they are sped ; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Eot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said ; But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams : return, Sicilian muse. And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells, and flow'rets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks. Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes, That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers. And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine; 240 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired wood- bine. With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffodillies fill their cvips with tears, To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false sur- mise. Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sound- ing seas Wash far away where'er thy bones are hurl'd, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward angel nov**, and melt with ruth ! And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth I Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more ! For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. So sinks the day-star fki the ocean bed. And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new- spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky ; So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves, Where, other groves and other streams along. With nectar pufe his oozy locks he laves. And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above. In solemn troops and sweet societies. That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore. In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray ; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills. With eager thought warbling his Doric lay. And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills. And now was dropt into the western bay ; At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue : To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. John JIiltuN. An Horatian Ode. Upon Cromwell's Eeturn from Ire- land. The forward youth that would appear, Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armor's rust, Eemoving from the wall The corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urgfed his active star : And like the three-fork'd lightning first. Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide ; For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy ; And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose. PERSONAL POEMS. 241 Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent, And C;esar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven's flame, And if we would speak true, Much to the ]Man is due Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reserved and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot). Could by industrious valor climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the Kingdoms old Into another mould. Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain — But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak. Nature, that hateth emptiness. Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come. What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art, Where, twining subtle fears with hope. He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook's narrow case ; That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn. While round the arm^d bands Did clap their bloody hands ; He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene. But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try ; Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right. But bow'd his comely head Down, as uiaon a bod. 16 This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcfed power, So when they did design The Capitol's first line, A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run ; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate ! And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed ; So much one man can do That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust; Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the Republic's hand — How fit he is to sway That can so well obey I He to the Commons' feet presents A Kingdom for his first year's rents, And (what he may) forbears His fame, to make it theirs ; And has his sword and spoils ungirt, To lay them at the public's skirt. So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky, She, having kill'd, no more does search But on the next green bough to perch. Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure. What may not then our Isle presume While victory his crest does plume ' What may not others fear If thus he crowns each year? As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-color'd mind. But from this valor, sad Shrink underneath the plaid — 242 FIRESIDE ENGYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. Happy if iu the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer. But thou, the War's and Fortune's son, March indefatigably on, And for the last effect Still keep the sword erect . Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night. The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain. Andrew Marvell. The Picture of T. C. In a Prospect op Flowers, See with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days ! In the green grass she loves to lie. And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names ; But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What color best becomes them, and what smell. Who can foretell for what high cause This darling of the gods was born ? See ! this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear. And, under her command severe, See his bow broke and ensigns torn. Happy who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man ! Oh, then let me in time compound And jjarley with those conquering eyes, — Ere they have tried their force to wound, Ere with their glancing wheels they drive In triumph over hearts that strive. And them that yield but more despise : Let me be laid Where I may see the glory from some shade. Meanwhile, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm. Reform the errors of the spring : Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair ; And roses of their thorns disarm ; But most procure That violets may a longer age endure. But, O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruit and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds, Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Should quickly make the example yours ; And, ere we see, Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee. Andrew Marvell. Lines written under the Pic- ture OF John Milton, Before his "Paradise Lost." Three Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought sur- pass'd ; 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. Sonnet. To Milton. MiETON ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : England hath need of thee : she is a fen Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men : Oh raise us up, return to us again ; And give us manners, virtue, freedom power ! Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart ; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea; Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. William Wordswohth. PERSONAL POEMS. 243 LOYALTY Confined. Beat on, proud billows; Boreas blow ; Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof: Your incivility doth show. That innocence is tempest proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm ; Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me : Whilst a good conscience is my bail, And innocence my liberty : Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. I, whilst I wisht to be retired. Into this private room was turn'd ; As if their wisdoms had conspired The salamander should be burn'd : Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish. The cynick loves his poverty : The pelican her wilderness ; And 'tis the Indian's pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus : Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see Make torments easie to their apathy. These manacles upon my arm I, as my mistress' favours, wear ; And for to keep my ankles warm, I have some iron shackles there : These walls are but my garrison ; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my cit- adel. I'm in the cabinet lockt up. Like some high-prized margarite. Or, like the great mogul or pope. Am cloyster'd up from jiublick sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty, And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as thee. Here sin«for want of food must starve, Where tempting objects are not seen ! And these strong walls do only serve To keep vice out, and keep me in : Malice of late's grown charitable, sure, I'm not committed, but am kept secure. So he that struck at Jason's life, Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife Did only wound him to a cure : Malice, I see, wants wit ; for what is meant Mischief, oft-times proves favour by th' event. When once my prince affliction hath, Prosperity doth treason seem ; And to make smooth so rough a path, I can learn patifence from him : Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart. When kings want ease subjects must bear a part. What though I cannot see my king Neither in person nor in coin ; Yet contemplation is a thing That renders wliat I have not, mine : My king from me what adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven on my heai't ! Have you not seen the nightingale, A prisoner like, coopt in a cage. How doth she chaunt her wonted tale. In that her narrow hermitage ! Even then her charming melody doth prove. That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. I am that bird, whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty ; But though they do my corps confine. Yet maugre hate, my soul is free ; And though immured, yet can I chirp, and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. My soul is free, as ambient air. Although my baser part's immew'd, Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair T' accompany my solitude; Although rebellion do my body biude, My king alone can captivate my minde. Sir llOGEK L'ESTKANUE. Epitaph Extempore. Nobles and heralds, by your leave, Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve ; Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher? Matthew Priob. 244 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY Prologue to Mr. Addison's Tragedy of "Cato." To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart, To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold : For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage. Commanding tears to stream through every age; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love ; In pitying love, we but our weakness show. And wild ambition well deserves its woe. Here tears shall flow from a more gener- ous cause. Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : He bids your breasts with ancient ardor rise. And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was- No common object to your sight displays. But what with pleasure Heaven itself sur- veys, A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, ^nd greatly falling, with a falling state. While Cato gives his little senate laws, AVhat bosom beats not in his country's cause ? Who sees him act, but envies every deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed ? Even when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars. The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars. Ignobly vain, and impotently great, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state ; As her dead father's reverend image pass'd The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast ; The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye ; The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by; Her last good inan dejected Rome adored, And honor d Caesar's less than Cato's sword. Britons, attend : be worth like this ap- proved. And show you iiave the virtue to be moved. With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued ; Your scene precariously subsists too long On French translation, and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the stage, Be justly warm'd with your own native rage: Such plays alone should win a British ear. As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear. Alexander Pope. To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr. Addison. If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, And left her debt to Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but be- moan, And judge, oh judge my bosom by your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires? Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires ; Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave ? How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead. Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, ' Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings ! What awe did the slow, solemn knell inspire ; The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; PERSONAL POEMS. M5 The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid ; And the last words, that dust to dust con- vey'd ? While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears, thou dear, departed friend. Oh, gone for ever ! take this long adieu ; And sleep in peace, next thy loved Mon- tague. To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine, A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine ; Mine with true sighs thy absence to be- moan And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, May shame afflict this alienated heart; Of thee forgetful, if I form a song, My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue ; My grief be doubled froni thy image free, And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. Oft let mc range the gloomy aisles alone. Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown ; Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallow'd mould below ; Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ; In arms who triumph'd, or in arts excell'd; Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood ; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given ; And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven ; Ne'er to these chambers, wliere the mighty rest, Since their foundation, came a nobler guest ; Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss con- vey'd A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. In what new region to the just assign'd, What new emi)loymcnts i^lease th' un- bodied mind? A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky, From world to world unwearied does he fly? Or curious trace tlie long, laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze ? Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battled, and the dragon fell ; Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below? Or dost thou warn ])oor mortals left be- hind ?— A task well suited to thy gentle mind. Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form de- scend ; To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms. When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms. In silent whisperings purer thoughts im- part. And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. Tliat awful form, which, so the heavens decree, Must still be loved and still deplored by me, In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. If business calls, or crowded courts invite, Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight ; If in tlie stage I seek to soothe my care, I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there ; If pensive to the rural shades I rove, His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove ; 'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong, Clear'd some great truth, or raised some serious song, There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend severe; There taught us how to live; and (oh too high The price for knowledge!) taught us how to die. 246 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Thou Hill, whose brow the antique struc- tures grace, Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears. O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears ! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air ! How sweet the glooms beneath thy agfed trees. Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze ! His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd. Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade. From other hills, however Fortune frown'd, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found ; Reluctant now I touch the trembling string. Bereft of him, who taught me how to sing ; And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds. And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) The verse, begun to one lost friend, pro- long. And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song ! These works divine, which, on his death- bed laid To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring sage con- vey'd. Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame. Nor he survived to give, nor thou to ' claim. Swift after him thy social spirit flies, And close to his, how soon ! thy coffin lies. Blest pair ! whose union future bards shall tell In future tongues ; each other's boast ! farewell, Farewell ! whom join'd in fame, in friend- ship tried. No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. Thomas Tickell. Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson. In yonder grave a Druid lies Where slowly winds the stealing wave 1 The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet's sylvan grave ! In yon deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp shall now be laid. That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds. May love through life the soothing shade. Then maids and youths shall linger here, And, while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in pity's ear To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest. And oft suspend the dashing oar To bid his gentle spirit rest ! And oft as ease and health retire To breezy lawn or forest deep. The friend shall view yon whitening spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, Ah ! what will every dirge avail ? Or tears which love and pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail ? Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ? With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, And joy desert the blooming year. But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side Whose cold turf hides the buried friend I And see, the fairy valleys fade, Dun night has veil'd the solemn view ! Yet once again, dear parted shade. Meek Nature's child, again adieu ! The genial meads assign'd to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ; Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. PERSONAL POEMS. 247 Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay .Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes, vales and wild wood-*, shall he say. In yonder grave your Druid lies ! William Collins. On the Death of Dr. Levett. CoNDEMN'D to hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year, See Levett to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere. Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye. Obscurely wise and coarsely kind ; Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting Nature call'd for aid, And hovering Death prepared the blow. His vigorous remedy display'd The power of art without the show. In misery's darkest cavern known. His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan. And lonely want retired to die. No summons mock'd by chill delay. No petty gain disdain'd by pride ; The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walk'd their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; And sure the Eternal Master found The single talent well employ'd. . The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ; His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then with no fiery throbbing pain. No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way. Samuel Johnson. To Mrs. UN win. Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings. Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That ere through age or woe I shed my wings I may record thy worth with honor due, In verse as musical as thou art true. And that immortalizes whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light. On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright — There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine : And since thou own'st that jiraise, I spare thee mine. William Cowper. To Mary. The twentieth year is well-nigh past Since first our sky was overcast ; Ah, would that this might be the last! My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow— 'Twas my distress that brought thee low , My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore. Now rust disused, and shine no more ; My Mary ! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still. Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary ! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part. And all thy threads with magic ait Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary I 248 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream ; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary ! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of Orient light, My Mary ! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign ; Yet gently press'd, press gently mine. My Mary ! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st That now at every step thou mov'st Upheld by two ; yet still thou lov'st, My Mary ! And still to love, though press'd with ill. In wintry age to feel no chill. With me is to be lovely still. My Mary ! But ah ! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary ! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last — My Mary ! William Cowpek. CowFEJR's Grave. It is a place where poets crown'd may feel the heart's decaying ; It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying, Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish : Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish. 9 poets, from a maniac's tongue was pour'd the deathless singing ! O Christians, at your cross of hope a hope- less hand was clinging I O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling, Groan'd inly while he taught you peacCi and died while ye were smiling! And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story. How discord on the music fell and dark- ness on the g'lor\'. And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed. He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted, — He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation. And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration ; Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken, Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken. With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him. With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won him, Who sufier'd once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind him, But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him ; And wrought within his shatter'd brain such quick poetic senses As hills have language for, and stars, har- monious influences : The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number, And silent shadows from the trees refresh'd him like a slumber. Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home-caresses, Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvnn tendernesses : The very world, by God's constraint, front falsehood's ways removing. Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving. And though, in blindness, he remain'd un- conscious of that guiding, And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing, PERSONAL POEMS. 249 He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy- desolated, — Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only- God created. Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses. And drops upon his burning brow the cool- ness of her kisses, — That turns his fever'd eyes around — " My mother ! where's my mother ?" — As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other ! — The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him. Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him ! — Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him, Beneath those deep pathetic eyes which closed in death to save him. Thus? oh, not thus/ no type of earth can image that awaking. Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs, round him breaking, Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted, But felt those eyes alone, and knew, — "My Saviour ! not deserted !" Deserted ! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested. Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested ? What frantic hands outstretch'd have e'er th' atoning drops averted ? What tears have wash'd them from the soul, that one should be deserted? Deserted ! God could separate from His own essence rather; And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father : Yea, once, Immanuel's orphan'd cry His universe hath shaken — It went up single, echoless, " My God, I am forsaken !" It went up from the Holy's lips amid His lost creation. That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation ! That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition. And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, A Gentleman who held the Patent for His Honors immediately from Al- mighty God. "Should the poor be flattered?" — Shakespeare. Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! The meikle devil wi' a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides ! He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, The ae best fellow e'er was born ! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exiled. Ye hills, near neibors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, Where echo slumbers ! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers ! Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! Y''e haz'ly shaws and briery dens ! Ye burnies, winiplin' down your glens, Wi' toddlin' din, Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin ! Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea ; Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see ; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree. The first o' flow'rs. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at its head^ At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail. 250 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; Ye whistling plover ; An' mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ! — He's gaue for ever ! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; Ye fisher herons, watching eels : Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake ; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels. Hair for his sake. Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay. Wham we deplore. Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. In some auld tree or eldritch tow'r. What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, Sets up her horn, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn ! rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! Oft have ye heard my cantie strains : But now what else for me remains But tales of woe ? And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year ! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : Thou Simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head. Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear For him that's dead. Thou Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost ! Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light ! Mourn, Empress of the silent night ! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. My Matthew mourn ! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight Ne'er to return. Henderson ! the man — the brother ! And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? And hast thou crost that unknown river, Life's dreary bound ? Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around ? Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! But by thy honest turf I'll wait. Thou man of worth ! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. The Epitaph. Stop, passenger ! — my story's brief, And truth I shall relate, man ; 1 tell nae common tale o' grief — For Matthew was a great man. If thou uncommon merit hast, Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, A look of pity hither cast — For Matthew was a poor man. If thou a noble sodger art. That passest by this grave, man, There moulders here a gallant heart — For Matthew was a brave man. If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man, Here lies wha weel had won thy praise — For Matthew was a bright man. If thou at Friendship's sacred ca' Wad life itself resign, man. Thy sympathetic tear maun fa' — • For Matthew was a kind man. If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man, This was a kinsman o' thy ain — For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, This was thy billie, dam, and sire — For Matthew was a queer man. PERSONAL POEMS. 251 If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man, May dool and sorrow be his lot ! For Matthew was a rare man. But now his radiant course is run, For Matthew's was a bright one ! His soul was like the glorious sun, A inatcliless, heav'nly light, man. RoBEKT Burns. BUEJVS. To A KOSE BROUGHT FROM NEAR AlLO- WAY Kirk, in Ayrshire, in the Au- tumn OF 1822. Wild rose of Alloway ! my thanks : Thou 'mind'st me of that autumn noon When first we met upon " the banks And braes o' bonny Doon." Like thine, beneath the thorn tree's bough. My sunny hour was glad and brief; We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou Art wither'd — flower and leaf And will not thy death-doom be mine — The doom of all things wrought of clay? And wither'd my life's leaf like thine, Wild rose of Alloway? Not so his memory for whose sake My bosom bore thee far and long — His, who a humbler flower could make Immortal as his song, The memory of Burns — a name That calls, when brimm'd her festal cup, A nation's glory and her shame, In silent sadness up. A nation's glory — be the rest Forgot — she's canonized his mind. And it is joy to speak the best We may of humankind. I've stood beside the cottage-bed Where the bard -peasant first drew breath ; A straw-thatch'd roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument — that tells to Heaven The homage of earth's proudest isle To that bard-peasant given. Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming hour ; And know, however low his lot, A poet's pride and power ; The pride that lifted Burns from earth, The power that gave a child of song Ascendency o'er rank and birth. The rich, the brave, the strong ; And if despondency weigh down Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, Despair — thy name is written on The roll of common men. There have been loftier themes than his, And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy's Purer and holier fires ; Yet read the names that know not death ; Few nobler ones than Burns are there ; And few have won a greener wreath Than that which binds his hair. His is that language of the heart In which the answering heart wouhl sjjeak. Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start. Or the smile light the cheek ; And his that music to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. And Avho hath heard his song, nor knelt Before its sjiell with willing knee, And listen'd and believed, and felt The poet's mastery O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm. O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ; On fields where brave men " die or do," In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, From throne to cotta2;e hearth? 252 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. What sweet tears dim the eye unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," Or " Auld Lang Syne," is sung ! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And dreams of youth, and truth, and love With " Logan's " banks and braes. And when he breathes his master-lay Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall. All passions in our frames of clay Come thronging at his call. Imagination's world of air, And our own Avorld, its gloom and glee, Wit, pathos, poetry, are there. And death's sublimity. And Burns — though brief the race he ran, Though rough and dark the path ' he trod — Lived, died, in form and soul a man, The image of his God. Through care, and pain, and want, and woe. With wounds that only death could heal. Tortures the poor alone can know, The proud alone can feel ; He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen. And moved, in manhood as in youth, Pride of his fellow-men. Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A hate of tyrant and of knave, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, Of coward and of slave ; A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear, and would not bow. Were written in his manly eye And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard ! his words are driven, Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven. The birds of fame have flown. Praise to the man ! a nation stood Beside his cofiin with wet eyes. Her brave, her beautiful, her good, As when a loved one dies. And still, as on his funeral-day, Men stand his cold earth-couch around_ With the mute homage that we pay To consecrated ground. And consecrated ground it is, The last, the hallow'd home of one Who lives upon all memories, Though with the buried gone. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines. Shrines to no code or creed confined — The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas, of the mind. Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreath'd, Crown'd kings, and mitred priests of power. And warriors with their bright swords sheath'd. The mightiest of the hour ; And lowlier names, whose humble home Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star. Are there — o'er wave and mountain come, From countries near and far ; Pilgrims, whose Avandering feet have I^ress'd The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, Or trod the piled leaves of the West, My own green forest-land. All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung. And gather feelings not of earth His fields and streams among. They linger by the Boon's low trees, And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! The Poet's tomb is there. But what to them the sculptor's art, His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns? Wear they not graven on the heart The name of Robert Burns ? FlTZ-GHEENE HALLECK. The Grave of Bonaparte. On a lone barren isle, where the wild roar- ing billow. Assails the stern rock, and the loud tempest's rave, PERSONAL POEMS. 253 The hero lies still, while the dew-dropping willow, Like fond weeping mourners leans over the grave. The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle, He heeds not, he hears not, he's free from all pain ; He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle, No sound can awake him to glory again. Oh shade of the mighty, where now are the legions. That rushed but to conquer when thou ledst them on ; Alas they have perished in far distant regions And all save the fame of their triumph is gone. The trumpet may sound and the loud can- non rattle, They heed not, they hear not, they're free from all pain ; They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle, No sound can awake them to glory again. Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, For like thine own eagle, that soared to the sun, Thou springest from bondage, and leavest behind thee, A name which before thee no mortal had won. Though nations may combat, and war's thunders rattle. No more on thy steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain : Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle, No sound can awake tliee to glory again. Lyman Heath. BURTAL OF sm .Tony Moore. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head. And we far away on the billow I Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that'rf gone. And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — But we left him alone with his glory. Charles Wolfe. Oh, Breathe not his Name. KOBERT EMMETT. Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonor'd 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 ; 254 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. Thomas Moore. On the Death of Joseph Rod- man Drake. Green 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 ; 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 essay'd it. And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee. Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is iix'd too deeply That mourns a man like thee. Fitz-Grkene Halleck. A DON A IS. An Elkgy on the Death of John K EATS. I WEEP for Adonais — he is dead ! Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, And teach them thine own sorrow: say, " With me Died Adonais ; till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!" Where wert thou, mighty mother, when he lay, When thy son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies In darkness ? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veilfed eyes, 'Mid listening echoes, in her paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamor'd breath, Rekindled all the fading melodies, With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath. He had adorn 'd and hid the coming bulk of death. Oh, weep for Adonais — he is dead ! Wake, melancholy mother, wake and weep Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep. Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep ; For he is gone, where all things w'ise and fair Descend : — oh, dream not that the amor- ous Deep Will yet restore him to the vital air ; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. Most musical of mourners, weep again! Lament anew, Urania ! — He died. Who was the sire of an immortal strain. Blind, old, and lonely, when his coun- try's pride The priest, the slave, and the liberticide. Trampled and mock'd with many aloathfed rite Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Into the gulf of death ; but his clear sprite Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among the sons of light. Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! Not all to that bright station darei to climb; PERSONAL POEMS. 255 And happier they their happiness who | The shadow of white Death, and at the knew, door Whose tapers yet burn through that Invisible Corruption waits to trace night of time In whicli suns perish'd; others more sublime. Struct by the envious wrath of man or God, Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime ; And some yet live, treading the thorny road. Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perish'd. The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherish'd, And fed with true love tears instead of dew; Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last. The bloom, whose petals nipt before they blew Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste ; The broken lily lies — the storm is over- past. To that high capital, where kingly Death Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay. He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, A grave among the eternal. — Come away ! Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. He will awake no more, oh, never more ! Within the twilight chamber spreads apace I His extreme way to her dim dwelling- place ; [ The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface So fair a prey, till darkness and the law Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. Oh, weep for Adonais ! — the quick Dreams, The passion-wingfed ministers of Thought, Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught The love which was its music, wander not — Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain. But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, They ne'er will gather strength, nor find a home again. And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head, And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, " Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead; See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies A tear some Dream has loosen'd from his brain." Lost angel of a ruin'd paradise ! She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. One from a lucid urn of starry dew Wash'd his light limbs, as if embalm- ing them ; Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw The wreath upon him, like an anadem, 256 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Whicli frozen tears instead of pearls begem ; Another in her wilful grief would break Her bow and wingfed reeds, as if to stem A greater loss with one which was more weak ; And dull the barbfed fire against his frozen cheek. Another Splendor on his mouth alit, That mouth whence it was wont to draw the breath Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, And pass into the panting heart be- neath V/ith lightning and with music : the damp death Quench'd its caress upon its icy lips ; And as a dying meteor stains a wreath Of moonlight vapor, which the cold night j clips. It flush'd through his pale limbs, and pass'd to its eclipse. And others came, — Desires and Adora- tions, Wingfed Persuasions, and veil'd Desti- nies, Splendors, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phan- tasies ; And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, Oame in slow pomp ;— the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. Dimm'd the aerial eyes that kindle day ; Afar the melancholy Thunder moan'd, Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber Uiy, And the wild Winds flew around, sobbing in their dismay. Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains. And feeds her grief with his remember'd lay. And will no more reply to winds or foun- tains, Or amorous birds perch'd on the young green spray. Or herdsman's horn, orbellatclosingday, Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Than those for whose disdain they pined away Into a shadow of all sounds : — a drear Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were. Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown, For whom should she have waked the sullen year? To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear, Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both Thou, Adonais : wan they stand and sere Amid the faint companions of their youth. With dew all turn'd to tears ; odor, to sighing ruth. Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale, Mourns not her mate with such melo- dious pain ; Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain, Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, As Albion wails for thee : the curse of Cain Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair Light on his head who pierced thy inno- unbound, cent breast, Wet with the tears which should udoru And scared the angel soul that Was its the ground, ' earthly guest I All he had loved, and moulded into thought From shape, and hue, and odor, and sweet sound. Lamented Adonais. Morning sought PERSONAL POEMS, 257 Ab, woe is mc ! Winter is come and gone, | And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! But grief returns with the revolving year ; The airs and streams renew their joyous tone; The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons' bier ; The amorous birds now pair in every brake, And build their mossy homes in field and brere : And the green lizard, and the golden snake, Like unimprison'd flames, out of their trance awake. Through wood, and stream, and field, and hill and ocean, Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators? Great and mean Meet mass'd in death, who lends what life must borrow. As long as skies are blue, and fields are green. Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. Jle will awake no more, oh, never more ! " Wake thou !" cried Misery, " childless mother, rise A quickening life from the Earth's heart | Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's has burst. As it has ever done, with change and motion. core, A wound more fierce than his tears and sighs. " From the great morning of the world And all the Dreams that watch'd Ura- when first ma s eyes, God dawn'd on Chaos; in its stream And all the Echoes whom their sister's immersed, song The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer Had held in holy silence, cried "Arise!" light; All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst; Diffuse themselves ; and spend in love's delight, The beauty and the joy of their renewal might. The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit tender, Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung. From her ambrosial rest the fading Splen- dor sprung. She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs Out of the East, and follows wild and drear The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; | Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, Like incarnations of the stars, when splen- dor Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death, And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath ; Naught we know dies. Shall that alone which knoW'S Be as a sword consumed before the sheath By sightless lightning? th' intense atom glows A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose. Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been, 17 Has left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear So struck, so roused, so rapt, Urania, So sadden'd round her like an atmo- sphere Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way. Even to the mournful place where Ado- nais lay. Out of her secret paradise she sped, Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel, And human hearts, which to her aery tread Yielding not, wounded the invisible 258 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell: And barbfed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they, Rent the soft Form they never could repel, Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, Paved with eternal flowers that unde- serving way. In the death-chamber for a moment Death, Shamed by the presence of that living Might, Blush'd to annihilation, and the bi"eath Revisited those lips, and life's pale light Flas-h'd through those limbs, so late her dear delight. "Leave me not wild and drear and com- fortless, As silent lightning leaves the starless night ! Leave me not !" cried Urania : her distress Koused Death : Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress. "Stay yet a while ! speak to me once again ; Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; And in my heartless breast and burning brain That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive. With food of saddest memory kept alive, Now thou art dead, as if it were a part Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give All that I am to be as thou now art ! But I am chain'd to Time, and cannot thence dejjart ! " O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ? Defenceless as thou wert, oh ! where was then Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the spear ? Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when Thy spirit should have fill'd its crescent sphere, The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer. " The herded wolves, bold only to pur- sue ; The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead ; The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true, Who feed where Desolation first has fed. And whose wings rain contagion ; — how they fled. When, like Apollo, from his golden bow, The Pythian of the age one arrow sped And smiled ! — The spoilers tempt no sec- ond blow. They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low. " The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn ; He sets, and each ephemeral insect then Is gather'd into death without a dawn, And the immortal stars awake again ; So it is in the world of living men : A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when It sinks, the swarms that dimm'd or shared its light Leave to its kindi-ed lamps the spirit's aw- ful night." Thus ceased she : and the mountain-shep- herds came, Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent ; The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like Heaven is bent. An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow ; from her wilds lerne sent The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And love taught grief to fiill like music from his tongue, 'Midst others of less note came one fraii Form, A phantom among men ; companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm, Whose thunder is its knell : he as I guess. Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness. PERSONAL POEMS. 259 Actseon-like, and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wil- derness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged way; Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift — A Love in desolation mask'd ; — a power Girt round with weakness ; — it can scarce uplift The weight of the superincumbent hour ; It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speak Is it not broken? On the withering flower The killing sun smiles brightly : on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. His head was bound with pansies over- blown, And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; And a light sj^ear topjj'd with a cypress cone. Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew, Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it ; of that crew He came the last, neglected and apart ; A herd-abandon'd deer, struck by the hunter's dart. A'l stood aloof, and at his partial moan Smiled through their tears ; well knew that gentle band Who in another's fate now wept his own ; As in the accents of an unknown land He sang new sorrow ; sad Urania scann'd The Stranger's mien, and murmur'd : "Who art thou?" He answer'd not, but with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, Which was like Cain's or Christ's. — Oh ! that it should be so I What softer voice is hushfed over the dead? Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown? What form leans sadly o'er the white deathbed. In mockery of monumental stone, The heavy heart heaving without a moan ? If it be he, who, gentlest of the wise. Taught, soothed, loved, honor'd the de- parted one ; Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs, The silence of that heart's accepted sac- rifice. Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh ! What deaf and viperous murderer could crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? The nameless worm would now itself disown : It felt, yet could escape the magic tone Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong, But what was howling in one breast alone. Silent with the expectation of the song. Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung. Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame I Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from me. Thou noteless blot on a remember'd name! But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! And ever at thy season be thou free To spill the venom when thy fangs o'er- flow : Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee; Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — as now. Nor let us weep that our delight is fled Far from these carrion-kites that scream below ; He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. 260 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal, which must glow Through time and change, unquenchably the same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame. Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — He hath awaken'd from the dream of life— 'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep "With phantoms an unprofitable strife. And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings. — We decay Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day. And cold hopes swarm like worms with- in our living clay. He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night ; Envy and calumny, and hate and pain. And that unrest which men miscall delight. Can touch him not and torture not again ; From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not he; Mourn not for Adonais — Thou young Dawn, Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, Which like a morning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair ! He is made one with Nature : there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird ; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; Which wields the world with never- wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely ; he doth bear His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there All new successions to the forms they wear Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heavens' light. The splendors of the firmament of time May be eclipsed, but are extinguish'd not : Like stars to their appointed height they climb, And death is a low mist which cannot blot The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, And love and life contend in it, for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there, And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air. The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, PERSONAL POEMS. 261 Far in the unapparent. Chatterton Rose pale, his solemn agony had not Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought, And as he fell, and as he lived and loved, Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, Arose; and Lucan, by his death ap- proved : Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. And many more, whose names on earth are dark. But whose transmitted effluence cannot die So long as fire outlives the parent spark, Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. " Thou art become as one of us," they cry; " It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long Swung blind in unascended majesty. Silent alone amid a heaven of song. Assumed thy wingfed throne, thou Vesper of our throng !" Who mourns for Adonais? oh come forth. Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him aright. Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth ; As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might Satiate the void circumference ; then shrink Even to a point within our day and night ; And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the brink. Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, Oh, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis naught That ages, empires, and religions there Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought ; For such as he can lend, — they borrow not Glory from those who made the world their prey ; And he is gather 'd to the kings of thought Who waged contention with their time's decay. And of the past are all that cannot pass away. Go thou to Rome — at once the paradise, The grave, the city, and the wilderness : And where its wrecks like shatter'd moun- tains rise. And flowering weeds and fragrant copses dress The bones of Desolation's nakedness, Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread, And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; And one keen pyramid with wedge sub- lime. Pavilioning the dust of him who plann'd This refuge for his memory, doth stand Like flame transform'd to marble : and beneath A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitch'd in Heaven's smile their camp of death. Welcoming him we lose with scarce ex- tinguish'd breath. Here pause : these graves are all too young as yet I To have outgrown the sorrow which con- sign'd Its charge to each ; and if the seal is set. Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind. Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is, why fear we to become? The One remains, the many change and pass : Heaven's light for ever shines, Earth's shadows fly ; 262 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Life, like a dome of many-color'd glass, j Stains the white radiance of Eternity, j Until death tramples it to fragments. — j Die, [f thou wouldst be with that which thou , dost seek ! i Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure sky. Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart? Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart ! A light is past from the revolving year, And man, and woman ; and what still is dear Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. The soft sky smiles, — the low Avind wliispers near : 'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together. That light whose smile kindles the Uni- verse, That Beauty in which all things work and move. That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse Of birth can quench not, that sustain- ing Love Which through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast, and earth, and air, and sea, Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 'The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me. Consuming the last clouds of cold mor- tality. The breath whose might I have invoked in song Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given, The massy earth and spherfed skies are riven ! I am borne darkly, fearfully afar ; Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the eternal are. Percy Bysshe Shelley. Stanzas written in Dejection NEAR Naples. The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light: The breath of the moist air is light Around its unexpanded buds ; Like many a voice of one delight. The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods, The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- tude's. I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; I see the waves upon the shore Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown : I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas ! I have nor hope nor health. Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found. And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure ; Others I see whom these surround — Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters are ; PERSONAL POEMS. 263 I could lie down like a tired child, And wee]) away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea iJreathe o'er my dying brain its last mo- notony. Some might lament that I were cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone. Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament — for I am one Whom men love not, — and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set. Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet. Percy Bysshe Shelley. Randolph of Roanoke. O Mother Earth ! upon thy lap Thy weary ones receiving, And o'er them, silent as a dream. Thy grassy mantle weaving, Fold softly in thy long embrace That heart so worn and broken. And cool its pulse of fire beneath Thy shadows old and oaken. Shut out from him the bitter word And serpent hiss of scorning ; Nor let the storms of yesterday Disturb his quiet morning. Breathe over him forgetfulness Of all save deeds of kindness, And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, Press down his lids in blindness. There, where with living ear and eye He heard Potomac's flowing, And, through his tall ancestral trees, Saw autumn's sunset glowing, He sleeps, — still looking to the west, Beneath the dark wood shadow, As if he still would see the sun Sink down on wave and meadow. Bard, Sage, and Tribune ! — in himself All moods of mind contrasting, — The tcndercst wail of human woe. The scorn-like lightning blasting; The pathos which from rival eyes Unwilling tears could summon, The stinging taunt, the fiery burst Of hatred scarcely human ! Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower, From lips of lifelong sadness; Clear picturings of majestic thought Upon a ground of madness; And over all romance and song A classic beauty throwing. And laurell'd Clio at his side Her storied pages showing. All parties fear'd him : each in turn Beheld its schemes disjointed, As right or left his fatal glance And spectral finger pointed. Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down With trenchant wit unsparing. And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand The robe Pretence was wearing. Too honest or too proud to feign A love he never cherish'd. Beyond Virginia's border-line His patriotism perish'd. While others hail'd in distant skies Our eagle's dusky pinion. He only saw the mountain bird Stoop o'er his Old Dominion! Still through each change of fortune strange, Rack'd nerve, and brain all burning. His loving faith in motherland Knew never shade of turning ; By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave, Whatever sky was o'er him, He heard her rivers' rushing sound, Her blue peaks rose before him. He held his slaves, yet made withal No false and vain pretences, Nor paid a lying priest to seek For scriptural defences. His harshest words of proud rebuke. His bitterest taunt and scorning. Fell fire-like on the Northern brow That bent to him in fawning. He held his slaves : yet kept the while His reverence for the human: 264 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. In the dark vassals of his will He saw but man and woman ! No hunter of God's outraged poor His Roanoke valley enter'd ; No trader in the souls of men Across his threshold ventured. And when the old and wearied man Lay down for his last sleeping, And at his side, a slave no more, His brother-man stood weeping, His latest thought, bis latest breath, To freedom's duty giving, With failing tongue and trembling hand The dying blest the living. Oh, never bore his ancient State A truer son or braver ! None trampling with a calmer scorn On foreign hate or favor. He knew her faults, yet never stoop'd His proud and manly feeling To poor excuses of the wrong Or meanness of concealing. But none beheld with clearer eye The plague-spot o'er her spreading. None heard more sure the steps of Doom Along her future treading. For her as for himself he spake, When, his gaunt frame upbracing. He traced with dying hand " Eemorse!" And perish'd in the tracing. As from the grave where Henry sleeps. From Vernon's weeping willow. And from the grassy pall which hides The sage of Monticello, So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone Of Randolph's lowly dwelling, Virginia ! o'er thy land of slaves A warning voice is swelling ! And hark ! from thy deserted fields Are sadder warnings spoken, From quench'd hearths, where thy exiled sons Their household gods have broken. The curse is on thee, — wolves for men. And briers for corn-sheaves giving I Oh more than all thy dead renown Were now one hero living ! John Gkeenleaf Whittiee. The Lost Lead eh. Just for a handful of silver he left us ; Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat — Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote. They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was their's who so little allow'd. How all our copper had gone for his ser- vice ! Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud ! We that had loved him so, follow'd him, honor'd him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learn'd his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. Burns, Shelley, were with us — ^they watch from their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen ; He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! We shall march prospering — not through his presence ; Songs may inspirit us — not from his lyre; Deeds will be done — while he boasts his quiescence. Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then — record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more foot- path untrod. One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels. One wrong more to man, one more insult- to God ! Life's night begins : let him never come back to us ! There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight, Never glad, confident morning again I PERSONAL POEMS. 265 Best figlit on well, for we taught him — strike galliintly, Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his own ; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardon'd in heaven, the first by the throne ! RoBEKT Browning. Charade. Camp-Bell. Come from my first, ay, come ! The battle-dawn is nigh ; And the screaming trump and the thunder- ing drum Are calling thee to die ! Fight as thy father fought ; Fall as thy father fell ; Thy task is taught ; thy shroud is wrought ; So forward and farewell ! Toll ye my second ! toll ! Fling high the flambeau's light, And sing the hymn for a parted soul Beneath the silent night ! The helm upon his head. The cross upon his breast ; Let the prayer be said and the tear be shed ; Now take him to his rest ! Call ye my whole, — go, call The lord of lute and lay ; And let him greet the sable pall With a noble song to-day. Ay, call him by his name ; No fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame On the turf of a soldier's grave ! WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PRAED. Drybvrgh Abbey. And Scott— that Ocean 'mid the stream of men ! That Alp, amidst all mental greatness reared ! — 'TwAS morn — but not the ray which falls the summer boughs among, When Beauty walks in gladness forth, with all her light and song ; 'Twas morn — but mist and cloud hung deep upon the lonely vale. And shadows, like the wings of death, were out upon the gale. For He whose spirit woke the dust of nations into life — That o'er the waste and barren earth spread flowers and fruitage rife — Whose genius, like the sun, illumed the mighty realms of mind — Had fled for ever from the fame, love, friendship of mankind ! To wear a wreath in glory wrought his spirit swept afar, Beyond the soaring wing of thought, the light of moon or star ; To drink immortal waters, free from every taint of earth — To breathe before the shrine of life, the source whence worlds had birth ! There was wailing on the early breeze, and darkness in the sky. When with sable plume, and cloak, and pall, a funeral train swept by ; Methought — St. Mary shield us well !— that other forms moved there Than those of mortal brotherhood, the noble, young, and fair ! Was it a dream ? how oft, in sleep, we ask, " Can this be true ?" Whilst warm Imagination paints her mar- vels to our view ; — Earth's glory seems a tarnish'd crown to that which we behold, When dreams enchant our sight with things whose meanest garb is gold ! Was it a dream? — Methought the daunt- less Harold pass'd me by — The proud Fitz-James, with martial step, and dark intrepid eye; That Marmion's haughty crest was there, a mourner for his sake ; And she, — the bold, the beautiful ! — sweet Lady of the Lake. The Minstrel whose last lay was o'er, whose broken harp lay low. And with him glorious Waverley, with glance and step of woe ; 266 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And Stuart's voice rose there, as when, 'mid fate's disastrous war, He led the wild, ambitious, proud, and brave Vich Ian Vohr. Next, marvelling at his sable suit, the Dominie stalk'd past. With Bertram, Julia by his side, whose tears were flowing fast ; Guy Mannering, too, moved there, o'er- power'd by that afflicting sight ; And Merrilies, as when she wept on EUangowan's height. Solemn and grave, Monkbarns appear'd, amidst that burial line ; And Ochiltree leant o'er his staff, and mourn'd for "Auld lang syne!" Slow march'd the gallant Mclntyre, whilst Lovel mused alone ; For once, Miss Wardour's image left that bosom's faithful throne. With coronach, and arms reversed, forth came MacGregor's clan — Red Dougal's cry peal'd shrill and wild — Rob Roy's bold brow look'd wan : The fair Diana kiss'd her cross, and bless'd its sainted ray ; And "Wae is me!" the Baillie sigh'd, " that I should see this day !" Next rode, in melancholy guise, with som- bre vest and scarf. Sir Edward, Laird of Ellieslaw, the far-re- nown'd Black Dwarf; Upon his left, in bonnet blue, and white locks flowing free — The pious sculptor of the grave — stood Old Mortality ! Balfour of Burley, Claverhouse, the Lord of Evandale, And stately Lady Margaret, whose woe might naught avail ! Fierce Bothwell on his charger black, as from the conflict won ; And pale Habakkuk Mucklewrath, who cried " God's will be done !" And like a rose, a young white rose, that blooms 'mid wildest scenes, Pass'd she, — the modest, eloquent, and virtuous Jeanie Deans ; And Dumbiedikes, that silent laird, with love too deep to smile, And Effie, with her noble friend, the good Duke of Argyle. With lofty brow, and bearing high, dark Ravenswood advanced, Who on the false Lord Keeper's mien with eye indignant glanced : — Whilst graceful as a lonely fawn, 'neath covert close and sure, Approach'd the beauty of all hearts— the Bride of Lammermoor ! Then Annot Lyle, the fairy queen of light and song, stepp'd near. The Knight of Ardenvohr, and he, the gifted Hieland Seer ; Dalgetty, Duncan, Lord Menteith, and Ran- ald met my view ; The hapless Children of the Mist, and bold Mhichconnel Dhu ! On swept Bois-Guilbert — Front de Boeuf — De Bracy's plume of woe ; And Coeur de Lion's crest shone near the valiant Ivanhoe ; While soft as glides a summer cloud Rowena closer drew. With beautiful Rebecca, peerless daughter of the Jew ! I saw the courtly Euphuist, with Halbert of the Dell, And, like a ray of moonlight, pass'd the White Maid of Avenel ; Lord Morton, Douglas, Bolton, and the Royal Earl march'd there, To the slow and solemn funeral chant of the monks of Kennaquhair. And she, on Avhose imperial brow a god had set his seal. The glory of whose loveliness grief might not all conceal ; The loved in high and princely halls, in lone and lowly cots, Stood Mary, the illustrious, yet helpless Queen of Scots. The firm, devoted Catherine, the senti- mental Graeme, Lochleven, whose worn brow reveal'd an early-blighted name. PERSONAL POEMS. 267 The enthusiastic Magdalen, the pilgrim of that shrine, Whose spirit triumphs o'er the tomb and makes its dust divine. With Leicester, Lord of Kenilworth, in mournful robes, was seen The gifted, great Elizabeth, high Eng- land's matchless queen. Tressilian's wild and manly glance, and Varney's darker gaze, Sought Amy Robsart's brilliant form, too fair for earthly praise. Next Noma of the Fitful-head, the wild Reim-kennar, came, But shiver'd lay her magic wand, and dim her eye of flame ; Young Minna Troil the lofty-soul'd, whom Cleveland's love betray'd, The generous old Udaller, and Mordaunt's sweet island maid. Slow follow'd Lord Glenvarloch, first of Scotia's gallant names, With the fair, romantic Margaret, and the erudite King James ; The woo'd and wrong'd Hermione, whose lord all hearts despise, Sarcastic Malagrowther, and the faithful Moniplies. Then stout Sir Geoffrey of the Peak, and Peveril swept near ; Stern Bridgenorth, and the fiery Duke, with knight and cavalier ; The fairest of fantastic elves, Fenella, glided on. And Alice, from whose beauteous lip the light of joy was gone. And Quentin's haughty helm flash'd there; Le Balafre's stout lance ; Orleans, Crevecceur, the brave Dunois, the noblest knight of France ; The wild Hayraddin, follow'd by the silent Jean de Troyes, The mournful Lady Hameline, and Isa- belle de Croyes. Pale sorrow mark'd young Tyrrell's mien, grief dimm'd sweet Clara's eye, And Ronan's laird breathed many a prayer for days and friends gone by ; Oh, mourn not, pious Cargill cried ; should his death woe impart. Whose cenotaph's the universe, whose elegy's the heart ! Forth bore the noble Fairford his fascina- ting bride. The lovely Lilias, with the brave Red- gauntlet by her side ; Black Campbell, and the bold redoubted Maxwell met my view. And Wandering Willie's solemn wreath of dark funereal yew. As foes who meet upon some wild, some far and foreign shore, Wreck'd by the same tempestuous surge, recall past feuds no more. Thus prince and peasant, peer and slave, thus friend and foe combine. To pour the homage of their heart upon one common shrine. There Lacey, famed Cadwallon, and the fierce Gwenwyn march'd on, Whilst horn and halbert, pike and bow, dart, glaive, and javelin shone ; Sir Damian and the elegant young Eveline pass'd there. Stout Wilkin,, and the hopeless Rose, with wild, dishevell'd hair. Around, in solemn grandeur, swept the banners of the brave. And deep and far the clarions waked the wild dirge of the glave ; On came the Champion of the Cross, and near him, like a star, The regal Berengaria, beauteous daughter of Navarre; The high, heroic Saladin, with proud and haughty mien, The rich and gorgeous Saracen, and the fiery Nazarene ; There Edith and her Nubian slave breathed many a thought divine, Whilst rank on rank — a glorious train — rode the Knights of Palestine. Straight follow'd Zerubbabel and Joliffe of the Tower, Young Wildrake, Markham, Hazeldine, and the forest nymph Mayflower ; 268 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. The democratic Cromwell, stern, resolute, and free, The knight of Woodstock and the light and lovely Alice Lee. And there the crafty Proudfute for once true sorrow felt ; Craigdallie, Chartres, and the recreant Conachar the Celt, And he whose chivalry had graced a more exalted hirth. The noble-minded Henry, and the famed Fair Maid of Perth. The intrepid Anne of Geierstein, the false Lorraine stepp'd near ; Proud Margaret of Anjou, and the faith- ful, brave De Vere ; There Arnold, and the King Eene, and Charles the Bold had met The dauntless Donnerhugel and the grace- ful young Lizette. Forth rode the glorious Godfrey, by the gallant Hugh the Great, While wept the brave and beautiful their noble minstrel's fate ; Then Hereward the Varangian, with Bertha at his side, The valorous Count of Paris and his Ama- zonian bride. At last, amidst that princely train, waved high De Walton's plume, Near fair Augusta's laurel-wreath, which Time shall ne'er consume. And Anthony, with quiver void, his last fleet arrow sped, Leant, mourning o'er his broken bow, and mused upon the dead. Still onward like the gathering night ad- vanced that funeral train — Like billows when the tempest sweeps across the shadowy main ; Where'er the eager gaze might reach, in noble ranks were seen Dark plume, and glittering mail and crest, and woman's beauteous mien ! A sound thrill'd through that length'ning host ! methought the vault was closed, Where, in his glory and renown, fair Scotia's bard reposed ! A sound thrill'd through that length'ning host ! and forth my vision fled ! But, ah ! that mournful dream proved true, — the immortal Scott was dead ! The vision and the voice are o'er ! their influence waned away. Like music o'er a summer lake at the gold- en close of day : The vision and the voice are o'er !