GopyiightN^ COPYRIGHT DEPQSm X BRITISH VERSE FOR BOYS SELECTED AND EDITED BY DANIEL V. THOMPSON, A.M. HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH IN THE LAWRENCEVILLE SCHOOL NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1916 ^^ Copyright, 1916, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY '/.■ vC MAY 25 i9l6 ©CI.A43122() PREFACE All anthologies are experiments. This one is an experiment in a peculiar degree, for it undertakes to present, in three hundred pages, the whole field of so-called modern British poets, from Chaucer to Alfred Noyes, to that imaginary but oft-invoked reader, the average boy. To be exact, there are ninety-five poets, represented by two hundred and sixty-one pieces. In addition, there are notes, both general and specific, and a section devoted to references likely to be of use to the young student who is doubtful as to the meaning of technical terms, or as to the significance of historical periods, movements, or names. Moreover, both in the table of contents and in the text, ever\' poet's date and place of birth and death are pre- sented to the reader's eye. Certain principles have governed the selection of the poems. In the first place the organic unity of British Poetry is illustrated by a large variety of examples representative of every period. In the second place, the following of a chronological order is ex- pected to inculcate in the boy's mind both a sense of this vital unity, and of that diversity between periods which signifies advance or reaction. In the third place, while great names have been accorded extensive representation, many lesser writers have been included, chiefly because their work offers some special vantage-ground for the young student's considera- tion. Finally, and most seriously, the selection has been made with the hope that the boy of normal ability may find some re- ward in every piece, and, in the collection as a whole, particular pieces distinctly to his taste. This last principle has involved the introduction of some selections which are admittedly not great poetry. I believe these comparatively commonplace ex- amples will serve to encourage the boy of small cultivation, or extreme diffidence, and, at the same time, exemplify to the keener student the difference between the popular and the great . in poetry. Indeed, a faithful reading should arouse in any boy some critical sense of the more perfect work. This I believe with the more confidence because the examples chosen are iv Preface mainly works which the innate understanding of the boy or his youthful experience will have prepared him to grasp. He may find the form puzzling, or the words new, but if he will press through these to the thought or emotion that lies within the poem, he will find in every case that it is a thought or emotion which he, in common with older readers, can apprehend or ap- preciate. The growth of the sense for beauty is mainly what is known as a by-product. As to the editorial matter, both the paragraphs deahng with the authors and those about the poems are undoubtedly open to the criticism "too much" or "too little". They embody only one purpose, — to guide the tentacles of the boy's mind to- wards the poet or his work. When these "letters of introduc- tion" have been subjected to the test of actual use in the class- room, I hope to make them fuller if they need to be fuller, shorter if they need to be shorter, and everywhere more accurate and stimulating. To my brother-teachers, and to all lovers of poetry and boys, I frankly appeal, in this tentative edition, for counsel, both critical and constructive, of the most impersonal and unembar- rassed character. To bring the poets and the boys together is not a task for any one man, but may be well done by a consen- sus of sympathetic opinion. There are many " friends and fellow-students," to use Lowell's old-fashioned phrase, to whom I owe a hearty expression of thanks for advice and other help in the making of this book. They are gratefully remembered by one who is oppressed by the thought of kindnesses he can never repay. It is proper to mention the four publishers whose permission has been graciously accorded for the use of copyright poems: the John Lane Company, pubKshers of Henry Newbolt's The Island Race; Dodd, Mead and Company, publishers of Austin Dobson's poems; the Macmillan Company, publishers of the works of John Masefield; and the Frederick A. Stokes Company, publishers of the poems of Alfred Noyes. D. V. T. Lawrenceville, February, igi6. TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE Preface iii Geoffrey Chaucer, 1340 (?) London — London, 1400 The Canterbury Tales: Selections from the Prologue 1 . The Tabard Inn i 2. The Knight 2 3 . The Squire 3 4. The Prioress 4 5. The Clerk 5 6. The Parson 6 Old Ballads Sir Patrick Spens 8 Chevy Chase : 1 1 Lord Lovel 19 Barbara Allen's Cruelty 21 The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington 22 Sir Edward Dyer, 1550 (?) Somersetshire — London, 1607 My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is 24 Edmund Spenser, 1552, London — London, 1599 Two Sonnets 1. Sweet is the rose but grows upon a brier 25 2. One day I wrote her name upon the strand 26 Hope Deferred 26 A Selection from the Faerie Queene 27 John Lyly, 1554 (?) London — London, 1606 Cupid and Campaspe 28 Sir Philip Sidney, 1554, Kent — Netherlands, 1586 Come Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace 29 My True Love hath my heart 29 V vi Table of Contents PAGE Michael Drayton, 1563, Warwick — London, 1631 Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part 30 Agincourt 30 Christopher Marlowe, 1564, Canterbury — London, 1593 The Passionate Shepherd to His Love 34 Tamburlaine to Calyphas 35 William Shakspere, 1564, Stratford-on-Avon — Siratford-on- Avon, 1616 Under the Greenwood Tree 36 Blow, blow, thou winter wind 36 It was a Lover and his Lass 37 Where the Bee sucks, there suck 1 38 A Sea Dirge 38 Hark, Hark, the Lark 38 Silvia 39 Crabbed Age and Youth 39 Five Sonnets 1. When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 40 2. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 40 3. Full many a glorious morning have I seen 41 4. When in the chronicle of wasted time 41 5. Poor Soul, the center of my sinful earth 42 Henry V to his Troops before Harfleur 42 Ben Jonson, 1573, London — London, 1637 To Celia 43 The Noble Nature 44 Simplex Munditiis 44 To the Memory of My Beloved Master, William Shakspere, and what He Hath Left Us 45 George Wither, 1588, Hampshire — London, 1667 Shall I, Wasting in Despair 47 William Browne, 1591, Devonshire — Devonshire, 1643 Epitaph on the Countess Dowager of Pembroke 49 Table of Contents vii PAGE Robert Herrick, 1591, London — Devonshire, 1674. To the Virgins to Make Much of Time 49 Delight in Disorder 50 Whenas in silks my Julia goes 50 To Daffodils 51 To Anthea Who May Command Him Anything 51 Henry King, 1592, Buckinghamshire — Sussex, 1669 Like to the Falling of a Star 52 George Herbert, 1593, Wales — Wiltshire, 1633 Virtue 53 The Pulley 53 The Bosom Sin 54 The Elixir 54 Edmund Waller, 1606, Hertfordshire — Beacons field, 1685 On a Girdle 55 John Milton, 1608, London — London, 1674 Five Sonnets 1 . On His Having Arrived to the Age of Twenty-three 56 2. To the Lord General Cromwell, May 16, 1652 56 3. On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 57 4. On His Blindness 57 5. To Cyriack Skinner 58 Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet, W. Shakspere 58 Sir John Suckling, 1609, Middlesex — Paris, 1642 Why so pale and wan, fond Lover 59 Richard Lovelace, 1618, Kent — London, 1658 To Lucasta on Going to the Wars 60 To Althea from Prison 60 John Dryden, 1631, Northamptonshire — London, 1700 Under the Portrait of Milton 61 A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687 62 Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music 64 viii Table of Contents PAGE John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, 1647, Oxfordshire — Oxford- shire, 1680 Epitaph on Charles Second 69 Matthew Prior, 1664, East Dorset — Wimpole, 1721 A Reasonable Aflfliction 69 The Remedy Worse than the Disease 70 Joseph Addison, 1672, Wiltshire — London, 1719 The Spacious Firmament on High 70 To Mira on Her Incomparable Poems 71 Isaac Watts, 1674, Southampton — Hertfordshire, 1748 The Sluggard 71 How doth the little busy Bee 72 Our God, our Help in ages past 73 John Gay, 1685, Devonshire — London, 1732 The Lion and the Cub 74 Alexander Pope, 1688, London — Twickenham, 1744 Universal Prayer 75 Inscribed on the Collar of a Dog 77 Epigram 77 On a Certain Lady at Court 77 Two Views of Addison 1. From the Epistle to Mr. Addison, 17 15 78 2. From the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, 1735 78 Henry Carey, 1700 (?), London — London, 1743 A Maiden's Ideal of a Husband 79 Sally in Our Alley 79 James Thomson, 1700, Scotland — Richmond, 1748 Rule, Britannia 81 Table of Contents ix PAGE Samuel Johnson, 1709, Staffordshire — London, 1784 If a man who turnips cries 82 On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet 83 Thomas Gray, 1716, London — Cambridge, 1771 On the Death of a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold- fishes 84 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 85 Oliver Goldsmith, 1728, Ireland — London, 1774 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 90 William Cowper, 17.31, Hertfordshire — Norfolk, 1800 Boadicea, an Ode 91 On the Loss of the Royal George 93 Epitaph on a Hare 94 The Diverting History of John Gilpin 95 Thomas Holcroft, 1745, London — London, 1809 Gaffer Gray 104 Charles Dibdin, 1745, Southampton — London, 1814 Tom Bowling 105 The Sailor's Consolation 106 Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 1751, Dublin — London, 1816 I would, says Fox, a tax devise 107 William Blake, 1757-, London — London, 1827 The Lamb 107 The Tiger 108 Robert Burns, 1759, Alloway — Dumfries, 1796 A Red Red Rose 109 Jean no Bonnie Doon no John Anderson in Mary Morison 112 Highland Mary 112 X Table of Contents PAGE To a Mouse 113 For A' That and A' That 115 My Heart's in the Highlands 116 Auld Lang Syne 117 Macpherson's Farewell 118 Bruce to His Arm}' 119 Lady Carolina Nairne, 1776, Perthshire — Perthshire, 1845 The Laird of Cockpen 1 20 John Hookham Frere, 1769, London — Malta, 1846 The Boy and the Wolf 121 William Wordsworth, 1770, Cumberland — Westmoreland, 1850 The Solitary Reaper 122 She was a phantom of delight 123 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 1 24 A Slumber did my spirit seal 125 Written in March 125 The Influence of Natural Objects 126 I wandered lonely as a cloud 1 28 To a Skylark 1 28 The Happy Warrior 1 29 Five Sonnets 1. Composed upon Westminster Bridge 132 2. Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour 132 3. Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland, 1802 133 4. A Flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 133 5. The World is too much with us 134 Sydney Smith, 1771, Essex- — London, 1845 A Salad 134 Sir Walter Scott, 1771, Edinburgh — Abbotsford, 1832 Lochinvar 135 Proud Maisie 137 Rosabelle 137 Breathes there a man with soul so dead 139 Border Ballad 140 I Table of Contents xi PAGE Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1772, Devonshire — London, 1834 An Epigram 140 Metrical Feet; Lesson for a Boy 141 Work Without Hope 141 Kubla Khan 142 Robert Southey, 1774, Bristol — Keswick, 1843 The Cataract of Lodore 143 My days among the dead are passed 147 Joseph Blanco White, 1775, Seville — Liverpool, 1841 To Night 148 Walter Savage Landor, 1775, Warwick — Florence, 1864 Shakspere and Milton 148 Macaulay 149 Robert Browning 149 Thomas Campbell, 1777, Glasgow — Boulogne, 1844 Ye Mariners of England 150 Hohenlinden 151 Thomas Moore, 1779, Dublin — London, 1852 Believe me if all those endearing young charms 152 The Harp that once through Tara's halls 153 The Light of Other Days 153 The Last Rose of Summer 154 Jane Taylor, 1783, London — Essex, 1824 Contented John 155 Allan Cunningham, 1784, Dumfriesshire — London, 1842 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 156 Leigh Hunt, 1784, Middlesex — Surrey, 1859 The Glove and the Lions 157 Sneezing 158 Abou Ben Adhem 158 Jenny Kissed Me 159 To the Grasshopper and the Cricket 159 xii Table of Contents PAGE Barry Cornwall (Bryan Waller Procter), 1787, London — London, 1874 The Bloodhorse 160 George Gordon, Lord Byron, 1788, London — Missolonghi, Greece, 1824 The Destruction of Sennacherib 151 The Eve of Waterloo 162 The Ocean 164 She walks in beauty 166 On Chillon 166 Charles Wolfe, 1791, Kildare — Cork, 1823 The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna 167 Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792, Sussex— Spezia, Italy, 1822 To a Skylark 168 The Cloud 172 Ozymandias 177 Music, when Soft Voices Die 177 Ode to the West Wind 178 Felicia Dorothea Hemans, 1793, Liverpool— Dublin, 1835 Casablanca 181 John Keats, 1795, London — Rome, 182 1 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 182 On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 183 On the Grasshopper and Cricket 184 Ode on a Grecian Urn 184 Hartley Coleridge, 1796, Somerset — Westmorelatid, 1849 She is not Fair to Outward View 186 William Motherwell, 1797, Glasgow — Glasgow, 1835 The Cavalier's Song 186 Table of Contents xiii PAGE Samuel Lover, 1797, Dublin — Jersey, 1868 Rory O'More 187 The Low-backed Car 188 Thomas Hood, 1799, London — London, 1845 I Remember, I Remember 190 Ruth 191 No! 192 To Minerva 192 Elizabeth Turner, ? England — England, 1846 Politeness 193 WiLLLA.M Douglas (Dates and home unknown) Annie Laurie 193 Thomas Babington Lord Macaulay, 1800, Leicestershire — Lon- don, 1859 Ivry 194 John Henry Cardinal Newman, 1801, London — Liverpool, 1890 The Pillar of the Cloud 197 Ell^.\beth Barrett Browning, 1809, Durham — Florence, 1861 Three Sonnets 1. I Thought how once Theocritus had sung 198 2. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways 198 3. If thou must love me, let it be for naught 199 A Court Lady 199 Lord Alfred Tennyson, 1809, Lincolnshire — Surrey, 1892 Break, Break, Break 202 Charge of the Light Brigade 203 The splendor falls on castle walls 204 Home they brought her warrior dead 205 Sir Galahad 206 Ulysses 208 The Eagle 210 The Higher Pantheism 210 XIV Table of Contents PAGE Flower in the crannied wall 211 The Brook's Song 211 A Tribute to His Mother 213 Ring Out Wild Bells 214 Crossing the Bar 215 William Makepeace Thackeray, 1811, Calcutta — London, 1863 Little Billee 216 Sorrows of Werther 217 At the Church Gate 218 The End of the Play 219 Robert Browning, 181 2, London — Venice, 1889 Incident of the French Camp 221 How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix 223 Herve Riel 225 Pheidippides 230 Cavalier Tunes 235 My Last Duchess 237 Tray 239 Muleykeh 241 The Year's at the spring 246 Epilogue from Asolando 246 Prospice 247 Edward Lear, 181 2, London — San Retno, 1888 The Jumblies 248 The Owl and the Pussycat 250 A Limerick 251 Arthur Hugh Clough, 1819, Liverpool — Florence, 1861 Say not the struggle naught availeth 251 Qua Cursum Ventus 252 Charles Kingsley, 1819, Devonshire — Hampshire, 1875 Young and Old 253 Frederick Locker-Lampson, 1821, Greenwich — Rowfant, 1895 A Terrible Infant 254 Table of Contents xv PAGE Matthew Arnold, 1822, Middlesex — Liverpool, 1888 Shakspere 254 Requiescat 255 Self-Dependence 255 Coventry Patmore, 1823, Warwickshire — Hampshire, 1896 The Toys 256 Thomas Edward Brown, 1830, /j/e of Man — Isle of Man, 1897 My Garden ; 258 Charles Stuart Calverley, 1831, Worcestershire — London, 1884 The Alphabet 258 Lewis Carroll (Charles L. Dodgson), 1832, Daresbury — Surrey, 1898 Jabberwocky 259 The (Jardenei's Song 260 George du Maurier, 1834, Paris — London, 1896 A Little Work 262 Edward Bowen, 1836, Gloucestershire — Coted' Or, France, 1901 Forty Years On 262 Jack and Joe 264 Austin Dobson, 1840, Plymouth — - The Cure's Progress 265 Urceus Exit 266 Charles George Gordon 267 William Morris, 1834, London — London, 1896 The Burghers' Battle 267 William Ernest Henley, 1849, Gloucester — Surrey, 1903 Home 269 Invictus 270 xvi Table of Contents PAGE Robert Louis Stevenson, 1850, Edinburgh — Samoa, 1894 A Lad that is Gone 271 The Vagabond 272 Heather Ale 273 Requiem 276 William Watson, 1858, Yorkshire — The Keyboard 276 Henry Charles Beeching, 1859, London — Going Down Hill on a Bicycle 277 Henry Newbolt, 1862, Stafordshire — Drake's Drum 278 Vital Lampada 279 Clifton Chapel 280 RuDYARD Kipling, 1865, Bombay — Fuzzy Wuzzy 281 A Ballad of East and West , 283 The Explorer 288 Recessional 292 L'Envoi 293 John Masefield, Gloucestershire — ■ Cargoes 293 An Old Song Resung 294 Sea Fever 294 Alfred Noyes, 1880, Stafordshire — A Song of Sherwood 295 The Highwayman 297 The Admiral's Ghost .■ . . . 301 References, Technical and Historical 307 Introductions and Notes 317 Index of Poets, Titles, and First Lines 361 BRITISH VERSE FOR BOYS GEOFFREY CHAUCER i34o(?), London-London, 1400 FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES I. The Tabard Inn Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote The drought of Marche hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich hcour, Of which vertue engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breethe Enspired hath in every holte and heethe The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours i-ronne, And smale fowles maken melodic, That slepen al the night with open eye, So priketh hem nature m her corages:— Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, And palmers for to seeken straunge strondes, To feme halwes, kouthe in sondry londes; And specially, from every schires ende Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, The holy bUsful martir for to seeke, That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. Byfel that, in that sesoun on a day, In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, Geoffrey Chaucer At night was come into that hostelrye Wei nyne and twenty in a companye, Of sondry folk, by aventure i-falle In felaweschipe, and pUgryms were they alle, That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde; The chambres and the stables weren wyde, And wel we weren esed atte beste. And schortly, whan the sonne was to reste, So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, That I was of here felaweschipe anon, And made forward erly for to ryse, To take our wey ther as I yow devyse. But natheles, whil I have tyme and space, Or that I forther in this tale pace. Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun. To telle yow al the condicioun Of eche of hem, so as it semede me, And whiche they weren, and of what degre; And eek in what array that they were inne; And at a knight than wol I first bygynne. II. The Knight A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man, That from the tyme that he first bigan To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye, Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye. Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, And therto hadde he riden, no man ferre. As wel in Christendom as in hethenesse, And ever honoured for his worthinesse. At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne, Fvd ofte tyme he hadde the bord bygonne Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce. In Lettowe hadde he reysed and in Ruce, No Cristen man so ofte of his degre. In Gernade atte siege hadde he be The Canterbury Tales Of Algesir, and riden in Belmarie. At Lieys was he, and at Satalie, Whan they were wonne; and in the Create see At many a noble arive hadde he be. At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene, And foughten for our feith at Tramassene In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. This ilke worthy knight hadde ben also Sometyme with the lord of Palatye, Ageyn another he then in Turkye; And evermore he hadde a sovereyn prys. And though that he was worthy, he was wys, And of his port as meke as is a mayde. He nevere yit no vileinye ne sayde In al his lyf, unto no maner wight. He was a verray perfight gentil knight. But for to tellen you of his array. His hors was good, but he ne was nought gay. Of f ustyan he werede a gepoun Al bysmotered with his habergeoun. For he was late ycome from his viage, And wente for to doon his pilgrimage. III. The Squire With him ther was his sone, a young Squyer, A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler, With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse. Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. Of his stature he was of even lengthe, And wonderly delyver, and gret of strengthe. And he hadde ben sometyme in chivachye, In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye, And born him wel, as of so litel space, In hope to stonden in his lady grace. Embrowded was he, as it were a mede Al ful of fresshe floures, white and reede. Geoffrey Chaucer Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day; He was as fressh as is the moneth of May. Schort was his goune, with sleeves longe and wyde. Wei cowde he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. He cowde songes make and wel endite, Juste apid eek daunce, and wel purtreye and write. So hote he lovede, that by nightertale He sleep no more than doth a nightyngale. Curteys he was, lowly, and servysable, And carf byforn his fader at the table. IV. The Prioress Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy; Hire gretteste ooth ne was but by seynt Loy; And sche was cleped madame Eglentyne. Ful wel sche sang the servise divyne, En tuned in hire nose ful semely; And Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly. After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe. At mete wel i- taught was sche withaUe; Sche leet no morsel from hire Uppes falle, Ne wette hire fyngres in hire sauce deepe. Wel cowde sche carie a morsel, and wel keepe. That no drope ne fille upon hire breste. In curteisie was set fid moche hire leste. Hire overlippe wypede sche so clene. That in hire cuppe was no ferthing sene Of greece, whan sche dronken hadde hire draughte. Ful semely after hire mete sche raughte, And sikerly sche was of gret disport, And ful pleasaunt, and amyable of port, And peynede hire to countrefete cheere Of court, and ben estatlich of manere. And to ben holden digne of reverence. But for to speken of hire conscience, The Canterbury Tales Sche was so charitable and so pitous, Sche wolde weepe if that sche sawe a mous Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. Of smale houndes hadde sche, but sche fedde With rested flessh, or mylk and wastel breed. But sore wepte sche if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smot it with a yerde smerte: And al was conscience and tendre herte. Ful semely hire wympel i-pynched was; Hire nose tretys; hire eyen greye as glas; Hire mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed But sikerly sche hadde a fair forheed. It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; For hardily sche was not undergrowe. Ful fetys was hire cloke, as I was waar. Of smal coral aboute hire arm sche baar A peire of bedes gauded al with grene; And theron heng a broch of gold ful schene, On which was first i-write a crowned A, And after. Amor vincit omnia. Another Nonne with hire hadde sche. That was hire chapeleyne, and Prestes thre. V. The Clerk A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also. That unto logik hadde longe i-go. As lene was his hors as is a rake, And he was not right fat, I undertake; But lokede holwe, and therto soberly. Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy, For he hadde geten him yit no benefice, Ne was so worldly for to have ofiice. For him was levere have at his beddes heede Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reede. Of Aristotle and his philosophic. Then robes riche, or fithele, or gay sawtrie. Geoffrey Chaucer But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but Htel gold in cofre; But al that he mighte of his frendes hente, On bookes and on lernyng he it spente, And busily gan for the soules preye Of hem that yaf him wherwith to scoleye, Of studie took he most cure and most heede. Not oo word spak he more than was neede, And that was seid in forme and reverence And schort and quyk, and ful of high sentence. Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. VI. The Parson A good man was ther of religioun, And was a poure Persoun of a toun; But riche he was of holy thought and werk. He was also a lerned man, a clerk, That Cristas gospel trewely wolde preche; His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. Benigne he was, and wonder diligent. And in adversitee ful pacient; And swich he was y-proved ofte sythes. Ful looth were him to cursen for his tythes, But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, Un-to his poure parisshens aboute Of his offring, and eek of his substaunce. He coude in litel thing han suffisaunce. Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder, But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder. In siknes nor in meschief to visyte The ferreste in his parisshe, moche and lyte, Upon his feet, and in his hond a staf. This noble ensample to his scheep he yaf, That first he wroughte, and afterward he taughte. Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte, The Canterbury Tales And this figure he addede eek therto, That if gold ruste, what schal yren doo? For if a prest be foul, on whom we truste, No wonder is a lewed man to ruste; And schame it is, if that a prest tak keep, A filthy schepherde and a clene scheep; Wei oughte a prest ensample for to yive. By his clennesse, how that his scheep schulde lyve. He sette not his benefice to hyre, And leet his scheep encombred in the myre. And ran to Londone, unto seynte Poules, To seeken him a chaunterie for soules, Or with a bretherhede to ben withholde; But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde. So that the wolf ne made it not myscarye; He was a schepherd and no mercenarie. And though he holy were, and vertuous, He was to sinful man nought despitous, Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, But in his teching discret and benigne. To drawe folk to heven by fairenesse; By good ensample, this was his busynesse; But it were eny persone obstinat. What so he were, of high or lowe estat. Him wolde he snybbe scharply for the nones. A better preest, I trowe, ther nowher non is. He waytede after no pompe and reverence, Ne makede him a spiced conscience, But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, He taughte, but first he folwede it himselve. Old Ballads OLD BALLADS SIR PATRICK SPENS I. The Sailing The King sits in Dunfermline toun, Drinking the blude-red wine: "O whaur wiU I get a skeely skipper To sail this gude ship of mine?" Then up an' spak an eldern knight, Sat at the King's right knee: " Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea." The King has written a braid letter, And sealed it wi' 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 o' Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame!" The first line that Sir Patrick read, A loud laugh laughed he ; The neist line that Sir Patrick read, The tear blindit his e'e. "O wha is this has dune this deed, And tauld the King o' me. To send us out, at this time o' year, To sail upon the sea? Sir Patrick Spens "Be it wind or weet, be it haU, be it sleet, Our ship maun sail the faem; The King's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis we maun bring her hame." They hoysed their sails on Monday morn Wi' a' the speed they may; And they hae landed in Noroway Upon the Wodensday. II. The Return "Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alack! my master dear, I fear a deadly storm! "I saw the new moon late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And I fear, I fear, ma master dear. That we sail come to harm!" They hadna sailed 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 ropes they brak, and the topmast lap. It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves cam owre the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn. "O whaur will I get a gude sailor To tak' the helm in hand, Until I win to the tall topmast And see if I can spy land?" lo Old Ballads "It's here am I, a sailor gude, To tak' the helm in hand, Till ye win up to the tall topmast, But I fear ye'U ne'er spy land." He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bolt flew out of the gude ship's side. And the saut sea it cam' in. "Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine. And wap them into the gude ship's side And let na the sea come in." They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And they wapped them into that gude ship's side, But aye the sea cam' in. O laith, laith were our gude Scots lairds To weet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang ere a' the play was played. They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather-bed That flattered on the faem; • And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame. O lang, lang, may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Or ever they see Sir Patrick Spens Come saihng to the strand! And lang, lang may the maidens sit, Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, A-waiting for their ain dear loves. For them they'U see nae mair. Chevy-Chase ii O, forty miles off Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lairds at his feet. CHEVY-CHASE God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all; A woful hunting once there did In Chevy-Chase befall. To drive the deer with hound and horn Earl Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborn The hunting of that day. The stout Earl of Northumberland A vow to God did make. His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer days to take; The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase To kill and bear away. These tidings to Earl Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay; Who sent Earl Percy present word He would prevent his sport. The English earl, not fearing that. Did to the woods resort. With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might. Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright. 12 Old Ballads The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran To chase the fallow deer; On Monday they began to hunt, When dayUght did appear; And long before high noon they had A hundred fat bucks slain; Then, having dined, the drovers went To rouse the deer again. The boAvmen mustered on the hills. Well able to endure; And all their rear, with special care, That day was guarded sure. The hounds ran swiftly through the woods The nimble deer to take. That with their cries the hills and dales An echo shrill did make. Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughtered deer; Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised This day to meet me here; "But if I thought he would not come. No longer would I stay;" With that, a brave young gentleman Thus to the earl did say: — "Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, — His men in armor bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish spears All marching in our sight; "All men of pleasant Teviotdale, Fast by the river Tweed;" "Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said, "And take your bows with speed; Chevy-Chase 13 "And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance; For never was there champion yet, In Scotland or in France, "That ever did on horseback come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man. With him to break a spear." Earl Douglas on his mUk-white steed, Most like a baron bold. Rode foremost of his company, Whose armor shone like gold. "Show me," said he, "whose men you be, That hunt so boldly here. That, without my consent, do chase And kill my fallow-deer." The first man that did answer make, Was noble Percy, he — Who said, "We list not to declare, Nor show whose men we be : "Yet will we spend our dearest blood Thy chiefest harts to slay." Then Douglas swore a solemn oath. And thus in rage did say: — "Ere thus I will out-braved be. One of us two shall die ; I know thee well, an earl thou art, — Lord Percy, so am I. "But trust me, Percy, pity it were, And great offense, to kill Any of these our guiltless men, For they have done no ill. 14 Old Ballads "Let you and I the battle try, And set our men aside." "Accursed be he," Earl Percy said, "By whom this is denied." Then stepped a gallant squire forth, Witherington was his name. Who said, "I would not have it told To Henry, our king, for shame, "That e'er my captain fought on foot. And I stood looking on. You two be earls," said Witherington, "And I a squire alone; "I'll do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand ; While I have power to wield my sword, I'll fight with heart and hand." Our English archers bent their bows, — Their hearts were good and true; At the first flight of arrows sent. Full fourscore Scots they slew. Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent, As chieftain stout and good; As valiant captain, aU unmoved, The shock he firmly stood. His host he parted had in three. As leader ware and tried; And soon his spearmen on their foes Bore down on every side. Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound; But stiU our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground. Chcvy-Chase 15 And throwing straight their bows away, They grasped their swords so bright; And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, On shields and helmets light. They closed fuU fast on every side, No slackness there was found; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground. In truth, it was a grief to see How each one chose his spear, And how the blood out of their breasts Did gush like water clear. At last these two stout earls did meet; Like captains of great might, Like lions wode, they laid on lode. And made a cruel fight. They fought until they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steel. Until the blood, like drops of rain. They trickling down did feel. "Yield thee. Lord Percy," Douglas said, "In faith I will thee bring Where thou shalt high advanced be By James, our Scottish king. "Thy ransom I will freely give. And this report of thee, — Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see. " "No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then, "Thy proffer I do scorn; I will not yield to any Scot That ever yet was bom." i6 Old Ballads With that there came an arrow keen Out of an Enghsh bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart,- A deep and deadly 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 Hfe, Earl Percy took The dead man by the hand; And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy. life Would I had lost my hand. "In truth, my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake ; For sure a more redoubted knight Mischance did never take." A knight amongst the Scots there was Who saw Earl Douglas die, Who straight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Earl Percy. Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called. Who, with a spear full bright, Well-mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight; And past the EngUsh archers all, Without a dread or fear; And through Earl Percy's body then He thrust his hateful spear. With such vehement force and might He did his body gore. The staff ran through the other side A large cloth-yard and more. Chevy-Chase 17 So thus did both these nobles die, Whose courage none could stain. An English archer then perceived The noble earl was slain; He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth-yard long To the hard head drew he. Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery So right the shaft he set. The gray goose-wing that was thereon In his heart's blood was wet. This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun; For when they rung the evening-bell The battle scarce was done. With stout Earl Percy there were slain Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold baron. And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both Knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose prowess did surmount. For Witherington my heart is woe That ever he slain should be, For when his legs were hewn in two, He knelt and fought on his knee. And with Earl Douglas there were slain Sir Hugh Mountgomery, Sir Charles Murray, that from the field One foot would never flee; Old Ballads Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, — His sister's son was he; Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed. But saved he could not be. And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Earl Douglas die: Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, Scarce fifty-five did fly. Of fifteen hundred EngUshmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain, Under the greenwood tree. Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail; They washed their wounds in brinish tears, But aU would not prevail. Their bodies, bathed in purple blood. They bore with them away; They kissed them dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay. The news was brought to Edinburgh, Where Scotland's king did reign. That brave Earl Douglas suddenly Was with an arrow slain: "O heavy news," King James did say; " Scotland can witness be I have not any captain more Of such account as he." Like tidings to King Henry came Within as short a space. That Percy of Northumberland Was slain in Chevy-Chase : Lord Lovel 19 "Now God be with him," said our King, "Since 'twill no better be; I trust I have within my realm Five hundred as good as he. "Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say But I will vengeance take; I'll be revenged on them all For brave Earl Percy's sake." This vow full well the king performed After at Humbledown; In one day fifty knights were slain With lords of high renown; And of the rest, of small account, Did many hundreds die: Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, Made by the Earl Percy. God save the king, and bless this land, With plenty, joy, and peace; And grant, henceforth, that foul debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease. LORD 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. "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." 20 Old Ballads "When will you be back, Lord Lovel?" she said, "Oh! when will you come back?" said she; "In a year or t\vo— or three, at the most, I'll return to my fair Nancy." But he had not been gone a year and a day. Strange countries for to see. When languishing thoughts came into his head, 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. "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 I^ady Nancy." So he ordered the grave to be opened wide. And the shroud he turned down, And there he kissed her clay-cold lips. 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 pure, pure grief, 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. They giew, and they grew, to the church-steeple top, And then they could grow no higher: So there they entwined in a true-lover's knot. For all lovers true to admire. Barbara Allen's Cruelty 21 BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY In Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwelHn', Made every youth cry Well-a-way! Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merry month of May, When green buds they were swellin', Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen. He sent his man in to her then, To the town where she was dwellin', "O haste and come to my master dear. If your name be Barbara Allen." So slowly, slowly rase she up, And slowly she came nigh him. And when she drew the curtain by — "Young man, I think you're dyin'." "0 it's I am sick and very very sick. And it's all for Barbara AUen." "O the better for me ye'se never be. Though your heart's blood were a-spillin'! "O dinna ye mind, young man," says she, "When the red wine ye were fillin', That ye made the healths go round and round. And slighted Barbara Allen? " He turned his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealin': "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allen! " 22 Old Ballads As she was walking o'er the fields, She heard the dead-bell knellin'; And every jow the dead-beU gave Cried "Woe to Barbara Allen." "0 mother, mother, make my bed, make it saft and narrow: My love has died for me to-day, I'U die for him to-morrow. "Farewell," she said, "ye virgins all. And shun the fault I fell in: Henceforth take warning by the fall Of cruel Barbara Allen." THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON There was a youth, a well-beloved youth, And he was a squire's son, He loved the bailiff's daughter dear, That lived in Islington. Yet she was coy and would not believe That he did love her so. No, nor at any time would she Any countenance to him show. But when his friends did understand His fond and foolish mind, They sent him up to fair London An apprentice for to bind. And when he had been seven long years, And never his love could see: Many a tear have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of me. The Bailiff's Daughter of IsHngton 23 Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and play, All but the bailiff's daughter dear; She secretly stole away. She pulled off her gown of green, And put on ragged attire, And to fair London she would go Her true-love to enquire. As she went along the high road, The weather being hot and dry, She sat her down upon a green bank. And her true-love came riding by. She started up, with a color so red. Catching hold of his bridle-rein; One penny, one penny, kind sir, she said, Will ease me of much pain. Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, Pray tell me where you were born. At Islington, kind sir, said she, Where I have had many a scorn. I prithee, sweet-heart, then teU to me, O tell me, whether you know. The bailiff's daughter of IsUngton. She is dead, sir, long ago. If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will unto some far country. Where no man shall me know. O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth. She standeth by thy side; She is here, alive, she is not dead, And ready to be thy bride. 24 Sir Edward Dyer farewell grief, and welcome joy, Ten thousand times therefor; For now I have found mine own true-love, Whom I thought I should never see more. ■^ SIR EDWARD DYER i55o(?), Somersetshire-London, 1607 MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS My mind to me a kingdom is; Such present joys therein I find. That it excels all other bliss That earth affords or grows by kind: Though much I want which most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. No princely pomp, no wealthy store. No force to win the victory, No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to feed a loving eye; To none of these I yield as thrall: For why? My mind doth serve for all. 1 see how plenty surfeits oft, And hasty climbers soon do fall; I see that those which are aloft Mishap doth threaten most of all; They get with toil, they keep with fear: Such cares my mind could never bear. Content to live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice; I press to bear no haughty sway; Look, what I lack my mind supplies: Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring. Two Sonnets 25 Some have too much, yet stilJ do crave; I little have, and seek no more. They are but poor, though much they have, And I am rich with little store: They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; They lack, I leave; they pine, I live. I laugh not at another's loss; I grudge not at another's gain; No worldl)'^ waves my mind can toss; My state at one doth still remain: I fear no foe, I fawn no friend; I loathe not hfe, nor dread my end. Some weigh their pleasure by their lust. Their wisdom by their rage of will; Their treasure is their only trust; A cloaked craft their store of skill: But all the pleasure that I find Is to maintain a quiet mind. My wealth is health and perfect ease; My conscience clear my chief defense; I neither seek by bribes to please. Nor by deceit to breed offense: Thus do I live; thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I! EDMUND SPENSER 1552, London-London, 1599 TWO SONNETS Sweet is the Rose, but Grows upon a Brier Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brier; Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near; Sweet is the fir-bloom, but his branches rough; 26 Edmund Spenser Sweet is the cypress, but his rind is tough; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the broom-flower, but yet sour enough; And sweet is moly, but his root is ill: So every sweet with sour is tempered still. That maketh it be coveted the more; For easy things, that may be got at will. Most sorts of men do set but little store. Why then should I account of little pain, That endless pleasure shall unto me gain? One Day I Wrote Her Name upon the Strand One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide and made my pains his prey. "Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain essay A mortal thing so to immortalize; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise." "Not so," quoth I; "let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame; My verse your virtues rare shall eternize. And in the heavens write your glorious name: Where, whenas Death shall all the world subdue. Our love shall live, and later life renew." HOPE DEFERRED Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried. What hell it is in suing long to bide; To lose good days, that might be better spent. To waste long nights in pensive discontent; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow. To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow; To have thy Prince's grace, yet want her peers'. To have thy asking, yet wait many years; A Selection from the Faerie Queene 27 To fret thy soiil with crosses and with cares, To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs; To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run. To spend, to give, to want, to be undone. A SELECTION FROM THE FAERIE QUEENE Entorst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, A shadie grove not farr away they spide. That promist ayde the tempest to withstand; Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride. Did spred so broad, that heavens Hght did hide. Not perceable with power of any starr; And all within were pathes and alleles wide. With footing worne, and leading inward farr. Faire harbour that them seems, so in they entred ar. And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony. Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy, The sayling Pine; the Cedar proud and tall; The vine-propp Elme; the Poplar never dry; The builder Oake, sole king of forests all; The Aspine good for staves; the Cypresse funerall; The Laurell, meed of mightie Conquerours And Poets sage; the Firre that weepeth still; The Willow, worne of forlorne paramours; The Eugh, obedient to the benders will; The Birch for shaftes; the Sallow for the mill; The Mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound; The warhke Beech; the Ash for nothing ill; The fruitful Olive; and the Platane round; The carver Holme; the Maple seeldom inward sound. 28 John Lyly Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, Untill the blustring storme is overblowne; When, weening to returne whence they did stray, They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, But wandering too and fro in waies unknowne, Furthest-from end then when they neerest weene. That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne; So many pathes, so many turnings scene, That which of them to take in diverse doubt they been. JOHN LYLY i554(?), London-London, 1606 CUPID AND CAMPASPE From " Alexander and Campaspe " Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid: He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple on his chin; All these did my Campaspe win: At last he set her both his eyes — She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me? My True-Lovc Hath My Heart 29 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 1554, Kent-Netherlands, 1586 COME SLEEP! SLEEP, THE CERTAIN KNOT OF PEACE Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. The indifferent judge between the high and low! With shield of proof, shield me from out the press Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: make in me those civil wars to cease! 1 will good tribute pay if thou do so. Take thou of me, smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland, and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine in right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me. Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART From the " Arcadia " My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a better bargain driven: 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. 30 Michael Drayton His heart his wound received from my sight; My heart was wounded from his wounded heart; For as from me, on him his hurt did hght, So still me thought in me his heart did smart : Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My true love hath my heart, and I have his. MICHAEL DRAYTON 1563, Warwick-London, 163 1 SINCE THERE'S NO HELP, COME LET US KISS AND PART 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 cleanly 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 faiUng, Passion speechless lies. When Faith is kneehng by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now, if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover! AGINCOURT OCTOBER 25, 141 S Fair stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; Agincourt 31 But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Furnished in warHke sort, Marcheth towards Agincourt In happy hour; Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay With all his power. Which, in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide Unto him 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: 32 Michael Drayton 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 the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French hUes." The Duke of York so dread The eager vanguard led; With the main Henry sped Among his henchmen. Excester had the rear, A braver man not there; O Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen! 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 didst the signal aim To our hid forces ! Agincourt 33 When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly The English archery Struck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his feUow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbos 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. Gloster, that duke so good. Next of the royal blood. For famous England stood With his brave brother; 34 Christopher Marlowe 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 doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's Day Fought was this noble fray. Which fame did not delay To England to carry. O when shall English men With such acts fill a pen? Or England breed again Such a King Harry? CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 1564, Canterbury-London, 1593 THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Or woods or steepy mountain jdelds. And we will sit upon the rocks. And see the shepherds feed their flocks Tamburlaine to Calyphas 35 By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined shppers 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. 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. TAMBURLAINE TO CALYPHAS Thou shalt not have a foot unless thou bear A mind courageous and invincible: For he shall wear the crown of Persia Whose head hath deepest scars, whose breast most wounds, Which being wroth sends lightning from his eyes. And in the furrows of his frowning brows Harbours revenge, war, death, and cruelty. 36 William Shakspere WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 1564, Stratford-ON-Avon-Stratford-on-Avon, 1616 UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE From " As You Like It " Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, 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. BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND From " As You Like It " 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. It Was a Lover and His Lass 37 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! 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 remembered 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! IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS From " As You Like It " It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring. Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. These pretty country folks would lie. In the spring time, the only pretty ring time. When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring. This carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. How that life was but a flower In the spring time, the only pretty ring time. When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring. 38 William Shakspere And, therefore, take the present time With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crowned with the prime In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring. WHERE THE BEE SUCKS, THERE SUCK I From " The Tempest " Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. A SEA DIRGE From '■ The Tempest " Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes; Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suff^er a sea-change Into something rich and strange; Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell. Hark! now I hear them, — ding-dong, bell. HARK, HARK, THE LARK From " Cymbeline " Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings. And Phoebus 'gins arise. His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; Crabbed Age and Youth 39 And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise : Arise, arise! SILVIA From " The Two Gentlemen of Verona " Who is Silvia? What is she? That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heavens such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness: Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing. That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring. CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH From " The Passionate Pilgrim " Crabbed Age and Youth Cannot Uve together: Youth is fuU of pleasance. Age is full of care; Youth like summer morn. Age like winter weather; Youth hke summer brave. Age like winter bare. 40 William Shakspere Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, Age is lame; Youth is hot and bold. Age is weak and cold ; Youth is wild, and Age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; Youth, I do adore thee; O, my Love, my Love is young! Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee! For methinks thou stay'st too long. FIVE SONNETS When in Disgrace with Fortune and Men's Eyes When, in disgrace wdth fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state. And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. And look upon myself, and curse my fate. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. Featured like Mm, like liim with friends possessed. Desiring this man's art and that man's scope. With what I most enjoy contented least ; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee : and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate: For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Five Sonnets 41 Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled woe, And moan the expense of many a vanished sight : Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before: But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end. Full Many a Glorious Morning have I Seen Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green. Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; 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 disgrace: 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 masked him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. When in the Chronicle of Wasted Time When 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 express'd Even such a beauty as you master now. 42 William Shakspere 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. Poor Soul, the Centre of My Sinful Earth Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Foil'd by these rebel powers that thee array. Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss. And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men; And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. BEFORE HARFLEUR, 1415 From " Henry V " Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, As modest stillness and humihty: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. Disguise fair nature with hard-favor'd rage. To Celia 43 Dishonor not your mothers: now attest, That those whom you called fathers did beget you: Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war! — and you good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not, For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble luster in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and, upon this charge. Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George! BEN JONSON 1573, London-London, 1637 TO CELIA 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 withered be; 44 Ben Jonson 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! THE NOBLE NATURE From " An Ode to Sir Lucius Gary and Sir H. Morison " It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night, — It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see. And in short measures life may perfect be. SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS From " Epicoene " Still to be neat, still to be dressed As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed. Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face. That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. To William Shakspere 45 TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAKSPERE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US 1564-1616 To draw no envy, Shakspere, 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 paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest 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 seemed to raise. These are, as some infamous bawd or whore Should praise a matron. What could hurt her more? But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin : Soul of the age ! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakspere, rise ! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live .■\nd we have wits to read and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great, but disproportioned 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 outshine. Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honor thee, I would not seek 46 Ben Jonson For names; but call forth thundering JLschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us; Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To life 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 To 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 Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm! Nature herself was proud of his designs And joyed 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 Shakspere, 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 bom. And such wert thou! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakspere's mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turned, and true-filed lines; Shall I, Wasting in Despair 47 In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our waters 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 mourned like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume 's light. ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPERE PREFIXED TO THE FIRST FOLIO EDITION, 1623 This figure, that thou here seest put. It was for gentle Shakspere cut; Wherein the Graver had a strife With Nature to outdo the life: O, 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. GEORGE WITHER 1588, Hampshire-London, 1667 SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? 48 George Wither Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she think not well of me, What care I how fair she be? Shall my silly heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well disposed nature Joined with 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 well-deservings known Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of Best, If she be not such to me. What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high. Shall I play the fool and die? She that bears a noble mind. If not outward helps she find, Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her 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; To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time 49 If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? WILLIAM BROWNE 1591, Devonshire-Devonshire, 1643 EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse: Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: Death, ere thou hast slain another, Fair, and learned, and good as she, Time shaU throw a dart at thee. ROBERT HERRICK 1591, London-Devonshire, 1674 TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Old Time is stiU a-fl5dng: 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 wUl his race be run, And nearer he's to setting, 50 Robert Herrick 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. DELIGHT IN DISORDER A SWEET disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction: An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher: A cuft' neglectful, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedl}': A winning wave, deserving note. In the tempestuous petticoat: A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civihty : Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part. WHENAS IN SILKS MY JULIA GOES Whenas in silks my Juha goes. Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes! Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, — O how that glittering taketh me! To Anthea 5 1 TO DAFFODILS Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed 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. TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND 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. 52 Henry King 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 will I 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. HENRY KING 1592, Buckinghamshire-Susse.x', 1669 LIKE TO THE FALLING OF A STAR Like to the falHng of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew. Or like a wind that chafes the flood. Or bubbles which on water stood: Even such is Man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in and paid to night. The wind blows out, the bubble dies, The spring entombed in autumn lies; The dew's dried up, the star is shot. The flight is past, — and man forgot. The Pulley 53 GEORGE HERBERT 1593, Wales-Wiltshire, 1633 VIRTUE Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright! The bridal of the earth and sky — The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, fuU of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie. My music shows ye have your closes. And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul. Like seasoned timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal Then chiefly lives. THE PULLEY When God at first made Man, Having a glass of blessings standing by^ Let us, said He, pour on him all we can; Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie. Contract into a span. So strength first made a way, Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay. Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure, Rest in the bottom lay. 54 George Herbert For if I should, said He, Bestow this jewel also on My creature, He would adore My gifts instead of Me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be. Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness; Let him be rich and weary, that at least. If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to My breast. THE BOSOM-SIN Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round! Parents first season us, then schoolmasters Deliver us to laws; they send us bound To rules of reason, holy messengers, Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin, Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes. Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, Bibles laid open, miUions of surprises; Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness. The sound of Glory ringing in our ears : Without, our shame; within, our consciences; Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears! Yet aU these fences, and their whole array. One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away. THE ELIXIR Teach me, my God and King, In all things Thee to see, And what I do in anything To do it as for Thee : On a Cjirdle 55 All may of Thee partake: Nothing can be so mean. Which with his tincture " for Thy sake," Will not grow bright and clean. A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine; Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws, Makes that and th' action fine. This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold; For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for less be told. EDMUND WALLER 1606, Hertfordshire-Beaconsfield, 1685 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! 56 John Milton JOHN MILTON 1608, London-London, 1674 FIVE SONNETS On His Having Arrived to the Age of Twenty-Three How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and- twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career. But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arrived so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'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. To THE Lord General Cromwell, May 16, 1652 ON THE proposals OF CERTAIN MINISTERS OF THE COMMITTEE FOR THE PROPAGATION OF THE GOSPEL 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 ploughed, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud Hast reared God's trophies, and His work pursued, While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, Five Sonnets 57 And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories No less renowned 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. On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 1655 Avenge, Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones. Forget not : in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyred 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. 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-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 58 John Milton That murmur, soon replies: " God doth not need Either man's work, or his own gifts. Who best 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." To Cyriack Skinner Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though 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 stUl bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to 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. AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC POET, W. SHAKSPERE What needs my Shakspere for his honored bones The labor of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallowed rehcs should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame. What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavoring art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Why so Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? 59 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And so sepulchered in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. SIR JOHN SUCKLING 1609, Middlesex-Paris, 1642 WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER? Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her. Saying nothing do't? Prithee, 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 I 6o Richard Lovelace RICHARD LOVELACE 1618, Kent-London, 1658 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind. That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates. And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye. The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound. Our hearts with loyal flames; Under the Portrait of Milton 6i When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free — Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such Hberty. When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shaU sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great shovdd be. Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. JOHN DRYDEN 1 63 1, Northamptonshire-London, 1700 UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF MILTON IN THE 4TH EDITION OF "PARADISE LOST," 1688 Three poets in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed; The next in majesty; in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go ; To make a third she joined the former two. 62 John Dryden A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 From harmony, from heavenly harmony. This universal frame began: When nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay. And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, "Arise, ye more than dead!" Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry. In order to their stations leap. And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony. This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony Through aU the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell. His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound: Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms. With shrill notes of anger. And mortal alarms. Thc'double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat! A Song for St. Cecilia's Udv 63 The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers. Whose dirge is M'hispered by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion. For the fair, disdainful dame. But O, what art can teach, What human voice can reach, The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above. Orpheus could lead the savage race; And trees uprooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appeared Mistaking Earth for Heaven. GRAND CHORUS As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the Blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbhng pageant shall devour. The trumpet shall be heard on high. The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky! 64 John Dry den ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC; AN ODE IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1697 'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son. Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crowned) ; The lovely Thais by his side Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave None but the brave None but the brave deserves the fair! Chorus — Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave None but the brave None but the brave deserves the fair! II Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touched the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove Who left his blissful seats above — Such is the power of mighty love! A dragon's fiery form belied the god; Sublime on radiant spires he rode When he to fair Olympia pressed, And while he sought her snowy breast. Alexander's Feast 65 Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an "image of himself, a sovereign of the world. — The hstening crowd admire the lofty sound ! A present deity! they shout around: A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound : With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god, Affects to nod And seems to shake the spheres. Chorus — With ravished ears The monarch hears Assumes the god, Affects to nod And seems to shake the spheres. ni The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung. Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young: The jolly god in triumph comes! Sound the trumpets, beat the drums! flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: Rich the treasure. Sweet the pleasure. Sweet is pleasure after pain. Chorus — Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. 66 John Dryden IV Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain ! The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And, while he Heaven and Earth defied, Changed his hand and checked his pride. He chose a mournful Muse Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood ; Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed; On the bare earth exposed he lies With not a friend to close his eyes. — With downcast looks the joyless victor sate. Revolving, in his altered soul. The various turns of Chance below; And, now and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. Chorus — Revolving, in his altered soul, The various turns of Chance below; And, now atid then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree; 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. Alexander's Feast 67 War, he sung, is toil and trouble, Honor but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destrojdng; If the world be worth thy winning. Think, think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee. Take the good the gods provide thee! — The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain. Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again: At length, wth love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. Chorus — The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care. And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again: At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. Now strike the golden lyre again: A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! Break his bands of sleep asunder And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head: As awaked from the dead, And amazed he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise! 68 John Dryden See the snakes that they rear How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain: Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew! Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes And glittering temples of their hostile gods. — ^The princes applaud with a furious joy: And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way To Ught him to his prey. And, like another Helen, fired another Troy! Chorus — And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy! VII — ^Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre. Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inven tress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store Enlarged the former narrow bounds. And added length to solemn sounds. With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. A Reasonable Affliction 69 — Let old Timotheus yield ihc prize Or both divide the crown; He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down ! Grand Chorus — At last divine Cecilia came, I liven tress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthiisiast from her sacred store Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. — Let old Timotheus yield the prize Or both divide the crown; He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down! JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER 1647, Oxfordshire-Oxfordshire, 1680 EPITAPH ON CHARLES II Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, Whose word no man relies on, Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one. MATTHEW PRIOR 1664, East Dorset-Wimpole, 1721 A REASONABLE AFFLICTION On his death-bed poor Lubin lies: His spouse is in despair; With frequent cries, and mutual sighs, They both express their care. yo Joseph Addison "A different cause," says Parson Sly, "The same effect may give: Poor Lubin fears that he may die; His wife, that he may live." THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE I SENT for Ratcliffe; was so ill, That other doctors gave me over: He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill. And I was likely to recover. But, when the wit began to wheeze, And wine had warmed the politician, Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician. JOSEPH ADDISON 1672, Wiltshire-London, 1719 THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH The spacious iirmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display, And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail. The Moon takes up the wondrous tale; And nightly to the listening Earth Repeats the story of her birth: The Sluggard 71 Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And aU the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What tliough, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though nor real voice nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found? In Reason's ear they all rejoice. And utter forth a glorious voice; For ever singing as they shine, "The Hand that made us is divine." TO MIRA, ON HER INCOMPARABLE POEMS From the " Taller," No. 163 I When dress'd in laurel wreaths you shine, And tune your soft melodious notes, You seem a Sister of the Nine, Or Phoebus' self in petticoats. II I fancy, when your song you sing (Your song you sing with so much art). Your pen was pluck'd from Cupid's wing; For, ah I it wounds me like his dart. ISAAC WATTS 1674, Southampton-Hertfordshire, 1748 THE SLUGGARD 'Tis the voice of a sluggard; I heard him complain, "You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again"; As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. 72 Isaac Watts "A little more sleep, and a little more slumber"; Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands Or walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands. I passed by Jiis garden, and saw the wild brier The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher ; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags; And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs. I made him a visit, still hoping to find That he took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking. Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me; That man's but a picture of what I might be ; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading." HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour. And gather honey all the day From every opening flower ! How skilfully she builds her cell! How neat she spreads the wax! And labors hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes. In works of labor or of skill, I would be busy too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do. Our God, Our Help in Ages Past 73 In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be passed, That I may give for every day Some good account at last. OUR GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST Our God, our Help in ages past. Our hope for years to comC; Our shelter from the stormy blast. And our eternal home! Under the shadow of Thy Throne Thy saints have dwelt secure; Sufficient is Thine arm alone, And our defense is sure. Before the hills in order stood. Or earth received her fame. From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same. A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun. The busy tribes of flesh and blood, With all their lives and cares, Are carried downwards by Thy flood. And lost in following years. Time, Uke an ever-rolling stream, Beairs all its sons away; They fly, forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day. 74 John Gay Our God! our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Be Thou our guide when troubles last, And our eternal home ! JOHN GAY 1685, Devonshire-London, 1732 THE LION AND THE CUB How fond are men of rule and place, Who court it from the mean and base! These cannot bear an equal nigh. But from superior merit fly. They love the cellar's vulgar joke. And lose their hours in ale and smoke. There o'er some petty club preside; So poor, so paltry, is their pride! Nay, even with fools whole nights will sit, In hopes to be supreme in wit. If these can read, to these I write. To set their worth in truest light. A Lion-cub, of sordid mind. Avoided all the lion kind; Fond of applause, he sought the feasts Of vulgar and ignoble beasts; With asses all his time he spent, Their club's perpetual president. He caught their manners, looks, and airs; An ass in everything but ears! If e'er his Highness meant a joke. They grinned applause before h& spoke; But at each word what shouts of praise! "Good gods! how natural he brays!" Universal Prayer 75 Elate with flattery and conceit, He seeks his royal sire's retreat; Forward, and fond to show his parts, His Highness brays; the Lion starts. "Puppy! that cursed vociferation Betrays thy life and conversation: Coxcombs, an ever -noisy race, Are trumpets of their own disgrace." "Why so severe?" the Cub repKes; "Our senate always held me wise!" "How weak is pride," returns the sire: "All fools are vain when fools admire! But know, what stupid asses prize, Lions and noble beasts despise." ALEXANDER POPE 1688, London-Twickenham, 1744 UNIVERSAL PRAYER DEO OPT. MAX. Father of all! in every age. In every clime adored. By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord! Thou Great First Cause, least understood. Who all my sense confined To know but this, that Thou art good, And that myself am blind; Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill ; And, binding nature fast in fate. Left free the human will. 76 Alexander Pope What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heaven pursue. ..What blessings Thy free bounty gives Let me not cast away; For God is paid when man receives. To enjoy is to obey. Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound, Or think Thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round: Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume Thy bolts to throw And deal damnation round the land On each I judge Thy foe. If I am right. Thy grace impart Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, O, teach my heart To find that better way! Save me alike from foolish pride And impious discontent At aught Thy wisdom has denied, Or aught Thy goodness lent. Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me. Mean though I am, not wholly so, Since quickened by Thy breath; 0, lead me, whereso'er I go, Through this day's life or death! On a Certain Lady at Court "^y This day be bread and peace my lot; All else beneath the sun, Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, And let Thy will be done. To Thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar earth, sea, skies, One chorus let all Being raise, • All Nature's incense rise! INSCRIBED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG I AM his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, Sir, — whose dog are you? EPIGRAM You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come; Knock as you please, there's nobody at home. ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT I KNOW a thing that's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend. Not warped by passion, awed by rumor; Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humor And sensible soft melancholy. "Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?" Yes. she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear. 78 Alexander Pope TWO VIEWS OF ADDISON I From the "Epistle to Mr. Addison," 1715 " Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear; Who broke no promise, served no private end, Who gained no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approved, And praised, unenvied, by the muse he loved." II From the "Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot," 1735 Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent and each art to please. And born to write, converse, and live with ease; Should such a man, too fond to rule aloiie, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes. And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, And so obliging that he ne'er obliged; Like Cato, give his little senate laws. And sit attentive to his own applause. While wits and Templars every sentence raise. And wonder with a foolish face of praise. Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? Sally in Our Alley 79 HENRY CAREY i7oo(?), London-London, 1743 A MAIDEN'S IDEAL OF A HUSBAND Genteel in personage, Conduct, and equipage, Noble by heritage, Generous and free: Brave, not romantic; Learned, 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. 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. 8o Henry Carey 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 darlmg 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 darhng 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 betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm dressed 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. Rule, Britannia When Christmas comes about again, O, 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. 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 gaUey; But when my seven long years are out, O, then I'U marry Sally; O, then we'll wed, and then we'U bed — But not, not in our alley! JAMES THOMSON 1700, Scotland-Richmond, 1748 RULE, BRITANNIA From " Alfred " When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall. Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, The dread and envy of them all. 82 Samuel Johnson 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. 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. 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. The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair: Blest Isle! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves. SAMUEL JOHNSON 1709, Staffordshire-London, 1784 IF A MAN WHO TURNIPS CRIES If a man who turnips cries Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he would rather Have a turnip than a father. On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet 83 ON THE DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVET A PRACTISER OF PHYSIC Condemned 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 Levet to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills afifection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind. Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting nature called for aid, And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed The power of art without the show. Li misery's darkest cavern known. His useful care was ever nigh. Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, And lonely want retired to die. No summons, mocked by chill delay. No petty gain disdained by pride; The modest wants of every day. The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walked their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the Eternal Master found The single talent well employed. 84 Thomas Gray The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, gUded 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. THOMAS GRAY 1 716, London-Cambridge, 1771 ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES 'TwAS on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind. The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet and emerald eyes, She saw, and purred applause. Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view Betrayed a golden gleam. Elegy In a Country Churchyard 85 The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous Maid ! with looks intent Again she stretched, again she bent. Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood She mewed to every watery god. Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred: Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard, — A Favorite has no friend! From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived. Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: 86 Thomas Gray Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, • Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Elegy in a Country Churchyard S,y Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Fidl many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood. Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of Hstening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. And read their history in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Thomas Gray Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e~ven these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial stiU erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked. Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic morahst to die. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "Th^re at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Elegy in a Country Churchyard 89 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: "The next, with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:" THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair S cie f we frowned not on his humble birth, A nd Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely seiid: He gave to Misery {all he had) a tear, He gained from Heaven {'twas all he wished) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, There they alike in trembling hope repose. The bosom of his Father and his God. 90 Oliver Goldsmith OLIVER GOLDSMITH 1728, Ireland-London, 1774 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG From " The Vicar of Wakefield " Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short, — It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran, — Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes: The naked every day he clad, — When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be. Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began. The dog, to gain some private ends. Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbors ran. And swore the dog had lost his wits. To bite so good a man. Boadicea: An Ode 91 The wound it seemed bolh sore and sad To every Christian eye: And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied, The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. WILLIAM COWPER 1 73 1, Hertfordshire-Norfolk, 1800 BOADICEA: AN ODE 62 A. D. When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien. Counsel of her country's gods. Sage beneath a 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. 92 William Cowper "Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, — Hark! the Gaul is at her gates. "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. "R.egions 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. "RuflEians! pitiless as proud. Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed. Shame and ruin wait for you!" On the Loss of the "Royal George" ON THE LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE" August 29, 1782 Toll for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the "Royal George," With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done. It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. 93 94 William Covvper Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder. And plough the distant main. "' But Kempenfelt is gone. His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. EPITAPH ON A HARE Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew. Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo; Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Who, nursed with tender care. And to domestic bounds confined. Was still a wild Jack-hare. Though duly from m}^ hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread, And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead. With sand to scour his maw. On twigs of hawthorn he regaled. On pippins' russet peel; And, when his juicy salads failed, Sliced carrot pleased him well. I'hc Diverting Histon- of John Cjilpin 95 A Turkey carpet was his lawn, Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn, And swing his rump around. His frisking was at evening hours, For then he lost his fear; But most before approaching showers, Or when a storm drew near. Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons. And every night at play. I kept him for his humor's sake. For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache, And force me to a smile. But now, beneath this walnut-shade He finds his long, last home, And waits, in snug concealment laid. Till gentler Puss shall come. He, still more aged, feels the shocks From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box. Must soon partake his grave. THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town. 96 William Cowper John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, . "Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No hoHday have seen. "To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton, All in a chaise and pair. ^ "My sister, and my sister's child, Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we." He soon replied, "I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done. "I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go." Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear." John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; O'erjoyed was he to find. That though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. The Diverting History of John Gilpin 97 So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad, The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane. And up he got, in haste to ride. But soon came down again; For saddle-tree scarce reached had he. His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down he came; for loss of time. Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew. Would trouble him much more. 'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came downstairs. "The wine is left behind!" "Good lack!" quoth he— "yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise. In which I bear my trusty sword. When I do exercise." Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved. And keep it safe and sound. 98 William Cowper Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side. To make his balance true. "^hen over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe. His long red cloak, well brushed and neat. He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowl}^ pacing o'er the stones. With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which galled him in his seat. So, "Fair and softly," John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright. He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before. What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; Away went hat and wig: He little dreamt, when he set out. Of running such a rig. The Diverting History of John Gilpin 99 The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side. As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screamed. Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin— who but he? His fame soon spread around; "He carries weight!" "He rides a race!" " 'Tis for a thousand pound!" And still, as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view. How in a trice the turnpike-men Their gates wide open threw. And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low. The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road. Most piteous to be seen. Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been. But still he seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle-necks Still dangUng at his waist. lOO William Cowper Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay; And there he threw the Wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony espied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. "Stop, stop, John Gilpin! — Here's the house!" They all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired;" — Said Gilpin— "So am I." But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there! For whyP^his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware, So like an arrow swift he flew. Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly — ^which brings me to The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin, out of breath, And sore against his will. Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still. The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim. Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him: The Diverting History of John Gilpin loi "What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall — Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?" Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke: "I came because your horse would come, And, if I well forbode. My hat and wig will soon be here,— They are upon the road." The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin. Returned him not a single word But to the house went in; Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear. Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit, "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit. "But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John, "It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare. If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware." I02 William Cowper So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine." Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! "^ For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar. And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first; For why? — they were too big. Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away. She pulled out half-a-crown ; And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well." The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain: Whom in a trice he tried to stop. By catching at his rein; But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. The Diverting History of John Gilpin 103 Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly. With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry: "Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute ; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking, as before, That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, Long live the king! And Gilpin, long live he! And when he next doth ride abroad May I be there to see! I04 Thomas Holcroft THOMAS HOLCROFT 1745, London-London, 1809 GAFFER GRAY "Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray, And why doth thy nose look so blue?" " "lis the weather that's cold, 'Tis I'm grown very old, And my doublet is not very new% Well-a-day!" "Then line that warm doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray, And warm thy old heart with a glass." "Nay, but credit I've none, And my money's all gone; Then say how may that come to pass? WeU-a-day!" "Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray, And knock at the jolly priest's door." "The priest often preaches Against worldly riches, But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, Well-a-day!" "The lawyer lives under the hill. Gaffer Gray, Warmly fenced both in back and in front." "He will fasten his locks. And will threaten the stocks. Should he evermore find me in want. Well-a-dav!" Tom Bowling 105 "The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray, And the season will welcome you there." "His fat beeves and his beer, And his merry new year, Are all for the flush and the fair, Well-a-day!" "My keg is but low, I confess. Gaffer Gray, What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live." "The poor man alone, When he hears the poor moan. Of his morsel a morsel will give, Well-a-day." CHARLES DIBDIN 1745, Southampton-London, 1814 TOM BOWLING Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howhng. For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty. His heart was kind and soft; Faithful, below, he did his duty; But now he's gone aloft. Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: io6 Charles Dibdin And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly, Ah, many 's the time and oft ! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather. When He, who all commands. Shall give, to call Life's crew together. The word to "pipe all hands." Thus Death, who Kings and Tars despatches. In vain Tom's life has doffed; For, though his body's under hatches. His soul is gone aloft. THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION One night came on a hurricane, The sea was mountains rolling, When Barney Buntline turned his quid, And said to BUly Bowling. "A strong nor'wester's blowing, Bill; Hark! don't ye hear it roar, now? Lord help 'em, how I pities them Unhapp}' folks on shore now! " Foolhardy chaps who live in towns. What danger they are all in. And now lie quaking in their beds, For fear the roof should fall in ; Poor creatures! how they envies us, And wishes, I've a notion, For our good luck, in such a storm. To be upon the ocean ! "And as for them who're out all day On business from their houses. And late at night are coming home, To cheer their babes and spouses, — The Lamb 107 While you and I, Bill, on the deck Are comfortably lying, My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots About their heads are flying! "And very often have we heard How men are killed and undone By overturns of carriages, By thieves, and fires in London; We know what risks all landsmen run, From noblemen to tailors; Then, Bill, let us thank Providence That you and I are sailors. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 1751, Dublin-London, 1816 "I WOULD," SAYS FOX, "A TAX DEVISE" "I WOULD," says Fox, "a tax devise That shall not fall on me." "Then tax receipts," Lord North replies, "For those you never see." WILLIAM BLAKE 1757, London-London, 1827 THE LAMB From " Songs of Innocence " Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; io8 William Blake 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. THE TIGER From " Songs of Experience " Tiger! Tiger! burning bright. In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art. Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat. What dread hand and what dread feet? A Red, Red Rose 109 What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the Lamb, make thee? Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? ROBERT BURNS 1759, AUoway-Dumfries, 1796 A RED, RED ROSE O, MY luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tunc. As fair thou art, 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; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. no Robert Burns And fare-thee-weel, my only luve! And fare-thee-weel a while! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile. JEAN Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly lo'e the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There's wild woods grow, and rivers row. And monie 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. BONNIE BOON Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Boon, How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care! Thou'U break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true. John Anderson 1 1 1 Thou '11 break my heart, Ihou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sac I sang, And wist na o' my fate. Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love; And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me. JOHN ANDERSON 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 bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither. And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. 112 Robert Burns MARY MORISON Mary, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, "■That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stour 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 sighed, and said amang them a', "Ye arena Mary Morison." 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 wiltna gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. HIGHLAND MARY Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. Your waters never drumhc! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. To a Mouse 113 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel's wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as Ught and Ufe Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But, O! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipped my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And moldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still mthin my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. TO A MOUSE ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa' sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! 114 Robert Burns I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, ^ An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast. An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, — Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed Out through thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald. To thole the winter's sleety dribble. An' cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: For a' That and a' That 115 The best-laid schemes 0' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us naught but grief an' pain, For promised joy ! Still thou are blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! An' forward, though I canna see. I guess an' fear! FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT Is there, for honest Poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that! The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Our toil obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The Man's the gowd for a' that. What though on hamely fare we dine. Wear hodden gra>s and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A Man's a Man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor. Is king o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that; Ii6 Robert Burns For a' that, and a' that, His ribbon, star, and a' that; The man o' independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that. "A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith, he maunna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that. The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may,^ As come it wiU for a' that, — That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth. May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that. It's coming yet, for a' that, — That Man to Man, the warld o'er. Shall brothers be for a' that! 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; A-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 covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Auld Lang Syne 117 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, A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, — My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. AULD LANG SYNE I Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne? And surely you'll be your pint-stoup, And surely I'll be mine, And we'U tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. Ill We twa hae run about the braes, And pou'd the gowans fine, But we've wandered monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne. IV We twa hae paidl'd in the burn Frae morning sun till dine, But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne. Ii8 Robert Burns And there's a hand, my trusty fiere And gie's a hand o' thine, And we'll tak a right guid-wiUie waught For auld lang syne! CHORUS For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne! MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie! Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree. O what is death but parting breath? On many a bloody plain I've dared his face; and in this place I scorn him yet again ! Untie these bands from off my hands. And bring to me my sword, And there's no man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a word. I've lived a life of sturt and strife; I die by treacherie; It burns my heart I must depart And not avenged be. Bruce to His Army 119 Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dare not die. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring, and danced it round. Below the gallows-tree. BRUCE TO HIS ARMY AT BANNOCKBURN Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has often led; Welcome to your gory bed. Or to victory! Now's the day, and now's the hour, See the front of battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power, Chains and slavery! 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 follow me! By oppression's woes and pains By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! I20 Lady Carolina Nairne Lay the proud usurper low! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow, Let us do, or die! LADY CAROLINA NAIRNE 1766, Perthshire-Perthshire, 1845 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN The Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great; His mind is ta'en up wi' things o' the State; He wanted a wife, his braw house to keep; But favor wi' wooin' was fashous to seek. Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell. At his table-head he thought she'd look well, — M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee. A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was well-pouthered, as guid as when new. His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat, — And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that! He took the gray mare, and rade cannily, And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee; "Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, — She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen." Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine. "And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?" She put aff her apron, and on her silk goun, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' doun. The Boy and the Wolf 121 And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low; And what was his errand he soon let her know. Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, "Na," And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. Dumfoundered he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e; He mounted his mare, and rade cannily; And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, "She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen!" JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE 1769, London-Malta, 1846 THE BOY AND THE WOLF A LITTLE Boy w^as set to keep A httle flock of goats or sheep; He thought the task too sohtary. And took a strange perverse vagary : To call the people out of fun. To see them leave their work and run, He cried and screamed with all his might, — "Wolf! wolf!" in a pretended fright. Some people, working at a distance, Came running in to his assistance. They searched the fields and bushes round. The Wolf was nowhere to be found. The Boy, delighted with his game, A few days after did the same, And once again the people came. The trick was many times repeated, At last they found that they were cheated. One day the Wolf appeared in sight. The Boy was in a real fright, He cried, "Wolf! wolf!" — the neighbors heard, But not a single creature stirred. 122 William Wordsworth "We need not go from our employ, — 'Tis nothing bvit that idle boy." The little Boy cried out again, "Help, help! the Wolf!" he cried in vain. . . At last his master came to beat him. Ke came too late, the Wolf had eat him. This shows the bad effect of lying, And hkewise of continual crying. If I had heard you scream and roar, For nothing, twenty times before, Although you might have broke your arm, Or met with any serious harm, Your cries could give me no alarm; They would not make me move the faster. Nor apprehend the least disaster; I should be sorry when I came, But you yourself would be to blame. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1770, Cumberland- Westmoreland, 1850 THE SOLITARY REAPER Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain. And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands She Was a Phantom of Delight 123 Of travellers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay, Famihar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending; — I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May- time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 124 William Wordsworth I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions hght and free, And steps of virgin hberty; 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 v/ill. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light. SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love : A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh. The difference to me! Written in March 125 A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. WRITTEN IN MARCH The Cock is crowing. The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter. The lake doth ghtter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing. Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! 126 William Wordsworth THE INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe! Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought, And givest to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion, not in vain, By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul; Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, But with high objects, with enduring things. With life and nature — purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying by such discipline Both pain and fear, — until we recognise A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days. When vapours rolling down the valleys made A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights. When, by the margin of the trembling lake. Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went In solitude, such intercourse was mine: 'Twas mine among the fields both day and night, And by the waters, all the summer long. And in the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and, visible for many a mile. The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, I heeded not the summons: — happy time It was indeed for all of us; for me It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The Influence of Natural Objects 127 The village clock tolled six — I wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untried horse That cares not for his home. All shod with steel We hissed along the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle: with the din Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills Into the tumult sent an ahcn sound Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars. Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideways, leaving the tumultuous throng. To cut across the reflex of a star; Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes. When we had given our bodies to the wind. And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels. Stopped short; yet still the solitary clifTs Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train. Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 128 William Wordsworth I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, "When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company: I gazed — and gazed — but httle thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. TO A SKYLARK Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? The Happy Warrior 129 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still! To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler! — that love-prompted strain — 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine. Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine: Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! THE HAPPY WARRIOR Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? — It is the generous Spirit, who when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought; Whose high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright; Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower; 130 William Wordsworth Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives; By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; Is plagable — because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice ; More skilful in self-knowledge; even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. — 'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends ; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest. He fixes good on good alone, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows; — Who, if he rise to station of command. Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire. And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait Por wealth, or honours, or for w^orldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if the}^ come at all; Whose poAvers shed round him in the common strife. Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; The Happy Warrior 131 And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need; — He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence. Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity. It is his darhng passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love: — 'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won; Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last. From well to better, daily self -surpassed ; Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame. And leave a dead unprofitable name — Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause; This is the happy Warrior; this is he That every Man in arms should wish to be. 132 William Wordsworth FIVE SONNETS Composed. liPON Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 Earth has not any thing to show more fair; Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty; This city now doth Uke a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky. All bright and gUttering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep; The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still ! Milton! Thou Shouldst be Living at this Hour Milton! thou shouldst be Uving 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 lowhest duties on herself did lay. Five Sonnets 133 Thought of a Briton * On the Subjugation of Switzerland, 1802 Two Voices are there, one is of the Sea, One of the Mountains, each a mighty Voice; In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. They were thy chosen music. Liberty! There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou foughtest against him, — but hast vainly striven; Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven Where not a torrent murmur's heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. And neither awful Voice be heard by thee! A Flock of Sheep that Leisurely Pass by A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees, And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth. So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 134 Sydney Smith The World is too Much with us; Late anb Soon 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; 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. SYDNEY SMITH 1 77 1, Essex-London, 1S45 A SALAD To make this condiment, your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half-suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon. Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt; Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca drown. And twice with vinegar procured from town ; And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss A magic soupcon of anchovy sauce. Lochinvar 135 Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat : Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl! Serenely full, the epicure would say, Fate cannot harm mc, I have dined to-day. SIR WALTER SCOTT 1771, Edinbiirgh-Abbotsford, 1832 LOCHIN\AR From " Marmion " O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped 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 Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 136 Walter Scott "I long wooed 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 lovely by far. That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — ■ "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. 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 bride-maidens whispered, '"Twere better by far, To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar. " One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Rosabelle 137 PROUD MAISIE From " The Heart of Midlothian " Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. " Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" "When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye." "Who makes the bridal bed. Birdie, say truly?" "The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. "The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady!" ROSABELLE From " The Lay of the Last Minstrel " O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay. That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. "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. 138 Walter Scott "The blackening wave is edged with white; To inch and rock the sea-mews fly: The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. "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 filled by Rosabelle." O'er Roshn all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the 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 caverned Hawthornden. Seemed all on fire that chapel proud Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined He, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seemed all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmered all the dead men's mail. Breathes There a Man with Soul so Dead 139 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 arc twenty of Roshn'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 lovely Rosabelle ! BREATHES THERE A MAN WITH SOUL SO DEAD From " The Lay of the Last Minstrel " Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned. From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name. Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, . The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown. And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung. Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. 140 Samuel Taylor Coleridge BORDER BALLAD From " The Monastery " MarcIi, 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 the hirsels are grazing; Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 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, then, and march in good order. England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 1772, Devonshire-London, 1834 AN EPIGRAM What is an epigram? a dwarfish whole, Its body brevity, and wit its soul. Work without Hope 141 METRICAL FEET LESSON FOR A BOY Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill able Ever to come up with dactyl trisyllable. Iambics march from short to long; — With a leap and a bound the swift Anapaests throng; One syllable long, with one short at each side. Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride; — First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud highbred racer. WORK WITHOUT HOPE All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair — The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — • And Winter, slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I. the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow. Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide rich streams away! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll; And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live. 142 Samuel Taylor Coleridge KUBLA KHAN In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Throutgh caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round : And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But O! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. As if this Earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced. Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. The Cataract of Lodore 143 It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there. And all should cry. Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice. And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. ROBERT SOUTHEY 1774, Bristol-Keswick, 1843 THE CATARACT OF LODORE "How does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon, at the word, There first came one daughter. And then came another. To second and third 144 Robert Southey The request of their brother, And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, ■ "-"v As many a time They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store; And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing; Because I was Laureate To them and the King. From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing. Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds. Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry. Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, The Cataract of Lodore 145 Till, in tliis rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war raging Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping. Sinking and creeping. Swelling and sweeping. Showering and springing. Flying and fhnging, Writhing and ringing. Eddying and whisking. Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting. Around and around With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting. Receding and speeding. And shocking and rocking. And darting and parting. And threading and spreading. And whizzing and hissing. And dripping and skipping, And hitting and sphtting, And shining and twining. And rattUng and batthng, And shaking and quaking, 146 Robert Southey And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, ■-V. And running and stunning. And foaming and roaming. And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking. And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying. And thundering and floundering; Dividing and gUding and sliding. And falling and brawling and sprawling. And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling. And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling. And clattering and battering and shattering; Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying. Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing. Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling. And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing. And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping. And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, My Days among the Dead Are Passed 147 And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, — And this way the water comes down at Lodore. MY DAYS AMONG THE DEAD ARE PASSED My days among the Dead are passed, Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast. The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe. My cheeks have often been bedewed With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead; with them I live in long-past years. Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears; And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the Dead; anon My place with them will be. And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I tnist. That will not perish in the dust. 148 Walter Savage Landor JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE 177s, Seville-Liverpool, 1841 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? 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 widened on man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind! Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife?— If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life? WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 177S1 Warwick-Florence, 1864 SHAKSPERE AND MILTON The tongue of England, that which myriads Have spoken and will speak, were paralyzed Hereafter, but two mighty men stand forth Above the flight of ages, two alone; One crying out, All nations spoke through me. The other: True; and through this trumpet burst God's word; the fall of Angels, aiid the doom First of immortal, then of mortal Man. Glory! be glory! not to me, to God! i Robert Browning 149 MACAULAY The dreamy rhymer's measur'd snore Falls heavy on our cars no more; And by long strides are left behind The dear delights of womankind Who win their battles like their loves, In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, And have achiev'd the crowning work When they have truss'd and skewer'd a Turk. Another comes with stouter tread. And stalks among the statelier dead. He rushes on, and hails by turns High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns, And shows the British youth, who ne'er Will lag behind, what Romans were, When all the Tuscans and their Lars Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. ROBERT BROWNING There is deUght in singing, though none hear Beside the singer; and there is delight In praising, though the praiser sit alone And see the prais'd far off him, far above. Shakspere is not our poet, but the world's; Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was ahve and hale. No man hath walk'd along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse. But warmer climes Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 150 Thomas Campbell THOMAS CAMPBELL 1777, Glasgow-Boulogne, 1844 *YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND Ye Mariners of England That guard our native seas! 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; While 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, etc. Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; 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; While the battle, etc. Hohenlindcn 151 The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! 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. HOHENLINDEN On Linden, when the sun was low. All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, roUing 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 stained snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, roUing rapidly. 152 Thomas Moore 'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. Tlie 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 ShaU be a soldier's sepulchre. THOMAS MOORE 1779, Dublin-London, 1852 BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING 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 stiU be adored, as this moment 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 unprofaned by a tear. That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known. To which time will but make thee more dear! The Light of Other Days 153 No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns to her god when he sets The same look which she turned when he rose! THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS 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. There Freedom now so seldom wakes. The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me. The smUes, the tears Of boyhood's years. The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone The cheerful hearts now broken! 154 Thomas Moore 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. '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 rose-bud 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. Contented John 155 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 withered. And fond ones are flown, O who would inhabit This bleak world alone? JANE TAYLOR 1783, London-Essex, 1824 CONTENTED JOHN One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher, Although he was poor, did not want to be richer; For all such vain wishes in him were prevented By a fortunate habit of being contented. Though cold were the weather, or dear were the food, John never was found in a murmuring mood ; For this he was constantly heard to declare,— What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear. "For why should I grumble and murmur?" he said; "If I cannot get meat, I'll be thankful for bread; And, though fretting may make my calamities deeper. It can never cause bread and cheese to be cheaper." If John was afflicted with sickness or pain. He wished himself better, but did not complain, 156 Allan Cunningham Nor lie down to fret in. despondence and sorrow, But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow. If any one wronged him or treated him ill, Why, Jghn was good-natured and sociable still ; For he said that revenging the injury done Would be making two rogues when there need be but one. And thus honest John, though his station was hvmible. Passed through this sad world without even a grumble; And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer, Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 1784, Dumfriesshire-London, 1842 A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that foUows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast ; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. O for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free— The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. The Glove and the Lions 157 There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free; While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. LEIGH HUNT 1784, Middlesex-Surrey, 1859 THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport. And one day, as his lions fought , sat looking on the court. The nobles fihed the benches, and the ladies in their pride. And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows Uke beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one an- other, 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, gentlemen, 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 seemed the same; 158 Leigh Hunt 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 occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine." She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained 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." SNEEZING What a moment, what a doubt! All my nose is inside out, — All my thrilling, tickling caustic. Pyramid rhinocerostic, Wants to sneeze aijd cannot do it! How it yearns me, thrills me, stings me, How with rapturous torment wrings me! Now says, "Sneeze, you fool, — get through it." Shee — shee — oh! 'tis most del-ishi — Ishi — ishi — most del-ishi ! (Hang it, I shall sneeze till spring!) SnufJ is a delicious thing. ABOU BEN ADHEM Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room. Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom. To the Grasshopper and the Cricket 159 An angel writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" — The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then. Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed. And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. JENNY KISSED ME Jenny kissed 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 missed me. Say I'm growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me. TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET Green little vaulter in the .sunny grass. Catching your heart up at the feel of June; Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; i6o Barry Cornwall O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong One to the fields, the other to the hearth. Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth To sing in thoughtful ears their natural song — In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth. BARRY CORNWALL (BRYAN WALLER PROCTER) 1787, London-London, 1874 THE BLOOD HORSE Gamarra is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within. His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes hke embers glowing In the darkness of the night. And his pace as swift as light. Look, — how 'round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float! Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins; Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire, Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself! \ The Destruction of Sennacherib i6i He, who hath no peer, was bom, Here, upon a red March morn; But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine! And yet, — he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun, By some lone fountain fringed with green: With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day). And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands. GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON 1788, London-Missolonghi, Greece, 1824 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 710 B. C. 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 hke stars on the sea. When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer 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 withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chiU, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! i62 George Gordon Byron And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled 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! THE EVE OF WATERLOO From " Childe Harold " June i8, 1815 There was a sound of revelry by night. And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. And all went merry as a marriage bell; — But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes hke a rising knell! Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet The Eve of Waterloo 163 To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! Within a windowed niche of that high wall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That soimd the first amidst the festival. And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier. And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. And cheeks aU pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb. Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe! they come! they come!" 164 George Gordon Byron THE OCEAN From " Childe Harold " There isr-a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel. What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin, — his control Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain. The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost aU despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay. And dashest him again to earth; — there let him lay. The armaments which thunder-strike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 4 The Ocean 165 The oak leviathans^ whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thcc, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters washed them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: — not so thou, Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves play, — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow, — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time. Calm or convidsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime. Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless and sublime — The image of Eternity— the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, Uke thy bubbles, onward; from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee. And trusted to thy billows, far and near. And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here. 1 66 George Gordon Byron SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; Aad all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent ! ON 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; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned, To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. Their country conquers with their martyrdom. And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. ChillonI thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod. The Burial of Sir John Moore 167 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. CHARLES WOLFE 1791, Kildare-Cork, 1823 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AFTER CORUNNA January 16, 1809 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 Hght And the lanthorn 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 hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow. That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! i68 Percy Bysshe Shelley Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's 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. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 1792, Sussex-Spezia, Italy, 1822 TO A SKYLARK Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert. That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher. From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun. O'er which clouds are bright'ning. Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. To a Skj^lark 169 The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-bom maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 170 Percy Bysshe Shelley Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves. By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves: Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers. All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird. What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt. Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt — A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. Wha t objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? To a Skylark 171 With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after. And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, '. Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know. Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow. The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 172 Percy Bysshe Shelley THE CLOUD I BRi]^ fresh showers for the thirsting flowers From the seas and the streams; I bear hght shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. 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 skiey bowers Lightning my pUot sits; In a cavern under is fettered 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. i I The Cloud I73 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 orbed 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, Tfll 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 unfurl. 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. 1/4 Percy Bysshe Shelley The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, lire, and snow. When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow; The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. While the moist Earth was laughing below. 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. ARETHUSA Arethusa 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, Arethusa 17^ In murmurs as soft as sleep; The Earth seemed to love her, And Heaven smiled above her, As she lingered towards the deep. Then Alpheus bold, On his glacier cold, With his trident the mountains strook, And opened a chasm In the rocks;— with the spasm All Erymanthus shook. And the black south wind It concealed 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 followed 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 stirred, And divided at her prayer; And under the water The Earth's white daughter Fled Kke a sunny beam; Behind her descended Her billows, unblended With the brackish Dorian stream. 176 Percy Bysshe Shelley Like a gloomy stain On the emerald main, Alpheus rushed 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 pearled 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 colored light; And under the caves Where the shadowy waves Are as green as the forest's night: Outspeeding the shark, And the swordfish dark, — Under the ocean foam, And up through the rifts Of the mountain clifts, — They passed to their Dorian home. And now from their fountains In Enna's mountains, Down one vale where the morning basks, 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 noon tide they flow Through the woods below Music, When Soft Voices Die 177 And the meadows of asphodel; And at night they sleep In the rocking deep Beneath the Ortygian shore; — Like the spirits that lie In the azure sky, When they love but live no more. OZYMANDIAS I MET a traveler from an antique land Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed ; And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare. The lone and level sands stretch far away. 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 heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone. Love itself shall slumber on. 178 Percy Bysshe Shelley ODE TO THE WEST WIND O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn'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 azuie 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, O hear! 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 Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height. The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Ode to the West Wind 179 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: hear! ni Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams. Beside a pumice isle in Baiae'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 with fear. And tremble and despoil themselves: O 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 l8o Percy Bysshe Shelley The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision — I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. O! hft me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee — tameless, and swiit, and proud. 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 withered leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to una wakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? Casablanca i8i FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS 1793, Liverpool-Dublin, 1835 CASABIANCA Battle of the Nile, August, 1798 The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him 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 rolled on; he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud, "Say, father, say. If yet my task be 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 roUed on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair; i82 John Keats 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 wrapped the ship in splendor wild. They caught the flag on high, And streamed 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 strewed the sea, — With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part, — But the noblest thing that perished there. Was that young, faithful heart. JOHN KEATS 1795, London-Rome, 1821 LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN Souls of Poets dead and gone. What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison? O generous food! Dressed as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his Maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can. On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 183 I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away Nobody knew whither, till An Astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story, — Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new-old Sign Sipping beverage divine, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac! Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known — Happy field or mossy cavern- Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer nded as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or Hke stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 184 John Keats ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooUng trees, a voice wiU run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead: That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead In summer luxury, — he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost. The Grasshopper's among the grassy hills. ODE ON A GRECIAN URN Thou still unravished bride of quietness. Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both. In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tune : Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; I Ode on a Grecian Urn 185 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bUss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoyed. For ever panting and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? What little town by river or sea-shore. Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste. Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 1 86 William Motherwell HARTLEY COLERIDGE 1796, Somerset- Westmoreland, 1849 SHE IS "NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW 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 spring 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. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL 1797, Glasgow- Glasgow, 1835 THE CAVALIER'S SONG A STEED, a steed of matchless speed! A sword of metal keen! All else to noble hearts is dross, AU else on earth is mean. The neighing of the war-horse proud, The rolling of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet loud, Be sounds from heaven that come; And oh! the thundering press of knights, Whenas their war-cries swell, May tole from heaven an angel bright, And rouse a fiend from hell. Rory O'More 187 Then mount! then mount, brave gallants all, And don your helms amain ; Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, call Us to the field again. No shrewish fears shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand — Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sigh For the fairest of the land! Let piping swain, and craven wight Thus weep and puling cry; Our business is like man to fight, And hero-like to die! SAMUEL LOVER 1797, Dublin- Jersey, 1868 RORY O'MORE Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn, He was bold as a hawk, — she as soft as the dawn; He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. "Now, Rory, be ais}'," 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 plazed 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! " 1 88 Samuel Lover "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!" "Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthraries, my dear; So, jewel, keep framing that same till you die, And bright mornin' will give dirty night the black lie! And 'tis plazed 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 thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Dufif; And I've made myself, drinkin' your health, quite a baste. So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck. So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, And he kissed 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 kissed me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure. For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. THE LOW-BACKED CAR When first I saw sweet Peggy, 'Twas on a market day, A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay; But when that hay was blooming grass And decked with flowers of Spring, No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. A3 she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toU, But just rubbed his ould poll, And looked after the low-backed car. ) The Low-Backed Car 189 In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars, With hostile scythes, demands his tithes Of death — in warlike cars; While Pegg)^ peaceful goddess. Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down in the market town. As right and left they fly; While she sits in her low-backed car. Than battle more dangerous far, — For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-backed 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 hke a turtle-dove. Well worth the cage, I do engage. Of the blooming god of Love! While she sits in her low-backed car. The lovers come near and far. And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin', As she sits in her low-backed car. O, 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, — 190 Thomas Hood While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Mahar, O, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, — Though it beat in a low-backed car! THOMAS HOOD 1799, London-London, 1845 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away. I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups — Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built. And where my brother set The laburnum on his 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, The summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. Ruth 191 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. RUTH She stood breast high among the corn, Clasped by the golden light of mom, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripened; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled 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, Heaven did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; Lay thy sheaf adown and come. Share my harvest and my home. 192 Thomas Hood NO! No sun — no moon ! No mom^--no noon — No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day — No sky — no earthly view — No distance looking blue — • No road — no street — no "t'other side the way" No end to any Row — No indications where the Crescents go— No top to any steeple — No recognitions of familiar people — No courtesies for showing 'em — No knowing 'em! No travelling at all — no locomotion, No inkling of the way — no notion — "No go"— by land or ocean — No mail — no post — No news from any foreign coast — No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility — No company — no nobility — No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease. No comfortable feel in any member — No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November! TO MINERVA FROM THE GREEK My temples throb, my pulses boil, I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad- So, Thyrsis, take the Midnight Oil, And pour it on a lobster salad. Annie Laurie 193 My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read, — Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead. ELIZABETH TURNER — ? England- England, 1846 POLITENESS Good little boys should never say "I will," and "Give me these"; 0,.no! that never is the way, But " Mother, if you please." And "If you please," to Sister Ann Good boys to say are ready; And, "Yes, sir," to a Gentleman, And, "Yes, ma'am," to a Lady. WILLIAM DOUGLAS Dates and home unknown 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 promise true. Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee. 194 Thomas Babington Macaulay Her brow is like the snaw-drif t ; 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 doun and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; And like 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 doun and dee. THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY 1800, Leicestershire-London, 1859 IVRY March 14, 1590 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 corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, 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 turned the chance of war. Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. 4 Ivry 195 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 Appenzcl's stout infantry, and Egmont'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 looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, 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 Henrj' of Navarre. The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed ; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled 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 where 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. 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 gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden hlies, — upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, Uke a guiding star. Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 196 Thomas Babington Macaulay Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned 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 helped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, "Remember Saint Bartholomew!" was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman 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? Right 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! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; The Pillar of the Cloud 197 For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked 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! JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN 1801, London-Liverpool, 1890 THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on ! The night is dark, and I am far from home — Lead Thou me on! Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene, — one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouidst lead me on. I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on! I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears. Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. So long Thy power hath blessed me. sure it still Will lead me on, O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 198 Elizabeth Barrett Browning ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 1809, Durham-Florence, 1861 -^ THREE SONNETS I Thought How Once THEOciaxus Had Sung I THOUGHT how once Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-for years. Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mus'd it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years. Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware. So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,— "Guess now who holds thee!" — "Death," I said. But, there. The silver answer rang — "Not Death, but Love." If Thou Must Love Me, Let it be for Naught 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! A Court Lady 199 But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity. How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways 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. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. 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 childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed 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. 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. 200 Elizabeth Barrett Browning "Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves, Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves." Gorgeous she "entered the sunlight which gathered 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 passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed: Bloody the band on his brow, and hvid the droop of his head. "Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou," she cried. And smiled like Italy on him: he dreamed 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 reckoned. Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer. "Art thou a Romagnole?" Her eyes drove lightnings before her. "Austrian and priest had joined 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." Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's, Young, and pathetic with dying, — a deep black hole in the curls. A Court Lady 20i "Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain, Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the hst of the slain? " Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands: "Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands." On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: Kneeling, — "O more than my brother! 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 dispossessed: But blessed are those among nations, who dare to be strong for the rest!" Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind. Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name, But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came. Only a tear for Venice? — she turned as in passion and loss. And stooped to his forehead and kissed 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! sweetest to live or to die on." 202 Alfred Tennyson 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 Ejedmontese! and this is the Court of the King." ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 1809, Lincolnshire-Surrey, 1892 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. O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! 0, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on, To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break. At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. The Charge of the Light Brigade 203 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE BALACLAVA, OCTOBER 25, 1852 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 Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the vaUey of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly thej^ rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered: 204 Alfred Tennyson Plunged in the battery-smoke Right through the line they broke ; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre-stroke, Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not. Not the six himdred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed 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 them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made ! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! THE SPLENDOR FALLS ON CASTLE WALLS From " The Princess" The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes. And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead 205 O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD From " The Princess " Home they brought her warrior dead ; She nor swooned, nor uttered 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 stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years. Set his child upon her knee, — Like summer tempest came her tears, "Sweet my child, I live for thee." 2o6 Alfred Tennyson SIR GALAHAD My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The sphntered spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists. And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine : I never felt the kiss of love. Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair through faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns : Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Sir Galahad 207 Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board; no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the Holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides. And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Through dreaming towns I go. The cock crows ere the Christmas morn. The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads. And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight — to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease. Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 2o8 Alfred Tennyson Pure lilies of eternal peace. Whose odors haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armor that I wear, This.weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky. And through the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod. Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-armed I ride, whate'er betide. Until I find the Holy Grail. ULYSSES 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, That 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 enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vexed 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, governments. Ulysses 209 Myself not least, but honored 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 wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though 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 sinking 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 through 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 toiled, and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a froUc 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, 2IO Alfred Tennyson Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. The Hghts begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans roynd 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. Though much is taken, much abides; and though 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. THE EAGLE He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands. Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. THE HIGHER PANTHEISM The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains, Are not these, Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? Is not the Vision He, though He be not that which He seems? Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? The Brook's Song 211 Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and hmb, Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him? Dark is the world to thee: thyself art the reason why; For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I"? Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom, Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendor and gloom. Speak to Him. thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet — Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. God is law, say the wise; O Soul, and let us rejoice, For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. Law is God, say some: no God at all, says the fool, For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool; And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see; But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it not He? FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower— but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. THE BROOK'S SONG From " 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. 212 Alfred Tennyson By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a Httle 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 Uttle 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 grayhng, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery water-break 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. A Tribute to His Mother 213 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 shp, 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. A TRIBUTE TO HIS MOTHER From " The Princess " "Alone," I said, "from earlier than I know. Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, I loved the woman: he that doth not, Uves A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, Or pines in sad experience worse than death. Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with crime. Yet there was one through whom I loved her, one Not learned save in gracious household ways, Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, No Angel, but a dearer being all dipt In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, Interpreter between the gods and men, Who looked all native to her place, and yet 214 Alfred Tennyson On tiptoe seemed to touch upon a sphere Too gross to tread ; and all male minds perforce Swayed to her from their orbits as they moved, And girdled her with Music. Happy he With such a mother! Faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and, tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay." RING OUT, WILD BELLS From " In Memoriam " Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new; Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor. Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause And ancient forms of party strife ; Ring in the nobler modes of life. With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out false pride in place and blood. The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Crossing the Bar 215 Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free. The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. CROSSING THE BAR Sunset and evening star. And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam. When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell. And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; 7 For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar 2i6 William Makepeace Thackeray WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 1811, Calcutta-London, 1863 "V LITTLE BILLEE There were three sailors of Bristol city Who took a boat and went to sea. But first with beef and captain's biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she. There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they got as far as the Equator They'd nothing left but one split pea. Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, "We've nothing left, us must eat we." Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "With one another we shouldn't agree! There's little Bill, he's young and tender, We're old and tough, so let's eat he." "Oh, Billy, we're going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie." When Bill received this information He used his pocket handkerchie. " First let me say my catechism. Which my poor mammy taught to me." "Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast. And down he fell on his bended knee. Sorrows of Werther 217 He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment When up he jumps. "There's land I see: "Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee: There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee: But as for little Bill, he made him The Captain of a Seventy-three. SORROWS OF WERTHER Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady. And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled. And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter. Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter. 2i8 William Makepeace Thackeray AT THE CHURCH GATE From " Pendennis " , 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 hushed 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! Kneel undisturbed, 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 Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait. And see, through heaven's gate, Angels within it. The End of the Play 219 THE END OF THE PLAY The play is done; the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell: A moment yet the actor stops, . And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay. One word, ere yet the evening ends; Let's close it with a parting rhyme; And pledge a hand to all young friends. As fits the merry Christmas-time. On Life's wide scene you, too, have parts. That Fate ere long shall bid you play; Good-night ! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway! Good-night — I'd say, the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page. The triumphs and defeats of boys. Are but repeated in our age. I'd say, your woes were not less keen. Your hopes more vain, than those of men ; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again. I'd say, we suffer and we strive, Not less nor more as men than boys; With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys. And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth May never wholly pass away. 220 William Makepeace Thackeray And in the world, as in the school, I'd say, how fate may change and shift; The prize be sometimes with the fool. The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield, the good may fall. The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all. The kind cast pitilessly down. Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessed be He who took and gave! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to Heaven that willed it so. That darkly rules the fate of all. That sends the respite or the blow. That's free to give, or to recall. This crowns his feast with wine and wit: Who brought him to that mirth and state? His betters, see, below him sit. Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus? Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely kiUed; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, And longing passion unfulfilled. Anien! whatever fate be sent. Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow. Incident of the French Camp 221 Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with an honest heart, Who misses, or who wins the prize. Go, lose or conquer as you can; But if you fail, or if you rise. Be each, pray God, a gentleman. A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays) ; The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days: The shepherds heard it overhead — The joyful angels raised it then: Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men! My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside. And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still — Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will. ROBERT BROWNING 18 1 2, London-Venice, 1889 INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; 222 Robert Browning With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. II Just as perhaps he mused "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall," — Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. ni Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy ; You hardly could suspect — (So tight he kept his lips compressed. Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. IV "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The Marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him! " The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. How They Brought the Good News 223 The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire! " And his chief beside Smiling the boy fell dead. HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. n Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. Ill 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; 224 Robert Browning And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" IV At Aershot,\ip leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past. And I saw my stout galloper Roland 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 ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence, — ever 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 lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. VII So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath"our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" Herve Riel 225 vni " How they'll greet us! " — and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could 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 buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is — friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. HERVE RIEL May 31, 1692 I On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the Enghsh fight the French, — woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue. Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Ranee, With the Enghsh fleet in view. 226 Robert Browning II 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville ; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-fwo good ships in all; And they signalled to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" Ill Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board ; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored. Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve-and-eighty guns, Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way. Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs. Not a ship will leave the bay!" IV Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech). Herve Riel 227 "Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. " Give the word ! " But no such word Was ever spoke or heard ; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these ^A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate — first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. VI And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay. Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues ! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this Formidable clear, Make the others follow mine, 228 Robert Browning And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, — — KeelsQ much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life, — here's my head!" cries Herve Riel. vn Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound. Clears the entry like a hound. Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide seas pro- found ! See, safe through shoal and rock. How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground. Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past. All are harbored to the last. And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor!" — sure as fate. Up the English come, — too late! VIII So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. Herve Riel 229 "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the EngUsh rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Sohdor pleasant riding on the Ranee!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Herve Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfre- ville." Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke. As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 230 Robert Browning " Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, x\nd from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run? — Since 'tis ask and have, I may — Since the otTiers go ashore — Come! A good whole hoHday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore! " That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost : Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps aHve the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack. In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore ! PHEIDIPPIDES Xaipere, viKufxev First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all! Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise — Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and spear! Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer. Pheidippides 231 Now, henceforth and forever, — O Latest to whom I upraise Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock! Present to help, potent to save. Pan — patron I call! Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return! See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks! Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, "Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed, Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through, Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did I burn Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come! Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth; Razed to the ground is Eretria — but Athens, shall Athens sink. Drop into dust and die — the flower of Hellas utterly die, Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the standcr-by? Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's brink? How, — when? No care for my limbs! — there's lightning in all and some — Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth! " O my Athens — Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond? Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, Malice, — each ej'e of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate! Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood Quivering, — the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood: 232 Robert Brov/ning "Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye must'!" No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at last! "Has Persia come, — does Athens ask aid, — may Sparta be- friend? Nowise precipitate judgment — too weighty the issue at stake! Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the gods! Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the odds In your favor, so long as the moon, half -orbed, is unable to take Full-circle her state in the sky ! ' Already she rounds to it fast : Athens must wait, patient as we — ^who judgment suspend." Athens, — except for that sparkle, — thy name, I had mouldered to ash! That sent a blaze through my blood; off, off and away was I back, — Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile! Yet "O gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain, Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again, "Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile? Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rash Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack! "Oak and olive and bay, — I bid you cease to enwreathe Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot, You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave! Rather I hail thee, Parnes, — trust to thy wild waste tract! Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slacked My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave No deity deigns to drape with verdure? at least I can breathe. Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!" Pheidippides 233 Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge; Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across: "Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse? Athens to aid? Though the dive were through Erebos, thus I obey — Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridge Better!" — when — ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are? There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he — majestical Pan! Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head; moss cushioned his hoof: All the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly — the curl Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe, As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. "Halt, Pheidippides!" — halt I did, my brain of a whirl: " Hither to me ! Why pale in my presence? " he gracious began : "How is it, — Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof? "Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast! Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old? Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me! Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God saith: When Persia — so much as strews not the soil — is cast in the sea. Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least. Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!' "Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'" (Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear —Fennel — I grasped it a-tremble with dew — whatever it bode) 234 Robert Browning "While, as for thee" . . . But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitherto — Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. Fames to Athens — earth no more, the air was my road: Here am I.back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge! Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare! Then spoke Miltiades. "And thee, best runner of Greece, Whose limbs did duty indeed,- — what gift is promised thyself? Tell it us straightway, — Athens the mother demands of her son!" Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, hfting at length His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength Into the utterance — " Pan spoke thus: ' For what thou hast done Count on a worthy reward ! Henceforth be allowed thee release From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!' "I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind! Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow, — Pound — Pan helping us — Persia to dust, and, under the deep, Whelm her away forever; and then, — no Athens to save, — Marry a certain maid, I knov/ keeps faith to the brave, — Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creep Close to my knees, — recount how the god was awful yet kind, Promised their sire reward to the full — rewarding him — so!" Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis! Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his shield, Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennelfield Cavalier Tunes 235 And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine through clay, Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died — the bliss! So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute Is still "Rejoice!" — his word which brought rejoicing indeed. So is Pheidippides happy forever, — the noble strong man Who covdd race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well ; He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, So to end gloriously — once to shout, thereafter be mute: "Athens is saved!" — Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. CAVALIER TUNES I — MARCHING ALONG Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: And, pressing a troop unable to stoop, And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop. Marched them along, fifty-score strong. Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song God for King Charles! P>tti and such carles To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous paries! Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Till you're — Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 236 Robert Browning Hampton to hell, and his obsequies' knell. Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! England, good cheer! Rupert is near! Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, Chorus^'— 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 from the fight, Chorus. — March we along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! II — GIVE A ROUSE King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! Who gave me the goods that went since? Who raised me the house that sank once? Who helped me to gold I spent since? Who found me in wine you drank once? Cho. — King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now. King Charles! To whom used my boy George quaft" else. By the old fool's side that begot him? For whom did he cheer and laugh else. While Noll's damned troopers shot him? My Last Duchess 237 Cho.— King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! in — BOOT AND SADDLE Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. C//0.— Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there, will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay— C//0.— Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Branccpeth the Roundheads' array : Who laughs, " Good fellows ere this, by my fay, C//0.— Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Who? My wife Gertrude, that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, " Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they? C//0.— Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" MY LAST DUCHESS Ferrara That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 238 Robert Browning Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf " by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance. The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half -flush that dies along her throat": such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad. Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast. The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace — aU and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good! but thanked Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech — (which I have not)— to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Tray 239 Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, — E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity. Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me ! TRAY Sing me a hero ! Quench my thirst Of soul, ye bards! Quoth Bard the first: "Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don His helm and eke his habergeon " . . . Sir Olaf and his bard — ! "That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard the second), "That eye wide ope as though Fate beckoned My hero to some steep, beneath Which precipice smiled tempting death " . . . You too without your host have reckoned! "A beggar-child" (let's hear this third!) "Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird Sang to herself at careless play. And fell into the stream. 'Dismay! Help, you the standers-by!' None stirred. 240 Robert Browning "Bystanders reason, think of wives And children ere they risk their lives. Over the balustrade has bounced A mere instinctive dog, and pounced Prumb on the prize. 'How well he dives! "'Up he comes with the child, see, tight In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite A depth of ten feet — twelve, I bet! Good dog! What, off again? There's yet Another child to save? All right! "'How strange we saw no other fall! It's instinct in the animal. Good dog! But he's a long while under: If he got drowned I should not wonder — Strong current, that against the wall! " ' Here he comes, holds in mouth this time — What may the thing be? Well, that's prime! Now, did you ever? Reason reigns In man alone, since all Tray's pains Have fished — the child's doll from the slime!' "And so, amid the laughter gay, Trotted my hero off, — old Tray,— Till somebody, prerogatived With reason, reasoned: 'Why he dived, His brain would show us, I should say. "'John, go and catch— or, if needs be, Purchase — that animal for me! By vivisection, at expense Of half-an-hour and eighteenpence. How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'" Muleykeh 241 MULEYKEH If a stranger passed the tent of Hoseyn, he cried "A churl's!" Or haply " God help the man who has neither salt nor bread! " — "Nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scOrn More than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking pearls. Holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead On his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes morn. "What if no flocks and herds enrich the son of Sinan? They went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the due. Blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. ' God gave them, let them go! But never since time began, Muleykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, And you are my prize, my Pearl: I laugh at men's land and gold!' " So in the pride of his soul laughs Hoseyn — and right, I say. Do the ten steeds run a race of glory? Outstripping all. Ever Muleykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. Who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that day. 'Silence,' or, last but one, is 'The Cuffed,' as we use to call Whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. Right, Hoseyn, I say, to laugh!" " Boasts he Muleykeh the Pearl? " the stranger replies: "Be sure On him I waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both On Duhl the son of Sheyban, who withers away in heart For envy of Hoseyn's luck. Such sickness admits no cure. A certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, ' For the vulgar — flocks and herds ! The Pearl is a prize apart. ' " 242 Robert Browning Lo, Duhl the son of Sheyban comes riding to Hoseyn's tent, And he casts his saddle down, and enters and " Peace! " bids he. "You are poor, I know the cause: my plenty shall mend the wrong. 'Tis said of your Pearl — the price of a hundred camels spent In her purchase were scarce ill paid: such prudence is far from me Who proffer a thousand. Speak! Long parley may last too long." Said Hoseyn, "You feed young beasts a many, of famous breed. Slit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of Muzennem: There stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs the hiU. But I love Muleykeh's face: her forefront whitens indeed Like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. Your camels — go gaze on them! Her fetlock is foam-splashed too. Myself am the richer still." A year goes by: lo, back to the tent again rides Duhl. "You are open-hearted, ay — moist-handed, a very prince. Why should I speak of sale? Be the mare your simple gift! My son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts 'Fool, Beg for his sake the Pearl! Be God the rewarder, since God pays debts seven for one: who squanders on Him shows thrift.'" Said Hoseyn, " God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives That lamp due measure of oil: lamp lighted — hold high, wave wide Its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help is left? The oil of your lamp is your son: I shine while Muleykeh lives. Would I beg your son to cheer my dark if Muleykeh died? It is life against life: what good avails to the life-bereft?" Muleykeh 243 Another year, and — hist! What craft is it Duhl designs? He alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time, But, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench Half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night com- bines With the robber — and such is he: Duhl, covetous up to crime, Must wTing from Hoseyn's grasp the Pearl, by whatever the wrench. "He was hunger-bitten, I heard: I tempted with half my store. And a gibe was all my thanks. Is he generous like Spring dew? Account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one ! He has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode: nay, more — For a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two: I will beg! Yet I nowise gained by the tale of my wife and son. "I swear by the Holy House, my head will I never wash Till I filch his Pearl away. Fair dealing I tried, then guile, And now I. resort to force. He said we must live or die: Let him die, then, — let me live! Be bold — but not too rash! I have found me a peeping-place: breast, bury your breathing while I explore for myself! Now, breathe! He deceived me not, the spy! "As he said — there lies in peace Hoseyn — how happy! Beside Stands tethered the Pearl: thrice winds her headstall about his wrist: 'Tis therefore he sleeps so sound — the moon through the roof reveals. And, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and wide, Buheyseh, her sister born: fleet is she yet ever missed The winning tail's lire-flash a-stream past the thimderous heels. 244 Robert Browning "No less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case some thief Should enter and seize and fly with the first, as I mean to do. What then? The Pearl is the Pearl: once mount her we both escape." Through the skirt-fold in glides Duhl, — so a serpent disturbs no leaf In a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest: clean through, He is noiselessly at his work: as he planned, he performs the rape. He has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped The headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as before. He springs on the Pearl, is launched on the desert like bolt from bow. Up starts our plundered man : from his breast though the heart be ripped. Yet his mind has the mastery: behold, in a minute more, He is out and off and away on Buheyseh, whose worth we know! And Hoseyn — his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride, And Buheyseh does her part, — they gain — they are gaining fast On the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Darraj to cross and quit. And to reach the ridge El-Saban, — no safety till that be spied! And Buheyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last, For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit. She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer: Buheyseh is mad with hope — beat sister she shall and must. Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank. She is near now, nose by tail — they are neck by croup — joy! fear! Muleykeh 245 What folly makes Hoseyn shout "Dog Duhl, damned son of the Dust, Touch the right ear, and press with your foot my Pearl's left flank!" And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muleykeh as prompt perceived Who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey. And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished forevermore. And Hoseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may: Then he turned Buheyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore. And, lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hoseyn upon the ground Weeping: and neighbors came, the tribesmen of Benu-Asad In the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his grief; And he told from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had wound His way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad! And how Buheyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the thief. And they jeemd him, one and all: "Poor Hoseyn is crazed past hope! How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite? To have simply held the tongue were a task for looy or girl, And here were Muleykeh again, the eyed like an antelope, The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night! " — "And the beaten in speed!" wept Hoseyn. "You never have loved my Pearl." 246 Robert Browning THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING From " Pippa Passes " The year's at the spring, " >^ And day's at the morn ; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His Heaven — All's right with the world! EPILOGUE From "Asolando " At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, When you set your fancies free, Will they pass to where — by death, fools think, impris- oned — Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, —Pity me? Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel — Being — who? One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph. Held we fall to rise, are baffled to light better, Sleep to wake. Prospice 247 No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time Greet the unseen with a cheer! Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — fight on, fare ever There as here!" PROSPICE Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat. The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm. The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form. Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more. The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore; And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare Uke my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad Ufe's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end. And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave. Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again. And with God be the rest! 248 Edward Lear EDWARD LEAR 181 2, London-San Remo, Italy, 1888 THE JUMBLIES They went to sea in a sieve, they did; In a sieve they went to sea; In spite of all their friends could say, ' On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, In a sieve they went to sea. And when the sieve turned round and round. And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!" They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big; But we don't care a button; we don't care a fig: In a sieve we'll go to sea!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. They sailed away in a sieve, they did, In a sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a ribbon, by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast. And every one said who saw them go, "Oh! won't they be soon upset, you know? For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long; And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong In a sieve to sail so fast." The water it soon came in, it did; The water it soon came in: So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat: And they fastened it down with a pin. The Jumblies 249 And they passed the night in a crockery-jar; And each of them said, "How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long. Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong. While round in our sieve we spin." And all night long they sailed away; And, when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown, "OTimballoo! How happy we are When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar! And all night long, in the moonlight pale. We sail away with a pea-green sail In the shade of the mountains brown." They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,— To a land all covered with trees: And they bought an owl, and a useful cart. And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart. And a hive of silvery bees; And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws. And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, And no end of Stilton cheese: And in twenty years they all came back, — In twenty years or more; And every one said, "How tall they've grown! For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore." And they drank their health, and gave them a feast Of dumphngs made of beautiful yeast; And every one said, "If we only live, We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, 250 Edward Lear To the hills of the Chankly Bore." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live: Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve. THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl. How charmingly sweet you sing! Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring? " They sailed away, for a year and a day. To the land where the bong- tree grows; And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood. With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose. His nose. With a ring at the end of his nose. "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. Say Not, the Struggle Naught Availeth 251 They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the hght of the moon, The moon. The moon, They danced by the Hght of the moon. A LIMERICK There was an Old Man in a tree. Who was horribly bored by a bee ; When they said, "Does it buzz?' He repUed, "Yes, it does! It's a regular brute of a bee!" ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 1819, Liverpool-Florence, 1861 SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NAUGHT AVAILETH Say not, the struggle naught availeth. The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth. And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be Uars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers. And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making. Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 252 Arthur Hugh Clough And not by eastern windows only, When daylight conies, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright. QUA CURSUM VENTUS As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, .Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darlding hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas By each was cleaving, side by side : E'en so, — but why the tale reveal Of those, whom year by year unchanged. Brief absence joined anew to feel Astounded, soul from soul estranged? At dead of night their sails were filled. And onward each rejoicing steered — Ah, neither blame, for neither willed Or wist, what first with dawn appeared! To veer, how vain! On, onward strain. Brave barks! In light, in darkness too. Through winds and tides one compass guides, To that and your own selves be true. But O blithe breeze, and O great seas. Though ne'er, that earliest parting past. On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last. Young and Old 253 One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where'er they fare, — O bounding breeze, O rushing seas! At last, at last, unite them there! CHARLES KINGSLEY 1819, Devonshire-Hampshire, 1875 YOUNG AND OLD From " The Water Babies " When aU the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day. When all the world is old, lad, And aU the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down: Creep home, and take your place there. The spent and maimed among: God grant you find one face there You loved when aU was young. 254 Matthew Arnold FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON 1821, Greenwich- Rowfant, 1895 ""^ A TERRIBLE INFANT I RECOLLECT a iiurse called Ann, Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fine young man Came up, and kissed the pretty lass: She did not make the least objection! Thinks I, "Aha! When I can talk, I'll tell Mamma." — ^And that's my earliest recollection. MATTHEW ARNOLD 1822, Middlesex-Liverpool, 1888 SHAKSPERE Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still. Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill. Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place. Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foiled searching of mortaUty; And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self-secure, Didst tread on earth unguessed at. — Better so! All pains the immortal spirit must endure. All weakness which impairs, aU griefs which bow, Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. Self-Dependence 255 REQUIESCAT Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes: Ah I would that I did too. Her mirth the world required : She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be. Her life was turning, turning. In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round. Her cabined, ample Spirit, It fluttered and failed for breath. To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of Death. SELF-DEPENDENCE Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. And a look of passionate desire O'er the sea and to the stars I send: " Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! "Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew; Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you. Feel my soul becoming vast like you!" 256 Coventry Patmore From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the answer: "Wouldst thou he as these are? Live as they. " Unaff righted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see. These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. "And with J03' the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long moon-silvered roll; For self -poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul. "Bounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state God's other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty Ufe you see." O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear: "Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he Who finds himself, loses his misery!" COVENTRY PATMORE 1823, Warwickshire-Hampshire, 1896 THE TOYS My little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, I struck him, and dismissed With hard words and unkissed, — His Mother, who was patient, being dead. The Toys 257 Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep. With darkened ej^elids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan. Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-veined stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach. And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells. And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I prayed To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath. Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys. How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy WTath, and say, " I will be sorry for their childishness." 258 Charles Stuart Calverley THOMAS EDWARD BROWN 1S30, Isle of Man-Isle of Man, 1897 MY GARDEN A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot! Rose plot. Fringed pool, Ferned grot — The veriest school Of peace ; and yet the fool Contends that God is not — Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign : 'Tis very sure God walks in mine. CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY 1 83 1, Worcestershire-London, 1884 THE ALPHABET A IS an Angel of blushing eighteen ; B is the Ball where the Angel was seen; C is the Chaperon, who cheated at cards; D is the Deuxtemps with Frank of the Guards; E is the Eye, killing slowly but surely; F is the Fan whence it peeped so demurely; G is the Glove of superlative kid; H is the Hand which it spitefully hid; I is the Ice which the fair one demanded; J is the Juvenile that dainty who handed; K is the Kerchief, a rare work of art; L is the Lace which composed the chief part ; M is the old Maid who watched the chits dance ; N is the Nose she turned up at each glance; Jabberwocky 259 O is the Olga (just then in its prime); P is the Partner who wouldn't keep time; Q is a Quadrille put instead of the Lancers; R is the Remonstrances made by the dancers; S is the Supper where all went in pairs; T is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs; U is the Uncle who "thought we'd be goin'"; V is the Voice which his niece repHed " No" in; W is the Waiter who sat up till eight ; X is the exit, not rigidly straight; Y is the Yawning fit caused by the Ball; Z stands for Zero, or nothing at all. LEWIS CARROLL (CHARLES L. DODGSON) 1 8,5 2, Daresbury- Surrey, iSq8 JABBERWOCKY From " Through the Looking Glass " 'Twas brilHg, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought. — So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. 26o Lewis Carroll And as in uflish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffing through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came ! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! frabjous day ! Callooh ! Callay ! ' ' He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves. And the mome raths outgrabe. THE GARDENER'S SONG From " Sylvie and Bruno " He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife : He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. "At length I realize," he said, "The bitterness of life!" He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister's Husband's Niece. "Unless you leave this house," he said, "I'll send for the Police!" The Gardener's Song 261 He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. "The one thing I regret," he said, "Is that it cannot speak!" He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the 'bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus. "If this- should stay to dine," he said, "There won't be much for us!" He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill: He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill. "Were I to swallow this," he said, "I should be very ill!" He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four That stood beside his bed: He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head. "Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing! It's waiting to be fed!" He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp: He looked again, and found it was A Penny-Postage-Stamp. "You'd best be getting home," he said: "The nights are very damp!" He thought he saw a Garden Door That opened with a key: 262 Edward Bowen He looked again, and found it was A Double-Rule-of-Three: "And all its mystery," he said, "Is clear as day to me!" """GEORGE DU MAURIER 1834, Paris-London, 1896 A LITTLE WORK From " Trilby " A LITTLE work, a little play To keep us going — and so, good-day! A little warmth, a little light Of love's bestowing — and so, good-night I A little fun, to match the sorrow Of each day's growing — and so, good-morrow! A little trust that when we die We reap our sowing! And so — good-bye! EDWARD BOWEN 1836, Gloucestershire-Cote d'Or, France, 1901 FORTY YEARS ON Forty years on, when afar and asunder Parted are those who are singing today, When you look back, and forgetfully wonder What you were like in your work and your play Then, it may be, there will often come o'er you Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song — Visions of boyhood shall float them before you, Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along. Forty Years On 263 REFHAIN Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up I Till the field ring again and again, With the tramp of the twenty-two men, Follow up! Follow up! Routs and discomfitures, rushes and rallies. Bases attempted, and rescued, and won, Strife without anger, and art without malice, — How will it seem to you forty years on? Then, you will say, not a feverish minute Strained the weak heart, and the wavering knee, Never the battle raged hottest, but in it Neither the last nor the faintest were we! O the great days, in the distance enchanted. Days of fresh air, in the rain and the sun, How we rejoiced as we struggled and panted — Hardly believable, forty years on! How we discoursed of them, one with another, Auguring triumph, or balancing fate, Loved the ally with the heart of a brother. Hated the foe with a playing at hate! Forty years on, growing older and older, Shorter in wind, as in memory long, Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder. What will it help you that once you were strong? God gives us bases to guard or beleaguer. Games to play out, whether earnest or fun. Fights for the fearless, and goals for the eager, Twenty, and thirty, and forty years on ! 264 Edward Bowen JACK AND JOE Jack's a scholar, as all men say, Dreams in Latin and Greek, Gobbles a grammar in half a day, And a lexicon once a week; Three examiners came to Jack, "Tell to us all you know;" But when he began, "To Oxford back," They murmured, "we will go." But Joe is a regular fool, says Jack, And Jack is a fool, says Joe. Joe's a player, and no mistake. Comes to it born and bred. Dines in pads for the practice' sake. Goes with a bat to bed. Came the bowler and asked him, "Pray, Shall I bowl you fast or slow? " But the bowler's every hair was gray Before he had done with Joe. But Joe is a regular fool, &c. Morning wakes with a rousing spell. Bees and honey and hive, Drones get up at the warning bell, But Jack was at work at five. Sinks the day on the weary hill. Cricketers homeward flow; All climb up in the twilight chill, But the last to leave is Joe. But Joe is a regular fool, &c. "Fame," says Jack, "with the mind must go, Says Joe, "With the legs and back;" "What is the use of your arms?" says Joe, "Where are your brains?" says Jack. The Cure's Progress 265 Says Joe, "Your Latin I truly hate," Says Jack, "I adore it so," "But your bats," says Jack, "I nowhere rate," "My darUngs," answers Joe. But Joe is a regular fool, &c. Can't you settle it, Joe and Jack, Settle it, books and play? Dunce is white and pedant is black. Haven't you room for gray? Let neither grammar nor bats be slack, Let brains with sinews grow, And you'll be Reverend Doctor Jack, And you'll be General Joe! But Joe is a regular fool, &c. AUSTIN DOBSON 1840, Plymouth- THE CURE'S PROGRESS Monsieur the Cure down the street Comes with his kind old face, — - With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. You may see him pass by the httle " Grande Place,'" And the tiny " Hotel-de-Ville" ; He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose. And the pompier Theophile. He turns, as a rule, through the "Marche" cool. Where the noisy fish-wives call; And his compliment pays to the "Belle Therese," As she knits in her dusky stall. 266 Austin Dobson There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Cure gropes In his tails for a pain d'epice. There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a "Mafoi, oui!" And a pinch from the Cure's box. There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red. And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu'!" But a grander way for the Sous-Prefct, And a bow for Ma'm'selle Anne; And a mock "off -hat" to the Notary's cat. And a nod to the Sacristan : — For ever through life the Cure goes With a smile on his kind old face — With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. URCEUS EXIT I INTENDED an Ode, And it turned to a Sonnet. It began a la mode, I intended an Ode; But Rose crossed the road In her latest new bonnet; I intended an Ode; And it turned to a Sonnet. The Burghers' Battle 267 CHARLES GEORGE GORDON "Rather be dead than praised," he said, That hero, Uke a hero dead, In this slack-sinewed age endued With more than antique fortitude! "Rather be dead than praised! " Shall we, Who loved thee, now that Death sets free Thine eager soul, with word and line Profane that empty house of thine? Nay, — let us hold, be mute. Our pain Will not be less that we refrain; And this our silence shall but be A larger monument to thee. WILLIAM MORRIS 1834, London-London, 1896 THE BURGHERS' BATTLE Thick rise the spear-shafts o'er the land That erst the harvest bore; The sword is heavy in the hand, And wc return no more. The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox, Our banner of the war. And ripples in the Running Ox, A nd we rekirn no more. Across our stubble acres now The teams go four and four; But worn out elders guide the plough And we return no more. 268 William Morris And now the women heavy-eyed Turn through the open door, From gazing down the highway wide Where we return no more. THb shadows of the fruited close Dapple the feast-hall floor; There lie our dogs and dream and doze, And we return no more. Down from the minster-tower to-day Fall the soft chimes of }^ore, Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play: And we return no more. But underneath the streets are still; Noon, and the market's o'er! Back go the good wives o'er the hill; For we return no more. What merchant to our gates shall come? What wise man bring us lore? What abbot ride away to Rome, Now we return no more? What Mayor shall rule the hall we built? Whose scarlet sweep the floor? What judge shall doom the robber's guilt, Now we return no more? New houses in the street shall rise Where builded we before, Of other stone, wrought otherwise; For we return no more. And crops shall cover field and hill Unlike what once they bore. And all be done without our will, Now we return no more. Home 269 Look up! the arrows streak the sky, The horns of battle roar; The long spears lower and draw nigh, .1 nd we return no more. Remember how beside the wain, VV'e spoke the word of war, And sowed this harvest of the plain, .1 nd wc return no more. Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox ! The days of old are o'er; Heave sword about the Running Ox! For we return no more. WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 1849, Gloucester-Surrey, 1903 HOME O, Falmouth is a fine town with ships in the bay, And I wish from my heart it's there I was to-day, I wish from my heart I was far away from here. Sitting in my parlor and talking to my dear. For it's home, dearie, home — it's home I want to be. Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree They're all growing green in the old countrie. In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet With her babe on her arm as she came down the street ; And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready For the pretty httle babe that has never seen its daddie. And it's home, dearie, home, — 270 William Ernest Henley O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring; And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king; With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do. And it'§^ home, dearie, home, — O, there's a wind a-biowing, a-blowing from the west, And that of all the winds is the one I like the best. For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free. And it soon will blow us home to the old countrie. For it's home, dearie, home — it's home I want to be. Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree They're all growing green in the old countrie. INVICTUS Out of the night that covers me. Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. A Lad that is Gone 271 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 1S50, Edinburgh-Samoa, 1894 A LAD THAT IS GONE Sing }}i€ a song of a lad that is gone; Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soid he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye. Mull was astern, Rum on the port, Eigg on the starboard bow; Glory of youth glowed in his soul: Where is that glorj' now? Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, coidd that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye. Give me again all that was there, Give me the sun that shone! Give me the eyes, give me the soul. Give me the lad that's gone! Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; Say, coidd that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye. Billow and breeze, islands and seas. Mountains of rain and sun, All that was good, all that was fair, Ail that was me is gone. 272 Robert Louis Stevenson THE VAGABOND To an Air of Schubert Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river — There's the life for a man like me, There's the life for ever. Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me ; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me. Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger. White as meal the frosty field- Warm the fireside haven — Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even! Let the blow fall soon or late. Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around, And the road before me. Heather Ale 273 Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above And the road below me. HEATHER ALE A GALLOWAY LEGEND From the bonny bells of heather They brewed a drink long-syne Was sweeter far than honey Was stronger far than wine. They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in blessed swound For days and days together In their dwellings underground. There rose a King in Scotland, A feU man to his foes, He smote the Picts in battle. He hunted them hke roes. Over miles of the red mountain He hunted as they feed. And strewed the dwarfish bodies Of the dying and the dead. Summer came in the country. Red was the heather beU: But the manner of the brewing None was aHve to teU. In graves that were Uke children's On many a mountain head The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead. 274 Robert Loui-s Stevenson The King in the red moorland . Rode on a summer's day: And the bees hummed, and the curlews Cried beside the way. TJie King rode, and was angry, Black was his brow and pale, To rule in a land of heather And lack the Heather Ale. It fortuned that his vassals, Riding free on the heath, Came on a stone that was fallen And vermin hid beneath. Rudely plucked from their hiding, Never a word they spoke: A son and his aged father — Last of the dwarfish folk. The King sat high on his charger He looked on the little men; And the dwarfish and swarthy couple Looked at the King again Down by the shore he had them ; And there on the giddy brink — "I will give you life, ye vermin. For the secret of the drink." There stood the son and the father And they looked high and low: The heather was red around them, The sea rumbled below. And up and spoke the father. Shrill was his voice to hear: "I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear. Heather Ale 275 "Life is dear lo the aged, And honour a little thing: I would gladly sell the secret", Quoth the Pict to the King. His voice was small as a sparrow's And shrill and wonderful clear; "I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear. "For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young: And I dare not sell my honour Under the eye of my son. Take him, O King, and bind him, And cast him far in the deep. And it's I will teU the secret That I have sworn to keep." They took the son and bound him. Neck and heels in a thong, And a lad took him and swung him. And flung him far and strong. And the sea swallowed his body, Like that of a child of ten: — And there on the cliff stood the father Last of the dwarfish men. "True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared: For I doubt the sapling courage That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture. Fire shall never avail: Here dies in my bosom The secret of Heather Ale." 276 William Watson REQUIEM Under the wide and starry sky ,Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me : Here he lies where he longed to he; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill. WILLIAM WATSON 1858, Yorkshire THE KEY-BOARD FiVE-AND-THiRTY black slaves, Half-a-hundred white, All their duty but to sing For their Queen's deUght, Now with throats of thunder, Now with dulcet Ups, While she rules them royally With her finger-tips! When she quits her palace, All the slaves are diunb — Dumb with dolor till the Queen Back to Court is come: Dumb the throats of thunder, Dumb the dulcet lips. Lacking all the sovereignty Of her finger-tips. Going Down Hill on a Bicycle 277 Dusky slaves and pallid, Ebon slaves and white, When the Queen was on her throne How you sang to-night! Ah, the throats of thunder! Ah, the dulcet lips! Ah, the gracious tyrannies Of her finger-tips! Silent, silent, silent. All your voices now; Was it then her life alone Did your life endow? Waken, throats of thunder! Waken, dulcet lips! Touched to immortality By her finger-tips. HENRY CHARLES BEECHING 1859, London GOING DOWN HILL ON A BICYCLE A boy's song With lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind. Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty lift Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry: — "O bird, see; see, bird, I fly. "Is this, is this your joy? O bird, then I, though a boy. 2/8 Henry Newbolt For a golden moment share Your feathery life in air!" Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss? ■~ 'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground. Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall. Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there. HENRY NEWBOLT 1S62, Staffordshire DRAKE'S DRUM Sir Francis Drake, i 540?-: 596 Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?). Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin*, an' the night-tide dashin', He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?). Vital Lampada 279 Rovin' though his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. "Take my drum to England, hang ct by the shore. Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago." Drake he's in his hammock tiU the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'. They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago! VITAi LAMPADA There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night — Ten to make and the match to win — A bumping pitch and a blinding light. An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat. Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote — '* Play up! play up! and play the game!" The sand of the desert is sodden red — Red with the wreck of a square that broke — The Catling's jammed with the Colonel dead. And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed his banks. And England's far, and Honor a name, But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks: "Play up! play up! and play the game!" 28o Henry Newbolt This is the word that year by year, While in her place the School is set, Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget. This they all with a joyful mind ^ear through life like a torch in flame, And falling fling to the host behind — "Play up! play up! and play the game!" CLIFTON CHAPEL This is the Chapel: here, my son, Your father thought the thoughts of youth. And heard the words that one by one The touch of Life has turned to truth. Here in a day that is not far. You too may speak with noble ghosts Of manhood and the vows of war You made before the Lord of Hosts. To set the cause above renown. To love the game beyond the prize. To honor, while you strike him down. The foe that comes with fearless eyes; To count the life of battle good, And dear the land that gave you birth, And dearer yet the brotherhood That binds the brave of all to earth — My son, the oath is yours: the end Is His, Who built the world of strife. Who gave His children Pain for friend. And Death for surest hope of life. To-day and here the fight's begun, Of the great fellowship you're free; Henceforth the School and you are one. And what You are, the race shall be. Fuzzy-wuzzy 281 God send you fortune: yet be sure, Among the lights that gleam and pass, ^'ou'U live to follow none more pure Than that which glows on yonder brass. "Qui procul hinc," the legend's writ — The frontier-grave is far away — "Qui ante diem periit: Sed miles, sed pro patria." RUDYARD KIPLING 1865, Bonibay FUZZY-WUZZY Soudan Expeditionary Force, 1889 We've fought with many men acrost the seas, An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not : The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese; But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot. We never got a ha' porth's change of 'im: 'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses, 'E cut our sentries up at Suakim, An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces. So 'ere's to 3'ou, Fuzzy -Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Sowdan; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; We gives you your certifikit, an' if you want it signed We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined. Wc took our chanst among the Kyber 'ills, The Boers knocked us silly at a mile, The Burman guv us Irriwaddy chills. An' a Zulu impi dished us up in style: 282 Rudyard Kipling But all we ever got from such as they Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller; We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say, But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oiler. Th^n 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid; Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went and did. We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair; But for all the odds again you, Fuzzy-Wuzz, you bruk the square. 'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own, 'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards, So we must certify the skill 'e's shown In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords: When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush With 'is coflfin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear, A 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush Will last a 'ealthy Tommy for a year. So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which is no more, If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore; But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bar- gain fair, For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square! 'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive. An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead; 'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive, An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead. 'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb! 'E's a injia-rubber idiot on a spree, 'E's the only thing that doesn't care a damn For a Regiment o' British Infantree. A Ballad of East and West 283 So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Sowdan ; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-dass fightin' man; An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of hair — You big black boundin' beggar — for you broke a British square. A BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth! Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Borderside, And he has hfted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride : He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day. And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides : "Is there never a man of all my men can sav where Kamal hides?" Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar: "If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. "At dusk he harries the Abazai — at dawn he is into Bonair, But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly. By the favor of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai. 284 Rudyard Kipling "But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, For the length and breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men. There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between. And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of the gallows-tree. The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat — Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back, And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. "Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride." It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go, The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars as a lady plays with a glove. A Ballad of East and West 285 There was rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a manw as seen. They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new- roused fawn. The dun he fell at a water-course — in a woful heap fell he, And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. He has knocked the pistol out of his hand — small room was there to strive, " 'Twasonly by favorof mine," quothhe, "ye rode so long alive: There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. "If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row; If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, The kite that whistles above us now were gorged tiU she could not fly." Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast, But count who come for the broken meats, before thou makest a feast. If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. "They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain, The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. 286 Rudyard Kipling But if thou thinkest the price be fair — thy brethren wait to sup, The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn — howl, dog, and call them up. "And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer, and gear, and stack. Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!" Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. "No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and grey -wolf meet. "May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?" Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan: Take up the mare for my father's gift — by God she has carried a man!" The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast; "We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best. So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein, My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain." The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, "Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the mate from a friend?" " A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a hmb. Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him! " With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest — He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. A Ballad of East and West 287 "Now, here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides, And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. "Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp, and board, and bed; Th}^ life is his — thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. So thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine. And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line. "And thou must make a trooper tough, and hack thy way to power — Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur." They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault. They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the wondrous names of God. The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun. And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the Quarter- Guard, full twenty swords flew clear — There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. "Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son. "Put up the steel at your sides! Last night ye had struck at a Border thief — to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!" 