— but when will be forgot The buried Genius of Romance — the im- perishable Scott ? Charles Swain. ICHABOD. So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn Which once he wore ! The glory from his gray hairs gone For evermore ! Revile him not — the tempter hath A snare for all ; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall ! Oh ! dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night. Scorn 1 Would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark. From hope and Heaven ? Let not the land, once proud of him, Insult him now ; Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonor'd brow. But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. Of all we loved and honor'd, naught Save power remains — A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. PERSONAL POEMS. 269 All else is gone ; from those great eyes The soul has fled : When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead ! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame ; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame ! John Greenleaf Whittier. A^apoleon: The mighty sun had just gone down Into the chambers of the deep. The ocean birds had upward flown, Each in his cave to sleep, And silent was the island shore, And breathless all the broad red sea, And motionless beside the door Our solitary tree. Our only tree, our ancient palm, Whose shadow sleeps our door beside, Partook the universal calm When Buonaparte died. An ancient man, a stately man. Came forth beneath the spreading tree ; His silent thoughts I could not scan, His tears I needs must see. A trembling hand had partly cover'd The old man's weeping countenance, Yet something o'er his sorrow hover'd, That spake of war and France ; Something that spake of other days. When trumpets pierced the kindling air, And the keen eye could firmly gaze Through battle's crimson glare. Said I, " Perchance this faded hand, When life beat high and hope was young, By Lodi's wave, or Syria's sand, The bolt of death had flung. Young Buonaparte's battle-cry Perchance hath kindled this old cheek ; It is no shame that he should sigh— His heart is like to break ! He hath been with him young and old, He climb'd with him the Alpine snow. He heard the cannon when they roU'd Along the river Po. His soul was as a sword, to leap At his accustom'd leader's word ; I love to see the old man weep— He knew no other lord. As if it were but yesternight, This man remembers dark Eylau: His dreams are of the eagle's flight Victorious long ago. The memories of worser time Are all as shadows unto him ; Fresh stands the picture of his prime — The later trace is dim." I enter'd, and I saw him lie Within the chamber all alone ; I drew near very solemnly To dead Napoleon. He was not shrouded in a shroud, He lay not like the vulgar dead. Yet all of haughty, stern, and proud, From his pale brow was fled. He had jiut harness on to die ; The eagle star shone on his breast. His sword lay bare his pillow nigh. The sword he liked the best. But calm, most calm, was all his face, A solemn smile was on his lips. His eyes were closed in pensive grace,— A most serene eclipse ! Ye would have said some sainted sprite Had left its passionless abode,— Some man, whose prayer at morn and night Had duly risen to God. What thoughts had calm'd his dying breast (For calm he died) cannot be known ; Nor would I wound a warrior's rest,— Farewell, Napoleon I John Gibson Lockhaet. JSFapoleons Midnight Review. I. When the midnight hour is come. The drummer forsakes his tomb, And marches, beating his phantom-drum To and fro through the ghastly gloom. He plies the drumsticks twain With fleshless fingers pale. And beats, and beats again and again, A long and dreaty Reveille. Like the voice of abysmal waves Resounds its unearthly tone, 270 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Till the dead old soldiers, long in their graves, Awaken through every zone. And the slain in the land of the Hun, And the frozen in the icy North, And those who under the burning sun Of Italy sleep, come forth. And they whose bones longwhile Lie bleaching in Syrian sands. And the slumberers under the reeds of the Nile, Arise, with arms in their hands. II. And at midnight, in his shroud, The trumpeter leaves his tomb. And blows a blast long, deep, and loud, As he rides through the ghastly gloom. And the yellow moonlight shines On the old Imperial Dragoons ; And the Cuirassiers they form in lines, And the Carabineers in platoons. At a signal the ranks unsheathe Their weapons in rear and van ; But they scarcely appear to speak or breathe. And their features are sad and wan. III. And when midnight robes the sky. The Emperor leaves his tomb, And rides along, surrounded by His shadowy staiF, through the gloom. A silver star so bright, Is glittering on his breast ; In an uniform of blue and white And a gay camp-frock he is dressed. The moonbeams shine afar On the various marshalled groups, As the Man with the glittering silver star Proceeds to review his troops. And the dead battalions all Go again through their exercise, Till the moon withdraws, and a gloomier pall Of blackness wraps the skies. Then around their chief once more The Generals and Marshals throng ; And he whispers a word oft heard before In the ear of the aide-de-camp. In files the troops advance. And then are no longer seen. The challenging watchword given is " France !" The answer is " St. Helene!" And this is the Grand Review, Which at midnight on the wolds, If popular tales may pass for true. The buried Emperor holds. Joseph Christian von Zedlitz. (Translated by Clarence Mangan.) On the St a tue of King Charles I. AT Charing Cross in the Year 167 4. That the First Charles does here in tri- umph ride ; See his Son reign, whei*e he a Martyr died ; And people pay that reverence, as they pass, (When then he wanted !) to the sacred brass ; Is not th' effect of gratitude alone, To which we owe the statue, and the stone. But, heaven this lasting monument has wrought, That mortals may eternally be taught. Rebellion, though successful, is but vain ; And Kings so killed rise conquerors again. This truth the royal image does proclaim. Loud as the trumpet of surviving Fame. Edmund Walleu. On the Defeat of Henry Clay. Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall; O'er towers and rock-built walls. And perished nations, floods to tempests call With hollow sound along the sea of time : The great man never falls. He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime — They fall who give him not The honor here that suits his future name — They die and are forgot. Giant loud and blind I the great man's fame Is his own shadow, and not cast by thee — A shadow that shall grow PERSONAL POEMS. 271 As down the heaven of time the sun de- scends, And on the world shall throw His god-like image, till it sinks where blends Time's dim horizon with Eternity. William. Wilberforce Lord. ODi: ON THE Death of the Duke OF Wellington. I. Bury the Great Duke With an empire's lamentation, Let us bury the Great Duke To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, Mourning when their leaders fall, Warriors carry the warrior's pall, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? Here, in streaming London's central roar. Let the sound of those he wrought for. And the feet of those he fought for. Echo round his bones for evermore. III. Lead out the pageant : sad and slow. As fits an universal woe, Let the long, long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, And let the mournful mart!al music blow . The last great Englishman is low. IV. Mourn, for to us he seems the last, Remembering all his greatness in the No more in soldier fashion will he greet With lifted hand the gazer in the street. O friends, our chief state-oracle is dead : Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood. The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute. Whole in himself, a common good. Mourn for the man of amplest influence. Yet clearest of ambitious crime. Our greatest yet with least pretence, Great in council and great in war, Foremost captain of his time, Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are. In his simplicity sublime. O good gray head which all men know, O voice from which their omens all men drew, iron nerve to true occasion true. Oh fall'n at length that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew ! Such was he whom we deplore. The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. The great AVorld-victor's victor will be seen no more. V. All is over and done : Render thanks to the Giver, England, for thy son. Let the bell be toll'd. Render thanks to the Giver, And render him to the mould. Under the cross of gold That shines over city and river, There he shall rest for ever Among the wise and the bold. lict the bell be toll'd : And a reverent people behold The towering car, the sable steeds : Bright let it be with his blazou'd deeds, Dark in its funeral fold. Let the bell be toll'd : And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd ; And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd Through the dome of the golden cross ; And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; He knew their voices of old. For many a time in many a clime His captain's ear has heard them boom Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : When he with those deep voices wrought, Guarding realms and kings from shame ; With those deep voices our dead captain taught The tyrant, and asserts his claim In that dread sound to the great name, Which he has worn so pure of blame, 272 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJUDIA OF POETRY, In praise and in dispraise the same, A man of well-attemper'd frame. O civic muse, to such a name, To such a name for ages long, To such a name, Preserve a broad approach of fame. And ever-echoing avenues of song. VI. Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd guest, With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest. With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest? Mighty seaman, this is he Was great by land as thou by sea. Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man. The greatest sailor since our world be- gan. Kow, to the roll of muffled drums. To thee the greatest soldier comes ; For this is he Was great by land as thou by sea : His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; Oh give him welcome, this is he, Worthy of our gorgeous rites. And worthy to be laid by thee ; For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights. Nor ever lost an English gun ; This is he that far away Against the myriads of Assaye Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; And underneath another sun, Warring on a later day. Round affrighted Lisbon drew The treble works, the vast designs Of his labor'd rampart-lines. Where he greatly stood at bay, Whence he issued forth anew. And ever great and greater grew, Beating from the wasted vines Back to France her banded swarms. Back to France with countless blows, Till o'er the hills her eagles flew Past the Pyrenean pines ; Follow'd Up in valley and glen With blare of bugle, clamor of men, Roll of cannon and clash of arms, And England pouring on her foes. Such a war had such a close. Again their ravening eagle rose In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings, And barking for the thrones of kings ; Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler down ; A day of onsets of despair I Dash'd on every rocky square Their surging charges foam'd themselves away; Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; Through the long tormented air Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, And down we swept and charged and over- threw. So great a soldier taught us there. What long-enduring hearts could do In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! Mighty seaman, tender and true. And pure as he from taint of craven guile, O savior of the silver-coasted isle, O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, If aught of things that here befall Touch a spirit among things divine. If love of country move thee there at all, Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine I And through the centuries let a people's voice In full acclaim, A people's voice, The proof and echo of all human fame, A people's voice, when they rejoice At civic revel and pomp and game, Attest their great commander's claim With honor, honor, honor, honor to him. Eternal honor to his name. VII. A people's voice ! we are a people yet. Though all men else their nobler dreams forget. Confused by brainless mobs and lawless powers ; Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set His Briton in blown seas and storming showers. We have a voice, with which to pay the debt PERSONAL POEMS. 273 Of boundless love and reverence and regret To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. And keep it ours, O God, from brute con- trol ; O statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul Of Europe, keep our noble England whole. And save the one true seed of freedom sown Betwixt a people and their ancient throne. That sober freedom out of which there springs Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; For, saving that, ye help to save mankind Till public wrong be crumbled into dust. And drill the raw world for the march of mind. Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. But wink no more in slothful overtrust. Remember him who led your hosts ; He bade you guard the sacred coasts. Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall; His voice is silent in your council-hall For ever ; and whatever tempests lower For ever silent ; even if they broke In thunder, silent ; yet remember all He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ; Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, Nor palter'd with eternal God for power ; Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow Through either babbling world of high and low; Whose life was work, whose language rife With rugged maxims hewn from life; Who never spoke against a foe ; Whose eighty winters freeze with one re- buke All great self-seekers trampling on the right: Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named ; Truth-lover was our English Duke ; Whatever record leap to light He never shall be shamed. VIII. Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 18 Follow'd by the brave of other lands, He, on whom from both her open hands Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. Yea, let all good things await Him who cares not to be great. But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our rough island- story, The path of duty was the way to glory : He that walks it, only thirsting For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his journey closes. He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden-roses. Not once or twice in our fair island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory : He, that ever following her commands. On with toil of heart and knees and hands Through the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevail'd, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled Are close upon the shining table-lands To which our God Himself is moon and sun. Such was he: his work is done. But while the races of mankind endure, Let his great example stand Colossal, seen of every land. And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure ; Till in all lands and through all human story The path of duty be the way to glorj' : And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame For many and many an age proclaim At civic revel and pomp and game, And when the long-illumined cities flame. Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, Eternal honor to his name. IX. Peace, his triumph will be sung By some yet unmoulded tongue Far on in summers that we shall not see : Peace, it is a day of pain 274 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. For one about whose patriarchal knee Late the little children clung : peace, it is a day of pain For one upon whose hand and heart and brain Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. Ours the pain, be his the gain ! More than is of man's degree Must be with us, watching here At this, our great solemnity. Whom we see not we revere. We revere, and we refrain From talk of battles loud and vain, And brawling memories all too free For such a wise humility As befits a solemn fane : We revere, and while we hear The tides of Music's golden sea Setting toward eternity, Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, Until we doubt not that for one so true There must be other nobler work to do Than when he fought at Waterloo, And Victor he must ever be. For though the Giant Ages heave the hill And break the shore, and evermore Make and break, and work their will ; Though world on world in myriad myriads roll Round us, each with different powers, And other forms of life than ours. What know we greater than the soul ? On God and godlike men we build our trust. Hush, the Dead March wails in the peo- ple's ears : The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears : The black earth yawns : the mortal disap- pears ; Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; He is gone who seem'd so great. — Gone ; but nothing can bereave him Of the force he made his own Being here, and we believe him Something far advanced in state, And that he wears a truer crown Than any wreath that man can weave him. Speak no more of his renown. Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave him. God accept him, Christ receive him. Alfred Tennyson. To THE Sister of Elia. Comfort thee, thou mourner, yet a while ! Again shall Elia's smile Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache no more. What is it we deplore ? He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years, Far worthier things than tears. The love of friends without a single foe : Unequall'd lot below ! His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine ; For these dost thou repine ? He may have left the lowly walks of men ; Left them he has ; what then ? Are not his footsteps follow'd by the eyes Of all the good and wise ? Tho' the warm day is over, yet they seek Upon the lofty peak Of his pure mind the roseate light that glows O'er death's perennial snows. Behold him ! from the region of the blest He speaks : he bids thee rest. Walter Savage Landoe. She is Far froji the Land. She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. And lovers are round her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild song of her dear native plains. Every note which he loved awaking; — Ah ! little they think, who delight in heir strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is break- ing. He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him ; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried. Nor long will his love stay behind him. PERSONAL POEMS. 275 Oh make her a grave where the sunbeams rest When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleepf, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow. Thomas Moore. Kane. Died February 16, 1857. Aloft upon an old basaltic crag, Which, scalp'd by keen winds that de- fend the Pole, Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll Around the secret of the mystic zone, A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag Flutters alone, And underneath, upon the lifeless front Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced ; Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt. But with a rocky purpose in his soul, Breasted the gathering snows, Clung to the drifting floes. By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased, Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. Not many months ago we greeted him, Crown'd with the icy honors of the North, Across the land his hard-won fame went forth. And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb ; His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim. Burst from decorous quiet as he came ; Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflame Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, ProflFer'd its horny hand. The large- lung'd West, From out its giant breast, Yell'd its frank welcome. And from main to main, Jubilant to the sky, Thunder'd the mighty cry, Honor to Kane I In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung The reddening roses ! All in vain we pour'd The golden wine, and round the shining board Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes. Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies. Faded and faded ! And the brave young heart That the relentless Arctic winds had robb'd Of all its vital heat, in that long quest For the lost captain, now within his breast More and more faintly throbb'd. His was the victory ; but as his grasp Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp. Death launch'd a whistling dart ; And ere the thunders of applause were done His bright eyes closed for ever on the sun ! Too late, too late the splendid prize he won In the Olympic race of Science and of Art! Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and lone. Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone, And in the burning day Wastes peak by peak away. Till on some rosy even It dies with sunlight blessing it ; so he Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea, And melted into heaven. He needs no tears, who lived a noble life ; We will not weep for him who died so well. But we will gather round the hearth, and tell The story of his strife ; Such homage suits him well. Better than funeral pomp or passing bell. 276 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice, With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow ! Night lengthening into months, the rav- enous floe Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear Crunches his prey. The insufficient share Of loathsome food. The lethargy of famine, the despair Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued, Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind Glimmer'd the fading embers of a mind ! That awful hour, when through the pros- trate band Delirium stalk'd, laying his burning hand Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. The whispers of rebellion, faint and few At first, but deepening ever till they grew Into black thoughts of murder ; such the throng Of horrors bound the hero. High the song Should be that hymns the noble part he play'd ! Sinking himself, yet ministering aid To all around him. By a mighty will Living defiant of the wants that kill. Because his death would seal his com- rades' fate ; Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill Those Polar waters, dark and desolate. Equal to every trial, every fate. He stands, until Spring, tardy with re- lief. Unlocks the icy gate. And the pale prisoners thread the world once more. To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore Bearing their dying chief. Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold From royal hands, who woo'd the knightly state; The knell of old formalities is toll'd. And the world's knights are now self- consecrate. No grander episode doth chivalry hold In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain, Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold, By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane ! Fitz-James O'Brien. FiDELE. Died August 15, 1880. " With fairest flowers, While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten ihy sad grave." And oh, to think the sun can shine, The birds can sing, the flowers can bloom, And she, whose soul was all divine. Be darkly mouldering in the tomb ; That o'er her head the night-wind sighs. And the sad cypress droops and moans ; That night has veiled her glorious eyes, And silence hushed her heavenly tones ; That those sweet lips no more can smile, Nor pity's tender shadows chase, With many a gentle, child-like wile, The rippling laughter o'er her face ; That dust is on the burnished gold That floated round her royal head ; That her great heart is dead and cold — Her form of fire and beauty dead 1 Roll on, gray earth and shining star, And coldly mock our dreams of bliss ; There is no glory left to mar, Nor any grief so black as this ! William Winter. Epitaph on the Lady Maey villiers. The Lady Mary Villiers lies Under this stone : With weeping eyes The i^arents that first gave her breath, And their sad friends, laid her in earth. If any of them, reader, were Known unto thee, shed a tear : Or if thyself possess a gem. As dear to thee as this to them; PERSONAL POEMS. 277 Though a stranger to this place, Bewail in theirs thine own hard case ; For thou perhaps at thy return Mayst find thy darling in an urn. Thomas Carew. Brown of Ossawatomie. John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day : '■ I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me !" John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die ; And lo ! a poor slave-mother with her little child press'd nigh. Then the bold blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild. As he stoop'd between the jeering ranks and kiss'd the negro's child ! The shadows of his stormy life that mo- ment fell apart ; And they who blamed the bloody hand for- gave the loving heart. That kiss from all its guilty means re- deem'd the good intent, And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent ! Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good ! Long live the generous purpose unstain'd with human blood ! Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies ; Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice. Nevermore may yon Blue Eidges the Northern rifle hear. Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear. But let the free-wing'd angel Truth their guarded passes scale. To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail! I So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in I array : I In vain her trampling squadrons knead the i winter snow with clay. She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove ; And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love ! John Greenleaf Whittiee. Dirge for a Soldier. In Memory of Gen. Philip Kearney, Killed Sept. 1, 1862. Close 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 for ever and for ever. 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 wai's, 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 ! Leave him to God's watching eye. Trust him to the Hand that made him. Mortal love sweeps 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 H. Bokeb. 278 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. DEDICA TION. To Idylls of the King. These to His memory — since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously- Some image of himself— I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — These Idylls. And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my own ideal knight, " Who reverenced his conscience as his king ; Whose glory was redressing human wrong ; Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it; Who loved one only, and who clave to her—" Her — over all whose realms to their last isle, 'Commingled with the gloom of imminent war. The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, Darkening the world. We have lost him : he is gone : We know him now: all narrow jealousies Are silent ; and we see him as he moved, How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise. With what sublime repression of himself, And in what limits, and how tenderly ; Not swaying to this faction or to that ; Not making his high place the lawless perch Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage- ground For pleasure; but thro' all this tract of years Wearing the white flower of a blameless life. Before a thousand peering littlenesses, [n that fierce light which boats upon a throne, ' And blackens every blot: for where is he. Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his? Or how should England, dreaming of his sons, Hope more for these than some inherit- ance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, Laborious for her people and her poor — Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace — Sweet Nature gilded by the gracious gleam Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince in- deed. Beyond all titles, and a household name. Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good? Break not, O woman's heart, but still endure ; Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, Remembering all the beauty of that star Which shone so close beside Thee, that ye made One light together, but has pass'd, and leaves The Crown a lonely splendor. May all love. His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, Till God's love set Thee at his side again. Alfred Tennyson. ABRAHA3I Lincoln. You lay a wreath on murder'd Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace. Broad for the self-complaisant British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his fur- row'd face. His gaunt, gnarl'd 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 back'd up the pen- cil's laugh. Judging each step as though the way were plain ; PERSONAL POEMS. 279 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 f 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 learn'd 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. 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 pleasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwart- ing mights — The unclear'd 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 ambush'd Indian, and the prowling bear, — Such were the deeds that help'd 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' 111 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 unwaver- ing mood, — Till, as he came on light, from darkling days. And seem'd to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reach'd from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplex'd and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest. 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 wUl to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea. Utter one voice of sympathy and shame. Sore heart, so stopp'd when it at last beat high ! Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came! 280 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 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 for- given. Tom Taylok. Dickens in Camp. Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below ; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that droop'd and fainted In the fierce race for wealth ; Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew. And cards were dropp'd from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew ; And then, while round them shadows gather'd faster. And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of " Little Nell." Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, — for the reader Was youngest of them all, — • But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seem'd to fall ; The fir trees, gathering closer in the shadows. Listen 'd in every spray. While the whole camp, with "Nell" oa English meadows, Wander'd and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken As by some spell divine — Their cares dropp'd from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : And he who wrought that spell ? — Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to te '. Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel leaves entwine. Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, — This spray of Western pine ! Francis Bret Haetb, Hester. When 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 hath 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 flush'd her spirit ; I know not by wliat name beside I shall it call : if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit. PERSONAL POEMS. 281 Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool ; But she was train'd in Nature's school- Nature had bless'd her. A waking eye, a jurying 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. AjviYU Ha tha wa y. Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng, With love's sweet notes to grace your song, To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, Listen to mine Anne Hathaway ! She hath a way to sing so clear, Phoebus might wandering stop to hear. To melt the sad, make blithe the gay. And nature charm, Anne hath a way ; She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To breathe delight Anne hath a way. When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, And merit to distress betray. To soothe the heart Anne hath a way. She hath a way to chase despair, To heal all grief, to cure all care. Turn foulest niglit to fairest day ; Tliou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way ; She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way. Talk not of gems, the orient list, The diamond, topaz, amethyst, The emerald mild, the ruby gay ; Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway 1 She hath a way, with her bright eye, Their various lustres to defy, — The jewels she, and the foil they. So sweet to look Anne hath a way ; She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. But were it to my fancy given To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven ; For though a mortal made of clay, Angels must love Anne Hathaway ; She hath a way so to control, To rapture, the imprisoned soul, And sweetest heaven on earth display, That to be heaven Anne hath a way ; She hath a way, Anne Hathaway; To be heaven's self, Anne hath a way. Charles Dibdin. SONNET: YlTA NUOVA. (Dedication to Queen Victoria of his Translation of Dante's Commedia AND CANZONIERE.) To bear the burden of an Empire's care, The ruler of a people proud and free, This was the New Life, Lady, given to thee. When yet the dawn of youth was gleaming fair. Then came a Newer Life, more rich and rare. Soul knit with soul, abiding unity. The open page where all the world might see The pattern of a bliss beyond compare. Then through the vale of shadows thou wast led. Bearing thy Cross, though wearer of a Crown : Men might have deemed that hope and joy had fled, That thou must walk alway with eyes cast down. Lol yet a New Life waits thee ere the night : Calm and serene, at eventide 'tis light. Edward Hayes Plumptre. 282 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY, A Health. I FILL this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon ; To whom tiie better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own. Like those of morning birds. And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words ; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows, As one may see the burden'd bee Forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours, Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers ; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns, — The idol of past years ! Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain ; But memory, such as mine of her. So very much endears. When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon ; — Her health ! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might all be poetry. And weariness a name. Edward Coate Pinkney. Jacqueminot. Who is there now knows aught of his story ? What is left of him but a name ?- Of him who shared in Napoleon's glory. And dreamed that his sword had won him his fame ! Ah ! the fate of a man is past discerning ! Little did Jacqueminot suppose. At Austerlitz or at Moscow's burning, That his fame would rest in the heart of a rose ! Bessik Chandler. Historical Poems. The Destructiojs of Sennach- erib. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when sum- mer is green. That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill. And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride ; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail ; And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! LoED Byros. HORATIUS. Lars Porsena of Clusium, By the nine gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the nine gods he swore it, And named a trysting-day. And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array. East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome ! The horsemen and the footmen Are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain, From many a lonely hamlet. Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest Of purple Apenniue ; 283 284 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. From lordly Vollaterras, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants For godlike kings of old ; From sea-girt Populonia, Whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky ; From the proud mart of Pisse, Queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes, Heavy with fair-hair'd slaves ; From where sweet Clanis wanders Through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers. Tali are the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark Auser's rill ; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Of the Ciminian hill ; Beyond all streams, Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear ; Best of all pools the fowler loves The great Volsinian mere. But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser's rill ; No hunter tracks the stag's green path Up the Ciminian hill ; Unwatch'd along Clitumnus Grazes the milk-white steer ; Unharm'd the water-fowl may dip In the Volsinian mere. The harvests of Arretium, This year, old men shall reap ; This year, young boys in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; And in the vats of Luna, This year, the must shall foam Eound the white feet of laughing girls Whose sires have march'd to Rome. There be thirty chosen prophets, The wisest of the land. Who always by Lars Porsena Both morn and evening stand. Evening and morii the thirty Have turn'd the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white By mighty seers of yore ; And Avith one voice the thirty Have their glad answer given : " Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena — Go forth, beloved of heaven ! Go, and return in glory To Clusium's royal dome, And hang round Nurscia's altars The golden shields of Eome !" And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men ; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array ; A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trysting-day. For all the Etruscan armies Were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banish'd Roman, And many a stout ally ; And with a mighty following, To join the muster, came The Tusculan Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name. But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright ; From all the spacious champaign To Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city The throng stopp'd up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and days. For aged folk on crutches. And women great with child. And mothers sobbing over babes That hung to them and smiled, And sick men borne in litters High on the necks of slaves, And troops of sunburn'd husbandmen With reaping-hooks and staves, And droves of mules and asses Laden with skins of wine, And endless flocks of goats and sheep, And endless herds of kine. And endless trains of wagons, That creak'd beneath the weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods, Choked every roaring gate. HISTORICAL POEMS. 285 Now, from the rock Tarpeian, Could the wan l)urghers spy The line of blazing villages Eed in the midnight sky. The fathers of the city, They sat all night and day. For every hour some horseman came With tidings of dismay. To eastward and to westward Have spread the Tuscan bands, Kor house, nor fence, nor dovecote In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia Hath wasted all the plain ; Astur hath storm'd Janiculum, And the stout guards are slain. I wis, in all the Senate, There was no heart so bold But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the consul. Up rose the fathers all ; In haste they girded up their gowns, And hied them to the wall. They held a council standing. Before the river-gate ; Short time was there, ye may well guess, For musing or debate. Out spake the consul roundly : " The bridge must straight go down ; For, since Janiculum is lost. Naught else can save the town." Just then a scout came flying. All wild with haste and fear : " To arms ! to arms ! sir consul- Lars Porsena is here." On the low hills to westward The consul fix'd his eye. And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky. And nearer fast and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come ; And louder still, and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud, ' Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, The trampling and the hum. And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to I'ight, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright. The long array of spears. And plainly and more plainly, Above that glimmering line, Now might ye see the banners Of twelve fair cities shine ; But the banner of proud Clusium Was highest of them all — The terror of the Umbrian, The terror of the Gaul. And plainly and more plainly Now might the burghers know, By port and vest, by horse and crest, Each warlike Lucumo : There Cilnius of Arretium On his fleet roan was seen ; And Astur of the fourfold shield, Girt with the brand none else may wield ; Tolumnius with the belt of gold, And dark Verbenna from the hold By reedy Thrasymene. Fast by the royal standard, O'erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium Sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius Prince of the Latian name ; And by the left false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame. But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament From all the town arose. On the housetops was no woman But spat toward him and hiss'd, No child but scream'd out curses, And shook its little fist. But the consul's brow was sad. And the consul's speech was low, And darkly look'd he at the wall, And darkly at the foe : " Their van will be Upon us Before the bridge goes down ; And if they once may win the bridge What hope to save the town ?" 286 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Then out spake brave Horatius, The captain of the gate : " To every man upon this earth Death conieth soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers And the temjjles of his gods ? " And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame ? " Hew down the bridge, sir consul. With all the speed ye may ; I, with two more to help me. Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopp'd by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me ?" Then out spake Spurius Lartius — A Ramnian proud was he : " Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. And keep the bridge with thee." And out spake, strong Herminius — Of Titian blood was he : " I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee." " Horatius," quoth the consul, " As thou sayest, so let it be." And straight against that great array Went forth the dauntless three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. Then none Avas for a party — Then all were for the state ; Then the great man help'd the poor, And the poor man loved the great ; Then lands were fairly portion'd ; Then spoils were fairly sold : The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe. And the tribunes beard the high. And the fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction. In battle we wax cold ; Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. Now while the three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The consul was the foremost man To take in hand an axe ; And fathers, mix'd with commons, Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. Meanwhile the Tuscan army. Right glorious to behold. Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee. As that great host with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Roll'd slowly toward the bridge's head. Where stood the dauntless three. The three stood calm and silent, And look'd upon the foes. And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose : And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array ; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew. And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow Avay. Annus, from green Tifernum, Lord of the hill of vines : And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva's mines ; And Picus, long to Clusium Vassal in j^eace and war, •Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag, where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers O'er the pale waves of Nar. HISTORICAL POEMS. 287 Htout Lartiua hurl'd down Aunus Into the stream beneath ; Herminius struck at Seius, And clove him to the teeth ; At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust, And the proud Uiiibrian's gilded arms Clash'd in the bloody dust. Then Ocnus of Falerii Rush'd on the Roman three ; And Lausulus of Urgo , The rover of the sea ; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great wild boar — The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughter'd men, Along Albinia's shore. Herminius smote down Aruns ; Lartius laid Ocnus low ; Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. '■' Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate ! No more, aghast and pale, P'rom Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark The track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice-accursfed sail." But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathful clamor From all the vanguard rose. Six. spears' lengths from the entrance Halted that deep array. And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow way. But, hark ! the cry is Astur : And lo ! the ranks divide ; ^A.nd the great lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the fourfold shield. And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield. He smiled on those bold Romans A smile serene and high ; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter Stand savagely at bay ; But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way ?" Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height. He rush'd against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turn'd the blow. The blow, though turn'd, came yet too nigh, It miss'd his helm, but gash'd his thigh — The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow. He reel'd, and on Herminius He lean'd one breathing space ; Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds. Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, So fierce a thrust he sped. The good sword stood a hand-breadth out Behind the Tuscan's head. And the great lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder-smitten oak. Far o'er the crashing forest ' The giant arms lie spread ; And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly press'd his heel. And thrice and four times tugg'd amain, Ere he wrench'd out the steel. "And see," he cried, "the welcome, Fair guests, that wait you here ! What noble Lucumo comes next To taste our Roman cheer ?" But at his haughty challenge A sullen murmur ran, Mingled with wrath, and shamCp and dread. Along that glittering van. There lack'd not men of prowess, Nor men of lordly race ; For all Etruria's noblest AVere round the fatal place. 288 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. But all Etruria's noblest Felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, In the path the dauntless three, And from the ghastly entrance, Where those bold Romans stood, All shrank— like boys who, unaware, Ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost To lead such dire attack : But those behind cried " Forward I" And those before cried " Back !" And backward now, and forward, Wavers the deep array ; And on the tossing sea of steel To and fro the standards reel And the victorious trumpet-peal Dies fitfully away. Yet one man for one moment Strode out before the crowd ; Well known was he to all the three, And they gave him greeting loud ; " Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! Now welcome to thy home ! Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? Here lies the road to Rome," Thrice look'd he- at the city ; Thrice look'd he at the dead ; And thrice came on in fury, And thrice turn'd back in dread ; And, white with fear and hatred, Scowl'd at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay. But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied ; And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Ho'ratius !" Loud cried the fathers all — ' Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! Back, ere the ruin fall !" Back darted Spurius Lartius ; Herminius darted back ; And, as they pass'd, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turn'd their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have cross'd once more But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosen'd beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream ; And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops Was splash'd the yellow foam. And like a horse unbroken, When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, And toss'd his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, Rejoicing to be free ; And whirling down, in fierce career. Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rush'd headlong to the sea. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind — • Thrice thirty thousand foes before. And the broad flood behind. " Down with him !" cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face ; " Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsen.i; "Now yield thee to our grace!" Round turn'd he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see ; Naught sjjake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus naught spake he ; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home ; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome : " Tiber ! father Tiber ! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a' Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day ! " So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed The good sword by his side, And, with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide. No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank, HISTORICAL POEMS. 289 But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing wliere he sank ; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain. And fast his blood was flowing ; And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, And spent with changing blows ; And oft they thought him sinking. But still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer In such an evil case. Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing-place ; But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within, And our good father Tiber Bare bravely up his chin. " Curse on him !" quoth false Sextus, — " Will not the villain drown ? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sack'd the town !" " Heaven help him !" quoth Lars Porsena, "And bring him safe to shore ; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before." And now he feels the bottom ; Now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the fathers To press his gory hands ; And now, with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud. He enters through the river-gate, Borne by the joyous crowd. They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right. As much as two strong oxen Could plough from morn till night ; And they made a molten image, And set it up on high — And there it stands unto this day To witness if I lie. 19 It stands in the comitium. Plain for all folk to see, — Horatius in his harness. Halting upon one knee; And underneath is written, In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge In the brave days of old. And still his name sounds stirring Unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet-blast that cries to them To charge the Volscian home ; And wives still pray to Juno For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well In the brave days of old. And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow. And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amidst the snow ; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest's din, And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within ; When the oldest cask is open'd. And the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit ; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close ; When the girls are weaving baskets. And the lads are shaping bows; When the goodman mends his armor, And trims his helmet's plume ; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom ; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told. How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. Thomas Babington Macaulay, Vlysses. It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race. 290 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. TUat hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel : I will drink Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have sufFer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known ; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, govern- ments. Myself not least, but honor'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers. Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world, whose mar- gin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end. To rust unburn ish'd, not to shine in use ! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains : but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things ; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a shining star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — Well loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners. Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; Death closes all : but something ere the end. Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Alfred Tennyson. Antony and Cleopatra. I AM dying, Egypt, dying. Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, And the dark Plutonian shadows Gather on the evening blast ; Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me, Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear ; Listen to the great heart-secrets, Thou, and thou alone, must hear. HISTORICAL POEMS. 291 Though my scarr'd and veteran legions Bear their eagles high no more, And my wreck'd and scatter'd 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 Koman, Die the great Triumvir still. Let not Coesar's servile minions Mock the lion thus laid low ; 'Twas no foeman's arm that fell'd him, 'Twas his own that struck the blow ; His who, pillow'd on thy bosom, Turn'd aside from glory's ray. His who, drunk with thy caresses. Madly threw a world away. Should the base plebeian rabble Dare assail my name at Rome, Where my noble spouse, Octavia, Weeps within her widow'd home. Seek her ; say the gods bear witness — 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 Caesar crowns and arches, Let his brow the laurel twine ; I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, Triumphing in love like thine. 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 exiilting swell ; Isis and Osiris guard thee ! Cleopatra, Rome, farewell I William Haines Lytle. IIAR3I0SAN: Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done. And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory won. Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy. Captive, overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to die. Then exclaim'd that noble captive : " Lo, I perish in my thirst ; Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst !" In his hand he took the goblet : but a while the draught forbore. Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foeman to explore. Well might then have paused the bravest — for around him angry foes With a hedge of naked weapons did that lonely man enclose. " But what fearest thou?" cried the caliph, " is it, friend, a secret blow ? Fear it not ! our gallant Moslems no such treacherous dealing know. " Thou may'st quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before Thou hast drunk that cup of water— this reprieve is thine — no more !" Quick the satrap dash'd the goblet down to earth with ready hand, And the liquid sank for ever, lost amid the burning sand. " Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup I have drain'd ; then bid thy servants that spill'd water gather up !" For a moment stood the caliph as by doubt- ful passions stirr'd — Then exclaim'd, " For ever sacred must remain a monarch's word. " Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give : Drink, I said before, and perish— now 1 bid thee drink and live !" Richard Chenevix Trench 292 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY f Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth. When I am dead, no pageant train Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, Nor worthless pomp of homage vain Stain it with hypocritic tear ; For T will die as I did live, Nor take the boon I cannot give. Ye shall not raise a marble bust Upon the spot where I repose; Ye shall not fawn before ray dust In hollow circumstance of woes : Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, Insult the clay that moulds beneath. Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, Your monuments upon my breast, Nor yet within the common soil Lay down the wreck of Power to rest Where man can boast that he has trod On him that was " the scourge of God. ' But ye the mountain stream shall turn. And lay its secret channel bare. And hollow, for your sovereign's urn, A resting-place for ever there : Then bid its everlasting springs Flow back upon the King of Kings ; And never be the secret said Until the deep give u^ his dead. My gold and silver ye shall fling Back to the clods, that gave them birth ; — The captured crowns of many a king. The ransom of a conquered earth : For e'en though dead will I control The trophies of the Capitol. But when beneath the mountain tide Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, Ye shall not rear upon its side Pillar or mound to mark the spot ; For long enough the world has shook Beneath the terrors of my look ; And now that I have run my race, The astonished realms shall rest a space. My course was like a river deep. And from the northern hills I burst. Across the world in Avrath to sweep. And where I went the spot was cursed. Nor blade of grass again was seen Where Alaric and his hosts had been. See how their haughty barriers fail Beneath the terror of the Goth, Their iron-breasted legions quail Before my ruthless sabaoth. And low the Queen of empires kneels, And grovels at my chariot-wheels. Not for myself did I ascend In judgment my triumphal car; 'Twas God alone on high did send The avenging Scythian to the war, To shake abroad, with iron hand. The appointed scourge of his command. With iron hand that scourge I reared O'er guilty king and guilty realm ; Destruction was the ship I steered, And vengeance sat upon the helm, When, launched in fury on the flood, I ploughed my way through seas of blood, And in the stream their hearts had spilt Washed out the long arrears of guilt. Across the everlasting Alp I poured the torrent of my powers. And feeble Csesars shrieked for help In vain within their seven-hilled towers. I quenched in blood the brightest gem That glittered in their diadem, And struck a darker, deeper dye In the purple of their majesty. And bade my northern banners shine Upon the conquered Palatine. My course is run, my errand done: I go to Him from whom I came; But never yet shall set the sun Of glory that adorns my name ; And Roman hearts shall long be sick, When men shall think of Alaric. My course is run, my errand done — But darker ministers of fate, Impatient round the eternal throne. And in the caves of vengeance, wait ; And soon mankind shall blench away Before the name of Attila. Edward Everett. HISTORICAL POEMS. 293 Ceescentius. I look'd upon his brow ; no sign Of guilt or fear was there ; He stood as proud by that death-shrine As even o'er despair He had a power. In his eye There was a quenchless energy, A spirit that could dare The deadliest form that death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake. He stood, the fetters on his hand ; He raised them haughtily ; And had that grasp been on the brand, It could not wave on high With freer pride than it waved now. Around he look'd with changeless brow On many a torture nigh ; The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel. I saw him once before ; he rode Upon a coal-black steed. And tens of thousands throng'd the road. And bade their warrior speed. His helm, his breast-plate, were of gold, And graved with many a dent, that told Of many a soldier's deed ; The sun shone on his sparkling mail. And danced his snow-plume on the gale. But now he stood chain'd and alone, The headsman by his side. The plume, the helm, the charger gone ; The sword which had defied The mightiest lay broken near ; And yet no sign or sound of fear Came from that lip of pride. And never king's or conqueror's brow Wore higher look than his did now. He bent beneath the headsman's stroke With an uncover'd eye ; A wild shout from the numbers broke Who throng'd to see him die. It was a people's loud acclaim, The voice of anger and of shame, A nation's funeral cry, Rome's wail above her only son, Her patriot, and her latest one. L^TiTiA Elizabeth Landon Maclean. The Lamentation of Don Roderick. The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scatter'd in dismay, When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor hope had they ; He, when he saw that field was lost, and all his hope was flown. He turn'd him from his flying host, and took his way alone. His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame- he could no farther go ; Dismounted, without path or aim, the king stepp'd to and fro : It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick, For, sore athirst and hungry, he stagger'd faint and sick. All stain'd and strew'd with dust and blood, like to some smouldering brand Pluck'd from the flame, Rodrigo show'd : his sword was in his hand, But it was hack'd into a saw of dark and purple tint ; His jewell'd mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint. He climb'd unto a hill-top, the highest he could see — Thence all about of that wide rout his last long look took he ; He saw his royal banners, where they lay drench'd and torn. He heard the cry of victory, the Arab's shout of scorn. He look'd for the brave captains that led the hosts of Spain, But all were fled except the dead, and who could count the slain ? Where'er his eye could wander, all bloody was the plain. And, while thus he said, the tears he shed ran down his cheeks like rain : — " Last night I was the king of Spain— to- day no king am I ; Last night fair castles held my train— to- niijht where shall I lie ? 294 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee, — • To-night not one I call mine own : — not one pertains to me. " Oh, luckless, luckless was the hour, and cursed was the day. When I was born to have the power of this great seniory ! Unhappy me that I should see the sun go down to-night ! O Death, why now so slow art thou, why fearest thou to smite?" (From the Spanish.) John Gibsom Lockmart. The Bard. A Pindaric Ode. " RuiK seize thee, ruthless King ! Confusion on thy banners wait ! Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing. They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !" — Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dis- may, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; " To arms !" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. On a rock whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, \Vith haggard eyes the poet stood : (Loose his beard and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air), And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : " Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice be- neath ! O'er thee, King! their hundred arms they wave. Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewel- lyn's lay. " Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale : Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart. Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit ; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. " Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race : Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring. Shrieks of an agonizing king ! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs. That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs Tne scourge of Heaven ! What terron round him wait I HISTORICAL POEMS. 295 Amazement in liis van, with flight com- Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed bined, ' loom, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. " Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies ! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled ? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born ? ■ — Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows. While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes : Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway. That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey. " Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare ; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Laiice to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame. With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame. And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow. Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : The bristled boar in infant gore Wallov;s beneath the thorny shade. Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. " Edward, lo ! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun). Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, oh, stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me uubless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh, what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail : — All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue, hail ! " Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine ! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line: Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air. What strains of vocal transport round her play ! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings. Waves in the eye of Heaven her many color'd wings. " The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love, And Truth severe by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 296 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon san- guine cloud Raised by thy breath has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me : with joy I see The diiF'rent doom our fates assign : Be thine Despair and sceptred Care ; To triumph and to die are mine." — He spoke, and headlong from the moun- tain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. Thomas Gray. Bannockburn. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled — Scots, wham Bruce has aften led — Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie ! Now's the day and now's the hour ; See the front o' battle lower ; See approach proud Edward's power — Chains and slaverie ! Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can 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. A VERY Mournful Ballad. The Moorish king rides up and down Through Granada's royal town ; From Elvira's gates to those Of Bivarambla on he goes. Woe is me, Alliama I Letters to the monarch tell How Alhama's city fell : In the fire the scroll he threw, And the messenger he slew. Woe is me, Alhama I He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his ooursv; ; Through the street of Zacatin To the Alhambra spurring in. Woe is me, Alhama ! When the Alhambra walls he gain'd. On the moment he ordain'd That the trumpet straight should sound With the silver clarion round. Woe is me, Alhama ! And when the hollow drums of war Beat the loud alarm afar, That the Moors of town and plain Might answer to the martial strain, Woe is me, Aihama ! Then the Moors, by this aware That bloody Mars recall'd them there. One by one, and two by two. To a mighty squadron grew. Woe is me, Alhama ! Out then spake an aged Moor In these words the king before : " Wherefore call on us, O king? What may mean this gathering ?" Woe is me, Alhama ! " Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know Of a most disastrous blow. That the Christians, stern and bold, Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." Woe is me, Alhama ! Out then spake old Alfaqui, With his beard so white to see, "Good king, thou art justly served. Good king, this thou hast deserved. Woe is me, Alhama ! HISTORICAL POEMS. 297 " By thee were slain, in evil hour, The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; And strangers were received by thee Of Cordova the chivalry. Woe is me, Alhama ! " And for this, king ! is sent On thee a double chastisement. Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, One last wreck shall overwhelm. Woe is me, Alhama ! " He who holds no laws in awe. He must perish by the law ; And Granada must be won, And thyself with her undone." Woe is me, Alhama ! Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes. The monarch's wrath began to rise, I5ecause he answer'd, and because He spake exceeding well of laws. Woe is me, Alhama ! " There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings :" — Thus, snorting with his choler, said The Moorish king, and doom'd him dead. Woe is me, Alhama ! Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! Though thy beard so hoary be, Tlie king hath sent to have thee seized. For Alhama's loss displeased. Woe is me, Alhama ! And to fix thy head upon High Alhambra's loftiest stone; That this for thee should be the law, And others tremble when they saw. Woe is me, Alhama ! " Cavalier ! and man of worth ! Let these words of mine go forth ; Let the Moorish monarch know, That to him I nothing owe : Woe is me, Alhama ! " But on my soul Alhama weighs, And on my inmost spirit preys ; And if the king his land hath lost, Yet others may have lost the most. Woe is me, Alhama ! " Sires have lost their children, wives Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; One what best his love might claim Hath lost, another wealth or fame. Woe is me, Alhama ! " I lost a damsel in that hour, Of all the land the loveliest flower; Doubloons a hundred I would pay, And think her ransom cheap that day." Woe is me, Alhama ! And as these things the old Moor said, They sever'd from the trunk his head ; And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 'Twas carried, as the king decreed. Woe is me, Alhama ! And men and infants therein weep Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; Granada's ladies, all she rears Within her walls, burst into tears. Woe is me, Alhama ! And from the windows o'er the walls The sable web of mourning falls ; The king weeps as a woman o'er His loss, for it is much and sore. Woe is me, Alhama ! (From the Spanish.) LOKD Bykon. The Covenanters' Chant. Battle- To battle ! to battle ! To slaughter and strife ! For a sad, broken Covenant We barter poor life. The great God of Judah Shall smite with our hand. And break down the idols That cumber the land. Uplift every voice In prayer and in song ; Remember the battle Is not to the strong ; Lo! the Ammonites thicken, And onward they come. To the vain noise of trumpet. Of cymbal, and drum. 298 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. They haste to the onslaught, With hagbut and spear ; They lust ibr a banquet That's (loathful and dear. Now horseman and Ibotnian Sweep down the hillside ; They come, like lierce Pharaohs, To die in their pride ! See, long jtlume and pennon Stream gay in the air ! They are given us for slaughter.— Shall God's people spare? Nay, nay ; lop them oft", Friend, father, and son ; All earth is athirst till The good work be done. Brace tight every buckler. And lift high the sword, For biting must blades be That tight for the Lord. Remember, remember, How saints' blood was shed, As free as the rain, and Homes desolate madel Among them ! among them ! Unburied bones cry, Avenge us, or, like us. Faith's true martyrs die. Hew ! hew down the spoilers I Slay on, and spare none ; Then shout forth in gladness, Heaven's battle is won ! William Motherwell. Make Wa r for Liberty. "Make way for liberty !" — he cried ; Made way for liberty, and-died ! In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, A living wall, a human wood ! A wall, where every conscious stone Seem'd to its kindred thousands grown ; A rampart all assaults to bear. Till time to dust their frames should wear; A wood, like that enchanted grove In which with fiends Rinaldo strove, Where every silent tree possess'd A spirit prison'd in its breast, Which the first stroke of coming strife Would startle into hideous life ; So dense, so still, the Austrians stood, A living wall, a human wood ! Im})regnable their front appears. All horrent witli projected spears. Whose polish'd points before them shine, From flank to flank, one brilliant line, Bright as the breakers' splendors run Along the billows, to the Sun. Opposed to these, a hovering band Contended for their native land : Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke From manly necks the ignoble yoke. And forged their fetters into swords, On equal terms to fight their lords : And what insurgent rage had gain'd. In many a mortal fray maintain'd ; Marshall'd once more at Freedom's call. They came to conquer or to fall. Where he who conquer'd, he who fell. Was deem'd a dead or living Tell ! Such virtue had that patriot breathed, So to the soil his soul bequeathed, That wheresoe'er his arrows flew, Heroes in his own likeness grew, And warriors sprang from every sod Which his awakening footstep trod. And now the work of life and death Hung on the passing of a breath ; The fire of conflict burnt within. The battle trembled to begin : Yet while the Austrians held their ground. Point for attack was nowhere found. Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, The unbroken line of lances blazed ; That line 'twere suicide to meet. And perish at their tyrants' feet, — How could they rest within their graves, And leave their homes the homes of slaves? Would they not feel their children tread With clanging chains above their head ? It must not be : this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power; All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield — She must not fall ; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. HISTORICAL POEMS. 299 Few were the number she could boast ; But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he On whose sole arm hung victory. It did depend on one, indeed ; Behold him — Arnold Winkelried ! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmark'd, he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace. The very thought come o'er his face. And by the motion of his form Anticipate the bursting storm ; And by the uplifting of his brow Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. But 'twas no sooner thought than done. The field was in a moment won : — " Make way for Liberty !" he cried. Then ran, with arms extended wide. As if his dearest friend to clasp ; Ten spears he swept within his grasp. " Make way for Liberty !" he cried : Their keen points met from side to side; He bow'd amongst them like a tree. And thus made way for Liberty. Swift to the breach his comrades fly ; " Make way for Liberty !" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rush'd the spears through Arnold's heart ; While, instantaneous as his fall, Kout, ruin, panic scatter'd all: An earthqvuike could not overthrow A city with a surer blow. Thus Switzerland again was free : Thus death made way for liberty ! James Montgomery. The Ballad of A gin court. Fair stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to ])rove our chance Longer will tarry ; But putting to the main, At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train. Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Furnish'd in warlike sort, March'd toward Agincourt In happy hour — Skirmishing day by day With tliose that stopp'd his way, Where the French gen'ral lay With all his power. Which in his height of pride, King Henry to deride. His ransom to provide To the king sending ; Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile. Yet, with an angry smile. Their fall portending. And turning to his men. Quoth our brave Henry then: Though they to one be ten, Be not amazed ; Yet have we well begun — Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. And for myself, quoth he. This my full rest shall be ; England, ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me. Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain ; Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. Poitiers and Cressy tell. When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell ; No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great. Claiming tire regal seat. By many a warlike feat Lopp'd the French lilies. The duke of York so dread The eager vawai'd led ; With the main Henry sped. Amongst his henchmen. Excester had the rear — A braver man not there : O Lord ! how hot they were On the false Frenchmen ! 300 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. They now to fight are gone ; Armor on armor shone ; Drum now to drum did groan — To hear was wonder ; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake ; Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham ! Which did the signal aim To our hid forces; When, from a meadow by. Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Struck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong, ArroAvs a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung. Piercing the weather ; None from his fellow starts. But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbows drew, And on the French they flew. Not one was tardy : Arms were from shoulders sent ; Scalps to the teeth were rent ; Down the French peasants went ; Our men were hardy. This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it ; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet. Glo'ster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood, With his brave brother — Clarence, in steel so bright. Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade ; Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up. Suffolk his axe did ply ; Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right dougjitily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry ; Oh, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen. Or England breed again Such a King Harry? Michael Drayton. The Ballad of Chevy- Chace. God prosper long our noble king. Our lives and safetyes all ; A woefull hunting once there did In Chevy-Chace befall ; To drive the deere with hound and horn*.. Erie Percy took his way, The child may rue that is unborne, The hunting of that day. The stout Erie of Northumberland A vow to God did make. His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summers days to take ; The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace To kill and beare away. These tydings to Erie Douglas came, In Scottland where he lay : Who sent Erie Percy present word, He would prevent his sport. The English Erie, not fearing that. Did to the woods resort. With fifteen hundred bow-meu bold ; All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of neede To ayme their shafts aright. The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, To chase the fallow deere : On Munday they began to hunt, Ere daylight did appeare ; HISTORICAL POEMS. 301 And long before high noone they had An hundred fat buckes slaine ; Then having dined, the drovyers went To rouze the deare againe. The bow-men muster'd on the hills, Well able to endure ; And all their rear, with speciall care, That day was guarded sure. The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, The nimble deere to take, That with their cryes the hills and dales An eccho shrill did make. Tvord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughter'd deere ; Quoth he, Erie Douglas promised This day to meet me heere : Hut if I thought he wold not come, Noe longer wold I stay. With that, a brave younge gentleman Thus to the P>le did say : Loe, yonder doth Erie Douglas come. His men in armour bright ; Full twenty hundred Scottish speres All marching in our sight ; All men of pleasant Tivydale, Fast by the river Tweede : cease your sports, Erie Percy said, And take your bowes with speede. And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance ; For there was never champion yett In Scotland or in France, That ever did on horsebacke come, But if my hap it were, 1 durst encounter man for man, With him to break a spere. Erie Douglas on his milke-white steede, Most like a baron bold, Rode formost of his company, Whose armour shone like gold. Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, That hunt soe boldly heere, That, without my consent, doe chase And kill mv fallow-deere. The first man that did answer make Was noble Percy hee ; Who sayd, Wee list not to declare, Nor shew whose men we bee. Yet wee will spend our deerest blood. Thy cheefest harts to slay. Then Douglas swore a solempne oatlie, And thus in rage did say. Ere thus I will out-braved bee, One of us two shall dye : I know thee well, an erle thou art ; Lord Percy, soe am I. But trust me, Percy, pittye it were And great offence to kill Any of these our guiltlesse men, For they have done no ill. Let thou and I the battell trye, And set our men aside. Accurst bee he, Erie Percy sayd, By whom this is deny'd. Then stept a gallant squier forth, Witherington was his name, Who said, I wold not have it told To Henry our king for shame, That ere my captaine fought on foote And I stood looking on. You bee two cries, sayd Witherinton, And I a squier alone : He doe the best that doe I may, While I have power to stand : While I have power to weeld my sword. He fight with heart and hand. Our English archers bent their bowes. Their hearts were good and trew ; Att the first flight of arrowes sent. Full four-score Scots they slew. [Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent. As Chieftan stout and good. As valiant Captain, all unmoved The shock he firmly stood. His host he parted had in three, As Leader ware and try'd. And soon his spearmen on their foes Bare down on every side. 302 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF FOETRY. To drive the deere with hound and home, Douglas bade on the bent ; Two captaines moved with mickle might Their speares to shivers went. Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound : But still our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground : And throwing strait their bows away, They grasp'd their swords so bright : And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, On shields and helmets light.] They closed full fast on everye side, Noe slacknes there was found ; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground. Christ ! it Avas a griefe to see. And likewise for to heare, The cries of men lying in their gore, And scatter'd here and there. At last these two stout erles did meet. Like captaines of great might : Like lyons wood, they layd on lode. And made a cruell fight : They fought untill they both did sweat, With swords of temper'd Steele ; Vntil the blood, like drops of rain, They trickling downe did feele. Yeeld thee. Lord Percy, Douglas sayd ; In faith I will thee bringe. Where thou shalt high advanced bee By James our Scottish king : Thy ransome I will freely give. And this report of thee. Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see. Noe, Douglas, quoth Erie Percy then, Thy proffer I doe scorne ; 1 will not yeelde to any Scott, That ever yett was borne. With that, there came an arrow keene Out of an English bow, Which struck Erie Douglas to the heart, A deepe and deadlye blow : Who never spake more words than these. Fight on, my merry men all ; For why, my life is at an end ; Lord Percy sees my fall. Then leaving lifFe, Erie Percy tooke The dead man by the hand ; And said, Erie Douglas, for thy life Wold I had lost my land. O Christ! my verry hert doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake ; For sure, a more redoubted knight Mischance cold never take. A knight amongst the Scotts there was, Which saw Erie Douglas dye, Who streight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Lord Percye : Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd, Who with a speare most bright. Well-mounted on a gallant steed. Ran fiercely through the fight ; And past the English archers all, Without all dread or feare ; And through Erie Percyes body then He thrust his hatefull sjjeare ; With such a vehement force and might He did his body gore. The staff ran through the other side A large cloth-yard, and more. So thus did both these nobles dye, Whose courage none could staine • An English archer then perceived The noble erle was slaine ; He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree ; An arrow of a cloth-yard long Ui) to the head drew hee : Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, So right the shaft he sett. The gray goose-wing that was thereoUj In his harts blood was wett. This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun. For when they rung the evening bei'I, The battle scarce was done. HISTORICAL POEMS. 303 ^Vitll stout Erie Percy, there was slaine Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Eatcliff", and Sir John, Sir James that bold barron ; And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, Whose prowesse did surmount. For Witherington needs must I wayle As one in doleful dumpes, For when his legs were smitten off. He fought upon his stumpes. And with Erie Douglas, there was slaine Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld One foote wold never flee. Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, His sisters sonne was hee ; Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, Yet saved cold not bee. And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Erie Douglas dye ; Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, Scarce fifty-five did flye. Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three ; The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, Under the greene woode tree. Next day did many widowes come, Their husbands to bewayle ; They washt their wounds in brinish teares, But all wold not prevayle. Theyr bodies, bathed in purple gore. They bare with them away, They kist them dead a thousand times. Ere they were cladd in clay. The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, Where Scotlands king did raigne, That brave Erie Douglas suddenlye Was with an arrow slaine. heavj' newes. King James did say, Scotland may witnesse bee, 1 have not any captaine more Of such account as hee. Like tydings to King Henry came, Within as short a space. That Percy of Northumberland Was slaine in Chevy-Chace. Now God be with him, said our king, Sith it will noe better bee ; I trust I have within my realme Five hundred as good as he ; Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, But I will vengeance take ; He be revenged on them all, For brave Erie Percyes sake. This vow full well the king perform'd After, at Humbledowne ; In one day fifty knights were slayne, With lords of great renowne ; And of the rest, of small account, Did many thousands dye ; Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, Made by the Erie Percye. God save our king, and bless this land With plentye, joy, and peace ; And grant henceforth, that foule debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease. Author Unknown. Edinburgh after Flodden. News of battle ! — news of battle ! Hark ! 'tis ringing down the street ; And the archways and the pavement Bear the clang of hurrying feet. News of battle ! who hath brought it? News of triumph ? Who should bring Tidings from our noble army. Greetings from our gallant King ? All last night we watch'd the beacons Blazing on the hills afar, Each one bearing, as it kindled, Message of the open'd war. All night long the northern streamers Shot across the trembling sky : Fearful lights that never beckon Save when kings or heroes die. News of battle ? Who hath brought it ? All are thronging to the gate ; " Warder — warder ! open quickly J Man — is this a time to wait ?" 304 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And the heavy gates are open'd : Then a murmur long and loud, And a cry of fear and wonder Bursts from out the bending crowd. For they see in batter'd harness Only one hard-stricken man ; And his weary steed is wounded, And his cheek is pale and wan : Spearless hangs a bloody banner In his weak and drooping hand — God I can that be Randolph Murray, Captain of the city band ? Round him crush the people, crying, " Tell us all— oh, tell us true ! Where are they who went to battle, Randolph Murray, sworn to you ? Where are they, our brothers — children ? Have they met the English foe ? Why art thou alone, unfollow'd ? Is it weal or is it woe ?" Like a corpse the grisly warrior Looks from out his helm of steel ; But no word he speaks in answer — Only with his armfed heel Chides his weary steed, and onward Up the city streets they ride ; Fathers, sisters, mothers, children, Shrieking, praying by his side. " By the God that made thee, Randolph I Tell us what mischance hath come." Then he lifts his riven banner, And the asker's voice is dumb. The elders of the city Have met within their hall— The men whom good King James had charged To watch the tower and wall. " Your hands are weak with age," he said, ■■' Your hearts are stout and true ; So bide ye in the Maiden Town, While others fight for you. My trumpet from the Border-side Shall send a blast so clear, That all who wait within the gate That stirring sound may hear. Or, if it be the will of Heaven That back I never come, And if, instead of Scottish shouts. Ye hear the English drum — Then let the warning bells ring out, Then gird you to the fray, Then man the walls like burghers stout. And fight while fight you may. 'Twere better that in fiery flame The roofs should thunder down, Than that the foot of foreign foe Should trample in the town !" Then in came Randolph Murray,— His step was slow and weak, And, as he doff'd his dinted helm, The tears ran down his cheek : They fell upon his corslet And on his mailfed hand, As he gazed around him wistfully, Leaning sorely on his brand. And none who then beheld him But straight were smote with fear, For a bolder and a sterner man Had never couch'd a spear. They knew so sad a messenger Some ghastly news must bring : And all of them were fathers. And their sons were with the King. And up then rose the Provost — A brave old man was he, Of ancient name, and knightly fame, And chivalrous degree. He ruled our city like a lord Who brook'd no equal here. And ever for the townsman's rights Stood up 'gainst prince and peer. And he had seen the Scottish host March from the borough-muir. With music-storm and clamorous shont», And all the din that thunders out When youth's of victory sure. But yet a dearer thought had he, — For, with a father's pride. He saw his last remaining son Go forth by Randolph's side, With casque on head and spur on heel, All keen to do and dare ; And proudly did that gallant boy Dunedin's banner bear. Oh, woeful now was the old man's look. And he spake right heavily — " Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings, However sharp they be ! Woe is written on thy visage. Death is looking from thy face : Speak I though it be of overthrow — It cannot be disgrace I" HISTORICAL POEMS. 305 Kight bitter was the agony That wrung that soldier proud : Thrice did he strive to answer, And thrice he groan'd aloud. Then he gave the riven banner To the old man's shaking hand, Saying, " That is all I bring ye From the bravest of the land ! Ay ! ye may look upon it — It was guarded well and long By your brothers and your children, By the valiant and the strong. One by one they fell around it, As the archers laid them low. Grimly dying, still unconquer'd, With their faces to the foe. Ay, ye may well look upon it — There is more than honor there, Else, be sure, I had not brought it From the field of dark despair. Never yet was royal banner Steep'd in such a costly dye ; It hath lain upon a bosom Where no other shroud shall lie. Sirs, I charge you, keep it holy ; Keep it as a sacred thing, For the stain ye see upon it Was the life-blood of your King !" Woe, and woe, and lamentation ! What a piteous cry was there ! Widows, maidens, mothers, children. Shrieking, sobbing in despair ! Through the streets the death-word rushes. Spreading terror, sweeping on — " Jesu Christ ! our King has fallen — Great God, King James is gone ! Holy Mother Mary, shield us. Thou who erst didst lose thy Son ! O the blackest day for Scotland That she ever knew before ! our King — the good, the noble, Shall we see him never more ? Woe to us, and woe to Scotland ! O our sons, our sons and men ! Surely some have 'scaped the Southron, Surely some will come again !" Till the oak that fell last winter Shall uprear its shatter'd stem — Wives and mothers of Dunedin — Ye may look in vain for them I 20 But within the Council Chamber All was silent as the grave, Whilst the tempest of their sorrow Shook the bosoms of the brave. Well indeed might they be shaken With the weight of such a blow -. He was gone — their prince, their idol, Whom they loved and worshipp'd so I Like a knell of death and judgment Rung from heaven by angel hand, Fell the words of desolation On the elders of the land. Hoary heads were bow'd and trembling, Wither'd hands were clasp'd and wrung God had left the old and feeble. He had ta'en away the young. Then the Provost he uprose, And his lip was ashen white ; But a flush was on his brow, And his eye was full of light. "Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray, Like a soldier stout and true ; Thou hast done a deed of daring Had been perill'd but by few. For thou hast not shamed to face us. Nor to speak thy ghastly tale. Standing — thou a knight and captain- Here, alive within thy mail ! Now, as my God shall judge me, I hold it braver done. Than hadst thou tarried in thy place. And died above my son ! Thou needst not tell it : he is dead. God help us all this day ! But speak — how fought the citizens Within the furious fray? For, by the might of Mary ! 'Twere something still to tell That no Scottish foot went backward When the Royal Lion fell !" " No one fail'd him ! He is keeping Royal state and semblance still ; Knight and noble lie around him, Cold on Flodden's fatal hill. Of the brave and gallant-hearted. Whom ye sent with prayers away. Not a single man departed From his Monarch yesterday. 306 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Had you seen them, my masters ! When the night began to fall, And the English spearmen gather'd Round a grim and ghastly wall ! As the wolves in winter circle Round the leaguer on the heath. So the greedy foe glared upward, Panting still for blood and death. But a rampart rose before them, Which the boldest dare not scale ; Every stone a Scottish body, Every step a corpse in mail ! And behind it lay our Monarch, Clenching still his shiver'd sword ; By his side Montrose and Athole, At his feet a Southron lord. All so thick they lay together, When the stars lit up the sky, That I knew not who were stricken. Or who yet remain'd to die. Few there were when Surrey halted. And his wearied host withdrew ; None but dying men around me. When the English trumpet blew. Then I stoop'd and took the banner. As you see it, from his breast. And I closed our hero's eyelids, And I left him to his rest. In the mountains growl'd the thunder. As I leap'd the woeful wall. And the heavy clouds were settling Over Flodden, like a pall." So he ended. And the others Cared not any answer then ; Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow. Sitting anguish-struck, like men Who have seen the roaring torrent Sweep their happy homes away. And yet linger by the margin. Staring wildly on the spray. But, without, the maddening tumult Waxes ever more and more. And the crowd of wailing women Gather round the council-door. Every dusky spire is ringing With a dull and hollow knell, And the Miserere's singing To the tolling of the bell. Through the streets the burghers hurry, Spreading terror as they go ; And the rampart's throng'd with watchers For the coming of the foe. From each mountain-top a pillar Streams into the torpid air, Bearing token from the Border That the English host is there. All without is flight and terror. All within is woe and fear — God protect thee, Maiden City, For thy latest hour is near ! No ! not yet, thou high Dunedin ! Shalt thou totter to thy fall ; Though thy bravest and thy strongest Are not there to man the wall. No, not yet ! the ancient spirit Of our fathers hath not gone ; Take it to thee as a buckler Better far than steel or stone. Oh, remember those who perish'd For thy birthright at the time When to be a Scot was treason. And to side with Wallace crime ! Have they not a voice among us. Whilst their hallow'd dust is here? Hear ye not a summons sounding From each buried warrior's bier ? Up ! — they say — and keep the freedom Which we won you long ago: Up ! and keep our graves unsullied From the insults of the foe ! Up ! and if ye cannot save them, Come to us in blood and fire : Midst the crash of falling turrets Let the last of Scots expire I Still the bells are tolling fiercely, And the cry comes louder in ; Mothers wailing for their children, Sisters for their slaughter'd kin. All is terror and disorder ; Till the Provost rises up. Calm as though he had not tasted Of the fell and bitter cup. All so stately from his sorrow. Rose the old undaunted chief. That you had not deem'd, to see him, His was more than common grief. " Rouse ye, sirs !" he said ; "we may not Longer mourn for what is done; If our King be taken from us. We are left to guard his son. HISTORICAL POEMS. 307 We have sworn to keep the city From the foe, whate'er they be, And the oath that we have taken Never shall be broke by me. Death is nearer to us, brethren, Than it seem'd to those who died, Fighting yesterday at Flodden, By their lord and master's side. Let us meet it, then, in patience. Not in terror or in fear ; Though our hearts are bleeding yonder, Let our souls be steadfast here. Up, and rouse ye ! Time is fleeting, And we yet have much to do ; Up ! and haste ye through the city, Stir the burghers stout and true ! Gather all our scatter'd people, Fling the banner out once more, — Randolph Murray ! do thou bear it, As it erst was borne before : Never Scottish heart will leave it, When they see their Monarch's gore ! " Let them cease that dismal knelling ! It is time enough to ring When the fortress-strength of Scotland Stoops to ruin like its King. Let the bells be kept for warning, Not for terror or alarm ; When they next are heard to thunder. Let each man and stripling arm. Bid the women leave their wailing — Do they think that woeful strain, From the bloody heaps of Flodden Can redeem their dearest slain ? Bid them cease, — or rather hasten To the churches every one ; There to pray to Mary Mother, And to her anointed Son, That the thunderbolt above ug May not fall in ruin yet ; That in fire and blood and rapine Scotland's glory may not set. Let them pray, — for never women Stood in need of such a prayer ! — ■ England's yeomen shall not find them Clinging to the altars there. No ! if we are doom'd to perish, Man and maiden, let us fall. And a common gulf of ruin Open wide to whelm us all ! Never shall the ruthless spoiler Lay his hot insulting hand On the sisters of our heroes. Whilst we bear a torch or brand ! Up ! and rouse ye, then, my brothers, — But when next ye hear the bell Sounding forth the sullen summons That may be our funeral knell, Once more let us meet together. Once more see each other's face ,• Then, like men that need not tremble, Go to our appointed place. God, our Father, will not fail us In that last tremendous hour — If all other bulwarks crumble, He will be our strength and tower : Though the ramparts rock beneath U3, And the walls go crashing down, Though the roar of conflagration Bellow o'er the sinking town ; There is yet one place of shelter. Where the foeman cannot come, Where the summons never sounded Of the trumpet or the drum. There again we'll meet our children, Who, on Flodden's trampled sod. For their king and for their country Render'd up their souls to God. There shall we find rest and refuge. With our dear departed brave ; And the ashes of the city Be our universal grave !" William Edmondstoune Aytoun. The Flowers of the Forest. I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milk- ing, Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day ; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning. Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing. Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray ; 308 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleecliing, — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — The Flowers of the Forest are weded away. Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border ! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe- milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae. Sighing and moaning on ilka green loan- ing,— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Jane Elliot. IVRY. A Song of the Huguenots. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France ! And thou, Eochelle, our own Eochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters ; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turn'd the chance of war. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. Oh, how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Eg- mont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land ; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand : And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled fiood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war. To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre, The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save our Lord, the King !" " And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may. For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray. Press Avhere ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. HISTORICAL POEMS. 309 The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gen- tlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies ! upon them with the lance ! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close be- hind the snow-white crest ; And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the hel- met of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turn'd his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, " Remember St. Bartholomew !" was pass'd from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, " No French- man is my foe : Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ? Kight well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day ; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en. The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his Church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point" of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons of Lucerne ; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho ! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho I gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ; Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave. And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. Thomas Babington Macaulay. The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England. " Look now abroad ; — another race, has fill'd Those populous borders ; wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd : The land is full of harvests and green meads." Bryant. The breaking waves dash'd high. On a stern and rock-bound coast. And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches toss'd ; And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er. When a band of exiles moor'd their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes. They, the true-hearted, came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 310 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear, — They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea. And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soar'd From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd — This was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band : Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land ? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the s^joils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground. The soil where first they trod ; They have left unstain'd what there they found- Freedom to worship God. Felicia Dorothea Hemans. The Three Troopers. During the Pkotectorate. 'xNTO the Devil tavern Three booted troopers strode. From spur to feather spotted and splash'd With the mud of a winter road. In each of their cups they dropp'd a crust, And stared at the guests with a frown ; Then drew their swords, and roar'd for a toast, " God send this Crum-well-down !" A blue smoke rose from their pistol-locks. Their sword-blades were still wet ; There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff. As the table they overset. Then into their cups they stirr'd the crusts, And cursed old London town ; Then waved their swords, and drank with a stamp " God send this Crum-well-down !" The 'prentice dropp'd his can of beer, The host turn'd pale as a clout; The ruby nose of the toping squires Grew white at the wild men's shout. Then into their cups they flung the crusts, And show'd their teeth with a frown ; They flash'd their swords as they gave the toast, " God send this Crum-well-down !" The gambler dropp'd his dog's-ear'd cards, The waiting-women scream'd. As the light of the fire like stains of blood, On the wild men's sabres gleam'd. Then into their cups they splash'd the crusts. And cursed the fool of a town, And leap'd on the table, and roar'd a toast, " God send this Crum-well-down !" Till on a sudden fire-bells rang. And the troopers sprang to horse ; The eldest mutter'd between his teeth, Hot curses — deep and coarse. In their stirrup-cups they flung the crusts, And cried as they spurr'd through town. With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cock'd, " God send this Crum-well-down !" Away they dash'd through Temple Bar, Their red cloaks flowing free. Their scabbards clash'd, each back-piece shone — None liked to touch the three. The silver cups that held the crusts They flung to the startled town. Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, " God send this Crum-well-down !" George Walter Tuornbury. HISTORICAL POEMS. 311 Marching Along. A Cavalier Song. Kentish Sir Byng stood for his king, Bidding tlie crop-headed Parliament swing : And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, March'd them along, fifty-score strong. Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. God for King Charles ! Pym and such carles To the Devil that prompts 'em their trea- sonous paries ! Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup. Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Till you're — Marching along, fifty-score strong. Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well ! England, good cheer ! Rupert is near ! Kentish and loyalists, keej} we not here Marching along, fifty-score strong. Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song? Then, God for King Charles ! Pym and his snarls To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles ! Hold by the right, you double your might : So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, March we along, fifty-score strong. Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. Robert Browning. Jacobite Toast. God bless the king ! — I mean the Faith's Defender ; God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pre- tender ! But who Pretender is, or who is king — God bless us all I — that's quite another thing. John Byrom. The Old Cavalier. " For our martyred Charles I pawned my plate, For his son I spent my all, That a churl might dine, and drink my wine. And preach in my father's hall : That father died on Marston Moor, My son on Worcester plain ; But the King he turned his back on me. When he got his own again. " The other day, there came, God wot ! A solemn, pompous ass. Who begged to know if I did not go To the sacrifice of Mass: I told him fairly to his face, That in the field of fight, I had shouted loud for Church and King, When he would have run outright. "He talked of the Man of Babylon With his rosaries and copes. As if a Roundhead wasn't worse Than half a hundred Popes. I don't know what the people mean, With their horror and afifright ; All Papists that I ever knew, Fought stoutly for the right. " I now am poor and lonely. This cloak is worn and old. But yet it warms my loyal heart. Through sleet, and rain, and cold. When I call to mind the Cavaliers, Bold Rupert at their head. Bursting through blood and fire, with cries That might have waked the dead. " Then spur and sword, was the battleword. And we made their helmets ring, Howling, like madmen, all the while. For God, and for the King. And though they snuffled psalms, to give The Rebel-dogs their due, 312 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. When the roaring shot poured close aud hot, They were stalwart men and true. " On the fatal field of Naseby, Where Rupert lost the day, By hanging on the flying crowd Like a lion on his prey, I stood and fought it out, until. In spite of plate and steel. The blood that left my veins that day. Flowed up above my heel. " And certainly it made those quail Who never quailed before, To look upon the awful front Which Cromwell's horsemen wore. I felt that every hope was gone, When I saw their squadrons form, And gather for the final charge. Like the coming of the storm. " Oh ! where was Rupert in that hour Of danger, toil and strife ? It would have been to all brave men, Worth a hundred years of life. To have seen that black and gloomy force. As it poured down in line, Met midway by the Royal horse. And Rupert of the Rhine. " All this is over now, and I Must travel to 'the tomb. Though the King I served has got his own. In poverty and gloom. Well, well I served him for himself, So I must not now complain. But I often wish that I died With my son on Worcester plain." Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. Naseby. Oh, 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 which 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 swell'd 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 charg- ing 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 clar- ions 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. They are here — they rush on — we are bra ken — we are gone — Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, de- fend the right ! Stand back to back, in God's name '. and fight it to the last I HISTORICAL POEMS. 313 Stout Skippon hath a wound — the centre hath given ground. Hark ! hark ! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? Whose banner 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 scatter'd 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, Whei) you kiss'd 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 mock'd 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? Down ! down ! for ever 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. OiV THE Funeral of Charles THE First, At Night in St. George's Chapel, Windsor. The castle clock had toll'd midnight. With mattock and with spade — And silent by the torches' light — His corse in earth we laid. The coffin bore his name, that those Of other years might know. When earth its secrets should disclose, Whose bones were laid below. " Peace to the dead !" no children sung, Slow pacing up the nave ; No prayers were read, no knell Avas rung, As deep we dug his grave. We only heard the winter's Avind, In many a sullen gust, As o'er the open grave inclined, We murmur'd, " Dust to dust !" A moonbeam from the arch's height Stream'd, as we placed the stone ; The long aisles started into light, And all the windows shone. We thought we saw the banners theu That shook along the walls. Whilst the sad shades of mailfed men Were gazing on the stalls. 314 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 'Tis gone ! — Again on tombs defaced Sits darlvness more prolbund ; And only by the torch we traced The shadows on the ground. And now the cliilling, freezing air With()Ut blew long and loud ; Upon our knees we breathed one prayer, Where he slept in his shroud. We laid the broken marble floor, — No name, no trace appears ! And when we closed the sounding door, We thought of him with tears. William Lisle Bowles. When the Assault was In- tended TO THE City. Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If deed of honor did thee ever please, Guard them, and him within protect from harms. He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms That call fame on such gentle acts as these. And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas, • Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower : The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground ; and the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet had the power To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. John Milton. On the Late Massacre in Pi ED 310 NT. Avenge, Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones. Forget not : In thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their an- cient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant, that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way. Early may fly the Babylonian woe. John Milton. The Execution of Montrose. Come hither, Evan Cameron ! Come, stand behind my knee — I hear the river roaring down Toward the wintry sea. There's shouting on the mountain-side, There's war within the blast — Old faces look upon me. Old forms go trooping past. I hear the pibroch wailing Amidst the din of fight. And my dim spirit wakes again Upon the verge of night. 'Twas I that led the Highland host Through wild Lochaber's snows, What time the plaided clans came down To battle with Montrose. I've told thee how the Southrons fell Beneath the broad claymore. And how we smote the Campbell clan By Inverlochy's shore. I've told thee how we swept Dundee, And tamed the Lindsays' pride ; But never have I told thee yet How the great Marquis died. HISTORICAL POEMS. 315 A traitor sold him to his foes ; — O deed of deathless shame ! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of Assynt's name — Be it upon the mountain's side, Or yet within the glen, Stand lie in martial gear alone. Or back'd by armed men — Face him as thou wouldst face the man Who wrong'd thy sire's renown ; Remember of what blood thou art. And strike the caitiff down I They brought him to the Watergate, Hard bound with hempen span. As though they held a lion there, And not a 'fenceless man. They set him high upon a cart — The hangman rode below — They drew his hands behind his back. And bared his noble brow. Then, as a hound is slipp'd from leash. They cheer'd the common throng, And blew the note with yell and shout. And bade him pass along. It would have made a brave man's heart Grow sad and sick that day. To watch the keen, malignant eyes Bent down on that array. There stood the Whig west-country lords In balcony and bow ; There sat their gaunt and wither'd dames. And their daughters all a-row. And every open window AVas full as full might be With black-robed Covenanting carles. That goodly sport to see ! But when he came, though pale and wan. He look'd so great and high. So noble was his manly front. So calm his steadfast eye ; — The rabble rout forbore to shout. And each man held his breath. For well they knew the hero's soul Was face to face with death. And then a mournful shudder Through all the people crept. And some that came to scoff at him Isow turu'd aside and wept. But onward — always onward, In silence and in gloom. The dreary pageant labor'd, Till it reach'd the house of doom. Then first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud. And an angry cry and a hiss arose From the heart of the tossing crowd: Then, as the Graeme looked upward, He saw the ugly smile Of him who sold his king for gold — The master-fiend Argyle ! The Marquis gazed a moment. And nothing did he say. But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale, And he turn'd his eyes away. The painted harlot by his side. She shook through every limb, For a roar like thunder swept the street. And hands were clench'd at him ; And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, " Back, coward, from thy place ! For seven long years thou hast not dared To look him in the face." Had I been there with sword in hand. And fifty Camerons by. That day through high Dunedin's streets Had peal'd the slogan-cry. Not all their troops of trampling horse. Nor might of mailfed men — Not all the rebels in the south Had borne us backward then ! Once more his foot on Highland heath Had trod as free as air, Or I, and all who bore my name, Been laid around him there ! It might not be. They placed him next Within the solemn hall, Where once the Scottish kings were throned Amidst their nobles all. But there was dust of vulgar feet On that polluted floor, And perjured traitors fiU'd the place Where good men sate before. With savage glee came Warriston To read the murderous doom ; And then uprose the great Montrose In the middle of the room : 316 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. • * Now, by my faith as belted knight And by the name I bear, And by the bright St. Andrew's cross That waves above us there — Yea, by a greater, mightier oath — And oh that such should be ! — By that dark stream of royal blood That lies 'twixt you and me — I have not sought in battle-field A wreath of such renown, Nor dared I hope on my dying day To win the martyr's crown ! " There is a chamber far away Where sleep the good and brave, But a better place ye have named for me Than by my fathers' grave. For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, This hand hath always striven. And ye raise it up for a witness still In the eye of earth and heaven. Then nail my head on yonder tower — Give every town a limb — And God who made shall gather them : I go from you to Him !" The morning dawn'd full darkly, The rain came flashing down. And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt Lit up the gloomy town ; The thunder crash'd across the heaven, The fatal hour was come ; Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, The 'larum of the drum. There was madness on the earth below And anger in the sky, And young and old, and rich and poor, Came forth to see him die. Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet ! How dismal 'tis to see The great tall spectral skeleton, The ladder and the tree ! Hark ! hark i it is the clash of arms — The bells begin to toll — " He is coming ! he is coming ! God's mercy on his soul !" One last long peal of thunder — The clouds are clear'd away. And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day. " He is coming ! he is coming !" Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison To the scalfold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye. And he never walk'd to battle More proudly than to die ; There was color in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan. And they marvell'd as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man I He mounted up the scaffold. And he turn'd him to the crowd ; But they dared not trust the people, So he might not speak aloud ; But he look'd upon the heavens. And they were clear and blue. And in the liquid ether The eye of God shone through. Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill, As though the thunder slept within- All else was calm and still. The grim Geneva ministers With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign, But alone he bent the knee ; And veil'd his face for Christ's dear grace Beneath the gallows tree. Then radiant and serene he rose. And cast his cloak away : For he had ta'en his latest look Of eanth and sun and day. A beam of light fell o'er him, Like a glory round the shriven. And he climb'd the lofty ladder As it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud, And a stunning thunder-roll ; And no man dared to look aloft, For fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound, A hush and then a groan ; And darkness swept across the sky — The work of death was done ! Wllham Edmondstoune Aytouh. HISTORICAL POEMS. 317 The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee. To the lords of convention 'twas Claver- house who spoke, " Ere the king's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke ; So let each cavalier who loves honor and me Come follow the bonnets of bonnie Dun- dee !" Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; Come open the Westport and let us gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street. The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat ; But the provost, douce man, said, " Just e'en let him be, The gude toun is well quit of that de'il of Dundee !" Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; Come open the Westport and let us gang free. And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee I As he rode doun the sanctified bends of the Bow Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; But the young plants of grace they look'd cowthie and slee. Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie Dundee! Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; Come open the Westport and let us gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee I With sour-featured Whigs the Grasa- market was thrang'd As if half the west had set tryst to be hang'd ; There was spite in each look, there was fear in each ee, As they watch'd for the bqunets of bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; Come open the Westport and let us gang free. And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee! These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears. And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers-, But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free At the toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dun- dee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; Come open the Westport and let us gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! He spurr'd to the foot of the proud castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke : "Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three. For the love of the bonnet of bonnie Dun- dee." Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; Come open the Westport and let us gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee I The Gordon demands of him which way he goes — " Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose I 318 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Your Grace in short space shall hear tid- ings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; Come open the Westport and let us gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! " There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth; If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the north ; There are wild Duniewassals three thou- sand times three Will cry ' Hoigh I' for the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; Come open the Westport and let us gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! " There's brass on the target of barken'd bull-hide. There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside ; The brass shall be burnish'd, the steel shall flash free, At a toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; Come open the Westport and let us gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! " Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks ; Ere I own an usurper I'll couch with the fox ; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me." Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; Come open the Westport and let us gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! He waved his proud hand, and the trump- ets were blown. The kettle-drums clash'd, and the horse* men rode on. Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermis- ton's lea Died away the wild war-notes of bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; Come saddle the horses, and call vip the men ; Come open your doors and let me gae free. For it's up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee 1 Sir Walter Scott. The Burial-March of Dundee. Sound fife, and cry the slogan — Let the pibroch shake the air With its wild triumphal music, Worthy of the freight we bear. Let the ancient hills of Scotland Hear once more the battle-song Swell within their glens and valleys As the clansmen march along ! Never from the field of combat, Never from the deadly fray, Was a nobler trophy carried Than we bring with us to-day ; Never since the valiant Douglas On his dauntless bosom bore Good King Kobert's heart — the pricelesa— To our dear Kedeemer's shore ! Lo ! we bring with us the hero — Lo ! we bring the conquering Graeme, Crown'd as best beseems a victor From the altar of his fame ; Fresh and bleeding from the battle Whence his spirit took its flight, Midst the crashing charge of squadrons^ And the thunder of the fight ! HISTORICAL POEMS. 319 Strike, I say, the notes of triumph. As we march o'er moor and lea ! Is there any here will venture To bewail our dead Dundee ? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim ! Wail ye may full well for Scotland — Let none dare to mourn for him ! See ! above his glorious body Lies the royal banner's fold — See ! his valiant blood is mingled With its crimson and its gold. See how calm he looks and stately, Like a warrior on his shield, Waiting till the flush of morning Breaks along the battle-field ! See — Oh never more, my comrades, Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward lightning, As the hour of fight drew nigh ! Never shall we hear the voice that, Clearer than the trumpet's call. Bade us strike for King and Country, Bade us win the field, or fall ! On the heights of Killiecrankie Yester-morn our army lay : Slowly rose the mist in columns From the river's broken way ; Hoarsely roar'd the swollen torrent. And the pass was wrapp'd in gloom, When the clansmen rose together From their lair amidst the broom. Then we belted on our tartans. And our bonnets down we drew, And we felt our broadswords' edges. And we proved them to be true ; And we pray'd the prayer of soldiers. And we cried the gathering-cry, And we clasp'd the hands of kinsmen, And we swore to do or die ! Then our leader rode before us On his war-horse black as night — Well the Cameronian rebels Knew that charger in the fight ! — And a cry of exultation From the bearded warriors rose ; For we loved the hraise of Claver'se, And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence^ " Soldiers ! I have sworn a vow : Ere the evening star shall glisten On Schehallion's lofty brow. Either we shall rest in triumph, Or another of the Graemes Shall have died in battle-harness For his Country and King James I Think upon the Royal Martyr — Think of what his race endure — Think on him whom butchers murder'd On the field of Magus Muir : By his sacred blood I charge ye, By the ruin'd hearth and shrine — By the blighted hopes of Scotland, By your injuries and mine — Strike this day as if the anvil Lay beneath your blows the while, Be they Covenanting traitors. Or the brood of false Argyle ! Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels Backward o'er the stormy Forth ; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honor Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike ! and when the fight is over, If you look in vain for me. Where the dead are lying thickest Search for him that was Dundee !'* • Loudly then the hills re-echoed With our answer to his call, But a deeper echo sounded In the bosoms of us all. For the lands of wide Breadalbane, Not a man who heard him speak Would that day have left the battle. Burning eye and flushing cheek Told the clansmen's fierce emotion. And they harder drew their breath ; For their souls were strong within them, Stronger than the grasp of death. Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet Sounding in the pass below, And the distant tramp of horses. And the voices of the foe ; Down we crouch'd amid the bracken, Till the Lowland ranks drew near. Panting like the hounds in summer, When they scent the stately deer. From the dark defile emerging, Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum ; 320 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Through the scatter'd wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly, Till they gain'd the field beneath ; Then we bounded from our covert. — Judge how look'd the Saxons then, When they saw the rugged mountain Start to life with armfed men ! Like a tempest down the ridges Swejjt the hurricane of steel, Rose the Slogan of Macdonald — Flash'd the broadsword of Lochiel ! Vainly sped the withering volley 'Mongst the foremost of our band — On we pour'd until we met them. Foot to foot, and hand to hand. Horse and man went down like drift- wood When the floods are black at Yule, And their carcasses are whirling In the Garry's deepest pool. Horse and man went down before us — Living foe there tarried none On the field of Killiecrankie, When that stubborn fight was done ! And the evening star was shining On Schehallion's distant head. When we wiped our bloody broadswords And return'd to count the dead. There we found him gash'd and gory, Stretch'd upon the cumber'd plain, As he told us where to seek him. In the thickest of the slain. And a smile was on his visage, For within his dying ear Peal'd the joyful note of triumph, And the clansmen's clamorous cheer : So, amidst the battle's thunder. Shot, and steel, and scorching flame. In the glory of his manhood Pass'd the spirit of the Graeme ! Open wide the vaults of Athol, Where the bones of heroes rest — Open wide the hallow'd portals To receive another guest ! Last of Scots, and last of freemen- Last of all that dauntless race Who would rather die unsullied Than outlive the land's disgrace I thou lion-hearted warrior ! Reck not of the after-time : Honor may be deem'd dishonor, Loyalty be called a crime. Sleep in peace with kindred ashes Of the noble and the true, Hands that never failed their country, Hearts that never baseness knew. Sleep ! — and till the latest trumpet Wakes the dead from earth and sea, Scotland shall not boast a braver Chieftain than our own Dundee ! William Edmondstoune Aytoun. FONTEWOY. Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the Eng- lish column fail'd. And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assail'd. For town and slope were fill'd 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, di- minish'd and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye. And order'd 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 eventide. 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 slope, steady they climb 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 showering fast ; And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course. With ready fire and grim resolve, that mock'd at hostile force : HISTORICAL POEMS. 321 Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thin- ner grow their ranks — They break, as broke 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 squad- rons strew the ground ; Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they march'd and fired — Fast, from each volley, grenadier and vol- tigeur 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 turns his rein : "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain ;" And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. "Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes !" The Marshal almost smiles to see, so fu- riously 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 'twas writ could dry. Their plunder'd homes, their ruin'd 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, Rush'd on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, "Fix bay'nets" — "Charge;" like moun- tain-storm rush on these fiery bands. 21 Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow. Yet, must'ring 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 behind ; One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutch'd in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza : "Revenge! remember Limerick ! dash down the Sacsanach !" 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 fiU'd with gore ; Through shatter'd ranks, and sever'd files, and trampled flags they tore ; The English strove with desperate strength, l^aused, rallied, stagger'd, fled, — The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead. Across the plain and far away pass'd 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 ! Thojias Osbokne Davis. Battle of Fontenoy. By our camp-fires rose a murmur At the dawning of the day, And the tread of many footsteps Spoke the advent of the fray ; And as we took our places. Few and stern were our words. While some were tightening horse-girth^ And some were girding swords. The trumpet-blast has sounded Our footmen to array — 322 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. The willing steed has bounded, Imiiatient for the fray — The green flag is unfolded, While rose the cry of joy — " Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner To-day at Fontenoy !" We look'd upon that banner. And the memory arose Of our homes and perish'd kindred Where the Lee or Shannon flows ; We look'd upon that banner. And we swore to God on high. To smite to-day the Saxon's might — To conquer or to die. Loud swells the charging trumpet — 'Tis a voice from our own land — God of battles ! God of vengeance I Guide to-day the patriot's brand ; There are stains to wash away. There are memories to destroy. In the best blood of the Briton To-day at Fontenoy. Plunge deep the fiery rowels In a thousand reeking flanks — Down, chivalry of Ireland, Down on the British ranks ! Now shall tl*eir serried columns Beneath our sabres reel — Through their ranks, then, with the war- horse — Through their bosoms with the steel. With one shout for good King Louis, And the fair land of the vine. Like the wrathful Alpine tempest. We swept upon their line — Then rang along the battle-field Triumphant our hurrah. And we smote them down, still cheering, " Erin, slanthagal go bragh." As prized as is the blessing From an aged father's lip — As welcome as the haven To the tempest-driven ship — As dear as to the lover The smile of gentle maid — Is this day of long-sought vengeance To the swords of the Brigade. See their shatter'd forces flying, A broken, routed line — See, England, what brave laurels For your brow to-day we twine. Oh, thrice bless'd the hour that witness'd The Briton turn to flee From the chivalry of Erin And France's ^'fleur de lis." As we lay beside our camp-fires, When the sun had pass'd away, And thought upon our brethren Who had perish'd in the fray. We pray'd to God to grant us, And then we'd die with joy. One day upon our own dear land Like this of Fontenoy. Bartholomew Dowling. LOCHIEL'S WARmNG. WlZARD^LOCHIEL. Wizard. LocHiEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee ib. battle-array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on ray sight. And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark ! through the fast-flashing light- ning of war What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 'Tis thine, Glenullin! whose bride shall await. Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of de- sjjair. Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led — Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; HISTORICAL POEMS. 323 For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. LOCHIEL, Go, preach to the coward, thou death-tell- ing seer ! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. Wizard. Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north ? Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed — for the sjioiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height. Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood. And a wild mother scream o'er her famish- ing brood. Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt I I have marshall'd my clan ; Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause. When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array Wizard. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. But man cannot cover what God would re- veal; 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. And coming events casts their shadows be- fore. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo ! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath. Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight: Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors ; Culloden is lost, and my country de- plores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner? where ? For the red eye of battle is shut in de- spair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn. Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 324 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is muffled and black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling. Oh! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat. With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale LOCHIEL. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale : For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonor, so foul with re- treat. Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore. Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf- beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains. While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, , Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name. Look proudly to heaven from the death- bed of fame. Thomas Campbell. Young Airly. Ken ye aught of brave Lochiel? Or ken ye aught of Airly ? They have belted on their bright broad swords. And off" and awa' wi' Charlie. Now bring me fire, my merry, merry men, And bring it red and yarely — At mirk midnight there flash'd a light O'er the topmost towers of Airly. What lowe is yon, quo' the gude Lochiel, Which gleams so red and rarely ? By the God of my kin, quo' young Ogilvie, It's my ain bonnie hame of Airly! Put up your sword, said the brave Lochiel, And calm your mood, quo' Charlie ; Ere morning glow we'll raise a lowe Far brighter than bonnie Airly. Oh, yon fair tower's my native tower! Nor will it soothe my mourning. Were London palace, tower, and town As fast and brightly burning. It's no my hame — my father's hame, That reddens my cheek sae sairlie — But my wife, and twa sweet babes I left To smoor in the smoke of Airly. Author Unknowk- CHARLIE IS 3IY DARLING. 'TwAS on a Monday morning, Eight early in the year. That Charlie came to our town, The young Chevalier. An' Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling, Charlie is my darling. The young Chevalier. As Charlie he came up the gate, His face shone like the day ; I grat to see the lad come back That had been lang away. An' Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling, Charlie is my darling. The young Chevalier. Then ilka bonnie lassie sang, As to the door she ran, Our king shall hae his ain again, An' Charlie is the man : For Charlie he's my darling, My darling, my darling, Charlie he's my darling, The young Chevalier. Out owre yon moory mountain. An' down the craigy glen. Of naething else our lasses sing But Charlie an' his men. HISTORICAL POEMS. 325 An' Charlie he's my darling, My darling, my darling, Charlie he's my darling, The young Chevalier. Our Highland hearts are true an' leal, An' glow without a stain ; Our Highland swords are metal keen, An' Charlie he's our ain. An' Charlie he's my darling. My darling, my darling, Charlie he's my darling. The young Chevalier. James Hogg. BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. Cam ye by Athol, lad \vi' the philabeg, Down by the Tummel, or banks o' the Garry; Saw ye our lads, wi' their bonnets and white cockades. Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie? Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee ? Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly : Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee. King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie? I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald ; But if I had ten, they should follow Glengary. Health to M'Donnel, and gallant Clan- Eonald, For these are the men that will die for their Charlie ! Follow thee ! follow thee ! wha wadna follow thee? Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly : Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee, King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie? I'll to Lochiel and Apjjin, and kneel to them, Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie ; Brave M'Intosh he shall fly to the field with them ; These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie ! Follow thee ! follow thee ! wha wadna follow thee ? Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly : Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee. King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie? Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore ! Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely ! Ronald and Donald, drive on wi' the broad claymore. Over the necks of the foes of Prince Charlie ! Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee? Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly : Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee. King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie? James Hogg. Wae'S me for Prince Charlie i A WEE bird came to our ha'-door ; He warbled sweet and clearly ; And aye the o'ercome o' his sang Was " Wae's me for Prince Charlie !'* Oh, when I heard the bonny, bonny bird, The tears came drapping rarely ; I took my bonnet alF my head. For weel 1 lo'ed Prince Charlie. Quoth I : "My bird, my bonny, bonny bird, Is that a tale ye borrow ? Or is't some words ye've learn'd by rote, Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow?" " Oh, no, no, no!" the wee bird sang, " I've flown sin' morning early ; But sic a day o' wind and rain ! — Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie / 326 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOFMDIA OF POETRY. " On hills that are by right his ain He roams a lonely stranger ; On ilka hand he's press'd by Avant, On ilka side by danger. Yestreen I met him in the glen, My heart near bursted fairly ; For sadly changed indeed was he — Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie ! *' Dark night came on ; the tempest howl'd Out owre the hills and valleys ; And where was't that your prince lay down, Whase hame should be a palace ? He row'd him in a Highland plaid, AVhicli cover'd him but sparely. And slept beneath a bush o' broom — Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie !" But now the bird saw some red-coats. And he shook his wings wi' anger : " Oh, this is no a land for me — I'll tarry here nae langer." A while he hover'd on the wing, Ere he departed fairly ; But weel I mind the farewell strain, 'Twas " Wae's me for Prince Charlie !" William Glen. The Tears of Scotland. Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peafce, thy laurels torn ! Thy sons, for valor long renown'd. Lie slaughter'd on their native ground ; Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door; In smoky ruins sunk they lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war ; Bethinks him of his babes and wife. Then smites his breast, and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks. Where once they fed their wanton flocks : Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ; Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it, then, in every clime. Through the wide-spreading waste of time. Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze ! Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke. Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancor fell. The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day : No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night : No strains but those of sorrow flow, And naught be heard but sounds of woe, While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. O baneful cause ! O fatal morn ! Accursed to ages yet unborn ! The sons against their father stood. The parent shed his children's blood. Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, The victor's soul was not appeased : The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames and murd'ring steel I The pious mother, doom'd to death, Forsaken wanders o'er the heath ; The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orjihans cry for bread ; Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend ; And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. While the warm blood bedews my veins, And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, Resentment of my country's fate Within my filial breast shall beat ; And, spite of her insulting foe. My sympathizing verse shall flow : " Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn." Tobias Smollett. The Pompadour. Versailles ! — Up the chestnut alley. All in flower, so white and pure, Strut the red and yellow lacqueys Of this Madame Pompadour. " Clear the way !" cry out the lacqueys. Elbowing the lame and poor From the chapel's stately porches, — " Way for Madame Pompadour !" HISTORICAL POEMS. 