288 Rudyard Kipling Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Jtidgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of4he earth! THE EXPLORER "There's no sense in going further — it's the edge of cultiva- tion," So they said, and I beheved it — broke my land and sowed my crop — Built my barns and strung my fences in the little border station Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run out and stop. Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated — so: " Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges — Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!" So I went, worn out of patience ; never told my nearest neigh- bors — Stole away with pack and ponies — left 'em drinking in the town; And the faith that moveth mountains didn't seem to help my labors As I faced the sheer main-ranges, whipping up and leading down. March by march I puzzled through 'em, turning flanks and dodging shoulders. Hurried on in hope of water, headed back for lack of grass; The Explorer 289 Till I camped above the tree-line — drifted snow and naked boulders — Felt free air astir to windward — knew I'd stumbled on the Pass. Thought to name it for the finder: but that night the Norther found me — Froze and killed the plains-bred ponies: so I called the camp Despair (It's the Railway Gap to-day, though.) Then my Whisper waked to hound me: — "Something lost behind the Ranges. Over yonder. Go you there!" Then I knew, the while I doubted — knew His Hand was certain o'er me. StUl— it might be self-delusion — scores of better men had died — I could reach the township living, but ... He knows what terrors tore me. . . . But I didn't . . . but I didn't. I went down the other side. Till the snow ran out in flowers, and the flowers turned to aloes, And the aloes sprung to thickets and a brimming stream ran by; But the thickets dwined to thorn-scrub, and the water drained to shallows — And I dropped again on desert, blasted earth, and blasting sky. . . . I remember lighting fires; I remember sitting by them; I remember seeing faces, hearing voices through the smoke; I remember they were fancy — for I threw a stone to try 'em. "Something lost behind the Ranges," was the only word they spoke. 290 Rudyard Kipling I remember going crazy. I remember that I knew it. When I heard myself hallooing to the funny folk I saw. Very full of dreams that desert: but my two legs took me through it. . . . And I used to watch 'em moving with the toes all black and raw. But at last the country altered — White man's country past disputing — - Rolling grass and open timber, with a hint of hills behind — There I found me food and water, and I lay a week recruiting, Got my strength and lost my nightmares. Then I entered on my find. Thence I ran my first rough survey — chose my trees and blazed and ringed 'em — Week by week I pried and sampled — week by week my find- ings grew. Saul he went to look for donkeys, and by God he found a king- dom! But by God, who sent His Whisper, I had struck the worth of two! Up along the hostile mountains, where the hair-poised snow- slide shivers — Down and through the big fat marshes that the virgin ore-bed stains, Till I heard the mile-wide mutterings of unimagined rivers And beyond the nameless timber saw illimitable plains! Plotted sites of future cities, traced the easy grades between 'em; Watched unharnessed rapids wasting fifty thousand head an hour; Counted leagues of water-frontage through the ax-ripe woods that screen 'em — Saw the plant to feed a people — up and waiting for the power! The Explorer 291 Well I know who'll take the credit — all the clever chaps that followed — Came, a dozen men together — never knew my desert fears; Tracked me by the camps I'd quitted, used the water holes I'd hoUowed. They'll go back and do the talking. They'll be called the Pioneers ! They will find my sites of townships — not the cities that I set there. They will rediscover rivers — not my rivers heard at night. By my old marks and bearings they will show me how to get there, By the lonely cairns I buUded they will guide my feet aright. Have I named one single river? Have I claimed one single acre? Have I kept one single nugget — (barring samples)? No, not I. Because my price was paid me ten times over by my Maker. But you wouldn't understand it. You go up and occupy. Ores you'll find there; wood and cattle; water transit sure and steady (That should keep the railway rates down), coal and iron at your doors. God took care to hide that country till He judged His people ready. Then He chose me for His Whisper, and I've found it, and it's yours! Yes, your "Never-never country" — yes, your "edge of culti- vation" And "no sense in going further" — tiU I crossed the range to see. God forgive me ! No, I didn't. It's God's present to our nation. Anybodv might have found it, but — His Whisper came to Me! 292 Rudyard Kipling RECESSIONAL God of our fathers, known of old — Lord of our far-flung battle line — Behfeath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine — Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies — The Captains and the Kings depart — Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget! Far-called, our navies melt away — On dune and headland sinks the fire — Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet. Lest we forget — lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe- Such boasting as the Gentiles use. Or lesser breeds without the Law — Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard — All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard, — For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! amen. Cargoes 293 L'ENVOI When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it — lie down for an eon or two, Till the Master of all good workmen shall set us to work anew! And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; They shall splash at a ten league canvas with brushes of comet's hair; They shall find real saints to draw from — Magdalene, Peter, and Paul; They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all! And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame ; And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of things as They Are! JOHN MASEFIELD Gloucestershire CARGOES Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks. Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. 294 John Masefield Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smokestack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days. With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays. AN OLD SONG RE-SUNG I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing. With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold ; And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing, Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold ; The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled. I saw a ship a-steering, a-steering, a-steering, With roses in red thread worked upon her sails; With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering. Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales, Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails. I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking. With ghttering sea-water splashing on her decks. With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking, Pulling claret-bottles down, and knocking off the necks; The broken glass was chinking as she sank among the wrecks. SEA FEVER I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; A Song of Sherwood 295 And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking, I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying. And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life. To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a W'hetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. ALFRED NOYES 1880, StalTordshire A SONG OF SHERWOOD Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? Grey and ghostly shadows are ghding through the brake, Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn. Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn. Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves, Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, In Sherwood, in Sherw^ood, about the break of day. Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June: All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon, Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst. 296 Alfred No}xs Merry, merry England is waking as of old, With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold: For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. Love is in the greenwood building him a house Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs: Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies, And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes. Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep! Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep? Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold, Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould, Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red, And wake Will Scarlet from his leafy forest bed. Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together With quarter-staff and drinking can and grey goose-feather. The dead are coming back again, the years are rolled away In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows. All the heart of England hid in every rose Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap, Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep? Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep, Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep? Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men — Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day — The Highwayman 297 Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash Rings the Follow! Follow! and the boughs begin to crash, The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly, And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by. Robin! Robin! Robin! All his merr}' thieves Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves, Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. THE HIGHWAYMAN PART I The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, Antl the highwayman came riding — Riding — riding — The highwajonan came riding, up to the old inn door. He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to his thigh! And he rode with a jeweled twinkle. His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. 298 Alfred Noyes And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened ; his face was white and peaked ; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, Tho^ landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say — "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night. But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day. Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way." He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast ; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West. PART II He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching — Marching — marching — King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead. But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; The Highwayman 299 Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast ! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say — Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at last was hers! The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast. She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? 300 Alfred Noyes Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still! Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonUght, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him — with her death. He turned; he spurred to the Westward; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood ! Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier bran- dished high! Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway. And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The Admiral's Ghost 301 When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding — Riding — riding — A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. THE ADMIRAL'S GHOST I TELL you a tale to-night Which a seaman told to me, With eyes that gleamed in the lanthorn light And a voice as low as the sea. You could almost hear the stars TwinkUng up in the sky. And the old wind woke and moaned in the spars, And the same old waves went by, Singing the same old song As ages and ages ago, W'hile he froze my blood in that deep sea night With the things that he seemed to know. A bare foot pattered on deck; Ropes creaked ; then — all grew still, And he pointed his finger straight in my face And growled, as a sea dog will. "Do 'ee know who Nelson was? That pore little shriveled form. With the patch on his eye and the pinned up sleeve And a soul like a North Sea storm? 302 Alfred Noyes "Ask of the Devonshire men! They know, and they'll tell you true; He wasn't the pore little chawed-up chap That Hardy thought he knew. "He w'asn't the man you think! His patch was a dern disguise! For he knew that they'd find him out, d'you see, If they looked him in both his eyes. "He was twice as big as he seemed; But his clothes were cunningly made. He'd both of his hairy arms all right! The sleeve was a trick of the trade. "You've heard of sperrits, no doubt; Well, there's more in the matter than that! But he wasn't the patch and he wasn't the sleeve. And he wasn't the laced cocked-hat. "Nelson was just — a Ghost! You may laugh! But the Devonshire men They knew that he'd come when England called, And they know that he'll come again. "I'll tell you the way it was (For none of the landsmen know). And to tell it you right, you must go a-starn Two hundred years or so. "The waves were lapping and slapping The same as they are to-day; And Drake lay dying aboard his ship In Nombre Dios Day. The Admiral's Ghost 303 "The scent of the foreign flowers Came floating all around; 'But I'd give my soul for the smell o' the pitch,' Says he, 'in Plymouth Sound.' "'What shall I do,' he says, ' When the guns begin to roar. An' England wants me, and me not there To shatter 'er foes once more?' " (You've heard what he said, maybe But I'll mark you the p'ints again; For I want you to box your compass right And get my story plain.) "'You must take my drum,' he says, 'To the old sea-wall at home; And if ever you strike that drum,' he says, 'Why, strike me blind, I'll come! "'If England needs me, dead Or living, I'll rise that day! I'll rise from the darkness under the sea Ten thousand miles away.' "That's what he said; and he died; An' his pirates, listenin' roun'. With their crimson doublets and jewelled swords That flashed as the sun went down. "They sewed him up in his shroud With a round-shot top and toe. To sink him under the salt sharp sea Where all good seamen go. 304 Alfred Noyes "They lowered him down in the deep, And there in the sunset light They boomed a broadside over his grave, As meanin' to say 'Good-night.' ' V "They sailed away in the dark To the dear little isle they knew; And they hung his drum by the old sea-wall, The same as he told them to. "Two hundred years went by, And the guns began to roar, And England was fighting hard for her life, As ever she fought of yore. "'It's only my dead that count," She said, as she says to-day; 'It isn't the ships and it isn't the guns 'Ull sweep Trafalgar's Bay.' "D' you guess who Nelson was? You may laugh, but it's true as true! There was more in that pore little chawed-up chap Than ever his best friend knew. "The foe was creepin' close, In the dark, to our white-clifTed isle; They were ready to leap at England's throat, When — O, you may smile, you may smile; "But — ask of the Devonshire men; For they heard in the dead of night The roll of a drum and they saw him pass On a ship all shining white. The Admiral's Ghost 305 "He stretched out his dead cold face, And he sailed in the grand old way! The fishes had taken an eye and an arm, But he swept Trafalgar's Bay. "Nelson — was Francis Drake! O, what matters the uniform, Or the patch on your eye or your pinned-up sleeve, If your soul's Hke a North Sea storm?" X REFERENCES TECHNICAL AND HISTORICAL TYPES OF POETRY Epic, the poetry of great events concerned with the fortunes of some central figure related in a majestic style (Homer's Odyssey) . Dramatic, the conversation or monologues in verse, which reveal the characters, motives, and acts of the persons of the drama {Macbeth). Didactic teaches the reader, either directly, as a lecture, or by suggestion through the use of a story with a moral {How Doth the Little Busy Bee). Narrative tells a story {The Lady of the Lake). Ballad, a form of narrative poetry which had its origin in the common people, and deals either with their own life or with heroic deeds they have merely heard of {Robin Hood). Ode, a high, that is, a ceremonial or hymn-like type of poetry, giving beauty and fulness to a definite theme or sub- ject {The Ode on a Grecian Urn). Lyric, so called from the lyre with which it was anciently supposed to be accompanied, hence, a song-like poem, dealing with a single thought or emotion, and expressed in the first person. The chief essential of its form is melody {Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright). Elegy, a sad or reflective lyric, usually with a narrative element {The Elegy in a Country Churchyard). Sonnet, a lyric of fourteen verses (lines) in which the thought or emotion is regarded in the first part as developing, in the second part as being applied. Sometimes the development occupies twelve verses and the application two {When to the sessions of sweet silent thought); and sometimes the develop- 307 3o8 References, Technical and Historical ment occupies eight and the application six {Much have I travelVd in the realms of gold) . Epigram, as Professor Gummere points out, is a poem written on something; it is therefore short and to the point. It bears the same relation to an ordinary form of expression that a diamond bears to a lump of coal — it is compressed, hard, brilliant, costly, and likely to cut or scratch {You beat your pate and fancy wit will come) . Epitaph, on a tomb, originally; then, any inscription con- veying remembrance of the dead. Pastoral, originally the artistic imitation of the songs shep- herds were supposed to sing when tending their flocks {Come live with me and be my love) ; then broadened to include almost any poetic rural theme {The Deserted Village). Vers de Societe. There must be some occasion, slight or serious, treated with wit, cleverness, and lightness {On a Girdle). Vers Libre, the most modern type of verse, in which the chief regard is paid to the visualizing of sensuous details, and in which there is the most perfect freedom of versification. There are no examples of this ultra-romantic school of poetry in this little volume. PROSODY (SCIENCE OF VERSIFICATION) From the Latin versor, to keep turning, is verse, used as a general equivalent for the word poetry {British Verse for Boys); also used as a more modest word than poetry {Album Verses); also the correct term for a line of poetry (the first verse of the poem). A verse is self-limited in length, but a line of prose is lirbited only by the width of the page. Stanza, a natural group of related verses. Rhyme, in its ordinary sense, the repetition of similar, not identical, syllables. These similar syllables ordinarily come at the end of the verses (sing, ring) . When the syllable in the midst of the verse is similar to one at the end, the rhyme is called mid-line rhyme (About, about, in reel and rout); when two syllables rhyme with two others, the rhyme is called double (singing — ringing). Unrhymed verse is called blank. References, Technical and Historical 309 Rhythm, the flow of sound; and, as sounds tend to flow in waves, some louder than others, rhythm has come to mean recurrence of accents, either regular or regularly varied. Exam- ples are: the ticking of a watch; the beating of the pulse; the accent of speech; a verse (Alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide, wide sea). Metre. Measure of rhythm. Count the accents in the example just above, and you will find there are seven. Metrically arranged, as in the Ancient Mariner from which the verses are quoted. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea, you will notice that four of the seven are in the first verse, three in the second. Such metre as this is called Ballad Metre. Metres are named from the number of accents in the verse, which may vary from one to eight. Metres also may move swiftly or slowly; and curiously enough the effect of swiftness arises from the increase in the ratio of syllables to accents. Study these examples. How many syllables in each verse? How many accents in each? Which moves faster? 1. hark, O hear, how thin and clear. 2. O young Lochinvar is come out of the West. Feet are the groups of syllables which make up a verse. In every group there is one accented syllable and one or more unaccented. Study this nursery rhyme: Simple Simon went a fishing For to catch a whale. There are four feet in the first verse, three in the second. Study this from Longfellow: This is the forest primeval, the murmuring pines and the hem- locks There are six feet in this verse. Study this from Milton: Come, and trip it as you go. On the light, fantastic toe. There are four feet in each verse. 3IO References, Technical and Historical The character of the individual foot is best learned from Coleridge, who wrote a poem for his own boy on this subject. You will find it on page 141. Scanning consists in marking the feet of a verse of poetry, first in the mind by the sound, and then on paper. It is usual to mark the*-feet, as feet, by vertical lines; but it is also of importance to discern which is the accented syllable in each foot and mark that. There is an oral scansion, which consists of reading the verse with an artificial stress on the accented syllables. Remember that the first step in scanning is a natural reading of the verse, with an intelligent regard for its meaning. / ' 11 It is I an An I cient Mar | iner,| / / t And he stop | peth one | of three. | In scanning this passage it was first noted that Coleridge in- tended to name a person as if seen on the street holding up one of three other persons whom he met. This idea requires the first accent to fall on // rather than is. The stresses on An and Mar are obvious, but the one on cr is not a natural stress as the word is commonly pronounced. It is a stress only in com- parison with the stress as the preceding syllable /. (To make this clear, read the verse aloud, and try putting the stress on i.) The first accent we naturally come upon in the second verse is on stop, which requires us to pass over two syllables without stress, instead of one as in the last three feet of the verse above. (Observe the effect on the sense of the verse, of putting the stress on any other syllables than the ones marked. This comes about through the principle that the poet as well as we, his readers, knew what was the common understanding of words and phrases, and constructed his verse accordingly. This apparently unnecessary remark is occasioned by the feeling a good many boys have that there is something arbitrary about scanning. Other examples follow: t I tit So all I day long | the noise | of bat | tie roll'd | This is a clear and regular example of blank, heroic verse, References, Technical and Historical 311 which has ten syllables, five accents, each accent falling on the second syllable of the foot, as a rule. The following verse scans the same, except for what is called a shift of accent in the opening foot — a delightful variety in a long poem, and also except for the extra syllable at the end, which is known as a feminine end- t r Iff Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder. Below is an example made up wholly of feet in which the accent falls on the first of each two syllables, and in which also there is an irregularity frequently found in verse — the omission of the final syllable: What hath night to do with sleep? Pause may take the place of an unaccented syllable as in the verse just scanned. It may appear in other places than at the end of the verse, especially in dramatic poetry when the effect of sudden change is desired. There is also in all long verses, a kind of pause which does not take the place of any syllable, but is used to control the phrasing or inflecting of the verse. It is called the Casura. In the following examples the caesuras occur at different points in the verse: / I I f f f When I I dipt in | to the fut | ure || far | as hu | man eye | could see I f f I I — Immor | tal vig || or though | oppressed | and fallen | / f I f f Shortly | shall all | my lab | ors end,|| and | thou | / f t f I f My duke | dom 1 1 since ] you've giv | en me | again { Quatrain, a stanza of four verses in which the fourth rhymes with the second, and the third may rhyme with the first. Sometimes, but rarely, the fourth rhymes not with the second but with the first. Couplet, two verses rhymed. Heroic Couplet, a pair of 5-beat, lo-syllable verses rhymed. 312 References, Technical and Historical The most familiar form is that established in the 17th century, on Chaucer's model, and brought to perfection in the i8th century, by Pope. Its characteristics are its completeness, its ease, and its patness or point. Judges and senates have been bought for gold, • Esteem and love were never to be sold. Special Forms of verse, particularly if produced in English by foreign influence, should be studied in such treatises as Professor Gummere's Handbook of Poetics. (Ginn and Com- pany.) But many may be observed in this volume, and to some attention has been called in the notes. Poet Laureate, a poet of unquestioned character and loyalty, who is given a small pension, and the honor of being the official poet of the kingdom. Laureate means crowned with laurel, which was the leaf with which poets were crowned in ancient Greece, at the festivals in honor of Apollo, the god of poetry. It has sometimes happened that the laurel has not crowned the most gifted poet of England. On the other hand, Tennyson, by his work in general and his occasional poems, (such as his Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington), reflected glory on the ofiice. POETICAL PERIODS OR MOVEMENTS There have been great single poets in times not favorable to their growth, but as a rule greatness or even success has been in part conditioned by the age. The age does not account for Chaucer, except in a very slight degree. It does go far towards explaining Shakspere, Pope, or Tennyson. The Renaissance or New Learning had been a gradual devel- opment in England during the XV century. It consisted essen- tially in the influence upon English thought of the ideals and impulses of Italy, as hers had grown out of the new-born enthu- siasm for classical literature and art which had possessed her scholars for two centuries. The growth of the art and fashion of painting at this time in England was of course a great help, i References, Technical and Historical 313 and certain great continental scholars came into England to give University men a good chance to study Greek and Latin at home. The enlarging of the bounds of imaginative study, the expansion of foreign relations of all kinds due to larger commerce and explorations, the XVT century religious excitement and freedom, the new-found national consciousness of Britain, all worked together to produce an atmosphere favorable to original literary endeavor, and one which offered both new and interest- ing material to write about, and a new and larger public to write for. On this high and rising tide of life rode the poets Spenser, Marlowe, and Shakspere, with all the other Elizabethans. It was an age in which genius was fostered. Great things were done with no consciousness that they were either great or difficult. The Puritan Age followed that of Elizabeth. It was an age of reaction from worldly standards. The conscience of the nation had awakened with its imagination, and a new and critical form of piety developed. Poets who were far from being Puritans themselves felt the influence of this atmosphere of morality, and were moved either to sympathy with it or hostility to it. The Cavalier Poets, the followers of King Charles, quite frankly took a non-Puritanic view, and made what capital they could out of ridiculing the peculiar advocates of righteousness. Their doctrine was in some cases the one deplored in Scripture, "Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to- morrow we die." Such a doctrine brought out the delightful lyrics of Lovelace, while Milton's mighty trumpet voiced the serious spirit of the age. The Restoration is the name given to the period of revolt from the restraint of the Puritans, when at the close of the Commonwealth in 1660 the Stuarts were restored to power. It was a dissolute and decadent age, and was happily soon past. Dryden lived through it. The Classical Age was the period, of uncertain duration, which covered most of the poetical activities of England from 1688 to 1 760 — the reigns of William and Mary, Anne, and the first two Georges. The typical work of this period was unoriginal in 314 References, Technical and Historical thought, and rule-ridden m form. Of course there were writers of unusual brilliancy and talent who rose above the age, but not a single poet who could not be spared from our daily thought and reading without serious unhappiness. The three greatr^ames are Dryden, Pope, and Swift. The influences which made the age peculiar were, first, political and religious timidity and weariness; second, unblushing self-interest; third, the habit of imitation, — one man imitated another, and all imitated Horace, or Juvenal, or some other Latin poet; fourth, the fashions, and especially the fashion of following the French ideas of the time in china, in furniture, in manners, in vices and virtues, and particularly in the rules for writing poetry. The age was of value to those which have succeeded it chiefly through the development of the art of saying things with extreme clearness. But as this is a merit of prose rather than of verse, we cannot consider this description the highest praise. The Age of Romanticism marked the swing of the pendulum of freedom of thought and style away from its Classical re- straints. Burns, Cowper, Gray, then Wordsworth and Col- eridge, then Byron, Shelley, Keats, and Scott — these names suggest the way the world won back its habit of thinking sincerely and writing in harmony with the thought and not according to rule or fashion. As you read on and on, in this little book, you will find yourself passing through one atmos- phere after another, and if you are keen to notice, you will/ee/ the ages as you feel changes in the country through which you bowl along in an open car. One caution may be necessary. You must not suppose that a Romanticist is the same as a romancer. Romanticism is the laying of the chief emphasis in poetry on the substance rather than on the form, and especially it is contrary to self-conscious and traditional form. Classicism is conventionality; Roman- ticism, liberty. References, Technical and Historical 315 DATES The following dates in English history are of occasional value to one who is studying the poetry age by age: XIV Century: Edward III and the Black Prince. War with France. XV Century: Introduction of printing. Study of Greek in the Universities. Discovery and Exploration. Wars of the Roses end. Henry VIII: (1509) New Learning encouraged. Quarrel with Roman church brought England into the current of the Refor- mation . Edivard VI: Great schools established on ruins of monasteries. Elizabeth: Rehgious toleration, large undertakings, height of Renaissance, new pride in national greatness. James I: (1603) Continuance of most lines of Elizabethan ac- tivity. The King James Version of the Bible. Rise of Puritans. Charles I: (1625) People rose, and in 1649 estabhshed common- wealth, which for eleven years marked England as a Puritan Democracy. Ohver Cromwell was its chief, with title of Protector; Milton its Latin or Foreign Secretary, who had the task of justifying the Protectorate to the monarchies of Europe. Charles II: (1660) The Restoration of the Stuarts, and, with them, of the Church of England. William of Orange and Mary Stuart: (1688) an elected king, and the Whig party in the ascendant. Anne: (1702) The last of the Stuarts. Tatler and Spectator pubUshed. Foreign wars. George I: (17 14) First of the House of Hanover. German Prince, with no EngUsh sympathy or language. George II: (1725) Miscalled Augustus, from his supposed like- ness to Augustus Caesar in patronizing men of letters. George III: (1760) who looked on while the world threw off many of the restraints which tradition and government had long maintained. The revolutions in America and France were political, but it was not more in politics than in hterature an age of change and newness. 3l6 References, Technical and Historical Lake Poets : This is a name given to Wordsworth and his two friends, Coleridge and Southey, because they lived a longer or shorter time in the English Lake Country — Westmoreland. Wordsworth was in a very real sense a lake-poet. Victoria:' (^i^2)l) Ii^ its way this reign was as rich as that of Elizabeth — but one was rich in energy, initiative, and promise; the other in the results of these precious beginnings of greatness. With all pride in the work of Darwin we ought to remember that he was in a sense made possible by Bacon. So in literature, the long list of notable men descended from that list of far- distant pioneers called the Elizabethans. To what men and women, and of what kind of literary powers, will the genius of the Victorian Age become a heritage? George V: (1907) This is a time of many good poets, and much sincere and lofty pursuit of truth. We are too close to judge it fairly, but if there is one quality that deserves to be called dominant, it is, perhaps, the quality of realism — the portrayal of life with its facts and motives unadorned; splendor and magnitude are apparently not yet reached in current poetry. Can it be that the world war — the blackest tragedy of all time — will generate these attributes of a majestic literature? Can it be that British thought is even now stumbling up the great world's altar-stairs that slope through darkness up to God? INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES GEOFFREY CHAUCER The tomb of Thomas a Becket, the martyred Archbishop of Can- terbury, had been for many years a holy shrine to pilgrims from all parts of England. The Canterbury Talcs are supposed to be told by Chaucer and his companions on their pilgrimage to Becket's tomb. In the prologue, the characters are introduced, and the place and man- ner of their meeting at the Tabard, in South London, are described. There were thirty in the company in all, representing almost as many types and vocations; and each member was supposed, in Chaucer's original plan, to tell two stories going to Canterbury, and two more coming back. This scheme was by no means completely executed, but twenty-four Tales have come down to us, each fittingly told by a pilgrim-character, and each evidence of the genius of the Father of English Poetry. The life of Chaucer had prepared him in an extraordinary way to write of various classes of English society. He is thought of as a courtier, diplomat, or statesman. But he had begun life as pot-boy in his father's wine-shop; then had served successively as page in the household of a prince, soldier in the army of Edward IH, and valet to the king. He had been the passionate lover of a lady beyond his reach, a student of literature and of science, a custom-house officer in London, a famous traveler, and a practical man of affairs. It is this varied experience, as well as his gift for seeing and writing vividly, that made his portrayals and stories immortal. Chaucer's personal gifts were chiefly a loyal heart, a charming man- ner, a kindly wit, broad sympathies, and common sense. He was the lirst poet to be buried in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey. soote, sweet through which the sun swich, such passes in April vertue, life corages, hearts holt, wood halwes, holy places, shrines Ram , that ' ' sign of the zodiac " kouth, famous 317 3i8 Introductions and Notes devyse, show ferre, further reysed, forayed arive, a gathering of troops at the shore {ad ripam) for an expeditioh ilke, same prys, praise vileinye, vulgarity wight, person fustyan, homespun gepoun, short, tight coat bysmotered, smudged habergeoun, coat of mail bacheler, a squire who aspires to become a knight cruUe, curly evene lengthe, average height delyver, nimble chivachye, cavalry service floytynge, playing his flute make and endite, compose and write nightertale, night time cleped, called fetysly, accurately leste, pleasure raughte, reached sikerly, certainly disport, fun peyned, took pains countrefete cheere, imitate the manners estatlich, stately wastel breed, bread made of , tine wheat-flour yerde, stick wympel, veil, covering head and neck y-pynched, plaited tretys, pretty fetys, neat logik, learning overeste courtepy, outer gar- ment benefice, living, pastorate office, civic office levere, more eager fithele, fiddle sawtrie, harp philosophre, a pun, the word meaning either "lover of learning" or "alchemist" herte, get sentence, meaning sowning, tending to sythes, times lafte nat, ceased not lewed, ignorant keep, care (for his worldly in- terests) leet, left chaunterie for soules, a chance to sing masses in the cathedral withholde, maintained, living free in a monastery mercenarie, hireling despitous, cruel daungerous ne digne, difticult nor disdainful snybben, rebuke nones, occasion spiced, high- flavored with worldh' knowledge Introductions and Notes 319 BALLADS Between the work of genial Chaucer and the height of the Reiiais- siiiice in the middle of the Sixteenth Century, there was a period of I'^nglish life comparatively unblest by written poetry. But the people were singing, taught by their gifted though unlettered bards, and their songs were here and there, as time went on, committed to paper. They were called ballads, and celebrate every sort of public or pri- \ate event, telling the news or retelling famous stories. They move rapidly in couplets of seven beats (usually printed as verses of four and three) and are marked by swift action, simple thought, and a way of their own of painting pictures and relating events. In their original mediaeval use they were not recited, but sung to some accom- paniment, perhaps of a harp; and to many of them even now tradi- tional melodies are attached. Sir P.\trick Spens. Eric, the King of Norway, and his Scottish bride, died in 1278, or thereabout, leaving a little daughter. King Edward I of England, some years later, concluded that it would be "good poHtics" to marry his son to this "Maiden of Norway," as she was quaintly called. So, to use the words of the chronicle, "Am- bassadors were despatched to bring home the royal infant, who, to the great grief of the whole kingdom, died on the voyage." Was this the "King's daughter of Norroway," and were the ambassadors the "Scots lairds" in "cork-heeled shoon"? This is a good example of the way in which actual events found their way into the popular ballads, after a century or two had enveloped the facts in a romantic mist. Dunfermline, ancient residence of the Scottish kings, and the birth- place of Andrew Carnegie, skeely, skilful braid, broad King's daughter, \cr}- likely an allusion to the daughter of Eric of Norway who as bride of Prince Henry died on her voj^age to Scot- land. lap, leaped, sprang lode, load of blows wap, bind jow, toll laith, loath Islington, pronounce Izlington Chevy Chase, Cheviot Hunting fond, foolish, doting wode, furious 320 Introductions and Notes SIR EDWARD DYER My Mind to me a Kingdom is sets forth a quaint but shrewd analysis of the doctrine of coiilcntment. Note how this doctrine differs from that of &Qlisf action. One seeks enough, the other restrains de- sire. In the apprehension of this difference lies the secret of happiness, as truly now as it did three centuries ago when Sir Edward expounded it. The theory of life contained in this poem was put to the extreme test of actual experiment by a New England scholar in the middle of the Nineteenth Centurj^, Henry David Thoreau, who left the social life of Concord for the simplicity of a cabin on lonely Walden Pond. Such an application of the theory is interesting, but not necessary. The truest test would take place in the midst of ordinary conditions. We often hear of a man who eagerly seeks more money, though he is already so rich that his wealth is a burden to him. Has he Sir Ed- ward's spirit? grows by kind, is produced by nature. want, lack, Oiot desire). thrall, slave. surfeits, sickens with excess. pine, waste away with longing. ease, peace. EDMUND SPENSER The name Amorctti, which Spenser gave his love Sonnets, was bor- rowed from Italy along with the Sonnet itself (Such things give the words "Italian influence" and "Renaissance" a more definite meaning to us. They show England in the act of learning from Italy). These verses were written to honor his wife, the "Irish country lass," Eliz- abeth Boyle, while the Faerie Queenc was written to honor the great Elizabeth of England. The stanza, called Spenserian, in which this great work is written, is worthy of special examination. It has how many verses? What is the rhyme order in the first stanza? Is it the same in all? How many beats in the various verses? Was it a small thing to write so many such stanzas? Yet Spenser, filled with the boundless energy of the age, did not blench at the prospect of com- pleting his gigantic plan for twenty-four books in the same style. What did discourage him is shown with pathetic clearness in the Httle poem, Hope Deferred, above. Spenser drew his famous passage on the trees from Chaucer. The interesting parallel may be studied by re- 4 Introductions and Notes 321 ferring to Chaucer's Parlcnieiil of Foiiles (Meeting of the Birds) Hnes 176-182. juniper, a low, spreading evergreen bush. eglantine, sometimes the honeysuckle, but here the dogrose or large wild brier common in English hedges. pill, bitter because concentrated essence of the nut. moly, a mythical white flower, with a black root. sour enough, a mi.xed flavor, like sorrel. suing, petitioning — here, for royal favors. Prince's, Queen Elizabeth's. Sayling Pine, used for masts of ships. weepeth still, balsam from its boughs, like tears. forlorne paramours, lonely lovers. I recall hearing, some years a^o, that great Yorkshireman Dr. Calthrop, sing this ancient York- shire ditty: "All 'round my hat I wears a green willow; All "round my hat, for a year and a day. If any one should ask you the reason why I wears it, Then say that mj^ true love is far, far away." Eugh, yew, of which the English made their bows. shaftes, arrows. Sallow, a kind of willow specially good for making into charcoal. Mirrhe, which when "bitterly wounded" exudes an aromatic gum. Warlike Beech, used for clubs and shields. Platane, the plane-tree, which bears round balls. Holme, or holly, the best wood for carving. weening, hoping, e.vpecting. JOHN LYLY Lyly shared in the English Revival of classical learning. He was a wit in the Queen's court, and a London schoolmaster. He wrote both brilliant plays and two strange prose books about Eiiphues (the Well-Bred). These spread abroad a fanciful kind of language, called Euphuism, which influenced the style of many writers, in- cluding Shakspere. ClTPiD AND Campaspe. Appelles, the court-painter, was required to paint the portrait of Campaspe, the Persian captive of Alexander the Great. The artist fell deep in love with the fair slave, sang this song in her praise, was overheard, was threatened by the Emperor, 322 Introductions and Notes gave up hope even of life, and finally was raised to a heaven of joy by being given Campaspe for his bride. his mother's doves, etc. Cupid made free with the property of Venus, his mother, in the desperate game with Campaspe, in addition to losing to her all his own charms. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY Sidney was the "soldier of the queen" who was so fortunate as to become the e.xample to all young men in his own day and ever Since, of true manhood and gentleness. You remember the " cup of water" given to the common soldier on the field of Zutphen? To Sleep. Compare Sidney's description of sleep with that which Shakspere puts into the mouth of Macbeth, Act II, Sc. II. "Stella" was Sidney's name for the Lady Penelope Devereux, to whom he was betrothed. The Arcadia, from which this tuneful sonnet is drawn, is a prose romance, very elal^orate and fanciful, but not interesting to most readers nowadays. certain knot, one that will not let peace slip. baiting-place, where wit stops to refresh itself. proof, armor. civil wars, because within himself. image, his only consolation for a sleepless night will be the memory of his lady-love. My True Love Hath My He.xrt. Theophile Marzial's setting of this madrigal in the musical form called the Canon, is an e.xquisite duet. Only the first eight lines, the octet, is sung. Do you see the reason for this? MICHAEL DRAYTON Michael Drayton was a very patriotic poet. He wrote long and stirring accounts of English heroes, especially in war, but his most important work was a sort of rhymed geography of 100,000 lines, called Polyolhion, which describes the mountains, fields, forests, towns and rivers of Britain, and tells stories about them all. It is not by these long poems, however, that Drayton is best known, but by his lyrics, for e.xample, the sonnet. Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part. This is particularly admired on account of the sudden turn given to the thought in the closing couplet. Passion, the same person as Love in the verse abo\'e. Introductions and Notes 323 The sj)irilc(l account, of the battle of Agincourt, between Henry V and the French, affords another good example. The victory of the English Yeomen is presented dramatically in the fourth act of Shak- spere's Henry V ; and Drayton's lyrical form was admired by Tennyson, as may be discovered in his Charge of the Light Brigade. So it appears that both the theme and the metre of this particular poem of Dray- ton's are of special interest. Agincourt, pronounce so as to rhyme with/or/. bilbos, swords, from the town in Spain where they were made. maiden knight, because fighting his first battle. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE When we think of Marlowe, we see a life of the greatest promise cut off before its prime. Marlowe was a natural scholar. He had e\'ery adxantage offered by the stimulating atmosphere of Cambridge University at the height of the English Renaissance. A dramatic gift, second to none, found expression in live powerful tragedies, written in that blank verse Pentameter which has since been the medium of all the highest utterances in English poetry'; but his life also was a tragedy, and ended violently in a tavern brawl. The P.\ssionate Shepherd to his Love. The imagery employed to ornament this appeal is not only artificial; it reflects the pastoral ornamentation of the love poetry of the ancient Greeks, of whom Marlowe was an enthusiastic disciple — another evidence of the Eng- lish re\i\al of classical learning. madrigals, shepherd's songs, usually of love. kirtle, skirt, or jacket with skirt attached. swains, rustic youths. T.-VMBURL.\iNE TO C.\LYPHAs. This brief passage is introduced to give an idea of "Marlowe's mighty line." Tamburlaine, the powerful Eastern conqueror, had three sons. Of these three boys, two were outspoken in their eagerness to join their father's army. But Caly- phas, feeling sorry for his mother who would thus be bereft of her children, expressed a modest desire to remain at home. Thereupon the warlike king burst forth upon him in this scathing rebuke. WILLLVM SHAKSPERE From the discordant life of Marlowe it is a relief to turn to the poet whom Milton called "Sweetest Shakspere, Fancy's child." The cen- 324 Introductions and Notes tral fact of Shakspere's life is his possession and exercise of genius. The most important secondary fact about Shakspere is that he Hved in that age of England's history which may be described as the most restlessly and joyously alive — the Age of Elizabeth. The genius of Shakspere was primarily a genius for appreciating every phase of the life of this 'restless and joyous age, e\ery thing, every person, every event, e\'cry sight or sound. With this gift of universal interest and insight was joined the most facile power of expression ever ac- corded to the pen of man. Shakspere was a country lad, and even after he went up to London to seek his fortune, he had neither time nor opportunity for systematic study. His university was the world; his teachers, fellow-playwrights, or the "groundlings" who roared from the "pit," or the gay noblemen who frequented the boxes and patronized the dramatists. Out of all this came the greatest of poets — the Voice through whom, for three hundred years, have vibrated the hopes, fears, loves, ambitions, griefs, and merriment of mankind. Five SoNNET.s. These sonnets, in the English, not the true Italian, form, are sometimes called quatorzaiiis. They consist of three qua- trains and a couplet, and the thought is usually "developed" through the first twelve lines, and then rather epigrammaticall}' "applied" in the last two. The five sonnets here given are drawn from Shak- spere's great series of one hundred and fifty-four. bootless, profitless, vain. like him, may be taken as like a single other fortunate man, or like one in one respect, and another in another. contented least is thoroughly explained by Dyer in My Mind to me a Kingdom is. alchemy, which changes baser metals into gold. anon, soon. rack, masses of clouds. forlorn, lost, suggests the German vcrloren. my sun, the friend who was the light of my life, chronicle of wasted time, history. wights, persons. for, because, used twice adds reason to reason. outward walls, dress, house, equipage. aggravate, add weight to, increase. terms divine, ages in God's presence, cheaply purchased at the ex- pense of lioiirs of dross, that is, worthless pleasure. Death once dead, see Romans, VI, 1 1 . Introductions and Notes 325 Under the (iREENwooD Tree and Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind are sung in the Forest of Arden by the faithful courtiers of the Banished Duke. The classic setting of these two songs was Dr. Arne's early in the Eighteenth Century. It was a Lover and his Lass (set to music about the same time by Thomas Morley) is another As You Like It song. This one is sung towards the close of the play, and has reference to the clown Touchstone and his affectionate but awkward sweetheart, Audrey. Of course, the effect of these and all other "in- cidental" songs i,i greatly enhanced by the background of the play it- self. Look up these three in As ]'oii Like It. Hark, Hark, the Lark, and Silvia inspired Schubert, the greatest of all German melodists, to set them to perfect music. Warp, weave into ice. there suck I, emphasizes the smallness of the powerful fairy, Ariel, who sings this song to his master, Prospero, the magician — Duke of Milan. Full fathom five, is also sung by Ariel, — but to Ferdinand, who is made to believe his father drowned. chaliced, having cups to hold the dew. winking, because marigolds close at night, pleasance, gaiety, brave, fine, splendid. prime, youth. Henry V before Harfleur. To select a typical passage from the dramatic verse of Shakspere is difficult, because proper selections are so many. This one is strong, however, as well as subtle, and shows the young King in the exuberance of his royal leadership, with his loyal knights and eager yeomen waiting on his word. If there is a touch of bombast in the address it maj^ not be Shakspere's so much as King Henry's own. Shouldn't you like to have Shakspere compose a campaign speech for your candidate, or a football speech before your team went out to play? breach, the hole already broken in the city wall. be copy, here he addresses his noble generals. yeomen, the freemen of England who had so successfully fought the many battles of the Hundred Years' War. mettle of your pasture, th'e spirit produced by your English breeding. BEN JONSON Jonson's life was composed of contradictor}^ elements from begin- ning to end; good birth but much poverty; learning and bricklaying; 326 Introductions and Notes hearty friendships and violent quarrels; sword and pen; destitute old age and unparalleled fame. He was recognized by the king and made poet laureate, and he was also recognized by his fellow-poets as their example and autocrat. He produced many dramas, mainly comedies, in the first of which. Every Man in his Humour, Shakspere played a part in 1598. He was buried in Westminster Abbey in the Poets' Corner, "^in a tomb inscribed with the simple but eloquent words, "O Rare Ben Jonson!" It was he who referred to Marlowe's blank verse as "Marlowe's mighty line," and it was he who said of Shakspere, that he had "small Latin and less Greek" (see page 45). Jonson's fondness for classical learning may be inferred from the following story, if one understands that in his daj' a common name for brass was lattcn. "It is related that Shakspere was godfather to one of Ben Jonson's children, and said to his friend after the christen- ing, "I' faith, Ben, I'll e'en give him a dozen good latten spoons, and thou shalt translate them." Jonson wrote a book in which the laws of both Latin and English grammar were explained. Simplex Mltnditiis. This title may be rendered, ''artless in adorn- menl". It is dra\v-n from a Latin ode in which Horace describes a beautiful coquette. Naturally, Ben Jonson, being a great scholar, would use a Latin phrase for a title. Perhaps the phrase suggested the poem. still, ever, always. To THE Memory of my Beloved Master. How could the same pen produce this rugged metre, that flowed so smoothly in the lyrics which precede? But this blank verse is not all harsh; it contains many eloquent as well as wise and learned passages, and much material of interest to one who wants to know what Jonson thought of his in- timate friend, Shakspere. suffrage, vote. without a tomb, hence, living. great but disproportioned, Chaucer and Spenser were great, but not in Shakspere's "class." seek, lack. buskin tread, tragedy; socks, comedy, after the foot-gear of the actors in the old Creek drama. When the tragic hero was overwhelmed by fate, his fall seemed greater because he was such a gigantic person. The reverse was true in the outcome of a comedy. for the laurel, in place of the laurel. issue, children. shake a lance, a pun on Shakespere's name, and an old one, at that. Introductions and Notes 327 banks of Thames, the Swan Theatre was on the south side of the Thames, at Banksidc. Eliza, Kiizabeth. James, James \T of Scothmd, who succeeded Elizabeth on England's throne. advanced, posted or set. Star of Poets, generous praise from one who, himself, occupied the position of greatest glory among the living dramatists of the time. GEORGE WITHER Sham, i, '>vasting in despair. In this declaration of independence, we have our first taste of the light, deft, gentlemanly verse of the Cavalier Poets. One sees clearly that the lover is not the sort to waste away in despair; and one is inclined to suspect that when the lady read his gaj' verses, she promptly assured him there was no reason why he should. In other words, there is a playfulness, an open un- reality or insincerity, about this type of \erse, vers de societe, that we find at once artificial and delightful. It represents only one side of \\'ither's poetry, however; he lived a long and varied life, and in politics and religion showed very interesting changes of front to the world as it advanced on its way from Elizabeth, through the Puritan period, to the Restoration. His eighty-two years were lived in an age of England's history that must have made them pass \ery swiftty. are, j^ronounced air. not only here but common!}- until the last century. silly, cmptv. \\TLLI.\M BROWNE Epitaph on the Countess. This compliment to the sister of Sir Philip Sidney is attributed with strong probability to William Browne, though it is far better known than he. The last line repeats the image, a favorite one in that age, of the death of Death. sable hearse, black pall. ROBERT HERRICK Herrick was the greatest of the disciples of Ben Jonson among the lyrical poets. His work had power as well as grace, and religious ferxor as well as social charm. Stopford Brooke says, "Herrick was 328 Introductions and Notes the most remarkable of those who at this time sat below the mountain top on which Milton was alone." To THE Virgins. A piece of advice put in the light and gracious form which was in vogue in the time of Charles I. Delight in Dlsorder, a different treatment of the same thought as Ben Jonson'^ Simplex Muuditiis. Which do you prefer? Julia's silk dress afforded an occasion for another bit of vers dc soeiete. wantonness, wilfulness. erring, wandering. enthrals, embraces. stomacher, bodice, or wide belt. To Anthea. a thrilling love song, especially when sung in its fine setting by Hatton. (Songs of England I). Protestant, I will protest, or swear, myself thine forever. GEORGE HERBERT George Herbert went from his native Wales to Trinity College, Cambridge, and then, as vicar, to the "more pleasant than healthful Bemerton." Here he lived in the love and reverence of the simple people of his parish, spread abroad the "sweet and serious learning of the 17th century," and, in particular, wrote many short poems. His volume of poems called The Temple contains one hundred and fifty numbers, compact with thought, and breathing a sincerity and a spirit of consecration unsurpassed in literature. The four numbers which represent Herbert in this collection are all drawn from The Temple. Observe the simplicity of their language, their strength, and the ingenuity of their thought. These qualities were calculated to appeal strongly to people in the so-called Puritan age, and they help us of the present time to appreciate Professor George Herbert Palmer's saying, that Herbert was "the first in English Poetry to talk face to face with God." angry and brave, red and splendid. the world's riches, literally, all man's for the asking, and no other creature's. Sorrow dogging sin, a perfect ideal of discipline in school or elsewhere, since only thus can our frail humanity acquire virtue — sorrow, like a clog, close on the heels of sin. cunning, .sly, taking us unaware. his tincture, its touch, that is, the touch of the Elixir. His for its was common. Introductions and Notes 329 famous stone, the philosopher's stone, or elixir, which, when found, would turn base metal into gold. be told, be counted and hence valued (related to "tally"). EDMUND WALLER Waller was the first of that school of poets in the 17th century which prepared the way for Dryden and Pope. The fire and freedom of the Age of Elizabeth had diminished, and influences both native to England and brought in from France began to alter the type of poetry. It grew careful, cold, fine, and comparatively small. Waller's special contribution to this movement, which is called "classical," was the reproduction of Chaucer's heroic couplet, with a smoothness which made it tempting to every writer that followed him for more than a century — notably to Dryden, Pope and Goldsmith. pale, fence, or boundary, and hence sometimes the space enclosed within the fence. deer, a common and unworthy pun, but not as distressing to the ears of Waller's day as to ours. The Elizabethan looked upon a pun not as a joke to be smiled at, but as an ingenious use of words to be admired. JOHN MILTON The man, John Milton, appears in his writing in a more marked degree than any other poet of his age, except perhaps George Herbert. Even when he is deliberately representing a "character" as speaking, it is Milton's thought and feeling that find expression; and this is more true still in the five sonnets given below, where he speaks not dramatically, but directly. Observe, in the first, the young man's ideals; in the second, the eloquent praise of his political chief; in the third, the exultation of the Puritan over the devotion of the martyrs of Piedmont; in the fourth, the consolation for his terrible affliction, which he found in religion; in the last, the "proud humility" of a patriot, who knows how richly he has been paid in the coin of the soul for the sacrifice of his physical eyesight. To sum up the man of these five sonnets, then, we find lofty self-esteem, intense loyalty to ideas and to friends, and a faith in God as lasting and as deep as life itself. In form, the sonnets are an adaptation of the Italian type — the earliest in English poetry. It is worth while to note the oft-quoted phrase in the one on Cromwell, and the one on his blindness. Observe 330 Introductions and Notes also in the one to Cyriack Skinner, the resolute Saxon passage be- ginning "Nor bate a jot of heart or hope," and the passage in which he exults over his foe in the recent international debate between the Commonwealth of England and the monarchies of Europe. His greatest works were written after he became blind — Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonisles. Milton was only eight years old when Shakspere died, and he was not born till James I had been five years on the English Throne; but he may properly be regarded as in certain respects one of the Eliz- abethan poets; he himself said he felt he had "been born an age too late." No better evidence of his kinship with the writers of the elder generation is needed than his Epitaph on Shakspere, especially the last two verses, which Shakspere himself might have written. But viewed in its larger aspects his genius had the freedom and originality, the sympathy with the great currents of contemporary life, the limit- less scope and energy, which characterize the Elizabethan Age. Milton differs from Shakspere and his fellow dramatists in being de- cidedly more a conscious artist — more seriously bent on being a great poet. This mood or attitude contrasts with the Elizabethan, in which the greatest feats, in every line of human activity, were performed without any apparent realization of their stupendous importance. Milton at twenty-three had just been advised to give up poetry as a life-work and go into the church. This sonnet is his answer. timely-happy, those whose age and maturity more clearly correspond. secular chains, state support for the clergy — a policj^ which both Milton and Cromwell opposed, as hostile to religious freedom, slaughtered saints, the Piedmontese Protestants were victims of the zeal of their Catholic ruler, the Duke of Savoy. triple Tyrant, the pope, who wore a triple crown called the tiara. babylonian woe, the evils associated with the rule of Rome, the mod- ern Babylon. See Revelation, chaps. XVII and XVTII. my light is spent, Milton became blind gradually, but probably totally lost his sight about 165.'. SIR JOHN SUCKLING Sir John Suckling was a gallant in every sense of the word, a witty, sprightly, and dashing companion, and a typical "Cavalier" poet. He pawned his estate to furnish King Charles with a troop of cavalry, and he rode to his death in Paris on an errand for his Queen. Prithee, short for, I pray thee. Introductions and Notes 331 CAPTAIN RICHARD LOVELACE A courtier, rich, handsome, dashing, widely famous, and a true Cavalier, was Captain Richard Lovelace. His gallantry and com- radeship were of a finer order than Sir John Suckling's; and his verse, though not so witty, was far more beautiful. Each of the two ex- amples here given contains a passage universally quoted. Can you account for the popularit}' of each passage? [It is true, is it not, that a phrase passes into common use as a quotation because it is thought a particularly effective way to express an idea. It is also true that the idea itself must be one of general application, and that its expression must be brief or striking. What sort of passage is most likely to be quoted from the Bible? Try putting some of the everyday proverbs into a new form of words, say — "a rolling stone gathers no moss," or, "a fool and his money are soon parted." How did it happen that ".\be" Lincoln acquired his great reputation for originality of speech, when the most marked feature of his conversation was his use of a never-failing supply of these common adages?] To A^TUKA, IROM Prison. The first thing to notice in this love- song is the central thought, which appears most plainly in the first two verses of the last stanza. That being the theme of the song, how is it expanded? What standard of liberty does the imprisoned soldier use in the opening stanza? He is as free as the fishes in the sea, in the second stanza; as the winds of heaven in the third; and as the angels above in the last. wanton in the air, do utterly as they will in the air. allaying Thames, diluting water. committed linnets, imprisoned, as Captain Lovelace was. He was guilty of having dared to present to Parliament a petition in behalf of King Charles. JOHN DRYDEN John Dryden was poet laureate to Charles II. He was born in the reign of Charles I, lived through the Commonwealth, then through the Restoration and the Revolution, and almost through the reign of William III, dying two years before Anne came to the throne. His position was eminent throughout these various fortunes of the state; and toward the close of his life, Dryden's talents, age, and political experience gave him the name and authority of literary dictator. 332 Introductions and Notes He was called King Dryden, and the date of his death may be con- sidered a turning point in the literary history of England. The inscription for the Portrait of Milton is, of course, chiefly in- teresting as a tribute of the great Dryden to a contemporary poet, who might have called forth jealousy instead of admiration. It is also interesting ais an e.xample of the way in which Dryden handled that familiar medium of all the English poets from 1675 to 1775, — the "heroic couplet." Note the five beats, the "iambic" foot, the rhyme; but mark the vigor, reserve, and full content of the verse; for while outwardly this line and that of a hundred lesser writers are the same, it will be felt that Drj'den was master of the form, while some other poets were mastered by it, and so failed to fill it with themselves — their thought, their emotion, their personality. Three poets, Homer, Virgil, Milton. distant ages, distant not from Dr^^den (for Milton was Dryden's contemporary), but distant from one another. The two songs in honor of St. Cecilia, who invented the pipe- organ, were ten years apart in time, and equally distinct in treat- ment; while each is, of course, devoted to the same theme — the praise of music. MATTHEW PRIOR From three or four sentences in Johnson's Lives of the Poets we can draw a none too flattering impression of "Matt Prior." " Matthew Prior is one of those that have burst out from an obscure original to great eminence. His opinions, so far as the means of judg- ing are left us, seem to have been right; but his life was irregular, negligent, and sensual. Prior has written with great variety and his variety has made him popular. He has tried all styles, from the grotesque to the solemn, and has not so failed in any as to incur de- rision or disgrace. Whatever Prior obtains above mediocrity seems the effort of struggle and of toil. He has many vigorous but few happy lines; he has everything by purchase and nothing by gift; he has no nightly visitations of the Muse, no infusions of sentiment or felicities of fancy." JOSEPH ADDISON Addison, a profound admirer of Milton, was a greater essayist than poet, but he was skilful in handling the heroic couplet, and turned his skill to the service, on the whole, of useful ends. He was a Introductions and Notes 333 mild and friendly spirit in an age of jealousy and bitter satire, and wrote more than one hymn of lofty and inspiring religious tone. The Spacious Firmament is sung to the music of the great German com- poser, Haydn. The extravagant compliment to Mira is intended to represent the silly verses tossed oft" by such poets of the time as ''Ned Softly." To enjoy its humor thoroughly one must read it in its setting in the Taller essay. No. 163. ISAAC WATTS Watts was not a poet who could be called great, though a volu- minous writer of prose and verse, especially of hymns. He is often quoted — his talent was broad, not high. At an early age (before six) Watts's poetical genius developed itself; and along with Milton and Pope, he may be said to have "lisped in numbers." It was a custom with his mother to engage her husband's pupils after school hours in writing her some verses, for which she used to reward them with a farthing. When little Watts's turn came to exercise his gift for the first time, he furnished the following couplet: "I write not for a farthing, but to tr>' How I your farthing writers can outvie." Here are two examples of "didactic" verse, so called because thej^ teach a certain virtue. What familiar lines in these two poems? How old should a boy be to outgrow the reed of such lessons? ]\Iany of the most beautiful old hymns in every modern hymn-book were written by this quaint, strong, sincere, old-fashioned clergyman, perhaps the best known of " Dissenters." What qualities do you note in the hymn given here to justify its use, year after year, by people whose point of \iew is quite at \-ariance with Dr. Watts's? Is its secret of continued usefulness to be found in its language? In its imagery? Its rhythm? Its religious elevation? Is there a single current of thought running through its seven stanzas, or could one be omitted without loss? .\L!:XA.\I)ER POPK Pope is to be admired for his wit and his persistent devotion to the art of poetry. He is to be pitied liecause he was an unhappy person, diseased in bod}' and soul, and torn between the best he knew and 334 Introductions and Notes the poor best he could be and do. He had no small capacity for reli- gious aspiration, as may be seen in his Universal Prayer; for humor untouched by rancour, as in the inscription he put on the collar of the dog he presented to the Duke of Buckingham; for the grace of sincere compliment, as in On a CertaIxN Lady at Court. But how far apart in sweetness of spirit are the two views of Addison, twenty years apart in time ! The last, in the epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, shows why the little fellow in his grotto on the banks of the Thames has been called the "Asp of Twickenham." After all, the thing about Pope we must not allow to be forgotten is that he was the most exquisite poet of his age. If you want to understand this saying in a thorough and delightful way, read The Rape of the Lock, which space alone excluded from this collection. HENRY CAREY The Maiden's Ideal of a Husband contrasts sharply with the crude but hearty views of the apprentice about an ideal wife. But the song of Sally has been sung since the Seventeenth Century, and is a fine song yet. JAiMES THOMSON Rule, Britannia is patriotic to the extreme which in modern times is called jingoism. It is perhaps natural that the national note should have changed since Thomson's time, because what he was ambitious for has come to pass, and far more than he dreamed of as a possible expansion of British power. But it has changed also because a higher ideal of power has taken possession of the British imagina- tion, as may be seen in the Recessional of Kipling, page 292. SAMUEL JOHNSON The mighty lexicographer writing playful quatrains is something like a hippopotamus dancing. But he is very fine in his lament on the death of the old doctor Robert Levet, whom he harbored in his hospitable home for years. The poem shows rough-coated old John- son in his native largeness of heart and tenderness of Christian sym- pathy. By way of realizing what a difference the point of view may make, notice that Macaulay, in his Life of Johnson, describes Dr. Levet in the following terms: "An old quack doctor named Levet, who bled and dosed coal-heavers and hackney coachmen, and re- Introductions and Notes 335 ceivcd for fees crusts of bread, bits of bacon, glasses of gin, and some- times a little copper." If you were thinking of writing a poem, should you dare to try your talents on a subject as unpromising as that? Yet Johnson succeeded. Was it his feeling or his art that made success possible? THOMAS GRAY Here we have the most important Eighteenth Century poet who broke away from the classical rules binding the most of his con- temporaries. The Age of Classicism was formal; Gray thought more of the "spirit," and less of the "letter," and consequently produced a "letter" which has lived. The Elegy. This is especially true of his immortal Elegy, a poem not easy for a young student to grasp in its detail, but richly worth his while to study, to understand, and even to learn by heart. stillness is subject, not object of holds. glebe, turf. jocund, jolly. trophies raise, as was common in the churches. The Henry VII chapel in Westminster Abbey is still hung thick with battle-flags. fretted vault, the arched ceiHng, with Gothic carvings laced upon its surface. Storied urn, an urn with an inscription or picture upon its sides. animated bust, lifelike statue. provoke, call forth. pregnant, full. waked to ecstasy, etc., become a great poet, the spoils of time, history. noble rage, ambition. Hampden, who withstood Charles I. heap the shrine, etc., flatter the rich and proud with poetical ad- dresses. madding, raging. sequestered, separated, remote. tenor, course. uncouth, crude. hoary-headed, gray. On the Death of a Favorite Cat. To those who know Gray only in his Elegy, the delicate humor which he displays in this poem will prove a pleasant surprise. 336 Introductions and Notes OLIVER GOLDSMITH Goldsmith, beloved of Garrick, Burke, Johnson, and the beautiful Miss Horneck, the " Jessamy Bride," was the ne'er-do-well of British poets, who really believed it "more blessed to give than to receive," who "wrote Kke an angel and talked like poor Poll," and who wrote himself and his humorous experiences into many forms of literature. The Vicar of Wakefield was his novel; She Stoops to Conquer, his great play; The Traveler and the Deserted Village, his serious poems. But his own portrait, awkward, unsuccessful, cheerful, lovable, is uncon- sciously painted in each. The Elegy on the De.\th of a Mad Dog was sung to the family gathering at the Vicar's, by rosy-cheeked Bill Primrose at his reverend father's request. Little Bill: "Which song do you choose. The Dying Swan, or the Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog?" The Vicar: "The Elegy, child, by all means. And Deborah, my life, you know grief is dry; let us have a bottle of the best gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits." Then, when the song is over, " A very good boy. Bill, upon my word; and an Elegy that may truly be called tragical. Come, my children, here's Bill's health, and may he one day be a bishop!" WILLIAM COWPER Cowper was another pioneer of the modern movement of his age in poetical form. Such men as Cowper and Gray are called Roman- ticists, because they rebelled, mildly or violently, as may be, against classicism, or the rule of accepted custom. The romanticists of one age may come to seem very conventional to the ej'es of a later time. Is there not in our day a freedom of versification far beyond that of Gray and Cowper? BoADiCEA and On the Loss of the Royal George are poems which reflect in their simplicity and sympathy the mood which was usual in Cowper in his daily experience. But this habitual depression was delightfully interrupted by rays of tender joy, and even of rol- licking fun. Of these periods of relief the Epitaph on a Hare illustrates one mood, and the Diverting History of John. Gilpin, another. Introductions and Notes 337 CHARLES DIBDIN A famous writer of sea-songs, of which two are given below. The music, also Dibdin's, to which they are set, is as much in character as the words themselves. So it is not to be wondered at that they have been sung with pleasure for generations. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN The brilliant, irresponsible, romantic beau, politician, orator, and dramatist, — bosom-friend of the Prince who finally became George IV. This little quatrain of the clever Irishman is of interest chiefly because it shows Fox "broke" as usual, and because it shows North witty as usual. WILLIAM BLAKE There is no more interesting personality among the poets of his age than William Blake; 3'et it is difficult to tell why. To say that he was tender-hearted to the point of fanaticism, does not give the right impression; nor to call his writings wonderful, and his paintings still more so; nor to enumerate other traits or accomplishments. There is something in the man, as he lived his seventy varied years in London, that convinces us of his genius, aside from anything he did or said. It is partly that everything he did or said was accompanied by an intense, a burning, sincerity. Before he became impressed with the sin and sorrow of the world he wrote the Songs of Innocence with unquestioning faith and hope. After the bitter fate of most of man- kind was revealed to him in the life of London, he put forth the Songs of Experience, with a corresponding desolation of heart, — with awe, grief, and a tremulous sympathy. .\ glance at the two poems will illustrate the contrasting states of mind and heart in this great nature of his. ROBERT BURNS Many are the phases of genius in this .Ayrshire ploughman that we cannot touch on here. He was not only by nature one of the greatest men; he was one of the very greatest writers of songs in all the world. His soul was a singing soul. The first six songs given below are love- songs: the first, passionate; the second, placid; the third, pathetic; the fourth, the address of an ancient wife to her dear old husband; 338 Introductions and Notes the fifth, winsome; the sixth, tragic. Then comes that cry of the soul of one, who, pitying the misfortune of the "wee beastie," gets be- trayed into a reflection on the greater ruin of his own life. There are those who find the next poem, For a' Thai, somewhat hollow and boastful on the part of Honest Poverty. But such a one misses the rare thrill that, comes from taking Burns at his simple word. The men of wealth and rank are apt to be the first to agree with the poet that simple manhood is the greatest thing. My Heart's in the Highlands pulsates with that thought of life in the open, the free, and the familiar which cheers us through the winter's work. Not many of us could express our memories and fan- cies and longings with such a swift torrent of words. AuLD Lang Syne is commonly sung at the breaking up of a gathering of friends. It has been well pointed out that it is a forward- looking song, particularly fit to be sung at the beginning of a reunion of old cronies. Sung first or last, it is the all but universal language of loyal friendship. In Macpherson's Farewell we have a doughty Highland hero, overtaken at last by his political foe, and doomed to die on the "gallows-tree." With his bag-pipes he "dauntingly" played, and sang and danced, alone, to his own music. Such desperate courage deserved a better fate. Another "true " poem, about a whole army of just such proud Scots as Macpherson, is found in the address of the younger Bruce, who fought his way to the Scottish crown. The stirring power of these lines would rouse the fighting blood of any man, especially when sung to their well-known tune. airts, directions. row, roll. shaw, thicket. fause, false. wist, knew. ilka, ever)'. staw, stole. jo, sweetheart. brent, smooth. pow, poll, head. canty, happy. bide, endure, stour, struggle. yestreen, yestere'en, last night. Introductions and Notes 339 faut, fault. drumlie, muddy. birk, birch. bickering, flickering. brattle, scamper. laith, loath. pattle, paddle (carried to clean the plough). whiles, sometimes. daimen icker in a thrave, an occasional spear of grain in two dozen sheaves. lave, rest. silly, empty. wa's, walls. big, build. foggage, grass grown up after the mowing. snell, sharp. coulter, cutter. But, without. hald, hold, refuge. thole, endure. cranreuch, hoarfrost. a-gley, wrong. hodden-gray, homespun. birkie, smartie, stuck-up young fellow. coof, coward. ribbon, star, showing that he is a Knight of the Garter — a nobleman particularly honored by the king. maunna fa', must not lay claim to. bear the gree, win the prize. roe, the red deer. straths, river-bottoms, broad valleys. wild-hanging, hanging over wild places. auld lang syne, old long-past time. pint-stoup, pint-measure. braes, hills. pou'd, pulled. gowans, daisies. fit, foot. bum, brook. dine, dinner. braid, broad. 340 Introductions and Notes fiere, companion. gie's, give us. guid-willie waught, health. sturt, trouble. distain, stain. ^ rantingly, withl)oisterous gaiety. wantonly, recklessly. dauntingly, daringly. low, lower. LADY NAIRNE Caroline Oliphant, Lady Nairne, was a famous Scotch beauty. She wrote many plaintive songs. The Land o' the Leal, Caller Herrin', and Will ye no come back again? are especially familiar, in their melo- dious settings, to all lovers of Scotch minstrelsy. The Laird o' CocKPEN exhibits her gift of that kind of humor which is akin to pathos. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Wordsworth lived eighty years. He followed Southey as Laureate. His young manhood was marked by two very significant things: he was an ardent sympathizer with the European movement for liberty which culminated in the French Revolution; and he brought out with Coleridge in 1 79S a volume of poems called Lyrical Ballads, in which was expounded a new theory of poetry. The idea was that poetry called for simple themes treated in simple words, the language and the imagery of every day. Wordsworth's "Revolutionary" spirit soon evaporated, and he became staid, domestic, rural, devoted to his mountains and his lakes, and the human interests that they contain. But he never got far away from his youthful theory of great poetry in small words. Sometimes he kept to the simple lan- guage and fell short of the great thought. But in most of his lyrics, there is a purity of feeling and a majesty of utterance that appeal to his readers as admirable and moving. The Solitary Reaper gives what was doubtless one of Words- worth's actual experiences on his walk through the hills of Scotland. But there is, as almost always, not only the relation of what the trav- eler saw and heard; there is also what followed the sight and sound, in the poet's mind. Experience and reflection — that is Wordsworth's favorite process, and it is a process worth the reader's while to share. Introductions and Notes 341 Site Was a Phantom of Delight, stanzas, giving in order, three views of the same woman — his sweetheart, his bride, and the wife of his old age. Do you find any \'erses delicately suggestive of Mrs. Wordsworth's appearance? Any of her character? Any one less beautiful than the rest? The five Sonnets are selected from many. The first is an attempt on the part of the "Lake Poet" to feel the life of the city. Perhaps it is natural that it is the sleeping city that appeals to his imagination. Wordsworth and Charles Lamb were dear friends — a queer pair — and Lamb understood through and through the living London which to Wordsworth was largely a closed book, while Lamb had to confess that he on his part could not read the book of Nature. The sonnet on Milton and that on the Two Voices of liberty, belong to the patriotic period of Wordsworth's life. His Sonnet to Sleep is very different from that of Sidney. And how completely The World is too Much with Us illustrates the poet's reverence for Nature ! It is one of the curiosities of literature that Wordsworth had no ear for music, — could not tell one tune from another. Yet he read in a musical voice, as well as with deep feeling and earnest thought. Mrs. Hemans says, "When he reads or recites in the open air, his deep, rich tones seem to harmonize with the thrilling tones of woods and waterfalls." SYDNEY SMITH Sydney Smith was a witty clergyman, universally popular, even greatly loved, first in his country parish, then in the high circles of London life. SIR WALTER SCOTT Picturesque, romantic, friendly yet proud of his blood, writing poetry for love of the art and the local tradition, a superb horseman, and a lover of horses and of dogs, a passionate antiquarian, the most hospitable of entertainers, the most simple of great men — this was the man. Sir Walter. But to England in his time, and to America, too, he was the "Wizard of the North," the writer whose pen was a magic wand wherewith the beauty and the marvel of the past were made to live again. When, in 1814, he turned from making three long narrative poems, Mannion, The Lady of the Lake, and The Lay of the Last Minstrel, the name he had won would have contented 342 Introductions and Notes any other man. But under a new and different creative impulse he produced a series of novels, mostly Scottish in theme and color, which dwarfed his fame as a poet. LocHiNVAR is a galloping ballad (though not in true ballad metre) with events, characters, and dialogue tumbling over one another so fast that the -young bride is snatched away before our very eyes. Do you catch the spirit of romance that stirred Sir Walter? Do you perceive how pleased he was with the aristocratic names of the Border Clans? When you read Proud Maisie, don't fail to remember that people in Scott's day pronounced "early" "airly." Pronounce it so, and it will rhyme with "rarely." Remember also that "braw " is "brave," one of many French words in Scotch. This little story gets its pathos from what is left out almost as much as from what is said. RosABELLE has the same tragic theme as Proud Maisie, — the death of a young girl; but it is altogether a different story, and told by a different method. Is it more or less moving, to you, than the other? This passage from the Lay of the Last Minstrel is in Scott's strongest manner. It is sincere, compressed, eloquent. You will remember how dramatically it is used by Edward Everett Hale in his Man With- out a Country. The marching song of the "Blue Bonnets" is a lighter song than the dead-earnest Scots wha' ha'e, but is it not stirring to the blood? Is not the metre in the first line a perfect marching metre, and in the second does it not break in sympathy with the unfortunate recruit who's out of step? Does the air vibrate as you read it? If not, read it again till it does. The consonants, especially the hard c's, the rough r's, and the \'igorous b's, are characteristic of the spirit of the leader, and of the rugged country and occasion. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE To one who knows what an endless talker Coleridge was, his Epigram on an epigram must seem remarkable. He has employed the same sort of cleverness in the lines which follow, which illustrate, verse by verse, the very feet of which he is giving the definition. It is a happy thought also which represents each foot as moving, one in one rate and gait, another in another. Of course this Metrical Lesson must be read aloud to be appreciated, and really deserves to be mem- orized by any one who wants to learn the queer Greek names for different types of metre. Introductions and Notes 343 The Greek names for various metrical feet are generally interpreted as follows, a long mark meaning in English a syllable accented, not necessarily prolonged: Trochee _[_ kj Spondee / Dactyl / ., K,, Iambus ^ _l_ Anapcst ^ ^ J_ Amphibrach ^ _!_ ^ Amphimacer ^ _J_ His sonnet, Work without Hope, is a true reflection of the terrible sadness of Coleridge's life, that tragedy self-wrought, but dragging others in its ruin through the use of opium. KuBLA Khan. There is an ancient Greek legend which will help in the study of this poem, — the legend of the river Alpheus. This river of southern Greece does actually disappear into the sand of Olympia. It is also true that there is a noble fountain in the island of Sicily. To the Greek imagination the fountain is the river re- appearing. Coleridge locates his pleasure dome on the river as it flows through its "Caverns measureless to man," and you will see, when you reach Shelley, that other uses were made of the legend by other poets. The legend may have for everybody this symbolic meaning — the triumphant rise of Greek literature, art, and science, in Sicily, after war had crushed it in Greece proper and driven it into e.xile. Kubla Khan was described by Coleridge himself as a fragment. It is chiefly interesting from having been written with great swiftness as Coleridge came out from the influence of an anodyne, having dreamed as he slept of far more wonders, even, than are here set forth; for he was interrupted in his recording of them by a call from a prosaic visitor. Scenes and melodious lines alone do not make a great poem, but they do in this case reveal a genius for writing that should have produced many great poems. The Ancient Mariner is certainly one. ROBERT SOUTHEY Southcy was a great reader; he bought so many books that he had no money left for clothes; he was a great toiler with his pen, in both prose and poetry; he was devoted to his family, his friends, and the 344 Introductions and Notes simple pleasures of life; he loved nonsense and a merry time, but was far from being a genius, though he was "Laureate to the king." The Cataract of Lodore is not in the high sense a poem. Why? Yet could you make such a composition? Is there any part of it that is more poetical than another? Are you convinced that there was a good deal of commotion in the waters of Lodore? My Days Among the Dead are Passed, on the other hand, is a beautiful poem, simple, sincere, restrained in its expression, imagina- tive, true; the "dead" being, of course, the authors whose "mighty minds" he "conversed with day by day" in their precious books. BLANCO WHITE Blanco White gave up his priesthood in the Romish Church of Spain and became an English Protestant. He was a writer and an editor, but produced nothing of permanent interest except the sonnet To Night. This one sonnet is universally thought one of the finest in the language. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR Landor was a Rugby boy. At sixteen he left school after a fierce quarrel with the headmaster. About what, do you think? The quantity of a Latin syllable. And the queerest thing about the affair was that Landor was right, and the headmaster wrong! All his life he was contesting something with somebody, and was generally right, too. But sometimes he was grossly and absurdly wrong, and finallj' he had to leave England, and live in Italy, because his temper had betrayed him into such lawless violence. Whether wrong or right, he was alive and active for ninety years. He looked like a lion; his "words were thunder and lightning;" his laughter, tremendous; his jokes, affections, and outbursts of wrath, "Olympian;" in his attitude toward women he was chivalrj' in- carnate. "Landor was above all an artist and a man of letters, but there was an heroic temper in his work." There is humor (uncon- scious), truth, and pathos in the Httle quatrain in which he summed up his own life : I strove with none; for none was worth my strife. Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art. I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart. Introductions and Notes 345 THOMAS CAMPBELL Campbell at fifty was Lord Rector of Glasgow University. One day on his way to the lecture-room he came upon his class in the campus pelting each other with snowballs. He joined in both heartily and skilfully, and then led the students to the hall and began his address. The poet spoke broad Scotch, wrote with great slowness and diffidence, devoted himself to the cause of any unfortunate people, especially the Poles, and, like many of his poetical contemporaries, is said to have had no ear for music. What is the evidence of his IjtIcs on this point? Hohenhnden was not far from Munich. Here the Austrians (Huns) lost a great battle to the French (Franks). Campbell visited the scene soon after. THOMAS MOORE "Tom Moore," as he was affectionately called, was an Irishman who made his home in London; wrote songs, mostly Irish, altogether sentimental; and sang them in the drawing-rooms of London's society ladies in a way that was greatly moving to an Early Victorian com- pany. Moore, himself, was sometimes so affected by his own per- formance, as to break down and burst into tears. As a man, he had a harmless vanity that was not displeasing; as a conversationalist, he was graceful and witty; as a writer of prose, he was known for his excellent lives of Lord Byron and Thomas Brinsley Sheridan. Moore's songs, like other songs, reveal much of their beauty only when read aloud or sung. The melodies of almost all Moore's songs are his own. How appropriate they were may be judged from the most familiar of them all, — The Last Rose of Summer. His music for Believe me if all those endearing young charms is known to us all as the tune of Fair Harvard. Tara's Halls were on Tara's Hill, not far from Dublin, the tradi- tional abode of the Irish kings. JANE TAYLOR Jane Taylor was a member of a peculiar family. It was a common saying among the neighbors, that any Taylor could write poetr\'. Jane and her sister Ann did not attain as much prominence as their brother Isaac, but their work has lasted and his is forgotten. Twinkle, T'd'inkle, little Star, for cxami>le, is a very tiny classic, but it will shine on forever. 