327 Old bent soldiers, crippled veterans, Sigh and hobble, sad, footsore, Jostled by the chariot-horses Of this woman — Pompadour. Through the levee (poet, marquis, Wistful for the opening door). With a rippling sweep of satin, Sail'd the queenly Pompadour, Sighs by dozens, as she proudly Glides, so confident and sure. With her fan that breaks through hal- berds — In went Madame Pompadour. Starving abbe, wounded marshal, Speculator, lean and poor. Cringe and shrink before the creatures Of this harlot Pompadour. " Rose in sunshine ! Summer lily !" Cries a poet at the door. Squeezed and trampled by the lacqueys Of the witching Pompadour. " Bathed in milk and fed on roses !" Sighs a pimp behind the door, Jamm'd and bullied by the courtiers Of this strumpet Pompadour. "Rose of Sharon!" chants an abb^. Fat and with the voice of four. Black silk stockings soil'd by varlets Of this Rahab Pompadour. " Neck so swan-like, — Dea certe ! Fit for monarchs to adore !" " Clear the way !" was still the echo, " For this Venus — Pompadour." Open ! — with the jar of thunder Fly the portals, — clocks strike four ; With a burst of drums and trumpets Come the king and Pompadour. George Walter Thoknbury. LOTJIS XV. The king with all his kingly train Had left his Pompadour behind. And forth he rode in Senart's wood, The royal beasts of chase to find. That day by chance the monarch mused. And, turning suddenly away. He struck alone into a path That far from crowds and courtiers lay. He saw the pale green shadows play Upon the brown untrodden earth ; He saw the birds around him flit As if he were of peasant birth ; He saw the trees that know no king But him who bears a woodland axe; He thought not, but he look'd about Like one who skill in thinking lacks. Then close to him a footstep fell. And glad of human sound was he, For, truth to say, he found himself A weight from which he fain would flee. But that which he would ne'er have guess'd Before him now most plainly came ; The man upon his weary back A cofiin bore of rudest frame. "Why, who art thou?" exclaimed the king, " And what is that I see thee bear?" " I am a laborer in the wood. And 'tis a coffin for Pierre. Close by the royal hunting-lodge You may have often seen him toil ; But he will never work again, And I for him must dig the soil." The laborer ne'er had seen the king. And this he thought was but a man, Who made at first a moment's pause, And then anew his talk began : " I think I do remember now, — He had a dark and glancing eye, And I have seen his slender arm With wondrous blows the pickaxe ply. " Pray tell me, friend, what accident Can thus have kill'd our good Pierre ?" " Oh, nothing more than usual, sir. He died of living upon air. 'Twas hunger kill'd the poor good man. Who long on empty hopes relied ; He could not pay gabell and tax, And feed his children, so he died." The man stopp'd short, and then went; on, — " It is, you know, a common thing ; Our children's bread is eaten up By courtiers, mistresses, and king." 328 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The king look'd hard upon the man, And afterward the coffin eyed ; Then sj^urr'd to ask of Pompadour How came it that the peasants died. John Steklinq. WARREN'S Address. Stand! the ground's your own, my braves ! Will ye give it up to slaves ? Will ye look for greener graves ? Hope ye mercy still ? What's the mercy despots feel ? Hear it in that battle-peal ! Eead it on yon bristling steel! Ask it, — ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you ! — they're afire I And, before you, see Who have done it ! From the vale On they come ! — and will ye quail ? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be ! In the God of battles trust ! Die we may, — and die we must; But, oh where can dust to dust Be consign'd so well. As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyr'd patriot's bed. And the rocks shall raise their head Of his deeds to tell ? John Pierpont. Paul Revere'S Ride. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Eevere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, " If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night. Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,— One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm. For the country folk to be up and to arm." Then he said "Good-night," and with muffled oar Silently row'd to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay. Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war ; A phantom shij), with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar. And a huge black hulk, that was magni- fied By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile his fi-iend, through alley and street. Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door. The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climb'd the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead. And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, — ■ By the trembling ladder, steep and tall. To the highest window in the wall. Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead. In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapp'd in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent. And seeming to whisper, " All is well !" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; HISTORICAL POEMS. 329 For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,— A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurr'd, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walk'd Paul Re- vere. Now he patted his horse's side. Now gazed at the landscape far and near. Then, impetuous, stamp'd the earth, And turn'd and tighten'd his saddle girth ; But mostly he watch'd with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill. Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And 1*0 ! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns. But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns. A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all ; and yet, through the gloom and the light. The fate of a nation was riding that night ; And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides. And under the alders that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge. Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he cross'd the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he pass'd, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock. And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall. Who that day would be lying dead. Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest ; in the books you have read. How the British regulars fired and fled,— How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane. Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere, And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,— A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door. And a word that shall echo for evermore ! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last. In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Re- vere. Henky Wadswortu Longfellow. 330 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. SOIf^G OF MARION'S MEN. Our band is few, but true and tried, 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. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil : We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout. As if a hunt were uj), And woodland flowers are gather'd 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 ; 'Tis 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 For ever from our shore. William Cullen Bryant. Cabmen Bellicosum. In 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. EoU'd the roll of the drummer, Through the morn ! Then with eyes to the front all, And with guns horizontal. Stood our sires ; And the balls whistled deadly, 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, Crack'd the black gunpowder, Crack'd amain ! Now like smiths at their forges Work'd the red St. George's Cannoneers, And the " villainous saltpetre " Rang a fierce discordant metre Bound their ears ; HISTORICAL POEMS. 331 As the swift Storm-drift With hot sweeping anger, Came the horseguards' clangor On our flanks ; Then higher, higher, higher, Burn'd the old-fashion'd fire Through the ranks ! Then the old-fashion'd colonel Gallop'd 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 Eifle-breath ; And rounder, rounder, rounder Eoar'd the iron six-pounder, Hurling death ! Guy Humphrey McMaster. La Tricoteuse. The fourteenth of July had come. And round the guillotine The thieves and beggars, rank by rank. Moved the red flags between. A crimson heart, upon a pole,— The long march had begun ; But still the little smiling child Sat knitting in the sun. Tlie red caps of those men of France Shook like a poppy-field ; Three women's heads, with gory hair, The standard-bearers wield. Cursing, with song and battle-hymn, Five butchers dragg'd a gun ; Yet still the little maid sat there, A-knitting in the sun. An axe was painted on the flags, A broken throne and crown, A ragged coat, upon a lance. Hung in foul black shreds down. " More heads !" the seething rabble cry, And now the drums begun ; But still the little fair-hair'd child Sat knitting in the sun. And every time a head roll'd off, They roll like winter seas. And, with a tossing up of caps, Shouts shook the Tuileries. Whizz— went the heavy chopper down, And then the drums begun ; But still the little smiling child Sat knitting in the sun. The Jacobins, ten thousand strong, And every man a sword ; The red caps, with the tricolors, Led on the noisy horde. " The Sans Culottes to-day are strong," The gossips say, and run ; But still the little maid sits there, A-knitting in the sun. Then the slow death-cart moved along ; And, singing patriot songs, A pale, doom'd poet bowing comes And cheers the swaying throngs. Oh, when the axe swept shining down, The mad drums all begun ; But, smiling still, the little child Sat knitting in the sun. " Le marquis," linen snowy white, The powder in his hair, Waving his scented handkerchief. Looks down with careless stare. A whirr, a chop— another head — Hurrah! the work's begun; But still the little child sat there, A-knitting in the sun. A stir, and through the parting crowd The people's friends are come ; Marat and Robespierre—" Vivat ! Roll thunder from the drum." The one a wild beast's hungry eye, Hair tangled— hark ! a gun !— The other kindly kiss'd the child A-knitting in the sun. "And why not work all night?" the child Said to the knitters there. Oh how the furies shook their sides. And toss'd their grizzled hair ! Then clapp'd a bonnet rouge on her. And cried, " 'Tis well begun !" And laugh'd to see the little child Knit, smiling in the sun. George Walter Thorsbury, 332 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. FRANCE: AN ODE. February, 1797. Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control ! Ye Ocean- Waves ! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws ! Ye Woods ! that listen to the night- birds singing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined. Save when your own imperious branches swinging Have made a solemn music of the wind ! Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound. Inspired beyond the guess of folly. By each rude shape and wild unconquer- able sound ! ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high ! And O ye Clouds that far above me soar'd! Thou rising Sun! thou blue, rejoicing Sky! Yea, everything that is and will be free ! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, With what deep worship I have still adored The sj)irit of divinest Liberty. AVhen France in wrath her giant limbs uprear'd, And Avith that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, Stamp'd her strong foot and said she would be free, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd ! With what a joy my lofty gratulation Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band : And when to whelm the disenchanted nation. Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand. The Monarchs march'd in evil day. And Britain join'd the dire array ; Though dear her shores and circling ocean. Though many friendships, many youthful loves Had swoln the patriot emotion, And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves ; Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang de- feat To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat ! For ne'er, O Liberty ! with partial aim I dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame ; But bless'd the paeans of deliver'd France, And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. "And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove ! Though all the fierce and drunken pas- sions wove A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream ! Ye Storms, that round the dawning east assembled. The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light !" And when to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased, and all seem'd calm and bright ; When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory ; When, insupportably advancing, Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp ; While timid looks of fury glancing. Domestic Treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp. Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore ; Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee ; " And soon," I said, " shall Wisdom teach her lore HISTORICAL POEMS. 333 In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! And, conquering by her hajjpiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free. Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own." Forgive me. Freedom ! oh, forgive those dreams ! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud la- ment, From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent ; I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams ! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd. And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain- snows With bleeding wounds ; forgive me that I cherish'd One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes ! To scatter rage and traitorous guilt, Where Peace her jealous home had built; A patriot race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear ; And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, • And patriot only in pernicious toils. Are these thy boasts. Champion of human kind ? To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murder- ous prey ; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ? The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain. Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! O Liberty ! with profitless endeavor Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee). Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions. And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves. Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. The guide of homeless winds, and play' mate of the waves ! And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-cliff's verge, Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above. Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! Yes, while I stood and gazed, my tem- ples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea, and air. Possessing all things with intensest love, Liberty I my spirit felt thee there. Samuel Taylok Coleridge. The Chronicle of the Drum. Part I. At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, Whoever will choose to rejiair. Midst a dozen of wooden-legg'd warriors, May haply fall in with old Pierre. On the sunshiny bench of a tavern, He sits and he prates of old wars, And moistens his pipe of tobacco With a drink that is named after Mars. The beer makes his tongue run the quicker And as long as his tap never fails, Thus over his favorite liquor Old Peter will tell his old tales. Says he, " In my life's ninety summers Strange changes and chances I've seen,— So here's to all gentlemen drummers That ever have thump'd on a skin. " Brought up in the art military For four generations we are ; 334 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. My ancestors drumm'd for King Harry, The Huguenot lad of Navarre ; And as each man in life has his station, According as fortune may fix, While Cond6 was waving the baton, My grandsire was trolling the sticks. " Ah ! those were the days for commanders ! What glories my grandfather won, Ere bigots, and lackeys, and panders. The fortunes of France had undone ! In Germany, Flanders, and Holland, — What foeman resisted us then? No ; my grandsire was ever victorious. My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne. " He died, and our noble battalions The jade, fickle Fortune, forsook ; And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance, The victory lay with Malbrook. The news it was brought to King Louis ; Corbleu I how His Majesty swore, When he heard they had taken my grand- sire. And twelve thousand gentlemen more ! " At Namur, Eamillies, and Malplaquet Were we posted, on plain or in trench ; Malbrook only need to attack it, And away from him scamper'd we French. Cheer up I 'tis no use to be glum, boys, — 'Tis written, since fighting begun, That sometimes we fight and we conquer, And sometimes we fight and we run. " To fight and to run was our fate ; Our fortune and fame had departed ; And so perish'd Louis the Great, — Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. His coffin they pelted with mud. His body they tried to lay hands on ; And so having buried King Louis, They loyally served his great-grandson. " God save the beloved King Louis ! (For so he was nicknamed by some), A.nd now came my father to do his King's orders, and beat on the drum. My grandsire was dead, but his bones Must have shaken, I'm certain, for joy. To hear daddy drumming the English From the meadows of famed Fonte- noy. " So well did he drum in that battle, That the enemy show'd us their backs ; Corbleu ! it was pleasant to rattle The sticks, and to follow old Saxe ! We next had Soubise as a leader, And as luck hath its changes and fits, At Rossbach, in sjoite of dad's drumming, 'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz. " And now daddy crossed the Atlantic, To drum for Montcalm and his men ; Morbleu ! but it makes a man frantic, To think we were beaten again ! My daddy he cross'd the wide ocean, My mother brought me on her neck. And we came in the year fifty-seven To guard the good town of Quebec, " In the year fifty-nine came the Britons, — ■ Full well I remember the day, — They knock'd at our gates for admittance, Their vessels were moor'd in our bay. Says our general, ' Drive me yon red-coats Away to the sea, whence they come !' So we march'd against Wolfe and his bull-dogs. We march'd at the sound of the drum. " I think I can see my poor mammy With me in her hand as she waits, And our regiment, slowly retreating, Pours back through the citadel-gates. Dear mammy, she looks in their faces, And asks if her husband is come. — He i^ lying all cold on the glacis. And will never more beat on the drum. " Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys; He died like a soldier — in glory ; Here's a glass to the health of all drum-boys, And now I'll commence my own story. Once more did we cross the salt ocean ; We came in the year eighty- one ; And the wrongs of my father the drummer Were avenged by the drummer his son. " In Chesapeake Bay we were landed ; In vain strove the British to pass ; Eochambeau our armies commanded, Our ships they were led by De Grasse. Morbleu I how I rattled the drumsticks. The day we march'd into Yorktown ! Ten thousand of beef-eating British Their weapons we caused to lay down. HISTORICAL POEMS. 335 •'Then homeward returning victorious, I In peace to our country we came, And were thank'd for our glorious actions By Louis Sixteenth of the name. What drummer on earth could be prouder Than I, while I drumm'd at Versailles To the lovely court-ladies in powder, And lappets, and long satin tails ? " The princes that day pass'd before us. Our countrymen's glory and hope ; Monsieur, who was learn'd in Horace, D'Artois, who could dance the tight-rope. One night we kept guard for the Queen At Her Majesty's opera-box, While the King, that majestical monarch, Sat filing at home at his locks. " Yes, I drumm'd for the fair Antoinette ; And so smiling she look'd, and so tender, That our officers, privates, and drummers All vow'd they would die to defend her. But she cared not for us honest fellows. Who fought and who bled in her wars ; She sneer'd at our gallant Rochambeau, And turn'd Lafayette out of doors. " Ventrebleu ! then I swore a great oath No more to such tyrants to kneel ; And so, just to keep up my drumming, One day I drumm'd down the Bastile ! Ho, landlord ! a stoup of fresh wine ; Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try, And drink to the year eighty-nine. And the glorious Fourth of July I " Then bravely our cannon it thunder'd, As onward our patriots bore ; Our enemies were but a hundred. And we twenty thousand or more. They carried the news to King Louis, He heard it as calm as you please ; And like a majestical monarch, Kept filing his locks and his keys. "We show'd our republican courage, We storm'd and we broke the great gate in. And we murder'd the insolent governor For daring to keep us a-waiting. Lambesc and his squadrons stood by ; They never stirr'd finger or thumb ; The saucy aristocrats trembled As they heard the republican drum. " Hurrah ! what a storm was a-brewing 1 The day of our vengeance was come ; Through scenes of what carnage and ruin Did I beat on the patriot drum I Let's drink to the famed tenth of August : At midnight I beat the tattoo, And woke up the pikemen of Paris To follow the bold Barbaroux. " With pikes, and with shouts, and with torches, March'd onward our dusty battalions ; And we girt the tall castle of Louis, A million of tatterdemalions ! We storm'd the fair gardens where tower'd The walls of his heritage splendid ; Ah, shame on him, craven and coward, ■ That had not the heart to defend it I " With the crown of his sires on his head, His nobles and knights by his side, At the foot of his ancestors' palace 'Twere easy, methinks, to have died. But no : when we burst through his bar- riers, 'Mid heaps of the dying and dead, In vain through the chambers we sought him, — He had turn'd like a craven and fled. ****** " You all know the Place de la Concorde ? 'Tis hard by the Tuilerie wall ; 'Mid terraces, fountains, and statues, There rises an obelisk tall. There rises an obelisk tall, All garnish'd and gilded the base is ; 'Tis surely the gayest of all Our beautiful city's gay places. " Around it are gardens and flowers. And the cities of France on their thrones, Each crown'd with his circlet of flowers, Sits watching this biggest of stones I I love to go sit in the sun there. The flowers and fountains to see, And to think of the deeds that were done there. In the glorious year ninety-three. " 'Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom, And though neither marble nor gilding 336 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Was used in those days to adorn Our simple republican building, Corbleu! but the Mere Guillotine Cared little lor splendor or show, 60 you gave her an axe and a beam, And a plank and a basket or so. "Awful, and proud, and erect. Here sat our rej>ublican goddess ; Each morning her table we deck'd With dainty aristocrats' bodies. The people each day flock'd around. As she sat at her meat and her wine : 'Twas always the use of our nation To witness the sovereign dine. " Young virgins Avith fair golden tresses. Old silver-hair'd jjrelates and priests, Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses. Were splendidly served at her feasts, Ventrebleu ! but we pamper'd our ogress With the best that our nation could bring, And dainty she grew in her progress. And call'd for the head of a king ! "She call'd for the blood of our king. And straight from his prison we drew him ; And to her with shouting we led him, And took him, and bound him, and slew him. ' The monarchs of Europe against me Have plotted a godless alliance; I'll fling them the head of King Louis,' She said, ' as my gage of defiance.' " I see him as now, for a moment, Away from his jailers he broke, And stood at the foot of the scaffold, And linger'd, and fain would have spoke. 'Ho, drummer! quick! silence yon Capet,' Says Santerre, 'with a beat of your drum;' Lustily then did I tap it. And the sou of St. Louis was dumb." Part II. "The glorious days of September Saw many aristocrats fall ; 'Twas then that our pikes drunk the blood In the beautiful breast of Lamballe. Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady! I seldom have look'd on her like; And I drumm'd for a gallant procession That march'd with her head on a pike. " Let's show the pale head to the Queen, We said — she'll remember it well. She look'd from the bars of her prison, And shriek'd as she saw it, and fell. We set up a shout at her screaming, We laugh'd at the fright she had shown At the sight of the head of her minion ; How she'd tremble to part with her own I " We had taken the head of King Capet, We call'd for the blood of his wife ; Undaunted she came to the scalfoid. And bared her fair neck to the knife. As she felt the foul fingers that touch'd her. She shrunk, but she deign'd not to speak : She look'd with a royal disdain, And died with a blush on her cheek. " 'Twas thus that our country was saved : So told us the safety commitiee ! But pshaw I I've the heart of a soldier, All gentleness, mercy, and pity. I loathed to assist at such deeds, And my drum beat its loudest of tunea As we offered to Justice offended The blood of the bloody tribunes. "Away with such foul recollections! No more of the axe and the block ; I saw the last fight of the sections. As they fell 'neath our guns at Saint Kock. Young Bonaparte led us that day ; When he sought the Italian frontier, I follow'd my gallant young captain, I follow'd him many a long year. " We came to an army in rags, Our general was but a boy, When we first saw the Austrian flags Flaunt proud in the fields of Savoy. In the glorious year ninety-six. We march'd to the banks of the Po ; I carried my drum and my sticks. And we laid the proud Austrian low. HISTORICAL POEMS. 337 " In triumph we enter'd Milan, We seized on the Mantuan keys ; The troops of the Emperor ran, And the Pope he fell down on his knees." — Pierre's comrades here called a fresh bottle, And, clubbing together their wealth, They drank to the Army of Italy, And General Bonaparte's health. The drummer now bared his old breast. And show'd us a plenty of scars. Rude presents that Fortune had made him In fifty victorious wars. " This came when I follow'd bold Kleber — 'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun ; And this from an Austrian sabre, , When the field of Marengo was won. " My forehead has many deep furrows, But this is the deepest of all ; A Brunswicker made it at Jena, Beside the fair river of Saal. This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it (Go'd bless him !) ; it covers a blow; I had it at Austerlitz fight, As I beat on my drum in the snow. " 'Twas thus that we conquer'd and fought; But wherefore continue the story? There's never a baby in France But has heard of our chief and our glory,— But has heard of our chief and our fame, His sorrows and triumphs can tell, How bravely Napoleon conquer'd, How bravely and sadly he fell. " It makes my old heart to beat higher To think of the deeds that I saw ; I follow'd bold Ney through the fire. And charged at the side of Murat." And so did old Peter continue His story of twenty brave years ; His audience follow'd with comments — Rude comments of curses and tears. He told how the Prussians in vain Had died in defence of their land ; His audience laugh'd at the story. And vow'd that their captain was grand ! 22 He had fought the red English, he said, In many a battle of Spain ; They cursed the red English, and pray'd To meet them and fight them again. He told them how Russia was lost, Had winter not driven them back ; And his company cursed the quick frost, And doubly they cursed the Cossack. He told how the stranger arrived ; They wept at the tale of disgrace ; And they long'd but for one battle more, The stain of their shame to efface ! "Our country their hordes overrun. We fied to the fields of Champagne, And fought them, though twenty to one, And beat them again and again ! Our warrior was conquer'd at last ; They bade him his crown to resign ; To fate and his country he }«elded The rights of himself and his line. " He came, and among us he stood. Around him we press'd in a throng. We could not regard him for weeping, Who had led us and loved us so long. ' I have led you for twenty long years,' Napoleon said ere he went ; ' Wherever was honor I found you, And with you, my sons, am content. " ' Though Europe against me was arm'd, Your chiefs and my people are true ; I still might have struggled with fortune, And baffled all Europe with you. " ' But France would have suffer'd the while ; ' Tis best that I suffer alone : I go to my place of exile. To write of the deeds we have done. " ' Be true to the king that they give you ; We may not embrace ere we part ; But, General, reach me your hand. And press me, I pray, to your heart.' " He called for our old battle-standard ; One kiss to the eagle he gave. ' Dear eagle !' he said, ' may this kiss Long sound in the hearts of the brave !' 'Twas thus that Napoleon left us ; Our people were weeping and mute, 338 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. And lie passed through the lines of his guard, And our drums beat the notes of salute. " I look'd when the drumming was o'er, I look'd, but our hero was gone ; We were destined to see him once more, When we fought on the mount of St, John. The Emperor rode through our files ; 'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn ; The lines of our warriors for miles Stretched wide through the Waterloo corn. " In thousands we stood on the plain ; The red-coats were crowning the height ; ' Go scatter yon English,' he said ; * We'll sup, lads, at Brussels to-night.' We answer'd his voice with a shout ; Our eagles were bright in the sun ; Our drums and our cannon spoke out. And the thundering battle begun. " One charge to another succeeds, Like waves that a hurricane bears ; All day do our galloping steeds Dash fierce on the enemy's squares. At noon we began the fell onset ; We charged up the Englishman's hill ; And madly we charged it at sunset — His banners were floating there still. " — Go to ! I will tell you no more ; You know how the battle was lost. Ho ! fetch me a beaker of wine. And, comrades, I'll give you a toast. I'll give you a curse on all traitors, Who j^lotted our Emperor's ruin ; And a curse on those red-coated English, Whose bayonets help'd our undoing. '' A curse on those British assassins Who order'd the slaughter of Ney ; A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured The life of our hero away. A curse on all Russians — I hate them — On all Prussian and Austrian fry ; And, oh ! but I pray we uiay meet them. And fight them again ere I die !" 'Twas thus old Peter did conclude His chronicle with curses fit. He spoke the tale in accents rude. In ruder verse I copied it. PerhajDs the tale a moral bears (All tales in time to this must come), The story of two hundred years Writ on the parchment of a drum. What Peter told with drum and stick Is endless theme for poet's peu : Is found in endless quartos thick. Enormous books by learnfed men. And ever since historian writ. And ever since a bard could sing, Doth each exalt, with all his wit, The noble art of murdering. We lote to read the glorious page. How bold Achilles kill'd his foe. And Turnus, fell'd by Trojans' rage, Went howling to the shades below. How Godfrey led his red-cross knights, How mad Orlando slash'd and slew ; There's not a single bard that writes. But doth the glorious theme renew. And while in fashion picturesque The poet rhymes of blood and blows, The grave historian, at his desk. Describes the same in classic prose. Go read the works of Reverend Cox ; You'll duly see recorded there The history of the selfsame knocks Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre„ Of battles fierce and warriors big. He writes in phrases dull and slow, And waves his cauliflower wig. And shouts, " St. George for Marlborow !" Take Doctor Southey from the shelf. An LL.D., — a peaceful man ; Good Lord, how doth he plume himself Because we beat the Corsican ! From first to last his page is fill'd AVith stirrir.g tales how blows were struck. He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd. And praises God for our good luck. HISTORICAL POEMS. 339 Some hints, 'tis true, of politics The doctors give, and statesman's art Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks, And understands the bloody part. He cares not what the cause may be, He is not nice for wrong and right ; But show liim where's the enemy, He only asks to drum and fight. They bid him fight, — perhaps he wins ; And when he tells the story o'er, The honest savage brags and grins, And only longs to fight once more. But luck may change, and valor fail, Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, And with a moral points his tale— The end of all such tales — a curse. Last year, my love, it was my hap Behind a grenadier to be, And, but he wore a hairy cap, No taller man, methinks, than me. Prince Albert and tlie Queen, God wot! (Be blessings on the glorious pair!) Before us pass'd, I saw them not, I only saw a cap of hair. Your orthodox historian puts In foremost rank the soldier thus. The red-coat bully in his boots, That hides the march of men from us. He puts him there in foremost rank. You wonder at his cap of hair : You hear his sabre's cursfed clank. His spurs are jingling everywhere. Go to ! I hate him and his trade : Who bade us so to cringe and bend, And all God's peaceful people made To such as him subservient ? Tell me what find we to admire In epaulets and scarlet coats, In men because they load and fire. And know the art of cutting throaits ? * * * * -X- * Ah, gentle, tender lady mine ! The winter wind blows cold and shrill, Come, fill me one more glass of wine. And give the silly fools their will. And what care we for war and wrack, How kings and heroes rise and fall ? Look yonder ; in his coflin black, There lies the greatest of them all ! To pluck him down, and keep him up, Died many million human souls ; 'Tis twelve o'clock, and time to sup, Bid Mary heap the fire with coals. He captured many thousand guns ; He wrote " The Great " before his namet And dying only left his sons The recollection of his shame. Though more than half the world was his, He died without a rood his own ; And borrow'd from his enemies Six foot of ground to lie upon. He fought a thousand glorious wars. And more than half the world was his, And somewhere, now, in yonder stars, Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is. William Makepeace Thackeray. HOHENLINDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low. All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 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 array'd. Each horseman drew his battle-blade. And furious every charger neigh'd To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven \ Then rush'd the steed to battle driven ; And, louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stainfed 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, 340 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph'rous 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. The Battle of the Baltic. Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown. And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line : It was ten of April morn by the chime : As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time. But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene ; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly sjiace between. "Hearts of oak!" our captains cried ; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; — Their shots along the deep slowly boom — Then ceased — and all is wail. As they strike the shatter'd sail, Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then. As he hail'd them o'er the wave : " Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! And we conquer but to save : So peace instead of death let us bring ; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king." Then Denmark bless'd our chief. That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day, While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight. Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy. Old England, raise ! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze. Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; And yet, amidst that joy and uproar. Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore ! Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died. With the gallant good Riou — Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er theii grave ! While the billow mournful rolls. And the mermaid's song condoles. Singing glory to the souls Of the brave ! Thomas Campbell. Incident of the French Came You know we French storm'd Ratisbon : A mile or so away. On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storraing-day ; HISTORICAL POEMS. 341 With neck out-thrust, you fancy hoAV, Legs wide, arms lock'd 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 reach'd 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 compress'd, Scarce any blood came through), You look'd 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, Perch'd him!" The chief's eye flash'd; his plans Soar'd up again like fire. The chief's eye flash'd, but presently Soften'd itself, as sheathes A film the mother eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes : I " You're wounded !" " Nay," his soldier's pride Touch'd to the quick, he said, " I'm kill'd, sire !" And, his chief beside. Smiling, the boy fell dead. Robert Browning. The Contrast. Written under Windsor Terrace, the Day after the Funeral op George the Third. I SAW him last on this terrace proud. Walking in health and gladness. Begirt with his court ; and in all the crowd Not a single look of sadness. Bright was the sun, and the leaves were green. Blithely the birds were singing ; The cymbal replied to the tambourine. And the bells were merrily ringing. I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, When not a word was spoken ; But every eye was dim with a tear. And the silence by sobs was broken. I have heard the earth on his cofiin pour To the muflied drum's deep rolling. While the minute-gun, with its solemn roar, Drown'd the death-bells' tolling. The time since he walk'd in his glory thus. To the grave till I saw him carried. Was an age of the mightiest change to us, But to him a night unvaried. We have fought the fight ; from his lofty throne The foe of our land we have tumbled ; And it gladden'd each eye, save his alone. For whom that foe we humbled. A daughter beloved, a queen, a son, And a son's sole child, have perish 'd ; And sad was each heart, save only the one By which they were fondest cherish'd ; For his eyes were seal'd and his mind was dark. And he sat in his age's lateness Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark Of the frailty of human greatness ; His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread Unvex'd by life's commotion. Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed On the calm of a frozen ocean. O'er him oblivion's waters boom'd As the stream of time kept flowing ; And we only heard of our king when doom'd To know that his strength was going. At intervals thus the waves disgorge, By weakness rent asunder, A piece of the wreck of the Royal George, For the people's pity and wonder. Horace Smith, 342 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The Present Crisis. When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast Euns a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west, And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time. Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instantaneous throe, When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro ; At the birth of each new Era, with a recog- nizing start, Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart. And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the Future's heart. So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill, Under continent to continent, the sense of coming ill, And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies with God In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by the sod. Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delv- ing in the nobler clod. For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along, Eound the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of right or wrong ; Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast frame Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or shame ; — In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim. Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide. In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side ; Some great cause, God's new Messiah, of- fering each the bloom or blight, Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, And the choice goes by for ever 'twixt that darkness and that light. Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand. Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land? Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone is strong. And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng Troojjs of beautiful, tall angels, to en- shield her from all wrong. Backward look across the ages, and the bea- con-moments see, That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's sea ; Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly; Never shows the choice momentous till tlie judgment hath passed by. Careless seems the great Avenger ; history's pages but record One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word ; Truth for ever on the scaffold, Wrong for ever on the throne, — Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own. We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great. Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate, But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din. List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within, — "They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin." HISTORICAL POEMS. 343 Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood, Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with blood, Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day. Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his mis- erable prey ; — Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless children play? Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust. Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just ; Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside. Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified. And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied. Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, — they were souls that stood alone. While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone, Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine. By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design. By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track, Toiling up new Calvaries, ever with the cross that turns not back, And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet-hearts hath burned Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned. For Humanity sweeps onward : where to- day the martyr stands, On the morrow crouches Judas wdth the silver in his hands ; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn. While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into His- tory's golden urn. 'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves, AVorshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime ; — Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time? Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth Rock sublime ? They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts, Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all vir- tue was the Past's ; But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free. Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea. They have rights who dare maintain them ; we are traitors to our sires, Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires ; Shall we make their creed our jailer ? Shall we, in our haste to slay. From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day? New occasions teach new duties ; Time makes ancient good uncouth ; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth ; Lo! before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be. Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea. Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key. James Russell Lowell. 344 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Casabianca. The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled ; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form. The flames roll'd on — he would not go Without his father's word ; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He call'd aloud, " Say, father, say, If yet my task is done ?" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. " Speak, father," once again he cried, " If I may yet be gone !" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on. Upon his brow he felt their breath. And in his waving hair. And look'd from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair. And shouted but once more aloud, " My father, must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud. The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendor wild. They caught the flag on high. And stream'd above the gallant child Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder-sound — The boy !— oh, where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strew'd the sea ! — With mast, and helm, and pennon fair. That well had borne their part, — But the noblest thing which perish'd there Was that young, faithful heart ! Felicia Dorothea Hemans. The Angels of Buena Vista. Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away. O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array. Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. " Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy on their souls !" Who is losing? who is winning? — "Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain-rain." Holy Mother ! keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena, look once more. " Still I see the fearful Avhirhvind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweep- ing down its mountain-course." Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has roll'd away ; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Minon wheels ; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels. " Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now retreat and now advance ! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance ! Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall : Like a ploughshare in the fallow, througk them ploughs the Northern ball." Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on : Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won ? "Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall, O'er the dying rush the living ; pray, my sisters, for them all ! HISTORICAL POEMS. 345 " Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting : Blessed Mother, save my brain ! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise ; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes ! " O my heart's love ! O my dear one ! lay Miy poor head on my knee: Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see? O my husband, brave and gentle ! O my Bernal, look once more On the blessed cross before thee ! Mercy ! mercy ! all is o'er!" Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one down to rest ; Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said ; To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away ; But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. With a stifled cry of horror straight she turn'd away her head ; With a sad and bitter feeling look'd she back upon her dead ; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain. And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. VVhisper'd low the dying soldier, press'd her hand and faintly smiled : Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child ? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied ; With her kiss upon his forehead, " Moth- er !" murmur'd he and died ! " A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth. From some gentle sad-eyed mother, weep- ing, lonely, in the North !" Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead. And turn'd to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled. Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leav- ing blood and death behind ; Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust the Avounded strive ; Hide your faces, holy angels ! O thou Christ of God, forgive !" Sink, O night, among thy mountains ! let the cool gray shadows fall ; Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all ! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle roll'd. In its sheath the sabre rested, and the can- non's lips grew cold. But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food ; Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung. And the dying foeman bless'd them in a strange and Northern tongue. Not wholly lost, Father! is this evil world of ours ; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers ; From its smoking hell of battle. Love and Pity send their prayer. And still thy white-wing'd angels hover dimly in our air. John Greenleaf Whittiek. 346 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. Marco Bozzaris. At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power : In dreams, through camj) and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard, Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, Then press'd that monarch's throne — a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood. There had the glad earth drunk their blood. On old Plataea's day ; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquer'd there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far, as they. An hour pass'd on — the Turk awoke : That bright dream was his last ; He woke, to hear his sentries shriek, " To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" He woke, to die 'midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band : " Strike, till the last arm'd foe expires ; Strike, for your altars and your fires ; Strike, for the green graves of your sires ; God and your native land !" They fought, like brave men, long and well ; They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; They conquer'd — but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. " His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber. Death, Come to the mother's, when she feels. For the first time, her first-born's breath ; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake-shock, the ocean-storm ; Come when the heart beats high, and warm, With banquet-song, and dance and wine ; And thou art terrible — the tear, The groan, the knel J; the pall, the bier ; And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is wrought, Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought Come in her crowning hour, and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prison'd men ; Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land ; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the laud-wind, from woods of palm And orange-groves, and fields of balm. Blew o'er the Haytian seas. Bozzaris ! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee. Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb. HISTORICAL POEMS. 347 But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone ; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; For thee she rings the birth-day bells, Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch and cottage bed ; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives, for thy sake, a deadlier blow ; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years. Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears ; And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak. The memory of her buried joys. And even she who gave thee birth. Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth. Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, One of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die. Fitz-Greene Halleck. MONTEBEY. We were not many— we who stood Before the iron sleet that day ; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have with us been at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot it hail'd In deadly drifts of fiery spray. Yet not a single soldier quail'd When wounded comrades round them wail'd Their dying shout at Monterey. And on— still on our column kept Through walls of flame its withering way ; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey. The foe himself recoil'd aghast. When, striking where he strongest lay, Wc swoop'd his flanking batteries past. And braving full their murderous blast, Storm'd home the towers of Monterey. Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play ; Where orange-boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey. We are not many — we who press'd Beside the brave who fell that day— But who of us has not confess'd He'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey? Charles Fenno Hoffman. ON THE Extinction of the Venetian Republic. Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee ; And was the safeguard of the West : the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a Maiden City, bright and free ; No guile seduced, no force could vio- late ; And, when She took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade. Those titles vanish, and that strength de- cay ; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reach'd its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is pass'd away. William Wordsworth. 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 ; 348 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 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 I 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. 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 McGregor's. Oh ! I ken it weel ; It's the grandest o' them a' I " 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' f 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 ; But 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. 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. And the pipes played Auld Lang Syne. Robert T. S. Lowell. The Charge of the Light Bri- gade. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward. All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns !" he said: Into the valley of Death Eode the six hundred. HISTORICAL POEMS. 349 " Forward, the Light Brigade !" Was there a man dismay'd? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd : Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die : Into the valley of Death Eode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd ; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred : Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air. Sabring the gunners there. Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd : Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right through the line they broke ; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not — Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd ; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of tl;..em. Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made ! All the world wonder'd. Honor the charge they made I Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred 1 Alfred Tennyson. All Quiet Alokg the Potomac. "All quiet along the Potomac," they say, " Except, now and then, a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket." 'Tis nothing — a private or two now and then Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an oflScer lost — only one of the men Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dream- ing; Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleam- ing. A tremulous sigh of the gentle night- wind Through the forest-leaves softly is creep- ing, While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread As he tramps from the rock to the foun- tain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle- bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack ; his face, dark and grim. Grows gentle with memories tender As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep — For their mother; may Heaven defend her! The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmur ed vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 350 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Then, drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling. And gathers his gun closer up to its place. As if to keep down the heart-swelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree. The footstep is lagging and weary ; Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light. Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? Was it moonlight so wondrously flash- ing?^ It looked like a rifle — " Ha ! Mary, good- bye!" The red life-blood is ebbing and plash- ing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river ; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — The picket's off" duty for ever ! Ethel Lynn Beers. The Cumberland. Magnificent thy fate. Once Mistress of the Seas I No braver vessel ever flung A pennon to the breeze ; No bark e'er died a death so grand ; Such heroes never vessel manned; Your parting broadside broke the wave That surged above your patriot grave ; Your flag, the gamest of the game. Sank proudly with you — not in shame. But in its ancient glory ; The memory of its parting gleam Will never fade while poets dream ; The echo of your dying gun Will last till man his race has run, Then live in Angel Story. Author Unknown. Barbara Frietchie. Up from the meadows rich with corn. Clear in the cool September morn. The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as the garden of the Lord To tlie eyes of the famish'd rebel horde. On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee march'd over the mountain- wall, — Over the mountains winding down. Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars. Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapp'd in the morning wind : the sun Of noon look'd down, and saw^ not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten ; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men liaul'd 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 slouch'd hat left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight. " Halt I" — the dust-broAvn ranks stood fast, "Fire!" — out blazed the rifle-blast. It shiver'd the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff" Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf. She lean'd 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. HISTORICAL POEMS. 351 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came ; The nobler nature within him stirr'd 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 ! John Greenleaf Whittiee. SHERIDAN'S RIDE. Up from the south, at break of day, 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 Thunder'd along the horizon's bar ; And louder yet into Winchester roll'd The roar of that red sea uncontroll'd. Making the blood of the listener cold. As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away. But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down ; And there, through the flush of the morn- ing 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 stretch'd away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away. Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thun- dering 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 strain'd to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flow'd 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 eye full of fire. But, lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; He is snufiing the smoke of the roaring fray. With Sheridan only five miles away. 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. Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dash'd down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas. And the wave of retreat check'd its course there, because The sight of the master compell'd it to pause. 352 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; By the flash of his eye, and the red nos- tril's play He seem'd 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. History. Thou chronicle of crimes! I read no more — For I am one who willingly would love His fellow-kind. O gentle Poesy, Receive me from the court's polluted scenes, From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war. Receive me to your haunts, — that I may nurse My nature's better feelings, for my soul Sickens at man's misdeeds ! I spake — when lol There stood before me, in her majesty, Clio, the strong-eyed Muse. Upon her brow Sate a calm anger. Go, young man, she cried, Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy soul Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet, That love-sick maids may weep upon thy page. Soothed with delicious sorrow. Oh shame! shame ! Was it for this I waken'd thy young mind ? Was it for this I made thy swelling heart Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy boy's eye So kindle when that glorious Spartan died? Boy ! boy ! deceive me not ! what if the tale Of murder'd millions strike a chilling pang. What if Tiberius in his island stews. And Philip at his beads, alike inspire Strong anger and contempt; hast thou not risen With nobler feelings ? with a deeper love For freedom ? Yes ; if righteously thy I soul Loathes the black history of human crimes And human misery, let that spirit fill Thy song, and it shall teach thee, boy ! to raise Strains such as Oato might have deign'd to hear. As Sidney in his hall of bliss may love. Egbert Southey. Poems of Patriotism. The Star- Spangled Banner. Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light What so proudly we hail'd at the twi- light's last gleaming — Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight. O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming ? And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air. Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there ; Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep. Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream ; 'Tis the star-spangled banner ; oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! A.nd where are the foes who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 23 A home and a country should leave us no more ? Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave ; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the laud of the free, and the home of the brave. Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ! Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we mtist, when our cause it is just ; And this be our motto : " In God is our trust ;" And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. Francis Scott Key. THE A3IERICAN FLAG. When Freedom from her mountain-height Unfurl'd her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there , She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies. And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light : 353 354 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Then from his mansion in the sun She call'd her eagle-bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. Majestic monarch of the cloud ! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven. When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven — Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur-smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar. Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly. The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet-tone. And the long line comes gleaming on ; Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet. Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn. And as his springing steps advance Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud. And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; When death, careering on the gale. Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home I By angel hands to valor given ; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. And all thy hues were born in heaven. For ever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With freedom's soil beneath our feet. And freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? Joseph Rodman Drake. America. My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty. Of thee I sing ; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrim's pride, From every mountain-side Let freedom ring. My native country, thee — Land of the noble, free — Thy name I love ; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills ; My heart with rapture thrills Like that above. Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom's song : Let mortal tongues awake ; Let all that breathe partake ; Let rocks their silence break, — The sound prolong. Our fathers' God, to Thee, Author of liberty. To Thee we sing ; Long may our land be bright With freedom's holy light; Protect us by Thy might. Great God, our King. Samuel F. Smith. Battle- HY3IN of the Republic. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored ; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword : His truth is marching on. POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 355 I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps ; They have buikled Him an altar in the evening dews and damps ; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps : His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish'd rows of steel : " As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal ; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat : Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, my feet ! Our Cxod is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea. With a glory in His bosom that trans- figures you and me : As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free. While God is marching on. Julia Ward Howe. Rule, Britannia. When Britain first, at Heaven's com- mand. Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sang this strain : Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. The nations, not »o blest as thee, Must in their turns to tyrants fall ; While thou shalt flourish, great and free, The dread and envy of them all : Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke : As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak : Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, But work their woe, and thy renown. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. To thee belongs the rural reign ; Thy cities shall with commerce shine : All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles, thine : Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair ; Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair : Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. James Thomson. God Save the King. God save our gracious king! Long live our noble king ! God save the king ! Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us — God save the king ! O Lord our God, arise ! Scatter his enemies, And make them fall, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks ; On him our hopes we fix, God save us all ! Thy choicest gifts in store On him be pleased to pour ; Long may he reign. May he defend our laws, And ever give us cause, To sing with heart and voice — God save the king ! Hejtrv Carey 356 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Men of England. Men of England ! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood ! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood ! — By the foes you've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds you've done, Trophies captured — breaches mounted — Navies conquer'd — kingdoms won ! Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery Where no public virtues bloom ? What avail, in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch and tomb? Pageants ! — Let the world revere us For our people's rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours, — IMartyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts! We're the sons of sires that baffled Crown 'd and mitred tyranny ; — They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights — so will we ! Thomas CAMrBKtL. Ye Mariners of England. Ye Mariners of England That guard our native seas I Whose flag has braved, a thousand years. The battle and the breeze ! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe : And sweep through the deep. While the stormy winds do blow ; AVhile the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave — For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave : Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow. As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow ; While the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow. Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steej) ; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below — As they roar on the shore. When the stormy winds do blow ; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn ; Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of jieace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors I Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name. When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. Thomas Campbell. 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 ! aivake ! awake I 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 your friends all night ; You have basked in your sweethearts' smiles so bright ; POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 357 Come, part with them all for a while again, — Be lovers in dreams ; when awake, be men, Tu7-n 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 I turn out ! From every valley and hill there come The clamoring voices of fife and drum ; And out on 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. The Conquered Banner. Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary, Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary : Furl it, fold it, — it is best ; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it, And its foes now scorn and brave it : Furl it, hide it, — let it rest I Take that Banner down ! 'tis tattered ; Broken is its staff and shattered. And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high ; Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it. Hard to think there's none to hold it. Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh ! Furl that Banner — furl it sadly ; Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly. Swore it should forever wave — Swore that foemen's swords could never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever. And that flag should wave forever O'er their freedom or their grave ! Furl it ! — for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low ; And the Banner — it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe ; For though conquered, they adore it — Love the cold dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it. Pardon those who trailed and tore it ; And oh, wildly they deplore it Now to furl and fold it so ! Furl that Banner ! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust ! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages — Furl its folds though now we must I Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ; Treat it gently — it is holy, For it droops above the dead ; Touch it not — unfold it never; Let it droop there, furled forever, — For its people's hopes are fled. Abram J. Ryan. Its BA3IE, and it'S Hame. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree. The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree ; It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a' ; But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie. An' green it will grow in my ain countree. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 358 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. There's naught now frae ruin my country can save But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave, That a' the nohle martyrs who died for loyaltie May rise again and fight for their ain countree. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it's liame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save, The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave ; But the sun tliro' the mirk blinks blythe in my ee: " I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree." It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! Allan Cunningham. The Sun Rises Bright in France. The sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he ; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree. Oh, it's nae my ain ruin That saddens aye my ee. But the dear Marie I left ahin', Wi' sweet bairnies three. My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie, An' smiled my ain Marie ; I've left a' my heart behin' In my ain countree. The bud comes back to summer, And the blossom to the bee, But I'll win back — oh never To my ain countree. Oh, I am leal to high Heaven, Where soon I hope to be. An' there I'll meet you a' soon Frae my ain countree ! Allan Cunningham. My HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth : Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; Farewell to the .straths and green valleys below ; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here. My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer. Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. RoBEKT Burns. Border Ballad. March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order ? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the blue bonnets are bound for the border. Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head. Many a crest that is famous in story. Mount and make ready, then, Sons of the mountain-glen, Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing. Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 359 Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding. War-steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms and march in good order, England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the blue bonnets came over the border. Sir Walter Scott. Pibroch of Donuil Dhu. Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons ! Come in your war-array, Gentles and commons. Come from the deep glen, and From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlochy. Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one. Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one. Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar ; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges : Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended ; Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded : Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster. Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather ! Wide waves the eagle plume. Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades^ Forward each man set ! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset! Sir Walter Scott, The Exile of Erin. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; For his country he sigh'd when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad de- votion. For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fervor of youth's warm emotion. He sung the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours. Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh. Erin, my country ! though sad and for- saken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken. And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! Oh, cruel Fate ! wilt thou never replace me Li a mansion of peace, where no peril.s can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to de- plore ! 360 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild- wood ? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood, And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? Oh, my sad heart, long abandon'd by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall with- out measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot re- call. Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his bless- ing; Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavournin ! Erin go bragh ! Thomas Campbell. Song of the Greek Poet. The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — Where grew the arts of war and peace, — Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet ; But all except their sun is set. The Scian and the Teian muse. The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea ; And musing there an hour alone, 1 dream'd that Greece might still be free ; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; And ships by thousands lay below, And men in nations, — all were his ! He counted them at break of day, — And when the sun set, where were they? And where are they ? and where art thou. My country ? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, — The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine ? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To fgel at least a patriot's shame, E'en as I sing, suffuse my face ; For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks a blush, — for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush ? — our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred, grant but three To make a new Thermopylae ! What, silent still? and silent all? Ah no ! the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, " Let one living head, But one, arise, — we come, we come !" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain, — in vain ; strike other chords ; Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, How answers each bold Bacchanal ! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gave, — Think ye he meant them for a slave ? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! We will not think of themes like these I It made Anacreon's song divine; He served — but served Polycrates, — A tyrant ; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 361 The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades ! Oh that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind ! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! On Suli's rock and Parga's shore Exists the remnant of a line, Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there perhaps some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks,— They have a king who buys and sells. In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells ; But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! Our virgins dance beneath^ the shade, — I see their glorious black eyes shine ; But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves. Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, INIay hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; There, swan-like, let me sing and die. A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine,— Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! Lord Byron. A Court Lady. Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark, Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark. Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race ; Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life. She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, " Bring That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king. " Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote, Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the throat. "Diamonds to fasten the hair, and dia- monds to fasten the sleeves, Laces to drop from their rays, like a pow- der of snow from the eaves." Gorgeous she entered the sunlight, which gather'd her up in a flame. While straight in her open carriage she to the hospital came. In she went at the door, and gazing from end to end, " Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend." Up she pass'd through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed : Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his head. " Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou," she cried. And smiled like Italy on him : he dream'd in her face and died. Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second : He was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckon'd. Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer. "Art thou a Komagnole?" Her eyes drove the lightnings before her. " Austrian and priest had join'd to double and tighten the cord Able to bind thee, O strong one,— free by the stroke of a sword. " Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the past." n62 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Down she stcpp'd to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's, Young, and pathetic with dying, — a deep black hole in the curls. "Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain, Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the slain ?" Kind as a mother herself, she touch'd his cheeks with her hands : " Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands." On she pass'd to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball : Kneeling, . . ."0 more than my broth'^r ! how shall I thank thee for all ? " Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line, But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine. " Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossess'd : But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest !" Ever she pass'd on her way, and came to a couch where pined One with a face from Venetia, white with a hojie out of mind. Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name, But two great crystal tears were all that falter'd and came. Only a tear for Venice? — she turn'd as in passion and loss, And stoojj'd to his forehead and kiss'd it, as if she were kissing the cross. Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on then to another. Stern and strong in his death. " And dost thou suffer, my brother?" Holding his hands in hers: — " Out of the Piedmont lion Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweet- est to live or to die on." Holding his cold rough hands, — " Well, oh, well have ye done In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone." Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring, — " That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the Court of the King." Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The Harp that Once through Tara'S Balls. The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er. And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes. The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. Thomas Mooke. The EXILE'S Song. Oh, why left I my hame ? Why did I cross the deep ? Oh, why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep ? I sigh for Scotia's shore. And I gaze across the sea. But I canna get a blink O' my ain countree I The palm tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs ,* And to the Indian maid The bulbul sweetly sings ; But I dinna see the broom Wi' its tassels on the lea. Nor hear the lintie's sang O' my ain countree I POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 363 Oh, here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn ; For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie ; But the sun of Freedom shines In my ain countree I There's a hope for every woe. And a balm for every pain. But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea; But the weary ne'er return To their ain countree ! ROBEKT GiLFILLAN. How Sleep the Brave. How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their Country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung. By forms unseen their dirge is sung : There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay. And Freedom shall a while repair To dwell a weeping hermit there ! William Collins. An Ode. In Imitation of ALC-aEus. What constitutes a state ? Not high-raised battlement or labor'd mound, Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crown'd ; Not bays and broad-arm'd ports. Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; Not staiT'd and spangled courts, Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride. No : men, high-minded men. With powers as far above dull brutes en- dued In forest, brake, or den. As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude , Men who their duties know. But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, # Prevent the long-aim'd blow. And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : These constitute a state ; And sovereign Law, that state's collected will. O'er thrones and globes elate Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks. And e'en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this heaven-loved isle, Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! No more shall Freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? Since all must life resign. Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline. And steal inglorious to the silent grave. Sir William Jones. As BY THE Shore at Break of DAY. As by the shore at break of day, A vanquish'd chief expiring lay, Upon the sands, with broken sword, He traced his farewell to the free ; And there the last unfinish'd word He dying wrote, was " Liberty !" At night a sea-bird shriek'd the knell Of him who thus for freedom fell ; The words he wrote, ere evening came, Were cover'd by the sounding sea ;— So pass away the cause and name Of him who dies for liberty ! Thomas Moore. 364 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. A Forced Recr uit a t Solferino. In the ranks of the Austrian you found him ; He died with his face to you all : Yet bury him here, where around him You honor your bravest that fall. Venetian, fair-featured and slender, He lies shot to death in his youth, With a smile on his lips over-tender For any mere soldier's dead mouth. No stranger, and yet not a traitor ! Though alien the cloth on his breast. Underneath it how seldom a greater Young heart has a shot sent to rest ! By your enemy tortured and goaded To march with them, stand in their file. His musket (see !) never was loaded — He facing your guns with that smile. As orphans yearn on their mothers, He yearned to your patriot bands, — " Let me die for one Italy, brothers. If not in your ranks, by your hands ! " Aim straightly, fire steadily ; spare me A ball in the body, which may Deliver my heart here, and tear me This badge of the Austrian away." So thought he, so died he this morning. What then ? many others have died. Ay — but easy for men to die scorning The deatb-stroke,who fought side by side ; One tricolor floating above them ; Struck down mid triumphant acclaims Of an Italy rescued to love them. And brazen the brass with their names. But he — without witness or honor. Mixed, shared in his country's regard, With the tyrants who march in upon her — Died faithful and passive : 'twas hard. 'Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction Cut off from the guerdon of sons. With most filial obedience, conviction, His soul kissed the lips of her guns. That moves you ? Nay, grudge not to show it. While digging a grave for him here. The others who died, says our poet. Have glory : let him have a tear. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Boat-Song. Hail to the Chief who in triumph ad- vances ! Honor'd and bless'd be the ever-green Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances. Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew. Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Send our shout back again, — " Eoderigh Vich Aljiine dhu, ho ! ieroe !" Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; When the whirlwind has stripjj'd every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. Moor'd in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock. Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise again, — " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe !" Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen J^'ruin, And Bannachar's groans to our slogan rejjlied ; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin. And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe; Lennox and Leven-Glen Shake when they hear again, — "Eoderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 565 Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands ! Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green pine ! Oh! that the rosebud that graces yon islands, Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine ! Oh that some seedling gem. Worthy such noble stem, Honor'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow ! Loud should Clan- Alpine then Ring from his deepmost glen, — "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" Sir Walter Scott. Jt is Great for our Country to DIE. Oh! it is great for our country to die where ranks are contending : Bright is the wreath of our fame ; glory awaits us for aye — Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never ending — Glory that never shall fade— never, oh ! never away. Oh! it is sweet for our country to die! How softly reposes Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love. Wet by a mother's warm tears ! they crown him with garlands of roses. Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above. Not to the shades shall the youth descend who for country hath perished ; Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile ; There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished ; Gods love the young who ascend pure from the funeral pile. ?^ot to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river ; Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue-rolling sea ; But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted for ever ; There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free. Oh ! then, how great for our country to die. in the front rank to perish. Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in our ear ' Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memorj^ cherish ; We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music to hear. James Gates Percival. The Heart of the IVar. (1864.) Peace in the clover-scented air, And stars within the dome; And underneath, in dim repose, A plain, New England home. Within, a murmur of low tones And sighs from hearts oppressed, Merging in prayer, at last, that brings The balm of silent rest. I've closed a hard day's work, Marty,— The evening chores are done; And you are weary with the house. And with the little one. But he is sleeping sweetly now. With all our pretty brood ; So come and sit upon my knee. And it will do me good. Oh, Marty ! I must tell you all The trouble in my heart. And you must do the best you can To take and bear your part. You've seen the shadow on my face; You've felt it day and night; For it has filled our little home, And banished all its light. I did not mean it should be so. And yet I might have known That hearts which live as close as ours Can never keep their own. But we are fallen on evil times, And, do whate'er I may. My heart grows sad about the war, And sadder every day. 866 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. I think about it when I work, And when I try to rest, And never more than when your head Is pillowed on my breast; For then I see the camp-fires blaze. And sleej^ing men around, Who turn their faces toward their homes, And dream upon the ground. I think about the dear, brave boys. My mates in other years, Who pine for home and those they love, Till I am choked with tears. With shouts and cheers they marched away On glory's shining track, But, ah I how long, how long they stay I How few of them come back ! One sleeps beside the Tennessee, And one beside the James, And one fought on a gallant ship And perished in its flames. And some, struck down by fell disease. Are breathing out their life ; And others, maimed by cruel wounds. Have left the deadly strife. Ah, Marty ! Marty, only think Of all the boys have done And suffered in this weary war I Brave heroes, eveiy one ! Oh, often, often in the night I hear their voices call : " Come on and help us ! Is it right That we should bear it all f" And when I kneel and try to pray. My thoughts are never free. But cling to those who toil and fight And die for you and me. And when I pray for victory. It seems almost a sin To fold my hands and ask for what I will not help to win. Oh, do not cling to me and cry. For it will break my heart ; I'm sure you'd rather have me die Than not to bear my part. You think that some should stay at home To care for those away ; But still I'm helpless to decide If I should go or stay. For, Marty, all the soldiers love. And all are loved again ; And I am loved, and love, perhaps, No more than other men. I cannot tell — I do not know — Which way my duty lies. Or where the Lord would have me build My fire of sacrifice. I feel — I know — I am not mean ; And, though I seem to boast, I'm sure that I would give my life To those who need it most. Perhaps the Spirit will reveal That which is fair and right ; So, Marty, let us humbly kneel And pray to Heaven for light. Peace in the clover-scented air. And stars within the dome ; And underneath, in dim repose, A plain, New England home. Within, a widow in her weeds. From whom all joy is flown, Who kneels among her sleeping babes. And weeps and prays alone. J. G. Holland, Cavalry Song. Our good steeds snuff the evening air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle ; The foeman's fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabres jingle ! Halt ! Each carbine sends its whizzing ball : Now, cling ! clang ! forward all. Into the fight ! Dash on beneath the smoking dome: Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to Heaven ! No thoughts of home ; The guidons that we bear are dearer. Charge ! Cling ! clang ! forward all ! Heaven help those whose horses fall I Cut left and right ! They flee before our fierce attack ! They fall I they spread in broken surges ! Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. Wheel I The bugles sound the swift recall : Cling I clang ! backward all ! Home, and good-night ! Edmund Clarence Stedman. ■ POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 367 BOADICUA. AN ODE. When the Britisli warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien. Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief. Princess ! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish — write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states ; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates I Other Romans shall arise. Heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land. Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions Caesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway ; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they. Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire. Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow : Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; Dying, hurled them at the foe. Ruffians, pitiless as proud. Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you. William Cowper. Concord Hymn. Sung at the Completion of the Concord Monument, April 19, 1836. By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled. Here once the embattled fartners stood. And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept ; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream. We set to-day a votive stone ; That memory may their deed redeem. When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free. Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. Ralph Waldo Emekson. On the Shores of Tennessee. " Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey — Massa won't be with you long ; And I fain would hear the south wind Bring once more the sound to me Of the wavelets softly breaking On the shores of Tennessee. 368 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. " Mournful though the ripples murmur As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I've loved so long and well, I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop. Sailing up the Tennessee. "And, Pompey, while old massa's waiting For Death's last despatch to come. If that exiled starry banner Should come proudly sailing home. You shall greet it, slave no longer ; Voice and hand shall both be free That shout and point to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee." " Massa's berry kind to Pompey, But ole darkey's happy here. Where he's tended corn and cotton For dese many a long-gone year. Over yonder missis' sleeping — No one tends her grave like me : Mebbe she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee. " 'Pears like she was watching massa ; If Pompey should beside him stay, Mebbe she'd remember better How for him she used to pray — Telling him that 'way up yonder White as snow his soul would be. Ransomed by the Lord of heaven. Out of life in Tennessee." Silently the tears were rolling Down the poor old dusky face. As he stepped behind his master. In his long-accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them As they gazed on rock and tree, Pictured in the placid waters Of the rolling Tennessee. Master, dreaming of the battle Where he fought by Marion's side, Where he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride ; Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee, Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervain of Tennessee. Still the south wind fondly lingers 'Mid the veteran's silver hair ; Still the bondman, close beside him. Stands behind the old arm-chair; With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Shading eyes, he bends to see Where the woodland, boldly jutting, Turns aside the Tennessee. Thus he watches ; cloud-born shadows Glide from tree to mountain-crest, Softly creeping, aye and evei'. To the river's yielding breast. Ha ! above the foliage yonder, Something flutters wild and free ! "Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! The flag's come back to Tennessee !" " Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, Help me stand on foot once more, That I may salute the coloi's As they pass my cabin-door. Here's the paper signed that frees you, — Give a freeman's shout with me! ' God and Union !' be our watchword Evermore in Tennessee I" Then the trembling voice grew fainter. And the limbs refused to stand ; One prayer to Jesus — and the soldier Glided to that better land. When the flag went down the river Man and master both were free, While the ring-dove's note Avas mingled With the rippling Tennessee. Ethel Lynn Beers. Legendary and Ballad Poetry. SIR Patrick Spens. The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine : " Oh where will I get a skeely skipper To sail this ship of mine ?" Oh up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee : " Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail'd the sea." Our king has written a braid letter, And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. " To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem ; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame !" The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud, loud laughfed he ; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded liis e'e. " Oh wha is this has done this deed. And tauld the king o' me. To send us out at this time of the year. To sail upon the sea? " Be't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet, Our ship maun sail the faem ; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame." They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn Wi' a' the speed they may ; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week In Noroway, but twae, 24 When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say : " Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud And a' our queenis fee." " Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud ! Fu' loud I hear ye lie ! " For I hae brought as much white monie As gane my men and me, — And I hae brought a half-fou o' gude red goud Out owre the sea wi' me. " Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn." " Now, ever alake ! my master dear, I fear a deadly storm ! " I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm." They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league, but barely three. When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap. It was sic a deadly storm ; And the waves cam o'er the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn. " Oh where will I get a gude sailor To take my helm in hand. Till I get up to the tall topmast To see if I can spy land?" " Oh here am 1, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, 369 370 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. Till you go up to the tall to^Dmast, — But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." He hadna gane a step, a step, A step, but barely ane, When a boult flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. " Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine. And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in." They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine. And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side, — But still the sea came in. Oh laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heel'd shoon ! But lang or a' the play was play'd. They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather-bed That float'd on the faem ; And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame. The ladyes wrang their fingers white, — The maidens tore their hair ; A' for the sake of their true loves, — For them they'll see nae mair. Oh lang, lang may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans, into their hand. Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand ! And lang, lang may the maidens sit, Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves, — For them they'll see nae mair. Half owre, half owre to Aberdour 'Tis fifty fathoms deep. And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. Author Unknown. The Heir of Linne. Part First. Lithe and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne : tt is of a lord of faire Scotland, Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. His father was a right good lord. His mother a lady of high degree ; But they, alas ! were dead, him froe, And he lov'd keeping companie. To spend the daye with merry cheare^ To drink and revell every night, To card and dice from eve to morne, It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare. To alwaye spend and never spare, I wott, an' it were the king himselfe, Of gold and fee he mote be bare. Soe fares the unthrifty Lord of Linne Till all his gold is gone and spent ; And he maun sell his landes so broad. His house, and landes, and all his rent. His father had a keen stewarde. And John o' the Scales was called hee : But John is become a gentel-man. And John has gott both gold and fee. Sayes, Welcome, welcome, Lord of Linne, Let naught disturb thy merry cheere ; Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad. Good store of gold He give thee heere. My gold is gone, my money is spent; My lande nowe take it unto thee : Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales. And thine for aye my lande shall bee. Then John he did him to record draw, And John he cast him a gods-pennie ; But for every pounde that John agreed. The lande, I wis, was well worth three. He told him the gold upon the borde. He was right glad his land to winne; The gold is thine, the land is mine. And now He be the Lord of Linne. Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne. All but a poore and lonesome lodge, That stood far off in a lonely glenne. For soe he to his father hight. My so.me, when I am gonne, sayd hee, Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, And thou wilt spend thy gold so free ; LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 371 But sweare me nowe upon the roode, That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; For when all the world doth frown on thee, Thou there shalt find a faithful friend. The heire of Linne is full of golde : And come with me, my friends, sayd j hee, Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make. And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. They ranted, drank, and merry made. Till all his gold it waxed thinne ; And then his friendes they slunk away; They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. He had never a jjenny left in his purse, Never a j^enny left but three, And one was brass, another was lead. And another it was white money. Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, Nowe well-adaye, and woe is mee. For when I was the Lord of Linne, I never wanted gold nor fee. But many a trustye friend have I, And why shold I feel dole or care? He borrow of them all by turnes, Soe need I not be never bare. But one, I wis, was not at home ; Another had payd his gold away ; Another call'd him thriftless loone, And bade him sharpely wend his way. Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, Now well-aday, and woe is me ; For when I had my landes so broad, On me they liv'd right merrilee. To beg my bread from door to door, I wis, it were a brenning shame ; To rob and steal it were a sinne : To worke my limbs I cannot frame. Now He away to lonesome lodge, For there my father bade me wend: When all the world should frown on mee I there shold find a trusty friend. Part Second. Away then hyed the heire of Linne O'er hill and holt, and moor and fenne. Untill he came to lonesome lodge, That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. He looked up, he lookfed downe, In hope some comfort for to winne : But bare and lothly were the walles. Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne. The little windowe dim and darke Was hung Avith ivy, brere, and yewe; No shimmering sunn here ever shone, No halesome breeze here ever blew. No chair, ne table he mote spye, No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, Naught save a rope with renning noose, That dangling hung up o'er his head. And over it in broad lettfers. These words were written so plain to see: " Ah ! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all And brought thyself to penurie ? "All this my boding mind misgave, I therefore left this trusty friend : Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, And all thy shame and sorrows end." Sorely shent wi' this rebuke. Sorely shent was the heire of Linne ; His heart, I wis, was near to brast With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne. Never a word spake the heire of Linne, Never a word he spake but three : " This is a trusty friend indeed. And is right welcome unto mee." Then round his necke the corde he drewe, And sprang aloft with his bodle : When lo ! the ceiling burst in twaine, And to the ground come tumbling hee. Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, Ne knewe if he were live or dead ; At length he look'd, and sawe a bille, And in it a key of gold so redd. He took the bill, and lookt it on. Strait good comfort found he there : Itt told him of a hole in the wall. In which there stood three chests in-fere. 872 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Two were full of the beaten golde, The third was full of white monfey ; And over them in broad letters These words were written so plaine to see : " Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere ; Amend thy life and follies past ; For but thou amend thee of thy life, That rope must be thy end at last." And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne ; And let it bee, but if I amend : For here I will make mine avow. This reade shall guide me to the end. Away then went with a merry cheare, Away then went the heire of Linne ; I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, Till John o' the Scales house he did winne. And when he came to John o' the Scales, Upp at the speere then looked hee ; There sate three lords upon a rowe. Were drinking of the wine so free. And John himselfe sate at the bord-head. Because now Lord of Linne was hee. I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales, One forty pence for to lend mee. Away, away, thou thriftless loone ; Away, away, this may not bee : For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, If ever I trust thee one pennie. Then bespake the heir of Linne, To John o' the Scales wife then spake hee : Madame, some almes on me bestowe, I pray for sweet saint Charitie. Away, away, thou thriftless loone, I sweare thou gettest no alnies of mee ; For if we should hang any losel heere. The first we wold begin with thee. Then bespake a good fellowe, Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord ; Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne ; Some time tliou wast a well good lord : Some time a good fellow thou hast been, And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; Therefore He lend thee forty pence, And other forty if need bee. And ever I pray thee, John o' the Scales, To let him sit in thy companie : For well I wot thou hadst his land. And a good bargain it was to thee. UiJ then spake him John o' the Scales, All wood he answer'd him againe : Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd, But I did lose by that bargaine. And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, Before these lords so faire and free. Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee. I drawe you to record, lords, he said. With that he cast him a gods-pennie : Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne, And here, good John, is thy money. And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, And layd them down upon the bord : All woe begone was John o' the Scales, Soe shent he cold say never a word. He told him forth the good red gold. He told it forth mickle dinne. The gold is thine, the land is mine. And now Ime againe the Lord of Linne. Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellowe, Forty pence thou didst lend mee : Now I am againe the Lord of Linne, And forty pounds I will give thee. He make thee keeper of my forrest, Both of the wild deere and the tame , For but I reward thy bounteous heart, I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame. Now welladay ! sayth Joan o' the Scales : Now welladay ! and woe is my life ! Yesterday I was Lady of Linne, Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife. Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne; Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee : Christs curse light on me, if ever again I bring my lands in jeopardy. Author Unknown. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 373 SKIPPER IRESON'S RiDE. Of all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme, — On . ipuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, Witch astride of a human back, Islam's prophet on Al Bor.4k, — The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rain'd-on fowl, Feather'd and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Push'd and pull'd up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : " Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Girls in bloom of cheek and lips. Wild-eyed, free-limb'd, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horn's twang, Over and over the Maenads sang : " Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd ir> a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead !" Small pity for him ! — He sail'd away From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, — Sail'd away from a sinking wreck, With his own town's-people on her deck ', " Lay by ! lay by !" they call'd to him. Back he answer'd, " Sink or swim ! Brag of your catch of fish again!" And off" he sail'd through the fog and rain ! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall lie for evermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid, Look'd from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea, — Look'd for the coming that might not be . What did the winds and sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sail'd away ? — Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead I Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound. Hulks of old sailors run aground. Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, And crack'd with curses the hoarse re- frain : " Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead !" Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac show'd. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim, Scarcely he seem'd the sound to hear Of voices shouting far and near : "Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead !" " Hear me, neighbors !" at last he cried,- — " What to me is this noisy ride? What is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within ? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck And hear a cry from a reeling deck I 874 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Hate me and curse me, — I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead !" Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, "God has touch'd him ! — why should we?" Said an old wife mourning her only son, " Cut the rogue's tether and let him run !" So with soft relentings and rude excuse. Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose. And gave him a cloak to hide him in. And left him alone with his shame and sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead. John Gkeenleaf Whittier. How THEY Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. 'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawn'd clear ; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; At Diifield, 'twas morning as plain a.s could be ; And from Mechelu church-steeple we heard the half-chime. So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time !" At Aerschot, up leap'd of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one. To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Eoland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. And his low head and crest, just one sharp , . , ^ . . I ear bent back I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Jons, and -r^ . i .u ^i • i > i j. ^ ' ' I ii or my voice, and the other prick d out on he ; I -J^j^ ^^^J^j, . ^ I gallop'd, Dirck gallop'd, we gallop'd all ! . , > ' i i i • j. n- ° A fe I > & i ; ^ij(j Qijg eye s black intelligence, — ever three " Good speed !" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ; " Speed !" echo'd the wall to us galloping through ; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest. And into the midnight Ave gallop'd abreast. Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our jjlace ; I turn'd in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shorten'd each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the check-strap, chain'd slacker the bit, Nor gallojj'd less steadily Roland a whit. that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! And the thick heavy spume flakes which aye and anon His fierce lij^s shook upward in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groan'd ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur ! Your Roos gallop'd bravely, the fault's not in her; We'll remember at Aix — " for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretch'd neck, and staggering knees. And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. As down on her haunches she shudder' d and sank. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 375 So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; The broad sun above laugh'd a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And " Gallop," gasp'd Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! "How they'll greet us !"— and all in a moment his roan Eoll'd neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone coutd save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim. And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. Then I cast loose my buff coat, each hol- ster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, lean'd, patted his ear, Call'd my Eoland his pet-name, my horse without peer ; Clapp'd my hands, laugh'd and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Eoland gallop'd and stood. And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground. And no voice but was praising this Eoland of mine. As I pour'd down his throat our last meas- ure of wine. Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. Robert Browning. The Lamentation fob Celin. At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barr'd, At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard ; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow. And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe. What tower is fallen? what star is set? what chief come these bewailing? " A tower is fallen ! a star is set ! — Alas I alas for Celin !" Three times they knock, three times they cry, — and wide the doors they throw ; Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch ; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing, — For all have heard the misery, — "Alas! alas for Celin !" Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencer- raje's blood, — 'Twas at the solemn jousting,— around the nobles stood; The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair Look'd from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share : But now the nobles all lament, — the ladies are bewailing, — For he was Granada's darling knight, — " Alas ! alas for Celin !" Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two. With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view ; Behind him his four sisters, each wrapp'd in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale ; When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing, And all the people, far and near, crv.-- " Alas ! alas for Celin !" 376 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. Oh, lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall. The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all ; His dark, dark eyes are closfed, his rosy lip is pale. The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnish'd mail ; And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing, — Its sound is like no earthly sound, — " Alas! alas for Celin !" The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, — the Moor stands at his door ; One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore ; Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew Upon their broider'd garments, of crim- son, green, and blue ; Before each gate the bier stands still, — then bursts the loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low, — " Alas ! alas for Celin !" An old, old woman cometh forth when she hears the people cry, — Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazfed eye ; 'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, — that nursQd him long ago : She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know ! With one deep shriek, she through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing, — ** Let me kiss my Celin, ere I die ! — Alas ! alas for Celin !" (From the Spanish.) John Gibson Lockhaet. The Wandering Jew. When as in faire Jerusalem Our Saviour Christ did live, And for the sins of all the worlde His own deare life did give ; The wicked Jewes with scoffes and scornes Did dailye him molest. That never till he left his life, Our Saviour could not rest. When they had crown'd his head with thornes, And scourged him to disgrace. In scornfull sort they led him forthe Unto his dying place. Where thousand thousands in the streete Beheld him passe along. Yet not one gentle heart was there, That pity'd this his wrong. Both old and young revilfed him. As in the streete he wente. And naught he found but churlish tauntes, By every ones consente : His owne deare crosse he bore himselfe, A burthen far too great. Which made him in the streete to fainte, With blood and water sweat. Being weary thus, he sought for rest, To ease his burthen'd soule, Upon a stone ; the which a wretch Did churlishly controule ; And sayd, Awaye, thou King of Jewes, Thou shalt not rest thee here ; Pass on ; thy execution-place Thou seest nowe draweth neare. And thereupon he thrust him thence ; At which our Saviour sayd, I sure will rest, but thou shalt walke, And have no journey stay'd. With that this cursfed shoemaker, For offering Christ this wrong, Left wife and children, house and all, And went from thence along. Where after he had seene the bloude Of Jesus Christ thus shed. And to the crosse his bodye nail'd, Awaye with speed he fled, Without returning backe againe Unto his dwelling-place. And wandred up and downe the worlde, A runnagate most base. No resting could he finde at all, No ease, nor hearts content ; No house, nor home, nor biding-place : But wandring forth he went From towne to towne in foreigne landea, With grievfed conscience still, Repenting for the heinous guilt Of his fore-passfed ill. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 377 Thus after some fevve ages past In wandring up and downe ; He much again desired to see Jerusalems renowne, But finding it all quite destroyd, He wandred thence with woe, Our Saviours wordes, which he had spoke, To verifie and showe. "I'll rest, sayd hee, but thou shalt walke." So doth this wandring Jew From place to place, but cannot rest For seeing countries newe ; Declaring still the power af Him, Whereas he comes or goes. And of all things done in the east. Since Christ his death he showes. The world he hath still compast round And scene those nations strange. That hearing of the name of Christ, Their idol gods doe change : To whom he hath told wondrous thinges Of time forepast, and gone, And to the princes of the worlde Declares his cause of moane : Desiring still to be dissolved, And yeild his mortal breath ; But if the Lord hath thus decreed, He shall not yet see death. For neither lookes he old nor young. But as he did those times. When Christ did suffer on the crosse For mortall sinners crimes. He hath past through many a foreigne place, Arabia, Egypt, Africa, Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace, And throughout all Hungaria, Where Paul and Peter preached Christ, Those blest apostles deare ; There he hath told our Saviours wordes, In countries far and neare. And lately in Bohemia, With many a German towne ; And now in Flanders, as 'tis thought, He wandreth up and downe : Where learned men with him conferre Of those his lingering dayes, And wonder much to heare him tell His journeyes, and his wayes. If people give this Jew an almes. The most that he will take Is not above a groat a time : Which he, for Jesus' sake, Will kindlye give unto the poore, And thereof make no spare. Affirming still that Jesus Christ Of him hath dailye care. He ne'er was scene to laugh nor smile, But weepe and make great moane ; Lamenting still his miseries, And dayes forepast and gone : If he heare any one blaspheme, Or take God's name in vaine. He telles them that they crucifie Their Saviour Christe againe. If you had scene his death, saith he, As these mine eyes have done. Ten thousand thousand times would yee His torments think upon : And suffer for his sake all paine Of torments, and all woes. These are his wordes and eke his life Whereas he comes or goes. Author Unknoww. TJIE DREA3I OF EUGENE ARAM. 'TwAS in the prime of summer-time, An evening calm and cool. And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school : There were some that ran and some that leapt. Like troutlets in a pool. Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouch'd by sin; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in : Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran, — Turning to mirth all things of earth As only boyhood can ; But the Usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man! 378 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. His hat was oft', his vest apart, To catch Heaven's blessed breeze ; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease : So he leaii'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees. Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside. For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide : Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the ponderous tome, With a fast and fervent grasp He strain'd the dusky covers close, And fixed the brazen hasp : " God ! could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp !" Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took, — Now up the mead, then down the meaJ, And past a shady nook, — And, lo ! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book. " My gentle lad, what is't you read — Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page. Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance, — " It is ' The^Death of Abel.' " The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain, — Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again. And down he sat beside the lad, And talk'd with him of Cain ; And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves, Of lonely folk cut off unseen. And hid in sudden graves, Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves ; ^nd how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod, — Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod. And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God ! He told how murderers walk the earth, Beneath the curse of Cain, With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain : For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain. " And well," quoth he, " I know for truth, Their pangs must be extreme ; Woe, woe, unutterable woe. Who spill life's sacred stream ! For why ? Methought, last night I wrought A murder in a dream. " One that had never done me wrong, A feeble man and old ; I led him to a lonely field. The moon shone clear and cold : Now here, said I, this man shall die. And I will have his gold ! " Two sudden blows with ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone. One hurried gash with a hasty knife, — And then the deed was done : There was nothing lying at my foot But lifeless flesh and bone ! " Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone. That could not do me ill. And yet I fear'd him all the more. For lying there so still ; There was a manhood in his look That murder could not kill ! " And lo ! the universal air Seem'd lit with ghastly flame ; Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame : I took the dead man by his hand, And call'd upon his name ! " God ! it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain ; But when I touch'd the lifeless clay. The blood gush'd out amain ! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain ! LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 379 " My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice ; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the Devil's price: A dozen times I groan'd ; the dead Had never groan'd but twice ! -'And now, from forth the frowning sky. From the heavens' topmost height, I heard a voice — the awful voice Of the blood-avenging Sprite : — ' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead And hide it from my sight !' " I took the dreary body up. And cast it in a stream, — A sluggish water, black as ink, The depth was so extreme : — My gentle Boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream ! " Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanish'd in the pool ; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And wash'd my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young, That evening in the school. " Oh, Heaven ! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim ! T could not share in childish prayer. Nor join in Evening Hymn : Like a Devil of the Pit I seem'd, 'Mid holy Cherubim ! " And peace went with them, one and all. And each calm pillow spread ; But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain That lighted me to bed ; And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red ! " All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep ; My fever'd eyes I dared not close. But stared aghast at Sleep : For Sin had render'd unto her The keys of Hell to keep ! " All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting, horrid hint, That rack'd me all the time ; A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime ! " One stern, tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave ; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave, — Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave ! " Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky. And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye ; And I saw the Dead in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry. " Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dewdrop from its wing ; But I never mark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing : For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. "With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran ; — There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began : In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murder'd man ! " And all that day I read in school. But my thought was other where ; As soon as the midday task was done. In secret I was there : And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare ! " Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep. For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep : Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep. " So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, Till blood for blood atones ! Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh,— The world shall see his bones ! " O God ! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake ! 380 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Again— again, with dizzy brain, The human life I take ; And mj' right red hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. " And still no peace for the restless clay, Will wave or mould allow ; The horrid thing pursues my soul, — It stands before me now !" The fearful boy look'd up and saw Huge droits upon his brow. That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist ; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist. Thomas Hood. The Inch cape Rock. No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be ; Her sails from heaven received no motion. Her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of their shock The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock ; So little they rose, so little they fell. They did not move the Inchcape Bell. The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcai^e Rock •, On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. When the rock was hid by the surges' swell, The mariners heard the warning bell, And then they knew the perilous rock. And bless'd the Abbot of Aberbrothok. The sun in heaven was shining gay, All things were joyful on that day ; The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round. And there was joyaunce in their sound. The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen A darker speck on the ocean green ; Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck. He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing, His heart was mirthful to excess. But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float ; Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row. And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat. And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound, The bubbles rose and burst around ; Quoth Sir Raljjh, " The next who comes to the rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away. He scour'd the seas for many a day. And now, grown rich with j^lunder'd store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore. So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, They cannot see the sun on high ; The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evenijQg it hath died away. On the deck the Rover takes his stand ; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon." " Canst hear," said one, " the breakers roar ? For methinks we should be near the shore." " Now, where we are I cannot tell. But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." They hear no sound, the swell is strong, Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — " Death ! it is the Inchcape Rock." Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair. He cursed himself in his despair ; The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 381 But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, '^he Devil below was ringing his knell. Robert Southey, CUMNOR Hall. The dews of summer night did fall. The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall And many an oak that grew thereby. Now naught was heard beneath the skies, The sounds of busy life were still. Save an unhappy lady's sighs, That issued from that lonely pile. " Leicester," she cried, " is this thy love That thou so oft has sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove. Immured in shameful j^rivity? " No more thou com'st with lover's speed, Thy once-belovfed bride to see. But be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. " Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall ; No faithless husband then me grieved. No chilling fears did me appall. " I rose up with the cheerful morn. No lark more blithe, no flower more gay. And like the bird that haunts the thorn. So merrily sung the livelong day. " If that my beauty is but small. Among court ladies all despised, "Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? " And when you first to me made suit. How fair I was you oft would say ! And, proud of cpnquest, pluck'd the fruit, Then left the blossom to decay. " Yes ! now neglected and despised. The rose is pale, the lily's dead. But he that once their charms so prized Is sure the cause those charms are fled. " For know, when sickening grief doth prey, And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay,— - What floweret can endure the storm ? " At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne. Where every lady's passing rare. That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun. Are not so glowing, not so fair. " Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds Where roses and where lilies vie. To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gauds are by ? " 'Mong rural beauties I was one. Among the fields wild flowers are fair ; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my beauty passing rare. " But, Leicester (or I much am wrong), Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows ; Rather ambition's gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. " Then, Leicester, why, again I plead (The injured surely may repine), Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine? " Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And, oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms. Then leave to mourn the livelortg day? " The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go ; Envious they mark my silken train. Nor think a countess can have woe. " The simple nymphs ! they little know How far more happy's their estate ; To smile for joy, than sigh for woe— To be content, than to be great. " How far less blest am I than them ? Daily to pine and waste with care ! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air. " Nor, cruel Earl ! can I enjoy The humble charms of solitude ; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns or pratings rude. 382 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. " Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, The village death-bell smote my ear; They wink'd aside, and seem'd to say, 'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!' "And now, while happy peasants sleep, Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; No one to soothe me as I weej}. Save Philomel on yonder thorn. " My spirits flag — my hopes decay — Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; And many a boding seems to say, ' Countess, prepare, thy end is near!' " Thus sore and sad that lady grieved, In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear ; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn, of day appear 'd, In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear. The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapp'd its wing Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. The mastiff' howl'd at village door. The oaks were shatter'd on the green ; Woe was the hour — for never more That hapless Countess e'er Avas seen. And in that manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. The village maids, with fearful glance. Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall ; Nor ever lead the merry dance. Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a traveller oft hath sigh'd, And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onward they've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. William Julius Mickle. Edward, Edward. QUHY dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, Edward, Edward ? Quhy dois zour brand sae drop yvV bluid ? And quhy sae sad gang zee, 0? O, I hae kill'd my hauke sae guid, Mither, mither: O, I hae kill'd my hauke sae guid : And I had nae mair bot hee, 0. Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, Edward, Edward. Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, My deir son I tell thee, O. O, I hae kill'd my reid-roan steid, Mither, mither : O, I hae kill'd my reid-roan steid. That erst was sae fair and free, 0. Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, Edward, Edward : Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair. Sum other dule ze drie, O. 0, I hae kill'd my fadir deir, Mither, mither : O, I hae kill'd my fadir deir, Alas ! and wae is mee, O ! And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, Edward, Edward? And quhatten penance Avill ze drie for that ? My deir son, now tell me, 0. He set my feit in zonder boat, Mither, mither: He set my feit in zonder boat, And He fare ovir the sea, 0. And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', Edward, Edward ? And quhat wul ze doe wi'^zour towirs and zour ha', That ware sae fair to see, ? He let thame stand til they doun fa', Mither, mither: He let thame stand til they doun fa'. For here nevir mair maun I beej 0. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 383 And quhat wul ze leive to zoiir bairns and zour wife, Edward, Edward ? And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, ? The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, Mither, mither: The warldis room, let thame beg throw life, For thame nevir mair wul I see, 0. And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, Edward, EdwArd? And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir? My deir son, now tell me, 0. The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, IMither, mither : The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, Sic counseils ze gave to me, 0. Author Unknown. LoJiD Ulltn's Daughter. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound. Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry." " Now, who be ye would cross Loch Gyle, This dark and stormy water ?" " Oh ! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this — Lord Ullin's daughter. " And fast before her father's men, Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen. My blood would stain the heather. " His horsemen hard behind us ride ; Should they our steps discover. Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover ?" Out spake the hardy Highland wight, " I'll go, my chief — I'm ready : It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady : " And, by my word ! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry." By this, the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl .of heaven, each face Grew dark as they Avere speaking. But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armfed men, Their tramijling sounded nearer. " Oh haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, " Though temjjests round us gather, I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her — When, oh, too strong for human hand. The tempest gather'd o'er her. And still they row'd, amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing : Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing. For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade. His child he did discover ; One lovely arm she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover. " Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, " Across this stormy water : And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter ! O my daughter !" 'Twas vain : the loud waves lash'd the shore, Beturn, or aid preventing : The waters wild went o'er his child. And he was left lamenting. Thomas Campbell. The Dowie Dens of Yarrow. Late at e'en, drinking the wine, And ere they paid the lawing. They set a combat them between. To fight it in the dawing. 384 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. " Oh stay at hame, my noble lord ! Oh stay at hame, my marrow ! My cruel brother will you betray On the dowie houms of Yarrow." " Oh fare ye weel, my ladye gaye ! Oh fare ye weel, my Sarah I For I maun gae, though I ne'er return Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow." She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, As oft she had done before, oh ; She belted him with his noble brand, And he's away to Yarrow. As he gaed up the Tennies bank, I wot he gaed wi' sorrow. Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm'd men, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. " Oh come ye here to part your land. The bonnie forest thorough ? Or come ye here to wield your brand, — On the dowie houms of Yarrow ?" — " I come not here to part my land. And neither to beg nor borrow ; I come to wield my noble brand. On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. "If I see all, ye're nine to ane ; And that's an unequal marrow : Yet will I fight^ while lasts my brand. On the bonnie banks of Yarrow." Four has he hurt, and five has slain, On the bonnie braes of Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him be- hind. And ran his body thorough. " Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, And tell your sister Sarah, To come and lift her leafu' lord ; He's sleepin' sound on Yarrow." — " Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream : I fear there will be sorrow ! I dream'd I pu'd the heather green, Wi' my true love, on Yarrow. " gentle wind, that blowetli south. From where my love repaireth. Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, And tell me how he fareth ! " But in the glen strive armfed men ; They've wrought me dole and sorrow; They've slain — the comeliest knight they've slain — He bleeding lies on Yarrow." As she sped down yon high, high hill. She gaed wi' dole and sorrow. And in the den spied ten slain men, On the dowie banks of Yarrow. She kiss'd his cheeks, she kaim'd his hair. She search'd his wounds all thorough ; She kiss'd them, till her lips grew red, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. "Now* baud your tongue, my daughter dear ! For a' this breeds but sorrow; I'll wed ye to a better lord Than him ye lost on Yarrow." — " Oh baud your tongue, my father dear ! Ye 'mind me but of sorrow ; A fairer rose did never bloom Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow." Author Unknown. The Braes of Yarrow. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride. And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride ? Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? I gat her where I dare na weil be seen, Pu'ingthe birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride. Weep not, weep not, my winsome mar- row ; Nor let thy heart lament to leive, Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride ? Why does she weep, thy winsome mar- row? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow ? LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. ssr: Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, . maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sor- row ; And lang maun I nae mair well be seen Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her luver, luver dear, Her hiver dear, the cause of sorrow ; And I hae slain the comeliest swain. That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yar- row. Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow ? And why yon melancholious weids Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? What's yonder floats ? Oh dule and sor- row ! Oh 'tis he the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. Wash, oh wash his wounds, his wounds in tears. His wounds in tears with dule and sor- row ; And wrap his limbs in mourning weids, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow ; And weep around in waeful wise His hapless fate on the Braes of Yar- row. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sor- row ; The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yar- row. Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve ? And warn from fight? but to my sor- row Too rashly bauld a stronger arm Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of Yarrow. 25 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass. Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae its rocks as mellow. Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter ; Tho' he was fair, and weil beluv'd again Than me he never luv'd thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride ? How can I busk a winsome marrow ? How luve him upon the banks of Tweed, That slew my luve on the Braes of Yar- row ? O Yarrow fields, may never never rain Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my luve, My luve, as he had not been a lover. The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing : Ah, wretched me ! I little, little kenn'd He was in these to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white, milk white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow : But ere the toofall of the night He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow, Much I rejoyced that waeful waeful day ; I sang, my voice the woods returning : But lang e'er night the spear was flown, That slew my luve, and left me mourn- ing. 386 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. What can my barbarous barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me ? My luver's blood is on thy spear, How canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me ? My happy sisters may be, may be proud With cruel and ungentle scofBn', May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes My iuver nailfed in his coffin. My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threat'ning words to muve me : My luver's blood is on thy spear. How canst thou ever bid me luve thee ? Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve. With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door. Let in the expected husband-lover. But who the expected husband husband is? His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter : Ah me ! what ghastly spectre's yon Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after. Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, Oh lay his cold head on my pillow ; Take alF, take aff these bridal weids. And crown my careful head with wil- low. Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best be- luv'd. Oh could my warmth to life restore thee ! Yet lye all night between my breists. No youth lay ever there before thee. Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth ! Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter : And lye all night between my breists ; No youth shall ever lye there after. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride. Return, and dry thy useless sorrow : Thy Iuver heeds none of thy sighs. He lyes a corps in the Braes of Yarrow. William Hamilton of Bangour. The Braes of Yarrow. Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream. When first on them I met my lover ; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream. When now thy waves his body cover ! For ever now, O Yarrow stream ! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. He promised me a milk-white steed To bear me to his father's bowers ; He promised me a little page To squire me to his father's towers ; He promised me a wedding-ring, — The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow ;- Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! Sweet were his words when last we met ; My passion I as freely told him ; Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him ! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow ; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend. And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow. His mother from the window look'd With all the longing of a mother ; His little sister weeping walk'd The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west. They sought him all the forest thorough: They only saw the cloud of night. They only heard the roar of Yarrow. No longer from thy window look — Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! No longer seek him east or west. And search no more the forest thorough ; For, wandering in the night so dark. He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow. The tear shall never leave my cheek. No other youth shall be my marrow — I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 387 — The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow ; She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. John Logan. THE Child of Elle. On yonder hill a castle standes With walles and towres bedight. And yonder lives the Child of Elle, A younge and comely knighte. The child of Elle to his garden went. And stood at his garden pale, Whan, lo ! he beheld fair Emmelines page Come trippinge downe the dale. The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, Y-wis he stoode not stille. And soone he mette fair Emmelines page Come climbing up the hille. Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, Now Christe thee save and see ! Oh tell me how does thy ladye gaye, And what may thy tydinges bee ? My lady she is all woe-begone. And the teares they falle from her eyne ; And aye she laments the deadlye feude Betweene her house and thine. And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe Bedewde with many a teare, And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her. Who lovfed thee so deare. And here she sends thee a ring of golde. The last boone thou mayst have. And biddes thee weare it for her sake, When she is layde in grave. For, ah ! her gentle heart is broke. And in grave soon must shee bee, Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, And forbidde her to think of thee. Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, Sir John of the north countr^ye. And within three dayes shee must him wedde, Or he vowes he will her slaye. Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And greet thy ladye from mee. And tell her that I her owne true love Will dye, or sette her free. Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page. And let thy fair ladye know This night will I bee at her bowre-win- d6we, Betide me weale or woe. The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, He neither stint ne stayd Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, Whan kneeling downe he sayd, O ladye, I've been with thy own true love, And he greets thee well by mee ; This night will he be at thy bowre-win- dowe. And dye or sette thee free. Nowe daye was gone and night was come. And all were fast asleepe. All save the ladye Emmeline, Who sate in her bowre to weepe : And soone she heard her true loves voice Lowe whispering at the walle. Awake, awake, my dear ladyfe, 'Tis I thy true love call. Awake, awake, my ladye deare. Come, mount this faire palfrilye ; This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, He carrye thee hence awaye. Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, Nowe nay, this may not bee ; For aye shold I tint my maiden fame, If alone I should wend with thee. ladye, thou with a knighte so true Mayst safely wend alone. To my ladye mother I will thee bringe. Where marriage shall make us one. " My father he is a baron bolde. Of lynage proude and hye ; And what would he saye if his daughter Awaye with a knight should fly ? Ah ! well I wot, he never would rest, Nor his meate should doe him no goode Until he had slayne thee, Child of Elle, And seene thy deare hearts bloode." 388 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. ladye, wort thou in thy saddle sette, And a little space him fro, 1 would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that he could doe. ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And once without this walle, 1 would not care for thy cruel fathfer. Nor the worst that might befalle. Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept. And aye her heart was woe: At length he seized her lilly-white hand, And downe the ladder he drewe : And thrice he clasp'd her to his breste, And kist her tenderize : The teares that fell from her fair eyes Ranne like the fountayne free. Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle. And her on a fair palfr^ye, And slung his bugle about his necke, And roundlye they rode awaye. All this beheard her own damsfelle, In her bed whereas shee ley, Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, Soe I shall have golde and fee. Awake, awake, thou baron bolde ! Awake, my noble dame ! Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle To doe the deede of shame. The baron he woke, the baron he rose, And call'd his merrye men all : "And come thou forth. Sir John the knighte, Thy ladye is carried to thrall." Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, A mile forth of the towne, When she was aware of her fathers men Come galloping over the downe : And foremost came the carlish knight, Sir John of the north countriiye : " Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure, Nor carry that ladye awaye. For she is come of hye linkage, And was of a ladye borne. And ill it beseems thee a false churl's Sonne To carrye her hence to scorne." Nowe loud thou lyest. Sir John the knight, Nowe thou doest lye of mee ; A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, Soe never did none by thee. But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, Light downe, and hold my steed, While I and this discourteous knighte Doe trye this arduous deede. But light nowe downe, my deare ladyfe, Light downe, and hold my horse ; While I and this discourteous knight Doe trye our valour's force. Fair Emmeline sigh'd, fair EmmeliHe wept, And aye her heart was woe. While 'twixt her love and the carlish knight Past many a baleful blowe. The Child of Elle hee fought soe well, As his weapon he waved amaine. That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, And layd him upon the plaine. And nowe the baron and all his men Full fast approached nye : Ah I what may ladye Emmeline doe? 'Twere nowe no boote to flye. Her lover he put his home to his mouth. And blew both loud and shrill, And soone he saw his owne merry men Come ryding over the hill. " Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, I pray thee hold thy hand. Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts Fast knit in true love's band. Thy daughter I have dearly loved Full long and many a day ; But with such love as holy kirke Hath freelye said wee may. Oh give consent shee may be mine. And bless a faithfull paire : My lands and livings are not small, My house and lineage faire: LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 389 My mother she was an earl's daughter, And a noble knyglit my sire—" The baron he frown'd and turn'd away With niickle dole and ire. Faire Emmeline sigh'd, faire Emmeline wept, And did all tremblinge stand : At lengthe she sprang upon her knee, And held his lifted hand. Pardon, my lorde and father deare, This fair yong knyght and mee : Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, I never had fled from thee. Oft have you call'd your Emmeline Your darling and your joye ; Oh let not then your harsh resolves Your Emmeline destroye. The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, And turn'd his heade asyde To whipe awaye the starting tears He proudly strave to hyde. In deepe revolving thought he stoode. And mused a little space: Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde With many a fond embrace. Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, And gave her lillye white hand ; Here take my deare and only child, And with her half my land : Thy father once mine honour wrongde In dayes of youthful pride ; Do thou the injurye repayre In foudnesse for thy bride. And as thou love her, and hold her deare. Heaven prosper thee and thine : And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, My lovelye Emmeline. Author Unknown. Hart-leap Well. The Knight had ridden down from Wens- ley Moor With the slow motion of a summer's cloud; He turned aside toward a Vassal's door, And "Bring another horse!" he cried aloud. " Another horse '."—That shout the Vassal heard. And saddled his best steed, a comely gray ; Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third Which he had mounted on that glorious day. Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes ; The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, There is a doleful silence in the air. A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar; But horse and man are vanish'd, one and all; Such race, I think, was never seen be- fore. Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, Calls to the few tired dogs that yet re- main : Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind. Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. The knight halloo'd, he cheer'd and chid them on With suppliant gestures and upbraiding stern ; But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one, The dogs are stretch'd among the moun- tain-fern. Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ? The bugles that so joyfully were blown? This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ; Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 390 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The poor Hart toils along the mountain- I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, side; I will not stop to tell how far he fled, Nor will I mention by what death he died : But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. Dismounting, then, he lean'd against a thorn. He had no follower. Dog, nor Man, nor Boy: He neither crack'd his whip, nor blew his horn. But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd. Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd. And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd: His nostril touch'd a spring beneath a hill. And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd The waters of the spring were trembling still. And now, too happy for repose or rest (Never had living man such joyful lot!), Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west. And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. And climbing up the hill (it was at least Nine roods of sheer ascent). Sir Walter found Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 8ir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now Such sight was never seen by living eyes : Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow Down to the very fountain where he lies. And a small Arbor, made for rural joy ; 'Twill be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's cot, A place of love for Damsels that are coy. A cunning Artist will I have to frame A basin for that fountain in the dell! And they who do make mention of the same From this day forth shall call it Haet- LEAP Well. And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known. Another monument shall here be raised ; Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn Stone, . And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. And, in the summer-time when days are long, I will come hither with my Paramour ; And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song We will make merry in that pleasant Bower. Till the foundations of the mountains fail My Mansion with its Arbor shall en- dure ; — The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, And them who dwell among the woods of Ure !" Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. — Soon did the Knight perform what he had said, And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. Ere thrice the Moon into her port hafl steer'd, A Cup of stone received the living Well ; Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd. And built a house of Pleasure in the dell. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 391 And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall With trailing plants and trees were in- tertwined, — Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall, A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. And thither, when the summer-days were long, Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song Made merriment within that pleasant Bower. The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time. And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — But there is matter for a second rhyme, And I to this would add another tale. Part Second. The moving accident is not my trade, To freeze the blood I have no ready arts ; 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade. To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, It chanced that I saw standing in a dell Three Aspens at three corners of a square, And one, not four yards distant, near a Well. What this imported I could ill divine, And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, I saw three Pillars standing in a line, The last Stone Pillar on a dark hill-top. The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head, Half wasted the square Mound of tawny green, So that you just might say, as then I said, " Here in old time the hand of man hath been." I look'd upon the hill both far and near ; More doleful place did never eye survey; It seem'd as if the spring-time came not here, And Nature here were willing to de- cay. I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, When one, who was in Shepherd's garb attired, Came up the Hollow ; him did I accost. And what this place might be I then in- quired. The Shepherd stopp'd, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have re- hearsed. " A jolly place," said he, " in times of old. But something ails it now ; the spot is curst. You see these lifeless Stumps of aspen wood, — Some say that they are beeches, others elms, — These were the Bower, and here a Mansion stood. The finest palace of a hundred realms. The Arbor does its own condition tell ; You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the Stream, But as to the great Lodge, you might as well Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep. Will wet his lips within that Cup of stone, And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. Some say that here a murder has been done, And blood cries out for blood ; but for my part, I've guess'd, when I've been sitting in the sun. That it was all for that unhappy Hart. What thoughts must through the Crea- ture's brain have pass'd ! Even from the topmost Stone upon the Steep Are but three bounds ; and look, sir, at this last ; — Oh, Master ! it has been a cruel leap ! 392 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race, And in my simple mind we cannot tell What cause the Hart might have to love this place, And come and make his deathbed near the Well. Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, Lull'd by the Fountain in the summer- tide; This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wander'd from his moth- er's side. In April here beneath the scented thorn He heard the birds their morning carols sing, And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born Not half a furlong from that selfsame spring. Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade , The sun on drearier Hollow never shone; So will it be, as I have often said. Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone." '' Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well ; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine ; This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell : His death was mourn'd by sympathy di- vine. The Being, that is in the clouds and air. That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For the unoffending creatures whom He loves. The Pleasure-house is dust, — behind, be- fore, This is no common waste, no common gloom, But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. She leaves these objects to a slow decay, That what we are, and have been, may be known ; But at the coming of the milder day These monuments shall all be overgrown. One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide. Taught both by what she shoM^s, and what conceals. Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." William Wordsworth. Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale. Come listen to me, you gallants so free, All you that love mirth for to hear, And I will tell you of a bold outl^lw. That lived in Nottinghamshire. As Robin Hood in the forest stood, All under the greenwood tree, There he was aware of a brave young man, As fine as fine might be. The youngster was clad in scarlet red, In scarlet fine and gay ; And he did frisk it over the plain. And chaunted a roundelay. As Robin Hood next morning stood Amongst the leaves so gay, There did he espy the same young man Come drooping along the way. The scarlet he wore the day before It was clean cast away ; And at every step he fetch'd a sigh, " Alas ! and a-well-a-day !" Then stepped forth brave Little John, And Midge, the miller's son ; Which made the young man bend his bow. When as he see them come. "Standoff! stand off!" the young man said, " What is your will with me ?" " You must come before our master straight, Under yon greenwood tree." And when he came bold Robin before, Robin ask'd him courteously, " Oh, hast thou any money to spare, For my merry men and me ?" LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 393 " I have no money," the young man said, " But five shillings and a ring ; And that I have kept this seven long years, To have at my wedding. " Yesterday I should have married a maid, But she was from me ta'en, And chosen to be an old knight's delight, Whereby my poor heart is slain." "What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood, " Come tell me, without any fail." " By the faith of my body," then said the young man, " My name it is Allen-a-Dale." " What wilt thou give me," said Eobin Hood, " In ready gold or fee. To help thee to thy true love again, A nd deliver her unto thee ?" " I have no money," then quoth the young man, "In ready gold nor fee. But I will swear upon a book Thy true servant for to be." " How many miles is it to thy true love? Come tell me without guile." " By the faith of my body," then said the young man, " It is but five little mile." Then Robin he hasted over the plain ; He did neither stint nor lin, Until he came unto the church Where Allen should keep his weddin'. " What hast thou here ?" the bishop then said ; " I ju-ithee now tell unto me." *' I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, " And the best in the north country." " Oh welcome, oh welcome," the bishop he said ; " That music best pleaseth me." "You shall have no music," said Robin Hood, " Till the bride and bridegroom I see." \V ith that came in a wealthy knight. Which was both grave and old ; And after him a finikin lass. Did shine like the glistering gold. "This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood, " That you do seem to make here ; For since we are come into the church. The bride shall choose her own dear." Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth. And blew blasts two or three ; When four-and-twenty yeomen bold Came leaping over the lea. And when they came into the churchyard. Marching all in a row, The first man was Allen-a-Dale, To give bold Robin his bow. " This is thy true love," Robin he said, " Young Allen, as I hear say ; And you shall be married this same time, Before we depart away." " That shall not be," the bishop he cried, " For thy word shall not stand ; They shall be three times ask'd in the church. As the law is of our land." Robin Hood pull'd off the bishop's coat. And put it upon Little John ; " By the faith of my body," then Robin said, " This cloth doth make thee a man." When Little John went into the quire, The people began to laugh ; He ask'd them seven times into church. Lest three times should not be enough. "Who gives me this maid?" said Little John, Quoth Robin Hood, " That do I ; And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, Full dearly he shall her buy." And then having ended this merry wed- ding, The bride look'd like a queen ; And so they return'd to the merry green wood, Amongst the leaves so green. Author Unknown. 894 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. BETH-GELERT ; OR, THE GRAVE OF THE Greyhound. The Spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheerily smiled the morn, And many a brach and many a hound Obey'd Llewelyn's horn. And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a lustier cheer : " Come, Gelert, come, wert never last Llewelyn's horn to hear. " Oh ! where does faithful Gelert roam. The flow'r of all his race ? So true, so brave ; a lamb at home, A lion in the chase !" 'Twas only at Llewelyn's board The faithful Gelert fed ; He watch'd, he serv'd, he cheer'd his lord. And sentinell'd his bed. In sooth he was a peerless hound. The gift of royal John ; But now no GSlert could be found. And all the chase rode on. And now, as o'er the rocks and dells The gallant chidings rise, All Snowdou's craggy chaos yells The many-mingled cries ! That day Llev^elyn little loved The chase of Hart or Hare, And scant and small the booty proved. For GSlert was not there. Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied : When, near the portal seat. His truant Gelert he espied Bounding his lord to greet. But, when he gained his castle door. Aghast the chieftain stood : The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore. His lips, his fangs, ran blood. Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise : Unused such looks to meet. His fav'rite check'd his joyful guise. And crouch'd and lick'd his feet. Onward in haste Llewelyn pass'd, And on went Gelert too, And still, where'er his eyes he cast. Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view. O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found, With blood-stain'd covert rent ; And all around, the walls and ground With recent blood besprent. He call'd his child, no voice replied ; He searcli'd witli terror wild ; Blood, blood he found on ev'ry side ; But nowhere found hi^ child. " Hell-hound ! my child by thee's de- vour'd !" The frantic father cried ; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side. His suppliant looks as prone he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gelert's dying yell Pass'd heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gelert's dying yell Some slumb'rer waken'd nigh : What words the parent's joy could tell To hear his infant's cry ! Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap His hurried search had miss'd, All glowing from his rosy sleep, The cherub boy he kiss'd. 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 Llewelyn's pain ! For now the truth was clear ; His gallant hound the wolf had slain, To save Llewelyn's heir. Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe : " Best of thy kind, adieu I The frantic blow, which laid thee low. This heart shall ever rue." And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture deckt ; And marbles, storied with his praise, Poor Gelert's bones protect. There never could the spearman pass. Or forester, unmoved ; LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 396 There oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewelyn's sorrow proved. And there he hung his sword and spear, And there as evening fell, In Fancy's ear he oft would hear Poor Gelert's dying yell. And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old. And cease the storm to brave, The consecrated spot shall hold The name of " Gelert's Grave." William Robert Spencer. Katharine Janfarie. There was a may, and a weel-fared may. Lived high up in yon glen : Her name was Katharine Janfarie, She was courted by mony men. Doun cam' the Laird o' Lamington, Doun frae the South Countrie ; And he is for this bonnie lass, Her bridegroom for to be. He ask'd no her father and mither. Nor the chief o' a' her kin ; But he whisper'd the bonny lass hersel', And did her favor win. Doun cam' an English gentleman, Doun frae the English border; He is for this bonny lass, To keep his house in order. He ask'd her father and mither, And a' the lave o' her kin ; But he never ask'd the lassie hersel' Till on her wedding-e'en. But she has wrote a long letter, And seal'd it with her hand ; And sent it away to Lamington, To let him understand. The first line o' the letter he read, He was baith fain and glad ; But or he has read the letter o'er, He's turn'd baith wan and sad. Then he has sent a messenger. To run through all his land ; And four and twenty armed men Were all at his command. But he has left his merry men all. Left them on the lee ; And he's awa' to the wedding-house, To see what he could see. They all rose up to honor him. For he was of high renown ; They all rose up to welcome him, And bade him to sit down. Oh mickle was the gude red wine In silver cups did flow ; But aye she drank to Lamington, And fain with him would go. " Oh come ye here to fight, young lord? Or come ye here to play ? Or come ye here to drink gude wine Upon the wedding-day ?" " I come na here to fight," he said, " I come na here to play ; I'll but lead a dance wi' the bonny bride, And mount and go my way." He's caught her by the milk-white hand, And by the grass-green sleeve ; He's mounted her hie behind himsel', At her kinsfolk spier'd na leave. It's up, it's up the Couden bank. It's doun the Couden brae ; And aye they made the trumpet sound, " It's a' fair play !" Now, a' ye lords and gentlemen That bo of England born, Come ye na doun to Scotland thus, For fear j'e get the scorn ! They'll feed ye up wi' flattering words, And play ye foul play ; They'll dress you frogs instead of fish Upon your wedding-day I Author Unknows. 396 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Fair Annie of Lochroyan. " Oh wha will shoe my fair foot, And wlia will glove my ban' ? And wha will lace my middle jimp Wi' a new-made London ban'? ' Or wha will kemb my yellow hair Wi' a new-made silver kemb ? Or wha'll be father to my young bairn, Till love Gregor come hame ?" " Your father'll shoe your fair foot, Your mother glove your ban' ; Your sister lace your middle jimp Wi' a new-made London ban' ; " Your brethren will kemb your yellow hair Wi' a new-made silver kemb; And the King o' heaven will father your bairn. Till love Gregor come hame." " Oh gin I had a bonny ship, And men to sail wi' me. It's I would gang to my true love, Sin he winna come to me !" Her father's gien her a bonny ship. And sent her to the stran' ; She's ta'en her young son in her arms, And turn'd her back to the Ian'. She hadna been o' the sea sailin' About a month or more. Till landed has she her bonny ship Near her true love's door. The nicht was dark, and the wind blew cald, And her love was fast asleep, And the bairn that was in her twa arms Fu' sair began to greet. Lang stood she at her true love's door. And lang tirl'd at the pin ; At length up gat his fause mother. Says, " Wha's that wad be in?" " Oh it is Annie of Lochroyan, Your love, come o'er the sea, But and your young son in her arms ; So open the door to me." " Awa', awa', ye ill woman ! You're nae come here for gude; You're but a witch, or a vile warlock, Or mermaid o' the flude." " I'm nae a witch or vile warlock. Or mermaiden," said she ; — " I'm but your Annie of Lochroyan ; — Oh open the door to me !" " Oh gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan, As I trust not ye be, What taiken can ye gie that e'er I kept your comiDanie?" " Oh dinna ye mind, love Gregor," she says, " Whan we sat at the wine, How we changed the napkins frae our necks ? It's nae sae lang sinsyne. " And yours was gude, and gude enough, But nae sae gude as mine ; For yours was o' the cambric clear, But mine o' the silk sae fine. " And dinna ye mind, love Gregor," she says, "As we twa sat at dine. How we changed the rings frae our fingers, And I can shew thee thine : " And yours was gude, and gude enough, Yet nae sae gude as mine ; For yours was o' the gude red gold, But mine o' the diamonds fine. " Sae open the door, now, love Gregor, And ojjen it wi' speed ; Or your young son, that is in my arms, For cald will soon be dead." " Awa', awa', ye ill woman ! Gae frae my door for shame ; For I hae gotten anither fair love^ Sae ye may hie you hame." "Oh hae ye gotten anither fair love. For a' the oaths ye sware? Then fare ye weel, now, fause Gregor : For me ye's never see mair !" Oh hooly, hooly gaed she back, As the day began to i^eep ; LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 397 She set her foot on good shipboard, And sair, sair did she weep. '' Tak down, tak down the mast o' goud ; Set up the mast o' tree ; 111 sets it a forsaken lady To sail sae gallantlie. "Tak down, tak down, the sails o' silk: Set up the sails o' skin ; 111 sets the outside to be gay, Whan there's sic grief within I" Love Gregor started frae his sleep, And to his mother did say : " I dreamt a dream this night, mither, That maks my heart riclit wae ; " T dreamt that Annie of Lochroyan, The flower o' a' her kin, Was standin' mournin' at my door ; But nane wad lat her in." " Oh there was a woman stood at the door, Wi' a bairn intill her arms ; But I wadna let her within the bower, For fear she had done you harm." Oh quickly, quickly raise he up, And fast ran to the strand ; And there he saw her, fair Annie, Was sailing frae the land. And " Heigh, Annie !" and " How, Annie ! O Annie, winna ye bide?" But aye the louder that he cried " Annie," The higher rair'd the tide. And " Heigh, Annie !" and " How, Annie ! O Annie, speak to me !" But aye the louder that he cried " Annie," The louder rair'd the sea. The wind grew loud, and the sea grew rough. And the ship was rent in twain ; And soon he saw her, fair Annie, Come floating o'er the main. He saw his young son in her arms, Baith toss'd aboon the tide ; He wrang his hands, and fast he ran, And plunged in the sea sae wide. He catch'd her by the yellow hair, And drew her to the strand ; But cald and stiff was every limb. Before he reach'd the land. Oh first he kist her cherry cheek, And syne he kist her chin : And sair he kist her ruby lips, But there was nae breath within. Oh he has mourn'd o'er fair Annie, Till the sun was ganging down ; Syne wi' a sich his heart it brast. And his saul to heaven has flown, Author Unknown. 0^ CONNOR'S CHILD; OR, " THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING." Oh ! once the harp of Innisfail Was strung full high to notes of glad- ness ; But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness. Sad was the note, and wild its fall. As winds that moan at night forlorn Along the isles of Fion-Gall, When for O'Connor's child to mourn, The harper told how lone, how far From any mansion's twinkling star. From any path of social men, • Or voice, but from the fox's den, The lady in the desert dwelt ; And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt. Say, why should dwell in place so wild O'Connor's pale and lovely child ? Sweet lady ! she no more inspires Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power. As in the palace of her sires She bloom'd a peerless flower. Gone from her hand and bosom, gone. The royal brooch, the jewell'd ring, That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone. Like dews on lilies of the spring. Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne. Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern, While yet in Leinster unexplored, Her friends survive the English sword^ — Why lingers she from Erin's host. So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast ? Why wanders she a huntress wild, — O'Connor's pale and lovely child ? 598 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And, fix'd on empty space, why burn Her eyes with niomentary wildness ; And wherefore do they then return To more than woman's mildness ? Dishevell'd are her raven locks ; On Connccht Moran's name she calls ; And oft amidst the lonely rocks She sings sweet madrigals. Placed, midst the foxglove and the moss, Behold a parted warrior's cross ! That is the spot where, evermore, The lady at her shieling door. Enjoys that, in communion sweet, The living and the dead can meet ; For lo ! to love-lorn fantasy. The hero of her heart is nigh. Bright as the bow that spans the storm, In Erin's yellow vesture clad, A son of light, a lovely form. He comes and makes her glad : Now on the grass-green turf he sits, His tassell'd horn beside him laid ; Now o'er the hills in chase he flits. The hunter and the deer a shade ! Sweet mourner ! these are shadows vain. That cross the twilight of her brain ; Yet she will tell you she is blest, Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd. More richly than in Aghrim's bower, When bards high praised her beauty's power, , And kneeling pages offer'd up The morat in a golden cup. " A hero's bride ! this desert bower, It ill befits thy gentle breeding. And wherefore dost thou love this flower To call ' My love lies bleeding ' ?" "This purple flower my tears have nursed, — A hero's blood supplied its bloom : I love it, for it was the first That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb. Oh, hearken, stranger, to my voice ! This desert mansion is my choice ; And blest, though fatal, be the star That led me to its wilds afar. For here these pathless mountains free Gave shelter to my love and me ; And every rock and every stone Bore witness that he was my own. " O'Connor's child, I was the bud Of Erin's royal tree of glory ; But woe to them that wrapt in blood The tissue of my story ! Still, as I clasp my burning brain, A death-scene rushes on my sight ; It rises o'er and o'er again, — The bloody feud, the fatal night. When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn. They call'd my hero basely born, And bade him choose a meaner bride Than from O'Connor's house of pride. Their tribe, they said, their high degree.. Was sung in Tara's psaltery ; Witness their Eath's victorious brand, And Cathal of the bloody hand. Glory (they said) and power and honor Were in the mansion of O'Connor ; But he, my loved one, bore in field A humbler crest, a meaner shield. " Ah ! brothers, what did it avail, That fiercely and triumphantly Ye fought the English of the Pale, And stemm'd De Bourgo's chivalry? And what was it to love and me. That barons by your standard rode, Or beal-fires for your jubilee Upon a hundred mountains glow'd? What though the lords of tower and dom*^ From Shannon to the North Sea foam, — Thought ye your iron hands of pride Could break the knot that love had tied? No — let the eagle change his plume. The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom; But ties around this heart were spun That could not, would not, be undone ! " At bleating of the wild watch-fold, Thus sang my love : 'Oh, come with me ' Our bark is on the lake, behold ! Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree. Come far from Castle Connor's clans, Come with thy belted forestere ; And I, beside the lake of swans. Shall hunt for thee the fallow deer. And build thy hut, and bring thee home The wild-fowl and the honeycomb, And berries from the wood provide. And play my clarshech by thy side. Then come, my love !' How could I stay? Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 399 And I pursued, by moonless skies, The light of Counocht Moran's eyes. " And fast and far, before the star Of day-spring, rush'd we through the glade, And saw at dawn the lofty bawn Of Castle Connor fade. Sweet Avas to us the hermitage Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore; Like birds all joyous from the cage. For man's neglect we loved it more. And well he knew, my huntsman dear, To search the game with hawk and spear ; While I, his evening food to dress. Would sing to him in happiness. But oh, that midnight of despair! When I was doom'd to rend my hair, — The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow ! The night, to him, that had no morrow! " When all was hush'd, at even-tide I heard the baying of their beagle. ' Be hush'd !' my Connocht Moran cried ; ' 'Tis but the screaming of the eagle.' Alas ! 'twas not the eyrie's sound ; Their bloody bands had track'd us out; Up listening starts our couchant hound, — And hark ! again, that nearer shout Brings faster on the murderers. Spare — spare him! Brazil — Desmond fierce! In vain ! — no voice the adder charms ; Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms : Another's sword has laid him low — Another's, and another's ; And every hand that dealt the blow — Ah me] it was a brother's. Yes, when his moanings died away, Their iron hands had dug the clay, And o'er his burial-turf they trod ; And I beheld— O God ! O God !— His life-blood oozing from the sod. " Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, Alas ! my warrior's spirit brave Nor mass nor ulla-luUa heard. Lamenting, soothe his grave. Dragg'd to their hated mansion back, How long in thraldom's grasp I lay I knew not, for my soul was black, And kncAV no change of night or day. One night of horror round me grew ; Or if I saw, or felt, or knew. 'Twas but when those grim visages. The angry brothers of my race, Glared on each eyeball's aching throb, And check'd my bosom's power to sob, Or when my heart, with pulses drear. Beat like a death-watch to my ear. " But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse Did A^ith a vision bright inspire : I woke, and felt upon my lips A prophetess's fire. Thrice in the east a war-drum beat, — I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound. And ranged, as to the judgment-seat. My guilty, trembling brothers round. Clad in the helm and shield they came ; For now De Bourgo's sword and flame Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries, And lighted up the midnight skies. The standard of O'Connor's sway Was in the turret where I lay ; That standard, with so dire a look, As ghastly shone the moon and pale, I gave, that every bosom shook Beneath its iron mail. " ' And go !' I cried, ' the combat seek, Ye hearts that unappalled bore The anguish of a sister's shriek, Go ! — and return no more ! For sooner guilt the ordeal brand Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The banner with victorious hand, Beneath a sister's curse unroll'd.' stranger, by my country's loss ! And by my love! and by the cross! 1 swear I never could have spoke The curse that sever'd Nature's yoke, But that a spirit o'er me stood. And fired me with the wrathful mood ; And frenzy to my heart was given. To speak the malison of Heaven. "They would have cross'd thenxselves, all mute ; They would have pray'd to burst the spell ; But at the stamping of my foot. Each hand down powerless fell. ' And go to Athunree !' I cried, ' High lift the banner of your pride I But know that where its sheet unrolls, The weight of blood is on your souls I 400 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Go where the havoc of your kerne Shall float as high as mountain-fern ! Men shall no more your mansion know ; The nettles on your hearth shall grow ; Dead, as the green oblivious flood That mantles by your walls, shall be The glory of O'Connor's blood I Away ! away to Athunree ! Where, downward when the sun shall fall, The raven's wing shall be your pall : And not a vassal shall unlace The visor from your dying face !' " A bolt that overhung our dome. Suspended till my curse was given, Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam, Peal'd in the blood-red heaven. Dire was the look that o'er their backs The angry parting brothers threw ; But now, behold ! like cataracts, Come down the hills in view O'Connor's plumfed partisans : Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans Were marching to their doom. A sudden .storm their plumage toss'd, A flash of lightning o'er them cross'd And all again was gloom. " Stranger, I fled the home of grief. At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall. I found the helmet of my chief, His bow still hanging on our wall, And took it down, and vow'd to rove This desert place a huntress bold ; Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould. No ! for I am a hero's child ; I'll hunt my quarry in the wild ; And still my home this mansion make. Of all unheeded and unheeding; And cherish, for my warrior's sake, * The flower of love lies bleeding.' " Thomas Campbell. And when thy sons to fetters are con- sign 'd — To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom — Their country conquers with their mar- tyrdom, And freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod Until his very steps have left a trace, Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God. My hair is gray, but not with years. Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears ; My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose ; For they have been a dungeon's .spoil. And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are bann'd and barr'd — forbidden fare. But this was for my father's faith I sufler'd chains and courted death. That father perish 'd at the stake For tenets he would not forsake ; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling-place. We were seven, who now are one — Six in youth, and one in age, Finish'd as they had begun. Proud of Persecution's rage ; One in fire, and two in field. Their belief with blood have seal'd : Dying, as their father died. For the God their foes denied. Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last. THE Prisoner of Chillon. Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art. For there thy habitation is the heart — The heart which love of thee alone can bind; II. There are seven pillars, of Gothic mould. In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; There are seven columns, massy and gray, Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, A sunbeam which hath lost its way. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 401 And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; Creeping o'er the floor so damp, Like a marsh's meteor lamp : And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain ; That iron is a cankering thing. For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away Till I have done with this new day. Which now is painful to these eyes. Which have not seen the sun so rise For years — I cannot count them o'er ; I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and died, And I lay living by his side. III. They chain'd us each to a column stone And we were three — yet each alone. We could not move a single pace ; We could not see each other's face. But with that pale and livid light That made us strangers in our sight ; And thus together, yet apart — Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart; 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each With some new hope, or legend old, Or song heroically bold ; But even these at length grew cold. Our voices took a dreary tone, An echo of the dungeon-stone, A grating sound — not full and free. As they of yore Avere wont to be ; It might be fancy — but to me They never sounded like our own. IV. I was the eldest of the three ; And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do, and did, my best — And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him — with eyes as blue as heaven — For him my soul was sorely moved ; And truly might it be distress'd To see such bird in such a nest ; For he was beautiful as day 26 (When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free), A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone. Its sleepless summer of long light. The snow-clad offspring of the sun : And thus he was as pure and bright. And in his natural spirit gay. With tears for naught but other's ills ; And then they flow'd like mountain -rills, Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorr'd to view below. V. The other was as pure of mind. But form'd to combat with his kind ; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which 'gainst the world in war had stood. And perish'd in the foremost rank With joy ; but not in chains to pine. His spirit wither'd with their clank ; I saw it silently decline — And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine: But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills. Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; To whom this dungeon was a gulf, And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. VI. Lake Leraan lies by Chillon's walls. A thousand feet in depth below. Its massy waters meet and flow ; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave enthralls ; A double dungeon wall and wave Have made — and like a living grave, Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay ; We heard it ripple night and day ; Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high, And wanton in the happy sky ; And then the very rock hath rocked, And I have felt it shake, unshock'd. Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free. 402 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. VII. I said my nearer brother pined ; I said his mighty heart declined. He loathed and put away his food ; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare, And for the like had little care. The milk drawn from the mountain-goat Was changed for water from the moat ; Our bread was such as captives' tears Have moisten'd many a thousand years. Since man first pent his fellow-men. Like brutes, within an iron den. But what were these to us or him ? These wasted not his heart or limb ; My brother's soul was of that mould Which in a palace had grown cold. Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side. But why delay the truth ? — he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died — and they unlock'd his chain, And scoop'd for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine — it was a foolish thought ; But then within my brain it wrought, That even in death his freeborn breast Tn such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer — They coldly laugh'd, and laid him there, The flat and turfless earth above The being we so much did love ; His emjity chain above it leant — Such murder's fitting monument ! VIII. But he, the favorite and the flower. Most cherish'd since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face. The infiint love of all his race, His martyr'd father's dearest thought. My latest care — for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free — He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired — He, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away. God ! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood : I've seen it rushing forth in blood ; I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln, convulsive mo« tion ; I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of sin, delirious with its dread ; But these were horrors — this was woe Unmix'd Avith such — but sure and slow. He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender— kind, And grieved for those he left behind ; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray — An eye of most transparent light. That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur, not A groan o'er his untimely lot — A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise ; For I was sunk in silence — lost In this last loss, of all the most ; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting Nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 1 listen'd, but I could not hear — I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished ; I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rush'd to him : I found him not, I only stirr'd in this black spot, I only lived — I only drew The accursfed breath of dungeon-dew ; The last, the sole, the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink. Which bound me to my failing race. Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth and one beneath — My brothers — both had ceased to breathe I took that hand which lay so still — Alas ! my own was full as chill ; I had not strength to stir or strive, But felt that I was still alive — LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 403 A frantic feeling, when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die, I had no earthly hope — but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. What next befell me then and there I know not well — I never knew. First came the loss of light and air, And then of darkness too. I had no thought, no feeling — none : Among the stones I stood a stone ; And was, scarce conscious what I wist, As shrubless crags within the mist ; For all was blank, and bleak, and gray ; It was not night— it was not day ; It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight ; But vacancy absorbing space, And fixedness, without a place ; There were no stars, no earth, no time. No check, no change, no good, no crime ; But silence, and a stirless breath. Which neither was of life nor death ; A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! X. A light broke in upon my brain — It was the carol of a bird ; It ceased, and then it came again — The sweetest song ear ever heard ; And mine was thankful till my eyes Ran over with the glad surprise. And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery ; But then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track : I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before ; I saw the glimmer of the sun Creeping as it before had done ; But through the crevice where it came That bird was perch'd as fond and tame. And tamer than upon the tree — A lovely bird with azure wings, And song that said a thousand things, And seem'd to say them all for me I I never saw its like before — I ne'er shall see its likeness more. It seem'd, like me, to want a mate, But was not half so desolate ; And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And, cheering from my dungeon's brink, Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free, Or broke its cage to perch on mine ; But knowing well captivity. Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine— Or if it were, in wingfed guise, A visitant from Paradise ; For — Heaven forgive that thought! the while Which made me both to weep and smile , I sometimes deem'd that it might be My brother's soul come down to me ; But then at last away it flew. And then 'twas mortal well I knew ; For he would never thus have flown. And left me twice so doubly lone — Lone as the corse within its shroud, Lone as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a sunny day, While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere, That hath no business to appear When skies are blue, and earth is gay. XI. A kind of change came in my fate — My keepers grew compassionate. I know not what had made them so — They were inured to sights of woe ; But so it was — my broken chain With links unfasten'd did remain ; And it was liberty to stride Along my cell from side to side. And up and down, and then athwart, And tread it over every part ; And round the pillars one by one, Returning where my walk begun — Avoiding only, as I trod. My brothers' graves without a sod ; For if I thought with heedless tread My step profaned their lowly bed. My breath came gaspingly and thick, And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick, XII. I made a footing in the wall : It was not therefrom to escape. 404 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. For I had buried one and all Who loved me in a human shape ; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me ; No child, no sire, no kin had I, No partner in my misery, ij thought of this, and I was glad. For thought of them had made me mad ; But I was curious to ascend To my barr'd windows, and to bend Once more upon the mountains high The quiet of a loving eye. I saw them — and they were the same ; They were not changed, like me, in frame; I saw their thousand years of snow On high — their wide, long lake below, And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; I saw the white-wall'd distant town. And whiter sails go skimming down ; And then there was a little isle. Which in my very face did smile — The only one in view ; A small, green isle, it seem'd no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon-floor; But in it there were three tall trees. And o'er it blew the mountain-breeze. And by it there were waters flowing. And on it there were young flow'rs growing Of gentle breath and hue. The fish swam by the castle-wall. And they seem'd joyous, each and all ; The eagle rode the rising blast — Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seem'd to fly ; And then new tears came in my eye, And I felt troubled, and would fain I had not left my recent chain ; And when I did descend again The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy load ; It was as is a new-dug grave, Closing o'er one we sought to save ; And yet my glance, too much oppress'd, Had almost need of such a rest XIV. It might be months, or years, or days — I kept no count, I took no note — I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote ; At last men came to set me free, I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where; It was at length the same to me, Fetter'd or fetterless to be ; I learn'd to love despair. And thus, when they appear'd at last; And all my bonds aside were cast, These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage — and all my own ! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home. With spiders I had friendship made, And watch'd them in their sullen trade; Had seen the mice by moonlight play ; And why should I feel less than they ? We were all inmates of one place. And I, the monarch of each race. Had power to kill ; yet, strange to tell ! In quiet we had learn'd to dwell. My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are :— even I Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. Lord Byron. Faie Helen. I WISH I were where Helen lies ; Night and day on me she cries ; Oh that I were where Helen lies. On fair Kirconnell lea ! Curst be the heart that thought the thought. And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succor me ! Oh think na but my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spak nae mair ! I laid her down wi' meikle care. On fair Kirconnell lea. As I went down the water-side. None but my foe to be my guide — ■ None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea — I lighted down my sword to draw ; I hacked him in pieces sma' — I hackfed him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 405 Helen fair, beyond compare, I'll make a garland of thy hair Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I die ! Oh that I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries ; Out of my bed she bids me rise — Says, " Haste and come to me !" Helen fair ! O Helen chaste ! If I were with thee I were blest, Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest. On fair Kirconnell lea. 1 wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my een. And I in Helen's arms lying. On fair Kirconnell lea. I wish I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries ; And I am weary of the skies. Since my love died for me. AuTHOE Unknown. Helen of kirkconnell. I WISH I were where Helen lies, For night and day on me she cries ; And, like an angel, to the skies Still seems to beckon me ! For me she lived, for me she sigh'd. For me she wish'd to be a bride ; For me in life's sweet morn she died On fair Kirkconnell-Lee ! Where Kirtle waters gently wind, As Helen on my arm reclined, A rival with a ruthless mind Took deadly aim at me : My love, to disajipoint the foe, Eush'd in between me and the blow ; And now her corse is lying low On fair Kirkconnell-Lee ! Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell, I curse the hand by which she fell — The fiend who made my heaven a hell. And tore my love from me ! For if, where all the graces shine — Oh, if on earth there's aught divine. My Helen ! all these charms were thine — They centred all in thee ! Ah, what avails it that, amain, I clove the assassin's head in twain ? No peace of mind, my Helen slain, No resting-place for me : I see her spirit in the air — I hear the shriek of wild despair. When Murder laid her bosom bare On fair Kirkconnell-Lee ! Oh ! when I'm sleeping in my grave. And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, May He who life and spirit gave Unite my love and me ! Then from this world of doubts and sighs, My soul on wings of peace shall rise ; And, joining Helen in the skies. Forget Kirkconnell-Lee ! John Mayne. ROSABELLE. Oh listen, listen, ladies gay ! No haughty feat of arms I tell ; Soft is the note, and sad the lay That mourns the lovely Eosabelle. " Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew. And, gentle lady, deign to stay ! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. " The blackening wave is edged with white ; To inch and rock the sea-mews fly ; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forbode that wreck is " Last night the gifted seer did view A wet shroud swathed round lady gay ; Then stay thee. Fair, in Ravensheuch ; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?" " 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my lady-mother there Sits lonely in her castle-hall. " 'Tis not because the ring they ride. And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle." — O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 406 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 'Twas broader than tlie watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each baron, for a sable shroud, Sheath'd in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire within, around. Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; Shone every pillar foliage-bound. And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high Saint Clair. There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; Each one the holy vault doth hold. But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! And each Saint Clair was buried there With candle, with book, and with knell ; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of Isvely Rosabelle. Sir Walter Scott. CARgAMON. His steed was old, his armor worn, And he was old and worn and gray ; The light that lit his patient eyes. It shone from very far away. Through gay Provence he journeyed on, To one high quest his life was true ; And so they called him Car§amon — • The knight who seeketh the world through. A pansy blossomed on his shield ; " A token 'tis," the people say, * That still across the world's wide field He seeks la dame de ses pens^es." For somewhere on a painted wall. Or in the city's shifting crowd, Or looking from a casement tall, Or shaped of dream or evening cloud — Forgotten when, forgotten where — Her face had filled his careless eye A moment ere he turned and passed, Nor knew it was his destiny. But ever in his dreams it came, Divine and passionless and strong, A smile upon the imperial lips No lover's kiss had dared to wrong. He took his armor from the wall — Ah ! gone since then was many a day — He led his steed from out the stall An,d sought la dame de ses pens6es. The ladies of the Troubadours Came riding through the chestnutgrove: "Sir Minstrel, string that lute of yours. And sing us a gay song of love." "0 ladies of the Troubadours, My lute has but a single string ; Sirventes fit for j^aramours My heart is not in tune to sing. "The flower that blooms upon my shield, It has another soil and spring Than that wherein the gaudy rose Of light Provence is blossoming. " The lady of my dreams doth hold Such royal state within my mind. No thought that comes unclad in gold To that high court may entrance find." So through the chestnut groves he passed, And through the land and far away ; Nor know I whether in the world He found la dame de ses pens^es. Only I know that in the South Long to the harp his tale was told ; Sweet as new wine within the mouth The small, choice Avords and music old. To scorn the promise of the Real ; To seek and seek and not to find ; Yet cherish still the fair Ideal, — It is thy fate, O restless Mind ! Henry Augustin Beers. CUEFEW 3IUST NOT Ring To-night. Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away. Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day ; LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 407 And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair ; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white. Struggling to keep back the murmur, " Cur- few must not ring to-night!" "Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp, and cold — ''•I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and her face grew strangely white As she breathed the husky whisper, " Cur- few must not ring to-night !" " Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton— and his accents pierced her heart Like the piercing of an arrow, like a dead- ly poisoned dart — "Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower ; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour ; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, Now I'm old, I still must do it : Curfew, girl, must ring to-night!" Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, And within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Un- derwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright. As in undertone she murmured, " Curfew must not ring to-night !" With quick step she bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door. Left" the old man threading slowly paths he'd trod so oft before ; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro : As she climbed the dusty ladder, on which fell no ray of light, Up and up, her white lips saying, " Curfew shall not ring to-night !" She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell, Awful is the gloom beneath her like the pathway down to hell ; Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of Curfew now, And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her eyes with sudden light, And she springs and grasps it firmly : " Cur- few shall not ring to-night !" Out she swung, far out ; the city seemed a speck of light below ; She 'twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro ; And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, But he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil's funeral knell. Still the maiden clung more firmly, and, with trembling lips and white, Said, to hush her heart's wild beating, " Curfew shall not ring to-night!" It was o'er : the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years before Human foot had not been planted; but the brave deed she had done Should be told long ages after :— often as the setting sun Should illume the sky with beauty, agSd sires, with heads of white, Long should tell the little children, "Cur- few did not ring that night." O'er the distant hills came Cromwell ; Bes- sie sees him, and her brow. Full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces now. 408 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn ; And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity — lit his eye with misty light ; " Go, your lover lives !" said Cromwell ; "Curfew shall not ring to-night!" Rosa Hartwick Thorpe. GLENLOGIE. Threescore o' nobles rade up the king's ha', But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a', Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie black e'e, " Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie forme ! " " Oh, hand your tongue, daughter, ye'll get better than he." " Oh, say nae sae, mither, for that canna be ; Though Doumlie is richer and greater than he. Yet if I maun tak him, I'll certainly dee. " Where will I get a bonnie boy, to win hose and shoon, Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again soon?" " Oh, here am I, a bonnie boy, to win hose and shoon. Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again soon." When he gaed to Glenlogie, 'twas " Wash and go dine ;" 'Twas " Wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and go dine." " Oh, 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, and it ne'er shall be mine To gar a lady's errand wait till I dine. " But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for thee." The first line that he read, a low laugh gave he ; The next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e ; But the last line that he read, he gart the table flee. " Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown ; Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town :" But lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to the green, Oh, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane. When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little mirth was there ; Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair. " Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're wel- come," said she, — " Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see." Pale and wan was she when Glenlogie gaed ben, But red and rosy grew she whene'er he sat down ; She turn'd awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e, " Oh, binna fear'd, mither, I'll maybe no dee." Author Unknown. GINEVRA. If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance To Modena, where still religiously Among her ancient trophies is preserved Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs Within that reverend tower, the Guir- landine) Stop at a Palace near the Reggio gate. Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace. And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses. Will long detain thee ; thro' their arched walks, Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, And lovers, such as in heroic song. Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, Venturing together on a tale of love. Read only part that day. — A summer sun Sets ere one half is seen ; but ere thou go, LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 409 Enter the house — prythee, forget it not — And look a while upon a picture there. 'Tis of a Lady iu her earliest youth, The very last of that illustrious race, Done by Zampieri — but I care not whom. He who observes it, ere he passes on Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again. That he may call it up when far away. She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up. As tho' she said, " Beware !" her vest of gold Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot. An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face. So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart — It haunts me still, tho' many a year has fled. Like some wild melody ! Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its compan- ion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm. But richly carved by Antony of Trent With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ; A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old Ancestor. That by the way — it may be true or false — But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child ; from infancy The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. Her Mother dying of the gift she gave. That precious gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his all in life. Still as she grew, for ever in his sight ; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd de- corum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco Great was the joy; but at the Bridal feast. When all sat down, the Bride was wanting there. Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, " 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !" And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook. And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Fran- cesco, Laughing and looking back and flying still. Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found ; Nor from that hour could anything be guess'd, But that she was not ! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived ; and long might'st thou have seen An old man wandering as in quest of some- thing, Something he could not find — he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remain'd a while Silent and tenantless — then went to stran- gers. Full fifty years were past, and all forgot. When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed: and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Gi- nevra, " Why not remove it from its lurking- place?" 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way 410 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. All else had perish'd — save a nuptial ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, " GiNEVRA." There then had she found a grave ! Within that chest had she conceal'd her- self, Fluttering with joy, the hapjiiest of the liappy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fasten'd her down for ever ! Samuel Rogers. The Bull-Fight of Gazul. King Almakzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound, He hath summon'd all the Moorish lords from the hills and plains around ; From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel. 'Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and state, And they have closed the spacious lists, beside the Alhambra's gate ; In gowns of black with silver laced, within the tented ring, Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in presence of the king. Eight Moorish lords, of valor tried, with stalwart arm and true. The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through : The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all with hope and trust ; Vet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they all have bit the dust. Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour : Make room, make room for Gazul ! — throw wide, throw wide the door ! — Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still ! more loudly strike the drum ! — The alcaydfe of Algava to fight the bull doth come. And first before the king he pass'd, with reverence stooping low ; And next he bow'd him to the queen, and the Infantas all a-row ; Then to his lady's grace he turn'd, and sh« to him did throw A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow. With the life-blood of the slaughter'd lords all slippery is the sand. Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en his stand ; And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye : But firmly he extends his arm — his look is calm and high. Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on : He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rej6n ; Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow, He blindly totters and gives back across the sand to go. "Turn, Gazul — turn !" the people cry: the third comes up behind ; Low to the sand his head holds he, his nos- trils snuff the wand ; — The mountaineers that lead the steers without stand whispering low, "Now thinks this proud alcaydfe to stun Harpado so ?" From Gaudiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barve& of the hill ; But W'here from out the forest burst Xa- rama's waters clear. Beneath the oak trees was he nursed, — this proud and stately steer. Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil, And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil ; LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 411 His eyes are jet, and they are set in crys- tal rings of snow ; But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe. Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near, — From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they appear ; His neck is massy, like the truiak of some old, knotted tree, Whereon the momster's shagged mane, like billows curl'd ye see. His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night ; Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might ; Like some thing molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock, Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the alcaydfe's shock. Now stops the drum : close, close they come ; thrice meet, and thrice give back ; The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black, — The white foam of the charger on Har- pado's front of dun ; — • Once more advance upon his lance, — once more, thou fearless one ! Once more, once more ! — in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel ! — In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel ! — In vain, in vain, thou noble beast ! — I see, I see thee stagger ! Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern alcaydfe's dagger ! They have slipp'd a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in. And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din. Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low. (From the Spanish.) John Gibson Lockhart. GOD'S Judgment on a Wicked Bishop. The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet. 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground. Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, For he had a plentiful last year's store, And all the neighborhood could tell His granaries were furnish'd well. At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay ; He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there. Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, The poor folk flock'd from far and near ; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old. Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door, And while for mercy on Christ they call. He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all. " I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire !" quoth he, " And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it, in these times forlorn, Of rats that only consume the corn." So then to his palace returned he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man ; But Bishop Hatto never slept again. In the morning, as he enter'd the hall Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. As he look'd, there came a man from his farm. He had a countenance white with alarm : 412 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. "My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn." Another came running presently. And he was pale as pale could be. " Fly, my lord bishop, fly !" quoth he, " Ten thousand rats are coming this way, The Lord forgive you for yesterday !" " I'll go to my tower on the Ehine," replied he; " 'Tis the safest place in Germany ; The walls are high, and the shores are steep. And the stream is strong, and the water deep." Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away, And he cross'd the Rhine without delay, And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care All the windows, doors, and loopholes there. He laid him down and closed his eyes. But soon a scream made him arise ; He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. He listen'd and look'd, — it was only the cat. But the bishop he grew more fearful for that. For she sat screaming, mad with fear. At the army of rats that were drawing near. For they have swum over the river so deep. And they have climb'd the shores so steep, And up the tower their way is bent, To do the work for which they were sent. They are not to be told by the dozen or score ; By thousands they come, and by myriads and more : Such numbers had never been heard of before. Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore. Down on his knees the bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder, drawing near. The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. And in at the windows, and in at the door. And through the walls helter-skelter they pour; And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before. From within and without, from above and below, — And all at once to the bishop they go. They have whetted their teeth against the stones. And now they pick the bishop's bones ; They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb. For they were sent to do judgment on him ! Egbert Southey. The Mistletoe Bough. The mistletoe hung in the castle hall, The holly branch shone on the old oak wall. And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, And keeping their Christmas holiday ; The baron beheld, with a father's pride. His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride ; While she, with her bright eyes, seemed to be The star of the goodly company. Oh, the mistletoe bough ! " I'm weary of dancing now," she cried, "Here tarry a moment, — I'll hide, I'll hide ! And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace The clue to my secret hiding-place." Away she ran, — and her friends began Each tower to search, and each nook to scan ; LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 413 And young Lovell cried, " Oh, where dost thou hide? I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride !" Oh, the mistletoe bough ! They sought her that night, and they sought her next day, And they sought her in vain, till a week passed away ! In the highest — the lowest — the loneliest spot. Young Lovell sought wildly, but found her not. And years flew by, and their grief at last Was told as a sorrowful tale long past ; And when Lovell appeared, the children cried, "See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride." Oh, the mistletoe bough ! At length an old chest, that had long lain hid. Was found in the Castle — they raised the lid, And a skeleton form lay mouldering there. With a bridal wreath in her clustering hair! Oh ! sad was her fate ! in sportive jest, She hid from her lord in the old oak chest ; It closed with a spring ! — and her bridal bloom Lay withering there in a living tomb. Oh, the mistletoe bough I Thomas Haynes Bayly. The Glove and the Lions. King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions fought, sat look- ing on the court. The nobles fiU'd the benches, with the ladies in their pride. And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sigh'd : And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show. Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws , With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd on one another. Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother ; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air ; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlem€«i, we're better here than there." De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame. With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same ; She thought. The Count my lover is brave as brave can be ; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me ; King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the oc- casion is divine ; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great glory will be mine. She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love. then look'd at him and smiled ; He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild : The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place. Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "By heaven," said Francis, "rightly done !" and he rose from where he sat; "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that." Leigh Hunt. The Doncaster St. Leger. The sun is bright, the sky is clear, Above the crowded course, As the mighty moment draweth near Whose issue shows the horse. The fairest of the land are here To watch the struggle of the year, The dew of beauty and of mirth. Lies on the living flowers of earth, 414 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And blushing cheek and kindling eye Lend brightness to the sun on high : And every corner of the north Has poured her hardy yeomen forth ; The dweller by the glistening rills That sound among the Craven hills; The stalwart husbandman who holds His plough upon the eastern wolds ; The sallow shrivelled artisan, Twisted below tbe height of man, Whose limbs and life have mouldered down Within some foul and clouded town, Are gathered thickly on the lea. Or streaming from far homes to see If Yorkshire keeps her old renown ; Or if the dreaded Derby horse Can sweep in triumph o'er her course; With the same look in every face, The same keen feeling, they retrace The legends of each ancient race : Recalling Eeveller in his pride, Or Blacklock of the mighty stride, Or listening to some gray-haired sage Full of the dignity of age ; How his old father loved to tell Of that long struggle — ended well. When strong of heart, the Whitworth Bay From staggering Herod strode away : How Hambletonian beat of yore Such rivals as are seen no more ; How Yorkshire racers, swift as they, Would leave this southern horse half way. But that the creatures of to-day, Are cast in quite a different mould From what he recollects of old. Clear peals the bell ; at that known sound, Like bees, the people cluster round ; On either side upstarting then One close dark wall of breathless men, Far down as eye can stretch, is seen Along yon vivid strip of green, Where, keenly watched by countless eyes, 'Mid hopes, and fears, and prophecies, Now fast, now slow, now here, now there. With hearts of tire, and limbs of air, Snorting and prancing — sidling by With arching neck, and glancing eye, In every shape of strength and grace — The horses gather for the race ; Soothed for a moment all, they stand Together, like a sculptured band. Each quivering eyelid flutters thick. Each face is flushed, each heartbeats quick; And all around dim murmurs pass. Like low winds moaning on the grass. Again — the thrilling signal sound — And off" at once, with one long bound, Into the speed of thought they leap. Like a proud ship rushing to the deep. A start ! a start ! they're off, by heaven, Like a single horse, though twenty-seven. And 'mid the flash of silks we scan A Yorkshire jacket in the van ; Hurrah ! for the bold bay mare I I'll pawn my soul her place is there Un headed to the last. For a thousand pounds, she wins unpast — Hurrah I for the matchless mare ! A hundred yards have glided by And they settle to the race. More keen becomes each straining eye, More terrible the pace. Unbroken yet o'er the gravel road Like maddening waves the troop has flowed. But the speed begins to tell. And Yorkshire sees, with eye of fear, The Southron stealing from the rear. Ay I mark his action well ! Behind he is, but what repose ! How steadily and clean he goes ! What latent speed his limbs disclose ! What power in every stride he shows ! They see, they feel ; from man to man The shivering thrill of terror ran. And every soul instinctive knew It lay between the mighty two. The world without, the sky above, Have glided from their straining eyes- Future and past, and hate and love, The life that wanes, the friend that dies, E'en grim remorse, who sits behind Each thought and motion of the mind, — These now are nothing. Time and Space Lie in the rushing of the race, As with keen shouts of hope and fear They watch it in its wild career. Still far ahead of the glittering throng, Dashes the eager mare along, And round the turn, and past the hill^ Slides up the Derby winner still. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 415 The twenty-five that lay between Are blotted from the stirring scene, And the wild cries which rang so loud, Sink by degrees throughout the crowd, To one deep humming, like the tremulous roar Of seas remote along a northern shore. In distance dwindling to the eye Right opposite the stand they lie, And scarcely seem to stir ; Though an Arab scheich his wives would give For a single steed, that with them could live Three hundred yards without a spur. But though so indistinct and small You hardly see them move at all, There are not wanting signs, which show Defeat is busy as they go. Look how the mass, which rushed away As full of spirit as the day. So close compacted for a while, Is lengthening into single file. Now inch by inch it breaks, and wide And spreading gaps the line divide. As forward still, and far away Undulates on the tired array. Gay colors, momently less bright, Fade flickering on the gazer's sight, Till keenest eyes can scarcely trace The homeward ripple of the race. Care sits on every lip and brow. " Who leads? who fails? how goes it now?" One shooting spark of life intense, One throb of refluent suspense. And a fair rainbow-colored light Trembles again upon the sight. Look to yon turn ! Already there Gleams the pink and black of the fiery mare, And through that, which was but now a gap, Creeps on the terrible white cap. Half strangled in each throat a shout Wrung from their fevered spirits out. Booms through the crowd like muffled drums, " His jockey moves on him. He comes." Then momently like gusts you heard, "He's sixth — he's fifth — he's fourth — he's third •" And on, like some glancing meteor-flame, The stride of the Derby winner came. And during all that anxious time (Sneer as it suits you at my rhjmie) The earnestness became sublime; Common and trite as is the scene. At once so thrilling, and so mean. To him who strives his heart to scan. And feels the brotherhood of man, That needs nmst be a mighty minute. When a crowd has but one soul within it. As some bright ship with every sail. Obedient to the urging gale. Darts by vext hulls, which side by side, Dismasted on the raging tide. Are struggling onward, wild and M'ide, Thus, through the reeling field he flew. And near, and yet more near he drew ; Each leap seems longer than the last, Now — now — the second horse is past, And the keen rider of the mare, With haggard looks of feverish care, Hangs forward on the speechless air, By steady stillness nursing in The remnant of her speed to win. One other bound — one more — 'tis done ; Right up to her the horse has run, And head to head, and stride for stride Newmarket's hope, and Yorkshire's pride, Like horses harnessed side by side. Are struggling to the goal. Ride ! gallant son of Ebor, ride ! For the dear honor of the north. Stretch every bursting sinew forth Put out thy inmost soul, — And with knee, and thigh, and tightened rein. Lift in the mare by might and main ; The feelings of the people reach. What lies beyond the springs of speech, So that there rises up no sound From the wide human life around ; One spirit flashes from each eye. One impulse lifts each heart throat-high, One short and panting silence broods. O'er the wildly-working multitudes, As on the struggling coursers press, So deep the eager silentness. That underneath their feet the turf Seems shaken, like the eddying surf When it tastes the rushing gale, 416 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. And the singing fall of the heavy whips, Which tear the flesh away in strips, As the tempest tears the sail, On the throbbing heart and quivering ear, Strike vividly distinct, and near. But mark what an arrowy rush is there, " He's beat ! he's beat ! — by heaven, the mare !" Just on the post her spirit rare When Hope herself might well despair ; When Time had not a breath to spare ; With bird-like dash shoots clean away And by half a length has gained the day. Then how to life that silence wakes ! Ten thousand hats thrown up on high Send darkness to the echoing sky. And like the crash of hill-pent lakes. Out bursting from their deepest fountains. Among the rent and reeling mountains. At once, from thirty thousand throats Eushes the Yorkshire roar, And the name of their northern winner floats A league from the course, and more. Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. The TWA Corbies. As I gaed doun by yon house-en' Twa corbies there were sittan their lane : The tane unto the tother sae, " Oh where shall we gae dine to-day?" " Oh down beside yon new-faun birk There lies a new-slain knicht ; Nae livin kens that he lies there, But his horse, his hounds, and his lady fair. " His horse is to the huntin gane, His hounds to bring the wild deer hame ; His lady's ta'en another mate ; Sae we may make our dinner swate. " Oh we'll sit on his bonnie briest-bane. And we'll pyke out his bonnie gray een ; Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. '-' Mony a ane for him maks mane. But nane sail ken where he is gane ; Ower his banes, when they are bare, The wind sail blaw for evermair!" Author Unknown. The Lake of the Dismal Swamp. " They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true ; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where all night long, by a firefly lamp, She paddles her white canoe. "And her firefly lamp I soon shall see. And her paddle I soon shall hear ; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, When the footstep of death is near." Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, — His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before. And when on the earth he sank to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew. He lay where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear, and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake. And the copper-snake breathed in his ear. Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, " Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake, And the white canoe of my dear ?" He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface play'd, — " Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light !" And the dim shore echo'd for many a night The name of the death-cold maid. Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark. Which carried him ofi" from shore ; Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark. And the boat, return'd no more. But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and maid so true LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 417 Are seen at the hour of midnight damp To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp, And paddle their white canoe ! Thomas Moobk. Tre High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire. {1571.) The old mayor climb'd the belfry tower, The ringers rang by two, by three ; " Pull, if ye never pull'd before ; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he, " Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! Ply all your changes, all your swells, Play up, ' The Brides of Enderby.' " Men say it was a stolen tyde — The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall : And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouch'd on the old sea wall. I sat and spun within the doore. My thread brake off", I raised myne eyes ; The level sun, like ruddy ore. Lay sinking in the barren skies ; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth. My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling. Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. " Cusha ! Cusha !" all along ; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth. From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking-song — " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling, " For the dews will soon be falling ; Leave your meadow-grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe. Light- foot; Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow ; Come uppe. Jetty, rise and follow. From the clovers lift your head ; 27 Come up, Whitefoot, come up, Lightfoot, Come uppe. Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed." If it be long, ay, long ago. When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow. Swift as an arrowe sharp and strong ; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be scene. Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple tower'd from out the greene ; And lo ! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. The swanherds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath. The shepherd-lads I heard afarre, And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kindly message free, The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." Then some look'd uppe into the sky. And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, " And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea ? They ring the tune of Enderby ! " For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down ; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe. They have not spared to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see. And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ' ?" I look'd without, and lo ! my sonne Came riding down with might and main ; He raised a shout as he drew on. Till all the welkin rang again, " Elizabeth ! Elizabeth !" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than mv Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 418 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. " The old sea wall," he cried, " is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death : " God, save you, mother !" straight he saith ; " Where is my wife, Elizabeth ?" " Good Sonne, where Lindis winds her way. With her two bairns I mark'd her long. And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He look'd across the grassy lea, To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby !" They rang " The Brides of Enderby !" With that he cried and beat his breast ; For, lo ! along the river's bed A mighty eygre rear'd his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud, Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis backward press'd Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came down with ruin and rout, Then beaten foam flew round about, Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobb'd in the grasses at oure feet ; The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee. And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roof we sate that night. The noise of bells went sweeping by ; I mark'd the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high ; A lurid mark and dread to see ; And awesome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang " Enderby." They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless row'd ; And I — my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glow'd ; And yet he moan'd beneath his breath, " Oh come in life, or come in death, lost ! my love, Elizabeth." And didst thou visit him no more ? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; The waters laid thee at his doore. Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace. The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strew'd wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! To manye more than myne and mee ; But each will mourn his own (she saith), And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 1 shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling, Ere the early dews be falling ; I shall never hear her song, " Cusha ! Cusha !" all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth ; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver ; Stand beside the sobbing river. Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy, lonesome shore ; I shall never hear her calling, " Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Light foot, Quit your pipes of parsley hollow. Hollow, hollow ; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow, Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head ; Come uppe. Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed." Jean Ingelow. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 419 TffE Sands of Dee. " Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee." The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand. And o'er and o'er the sand. And round and round the sand. As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land : And never home came she. " Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — A tress of golden hair, A drownfed maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea?" Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee. They row'd her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam. To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. Charles Kingsley. Barbara Aliens Cruelty. All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swelling, Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay For love o' Barbara Allen. He sent his man unto her then, To the town where she was dwelling : " Oh haste and come to my master dear. If your name be Barbara Allen." Slowly, slowly rase she up. And she cam' where he was lying ; And when she drew the curtain by. Says, "Young man, I think you're dying." " Oh, it'a I am sick, and very, very sick, And it's a' for Barbara Allen. " Oh the better for me ye'se never be, Tho' your heart's blude were a-spillingj " O, dinna ye min', young man," she says, " When the red wine ye were filling. That ye made the healths gae round and round. And ye slighted Barbara Allen?" He turn'd his face unto the wa'. And death was wi' him dealing : " Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a' ; Be kind to Barbara Allen." As she was walking o'er the fields. She heard the dead-bell knelling; And every jow the dead-bell gave, It cried, " Woe to Barbara Allen !" " O mother, mother, mak' my bed. To lay me down in sorrow. My love has died for me to-day, I'll die for him to-morrow." Author Unknown. IjA3ient of the Border WidoW'. My love he built me a bonny bower, And clad it a' wi' lily flower ; A brawer bower ye ne'er did see. Than my true-love he built for me. There came a man by middle day, He spied his sport, and went away ; And brought the king that very night. Who brake my bower and slew my knight He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear : My servants all for life did flee. And left me in extremitie. I sew'd his sheet, making my mane ■, I watch'd the corpse mysell alane ; I watch'd his body night and day ; No living creature came that way. I took his body on my back. And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; I digg'd a grave, and laid him in, And happ'd him with the sod sae green. But think nae ye my heart was sair. When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair? 420 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Oh, think nae ye my heart was wae, When I turn'd about, away to gae? Nae living man I'll love again. Since that my lovely knight is slain ; Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair I'll chain my heart for evermair. Author Unknown. The Cruel Sister. There were two sisters sat in a hour, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; There came a knight to be their wooer ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He courted the eldest with glove and ring, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; But he lo'ed the youngest abune a' thing ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He courted the eldest with broach and knife, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; But he lo'ed the youngest abune his life ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The eldest she was vexfed sair, Binnorie, O Binnorie; And sore envied her sister fair; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The eldest said to the youngest ane, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; " Will ye go and see our father's ships come in ?" By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. She's ta'en her by the lily hand, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; And led her down to the river strand ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The youngest stude upon a stane, Binnorie, O Binnorie; The eldest came and push'd her in ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. She took her by the middle sma', Binnorie, O Binnorie ; And dash'd her bonny back to the jaw; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. " sister, sister, reach your hand, Binnorie, Binnorie; And ye shall bo heir of half my land."— < By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. " O sister, I'll not reach my hand, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; And I'll be heir of all your land ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. " Shame fa' the hand that I should take, Binnorie, O Binnorie: It's twinfed me and my world's make." — By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. " O sister, reach me but your glove, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; And sweet William shall be your love." — By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. " Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove ! Binnorie, O Binnorie; And sweet William shall better be my love, By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. " Your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; Garr'd me gang maiden evermair." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. Sometimes she sunk, and sometimes slie swam, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; Until she cam to the miller's dam ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. " O father, father, draw your dam ! Binnorie, O Binnorie; There's either a mermaid, or a milk-white swan." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The miller hasted and drew his dam I Binnorie, O Binnorie; And there he found a drown'd woman ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. You could not see her yellow hair, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Yov gowd and pearls that were so rare ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. You could not see her middle sma', Binnorie, Binnorie; Her gowden girdle was sae' bra' ; Bv the bonnv milldams of Binnorie. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 421 A famous harper passing by, Binnorie, O Binnorie; The sweet pale face he chanced to spy ; By the bonny milldains of Binnorie. And when he look'd that lady on, Binnorie, O Binnorie; He sigh'd and made a heavy moan ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He made a harp of her breast-bone, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Whose sounds would melt a heart of stone ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The strings he framed of her yellow hair, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Whose notes made sad the listening ear; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He brought it to her father's hall, Binnorie, O Binnorie; And there was the court assembled all ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He laid his harp upon a stone, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; And straight it began to play alone ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. " Oh yonder sits my father, the king, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; And yonder sits my mother, the queen ; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. " And yonder stands my brother Hugh, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; And by him my William, sweet and true." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. But the last tune that the harp play'd then, Binnorie, O Binnorie ; Was — " Woe to my sister, false Helen !" By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. Author Unknown. The Last Buccaneer. And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Avfes, beside the Spanish main. There were forty craft in Avfes that were both swift and stout, All furnish'd well with small-arms and cannons round about ; And a thousand men in Avfes made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally. Thence we sail'd against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold. Which he wrung with cruel tortures from the Indian folk of old ; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone. Who flog men and keel-haul them and starve them to the bone. Oh the palms grew high in Avfes and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous t» behold ; And the negro maids to Avfes from bondage fast did flee. To welcome gallant sailors a-sweeping in from sea. Oh sweet it was in Av^s to hear the land- Avard breeze A-swing with good tobacco in a net be- tween the trees. With a negro lass to fan you while you lis- ten'd to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside that never touch'd the shore. But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be. So the King's ships sail'd on Av^s, and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night ; And I fled in a piragua sore wounded from the fight. Oir, England is a pleasant place for them Nine days I floated starving, and a negro that's rich and high ; lass beside. But England is a cruel place for such poor Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor folks as I ; i young thing she died ; 422 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. But as I lay a-gasping a Bristol sail came And brought me home to England here to beg until I die. And now I'm old and going — I'm sure I can't tell where ; One comfort is, this world's so hard I can't be worse off there : If I might but be a sea-dove I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Avfes, to look at it once again. Charles Kingsley. TiTJE King of Denmark's Ride. Word was brought to the Danish king (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering And pined for the comfort his voice would bring ; (Oh 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 Eose 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 ; (Oh ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; Worn-out chargers stagger'd and sank ; Bridles were slacken'd, 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 falter'd, and home- ward gone ; His little fair page noAv follows alone. For strength and for courage trying. The king look'd back at that faithful child ; Wan was the face that answering smiled; They pass'd the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropp'd ; and only the king rode in Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying I The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; (Silence!) No answer came ; but faint and forlorn An echo return'd 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 yearn'd for his voice while dying ! The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary. The king return'd from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast ; And, that dumb companion eying. The tears gush'd forth which he strove to check ; He bow'd 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. A Song of the North. "Away! away !" cried the stout Sir John, " While the blossoms are on the trees ; For the summer is short and the time speeds on. As we sail for the northern seas. Ho! gallant Crozier and brave Fitz James! We will startle the world, I trow. When we find a way through the North- ern seas That never was found till now ! A good stout ship is the Erebus As ever unfurl'd a sail. And the Terror will match with as brave a one As ever outrode a gale." So they bade farewell to their pleasant homes. To the hills and the valleys green, With three hearty cheers for their native isle, And three for the English queen. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 423 They sped them away beyond cape and bay, Where the day and the night are one— Where the hissing light in the heavens grew bright And flamed like a midnight sun. There was naught below save the fields of snow, That stretch'd to the icy Pole ; And the Esquimaux, in his strange canoe, Was the only living soul ! Along the coast like a giant host The glittering icebergs frown'd. Or they met on the main like a battle- plain. And crash'd with a fearful sound ! The seal and the bear, with a curious stare, Look'd down from the frozen heights. And the stars in the skies with their great wild eyes, Peer'd out from the Northern Lights. The gallant Crozier and brave Fitz James, And even the stout Sir John, Felt a doubt like a chill through their warm hearts thrill As they urged the good ships on. They sped them away, beyond cape and bay. Where even the tear-drops freeze ; But no way was found by a strait or sound. To sail through the Northern seas ; They sped them away, beyond cape and bay. And they sought, but they sought in vain, For no way was found, through the ice around, To return to their homes again. Then the wild waves rose, and the waters froze Till they closed like a prison-wall; And the icebergs stood, in the sullen flood, Like their jailers grim and tall. O God ! God !— it was hard to die In that prison-house of ice ! For what was fame, or a mighty name, When life was the fearful price? The gallant Crozier and brave Fitz James, And even the stout Sir John, Had a secret dread and their hopes all fled, As the weeks and the months pass'd on. Then the Ice King came, with his eyes of flame. And look'd on that fated crew ; His chilling breath was as cold as death. And it pierced their warm hearts through. A heavy sleep, that was dark and deep, Came over their weary eyes. And they dream'd strange dreams of the hills and streams. And the blue of their native skies. The Christmas chimes of the good old times Were heard in each dying ear, And the dancing feet and the voices sweet Of their wives and their children dear ! But it faded away— away— away ! Like a sound on a distant shore ; And deeper and deeper grew the sleep. Till they slept to wake no more ! Oh, the sailor's wife and the sailor's child ! They will weep and watch and pray ; And the Lady Jane, she will hope in vain As the long years pass away ! The gallant Crozier and brave Fitz James, And the good Sir John have found An open way to a quiet bay, . And a port where we all are bound. Let the waters roar on the ice-bound shore That circles the frozen Pole, But there is no sleep and no grave so deep That can hold a human soul. Elizabeth Dotkij. RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. To the belfry, one by one, went the ringers from the sun. Toll slowly. And the oldest ringer said, " Ours is music for the Dead, When the Rebecks are all done." Six abeles i' the churchyard grow on the northside in a row. Toll slowly. 424 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. And the shadows of their tops rock across the little slopes Of the grassy graves below. On the south side and the west, a small river runs in haste, Toll slowly. And between the river flowing and the fair green trees a-growing Do the dead lie at their rest. On the east I sate that day, up against a willow gray : Toll slowly. Through the rain of willow-branches, I could see the low hill-ranges. And the river on its way. There I sate beneath the tree, and the bell tolled solemnly. Toll slowly. While the trees and river's voices flowed between the solemn noises, — Yet death seemed more loud to me. There I read this ancient rhyme, while the bell did all the time Toll slowly. And the solemn knell fell in with the tale of life and sin. Like a rhythmic fate sublime. THE EHYME. Broad the forest stood (I read) on the hills of Linteged, — Toll sloivly. And three hundred years had stood mute adown each hoary wood. Like a full heart having prayed. And the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west. Toll sloivly. And but little thought was theirs of the silent antique years, In the building of their nest. Down the sun dropt large and red on the towers of Linteged — Toll sloivly. Lance and spear upon the height, bristling strange in fiery light, While the castle stood in shade. There, the castle stood up black, with the red sun at its back, — Toll slowly. Like a sullen smoldering jiyre, with a top that flickers fire. When the wind is on its track. And five hundred archers tall did besiege the castle wall, Toll slowly. And the castle, seethed in blood, fourteen days and nights had stood, And to-night was near its fall. Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three months since a bride did come, — Toll slowly. One who proudly trod the floors, and softly whispered in the doors, " May good angels bless our home." Oh, a bride of queenly eyes, with a front of constancies; Toll slowly. Oh, a bride of cordial mouth, — where the untired smile of youth Did light outward its own sighs. 'Twas a Duke's fair orphan-girl, and her uncle's ward, the Earl, Ihll slowly. Who betrothed her, twelve years old, for the sake of dowry gold. To his son Lord Leigh, the churl. But what time she had made good all her years of womanhood, Toll slowly. Unto both those Lords of Leigh spake she out right sovranly, " My will runneth as my blood. "And while this same blood makes red this same right hand's veins," she said, Toll slowly. " 'Tis my will as lady free not to wed a Lord of Leigh, But Sir Guy of Linteged." The old Earl he smiled smooth, then lie sighed for wilful youth, — Toll sloivly. " Good my niece, that hand withal looketh somewhat soft and small, For so large a will, in sooth." LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 425 She, too, smiled by that same sign, — but her smile was cold and fine, — Toll slowly. " Little hand clasps muckle gold, or it were not worth the hold Of thy sou, good uncle mine !" Then the young lord jerked his breath, and sware thickly in his teeth. Toll slowly. " He would wed his own betrothed, an she loved him, an she loathed. Let the life come or the death." Up she rose with scornful eyes, as her father's child might rise, Toll slowly. "Thy hound's blood, my Lord of Leigh, stains thy knightly heel," quoth she, "And he Lioans not where he lies: " But a woman's will dies hard, in the hall or on the sward ! — Toll slowly. By that grave, my lords, which made me orphaned girl and dowered lady, I deny you wife and ward." Unto each she bowed her head, and swept past with lofty tread. Toll slowly. Ere the midnight-bell had ceased, in the chapel had the priest Blessed her, bride of Linteged. Fast and fain the bridal train along the night-storm rode amain : Toll slowly. Hard the steeds of lord and serf struck their hoofs out on the turf, In the pauses of the rain. Fast and fain the kinsmen's train, along the storm pursued amain — Toll sloioly. Steed on steed-track, dashing off— thicken- ing, doubling hoof on hoof. In the pauses of the rain. And the bridegroom led the flight on his red-roan steed of might, Toll slowly. And the bride lay on his arm, still as if she feared no harm, Smiling out into the night. "Dost thou fear?" he said at last; — "Nay!" she answered him in haste, — Toll slowly. " Not such death as we could find — only life with one behind — Ride on as fast as fear — ride fast !" Up the mountain wheeled the steed — girth to ground, and fetlocks spread, — Toll slowly. Headlong bounds, and rocking flanks, — down he staggered — down the banks, To the towers of Linteged. High and low the serfs looked out, red the flambeaux tossed about, — Toll slowly. In the courtyard rose the cry — " Live the Duchess and Sir Guy !" But she never heard them shout. On the steed she dropt her cheek, kissed his mane and kissed his neck, — Toll slowly. " I had happier died by thee than lived on a Lady Leigh," Were the first words she did speak. But a three months' joyaunce lay 'twixt that moment and to-day, Toll slowly. When five hundred archers tall stand be- side the castle wall, To recapture Duchess May. And the castle standeth black, with the red sun at its back, — Toll slowly. And a fortnight's siege is done — and, ex- cept the Duchess, none Can misdoubt the coming wrack. Then the captain, young Lord Leigh, with his eyes so gray of blee, Toll slowly. And thin lips that scarcely sheath the cold white gnashing of his teeth. Gnashed in smiling, absently. Cried aloud—" So goes the day, bridegroom fair of Duchess May ! — Toll slowly. Look thy last upon that sun ! if thou seest to-morrow's one, 'Twill be through a foot of clay. 426 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. " Ha, fair bride ! Dost hear no sound save that moaning of the hound ? — Toll slowly. Thou and I have parted troth, — yet I keep my vengeance oath, And the other may come round. " Ha ! thy will is brave to dare, and thy new love past compare, — Toll slotvly. Yet thine old love's falchion brave iu as strong a thing to have As the will of lady fair. " Peck on blindly, netted dove ! — if a wife's name thee behove. Toll slowly. Thou shalt wear the same to-morrow, ere the grave has hid the sorrow Of thy last ill-mated love. " O'er his fixed and silent mouth thou and I will call back troth, Toll slowly. He shall altar be and priest, — and he will not cry at least, 'I forbid you, — I am loath !' " I will wring thy fingers pale in the gaunt- let of my mail : Toll slotvly. ' Little hand and muckle gold ' close shall lie within my hold. As the sword did to prevail." O the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west. Toll slowly. O, and laughed the Duchess May, and her soul did put away All his boasting for a jest. In her chamber did she sit, laughing low to think of it, — Toll slowly. " Tower is strong and will is free — thou canst boast, my Lord of Leigh, But thou boastest little wit." In her tire-glass gazed she, and she blushed right womanly, Toll slowly. She blushed half from her disdain — half, her beauty was so plain, — " Oath for oath, my Lord of Leigh !" Straight she called her maidens in — " Since ye gave me blame herein. Toll slowly. That a bridal such as mine should lack gauds to make it fine, Come and shrive me from that sin. "It is three months gone to-day, since I gave mine hand away. Toll slowly. Bring the gold and bring the gem, we will keep bride state in them, While we keep the foe at bay. " On your arms I loose your hair ; — comb it smooth and crown it fair, Toll slowly. I would look in purple-pall from this lattice down the wall. And throw scorn to one that's there !" O, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west. Toll slowly. On the tower the castle's lord leant in silence on his sword, "With an anguish in his breast. With a spirit-laden weight, did he lean down passionate. Toll slowly. They have almost sapped the wall, — they will enter there withal. With no knocking at the gate. Then the sword he leant upon, shivered — snapped upon the stone, Toll slowly. " Sword," he thought, with inward laugh, "ill thou servest for a staff When thy nobler use is done ! " Sword, thy nobler use is done ! — tower is lost, and shame begun ; Toll slowly. If we met them in the breach, hilt to hilt or speech to speech. We should die there, each for one. "If we met them at the wall, we should singly, vainly fall, — Toll slowly. But if / die here alone, — then I die, who am but one, And die nobly for them all. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 427 " Five true friends lie for my sake— in the j moat and in the brake,— Toll slowly. Thirteen warriors lie at rest, with a black wound in the breast, And not one of these will wake. "And no more of this shall be '.—heart- blood weighs too heavily— Toll slowly. And I could not sleep in grave, with the faithful and the brave Heaped around and over me. "Since young Clare a mother hath, and young Ralph a plighted faith ; Toll slowly. Since my pale young sister's cheeks blush like rose when Ronald speaks. Albeit never a word she saith— " These shall never die for me— life-blood falls too heavily: Toll slowly. And if /die here apart— o'er my dead and silent heart They shall pass out safe and free. "When the foe hath heard it said—' Death holds Guy of Linteged,'— Toll sloioly. That new corse new peace shall bring ; and a blessed, blessed thing Shall the stone be at its head. "Ah ! sweet May— ah, sweetest grief '.—once 1 vowed thee my belief. Toll slowly. That thy name expressed thy sweetness- May of poets, in completeness ! Now my May -day seemeth brief." All these silent thoughts did swim o'er his eyes grown strange and dim, — Toll slowly. Till his true men in the place wished they stood there face to face With the foe instead of him. " One last oath, my friends that wear faith- ful hearts to do and dare !— Toll sloivly. Tower must fall, and bride be lost !— swear me service worth the cost : —Bold they stood around to swear. "Each man clasp my hand and swear, by the deed we failed in there, Toll slowly. Not for vengeance, not for right, will ye strike one blow to-night!" Pale they stood around— to swear. " One last boon, young Ralph and Clare ! faithful hearts to do and dare! Toll sloivly. Bring that steed up from his stall, which she kissed before you all: Guide him up the turret stair. "Then my friends shall pass out free, and shall bear my memory,— Toll sloivly. Then my foes shall sleek their pride, sooth- ino- fair my widowed bride Whose sole sin was love of me. " With their words all smooth and sweet they will front her and entreat, Toll slowly. And their purple pall will spread under- neath her fainting head. While her tears drop over it. " She will weep her woman's tears, she will pray her woman's prayers,— Toll slowly. But her heart is young in pain, and her hopes will spring again By the suntime of her years. "Ye shall harness him aright, and lead up- ward to this height ! Toll slowly. Once in love and twice in war, hath he borne me strong and far. He shall bear me far to-night." Then his men looked to and fro, when they heard him speaking so. Toll slowly, —"'Las! the noble heart!" they thought, _"he in sooth is grief-distraught. Would we stood here with the foe !" But a fire flashed from his eye, 'twixt their thought and their reply,— Toll slowly. ' Have ye so much time to waste? We who ride here, must ride fast. As we wish our foes to fly." 428 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. They have fetched the steed with care, in the harness he did wear, Toll slowlij. Past the court and through the doors, across the rushes of the floors ; But they goad him up the stair. Then from out her bower chambcre, did the Duchess May repair. Toll slowly. " Tell me now what is your need," said the lady, " of this steed. That ye goad him up the stair?" Calm she stood ; unbodkined through, fell her dark hair to her shoe, — Toll slowly. And the smile upon her face, ere she left the tiring-glass, Had not time enough to go. " Get thee back, sweet Duchess May ! hope is gone like yesterday, — Toll slowly. One half-hour completes the breach; and thy lord grows wild of speech : Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray. " In the east tower, highest of all, — loud he cries for steed from stall. Toll slowly. ' He would ride as fiir,' quoth he, ' as for love and victory. Though he rides the castle wall.' "And we fetch the steed from stall, up where never a hoof did fall. Toll slowly. Wifely prayer meets deathly need ! may the sweet Heavens hear thee plead. If he rides the castle-wall." Low she dropt her head, and lower, till her hair coiled on the floor, Toll slowly. And tear after tear you heard fall distinct as any word Which you might be listening for. " Get thee in, thou soft ladie ! — here is never a place for thee ! — Toll sloivly. Bicaid thy hair and clasp thy gown, that thy beauty in its moan May find grace with Leigh of Leigh." She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet stately face. Toll slowly. Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though quivering, seems to look Right against the thunder-place. And her foot trod in, with pride, her own tears i' the stone beside, — Toll slowly. " Go to, faithful friends, go to ! — Judge no more what ladies do, — No, nor how their lords may ride I" Then the good steed's rein she took, and his neck did kiss and stroke: Toll slowly. Soft he neighed to answer her ; and then followed u]) the stair, For the love of her sweet look. Oh, and steeply, steeply wound up the nar- row stair around, — Toll slowly. Oh, and closely, closely speeding, step by step beside her treading, Did he follow, meek as hound. On the east tower, high'st of all, — there, where never a hoof did fall, — Toll slowly. Out they swept, a vision steady — noble steed and lovely lady, Calm as if in bower or stall I Down she knelt at her lord's knee, and she looked up silently, — Toll slowly. And he kissed her twice and thrice, for that look within her eyes Which he could not bear to see. Quoth he, " Get thee from this strife, — and the sweet saints bless thy life ! Toll sloivly. In this hour I stand in need of my noble red-roan steed — But no more of my noble wife." Quoth she, " Meekly have I done all thy biddings under sun : Toll slowly. But by all my womanhood, — which is proved so true and good, I will never do this one. LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 429 " Now, by womanhood's degree, and by wifehood's verity, Toll slowly. In this hour if thou hast need of thy noble red-roan steed, Thou hast also need of me. " By this golden ring ye see on this lifted hand pardie, Toll slowly. If, this hour, on castle-wall can be room for steed from stall, Shall be also room for me. " So the sweet saints with me be " (did she utter solemnly), Toll slowly. " If a man, this eventide, on this castle wall will ride, He shall ride the same with me." Oh, he sprang up in the selle, and he laughed out bitter well, — Toll slowly. " Wouldst thou ride among the leaves, as we used on other eves, To hear chime a vesper bell '?" She clang closer to his knee — "Ay, beneath the cypress tree ! — • Toll slowly. Mock me not ; for otherwhere than along the green-wood fair, Have I ridden fast with thee ! " Fast I rode, with new-made vows, from my angry kinsman's house I Toll slowly. What! and would you men should reck that I dared more for love's sake As a bride than as a spouse ? "What, and would you it should fall, as a proverb, before all. Toll slowly. That a bride may keep your side while through castlegate you ride, Yet eschew the castle-wall?" Ho I the breach yawns into ruin, and roars up against her suing, — Toll slowly. With the inarticulate din, and the dreadful falling in — Shrieks of doing and undoing I Twice he wrung her hands in twain; but the small hands closed again. Toll slowly. Back he reined the steed — back, back ! but she trailed along his track With a frantic clasp and strain ! Evermore the foemen pour through the crash of window and door, — Toll slowly. And the shouts of Leigh of Leigh, and the shrieks of "Kill!" and "Flee!" Strike up clear amid the roar. Thrice he wrung her hands in twain, — but they closed and clung again, — Toll slowly. Wild she clung, as one, withstood, clasps a Christ upon the rood, In a spasm of deathly pain. She clung wild and she clung mute, — with her shuddering lips half shut, Toll slowly. Her head fallen as half in swound, — hair and knee swept on tlie ground, She clung wild to stirrup and foot. Back he reined his steed back-thrown on the slippery coping-stone. Toll slowly. Back the iron hoofs did grind on the battle- ment behind, Whence a hundred feet went down. And his heel did press and goad on the quivering flank bestrode. Toll slowly. "Friends and brothers, save my wife! — Pardon, sweet, in change for life, — But I ride alone to God." Straight as if the Holy name had up- breathed her like a flame, Toll slowly. She upsprang, she rose upright,— in his selle she sat in sight; By her love she overcame. And her head was on his breast, where she smiled as one at rest, — Toll slowly. " Ring," she cried, " vesper-bell, in the beech-wood's old chapelle! But the passing-bell rings best." 430 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. They have caught out at the rein which Sir Guy threw loose — in vain, — Toll slowly. For the horse in stark desjjair, with his front hoofs poised in air, On the last verge rears amain. Now he hangs, he rocks between — and his nostrils curdle in, — Toll slowly. And he shivers head and hoof — and the flakes of foam fall off; And his face grows fierce and thin ! And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go, Toll slowly. And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony Of the headlong death below. And "Ring, ring, — thou passing bell," still she cried, " i' the old chapelle !" — Toll slowly. Then back-toppling, crushing back, a dead weight flung out to wrack, Horse and riders overfell. Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, — Toll sloioly. And I read this ancient Ehyme in the churchyard, while the chime Slowly tolled for one at rest. The abeles moved in the sun, and the river smooth did run. Toll slowly. And the ancient Rhyme rang strange, with its passion and its change, Here, where all done lay undone. And beneath a willow tree I a little grave did see, Toll slowly. Where was graved, — Here undefiled, li- ETH Maud, a three-year child, Eighteen hundred forty-three. Then, Spirits — did I say — ye who rode so fast that day, — Toll slowly. Did star-wheels and angel-wings, with their holy win no wings, Keep beside you all the way ? Though in passion ye would dash, with a blind and heavy crash. Toll sloivly. Up against the thick-bossed shield of God's judgment in the field, Though your heart and brain were rash. Now, your will is all unwilled — now your pulses are all stilled, — Toll slowly. Now, ye lie as meek and mild (whereso laid) as Maud the child. Whose small grave was lately filled. Beating heart and burning brow, ye are very patient now. Toll slowly. And the children might be bold to pluck the kingcups from your mold Ere a month had let them grow. And you let the goldfinch sing in the alder near in spring, Toll slowly. Let her build her nest and sit all the three • weeks out on it. Murmuring not at anything. In your patience ye are strong ; cold and heat ye take not wrong: Toll sloivly. When the trumpet of the angel blows eternity's evangel. Time will seem to you not long. Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west. Toll slowly. And I said in underbreath, — all our life is mixed with death. And who knoweth which is best ? Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, Toll slowly. And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness, — Round our restlessness, His rest. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Poems of Nature. A Hymjv. The Seasons. These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing spring Thy Beauty walks, thy Tenderness and Love. Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and every heart, is joy. Then comes thy Glory in the summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then thy Sun Shoots full perfection through the swell- ing year ; And oft thy Voice in dreadful thunder speaks. And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whisper- ing gales. Thy Bounty shines in autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In winter awful Thou ! with clouds and storms Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd, Majestic darkness ! On the whirlwind's wing, Riding sublime. Thou bid'st the World adore, And humblest Nature with thy northern blast. Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine. Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined ; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; And all so forming an harmonious whole. That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty Hand, That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steam- ing, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring ; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; And, as on earth this grateful change re- volves. With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend! join, every living soul Beneath the spacious temi^le of the sky, In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales. Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes : Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms ; Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 431 432 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heaven The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and pro- found ; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings foil. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave, to Him ; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams. Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day ! best image here be- low Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On Nature write with every beam His praise. The thunder rolls : be hush'd the prostrate world. While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound ; the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns. And His unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song Burst from the groves ; and when the rest- less day. Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep. Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles. At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all. Crown the great hymn ! in swarming cities vast. Assembled men to the deep organ join The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear. At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardor rise to heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade. And find a fane in every sacred grove. There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams, Or winter rises in the blackening east, Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes. Rivers unknown to song, — where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles, — 'tis naught to me : Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste, as in the city full. And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. POEMS OF NATURE. 433 When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers. Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go Where Universal Love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and better still. In infinite progression. But I lose Myself in Him, in Light ineffable ! Come, then, expressive Silence, muse His praise. James Thomson. To Fan. All ye woods, and trees, and bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers That inhabit in the lakes, In the pleasant springs or brakes, Move your feet To our sound, Whilst we greet All this ground With his honor and his name That defends our flocks from blame. He is great, and he is just, He is ever good, and must Thus be honor'd. Daffodillies, Roses, pinks, and lovfed lilies, Let us fling, Whilst we sing, Ever holy. Ever holy. Ever honor'd, ever young I Thus great Pan is ever sung. Beaumont and Fletcher. Description of Spring. The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ; The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; The turtle to her make hath told her tale. 28 Summer is come, for every spray now springs ; The hart hath hung his old head on the pale, The buck in brake his winter coat he slings ; The fishes flete with new repaired scale ; The adder all her slough away she flings ; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; The busy bee her honey now she mings; Winter is worn that was the flowres' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Eacli care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. Henry Howard (Earl of Surrey). To Spring. Sweet Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train. Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers. Thou turn'st, sweet youth — but, ah ! my pleasant hours And happy days, with thee come not again ; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. Thou art the same which still thou wast before, Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair ; But she whose breath embalm'd thy whole- some air Is gone ; nor gold nor gems her can re- store. Neglected Virtue, seasons go and come, When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb. What doth it serve to see sun's burning face ? And skies enamell'd with both Indies' gold? 434 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd, And all the glory of that starry place? What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold, The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery grace ; The stately comeliness of forests old, The sport of floods which would them- selves embrace? What doth it serve to hear the sylvans' songs. The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains. Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs ? For what doth serve all that this world contains, Sith she, for whom those once to me were dear. No part of them can have now with me here? William Drummond. CffOJiUS. From "Atalanta in Calydon." When the hounds of spring are on win- ter's traces. 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. Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her. Fold our hands round her knees and cling ? Oh 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 south-west 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 remember'd 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 travelling 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 hoof'd 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 de- light The Mfenad and the Bassarid ; And soft as lips that laugh and hide. The laughing leaves of the trees divide. And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid. The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows, shading her eyes ; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. Algernon Charles Swinburne. POEMS OF NATURE. 435 ODE. On the Spring. Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers And wake the purple year ! The Attic warbler pours her throat Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring : While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade. Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade. Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great ! Still is the toiling hand of Care; The panting herds repose : Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honey'd spring And float amid the liquid noon : Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gayly-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of man ; And they that creep, and they that fly Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter thro' life's little day. In Fortune's varying colors drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply : Poor moralist ! and what art thou? A solitary fly ! Thy joys no glittering female meets. No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone— We frolic while 'tis May. Thomas Gray. Spring. Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king ; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring. Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet. Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit. In every street these tunes our ears do greet. Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! Spring ! the sweet spring ! Thomas Nash. Song. On May Morning. Now the bright morning star, day's har- binger. Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale prim- rose. Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee Avith our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. John Milton. 436 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Song to May. May ! queen of blossoms And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music Shall we charm the hours ? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead ? Or to the lute give heed In the green bowers ? Thou hast no need of us, Or pipe or wire, That hast the golden bee Ripen'd with fire ; And many thousand more Songsters, that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor With new desire. Thou hast thy mighty herds. Tame, and free livers; Doubt not, thy music too In the deep rivers ; And the whole plumy flight. Warbling the day and night — Up at the gates of light. See, the lark quivers ! When with the jacinth Coy fountains are tress'd : And for the mournful bird Green woods are dress'd. That did for Tereus pine ; Then shall our songs be thine, To whom our hearts incline : May, be thou bless'd ! Lord Thuelow. Sonnet. May. When May is in his prime, and youthful Spring Doth clothe the tree with leaves and ground with flowers. And time of year reviveth everything, And lovely Nature smiles, and nothing lowers ; Then Philomela most doth strain her breast With night-complaints, and sits in little rest. This bird's estate I may compare with mine, To whom fond Love doth work such wrongs by day. That in the night my heart must needs re- pine, And storm with sighs to ease me as I may; Whilst others are becalm'd or lie them still, Or sail secure with tide and wind at will. And as all those which hear this bird com- plain, Conceive in all her tunes a sweet de- light, Without remorse or pitying her pain ; So she, for whom I wail both day and night, Doth sport herself in hearing my com- plaint ; A just reward for serving such a saint ! Thomas Watson. CORINNAS GOING A-MAYING. Get up, get up, for shame ! the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colors through the air ! Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east. Above an hour since, yet you not drest — Nay, not so much as out of bed. When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin. Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whenas a thousand virgins on this day Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May. Else, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green. And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair : Fear not, the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you ; POEMS OF NATURE. 437 Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls un- wept. Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night ; And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying : Few beads are best, when once we go a- Maying. Come, my Corinua, come! and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimm'd with trees ; see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere this An ark, a tabernacle is. Made up of white thorn neatly inter- wove. As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see 't ? Come ! we'll abroad, and let's obey The proclamation made for May ; And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, But, my Corinna, come! let's go a-May- ing. There's not a budding boy or girl, this day. But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white thorn laden home. Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream Before that we have left to dream ; And some have wept and woo'd and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth. Many a green gown has been given ; Many a kiss, both odd and even ; Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament ; Many a jest told of the key's betraying This night, and locks pick'd : yet w' are not a-Maying. Come ! let us go while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time : We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun ; And as a vapor, or a drop of rain Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drown'd with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come ! let's go a-May- ing. Robert Hekrick. Summer Longings. Las mananas floridas De Abril y Mayo. Calderon. Ah ! my heart is weary waiting — 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. 438 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Ah ! my heart is pain'd 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. Waiting sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May : Spring goes by Avith 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 ! Denis Florence McCaethy. Of Solitude. Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good ! Hail, ye plebeian underwood ! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food Pay with their grateful voice. Hail the poor Muse's richest manor-seat ! Ye country-houses and retreat. Which all the happy gods so love, That for you oft they quit their bright and great Metropolis above. Here Nature does a house for me erect, Nature ! the fairest architect. Who those fond artists does despise That can the fair and living trees neg- lect, Yet the dead timber prize. Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying, With all their wanton boughs dispute. And the more tuneful birds to both reply- ing, Nor be myself, too, mute. A silver stream shall roll his waters near, Gilt with the sunbeams here and there, On whose enamell'd bank I'll walk, And see how prettily they smile, And hear how prettily they talk. Ah ! wretched, and too solitary he, Who loves not his own company ! He'll feel the weight oft many a day, Unless he calls in sin or vanity To help to bear 't away. Oh, Solitude ! first state of humankind! Which bless'd remain'd till man did find Even his own helper's company. As soon as two, alas! together join'd, The serpent made up three. Though God himself, through countless ages, thee His sole companion chose to be, Thee, sacred Solitude ! alone. Before the branchy head of number's tree Sprang Irom the trunk of one ; Thou (though men think thine an un- active part) Dost break and tame tli' unruly heart, Which else would know no settled pace, Making it move, well managed by thy art. With swiftness and with grace. Thou the faint beams of reason's scatter'd light Dost, like a burning-glass, unite. Dost multiply the feeble heat, And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright And noble fires beget. Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I see The monster London laugh at me ; I should at thee, too, foolish city ! If I were fit to laugh at misery ; But thy estate I pity. Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, And all the fools that crowd thee so. Even thou, who dost thy millions boast, A village less than Islington wilt grow, A solitude almost. Abraham Cowley. POEMS OF NATURE. 439 Thje First Spring Day. But one short week ago the trees were bare ; And winds were keen, and violets pinched with frost ; Winter was with us ; but the larches tossed Lightly their crimson buds, and here and there Rooks cawed. To-day the Spring is in the air And in the blood : sweet sun-gleams come and go Upon the hills ; in lanes the wild flowers blow. And tender leaves are bursting everywhere. About the hedge the small birds peer and dart, Each bush is full of amorous flutterings And little rapturous cries. The thrush apart Sits throned, and loud his ripe contralto rings. Music is on the wind, — and, in my heart, Infinite love for all created things. John Todhuntee. Lines, Written in Early Spring. I HEARD a thousand blended notes. While in a grove I sate reclined. In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran ; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played; Their thoughts I cannot measure : — But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan. To catch the breezy air ; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. From heaven if this belief be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man ? William Wokdsworth. After a Sumsier Shower. The rain is o'er. How dense and bright Yon pearly clouds reposing lie ! Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight. Contrasting with the dark blue sky ! In grateful silence earth receives The general blessing ; fresh and fair. Each flower expands its little leaves. As glad the common joy to share. The softened sunbeams pour around A fairy light, uncertain, pale ; The wind flows cool ; the scented ground Is breathing odors on the gale. Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest, to gaze below a while, Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth ; from off" the scene Its floating veil of mist is flung; And all the wilderness of green With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on Nature, — yet the same, — Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, Luxuriant, lovely, as she came. Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand. Hear the rich music of that voice, Which sounds from all below, above ; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms of love. Drink in her influence ; low-born care. And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy air. And 'mid this living light expire. Andrews Norton. 4-iO FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Spring. Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain. Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons. In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee, And there's a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of Winter in the land. Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season's dawn ; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind. The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of autumn corn. As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. In gardens you may note amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth ; And near the snowdrop's tender white and green. The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows need must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose's mouth. Still, there's a sense, of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn ; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace-gate Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, "Behold me ! I am May !" Henry Timeod. The Airs of Spring. Sweetly breathing, vernal air. That with kind warmth doth repair Winter's ruins; from whose breast All the gums and spice of th' East Borrow their j^erfumes ; whose eye Gilds the morn, and clears the sky; Whose dishevelled tresses shed Pearls upon the violet bed ; On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, The halcyon sits and builds her nest; Beauty, youth, and endless spring, Dwell upon thy rosy wing ! Thou, if stormy Boreas throws Down whole forests when he blows, With a pregnant, flowery birth, Canst refresh the teeming earth. If he nip the early bud; If he blast what's fair or good ; If he scatter our choice flowers; If he shake our halls or bowers ; If his rude breath threaten us, — Thou canst stroke great ^olus, And from him the grace obtain, To bind him in an iron chain. Thomas Caeew. Song to May. Born in yon blaze of orient sky. Sweet May ! thy radiant form unfold, Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye, And wave thy shadowy locks of gold. POEMS OF NATURE. 441 For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow, For thee descends the sunny shower ; The rills in softer murmurs flow, And brighter blossoms gem the bower. Light graces decked in flowery wreaths, And tiptoe joys their hands combine; And Love his sweet contagion breathes, And, laughing, dances round thy shrine. Warm with new life, the glittering throng On quivering fin and rustling wing, Delighted join their votive song, And hail thee Goddess of the Spring ! Erasmus Darwin. The Reign of 31 ay. I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; The winds that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, Tell of serener hours, — Of hours that glide unfelt away Beneath the sky of May. The spirit of the gentle south wind calls From his blue throne of air, And where his whispering voice in music falls. Beauty is budding there ; The bright ones of the valley break Their slumbers, and awake. The waving verdure rolls along the plain. And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves ; And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes. Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; The tresses of the woods With the light dallying of the west wind play; And the full-brimming floods. As gladly to their goal they run, Hail the returning sun. James Gates Percival. July. Loud is the Summer's busy song, The smallest breeze can find a tongue, While insects of each tiny size Grow teasing with their melodies, Till noon burns with its blistering breath Around, and day lies still as death. The busy noise of man and brute Is on a sudden lost and mute ; Even the brook that leaps along. Seems weary of its bubbling song. And, so soft its waters creep, Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep ; The cricket on its bank is dumb ; The very flies forget to hum ; And, save the wagon rocking round, The landscape sleeps without a sound. The breeze is stopped, the lazy bough Hath not a leaf that danceth now ; The taller grass upon the hill. And spider's threads, are standing still ; The feathers, dropped from moorhen's wing Which to the water's surface cling, Are steadfast, and as heavy seem As stones beneath them in the stream ; Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs Unruflled keep their seedy crowns; And in the overheated air Not one light thing is floating there. Save that to the earnest eye The restless heat seems twittering by. Noon swoons beneath the heat it made, And flowers e'en within the shade ; Until the sun slopes in the west. Like weary traveller, glad to rest On pillowed clouds of many hues. Then Nature's voice its joy renews, And checkered field and grassy plain Hum with their summer songs again, A requiem to the day's decline, Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine As welcome to day's feeble powers As falling dews to thirsty flowers. John Clare. 442 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Sonnet. S U M M K R . The Summer, the divinest Summer burns, The skies are bright with azure and with gold, The mavis and the nightingale by turns Amid the woods a soft enchantment hold : The flowering woods, with glory and de- light. Their tender leaves unto the air have spread ; The wanton air, amid their alleys bright, Doth softly fly, and a light fragrance shed : The nymphs within the silver fountains play, The angels on the golden banks recline. Wherein great Flora, in her bright array, Hath sprinkled her ambrosial sweets divine : Or, else, I gaze upon that beauteous face, O Amoret ! and think these sweets have place. Lord Thurlow. Whisper / You saucy south wind, setting all the budded beech boughs swinging Above the wood anemones that flutter, flushed and white, When far across the wide salt waves your quick way you were winging, Oh! tell me, tell me, did you pass my sweetheart's ship last night? Ah ! let the daisies be. South wind ! and answer me : Did you my sailor see? Wind, whisper very low, For none but you must know I love my lover so. You've come by many a gorsy hill, your breath has sweetness in it. You've ruffled up the high white clouds that fleck the shining blue ; You've rushed and danced and whirled, so now perhaps you'll spare a minute. To tell me whether you have seen my lover brave and true? Wind, answer me, I pray. I'm lonelier every day My love is far away ; And, sweet wind, whisper low, For none but you must know I love my lover so. Frances Wynne. Reve du Midi. When o'er the mountain-steeps The hazy noontide creeps. And the shrill cricket sleeps Under the grass ; When soft the shadows lie, And clouds sail o'er the sky, And the idle winds go by With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass — Then, when the silent stream Lapses as in a dream, And the water-lilies gleam Up to the sun ; When the hot and burden'd day Rests on its downward way. When the moth forgets to play And the plodding ant may dream her work is done — Then, from the noise of war And the din of earth afar, Like some forgotten star Dropt from the sky — The sounds of love and fear, All voices sad and clear, Banish'd to silence drear — The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie. Some melancholy gale Breathes its mysterious tale. Till the rose's lips grow pale With her sighs ; And o'er my thoughts are cast Tints of the vanish'd past. Glories that faded fast, Renew'd to splendor in my dreaming eyes. POEMS OF NATURE. 443 As poised on vibrant wings, Where its sweet treasure swings, The honey-lover clings To the red flowers ; So, lost in vivid light, So, rapt from day and night, I linger in delight. Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours. Rose Terry Cooke. A Nocturnal Reverie. In such a night, when every louder wind Is to its distant cavern safe confined, And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings, And lonely Philomel still waking sings ; Or from some tree, famed for the owl's de- light. She, holloaing clear, directs the wanderer right : In such a night, when passing clouds give place. Or thinly veil the heavens' mysterious face; When in some river overhung with green The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen; When freshen'd grass now bears itself up- right, And makes cool banks to pleasing rest in- vite. Whence springs the woodbine, and the bramble rose. And where the sleepy cowslip shelter'd grows ; Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes. Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes ; When scatter'd glow-worms, but in twi- light fine. Show trivial beauties, watch their hour to shine; Whilst Salisbury stands the test of every light. In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright ; When odors which declined repelling day Through temperate air uninterrupted stray ; When darken'd groves their softest shad- ows wear. And falling waters we distinctly hear ; When through the gloom more venerable shows Some ancient fabric, awful in repose ; While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal. And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale; When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads. Comes slowly grazing through the adjoin- ing meads. Whose stealing pace and lengthen'd shade we fear. Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear ; When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food. And unmolested kine rechew the cud ; When curlews cry beneath the village walls, And to her straggling brood the partridge calls ; Their short-lived jubilee the creatures keep, Which but endures whilst tyrant man does sleep ; When a sedate content the spirit feels. And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it re- veals; But silent musings urge the mind to seek Something too high for syllables to speak ; Till the free soul to a composedness charm'd. Finding the elements of rage disarm'd. O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, Joys in the inferior world, and thinks it like her own : In such a night let me abroad remain. Till morning breaks, and all's confused again ; Our cares, our toils, our clamors are re- new'd. Our pleasures, seldom reach'd, again pur- sued. Anne, Countess of Winchelsea. MiDSmiMER. Around the lovely valley rise The purple hills of Paradise. O, softly on yon banks of haze Her rosy face the Summer lays 1 Becalmed along the azure sky. The argosies of cloudland lie. 444 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 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 strokes 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. The chickens skulk behind the rail, 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 blue-bird 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, of 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. Birds. The woosel-cock, so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true. The wren with little quill ; The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo gray. Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer, nay. William Shakespeare. To Autumn. Season of mists and mellow fruitfuluess ! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ! Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run — To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees. And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core — To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells With a sweet kernel — to set budding more. And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? Sometimes w^hoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary-floor. Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep. Drowsed with the fume of po^jpieS; while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinfed flowers ; And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. POEMS OF NATURE. 445 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them — thou hast thy music too, While barrfed clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies ; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden- croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. ' John Keats. A UTU3IN. A Dirge. The w^arm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying. And the year On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array ; Follow the bier Of the dead cold year. And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling. The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year ; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling ; Come, months, come away, Put on white, black, and gray, Let your light sisters play — Ye follow the bier Of the dead cold year. And make her grave green with tear on tear. Percy Bysshe Shelley. Ode to the West Wind. I, O WILD West Wind, thou breath of au- tumn's being. Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odors plain and hill : Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere ; Destroyer and preserver ; hear, oh hear I II. Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion. Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean. Angels of rain and lightning ; there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Msenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 446 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. Of the dying year, to whicli this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain and fire and hail will burst : oh hear I III. Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams Beside a pumice isle in Baioe's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day. All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray Avith fear, And tremble, and despoil themselves : oh hear ! IV. If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable ! if even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven. As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed I A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd One too like thee : tameless and swift and proud. V. Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : What if my leaves are falling like its own ! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce. My spirit ! be thou me, impetuous one ! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth ; And, by the incantation of this verse. Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among man- kind ! Be through my lips to unawakcn'd earth The trumpet of a prophecy ! O wind. If winter comes, can spring be far behind? Percy Bysshe Shelley. Tee First Snow-fall. The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm tree Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. From sheds new-roof'd with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails were soften 'd to swan's-down And still flutter'd down the snow. I stood and watch'd by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds. Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood ; How the flakes were folding it gently. As did robins the babes in the wood. P0E3IS OF NATURE. 447 Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, " Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below. Again I look'd at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arch'd o'er our first great sorrow. When that mound was heap'd so high. I remember'd the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe. And again to the child I whisper'd, " The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!" Then, with eyes that saw not, I kiss'd her; And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow. James Russell Lowell. WHEN' Icicles Hang by the Wall. Whex icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. And Tom bears logs into the hall. And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who ; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the jwt. When all aloud the wind doth blow. And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow. And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who ; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. William Shakespeake. Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind. Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen. Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly : Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh-ho I the holly ! This life is most jolly ! Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly : Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh-ho! the holly! This life is most jolly ! William Shakespeare. The Death of the Old Year. Full knee-deep lies the winter snow. And the winter winds are wearily sigh- ing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low. For the Old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die ; You came to us so readily. You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still : he doth not move : He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us. Such joy as you have seen with us. Old year, you shall not go. 448 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; A jollier year we shall not see. But though his eyes are waxing dim, And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die ; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest. But all bis merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste. But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes \iY> to take his own. How hard he breathes ! Over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you : What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack ! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : Step from the corpse and let him in That standeth there alone. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. Alfred Tennyson. Morning. Hark— hark I the lark at heaven's gate sings. And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies : And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes ; With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise ; Arise, arise ! William Shakespeare. Sonnet. Full many a glorious morning have T seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sov- ereign eye. Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly al- chemy ; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face. And from the forlorn world his visage hide. Stealing unseen to west with this dis- grace. Even so my sun one early morn did shine, With all triumphant splendor on my brow ; But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit dis- daineth ; Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth. William Shakespeare. The Sabbath Morning. With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, That slowly wakes while all the fields are still ! A soothing calm on every breeze is borne ; A graver murmur gurgles from the rill ; And Echo answers softer from the hill ; And softer sings the linnet from the thorn ; The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! The rooks float silent by in airy drove ; The sun a placid yellow lustre throws ; The gales that lately sigh'd along the grove, POEMS OF NATURE. 449 Have hush'd their downy wings in dead repose ; The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move — So smiled the day when the first morn arose ! John Leyden. Ode to Evening. If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear, Like thy own brawling springs, Thy springs, and dying gales ; O nymph reserved, while now the bright- hair'd sun Sits in you western tent whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed : Now air is hush'd, save where the weak- eyed bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in needless hum : Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some soften'd strain. Whose numbers stealing through thy dark- ening vale May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; As musing slow I hail Thy genial loved return ! For when thy folding star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours and Elves Who slept in buds the day. And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, A.nd sheds the freshening dew, and, love- lier still. The pensive Pleasures sweet. Prepare thy shadowy car. 29 Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene. Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That from the mountain's side Views wilds and swelling floods. And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires. And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light ; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap wHh leaves ; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air. Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes ; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace Thy gentlest influence own. And love thy favorite name. William Collins. THE MIDGES Dance aboon the Burn. The midges dance aboon the burn ; The dews begin to fa' ; The pairtricks down the rushy holm Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings through the briery shaw. While, flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle-wa'. Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay ; 450 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. The redbreast pours his sweetest strains To charm the lingering day ; "While weary yeldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves. The foxglove shuts its bell ; The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell. Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry. The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me. Robert Tannahill. Sonnet. It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free ; The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea : Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here, If thou appear'st untouch'd by solemn thought,' Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. William Wordsworth. Sabbath Evening. How calmly sinks the parting sun ! Yet twilight lingers still ; And beautiful as dream of heaven It slumbers on the hill ; Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things. Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings. And, rendering back the hues above, Seems resting in a trance of love. Round yonder rocks the forest trees In shadowy groups recline, Like saints at evening bow'd in prayer Around their holy shrine ; And through their leaves the night-winds blow, So calm and still, their music low Seems the mysterious voice of prayer, Soft echo'd on the evening air. And yonder western throng of clouds, Eetiring from the sky, So calmly move, so softly glow, They seem to Fancy's eye Bright creatures of a better sphere. Come down at noon to worship here, And, from their sacrifice of love. Returning to their home above. The blue isles of the golden sea. The night-arch floating high. The flowers that gaze upon the heavens, The bright streams leaping by. Are living with religion — deep On earth and sea its glories sleep. And mingle with the starlight rays, Like the soft light of parted days. The spirit of the holy eve Comes through the silent air To Feeling's hidden spring, and wakes A gush of music there ! And the far depths of ether beam So passing fair, we almost dream That we can rise and wander through Their open paths of trackless blue. Each soul is fill'd with glorious dreams, Each pulse is beating wild ; And thought is soaring to the shrine Of glory undefiled ! And holy aspirations start. Like blessed angels, from the heart. And bind — for earth's dark ties are riven- Our spirits to the gates of heaven. George Denison Prentice, To Night. Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue ? POEMS OF NATURE. 451 Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus with the host of heaven came, And lo ! creation widen'd in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay conceal'd Within thy beams, Sun ! or who could find, While fly, and leaf, and insect lay reveal'd. That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ! Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife ?— If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life? Joseph Blanco White. To NIGHT. Swiftly walk over the western wave. Spirit of Night ! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where all the long and lone daylight Thou wo vest dreams of joy and fear Which make thee terrible and dear, — Swift be thy flight ! Wrap thy form in a mantle gray Star-inwrought ! Blind with thine hair the eyes of day. Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand — Come, long-sought ! When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee ; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me ? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noontide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side ? Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied. No, not thee ! Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon — Sleep will come when thou art fled ; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, belovfed Night — Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon ! Percy Bysshe Shellet. The Evening Cloud. A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow ; Long had I watch'd the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake be- low. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow ! Even in its very motion there was rest ; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven. Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies. And tells to man his glorious destinies. John Wilson. The Evening Wind. Spirit that breathest through my lattice ; thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day! Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play. Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 452 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Nor I alone, — a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; And languishing to hear thy welcome sound, Lies the vast inland, stretch'd beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth,— God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest ; Curl the still waters, bright with stars ; and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest. Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast. Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep. And dry the moisten'd curls that over- spread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go, — but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of Nature, shall re- store, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more. Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. William Cullen Bryant. The Lamb. Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gavest thee life, and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead ; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright ; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee ? Little lamb, I'll tell thee ; Little lamb, I'll tell thee : He is called by thy name, For He calls himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild, He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb. We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee ! Little lamb, God bless thee ! William Blake. Sonnet. The world is too much with us ; late and soon. Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours. And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; POEMS OF NATURE. 453 For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. William Wordswoetit. To THE Rainbow. Triumphal arch that fill'st the sky- When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art — Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A mid-way station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that Optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dream'd of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow ? When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws. What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws ! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou did'st shine. How came the world's gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign ! And when its yellow lustre smiled O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang On earth, deliver'd from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam ; Theme of primeval prophecy. Be still the prophet's theme ! The earth to thee her incense yields. The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshen'd fields, The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh in yon horizon dark. As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span. Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man. Thomas Campbell. The Rainbow. My heart leaps up when I behold A Rainbow in the sky : So was it when my life began ; So is it now I am a Man ; So be it when I shall grow old. Or let me die ! The Child is Father of the Man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. William Wordsworth. The Cloud. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one, When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast. As she dances about the sun. 45i FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain ; And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers Lightning, my pilot, sits ; In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder; It struggles and howls at fits. Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. The Spirit he loves remains ; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead. As, on the jag of a mountain-crag Which an earthquake rocks and swings. An eagle, alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings ; And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath. Its ardors of rest and of love. And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above. With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest. As still as a brooding dove. That orbfed maiden with white fire laden. Whom mortals call the moon. Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear. May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. The stars peep behind her and peer ; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. Like a swarm of golden bees. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner un- furl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch, through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow. When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair. Is the million-color'd bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist earth was laughing be- low. I am the daughter of earth and water. And the nursling of the sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain. The pavilion of heaven is bare. And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams. Build up the blue dome of air — I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. Percy Bysshe Shelley. POEMS OF NATURE. 455 Fancy in Nubibus-, Ob, The Poet in the Clouds. Oh, it is pleasaut, with a heart at ease, Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, To make the shifting clouds be what you please. Or let the easily-persuaded eyes Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a trav- veller, go From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land ! Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight, Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand By those deep sounds possess'd with in- ward light, Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. Samuel Taylok Coleridge. Drinking. The thirsty earth soaks up the rain. And drinks, and gapes for drink again ; The plants suck in the earth, and are. With constant drinking, fresh and fair; The sea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks ten thousand rivers up, So filled that thej^ o'erflow the cup. The busie sun (and one would guess By 's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and when he 'as done. The moon and stars drink up the sun : They drink and dance by their own light; They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in Nature 's sober found. But an eternal " health " goes round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high — Fill all the glasses there ; for why Should every creature drink but I ; Why, man of morals, tell me why ? Anacreon (Greek). Translation of Abraham CowleX- To Cynthia. Queen and huntress, chaste and fair. Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep : Hesperus entreats thy light. Goddess excellently bright ! Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose ; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close : Bless us, then, with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright ! Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto thy flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever ; Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright ! Ben Jonson. To THE MOON. Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on theeartb. Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth,— And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy? Percy Bysshe Shelley. Sonnet. To THE Moon. O Moon, that shinest on this heathy wild, And light'st the hill of Hastings with thy ray, How am I with thy sad delight beguiled ! How hold with fond imagination play ! By thy broad taper I call up the time When Harold on the bleeding verdure lay; Though great in glory, overstain'd with crime, And fallen by his fate from kingly sway ! On bleeding knights, and on war-broken arms, Torn banners, and the dying steeds you shone, When this fair England, and her peerless charms. And all, but honor, to the foe were gone ! 456 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Here died the king, whom his brave sub- jects chose, But, dying, lay amid his Norman foes ! LOKD THURLOW. To THE Evening Star. How sweet thy modest light to view, Fair star, to love and lovers dear. While trembling on the falling dew. Like beauty shining through a tear ! Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream. To mark that image trembling there. Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam, To see thy lovely face so fair. Though, blazing o'er the arch of night, The moon thy timid beams outshine As far as thine each starry light, — Her rays can never vie with thine. Thine are the soft enchanting hours When twilight lingers on the plain. And whispers to the closing flowers That soon the sun will rise again. Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland As music, wafts the lover's sigh. And bids the yielding heart expand In love's delicious ecstasy. Fair star ! though I be doom'd to prove That rapture's tears are mix'd Avith pain, Ah ! still I feel 'tis sweet to love, — But sweeter to be loved again. John Leyden. Song. To THE Evening Star. Star that bringest home the bee. And sett'st the weary laborer free I If any star shed peace, 'tis thou That send'st it from above, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love. Come to the luxuriant skies Whilst the landscape's odors rise, Whilst far-ofl^ lowing herds are heard. And songs, when toil is done. From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd Curls yellow in the sun. Star of love's soft interviews ! Parted lovers on thee muse ; Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art. Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart. Thomas Campbell. On a Sprig of Heath. Flower of the waste! the heathfowl shuns For thee the brake and tangled wood — To thy protecting shade she runs. Thy tender buds supply her food ; Her young forsake her downy plumes To rest upon thy opening blooms. Flower of the desert though thou art ! The deer that range the mountain free, The graceful doe, the stately hart, Their food and shelter seek from thee ; The bee thy earliest blossom greets. And draws from thee her choicest sweets. Gem of the heath ! whose modest bloom Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor. Though thou dispense no rich perfume, Nor yet with splendid tints allure. Both valor's crest and beauty's bower Oft hast thou decked, a favorite flower. Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow Adorns the dusky mountain's side. Not the gay hues of Iris' bow. Nor garden's artful varied pride. With all its wealth of sweets, could cheer. Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. Flower of his heart ! thy fragrance mild Of peace and freedom seems to breathe ; To pluck thy blossoms in the wild. And deck his bonnet with the wreath, Where dwelt of old his rustic sires, Is all his simple wish requires. Flower of his dear-loved native land ! Alas, when distant, far more dear ! When he from some cold foreign strand Looks homeward through the blinding tear. How must his aching heart deplore, That home and thee he sees no more ! Anne Grant. POEMS OF NATURE. 457 Thi: First Skylark of Spring. Two worlds hast thou to dwell in, Sweet — The virginal, untroubled sky. And this vext region at my feet. Alas, but one have I ! To all my songs there clings the shade. The dulling shade, of mundane care. They amid mortal mists are made — Thine, in immortal air. My heart is dashed with griefs and fears ; My song comes fluttering, and is gone. O high above the home of tears. Eternal Joy, sing on ! Not loftiest bard, of mightiest mind. Shall ever chant a note so pure, Till he can cast this earth behind. And breathe in heaven secure. We sing of Life, with stormy breath That shakes the lute's distempered string ; We sing of Love, and loveless Death Takes up the song we sing. And, born in toils of Fate's control. Insurgent from the womb, we strive With proud, unmanumitted soul To burst the golden gyve. Thy spirit knows nor bounds nor bars ; On thee no shreds of thraldom hang : Not more enlarged, the morning stars Their great Te Deum sang. But I am fettered to the sod, And but forget my bonds an hour ; In amplitude of dreams a god, A slave in dearth of power. And fruitless knowledge clouds my soul, And fretful ignorance irks it more. Thou sing'st as if thou knew'st the whole. And lightly held'st thy lore ! Sing, for with rapturous throes of birth, And arrowy labyrinthine sting, There riots in the veins of Earth The ichor of the Spring ! Sing, for the beldam Night is fled, And Morn the bride is wreathed and gay. Sing, while her revelling lord o'erhead Leads the wild dance of day. The serpent Winter sleeps upcurled : Sing, till I know not if there be Aught else in the dissolving world But melody and thee ! Sing, as thou drink'st of heaven thy fill. All hope, all wonder, all desire — Creation's ancient canticle To which the worlds conspire ! Somewhat as thou, Man once could sing, In porches of the lucent morn. Ere he had felt his lack of wing, Or cursed his iron bourn. The springtime bubbled in his throat, The sweet sky seemed not far above, And young and lovesome came the note ; — Ah, thine is Youth and Love ! Thou sing'st of what he knew of old. And dreamlike from afar recalls; In flashes of forgotten gold An orient glory falls. And as he listens, one by one Life's utmost splendors blaze more nigh ; Less inaccessible the sun, Less alien grows the sky. For thou art native to the spheres. And of the courts of heaven art free, And carriest to his temporal ears News from eternity ; And lead'st him to the dizzy verge. And lur'st him o'er the dazzling line, Where mortal and immortal merge, And human dies divine. William Watson. Flowers. Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies. Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew. What more than magic in you lies To fill the heart's fond view ! In childhood's sports companions gay ; In sorrow, on life's downward way, How soothing ! in our last decay. Memorials prompt and true. Relics ye are of Eden's bowers. As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, 458 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours Of happy Avanderers there. Fall'n all beside, — the world of life How is it stain'd with fear and strife ! In reason's world what storms are rife, What passions rage and glare ! But cheerful, and unchanged the while. Your first and perfect form ye show. The same that won Eve's matron smile In the world's opening glow. The stars of heaven a course are taught. Too high above our human thought ; — Ye may be found if ye are sought, And as we gaze, we know. Ye dwell beside our -paths, and homes. Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow. And guilty man, where'er he roams. Your innocent mirth may borrow. The birds of air before us fleet. They cannot brook our shame to meet, — But we may taste your solace sweet. And come again to-morrow. Ye fearless in your nests abide ; Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise. Your silent lessons, undescried By all but lowly eyes ; For ye could draw th' admiring gaze Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys ; Your order wild, your fragrant maze, He taught us how to prize. Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour. As when He paused, and own'd you good, His blessing on earth's primal bower. Ye felt it all renew'd. What care ye now, if winter's storm Sweep restless o'er each silken form ? Christ's blessing at your heart is warm. Ye fear no vexing mood. Alas ! of thousand bosoms kind, That daily court you, and caress, How few the happy secret find Of your calm loveliness! " Live for to-day !" to-morrow's light To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight. Go, sleep like closing flowers at night. And Heaven thy morn will bless. John Eeble. Chorus of the Flowers. We are the sweet Flowers, Born of sunny showers, Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith ; Utterance mute and bright Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath : All who see us love us ; We befit all jilaces ; Unto sorrow we give smiles; and unto graces, graces. Mark our ways, how noiseless All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March-winds pipe to make our passage clear ; Not a whisper tells Where our small seed dwells, Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear. We thread the earth in silence, In silence build our bowers ; And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop, sweet Flowers. The dear lumpish baby. Humming with the May bee. Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through the grass ; The honey-dropping moon. On a night in June, Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass. Age, the wither'd dinger, On us mutely gazes, And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood's daisies. See, and scorn all duller Taste, how Heaven loves color ; How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green ; What sweet thoughts she thinks Of violets and pinks, And a thousand flashing hues made solely to be seen ; See her whitest lilies Chill the silver showers. And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of the Flowers. POEMS OF NATURE. 459 Uselessness divinest, Of a use the finest, Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use; Travellers, weary-eyed. Bless us, far and wide ; Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden truce ; Not a poor town-window Loves its sickliest planting, But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylon's whole vaunting. Sage are yet the uses Mix'd with our sweet juices. Whether man or May-fly profits of the balm ; As fair fingers heal'd Knights from the olden field, We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm. E'en the terror, poison. Hath its plea for blooming ; Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming. And oh ! our sweet soul-taker. That thief, the honey-maker. What a house hath he, by the thymy glen ! In his talking rooms How the feasting fumes. Till his gold cups overflow to the mouths of men ! The butterflies come aping Those fine thieves of ours, And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers. See those tops, how beauteous ! What fair service duteous Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine? Elfin court 'twould seem, And taught, perchance, that dream Which the old Greek mountain dreamt upon nights divine. To expound such wonder Human speech avails not, Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not. Think of all these treasures. Matchless works and pleasures, Every one a marvel, more than thought can say ; Then think in what bright showers We thicken fields and bowers. And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May ; Think of the mossy forests By the bee-birds haunted. And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted. Trees themselves are ours ; Fruits are born of flowers; Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the Spring ; The lusty bee knows well The news, and comes pell-mell. And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome antheming. Beneath the very burthen Of planet-pressing ocean We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for meek devotion. Tears of Phoebus — missings Of Cytherea's kissings. Have in us been found, and wise men find them still ; Drooping grace unfurls Still Hyacinthus' curls. And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill ; Thy red lip, Adonis, Still is wet with morning ; And the step that bled for thee the rosy brier adorning. Oh ! true things are fables, Fit for sagest tables. And the flowers are true things, yet no fa- bles they ; Fables were not more Bright, nor loved of yore — Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every old pathway ; Grossest hand can test us ; Fools may prize us never ; Yet we rise, and rise, and rise, marvels sweet for ever. Who shall say that flowers Dress not heaven's own bowers ? 460 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Who its love, without them, can fancy — or sweet floor ? Who shall even dare To say we sprang not there, And came not down, that Love might bring one piece of heaven the more? Oh ! pray believe that angels From those blue dominions Brought us in their Avhite laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions. Leigh Hunt. HY3IN TO THE FLOWERS. Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's crea- tion. And dewdrops on her lonely altars sprin- kle As a libation ! Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly Before the uprisen sun — God's lidless eye- Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high ! Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty The floor of Nature's temple tessellate. What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create ! 'Neath cloister'd boughs, each floral bell that swingeth And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand. But to that fane, most catholic and solemn. Which God hath plann'd ; To that cathedral, boundless as our won- der. Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply — Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky. There — as in solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, or, stretch'd 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, every leaf a book. Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. Floral apostles ! that in dewy sj^lendor " Weep Avithout woe, and blush without a crime," Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surren- der. Your lore sublime ! " Thou wert not, Solomon ! in all thy glory, Array'd," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours ; How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how tran- sitory Are human flowers !" In the sweet-scented pictures. Heavenly Artist ! With which thou paintest Nature's wide- spread hall. What a delightful lesson thou irapartest Of love to all ! Not useless are ye. Flowers !• though made for pleasure ; Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could fur- nish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! UiJ raised from seed or bulb interr'd in earth, POEMS OF NATURE. 461 Ye are to me a type of resurrection, And second birth. Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, Far from all voice of teachers and divines. My soul Avould find, in flowers of God's or- daining, Priests, sermons, shrines ! Horace Smith. To AN Early Primrose. Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! Whose modest form, so delicately fine. Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds, Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved ; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. Henry Kirke White. To Primroses, FILLED WITH MoRNING DeW. Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew ? Alas ! you have not known that shower That mars a flower ; Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind ; Nor are ye worn with years ; Or warp'd, as we. Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep. Is it for Avant of sleep, Or childish lullaby ? Or, that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no ; this sorrow, shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read :— " That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." Robert Herrick. Daffodils. I wander'd 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 and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd 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, 462 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 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. To Daffodils. Fair Daffodils, we w^eep to see You haste away so soon : As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay. Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song ; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you. We have as short a Spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the Summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. Robert Herrick. The Violet. O 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 beloved 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, Drown'd in the sky — oh pass, ye visions, pass! I would that I were dead ! — Why hast thou open'd that forbidden door From which I ever flee? O vanish'd Joy! Love, that art no more, Let my vex'd spirit be ! O violet ! thy odor through my brain Hath search'd, and stung to grief This sunny day, as if a curse did stain Thy velvet leaf. AViLLiAM Wetmore Story. To the Daisy. With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy, oft I talk to thee. For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming Commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face. And yet with something of a grace, Which Love makes for thee ! Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising : And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame. As is the humor of the game. While I am gazing. A Nun demure, of lowly port ; Or sprightly Maiden of Love's Court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations ; A Queen in crown of rubies drest ; A Starveling in a scanty vest : Are all, as seems to suit thee best, Thy appellations. A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy. That thought comes next — and instantly The freak is over, The shape will vanish, and behold A silver Shield with boss of gold. That spreads itself, some Faery bold In fight to cover I POEMS OF NATURE. 463 I see thee glittering from afar ; — And then thou art a pretty Star ; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee ! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — May peace come never to his nest. Who shall reprove thee ! Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent Creature ! That breath'st with me in sun and air. Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature ! William Wordsworth. To THE Daisy. Bright flower, whose home is everywhere ! A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care. And oft, the long year through, the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other Flower I see The forest through ! And wherefore ? Man is soon deprest ; A thoughtless Thing ! who, once unblest. Does little on his memory rest. Or on his reason ; But Thou wouldst teach him how to find A shelter under every wind, A hope for times that are unkind And every season. Thou wander'st this wide world about, Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, With friends to greet thee, or without. Yet pleased and willing ; Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, And all things suffering from all, Thy function apostolical In peace fulfilling, William Wordsworth. To A Mountain Daisy. On Turning one down with the Plough, IN April, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour. For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonny gem. Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet, The bonny lark, companion meet. Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast. When upward springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield : But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stane. Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread. Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share ujjtears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betray'd. And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rougl^ ocean luckless starr'd ! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore. Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er ! 464 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, He, ruin'd, sink ! Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine, — no distant date : Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate. Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom ! Robert Burns. The Rhodora. On being Asked, Whence is the Flower ? In May, when sea-winds pierced our soli- tudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook. To please the desert and the sluggish brook : The purple petals fallen in the pool Made the black water with their beauty gay- Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool. And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being. Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose ! I never thought to ask, I never knew ; But in my simple ignorance suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. Ralph Waldo Emerson. To THE Fringed Gentian. Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, And color'd with the heaven's own blue. That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen. Or columbines, in purple dress'd, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky. Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall. I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart. William Cullen Bryant. The Use of Flowers. God might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small. The oak tree and the cedar tree, Without a flower at all. We might have had enough, enough, For every want of ours. For luxury, medicine, and toil, And yet have had no flowers. The ore within the mountain mine Requireth none to grow ; Nor doth it need the lotus-flower To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain, The nightly dews might fall. And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made. All dyed with rainbow-light. All fashioned with supremest grace, Upspringing day and night : — Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high. And in the silent wilderness Where no man passes by ? POEMS OF NATURE. 465 Our outward life requires them not, — Then wherefore had they birth ? — To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth ; To comfort man — to whisper hope, Whene'er his faith is dim, For Who so careth for the flowers Will much more care for him ! Mary Howitt. ' Tis THE Last Rose of Summer. 'Tis the last rose of summer. Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud, is nigh To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one ! To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may / follow. When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown. Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone ? Thomas Moore. The Ivy Green. Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green. That creepeth o'er ruins old ! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween. In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd. To pleasure his dainty whim ; 30 And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings. And a staunch old heart has he ! How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak tree ! And slyly he traileth along the ground. And his leaves he gently waves. And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd, And nations scatter'd been ; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past ; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Charles Dic:kens. The Death of the Flowers. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay. And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flow- ers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beaute- ous sisterhood? 466 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they per- ish'd long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood. And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood. Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still. And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore. And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youth- ful beauty died. The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours. So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. William Cullen Bryant. To Blossoms. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here a while To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What ! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night? 'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth, Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave ; And, after they have shown their pride Like you a while, they glide Into the grave. Robert Hereick. Almond- Bl osso3l Blossom of the almond trees, April's gift to April's bees. Birthday ornament of spring. Flora's fairest daughterling ; — Coming when no flowerets dare Trust the cruel outer air. When the royal king-cup bold Dares not don his coat of gold. And the sturdy blackthorn spray Keeps his silver for the May ; — Coming when no flowerets would, Save thy lowly sisterhood, Early violets, blue and white. Dying for their love of light, — Almond-blossom, sent to teach us That the spring days soon will reach us, Lest, with longing over-tried. We die as the violets died, — Blossom, clouding all the tree With thy crimson 'broidery. Long before a leaf of green On the bravest bough is seen, — Ah ! when winter winds are swinging All thy red bells into ringing. With a bee in every bell. Almond-bloom, we greet thee well. Edwin Aenold. Song. Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me POEMS OF NATURE. 467 And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither ; Here shall he see No enemy But Winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats. And pleased with what he gets. Come hither, come hither, come hither ; Here shall he see No enemy But Winter and rough weather. William Shakespeare. The Holly Tree. O READER ! hast thou ever stood to see The holly tree ? The eye that contemplates it well, per- ceives Its glossy leaves, Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist's sophis- tries. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen ; No grazing cattle, through their prickly round. Can reach to wound ; But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear. I love to view these things with curious eyes. And moralize ; And in this wisdom of the holly tree Can emblems see Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme. One which may profit in the after-time. Thus, though abroad, perchance I might appear Harsh and austere To those who on my leisure would intrude, Keserved and rude ; Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be. Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know. Some harshness show. All vain asperities I, day by day. Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. And as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The holly-leaves their fadeless hues dis- play Less bright than they ; But when the bare and wintry woods we see. What then so cheerful as the holly tree? So, serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng ; So would I seem, amid the young and gay, More grave than they ; That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the holly tree. Robert Southey. The River. Down-trickling, soft and slow. Where the green mosses grow. The baby streamlet hardly wakes the hush That broods o'er yonder height. Where falls the calm, low light. And moor and peak give back the crimson flush. Then, as its waters swell, O'er crag, and rock, and fell, They pour in many a thread of silver sheen ; And now their clearer voice Bids hill and vale rejoice. And sweet, low echoes pierce the still serene. Wider and wider still. Half river and half rill. The calmer current gladdens all the fields ; The banks are green and fair, And many a flow'ret bear. And every breeze .-Eolian murmurs yields. 468 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. There, in its golden bloom, The cowslip breathes perfume, Gray willows twist their branches hoar and brown ; There sails in order meet The duckling's velvet fleet, Or cygnet's argosy of golden down. Past pleasant village-spire. Past cheerful cottage fire. In tranquil course flows on the nobler stream, Spanned in its statelier marcli By many a moss-grown arch, Through which the sparkling ripples glance and gleam. Now on its bosom float White sails of fisher's boat, Young swimmers stem the current swift and strong; Clear through the silent air Ring voices free from care, Youth's laughing shout and maiden's joy- ous song. Onward past ancient halls, Onward past castle-walls, Each with wild legends of an earlier time, — Stories of red-cross knight, True to the death in fight, Lay of true love, or darker tale of crime. And now on either side Eise, in exulting pride, A city's turrets, palaces of state ; The minster's glorious tower Looks down on hall and bower. On fortress, market, churches, quay, and gate. Broad sweeps the mightier flood, Where once a forest stood, Now all waste marish, fen, and reed-grown shore ; And far on either hand We see the distant sand, And hear the sea's loud murmurs evermore. Tall ships at anchor ride. Their country's joy and pride, And bring from East and West their price- less freight; All store of Nature's gifts On that broad current drifts, The decks are laden with the glorious weight. Then, flowing far and free Into the boundless sea, The yellow waters stain the crystal blue ; At last its course is done, And lo I the westering sun Floods sea and river with one roseate hue. Flow on, ye rivers wide. Welcome the changing tide. Bear on your breast the costly argosy ; Flow, fountains, from the hill ; Flow, through thy meadow, rill ; Flow, baby streamlet, flow to yonder sea. So flows our human life. With mightier issues rife. Onward and onward to a wider sea ; We note its feeble source. We track its wandering course, We know not what its destiny shall be. Ah ! well if it shall go. With clear and crystal flow. Rejoicing, gladdening, blessing still and blest ; In childhood, youth, and age. Through all its pilgrimage. Still hastening to the Ocean of its Rest. But ah ! if it shall waste. Its strength in reckless haste. The wild stream dashing to the depths below ; Or see, in dull decay. All brightness fade away, In marsh and fen half stagnate, foul, and slow. Oh ! that our life might bear, Sweet music to His ear Whom the great waters praise for evermore, Attuned to anthems high, In glorious harmony, Till it to J break upon the Eternal shore. Edward Hayes Plump tre. SONNET: NOVEMBER. The mellow year is hasting to its close ; The little birds have almost sung their last, POEMS OF NATURE. 469 Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, And makes a little summer where it grows : In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine, The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks de- fine, And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array. Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. Hartley Coleridge. Song of the Brook. I COME from haunts of coot and hern I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down. Or slip between the ridges ; By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I chatter over stony ways. In little sharps and trebles ; I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow. And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow, I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing. And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling. And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel. With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel ; And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. Among my skimming swallows, I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses ; I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses ; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. Alfred Tennysok Abethusa. Aeethusa arose From her couch of snows In the Acroceraunian mountains, — From cloud and from crag With many a jag, Shepherding her bright fountains. She leapt down the rocks With her rainbow locks Streaming among the streams ; — Her steps paved with green The downward ravine Which slopes to the western gleams : And, gliding and springing, She went, ever singing In murmurs as soft as sleep ; The Earth seem'd to love her. And Heaven smiled above her, As she linger'd toward the deep. 470 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. Then Alpheus bold, On his glacier cold, With his trident the mountains strook ; And open'd a chasm In the rocks ; — with the spasm All Erymanthus shook. And the black south wind It conceal'd behind The urns of the silent snow, And earthquake and thunder Did rend in sunder The bars of the springs below : The beard and the hair Of the river-god were Seen through the torrent's sweep, As he follow'd the light Of the fleet nymph's flight To the brink of the Dorian deep. " Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me ! And bid the deep hide me. For he grasps me now by the hair !" The loud Ocean heard. To its blue depth stirr'd, And divided at her prayer ; And under the water The Earth's white daughter Fled like a sunny beam ; Behind her descended. Her billows unblended With the brackish Dorian stream. Like a gloomy stain On the emerald main, Alpheus rush'd behind, — As an eagle pursuing A dove to its ruin Down the streams of the cloudy wind. Under the bowers Where the Ocean Powers Sit on their pearlfed thrones ; Through the coral woods Of the weltering floods. Over heaps of unvalued stones ; Through the dim beams Which amid the streams Weave a network of color'd light; And under the caves. Where the shadowy waves Are as green as the forest's night — Outspeeding the shark. And the sword-fish dark, Under the ocean foam ; And up through the rifts Of the mountain-clifts They pass'd to their Dorian home. And now from their fountains In Enna's mountains, Down one vale where the morning baska Like friends once parted, Grown single-hearted. They ply their watery tasks. At sunrise they leap From their cradles steep In the cave of the shelving hill ; At noontide they flow Through the woods below. And the meadows of asphodel; And at night they sleep In the rocking deep Beneath the Ortygian shore ; — Like spirits that lie In the azure sky, When they love, but live no more. Percy Bysshe Sheuj;?. SONNET: THE LESSONS OF NATURE. Of this fair volume which we World do name If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care. Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, We clear might read the art and wisdom rare : Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame. His providence extending everywhere, His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, In every page, no period of the same. But silly we, like foolish children, rest Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold. Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best. On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold; Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught. It is some picture on the margin wrought. William Drummomd. POEMS OF NATURE. 471 INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON. Whilst in this cold and blustering clime, Where bleak winds howl and tempests roar, We pass away the roughest time Has been of many years before ; Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks The chillest blasts our peace invade, And by great rains our smallest brooks Are almost navigable made ; Whilst all the ills are so improved Of this dead quarter of the year, That even you, so much beloved, We would not now wish with us here, — In this estate, I say, it is Some comfort to us to suppose That in a better clime than this You, our dear friend, have more repose; And some delight to me the while. Though Nature now does weep in rain, To think that I have seen her smile. And haply may I do again. If the all-ruling Power please We live to see another May, We'll recompense an age of these Foul days in one fine fishing-day. We then shall have a day or two. Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do With the most deadly killing fly — A day with not too bright a beam; A warm, but not a scorching sun; A southern gale to curl the stream ; And, master, half our work is done. Then, whilst behind some bush we wait The scaly people to betray. We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait. To make the preying trout our prey ; And think ourselves, in such an hour, Happier than those, though not so high, Who, like leviathans, devour Of meaner men the smaller fry. This, my best friend, at my poor home. Shall be our pastime and our theme ; But then, should you not deign to come, You make all this a flattering dream. Charles Cotton. The ANGLER'S Wish. I IN these flowery meads would be. These crystal streams should solace me ; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I, with my angle, would rejoice. Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love ; Or, on that bank, feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind, To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, And then wash'd off" by April showers ; Here, hear my kenna sing a song : There, see a blackbird feed her young, Or a laverock build her nest ; Here, give my weary spirits rest. And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love. Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; Or, with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; There sit by him, and eat my meat ; There see the sun both rise and set ; There bid good-morning to next day ; There meditate my time away ; And angle on ; and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave. IzAAK Walton. Verses in Praise of Angling. Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares. Anxious sighs, untimely tears. Fly, fly to courts, Fly to fond worldlings' sports. Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glosing still. And Grief is forced to laugh against her will. Where mirth's but mummery. And sorrows only real be. Fly from our country pastimes, fly, Sad troops of human misery. Come, serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks, 472 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see The rich attendance on our poverty ; Peace and a secure mind, Which all men seek, we only find. Abusfed mortals I did you know Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud towers. And seek them in these bowers. Where winds, sometimes, our woods per- haps may shake. But blustering care could never tempest make; Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us. Saving of fountains that glide by us. Here's no fantastic mask nor dance, But of our kids that frisk and prance ; Nor wars are seen. Unless upon the green T-