346 Introductions and Notes ALLAN CUNNINGHAM Anyone else had as much right as Allan Cunningham to expect to write an English sea-song which should live. He was a Scotch stonemason — but he became a poet. LEIGH HUNT When Leigh Hunt was a schoolboy, his prose themes were so bad that the master used to crumple them up in his hand, and throw them to the boys for their amusement. Not a very promising begin- ning for a literary career! Yet he became a successful man of letters, and throughout a long life was as much enjoyed as a companion and loved as a friend as any other man in England. Fancy him — very tall and straight, with face long and highly expressive, and hair black and plentiful. He was still the same at eighty, except that his hair had become snowy white. To the end of his life he was cheery, com- panionable, unpractical, and a walker who thought nothing of twenty miles. He was the best of friends to Keats, and to many, many other men of letters. The Glove and the Lions had its model in Schiller's poem telling the same story; and it became in turn, the model for Browning to follow, with his own kind of humor, in The Glove. BARRY CORNWALL Barry Cornwall was very handy with his fists. He made a name in the pugilistic art while at Harrow, and afterward went on a journey to meet the " Game Chicken," a well-known professional boxer. But he was noted during his long life for gentleness rather than pugnacity, and for an extraordinary tender sympathy for all whom he could serve. "No one who has passed an hour in the company of Charles Lamb's ' dear boy ' can ever lose the impression made upon him b)^ that simple, sincere, shy and delicate soul" {Coventry Patmore). GEORGE GORDON BYRON Byron's character and manners have l)een portrayed by various friends and enemies so variously that it is almost impossible to fix the mind upon a composite portrait and call that the true Lord Byron; Introductions and Notes 347 for it is evident that "'both the censure and the praise are merited." He was brave, magnanimous and gracious, but also superstitious, petty, and vain. He had tremendous passions, both good and vicious, such conceit as to destroy his sense of humor, but flashes of patriotism and other noble sentiments as brilliant as the dazzling verse in which he meets our eye. He was a lover of horses, and an expert swimmer, though with a deformed foot. His face had a beauty and his ex- pression a charm recognized by friends and foes alike. A story of his school days at Harrow will serve to illustrate the disposition of the man. "While Lord Byron and Mr. Peel were at Harrow together, a tyrant some few years older . . . claimed a right to fag little Peel, which claim (whether rightly or wrongly I know not) Peel resisted. His resistance, however, was in vain; not only subdued him, but determined also to punish the refractory slave; and proceeded forth- with to put his determination in practice, by inflicting a kind of bastinado on the inner fleshy side of the boy's arm, which, during the operation, was twisted around with some degree of technical skill, to render the pain more acute. While the stripes were succeeding each other and poor Peel writhing under them, Byron saw and felt for the misery of his friend; and although he knew that he was not strong enough to fight with any hope of success, and that it was dangerous even to approach -, he advanced to the scene of action, and with a blush of rage, tears in his eyes, and a voice trembling between terror and indignation asked very humbly if would be pleased to tell him, "how many stripes he meant to inflict." "Why," returned the executioner, "you little rascal, what is that to you?" "Because, if you please," said Byron, "I would take half." The Destruction of Sennacherib. Look up the Biblical account in II Chronicles, xxxii, 2, for the best story; and II Kings, xix, 35, for the most startling. Ashur, Assyria. The Eve of Waterloo. This selection and the following one are taken from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, the story of a childe, or prince, on a search through the world for adventure and experience. The Eve of Waterloo and The Ocean both reveal the traveler's interest in nature and in humanity; but nature is emphasized in one passage, and human nature in the other. She Walks in Beauty, I like to think, shows Byron at his purest and best. It is one of a series of beautiful lyrics entitled Hebreiv Melodies. 348 Introductions and Notes On Chillon, if compared with Lovelace's To Althea will yield a clear view of several points in which the poets differed, and the ages in which they lived. Chillon is a name to stir the heart of any man who hates fetters — of soul or body. CHARLES WOLFE Wolfe was a gifted Irish clergyman. Sir John Moore died in Jan- uary, 1809, after a victorious skirmish with the French at Corunna, a fortified city on the Northwestern coast of Spain. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Shelley, when he was a boy, had a passion for chemistry, for climb- ing high and perilous places, and for sailing paper boats. Once, hav- ing at hand no other material, he made a boat of a fifty-pound note. Fortunately after an eventful voyage the costly craft was brought safe to shore. When he was interested in study or in writing, he for- got to eat or sleep, and when he was in danger, as of drowning, he was devoid of all sense of fear. He wouldn't put up with coarseness or bullying in anyone about him, either in college or in later life; and his generosity was unparalleled, even in a society of generous men. He and Leigh Hunt were intimate friends. Landor, who knew him well, says: "Innocent and careless as a boy, he possessed all the delicate feelings of a gentleman, all the discrimination of a scholar, and united, in just degrees, the ardor of the poet with the patience and forbear- ance of the philosopher. His generosity and charity went far beyond those of any man (I believe) at present in existence. He was never known to speak evil of any enemy, unless that enemy had done some grievous injustice to another; and he divided his income of only one thousand pounds with the fallen and the afBicted. This is the man against whom such clamors have been raised by the religious and the loyal, and by those who live and lap under their tables." "As a lyric poet, Shelley, on his own ground, is easily great. Some of the lyrics are purely personal; some, as in the very finest, the Ode lo the West Wind, mingle together personal feeling and prophetic hope for mankind. Some are lyrics of pure nature; some are dedi- cated to the rebuke of tyranny and the cause of liberty; others belong to the indefinite passion he called love, and others are written on visions of those shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. They Introductions and Notes 349 form together the most sensitiv-e, the most imaginative, and the most musical, but the least tangible lyrical poetry we possess." "He wants the closeness of grasp of nature which Wordsworth and Keats had, but he had the power in a far greater degree than they of describing the cloud-scenery of the sky, the doings of the great sea, and \ast realms of landscape. He is in this, as well as in his eye for subtle colour, the Turner of poetry. What he might have been we cannot tell, for at the age of thirty he left us, drowned in the sea he loved, washed up and burned on the sandy spits near Pisa. His ashes lie beneath the walls of Rome, and Cor Cordium, 'Heart of Hearts,' written on his tomb, well says what all who love poetry feel when they think of him." To A Skyl.^rk should be read for its music and its mounting fancies; not, like some other poems, for its meaning to the intellect, so much as for its sensuous beauty, beauty of sight and sound, and for the chance it gives everybod}' to forget earth, for once, and "float and run like an embodied joy " in a new element, the air. It should divide with The Cloud, which follows, the honor of being the favorite poem of all air- pilots. The Cloud has been called by a discerning critic the "most gorgeous poem in the English language." Arethus.'V is the Fountain loved by Alpheus, the Arcadian river which we followed underground in Kuhla Khan. Enna's mountains are in Sicih\ If you wish to draw comparisons between a perfect work of art and what is called a tour de force, set Arclhusa and Southey's Lodore side by side. OzYM.^NDi.AS has more pictorial power than many a poem of ten times its length. In reading it remember that the verb survive has two grammatical objects, hand and heart, in the following verse. Ode to the West Wind. This is metrically one of the most inter- esting of poems. It is an example of an Italikn form called terza rima. Observe how the second verse of every stanza introduces a rhyme which becomes dominant in the following stanza. In its exaltation and its cries of pain and hope, this Ode is more than merely a sincere expression of a passing mood; it is the soul of Shelley, confessing, aspiring, and almost communing — a strange occupation for a young man who had been expelled from college as an atheist. MRS. HEMANS By no means a great poet, Mrs. Hemans wrote over twelve hun- dred octavo pages — plays, occasional verse, translations from many 350 Introductions and Notes tongues, and much poetry of the so-called didaclic variety, — that which teaches a lesson. Casablanca was Napoleon's Admiral of the Orient. At the Battle of the Nile, mortally wounded, he gave orders for his ship to be blown up rather than captured by Nelson. "The Boy" was thirteen years old. ■ v JOHN KEATS Shelley's life was shorter than Byron's; but Keats's was shorter than Shelley's. Moreover, his origin was so humble that we must be sur- prised that one could build so high in so few years from so low founda- tions. Shelley and Byron had blood, familj' traditions, and education on their side; Keats largely lacked them all, and health as well. Leigh Hunt, his friend, wrote, "Keats, when he died, had Just com- pleted his five-and- twentieth year. He was under the middle height; and his lower limbs were small in comparison with the upper, but neat and well-turned. His shoulders were very broad for his size; he had a face in which energy and sensibility were remarkably mixed up: an eager power, checked and made patient by ill health. Every feature was at once strongly cut, and delicately alive. If there was any faulty expression it was in the mouth, which was not without something of a character of pugnacity. The face was rather long than otherwise; the upper lip projected a little over the under; the chin was bold, the cheeks sunken; the eyes mellow and glowing; large, dark, and sensitive. At the recital of a noble action, or a beautiful thought, they would suffuse with tears, and his mouth trembled. In this there was ill health as well as imagination, for he did not like these betrayals of emotion; and he had great personal as well as moral courage. He once chastised a butcher, who had been insolent, by a regular stand-up fight. His hair, of a brown color, was fine, and hung in natural ringlets." The Mermaid Tavern was the resort of Shakspere, Ben Jonson, and the great though lesser wits of their acquaintance. The Grasshopper and the Cricket was written in a spirit of competition with Leigh Hunt's. Which should you call the winner? HARTLEY COLERIDGE Hartley Coleridge was the son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and therefore it is not surprising to find him, on one hand, a highly gifted Introductions and Notes 351 writer, and on Ihc other, a pathetic ligure, both physically and mor- ally; for he inherited not only the genius of his father but his morbid desire for stimulants. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL A Scottish editor, who wrote a volume or two of poems. How does The Cavalier's Song compare with Browning's, in degree of reality? Which would be more likely to stir the blood and make for the suc- cess of the cause? SAMUEL LOVER A clever Irishman, who had success in three lines of art; he painted good portraits and wrote readable novels and verse. I wonder whether he is half as well known as his oft quoted character, Rory O'Moore. THOMAS HOOD Tom Hood was a great practical joker — one who could perpetrate jokes amusing even to the victim. There was no end to his cheerful- ness, as the following incident will prove : " In his last illness, reduced, as he was, to a skeleton, he noticed a large mustard-plaster which Mrs. Hood was making for him, and exclaimed, "O, Mary, Mary, that will be a great deal of mustard to a very little meat!" His very last joke is said to have been an expression of satisfaction that he was at last "helping the undertaker to earn a liveli-hood." He was a man of exquisite taste and deep sentiment; fond of chil- dren and children's fun; generous and tender to a fault towards those in pain or poverty; and brave and cheery in his acceptance of these calamities when they befell himself. His wit was free from bitterness, his humor unfailing, irresistible, and accompanied by true pathos. Ruth is a beautiful poem partly because the Book of Ruth in the Bible is so beautiful. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY Macaulay was one of the most gifted and versatile Englishmen of the 19th century. He crowded into less than sixty years an immense amount of writing, both prose and poetry, eminent services to the State, and a daily life full of "deeds of kindness and of love " to his familv and his friends. He was the brilliant debater of the House of 352 Introductions and Notes Commons, a tireless conversationalist who never lacked fascinating material on any subject, and the creator of a style which has been and still is, in some respects, the most admirable in all English prose. There is no greater master of the English sentence or the English paragraph. Of course, Macaulay's greatest claim to eminence as a writer lies ih ihe extent and interest of his biographical and historical works; but you remember Landor's lines about him as a poet, on page 149. As a poet, his chief excellence consists in the vigor and swift move- ment of his tales of heroic action. The most famous. The Lays of Ancient Rome, portray the heroic spirit of the Roman Republic in verse not unlike the traditional verse of the English ballad. In IvRY, the ballad lines are written in their original form, — coup- lets of seven beats. In the battle of Ivry, Henry of Navarre fought with small numbers, insufficient supplies, even food; but with a cheerfulness and courage which made him king of France. His cry, "Rally around my white plume," was as effective in the battle of Ivry, as Nelson's famous signal at Trafalgar. CARDINAL NEWMAN Newman is one of the few greatest masters of English prose. He was great also as a scholar and theologian. This hymn of his, so well known yet so unworn, is suggestive of the great religious struggle of his life, as a result, of which he definitely put aside all intellectual doubts, and embraced Faith as "the evidence of things not seen" by entering the Roman Catholic communion, where he eventually became a cardinal. In the things of the intellect, however, as con- trasted with those of the spirit, Newman was to the last the most formidable debater in the age of intellectual giants, — the age of Herbert Spencer, Huxley, Tyndall, and Darwin, to mention a few of the eminent scientists only. MRS. BROWNING Elizabeth Barrett, secluded and invalid daughter of an English gentleman of wealth, wrote herself into Robert Browning's heart, and read him into her own, even before either had seen the other. Then they met, followed their romantic attachment with a romantic marriage, and that with a long life together of wedded Joy in sunny Italy. The three Sonnets given here are selected from her series of Introductions and Notes 353 forty-four, written to her lover, given shyly to him after their mar- riage, by him entitled Sounds from the Portuguese and published as "translations." These three are numbers one, fourteen, and forty- two of the series. A Court Lady shows how sympathetically Mrs. Browning entered into the life of her Italian friends. TENNYSON Tenn\'Son followed Wordsworth as Laureate. His works manifest not only genius but extraordinary cultivation — in science, history, legends, social problems, religion, — all infused with the truest national sympathy and the loftiest idealism. Superadded to all these traits and powers was the most varied and masterly gift of expression and an art which found no exertion too hard, and no aim too high; which neglected no detail of content or form; which wrought precious words into the most exquisite melody, grace, and power. Break, Break, Break is a quiet but touching lament for the loss of his dearest friend — Arthur Henry Hallam. It was for Hallam also that Tennyson wrote his greatest poem, In Memoriam. The Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava was on the Rus- sians. Balaclava is a city of the Crimea, the great peninsula which extends down into the Black Sea. It was once, in the days of Ulysses, the city of the Laestrygonians, and its harbor is well described by Homer in the Odyssey. The Higher Pantheism is called higher in contrast with that of the simple shepherds and goatherds who worshipped Pan in ancient Greece as the God of Nature. A Triblite to his Mother is taken from the closing canto of the Princess, where Prince and Princess have become reconciled and aware of their deep need for each other. ■ The Prince's ideal of woman was inspiring to Princess Ida, who had hitherto attempted a mannish role. It is also good for us to have such an ideal described in these days, when the place of woman in the world is being determined anew. It is an interesting passage to compare with Wordsworth's She was a Phantom oj Delight, and with Byron's She Walks in Beauty. THACKERAY England's greatest novelist wrote verses as he drew pictures — for love, — love of fun, and love of people. 354 Introductions and Notes ROBERT BROWNING To the eye of the reader it would appear that Browning laid less emphasis on mere beauty of form in poetry than Tennyson, more on its spirit and substance. The result of this impression is that Tennyson seems'^s an artist greater than Browning. But when one has broken through the crust of Browning's style — abrupt, vigorous, outspoken, half-spoken, — one may be more often moved and more deeply moved than by Tennyson's smoother art. Each of these great masters had his own view of what constituted art. Something of the contrast may be seen by studying together Tennyson's Crossing The Bar and Browning's Prospice or {The Epilogue to "Asolando"), each a poem which deals with the thought of the poet himself about the end of earthly life, and the continuance of life beyond the grave. Browning is one of the manliest of poets — in his courage, his frank- ness, and his passion both of admiration and of scorn; and in his own free and radical style he is a great artist — one of the Olympians. PHEXDipprDES. The Greek motto means. Rejoice, we conquer! The first stanza is an invocation to Pan, the God of Nature. Daemons, spirits. Ye of the bow and buskin, Phoebus and Artemis. tettix, a gold grasshopper which each archon wore as a sign of his office as one of the rulers of Athens. The pride of the archon arose from his being a native-born Athenian. Like the grasshopper, he had sprung from the soil (look up autochlhon in the Standard Dictionary). Cavalier Tunes. Note how the metre tramps into the inn in the first song, stops to revel in loyalty in the second, and then gallops off in the third. The spirit of these songs is what makes them worth reading. Details such as words and allusions are of far less relative importance than usual. My Last Duchess, the most awful self-conviction possible for the complacent, proud, flint-hearted Duke. He is the embodiment of elegance and breeding, artistic taste and business shrewdness. But the motive in all is self-love. How curious it is that after all, the better we know the Duke, the easier it is for us to forget him, and think only of his beautiful wife, who was as unselfish and lovable as woman could be. Tray is a plea against vivisection. Browning loved all animals, but especially dogs and horses. Introductions and Notes 355 EDWARD LEAR Lear was the first great English writer of nonsense rhymes. Ruskin placed Lear's Nonsense Book at the head of his "One Hundred Great- est Books." Of course this honor was paid to the entertaining and refreshing powers of the book — its funny verses and pictures, not to anything that is ordinarily recognized as great poetry or art. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH Friend of Tennj'son, and Hallam, and especially of Matthew Arnold, who succeeded him in the chair of poetry at O.xford; friend also of Longfellow and his fellow-workers on this side of the Atlantic, for he was resident at Cambridge for several years. CHARLES KINGSLEY Kingsley was a great man who took pleasure in childlike fun and simple good-feeling. One would hardly guess the great novelist or social reformer, from his Water Babies. MATTHEW ARNOLD Matthew Arnold was the famous son of the famous Dr. Thomas Arnold, headmaster of Rugby. Most of his poems are too serious or too difficult for 3'oung readers. But there are exceptions, as Sohrab and Rustiim, which is often read by schoolboys. Arnold was a scholar, critic, lecturer, and e.xpert on education. His services to the schools and universities of England were invaluable. He was long inspector of the schools of England, doing all in his power to make popular education sound and attractive, and he was for thirty years Professor of English Poetry at Oxford. COVENTRY PATMORE Coventry Patmore was a widely known writer of both prose and verse, and he was twenty-two years one of the librarians in the British Museum. 356 Introductions and Notes LEWIS CARROLL Lineal descendant, as humorist, of Edward Lear. He is best known by his two "Alice" books — Alice in Wonderland, and Through the Looking Glass, stories which he wrote for real live children whom he loved, but which are read, remembered, quoted, and enjoyed, every day, by grown-up women and men in England and in America too. By his real name, Charles L. Dodgson, he was known as a great mathematician. GEORGE DU MAURIER This clever half-Frenchman brought to bear on the pages of Punch the perennial rays of his wit and humor, not onl)^ in the quaintest and most entertaining of clean jokes, but in the incomparable pic- tures he drew to match them. When he was old and growing bUnd, he surprised the world at large by producing the most widely discussed novel of its decade — Trilby. EDWARD BOWEN Distinguished not as a poet, but as a schoolmaster. Yet, teaching at Harrow for forty years, he wrote for the boys and men of that great school the greatest of all school songs — Forty Years On, the song which is known as the Harrow National Anthem. Yet this was only one of many good songs, and they were as fortunately set to music by the great organist and composer, John P'armer, whose term of service at Harrow largely coincided with Edward Bowen's. Bowen was re- markable in many ways, but in none more than his participation in the football games of the school up to the last year of his life. He died of heart-disease, while he was making his annual bicycle-trip of research on one of the battle-fields of Europe. The country in which Caesar's campaigns were waged was the object of Bowen's special interest, and his knowledge of it was so intimate that the Commentaries became, in his class room, a living narrative. AUSTIN DOBSON There is a rare spirit in these three selections — gentleness, delicacy, wit, heroism, all finding expression in lines that exquisitely suggest the Frenchiness and quaintness of certain verse of the Seventeenth Century, called vers de societe. Introductions and Notes 357 The Cure's Progress describes the morning walk of a village priest humble in station but sweet and large in spirit. grande place, the big square. Hotel de Ville, the town hall. fleuriste, tlower-girl. pompier, fireman. march e, market. pain d'epice, gingerbread. Merchant of fruit, transhterates Marchand de fruit, which Dobson evidentl}- expects the reader to supply, to rhyme with the second line below. Ma foi, oui, my faith, yes. Bon Dieu garde M'sieu, May the good God care for Monsieur! Sous Prefet, Deputy Police-Magistrate. Urceus Exit, It turned out a jug. Here is a note by Mr. Robinson, the Latin Master of Laicreiiceville: "At the beginning of the Ars Poetica, Horace objects to excessive freedom of the artistic imag- ination, and argues that a work should be consistent with itself. He shows the absurdity of combining serpents with birds, and lambs with tigers, and continues — Amphora cmpit inslitui, cur- rente rota cur urceus exit?" (A Greek vase begins to be shaped; why, as the wheel turns, should it come out a common jug? .\n ode was intended, and it came out a sonnet!) WILLIAM MORRIS Morris was one of a group of young men, living in or near London, who sought to raise standards of living and of taste to the simplicity and beauty of their dreams. He invented the "Morris Chair"; led interesting enterprises in the manufacture of household furniture and decorations, and in printing; preached a powerful socialism; and wrote much poetry of a vigorous but melancholy quality which con- cerned itself largely with legends of the heroic pagans of Northern Lands. The life of Morris was full to the brim with interesting ac- tivities, and his services to English life in his day were not only great but thoroughly wholesome. WILLIAM HENLEY Henley was an editor, a critic, a poet, a friend of Stevenson's, and a man of vigor and intellect, but given to strong prejudices, even to bitterness. 358 Introductions and Notes ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Stevenson was a lifelong and heroic invalid, a cheerful and inspiring friend to many different kinds of people, a great artist in prose, and a sweet singer in verse. "V WILLIAM WATSON One of the most notable living poets of Great Britain. HENRY NEWBOLT Among contemporary poets, Newbolt is distinguished for variety, elegance, truth of fact and feeling, and reverence and tenderness of spirit. These qualities of mind, joined with a flexible and painstaking art. should spell greatness. Qui procul hinc, qui ante diem Per lit; sed miles, sed pro pairia. Who died far from here and before his time, but as a soldier should, for his country. RUDYARD KIPLING Born in India, inheriting an artistic nature, deriving from his surroundings a sense of the imperial greatness of England, traveling widely and observing keenly, entering deeply into the enthusiasms and prejudices of many classes of men, Kipling finally became the amateur spokesman of the consciousness of the British Empire. As no other man has done, he has taught the parts of the Empire to known one another, and in some degree he has taught the Empire to know itself. Recessional. Victoria's week of Diamond Jubilee was over, and the glories which had filled London with oratory and "the pomp of power " were fading, when in the columns of the Times appeared, with the modesty of filial devotion, these inspired lines, at once a glorious tribute to the magnificence of British power and a plea to Britain to lay that power at the feet of God. JOHN MASEFIELD The most obvious power of this new English poet is the power to tell a story in verse so vividly that the reader forgets the words and Introductions and Notes 359 thinks only of the actions and the feelings of the characters. But this is not his only gift. He has made beautiful poems of description and reflection, a volume of rare sonnets, and two tragedies. In all his work there is strength, sincerity, insight, and an easy mastery of expression. As in the case of Clough and Thackeray, Stevenson and Kipling, Masefield has warm personal ties binding him to .America. .\LFRED NOYES Like Masefield, Noyes is as well known and appreciated in America as in England. His favorite themes are drawn from the folk-lore of England and from English history and tradition. There is brilHant promise in the lively imagination no less than in the swift and musical verse of this very real young poet. X INDEX OF POETS, TITLES, AND FIRST LINES PAGE Abou Ben Adhem (May his tribe increase!) 158 Addison, Joseph 70 Admiral's Ghost, The 299 Agincourt 30 A is an Angel of blushing eighteen 258 Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music 64 All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair 141 Alphabet, The 258 Although I enter not 218 Asolando, Epilogue from 246 As ships becalmed at eve 252 Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold. The 161 At the church gate 218 At the midnight in the silence of the sleep time 246 Auld Lang Syne 117 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 57 Bailiff's Daughter of Islington, The 22 Ballad of East and West, A 283 Barbara Allen's Cruelty 21 Behold her, single in the field 122 Believe me if all these endearing young charms 152 Bid me to live and 1 will live 51 Blake, William 107 Bloodhorse, The 160 Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind 36 Boadicea, an Ode 91 Bonnie Doon no Border Ballad 140 Bosom Sin, The 54 BowEN, Edward 262 Boy and the Wolf, The 121 Break, break, break 202 361 362 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines PAGE Breathes there a man 139 Brook's Song, The 211 Brown, Thomas Edward 258 Browne, William 49 Browning, Ei^zabeth Barrett 198 Browning, Robert 221 Bruce to his Army 119 Burial of Sir John Moore, The 167 Burghers' Battle, The 267 Burns, Robert 109 Byron, Lord George Gordon i6i Calverley, Charles Stuart 258 Campbell, Thomas 150 Canterbury Tales, The i Carey, Henry 79 Cargoes 293 Carroll, Lewis 259 Casabianca 181 Cataract of Lodore, The 143 Cavalier Tunes 235 Charge of the Light Brigade, The 203 Chaucer, Geoffrey i Chevy Chase 11 Clerk, The 5 Clerk there was of Oxenford also, A 5 Clifton Chapel '. 280 Cloud, The 172 Clough, Arthur Hugh 251 Cock is crowing. The 125 Coleridge, Hartley 186 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 140 Come live with me and be my Love 34 Come Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace 29 Composed upon Westminster Bridge 132 Condemned to Hope's delusive mine 83 Contented John 155 Cornwall, Barry 160 Court Lady, A 199 Cowper,William 91 Crabbed age and Youth 39 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 363 PAGE Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 56 Crossing The Bar 215 Cunningham, Allan 156 Cupid and Campaspe 28 Cupid and my Campaspe played 28 Curb's Progress, The 265 Curfew Tolls the Knell of Parting day, The 85 Cyriack, this three years day, these eyes, though clear 58 Delight in Disorder 50 DiBDiN, Charles 105 Diverting History' of John Gilpin, The 95 DoBSON, Austin 265 DoDGSON, Charles L 259 Douglas, William 193 Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away 278 Drake's Drum 278 Dream)' rhymer's measured snore, The 149 Drink to me only with thine eyes 43 Dryden, John 61 Dyer, Sir Edward 24 Eagle, The 210 Earth has not anything to show more fair 132 Elegy on the Death of a mad dog. An 90 Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, An 85 Elixir, The 54 End of the Play, The 219 Enforst to seek some covert nigh at hand 27 Epigram, An 140 Epigram 77 Epilogue from Asolando, The 246 Epitaph on a Hare 94 Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic poet, William Shakspere . . 58 Epitaph on Charles II 69 Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 49 Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind 166 Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky 128 Eve of Waterloo, The 162 Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 51 Fair stood the wind for France 30 Farewell, Ye dungeons dark and strong 118 364 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines PAGE Father of all ! in every age 75 Fear Death? To feel the fog in my throat 247 First 1 salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock 230 Five-and-thirty black slaves 276 Flock of shefep^that leisurely pass by, A 133 For a' that and a' that 115 Forty years on when afar and asunder 262 From the bonny bells of heather 273 From the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot 78 From the Epistle to Mr. Addison 78 Full little knowest thou that hast not tried 26 Gaffer Gray 104 Gamarra is a dainty steed 160 Gardener's Song, The 260 Garden is a lovesome thing, God wot, A 258 Gather Ye rosebuds while ye may 49 Gay, John 74 Genteel in personage 79 Give to me the life I love 272 God of our fathers. Known of old 292 Goldsmith, Oliver 90 God prosper long our noble King 1 1 Going down hill on a bicycle 277 Good little boys should never say 193 Good man was ther of religioun, A 6 Good people all of every sort 9 Gray, Thomas 84 Green little vaulter in the sunny grass 159 Hail to thee, blithe spirit 168 Half a league, half a league 203 Happy Warrior, The 1 29 Hark, hark, the Lark 38 Harp that once through Tara's halls. The 153 He clasps the crag with crooked hands 210 Heather Ale, The 273 Hemans, Felicia Dorothea 181 Henley, William Ernest 269 Henry V to his Troops before Harfleur 42 Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark. 199 Herbert, George 53 I Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 365 PAGE Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling 105 Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King 690 Here lies whom hound did ne'er pursue 94 Herrick, Robert 49 Herve Riel 225 He thought he saw an elephant 260 Higher Pantheism, The 210 Highland Marj' 112 Highwayman, The 295 Ho! Why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray 104 HoLCROFT, Thomas 104 Home 269 Home they brought her warrior dead 205 Hood, Thomas 190 Hope deferred 26 How do I love thee 198 How Does the water 143 How doth the little busy bee 72 How fond are men of rule and place 74 How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth 56 How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix 223 Hunt, Leigh 157 I am his Highness' dog at Kew 77 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 172 I come from haunts of coot and hern 211 If a man who turnips cries 82 If a stranger passed the tent of Hoseyn 241 If thou must love me, let it be for naught 199 I intended an ode 266 I know a thing that's most uncommon 77 I met a traveler from an antique land 177 I must go down to the seas again 295 Incident of the French Camp 221 In Scarlet town, where I was born 21 Inscribed on the Collar of a Dog 77 Invictus 270 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 142 I recollect a nurse called Ann 254 I remember, I remember 190 I saw a ship a-suiling 294 366 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines PAGE I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill 70 I sprang to the saddle, and Joris, and he ... ? 223 Is there for honest Poverty 115 I tell you a tale tonight 301 1 thought how once Theocritus had sung 198 It is not growing like a tree 44 It little profits that, an idle King 208 It was a lover and his lass 39 I wandered lonely as a cloud 128 "I would," says Fox, " a tax devise" 107 Ivry 1 94 Jabberwocky 259 Jack and Joe 264 Jack's a scholar, as all men say 264 Jenny kissed me when we met 159 John Anderson my jo, John iii John Gilpin was a citizen 95 Johnson, Samuel 82 JONSON, Ben 43 Jumblies, The 248 Keats, John 182 Kentish Sir Byng Stood for his King 235 Keyboard, The 276 King Francis was a hearty king and loved a royal sport 157 King, Henry 52 King sits in Dunfermline town, The 8 Kingsley, Charles 253 Kipling, Rudyard 281 Knight, The 2 Knight ther was and that a worthy man, A 2 Kubla Khan ■ 142 Lad that is gone, A 271 Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great. The 120 Lamb, The 107 Landor, Walter Savage 148 Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 197 L'Envoi 293 Like to the falling of a star 52 Limerick, A 251 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 182 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 367 PAGE Little Billee 216 Little boy was set to keep, A 1 21 Little Lamb, who made thee 107 Little work, a little play, A 262 Lochin\-ar 1^5 Locker-Lampson, Frederick 254 Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate 19 Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us 'round 54 Lovelace, Richard 60 Lover, Samuel 187 Lyly, John 28 Macaulay 149 Macaulay, Thomas Babington iq4 Macpherson's Farewell 118 Maiden's Ideal of a Husband, A 7q March, March, Ettrick and Teviotdale 140 Marlowe, Christopher 34 Mary Morison 112 Masefield, John 293 ]\L\URiER, George du 262 Maxwelton's braes are bonnj' 193 Metrical feet : lesson for a boy 141 Milton, John 56 Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour 132 Moore, Thomas 152 Morris, William 267 Motherwell, William 186 Monsieur the cure down the street 265 Much have I travel'd in the realms of gold 183 Muleykeh 241 Music, when soft voices die 177 My days among the dead are passed 147 My Garden 258 My good blade carves the casques of men 206 My heart's in the Highlands 116 My Last Duchess 237 My little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes 256 My mind to me a kingdom is 24 Mysterious Night! when our first parent 148 My temples throb, my pulses boil 192 368 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines PAGE My true love hath my heart 29 Nairne, Carolina Lady 120 Newman, John Henry 197 No! 192 Noble Nature,- Xhe 44 No sun, no moon 192 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 167 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are. ... 194 Ode on a Grecian Urn 184 Ode to the West Wind 178 Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet 283 O, Falmouth is a fine town, with ships in the bay 269 Of all the girls that are so sweet 79 Of a' the airts the wind can blow no Oft in the stilly night 153 Old Ballads 8 Old Song Re-sung, An 294 O listen, listen, ladies gay 137 O Mary, at thy window be 112 O, my love's like a red, red rose 109 On a certain Lady at Court 77 On a Girdle 55 Once more unto the breach, dear friends 42 On Chillon 166 One day I wrote her name upon the strand 26 One honest John Tompkins, a hedger and ditcher 155 One night came on a hurricane 106 On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 183 On his Blindness 57 On his deathbed poor Lubin lies 69 On his having Arrived to the Age of Twenty-Three 56 On Linden, when the sun was low 151 On the Death of a Favorite Cat 84 On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet 83 On the Grasshopper and the Cricket 184 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 57 On the Loss of the Royal George 93 On the sea, and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two 225 Others abide our question. Thou art free 254 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 369 PAGE Our God, our Help in Ages Past 73 Out of the night that covers me 270 O wild West Wind, Thou breath of Autumn's being 178 Owl and the Pussycat, The 250 O young Lochinvar is come out of the West 135 Ozymandias 177 Parson, The 6 Passionate Shepherd to his Love, The 34 Patmore, Co\T!;ntry 256 Peace to all such ! But were there one whose fires 78 Pheidippides 230 Pillar of the Cloud, The 197 Play is done, the curtain drops, The 219 Poetrj^ of Earth is never dead, The 184 Politeness 193 Poor Soul, the center of my sinful earth 42 Pope, Alexander 75 Prioress, The 4 Prior, Matthew , 69 Procter, Bryan Waller 160 Prospice 247 Proud ]\Iaisie is in the wood 137 Pulley, The 53 Qua Cursum Yentus 252 Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir 293 " Rather be dead than praised,"' he said 267 Reasonable Affliction, A 69 Recessional 292 Red, red Rose, A 109 Requiem 276 Requiescat 255 Ring out, wild bells 214 Rochester, Earl of 69 Rory o' More 187 Rosabelle 137 Ruth 191 Sailor's Consolation, The 106 Sally in our Alley 79 Say not the struggle naught availeth 251 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 119 370 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines PAGE Scott, Sir Walter 135 Sea Dirge, A 37 Sea Fever 295 Selection from the Faerie Queene 27 Self-dependence^ 255 Shakspere 254 Shakspere and Milton 148 Shakspere, William 36 Shall I, wasting in despair 47 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 1 24 She is not fair to outward view 186 She was a phantom of delight 123 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 168 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley 107 Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? 295 She stood breast-high among the corn 191 She walks in beauty 166 Should auld acquaintance be forgot 117 Sidney, Sir Philip 20 Silvia 38 Simplex Munditiis 44 Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part 30 Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst 239 Sing me a song of a lad that is gone 271 Sir Galahad 206 Sir Patrick Spens 8 Slumber did mj* spirit seal, A 125 Sluggard, The 71 Smith, Sydney 134 SoHtary Reaper, The 122 Sneezing « 158 Song for St. Cecilia's Day 62 Song of Sherwood, A 293 Sorrows of Werther 217 Souls of Poets, dead and gone 182 Southey, Robert 143 Splendor falls on castle walls. The 204 Spacious Firmament on High, The 7° Spenser, Edmund 25 Squire, The 3 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 371 PAGE Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere 78 Steed, a steed of matchless speed, A 186 Stevenson, Robert Louis 271 Still to be neat, still to be dressed 44 Strew on her roses, roses 255 Suckling, Sir John 59 Sunset and Evening Star 215 Sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains. The. 210 Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright 53 Sweet disorder in the dress, A 50 Sweet is the rose but grows upon a brier 25 Tabard Inn, The i Tamburlaine to Calyphas 35 Taylor, Jane 155 Teach me, mj' God and King 54 Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind 60 Tennyson, Alfred 202 Terrible Infant, A 254 Thackeray, William Makepeace 216 That's my last Duchess, painted on the wall 237 That which her slender waist confined 55 The boy stood on the burning deck 181 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods 164 There was an old man in a tree 251 There was a sound of revelry by night 162 There was a youth, a well-belo\'ed youth 22 Ther was a Nonne, a Prioresse ■ 4 There's a breathless hush in the close tonight 279 There's no sense in going further — it's the edge of cultivation .... 288 There were three sailors of Bristol city 216 The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees 297 The 3'ear's at the spring 246 They went to sea in a sieve, they did 248 Thick rise the spear-shafts o'er the land 267 This is the chapel: here, my son 280 Thomson, James 81 Thou shalt not have a foot unless thou bear 35 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland 133 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness 184 Three poets in three distant ages born 61 372 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines PAGE Tiger, The io8 Tiger, Tiger io8 'Tis the last rose of summer 154 'Tis the voice of the skiggard; I heard him complain 71 To Althea from.j)rison 60 To Anthea who may command him anything 51 To a Mouse 113 To a Skylark 168 To Celia 43 To Cyriack Skinner 58 To Daffodils Si To draw no envy, Shakspere, on thy name 45 Toll for the brave! 93 To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars 60 To make this condiment, your poet begs 134 To Mira, on her incomparable poems 71 To Minerva 192 Tom Bowling 105 Tongue of England, that which myriads. The 148 To night 148 To the Lord General Cromwell 56 To the Grasshopper and the Cricket 159 To the memory of my beloved Master, William Shakspere 45 To the Virgins to make much of Time 49 Toys, The 256 Tray 239 Tribute to his Mother, A 213 Trochee trips from long to short 141 Turner, Elizabeth '. ■ 193 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 64 'Twas brillig and the slithy to\'es 259 'Twas on a lofty vase's side 84 Two Views of AdcUson 78 Two voices are there, one is of the Sea 133 Ulysses 208 Underneath this sable hearse 49 Under the greenwood tree 3^ Under the Portrait of Milton 61 Under the wide and starry skj' 276 Universal Prayer 75 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 373 PAGE Urceus Exit 266 Vagabond, The 272 Virtue 53 Vitai Lampada ^ 279 Watson, William 276 Watts, Isaac 71 Weary of myself, and sick of asking 255 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie 113 Werther had a love for Charlotte 217 Wet sheet and a flowing sea, A 156 Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote i We've fought with many men acrost the seas 281 What a moment, what a doubt 158 What is an epigram? A dwarfish whole 140 What needs my Shakspere for his honored bones 58 When all the world is young, lad 253 Whenas in silks my Julia goes 50 When Britain first, at Heaven's command Si When dress'd in laurel wreaths you shine 71 When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried 293 When first I saw sweet Peggy 188 When God at first made man 53 When I consider how my light is spent 57 When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 40 When in the chronicle of wasted time 41 When love with unconfined wings 60 When the British warrior queen 91 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 41 Where the bee sucks, there suck 1 37 White, Joseph Blanco 148 Who is Silvia? What is she 38 Who is the happy warrior? Who is he 129 Why so pale and wan, fond lover 59 WiLMOT, John 69 Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe 126 Wither, George 47 With him ther was his sone, a young Squyer 3 \yith lifted feet, hands still 277 Wolfe, Charles 167 374 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines PAGE Wordsworth, William 122 Work without Hope 141 World is too much with us, The 134 Written in March 125 Ye banks and braes o' Bonnie Doon . . '. no Ye banks atwibraes and streams around 112 Ye mariners of England 150 You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come 77 You know, we French stormed Ratisbon , 221 Young and Old 253 Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn 187 X Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent; Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Jan. 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111